Bloodline(35)

“Like I said. Podiddle. To what do I owe the pleasure? Don’t tell me they need a photographer out there. Bet it pays in hay bales and farm girls. Am I right?”

“Benjamin, please.” But I smile. I miss his humor. He made many a Women’s News photo shoot bearable. “I need your help, but not as a photographer. I’m hoping you can visit the Star archives and look for anything that mentions Paulie Aandeg of Lilydale.”

“Your car stop working?” he asks, but I can hear his pen scratching as he writes down the name that I spell out for him.

Benjamin the Best Man.

“Ha ha, very funny. I have a life here, is all. Five hours of driving for a one-hour search is a little drastic, not to mention I no longer have reporter access.” But that’s not all of it. I realize I feel panicky at the thought of leaving Lilydale, like agoraphobia but this town is my room. It’s the pregnancy, I tell myself. Nesting.

“Hmmm,” he says. “A favor for a favor?”

I can’t imagine what I have that he’d want. “Like what?”

“You still friends with that blonde bird you brought to the Christmas party? Ursula?”

“I think I know where this is going. She has a boyfriend.”

“Slow down,” he says. “I got a freelance gig, a photo shoot for a downtown boutique. The model dropped out, and the owner wants me to find a Sharon Tate type. Your friend would be perfect.”

“Sure.” I rattle off Ursula’s number. She’ll be over the moon to model, though she’d never admit it. “You’ll get me what I need?”

“I’ll see what I can stir up,” he says.

“Thanks, Benny. You’re a dream.”

He grumbles a goodbye, but I know he’ll check for me. And if I end up with a scoop and do need a photographer, I’ll return the favor.

I hang up, finally feeling good about something, something I’ve done on my own. I take that pleasure with me as I walk to the Purple Saucer, not really thinking of what I hope to find. There’s only two cars in the parking lot this afternoon, but one of them—the blue Chevy Impala parked in front of unit 6—has Florida plates. I knock on the door, but no one answers. I scribble my name, phone number, and “Lilydale Gazette reporter” on a piece of paper I dig out of my purse, slide it under the door, and march back to the center of town.





CHAPTER 24

It’s a small act of rebellion—laughable, really—but I stop by Wally’s Grocery on the way home to purchase a premade Bundt cake rather than bake a dessert from scratch. I also pop into Little John’s to pay a visit to Regina (not to drink, lord help me), but I’m told she’s not working, and I don’t want to bother her in her apartment.

When I reach home, I have time before I need to walk over to the party.

I decide to make my own work and call the Minnesota Department of Health. It sounded all kinds of boring when Dr. Krause first mentioned it, but I’m growing desperate to write. I call the operator and request the number. I scribble it down and then ask to be connected. When a woman picks up on the other end of the line, I tell her my name and that I’m with the Lilydale Gazette.

“Can I speak to whoever oversees the statewide blood data collection? I heard about it from my doctor and may write an article on it, if my editor agrees.”

A pause on the other end of the line. Then: “You said you’re calling from Lilydale?”

Her tone, a mix of incredulous and curious, unsettles me. “Why?”

“You grew up there?”

“No, I—” I stop myself. She doesn’t need to know my history. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve heard things. About the town.”

“Like what?”

She coughs. It’s a nervous sound. “Just that it’s . . . tight-knit.”

“I suppose it is.” I wait for her to say more. When she doesn’t, I prod her. “That’s it?”

I can almost hear her shrug down the line. “You called about the Minnesota Blood Project?”

She’s put us firmly back on topic, leaving me scrambling to figure out what I just missed. “I did.”

“Well, I’m not sure if the researchers are talking to the press.”

“Really?” I sit up straighter. “Why not?”

A sigh. “No reason, I don’t think. It’s just that no one’s reached out to them, before you. We didn’t think it was newsworthy. I can pass on your contact information. Will that do?”

“Yes, thank you.” I give her my number. “Please call if you think of anything else you want to tell me about Lilydale, too.”

The click of her phone hitting the cradle is her response.

I glance at my wristwatch.

Time for the party.





CHAPTER 25

Clan and Catherine Brody’s house sits behind an alert row of shrubbery. It’s stucco, a vague two-story that is more utility than style. I’ve waved at them leaving and entering it many times, but I’ve never been invited in. I find the interior as weathered as the exterior, a kitschy mix of plastic flowers, ceramic collectibles, and plastic-covered furniture. It smells faintly—and I suspect permanently—of sauerkraut and sausage.