The sheriff nodded. “I think it is probably some nut that was mad at Fenneman for a decision somewhere along the way and saw the opportunity for one last jab. Accidents usually raise more questions than they answer.”
I pondered his words.
Sheriff Twardy noticed the bag I was holding. “What’s in the evidence bag?”
I laid it on his desk. “It’s the judge—there’s something about his death I can’t let go of. As you just said, ‘accidents raise more questions than they answer.’ I get this bag out of evidence almost every day I’m here and look at it—like that does any good. I keep thinking something will come to me. Kinda strange, huh?”
“What have you got in there?” the sheriff wondered.
“Not much. The fingerprint slides from the push bar on the emergency exit. A hair from the judge’s glasses that obviously wasn’t his. The IV bottle and tubing. The sheet from the bed is in a paper bag in the drying locker. I have copies of the photos I took in my desk. Between this bag and the pictures, and now this goofy note.”
I pulled a copy of it out of my breast pocket. “I keep thinking something will jump out at me—some missing piece that will solve this puzzle,” I said.
“Don’t beat yourself up over this. The fingerprints came back to the judge, four nurses, one maintenance man, and one unknown. Maybe a patient, maybe a visitor. They aren’t on file. The hair didn’t match anyone on duty that night and it will be weeks before the DNA test results come back from the BCA. Who knows how many different people’s hairs might have washed into that pond, for godsakes?”
He paused before going on. “I can’t believe he went in such a bizarre way, either. There are things in this life we never get answers for.” Sheriff Twardy’s voice quieted. He was uncharacteristically subdued.
“And what about the door alarm?” I wondered out loud. “They tested it twenty-five times the morning after he died, and it worked every time. Why would it not work the one time it was really needed, the one time a patient got out and ended up dying because of it?” My voice was a little too loud, and the sheriff flinched. It was difficult for him, a man used to tragedies, but hit especially hard by that one.
“More questions raised than answered,” the sheriff repeated.
“Sergeant Aleckson?” I opened my eyes to see Nicholas Bradshaw standing in the doorway. “How can I help you?”
I jumped to my feet. “Hi. I, ah, the receptionist said the room wasn’t occupied. I hope my being here is okay. I didn’t touch anything.” Except the chair I sat in.
Bradshaw stepped into the room. “The receptionist called to tell me you were here asking about room one twenty in B-wing, and I wondered why. Are you looking for anything special?” he asked.
“No. I mean, I am, but I don’t know what it is. It seems silly, but I came here hoping something would jump out at me. I have walked the path from this bed to the back exit door a dozen times. Why, and how, did Judge Fenneman get out of bed, go directly to that door, and push it open without activating the alarm?”
He shook his head. “I wish to God I knew.”
“Would the judge have known the door code?” I asked.
Bradshaw shook his head. “Only hospital personnel have access.”
“I got this in the mail the day of the funeral.” I handed a copy of the note to Bradshaw.
He studied the note and my face. “An odd letter. What does it mean?”
“I don’t know, except someone apparently doesn’t like the ruling of ‘accidental death’ for the judge.”
Bradshaw handed the note back to me. “It doesn’t say anything about Judge Fenneman.”
“No, but he is the only one who even vaguely fits, given the cases I’ve had in the past, say, six months. And it was sent directly to me,” I explained.
Bradshaw moved closer and put his hands on each of my shoulders. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“Tell me about it,” I said in agreement, then offered the note back to him. “Why don’t you keep this copy and show it to the doctors, nurses? Maybe someone has an idea. It’s not always easy for those closest to a case to think outside the box. Be casual about it, though. It may mean something, it may mean nothing.”
“Of course.” His hands moved to the backs of my arms, and I heard the note crinkle. “See you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I racked my brain. Tomorrow was my first day off. What was I supposed to do that I had forgotten about?
“Ballet class.”
I smiled and nodded an “oh, yeah.”
“This time will you join me for a drink, or a bite to eat, or even a walk by the lake? Unless you’re seeing someone. You aren’t, are you?” His voice was earnest, his eyes searching.
“Well, no, but . . .”
“I really want to see you again.”
Oh. “Why not? Okay, I’ll bring a change of clothes.”
Bradshaw smiled. “I liked what you were wearing last week.” My face grew warm, remembering the embarrassment I had felt during the encounter with him.
“I’ll bring a change,” I repeated.
My radio clicked. “Winnebago County, Six oh eight.” I stepped away from Bradshaw and turned the volume up.
“Six oh eight, County, go ahead.”
“We have report of a personal injury accident on Highway Fifty-five and County Road One thirty-seven. My partner is dispatching the ambulance.”
“Ten-four. Put me en route from Oak Lea Memorial, with an ETA of three to four minutes.” I glanced at Bradshaw in way of a goodbye and sprinted to my squad car. Like always, I said a prayer for the injured as I drove ahead of the wail of my sirens to the scene.
13
“You look very . . . nice. Lovely.” Bradshaw was admiring the delicately flowered sundress—a gift from my mother—I had changed into after class. “Where would you like to go?”
“What are my choices?”
