“Convince people that Otter Tail County is safe.”
Shouldn’t have been too hard, what Ron Sims was asking. Otter Tail County was plop in the heart of gorgeous northern Minnesota. From the air, it appeared more lakes than land, a fistful of sapphires scattered across an emerald field. On the ground, at least in March, it smelled like melting snow and rich black dirt. Most residents didn’t lock their doors, and they’d be sure to stop and ask if you were okay if they happened upon you stalled on the side of the road. Five bucks at a local café bought you coffee, juice, bacon, toast, and eggs done any way. Kids sold lemonade on corners come summer, about the same time of the year as the turtle races started back up. Norman Rockwell surely had held the area gently in mind when he painted his folksy vision of America.
Convince people that Otter Tail County is safe.
Not only should Ron’s demand have been a slam dunk, as editor, owner, and publisher of the Battle Lake Recall, his request was reasonable. It’s not like he was, say, my gynecologist requesting that I spin a shiny PR web across a whole county. I’d written articles for his newspaper since I’d relocated to Battle Lake, Minnesota, one year ago this month. I was known mostly for my weekly, passive—aggressive “Battle Lake Bites” recipe column, but there was room to expand. Writing one positive Otter Tail County article a week was well within my ability and job description.
As a decided plus, Ron was offering to pay me extra to punch out the PR column, and I needed the money. Bad. I’d taken a pay ding at the library to help it stay afloat after the county budget was slashed, and it looked like another cut was coming soon. The powers that be had threatened to fold us into Fergus Falls’ larger library if we didn’t trim our speck of a budget even further. Taking more out of my salary would bury me under poverty wages. I currently made side money as an odd—jobber for a local lawyer, but that cheddar wasn’t enough to cover a modest plate of nachos. The only bonus was that the Girl Friday work for the attorney shambled me closer to obtaining my private eye license, a goal that required approximately a gazillion hours of supervised work.
Altogether, I made enough to stay afloat if I didn’t treat myself to luxuries like, say, fresh fruit or dental floss.
This March, though, I wanted to do more than scrape by. I wanted to save a nice egg so I could treat Johnny Leeson to a romantic vacation. He’d been my #1 for months now, a Greek god sculpted of steel and drizzled with honey, his smile guaranteed to weaken my knees and tingle my tidbits, his strong fingers magic at locating my shivery spots. We’d been through a lot, he and I, most of it consisting of crises I manufactured. Crises that were punctuated by, um, unexpected outside events.
Last month had been the worst.
Last month, my heart was shredded. My beautiful, wholehearted, goofy friend Jed had been murdered on a train ride to Oregon, right in front of my eyes, trying to save my life. He had been one of the last innocents, a pure puppy ball of love and kindness. I’d slept only in fits since I lost him, images and dreams of Jed playing across the back of my eyelids. Some of them were terrible, gray with guilt, his hands slipping through mine as he fell screaming to his death. Others were bright bits of his life, so real that some mornings I would wake up thinking he was still alive, a smile on my face.
And then I’d remember.
Johnny had been by my side ever since, nearly living at my place, and as much as my fear—brain was screaming at me to run, to end the relationship before it exploded on its own, my love—brain told me to stay put and cultivate gratitude. It can get seriously noisy in my head, yeah?
For once, though, I was listening to my love—brain. It convinced me that because Johnny was leaving tomorrow for a week in Wisconsin, I should plan a getaway for when he returned. Something romantic, just the two of us, to show him how much I loved him and that I appreciated all the thoughtful gestures he made for me. All I had to do was come up with a destination and the money to cover it.
Cue Ron, and his offer.
If you’re keeping score, his request was reasonable, appropriate, and well—timed.
But here’s the thing.
Not even counting Jed, I’d stumbled across a dozen murdered corpses, at an average of one a month, since I’d moved to Otter Tail County.
I don’t think a single one of the deceased would argue that the county was safe.
