Chapter 35

Martin’s heart sank as he watched Clark turn, and heard his footsteps across the old wooden floors toward his office. What had he done now? Martin looked at Shirley who frowned back at him and mouthed, “Dayton Daniels.”
“Dayton Daniels?” Martin whispered back, incredulous. “I left his store less than two minutes ago!” Martin waited a moment to collect his thoughts before facing Clark, and to calm his irritation. “If I didn’t know better,” he whispered again to Shirley, “I’d think that plumber has something to hide.”
“Go!” Shirley whispered back at him. “You’re not going to find out what he’s hiding by standing around here, and Clark appears to be pissed.”
Martin’s irritation quickly grew into anger as he moved through the office. He threw his satchel into his cubical as he passed it on his way to Clark’s office, making a thumping sound on the desk that rattled his lamp and made some of his co-workers lift their heads to see what the commotion was all about. Martin stomped toward Clark’s office, and Grayson was already sitting down in his chair, waiting impatiently for him to enter. “Close the door, Lundeen,” he said. “Pull up a chair.”
Martin pulled one of the side chairs Clark had sitting around a conference table in the large office so it sat across from him at the desk. “So, what’s the problem?” He asked evenly, trying, but failing, to hide his anger.
Clark ignored his attitude and simply asked, “Tell me what happened with Daniels.”
Martin squinted at him and replied, “I stopped at his store on my way to the office this morning to see if I could do a quick interview for my end of the school year feature.”
Clark’s face showed no reaction. “What made you stop this morning? Don’t you think someone as important as Dayton Daniels deserves the courtesy of being asked for an appointment?” Martin looked up at the ceiling for a moment and then back at Clark. “I saw him going into his store as I passed it on the way to work, and I just decided to stop on the spur of the moment. I figured I could at least ask for an appointment for later if he was too busy to talk to me this morning.” Clark’s lack of response infuriated Martin. “It’s called hustle, Clark!” Martin shouted at him. “I was taking some initiative. Since when is that a crime?”
Clark’s mind was reviewing his conversation with Dayton as he listened to the rant coming across his desk. “Settle down, Martin. I’m just trying to understand what set Daniels off about your impromptu visit.” He rubbed his temples with his fingertips and closed his eyes. “So you didn’t demand an interview?”
“Hell, no!” Martin answered. “I just told him what I wanted and let him know I’d be happy to come back if he was too busy. Ask Fran, his receptionist. She saw the whole exchange.”
Clark snorted. “That’s okay, Martin. I don’t need to confirm anything. I believe you.” He got up from his chair and came around the desk. Martin instinctively sat up in his chair and turned to face him. “So, tell me how the conversation went this morning.”
Martin proceeded to recount, word for word, the conversation between himself and Dayton Daniels. When he came to the revelation that Frank Talbot was the featured retiring teacher, he hesitated for moment, but then went on and included the fact that it was at this point in the conversation that Daniels shut down. At the mention of Talbot’s name, Grayson frowned. “Tell me again why you’re including Frank Talbot in this story.”
Martin looked intently at Clark’s face, tried to read something into the question, but saw nothing. “I don’t know. He’s just been teaching a long time and is retiring, and I thought it would add some human interest.” Clark nodded and said, “Hmm, human interest…yeah, that’s’ probably a good call.” He sighed and scratched his head. “That’s it?”
Martin hesitated again. “Yep, that’s the whole conversation.”
“I don’t get it, Martin. What was it about that conversation that made Dayton Daniels get on the phone within seconds of your leaving his store to tell me to tell you to back off?”
The room was quiet except for Clark’s steps as he moved back around his desk and the squeak of his chair as he sat down. He put his hands behind his head, leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. “I just don’t get it…”
Martin decided to take a gamble on what was left of Clark’s journalistic integrity. “Clark, what if I told you that, once I started working on this story, I found out something about Frank Talbot that was…uh…unsavory.” Martin wanted to gage Clark’s reaction on this, but wasn’t ready to admit that the story was merely a ruse to expose Talbot. Clark ripped his arms apart from behind his head and sat straight up in his creaky chair.
“Unsavory?” Clark asked quietly, eyebrows raised. “How unsavory?”
“Pretty unsavory. Illegal unsavory. Sexual assault of students unsavory…,” Martin responded.
“And how, exactly, have you come to this conclusion?” Clark asked wearily.
“Well, I was looking through old papers and just noticed some strange things like he was coaching something one week and then relieved of duty the next. Or stories of mysterious assault charges that were dropped or just went away. And then there were some comments from past students I interviewed…”
“Such as?”
“Sharla Whitefeather, for one. He actually tried to rape her. She got away, but quit school rather than face him again. And Karen Howe had the strangest reaction when I brought his name up as being part of the story. Made me think he tried something with her, too.” He deliberately didn’t tell him about Shirley – that was her secret to tell.
“Karen Howe? What the hell does Karen Howe have to do with this?” Clark was clearly exasperated, so Martin quickly continued. “I was interviewing her at her store about gift ideas for graduates, and when she asked about what was being included in the story, I mentioned the tribute to Talbot and she freaked.”
Clark’s face clouded over. “Karen Howe? My God…” He got up from his desk and began pacing behind his desk. “Why Karen Howe? Is he a pervert and an idiot?”
“No, he just likes his victims to be powerless,” Martin replied. Clark turned and looked at him with a confused look on his face. “Clark, most if not all of Talbots’ victims are Native American girls.” Grayson still looked confused. “Karen is part Indian,” Martin explained.
Clark went back to pacing and then stopped again to look at Martin. “And just how did you find out about Karen’s Indian heritage?” he asked, almost accusingly.
“Sharla confirmed it through her Uncle Bill. On the sly, of course, but it’s confirmed.” Now Martin was getting frustrated with his boss, and he stood up for emphasis. “Clark, you are missing the point. This isn’t an important story just because the wife of the big man in town was assaulted by a teacher when she was his student. It’s an important story because he assaulted many nameless, faceless Indian girls and ruined their lives!”
“Now you just hold on, Lundeen,” Clark boomed back. “You don’t decide what makes an important story, I do!”
Martin was fuming, and decided to lay it all out before Clark could shut him down.
“Okay, fine, you want a big story? What if Dayton Daniels and Jeff Howe have known about this little problem for years and chose to cover it up? Does that make it a big enough story for you?”
“Oh, come on, Martin, are you kidding me?” Clark gave a contemptuous little laugh. “Don’t you think they would have fired his ass if they knew about this? Especially if he did to Karen what you think he’s done.”
Martin didn’t respond. He just stood with his arms folded, staring at Clark, who kept pacing for a moment and then stood directly across the desk from him. They glared at each other for a minute, and then Clark fell back into his chair and rocked slowly back and forth. “I guess that would explain why your little visit bothered Mr. Daniels so much this morning.”
Martin sat down. “That’s kind of what I thought.”
They both sat there, lost in thought, Clark with his eyes closed, Martin staring at the ceiling. Then Clark opened his eyes, and sat up in his chair. “How sure are you about this, Martin?”
“Pretty sure. I’m sort of pulling bits and pieces together, will interview Daniels, Howe and Talbot soon and hope to tighten the noose around this situation before the story gets published.”
“And then what?” Clark asked him.
“What do you mean?”
“So you tighten the noose. What’s the objective? Exposing Talbot? The school board?” Clark stopped for a moment and looked hard at Martin. “Martin, do you realize the potential damage you can cause by pursuing this?”
Martin set his jaw and sat straight in his chair. “Are you telling me to stop, Clark?”
“No, I'm not telling you to stop,” Clark answered carefully. “I’m just asking you to think through every step and make sure you achieve the results you want with as little collateral damage as possible.” Clark paused again to let the thought sink in. “What is it you’re really trying to do with this, Martin?”
Martin considered the question for a moment or two, and then responded slowly. “Well, I want justice for the girls he hurt. And I don’t want him to see one dime of a pension. That’s pretty much it.”
“Do you think you can do that without damaging the credibility of the Siren School District and the entire image of Burnett County?”

“I think I can give it my best shot.”

Chapter 34

Dayton Daniels, grim faced and arms crossed, had stood at the front door of the plumbing shop watching Martin pull away before turning slowly around to make his way to the back of the store. He watched as Martin put on his seatbelt and carefully adjusted his mirrors. “Come on, come on,” he thought and in the few short seconds it took him to pull away, considered Martin’s choice for a teacher highlight. “Frank Talbot? There isn’t a person in Burnett County who would consider him worthy of recognition as a teacher, even if he wasn’t…” Dayton stopped his own internal monologue. “Fran, if Lundeen calls for an appointment, I’m not available,” he said in an even voice.
Fran rose from her desk and followed at his heels as he strode to his office in the back. “Dayton! What are you thinking? Why wouldn’t you want a little publicity for this place? You have to talk to him – he wants to talk to you,” she shrilled. It was the same conversation they had in his office when Martin first arrived, Fran trying to coax Dayton out to meet with the Sentinel reporter. It took her twenty minutes to wear him down. She’d tidied everything in his office and filed every free piece of paper in the room while arguing her point. When Dayton finally agreed to go out to the front, he wondered once again about the wisdom of employing the idiot widow of his feckless uncle who his father, Dayton Daniels, Sr., the founder of Daniels Plumbing, carried throughout their years as business partners.
Daniels kept walking, and when he reached his office, he turned around and yelled into her face, “Shut up, Fran!”
He slammed the door in her face and heard her hurrying back to her desk, muttering about his rudeness. He went around his desk, plopped down and picked up the phone. He was in a corner and did what he always did when he needed to take the heat down on a problem. He called Clark Grayson.
“Good morning, Dayton,” Clark boomed into the phone when he picked up immediately upon hearing from Shirley that his biggest advertiser was calling him at 8:45 in the morning. “What can I do for Burnett County’s most successful businessman today?”
Dayton sneered into the phone, willing himself not to ridicule Clark about his transparent ass-kissing. He put up with Grayson’s endless fawning because he needed him. “Hey, Clark, buddy, how are you?” Dayton asked and then talked over him as Clark started to answer. “You know, I don’t mean to complain, but that reporter of yours - Martin Lundeen I think his name was – he just stopped in the store this morning, demanding an interview about the end of the school year. No call, no appointment, no warning. I’m happy to talk to him, but my God, the kid has to realize that we’re running a business here and can’t just drop everything for a piece of fluff for your paper.”
Clark frowned at Dayton's condescension, but also started sweating on the other end of the line. He couldn’t afford to offend Daniels, not his biggest advertiser, not one of the most powerful men in town. “Dayton, I’m sorry. You know these kids. Lundeen’s a go-getter, you know? And young and inexperienced. He just doesn’t know the rules yet," he cajoled in what he hoped was his most soothing voice. "I'll talk to him. I'll set him straight."
Dayton, satisfied, smiled to himself and replied, “It’s okay, Clark. No harm really. We’re just swamped here today, and he was just a little too eager to get his story. It’s never been the Sentinel’s style to have pushy reporters, so it was just a little...off putting. I’m sure you’ll take care of things, get things back on track over there, won't you...” Clark was giving him hurried assurances as he signed off. “Clark, buddy, gotta go. Have a good day.” And he hung up.
Clark looked into his receiver when he heard the click. He wiped the sweat from his brow and hung up the phone. “What the hell was that about?” he thought. He considered what Dayton had just said. Daniels Plumbing was swamped? Clark knew Dayton had a steady stream of business, but never so much that there wasn’t time for friendly conversation or an interview with the paper. And Dayton was always eager to get some recognition for his work on the school board. And since when did Dayton object to fluff in the Sentinel? Clark thought that was what the advertisers wanted, Dayton had as much as told him so on many occasions. “Maybe he and Nancy had a fight this morning, and he's taking it out on the world…”
Whatever was left of his journalistic instinct was feeling that something wasn’t quite right here, and as much as he wanted to keep Dayton happy, he wasn’t going to jump just because a big advertiser told him to jump. Clark was feeling a little feisty this morning himself. He and his wife had a bit of an argument themselves before work, and he’d be damned if one more person was going to tell him what to do.
Clark got up from his desk and moved toward the window to look at the cars in the parking lot. He saw Martin drive up, park his car and get out quickly to rush to the front door. Clark started moving toward the entry way himself to get Martin’s side of the story and settle him down if need be.
“Nope, something just doesn’t feel right here…”

