I tried to be supportive.
"That looks terrific," I said.
"I don’t know. The jacket isn’t quite right with the skirt."
"Now, I really like that choice," I said.
"I think I might like the last combination better."
There really was no helping Beth pick out clothes. So while she persisted in her search for the perfect outfit, I showered, shaved, and donned my grey slacks, white oxford shirt, and navy blazer. A grey and navy tie with red accents, a splash of cologne, and my signature oxblood penny loafers completed the look.
I know the loafers aren’t exactly high fashion, but I’ve had my fill of lacing and tying over the last couple decades. I like slip-ons. These loafers look nice — fantastic, even.
It was 6:30 and I was set. Beth had selected her attire, at least preliminarily. While she showered, I went downstairs, picked up the local paper and lounged on the red leather couch, feet up on the old wooden bass drum case that served as our coffee table.
It wouldn’t take long to read the paper. It usually contained twelve pages or less. So I took my time. I read every article and even some of the Classifieds.
One day a month, anyone could post a short classified add for free. Today was the day.
"Lawn mower for sale. Used to run great. $20 obo." I used to run the hurdles.
"Slightly used queen mattress set. $10." Yuck!
"Three cross country skis with poles. Make an offer." Hmmm?
I scanned the page of obituaries, traffic accidents, speeding tickets, and miscellaneous items of local interest. Readers fondly referred to this page as "the Briefs" and it was by far the most widely followed, and closely scrutinized, page in the paper. Everyone wanted to know who died, or was in trouble with the law, or had their car window broken. If one didin’t know such things, what would one talk about?
On page two of the paper, next to the editorial for the day (‘Should garbage collection fees increase?’) a short article about a fertilizer truck heist caught my eye. The truck-jacking happened last week. Apparently, the driver had stopped to help a motorist in need. The next thing he knew, his truck was gone.
I pictured a semi-load of manure and wondered how the economy had gotten so bad.
Then I remembered that ‘fertilizer’ might also include the makings of truck bombs. Near the end of the article, the reporter identified the cargo as nitrogen. That’s the bomb making stuff… but there was no discernable connection to either potassium or the nuke. A truck bomb would never get close enough to do damage before being repelled, or detonated, by plant security. Of that much, I was certain. The truck-jacking probably was not relevant to my concerns.
After finishing the paper, I went out to our (and by that I mean, Beth’s) garden and cut some early blooming tulips to present to my date. I found a vase and arranged the tulips quite nicely, I thought.
Beth came down the stairs. I met her as she entered the kitchen.
"I brought you flowers, my love." I held the tulip-filled vase out toward Beth, presentation style.
She looked stunning as always. She had chosen an outfit I can’t accurately describe because of my lack of vocabulary in the area of women’s attire. But it looked perfect in every way. It tastefully accentuated all the right parts. And her scent was enticing.
"How lovely!" She accepted the vase of tulips, pretending to inhale their sweet aroma, of which there wasn’t any. Tulips are not aromatic. "You are my gallant prince."
"Never let it be said that I didn’t do the least I could do, my sweet." I motioned toward the front door. "Shall we?"
"Indeed."
I took the vase from Beth, and set it down, featuring it prominently on the kitchen table.
It was a short walk to the restaurant. Almost everything of import in Red Wing is a short walk from our house. As we strolled, we visited about her day. An hour at the law office chatting with Karen. A stop at the grocery store to lay in some staples. A short CIA cyber-decryption project. And an afternoon of serious art, jewelry, and clothing research at multiple locations.
We arrived at the restaurant precisely at seven-thirty and the hostess seated us promptly. The Nortons is my favorite location for fine dining in Red Wing. The decor echoes the roaring twenties, when times were good and dining was elegant. The menu is fairly brief, but it offers something for every discerning palate. The restaurant owners, not surprisingly, the Nortons, had created each recipe themselves and personally assured that every meal was prepared to perfection.
I selected a bottle of Merlot from the wine list and relayed my choice to the waitress. The wine, together with a basket of sliced baguette and a small dish of iced butter patties, arrived at our table shortly. The waitress uncorked the wine, handed me the cork, and poured a small amount in my glass. I sniffed the cork as she poured. After swirling the wine in sophisticated fashion, I tested its aroma, then tasted a sip.
"This will be just fine. Thank you."
The waitress poured Beth’s wine, then mine. She left the bottle on the table, and with a bow, departed.
"To soul mates," I offered, raising my glass as our eyes met.
"And lovers," Beth added. Our glasses rang a clear tone in the quiet room. We raised them again toward one another and each enjoyed a sip of the Merlot.
"Delicious," Beth said, placing the wine stem back on the white cloth. She unfolded her linen napkin and laid it gracefully across her lap. "We’ve talked enough about my day. What adventures do you have to share?"
I wasn’t sure if my conundrum was right for dinner conversation. But Beth and I share everything, so I thought I’d give it a shot.
"I’ve got kind of a mess. Are you up for helping me sort through it?"
"Let’s give it a try, shall we." A slight British accent. She liked to do that to lighten the mood. I found it endearing.
"Here’s what I’ve got." I relayed the details about the murder, the international cell call, the probable killer, potassium, my visits with Bull and Winston.
"And in tonight’s paper, I read about a fertilizer truck hi-jacking. A whole semi-load. It was the kind of fertilizer that anti-government types use to make bombs."
Beth sat watching my eyes intently as I spoke. Her facial expression confirmed that I held her complete attention as I plodded through the details of my quandary. I could be reciting Dr. Seuss and Beth would still give me her undivided attention, if she thought it was important to me. I loved her for that, too.
"You certainly have a lot of dots to connect," she said when I had finished. "Let’s see… you have a murder suspect who your gut tells you may be a terrorist. The nuclear plant, and particularly the spent fuel pool, you think may be his target. Potassium may be part of the means of attack. Mongolians might, somehow, be related. And someone stole a truckload of fertilizer that could be used to make a bomb, but that type of bomb doesn’t appear to threaten the nuke plant.
"Is that about it?"
"Yeah. Oh, and Gunner probably thinks I’m certifiable. Any thoughts?"
Beth looked across the table. She sensed my frustration and would try to relieve it.
"Yes," she said momentarily. "First of all, in the many years we have been together, I have found your gut to be one of the most reliable indicators in the universe. Don’t ignore it just because nothing makes sense yet.
"Secondly, no one is going to take you seriously with the evidence you’ve accumulated so far. It’s all too circumstantial. Crying ‘wolf’ at this point will only undermine your credibility when you do have more evidence. So I wouldn’t share any further theories with law enforcement right now.
"Finally… a suggestion. Nobody could possibly be a better terrorist than you. You have fought and defeated terrorist operations for most of your life. Think like a terrorist. Given what you know now, how would you attack the target?"