The Serenader
37
The phone call from Jim Meyers came at six in the morning. “I’m at that house of yours on Eden Street,” he said. “There’s been a break-in and you need to get over here right away.”
Jim wouldn’t provide any more details, but when I arrived twenty minutes later most of Pineland’s police force was there to greet me, along with two sheriff’s deputies and Jason Braddock in the pinstripe suit he presumably sleeps in.
“Looks like you’ve been doing some more writing,” Jason said after showing me the message. “I’m told you use this office now and then. Belonged to your father, apparently. So, let’s finally end all the bullshit. It’s time for you to tell us the truth.”
“Sure. The truth is that our friend the Serenader broke in here and typed out this message to implicate me.”
“Is that a fact? Well, you know what? I’ve been looking at the typewriter. It’s a Smith-Corona-Sterling. Quite an antique. Just the kind of thing your father might have had in this office. And I’m thinking the odds are about one hundred percent that all the other messages were typed on this machine.”
The machine looked vaguely familiar. Had I spotted it somewhere in the old office? I couldn’t be sure. Naturally, I didn’t reveal my doubts to Jason.
“I’ve never seen this typewriter before,” I said. “It’s a plant.”
“Oh, I see, a guy carrying a big old typewriter broke in here. That might be a new wrinkle in the annals of crime. And how did he get in? There’s no sign of forced entry. Or do you usually leave the office door open?”
“No, I always keep it locked. And why don’t you can the sarcasm? Do you really think this was a random burglary? Not a chance. I’m being targeted and have been from the start.”
“All a big mystery to you, is that right?” Jason said.
“Look, do you have more questions for me are you just going to continue with your running commentary? Because if that’s the case, I’ll be leaving now.”
“All right, why don’t you tell me when you were last in this office?”
I suspected Jason already knew the answer, since he’d probably talked to the tenants. Agnes Miller in particular was a busybody and for all I knew maintained a meticulous record of my comings and goings.
“It would have been a week ago Saturday. I’m sure Mrs. Miller mentioned seeing me.”
“What were you doing here?”
“Just looking over some old family memorabilia,” I lied. “I come by every so often to go through things. And, again for the record, when I was here last this typewriter wasn’t on the desk or anywhere else I could see.”
“So you’ve said. Was there anything in particular you were looking for while you were here?”
“No.”
“What time did you leave?”
“I think it was around noon.”
“And you haven’t been back since then?”
“That’s correct.”
Jim Meyers, who looked like a lost elephant stumbling around the office, joined Jason to continue the interrogation. Both clearly believed I was the Serenader. But that didn’t mean I was about to be hauled off to jail. Writing messages and posting them in various places isn’t illegal, and the discovery of the typewriter, however suspicious it looked, wasn’t probable cause for my arrest. What the two stalwarts of law and order needed was evidence linking me to the three murders and the arson fires, and they didn’t have it.
The jousting continued for a while, Jason in particular setting little traps in hopes of luring me into trouble, but I refused the bait. “You know it’s just a matter of time before we put all of this together,” he finally said. “I’m really going to enjoy seeing you behind bars.”
“You must live a very dull life if that’s your idea of enjoyment,” I said. “Speaking of time, the bewitching hour has arrived. I have nothing more to say. You know where to find me if you need me.”
“I’ve got some bad news,” Cassandra announced. She called around nine just after I’d gone to my office. She sounded tired and irritated.
“Not what I needed to hear,” I said. “I’ve got some bad news, too. You first.”
“I can’t go to St. Cloud tomorrow. A hearing got scheduled out of the blue in a big civil suit and I have to handle it or the partners will have a collective heart attack. I have to fly back to Chicago and start prepping. The hearing will be tomorrow afternoon. With luck, I’ll be back here on Wednesday or Thursday and we can go to St. Cloud then, unless you want to go on your own first.”
“No, I’ll wait for you. I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied at the moment.” I told her about the staged burglary at my father’s office and the discovery of the message in the typewriter.
“That’s not good. Do you think the typewriter belonged to your father?”
“A firm ‘maybe’ is the best answer I can give. But I’m pretty sure it will turn out to be the machine the BCA is looking for.”
There was a pause before Cassandra said, “So what’s the next big find going to be?”
“I wish I knew.”
“If I were you, I’d be worried.”
“I am worried,” I protested.
“You need to be even more worried. This Serenader character has plans for you and he’s not done. He’s very clever.”
“Too clever for me, apparently. I keep trying to figure out what he’s going to do next but he always seems way ahead of me.”
“Well, it’s pretty clear he’s setting you up for something.”
“And he’s doing a mighty fine job of it so far.”
“You know what, maybe you should go to St. Cloud tomorrow. If my unknown brother is actually connected to all of this, and if you can find a photo or some other way of identifying him as someone who’s in Pineland right now, you’d have the answers we need.”
“Too many ‘ifs,’” I said. “Besides, I’ve got to stick around town. If I take off for a day, suspicions will only mount.”
“Okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can. In the meantime, try to stay out of more trouble,”
“I’ll do my best,” I said. Too bad that wasn’t good enough.
Cassandra’s call led me to think more about Baby Doe, her lost brother. If he was living incognito in or near Pineland, he’d be thirty-two years old. How many men about that age did I know around town? A few possibilities came immediately to mind. Then again, adult Baby Doe could be someone I didn’t know, a stranger who’d made it his business, for devious reasons of his own, to cast me as the Serenader. In that case, uncovering his identity could be extremely difficult unless St. Cloud offered some answers, and now that would have to wait.
The giant manure spreader that rains down gossip on Pineland didn’t take long to broadcast news of the incriminating discovery in my father’s old office. Doug had already heard the whole story by the time I ventured into his office to fetch some legal documents. Naturally, he tried to pry out additional details while faking sincere concern for my well-being.
“I bet you were really upset when you found out about that typewriter,” he said. “It must have been a shock. Any idea how it got there?”
“Teleportation,” I said.
“No, seriously, do you think somebody actually brought it into that office and left it there? I mean, how weird is that?”
“Doug, I will stipulate it was weird.”
“Well, I’m just saying it was a bizarre thing for somebody to do. Why do you suppose this Serenader guy is on your case?”
“I’ll ask him when I see him. So tell me, Doug, what’s Vern been whispering into your fevered little ears these days?”
Doug did his best to sound offended. “Why would you say that? I hardly ever talk to Vern. I don’t know what he’s thinking.”
“Okay. Maybe I was mistaken. Say, Doug, how old are yo
u? Somebody asked me the other day and I didn’t know.”
“Thirty-five.”
“You look younger,” I said and went back to my office.
Arne called in the afternoon to share his thoughts. I could practically hear the sound of his gloating over the phone.
“How does it feel to be shithead king for a day?” he inquired with his usual delicacy.
I told him it didn’t feel nearly as good as getting a lap dance from a hooker and hung up.
The next morning Vern marched into my office with the look of a man about to shoot an injured horse. He seemed to think I’d be happy to be put out of my misery for the good of all concerned.
“You’ve got to go,” he said. “My phone is ringing off the hook. First Arne, then you. That typewriter is the last straw. Why the fuck are you writing those messages? Have you gone nuts?”
“Crazy as a loon,” I said. “Except I’m not the Serenader. Never have been, never will be. It’s all a big setup. Meanwhile, our wonderful county sheriff is being accused of murder. Seems to me you should be asking him to resign.”
“Leave Arne out of this. There’s no proof he’s done anything. You’re the one who’s making all these crazy accusations.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Deny it all you want. I don’t care. People have lost confidence in their government. It’s time to clean house.”
“As I recall, that’s what the last election here was about.”
“And the voters elected you of all people. Big mistake. Well, right now you look bad and people don’t like it. Put in your resignation. If you didn’t do anything wrong, that will all come out in the end and if you want a goddamn apology then, I’ll give you one. How’s that?”
I told Vern once again that I wouldn’t resign, and there wasn’t much he and the county board could do about it. In Minnesota, removing an elected county official for malfeasance requires a cumbersome petition process, and it would take months to force me out that way, if it could be done at all.
“Sorry, but you’re stuck with me,” I said
“Asshole,” Vern replied with his usual devastating wit, then stomped out.
I went to the Dead Lumberjack after work to share my woes with Kat Berglund. I slammed down two margaritas and was contemplating a third when she intervened.
“I wouldn’t do that,” she said. “You know your limit.”
Kat knew my alcohol ceiling because when I first returned to Pineland to deal with my dying father, I’d spent a lot of time getting drunk in the Dead Lumberjack. I’m not the world’s worst drunk—I don’t start fistfights or harass the nearest female—but as my former wife could attest, I tend to become blushingly candid and a sardonic pain in the ass. Kat wasn’t interested in listening to any of that old Zweifel nonsense.
“You’re right,” I said, “sobriety wins. Make mine a ginger ale on the rocks. And since I’m keeping my wits about me, maybe you can tell me what you’re hearing. Do the good citizens of Pineland think I’m the Serenader?”
“Too early to say. But you and that typewriter are certainly the talk of the town.”
“And what do people speculate my motive might be? Because I certainly don’t know why I’d be the Serenader.”
“I’ve heard various theories. That you and Peter and Dewey were part of some sort of kickback scheme with the hotel and you didn’t get your money. Or that you’re involved in what happened to Jill Lorrimer and you’re covering your tracks. Or that you’ve simply gone crazy. The list goes on. It’s all bullshit, of course.”
“Wonderful. Do I have any defenders?”
“Tommy Redmond seems to be on your side, believe it or not. He’s planning a special edition, by the way. He’ll probably be in touch with you soon.”
“Well, he’s got plenty to write about.”
“That he does. One other thing, Paul. Be cautious around the office. Word has it that the Little Sneak”—Kat’s less than endearing term for Doug—“has been whispering sweet nothings into Vern’s ear. He’d love to have your job if the time comes.”
