by Julie Kramer
In my mind, Mrs. Post became the infamous, villainous Mrs. Danvers. But then the housekeeper seemed a simple pawn and the narcissistic title character a better match.
The heart wants what it wants.
Still on my back, I started kicking in the direction of the conflagration when I heard the sound of emergency vehicles.
s my kicks slowed, I started to sink and crashed my head on something hard beneath the surface—some kind of metal box with a pole attached. Clinging to the pole, I braced my feet on top of the box, like a platform. My chin barely stuck out of the water, but the relief of rest felt good.
I recalled Russ Nesbett saying the water was around sixty-five degrees, of course that was with the sun shining. He also talked about losing body heat faster by swimming or treading water. My odds of making it back to shore were lessening, though as long as I hung on to the box, I might last another hour. But my fingers were numb. And rescue unlikely.
For courage, I closed my eyes and tried conjuring up my dead husband’s face. But I couldn’t see him. It was like I was face blind. Instead, I saw Jean Lefevre and wondered if her face was a sign that I deserved to die. And I pondered what it would be like to touch the face of God.
So with one hand, I let go of the pole to contemplate my future. Swim or stay. My life didn’t flash before my eyes, but my regrets did. One of them was my husband. And suddenly I remembered what Hugh looked like and I could see his face and I sensed now was not my time.
My eyes opened and I reminded myself of a lesson learned months earlier: you are not responsible for the actions of a psychopath.
So I clenched the pole with both hands, even though my thumb and forefinger didn’t want to stay curled, and reevaluated my options for survival. A light reflected across the water. I figured the moon was fighting its way through the smoke. Go, moon, I rooted. I heard a hum that turned into the sound of motor, and then saw the outline of a boat.
“Help!” I called for help, but the cold garbled my words. Waves splashed over my face. I tried raising my arms and fell off the platform. I kept kicking. Splashing. Yelling. Even though much of it was unintelligible. A search light reached for me, followed by officers from the Ramsey County Water Patrol. They fished me out, wrapped me in a tarp, and poured me a steaming cup of coffee.
My teeth chattered, and I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t hold the cup, so coffee spilled on my thigh but didn’t even hurt, though a blister formed.
Then I saw Malik on board and I knew his was not the burning body at the window. I wanted to cry but my eyes were too cold for hot tears.
“You’re a mess,” he said.
He rubbed his hands against mine while explaining that, just one step ahead of Roderick, he spotted a canoe on the shore and raced for it. He and his pursuer dueled briefly, sword against camera. Sword had the advantage, but Malik, like most television news photographers, had strong shoulders and quite good reflexes.
“I knocked the sword out of his hand and whacked him good with the camera.” Then Malik pushed the canoe into the lake, climbing aboard when the water reached his waist. “Roderick threw the sword at me, but I ducked.”
With a splash, it sank.
And without a paddle, Malik floated in the canoe until the water patrol found him.
“So I out-escaped you.”
——
ENDS UP, NICK Garnett summoned the fire department and water patrol after just missing my phone call, listening to his voice mail, and hearing a splash at the end of my message about the Peninsula House burning.
Splash.
The last sound my new cell phone made as it hit the water and died. Splash saved my life.
My water rescuers wanted to transport me to Regions Hospital in St. Paul because my skin was sort of bluish, but I insisted they just take me home.
First under a hot shower, now huddled beneath a down comforter, dressed in flannel pajamas with the thermostat cranked, I listened to the phone messages on my land line.
The first, from Channel 3, calling about a big fire in White Bear Lake and wanting me to do a live shot. “We’ll catch you on your cell,” the assignment desk concluded the call.
Lotsa luck, I thought to myself.
The second call, also from the station, wanted to know where the hell I was and why I wasn’t answering my cell phone.
“Because it’s on the bottom of White Bear Lake.” This time I said the words out loud, a sign that my body was thawing.
The third call came from a steamed Noreen. “It is unacceptable for you to be out of reach, particularly when a major spot news story is breaking in your backyard.” The slam following her message said plenty.
“Oh, Noreen, you have no idea just how major.”
My voice had a smug tone now, a sign that my mind was thawing.
I wrapped the comforter tight around me, heading for the kitchen to reward myself with hot milk. I caught the big smile on my face in a wall mirror, anticipating the exclusive I was poised to break.
Nothing sells a news story like murder, mansions, and money.
My smile broadened.
That’s when I realized the videotape evidence of Vivian confessing to killing Mark and plotting to kill Malik and me was at the bottom of White Bear Lake.
“COULD ALWAYS BE worse.” As soon as I opened the door Garnett wrapped his warm body around my cold one. “Could be your body down there, too.”
“I suppose I should thank you for my life.” I murmured the words in his ear, a sign that perhaps my heart was thawing.
“No need for verbal thanks,” he said. “You were my catch of the day. But if you’re in a chatty mood, let’s talk about what you said in that message.”
