Girl Most Likely

Five

After almost a week back home with his daughter, Keith Larson was already settling into a routine.

And “back home” was how he thought of it. He and his late wife had lived here for many more years than in the Marion Street ranch-style across the river. This was where he and Karen had raised Krista, and when the couple turned the house over to their daughter — what, seven years ago now? — they had left many of their things behind.

The big house was furnished mostly with Karen’s hard-fought collection of mission-style furniture, particularly vintage Stickley things — chairs and a sofa and tables and cabinets with that distinctive stained oak finish, the metal fittings, the leather coverings, the boxy designs. To this she’d added touches — lamps with stained-glass shades, beaten-copper candlesticks, and hand-turned earthenware. Karen often said the contents were more valuable than the house.

He and Karen had been pleased when Krista restricted her additions to modern mission-style things, from her computer table to the TV stand in the den. And when she’d thought about upgrading the guest bedroom with a new Arts and Crafts — type, but more comfortable, king-size bed, Krista had taken it well when her mother asked her not to. The bed was real Stickley, and anyway (Keith had added), why encourage guests to overstay their welcome?

That was the bedroom he’d slept in the first two nights. But he’d had trouble sleeping, and found himself wandering in the wee hours into the bedroom he’d shared for so many years with Karen. Both nights he wound up sleeping on top of the covers. On the third night, he started out in that room and, at some point, crawled under the covers.

That felt better to him. That felt right. Was it odd he always seemed to end up on her side of the bed?

Yes, things were going well, but there was no question about it: Krista was trying a little too hard. His daughter had spent God-knew-how-much at Walmart buying a 65-inch TV, one of the new 4K models (whatever that was), for the basement rec room, specifically to encourage him to fix the space up as a man cave (awful term!) so he could invite his buddies over for Cubs, Bears, Bulls, and Blackhawks games — also Hawkeyes football and basketball, since so many of his old cop cronies lived over in Iowa.

He’d tried to get her to take the monstrosity back — it seemed ridiculously large to him — but she refused, claiming she thought it would be fun to watch movies on.

This was patently untrue, because the rec room was in no shape for regular viewing, and anyway they had a perfectly good flat-screen half that size in the den where the family had always watched TV. The room was cozy with a two-seater overstuffed couch that was definitely not Arts and Crafts, though the built-in bookcases were (albeit not designed for the collection of DVDs and Blu-rays that lived on those shelves now, Krista’s British shows, and his own John Wayne — centric collection).

Anyway, Krista was clearly overthinking his circumstances, as if she were afraid if he wasn’t kept busy, he’d stick the barrel of his Smith & Wesson M&P nine in his mouth again.

The very first day she had presented him with a list printed out on her computer. It said:

Going over that list, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe suicide wasn’t such a bad option.

But he would chip away at the list. He was up for all of it, although he might leave the sink and the squirrels to more experienced hands.

On Wednesday he’d put the Smith & Wesson M&P nine millimeter automatic in the top drawer of the guest bedroom where he’d at first been sleeping. On Thursday, he decided to move all his things back into that master bedroom he and Karen had shared for so long. When he first opened the drawer, to start the move across the hall, he thought Krista had removed the gun, maybe hidden it from him. But then he realized he must have covered up the weapon inadvertently, just getting into the drawer for his drawers.

He chastised himself for thinking ill of his daughter, but when he hefted the S&W, the weapon felt light. Upon closer examination, he realized it was unloaded.

And his box of nine millimeter shells, which he’d tucked in one corner among his underwear, was MIA. He searched the drawer and then, somewhat ridiculously, all the other drawers, even the nightstand ones.

So she’d left him his gun, but stolen his bullets.

He could confront her, of course — “Even Barney Fife got one bullet!” — and she would undoubtedly cave and give them back to him. But he would rather find them. If discovering her previous housemate’s recent presence wasn’t enough to convince her of his detective abilities, he would further demonstrate.

As George W. Bush had once said, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me — you can’t get fooled again.”

He tried her underwear drawer, figuring she might stash the cartridges where she figured he’d be too embarrassed to look. A cop should have known better than that. And maybe she did, because he found no bullets stored among her bras and panties and lacy unmentionables, leaving him with nothing but the red flush of embarrassment.

Still, he figured he was on the right track. An intuitive flash sent him to the upstairs bathroom near Krista’s bedroom. He opened the supply closet onto shelves of towels, Band-Aids, Q-tips, bubble bath, hair spray, deodorant, toothpaste, bathroom cleaners, toilet paper, and... Tampax.

Three boxes, one in front of the other.

He just stared at them for the longest time — maybe five seconds. Couldn’t quite bring himself to look inside. So he shook the first one. Nothing but a gentle, papery rattle. He shook the second one. The same. He shook the third, which had already tipped its hand by its weight, and heard a clunk.

The previously opened, and otherwise empty, feminine hygiene box contained his black box of 147-grain Speer Gold Dot nine millimeter cartridges.