Chapter 33

Martin sat at a table in the Chattering Squirrel, sipping his coffee and calmly tearing small pieces of a piping hot caramel roll and putting them in his mouth. By all outward appearances, he seemed the picture of calm. But inside, he was seething.
Perhaps it was the fact that when he got up that morning and walked to his car, he noticed his mother’s white Ford Taurus still parked in the parking lot.
Or perhaps, it was his vague memory of trying to sloppily kiss Sharla goodnight at the end of the night as he walked her to her car, only to have her put her hand firmly on his chest as he moved in and say, “Sorry Martin, but when you kiss me for the first time, I’d like you to be sober.”
Martin couldn’t decide what bothered him more, but he did know one thing. He couldn’t face Don Wardle knowing he and his mother had spent the night together. That was too much to accept at this point. Even if it meant having pastry for breakfast instead of his usual bacon and eggs.
The aborted kiss was something else. How could he be so stupid? So clumsy? As much as he hated to admit it, Martin wished he had Don’s charm and confidence. He shuddered at the thought of Don using his moves on Jean. “God…disgusting…,” Martin muttered to himself.
Martin finished his caramel roll and coffee, paid his bill, and moved toward the exit of the Squirrel, hustling out before he had to engage in any mindless chit chat with the waitresses. He just wanted to get to the Sentinel office and to his cubicle, find Jeff Howe’s phone number and make an appointment to meet with him and Dayton Daniels as soon as possible to get the plan in motion.
The one traffic light in town turned red just as Martin approached it, so he slammed on his brakes and braced himself because he hadn’t bothered to put on his seatbelt when he left the restaurant. He considered putting the seatbelt on for the last 3 blocks before reaching the office, and as he looked over toward the belt, he caught a glimpse out of his window of a storefront – Daniels Plumbing. He saw Dayton Daniels walk through the front door of his shop, and decided right then and there he was going to go in.
Martin waited impatiently for the stoplight to turn green, and took a quick u-turn to park in front of the store. He wasn’t prepared, but wanted to look like he’d thought this through, so he surveyed the front and back seat of the car and saw yellow legal pad in back with about 3 sheets of paper left on it. He reached his arm back, grabbed what was left of the pad and checked his shirt pocket for a pen. Martin turned off the car, pushed the door open and climbed out quickly to make sure he didn’t miss Daniels.
When he walked through the door, Martin heard the tinkling of a little bell that let people know someone had walked in. He wiped his feet on a mat just inside of the shop and smiled at the woman behind a desk right by the door. She had a round face and bright pink lipstick, and wore a navy blue cardigan over a crisp white shirt that hugged her plump arms and shoulders. By the name plate on her desk, Martin guessed her name was Fran. She smiled up at him as he came up to the desk. “What can I do for you today?” He looked around the store and then back at her and said, “Is Dayton Daniels around?”
Fran’s smile stayed frozen on her face. “Who may I say is asking?” Martin dug in his pocket hoping to find one of his generic business cards, found one crumpled up in his coat pocket, pulled it out, smoothed it on the desk and printed his name on the back. “I’m Martin Lundeen, Burnett County Sentinel. Is Mr. Daniels here?” He added some urgency to his voice, and Fran, who appeared to be awed quite easily by the media, jumped up from her chair, and said as she hurried to the back of the store, “Let me see if he’s busy. Sit down and wait right over there.” She pointed to a set of gray folding chairs lined up by the front window of the store.
Martin sat down and considered Dayton Daniels for a moment. Not as handsome or outgoing as Jeff Howe, he was still very successful, respected and envied, and the straight arrow of the two. Martin knew from gossip he’d heard over the years that it was Dayton who covered Jeff’s butt on more than one occasion, beginning in high school and continuing far into adulthood when the two worked on high profile building projects in the community. Jeff often over-promised, but it was Dayton who always delivered. Jeff would screw up, Dayton would make it right. If anyone knew that Jeff really couldn’t be trusted without Dayton there right by his side, they never said anything because he was so darn likable. And because he talked a little faster and smiled so much wider, everyone pretended that it was Jeff who ran the show. But they all knew it was really Dayton. And Martin often wondered when, if ever, Dayton would just get fed up and reveal Jeff for the fraud he was.
So far, the secret appeared to be pretty safe.

+ + +

Martin sat a full twenty minutes before Dayton Daniels finally made his way from the back of the store to the front, with Fran hurrying behind him. What she was doing back there during the twenty minutes, Martin didn’t know, but she seemed quite concerned that Dayton not miss an opportunity to talk to the member of the press.
“Mr. Daniels, this is Martin Lundeen,” Fran said in a breathy voice. She looked at Martin. “Mr. Daniels will see you now.”
Dayton held out his hand to Martin. “Hello, Martin. Good to see you again. When was the last time we spoke? At the opening of the Black Bear Hotel?”
Martin shook Daniels’ hand and noticed that Dayton squeezed just a little too hard. His hand was sweaty, too, and Martin noticed that he looked a bit pale as he looked into his face before answering. “Yes, it was the hotel opening.”
Daniels didn’t make a move to take Martin somewhere private to talk. He just stood in front of him, arms folded across his chest. “What can I do for you, Martin?”
“Well, I saw you on the street and thought I’d just come in to either talk with you now or set up an appointment in the next few days to talk with you about a story we’re doing on the end of the school year,” Martin explained. Daniels said nothing, but just nodded. Martin continued on in a rushed voice, “I want the school board perspective on several things, the prospects for the senior class, budget issues for next year and reflections on one of the teachers who is retiring.”
The look on Daniels’ face changed just slightly, a little twitch of his right eyebrow. Martin only noticed because he was staring at his face quite intently. “What teacher?” Daniels asked quietly.
“Frank Talbot,” Martin said matter-of-factly. “He’s worked in the district so long, you know? Why I had him for physics myself!” Martin tried to be casual, but felt as if Dayton saw right through him.
Daniels barely moved. He continued to stand, arms crossed, in front of Martin for almost one full minute, without saying a word. Martin considered jumping in with more inane talk, but decided instead that he’d let Daniels make the next move. Finally, Dayton uncrossed his arms and moved toward the front door. “Martin, today isn’t a good day. Why don’t you call Fran here this afternoon, and make an appointment?”
Daniels put his hand on Martin’s shoulder and practically pushed him out the door. Martin tried to speak, but Daniels cut him off. “Call Fran. She’ll see if I have some time later this week.”
Martin got into his car and took a very illegal u-turn in the middle of Siren’s main drag. He quickly drove to the Sentinel office, parked in the last available parking space, walked through the front door and saw Shirley’s troubled face. When he looked over to the entry into the newsroom, he saw Clark Grayson standing, hands on hips, scowling at him.
“Martin, come into my office. We need to have a little talk.”

Chapter 32

It didn’t occur to Martin until just that moment that his mother might be every bit as embarrassed as he was at being caught in the middle of a possible romantic liaison. He noticed that her hair was freshly done, her make-up applied perfectly and her outfit brand new. He looked at his mother and smiled ackwardly. “Hi, Mom. I’m just having dinner with some friends. What are you doing here?”

Jean looked around nervously, peaked around Martin and peered up at him. “Is that Sharla?” she asked in a stage whisper. Martin sighed and nodded, and Jean asked, “Who is the other woman?” Martin leaned closer to his mother and answered her, slightly annoyed, “That’s Shirley Campbell. She works with me at The Sentinel.”

Jean stood up. “Will you introduce them to me?” she asked timidly. At that moment, Martin felt something for his mother he didn't recognize right away - some affection. He rolled his eyes at her. “Of course I’ll introduce you, Mother. Do you think I'm rude?” He put his hand on her shoulder and walked her over to the table where Shirley and Sharla were waiting expectantly.

“Mother, I would like to introduce you to two of the best people I know.” He held his hand out to Shirley and said, “This is Shirley Campbell.” Jean moved quickly around the table to face Shirley and held out her hand. “So nice to meet you. I’m Jean Lundeen.” Shirley shook Jean’s hand and smiled at her.

“And this is Sharla Whitefeather,” Martin said, pulling her slightly away from Shirley. Jean gently shook off Martin's hand, turned to Sharla and looked at her face intently. No one said anything for a few moments, and then Jean moved around the table. Jean pulled the empty chair next to Sharla, sat down and took her hands. “You dear girl, I am so happy to finally meet you.” Jean pulled Sharla into an ackward hug and held her tightly. Sharla looked up at Martin over Jean’s shoulder and gave him a little smile. She patted Jean’s back a little, pulled away and took her hands. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Lundeen.” She gave Jean a big smile. “Are you here for dinner? Do you want to join us?”

Martin shook his head violently, but before he could verbally protest, Jean said, “Oh no, I have a date with...Don.” She gave a thrilled little shudder, wrinkled her nose and giggled. “Where is he? He said I should get here at 8:00 p.m.”

