November Hunt Page 12

  Her driveway hadn’t been plowed since the last snowfall, which had been almost two weeks earlier. My worm of worry grew. I parked my car on the street and grabbed boots from my winter survival kit. I yanked them on and checked for lights in neighboring homes. While they all had their yard lights on and a few shone with interior light, I didn’t see any movement. I slogged through the knee-high drifts until I plowed my way to her front door. It was snowed shut. I pushed the doorbell and heard an accompanying trill inside, but no movement. I pushed it again and waited a full three minutes.

  “Haven’t seen Cathy in a couple weeks.”

  The voice made me jump. I turned to see a woman approaching my car about 300 yards away, pulled by an eager Golden Retriever. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, but I could make out her friendly smile.

  “You live around here?” I asked.

  “Five houses up. The blue one.” She pointed behind her, toward a nouveau riche castle.

  “Does she usually tell you when she goes out of town?”

  “No. The Conrads would know. The first house on your left.”

  “Thank you.” There are some benefits to being female in this society. People usually assume you’re not a criminal, or at least not a threat.

  She waved and continued on. I stepped off the stoop and leaned over scraggly bushes to peek in Catherine’s front window. The main room looked like a perfectly clean den. One doorway led into the kitchen, another door looked like a closet, and an opening led down a hall. I saw no signs of a struggle or unexpected flight. I considered leaving a note but wasn’t sure what it’d say. Instead, I retraced my foot-holes back to the car and drove home.

  After feeding and affectionating Luna and Tiger Pop, I called Catherine’s answering machine and deposited the words I’d decided on during my drive home. “Hi, my name is Mira James. I’m the Battle Lake librarian, and I have a couple questions for you. Call me when you get a chance.” It was an odd communiqué, but I figured my librarian status was the most innocuous of the four I had to choose from, reporter, underqualified and unlicensed PI, and stranger being the other three.

  I microwaved a bowl of popcorn and constructed a cheese and pickle sandwich for supper, popped a handful of vitamins, and realized I was exhausted. Tomorrow was going to be another long day. I had an interview with Mitchell over lunch and a subsequent article to write on top of my regular library shift. I also had a hunch that the universe was ready to reveal more about Tom Kicker’s death, but the feeling came with an icy edge.

  Eighteen

  Luna and I trudged a quarter mile through the woods to the sledding hill and started our frigid morning with some downhill action on a green plastic toboggan. The first few runs were sketchy as we forged a trail and she debated between riding with me and running alongside and barking excitedly at me. She finally decided both had their selling points and alternated between them. The daybreak was gorgeous, a frosty three degrees above zero with the rising sun sparkling tangerine and violet off millions of snow crystals. The air smelled pure, cleaning out my lungs in great visible puffs. Only my eyes were naked to the glacial licks of air, and my winter gear kept the rest of me warm. Luna and I traveled up and down the hill a dozen times before she plopped down at the top and began chewing at the ice clumps dangling off her paws.

  “You ready to go back?”

  She wagged her tail in the affirmative. Back at the house, Tiger Pop allowed me to feed her catnip and scratch her ears and the bony spot right in front of her tail. I toasted and buttered two slices of multigrain bread, swallowed three of Kennie’s vitamins, watered my plants, and drove to work. The bog burps started on the drive, but I now had them scheduled. The first one erupted 20 minutes after taking the vitamins and lasted one to two hours, during which time I was toxic, but I swear I could actually feel my hair growing. Then, magically the burps would disappear. Right on schedule, by the time I closed up early to drive to the hunt club, I smelled like a rose. The plan was to interview Mitchell and return before 1:00.

  I’d passed the Deer Valley Hunt sign a hundred times on my way to Alexandria but never had a reason to pull in. Now that I did, I was impressed by the enormous log structure that served as the main lodge. It looked straight out of a photograph, constructed of gorgeous buttery logs and as big as a hotel. Several outbuildings looked well used, judging by the tracks in and out of them. A wide-open garage featured an army of four-wheelers and snowmobiles. I pulled into the nonhandicapped spot closest to the entrance, the one marked, “Whitetail,” and made my way indoors.

