The Lost Women of Lost Lake (23 page)

From down the block, Jonah could see Mr. Moon standing behind his black Cadillac Escalade. Jonah not only hated Toyotas, he thought big cars were stupid. As he approached, he could see Mr. Moon heft his golf clubs into the back end.

Mr. Moon broke into a grin as Jonah walked up. “Jo,” he said, clapping Jonah on the back. “What are you doing here?”

Mr. Moon shortened everybody's name. “Came to visit my aunts.”

“When'd you get here?”

“Sunday night.”

“Ken never said anything to me. How are your parents?”

“Good. I was sorry to hear about your mom. I always liked Mrs. LaVasser.”

“Thanks. It's been a rough few days.”

“You going golfing?”

“Yup.” He shut the back of the vehicle, then adjusted his yellow golf hat. “Got a three o'clock tee time. Sly wants me back by six. Relatives over for dinner tonight. People coming to town because of the funeral.”

Sly, known as Sylvia to everyone else in town, was his wife.

“Kenny here?” asked Jonah. He followed Mr. Moon and waited while he climbed into the front seat.

“Last I checked, he was in the basement pumping iron.”

That made no sense at all. “You're not confusing Kenny with Corey, are you?”

“No, no. Cor's in Europe for the summer.”

“Okay, thanks. Hope you birdie every hole.”

“Oh, I will,” said Mr. Moon, flashing his million-dollar smile, the one that would make him mayor one day.

Jonah stood in the center of the extrawide drive as Mr. Moon backed the monster SUV out into the street and drove away. Noticing a blue tarp pulled over Kenny's old motorbike parked at the edge of the garage, he walked over. So Kenny hadn't sold it. The tarp was covered with sticks and rotting leaves. With a Harley in the garage, he probably never used it anymore.

Jonah rang the front doorbell. Mrs. Moon appeared, looking as cheerful and pretty as ever. She reminded Jonah of the moms in those really ancient TV shows:
The Brady Bunch
,
Happy Days
,
One Day at a Time
. Too perfect to be real, and yet too nice not to like.

“Jonah, what a surprise. Come on in.”

Mrs. Moon and Aunt Jill were the only two people he knew who actually baked cookies from scratch. He thought they deserved some sort of award. The house was its usual spotless self, devoid of all clutter, unlike his aunts house, which was clean and in good repair, though never exactly neat. Floral arrangements from friends and neighbors covered every flat surface.

Mrs. Moon peppered him with all the usual questions. When had he arrived? How were his parents? How did he like St. Louis? When she was satisfied that all was well—she would have been heartbroken by anything less—she told him that Kenny had moved into the basement after he'd graduated. It wasn't really a
basement
basement, in Jonah's opinion. It was more like a furnished apartment.

“I can't believe he'll be at boot camp this time next month. My boys are growing up too fast.”

“Boot camp,” repeated Jonah. “Right.” So Kenny hadn't gotten around to telling his parents that the army had rejected him for being a blimp. Interesting. “I'll just head on down if that's okay with you.”

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

When
wasn't
he hungry? Still, he didn't want to press his luck. If Kenny decided to beat him to a bloody pulp, he hoped Mrs. Moon would intercede. “No, I'm fine.”

“Well, if you boys want me to toss a frozen pizza in the oven, just holler up.”

“We will.”

Moving sideways down the steps just in case he had to make a quick escape, Jonah found Kenny sitting astride the bench of a huge home gym, doing leg curls, a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. His face was red with exertion, his body slick with sweat. With his shirt off, he looked even more flabby. It repelled Jonah to think of any girl, especially Emily, wanting to snuggle up next to that.

Kenny kept doing his reps as Jonah slunk into the room, the side of his mouth without the cigarette curling into a smile.

“You gonna hit me?” asked Jonah.

“Ain't decided. What do you want?”

Jonah wasn't really sure. He just knew he had to come. Unlike the upstairs, the basement floor and almost every piece of furniture was covered with dirty clothes, half-filled glasses, crushed pop cans, empty bags of chips, and assorted general crap. “This place is a pit.”