“You mean, ‘help’?” I asked.
“No,” he said, leading me over to the couch. “The other part.”
“You mean about the fire?”
“No. The part about the L word.”
The L word. Love. Coming back to haunt me. “I was hysterical,” I explained, “and didn’t know what I was saying.”
“Because you thought you were going to die?” he pressed.
“Yes! That’s it,” I agreed. “I thought I was going to die.”
“Good. Because dying declarations are considered truth and can be used as evidence in a court of law if the utterer believes she won’t survive.”
Before I could appeal his legal interpretation, he kissed me hard, and I kissed back. And I didn’t mind him touching me.
BUT THE NEXT morning, when I rolled over and found Nick Garnett asleep beside me, I realized that the night before had not been a dream and might very well have been a mistake.
Again, I was no longer a virgin, but that didn’t bother me; that actually seemed a positive development. But did last night redeem me or imprison me?
What if Garnett rolled over and asked me to marry him? If the L word nettled me, the M word might wreck me. So I picked my flannel pj’s up off the floor, and walked to the kitchen so I’d be out of reach and earshot when he woke up.
urns out, what I clung to in the frigid water while the Peninsula House burned was a metal cage containing a state-record large-mouth bass. Authorities marked the fish with a small V clip in one fin, put it back, and kept it under visual surveillance from the shore.
The next morning, they observed two men reel the cage into their boat and throw it back overboard. Hours later, the men turned in a record size largemouth bass to the fishing contest to claim fame and a half million dollars.
The fish had a V clip in one fin.
Besides disqualifying the men from the competition, authorities arrested them for fraud. The Animal Liberation Front staged a giant protest at the fishnappers’ first court appearance. Toby and Husky were guests on the Today show, talking about animal rights.
One of the fish culprits was Tom McHale, which helped explain why our station received the phony fishnapper letter. The general manager fired Tom for violating the morals clause in his contract, which actually work
ed out well because our network owners were poised to slash newsroom staff as soon as May sweeps ended. Cutting Tom’s salary meant saving jobs.
Because no definitive proof existed that the recovered fish was actually Big Mouth Billy, authorities were unable to charge him with theft and vandalism. But because it is currently the largest largemouth bass ever caught in Minnesota, Underwater Adventures displays the fish proudly and huge crowds form to watch as it swims around the aquarium.
But that fish tale wasn’t even the lead news story of the day. The body of Roderick Post was found floating in White Bear Lake by one of the other fishing contestants. His mother’s charred remains were discovered in the ruins of the historic manor.
The death of her mother and brother made Madeline Post the wealthiest woman in the state.
When I tried to explain what happened in the Peninsula House on that fateful night, Madeline didn’t believe me and accused me of making it all up for ratings.
An ironic twist, because Miles refused to let me broadcast the story of the murderous Post matriarch since I had no proof. All the evidence was underwater or in ashes. And this libel lawsuit was one Miles and Noreen didn’t want to risk.
I argued, unsuccessfully, that you can’t libel the dead. And while that’s generally true, Channel 3 didn’t want to gamble a drawn-out, expensive legal fight with the estate. And Madeline Post made it clear she’d see us in court forever if we besmirched her family’s reputation. And right then, in the middle of a media financial meltdown, she had deeper pockets than the station.
The local authorities weren’t about to take the word of a brassy TV reporter over that of an influential heiress. So the Peninsula House blaze was dismissed as a tragic electrical fire.
Noreen didn’t care. I’d found Big Mouth Billy.
That should have been the stuff legends (and ratings) are made of. But Channel 3 finished a distant second in the May sweeps. And in the world of television news, you’re only as good as your last story. And a station is only as good as its last ratings book.
So to bolster a warm and fuzzy public image, Channel 3 gave the $10,000 reward to a nonprofit group that teaches inner-city kids to fish.
Despite, or perhaps because of, its now lurid watery reputation, the town of White Bear Lake landed the Governor’s Fishing Opener for the following walleye season.
LITTLE SVEN NELSON’S DNA matched that of Mark Lefevre. So his mother collected the $98,000 found in the safe-deposit box as well as Jean Lefevre’s modest estate. Soon after, Sigourney received a note that an anonymous benefactor had set up a college fund for her son.
THE RULE OF Chekhov’s gun came into play. If a writer shows a gun in the first act, the weapon must go off in the third. The same appears true of wedding gowns.
No, I wasn’t the bride.
Not even a bridesmaid.
I was cast as a dogsmaid at Noreen and Toby’s wedding. The happy couple picked their favorite pets as best dog and dog of honor. I escorted Freckles, Noreen’s dalmatian, down the aisle, followed by Noreen.
At the reception, instead of a bouquet, Noreen threw a steak bone with a white ribbon to the drooling canine attendants. Channel 3 ran a clip on the late news that went viral on YouTube. Because if there’s anything viewers love, it’s animals and weddings.
FROM NICK GARNETT, I got a reprieve instead of a proposal.