He reclaimed them.

Then, with a smile, he went to his daughter’s room, where she had a notepad by her nightstand phone, and wrote: If you need to borrow ammo, just ask. This he tore off the pad, folded, and put inside the empty feminine hygiene box.

If she’d found the note, it hadn’t come up at any of their subsequent regular evening meals. Or at their breakfasts, which she was fixing, the same as her mother always had — scrambled eggs, toasted English muffin, butter not jam, and orange juice. He had never been a coffee drinker and she got hers at work.

As the week progressed, he settled into a routine. On Tuesday he’d arranged for a membership at the local fitness center, where he would exercise three mornings a week and swim any day he felt like it. He had always enjoyed the many restaurants a tourist town like Galena offered and would, unless he got tired of it, take lunch somewhere downtown. So far he’d tried the Victory Café, the Golden Hen, and the Green Street Tavern. Liked them all.

In the afternoon, he would chip away at Krista’s list of things for him to do. And, so far at least, he would by midafternoon be preparing supper for his daughter and himself. He had planned the whole week’s menu, and driven on Tuesday afternoon back to Dubuque for meat at Cremer’s Superette, and Hy-Vee for everything else.

Today, he made skipperlabskovs — veal again, a pound and a half of it, onions, peppercorns, medium-size Idahos (peeled and cubed), chives, bay leaves, and plenty of butter. This would make more than one meal for them, and the smell of the stew was sheer ambrosia.

Oh, how nice it was to be back in this kitchen again. He could almost feel Karen peeking in to see how he was doing, or sense her creeping up on him to give his ass a friendly pinch. But she’d always known not to hover.

When Krista came home, she knew immediately from the warm, wonderful aroma what her father was cooking. He knew it was another favorite of hers, and a couple of times a year (after he and Karen moved across the river) they would have their girl over for the stuff.

“Sailor’s stew!” she cried, coming in the kitchen door. “Fantastic!”

Keith, in a BEARS sweatshirt and jeans and socks, smiled as he stirred. “Faucets just needed new washers.”

“Nice to have a man around the house,” she said, just behind him now, putting an arm around his waist and squeezing.

He almost said, “You mean nice to have a real man around the house,” but thought better of it.

“I’ll change,” she said, climbing out of her windbreaker, heading into the formal dining room they little used.

Don’t ever change, he thought, and stirred stew.

She came back wearing a light blue terry-cloth bathrobe and he gave her a quizzical look.

“I have the reunion tonight,” she said. She went to the cupboard for dishes. “I’m not dressing till after my bath.”

“Thought that was tomorrow,” he said, then tasted the stew. Delicious. “The reunion, I mean. Not your bath.”

She smiled at that, setting the table now. “Casual night. At the Brewing Company.”

They said very little as they ate. The food had their full attention, although several times Krista also said, “Delicious.”

“A pity,” he said, “so few know of my culinary genius.”

“Few realize you know a word like ‘culinary.’”

“Also true.”

She shrugged without disturbing her latest spoonful of stew. “I don’t mind having you to myself.”

They shared a slice of cheesecake from Hy-Vee, just slivers. He’d made tea for them both.

Though she’d been pleasant before and throughout the meal, he could tell something was troubling her. Nothing overt. But he was her father.

“What is it, honey?”

She sighed. “Just some sad news.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “Remember Sue Logan?”

“Don’t think so.”

“She was in my class. Redhead, blue eyes, very cute. Busty.”

“Cheerleader?”

She laughed. “I knew if I gave you the right clues you’d solve it.”

“Something wrong where she’s concerned? Not coming to the reunion?”

Krista shook her head. “She was killed.”

He frowned. “Accident?”

A swallow. “Murder.”

“Ah, that’s terrible. Horrible. She didn’t live around here, did she? Or we’d have heard about it.”

“She was in Florida. Clearwater. This was months ago. August, I think. Jessy told me. Pop, it sounds like some... some maniac did it. I know that’s silly...”

“No. Maniacs are a lot of things. Silly isn’t one of them. What happened to her?”

“Somebody came up to her door and just stabbed her. Multiple times.” She shivered. “Pop, I love being a cop. I really like the job, and I can handle the sad, even tragic stuff. Comes with the territory. Mostly you’re helping people, and around here, people are nice to police. Most of the tourists, too.”

“I know.”

Her sigh came deep. “But something like what happened to Sue? I don’t know if I could handle that.”

“Sure you could.”

“There hasn’t been a murder on my watch. We have everything else — burglaries, domestic violence, fights, you name it — but not murder. And before that case I helped you on — and that was mostly on your turf — there hadn’t been any murders in Galena in twenty years.”

She was talking about a homicide case they’d wound up working together two years ago. That had been high profile and undoubtedly had led to her making chief at so young an age.

He reached over and touched her hand. “Don’t you let it put a damper on the festivities this weekend. Every class has its tragedies. That’s what makes reunions so bittersweet.”

