A Far Gone Night (10 page)

I ignored her jab at my faith, fighting off the urge to lay hands on her forehead.
Suddenly.

I continued chewing my sandwich. I do love Loony Burgers. Between bites, I grabbed a French fry, dipped it into the ketchup,
popped
it into my mouth. Suzanne was eating rapidly. She reached over and took my Three Philosophers and drank a little.
Getting a little brazen now.
Risking injury.

“You continue to amaze me, Thomas. I mean, how do you do it? You’re just ambling along in the country one day, enjoying the scenery, and you stumble onto the
Soderstrom
murder and all the garbage that went with it. And you were just trying to help someone. Of course,” she said, touching her fingertips to her mouth to push back a little morsel, “the fact that Wendy
Soderstrom
is a gorgeous woman had nothing to do with it. Then, once again, just minding your own business, in the middle of the freaking night, you see a naked dead girl in the river and haul her out. But, you can’t stay out of it. You discover something about the suicide,” she said, putting quotation marks in the air with her fingertips around the suicide word, “and you just can’t help yourself. You need to nose around when you should be in bed, ostensibly alone, sleeping, or whatever if you’re not alone. Next thing I know, you’re getting locked up and tossed into the slammer for a few hours for breaking into the freaking county
coroner’s
office, tearing the place apart. You are a bloody wonder!” she exclaimed. “I’d think you’d learn, big guy.”

I had finished off the violated remains of my Loony Burger, and the fries that went with it, while Suzanne was rattling on. I had finished off my Three Philosophers, too.

“May I say something?” I asked.

“You just did. But go ahead, be my guest.”

“Actually,
you’re
the guest here. You ate my food and drank my ale.”

“The way you say that, ‘You ate my food and drank my ale’ sounds very intimate, as if there is some sort of proprietary relationship here.
Man. Woman.
Food.
What could possibly follow?”

“Dessert?”

Suzanne laughed, and it was genuine. It’s cool when I can make a beautiful woman laugh. Karen laughed a lot.

I went on, admiring the beauty of the woman whose right hip was pressed firmly against my left thigh. It was a wonder I could utter a coherent sentence, but I did.

“Once again, dear Suzanne, your sources are in error. How in the world did your book find publication with all your inaccuracies? It’s a miracle.”

“Speaking of which, I peeked into your enormous motor vehicle and noticed my book in the front seat. Would you like for me to sign it?”

“After we leave here.
Please.”

“Thomas O’Shea said ‘please’? See, you
can
be nice!”

“As I was saying, your sources are in error. I was never thrown in jail and I did not break into the county coroner’s office.”

“Big deal.
You
were
arrested and handcuffed, though, and you were messing around late Sunday night in Dr.
Jarlsson’s
office. Why? Oh, wait! I’ll bet it had something to do with that poor girl you found in the river! Obviously murdered, otherwise there’d be no fuss. Aren’t you impressed with my deductive skills?
Positively
Holmesian
.
So, the girl was murdered, not a suicide. The plot thickens, and I’ll bet that little congregational meeting I just crashed was about the details of the murder. So, who did it?”

“No one knows.”

“But you suspect. Why would someone murder a young girl and throw her in the river? I am going to find out, and I’ll bet you a steak dinner that I find out before you
or
Sheriff Payne. This is going to make another great story. God, people will start coming to
Rockbluff
, Iowa, booking rooms and suites at the
Rockbluff
Motel just to see what mayhem you’re going to unearth the next time. People will come and follow you around like groupies. If you help me with my book, I’ll be
sooo
grateful, Thomas.”

Was that a little pressure I felt from her hip on my thigh?
Probably not.
Just my imagination.
Yes, that.

“I won’t help you with your book, Suzanne,” I said, “and now I must bid you adieu.” I pushed against her to get her moving as I dropped thirty dollars on the table in front of me. She slid out ahead of me and stood.

