praise for the murder-by-month mystery series January Thaw: “Those looking for an engaging, multigenerational small-town mystery that tackles contemporary issues can’t miss with this entry.”—Library Journal “Fans of smalltown mysteries will be charmed.”—Publishers Weekly “Who can resist a mystery that includes a daredevil octogenarian sidekick; a flashy, plant-whispering mayor; some really bad villains; and a little girl ghost?”—Booklist
December Dread: Finalist for the Lefty Award (Left Coast Crime) “Lourey pulls out all the stops in this eighth case.”—Library Journal “Lourey creates a splendid mix of humor and suspense.”—Booklist “Lourey, who keeps her secrets well, delivers a breathtaking finale.” —Publishers Weekly
November Hunt: *“It’s not easy to make people laugh while they’re on the edge of their seats, but Lourey pulls it off … ”—Booklist (starred review) “Lourey has a knack for wholesome sexual innuendo, and she gets plenty of mileage out of Minnesota. This light novel keeps the reader engaged, like one of those sweet, chewy Nut Goodies that Mira is addicted to.” —Hallie Ephron, The Boston Globe “Lourey’s seventh cozy featuring PI wannabe Mira James successfully combines humor, an intriguing mystery, and quirky smalltown characters.” —Publishers Weekly “A good story told well, with solid writing.”—Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine “Lourey has successfully created an independent, relatable heroine in Mira James. Mira’s wit and fearlessness enable her to overcome the many challenges she faces as she tries to unravel the murder.”—Crimespree Magazine “Clever, quirky, and completely original! This taut and compelling mystery—with a twist on every page is edgy, entertaining, and irresistible.” —Hank Phillippi Ryan, Anthony, Agatha, & Macavity Award-winning author
“In November Hunt Jess Lourey skillfully navigates her way along the razor’s edge of the traditional mystery. With a masterful mix of mayhem and mirth, she shows us there’s more to small-town Minnesota than frozen lakes and fish fries. A fun read all the way through.”—Reed Farrel Coleman, three-time Shamus Award-winning author of Hurt Machine
October Fest: Finalist for the Lefty Award (Left Coast Crime) *“With snappy jokes and edgy dialog, Lourey brings a Gen-X tone to a traditional mystery. The classic romance setup and her effective handling of eldercare issues enhance a clever plot. More spunky than sweet; get started on this Lefty-nominated series if you’ve previously missed it.” —Library Journal (starred review) *“Lourey has cleverly created an entertaining murder mystery with the most unlikely murder accomplice ever. Her latest is loaded with humor, and many of the descriptions are downright poetic.”—Booklist (starred review) “The story is funny, ribald, and brimming with small-town eccentrics.” —Kirkus Reviews “I loved Lourey’s quirky, appealing sleuth and her wry yet affectionate look at small-town life. No gimmicks, just an intriguing plot with oddball characters. I hope Mira’s misfortune of stumbling over a dead body every month lasts for many years!”—Donna Andrews, New York Times bestselling author of Stork Raving Mad
September Fair: *“Once again, the very funny Lourey serves up a delicious dish of murder, mayhem, and merriment.”—Booklist (starred review) “Lively.”—Publishers Weekly “Lively mystery.”—BookPage “Good, high-calorie fun.”—Mystery Scene “Lourey has a talent for creating hilarious characters in bizarre, laughout-loud situations, while at the same time capturing the honest and endearing subtleties of human life. In any season, September Fair is a rumpus delight, enjoyed deep-fried, covered with whipped cream, or fresh off the bookshelf.”—The Strand
“September Fair should earn Lourey a blue ribbon for her detailed knowledge of the State Fair, her ability to create unique characters, and her talent for writing another memorable Minnesota mystery.”—Midwest Mix Magazine “Jess Lourey, the literary love child of Agatha Christie and Garrison Keillor, gives us September Fair, an entirely engaging novel with pathos, plot twists, and quirky characters galore, plus an inside knowledge of state fairs, beauty pageants, and the dairy industry. Beautifully written and wickedly funny, it comes with one caveat emptor: this book could turn meat-eating readers into vegetarians, and the vegetarians into vegans.” —Harley Jane Kozak, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity-award winning author of A Date You Can’t Refuse “Warning—you cannot read this book without dying to go to the fair! Jess Lourey does an amazing job of evoking the sights and sounds of summer while delivering an edge-of-your-seat mystery that will keep you guessing until the end.”—Gemma Halliday, author of Mayhem in High Heels