  The main lobby featured a crackling, three-story fieldstone fireplace that gave the whole space the warm scent of pine and community. The far wall was made up almost entirely of glass and overlooked sweeping hills and into a hardwood forest. I sauntered to the front desk and helped myself to a perfect red apple tempting me from a beautifully arranged bowl of fruit. I stuffed it in my shoulder bag and dinged the bell. I was rewarded almost immediately when Mitchell popped out. “Right on time. That’s what I like.”

  “This place is beautiful,” I said. I wasn’t a fan of all the stuffed animal carcasses decorating the walls, but the cathedral ceiling, glossy maple floors, lush Persian rugs in deep jewel tones scattered around, and handcrafted furniture made for a decidedly masculine but impressive interior. The glittering Christmas tree must have been three times taller than me, and it was decorated top to bottom with twinkle lights, tinsel, and tastefully muted red, green, and blue ornaments.

  “Thank you. Mind if I show you around while we talk?”

  “Not at all.” I took out my pad and pen so I could take notes while we walked.

  Mitchell rolled out his rehearsed pitch for me, explaining how the hunt club had been handed down to him by his father who had inherited it from his father before that, and how it had always focused on animal conservation. I considered suggesting that no longer shooting the creatures dead might be instrumental in conserving them but didn’t want to interrupt his flow. His grandfather had built the lodge from the ground up with hand-hewn logs, he revealed, and his father had created much of the furniture.

  “You’ve got a talented family. Do you work with wood yourself ?”

  It was the first question I’d asked since the tour began, and he seemed irritated by it. “Too busy running the place to get creative. These are different times.”

  I wanted to ask him to elaborate, but he stayed on-message, lecturing about the various animals that could be hunted in this area and the famous people who’d visited the lodge, like two former Minnesota governors and a very famous shipping family from the West Coast. As he talked, we strolled the premises, and I was shown the fully furnished guest bedrooms, the kitchen, the full-service bar, the elegant, cavernous dining room lined with windows and dark-paneled wood, and ended the tour at what he called the Men’s Smoke Room, a library almost as big as the main lobby.

  “No women allowed?” I asked, semi-jokingly. OK, defensively.

  He laughed off my concerns. “The name’s a carryover from my grandpa’s time. The men would come to the room to smoke while the women stayed behind in what is now the lobby. They’d have tea, but the men would prefer something a little stiffer.”

  “I bet the women would have, too.”

  “Different times.”

  “But you let women in here now, right?”

  “Absolutely.” He winked at me. “You’re in here, aren’t you?”

  I paid him back with a reluctant courtesy smile and made my way to the nearest shelf of books, sagging under the weight of Shakespeare, Hemingway, and Dickens. “The classics. Very nice. Who chose the books?”

  “My father, I believe.”

  I pointed toward a floor-to-ceiling panel in the far bookcase that looked off-kilter. “And he built the shelves?”

  Mitchell glanced at me sharply and hurried across the room to push on the angled case. It slid easily back into place. “Him or my grandpa. Either way, this place is nearly a century old.
I’ve been meaning to shore that one up but haven’t had the time.”

  I ignored his lame attempt to cover up. “That’s a secret room back there, isn’t it? An honest-to-goodness, behind-the-bookshelf, hidden space!” I couldn’t hide the joy in my voice. I’d uncovered a similar room at a local mansion-turned-bed-and-breakfast this past summer, and it had stored some pretty cool secrets. Apparently, the hidden “rum rooms” were common in the nicer houses in this area that were built right before or during Prohibition. I started walking toward the panel when he physically stepped into my path.

  “That’s private.”

  I peeked around his shoulder. Up close, he was even brawnier, a little thick around the middle but carrying at least six feet worth of ass-kicking, if he had a mind to. “It is a secret room!”