“May I sign your copy of my book now? It’s handy, right in the front seat of your truck.”

I waived at Lunatic as we moved toward the front door. He inclined his head in our direction. His countenance looked better, recovering from the shock of knowing that the dead girl was kin. I took Suzanne’s coat from the hook by the door where Moon had hung it. I helped her into the coat while she got up on her tippy-toes and whispered in my ear “Thank you” and smiled, then I opened the door for her and we stepped out together in the sunny, cold, Iowa afternoon.

“It’s right over here,” I said.

“I know. I told you I peeked.”

She followed me to my truck, which I unlocked and then retrieved her book. I looked at the back inside flap to her photo and bio. I said, “This photo doesn’t do you justice.”

“Oh? Why is that? I was pretty pleased with it.”

“You’re much more beautiful in real life.”

“Thomas, how
sweet
!
Thank you! You really can be a nice man!”

“I am not a nice man, but sometimes I do nice things.”

I handed over the book and she whipped out a Sharpie from somewhere in her little purse. I guess writers always carry a Sharpie so they can sign the occasional book thrust upon them. I don’t get the whole autograph thingy.
A desire for connection?
That, I understand.

She wrote more than just her name, I could tell. Then she blew on her writing, closed the book, capped and shoved her Sharpie back into the depths of her purse. She handed the book back with another big smile.

I said, “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome.”

“Have a nice day.”

“Ta-ta, Thomas!” she said, and walked briskly toward her 4Runner. I watched her walk for a while as she got in and drove slowly away. She waved and winked and I waved back. It was then, when she was out of
sight, that
I checked out her autograph.

It read: “For Thomas, in memory of all those wonderful nights in
Rockbluff
, ever yours, Suzanne
Highsmith
.”

T
he snow came first as a rumor, then a whisper, finally, a warning. And I embraced it, taking comfort in the beauty of the first snowfall of the winter, and that I was seeing it with Jan and Ernie Timmons safely ensconced in my house.

They had made it earlier than expected, arriving Tuesday mid-morning, inspired to haste by the previous night’s weather report at their motel. The leaden sky had begun to puff out an occasional snowflake, delighting them both, south-central Georgians.

I gave them a brief tour of
Rockbluff
, everyone admiring the double-arched limestone bridge over the Whitetail River. We drove by Christ the King church and they both remarked on its architectural beauty and then said how much they looked forward to meeting Carl and Molly
Heisler
.

Ernie wanted to see
Shlop’s
Roadhouse, so I drove down that way and turned around in their parking lot, looking lonely with only two pickup trucks parked there. I suggested we grab our lunch right then, service would be faster with so few customers, and Ernie could meet the alluring
Bunza
Steele, head barmaid and aspiring pro wrestler/med student. Jan shook her head and smiled an exaggerated, threatening smile at my suggestion, so Ernie and I swallowed our disappointment.

“Maybe later tonight,
Ern
,” I whispered, “after Jan’s asleep. We can slip away.”
An elbow to the ribs from Jan.

“We can pray about it,” he said, fighting off another elbow.

I sighed and turned my big truck back downtown, driving by the high school,
Bednarik’s
Books, Sole Proprietor, and Holy Grounds Coffee shop.

“How ’bout lunch at The Grain o’ Truth Bar and Grill?”
I asked.

“Of course,” Jan exclaimed, “we need to meet your friend Lunatic Mooning!”

“After present company,” Carl said, “the person we are most interested in seeing. I want to see if the man matches the voice on the phone.”

“I forgot you have had conversations with the man, invading my privacy,” I said.

“And a good thing, too,” Ernie laughed. “Now, let’s go eat some Loony Burgers.”

I found myself looking forward to the weather on its way, picking up a bit, the fragments of snow steadily coalescing and turning into a genuine snowstorm.
With a bit of wind to go with it.
The big, wet flakes stuck to the windshield so I directed some of the heater there and turned on the intermittent wipers. I wanted the Timmons to meet Lunatic, of course, but I was also eager to hurry back to my house so I could watch the woods fill up with snow, could hear the wind and the sound of flakes against each other in the air and, maybe if the storm was as hearty as predicted, see gentle drifts here and there.

