In a Hard Wind--A McKenzie Novel, page 1
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FOR RENÉE
TIME AND TIME AGAIN
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Allow me to acknowledge my debt to John Brand, Vienna Crosby, Grace Gay, Moose Giannetti, Kayla Janas, Keith Kahla, Alice Pfeifer, Alison Picard, Daniel Polachek, Emily Polachek, Serena Soares Roberts, and Renée Valois for their assistance in writing this book.
I would also like to give a shout-out to the “Plot Whores Book Club,” who really should find a better name: Jeanette Carrell, Bethany Gilman-Ryder, Ruth Krider, Amy DeVries Linabery, LuAnne Kinney Pederson, Rebecca Westerman Sauer, Sara Vaneps Smith, Jenny Carlson Wagenman, and Rachel Westerman Wright.
ONE
The alleged murderer seemed hesitant to shake my hand when we were introduced on the front steps of her suburban home. Truth be told, she gave off an aloof, if not haughty vibe that made me think she’d be reluctant to shake anyone’s hand even under the best of circumstances. Only Sara Vaneps, the woman who had insisted on the introduction in the first place, assured her that I was a friend, so she placed her hand in mine. Her fingers were long and delicate and her grip wasn’t particularly firm.
It must have taken some effort for her to bludgeon a guy to death, my inner voice told me.
“May we come in?” Sara asked.
The alleged murderer glanced quickly behind her as if she were afraid that something back there might escape and, after a moment, opened the door wider, giving us room to pass across the threshold.
“Where are my manners?” she asked. “Of course, of course, please.”
After we entered, she closed the door and led us deeper into her house, gesturing at the sofa in the living room where she expected both of us to sit. None of us were wearing a mask despite the most recent COVID onslaught. ’Course by then most of us were so tired of it, we were more than willing to roll the dice.
“I must say, this has been one of the warmest autumns that I can recall,” she said. “A warmer than average autumn after a warmer than average summer after a warmer than average spring. I’m wondering if this is the new normal. If it is, we might as well leave Minnesota and move to Arizona.”
The alleged murderer smiled while she waited for us to agree with her.
“It certainly has been warm,” Sara said.
I don’t know what I had been expecting, but it wasn’t Jeanette Carrell. She was tall and attractive, almost statuesque, with brown eyes, short blond hair, and a dignity that seemed to transcend the simple blue shirtdress that she wore. She found a wingback chair across from us and sat. When she crossed her legs, I noticed the black electronic GPS monitor strapped to her ankle. She noticed me noticing.
“Court ordered,” Carrell said. “I was released on bail, yet only if I remain attached to this ornament. Do you realize that it costs me ten dollars a day to wear this thing? And unlike the cash bail I paid to the court, that money will not be returned to me when I appear for trial. Outrageous.”
“You posted your bail in cash?” I asked.
“Certainly more fiscally responsible than paying a bail bondsman ten percent off the top merely to handle the transaction, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Most people don’t have a half million dollars lying around.”
“I’ve always been good with money. In any case, my bail was set at two hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Oh?”
That surprised me. In Minnesota, a charge of second-degree murder with intent is usually worth double that amount, if not considerably more.
“Apparently, the judge thought at my age I was a low flight risk.” The alleged murderer held her leg straight out toward me. “And, of course, there’s the anklet.”
Carrell studied me for a few beats and smiled some more.
“I gave you a lead, yet you didn’t follow it,” she said.
“Lead?”
“When I said ‘at my age’ you were expected to ask ‘how old are you?’ I would answer ‘I’ll be sixty-five on December fourth’ and you would say ‘you don’t look a day over sixty’ and I’d say ‘Oh, you charmer, you.’”
“My mistake,” I said. “I’ll try to do better next time.”
“It usually takes me five minutes to decide if I’m going to like or dislike someone. With you it might take a bit longer.”
“Stop it,” Sara said. “Both of you.”
The alleged murderer gazed deep into my eyes as if she was searching for something, a clue perhaps, that might tell her if I could be trusted. I stared back for the same reason.
“So, Mr. McKenzie,” she said. “Why are you here?”
Good question.
* * *
The answer began for me with a phone call from Shelby Dunston’s older sister Evangeline. I had known Evan almost as long as I had known her sister; Shelby had introduced us when we were all in college. Back then, Evan didn’t care for me even a little bit. In fact, she was actively unpleasant. ’Course, in those days I still harbored designs on Shelby; I still thought I could win her away from that loser Bobby Dunston who, by the way, is my best friend and has been since we were about five years old. Finally, Shelby made it clear in no uncertain terms that she had made her choice and had simply become my friend, too. Afterward, Evan became much more agreeable. She even enlisted me as her plus one on a number of occasions when an “acceptable escort” was required.
The last time I had seen her was at the reception that Nina and I threw to celebrate our wedding. She arrived alone, which came as a surprise. Shelby had told me that her family had high hopes for Evan’s third husband. I thought that might be the reason she had called me on her cell phone, because of her ex. Instead, she told me that she needed a favor for a friend.