  “We’re done in here.” He stopped short of putting his hands on me, but he inched in close, his eyes narrow and snapping sparks. I backed away, and he came at me again, holding his angry face within inches of mine. My arms were crossed, and his were fisted at his side.

  “Who built the secret room?”

  He pulled in a deep breath and unclenched his hands in a visible attempt to get a grip on his temper. “My grandpa did. It’s just a storage room now, but I imagine he had some liquor stills in there back in the day. Don’t put that in the article.”

  “If I can look in the room.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. It’s not safe. A section of the floor has already given way.”

  He was still standing uncomfortably close, and so I did the only thing I could: I made him uncomfortable back. “It’s very sad that Tom Kicker was shot here. Has that hurt business?”

  His face turned an angry red and he seemed to grow several inches taller. I was weighing whether I’d have better luck running or yelling for help when a woman appeared at the entrance to the Men’s Smoke Room. She was in her late fifties, by the looks of her, and she spoke familiarly to Mitchell. “Phone call, honey. It’s Frederick.”

  “That was an unfortunate accident,” he said to me, his voice low and lethal. “Tom was on the edge of the property on his own time, however. It had nothing to do with the hunt club, and I don’t like your question.” He pointed at the door. “After you.”

  I had no choice but to walk in front of him, my danger spikes on full alert. I followed the woman who had delivered the message. When we arrived at the lobby, he shook my hand, squeezing it painfully in his meat hooks, his message clear. I’m stronger than you and I can hurt you. “Too bad there wasn’t time to bring you to the shooting range. I’m a pretty good shot. Next time, maybe.” He laughed, and it contained the echo of an animal baring its teeth.

  I had the willies, but I didn’t show it. I even held on to his grip for another second after he released mine, though my hand bones felt crushed. Then I thanked him for his time and walked out. And you better believe that before I reached my car, I had formulated a plan for how I was going to sneak into that hidden room.

  Nineteen

  I knew that Clive and Tom had argued before Clive shot Tom to death. I knew the police had ruled it a hunting accident. I also knew that Tom had been involved in some sort of major scandal in his younger days, that Clive sold pot and the law looked the other way, and that Clive had played his cards close to his chest until recently, when he made it publicly known that he had cash to spare. Finally, I knew that the creeper who ran the hunting lodge where Tom had been shot was unpleasant, to say the least, and had a secret room. Not a whole lot to go on. If information was coolness, in fact, I would not register on the Fonz end of the spectrum. I was barely a Potsie.

  The lead on my pencil cracked as I tried to draw some connections between my isolated bits of information. I was pushing too hard. I dropped my head in my hands and moaned. Hallie was right about there being more to her dad’s death than we knew, I was convinced of it, but I’d be danged if I could figure out what was really going on.

  The pleasant ping of the library’s front door opening made me drag up my head. My jaw dropped when I saw what was walking in. “What the helicopter?”

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?” Kennie stood just on this side of the door in her pink winter getup. Her skin was the color of Fanta, and she seemed to have a smear of chocolate above her lip.

  “Not if you’re trying to infiltrate a citrus fruit Mafia ring,” I said. Then, in case my initial comment had been too cryptic, I added, “Because you’re orange and you have a mustache.”

  “I can’t keep the dang thing off my face! I shaved right before I came here.” She scuttled to the front desk, peering around the library for any unwanted witnesses to her transformation.

  “Have you always had that?” I asked, pointing at the Gene Shalit homage gracing her lip.

  “God, no. Have you ever seen it on my face before?”

  I had to admit that I hadn’t. And then an icy bath washed down my spine. “Sweet Jesus, it’s the vitamins, isn’t it? Which ones have you been taking?”

  Her eyes stopped darting around the empty library and tractor-beamed on mine. She spoke slowly and succinctly. “There is only one kind. There’s ever only been one kind. They have different labels, but it’s always been the same goddamned pill, do you understand me? Every one of them will turn your skin orange and grow monkey fur on places the sun don’t shine, if you take them for long enough!”