Of course, they might argue that the problem was me and not this neck of God’s country. Before I moved to Battle Lake a year ago, the whole area was sweet and sleepy with a nearly nonexistent homicide rate. The only problems they’d encountered were of the small—town variety, like people driving their lawnmowers to the bar so they wouldn’t get a DWI on the way home, or, if the rumors were true, your occasional Peeping Tom.
The alarming murder spike had coincided exactly with my appearance.
To be fair, though, before I’d arrived, I’d never come across a single corpse, if we don’t count driving past the odd woodland creature taking a pancake nap on the highway. Sure, my dad was officially deceased, but I’d had nothing to do with that. Besides, his funeral had been closed casket. A career alcoholic, he’d killed a family and himself in a head—on collision the summer before my junior year of high school. The situation wasn’t cleanly murder or suicide, just a sad, horrible mess that made my mom and me as popular as goose poop in my hometown of Paynesville.
I ditched that wide spot on the map the second I graduated high school and shimmied up the road, landing in Minneapolis. Enrollment at the University of Minnesota led to a BA in English. I also waited tables, made terrible dating choices, and applied for my own career in alcoholism. When that didn’t pan out like I’d hoped, I signed up for graduate school, possibly one of the first good choices of my adult life. I was a few classes in when I caught my musician boyfriend, heretofore known as Bad Brad, giving flesh horn lessons to another woman.
I packed up and hit the road once more.
Battle Lake was the only light that beckoned. My friend Sunny, a Battle Lake native, was traveling to Alaska to be with Dean, her uni—brow lover. She needed someone to house—sit her doublewide on the outskirts of the tiny town. I took over her life, including adopting her dog, a German Shepherd mix named Luna. The house—sitting was only supposed to last through the summer, but in the unlikeliest of outcomes, I’d found a place in Battle Lake. I loved living on Sunny’s slice of heaven. The prefab house was the perfect size for me, Luna, and Tiger Pop, my gender—fluid Calico kitty. Several picturesque outbuildings added charm to the land, and in the summer, I cultivated a nice—sized garden right outside my door. On the opposite side, the silvery surface of Elbow Lake winked at me when it was warm and offered a glassy ice—skating spot in the winter.
Besides the natural beauty of my home, as the town’s head librarian
at least until we found someone qualified to take over
and a columnist for the newspaper, I was putting my English degree to good use. As a super bonus, I, a woman whose only consistent type had been “fixer—upper,” had fallen hardcore for the aforementioned Johnny Leeson, a guy who was most certainly too good for messed—up me.
Otter Tail County had turned out to be weirdly perfect. Except for those dozen dead bodies, of course.
The first corpse was my murdered lover. I literally stumbled over his body in the library last May. Next came a nasty surprise I discovered sealed inside a safe in June. You guessed it—another dead body. This was followed by a scalped man I found in a cabin in July, a religious cult I uncovered along with a handful of corpses in August, and … you get the picture, right? A murder a month, for nearly a year. That’s why making this slice of the earth pie appear safe and welcoming was tougher than it looked.
Maybe the problem wasn’t Otter Tail County. But that doesn’t mean it was me, either.
Maybe the problem was me in Otter Tail County. And now Ron Sims was handing me an opportunity to rectify the situation by writing an ongoing puff piece to end all puff pieces: weekly features on the beauty, culture, and safety that was Otter Tail County. He’d asked me to start this very week with a survey of the most popular community education classes the region offered: a bridge club, water aerobics, mountain climbing for cowards, a cooking class, and finally, yoga. Was this column falling into my lap a gift from karma, offering me a chance to even the score? After all, other than its general corpsiness, Otter Tail County had been good to me.
Really good.
“Exactly what will you pay me to write these articles?”
Ron set down his coffee cup. The mug was old school white porcelain, perfectly in keeping with the ’50s diner atmosphere of the Turtle Stew. The Stew’s atmosphere wasn’t a million—dollar, modern—trying—to—look—retro ’50s diner, by the way. The building had genuinely not been updated since the middle of the century. It still housed a pie case by the cash register. The counter was lined with upholstered stools, two of which Ron and I were currently occupying. We could have chosen a red Naugahyde booth on the perimeter of the diner or a particle board table in the center if they weren’t all crammed with the buzzing morning rush. No matter where you sat in the Stew, though, you were guaranteed cozy food that tasted like home and took four hours to digest.
