We blew through Trenary like a renegade tornado. Cora Mae had a grip on my lower arm so tight I thought her spiky fingernails might sever it from my body. Kitty yelled “yah hoo” when we turned left in the center of town and headed out past the cemetery.
I heard a siren. When I looked behind us I saw lights. None of the commotion was coming from my truck. “Cops,” I said. “Now look what you’ve done! Nothing like calling attention to the fact that our equipment isn’t working.”
“I bet I can outrun him,” Kitty said, but I was ready for her. I held the stun gun up and turned it on. The faint hum convinced her that I meant business. She pulled over. “I’m getting a ticket for sure,” she said. “You should let me outrun him.”
“No way. And you’re the only one in the truck with a valid driver’s license,” I observed.
The state trooper sat in his car for a while before he opened his door and slowly walked up to the Trouble Buster. That gave me plenty of time to stash my illegal weapon on the floor. Stun guns, I’ve been told, are frowned upon by Michigan’s legal system.
Fred, riding in back, recognized the uniform approaching. The traitor wagged his tail in either recognition of a fellow public servant or in gratitude for stopping Kitty and saving our lives.
“In a big hurry?” the trooper said to Kitty, who handed over her driver’s license without being asked.
“I have a female problem,” Kitty said. “I need to find a bathroom right this minute.” Her voice went up a few octaves to let the cop know she was desperate.
“Stay where you are.” He went back to his car with her license.
“That didn’t work,” Cora Mae said. “What next? Should I hit on him?”
“Let’s see what he says first,” I suggested.
The state trooper ambled back to the truck, unconcerned with Kitty’s demanding bodily functions.
“Turn on the vehicle’s lights,” he ordered.
Kitty tried. Nothing.
“Thirty over.” He scribbled something on a pad of paper. “Faulty equipment, unregistered license plate.”
“This is my truck,” I said to prove him wrong in at least one area. “And those are my late husband’s license plates.”
“The plates are registered to another vehicle.”
“That would be the truck I rolled and totaled,” I told him.
“Plates have to be properly transferred.” He ripped off a sheet of paper and handed it to Kitty. He gave me a paper that said I had to go in and prove the lights were fixed. Then he handed me one for the plate switching problem.
“This is outrageous,” Kitty shouted after reading her ticket. “I’ll see you in court.”
“I’m going to follow behind you,” he said, ignoring her outburst. “I want the vehicle parked until the faulty lights are repaired and the truck is properly licensed.”
He sounded just like Blaze.
I expected Kitty to turn the Trouble Buster around and head home. She surprised me. “What’s Angie’s address?” she asked.
I directed her along, making a left turn on the other side of Trenary, with our personal escort right behind us.
Kitty pulled into a short driveway leading to a cracker-box house and turned off the truck. The state trooper eased past us.
The lights were on inside Angie’s house and all the shades were drawn.
We got out of the truck and waved to the cop when he made another pass.
With all the noise outside, I expected Angie to open the door and peek out. But she didn’t.
“What should we do?” Cora Mae whispered.
“Knock on the door,” Kitty said. She boldly marched up the two-step concrete porch and thumped.
Nothing.
Kitty tried the door. “Locked,” she said.
Fred jumped down from the bed of the truck and followed me to the back door, where I rapped twice before realizing the door jamb had been pried loose.
“We’re in,” I whispered to my partners, pulling the sleeve of my hunting jacket down around my fist and opening the door through the cloth. “Don’t touch anything.” I cautiously walked in, listening for sounds, but an empty house has a certain feel to it and this one was empty for sure. Angie and whoever had pried the back door lock were gone.
The ex-teller wasn’t a great housekeeper, but she didn’t have much to work with. Every yellowed shade in the house was pulled down. Every light was blazing brightly. The kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes, the bed in the only bedroom was unmade, strands of hair coated the bathroom counter.
“Angie’s moving out,” Kitty said, eyeing up several cardboard boxes lined up along the bedroom wall.
“She was moving in,” Cora Mae said. “That’s what I heard. She’s new to these parts. What do you think, Gertie? Was she coming or going?”
I scanned the interior of the tiny bedroom closet, seeing a line of metal hangers like the ones used by dry cleaning businesses. A few hangers were thrown carelessly on the floor. Other than that, Angie’s closet was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.
“Going,” I said with confidence, “in a hurry.”
“Or she would have turned off the lights,” Kitty said.
What I didn’t know for sure was whether or not her exit from her home had been voluntary. The jimmied door concerned me.
Angie Gates, I decided, was running with the wrong pack, a gang of Michigan predators. But whose side was she really on?
Chapter 14
Word For The Day
ADIPOSE (AD uh pohs’) adj.
Containing animal fat: fatty.
Alternate Word
PERT-NER(purt nir) Yooper phrase.
An approximation: not exact
IT SNOWED THROUGH THE NIGHT, just a light dusting but enough for our needs. I could smell the rich aroma of cedar as George and I set out from the house to take our first sauna together. Dry stones gathered from the Escanaba River popped and hissed when George ladled on more water from a scoop in a bucket.
He had built the sauna behind my barn in his spare time with his own hands, cutting cedar planks to just the right lengths and pounding the boards together until the sauna stood tall and ready for social gatherings.
This crisp Sunday morning was as good a time as any to break it in with the man who made it happen.
George peeled off his jeans while I searched the ceiling, pretending to study the “stud” work. Cora Mae would enjoy the pun later when I filled her in.
I wore a pair of Barney’s old sweatpants to cover my adipose thighs and a baggy T-shirt to hide my waistline bulge. When I sneaked a peek, George was pantless and in the process of unbuttoning his flannel shirt. The shirt was long enough to cover his fine buns, but not too long. I caught a glimpse of muscular, man-hairy legs.
What was I doing here watching George undress? What about my life-long commitment to Barney? My husband had visited me in my dreams last night, as he likes to do when I’m worrying about something. Keep on living, he’d whispered, life is short, embrace it and squeeze out every happy moment you can. I tried to get my arms around him, force him to stay with me, but he faded away in the early morning light.
“Are you sure you want to hold me to our agreement?” George said, grinning as he peeled off the shirt, exposing the rest of his body. I hoped if Barney was around, he couldn’t hear my thoughts, because my lifelong partner never, ever looked like this.
“The agreement,” George prodded, while my eyes wandered down to make sure he was holding up his end of the bargain.
I nodded, noting with relief that he wasn’t in his birthday suit. “Swim suits,” I sputtered. “That’s the rule.”
In the U.P. we like to take our saunas wearing nothing at all, except maybe a towel. That’s the old way, and custom is important to us. This morning, I was throwing tradition to the wind and hanging on to caution.
Saunas are an important part of our community. They are healthy for us in mind, body, and spirit. We sweat away impurities and increase our blood circulation without having to lift a finger. In fact, right this minute as George sat down beside me, my pulse went up a notch or two on its own.