“Have you eaten?” I shook my head. “Then your choices are French, German, Italian, Chinese, or American. Or, we can pick up deli and eat in the park.”
“What about Faith?” Forty-five minutes wasn’t very long for dinner.
“Jody Ashe, a mom with twin daughters in the class, is taking her to their house to play. Faith has gotten to know them pretty well this summer. They only live a few blocks from us. We discovered that through ballet class.” He slipped his hand on my elbow and guided me outside. “So, what are you hungry for?”
“I haven’t been to the new French restaurant yet. And it’s close.”
“Good choice. After you.”
C’est la Vie was located on the east bank of Bison Lake, two blocks from the dance studio. The building had been remodeled when an interior decorator retired and some yuppies from Minnetonka thought it would be an ideal location for a restaurant. They were right, I had to admit, sitting at the outdoor patio table across from Bradshaw, sipping wine and eating striped sea bass. I hadn’t decided whether I would tell Gramps how much fish cost when it was prepared and served at C’est la Vie.
After dinner we took a walk along the lake. Two paved pathways ran from Central Avenue to Town Park, one for use by pedestrians and one for bikers. To accommodate swimmers, fishers, and boaters for their sports, three municipal docks were rolled out into the water each spring and taken in before winter. Various residents adopted garden plots, scattered here and there along the path, and filled them with flowers of every color imaginable.
The humidity had lifted, and we had a window of about thirty minutes before dusk brought out the droves of hungry mosquitoes from their daytime hiding places. Bradshaw took my hand and wrapped his larger one around it. We walked in silence for a bit. I liked the firmness of his hold and relaxed in the security of his grip.
How ironic.
I had fought my mother’s protection most of my life, yet it seemed natural, comfortable, with Bradshaw. I forgot about the demands of my job and family for those minutes with him and simply enjoyed the sparkling orange pathway
the sun cut across the lake, the trees nodding at each other in the breeze, and the way the flowers held their faces high, proud of their beauty.
A lazy, Minnesota summer evening.
We sat down on a bench near the walking path. Boats of hopeful fishers were anchored throughout the lake. We watched a couple propelling their paddleboat about twenty feet from shore, and the occasional jogger ran past. The troubled world I worked in was brushed aside, all but forgotten, and I felt calm, at peace.
“Do you live here in Oak Lea? You aren’t in the phone book,” Bradshaw said, competing with a croaking frog and happy, childish squeals from the nearby park.
“I do. I built a house west of here, off County Road Thirty-five. I took an unlisted phone number when an unhappy camper started harassing me,” I told him.
“And that turned out okay?”
“Oh, yes, six months in jail gave him time to think on the error of his ways. He was going through a bad time—he lost his job and his wife and started drinking. I arrested him for DWI, and he snapped. He wrote me a letter of apology from jail and seems to have his life back in order.” I hadn’t thought about that for a while.
“You live alone?” I nodded. “Ever been married?”
I laughed and shook my head. “I have never even had a serious relationship.”
“I find that very hard to believe. You are what, twenty-five, twenty-six?”
“Twenty-nine, next month.”
“And you have never had a serious relationship?” He leaned closer to me, his eyes fixed on mine.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure.” The pattern in my dress became instantly fascinating. “The boys in high school were all just good friends. At college I spent the week studying, and on weekends I went home to see my mother, who was in crisis having both of her children gone.” I looked up again. “The last few years, I don’t know, I suppose I haven’t wanted to date anyone I work with and haven’t met anyone else.”
Bradshaw reached over and squeezed my hand.
“How about you?” I asked. “Tell me about yourself. When did you move here—how did you choose Oak Lea?”
“Three years ago, the hospital in southeast Minnesota I was running was bought out by the Mayo Clinic. Oak Lea was looking for someone to replace Sheldon Loch, who was retiring. Faith and I took a few days, scouted the area, visited the schools. I thought it was a good fit for us, and it certainly has turned out to be a great move. I was worried about pulling Faith out of kindergarten mid-year, but actually it was a good time. She made friends her first week.”
“What happened to her mother?”
“Liver cancer. She died when Faith was three. Just over four years ago.”
“I’m sorry, it must have been very difficult for both of you.” I gripped his hands.
“My biggest regret is that I had been so busy trying to carve out our future, I didn’t live in the present when Jenny was sick. Jenny needed me, Faith needed me, the hospital needed me, and I kind of shut down for a while. I had no idea Jenny would go so fast. It was only four months after she was diagnosed.” His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he searched the lake.
I didn’t know what to say. I heard sad stories every day, but my heart went out to this man who had been left to raise his daughter alone, like my mother had been left to raise John Carl and me. I moved closer to Bradshaw, and he slid one arm around my shoulder and rested his other hand on my lap, playing with my fingers, one by one. I told him the story of my father and mother.
“Is that the real reason you haven’t dated—you’re afraid you’ll fall in love, then he’ll die and leave you alone? Like your father’s death left your mother alone?” His look was tender, his voice soothing, and it took me a minute to realize the meaning of his words.
“No, I, not at all, I . . .” That wasn’t true, was it?