“Not exactly a big reveal,” I said. “The wonderful Mr. Wifferding has a made career of backstabbing and maneuvering.”
“Sure, but did you know he’s also been talking to those BCA agents in town?”
That I didn’t know, but I probably should have. The little fucker.
“So what’s he been saying?”
“He’s apparently convinced you’re the Serenader.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think you’re in for some interesting times,” Kat said, pouring my ginger ale. “Want any peanuts with that?”
As I headed home to talk over my troubles with Camus, Jason Braddock delivered some more bad news.
“So we’ve looked at that typewriter,” he said over the phone. “It’s a positive match. All the messages were typed on it. You’re looking dirtier by the minute.”
“I’ll take a shower when I get home. Maybe that will help.”
“You do that. But it won’t do any good. We’re not done. You’re going down, smart ass. Have a nice day.”
38
As the newly presumed Serenader, I became a hot news item once again. Media from the Twin Cities started calling incessantly, asking for comment. I ignored the calls but I knew what was coming. Another media swarm would arrive in town, and I’d be their prime target.
Even by Pineland’s standards, word of the discovery in my father’s office had spread with extraordinary speed. Arne, I suspected, had been the leaker-in-chief. Even though he was on leave, he had plenty of loyal deputies to keep him well informed, and he wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to make me look bad.
Tommy Redmond, who’d broken news of the typewriter and message in his blog, wandered into my office Wednesday afternoon, and I decided I’d talk to him. I’d helped him out in the past, and I knew him well enough to believe he’d give me a fair shake in the Tattler. He was as excitable as ever when I ushered him into my inner sanctum.
“Geez, Paulie, isn’t this business something?” he said.
“It’s something all right,” I admitted. “But it must be good business for you.”
“For sure. I’m coming out with a special edition Friday. Lots of juicy stuff. Gonna do a print run of six thousand. That’s twice the usual.”
“Wonderful. Are you going to have any big scoops?”
“Maybe. Just between the two of us, I’ve found out more about what’s on those thumb drives.”
“You mean more about the music?”
“No. Nobody knows what the hell the song is. I’m talking about the voices in the background.”
“You have my complete attention, Tommy. Tell me more.”
“Only if you’ll talk to me about that typewriter. I need to have an exclusive on your explanation. I mean, I’m sure you have one.”
“I do, and you’ve got a deal.”
“Okay, here’s what I know. On one of the thumb drives there’s a man’s voice saying, ‘Come down right now. It’s dinner time.’ And then you can hear what sounds like a boy saying, ‘I won’t, I won’t.’ According to my source, that’s all there is to it.”
“What does your source make of it?”
Tommy shrugged and spread out his arms. “Nobody knows. It’s another big mystery. Okay, Paulie, your turn. I’m dying to hear about that typewriter.”
He took a digital voice recorder from his coat pocket and set it on my desk. “I’m ready any time you are.”
I had a recorder of my own and placed it next to Tommy’s. “Two recorders are always better than one,” I said. “I think that’s an old adage.” Tommy seemed a little put out but didn’t say anything.
“Okay, here we go,” I said and launched into the same arguments I’d used with Jason and Jim in my father’s office. It was
all a big setup, I assured Tommy, and I hoped he would believe me.
“I am not the Serenader,” I stated as forcefully as I could, “and I don’t know who is.”
“Okay, you’ve made yourself clear about that. So you’re not going to resign, I guess.”
Tommy obviously had talked with Vern.
“You can state that for the record. I’m not walking away from a job the people of Paradise County elected me to do.” God, I thought, I sound just like a politician. So be it.
Tommy asked a few more perfunctory questions before turning off his recorder. “You make a good case for yourself,” he said. “Of course, I never really believed you’re the Serenader. Maybe some people do, but I don’t.”
“‘Some people’ being?”
“Well, Arne for one, but he’s got his own troubles to worry about.”
“He does. What’s he been doing on his leave of absence besides making trouble for me?”
“I hear he’s holed up at his farm house and still trying to run the office even though his chief deputy, Jack Brown, is supposed to be in charge. I also hear those BCA guys are seriously looking at Arne for Marty’s murder, not to mention that stuff with the hooker. Arne’s in a lot of shit right now. He’ll be in even deeper come Friday.”
“Sounds like you have some revelations in the works,” I said.
“Oh yeah, let’s just say my special edition will be well illustrated.”
“I look forward to reading it. So what else are you hearing these days?”
Tommy looked at me with his eager eyes and said, “Well, there’s some interesting dope about that girlfriend of yours.”
I wasn’t aware I had a ‘girlfriend,’ at least not at the moment. “And who would that be?” I asked.
“You know, that Black lawyer from Chicago. I hear she’s been spending a lot of time with you.”
“Listen, Tommy, Cassandra Ellis is not my girlfriend. Where did you get that idea?”
“Nowhere in particular. But the word around town is that you two are really close.”
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