Thin Ice Page 4

  But for the pomp’s first public appearance, it was trip-to-the-mall hair.

  “How do I look?” I asked Scott.

  He poured some orange juice and drank before answering. “You look like a member of a very conservative religious group. And I’m not sure it works with the pants.”

  I frowned. New hair deserved new pants, so I’d purchased some red-and-green-plaid logger’s pants. Thirty-three-fifty at the farm-supply store.

  “If you’re going to criticize, then at least let me have that bagel. I’m running late and Kady and Jean will be here any minute.” He handed it over. “Funny smell,” I said as I lifted it to my mouth. I bit down anyway.

  “Just oiled my jacket; maybe there was a little left on my hands.” He had his new snowmobiling jacket on his lap. Black leather, silver studs. Scott stuck a hand into a sleeve and pulled out what looked like a Day-Glo-green jump rope, only this rope would never be approved for children: short, sharp metal claws protruded from the handles.

  “Quite a weapon,” I said. I took another bite of bagel and tongued it into the side of my mouth. “Expecting trouble on the trail?”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s an ice claw. A tool, not a weapon.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Some guys wear one through their coat sleeves; then if you break through and land in water, you’ve got it handy for holding on to the ice.” He jabbed the air with one end of the rope.

  “Sort of like mitten strings on a baby’s coat?” I picked up the other end and ran my thumb over the sharp metal teeth. “Yes, a perfect infant accessory.”

  “Thanks for the image; I guess I’ll keep mine in the saddlebag.” He yanked it and the rope flew out of my hand and scraped across the smooth leather of his jacket sleeve, scratching the newly oiled surface.

  He swore. I smiled and grabbed my own jacket. “Don’t miss and hit yourself, brother. That looks like a twenty-stitch weapon.”

  He held both ends and jabbed the air again—left; right. “Just stab the ice and pull myself out of the water,” he said. “Oh, Arden, I’m taking tomorrow off. Leave the Honda home, and I’ll change the oil.”

  A car horn honked.

  “Gotta go. Don’t look for me for supper, okay?”

  He nodded, intent on his ice claws. Left, right; left, right. “I might be eating at Claire’s.”

  “Should I wait up?”

  He made a face and faked a jab at me; then his hand froze midswipe as if he had clawed a thought out of thin air. “That hair is actually very nice.” As soon as they were tossing the mushy balloons, I sat and defiantly repinned my hair. Dignity was gone, but the five dollars would be mine.

  The hair lasted through the show and through the crush of autograph-seeking children who besieged us during our late lunch in the food court. It even survived trying on clothes at Ragstock, where I insisted we go after the mall. I’d seen an ad for a new shipment of bowling shirts. Wasn’t much of a shipment, as it turned out, and there weren’t any as nice as my “Franz” or “Morrie,” but there was a whole rack of Japanese baseball team shirts. Who could resist?

  I tried on seven and bought one. Gold and purple, with plenty of Japanese script on the sleeve and the name ARITA across the front.

  “Does it look good with the pants?” I said to Kady when I stepped out of the dressing room. She cupped her ear. Music was blasting out of the store’s speakers. I shrugged and returned to the cubicle. Okay, maybe the colors didn’t work with the green-and-red-plaid pants, but it felt good, and that’s all that should matter.

  The hair lasted through Jean’s slow perusal of true-crime fiction at the used-book store, and through Kady’s detailed discussion of college application essays with a guy at the coffee shop. I was about to refill my cup from the pump pots when I realized what they were doing: stretching out the day in a gambit to win the bet.

  “I need to get going,” I whispered to Jean. “I’m not feeling so good.” I could gambit myself. I put my hand on my stomach.

  She looked a little worried. Would I vomit in their car? “Let’s go,” she replied.

  A good thing that we did, because by the time we left downtown Duluth and were on the long bridge that crossed the harbor to Wisconsin, snow was falling. At first it was just nonthreatening fluffy stuff, but ten miles out of Superior we hit a serious storm. Wind and snow mixed to obscure the road; Jean slowed the car to a crawl. Kady changed music on the tape player and Beck’s raucous vocals gave way to soothing Mozart piano sonatas.