August Moon: *“Hilarious, fast paced, and madcap.”—Booklist (starred review) “Another amusing tale set in the town full of over-the-top zanies who’ve endeared themselves to the engaging Mira.”—Kirkus Reviews “[A] hilarious, wonderfully funny cozy.”—Crimespree Magazine “Entertaining.”—Library Journal
Knee High by the Fourth of July: Finalist for the Lefty Award (Left Coast Crime) A Killer Book (Independent Mystery Booksellers Association) “Mira … is an amusing heroine in a town full of quirky characters.” —Kirkus Reviews “Lourey’s rollicking good cozy planted me in the heat of a Minnesota summer for a laugh-out-loud mystery ride.”—Leann Sweeney, author of the Yellow Rose mystery series
June Bug: “The funny, earthy heroine is sure to stumble her way into the hearts of readers everywhere. Don’t miss this one—it’s a hoot!”—William Kent Krueger, Anthony Award–winning author of the Cork O’Connor series “A funny, well-written, engaging story … readers will thoroughly enjoy the well-paced ride.”—Carl Brookins, author of The Case of the Greedy Lawyer “Jess Lourey is a talented, witty, and clever writer.”—Monica Ferris, author of the bestselling Needlecraft Mysteries
May Day: “All the ingredients for a successful small-town cozy series are right here.” —Publishers Weekly “A likeable heroine and a surfeit of sass.”—Kirkus Reviews “May Day is fresh, the characters quirky. Minnesota has many fine crime writers, and Jess Lourey has just entered their ranks!”—Ellen Hart, author of the Sophie Greenway and Jane Lawless Mystery series
February
fever
other books by jess lourey May Day (2006) June Bug (2007) Knee High by the Fourth of July (2007) August Moon (2008) September Fair (2009) October Fest (2010) November Hunt (2011) December Dread (2012) January Thaw (2014)
February
fever A Murder-By-Month Mystery
jess lourey Midnight Ink
woodbury, minnesota
February Fever: A Murder-By-Month Mystery © 2015 by Jess Lourey. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2015 Book format by Bob Gaul Cover design by Ellen Lawson Editing by Nicole Nugent Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Lourey, Jess, 1970– February fever: a murder-by-month mystery/Jess Lourey.—First edition. pages; cm.—(The murder-by-month mysteries; #10) ISBN 978-0-7387-4214-4 1. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title. PS3612.O833F43 2015 813'.6—dc23 2014026215 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America
dedication For all the fantastic women in my life. Thank you for providing shoulders to cry on, wine to drink, and stories to laugh at.
ONE
The upright bass strings resonated, the notes deep and husky. In the background, the finger-snapping began. Peggy Lee’s voice threaded over the top of the rhythm. It was playful, hot, and full of delicious promise. She was doing her best to convince me that I couldn’t possibly know the depths of her love, could never understand how much she cared. Johnny noted my delighted expression when I placed the lyrics, and he smiled. He was standing over me, backlit by a crackling fire, naked from the waist up. His Levi’s hung low on his lean hips, and the shadows from the fire played off his soft blond curls, the marble cut of his biceps, and the strength in his hands, which hung loosely at his sides. The chorus of the song scorched out of the speakers. Fever. Believe me, I felt the heat. Johnny had removed my blindfold moments earlier. I’d been wearing it since he’d surprised me at the Battle Lake Public Library 1
thirty minutes ago. Of course I’d protested—I’m not a woman whose boyfriend shows up at her work on a random February Sunday afternoon with a bouquet of tangerine-colored tulips, a blindfold, and a whispered promise that makes her blush in her most private parts. Heck, I’m not the gal who usually even has a boyfriend, and when I do, he’s more likely the type to regard dental floss and socks as “fancy-shmancy” (yes, Bad Brad, I’m talking about you) than to surprise me with an every-minute-planned evening. Johnny was different. Johnny was love and rockets and romance and sweetness. We’d officially been a couple since December, not even two months, but we’d casually dated before that. That’s how I was gonna tell the story, anyhow. Another person might interpret my “casual dating” as more