Chapter Four

To his credit, Evan was remorseful when Gran and I confronted him at lunch. He told us the statue was sitting near the curb, and he figured it was a garbage pickup, seeing it had a damaged wooden shoe.

Gran even believed his story.

“On the curb or near the mailbox?” I asked, keeping my tone less skeptical.

Because Evan hedged, I was sure he lied or twisted the truth. The Dutch boy could have been surrounded by a mailbox planting of daylilies or hostas. Half the village still had curbside mailboxes, many surrounded by some kind of perennial plant at the base. Because I suspected where it came from, I decided to take Dutch Boy home after midnight.

At 2 a.m., I hauled him out to my little green beetle in a black plastic garbage bag. Streets were vacant, houses dark at that hour. I drove slowly, and when I came within a block of my destination, I cut my headlights and depended on a few scattered streetlights to find the silver mailbox I had scouted in daylight that afternoon.

T. Koster was the name on the box. I noticed a dusting of powder when I pulled Dutch boy out of the garbage bag. I also noticed the loose cork that had been wedged in the toe of the broken shoe. When I poked it out, I could see the hollow shoe contained a couple of small plastic bags leaking white powder. Cripes! I tasted the powder on my finger, just to rule it out as flour or powdered sugar. Ironically, it tasted like baking soda, somewhat salty on my tongue.

The Koster house didn’t resemble any of the Milwaukee drug haunts sometimes featured in The Journal or on the evening news. Trimmed hedges stood on both sides of the old farmhouse, and two large peony bushes flanked the front entrance. When an upstairs window in the house suddenly lit up, I froze until I fumbled the Dutch boy back into the bag and threw it in my trunk before speeding away without buckling my seat belt.

A few blocks later, I noticed a car following me. I pulled into a dark alley and parked behind a large green Dumpster, thankful my little bug blended in.

The car sailed past the alley entrance, a silver cruiser like one of the new models for the PD. No wonder the Falls were so safe. Thirty-three square miles patrolled twenty-four hours kept it that way.

My heart lurched. Evan’s disorder and Gran’s Snickerdoodles would never save me if I was stopped by a cop with cocaine in my trunk. Even Captain Billington or the hot rookie couldn’t turn a blind eye to that little detail. I waited for what seemed like an hour before taking an indirect path as the safest route home. After locking my car in the garage, I paused behind a tall juniper in the yard to make sure no one had followed me. The street was dead quiet, except for a dog barking in the distance.

Gran was waiting at the door in her pink terry robe. “What took so long? I was worried half to death,” she hissed.

“Long story. Can we save it ’til tomorrow?” I gave her a hug with a pinch of reassurance, craving only the sweet oblivion of sleep. New ideas were always fresh in the morning. Ad lines percolated as fast as morning coffee when I consigned writer’s block to my subconscious at bedtime. Hopefully, that would also work when I had to think like a criminal.