“Actually, it’s not for her, but for a friend of hers,” Evan said.
“You want me to do a favor for a friend of a friend of my friend,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Uh-huh. What would that favor be?”
“Not much. Just help her get away with murder.”
That caused me to pause for a few beats.
“McKenzie, are you still there?” she asked.
“I’m here. Evan, I’m not sure I’d help you get away with murder and I actually like you, so…”
“Well, my friend claims she didn’t do it; that she’s innocent.”
“Who is she?”
“My friend?”
“No, her friend.”
“McKenzie, you’re confusing me.”
“Look at it from my point of view.”
“My friend is named Sara Vaneps and she’s just a sweetheart. You’ll like her when you meet her. Her friend is Jeanette Carrell, who’s not nearly as sweet. Anyway, Carrell was arrested for killing this guy and burying him in her backyard. She’s out on bail now and awaiting trial which starts, I don’t know when it starts. On TV the trial always begins like the day after the arrest, but in real life … She was arrested in May, if that makes any difference. That’s what, six months ago?”
“I don’t know, Evan. Murder?”
“Have I ever asked you for a favor before?”
“Frequently. How ’bout that wedding when you made me pretend to be your boyfriend to make two—count ’em—two ex-boyfriends jealous? I must have danced with you thirty times and I don’t even like to dance.”
“That was fifteen years ago and you got a couple of hugs and kisses out of it. What more do you want?”
“The hugs and kisses were just for show.”
“McKenzie…”
“All right. I’ll meet with your friend, but no promises. Just so we’re on the same page, though, I’m doing this for you, not her, and not for her friend whatshername, the murderer.”
“Thank you. Who knows, you might get another hug and kiss out of it.”
“Promises, promises.”
* * *
I followed Evan’s directions to her home in Shoreview, a second-ring suburb located north of St. Paul that a now-defunct national magazine had once named the fourth–Best Family Town in America. I asked when she had moved there; the last I heard, Evan lived in Minneapolis.
“I bought this place in March,” she said. “Right after I divorced husband number three. My family keeps telling me that I marry very poorly and they’re right. On the other hand…”
“You divorce very well.”
“We all have our special talents.”
There were very few sidewalks in Shoreview, so we walked along the lightly traveled street four houses down to where Sara Vaneps lived. The house was covered in tan stucco with brown wood trim and looked at least two decades older and twice as large as the houses surrounding it. At the end of a cobblestone path we found an enormous rounded-top front door with an antique knocker. Evan didn’t use the knocker, though. Instead, she pressed a doorbell. A few moments later, the door was pulled open by a young woman dressed in baggy sweatpants and a sweatshirt that didn’t match. Her hair was unkempt and her eyes looked tired.
“Hi,” she said.
Evan’s response was to wrap the woman in her arms and hug tight.
“How are you, Sara?” she asked.
“I’ve seen better days. What else is new?”
“Your grandfather?”
“He’s not here.”
Evan released the woman and stepped back, an expression of genuine concern on her face.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“My sister took him; I’m not sure where they went.”
“She did?”
“I’ve been begging my family for help. For months I’ve been doing this alone and it’s so exhausting, only my parents, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, cousins—they’re all too busy, or so they say. I’m the one without a job, they also say; without a husband. I’m the one who should be taking care of my grandfather. How hard can it be? Except my sister came over to drop something off and took one look at me and—and I guess she didn’t like what she saw because she apologized and said from now on she’ll do more to help out; that she’ll make the rest of the family help out, too.”
“Good for her.”
“We’ll see. You must be McKenzie.” Sara stepped away from the door and Evan and I entered her house. “I’ve been told a lot about you.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“Not even that you saved that woman from kidnappers? What was her name? She was, like, a billionaire.”
“Idle gossip,” I said.
“It was in the newspaper.”
“They’ll print anything these days.”
“I met her at your wedding reception,” Evan said. “Riley Muehlenhaus Brodin-Mulally. She thinks you walk on water.”
“You’ve known me for twenty-five years. Do you think I walk on water?”
“Honestly?” Evan did something I didn’t expect. She rested her hand on my wrist and smiled in a way that made me think that those long-ago hugs and kisses hadn’t been entirely for show after all. “You’ve had your moments.”
It seemed like a good time to turn my full attention on Sara.
“You said you’re taking care of your grandfather?” I asked.
“What did Evan tell you?”
“Almost nothing.”
Sara nodded as if that was the way she wanted it.
“I suppose you could argue that everything that’s happened, happened because of him,” she said.
* * *
The gazebo on the hill was large enough to shelter the University of Minnesota Alumni Band. It had eight sides, a concrete floor with brick steps leading up to it, a two-foot-high wooden railing, arched walls, and a roof that resembled the hat the Wicked Witch of the West wore in The Wizard of Oz. It was surrounded on each side by a football field’s worth of carefully mowed, gently sloping lawn. A thick circle of black oak, white cedar, red maple, Scots pine, butternut, and American elm trees began where the lawn ended. Beyond the trees, I could see only the rooftops of the dozen or so houses that surrounded the park.
