Thin Ice Read online

  The rubber burger turned over in my stomach. It was a reasonable compromise, especially if it involved home cooking.

  Mrs. D. went home pleased. She’d done her part.

  Now my lawyer could do his.

  *

  “You want what?” John didn’t sound confused as much as irritated. I could hear the TV in the background, a basketball game.

  “All the credit card records, canceled checks, and phone bills.”

  “Going how far back?”

  “The last three months. John, I really can be responsible for my own bills.” He dismissed that with a snort,

  “Can I get them tomorrow?”

  “Britt will have them ready. After school.”

  *

  Scott and I didn’t use plastic very often. Cash and checks, pay as you go. I had a card for ArdenArt, and we had two household credit cards—one Visa and one MasterCard. Three gas cards. Neither of us had much of a long-distance phone habit. Orphans, who would we call?

  So the envelope Britt handed me was thin and light. “This it?” I said.

  “Copies of all the recent bills. And you don’t have to bother calling the credit card companies to see if he’s used them lately. John did that this afternoon. There’s been no activity in weeks.”

  So John had checked. Maybe he was coming around, maybe I’d finally convinced someone that Scott wasn’t dead.

  Britt was a mind reader. “He’s cooperating, kiddo, because A, the fastest way to stop you is to prove you’re wrong, and B, the client is boss.” She snapped a finger against the envelope. “Good luck, Sherlock.”

  *

  It didn’t take a world-famous detective to see that there was nothing hidden in the canceled checks and the bill records. A simple trail of money, most of it spent on food, utilities, clothing, ’Cuda parts, snowmobiles.

  I laid out all the checks. His smooth round script mixed with my angular scrawl. His signature was so familiar; I’d seen it on years of notes to school and notes to me.

  Please excuse Arden’s absence…

  She has permission to attend…

  I thought I asked you to fold the towels. DO IT before I get home.

  The phone bills were tougher to decipher because they only listed numbers and cities. Britt had included the bills going way back to September. September was on top and I looked it over even though I knew it would have nothing I needed. I was sure he’d begun planning everything the night of his first accident, the night he found out he was going to be a father. When I unfolded the January-February bill, the long list of black numbers nearly vibrated. At least twenty calls, when it was unusual for us to have three. “Gotcha, you bastard,” I whispered.

  Right after the first accident there was a flurry of phone activity. Minneapolis, Spooner, Duluth, Ashland. All over. His getaway trail. Fool—he’d planned everything on the phone.

  I started checking the numbers, and by the third call, I was back on Earth. He was a fool all right, but for a different reason.

  The numbers were all snowmobile dealers. He’d spent sixty-seven dollars on long-distance calling to price snowmobiles.

  By the time I’d dialed eleven numbers and eliminated duplicates, I had one left: a three-minute call to Winona, Minnesota. Undoubtedly it would be someplace called the Sled Den or Four Seasons Recreation or Einer’s Engines. I punched the numbers.

  “Bart’s Parts, Bart speaking.”

  “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m just checking on some calls on our phone bill. My brother must have called this number.” Bart thought that was funny and let slip a low chuckle. “Your brother? Not checking on the boyfriend, really, now are you?”

  “My brother.”

  “Well, miss, you’ll be glad to know that this is a salvage yard, not a motel or adult entertainment store.”

  Salvage yard. The damn car, “He has a ’70 Barracuda. I guess he was calling about that.”

  “You betcha. I’ve had a lot of ’Cuda callers. Ran an ad in the Trader a while back for some rocker-panel moldings I was selling.”

  “That must be it. Sorry.”

  “You might want to tell your brother that in a week or so I’ll have a Shaker hood to sell.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  I hung up and double-checked the bill, reading the number and date maybe twenty times. He’d made the call to Bart in Winona on the Saturday before he left.

  The day before.

  For the first time since I’d bounced on the ice, doubt crept in. Just a seed, just a flicker, just a question. If he was about to run, why shop for ’Cuda parts?

  For the first night in a long time, my sleep was riddled with bad dreams. It was as if admitting doubt had admitted nightmares.

  Fish again. Fish eyes, popping fish mouths, flapping gills. This time I was the one rolling in turbulent water. Scaly, slimy fish bodies rubbed against me, rolled over me. A huge pike approached, spiked mouth open. I lifted an arm to ward it off, then tumbled backward in the current as I reeled in shock: My hand had been pecked and gnawed to the bones.

  CHAPTER 12

  Pass the potatoes, please.”

  My second helping, but then, it was my first good meal in ages. Mr. Drummond beamed as he handed over the bowl of mashed spuds.

  “Be sure you take some of that roast home,” said Mrs. Drummond. “There’s lots.”

  I reached for the meat platter and caught a glimpse of Kady’s scowl. She and Jean had been vegetarian for years, but had long ago reached an accommodation with their parents about family meals. Surely the presence of a tender and perfectly cooked pork loin hadn’t provoked her bad mood. “What’s wrong?” I asked her.

  Jean lifted apples from the fruit bowl and started tossing. “She’s menopausal.”

  Her father rose from his chair with the empty water pitcher and deftly grabbed one apple out of its arc. “Don’t use the food.”