Ron introduced his sentence with a grunt. “What am I paying you to write the Bites column?”
“Twenty bucks a pop, cash.”
He shook his head. “Jesus.”
“I know.” I swirled a generous pour of half and half into my coffee. I liked it creamy, not sweet. “You told me I was lucky to get any money for it.”
He had the decency to appear sheepish as he shrugged. “None of us thought you’d last long. I didn’t want to fuss with paperwork.”
I nodded agreeably. I hadn’t thought I’d be around this long, either. “If you want me to take on another column, one with extensive research involved, you need to make me official. Put me on payroll, two—fifty a week, plus a travel budget.”
He tipped back another chug of his black coffee, his expression landing somewhere between “thoughtful” and “testicle cramp.” The clank and scurry of the Turtle Stew’s breakfast crowd held us in a pocket, a bacon—and—toast scented cloud of stillness. Despite an overpowering urge to fill the silence between us with nonsense words, a bad habit of mine when I was anxious, I held my tongue. Ron might appear to be a disheveled middle—aged man with a penchant for energetically and publicly making out with his wife, drinking off—brand cola, and scratching himself in places that you should wash your hand after touching
he didn’t
, but I wasn’t fooled. He’d proven his intelligence too many times to disregard. He knew I’d do the work for less money.
He was also kind, though I’d promised him I wouldn’t let anyone else in on that secret.
“I dunno about two—fifty,” Ron finally said. He signaled for a coffee refill. “That’s twelve thousand a year. That’s more than my wife makes.”
As office manager, ads specialist, and layout supervisor, his wife was the only other on—the—books employee of the Recall. I had no doubt she made less than twelve thousand dollars a year. I also knew Ron made significantly more.
I tasted my coffee. Still too bitter. I tipped more cream into my cup. “You should pay her more, not me less. I have a degree.”
“An English degree. Not worth five cents on the dollar.”
Ouch. But at length the truth will out. “I know all the movers and shakers in town.”
He snorted. “That’s because you find dead bodies. You’re less of an ambassador, more of an undertaker.”
I shrugged to cover a twitch. “I know the Recall’s procedures. You wouldn’t have to train me.”
“The job is easy. A monkey could do it.”
Boy, was he slinging the truth arrows. This man could negotiate. Well, so could I. “I’m not going below two hundred fifty a week. If it’s that easy, hire someone off the street to write the pro–Otter Tail column. Heck, you could make it a package deal and throw in my ‘Battle Lake Bites’ feature. Maybe she’s interested?”
I hooked my thumb at the quiet lady two stools down. She’d been sitting there since before I’d arrived. That commitment to a seat wasn’t unusual in a small town. The older residents treated the cafes like social clubs, setting up camp for a morning or an afternoon to hear the latest news, sharing lemon bars and decaffeinated coffee with whoever passed through. Usually, I recognized all the old—timers. Not this woman. Her white hair was hanging in her face, somewhat disheveled under her hat, and she’d been cradling the same cup in her gloved hands since I’d noticed her. I was growing worried and figured drawing her into the discussion would serve my negotiations but also allow me to check on her. She might not be well.
Ron glanced over my shoulder and pointed, chuckling. “Her?”
I pushed his pointer finger down and lowered my voice. “Don’t be rude.” My cheeks warmed. I hated to make other people uncomfortable.
Ron didn’t take a hint. He pounded a fist on the counter and called toward the owner of the Turtle Stew, who was behind the counter brewing a fresh pot of coffee. “Doris! Mira thinks that Ida’s girl over there would like to write for the Recall. What do you think?”
Doris, a tired bowling pin of a woman, tossed a glance where Ron was pointing. I knew Doris only superficially. She was always at the Stew, her appearance somewhere between Eeyore and Droopy, bags big enough to pack resting under her eyes. If it was slow, she’d talk your ear off. Same if it was busy. In neither case would she ever smile.
