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  “I don’t want jokes, John. I want help.”

  “Here’s something we do have to deal with now: Claire’s pregnancy complicates the estate. There are legal terms for the situation, but basically, Scott’s baby gets his dough. Fortunately, considering the size of your own trust left by your parents, you’re still in good shape. Hell, I should retire with as much.”

  “If he’s not dead, you can’t go ahead with settling the estate.”

  “Presumptive death—”

  “But I don’t presume he’s dead and I’m the next of kin.”

  The phone light flashed, a blinking white eye. I stood up, time to go. Why stay if he wouldn’t listen?

  John rose. “I’d help, Arden, if I thought it could be true. I’d like it to be so, I’d like him to be alive. But there’s no how and there’s no why.”

  *

  How did I know, why did I know my brother was still alive? Simple.

  It began—didn’t it?—when my parents died. Ten years ago their plane crashes on a tree-covered mountain and big brother comes home and starts being both mom and dad to little sister. Ten years of laundry and stories and cooking and showing up at school, and more than once he cleaned up my vomit.

  Just when the end was in sight, a baby. Square one.

  Then one day he nearly dies. Cold water is clear water and suddenly everything is clear to him: Enough. Get out.

  How could I know he was planning to leave? First, my name. That last morning he’d been so anxious to tell me the story of my name. I hadn’t listened, I was too rushed. He begged me to listen. He knew he was leaving and he wanted to tell me that one thing before he left. My name.

  I wished I’d listened. If I didn’t find him I’d never know. My name. Me.

  Then there was the baseball card. Scott would never forget something, especially a promise. If he had really meant to go to Claire’s that day, he’d have taken the card. But he left it on the dresser for me to find, sure I’d get it to Hannah.

  Ella Fitzgerald. He’d dug out an old CD and played my mother’s music, brought all the old CDs out of the basement. “Don’t ever forget,” he’d commanded. “What little you know about them, don’t ever forget.”

  Because he wouldn’t be there to remind me.

  Why not just run away, brother? Why not just get in a car and go? Why the sham?

  This was the tricky one, of course, but I had an answer: His stunt on the river was the only way that reliable, decent, habitually responsible Scott could make sure that on day two of his flight he didn’t bounce back on a bungee cord of guilt.

  Suicide, without the death.

  CHAPTER 3

  How do you search for a missing person when the police won’t help? Some bit of evidence would be nice, something concrete I could drop on their thick heads. But what? But what?

  “Arden, do you have the answer?”

  Damn. It was hard to concentrate on the unification of German states when I was in the middle of a mystery. “I’m sorry, Ms. Penny, Would you repeat the question?”

  “I will not. Please see me after class, Arden.”

  “But I have to go—”

  “After class.”

  I didn’t really have to go anywhere, but making excuses to teachers had become a reflex. “Yes, I’m almost done with that paper.” “Sure, I’ll turn my lab notes in soon,” “I really am working on that report.” “Of course I can make up the test by Monday.”

  I stayed at my desk and kept my head down as the other students left the room the instant the bell rang; I wanted to avoid their smirks and stares and sympathetic shrugs. Still, I’d spent my life in school with these people and could recognize them even without looking. Leesa’s the one wearing way too much perfume. Bryan has a funny walk, he sort of drags one foot. Tina strides like a diva taking center stage, get out of her way. Jennifer always wears the same noisy, home-made necklace put together from braided leather and clacking tubes of lip balm.

  The silence I recognized as well. The weighty nothingness of a teacher preparing to talk. I looked up and smiled.

  Ms. Penny was standing so still I couldn’t see the motion of her breathing. She was facing the window; then her head slowly turned toward me. Her narrow face was pretty but suffered from a midwinter pallor that was exaggerated by the thin swipes of red on her lips. “Four inches by evening,” I chirped. “That’s what they say.”

  “Yes,” she answered. She looked away again, this time toward the door.

  Lady, enough games and drama; I had things to do. “What did you want with me, Ms. Penny?”

