Martin pulled up in front of Wild Bill’s at 12:59 p.m., and waited for Sharla in the parking space closest to the door. He knew Sharla knew he was there. He’d see her peak out the window and give a little wave.
At 1:05, Sharla came out of the building, smiling and waving as she came up to Martin’s car. “Hi, Martin,” she said as she climbed into the front seat of his car. “Little Bill just drove in about two seconds before you got here. I was afraid I might have to bail on you. He always slides in just before his shift. I’m never sure he’ll show up.”
Martin put his arm on the back of the passenger seat to look behind him as he backed out of his parking space. He stole a glance at Sharla who, despite her irritation at Little Bill, still managed to smile.
“So,” she said when she caught him looking at her, “what did you do all morning?”
Martin shuddered a little, and replied, “I cleaned my carpet in the apartment. It was disgusting!” Sharla giggled. “I don’t doubt it. How dirty was the water when you dumped it out?”
“Which time?” Martin answered. “I went over it three times, and I’m still not sure it’s clean. If his apartments are any indication, it makes me wonder about Don and how clean he keeps that kitchen downstairs.”
Sharla giggled again. “Oh, Martin. That kitchen is spotless. I can tell. Anyway, Don can’t be responsible for how clean his tenants are. He’s just lucky to finally have one who is somewhat…fastidious.”
“Fastidious, Sharla? Is that what I am?” Martin said, with mock annoyance.
“Yes, you are fastidious. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Have you decided what color curtains and bedspread you’re going to buy today?”
+ + +
The hour drive to Forest Lake flew by, and Martin was almost disappointed when the Walmart came into view on the other side of Interstate 35. Throughout the 60-mile drive, he filled Sharla in on the mountains of evidence Shirley had found that showed Talbot was not only a pervert, but a predator. He also felt he needed to confirm what she believed to be true that, for the most part, Talbot’s targets had been Native American girls. Martin told Sharla enough about the effect on the girls lives, the subsequent violence and suicides, but not so much that she would be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information. Martin knew she was tough, but selfishly, he didn’t want her to be in a sad mood for the rest of the afternoon.
Martin didn’t share with Sharla the fact that Shirley was one of Talbot’s victims.
+ + +
It was 1:55 when the car crossed the border between Wisconsin and Minnesota, and 2:00 p.m. on the dot when Martin and Sharla walked into the front door of the Forest Lake Walmart. The place was teeming with crazed parents, from both states, buying up Easter candy, baskets, adorable pink dresses with matching hats and cute little suits with clip-on ties. “Before we leave the store, Martin, we have to go to the Easter candy aisle,” Sharla said in a no-nonsense tone. “I need to pick up some of those little marshmallow chicks. But they have to be yellow.”
Martin looked over at her and laughed a little. “Seriously, Sharla? Peeps?” She looked back at him, frowned and said, “Absolutely. They are delicious.” He stifled his laughter. “Why yellow?” She let out a loud, dramatic sigh and rolled her eyes. “The pink ones don’t taste right,” she explained. “Let’s get over to home furnishings.”
Sharla grabbed a shopping cart and led the way as they wove through the aisles of the store. Martin hadn’t been in the Walmart since the summer after his senior year in high school. That time, he followed his mother through the aisles as they shopped for his coming move to Milwaukee for college.
Sharla expertly navigated the store, taking the most direct route to an area filled with bedspreads, rugs, curtains, drapes and other home décor items. All together, there were probably 6 aisles of merchandise for them to peruse, and thankfully, things were arranged by category. All the bedspreads were in two aisles.
Sharla could see that Martin was overwhelmed by the number of choices. “Okay, Martin, let’s start with color,” Sharla directed. “Since your walls are blue, you should probably go with something in the cool tones, don’t you think?” He nodded and walked slowly down the first aisle, looking from side to side to see what was available in blues and greens. Suddenly, something caught his eye, and he went over to the shelf and yanked it out. “This is it!” he said, triumphantly. Sharla started to encourage him to keep looking, that there was a lot he hadn’t seen yet, but then she looked closely at his choice and had to agree. “Martin, it’s perfect.” A nubby light blue and chocolate brown plaid spread with a matching pillow sham. “You could maybe get some throw pillows to go with it,” Sharla added, and started toward the pillow aisle.
Before they were through, they had two smaller pillows, one in blue and one in brown, to go with the bedspread, some curtains in a lighter shade of blue than the walls of the apartment and a braided rug that brought in all the colors, plus some red, yellow and green. “Your place will look masculine, but warm and inviting,” Sharla said, using a Martha Stewart tone.
“Sharla, you’ve been reading too many decorating magazines behind the counter at Wild Bill’s,” Martin teased. “Seriously though, I really appreciate your help. This is going to look great.”
They made sure to pick up all the hardware needed to hang the curtains, paid at the checkout and walked out of Walmart at about 2:45, pleased that they picked up some time to actually put everything in place before Jean came over to inspect that evening. The drive home was filled with talking and laughing, and not one mention of Frank Talbot. They arrived at Risky Dick’s well before 4:00 p.m., which gave them over one hour to iron and hang the curtains, place the bedspread and pillows, and put down the rug. Sharla even hung the new shower curtain that Martin picked up at the last minute before they left the store.
They stood in the middle of the room, and admired their work. The colors matched perfectly, and the new rug covered much of the carpet which was clean, but still pretty ugly. “I’m not kidding, Martin. This looks really good,” Sharla said enthusiastically. “Do you like it?”
Martin looked over at her face, filled with earnest concern and a true desire that he like all that they had done. “Sharla, I love it,” he said softly. “Thank you, again. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
She smiled and looked down, then looked up and gave him a quick hug. “You’d better hurry and take a shower," she said as she moved quickly toward the door. "It’s almost 5:00, you are filthy and sweaty, and you have to pick up your mom in 30 minutes!”
Had she hesitated in that hug one second more, Martin might have kissed her. But then, she pulled away, and he knew the time wasn't right. He wished he could invite Sharla to join his mother and him for dinner, and maybe church, but he knew the time wasn’t right for that either. “Okay, Sharla. Hey, maybe the next time I have dinner with my mom, you could join us.”
Sharla giggled and looked at him with a look that said she didn't believe him. “Sure, Martin. That sounds good. You just let me know when.”
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Chapter 19
It was about 7:30 a.m. when Martin looked out the recently cleaned window of his apartment on Good Friday morning and decided the weather fit the day. Gloomy, gray, rainy. “Perfect,” he muttered to himself as he decided to get dressed for the day.
As Martin reached for a pair of dress slacks to wear with a button down shirt, his bowtie and corduroy jacket, he remembered the Sentinel office was closed for holiday. “I think I’ll skip the tie today,” he said out loud to himself. He also kicked himself for not sleeping in a little longer.
As he descended the steps from his apartment to get to Risky Dick’s for some breakfast, Martin thought about his day. He’d called his mother the night before after the service at St. Bart’s, and asked her to join him for Good Friday services at their church in Webster, Redeemer Lutheran Church. Martin had to hold the receiver from his ear to keep his mother’s shriek of delight from affecting his hearing. After Jean calmed down, he also suggested they have dinner together. “Oh, dinner and church with my handsome son,” she cooed. “How could I get so lucky?” Martin felt slightly nauseated.