But when her eyes landed on the elderly woman who was the subject of our conversation, Doris’ face lit up. “I’ve had some bad staff here, the likes would steal, or not show up for their shift, or even spit in people’s food. I could tell you stories and will in a minute, but my point is, I know what a rotten employee looks like. That one on the stool? She’d be the worst you’ve ever hired.”
Ron laughed agreeably.
My blush crawled all the way to my scalp. I don’t know if I felt worse for the woman—Ida’s girl? She was eighty if she was a day, but that didn’t mean she was hard of hearing—or for me. It sucked not to be in on the joke. I kept my voice low. “I don’t know what’s so funny.”
Doris dumped the grounds, grabbed the full coffeepot, and took off toward the main floor of the restaurant, clearing plates as she went. “She’s a doll,” she said as she walked behind me.
I scowled, flashing side eye at the woman on the stool. “I thought you said she’d be a terrible employee.”
Doris shook her head, chuckling. “She’s an actual doll. Sewn together? A toy, not a person. Ida Gilbertson over at the Senior Sunset is putting them up all over town. It’s a pet project. She’d be happy to learn she’d fooled you.”
I jumped off my stool so fast I knocked it over, causing a clatter that shocked the restaurant. My heartbeat shot through the roof. “What the what?”
If I’d eaten already, I’d have barfed it up right then and there. There’s only one thing creepier than a doll, and that’s a life—sized doll. Wait, make that a life—sized doll holding a ventriloquist’s dummy with live birds on its shoulders. But I digress. I’d been sitting next to a human—sized doll for nearly twenty minutes. That knowledge crawled like bugs across my skin. What if I’d accidentally touched it?
Ron nodded. “Yup. Ida has found her calling. She’s crafting these big ol’ dolls and donating them to businesses around town. She orders the heads and wigs from I—don’t—know—where, designs the clothes herself, and stuffs them so they look real.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Guess your powers of observation aren’t as keen as you thought, Ms. Detective.”
I couldn’t drag my eyes from the doll’s hunched back. I studied her powder blue overcoat, matching gloves, black slacks, her posture, her hair. She was incredibly lifelike, except for the lack of breathing. “I can’t sit next to that.”
Ron pointed at the stool I’d vacated. “I bet you can, because I’m not switching. I just got this spot comfortable.” He made a show of giving the doll the stink eye. “Don’t worry. I’ll watch your back.”
I didn’t move.
He returned to his coffee, already tired of the game. “Fine. If you sit, I’ll pay for your hotdish.”
Dang. He knew me too well. It might be breakfast time, but the only meals I ever ordered at the Stew were tator tot hotdish or green bean casserole. Doris cooked them both perfectly. Rather than going fancy, she kept it simple, like god intended. For the totdish, that meant cream of mushroom soup mixed with either turkey burger or hamburger, salted and peppered, and topped with a golden field of tots. The green bean casserole had the same layout, except with beans in place of the meat and French fried onions instead of tots.
I slid gingerly onto my seat, facing forward so I could keep an eye on the doll.
I knew Ida Gilbertson. She was a gardener after my own heart, a little peculiar but with her mobility and mental agility still intact despite eight—plus decades on the planet. She roomed next to her sister, Frida, at the Senior Sunset, Battle Lake’s largest nursing home and assisted—living facility. Why in the world would such a placid woman create so much horror?
“You better believe you’ll pay for my hotdish,” I grumbled. “It’s the least you can do for not telling me I was sitting next to Chucky this whole time.”
The kitchen bell dinged, and my eyes shot toward the kitchen. Pavlov’s dogs had nothing on me, not when there was hotdish at stake. I may have been negotiating with Ron and responding to the genuine doll threat, but I’d also been counting the meals going out.
Our food was up next.
Doris returned to her spot behind the counter, slid the coffeepot onto the warmer, whisked two steaming plates from the window, and turned toward us. I may have clapped with joy. You can judge, but at least I didn’t let the drool slide down my chin.