All went well at The Grain, where attendance was a bit down, probably due to the impending storm. I introduced Ernie and Jan to Lunatic, Rachel, and a bunch of other people, including Gunther and Julie Schmidt (who had given birth to a big boy several months ago); and Olivia Olson, who was sitting with Molly
Heisler
.
Arvid
was there, lifelessly slumped over against a window and ignored by Clara, his wife; as were the Deputy Pals,
Landsberger
and
Altemier
, and a few acquaintances. We sat in a window booth and had Loony Burgers, fries, and one Three Philosophers each for Ernie and me. Jan had a glass of Coppola
Rosso
after taking a sip of Ernie’s Belgian ale and shaking her head. “Too strong,” she said. I explained
Arvid
.

Our food arrived promptly and that’s how it was consumed, amid grunts from Ernie and a steady, “
Mmmm
” of appreciation from Jan.

“We really should get going,” I said, looking out the window. The ground was now covered, white and smooth, unblemished in a thin, pristine blanket. And there was no letup in the storm. In fact, it had picked up in intensity and volume.

“I wouldn’t mind waiting it out in this wonderful establishment,” Jan said, finishing her second glass of
Rosso
, “but we might have trouble getting to your drive and then making it up to the house.”

“You Southerners,” I said, “this won’t slow me down, but I don’t think we should tempt fate.”

“You’ve done enough of that,” Ernie said, nodding at me. “So, let’s go.”

I left a big tip for Rachel Bergman,
then
we all drifted over to the bar and shook hands again with Lunatic. He directed his comment at the Timmons. “Please try to keep my pale friend out of trouble.”

Without hesitation, Carl said, “Prayer helps, Lunatic.”

With that, we stomped out through snow in the parking lot and headed for the truck, climbed in, and started for home. Seeing where the road was presented a minor challenge. The snow plows weren’t out yet, and where the road ended and the shoulder began was up for debate. Already, there must have been three or four inches on the ground. The blanket had become a quilt, and quickly.

The snow squeaked as the big tires and serious weight of the truck pressed down on the storm’s fresh thickness. We heard the wind howl and Jan scrunched her shoulders like a little kid and exclaimed, “I love it!”

I knew I would have good traction, but the trouble with getting back home now became the problem of dealing with the thickness of the storm, the snow swirling and pouring out from the heavens like a ripped-open goose-down mattress. Visibility became the issue.

“Pretty hard to see,” Ernie said.

“This is a beautiful storm,” Jan whispered reverently as we slowly met another truck edging down the street. He flashed his headlights as we passed, and we exchanged brief nods, the wildly-extroverted means by which Iowans say hello while driving. My heart soared like the hawk at his demonstration of brotherhood. I flipped on my headlights and flashers in response to his signal. Good to see, but good to be seen as well.

“The first snowfall of the winter,” I said, and then I remembered another first snowfall of the previous winter, and Ruth
VanderKellen’s
request.

Jan, who was sitting between Carl and me, said, “What?”

I glanced to my right. She looked worried. I asked, “What ‘what’?”

“Something passed across your face. Sadness, when you said this was the first snowfall of the winter. Why sad?”

So I told them about Ruth and her leaving for California just as we were finding each other, and her gift of a cell phone and a note asking me to call her when the first snowfall came to
Rockbluff
County so I could describe it to her, and her promise to come back the following spring, and stay. Then I changed the subject before the interrogation could begin.

“So, how are Matt and Aaron doing?” I asked, referring to the Timmons’ sons. Matt had dated Annie regularly. Mine wasn’t the only pain from that accident south of Atlanta.