like “neurotic dating,” with me constantly worrying what a great guy like Johnny was doing with someone like me, and subsequently doing everything I could to sabotage our budding relationship. You see, I’m a little messed up. I’m an only child, the daughter of an alcoholic who died driving drunk the summer before my junior year of high school. He’d killed someone else in the accident, and I became a pariah in my hometown of Paynesville, Minnesota. Come the end of my senior year, I was only too happy to skedaddle from that tiny spot on the map. Ink not even dry on my high school diploma, I took off for the Cities. I did all right for a while. Earned my English degree from the University of Minnesota, waited tables at a Vietnamese restaurant on the West Bank, hit the bars—but only on weekends. Once I graduated, however, I quickly discovered that an English bachelor’s and $4 will buy you a medium latte, a license to critique the punctuation on the Caribou Coffee specials board, and not much
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else. (I can see why the English Department left that out of their advertising materials.) After taking a couple years off from college to find myself (i.e., pay off some loans and check out what life is like when you’re not going to school), I enrolled in a Master’s program in English and began hitting the clubs in earnest. Eventually, I found myself attending more bars than classes, dating Bad Brad, and wondering if this was what my alcoholic dad’s life had looked like in his twenties. I didn’t like the direction—or lack thereof—in which I was headed. A year ago last March, I received a shittily wrapped gift when I caught Brad cheating on me, and, a few hours later, was flashed by a homeless man while crossing the Washington Avenue bridge. Nothing like stumbling across two out-of-place penises in one day to crowbar you out of a rut, you know what I mean? When my friend Sunny called soon after the doubleheader and asked me to take care of her dog and cute little prefab house on the most gorgeous hundred acres in all of Minnesota, I didn’t so much leap at the offer as trust fall into it. The gig was only supposed to last March through August while Sunny explored Alaska with Dean, her unibrowed lover, but late last summer, the couple landed a yearround job on one of the fishing boats, and here I was, an unofficial Battle Lake resident for coming up on a year. The Battle Lake Public Library head librarian had hired me as his assistant within a week of my moving to the tiny northwestern Minnesota town, and by April, I’d scored a supplemental job as a freelance reporter for the Battle Lake Recall. The newspaper editor, Ron Sims, had been so impressed with my work (read: no one else would do it) that I’d been assigned to write a recipe column, which I’d named “Battle Lake Bites.”
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Admittedly, the title had been intended passive-aggressively. You see, it took me a bit to re-acclimate to living in a small town, a community so tight-knit that if your car slid into the ditch, somebody’d be there to pull you out within five minutes. Within ten minutes, the rest of the population would know you’d gone off the road, and it’d be twelve more minutes before they began speculating on whether or not you’d been drinking, if the interior of your car was messy, and if you’d ever find love or were biologically doomed to a life of tea-drinking and spirited cat-collecting. I imagine I’d have fallen into the small-town rhythm sooner— I’d been born and raised in a little burg, after all—if it weren’t for the dead bodies popping up. As in, regularly. One corpse a month, every month since May, matter of fact. A guy I had a crush on here, a statue thief there, and pretty soon, it added up to me stumbling over nine murders in as many months. I didn’t like to speculate on that record, because when I did, I was inevitably brought to two conclusions: 1. I was jinxed with the mother of all cooties: dead-body magnetism; and 2. It had been twenty-three days since I’d skated over a frozen corpse on West Battle Lake. I could almost hear the clock ticking down on February. When and where would I find the next murder victim? Because of this propensity, I’d decided to become proactive back in October and began pursuing my private eye license. (When life hands you corpses, you make lemonade, is what I always say.) Still and all, I didn’t like the countdown to the next dead body. The waiting was making me jittery.