As if on cue, the room suddenly filled with Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore”, and Don came out into the dining area, sans apron, with a bouquet of flowers. He walked directly over to Jean, as if no one else was in the room, bent dow so that his face was right next to hers and whispered into her ear, “You have no idea how glad I am to see you, Jean.” She giggled again, and seemed to forget that her grown son was in the room with his two friends. “Oh Don, you are just so sweet. These flowers are beautiful,” she said in a low, almost sexy voice, looking up into his eyes. Martin couldn’t have been more uncomfortable or embarrased as he watched Don take Jean's hand and walk away with her, arm in arm, over to a table in the back corner of the dark restaurant.

Martin watched them, shook his head and then saw that Sharla and Shirley were looking at him with very amused looks on their faces. “Well, Martin, should we get back to work?”

+ + +

Another hour passed and another pitcher of beer was consumed by Martin and Shirley as they discussed with Sharla different rationale for getting the truth out about Talbot and arguing a bit whether it was worth exposing him at all. "He's retiring, he'll be gone in two months, what's the point in damaging the credibility of the entire Burnett County educational system?" Martin asked and instantly regretted it. Sharla shook her head angrily at him, and Shirley punched him in the arm. "I don't believe you, Martin. You're drinking the Clark Grayson Koolaid." He apologized. "I know, I know, we have to make this right for all the people he hurt. But how are we going to do that?" Shirley answered him quietly, "We'll figure it out. I just want him to get what's coming to him." They seemed to be getting nowhere when Don and Jean suddenly appeared at the table. “So,” Don said, “Jean and I have been watching you and think you three need some fresh thinking.”

Sharla and Shirley looked up at them, pleased to have some help, but Martin frowned and snorted. “Fresh thinking…right.”

Jean sat down at the empty seat at the table, and Don pulled up another chair. “Martin, I filled your mother in over dinner on some of the details you've uncovered over the last few weeks." Jean nodded her head quickly as he talked. "We just had an idea or two that we'd like you to consider." Jean piped in, "From the looks of it, you didn't seem to be getting anywhere."

“You two haven't been knee deep in this stuff like we have. How can you possibly help?” Martin asked, somewhat offended and annoyed because he knew they were right.

“Well, maybe a little objectivity is in order,” he replied with a chuckle. “Come on, Jimmy Olson, give us five minutes. If what we have isn't helpful, we'll go back to our table in the back."

Martin looked from Don to Jean to Sharla to Shirley and shrugged his shoulders. "Okay, fine, what are you thinking?"

Don and Jean looked at each other as if a bit surprised to be included so easily, and snuggled into each other, he putting his hand on her back and patting her. "Honey, you start."

Jean ignored Martin's look to the ceiling and launched in. "Well, from what Donnie tells me ('Donnie?' Martin thought), this Talbot person likes to do his business in secret and with young girls who won't fight back." Martin looked down from the ceiling and over at Sharla, who nodded back at him. "He can't be proud of what he does. He's probably afraid of getting caught. He doesn't pick fights with strong people, just people he thinks are weak." She sat back, satisfied with herself.

Martin looked at her expectantly. "And? What else?" He was ready to shoo them back to their table, when Don jumped in. "Hold on, Martin. Here's the point. It will probably scare the crap out of him if someone, especially someone in authority, called him on his behavior. He'd hate that more than losing his pension." Jean added, "And I bet he doesn't have a soul who'd defend him, so he probably wouldn't fight back."

The group all hung on Don's next words. "So, you need to change your focus. The issue isn't calling Talbot out on his misdeeds, the issue is doing in a way that gets Talbot what he's got coming with as little fallout as possible for the school district and for you personally. You need to bring the big guns in on this, Martin. You have to talk to Howe and Daniels, and get them to think it's their idea to expose Talbot." Martin squirmed in his seat. "What if they complain to Clark?" he whined. Jean was about to pounce on his lack of bravery. But Don cut in. "Martin, let me ask you a question, do you think Howe and Daniels are going to want anyone to know, especially Clark Grayson, the Editor of the Sentinel, that they've been covering this up for years?"

Shirley looked intently at Don and then over to Martin. "It's not just getting the job done, it's doing it in such a way that everyone looks like a hero except Talbot. Don and Jean are right, your next interviews have to be with Jeff Howe and Dayton Daniels. Do it at the same time, and be vague about the interview so they can't compare notes beforehand. You'll have to use your best acting skills to hide how much you really know."

When Martin filled Don and Jean in on Karen Howe being half Indian and probably one of Talbot’s victims, Jean gasped and Don drummed his fingers on the table and sat forward on his chair. “Do you think Jeff Howe knows about his wife and Talbot? Do you think she would have told him?”

The table was quiet considering the question. “If Jeff did know, how could he not do something about it?” Shirley asked. Then Sharla chimed in, “Especially since he is on the school board.”
Martin nodded. "How can that guy still have a job after everything he's done?"

The table was silent again until Jean said very quietly, “All I know is, if my husband was in a position to punish someone who had hurt me the way you think Frank Talbot hurt Karen Howe, I'd expect him to do it.”

Chapter 31

Sharla walked through the door of Risky Dick’s at exactly 7:30 p.m., followed by Shirley Campbell. The two women were laughing and talking as they came in, and Martin was sure they had introduced themselves to each other in the parking lot.

Martin jumped off his bar stool, and hurried over to the door. “Hi, Guys, I see you’ve met.” Sharla and Shirley laughed together. “We sure did, Martin,” Sharla said, smiling at him. “What a great idea to invite Shirley to join us. But you know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were afraid to be alone with me!”

Martin’s face turned beet red. ‘No, hey, no, I just..” he struggled to find some words that wouldn’t give him away. Sharla giggled, and Shirley shook Martin by the shoulder. “Oh Martin, relax. She’s kidding,” Shirley assured him. “I think we all know you’d love to be alone with Sharla, if you just could finish this story.” She moved quickly to a table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “Well come on, you guys, let’s get at it. I don’t have all night, and if we hurry, you just might salvage some of this date, Martin.”

Before Martin could feel any more embarrassed, Sharla took his hand, pulled him toward the table and said, “Come on, Martin, let’s get at it!”

Don came from back in the kitchen, and upon seeing Sharla and Shirley, hustled over to their table with a wet rag. “Ladies, let me make sure that table is clean for you.” He wiped down the sticky surface, stepped back to admire his work and then made a dramatic bow. “Ms. Whitefeather, Mrs. Campbell, I am at your service.”

Martin groaned, but Sharla and Shirley laughed out loud, obviously pleased to be fussed over by Don Wardle. Shirley whacked Martin on the arm and said, “Martin, you could learn a few things from Don.” She winked at Don and continued, “He knows how to treat women.”

Don grinned wickedly at Martin, bowed slightly again to Sharla and Shirley, and replied with mock modestly, “I only know that is the most wonderful thing in the world to be in the company of such beautiful women.” He threw the rag back to the bar and rubbed his hands together. “Okay, what can I get you folks.” It was almost as if Don suddenly remembered that his beautiful woman of the moment would be walking into Risky Dick’s at any moment, wanting his full attention. “How about a pitcher of Grain Belt? Are you in the mood for burgers tonight? I also have some pulled pork and barbeque sauce for sandwiches, if you’re interested.”

The group all agreed in unison that burgers were the meal of choice, and Don moved quickly to the kitchen. Martin could hear the sizzling of the ground beef on the griddle as he looked around the restaurant, taking in who of Burnett County’s citizenry was in the house. The place was unusually empty, something Martin was thankful for, though he didn’t know exactly why.
Don was back to the table with a pitcher of beer and three frosty mugs. “Here you go, Ladies, Martin.” He poured a mug for each of them, and went back to the bar to fill the pitcher up to the top again. “Here, this should keep you going for a while.” And he was gone again, back to the kitchen.

Martin picked up his mug and held it up. “To making sure Frank Talbot doesn’t hurt one more Indian girl.” Shirley and Sharla raised their mugs and clunked them into Martin’s. “To making sure Frank Talbot doesn’t hurt one more girl,” Shirley reiterated. “Indian or otherwise.”

+ + +

By the time Martin, Sharla and Shirley finished their burgers and had a couple of beers each, they had reviewed all they knew about Talbot’s activities, how the Sentinel had documented each incident (“or covered it up”, as Shirley liked to refer to it) and what they thought Martin should do next to corner him and wrap up his story at the same time.

“I think you should just interview Talbot and ask him point blank just what he thinks he’s been doing all these years,” Shirley suggested, indignantly. “And make sure you do it in public so lots of people can see him squirm.”

Martin shook his head. “I don’t know, Shirley. That seems a little too confrontational, and he’d probably cry ‘fowl’ to Clark.”

Sharla cut in. “And he’s such a snake, he’d deny it and probably pretty convincingly.” Shirley nodded. “You’re right. He’s a great liar.”

Each woman grew quiet as they each recalled their own humiliation and how Talbot had acted as if nothing happened in the limited aftermath. Martin got up and went to the bar to refill the pitcher. "Martin, would you bring me a Coke?" Sharla called after him. He looked around, craned his neck to see into the kitchen and couldn’t see Don anywhere. He called out, “Don, I’m refilling our pitcher and getting a Coke,” hoping he’d hear, and heard a muffled response from the store room behind the kitchen, “Help yourself.”

Martin moved toward the table and saw Sharla and Shirley deep in conversation. They shut up quickly when they saw him approach. “Here you go, Girls. If my journalism job doesn’t work out, I can be a bartender.” They looked at each other and began laughing. “Martin, you are a riot,” Shirley smiled up at him and held up her mug. “Fill me up, bar keep. I’m thirsty.”

Martin filled Shirley’s mug, set Sharla's Coke in front of her and was going to fill his own mug when he heard he heard the door open to Risky Dick’s. Jean Lundeen walked through the door, let out a gasp and said, “Martin, what are you doing here?”

Chapter 30

Martin sat at of Don Wardle’s bar at 7:10, sipping a Grain Belt, nervously waiting for his dinner with Sharla and Shirley. Other than Don, Sharla hadn’t met any of his friends or family, which Martin knew was only a handful of people, but still. He felt like this was a big step, and he didn’t want to give anything away to anyone who would be sitting with him at Risky Dick’s, discussing the story and enjoying a meal.

When he asked Sharla to meet him for dinner, it felt like the most normal thing in the world. He liked her, that he knew for sure. And she seemed to like him. So why not get together?

But adding Shirley made it less like a date, and Martin hoped he hadn’t ruined whatever was developing between him and Sharla by missing a cue or acting on impulse. Inviting Shirley to join them felt pretty natural, too. He had a feeling that Shirley and Sharla would like each other. But maybe Sharla thought their dinner was a “date” date.