Because his brain was on overload and he was tired, Martin didn’t control the situation very well when discussing a place to have dinner that evening. He should have just said, “Let’s meet at Adventures at 5:30.” Instead, he casually asked Jean the question, “So where should we have dinner?” and before he could catch himself from allowing free choice, his mother responded, “Well, how about that restaurant in your apartment building? What’s it called again?” Martin wanted to kick himself for being so careless, but answered, “Risky Dick’s.”
“Well that sounds fun,” Jean said happily. “You can show me your apartment, too. I can’t wait to see it.”
Because his mother would finally see the apartment where he lived and the bar where he spent much of his time, Martin decided that Good Friday would be spent making sure that Jean had as little to criticize as possible that evening. That meant, he’d have to go to the Wal-Mart in Forest Lake to get his new curtains and bedspread, he’d have to shampoo his carpet, and he’d have to prep Don for meeting Jean. He’d start with prepping Don while eating his poached eggs and toast, and fill up with gas at Wild Bill’s on his way to Forest Lake.
+ + +
“So, I get to meet the famous Jean Lundeen,” Don said with a certain smarmy sound in his voice, rubbing his hands together. Martin frowned at him and answered, “Yes, what of it?”
Don knew just how to punch Martin’s buttons and continued, “Well, from what I hear, she’s one hot little number…”
Martin looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “Don, you’ve got to be kidding. My mother is so not a hot number…” He trailed off as he saw Don stifling a laugh. “Don, you’re hilarious,” he said grimly.
Don took Martin’s empty plate while filling his cup with hot coffee. “Oh, come on Martin. I’m just having a little fun with ya’. In all seriousness, I’m looking forward to meeting your mother.” Martin looked confused. “Why?”
“Well, I’ve seen her in town, and she has to be a fine woman. She raised you,” he said. Martin saw that he was serious and was touched. “I may even put on a clean shirt,” Don said as he turned away and wiggled his hips in a little dance back to the kitchen. “Who knows? I might ask her out on a date.”
For the second time in 24 hours, Martin felt nauseated.
+ + +
Martin’s gas tank was over three quarters full, but he went to Wild Bill’s anyway, hoping to see Sharla and invite her to go to Forest Lake with him for the shopping trip. He quickly topped off his tank, and went inside to find Sharla.
As usual, she was behind the counter, this time ringing up a sale of a 12 pack of Budwiser for four men who were sitting at one of the small tables in back playing cribbage. Martin looked at his watch. It was 9:00 a.m.
“Hi, Martin,” Sharla called to him, clearly delighted to see him. “I’m so glad you came in today. How’s the project going?”
He came over to the counter and smiled broadly at her. He noticed how cute she looked in her white cut-offs and purple Minnesota Vikings hooded sweatshirt. “It’s going pretty good. I’d like to tell you what we’ve found so far. Any chance you have this afternoon off? I’m driving over to Forest Lake to pick up some things for my apartment, and thought it would be nice if you came along. We could talk in the car…” he said, getting his request out in one big breath.
“Hmmm…let me see,” Sharla answered, taking a three-ring binder out from under the counter. “Uncle Bill has me working until 1:00. Would that be too late?”
Martin thought a minute and replied, “Well, let’s see. I could pick you up at 1:00, it takes an hour to get to Forest Lake, we’ll shop for an hour, another hour to get back. That should work. I just need to pick my mother up for dinner at 5:30.”
“Let’s do it then. Pick me up at 1:00,” Sharla said with a smile.
Martin nodded, and while he pulled out his money to pay for the gas, said, “Will do. Thanks, Sharla. I really appreciate you giving me a woman’s opinion on my apartment.”
Sharla giggled. “Well, I don’t know how much of a decorator I am, but I know what I like.” As she took the money, she said, “Hey, Martin. You know can come in here to see me any time you like without buying anything, don’t you? I mean, everybody knows Uncle Bill charges more for gas than anyone in Burnett County.”
As Martin reached for a pair of dress slacks to wear with a button down shirt, his bowtie and corduroy jacket, he remembered the Sentinel office was closed for holiday. “I think I’ll skip the tie today,” he said out loud to himself. He also kicked himself for not sleeping in a little longer.
As he descended the steps from his apartment to get to Risky Dick’s for some breakfast, Martin thought about his day. He’d called his mother the night before after the service at St. Bart’s, and asked her to join him for Good Friday services at their church in Webster, Redeemer Lutheran Church. Martin had to hold the receiver from his ear to keep his mother’s shriek of delight from affecting his hearing. After Jean calmed down, he also suggested they have dinner together. “Oh, dinner and church with my handsome son,” she cooed. “How could I get so lucky?” Martin felt slightly nauseated.
Because his brain was on overload and he was tired, Martin didn’t control the situation very well when discussing a place to have dinner that evening. He should have just said, “Let’s meet at Adventures at 5:30.” Instead, he casually asked Jean the question, “So where should we have dinner?” and before he could catch himself from allowing free choice, his mother responded, “Well, how about that restaurant in your apartment building? What’s it called again?” Martin wanted to kick himself for being so careless, but answered, “Risky Dick’s.”
“Well that sounds fun,” Jean said happily. “You can show me your apartment, too. I can’t wait to see it.”
Because his mother would finally see the apartment where he lived and the bar where he spent much of his time, Martin decided that Good Friday would be spent making sure that Jean had as little to criticize as possible that evening. That meant, he’d have to go to the Wal-Mart in Forest Lake to get his new curtains and bedspread, he’d have to shampoo his carpet, and he’d have to prep Don for meeting Jean. He’d start with prepping Don while eating his poached eggs and toast, and fill up with gas at Wild Bill’s on his way to Forest Lake.
+ + +
“So, I get to meet the famous Jean Lundeen,” Don said with a certain smarmy sound in his voice, rubbing his hands together. Martin frowned at him and answered, “Yes, what of it?”
Don knew just how to punch Martin’s buttons and continued, “Well, from what I hear, she’s one hot little number…”
Martin looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “Don, you’ve got to be kidding. My mother is so not a hot number…” He trailed off as he saw Don stifling a laugh. “Don, you’re hilarious,” he said grimly.
Don took Martin’s empty plate while filling his cup with hot coffee. “Oh, come on Martin. I’m just having a little fun with ya’. In all seriousness, I’m looking forward to meeting your mother.” Martin looked confused. “Why?”
“Well, I’ve seen her in town, and she has to be a fine woman. She raised you,” he said. Martin saw that he was serious and was touched. “I may even put on a clean shirt,” Don said as he turned away and wiggled his hips in a little dance back to the kitchen. “Who knows? I might ask her out on a date.”
For the second time in 24 hours, Martin felt nauseated.
+ + +
Martin’s gas tank was over three quarters full, but he went to Wild Bill’s anyway, hoping to see Sharla and invite her to go to Forest Lake with him for the shopping trip. He quickly topped off his tank, and went inside to find Sharla.
As usual, she was behind the counter, this time ringing up a sale of a 12 pack of Budwiser for four men who were sitting at one of the small tables in back playing cribbage. Martin looked at his watch. It was 9:00 a.m.
“Hi, Martin,” Sharla called to him, clearly delighted to see him. “I’m so glad you came in today. How’s the project going?”
He came over to the counter and smiled broadly at her. He noticed how cute she looked in her white cut-offs and purple Minnesota Vikings hooded sweatshirt. “It’s going pretty good. I’d like to tell you what we’ve found so far. Any chance you have this afternoon off? I’m driving over to Forest Lake to pick up some things for my apartment, and thought it would be nice if you came along. We could talk in the car…” he said, getting his request out in one big breath.