  The wind eased a bit as we turned onto our street.

  Jean picked up speed and drove too fast into their driveway, and the car skidded to a stop just inches from the garage door.

  I patted my hair. “It lasted the day. I win.”

  “Maybe so,” Jean said. “But who got you home safe?”

  Good point. And I had cheated, slightly. I tipped my head in concession, pins dropped, and the hair toppled down.

  CHAPTER 15

  That was not an idle warning. Twice before, when I’d assisted the twins, I had been slightly wounded by flying objects. Sometimes when they wanted to make a quick change in the show, they’d toss things to whoever they’d corralled to assist. I was one of the usual suspects. The two times I’d gotten hit, I had looked away at the wrong moment, perhaps enchanted by the sight of some young child in their audience adjusting underwear or picking a nose.

  “What are these?” Kady asked. She leaned over the car seat and fingered my pants.

  “Farm-store special. You might say something nice about the hair.”

  I could see Jean eyeing me in the rearview mirror. “We could, if you wanted to hear a lie.”

  Kady shook her head. “Arden, you’re going to scare the little kids.”

  Jean put the car in gear and we raced in reverse down the driveway. “Five dollars says that hair doesn’t last the day. It’s already sagging.” She shifted again and we lurched forward.

  I groped in the seat cracks for the seat belt, pulled it free, and wiped away the food bits that had popped out. I buckled, then stretched to see myself in the mirror. God, I looked good. I patted my hair. “Five dollars says it does.”

  * * *

  I won the bet. Maybe it wasn’t an entirely fair victory because I repined once during the show, when they were intent on exchanging balloons loaded with ketchup. But it was a fair repin, I argued with myself, because they had just publicly coerced me into joining the performance, hauling me up to hold balloons as they filled them. Both of them had made a big deal of rolling their eyes, smirking, and pointing at me whenever one of the plastic ketchup bottles they were squeezing emitted a fartlike noise. The crowd of children roared, loving the clowning, the noise, my dismay.

  As soon as they were tossing the mushy balloons, I sat and defiantly repinned my hair. Dignity was gone, but the five dollars would be mine.

  The hair lasted through the show and through the crush of autograph-seeking children who besieged us during our late lunch in the food court. It even survived trying on clothes at Ragstock, where I insisted we go after the mall. I’d seen an ad for a new shipment of bowling shirts. Wasn’t much of a shipment, as it turned out, and there weren’t any as nice as my “Franz” Or “Morrie,” but there was a whole rack of Japanese baseball team shirts. Who could resist?

  I tried on seven and bought one. Gold and purple, with plenty of Japanese script on the sleve and the name ARITA across the front.

  “Does it look good with the pants?” I asked Kady when I stepped out of the dressing room. She cupped her ear. Music was blasting out of the store’s speakers. I shrugged and returned to the cubicle. Okay, maybe the colors didn’t work with the green-and-red-plaid pants, but It fel t good, and that’s all that should matter.

  The hair lasted through Jean’s slow perusal of true-crime fiction at the used-book store, and through Kady’s detailed discussion of college application essays with a guy at the coffee shop. I was about to refill my cup from the
pump pots when I realized what they were doing: stretching out the day in a gambit to win the bet.

  “I need to get going,” I whispered to Jean. “I’m not feeling so good.” I could gambit myself. I put my hand on my stomach.

  She looked a little worried. Would I vomit in their car? “Let’s go,” she replied.

  A good thing that we did, because by the time we left downtown Duluth and were on the long bridge that crossed the harbor to Wisconsin, snow was falling. At first it was just nonthreatening fluffy stuff, but ten miles out of Superior we hit a serious storm. Wind and snow mixed to obscure the road; Jean slowed the car to a crawl. Kady changed music on the tape player and Beck’s raucous vocals gave way to soothing Mozart piano sonatas.

  The wind eased a bit as we turned onto our street.

  Jean picked up speed and drove too fast into their driveway, and the car skidded to a stop just inches from the garage door.