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On good days, I told myself my run of bad luck had to be over and I was crazy for jumping at shadows. On bad days, I’d returned to sleeping under my bed, empty cans stacked inside my bedroom door so I’d wake up if anyone tried to sneak in. It made dating a healthy, open guy like Johnny … interesting. He’d borne it like a champ, but I found myself watching him closely, waiting for the day when he said, understandably, “Hey, I was thinking I might like to try dating a woman who doesn’t trip over dead bodies like other people find pennies. Your thoughts?” Many times I’d caught myself trying to pull the trigger first. You know, dump him before he inevitably ran out on me. I’d fabricate a fight, or decide he hadn’t called in two days because he was cheating on me and then, when he did call the third day, I wouldn’t pick up. Sigh. I was a lot of work. Johnny had been true-blue through all of it, though, and my walls were crumbling, brick by precious brick. It was terrifying to be slowly revealed and made vulnerable. Terrifying, but also exhilarating. These were the thoughts I juggled on an average day. But today was no run-of-the-mill day. Today, I’d been blindfolded and brought to Johnny’s living room, where a fire crackled and I was alone with the cutest boy on earth. Besides, as Johnny eased closer to me, Peggy Lee melting the speakers with her velvety tones and my blindfold dangling from his jeans pocket, my thoughts were disintegrating. There simply wasn’t enough blood in my northern hemisphere to maintain a facial expression, let alone a coherent thought. When he stood only inches away, towering over me, his body heat melted into my flesh like a lovely wave. I reached for his abdomen, longing to touch one of my favorite spots: the point where his hipbones carved a line into his sculpted ab muscles. He grabbed my hand
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just short of his tempting skin, and in a masterful move, wrapped one end of the silk blindfold around my wrist. I glanced up at him, caught off-guard. I was still sitting, which was a delicious angle. My head was level with his belly button, and everything from that point up was sleek, strong, and staring intently at me. The blue of his eyes was as dark as storm clouds. I knew that look, and it gave me the most exquisite shivers. I offered him the other wrist, but he shook his head, his lips quirking at the corner. I began to ask him what the plan was, but he stopped my words by leaning over, taking my face in his free hand, and kissing me, deep and long. Peggy Lee was right: this was indeed a lovely way to burn. I reached for him again, but he still had my right hand wrapped in the silk blindfold. He pulled back from the kiss and tugged my Henley over my head. He had to string it along the blindfold until it was free. As he tossed my shirt behind the couch, my smile of anticipation melted to horror when I realized I was wearing my Plan B bra, i.e., the one so puckered and ratty that it served as back-up birth control. I’d never have worn it if I’d known this was where I’d end up tonight. Curse words! He noticed the direction of my glance and put his finger under my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes. I immediately forgot what I’d been worrying about. He was stunning, open, honest, and in love with me. The soundtrack he must have created for the evening switched over to Bill Withers’s “Use Me.” It was brighter than Peggy Lee, but no less seductive. Johnny reached over and behind me. A cork popped and flew dramatically across the room. Next came the golden glug of champagne being poured into a flute. When he handed me the glass, the firelight reflected off of the sparkling honeyed bubbles. 6
I was technically free to move around, as he had dropped the other end of the blindfold to remove my shirt, but I remained still, hypnotized. He put the glass to my lips and I drank, spilling only a little. He set down the flute and kissed the wet spot on my chin, and quick as a blink, maneuvered me so I was lying on my back on the couch. He grabbed both wrists, pulled them over my head, and used the blindfold to tie them to the table next to the sofa. This pure hotness took all of three seconds. I tugged at the binding, not wanting to escape but curious if I could. The knots were pleasantly tight. I smiled. I’d never been tied up before, but it had always been a fantasy. I figured it was a command to be lazy. Who doesn’t like someone else doing all the work during sex? Bring on the Nut Goodie ice cream, and you’d have three of my favorite things. Johnny had also tucked a pillow under me when he’d leaned me back, which meant my head was higher than my waist and my A cups hadn’t completely disappeared. Double good! Johnny looked me over from tip to toe as I lay on the couch wearing only a bra and jeans, my hands tied over my head. He let his eyes travel up and down me like hot fingers, and it took every ounce of self-control for me not to beg him to kiss me. When he placed his hand on his flat, muscled stomach—a move he did unconsciously but that I loved—I almost squealed. He continued to study me as if deciding whether or not to remove my pants. He hadn’t spoken a single word since we’d entered his house. For my part, it was all I could do not to make every stupid joke that crossed my mind, which is what I do when I’m excited and/or nervous. (Let me be a cautionary tale: turns out “pull my finger” jokes are not an aphrodisiac.)