My smile grew as she neared, my eyes Christmas—morning wide. I could smell the creamy, salty deliciousness. My knife and fork had long since been freed from their napkin.
Finally, after what seemed like decades, she set the heavy plate in front of me.
“Yay! I’ve been craving this all morning. I can’t—” My grin fizzled. The silverware went limp in my hand. I tipped my nose toward the toast—colored slivers polluting the gelatinous peak of steaming tots. “What are those?”
“Almonds.” Doris stood straighter, her eyes glittering. “You better believe I switched up my own recipe. You can’t fall into a rut in this world. Life’ll just come up and sweep you away, and you’re gone. Boom! Dead. You have to make the most of each moment. Take my cousin, Len. He was all set to retire last week, and then he broke his leg. Sure it was an artificial leg, but you still have to get those fixed. Had to drive all the way to Detroit Lakes. Actually, he had to have someone drive him …”
I wasn’t listening. I was mourning my breakfast; so close yet infinitely far away. It wasn’t that she’d mucked it up with fanciness, though I wasn’t a fan of that. Rather, I’d recently discovered I was allergic to almonds. I’d bought a jar of crunch almond butter and had slammed a third of it before I noticed that my palms were itching like fire ants were crawling under the skin. I stopped eating the nut butter, but it was too late. My face puffed up like an air mattress. The doctor at the Fergus Falls Urgent Care clinic diagnosed it as a late—onset food allergy and sent me on my way full of antihistamines and with a double—set EpiPen. Thanks, universe, for creating something as delicious as almond butter and letting me get one good taste before snatching it away forever.
“I can’t eat this,” I said, interrupting Doris. “I’m allergic to almonds.”
She retrieved a spoon from under the counter and made for my plate. “That’s fine. I’ll scrape ’em off.”
I grabbed onto that hope like a drowning woman. Surely almond—adjacent wouldn’t be a problem. I could almost taste the warm, salty hotdish train sliding toward my stomach. Then a thought struck me. “Wait, did you mix the nuts in, or did you only sprinkle them on as garnish?”
We locked eyes. As someone who has spent a significant chunk of my life waiting tables, as well as someone who’d long ago mastered the art of the lie, I recognized what she was working on behind the scenes. She was searching for her what the customer doesn’t know probably won’t hurt them file, because she had a new entry to add.
“Just garnish,” she said, breaking eye contact.
Normally, I’d call out another liar on a fib that weak. It was a professional courtesy, if nothing else. I was considering letting it slide, though, because I wanted that hotdish bad. A small dose of almonds wouldn’t kill me, right? Besides, was it really a lie if it made my life more delicious? I was on the verge of telling her to forget what I said about the allergy, I actually love almonds with a side of EpiPen, when I noticed her eyes widen at the exact moment the restaurant’s front door donged, signaling a new customer.
A customer Doris clearly wanted to avoid. I swiveled to check it out.
And immediately regretted my decision.
Battle Lake’s mayor, Kennie Rogers—she of the country—music name and the death—metal soul, famous far and wide for her thick make—up, outrageous clothing, questionable politics, fake Southern accent, and far—fetched business ventures—was striding into the Stew. Today she appeared to be sporting an ensemble from the Ride Me Barbie collection, starting with a tiny plastic cowboy hat nestled in her crunchy platinum beehive and plastic Barbie boot earrings dangling from her lobes. The accessories would be ridiculous if they didn’t so beautifully accent her sheepskin coat over a Western snap—front red shirt—currently more front than snap what with her ample bosom pushing toward the light—and jeans so tight that her camel toe had spawned fingers. Bright pink stiletto cowboy boots finished off the outfit.
Whoo—boy. My roller coaster morning was taking another screeching dip.
It wasn’t her outfit, which I had to admire for its sheer commitment to a single message. Nope. It was that Kennie was one of those people who made your life harder simply by occupying the same space as you. In a special twist of fate, something about me intensified her life—hardening superpower. She sought me out like it was her job, always wanting to involve me in her moneymaking schemes, either as a customer or a partner.