  I patted my hair. “It lasted the day. I win.”

  “Maybe so,” Jean said. “But who got you home safe?”

  Good point. And I had cheated slightly. I tipped my head in concession, pins dropped, and the hair toppled down.

  CHAPTER 16

  Scott wasn’t home, no surprise. Probably cozily dining with the girlfriend. I checked the machine for messages, then made a face when I saw that he hadn’t left it on. What had I missed? What wild and exciting event in this town had I missed hearing about?

  I decided to count on a snow day tomorrow and skipped doing homework. Nothing was due anyway, so why strain myself? I did have several ArdenArt orders due, so I went to the workshop. Nothing was working, though. I finished one wax-lip mirror, but I nearly supplied it with the real thing when I slipped off my stool and almost sliced my face with a mat knife. Then I spilled my cache of precious lips on the floor and hit my head on the worktable as I rose from collecting them. “Give it up, girl,” I ordered myself. Nine-thirty. The day was dying, but I still had choices. TV, bathtub, bed, or a book? I picked all four.

  I was in Scott’s huge tub when I heard the phone ring. Had I turned on the machine? No, I remembered as it rang for the fifth time. Six, seven. “Let it go,” I said as I lowered myself in the water.

  I was walking with Jane Eyre across the moors when it rang again. I slapped the book closed, swung my feet out of bed, tripped on the bedding, stubbed my toe on the doorjamb, and was hobbling when I reached the phone. It stopped. I dialed the Drummonds’ number. “Did you call?” I asked Jean. “Someone called.”

  “Not us. Think we’ll have school tomorrow?”

  I looked out the window. “It’s letting up.”

  Jean groaned. “I was counting on a snow day. I didn’t study for history.”

  “I blew off a paper. Thank God for first-hour study halls.”

  “Maybe it’ll pick up again.”

  “We can hope. Call me if you hear.”

  I’d never spent a night by myself. Sure, plenty of nights I’d been alone until late, but never the whole night, not all the way through. What with the windborne noises it might have bothered me this time, except I didn’t know I’d be alone all night. I went to bed assuming that my dear, reliable brother would roar home during the wee hours and, as usual, be up in time to have juice made for me in the morning.

  I went without juice. I would have gone without breakfast, too, except that Mr. Drummond was taking muffins to work and I cadged one from the bag as soon as I got in their car. Determined to believe we’d have the day off, I hadn’t set my alarm and was rudely awakened at seven-thirty, when Jean called to offer a ride with her father. “You haven’t shoveled your driveway,” she said. “The plow came by and you’ll never get out. Might as well come with us. We leave in five minutes.”

  I can be dressed in five minutes. Sweater, jeans, socks, and boots—hell, I can be dressed in three. Maybe I can’t produce a pompadour in that time, but I can be clean and combed. I cannot be cheerful, though. That’s a slow process; don’t rush me.

  “Hey,” I greeted the Drummonds when I opened the car door. I knocked snow off my boots before getting in. It had drifted deeply on the front walk and I had kicked my way through.

  “Late start for you and Scott?” Mr. Drummond asked. “Or is he taking the day off?” That was the first I realized I hadn’t seen a sign of my brother. Of course, with my sleep-induced grogginess, there could have been a troop of naked fencers in the kitchen and I wouldn’t have noticed. I looked back at the untouched snow on the driveway and the empty spot where he usually parked his sled.

  You dog, you, I thought. So he spent the night with the girlfriend. That’s a first. Must be serious.

  Mr. Drummond smiled at me in the mirror, waiting for an answer.

  “Day off,” I said. True, and all he needed to know.

  * * *

  The snow on the driveway was still untouched when I returned on the bus after school. Only the letter carrier’s tracks crossed over mine on the front walk. I took the mail out of the box and let myself into the house. I went right to the phone, sure he’d called and left a message.

  I was curious about his excuse: the storm was bad, it got late, I’d had a few beers, none of your business. All true, take your pick.