7
Apparently deciding to leave my jeans on for the time being, he ambled over to the fireplace and removed a candle from the mantle. Watching him move made me squirm, in a good way. His broad shoulders served as a stunning counterpoint to his narrow waist, and I still had the smell of him on me—clean and spicy, like cinnamon. He held the candle above my stomach, one eyebrow raised. I responded by shrugging, at least as much as I could with my arms tied over my head. He dropped a single dot of hot wax onto my stomach. It was an intense, momentary sting, followed by warmth. I closed my eyes and smiled. He leaned down and kissed the spot just above my belly button where the wax had hardened. He made three more dots, leading up from the original spot toward my neck. He kissed each after it cooled. My shady spots tingled with delight. When he reached my neck, he set the candle on the table and began kissing me in earnest in the sweet spot where my throat met my collar bone. His hand was on my inner thigh, kneading. Chris Isaak took over for Bill Withers, telling me about a bad, bad thing. I was ready to commit a crime myself if it meant Johnny would lay on me. I bucked my hips, but he pushed them down, moving his hot mouth to mine. He was the best kisser I’d ever had, full, strong lips, never too wet, tongue just right, but tonight he was outdoing himself. I moaned. He finally eased on top of me, his knee between my legs, his weight hovering just above my body. I thrust again, but he wouldn’t put his weight on me. He moved his mouth toward my ear, his tongue tracing the ridges, his breath hot. I shivered. I loved it when he talked dirty, and I could
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tell I was about to get an earful. His voice, when it came, was deep and growly with desire: “I have to go to Portland.” Hunh? I relaxed into the couch and blinked once. Twice. With my bachelor’s in English and a handful of Master’s classes in the same, I felt fairly confident with most of the native language, including innuendo. But this “going to Portland” euphemism was new on me. Oh well, I could roll with it. I got back into character. “Portland would be happy to host you for as long as you can come,” I whispered back, grinding underneath him. He tensed slightly. Shoot. I must have read this one wrong. I pitched my voice into what I hoped was a sympathetic tone, any hint of disappointment erased. “That’s okay, honey. Sometimes we all have to go to Portland.” He pulled back completely, sitting on the side of the couch, his warm hand still on my hip. I could see laughter warring with something else on his face. “No, Mira, I feel fine. I meant the city of Portland. In Oregon? I’ve been offered an environmental science internship at Portland State. I found out this morning, after I’d planned out this whole evening. I was going to wait to tell you until”—he made a gesture to indicate me, who, for the record, was beginning to feel pretty dang foolish with her arms tied over her head and her white bra glowing like the eyes of a nervous cave creature in the firelight—“after we made love, but I can’t go through with it. It seems dishonest. Sorry to spring it on you like this.”
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Ah, that was more like my luck. As sucky as this was, at least I felt on familiar ground. When had things ever worked out for me? “For how long?” He ran his hands through his hair. “Through the end of the semester. I’d be done in May.” My stomach dropped, but I fought to keep my face neutral. “When do you leave?” “Wednesday morning, if I accept.” He leaned over to untie me, and I sat next to him, rubbing my wrists. Our hips were barely touching. “They gave you not even two days to decide?” Shoot, that sounded like whining. “Someone else dropped out from the program, opening up a spot. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” I took a deep breath. “Why Portland?” He kneaded one hand with the other. “It was one of the Master’s programs I applied to.” His voice grew quieter.“Before we started dating.” My heart constricted. I knew Johnny had big life plans. He’d earned an undergraduate degree in horticulture, which was another thing I loved about him. It meant he was green and cared about something bigger than himself. He’d planned to go straight on to grad school, but when his mom had developed cancer late last summer, he’d taken a year off to look after her, which I loved even more. It had felt so good and natural to build a life with him in Battle Lake that I’d kind of forgotten it was temporary. “What if you like it, and they like you?” He glanced back at me, cupping my cheek with his warm, strong hand. The storm was gone from his eyes, replaced by a blue so pure that I could almost see waves. “Then we have some talking to do.” 10
T WO
In retrospect, Johnny had been wise to tie me up before he sprung the Portland news. How mad can a chick get wearing her Plan B bra with her hands lassoed over her head? Plus, I was charmed that he’d been too honest to go any further in our boot-knocking without telling me he’d be leaving in less than three days. And in the end, what could I do? He really had been offered a rare opportunity. I’d be a hagosaurus to stand in his way. Still, it hurt. What if he met someone new? Worse, what if once he got far enough away from me, he realized how crazy it had been to date me in the first place? Me, carcass-finding, murderous-dad-having, life-never-quite-together Mira James? Sigh. “Someone poop in your coffee?” I was standing outside the door of the Battle Lake Public Library, cold February wind licking at my exposed face, key in hand. I hadn’t heard Mrs. Berns crunch up behind me. “Morning,” I said. 11