Martin looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes and let out a big sigh. Don came up from the basement, carrying a full keg of beer and letting it drop with a “clunk” on the old linoleum behind the bar. He wiped his hands on his apron, put his hands on his hips and looked at Martin. “You know, Jimmy Olson? One of these days I’m going to figure out what the hell it is you keep seeing on my ceiling that makes you let out a sign like that.” Martin jerked his head down, opened his eyes and smiled at Don. “It isn’t your ceiling, Don, it’s me.”

Don chuckled. “You? What is it about you that makes you let out that sigh too deep for words?”

Martin gave a mock frown at Don’s Biblical poetry, then shook his head. “I don’t know. It just seems like every time I just go with the flow, I mess things up.” Don took Martin’s beer, and topped it off. “Like what?” he asked.

“Like I asked Sharla to meet me for dinner here tonight and made it almost seem like a work thing where we could talk about the story and Talbot. But it feels sort of like a date,” Martin explained. Don nodded. “So what’s wrong with that? It’s about time you started making some moves on that little cutie.”

Martin gave a slight shutter and continued. “Well, that’s kind of what I thought, but I don’t want to be too pushy, you know?” Don rolled his eyes.

“Don, cut it out! This isn’t easy for me, you know? I’ve never had a real date before, and I’ve never been particularly good with girls. I’m having a little trouble reading the cues…”

Don patted Martin’s hand. “Does she seem happy to see you when you stop by at Wild Bill’s?”

Martin nodded. “But she’s friendly, Don. She’s nice to everyone.”

Don shook his head. “Yeah, she’s friendly, but every time you ask her to do something or help you or whatever, she’s there, Martin, ready for action. I don’t see her doing that with the other guys that stop in to Wild Bill’s to pay too much for gas. She likes you, I can tell.”

Martin scratched his head and took a drink of his beer. “Well then, I think I messed this up,” he said. “I asked Shirley to join us to discuss the story. They will both be here at 7:30.”

Don let out a big whoop and slapped the bar. “Martin, you are something else.” He came around the bar and grabbed Martin’s shoulders from behind and shook him a little. “You think way too much, man, and you are way too sensitive. Relax! Okay, so you missed a chance to get your romance with Sharla jumpstarted tonight. You’re being natural and cool, and a go-getter. Women like that, trust me. No woman likes some guy mooning over them. The chase goes both ways, you know.”

Martin shook Don’s hands off his shoulders and turned around on his stool to face him. “The chase, Don? The chase? For God’s sake, please, no more advice. I’ll take it from here.” He smiled at Don and said, “Thanks, I appreciate the encouragement. Clearly, you have had more practice at this than I have.”

Don wiggled his eyebrows and winked at Martin. “Speaking of romance, guess who else is coming in for a burger and a beer tonight?” Don turned his back on Martin and sashayed back behind the bar. “The lovely Jean Lundeen will be joining us this evening at 8:00 p.m., and I plan to wow her once again with my charm and personality.”

Martin almost fell off the bar stool. “My mother...having dinner...with us?” he asked in a horrified tone that said he wasn’t looking forward to seeing her, not here, not tonight.

Don straightened up, put his hands on the bar and leaned over to get his face closer to Martin’s. “She’s not having dinner with ‘us’, Martin. She’s having dinner with me.” Don was so close to Martin, he could smell cologne and noticed he had shaved and was wearing a clean, white Polo shirt instead of a greasy Risky Dick’s T-shirt. He slapped his hands on the bar, flashed Martin a big grin and moved toward the kitchen. “Make sure you stay out of our way, Martin. I want that gorgeous woman’s full attention.”

Once again, Martin felt ill and his head started to spin. He couldn’t decide what upset him more – Don’s in-your-face courtship of his mother, or Jean and Sharla meeting for the first time. Either way, he knew it wasn’t going to be good.

Chapter 29

Martin got back to the Sentinel building about 1-1/2 hours later then he’d told Sam he would. He and Sharla just kept talking, and before he knew it, it was almost 4:20 p.m. He raced back to the Sentinel office and rushed into the building, just in time to run into Shirley leaving for the day. “Gotta get to my mom’s and…”. Shirley stopped mid-sentence. She could see Martin was lost in thought, and checked the front parking lot to see if anyone was coming in with him. “Hey, Martin, are you okay?” She moved closer to him and looked him right in the eyes. He looked back at her with a look that told her he had just gathered an important piece of information. “You’ve found something out about Talbot,” she whispered, urgently. “What’s up?”

He pushed past her gently and said, “Come back to my cube. I want to look at some of the old papers from the early 80s.”

Shirley followed him back to his desk, trying to keep her Swedish clogs from clomping too loudly across the old wooden floors. “Don’t worry, I don’t think anybody here,” Martin reassured her. For 4:30 in the afternoon on a Monday, the place was unusually dead, not a soul in sight. And most of the lights had been turned off. “Jeez,” Martin muttered, “doesn’t anyone work a full eight hours anymore?”

“You should talk, Lover Boy,” Shirley replied. “Where the heck have you been for the past hour and a half? Smooching it up with your honey?”

Martin stopped dead in his tracks, and turned to face Shirley so quickly, she almost ran into him. She leered up at him, a satisfied smirk on her face. “For your information, Shirley, I was not smooching up Sharla Whitefeather…” Shirley’s face changed to one of shock. “Sharla Whitefeather. Hoohoo, Martin, I was just kidding. You were with Sharla Whitefeather?” She said it in such shock and amazement that Martin thought she didn’t think he had a prayer with Sharla. He tried to mask his hurt, and continued through her laugher, “Shirley, knock it off. I went to see Sharla, who is a friend of mine, by the way, to get some information on the Tribal Community.” Shirley stopped laughing, and listened. “I was interviewing Karen Howe today and something about her reaction when I mentioned Talbot made me think she might be one of his victims.”

Martin moved into his cube, sat behind his desk and motioned her to sit down on the folding chair next to his desk. He could see Shirley was confused and getting ready to pooh pooh his idea, but he held up his hand. “Let me finish. I know what you’re going to say, ‘he only preys on Native American girls’. Well, I got to thinking, what if Karen was part Indian? And that’s why I went to Wild Bill’s. I knew Sharla would know.”

Shirley looked at him and squinted her eyes. “Karen Howe? No way…,” she said, and then saw Martin nodding his head. “Karen Howe, an Indian?”

Martin kept nodding. “Yep, on her mother’s side. 50%. An ethnic fact hidden by her father’s money and power in Burnett County.” Martin slapped his hand on his desk. “Now, if I can just find something from around the time he attacked her, something that would prove he made a move on her, a bad one.” He dug through his pile of papers, found a batch from the 1980s and handed half of them to Shirley. “I remember something about Karen’s family in the papers from when we looked before,” Martin said, half to himself. “Something about their family or their kids or something…”

“Martin, I can’t do this right now,” Shirley protested. “I told you, I have to go to my mother’s and make her dinner tonight. Her Meals on Wheels volunteer is on vacation, and I need to make sure she gets something to eat.”

Martin looked up from digging in his pile, and slumped back in his seat. Then, he sat up again and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, Shirley. I’m going to find something, and will report back.” He smiled at her. “Say, what are you doing for dinner tonight? Are you just fixing dinner for your mom or staying to eat with her?”

Shirley thought a minute. “I was going to stay and eat with her, but what did you have in mind?”
“Sharla and I are having a burger at Risky Dick’s. We’re going to talk over the story and throw some ideas around for how we can trap Frank Talbot.” His eyes looked eager as he talked. “If you join us, it will be one more brain for us to tap into. And Don will be there, too. He knows what’s going on. I figure you can all help me figure out my next steps.”

He stopped and looked satisfied with himself. Shirley looked at him intently, got up and started moving out of the cube. “Martin, you are something,” she said, laughing a little. “Okay, I’ll be there. It will be fun.” She groaned. “What time?”

“7:30 sharp,” Martin replied.

“Okay, 7:30 sharp it is then,” Shirley said as she turned to walk out of the newsroom. “And you can pay for dinner since I’m sure you were planning on treating Ms. Whitefeather to dinner as well?” She looked back at him and winked. “Don’t worry, Martin, the secrets of your love life are safe with me.”

Chapter 28

Frank Talbot stood by the windows of his physics classroom, looking out on the student parking lot. The final bell had just rung, and student were streaming out of the building and going to their cars to make their way to after-school jobs or to The Chattering Squirrel to get a snack. "I wonder how many of them are going home to basements of empty houses to engage in God knows what before their parents come home for the day..." Frank thought.
Frank hitched up his Dockers and smoothed his hair with both hands. He looked down at his greasy palms and wiped them on the seat of his pants. He brushed some dandruff from his shoulders, put his hands on his hips and continued to look out the window.
His gaze traveled over the jocks, the beauty queens and the brains, and finally settled on a group of freshmen Indian girls that sat in the grass under the tree. It wasn’t really spring yet, but it was warm for early April, and the sun was out, and they’d taken off their shoes and rolled up their pant to feel the warmth on their legs.
Talbot took in a shallow breath and squinted his eyes to determine which girls in the group were in his classes. He picked out three of the five, and noted that they were not pretty and not very confident. He could tell by the way they picked at the grass and avoided looking at anyone who passed that they were probably weak and wouldn’t resist. “Perfect,” he thought to himself.
He looked at his watch and noted the date. “Only 48 days,” he said to himself. “Only 48 more days…”
Suddenly, Talbot turned from the window and went back to his desk. He pulled out his student lists and noted which of his classes during the day each of the girls was within his influence. He checked their last names to see if he knew their parents from newspaper articles or school board meetings. He wondered how close they were as friends and if they would talk to each other. “I’ll have to think of a way to keep them from comparing notes,” he thought. Usually time worked to his advantage. Time that would allow for excused absences, truancy or dropping out. But he only had 48 days.
His thoughts turned to the Siren School Board and Jeff Howe. “Damn that asshole,” Frank thought. “How dare he demand that I retire?”
Actually, Jeff only suggested that Talbot might like to retire, stating he was of retirement age and the district needed to downsize. But in Talbot’s mind, it was a demand, close to a veiled threat. “But how did Howe know?” he wondered. “Unless that arrogant little bitch of a wife of his told him.”
Talbot thought back to his early missteps and began to pace. He remembered back to his early days of teaching when he didn't plan his moves, didn't do his homework, before he learned he had to be careful. He moved from the desk to the chalkboard, clapped two erasers three times, moved back to the window and then back to his desk. “What would she have told him, though?” he said out loud. “Nothing happened…nothing much.”
He thought back 24 years to when Karen was a freshman at Siren High, and he carelessly took an opportunity. He tried, he came so close, but Karen worked her way out of his grasp, pulled her ripped shirt back on and ran out the door. It was about two weeks later that he discovered Karen had a very wealthy and powerful father who asked no questions when she begged to go to a private boarding school in Milwaukee. Karen came back to Burnett County after graduating from Northwestern University and after marrying Jeff Howe, who continued to pursue her even though she was educated over the years in locations that were hundreds of miles away.
The first and last time Frank saw Karen Howe after that incident was at a school board reception for the new superintendent six years ago. She acted as if he didn’t even exist.
“What an arrogant little bitch…”

Chapter 27

Martin backed his Mazda out of the Adventures Mall parking lot and headed back to the Sentinel office. “Man oh man, what was that woman’s problem?” Sam asked. “What the heck did you say to her anyway when you two were back in her office? Did you make a pass at her or something?”
Martin frowned and shot a quick glance at him. “Yeah, right. No, Sam, I didn’t do or say anything. One minute I was telling her about the series, the next minute, she’s too busy to talk to us anymore.” Irritated, he honked at a driver that cut him off. “Did you get anything good during the fifteen minutes we were talking in the office?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, I got a few things. She shouldn’t have given me a map of the store with that stupid list.” They both started laughing. “I’ll dump the pictures on my computer and send them to you. Or do you want to see them right away?”
Martin shook his head. “Nope. I’ve got an errand to run.” He pulled into the Sentinel parking lot and said to Sam, “If anyone asks, I’ll be back around 3:00 p.m.”