“Hmmm…let me see,” Sharla answered, taking a three-ring binder out from under the counter. “Uncle Bill has me working until 1:00. Would that be too late?”
Martin thought a minute and replied, “Well, let’s see. I could pick you up at 1:00, it takes an hour to get to Forest Lake, we’ll shop for an hour, another hour to get back. That should work. I just need to pick my mother up for dinner at 5:30.”
“Let’s do it then. Pick me up at 1:00,” Sharla said with a smile.
Martin nodded, and while he pulled out his money to pay for the gas, said, “Will do. Thanks, Sharla. I really appreciate you giving me a woman’s opinion on my apartment.”
Sharla giggled. “Well, I don’t know how much of a decorator I am, but I know what I like.” As she took the money, she said, “Hey, Martin. You know can come in here to see me any time you like without buying anything, don’t you? I mean, everybody knows Uncle Bill charges more for gas than anyone in Burnett County.”
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Chapter 18
The Holy Catholic Church of Saint Bartholomew was located two blocks from the Adventures Mall on 1st Street in downtown Siren. Built in the mid-70’s, St. Bart’s was a plain, unadorned building with tiny, long, thin stained glass panes dotting the sides of the brick walls. The architect was following the conventional wisdom at the time that with an energy shortage, the warmth of the building would be best created in a closed up, bunker like structure, forgetting the warming and heating aspects that light would bring if allowed in through bigger windows. The inside of the sanctuary was a bit more embellished, but still stark in comparison to the other Catholic churches in Burnett County. No hand-carved marble altar and baptism font, no gold plated chalice or offering plates, no brocade altar cloths. It was as if the entire place was stuck in the 70’s - earth tone altar cloths, wooden collection plates, pottery chalice, straight, flat altar and a stainless steel bowl on a rectangular wooden pedestal for the baptism font. Even the priests wore simple woven robes with rough, woven vestments. Not a gold thread in sight.
Martin left his car in the Adventures Mall parking lot and walked over to the church. He knew that all Holy Week services would be crowded, even Holy Thursday, and parking would be at a premium. And no Burnett County sheriff would be giving out parking tickets tonight – they’d all be in church.
St. Bart’s Holy Thursday service started at 7:00 p.m., so arriving at 6:40 allowed Martin to park himself in a premium location in the very back pew by the main entrance in order to watch who came in and where they sat. He was the tenth person to be seated in the sanctuary, and he sat at the end of the pew, on the aisle, to give him the best vantage point.
As he watched the door, Martin began to feel guilty for being so calculating on a holy day, and in church even! As his eyes followed the waddling old ladies who took the same seats they had probably been sitting in for decades, he assessed his own spiritual bankruptcy and vowed to call his mother that night to make arrangements to accompany her to Good Friday and Easter services that weekend.
Martin thought of his mother and felt another flash of guilt. His last interaction with her on Palm Sunday was far from pleasant, and he wasn’t sure how Jean would react when he called her. One thing he was sure of though – she’d jump at the chance to go to church with Martin this weekend.
The pews in the sanctuary were gradually filling up, but Martin hadn’t seen anyone of interest in terms of who he hoped to talk to in terms of Talbot and the story. No Howes, no Daniels, no Talbot. Not even any of the other teachers from the high school. Just a lot of older women and couples that Martin was sure had driven in with their many children from the back woods areas surrounding the many lakes in the area.
It was 30 seconds to 7:00 p.m. when Martin could hear rustling and voices in the narthex of the church. He turned to see the commotion and saw Jeff and Karen Howe and their two beautiful teenage daughters coming in the doors. The priests and altar boys had already lined up for the procession, candles and incense lit, processional cross in place, everyone set and ready to go. Martin watched, transfixed, as all of the priests and altar boys left their positions to reach for Jeff’s hand and welcome the family. They all moved out of the way as the Howes made their way to the sanctuary entrance and down the center aisle to the very first pew on the left in front of the pulpit. There was no reserved sign on the pew, but the entire congregation knew that it was saved for the Howes, whenever they chose to show up.
Once Jeff and his harem were seated and settled, the organ hit its first cord, and the service began.
+ + +
Martin was never one to enjoy church services much and was even known to sleep through them, but he managed to stay awake and alert throughout this one because he saw it as an opportunity to watch Jeff Howe and the people around him. Jeff was attentive and acted devout, but it seemed to be just that – acting. The Howe daughters, Julie and Lauren, looked bored and antsy, and Karen Howe looked as she often did – agitated, irritated and nervous. And just on the verge of spitting tacks.
Martin watched as each and every person went up to the altar to receive the sacrament after the sermon. He didn’t see anyone of interest other than the Howes. He decided this was for the best because he’d easily be able to connect with his only available target - Jeff Howe.
+ + +
Martin planted himself right next to the door where the Howes entered the church, hoping to “run into them” as they exited the sanctuary. Sure enough, the Howes headed for that door and seemed in a rush to get out. Cursing his bad luck for the potential failure of his plan, Martin started moving toward the exit, but then saw that Father Bob O’Halloran grabbed Jeff’s elbow as he tried to sneak past the priest in order to avoid a lengthy conversation at the door. Karen, Julie and Lauren continued past Jeff and Father Bob, prepared to wait by the exit. Martin made his move.
“Well hi again, Karen,” Martin said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Did you enjoy the service?” Martin could see that she was annoyed by the delay as she focused her gaze, through narrowed eyes, at Jeff as he spoke to the priest about the new building project. She slowly turned her head back toward Martin, and said, “Hello, Martin. Yes, we enjoyed the service very much.”
He turned to the girls. “Hi, I’m Martin Lundeen,” Martin said to the two Howe daughters, sticking out his hand. They shook it limply and murmured “Hello”. Karen jumped in, “Martin writes for the newspaper. He’s going to do a story on my shop, right Martin?” He nodded his head, and said, “Absolutely! Your mom’s store is great, and I’m looking forward to getting her some coverage.”
The two girls rolled their eyes and snickered, and turned to see if their father was almost done talking to the priest. “Why doesn’t he hurry up?” Julie whispered loudly to her mother. “Doesn’t he know I have a date later?”
Her comment was just loud enough for Jeff to hear. He looked up from his conversation with Father Bob, saw Karen’s and Julie’s frown and began moving away as the priest was still talking to him. “Father Bob, let’s get together next week for coffee , and we can talk about this,” Jeff said. “There are so many people who want your time tonight. Let’s set something up for later when we can really talk. I’ll try to bring Dayton Daniels with me.”
Jeff rushed over the Karen and the girls, ignoring Martin, and making noises apologizing to his family. “Well let’s just go,” Karen said, irritated. Martin saw his opportunity slipping away. “Good to see you, Karen. I’ll be in touch to set up that interview,” he said quickly before the Howes got away.
Jeff turned to him, suddenly interested, after not even noticing him before that moment. "An interview?” Martin stuck his hand out to Jeff and said quickly, “Hi, Mr. Howe. I’m Martin Lundeen with the Burnett County Sentinel. I’m planning on doing a story on your wife and her store.”