“Morning, Eeyore.” Mrs. Berns was wearing a quilted winter coat and a knit cap designed to look like a grumpy penguin squatting on her head. Her mittens matched. She crossed her arms and studied me. An errant snowflake drifted past her face. “Hey, you know what’s worse than a moping woman who won’t tell you what’s bothering her?” “What?” “Nothing. There is absolutely nothing worse.” It was enough to tug a smile from me, but she didn’t let my changed expression slow her down. She grabbed the key from my hand, unlocked the door, and walked in without holding it open for me. Through the glass, I watched her flip on the lights and stride to the front desk computer to boot it up before removing her coat. She was wearing a modest outfit, overall: white tennis shoes, fuschia jogging pants with a matching windbreaker, her perfect white hair dyed a light apricot shade. Her choice of accessory was what separated her from the herd. She’d slung a gun belt around her hips, a silver cap pistol resting in each holster. My smile grew wider. I hadn’t seen her packing since last July, when she’d kidnapped an Indian impersonator from the Chief Wenonga Days parade and disappeared with him for two days. Not bad for a woman in her eighties. I entered the library, leaving behind the snapping February wind. “I see you’re armed today,” I said as I removed my down-filled coat and hung it on the rack by the front door. She shrugged and strode over to turn on the public computers. I’d hired her as my assistant a few months earlier (actually, she’d hired herself), and this was more work than I’d seen her do in that entire time. 12
“Felt like a gun-toting sort of day. You gonna tell me what’s got your face upside-down?” I sighed, brought back into the moment. “Johnny is going to Portland for two months.” She whipped on her heels. “What?” “Johnny. Oregon. Two months.” “Yee-haw! I can’t wait!” She yanked a gun from her belt and pointed it in the air, firing off several rounds. The air popped, and the salty-egg smell of sulfur curled toward my nose. “What?” By way of answer, she holstered her gun and ran over to me, trying to pick me up. Since she was four inches shorter and fifty-plus years older, she had little luck. “Portland! That’s the city of the future. I was just reading about it in AARP. Senior discounts up the yin-yang, pot brownies served right next to the croissants at the coffee shops if you know who to ask, and one-point-five single men for every single woman.” If anybody could figure out what to do with one and half single men, it was Mrs. Berns. She had a sex life in her eighties that I couldn’t have approached in my twenties. But that was hardly the point. “I said Johnny is going to Portland. You and I still have to work. Here. In Battle Lake.” “Have you ever heard of a vacation, baby? We’re due!” We weren’t, actually. We had been given mandatory time off in December because the city didn’t have the funds to keep the library open over the holidays. That situation had corrected itself, after I’d agreed to take a significant pay cut in my insignificant salary—a town needs its library—but since Mrs. Berns and I were the only library employees, there was no way we could both leave. All that was true, and valid, but it was not the argument that escaped my mouth. 13
“I can’t fly.” It was a fact. Even if I could afford a vacation, had the leave to do so, and there was someone to cover for me, there was No Way I was stepping on a plane. I hadn’t left the ground for more than three seconds in my entire life, and that was back when I was a kid who liked to jump. I had no intention of breaking that streak. “You don’t have to fly, loser. They have planes to do that.” I shook my head. “No way. Not getting on an airplane. Flying is for birds and people who like to die. I am neither.” She planted her hands on her hips and looked at me as if I’d just told her that I wanted to be a pink monkey when I grew up. “You’ve never been on an airplane?” “Never.” “How do you get around the country?” “I don’t. Everything I need is in Minnesota, or at least within driving range of it.” “That’s stupid.” “Maybe. But even if it wasn’t, I can’t go to Portland. I don’t have the money or the time. I have a library to run.” Why couldn’t I have started with the sane arguments? Story of my life. Fortunately, at that moment, the library doorbell bonged, indicating we had our first patron and saving me from further pointless argument with Mrs. Berns. Two kids rolled in, nearly unrecognizable in their winter gear. Because it was early in February, the weather still hovered barely above zero, which turned most Minnesotans into layered creatures who waddle around because they are nearly as wide around as they are tall. Fortunately, I spotted a lock of red hair sticking out of the ski cap of the bundle walking toward me. “Sierra!”
