The Mortal Groove (19 page)

“I did. But I'm sick of all the nasty comments I keep getting from friends and total strangers—the gas mileage thing, the size. Apparently a Hummer is insidious, idiotic, impractical, illogical, and totally irrational. I guess that's why I liked it. But the last straw was the other night. I was just driving down the street, minding my own business, when this guy yells, ‘Hey, you off to a Bush youth rally?' I mean, that was The End.”

Jane tried not to laugh.

Looking away, Cordelia added, “I also promised Melanie I'd get rid of it. Had to keep my promise, didn't I?”

Jane opened the door so that Mouse could climb in the back. “What kind of car is it?”

“A BMW 650i. Totally tricked out. GPS. Automatic everything. I've always wanted a convertible.” She caressed the cream-colored leather seats. “And it gets pretty good gas mileage, has a bunch of air bags. It also has plenty of room for a child safety seat in the back—for Hattie. When she gets home.”

Jane put her overnight bag and coat in the small trunk, then slipped into the passenger's seat. “This thing is pretty luxurious. Must have cost some bucks.”

“Not with the trade-in. And it's used, last year's model, but it's only got about seventeen thousand miles on it.”

“Is it big enough for you?”

“We all have to sacrifice, Janey—for the good of the environment.”

“Sacrifice. Right.”

Cordelia put the car in gear and they were off—not quite in a cloud of dust, but almost.

“It's a four-hour trip, give or take,” she said, turning onto West Lake Harriet Parkway, headed for 1-35.

Jane looked over her shoulder to make sure Mouse was all settled in. Instead of lying down, he was sitting up, ears pinned back by the stiff breeze, eyes squinting at the joggers running around the lake. The backseat was exceptionally roomy, and Mouse appeared to be in his element with all the fresh air.

“I think this car was a good choice,” said Jane, strapping on her seat belt. “Well done.”

“Thank you. I've been at the hospital all morning.”

“How's Melanie doing today?”

“No change. She's still in a coma. Her mother was there, but she did leave us alone for a few seconds, so I got a chance to tell her I loved her, you know, all the mushy stuff—I won't elaborate—and that I'd be gone for a couple of days. I hate leaving her. This is so hard. I mean, if she were awake, I'd call her every hour on the hour. Or I'd send her cards. You know how much I love Hallmark.”

“Cheap, trashy sentiment.”

“Exactly.”

“Did you mention where you were going?”

“No way. We probably won't find anything anyway, so what's the point of getting her hopes up. If she can hear me. I'm proceeding on the assumption that she can.”

Jane wondered what the good people of Waldo would make of a middle-aged woman with spiky magenta, blue, and green hair, arriving in town driving a flashy silver convertible. Cordelia always made a visual impact, that was a given, but Jane doubted her current “look” would go over terribly well with the Iowa locals.

 

As they pulled into a run-down drive-in for lunch, Cordelia said, “Here's the big news.”

“You've been holding out on me?”

They each ordered burgers and fries before Cordelia would agree to continue. She adored the pregnant pause.

“The other night when Melanie went outside to talk to that lethal goon, she left her leather briefcase with me. I dumped it in the back of my Hummer before you drove me to the hospital, and of course, I promptly forgot about it. But then, Saturday evening, when I was cleaning the truck out so it would look great as a trade-in, I came across the bag. Her laptop was inside. After I got home from the BMW dealership, I opened it up to see if there was anything on it about her investigation in Iowa. But, of course, all her work was protected by a password.”

Jane threw up her hands. “So close.”

“Do not despair, dearheart. Cordelia M. Thorn was on the case.” Mischief danced in her eyes. “It took some time, but I figured it out. I finally remembered a nickname I'd given her way back when, when we were first together. It touched me deeply, Janey, that she used it as her password.”

“What was it?”

“The General. She acted like one, always issuing orders like she was in charge of the world.”

Her description of Melanie sounded painfully similar to how Jane might describe Cordelia, which made her wonder if they really were meant to be together. Two generals in one relationship was probably one too many.

“I printed out the file for you.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Mouse is sitting on it.”