“Oh, really,” Jeff responded, clearly amused. “Well, that’s great! Maybe, with a little publicity, that place might finally turn a profit.” Karen glared at him, but Jeff continued, “I’ll look forward to seeing that story…Martin you said?” Martin nodded and said, “Yes, Martin Lundeen. By the way, I may be calling you sometime in the next few weeks, too. I’m doing another story on some of the teachers who are retiring this year…”
Jeff started moving towards the door. “Oh, okay, that’s fine.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a card. “Here’s my cell phone. Just call me whenever, and I’ll answer any questions you have about our fine teaching staff, retiring or otherwise.” Jeff flashed Martin one of his trademark winning grins, and shepherded his women out the door. “Happy Easter, Martin," he called as the heavy wooden door closed.
Martin didn’t know if he had been brushed off or played, but he didn’t care. He had Jeff Howe’s cell phone number, and would definitely call him when the time was right. What bothered Martin was that his request didn’t phase Jeff at all which meant he either didn’t know about Frank Talbot or felt he had done such a good job of hiding it for so long, he figured no one else knew about it. Either way, Martin was going to find out…and soon.
Martin left his car in the Adventures Mall parking lot and walked over to the church. He knew that all Holy Week services would be crowded, even Holy Thursday, and parking would be at a premium. And no Burnett County sheriff would be giving out parking tickets tonight – they’d all be in church.
St. Bart’s Holy Thursday service started at 7:00 p.m., so arriving at 6:40 allowed Martin to park himself in a premium location in the very back pew by the main entrance in order to watch who came in and where they sat. He was the tenth person to be seated in the sanctuary, and he sat at the end of the pew, on the aisle, to give him the best vantage point.
As he watched the door, Martin began to feel guilty for being so calculating on a holy day, and in church even! As his eyes followed the waddling old ladies who took the same seats they had probably been sitting in for decades, he assessed his own spiritual bankruptcy and vowed to call his mother that night to make arrangements to accompany her to Good Friday and Easter services that weekend.
Martin thought of his mother and felt another flash of guilt. His last interaction with her on Palm Sunday was far from pleasant, and he wasn’t sure how Jean would react when he called her. One thing he was sure of though – she’d jump at the chance to go to church with Martin this weekend.
The pews in the sanctuary were gradually filling up, but Martin hadn’t seen anyone of interest in terms of who he hoped to talk to in terms of Talbot and the story. No Howes, no Daniels, no Talbot. Not even any of the other teachers from the high school. Just a lot of older women and couples that Martin was sure had driven in with their many children from the back woods areas surrounding the many lakes in the area.
It was 30 seconds to 7:00 p.m. when Martin could hear rustling and voices in the narthex of the church. He turned to see the commotion and saw Jeff and Karen Howe and their two beautiful teenage daughters coming in the doors. The priests and altar boys had already lined up for the procession, candles and incense lit, processional cross in place, everyone set and ready to go. Martin watched, transfixed, as all of the priests and altar boys left their positions to reach for Jeff’s hand and welcome the family. They all moved out of the way as the Howes made their way to the sanctuary entrance and down the center aisle to the very first pew on the left in front of the pulpit. There was no reserved sign on the pew, but the entire congregation knew that it was saved for the Howes, whenever they chose to show up.
Once Jeff and his harem were seated and settled, the organ hit its first cord, and the service began.
+ + +
Martin was never one to enjoy church services much and was even known to sleep through them, but he managed to stay awake and alert throughout this one because he saw it as an opportunity to watch Jeff Howe and the people around him. Jeff was attentive and acted devout, but it seemed to be just that – acting. The Howe daughters, Julie and Lauren, looked bored and antsy, and Karen Howe looked as she often did – agitated, irritated and nervous. And just on the verge of spitting tacks.
Martin watched as each and every person went up to the altar to receive the sacrament after the sermon. He didn’t see anyone of interest other than the Howes. He decided this was for the best because he’d easily be able to connect with his only available target - Jeff Howe.
+ + +
Martin planted himself right next to the door where the Howes entered the church, hoping to “run into them” as they exited the sanctuary. Sure enough, the Howes headed for that door and seemed in a rush to get out. Cursing his bad luck for the potential failure of his plan, Martin started moving toward the exit, but then saw that Father Bob O’Halloran grabbed Jeff’s elbow as he tried to sneak past the priest in order to avoid a lengthy conversation at the door. Karen, Julie and Lauren continued past Jeff and Father Bob, prepared to wait by the exit. Martin made his move.
“Well hi again, Karen,” Martin said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Did you enjoy the service?” Martin could see that she was annoyed by the delay as she focused her gaze, through narrowed eyes, at Jeff as he spoke to the priest about the new building project. She slowly turned her head back toward Martin, and said, “Hello, Martin. Yes, we enjoyed the service very much.”
He turned to the girls. “Hi, I’m Martin Lundeen,” Martin said to the two Howe daughters, sticking out his hand. They shook it limply and murmured “Hello”. Karen jumped in, “Martin writes for the newspaper. He’s going to do a story on my shop, right Martin?” He nodded his head, and said, “Absolutely! Your mom’s store is great, and I’m looking forward to getting her some coverage.”
The two girls rolled their eyes and snickered, and turned to see if their father was almost done talking to the priest. “Why doesn’t he hurry up?” Julie whispered loudly to her mother. “Doesn’t he know I have a date later?”
Her comment was just loud enough for Jeff to hear. He looked up from his conversation with Father Bob, saw Karen’s and Julie’s frown and began moving away as the priest was still talking to him. “Father Bob, let’s get together next week for coffee , and we can talk about this,” Jeff said. “There are so many people who want your time tonight. Let’s set something up for later when we can really talk. I’ll try to bring Dayton Daniels with me.”
Jeff rushed over the Karen and the girls, ignoring Martin, and making noises apologizing to his family. “Well let’s just go,” Karen said, irritated. Martin saw his opportunity slipping away. “Good to see you, Karen. I’ll be in touch to set up that interview,” he said quickly before the Howes got away.
Jeff turned to him, suddenly interested, after not even noticing him before that moment. "An interview?” Martin stuck his hand out to Jeff and said quickly, “Hi, Mr. Howe. I’m Martin Lundeen with the Burnett County Sentinel. I’m planning on doing a story on your wife and her store.”
“Oh, really,” Jeff responded, clearly amused. “Well, that’s great! Maybe, with a little publicity, that place might finally turn a profit.” Karen glared at him, but Jeff continued, “I’ll look forward to seeing that story…Martin you said?” Martin nodded and said, “Yes, Martin Lundeen. By the way, I may be calling you sometime in the next few weeks, too. I’m doing another story on some of the teachers who are retiring this year…”
Jeff started moving towards the door. “Oh, okay, that’s fine.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a card. “Here’s my cell phone. Just call me whenever, and I’ll answer any questions you have about our fine teaching staff, retiring or otherwise.” Jeff flashed Martin one of his trademark winning grins, and shepherded his women out the door. “Happy Easter, Martin," he called as the heavy wooden door closed.
Martin didn’t know if he had been brushed off or played, but he didn’t care. He had Jeff Howe’s cell phone number, and would definitely call him when the time was right. What bothered Martin was that his request didn’t phase Jeff at all which meant he either didn’t know about Frank Talbot or felt he had done such a good job of hiding it for so long, he figured no one else knew about it. Either way, Martin was going to find out…and soon.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Chapter 17
As Martin sat at the one of two stoplights in Siren, he looked over at the stack of stories sitting on the passenger seat, and a blank legal pad he grabbed when he left the Sentinel building. He was glad for the few moments while sitting at the red light to think about where he could go to plot out a strategy while killing two hours before heading to St. Bart’s to observe the good Catholics as they made penance for their many sins.