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She attached herself to my leg. I picked her up, runny nose and all, and hugged her. It was the weirdest thing. If you gave me a choice between bearing my own child and getting hit by a car, I’d need to know how fast the car would be going before I decided. Running Children’s Time at the library was a whole different animal, though. I’d inherited the job from the previous librarian. He’d liked it about as well as I’d figured I would, which translated into him putting out kid books and tiny boxes of raisins every Monday at ten AM. My first Monday on the job, I referred to the raisins as ogre boogers, which earned me a sea of rolling giggles from the four kids who had gathered. I’d found my people. Over the course of months, I’d quadrupled the number of attendees. These days between sixteen and twenty kids between one to five years old came by every Monday from ten to noon. I read to them, we colored, crafted sock puppets and then put on shows, mixed no-bake treats, and generally partied like it was 1999. Their moms and dads got a welcome break to read a book or magazine uninterrupted, and I got my kid time. “What are we gonna do today?” Sierra begged. I reached for a tissue from the front counter to wipe her nose. On second thought, I grabbed two. “We’re going to read Nighttime Ninja, make ninja costumes, and learn some tae kwon do!” I didn’t know enough of the martial art to teach it myself, but Mrs. Berns and I had taken classes as a response to the extreme and freaky danger I’d lately found myself in. At the most recent class, I’d asked the local instructor, Master Jen, to teach a makeshift Little Kickers class in the library today. She’d agreed. “Whee!” Sierra said. Once I had her coat off, she ran over to Joshie, her little brother, and caught him with a flying kick. Fortunately, he 15
was still swaddled in his snowsuit and didn’t feel a thing. Or, if he did, he responded to pain by giggling. Either worked for me. Sierra and Joshie’s mom, Becky, impassively watched the exchange. I looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time since she’d walked in the library. Her face was pinched, her eyes swollen. “Can I pick them up at noon?” she asked without glancing at me. The rule was that parents had to stay in the building with their kids at all times, but this was a special case. It was the double-edged sword of the small-town life at work: I knew that Becky’s husband had recently ran out on her, which also meant that I knew I could help her. “Sure. I’ll take care of them. No worries.” She looked grateful enough to cry. She kissed her kids on the head and disappeared. I leaned down to help release Josh from his coat, snowpants, hat, mittens, and scarf. “You want to be a ninja today, Joshie?” “Gun!” He wasn’t quite two and knew only a handful of words. Because this was Otter Tail County, gun was one of them. “No, sweetie. No guns. Ninjas don’t need them. They have magic.” “Gun!” He pointed behind me with his chubby little finger. I turned to see Mrs. Berns at the computer, her cap pistols catching the light. “Ah, I see. No, hon, those are her guns. Not our guns.” He didn’t know a lot of words, but he also knew no, and it crushed him. Literally. He went from perfectly content to no-bones on the floor, all his energy focused on wailing at the unfairness of life. Kids are strange that way. “Ignore him,” Sierra said, only four and already so wise. She stepped over him and walked toward the stack of new arrivals, all glossy picture books. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of ignoring a screaming child. I’d promised his mom that I’d take care of him. 16
“I’ll be back, Joshie. You just hang on.” He either didn’t hear me or didn’t care. I walked over to the computers and tapped Mrs. Berns on the shoulder. “Hey, see that suffering kid back there? He wants your guns.” She didn’t bother to look away from the computer. “He can’t even touch ’em, and here’s why: it’s good practice for life. Who ever gets what they want?” My shoulders tightened. “Could you at least hide them until kid time is over? It’d make my life easier.” She rolled her eyes. “You can’t coddle them. Then they just grow up to be men who don’t pick up after themselves and never read fiction.” “I don’t see the connection.” “Probably because you’re too busy coddling boys.” I blew air through my mouth, loudly. Was it really going to be one of those days? “Please. I just found out my boyfriend is leaving the state for several months, and I’m pretty sure it won’t take more than a day away for him to realize it was a mistake to ever date me. I have a toddler who is sure he’s going to die if he doesn’t get your guns. Oh, and it’s winter, which means I can’t garden, so my stress has no outlet. Can you just do this one favor for me?” Mrs. Berns made a show of rapidly blinking her eyes and shaking her head. “Sorry. I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of that. What were you saying?” I threw up my hands and returned to Joshie. I leaned over him. Despite the impressive decibels of his howls, I had to admire how fully he was throwing himself into the role. I pitched my voice so he could hear it over his screaming tears. “Hey Joshie, you want some ogre boogers?”