Jane turned around and pulled it out from under him. “Have you read through it?”

“Of course. Lost some beauty sleep over it, too.” She patted the underside of her chin, then smoothed her red lipstick with the tip of her pinky.

By the time they were done eating, Jane had read through it twice. She now had a list of people she wanted to talk to before they drove back home. Melanie had even included phone numbers and addresses, but the only person she'd actually contacted so far was Alf Trotter, the “proud WWII vet” who'd written that op-ed piece for the
Fort Dodge Messenger.

“This is amazing luck,” said Jane.

“No, it's Cordelia Thorn on the case.”

“I forgot.”

“I forgive you. Just don't let it happen again.”

 

Waldo, Iowa's population had grown since the early seventies. Instead of 1400 and some odd people, there were now 2153, according to the sign on the outskirts of town.

As they drove along the main drag, Jane judged that the business district wasn't much more than three blocks long, although several of the side streets that led back to the residential sections were
dotted with businesses. They passed by a couple bars, a Laundromat, a large Ben Franklin store, a pizza parlor, a dilapidated cafe with a Closed sign in the front window, an ice cream parlor/candy shop, a garage with a bunch of dusty cars sitting out front, and a tiny gift shop/bookstore. Dean's Feed Bin had greeted them as they came into town, and on the other end was a gas station on one side of the road and a grocery store on the other.

“
That
was the town?” said Cordelia, lowering her shades.

Jane pointed at the speed limit sign. “We're back to sixty-five.”

She twisted around. “I figured there would be at least a couple of hotels to choose from.”

“The only one I saw—a motel—was the Dreamland Motor Court about a half mile back.”

“The dump? The one with the junker cars parked in some of the slots to make it look less like a ghost motel?”

Jane shrugged. “They may not have all been junkers.”

“I do not stay in fleabags, Jane. No no no.”

“Fine. We'll find something else. But don't expect a Hilton experience out here in the middle of farm country.”

Cordelia pulled a U-turn and headed back to the grocery store. “We can always drive back to Fort Dodge,” said Jane.

“Too far. I'm beat. I need a chocolate milk fix.”

Cordelia came out of the grocery store a few minutes later carrying a quart of Nestle's Quik and talking on her cell phone. She stood outside the car while she finished the call, then slipped into the driver's seat.

“Any change?” asked Jane.

“She's holding steady, but no better. Want a swig?” She handed the chocolate milk carton across to Jane.

“I'll pass, thanks.”

They spent the next few minutes locating the field where the murder had taken place. Jane wanted to see it. She had no idea what she thought it would tell her, it just seemed important. Half a mile or so out of town, they took a left on County Road 6, drove another quarter of a mile until they spotted the weeping willow.

“That's it,” said Jane. “Stop the car.”

It was just an ordinary field. Because the land was so flat, Jane had the sense the she could see for miles. The only thing that set the place apart was the willow and the stone Sue's family had placed next to it as a memorial.

Cordelia pulled off onto the shoulder and turned off the motor. “Kind of quiet out here. Too quiet.”

“That sounds like dialogue from a B movie.”

“So? If it fits, it fits.”

Jane let Mouse out of the car to run. He'd been cooped up for hours and needed the exercise. They both did. She passed through the scrub brush up to the tree and squatted down. Pulling a long blade of sweet grass out of the soil, she chewed the end and looked around. “I wonder what really happened here all those years ago.”

Cordelia came up behind her. “I'll bet it gets pretty spooky out here at night. No streetlights.”

“Not much of a country girl, are you.”

“Give me pavement and the smell of car exhaust any day.” Jane smiled. There was never any doubt who Cordelia was. She waited while Mouse sniffed his way toward her, then clapped her hands. As he jumped back into the car, she said, “Let's go see if Randy's uncle is around.”

“Good idea. I'll bet he'll know where we can find a decent motel—and a place to have dinner.”

 

The sun was beginning to set when Jane and Cordelia finally found the mailbox with the name Mortonsen painted on the side. The white, wood-frame farmhouse was sheltered from the road by a line of pine trees. They turned off the highway onto a dirt drive and rolled slowly into a yard filled with odd, welded metal sculptures.