“It’s okay, Corky, it’s okay. I have a confession of my own.” It was a moment before he spoke. “You are the first woman I’ve asked out since Jenny died, the first woman I have even wanted to ask out. I couldn’t believe it. I met you under the worst of circumstances, but you were like a light in a dark forest.”
My heart beat fiercely in my chest when he hooked his fingers under my chin and leaned his face toward mine.
“Hi, Corky!” A voice called from the walking path. I glanced up to see a friend from high school jog by.
I waved back and jumped to my feet. “It’s getting to be dusk, and mosquito time,” I said.
Bradshaw stood and looked at his watch. “You’re right, and I told the Ashes I’d pick Faith up by nine.” He reached for me, grasping my hand. “Come with me.”
“Oh, ah, I’d love to, but I’m pretty wiped out. The accident call you heard me get at the hospital was the first of many calls last night. I promised my body an early night.”
Bradshaw kept an arm around my waist on the way to our cars. He looked around the parking lot. “Which one is yours?”
“The oldest one in the lot, the GTO.”
Bradshaw forgot me for the moment and strolled around my car, taking in every detail, whistling low.
“My uncle had a GTO, different year. She is a beauty. If we had more time, I’d beg a ride.”
His approval pleased me. A lot. “I do love my old car. It was my dad’s.”
“She is a beauty,” he said again.
He took a second walk around it then turned his attention to me, closing the space between us, pulling me into his arms. I saw the pulse in his neck beating fast and felt my own heartbeat pick up speed in response.
“Corky, will you see me again?”
“Yes, I’d like—”
“This?” he asked and his lips closed over mine as his hands crept around my waist and up my back. The kiss started gently, then grew deeper and deeper until I was literally breathless, finally lifting my head for oxygen. Nick rested his forehead on mine and exhaled little bursts of air while his thumbs massaged my upper arms.
“Corky, I don’t want to say goodnight, not yet. Come home with me,” he invited.
I took a step back, resting my hands on Nick’s waist, studying his face. His color had darkened and his eyelids were lazy, making him even more appealing. A short battle waged inside me. I wanted to go home with him, wanted this night to go on forever, but . . .
“As much as I’d like to, I don’t think that would be a good idea tonight.” Things were moving a little too fast, and I was afraid we were both getting carried away by the moment.
“I’ll reluctantly accept that. How about tomorrow night?”
That coaxed out a laugh. “Okay.”
Nick picked up my hand, drew it to his lips, then caressed it with his cheek. “Corky, this is new ground for me, and for Faith too. I’ve haven’t dated since her mother died, I’m not certain how she’ll react. You know, it’s just been the two of us for a long time now. Since I’m gone all day and have meetings some evenings, I try to spend as much time as possible with her. Do you mind if we include her, at least for part of the evening?”
“Of course I don’t mind. It’s a great idea.”
Nick smiled and kissed my fingertips. “I can cook. In fact I’m pretty good at it, all modesty aside. Does seven o’clock work for you?”
“Sure.” He gave me his address, and we exchanged telephone numbers.
“Thanks for dinner, Nick. Goodnight.” Before my hand reached my door handle, I was back in Bradshaw’s—in Nick’s—arms again. His fingers tangled in my hair and his lips gently nibbled my jaw, my cheek, my lower lip. His lips touched mine for only a second before he pulled away.
“Until tomorrow,” he said.
I grabbed the door handle to support my weak legs, slid into my car, and watched Nick walk away, taking in as many details of him as I could. His straight, elongated spine, broad shoulders tapering to a narrower waist and hips, legs that carried him with smooth, long strides, arms swinging gently. He turned and rais
ed his hand as goodnight. His smile worked its way inside of me, warming me from head to toe. I turned the ignition in my GTO, found my cell phone, and hit number three on speed dial as I eased from my parking spot.
“Sara, can I stop over for a minute?”
“Corky, you sound different. Is everything all right?”
14: Alvie
That little sergeant again. Alvie sank down in her car when Sergeant Aleckson pulled into Speiss’s driveway. Alvie knew it was at least the third time in a week the sergeant had been there. Every time Alvie was there, the sergeant showed up. Maybe it was a message that Speiss shouldn’t be next. She had been so sure choosing the names by lots was best, but maybe there was a better way. What would that be? Alphabetically? By first or last name?
Problem questions led to such headaches. She would just keep watch and not think. Her best ideas came to her when she wasn’t working so hard at it, right? The sergeant was leaving. That was quick. She was only there about fifteen minutes. She’d follow her, see where she went to all dressed up.
When the sergeant drove off, Alvie started her engine, but kept her headlights off. She stayed about two blocks behind her until the sergeant turned onto County Road 35 and headed west. Where was she going? Alvie had taken the same road the past two days following that county attorney character, Franz, to his lunchtime getaway. She waited a minute, turned her headlights on, and followed. She couldn’t risk being stopped for driving with her lights off.
Alvie watched the sergeant’s car turn south on Brandt Street. All the little rural roads had names since enhanced 911 had started about ten years before. Brandt. That’s where K. Aleckson lived. Maiden name Kristen Brandt. A street named after the family.
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