  Her voice was reaching a high pitch, and I put a hand out to soothe her but was stopped short by the Frodo patches on her knuckles. “OK, we’ll figure this out. Did you call the vitamin company?”

  “I tried, but no one is answering the phones.”

  “All right.” I wheeled over to my front desk computer. I had visions of Kennie turning into a werewolf while my back was to her. “What’s the name of the company?”

  “Triggaz Vitaminz 4 U.”

  My heart dropped to my toes. “Tell me I didn’t just hear the number 4 being inserted for the spelled-out word just now.”

  “And a ‘z’ at the end of ‘Triggaz’ and ‘Vitaminz,’” she added helpfully.

  “You ordered medical products from a company that can’t be bothered to spell words properly?” Now my voice was reaching the high keen. “Off the Internet?”

  She nodded.

  My voice continued its ascent. “Perfect. You sold me vitamins that some basement-dwelling, who-knows-what-ingredients-

  using freak created in his free time?”

  “He’s no freak. His name is Triggaz.” She pointed over my shoulder at the screen that had popped up while I’d been typing and screeching. Triggaz was a white male wearing a lab coat, thick glasses, and no pants.

  I cried. “I’m going to look like a Mediterranean fishwife by tomorrow, aren’t I?”

  “How many vitamins did you take?”

  I reached toward my purse and yanked out the brown bottle. Three vitamins rattled around the bottom. I looked at her hopefully.

  “It wasn’t until my second bottle that my skin changed,” she offered. “The hair was a problem earlier, but I’ve been able to keep on top of it until today. It seems like the more I shave, the faster it comes back.”

  “You stopped taking the vitamins, didn’t you?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I’ve stopped taking the vitamins. You’re going to stop taking the vitamins. We’ll be fine.”

  I gasped. “Who else did you sell them to?”

  “Not very many people,” she said defensively. “This weather’s kept most folks at home. Just a handful bought vitamins from me, really.”

  “Their names?”

  “Unh unh.” She crossed her arms. “There’s a little thing called patient confidentiality.”

  “There’s a little thing called the FDA, too, and I bet that didn’t slow Triggaz down.”

  “Ethically, I can’t tell you who else has purchased the vitamins. They’re a medicinal product, and I promised the buyers absolute
secrecy.”

  I was poring over my arms. They looked normal, but I knew that the hair on my head had been multiplying. Could the rest of it be far behind? “Then you better inform them on your own. And give them a full refund. You can’t make people pay to be turned into circus freaks.”

  “Ok.” She began to back away toward the door.

  “Kennie?”

  “I said okay! I’ll do it. I just have to run home and shave first.” She darted out the door.

  I cursed her retreating back. Then I hurried to the bathroom to check for extra hair. The hair on my head looked darker and thicker than usual. My eyebrows, too. Very Brooke Shields in that department. No mustache, though, and from the neck down, I couldn’t tell much difference except that my legs were due for a shave. I returned to the main room of the library, tossed out the remaining vitamins, and made a deal with the gods: if I got through this experience without turning into a neon furball, I’d never give in to vanity again. Part of me realized that if you ever find yourself in a position to make a deal like that, you probably deserve whatever comes your way. I ignored that part.

  I immersed myself in library duties, not slowing down until it was time to lock up and head home. I had my glove on the door handle of my car when I heard Peggy’s crystalline voice.

  “Where are we going today?”

  A wave of bummer washed over me. I’d promised I’d help her look for her mojo again today. I turned to look at her. Her face was half-covered by a scarf, but I could still see her nose was red and running from the cold. Her green winter jacket appeared to have a chocolate smear down the front and she hadn’t taken her mittens off yet, but her eyes were hopeful. “The animal shelter,” I said, using a vision of furry Kennie as inspiration. “If that doesn’t stir your soul, I don’t know what will.”