“They almost look like buildings,” said Cordelia. “They remind me of the ones in the movie
Metropolis.”

Gus Mortonsen was sitting on the porch smoking a pipe, enjoying the spring night. “Can I help you?” he asked, standing up as they got out of the car and approached. He was dressed in a wool Pendleton shirt tucked into a pair of brown trousers. His expression was open and friendly.

Jane introduced herself and then Cordelia, explaining that they'd driven down from Minneapolis. “I'm a friend of your nephew, Randy.”

“My lord, haven't seen that boy in years. Not since my sister died—Randy's mother—back in ‘94.” He invited them to sit down. As he talked, he kept sneaking peeks at Cordelia's hair. He puffed on his pipe a couple more times, then seemed to reach a decision. Clearing his throat, he said, “Mind if I ask a personal question? Was that hard to do?”

She blinked. “What? My hair?”

“Yeah.”

“No, not really. I just went to the salon and told them what I wanted.”

“The salon, huh? Wish we had one of them in town. There's a kid that works part-time at the grocery store. His hair's bright
orange. I think it's damn beautiful, if you'll pardon my French. I had the guts, I'd do it myself. I hate this old white hair of mine. Makes me seem more ancient than I already am.”

“You an artist?” asked Cordelia, nodding to the sculptures.

“Yes, ma'am, I guess I am. My wife, God rest her soul, thought I was deranged. But a man needs a hobby. When I make a new one, I put it in the yard. I've actually sold a few. Can you beat that?” He laughed, then squinted at the car. “That a dog you've got out there?”

“A lab,” said Jane. “He's mine.”

“Let him out. I'll get him some water.” He opened the screen door and shuffled off into the house.

“My kind of guy,” said Cordelia, patting the back of her hair. “Artistic type.”

Jane returned to the car and opened the door. Mouse jumped out, his nose working furiously to figure out all the new smells. They reached the porch just as Gus returned with a bowl of water and a beef bone.

“What's his name?” asked Gus, watching him lap up the water. He held the bone back until Mouse walked over to him.

“M. Mouse.”

“No!”

“He was a stray. That's what was on his collar.”

“Well, if that don't beat all.” He gave Mouse the bone. “I guess Mouse is a name as well as a thing. Kinda like ‘John.' ” He winked.

“Do you have a few minutes to talk to us?” asked Jane. The remnants of his supper—a bowl of chili and a glass of milk—sat on a rickety TV tray next to him.

“Got all the time in the world,” he said, his teeth clamped around the pipe. “Especially for a friend of the family. How's Randy doing these days?”

Jane didn't want to pass on bad news. “He's fine. Busy as ever.

“So what are you two young lasses doing down here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Well,” said Jane, “Cordelia and I have a mutual friend, Melanie Gunderson. She's a journalism professor, and also a reporter. She was attacked in a parking lot a few nights ago.”

“Mercy,” he said, pulling the pipe out of his mouth. “Is she okay?”

“She's in a coma,” said Cordelia, looking down at the rings on her fingers. “The doctors don't know if she'll recover.”

“The thing is,” continued Jane, “we believe she was attacked because she was digging into an old murder case. Susan Bouchard's murder.”

He digested that for a few seconds.

“We're here in her place,” said Jane.

“Are the two of you reporters for the same paper?”

“No,” said Jane. “I own a couple of restaurants in the Twin Cities.”

“And I'm a theater director,” said Cordelia.

“Then, I don't understand.”

“We're doing it for Melanie,” said Cordelia, looking over at Jane.

Gus just smoked his pipe.

“We were hoping you could tell us what you remember about the night it happened,” said Jane. “I know it was a long time ago, but anything you remember could be important.”

“The police investigated the whole thing, you know.”

“But Sue's murderer was never caught.” From the pained look on his face, Jane could tell her words had opened an old wound.

“I don't know what I can tell you,” he said, his eyes drawn to a large oak in the yard. He crossed his arms over his chest, shifted in his chair, drew an invisible line on the floor with the toe of his shoe. “I don't even know where to start.”