  There was only one message, logged at 2:30 P.M. I punched the button and played the tape:

  Hello to the Munros. Scott, this is Claire. Sorry we got signals crossed about dinner last night. Wish you had made it. Oh, the car wasn’t making that noise this morning, but I still think it should be checked. Can you get it in this week? That’s all. Um, hi, Arden, if that’s who answers.

  I walked to his bedroom and pushed open the door. The bed was neatly made, a shirt and sweater were draped on a chair—the same shirt and sweater that had been there last night. The same mess of baseball cards and comic books on his dresser.

  “Scott?” I called. My voice sounded loud, sharp, tight,

  I checked the bathroom. The towel I’d used was the top item in the hamper. The toilet seat was down. My socks lay on the floor.

  He hadn’t been home. He’d never been to his girlfriend’s.

  His truck was in the garage, his driving gloves on the kitchen counter.

  I looked at the back door. “Walk in,” I whispered. “Walk in now.”

  The phone book had a Poole, C., listed with a rural address: County Road PN. Where the hell was PN?

  The message on her machine was my second major shock of the day: a child’s voice. This is Hannah. Mom and I can’t get to the phone, but leave a message. Thanks.

  Mom and I?

  Oh brother, brother. No wonder you didn’t spend nights there. I left my own message, hoping I’d disguised my surprise.

  This is Arden Munro, Scott’s sister. Please call me. Thanks.

  I poured a soda and wondered, should I be worried? Didn’t matter, I was worried.

  I called the police station and asked for Al. When in doubt, call a cop.

  “We’ll have him call you,” the lady said.

  Al rang in five minutes. I could hear restaurant noise in the background and resisted making a doughnut joke. I told him why I was calling. He wasn’t too concerned and told me to check with Claire.

  “No,” I answered firmly. “He never went there. Claire called and left a message. She was kind of wondering where he’d been last night, only she didn’t come out and say it. But you could tell.”

  “His sled is gone?”

  “That’s what I said, Al. The ’Cuda and his truck are both here, his sled is gone, and he didn’t make it to where he said he was going last night.”

  “Let me make some calls. And stay there; I’m coming over.”

  Cop on the way—a bad sign.

  The heat hadn’t been turned up all day; Scott always did that. I felt cold, so cold. I crossed my arms and looked out the window.

  Winter dark settles in about four o’clock and it comes quickly, a sneak attack after a day of blinding sun-on-snow. Across the street, the Drummonds’ light
s went on through the house like a current—flick, flick, flick. I saw Kady in the suddenly illuminated kitchen working at the counter, saw her mother walk past behind her, saw Jean pull the curtains in her room, saw their father pushing a vacuum in the living room.

  Had anyone looked at this house, they’d observe nothing but stillness and shadows.

  CHAPTER 17

  This is what we know,” Al said as soon as he walked in the door. “Scott was at Winker’s Tavern around four yesterday afternoon. He told the men there that he’d been out alone and was headed to Claire’s place. She’s the naturalist at the state park. That’s where she lives.” County Road PN, I thought.

  He reported more. Scott and the others at Winker’s had discussed the distance to the park. Eight miles, they’d decided, if you went on the county trail and then up the road. Six if you crossed the river and rode the state trail. Scott had been drinking a little. Buck, the bartender, thought maybe three beers. And he’d been giving advice on cars, made a promise to check out Tom Koski’s Lumina in exchange for a load of firewood. He’d made a toast to his girlfriend, though by then no one was left to hear except Buck.

  Buck had been in the back when he left, and he thought maybe he heard him head down toward the river. Hard to tell, he was rattling glasses, cleaning up.

  “That’s all?” I asked.

  “I called Claire. She’d just gotten home and heard your message. She confirmed that she never saw him yesterday, hadn’t talked to him since he and I were out there on Saturday.” He made two fists and rubbed them on his thighs. “The sheriff has called a search.”

  “At night?”

  “They can start by patrolling the trails around that area. It will be morning by the time a whole crew gets there. He’s called for the State Patrol helicopter. It uses an infrared system and can spot bodies in the woods.”