“Suits me just fine,” said Kenny, grabbing a white towel and wiping the sweat off his head, shoulders and arms.

“You trying to pump up and drop some weight?”

“Shut up about that.” He tapped his cigarette above an ashtray.

“So you haven't given up?”

“Far as I'm concerned, the army had their chance and they blew it. There are other groups that would hire me in a millisecond. The pay's a lot better, too.”

“Paramilitary?”

“Somebody's gotta go out there and protect dreamers like you from reality.”

“Man up, right?”

“Damn straight.”

“Kinda sucks when you get your philosophy of life from beer commercials.”

“Thin ice, buddy. Thin ice.” Kenny stuck the cigarette between his lips, tossed the towel and picked up a bar attached to the machine by a cable. Putting one foot in front of him and one foot behind, his elbows tucked into his sides, he began to slowly draw up on the bar.

“What's that called?” asked Jonah.

“Bicep curls. So I can intimidate pussies like you.”

“Are you and Emily really together?”

“Go ask her.”

“She's at work. And I haven't got any wheels.”

“Boo friggin' hoo.”

“Do you love her?”

“More than you do.”

“So it's a contest.”

“Everything's a contest, asshole. There are winners and there are losers. The entire world is divided along that one axis.”

Noticing a couple of familiar keys on a keychain next to his foot, Jonah sat down cross-legged on the carpet. “If you're going to join some paramilitary organization and go fight overseas, what happens to Emily?”

“She stays home and waits for her man to come back.”

“Sounds boring.”

“To you maybe.”

“You think that's what she wants to do with her life?”

“It's what she's gonna do.”

“So you tell her to jump and she asks how high.”

“It ain't like that. But yeah, if I needed to, I would, and she'd do it.”

Jonah pressed his palm over the keychain and slowly drew his fingers around it. “If you think that, you don't know her very well.”

Kenny dropped the bar and tossed the cigarette into the ashtray. “Really? And you do?”

“I know something doesn't add up.” He sprang to his feet and began edging toward the stairs, feeling that the conversation was about to get ugly.

“Meaning what?”

“That someone like Emily doesn't change overnight.”

“We've been together ever since you left.”

“Bullshit.”

“Ask her. I ain't lying.”

That shook him. “You've found some way to manipulate her. That has to be it. What? Come on, tell me.”

“It's called love, puke.”

“Blackmail?” There it was, thought Jonah. The word had forced Kenny to compose his expression so he didn't give anything away. Except that the act of composure spoke more eloquently than any words. “You know, Kenny, you may have big muscles, but you don't want to mess with me.”

Kenny seemed to find the comment hilarious. He let out a giggle and couldn't seem to stop.

Jonah took that as his cue to get the hell out. As he reached the top of the stairs, Mrs. Moon came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. They both stood for a moment, listening to Kenny's giggles turn to shrieks of laughter.

“Is he okay?” asked Mrs. Moon.

“Was he ever?” asked Jonah. He headed for the front door. Once outside, he crouched down and waited by the edge of the garage, making sure that Kenny didn't come out looking for him. Breathing hard, he realized how scared he'd been down in that stinky lair. It was probably a dumb move to come by, and yet if he hadn't he might never have learned that Kenny had something on Emily. She wasn't with him because she cared about him, and that's all Jonah needed. He'd meant what he'd said the other night. He would love her no matter what.

Opening his fist, he gazed at the keys in his hand.
Score
. He needed transportation and this would fit the bill. The Moons' house was bordered by woods. Pocketing the keys, Jonah flipped the tarp off Kenny's old bike and checked it over to make sure it was in working order. The tires looked okay, although they probably needed air. Slipping it into neutral, he walked it into the woods, glad that it was light. He came out half a block away, walking it down an alley to the intersection with the county highway. Climbing on, he tried the key. The ignition coughed a couple of times and then caught. Something wasn't hitting right, and yet, when he gave it some gas, it flew, just like he remembered.