She was nodding. “I know. I know. Just one of those freak things. We already had a death with that car accident last year, and two boys in my class died in Iraq.”

“Don’t let any of that keep you from enjoying yourself. Class reunions are special. Your mother and I never missed one. Hers or mine.”

Their arrangement, already set in stone, was that he cooked supper and she did the cleanup, including the pots, pans, and dishes, washing them off and rinsing them out and piling them into the dishwasher, although that ancient chugging machine needed replacing. He was surprised it hadn’t been on the “To Do” list.

She was heading over to the sink with their dishes when he said, “Hey, I’ll handle those. You go ahead and get ready.”

“Thanks, Pop,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek and scurried out.

He was watching the news on the TV in the den when she appeared between the French doors looking impossibly young and every bit as pretty as her late mother, which took some doing. Her short hair was different, fuller, with some waves in it. At work she didn’t wear much if any makeup, but tonight she’d applied some, delicately. She was in a red sweater and dark jeans, with black-and-red cowboy boots.

“Uh, Papa...”

He muted CNN. “Yes, sweetie?”

“I’m going to this with, uh, Jerry tonight. You remember Jerry?”

He sat up in his recliner, the only piece of furniture he’d brought with him. “Jerry who until last week was living here? That Jerry?”

Quietly, leaning against a door, she said, “That Jerry. Yes.”

He raised a palm. “None of my business. Have a good time.”

She could only get half a smile working. “I just... he and I were already going to this thing together, so I didn’t break the date.”

“Nothing to explain.”

“We kind of made a truce. Just for tonight.”

He got up and went over to her. Put his hands on her shoulders. “Honey, he can move back in as far as I’m concerned.”

“But you would move out.”

“Right.”

She laughed a little and the doorbell rang.

He followed her into the living room, but kept his distance as she answered it. Jerry, in a black jacket over a gray shirt and blue jeans and sneakers, stepped in and smiled at her, then noticed Keith standing half a room away.

“Mr. Larson,” he said, the smile curdling some.

“Jerome. How’s the writing coming?”

“The novel? Getting there.”

Keith crossed the room, nearer now but not much. Not wanting to crowd his daughter. Or her date.

Keith asked, “What’s it about this time?”

That reflected Keith’s awareness of many abandoned Great American Novels of Jerry’s that had preceded this one.

“Uh,” Jerry said, “a coming of age thing.”

“Can’t wait to read it. Have fun, you two.”

And Keith went back in the TV room.

He heard the front door close and got up and headed into the kitchen, helped himself to a Carlsberg, opened it, swigged twice, taking it with him as he walked through the dining room and around to his study, where he had a desk and a computer. He put “Susan Logan,” “homicide,” and “Clearwater, Florida” into Google.

He got a Tampa Bay Times account of the murder. A detective named Hastings had the case. Two follow-up articles indicated no resolution.

He called his friend Lou Ramos, a detective across the river who’d been his partner for a while, and asked, “You have pals in Florida, Lou? Police variety?”

“A couple.”

Lou was active in the National Association of Police Organizations. He was always going to some NAPO convention, seminar, or conference. He and his wife didn’t get along.

Keith asked, “How about the Tampa area?”

“I know a Tampa guy. Hell of a cop. You should see him drink.”

“What about Clearwater?”

“That’s almost the same as Tampa. But, no, nobody in Clearwater.”

“Could you give me your Tampa friend’s number?”

Lou did that, and Keith called the guy, who did sound like he’d been drinking. But friendly, and he knew Detective Hastings, who he didn’t think would mind hearing from a fellow officer, even a retired one.

So within half an hour of Krista leaving, Keith was talking to the officer in charge of the Sue Logan homicide. Keith explained the victim was an old friend of his daughter, who by the way was the police chief locally. Did they have any kind of line on the perp?

“Some random nut, we think,” Hastings said.

“Can you fill me in a little?”

“Well, we think the Logan woman may have known her killer. She lived alone, and she had a conceal and carry, which she got because she was carjacked one time. Made her paranoid, I guess, the guy who worked it told me.”

“But not so paranoid she didn’t open her door to her killer.”

“Right. So she knew the killer, trusted him or her but probably him — it was dark, but the door had a glass panel — and she answered it.”

“From what I read online, her killer attacked her right there in the doorway.”

“Right. Eight deep thrusts of what we think was a knife blade, all in the chest. That’s partly why we think it’s a man — wounds went deep.”

“But a woman in a frenzy could do that.”

“Which is why we don’t rule that out. So what’s your interest in this, buddy? Or is it your daughter’s, ’cause she’s chief there?”

“Nothing except Sue Logan was a local girl. Sue and my daughter were in high school together, and this weekend’s the class reunion. Thought if there was any news, any leads you might be able to share, her friends might like to know.”

“Well, there isn’t. Anything else?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Nice talking to you,” Hastings said, and hung up.