He hesitated when the light turned green. “Left for the Chattering Squirrel for a sandwich and coffee or straight ahead for a beer at the Yellow River Saloon?” he asked himself. The thought of breathing beer breath on his fellow parishioners during Maundy Thursday services sounded tempting, but the quick honk of the horn behind him jolted him into the reality that the Yellow River Saloon would be too dark and loud to get any work done. He made a quick left and made his way toward the open parking lot in front of the Adventures Mall where the Chattering Squirrel was located.
Martin grabbed the file full of stories and the legal pad, checked the front pocket of his shirt for a pen and got out of his car. Just as he slammed his door shut, Karen Howe came out of the mall entrance. Her pale skin showed off dark eyes that were bright and darting, and her short, black bob was tucked behind her ears. Her Eddie Bauer jeans fit well on her petite body, and her bright pink chenille turtleneck sweater highlighted the blush in her cheeks. While she was cute enough, Martin wondered how she snagged the ruggedly handsome Jeff Howe.
“Hi, Mrs. Howe,” Martin said before remembering he had never really met Karen, but only knew her because she was Jeff’s wife, and Jeff and all his business and community dealings had been covered ad nauseum by the Sentinel. He’d seen Karen’s stiff, smiling face standing next to Jeff in more newspaper photos than he could count.
Karen Howe’s face looked dark and confused as she kept moving toward her car and away from Martin. He knew that she had no idea who he was. He moved toward her quickly, stuck out his one available hand while holding on to the load of paper in his other arm and said, “Martin Lundeen, Burnett County Sentinel. We met at the grand opening of the Crooked Lake Lodge.” It amazed him that he could come up with a lie so fast and so convincingly. Martin knew that, as the builder of the Lodge, Jeff Howe and his family would have attended the grand opening. Martin gambled that Karen wouldn’t remember that he himself was still up at Marquette at the time the Lodge opened.
Karen’s face softened, but she kept moving. “Oh, that’s right. Nice to see you again. I read your column all the time in the Sentinel.” She smiled at him over her shoulder, and Martin saw it as an opening. “You doing a little shopping before going to church tonight?” he asked her innocently.
She stopped short and turned to look directly at him. “No, I just closed up my shop for the night. I own Delights from the North Woods,” she responded tightly, with special emphasis on the word ‘own’.
Martin almost cringed that he forgot this little factoid. He knew he was in danger of letting this opportunity slip away and jumped back in quickly, “Oh, that’s right. My mother shops there. It’s a nice store. I’ve been meaning to do a story on it…” For some reason, Martin felt totally comfortable schmoosing this woman, and lying to her, just to get what he wanted. He saw that he had saved the opportunity when Karen smiled broadly at him and said, “Really? A story about Delights? I’d love that! I’ve been wondering why Clark Grayson hasn’t given me any coverage.” She turned and started moving toward her car again.
Now that she mentioned it, Martin wondered as well. The Sentinel seemed to be Jeff Howe’s personal publicity machine, and it was amazing that Clark didn’t throw a little ink Karen’s way. Could be that Clark, and Jeff, just thought of Karen’s retail adventure as nothing but a temporary diversion.
“Well, I’ll call you next week and set up an appointment for an interview,” Martin continued, watching her fumble with her keys at the door of her SUV. “We could meet for coffee or something. I’ll bring my camera, take some pictures…”
“Oh, that would be fantastic,” Karen replied. “Let’s make it for later in the week. That way I can freshen the place up.” Her face was beaming at the prospect as she put the key into the lock. Martin knew that Karen Howe didn’t need the publicity to promote her business. She wanted it for personal validation and to show Burnett County she wasn’t just Jeff’s pretty little wife.
“Well, I’ll call next week,” he said again. “Will I see you at St. Bart’s tonight for services?”
Karen stopped turning the key and looked confused again. “St. Bart’s?” Martin thought he’d made a mistake in assuming that the Howes, being good Catholics, belonged to the largest Catholic Church in Burnett County. But then, Karen nodded, opened the car door and said, “Oh, that’s right, it’s Holy Thursday. Yes, yes, we’ll be there. See you later, Martin.”
Martin watched as Karen climbed up into her steel gray Lincoln Navigator and waved at her as she started it up. He could feel the file slipping out the back of his arm and struggled to catch it. “I hope the Squirrel is still open,” he thought to himself, and pulled the door open to the Mall.
+ + +
The short hall of the Adventures Mall was empty, and all of the shops closed up tight. Though most of the shop windows showed that the stores were open until 8:00 p.m. on Thursday nights, today they all had handmade signs on their doors that said “Closed for Holy Week Observances”. In other words, everyone knew that no one would be shopping on Holy Thursday.
The Chattering Squirrel was open, but empty, and Martin took a seat at the biggest table in the restaurant so that he could spread out and get some work done. He pulled some papers out of the file folder and began reading. Connie, the waitress, came over to the table with a glass of ice water. “Hi, Martin,” she said shyly. Martin looked up from his reading and at the young girl who was ready to take his order. “Connie, how can you be working here? Aren’t you 13 or something?” Martin asked her playfully. “My dad owns the place, Martin. You know that,” she giggled and blushed. “Did you want to order anything? You’ll have to make it kind of fast. Dad wants to close up at 6:30 or so to make it to services.”
“Okay, I’ll make it easy for you,” he grinned at her and quickly looked at the menu. “How about a BLT on toast? With a Coke, please,” Martin said as he closed the menu and tucked it in back of the napkin holder. “Does your dad mind firing up the griddle for that bacon?”
“Nope, don’t worry about it,” she rifled back. “BLT it is,” and headed into the kitchen.
Martin settled in and first reviewed Shirley’s spreadsheet, for the fourth time that day, and then began reading the stories. The cold, emotionless facts on the pages wouldn’t have meant anything to the casual reader, but to Martin, who knew what he was looking for, he saw a trend, and it wasn’t good. As he continued reading, he tried to stay objective, but couldn’t. “I think I’d better think about what I’ll try to accomplish tonight at church,” he mumbled to himself.
Martin knew that the Howes would be at church at 7:00 p.m., and probably Dayton Daniels and his family, too. He wanted to observe them and maybe find an opportunity to reconnect with Karen Howe. Once that was done, he thought he’d casually talk to Jeff about a story he was doing on retiring teachers and if he could call him for a quote from the School Board Chairman. He decided to keep the request vague and conversational, just in case Howe knew about Talbot. Martin suspected that Jeff might avoid talking to him in an official capacity if he knew the questions would be about the predatory teacher.
Connie brought Martin his check at exactly 6:29, and Martin took out his money immediately and gave the young girl a healthy tip. “Thanks, Connie,” he said, “and tell your dad the sandwich was delicious.”
He hesitated when the light turned green. “Left for the Chattering Squirrel for a sandwich and coffee or straight ahead for a beer at the Yellow River Saloon?” he asked himself. The thought of breathing beer breath on his fellow parishioners during Maundy Thursday services sounded tempting, but the quick honk of the horn behind him jolted him into the reality that the Yellow River Saloon would be too dark and loud to get any work done. He made a quick left and made his way toward the open parking lot in front of the Adventures Mall where the Chattering Squirrel was located.