The gazebo was furnished with plenty of comfortable mismatched lawn furniture. We sat on some of it and drank red wine from the bottles Sara had stowed in a picnic basket. Apparently, a wine, cheese, and French bread lunch was not uncommon at the gazebo.
“I remember when my grandfather built it,” she said. “That was what? Twenty-seven years ago? I think I was four or five at the time.”
“Your grandfather built all of this?” I asked.
“Yes. Him and”—she gestured at a roof on our left—“Jeanette Carrell, too. Over there”—she gestured at a small shack erected on a cement slab near the trees overlooking Carrell’s roof—“they also built a shed. There are lawn mowers, shovels, axes; all kinds of stuff in there that neighbors can use. You can’t see it from here, but there’s also a brick fire ring. They did that, as well. The fire ring is on Jeanette’s property, all of the rest of this belonged to my grandfather. Everyone calls it the Circle.”
“Belonged?”
“You get to the point, McKenzie. I like that. Yes, ‘belonged.’ What happened was, my grandfather bought the lot where his house sits now, I don’t know, fifty-some years ago? Shoreview wasn’t even incorporated until 1957 and hardly anyone lived out here back in those days; only about five thousand people. It was all open fields, which was why my grandfather moved here. He said it was like living in the country. There was his house and J. C.’s and Ruth Krider’s and that was about it. In the early nineties, this was, like, two decades or more after grandfather had moved here, they started to get serious about developing the place. One of the developers who was active back then, a guy named Charles Sainsbury who built a house—do you see the roof over there with the charcoal-colored tiles?”
I did.
“That’s his place,” Sara said. “Anyway, one day he was chatting with my grandfather and J. C.—she had just moved in with her husband; moved into the house where she lives now—and he was telling them about his grand plan to develop the neighborhood, this neighborhood. I think he even had a name for it, for his development, only I don’t remember what it was. Shoreview something. Instead of being impressed, though, my grandfather and J. C., they’re like, oh no. So they got together without telling Sainsbury—my grandfather had done very well for himself. His name is Carson Vaneps. He was a bigwig at General Mills. You know Bugles, the corn chip shaped like a horn? That was him.
“Anyway, he and J. C. bought the entire hill. Grandfather bought about four-fifths of it and Jeanette the other fifth. The thing is, though, and this is important—Sainsbury didn’t seem to care. Not at the time, anyway. Back then there was plenty of other property around here that he could work with, not like today, when there’s a serious shortage of affordable housing and places to build it. So everybody remained friends. I mean, Sainsbury and his family spent as much time in the Circle, enjoying the gazebo and fire ring, as anyone. My grandfather made sure that everyone who lived around it was welcome. J. C. did, too. It was like a private park. Families would hold picnics. One family—the Westermeyers—actually held a small wedding reception right here in the gazebo. Kids would play here; camp out, even. We have a book club that gathers around the fire ring. During the height of COVID, neighbors would congregate in the gazebo, sitting six feet apart, you know? People sang songs. It was wonderful.
“Then about eight months ago, right after the snow started melting, neighbors found surveyors on the hill who claimed they were charting property lines. That’s when we found out that my grandfather had sold the rights to the Circle to Charles Sainsbury’s company. Everyone was appalled. They went to my grandfather and asked him about it, but he claimed he didn’t sell the property; he didn’t know what they were talking about. Only Sainsbury’s son, William, had a signed contract that said he did. That pretty much confirmed what some of us in the family had suspected but ignored for a long time, that Granddad was having memory issues. My parents brought him in and had him tested and yeah, he had Alzheimer’s. So, now we’re in court fighting the contract, citing diminished capacity, arguing that Granddad was not of sound mind when he signed. Well, not ‘we’ exactly. The contract—it’s actually a pretty lucrative deal the lawyer said, and half the family would be happy to see the court enforce it if it meant they’d get a cut when Granddad passes.”
Sara sighed deeply and covered her face with her hands. For a moment, I thought she might begin weeping; only she resisted the impulse. After a moment, she uncovered her face and took a long pull of her wine.
“Which brings me to the favor,” Sara said. “As angry as my family was, as Grandfather was when it was explained to him what happened, Jeanette Carrell was even angrier. I mean, she gave new definition to the word furious. At one point, Sainsbury came up on the hill to explain himself; J. C. wouldn’t even let him speak. She just blew up at him. It was one of those moments like on TV comedies when mothers used their hands to cover the ears of their children. She threatened to kill him in front of a lot of witnesses. She threatened a lot of things. That was in April, the middle of April. Then Sainsbury disappeared. Two weeks later, they found his body buried in a shallow grave on J. C.’s property. They arrested her for murder. And here we are.”