  “Your grade—”

  “Pretty bad, right?”

  “That’s accurate, Arden. I’m deeply concerned.”

  Oh, weren’t they all, weren’t they all just so concerned about me? It was like I had this pack of baboons hovering and picking off nits. Pick, pick, pick.

  “I’ve consulted with Mrs. Rutledge and Mr. Mills, We’ve agreed that I should recommend to you that you withdraw from my class.”

  “But world civ is a required class. I won’t graduate on time without it.”

  “I’ll post an incomplete on your record and you can take it during summer school. Hereafter you should report directly to the library and use this time as a study hall. With effort and luck you can salvage your other grades. You’re failing in nearly all your classes, Arden, so consider this a generous offer.”

  Summer school generous? “Isn’t it irregular to give up on someone before they’ve actually failed?”

  “Highly. But under the circumstances…”

  Ah yes, the circumstances.

  “Mrs. Richter told me that your biology grade has slipped from an A to a low C.”

  “I’ve missed some assignments.”

  “As I said, we’re concerned.”

  Pick, pick, pick.

  “I realize this has been a horrible winter.”

  A rocket scientist, this woman.

  “During any upheaval, everything seems difficult.”

  Enough. “Ms. Penny, I should go.”

  She was bound to have the last word. “During a time of personal upheaval it’s important to seek out the things you can control. You can control your school performance, Arden. So do it.”

  Dismissed. I was tempted to salute and click my heels, but I didn’t want to jeopardize that incomplete and extra study hall. It really was a generous offer. I grabbed my book bag and gave her a tight-lipped smile. The halls were already empty and I could hear the tinny echoes from the gym where the boys’ basketball team was practicing. Jean and Kady would be waiting with cold feet by the car. Time to go.

  “One more thing.”

  I must have slumped, because my bag slipped off my shoulder and hit the floor, spilling everything. Pencils, books, loose papers, erasers, tampons.

  “Yes?” I said, ignoring the mess.

  “I understand you are pursuing an alternative theory of things.”

  “I don’t think my brother’s dead, if that’s what you mean. I’m going to find him.”

  “If there’s something I can do to help, please let me know. Distributing flyers, or phoning. Anything.”

  Posting flyers, I should have thought of that. “Thanks, Ms. Penny, but why? No one else believes I’m right.”

  “I don’t either, actually, but that’s no reason not to help. I’m going to Minneapolis on Friday. I’ll pass out flyers if you have any. Put them at rest stops and restaurants. That would seem to be the customary way to begin a search, yes?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Yes. Jean and Kady weren’t interested in the idea, of course—especially Kady.

  “A wild-goose chase,” she said. “I’m not going to pretend I think otherwise.”

  “I guess I could help,” said Jean. “But I need to do some chores first.”

  “Like laundry,” said Kady. “It’s your week. And the bathroom is a mess. Your mess.”

  “Can I move in?” Jean said to me. “Got room?”


  I did, of course. Tons of room. But, in a way, there was no space. Everyone, keep your distance.

  She was only joking, of course, and didn’t wait for an answer. “Want to eat over?”

  “No. I’ve got homework and I want to get started on the posters.”

  One final night, I promised myself when I got home. One last night for blowing off schoolwork. I had to start the search. Too much time had already passed; people who might have seen him would forget.

  I needed a recent photo; head and shoulders would be nice. It was strange, considering I made money on picture frames, but we had only a few photos displayed around the house. In my room I had one of my parents and an old one that Mr. Drummond had taken of Scott and me at a baseball game. Scott had my last year’s school photo on his desk and one of him, John, Al, and some other guys down in St. Paul at a ’Cuda rally.