Martin grabbed the file full of stories and the legal pad, checked the front pocket of his shirt for a pen and got out of his car. Just as he slammed his door shut, Karen Howe came out of the mall entrance. Her pale skin showed off dark eyes that were bright and darting, and her short, black bob was tucked behind her ears. Her Eddie Bauer jeans fit well on her petite body, and her bright pink chenille turtleneck sweater highlighted the blush in her cheeks. While she was cute enough, Martin wondered how she snagged the ruggedly handsome Jeff Howe.
“Hi, Mrs. Howe,” Martin said before remembering he had never really met Karen, but only knew her because she was Jeff’s wife, and Jeff and all his business and community dealings had been covered ad nauseum by the Sentinel. He’d seen Karen’s stiff, smiling face standing next to Jeff in more newspaper photos than he could count.
Karen Howe’s face looked dark and confused as she kept moving toward her car and away from Martin. He knew that she had no idea who he was. He moved toward her quickly, stuck out his one available hand while holding on to the load of paper in his other arm and said, “Martin Lundeen, Burnett County Sentinel. We met at the grand opening of the Crooked Lake Lodge.” It amazed him that he could come up with a lie so fast and so convincingly. Martin knew that, as the builder of the Lodge, Jeff Howe and his family would have attended the grand opening. Martin gambled that Karen wouldn’t remember that he himself was still up at Marquette at the time the Lodge opened.
Karen’s face softened, but she kept moving. “Oh, that’s right. Nice to see you again. I read your column all the time in the Sentinel.” She smiled at him over her shoulder, and Martin saw it as an opening. “You doing a little shopping before going to church tonight?” he asked her innocently.
She stopped short and turned to look directly at him. “No, I just closed up my shop for the night. I own Delights from the North Woods,” she responded tightly, with special emphasis on the word ‘own’.
Martin almost cringed that he forgot this little factoid. He knew he was in danger of letting this opportunity slip away and jumped back in quickly, “Oh, that’s right. My mother shops there. It’s a nice store. I’ve been meaning to do a story on it…” For some reason, Martin felt totally comfortable schmoosing this woman, and lying to her, just to get what he wanted. He saw that he had saved the opportunity when Karen smiled broadly at him and said, “Really? A story about Delights? I’d love that! I’ve been wondering why Clark Grayson hasn’t given me any coverage.” She turned and started moving toward her car again.
Now that she mentioned it, Martin wondered as well. The Sentinel seemed to be Jeff Howe’s personal publicity machine, and it was amazing that Clark didn’t throw a little ink Karen’s way. Could be that Clark, and Jeff, just thought of Karen’s retail adventure as nothing but a temporary diversion.
“Well, I’ll call you next week and set up an appointment for an interview,” Martin continued, watching her fumble with her keys at the door of her SUV. “We could meet for coffee or something. I’ll bring my camera, take some pictures…”
“Oh, that would be fantastic,” Karen replied. “Let’s make it for later in the week. That way I can freshen the place up.” Her face was beaming at the prospect as she put the key into the lock. Martin knew that Karen Howe didn’t need the publicity to promote her business. She wanted it for personal validation and to show Burnett County she wasn’t just Jeff’s pretty little wife.
“Well, I’ll call next week,” he said again. “Will I see you at St. Bart’s tonight for services?”
Karen stopped turning the key and looked confused again. “St. Bart’s?” Martin thought he’d made a mistake in assuming that the Howes, being good Catholics, belonged to the largest Catholic Church in Burnett County. But then, Karen nodded, opened the car door and said, “Oh, that’s right, it’s Holy Thursday. Yes, yes, we’ll be there. See you later, Martin.”
Martin watched as Karen climbed up into her steel gray Lincoln Navigator and waved at her as she started it up. He could feel the file slipping out the back of his arm and struggled to catch it. “I hope the Squirrel is still open,” he thought to himself, and pulled the door open to the Mall.
+ + +
The short hall of the Adventures Mall was empty, and all of the shops closed up tight. Though most of the shop windows showed that the stores were open until 8:00 p.m. on Thursday nights, today they all had handmade signs on their doors that said “Closed for Holy Week Observances”. In other words, everyone knew that no one would be shopping on Holy Thursday.
The Chattering Squirrel was open, but empty, and Martin took a seat at the biggest table in the restaurant so that he could spread out and get some work done. He pulled some papers out of the file folder and began reading. Connie, the waitress, came over to the table with a glass of ice water. “Hi, Martin,” she said shyly. Martin looked up from his reading and at the young girl who was ready to take his order. “Connie, how can you be working here? Aren’t you 13 or something?” Martin asked her playfully. “My dad owns the place, Martin. You know that,” she giggled and blushed. “Did you want to order anything? You’ll have to make it kind of fast. Dad wants to close up at 6:30 or so to make it to services.”
“Okay, I’ll make it easy for you,” he grinned at her and quickly looked at the menu. “How about a BLT on toast? With a Coke, please,” Martin said as he closed the menu and tucked it in back of the napkin holder. “Does your dad mind firing up the griddle for that bacon?”
“Nope, don’t worry about it,” she rifled back. “BLT it is,” and headed into the kitchen.
Martin settled in and first reviewed Shirley’s spreadsheet, for the fourth time that day, and then began reading the stories. The cold, emotionless facts on the pages wouldn’t have meant anything to the casual reader, but to Martin, who knew what he was looking for, he saw a trend, and it wasn’t good. As he continued reading, he tried to stay objective, but couldn’t. “I think I’d better think about what I’ll try to accomplish tonight at church,” he mumbled to himself.
Martin knew that the Howes would be at church at 7:00 p.m., and probably Dayton Daniels and his family, too. He wanted to observe them and maybe find an opportunity to reconnect with Karen Howe. Once that was done, he thought he’d casually talk to Jeff about a story he was doing on retiring teachers and if he could call him for a quote from the School Board Chairman. He decided to keep the request vague and conversational, just in case Howe knew about Talbot. Martin suspected that Jeff might avoid talking to him in an official capacity if he knew the questions would be about the predatory teacher.
Connie brought Martin his check at exactly 6:29, and Martin took out his money immediately and gave the young girl a healthy tip. “Thanks, Connie,” he said, “and tell your dad the sandwich was delicious.”
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Chapter 16
Martin spent the better portion of Wednesday studying the spreadsheet Shirley had prepared for him and reading the 19 years of corresponding stories she had copied and stacked neatly in chronological order in a manila expanding file. “Keep this out of Clark’s sight, Martin,” Shirley had warned him the previous night at Risky Dick’s. “He would shit a brick if he knew we were doing this.”
Martin knew Clark would not be happy to know he and Shirley were digging into a story that could cast a bad light on Burnett County. Martin also knew he had to plan out very carefully his next steps in taking this research and building a story that would…what? He thought throughout the day of what he was trying to accomplish by bring this story to light. Was it about getting justice for all the Native American girls whose lives Frank had ruined? Would he even care if Sharla hadn’t been one of that number?
And then, there was Shirley. One week ago, Martin knew nothing about her. She was a mystery he didn’t know much about. And now, she was his partner in crime, and he knew secrets about her life that were unknown by most of her friends and colleagues.
At the end of the day, Shirley called Martin on his phone extension and whispered to him, “Meet me in the conference room once everyone leaves.”