+ + +

It took Martin about 3 minutes to get to Wild Bill’s. He had to talk to Sharla and get her read on his conversation with Karen Howe.
There was no one in the store when Martin walked through the door to Wild Bill’s. Even Sharla wasn’t behind the counter. He drummed his fingers on the cash register and tried to make some noise to let someone know he was there. “Hello, is anyone here? Sharla?” he called, stepping around the counter to peer down the short aisles that led to the back office.
“Hang on, hang on, I’ll be right there,” her voice came back muffled from the farthest corner of the store. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Martin heard her tennis shoe footsteps hurrying down one of the aisles up to the front. “Oh, Martin, it’s you!” she said in perhaps the happiest voice Martin had ever heard. She clapped her hands and said, “I am so happy to see you!” Her obvious delight made him completely forget thinking he shouldn’t see her for a while.
Martin smiled at her and replied, “Well, it’s really good to see you, too. I’ve missed you…” He couldn’t believe he said exactly what he was feeling, but he couldn’t help himself.
Sharla looked down and then peeked up at him through her bangs and smiled back at him. “So, are you buying your usual two and a half gallons of gas today?”
Martin laughed out loud. “No, I just came here to see you, Sharla, and get your thoughts on something related to my story about Frank Talbot.”
Sharla’s face instantly got serious. “Really? What have you found out?”
“Well, I’m not sure, and that’s why I wanted to talk with you,” he said. “I went over to interview Karen Howe today at Delights of the North Woods…”
Sharla interrupted him. “Oh, that is such a nice store.”
Martin hesitated and laughed again. “Yes, yes it is a nice store, Sharla. But during the interview, things got a little weird.” He explained his idea for the series, how Karen and the store figured into the series, and his plan to corner Talbot. “Things were going along great. I asked her some questions about the shop and told her how her story fit with the others in the series. I mentioned Talbot being part of the series as a long time teacher who is retiring, and she just clammed up. It was like I hit her in the stomach.”
Sharla frowned and wrinkled her nose. “Well let’s see, here. Maybe she had friends that were assaulted by him, or maybe she…” A sudden look of realization came over Sharla’s face. “Wait a minute, do you think she was one of the girls he abused?”
“That’s thought crossed my mind,” Martin answered. “Let me ask you, is Karen part Indian?”
“Karen Howe?” Sharla practically shouted her name. “Oh, I don’t think so, unless…” She stopped mid-sentence, thought for a moment and then took off for the office in the back. “Hang on, Martin. I’m going to check something.” She came back a few minutes later with a business card. “Let me make a quick call,” she said and picked up the phone from behind the counter.
Martin started to get nervous. “Now wait a minute, Sharla, who are you calling? We can’t just let this whole thing get out.”
Sharla shook her head at him and poked him in the arm. “I’m calling Uncle Bill. I’ll make something up about why I’m asking and he won’t think twice about. Just trust me. He’s got so many other things to worry about right now.” She winked at him from behind her bangs. She looked down at the business card and began dialing. “He’s meeting with an accountant today. He needs help straightening out the mess created by that white woman.”
The store was silent for a moment as Sharla waited for someone on the other end of the line to answer her call. “Hello, I’m looking for Bill Whitefeather. Is he there?” She nodded and said, “I’ll hold.”
Martin still felt a little panicked. “How…?” he began as Sharla continued to hold, and she held up her finger and held it to her lips.
“Hi, Uncle Bill. It’s Sharla,” she said into the receiver. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m sitting here with a couple of ‘customers’, and they’ve got a bet going.” She paused as Bill probably grumbled about being bothered. “I know, Uncle Bill, but they won’t leave me alone until I find the answer, and I know you’ll know the answer that will settle their bet.” She laughed and nodded, and then said, “Okay, here’s what they want to know. Is Jeff Howe’s wife part Indian?”
Sharla put her head down and listened intently to the voice coming through the receiver. It seemed like forever until she nodded her head and said, “Okay, thanks Uncle Bill." And then, to the phantom customers, loud enough for Bill to hear, "Hey, Buddy, you win the bet!” When she hung up the phone, she folded her arms across her chest and smiled at him with a self satisfied grin. “Well, you won’t believe it, but yes, Karen Howe is half Indian.”

+ + +

Bill Whitefeather, as a leader in the tribal community, knew the lineage of every Native American in Burnett County. And as such, he knew that Karen Howe’s mother was indeed a full blooded Indian. Karen’s father, who came from a wealthy and influential family, broke with convention and married her anyway. And Karen, as their daughter, overcame the normal prejudice that permeated Burnett County when she was a young girl because she was part of that wealthy and influential family but also, because she was pretty and accomplished. And over time, and certainly by the time Jeff Howe started dating her, it was pretty much forgotten that she had 50% Indian blood pumping through her veins.
Martin looked at Sharla in amazement. “I’m not sure I like it that you can lie so easily,” he teased her. Sharla laughed. “Oh, it was just a little white lie. And Uncle Bill won’t even remember that I asked him.” She stopped laughing and became very serious.
“So, do you think he could have assaulted Karen, too?” Martin asked Sharla carefully.
“Martin, I think he’s capable of doing anything as long as he thinks he can get away with it.”

Chapter 26

As Martin and Sam made their way down the short hall to Delights of the North Woods, Martin smelled cinnamon coming from the store. The windows were beautiful, completely re-done, and all the displays inside the store looked fresh and new. Karen herself stood behind the counter in a brand new outfit, her hair and make-up perfect.
She came from behind the counter when she saw Martin and Sam enter the store. “Gentlemen, welcome,” she said to them with a false note of gaiety in her voice. “I am so happy to have you visit Delights of the North Woods.”
Karen crossed the floor to first shake hands with Martin. “Martin, such a pleasure to see you again.” She looked over at Sam and moved to shake his hand as well. “Hello, I’m Karen Howe. I own Delights of the North Woods.” She shook Sam’s hand and looked him square in the face as he responded, visibly flustered, “Sam Jackson. Nice to meet you, Ms. Howe.”
Martin jumped in, “Sam’s our photographer. He’ll be taking some pictures of your beautiful new windows and displays.”
Karen seemed to glow she was so pleased. “Oh that would be just wonderful,” she enthused. “Where should we start?”
Martin glanced over at Sam. “Why don’t you take some photos while I ask Karen some questions?” Sam nodded and made his way to the front of the store. Karen looked after him as he moved away and got another look of panic on her face. “Shouldn’t we stay with him?” she asked Martin. “What if he takes pictures of the wrong things?”
Martin looked at her. “Wrong things? I think everything in your store is great.”
Karen shook her head. “No, no, no. He should take pictures of things that would make good grad gifts.” She narrowed her eyes as she looked at Martin. “Isn’t that what your story is about?”
Martin was surprised at how confrontational Karen seemed. “Well yes, of course.” His eyes followed Sam as he walked away. “Sam, hold up. Karen wants to point out some things that are particularly good for grad gifts.”
Sam looked over his shoulder at Karen. “Okay. What do you suggest, Ms. Howe?”
Karen pulled a list she’d prepared out of the back pocket of her slacks. “Here are some shots that I think would be good for your story.” She handed the list to Sam and went over where each item was located in the store. “Can you figure this out, Sam?” She smiled at him sweetly and patted him lightly on the shoulder. Sam looked at Martin and then back to Karen. “Sure, no problem.”
“Good! Now Martin, let’s go back to my office, and you can ask me your questions.” She moved past him and led the way to the back of the store. Martin glanced back at Sam who was watching Karen hurry away. They both shrugged their shoulders and went to their assigned tasks.