Stopping at a gas station on the way back to town, he filled the tank and put air in the tires. And then he was off. All he had to do now was find Emily.

27

Later that afternoon, Jane and Cordelia drove out to the resort on Harris Lake. Once again, Jane wasn't sure what she was looking for. Where Feigenbaumer had stayed likely played no role in his death, and yet she had to cover all the investigative bases.

“This place is a dump,” said Cordelia, parking her car next to a squat wood frame building with a sign jutting off the side that said
OFFICE
. It was spelled out in peeling yellow and black painted letters. The building itself was painted, in Cordelia's words, “atomic tangerine.”

“I wonder if this odd use of color was intentional,” she asked as she opened the car door and got out, “or if the people around here are simply color challenged?”

The clump of pink plastic flamingos planted in the dirt on either side of the front door caused Jane to lean toward the latter.

The man behind the counter looked up from his magazine as they entered. “Can I help—” he said. He wasn't able to finish the question because he appeared to be struck dumb by the sight of Cordelia's gold lamé turban.

Jane pushed one of her Nolan & Lawless business cards across to him. She realized that she was getting way too attached to them.

He adjusted the glasses perched on the end of his nose and give it a quick look. “A PI, huh? That what they're wearing these days?” He nodded to Cordelia's turban.

“I like to make a strong first impression,” said Cordelia. “Especially at fishing resorts.”

Watching her warily, he went on. “You must be here about that Feigenbaumer guy.”

“That's right,” said Jane. The man's name was on a metal desktop display. Arnie L. Thompson.

“A sheriff's deputy came by yesterday. Wanted to know if he'd stayed here. I walked him over to number seven. There wasn't much to see. The deputy took his suitcase and laptop. That and a shaving kit were about all he had with him.”

“Did you ever talk to Feigenbaumer, Arnie?” asked Cordelia, running her hand along a dusty corner table. “I can call you Arnie, can't I?”

“Well, you betcha,” he said with a little too much enthusiasm. “The only time we spoke was when he rented the cabin. Seemed like a nice enough guy.”

“You knew he was a cop then,” said Jane.

The man's face blanched. “He was
what
?”

“That a problem?” asked Cordelia. Finished with her inspection of the table, she moved on to the cobwebs around the single window facing the lake.

“Well, no, a' course not.”

Jane switched gears. “I understand Emily Jensen works here as a housekeeper.”

“Lovely young woman,” he said, opening a cigar box next to him. “As sweet as she is beautiful. You know her?”

“She's starring in a play I'm directing over at the community playhouse in Lost Lake,” said Cordelia, moving over to the counter and peering into the box. “That's really generous of you to offer us cigars.” She chose one, held it under her nose and sniffed.

“How can you be both a PI
and
a theater director?”

“I have multiple interests for my multiple personalities.”

Jane cocked her head. She thought that was an interesting comment.

“I'm a part-time investigator, a full-time artistic director, a trained psychic, and next month I'm going to take a lateral career move and start tending drawbridges.”

His eyes traveled from Cordelia to Jane. “Is she kidding?”

“When's checkout time?”

“Eleven.”

“Are the people who stay here in the summer mostly fishermen?”

“Harris Lake is one of the best walleye and bass lakes around. I'm out there myself every chance I get.”

“How many cleaning women do you employ?”

“Two.”

“Sounds like cleaning is a real priority around here,” said Cordelia.

“Oh, absolutely,” agreed Arnie. He selected a cigar and flicked his lighter.

Cordelia bent toward him to catch a light.

“You're really going to smoke that?”

“Any reason I shouldn't?”

“No, no. It's a perfectly fine cigar.”

“If it turns out to be the exploding variety, I'll be back.”

“Cabin number seven,” said Jane. “Could we see it?”

“It's rented. A couple of fishermen up from the Cities. The deputy didn't say anything about it being a crime scene. I could show you another just like it.”

“Not necessary,” said Jane. “Thanks for the information.”

“Ta,” said Cordelia, stopping to blow a couple of smoke rings into the air before she followed Jane out the door.