Martin looked around the office and saw that only Sam Jackson was left, and he was putting on his olive barn coat. “Don’t stay too late now, Marty,” Sam said as he pushed his chair under his desk. “You’ll make the rest of us look bad.”
Martin gave a forced chuckle and nodded. “Nope, I’ll be out of here in just a few minutes, Sam. Just need to finish up something.”
As Sam walked out, waving his hand above his head, Martin wondered what secrets could be discovered in Sam’s life. “What makes that guy so happy?” Martin thought.
+ + +
Martin heard Shirley’s clogs clunking across the wooden floor of the office as she moved to the conference room. Even though the offices were empty, he felt the need to shush her a bit as he carefully moved his chair back and got up to join her. “Martin, close the door,” Shirley said once he got in the room.
“Shirley, the office is empty. No one is here,” Martin responded, but closed the door anyway.
“I just want to make sure no one hears this if they happen to come back for something they forgot, or whatever,” she said quickly. She wrung her hands for a moment, and looked down at her pile of new stories shed copied throughout the day. When she looked back up at Martin, her face was dark and frowning.
“This just keeps getting worse and worse, Martin,” Shirley began. “At this point, I’m not sure if I’m seeing things that aren’t there, or if he’s been escalating through the years. I’ve got as many stories here from 1992 to 2000 as I’ve already given you for the first 19 years Talbot was teaching. More even! Stories about dropout rates, suicides attempts, unsolved attacks, vandalism at the school, you name it, all involving people from the Native American community and the school system here in Siren. It can’t be coincidence.”
Martin looked at her skeptically and held out his hand for the pile of stories. “We can’t really pin the entire decline of Burnett County on Frank Talbot, can we, Shirley?” he asked her. “Do you really see it all tied to Frank?”
Shirley shook her head, and answered, “No, no, I think I’m letting myself get carried away. At least a little.” She picked up the file, shook it and then slid it over to Martin. “But look at this, Martin. This is a lot of stuff. If even a portion of it can be tied to Talbot…”
Martin nodded and finished her thought, “…that’s a lot of girls’ lives that were ruined.” He paused a moment, looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “How long do you think it will take us to look through the newspapers from the last eight years?”
“I should be able to finish by the end of tomorrow,” Shirley replied. “And then it’s Good Friday, and the office is closed.”
Martin was conscious of the fact that at this point, Shirley was doing all the culling of stories, and he was merely reading and reacting to what she was giving him. As if reading his mind, Shirley said, “Martin, you have to come up with the plan for what you’re going to do with all this. I can find and pull the stories. You just think through what you’ll do next once you’ve looked it all over.”
“I know, and that’s what scares me,” Martin said as put his head down on the expanding file filled with potential evidence of Talbot’s misdeeds.
Shirley slapped her hand on the conference table, and Martin jerked his head up. “Hey, don’t give up on this now, Martin,” she said to him sharply. “You’re a smart guy. You can figure this out. Just keep playing dumb, and it will all come together.”
+ + +
Shirley was spot on with her timing. Another stack of stories, as high as the first 27 years together, was given to Martin by Shirley at the end of business on Thursday. They didn’t even make a pretense of what she was doing for him as the few co-workers who were still around at 5:00 p.m. saw their casual exchange and assumed she was just doing some copying for him for a new assignment he’d be tackling the following week.
“Thanks, Shirley,” Martin said to her. “I’ll read through everything this weekend, and by Monday, I’ll have a plan for what we should do next.”
“We, Martin?” Shirley asked him, with amusement in her voice. “I tell you what. You take it from here. The most I’ll commit to at this point is cheering you on silently from the sidelines.”
Martin was surprised at his own disappointment at knowing that they team work was now complete, and he was on his own. “Okay, Shirley, I’ll take it from here. Can I come to you for a little advice if I need it?” he asked her, shyly.
Shirley put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Yes, you can, but if I’m busy, you’ll just have to wait.” She slugged him in the arm, and continued, “I tell you what. I’ll go to church this weekend and pray for your work and your soul. I may even go tonight and remember the Last Supper of our Lord and Savior.”
Thinking about Shirley in church, taking the sacrament, made him laugh out loud. “Okay, you do that, Shirley.” As he turned to grab his coat from his desk chair, he stopped and turned back to look at her. “Wait a minute, Shirley. I wonder if any of the cast of characters in our little story here goes to St. Bart’s. Do you think any of them will be saying their prayers this weekend? I may just have to go and do a little repenting myself this weekend!”
Martin knew Clark would not be happy to know he and Shirley were digging into a story that could cast a bad light on Burnett County. Martin also knew he had to plan out very carefully his next steps in taking this research and building a story that would…what? He thought throughout the day of what he was trying to accomplish by bring this story to light. Was it about getting justice for all the Native American girls whose lives Frank had ruined? Would he even care if Sharla hadn’t been one of that number?
And then, there was Shirley. One week ago, Martin knew nothing about her. She was a mystery he didn’t know much about. And now, she was his partner in crime, and he knew secrets about her life that were unknown by most of her friends and colleagues.
At the end of the day, Shirley called Martin on his phone extension and whispered to him, “Meet me in the conference room once everyone leaves.”
Martin looked around the office and saw that only Sam Jackson was left, and he was putting on his olive barn coat. “Don’t stay too late now, Marty,” Sam said as he pushed his chair under his desk. “You’ll make the rest of us look bad.”
Martin gave a forced chuckle and nodded. “Nope, I’ll be out of here in just a few minutes, Sam. Just need to finish up something.”
As Sam walked out, waving his hand above his head, Martin wondered what secrets could be discovered in Sam’s life. “What makes that guy so happy?” Martin thought.
+ + +
Martin heard Shirley’s clogs clunking across the wooden floor of the office as she moved to the conference room. Even though the offices were empty, he felt the need to shush her a bit as he carefully moved his chair back and got up to join her. “Martin, close the door,” Shirley said once he got in the room.
“Shirley, the office is empty. No one is here,” Martin responded, but closed the door anyway.
“I just want to make sure no one hears this if they happen to come back for something they forgot, or whatever,” she said quickly. She wrung her hands for a moment, and looked down at her pile of new stories shed copied throughout the day. When she looked back up at Martin, her face was dark and frowning.
“This just keeps getting worse and worse, Martin,” Shirley began. “At this point, I’m not sure if I’m seeing things that aren’t there, or if he’s been escalating through the years. I’ve got as many stories here from 1992 to 2000 as I’ve already given you for the first 19 years Talbot was teaching. More even! Stories about dropout rates, suicides attempts, unsolved attacks, vandalism at the school, you name it, all involving people from the Native American community and the school system here in Siren. It can’t be coincidence.”
Martin looked at her skeptically and held out his hand for the pile of stories. “We can’t really pin the entire decline of Burnett County on Frank Talbot, can we, Shirley?” he asked her. “Do you really see it all tied to Frank?”
Shirley shook her head, and answered, “No, no, I think I’m letting myself get carried away. At least a little.” She picked up the file, shook it and then slid it over to Martin. “But look at this, Martin. This is a lot of stuff. If even a portion of it can be tied to Talbot…”
Martin nodded and finished her thought, “…that’s a lot of girls’ lives that were ruined.” He paused a moment, looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “How long do you think it will take us to look through the newspapers from the last eight years?”
“I should be able to finish by the end of tomorrow,” Shirley replied. “And then it’s Good Friday, and the office is closed.”