+ + +

The cinnamon fragrance Martin and Sam smelled as they entered the store was coming from Karen’s office. She was simmering some potpourri in a tiny crock pot on her desk, and Martin realized it was a strategic move to create ambience in the store.
Karen motioned Martin to sit down in a flowered over-stuffed chair that sat in the corner of the small office. The chair was so soft and worn, Martin sank into the cushion and his knees were pratically to his chin. Hand embroidered sayings were framed on the wall's throughout the office, uplifting and spiritual sayings that Martin felt sure inspired Karen Howe daily. Karen’s antique mahogany desk and surrounding shelves were filled with photos of her accomplished and beautiful daughters. Martin noticed that there wasn’t one single photo of Jeff Howe in the close to 40 framed photographs in the office.
“So, why don’t you ask me your questions,” Karen directed.
“Okay, let’s start with how you came up with the idea for the store, how long you’ve been open, you know, the story of how Delights of the North Woods was born.”
Karen launched into a 10-minute passionate history of her beloved shop, how it was her lifelong dream that began when she was a little girl who liked “playing store” with her friends. Her dream became a reality six years before when friends and family invested in her and the store. “I really felt that Siren deserved a first class shopping experience for all the moments in life that require a very special gift. Thankfully, I had many people who believed in me.” She smiled a self-satisfied smile and folded her arms across her chest.
Martin smiled back at her. “That is really lovely, Karen. So what do you see as trends in graduation gift giving?”
Karen looked off thoughtfully and then returned her gaze to Martin. “Journals are very popular. We have some lovely leather journals with pens that make a wonderful graduation gift. You know, something for young people to capture their thoughts and ideas as they embark on their new adventures.”
Martin nodded. “Other ideas?”
Karen sighed. “Well, of course! Candles, photo frames, photo albums. We also have scrap booking materials. What graduate wouldn’t love to document their journey with a lovely scrapbook?”
Martin pressed. “What about those graduates who just want cash? Why should someone get them a gift if they just want cash?" Karen got up from her chair and stood over Martin. “Well, cash is so crass. It doesn’t create a lovely memory. It will be spent on…well, who knows what. People need gifts, things to mark the transitions in their lives.” Her voice was raised, and she was getting agitated.
Martin decided to change course to keep things calm. “Okay, Karen, let’s switch gears. Did I tell you how this story will be part of a series on graduation and the end of the school year?”
Karen seemed to be jolted out of her agitation, and she calmed down. “Oh, really? How nice. A series? What will be some of the other stories?”
“Well, I’ll be talking to Carl Olson over at the Lodge at Crooked Lake about prom plans. And Jan Prestrud about prom dresses. Kyle Johanson about college finances. You know, all aspects of the end of high school.”
Karen’s face brightened, and she seemed to be getting more relaxed. “This sounds just wonderful! What else?”
Martin warmed to the conversation. “Well, we’re also doing a piece that honors a teacher who is retiring after more than 30 years of service.” Before Karen could ask the teacher’s name, Martin said, “Frank Talbot. He is the focus of that story.”
Karen face froze, and she stared at Martin. “Frank Talbot?” she said weakly.
Martin looked at her face and noticed for the first time the chiseled features, the high cheek bones, the straight black hair, the dark eyes. “Did you ever have Frank Talbot for a teacher, Karen?”
Karen didn’t answer Martin. She just stood up and said quietly, “I think we should go out and see how Sam is doing, Martin.” And as she walked out of the office, Martin knew that Karen Howe had been one of Frank Talbot’s victims.

Chapter 25

Martin and Sam were just out of the Sentinel building and heading toward the Mazda when Martin had a thought. “Just a minute, Sam,” he said, stopping dead in his tracks. “Karen Howe told me that if ever I was going to do a story on the store, I should give her some notice. Maybe I should give her a call before we take off.”
“Marty, you think way too much,” Sam said. “Come on, I’m hungry.”
“Sam, I’ll buy you your lunch,” Martin said as he turned to go back into the building. “Just give me a second to give her a call.” Sam gave a loud dramatic sigh, and kept moving toward the Mazda.
Martin pulled the door back open and came back into the Sentinel reception area. Shirley Campbell was sitting at her desk, talking into the mouthpiece of her headset. It was obvious that the caller was none too pleased about something, and Shirley could barely get a word in edgewise.
“Yes, Mrs. Cooksy, I do know…yes, I do know how frustrating…you are absolutely right…awful having to go out to the middle of the yard…yes, I heard you…in your bathrobe…and the paper was soaked.” Shirley looked at Martin as he walked through the door, and rolled her eyes. “Mrs. Cooksy, please calm down. I’ll put you through to Lars Larson.”
After passing off Mrs. Cooksy to an unsuspecting Lars, Shirley ripped the headset off and threw it onto her desk. “My God, Martin, you’d think it killed her to walk outside in her robe!”
Martin chuckled and walked toward her desk. “How would you like to do me a quick favor to take your mind off of Mrs. Cooksy?” he asked her. “Can you find the phone number for Delights from the North Woods? I need to call Karen Howe.”
Shirley pulled her Rolodex towards her and flipped through the cards. “Did I put that under Howe or Delights…?” she said, finally stopping at the Ds. “Well, it isn’t under the Ds so it must be under the Hs…” She moved each card slowly and finally stopped. “Okay, Martin, here’s the number – 702-680-4762.” As Martin scribbled the number down on the new legal pad, she pushed the cards back to the rear of the holder, and pushed the holder back to the corner of her desk and whispered up to him, “What’s up, Martin? Back to straight journalism? Did you give up on the investigative stuff?” She looked up at him with a stern look on her face, challenging him, but hoping he’d say “no”.
“No, no,” he whispered back, trying to reassure her. “Just making sure I don’t get into water that is so hot, Clark pulls me off the project. We’re doing a whole series on end of the school year stuff, graduation, prom, college plans and of course, the tribute to a retiring teacher. I hope to make nice with Karen with an interview on graduation gift giving so that an interview with Jeff Howe might be a little more relaxed and hopefully revealing.” Martin looked into the inner office to see if anyone could hear them, and turned back to Shirley.
Shirley nodded. “Okay, good. Do you want me to call Karen for you and set up the interview?”
“That would be great, Shirley,” Martin replied. “Tell her I’ll be there around 1:30. Make it sound official.”
Shirley snorted. “Okay, Martin. Official it is. Excuse me while I make an appointment for the important journalist, Mr. Martin Lundeen.” She grinned at him, put on her head set and started dialing. “Hello, Karen? Shirley Campbell at the Sentinel…”

+ + +

Martin and Sam parked the Mazda in the parking lot at Adventures Mall and walked in the building through the entry on the east side. Adventures Mall was one long corridor with 10 shops, five on each side. Martin and Sam had to pass Delights from the North Woods to get to the Chattering Squirrel, and Martin thought it would be smart to stick his head in just in case Karen wasn’t up to talking with him that day.
As they came up to Karen’s store, Martin saw her busily rearranging merchandise in the front window. Karen saw him and got a panicked look on her face. “Shirley said you were coming at 1:30!” she yelled from behind the window. “You’re over an hour early!”
Martin shook his head. “We’re going to lunch at the Squirrel. We’ll see you at 1:30.”
Karen’s face softened, and she waved them on. “Enjoy your lunch. See you later,” she said through the window and went back to her rearranging.
Martin and Sam reached the Chattering Squirrel and found business brisk. Only one table was available, right by the kitchen door. Sam moved quickly past Martin to get to the table and sat down. “You’ve got to grab these tables when you can, Marty,” he said urgently. “I’ve waited for over 25 minutes to get a table here at the Squirrel sometimes. Man, do they do a good business.”
Martin glanced around the restaurant and though it was busy, they weren’t in danger of having to wait for anything. He looked at Sam and wondered how the poor guy would handle the hustle and bustle of a real city. Instead of making a snide comment at Sam’s expense, he decided to be kind. “You’re right, Sam. And you know why they do such a good business? Because they make a great sandwich. Let’s order.”

+ + +

Sam was finishing his sandwich and licking his fingers. “Man, that was good pulled pork,” he said with a satisfied smile on his face. Martin could see the pork in his teeth, and the BBQ sauce on his chin. He looked away for a moment. “How was your sandwich, Marty?” Sam asked.
Martin looked back at him. “Delicious,” he responded enthusiastically.
Sam rubbed his hands together. “Okay, so what are we doing with Karen Howe and the store?” he asked.
“Well, she’s got the nicest gift shop in town, so I want to include her in the series. Show us ideas for gifts for graduates, you know. Trends in gift giving, that sort of stuff.” Martin felt like he was making it up as he went along.
“That’s good, that’s good,” said Sam. “You’re pretty smart, Marty. I never would have thought of that.”
Martin sat up in his chair. “Thanks, Sam. When we get to Delights, just follow my lead.”
Sam nodded. “But how will you fit this part in with the rest?” he asked. "This seems like a funny place to start the series."
Martin was impressed that Sam could see that interviewing Karen Howe first was probably not that smart. “I’ve got to figure that out, Sam,” Martin answered honestly. “Once we have a few more parts under our belts, it will start to make sense. Can I count on you to work this with me?” Martin asked him.
“You bet, Marty. I’m your guy. Just tell me what you want me to do and when. I’ll be there.”
Martin motioned to Connie for the check. “I appreciate it, Sam. Let me pay for our lunch, and we’ll get to our interview with Ms. Karen Howe.”

Chapter 24

When Martin drove into the Sentinel parking lot on Monday, he felt as if it had been weeks since he’d been to the office and months since he’d thought about Talbot and his next steps.
Between fixing up his apartment, spending a lot of time with his mother over the weekend and observing perhaps the most disturbing courtship ritual in history between Don and his mother, he woke that morning with a sense of exhaustion and the uncomfortable feeling that his entire world had shifted.
And then, there was his dream about Sharla on Friday night. Perhaps it was the fact that she had been in his apartment, making his bed and hanging his curtains, that she invaded his subconscious while he slept. His plan to go over to Wild Bill’s on Saturday morning to see if she wanted to catch a bite or see a movie that evening changed abruptly when he woke in a cold sweat early Saturday morning, fresh off a dreamy but erotic encounter that left Martin embarrassed and ashamed to even think about Sharla, much less see her for a while.
So instead, he spent the balance of Saturday reviewing his file on Talbot and plotting his strategy, and then, bracing himself for Easter Sunday with Jean, something he could have left off of his to-do list. The afterglow of Jean’s Good Friday flirtation with Don carried over into Easter Sunday, and her mood was happy, curious and even fun. Not one annoying bit of prying, interfering comment or politically incorrect observance. Easter services were predictably inspiring, brunch at Adventures was pleasant, and an afternoon of cribbage completed the uneventful feast of the resurrection of our Lord. The day was downright enjoyable.