Before you say ,“that doesn’t sound so bad,” here’s a sampling of the businesses: a reused marital aid company called Come Again; coffin tables
place your coffee cups on it now and your body in it later!
; a home bikini waxing service; and her most recent, sales of a raspberry—flavored hair tonic that, rumor had it, was actually a veterinary—class sedative that caused baldness. I didn’t want to stick around to find out what was up next.
I tossed the totdish one last loving, regret—filled glance and began backing toward the rear door. Choose my battles and all that. “Ron, I have to skedaddle. Here’s my final offer. You pay me two—fifty a week to write the column, and I’ll eat the travel costs. I promise you the first article, the community ed class review, within a week.”
I waved at Doris, who was still regarding Kennie like a child watches an incoming spoonful of cough syrup. I pitched my voice low so as not to draw Kennie’s attention. “Thanks for the coffee, Doris. If you can whip up an almond—free totdish, I’m all in. Next time, okay?”
Kennie hadn’t noticed us in the rear of the restaurant yet. She was working the crowd near the front door. I’d never been more grateful for the Turtle Stew’s side entrance. I could sneak out unseen! I turned toward the rear exit, a satisfied smile pinching my cheeks. Dang if I wasn’t going to salvage this doll—and—almond train wreck of a morning.
“Mira James!”
Kennie’s Southern—tinged yell drew the attention of the handful of patrons who hadn’t yet noticed her Western—themed resplendency. I shrank into myself, tossing all my eggs into the she can’t see me if I don’t look at her basket.
“Stay where you are, honey!” she continued. “I have a proposition for you.”
My stomach dropped below Battle Lake’s water table. I spun on my heels, committed to sprinting if need be. Unfortunately, I turned so fast that I collided with the nightmarish doll. Ida’s freakshow toppled toward the floor.
“I’m so sorry!” I hollered at the world, watching the crapfest play out in slow motion. My physical reflexes kicked in almost as soon as my apologetic ones, and I dove toward the doll, trying to catch it before it fell. I slipped a hand under it a nanosecond before it hit the floor. My plan was to keep it from smacking, in case there were any breakable parts. Instead, surprised by the weight and density of the doll, I found myself falling along with the human puppet.
Something primal recoiled as I plummeted, a sickly—sweet smell causing my flight response to kick in, though I was off balance and powerless to flee. The doll hit first, with the weight and slap of a side of frozen beef. I tumbled on top immediately after, knocking her limbs akimbo in my effort to not land directly on her. The doll’s hat and wig went flying, and the coffee cup she’d been holding crashed to the floor. After a collective gasp, the restaurant went deathly silent, everyone watching me scramble to balance myself and fix this mess.
Something was shrieking at me to run, something dark and terrible and slimy, but the terror was so great, so enormous, that it couldn’t get ahead of my mouth, which was still trying to negotiate the social faux pas of tumbling the life—sized doll. “Don’t worry! I’ll put her back just like I found her!”
I gathered the wig and hat, planning to slam them back onto the doll and hoist her back onto the stool before the other patrons had a chance to process what was happening. That’s when the terror caught up to me, silencing me, crashing me finally, fully into the moment.
My slack—jawed horror was reflected in the faces of every person in that restaurant.
They were staring at the doll, their mouths agape. I followed their horrified gazes.
The only sound I could make was a greenish oof as my heart sank.
What had been sitting on that stool all morning wasn’t a doll at all. When she’d tumbled to the ground, her mask had slipped enough to reveal gray human flesh underneath the macabre porcelain.
I saw a hand reach forward to remove the mask. When its coldness shocked my system, I became aware that the hand was mine, and it was working without my permission. A gentle tug, and the mask was free.
Underneath was a human corpse, female, her icy death stare aimed at the drop ceiling, her mouth a tight, angry rictus as if she’d died yodeling.
The mask dropped from my numb hand, crashing to the ground and shattering into white and red shards.
That’s when the screaming started.