  Kady folded her napkin into a tidy square. “Do you remember the plans we made for summer?”

  “I do, but I haven’t really given it much thought lately. You can’t blame me for that.”

  “Geep-seez,” said Jean, and she started juggling napkin rings. “This week in the mail I’ve gotten performance and vendor applications for four festivals. Two in Minnesota, one down in Madison, one in Spooner. Are you still interested?”

  “I might be if I thought I’d have anything to sell, but, Kady, I haven’t been near my workshop in ages. I have old store orders I haven’t even filled. I don’t see how I’d have enough stuff.”

  “You would if you got to work. You’d have plenty of product if you concentrated on that instead of…other things.”

  Mrs. Drummond started clearing the table. Jean rose and lifted the dishes from her hands. “This could get nasty. Go correct tests, Mom.”

  “You guys can do it without me,” I said. Not true; I knew my car was essential.

  “Don’t want to,” said Jean.

  “I’m sorry I’ve screwed up your summer. No—I’m sorry my brother screwed up our summer.”

  Kady poked at the bean loaf on her plate. “Have you had any luck with the flyers?”

  “No.”

  “What next?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve sort of run into a dead end.”

  “Bad joke,” said Jean, and she exited with another armload of dirty dishes.

  “Have you thought about getting a detective to help?”

  “I thought you regarded it all as a ridiculous fantasy.”

  “I do. I think he’s dead, but if you’re going to fixate on it, at least you can do it sensibly.”

  “I don’t need a detective, but there is something that puzzles me. Something that doesn’t fit.”

  “So you’ve given up?” She looked pleased.

  “No, but you could say I’ve paused.”

  *

  The message light was blinking when I got home. I checked the number on the ID display. It was a 612 area code, the Twin Cities. Most of the crank callers
had been local, and they’d all stopped leaving messages after I taped one that warned that names and numbers were being recorded. This caller didn’t care.

  Hello. I’m calling about that poster. I don’t know if this is related or anything, but I saw something that might help. Probably not; my wife thinks I’m nuts and shouldn’t get your hopes up, but my grandfather went missing once, wandered away from his house, and I know the worry. Anyway, I can’t say I saw the guy on the poster. But that day in February my wife and I were up at her boss’s cabin near Penokee and she wanted to leave some cookies in the freezer, sort of a thank-you. Only we didn’t have the right ingredients so we ended up going into town. Actually, I went into town three times that day. The first time was real early to get the paper and coffee. And there was this car parked on the wayside on County Road JG. All day it was there. Drove by it two more times that day. Then when we headed back to the Cities, we saw a guy wearing a red jacket or sweater get into it. Just saw his back, you know, opening the door, leaning in. About four-thirty. It was really snowing by then, so I didn’t get too good a look, but it seemed like he would have been about the right height. Dark hair, like in the photo. Sorry I can’t help you with the license plate or car model or anything. It was big, did I say that? Dark, maybe blue. American car. A beater. Anyway, I thought I’d call. Probably nothing, but still.

  Probably everything.

  *

  “Thanks for coming over, John.” He didn’t look at all happy; I suppose I’d interrupted another basketball game. But the guy was my lawyer, hired help, and paid to jump when the client called. “Just toss your coat in the closet and sit down. I’ve got cocoa. Want some?”

  He nodded sullenly while he leaned over to pull off his boots. “What’s this message you want me to hear?”

  “On the machine. Go ahead and play it while I’m in the kitchen.” I heard the tape run through twice while I was filling the mugs. I spilled plenty as I hurried to get back and see his reaction to the message. I handed him a mug. “Will you admit I was right? Do you think I can get some help now?”

  He didn’t look elated, didn’t look puzzled. Chewed on his lower lip while he stared at the machine. Sipped his cocoa, set down the mug. “Did you hear it all? They saw a guy. They saw Scott.”

  “They saw someone.”

  “Don’t be a blockhead about this, John. It was the right day, the right place, they thought the description fit, the guy had a red jacket.”

  John rose and walked down the hall to Scott’s room. After a moment I heard him come back out and close the door. “Like this one?” he said. Scott’s favorite jacket hung on a hanger that swung from John’s hand. Red and limp, like a punctured balloon. “It was in his closet. I remembered seeing it when I searched for his checkbook.”

  “I didn’t notice it was there,” I whispered.

  He laid the jacket across a chair, and the hanger slipped out and fell to the floor. “Do you want some help clearing out his things, Arden? Dead or alive, he obviously doesn’t want or need them.”

  “He was the one getting into that car. I know it.”

  John groaned and dropped into a chair.

  “Of course his coat is still here because he didn’t dare pack anything; we would have noticed. But he would need some getaway clothes; he couldn’t just hit the road in a leather snowmobile suit. He probably bought another jacket and had it stashed in the car. Makes sense he’d get one just like his old favorite.”

  Another groan.

  “Can’t you help me?”

  There must have been an especially plaintive tone to my wail; my lawyer sat up straight and crossed his arms. “I’ll help by making you face the truth, Arden. Ask yourself some questions. First, where did he get the car?”

  “He was in the business, he knew places, it wouldn’t have been hard.”