+ + +

Martin was the first person at the Sentinel office, and he was glad for a bit of solitude. He knew that Clark Grayson would come bounding into the office any minute, ready to rally the troops and motivate his staff into post-Easter action. Spring was a big time for journalism in Burnett County. The tourism season was just around the corner, and advertisers would be lining up soon, so editorial had to be relevant and compelling. Graduation, prom, community festivals, grand openings of new vacation properties – God only knew what provocative topics would be gracing the front pages of the Burnett County Sentinel in the next few weeks.
At 10:00 a.m., Clark did indeed sail through the cubicle corral, clapping his hands and shouting in a sing-song voice, “Brainstorming time, people! Conference room, five minutes.” Heads popped up as his voice cracked through the silence, and a few low groans emanated from all corners of the office. Clark didn’t hear them, though. He just strode into his office and slammed the door, rattling the glass walls, and sat down to make a few phone calls before his brainstorming. If the staff had to sit and cool their heels for fifteen minutes, so be it.
Martin came into the conference room about 10 minutes later and sat by Sam Jackson, who was busy doodling on a legal pad. “So, Martin, how was your weekend? Any big dates to report on?” Sam asked and snickered. “Nothing much on my end, Sam. You? Did you finally connect with that girl from Hayward you’ve been stalking?” Martin responded with a straight face, refusing to let Sam Jackson get to him. Sam loved to act like the big stud, but his social life was less exciting than Martin’s. Everyone at the table, including Sam, laughed, but they all looked at Martin a bit differently. Jokes flew around the newsroom constantly, but Martin rarely, if ever, participated.
Before anyone else made a crack, Clark strode into the room with some files under one arm and a large mug filled to the brim with coffee in his hand. As coffee splashed out onto the floor, he pulled the chair at the end away from the table, and sat down with a thud. The chair beneath him scraped the floor as he pulled himself closer to the table. Everyone sat patiently as he took a long, slow slurp of coffee and let out a loud, breathy, satisfied “aaahhh” after swallowing.
“Okay, troops, what new ideas have you come up with for the next six issues?” Clark asked enthusiastically. Martin closed one eye and cocked his head, looking closely at Clark. For the years Martin had worked for the Sentinel, this annual ritual took place, but no new ideas ever came forth. Martin wondered why Clark even bothered to ask.
“The room was silent for a good 90 seconds when Martin said, “Well, I have an idea about a springtime series. Clark, you know I’m doing the story on the retiring teacher…” Clark interrupted, “Frank Talbot, right?” Martin continued quickly, “Yeah, yeah, Frank Talbot. Anyway, I thought I do a whole series on the end of the school year. You know, report on prom, college plans of the popular kids in schools, summer jobs outlook…” He really hadn’t thought the whole thing through, but Martin felt it was important to deflect little attention from his Talbot story by expanding to include more topics. He thought that if he had a lot going on, Clark wouldn’t kill the Talbot story if it got too controversial. It would be part of an entire series, too big to kill.
Clark closed his eyes and stroked his chin dramatically. “Hmmm…I like it. I like it,” he said softly to himself. “But how do we bring in advertisers?” Ronnie Hempel jumped in, “I could sell each segment to a different advertiser. They’ll eat it up!”
The sound of the buzzing around the table grew as everyone chimed in. Martin sat back and listened as they each tried to embellish his idea or make it their own. Once Clark blessed the ideas and gave everyone their marching orders, Martin looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes and thought to himself, “Now, on to cornering Frank Talbot…”

+ + +

Martin sat in the conference room for another 20 minutes before going back to his cubicle, head back, eyes closed, thinking. He knew his suggestion for a series was going to mean a lot more work for him over the next six weeks, but he knew that if he worked it right, he could do his interviews, write his stories and nail Frank Talbot all at the same time. “The questions is,” he thought to himself, “where do I start?”
He thought through his story options and how they fit together. The Talbot story was easy. For sure he’d need to interview Jeff Howe and maybe Dayton Daniels, as School Board Chair and Vice Chair, for their quotes on Talbot’s stellar teaching career. There would be other teachers and students to question. Friends, family, neighbors. Perhaps a former student. And then there was the interview of Talbot himself.
If he selected the students for the Talbot story correctly, he could do one interview for several other stories as well. Talbot, prom and graduation party plans could all be worked into one carefully planned interview. Clark would insist on including advertisers in the stories, so he’d have to go talk to Carl Olson, the general Manager of the Lodge at Crooked Lake, which was sure to be the location of the prom. Jan Prestrud, the owner of Jan’s Bridal Shoppe in Siren where many of the girls purchased their prom dresses, would just love a visit from Martin and had been begging him for “a little ink” for months. Karen Howe’s name jumped into his head, and he decided she’d be someone to talk to about finding the perfect graduation gift.And of course, he’d have to talk to Jeremy Brown who owned the tent and party rental shop in Luck. And maybe Kyle Johanson, the president of Sterling Bank in Luck, who could give some insight into financing a college education. Martin decided to schedule a trip to Luck soon. He remembered from combing all the newspapers that Talbot was a resident of Luck.
As the stories started building in his head, Martin suddenly sat up in his chair, stood up quickly and bolted to his cubicle. He decided he needed to write things down and start setting up appointments as soon as possible. He needed a plan, and he needed one right now.

+ + +

By the time Martin finished writing down all his thoughts and developing his plan, it was lunchtime. He looked at his list of potential interviews and decided he’d make Karen Howe first on the list. He peaked out over his cubicle walls to see if Sam Jackson was anywhere in sight. Martin saw Sam’s shaggy head of strawberry blond hair over by the copy machine at the opposite side of the room. “Hey, Sam,” Martin called across the office. Sam turned his head to look at Martin and yelled back, “Whatcha need, Marty?”Martin suppressed an urge to correct Sam on the name. He needed Sam at this very moment to accompany him to the Mall to photograph Karen Howe. “Do you have lunch plans?” Martin shouted. “If you don’t, would you come with me to take some photos at Karen Howe’s shop in the Mall? I’ll buy you a sandwich at the Chattering Squirrel.”
“No plans. I’d love lunch,” Sam shouted back. “Let me go grab my camera.”
“Tell Karen I’ll call her soon to tell her about special ad rates for companies and shops featured in your stories, Martin,” Ronnie Hempel yelled from his cubicle.
“Now that’s good thinking, Hempel!” Clark yelled from behind the closed door of his office.Martin smiled as he collected his tape recorder, a brand new legal pad and several Bic pens. “This could be easier then I thought…”

Chapter 23

It was just before 7:00 p.m. when Martin and Jean arrived at Redeemer Lutheran Church in Webster for Good Friday services. The procession was already in place, but no one buzzed with excitement or moved aside to let them pass into the sanctuary when the Lundeens entered the narthex of the church. On the contrary, Pastor Lars Larson gave an annoyed sigh and grunted at them as they slid past to take their seats.
The church was almost full with parishioners who came from the north side of Burnett County, couples, for the most part, who lived on lakes or acreage in modest homes with their many children. None of the Howe glitz and glamour here. Just good, solid, conservative Lutheran folk.
Redeemer looked like a church is supposed to look – red brick exterior, large stained glass windows, ornate carved wooden altar, pulpit and baptismal fount. Red velvet cushions on the oak pews. Low, inefficient lighting in small candelabra that hovered 15 feet above the congregation. Larson was a popular, but aging pastor who should have retired two years ago, but the church council knew better than to disrupt the serenity of the congregation which liked Pastor Larson just fine and continued to fill the collection plate each Sunday morning. A young assistant pastor had been brought in a year ago to help with the transition for when Larson would ultimately retire, but Pastor Lars held fast and kept control over his reign of the Redeemer Lutheran flock.
Martin’s nose started to twitch as he stifled a sneeze from smelling the perfume worn by the woman sitting in front of him. Before he had a chance to reach for his nose to give it a rub, Jean had a fresh tissue in her hand. Martin took it and gave his nose a wipe. He looked over at his mother to give her a mouthed “thank you”, but her face was straight ahead and her eyes closed. It looked as if she were deep in meditation, but then her mouth crept into a smile, and she gave him a sideways look as she opened one eye a crack and wrinkled her nose. Martin almost laughed out loud.
Jean’s playfulness that began at Risky Dick’s was a refreshing change, but Martin found it unnerving. In all his life, he couldn’t remember ever observing his mother flirt with a man. Not even his father, Archie Lundeen. In fact, when Archie left all those years ago to go hunting, and never returned, his mother never said a word about it.
Martin looked over at his mother as they sang the processional hymn. For the first time, her looked at Jean not as his mother, but as a person. As she sang the verses, he noticed that her skin didn’t have the wrinkles of other 55 year old women. Her hair was full and attractive, if maybe a little too blond. Her wardrobe could use a little help, but Martin was pretty sure that if Oprah came calling to do a make-over, Jean would probably be game to do it.
Jean felt Martin’s eyes on her and she turned her head to look back at him. Her eyes looked amused but curious. “What?” she whispered. Martin smiled and shook his head. “Nothing.”
For the first time in his life, Martin realized his mother was pretty.

+ + +

Martin took his mother home after services, and they made plans to go to the 9:00 a.m. Easter Sunday service. “You don’t have to pick me up, Martin,” Jean said after she gave him a quick hug before getting out of his car when he dropped her off. “I’ll just meet you there around 8:45. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” he called after her as she jumped out of the car, slammed the door and hurried toward the front door, giving him a little wave. “See you Sunday!” he heard her say before she closed and locked her front door.
As he drove back to his apartment, Martin thought about the night, and wondered, again, at the sparks he thought he saw between Don and his mother. It was almost as if Don knew her somehow, like they had met before. But Martin knew that wasn’t possible. One of them would have said something.
Martin was driving into the parking lot by Risky Dick’s when a thought occurred to him. What if Don was playing his mother? What if he was just leading her on? His mother was so naïve, she’d never catch on. Suddenly, Martin’s protective instincts took over, and he decided he needed a beer before retiring for the night.
He threw the gear shift into park, got out of the car, slammed the door of his Mazda a little too hard, marched over to the door of Risky Dick’s, grabbed the door handle and yanked the door open with such force, it hit the wall before closing behind him. He stood in the doorway for a minute, and looked around the room, daring anyone to ask if he had a problem. Then he noticed that all the tablecloths were gone, the candles, the salt and pepper shakers. No Andrea Bocelli on the sound system. Just the regulars huddled over their drinks in various corners of the dark room.
“Did tonight even happen?” he asked himself.
Martin walked over to bar, pulled out a stool, plopped down and waited for Don to appear, which he did in a matter of minutes from the cellar where he was hauling up another keg of beer.
“Martin!” Don said, with obvious delight. “I didn’t expect to see you again tonight. I thought you and your mother…”
“Let’s talk about my mother,” Martin cut him off. “What the hell was going on here tonight?”
Don looked surprised and then frowned. “What do you mean? “
“Well, you do all this stuff, put on the dog, fix the place up, fix yourself up and then flirt with my mom like she’s some sort of…some sort of… babe. For God’s sake, Don, this is my mother!” Martin realized he was almost shouting by the end of his rant, and scowled at the many people who were looking over at their conversation. “Mind your own business!” he shouted at them.
He turned his attention back to Don who was slowly walking around the bar, pulling a bar stool behind him. He sat across from Martin after he pulled them both a Grain Belt.
“I don’t get you, Jimmy Olson,” Don said, shaking his head. “Is it so unusual for someone like me to want to make this place look as nice as possible so that when your mother comes to visit for the first time, she’s impressed rather than breathing down your neck about moving back home?” He took a long sip of his beer, and continued. “And, as for flirting with Jean Lundeen, why the hell shouldn’t I? She’s one beautiful woman and seems to be a lot of fun. Other than raising a son who can be a bit of a prick sometimes, she seems to be quite a capable and interesting woman.”
Martin looked at him, opened his mouth to respond, but then stopped. He saw that Don was looking back at him intently and with a little sadness in his face. Martin realized he’d hurt Don’s feelings. “Don, I’m sorry,” Martin mumbled. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know it even mattered to you that my mother was happy or impressed or anything. I didn’t know you owned the tablecloths and could turn this place into something other than…this.” Martin waved his hand around.
Don shrugged his shoulders. “Well, to be honest, I didn’t own the tablecloths, and I didn’t know until today that this place could be something other than this.” He smiled, reached across the bar and nudged Martin’s shoulder. “For the past year or so, I’ve been toying with the idea of cleaning the place up a bit and making it more respectable. Your mother coming tonight seemed like a good reason to test it out. The surprising treat was finding out how wonderful she is.”
Martin thought back to his realization at church and laughed softly. “I guess I never knew that behind all that annoying motherly behavior was a real person.”
“A real woman, Martin. A real woman.”
Martin shuddered, but nodded. “And Don, I gotta tell you, that pot roast was delicious!”