After our close encounter, he cornered me in the kitchen, insisting we needed to talk. Then Nick proceeded to tell me he’d accepted a strategy job with Homeland Security in Washington, D.C., and was due to start within a week. He felt the people currently fighting terror couldn’t fight marshmallows, and that protecting a shopping mall was unfulfilling compared to protecting our country.
Days later, I drove him to the airport where he kissed me goodbye like Bogart kissed Bergman in Casablanca, 1942.
Except, instead of embracing on the tarmac with propeller engines as exotic background noise, we bid farewell in front of a line of travelers zipping their liquids into plastic bags and hoisting their purses and briefcases onto the X-ray machine belt.
His lips lingered, so I urged him to get on that plane or he’d regret it. Then I assured him we’d always have White Bear Lake. And he assured me he had plenty of frequent-flier miles.
MADELINE POST NEVER married, but wrote a bestselling memoir, Faceless in a Crowded World. I went to one of her book signings, but she didn’t recognize me.
My closest readers are dear friends. While not novelists, they know what makes a good story. Sometimes I think Kevyn Burger understands my protagonist better than I do. And I’m not sure how it happened, but while talking with Trish Van Pilsum, I suddenly realized the key motivation for Missing Mark. As usual, Caroline Lowe, Alan Cox, and Michele Cook all offered valuable feedback on cops, craft, and character for my sequel.
The folks at Doubleday are a fabulous bunch. I thank my editor, Stacy Creamer, for her initial skepticism, which improved my plot, and her steady support thereafter; Laura Swerdloff for her customary attention to detail, editing oversight, and intuitive ability to calm me; production editor Mark Birkey; Lauren Panepinto for cover design; Karla Eoff for copyediting; Lauren Lavelle for publicity; Jillian Wohlfarth and Adrienne Sparks for marketing; Karen Ninnis for proofreading; and the rest of the Doubleday team. It takes a village to launch a book.
My agent, Elaine Koster, a literary beast, and her associate, Stephanie Lehmann, made things happen for me on lots of levels.
Practical Homicide Investigation by Vernon Geberth, and Forensics for Dummies by Dr. D. P. Lyle provided valuable research. Texas K-9 instructor Billy Smith; Clearwater, Kansas, Police Chief Kim Demars; and Lakeville, Minnesota, K-9 officer Beth Eilers shared knowledge about dogs and their noses.
Special thanks to Catherine Nicholson for her generous use of the Bigelow House as a crime scene, and to the residents of White Bear Lake for being good sports.
International Thriller Writers, Sisters in Crime, and Mystery Writers of America offered me reassuring author camaraderie. My friends from the desperate world of TV news offered inspiration.
As far as family goes, some members earned their way into the acknowledgments by their special skills: Galen Neuzil shared his knowledge of bass fishing; Michael Kramer first alerted me to the existence of the corpse flower.
But all deserve deep thanks because they demonstrated their own personal popularity by spreading the word of Stalking Susan and bringing friends to book signings: Ruth Kramer and her red-hat ladies; George and Shirley Kimball and their church gang; Rosemary and Don Spartz and their Lake Summerset neighbors; Mae Klug and my entourage of cousins; Jerry and Elaine Kramer; Joe and Delores Spartz; Tom and Rena Fitzpatrick; Jerry and June Kimball; and Lorraine Kehl.
Thanks also to Bonnie and Roy Brang; Teresa and Galen Neuzil, with Rachel; Richard and Oti Kramer; Mary Agnes Kramer; Steve and Mary Kramer, with Matthew and Elizabeth; Kathy and Jim Loecher, with Adriana and Zack; Mike Kramer; Christina Kramer; Jenny and Kile Nadeau, with Daniel; Rebecca Nadeau; David Nadeau; Jessica and Richie Miehe; George Kimball and Shen Fei, with Shi Shenyu (Huan); Nick Kimball; Mary and David Benson, with Davin; Steve and Moira Kimball, with Craig; Paul Kimball; James Kimball; Vicky Blom (the first person I knew to have a Kindle); and friends in the Adams, Minnesota, area going back 130 years.
Much deserved hugs to my terrific kids, Alex and Andrew, of whom I’m so proud in so many ways; Katie and Jake Kimball, who make such a great couple; and Joey and David Kimdon, with Aria and Arbor in tow.
And always, Joe.
DOUBLEDAY
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Julie Kramer
All Rights Reserved
Published in the United States by Doubleday, an imprint of The Do
ubleday Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.doubleday.com
DOUBLEDAY and the DD colophon are registered a trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kramer, Julie.
Missing Mark / Julie Kramer. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Sequel to: Stalking Susan.
1. Women television journalists—Fiction. 2. Serial murders—Minnesota—Minneapolis—
Fiction. 3. Minneapolis (Minn.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.R355M57 2008
813′.6—dc22
2008042899
eISBN: 978-0-385-53031-6
v3.0