  “How did he pay for it? There’s no record of a purchase and no sign he dipped into his personal accounts for any sizable amount other than for the snowmobile. I’ve been through everything.”

  “The guy said it was a beater. Couldn’t have cost much. Or maybe…maybe he took one off the lot.”

  “Stole from Lorenzo?” John tapped his fingers and closed his eyes. “Arden,” he whispered, “you’re not connecting with reality.”

  “Go home, then. I’m sorry I made you come over.”

  “I’ll do this for you. Give me the number of the guy who left the message and I’ll call and try to get a better description. And I’ll twist Al’s arm to get him to ask around. See if other people at Winker’s that day noticed the same car. Maybe they know who it belongs to.”

  “Belongs to my brother.”

  He was beyond listening. “Meanwhile, you can do this: Figure out how he paid for this adventure you believe my dead friend is enjoying. It always comes back to money, Arden. How did he finance the great escape and what’s he living on now?”

  CHAPTER 13

  After he left, I sat in Scott’s favorite chair and listened to Scott’s favorite music and tried to think like Scott. For days after the first accident he’d sat in the living room and plotted. Thinking it through, making up his mind, probably rerunning mental tapes of his life.

  His life. When had he started to hate it so much? Had he started to hate me?

  John was right about the money. Where had it come from? My brother had figured it out while sitting there. I could too.

  From the chair I could see the speakers and CD player, the bookshelves, the framed museum poster, the futon and coffee table. Several weeks of his magazines and junk mail had piled up on the table, where I dropped them each day. Cars and Parts, Engine Update, The New Yorker, Sports Illustrated. An SI had slid off the pile. On its cover, bold black letters proclaimed spring training preview. The picture showed Frank Thomas slugging one into outer space. Hannah would love the photo, it was just like the…

  Baseball card.

  *

  A City of Duluth snowplow was carving out a parking spot on Superior Street. I challenged all the cops in the area and made a U-turn. Just as the plow’s driver lifted his blade and moved on, I skidded across fresh-packed snow right into the curb. Cars honked and at least one driver waved hello with a single finger.

  “What luck,” I said. “There’s time left on the meter.”

  From the outside, Mel’s Cards and Comics didn’t look like a child-friendly establishment, possibly because of the greasy windows and the location right next to an adult bookstore. Still, there were four kids inside when I entered. Ten AM on a Friday morning, why weren’t they in school? For that matter, why wasn’t I?

  I dropped my keys on the glass-topped counter, and a woman behind the register smiled and held up a hand to silence me, then kept on counting bills and change. Finally, she closed the register drawer with a slam and smiled broadly. “Help you?”

  I nodded and placed a flyer on the counter. “I’m wondering if this guy ever came in and sold some baseball cards, maybe about a month ago.”

  She held it in both hands and leaned on her elbows. Made soft clucking noises as she studied it.

  You don’t have to memorize it, I thought. “Well?” I said.

  “Not a real good picture of Scotty, is it? Oh, I was so sorry to hear about him dying.”

  “You know him?”

  “Knew him, yeah. Regular. He was in three, four times a month to pick up the comics I’d hold for him. Maybe he’d buy or trade a couple of cards. Shoot the breeze about things. Sweet guy; changed my wiper blades for me once.” She absently fingered the tiny gold cross hanging on a chain on her neck. “Who are you?”

  “His sister.”

  Her jaw dropped and stayed in place until a little bead of saliva formed at the corner. “I never knew he had one.”

  “When did he last sell some cards to you?”

  “Late December, maybe. He came in around then and had me look over his whole collection. Said he was thinking about giving them to a little girl he knew.”

  Hanna
h. “December, you sure?” Before the crash.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you buy any from him?”

  “One. Made an offer on a few others, but he wasn’t interested.” A little boy pushed me aside and dropped a pile of change on the counter as he showed the woman the comic he was buying. She rang the sale and gave him a nickel change. “There weren’t many high-end cards in his collection, one or two worth maybe seventy, eighty dollars. The others were nickel-and-dime stuff. Nothing to retire on, I told him, may as well give it to the little girl.” She looked again at the flyer. “Missing, you say? Not dead?”

  “Yes. Just missing.”

  I hadn’t even pulled into the driveway before Kady was hustling across the street after me. Early afternoon, she should have been in school. I could see her mother standing in the picture window, but it was impossible to see her expression at that distance. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to. No doubt it would be murderously angry.

  “Why aren’t you in school?” I said. “Why isn’t your mother at work?”

  “Why aren’t you in school?”

  “Did your mother get you out to look for me?”

  “Arden, the world does not revolve around you. Has it ever occurred to you that other people have problems?”

  “Gosh, no. Thought I was the only one.”

  “My grandmother died this morning. Her heart failed. We’re going back to Green Bay. We were just waiting for you to show up. The school said you called in sick. No one had any idea where you were.” She was at that pinpoint place between rage and grief; I’d been there myself. Rage won and she reached out and banged her fist on my shoulder. “I don’t care anymore if you mess up your own life. I don’t care if you flunk out of school and destroy your business and alienate your friends, but don’t you dare screw around with my mother.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”