Chapter 22

While showing Jean his apartment caused Martin some worry, bringing her in to Risky Dick’s caused him major concern. He would have suggested another place, but doing so after she’d made the suggestion would have raised some red flags in Jean’s overly suspicious brain.

As they came around the building and Jean was chattering away about how nice his apartment looked, Martin braced himself for her reaction. He took her hand again and placed it in the crook of his arm, holding her close so she wouldn’t faint once she realized she was having dinner with her son in a place she normally wouldn’t be caught dead in.

Before Martin could put his hand on the door handle, the door swung open, and a man who looked a lot like Don Wardle, only clean, shaved and dressed in a pair of black dress pants and a crisp white shirt, held the door for them. “Good evening, Martin,” he said with mock formality. “And you must be Mrs. Lundeen.” He gave her a low bow, took her free hand, kissed it and said, “Welcome to my restaurant. My name is Don Wardle. I am so pleased to meet you”

Jean blushed and fluttered back to him, “Why Mr. Wardle, how gallant you are. I’m pleased to meet you as well.”

Don rose and held her hand just one second longer before he said, “Please, call me Don.”

Jean dropped her eyes and said shyly, “Well, you can call me Jean.”

Martin realized that he had gone from leading man to bit player in a matter of seconds within this little exchange. Don escorted Jean over to one of the tables at the center of the room, a table that had mysteriously acquired a red and white checked tablecloth, votive candles and cut glass salt and pepper shakers. Martin looked around and saw that the entire place had been transformed. Tableclothes, votives, the works on every table in the room. A sound system Martin didn't know existed played songs from Andre Bocelli's latest CD. The lighting was low, but you could see in most corners of the room. Instead of a seedy dive, Risky Dick's now looked, and felt, like a country bistro. Still rough around the edges, but a place where one could take his mother for a nice dinner. A couple of regulars sat at the bar, but it was clear that Don had told them to behave themselves.

Martin was going to crack a joke about wondering if he was in the wrong place, but saw the glint in Don’s eye and knew that this was all for Jean and ultimately, her continued acceptance of Martin’s independence. Don came over to Martin, slapped him on the back and said, “Come on now, Martin, don’t just stand there. Sit down and let me tell your mother how happy I am to have you as a tenant.”

Martin sat across from his mother, leaving a chair next to her for Don to pull up and join them. “Mrs. Lundeen,” Don said, but halted dramatically, with a staged shyness, “I mean, Jean…” He looked over at her and winked. She giggled and batted her eyelashes. Martin felt ill.

“Jean, I will tell you, you raised one fine young man here,” Don went on, clearly trying to win her over. “Pays his rent on time, keeps decent hours, no funny business with the ladies, if you know what I mean. And don’t think for a minute that his celebrity status at the Sentinel doesn’t add a little cache to the place.” He winked at her again, making her beam with pride as she looked across the table at Martin.

“I’m so glad to hear that, Don,” she said, with a motherly tone. “You know, I tried to get him to move out months and months ago, but he just felt his dear widowed mother needed his help and protection. Finally, I just said, ‘Dear, it’s time for you to leave the nest and soar like the eagle you are.’ I’m just happy that he’s found a new home that’s worthy of him.”

Martin rolled his eyes and wondered if his mother was demented or just being overly dramatic to impress Don, but he felt it better to let her get away with such a blatant lie, if only to keep the tone of the evening so positive. She made him move out? Good God! It didn’t hit him until much later that she referred to herself as a widow. “What was that all about?” he’d ask himself when reflecting on the night the following week.

“Well, Jean, I’m glad he landed here,” Don replied, keeping up the metaphor. “So what would you two like for dinner tonight?”

+ + +

Martin and Jean sat alone at the table as Don left to prepare their meal choices. Instead of the usual burgers and fries, Don had prepared a menu for the day that included walleye (for Catholics) and pot roast (for the Lutheran Lundeens and not-so-Catholic Catholics). The smell of the pot roast was so divine, neither Jean nor Martin could resist. “If we were Catholic, we'd have to confess this one,” Jean whispered conspiratorially to Don. Then she added, coyly, “Just something else to add to the list, I guess.”

“I like your style, Jean,” Don said. “Care to have a glass of wine with your meal and have a little more to confess?” He wiggled his eyebrows, and Martin couldn’t help but understand his blatant flirtation. Something in Jean's expression told him that she understood it, too, and was all too happy to play along.

“Martin, what do you think?” she asked him excitedly. “Should we be naughty and each have a glass?” Since Martin had never seen his mother drink anything other than Communion wine, he was too dumb stuck to say anything, so he just nodded. Jean clapped her hands together happily, laughed and said, “Okay, Don, bring us two glasses of your favorite red wine.”

Don winked at her again and said, “At your service, pretty lady,” and he sashayed back to the bar with a little wiggle to his hips.

“What a lovely man,” Jean gushed. “So charming, and kind of cute…,” she trailed off, looking at him pouring the wine behind the bar.

“Cute, Mother? Are you kidding?” Martin’s face showed disgust, and he couldn’t believe he was observing a courtship ritual that involved his mother, of all people. And Don!

He followed her eyes over to the bar. Cleaned up, in that pressed white shirt and dress pants, he did look better than normal. He wasn’t so greasy looking. And his cologne was expensive and subtle, which was surprising. Martin could see how his mother might think he was “cute”, but hearing her say it made him think he was listening to a menopausal high school girl.

“Well, Don is a nice guy…could stand to lose a few pounds, though” Martin said, trying not to sound too negative. Jean cocked her head, as if trying to assess his physique. “You think so? Looks to me that he’s a man who just likes a good meal,” she replied. “I’ll bet he’s a wonderful cook.”

Chapter 21

Martin’s hair was still wet from his two-minute shower as he drove his Mazda into Jean’s driveway, but at least he was on time. He touched the ignition key, but didn’t get a chance to turn it off because Jean opened the door, and called out, “Don’t get out, Honey. I’ll be right there,” and disappeared back into the house, leaving the door ajar.

Martin put the car in park, leaned his head back on the headrest, closed his eyes, took in a big breath of air through his nose and let it out slowly. He was glad to have a quiet moment before Jean descended with all her Jean-ness. The slamming of the front door disrupted the quiet, and he lifted his head to see his mother scurry around the car to the passenger door, waving at him through the windshield. She appeared to be wearing a new dress, though Martin couldn't really tell. One over-embellished polyester garment with a matching short sleeved jacket from J.C. Penney tended to look exactly like the next one after a while.

“Oh, Martin, this is so wonderful,” Jean said as she crawled into the car, a little breathless. “I’ve been primping all day.”

Martin looked over at her as she buckled her seatbelt, and noticed her hair was styled and freshly bleached her trademark blond. “Did you have your hair done at Lady by Lovely? It looks pretty.”

Jean touched her hair, and nodded, obviously pleased that he had noticed. “I did. I was at the salon for almost 4 hours. Such luxury!” She looked over at Martin for the first time. “You look nice. It looks like you just got out of the shower.”

“That’s because I did just get out of the shower,” he said. “I spent the entire day getting my apartment ready for my mother’s visit, and barely had enough time to make it here by 5:30 to pick her up for the grand unveiling.”

Jean’s smile never left her face during the seven minute drive from downtown Siren to Risky Dick’s.

+ + +

Martin was glad that the parking lot was fairly empty when they drove in to Risky Dick’s. Being Good Friday, even the regulars would feel the need to repent and possibly go to church. The place wouldn’t be full until about 8:15 – long after Jean and Martin had finished their dinner and headed to Redeemer Lutheran Church down the highway.

Jean peered out of the car window at the building, trying to get the lay of the land. “Where is your apartment?” she asked, truly confused.

“There’s a stairway on the side. My place is just up the stairs, second door on the right,” Martin answered as he put the car in park. “Come on, Mom, I’m anxious for you to see it.”
Martin climbed out of the car, slammed the door and raced around the hood to open Jean’s door for her. He’d convinced himself that if he killed Jean with kindness, flattery and good manners, she wouldn’t notice the many warts in and around his apartment.

Martin held his hand out to help her out of the car, and placed her hand in the crook of his arm as he walked her through the pothole filled parking lot, trying to keep her navy pumps from getting too muddy. “Now, Mom, you have to be a little careful on these stairs. They are pretty steep. Hold on to the railing.”

As Martin disengaged her hand from his arm, he reached over to the railing to test its strength. It felt strong and didn’t move when he nudged it with his hand. He bent over slightly to look at the construction which he remembered as being much more rickety, and saw a series of bright new nail heads securing the rail better than it had been in years.

Jean grabbed the rail and briskly climbed the steps ahead of Martin. She stood primly by the second door on the right, which had a new mail box attached, as well as a name plate Martin had never seen before. “Martin Lundeen, #2” it said, looking as official as it possibly could given the fact that it was above the biggest dive in Burnett County.

As he went to unlock his door, Martin noticed the exterior of his windows looked as clean as the insides, and he wondered if Sharla had done that when he was busy with something else that afternoon. But then, he realized it couldn’t have been Sharla. She never left the room the entire time they worked.

The squeaking hinges of his door had been oiled, and the door opened easily, allowing Martin and his mother to sweep into his apartment. In addition to the new decorations and freshly clean carpet, Martin could tell that someone had sprayed an extra dose of air freshener in the room, making it smell even cleaner and more inviting than when he had rushed out to pick up Jean.

“Oh, Martin, this place is just lovely!” Jean exclaimed. "The colors are so handsome, so masculine!" He watched her ooh and ahh over every little item he and Sharla had purchased at WalMart that afternoon. Someone had put some new magazines on his bedside table – GQ and The New Yorker – and some fresh flowers on the small coffee table, all intended to create an image of Martin Lundeen for a mother who wanted desperately to believe her son was living a sophisticated life in a quiet, affordable efficiency on the outskirts of town.

As they walked down the stairs to have dinner at Risky Dick’s, Martin thought to himself, “Somehow, I’m going to have to thank Don for all of this.”