  We had only one photo album and everything in it was from before the plane crash. I needed something more recent, and all those pictures were jumbled together in a box. I hauled it down from the shelf over the computer, in the study. As I stepped off the desk chair my shirt got caught on the chair back and I stumbled. The box dropped, the cover fell off, and pictures bounced out. I sat down and picked up a few. Me in a witch costume. Me holding a fishing rod. Me standing on my head. Scott standing behind the damn ’Cuda again. Me, somewhere in the awkward years, displaying a very ugly picture frame. Jean and Kady juggling. Scott eating Cheerios.

  I tipped the box upside down and all the pictures scattered. I smoothed them apart with my palm, searching for a face to plaster on the public walls across the upper Midwest.

  Bingo. Amid all the color prints, one black-and-white jumped out: a proof for a portrait he’d had taken a few years back for a “Meet Your Mechanic” display in the waiting room at Lorenzo Motors. Same beard, same balding head, same steady gaze I’d seen that very last morning.

  Have you seen this man?

  He’d hated the picture and wouldn’t let me frame it. He’d said it was bad enough that all the customers would see it and no way he’d let me put it up in the house. Said he looked old. Looked mean. He had said he looked dead.

  *

  There were only two self-serve copy machines in town and they both cost twenty cents a shot. Even I could do that math. A couple hundred copies at twenty per equaled too much.

  The snow was really coming down when I skidded into a space in front of the Ben Franklin. My bumper kissed the car in front of me. Damn. Had John taken care of the insurance? I backed up, parked, then got out and checked. No damage.

  The store was deserted except for a clerk who had nothing better to do than watch my every move. She stepped out from behind the register counter and stood with arms crossed as I walked down the office supplies aisle.

  My lucky day: copy paper was on sale. Now if my lawyer would only cooperate.

  *

  “You want me to do what? Geez and crackers, Arden, I was about to go home. John’s gone for the day, it’s after five, and I’m the guest of honor at a wedding shower. And I guarantee it, John won’t like what you’re doing.”

  “I brought my own paper, Britt. It shouldn’t take long. And he doesn’t have to know.”

  Britt glanced at the flyer mock-up. I was pretty pleased with it, even though it was nothing more than your run-of-the-mill missing-person poster; eighty square inches of photo and facts.

  “You’ll be hearing from some weirdos,” Britt said. “And they’re the only ones you’ll hear from until the morgue calls you.”

  “What a sweet thought and I thank you for it. Will you do this?”

  “Sure; the boss is gone.”

  *

  The snow was still falling, giving an even more desperate and deserted look to the main street. But the lights were bright at the Penokee Journal. Saturday was delivery day; with two days to go, they’d be pushing toward deadline.

  “I want to buy some ad space for this week’s paper. Is it too late?” I stamped snow onto the prickly green doormat.

  A woman rose from her desk behind the front counter and smiled. Her glasses dropped off her face and swung on a lime-green cord that hung around her neck. “Never too late for the paying customers. Whatcha got?”

  I slid a flyer across the counter. She put her glasses back on and picked it up. She looked at it for a very long time; then she looked at me for a very long time. Finally, she said, “I heard you’d been in talking to the boss. This is your brother, right? You and I have never met, hon, but I sure knew him. Why, Scott was the one I always insisted on talking to every time I took my car to the shop. Trusted him totally. I knew he had a little sister, but I’ve never seen you around. Funny, isn’t it? Such a small town.” Her glasses slipped, and she absently pushed them back in place. “I can’t do this, hon. Can’t help you waste your money.”

  “That’s my decision.” I glanced over at her desk and spotted a brass nameplate. Pauline Atwood. “Ms. Atwood, I don’t believe it’s wasting any money. I should have done it long ago.”

  She leaned on her elbows and held the flyer in both hands. “Well, it would print just fine. That’s a good picture. But, hon, everyone within a hundred miles heard about the accident. Don’t you suppose if anyone knew anything different, they’d have called by now?”

  I tapped on the counter. I was ready for that one. “Everyone knows the name, of course. The story got lots of coverage, but there were no pictures of Scott. If someone picked him up that day or saw him walking, there was no reason to connect that stranger with the person the sheriff announced was dead. Now they might, if you print this.”