Martin was conscious of the fact that at this point, Shirley was doing all the culling of stories, and he was merely reading and reacting to what she was giving him. As if reading his mind, Shirley said, “Martin, you have to come up with the plan for what you’re going to do with all this. I can find and pull the stories. You just think through what you’ll do next once you’ve looked it all over.”
“I know, and that’s what scares me,” Martin said as put his head down on the expanding file filled with potential evidence of Talbot’s misdeeds.
Shirley slapped her hand on the conference table, and Martin jerked his head up. “Hey, don’t give up on this now, Martin,” she said to him sharply. “You’re a smart guy. You can figure this out. Just keep playing dumb, and it will all come together.”
+ + +
Shirley was spot on with her timing. Another stack of stories, as high as the first 27 years together, was given to Martin by Shirley at the end of business on Thursday. They didn’t even make a pretense of what she was doing for him as the few co-workers who were still around at 5:00 p.m. saw their casual exchange and assumed she was just doing some copying for him for a new assignment he’d be tackling the following week.
“Thanks, Shirley,” Martin said to her. “I’ll read through everything this weekend, and by Monday, I’ll have a plan for what we should do next.”
“We, Martin?” Shirley asked him, with amusement in her voice. “I tell you what. You take it from here. The most I’ll commit to at this point is cheering you on silently from the sidelines.”
Martin was surprised at his own disappointment at knowing that they team work was now complete, and he was on his own. “Okay, Shirley, I’ll take it from here. Can I come to you for a little advice if I need it?” he asked her, shyly.
Shirley put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Yes, you can, but if I’m busy, you’ll just have to wait.” She slugged him in the arm, and continued, “I tell you what. I’ll go to church this weekend and pray for your work and your soul. I may even go tonight and remember the Last Supper of our Lord and Savior.”
Thinking about Shirley in church, taking the sacrament, made him laugh out loud. “Okay, you do that, Shirley.” As he turned to grab his coat from his desk chair, he stopped and turned back to look at her. “Wait a minute, Shirley. I wonder if any of the cast of characters in our little story here goes to St. Bart’s. Do you think any of them will be saying their prayers this weekend? I may just have to go and do a little repenting myself this weekend!”
Friday, January 9, 2009
Chapter 15
Frank Talbot stood in front of his harvest gold Sears stove, slowly stirring some Campbell’s soup in a small metal sauce pan on the stove-top. The metal spoon he used to stir with hit the side of the pan in a rhythmic pattern, and Frank seemed hypnotized by the sound. He wore a pair of perfectly pressed Docker khakis and a tan Munsingwear shirt. His feet were shoved into the brown oxfords he wore to work every day. Even though Frank hadn’t left his apartment or seen anyone in four days, not since the Friday before Holy Week which kicked off spring break for schools in Burnett County, he was showered, shaved and dressed as if it were a work day.
Lost in his thoughts as he moved the spoon back and forth in the pan, Frank was jolted into consciousness when some of the soup slopped over onto the hot coils and made a sizzling sound. “Damn it,” he cursed under his breadth and took the bleached dishrag that was draped and drying over the water faucet over the sink to quickly wipe the liquid off the coils so his fire alarm wouldn’t go off. He carefully rinsed the rag with hot water, wrung it out and put it back over the faucet to dry. He filled the saucepan with hot, soapy water after pouring what soup was left in the pan into a small bowl, collected a sleeve of saltine crackers and moved to the old red and white flowered TV tray that stood in front of a tan Lazyboy rocker.
The TV tray was one of four that had belonged to Frank’s parents. He snuck it out of the house when he left home for good back in the 60’s. He knew it was his dad’s favorite because he ate dinner off it every single night of his life. The other three trays sat in their stand in the corner of the living room, never used. Frank’s dad refused to let anyone eat with him. He wanted to be alone to enjoy his dinner and the evening news. Once, when Frank was 14, he used the TV tray and his dad’s chair while eating lunch one day. His dad noticed some peanut butter smeared on the tray when he ate dinner that night. Before the beatings were done, Frank had a broken arm, two broken ribs and a face filled with cuts. His mother was in the hospital for a week. His little sister was still wetting the bed when Frank took off, TV tray in hand, six months later.
Frank nestled his rear end into the Lazyboy and sat forward with his knees under the tray to slurp his soup and dip his crackers. His apartment in the Harmony Village complex in Luck was bland but roomy. Frank’s furniture was still in perfect shape, even though it was over 20 years old. The living room suite with over-sized matching brown plaid sofa and loveseat, coffee table and two end tables he had purchased from Levitt’s showroom when it went out of business in the 80’s fit nicely into the over-sized living room with its light beige walls. There was just enough room for the worn tan Lazyboy and red and white TV tray to sit comfortably in the corner that faced the 52” television that Frank had perfectly positioned in the opposite corner of the room.
In addition to the living room and kitchen, Frank had two bedrooms, one which he used as an office, a bath and a half and a dining area. Except for one small saucepan soaking in the sink, there was not one thing out of place in the apartment. The only movement was that of Frank’s arm moving a spoon or a cracker slowly from the soup bowl to his mouth.
Lost in his thoughts as he moved the spoon back and forth in the pan, Frank was jolted into consciousness when some of the soup slopped over onto the hot coils and made a sizzling sound. “Damn it,” he cursed under his breadth and took the bleached dishrag that was draped and drying over the water faucet over the sink to quickly wipe the liquid off the coils so his fire alarm wouldn’t go off. He carefully rinsed the rag with hot water, wrung it out and put it back over the faucet to dry. He filled the saucepan with hot, soapy water after pouring what soup was left in the pan into a small bowl, collected a sleeve of saltine crackers and moved to the old red and white flowered TV tray that stood in front of a tan Lazyboy rocker.
The TV tray was one of four that had belonged to Frank’s parents. He snuck it out of the house when he left home for good back in the 60’s. He knew it was his dad’s favorite because he ate dinner off it every single night of his life. The other three trays sat in their stand in the corner of the living room, never used. Frank’s dad refused to let anyone eat with him. He wanted to be alone to enjoy his dinner and the evening news. Once, when Frank was 14, he used the TV tray and his dad’s chair while eating lunch one day. His dad noticed some peanut butter smeared on the tray when he ate dinner that night. Before the beatings were done, Frank had a broken arm, two broken ribs and a face filled with cuts. His mother was in the hospital for a week. His little sister was still wetting the bed when Frank took off, TV tray in hand, six months later.
Frank nestled his rear end into the Lazyboy and sat forward with his knees under the tray to slurp his soup and dip his crackers. His apartment in the Harmony Village complex in Luck was bland but roomy. Frank’s furniture was still in perfect shape, even though it was over 20 years old. The living room suite with over-sized matching brown plaid sofa and loveseat, coffee table and two end tables he had purchased from Levitt’s showroom when it went out of business in the 80’s fit nicely into the over-sized living room with its light beige walls. There was just enough room for the worn tan Lazyboy and red and white TV tray to sit comfortably in the corner that faced the 52” television that Frank had perfectly positioned in the opposite corner of the room.
In addition to the living room and kitchen, Frank had two bedrooms, one which he used as an office, a bath and a half and a dining area. Except for one small saucepan soaking in the sink, there was not one thing out of place in the apartment. The only movement was that of Frank’s arm moving a spoon or a cracker slowly from the soup bowl to his mouth.
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