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He immediately paused his crying and squinted at me out of the corner of an eye. “Ooger oogers?” I smiled. See how quickly little people can win you back? They’re too damn cute. “Yup. A whole box of ooger oogers. I have them in secret storage. Want to check them out?” “Don’t fall for it, Joshie,” Sierra called from a nearby table, where she was flipping through an issue of Ranger Rick. “They’re just raisins.” Man, if that girl was twenty-five years older, we’d be hanging out. I didn’t know if she was looking out for her little brother or camping on the side of general fairness, but I couldn’t deny the truth of her words. “Sure, they’re raisins, but they’re special raisins. Want to go see them?” He did. He held his hands up to me, and I hoisted him onto my hip. We went to the back room, where I grabbed a not-too-old minibox of raisins from the bulk the previous head librarian had purchased. Joshie calmed, and I got to finish prepping. It was a good thing, because the little ones started rolling through the door in earnest soon after Joshie fisted his box of ooger oogers. The house was packed, and Children’s Time went off without a hitch. I noticed partway through the TKD demo that Mrs. Berns had disappeared, but that wasn’t unusual. Come noon, I helped parents with the arduous task of repackaging their kids into their winter gear. By one o’clock, all the children were gone, even Sierra and Joshie. I had cleaned the stickiness from the kids’ area and reshelved all the books and magazines they’d played with. It was a Monday, so only a handful of patrons grazed in the aisles. I was feeling the exhausted afterglow of a job well done when the front door burst open—no small feat considering it was pneumatic. I glanced over, hoping to see Mrs. Berns returning for the rest 18
of her shift. I had some ideas for rearranging the reading tables that I wanted to run by her. “Mira!” Jed Heitke blew into the library. He was dressed in his over-sized khaki parka, bright ski cap with the ball on the end, and enormous mittens. I couldn’t read his expression. It was either sad or worried. That in itself was odd. Jed was a Shaggy from Scooby-Doo sort of guy: curly headed and laidback, perennially happy, in his early twenties, artistic and aimless, and in possession of some of the finest weed in the county, if the rumors were to be believed. I’d never been a smoker, but he was so genuine that we’d become fast friends. “Jed! How’ve you been?” I hadn’t seen him in nearly two weeks. That wasn’t unusual, but the way he was carrying himself set off my radar. Something was definitely up. He glanced behind himself, as if to check if he was being followed, then he scuttled toward me, breath coming fast and quick. “I gotta get something off my chest, and you’re the only one I can tell.” Up close, it was easy to see he was shaken. His face was hollowed out, as if sleep had eluded him for days. I immediately thought of today’s date, and how it was just about time for me to discover my next dead body. Had Jed uncovered a snow-shrouded corpse when he was out blowing snow for the neighbors? Gone to check on a mysteriously empty ice house in front of his lake home and discovered two dead lovers, as cold and lively as popsicles? Or maybe he’d witnessed a murder when he’d gone out for the daily paper? None of that would be any weirder than what I’d stumbled across in the last ten months. My tongue felt like chalk, but I squeaked out the words anyhow. “What is it?”
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