  She shook her head and clucked softly, still holding the flyer. Then she shrugged and said, “How big?”

  *

  I was hungry when I left, and I was pretty sure the only edible stuff at home would need to be defrosted. I circled back to the Woodside Market. Usually at night it’s pretty busy, but the storm had kept most people home. As soon as I opened the car door, snow pelted my face and slipped down my neck. He’d left in weather like this: snow piling up about an inch an hour, with a strong wind to mix it up some more. Perfect cover.

  I took a bunch of flyers. One I tacked to the bulletin board in the store’s foyer, rearranging the hand-printed papers announcing furniture sales and free puppies. I cleared out lots of space around the flyer. No one could miss it. The others I took to the service counter, where a clerk was checking in a stack of videos.

  “May I tape these up on the registers? They’d fit right on the back side and it wouldn’t interfere with any merchandise.”

  The clerk took the top flyer and read it slowly, his lips moving. “Hey, this is the dead guy!”

  “He’s not dead.”

  “Is too. My uncle spent a day looking for him. It was my cousin’s birthday, and he was out looking. That’s how I remember. Sure, he’s dead. The river.”

  “May I put them up?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I’ll need tape.”

  “Aisle seven.”

  I bought a deli sub, milk, apples, bread, saltines, peanut butter, juice, cheese, and six rolls of tape. I bagged my groceries and left them in a cart while I taped flyers to the registers. The only other customer was a young mother who was unloading diapers, cans of formula, and boxed macaroni and cheese onto the checkout belt. Her baby, bald and smiley, banged fists against the cart handle.

  “I thought he was dead,” the mother said when she read the flyer. The baby sucked on a fist.

  “He’s not dead,” I said.

  “Did you know that?” the woman asked the cashier. “That guy they were looking for in the river, the one who crashed—he’s not dead, after all.”

  “So what happened?” the cashier asked, tapping away at her register while the groceries flowed forward.

  “He ran off,” I said.

  The young mother stared at me, then looked at her baby. She didn’t seem so friendly now. “Then he should be dead.”


  CHAPTER 5

  The machine alerted me to three messages when I got home. Mrs. Drummond had called around six because she’d noticed the house was still dark, and an apologetic Walt Lorenzo had called to let me know that someone would be coming by the next day for Scott’s truck.

  Then Claire. Please come and see me. We need to talk.

  Did we?

  I ate the sub and drank some juice. Not a bad supper, the orphan committee couldn’t complain too loudly. They could have complained about the mess, though. I hadn’t cleaned for days and had made it all worse by scattering pictures around the living room. I picked up several and tossed them into the box. One caught my eye and I pulled it back out. Scott and I were standing on a dock, a sailboat behind us. I was little and—get this—skinny. I turned it over, no date, no description.

  Where were we? Whose boat? Why was he wearing a captain’s hat? Who was responsible for that awful swimsuit I had on?

  I got a roll of tape, went to my room, and taped the picture above the bed. If I looked at it long enough, maybe I could force the actual memory to the surface. Otherwise, I’d never know.

  Not enough. Even if I found it and dragged it up, one memory wouldn’t be enough. I got all the pictures and began taping. First I did it without thinking, then I pulled down the ones I’d put up and started over. This time I began with the photos in the album. The ones with my parents I taped on the wall next to my bed until it was papered with pictures, I always checked the back for places and dates. Some were blank and some were detailed: “Arden’s first birthday, Ella’s Deli, Madison, Wisconsin.” Some inscriptions teased, like the one I found that showed Mom and Dad and Scott with a strange man. “With Harry, 30th birthday,” she’d written.

  Whose thirtieth birthday? And who was Harry? Scott knew him, he was hugging him hard.

  Scenes at the beach. What beach?

  My father grinning and pointing to a brick building. What building?

  A very young Scott leaning against a picket fence. What house? Where?

  It was like that thing about a tree falling in the forest. If no one hears it fall, is there a sound?