“They’re good,” Ernie said. “Matt’s at Georgia, thinking about pharmacy and Aaron’s a sophomore at
Belue
High. He talks about seminary.”

“You’ve got to stop him!” I said, panic creeping into my voice, keeping my eyes on the road ahead. “Look what it’s done to you!” Everyone laughed. That was a relief, too, believe me. I congratulated myself for steering the conversation away from Ruth
VanderKellen
and last year’s first snowfall, but I knew Jan would come back around to it, circling, looking for clues about the state of my heart, preparing to minister to me like some theological vulture.

We continued to creep along. An old Buick approached us and went on by, the driver raising two fingers from the steering wheel.
Another Iowa greeting.
The sound of his chains making a steady
chink-chink-chink
sound.

Ernie leaned over and looked at me. “Was that chains I just heard?”

“Oh, yeah.
They work in this stuff.”

“Do they leave them on all winter?”

“Nah, just for weather like this.
When the streets get cleared later, they’ll take them off again.
Useful in this kind of storm.
By the way, remember
Arvid
?”

Jan said, “Yes, the guy pretending to be dead in The Grain o’ Truth.”

“That’s his house over there on your right. You can hardly see it, though, the yellow one with the wrought iron fence.”

The Timmons looked. The
Pendergast
mansion was barely visible. The storm was turning into a whopper and I was glad to see it, but I preferred to see it from a warm room with a pint of dark ale or glass of wine in my hand, a roaring fire in the fireplace turning into glowing coals later, the pattern true love takes over time. I slowed to thirty miles an hour and tapped the brakes. No sliding. Good.

“She didn’t come back, did she?” Jan asked.

It was easier to talk as I drove the truck into the teeth of what might now be a blizzard. I could not risk eye contact, and I realized, once again, that the Lord does provide what we need at the proper time.
In this case, the need to keep my eyes on the road instead of Jan’s face.
I didn’t think I could look into her dark eyes and keep a grip, so I wasn’t going to risk it. I hunched forward a little, pretending that it helped me see better into the snowstorm. If we were driving at night, that would help. But we were close to a total white-out, so leaning closer to the steering wheel proved no advantage.
Except socially.
The wind howled and lightly rocked the truck.

“Thomas?”
Jan again.
I was going to have to deal with it, something I knew would come up when the Timmons thanked me for agreeing with them for me to host Thanksgiving.

“Alright, I know when I’m cornered,” I said. Jan squeezed my arm. “There are three, three-word phrases that have great impact on me. One makes my mouth go dry, elevates my blood pressure, and makes me weep in agony.” I went quiet. Several seconds passed.

Ernie broke the silence inside the cabin of the truck. “Alright, I’ll bite. What three words are those?
‘Pizza without meat’?”

“Close, very close.” More silence.

“Thomas.”
This from Jan. “No more of this.
I know what you’re doing, and you know I can be as determined about something as Gotcha. So give it up. What three words cause you pain and fear?”

“The ones that state, ‘some assembly required.’”

Both Timmons laughed, but briefly.

I went on. “There are three more that are definitely better, especially spoken by a woman to me. I’m talking about the simple phrase, ‘I love you,’ and I’ve been blessed to have heard it for years before it stopped.”

“I love you, Thomas,” Jan said softly.

“Thank you, Jan, but I’m not talking about agape love, necessarily. I’m talking about
eros
love, among others.”

“Can’t help you out there,
brother
,” she said, laughing.

“Thanks, dear,” Ernie said.

“Well,” I said, “
that’s
the one I had hoped to hear from Ruth.
If things worked out.
Which I thought they would, but she substituted three other words when I called her and she picked up the phone.” I paused for dramatic effect, of course.
And also to help me swallow.

“What did she say?” Jan nudged me with her shoulder, a soft nudge, a kind nudge.

“That would be, ‘I found someone,’ which is what she said when I dutifully called her to describe that first snowfall about this time last year.”

“I’m so sorry, Thomas,” Jan said.