We never found the knife. I had a dive crew search the bottom of Lake Crosby for three straight days and all they came up with was a few rusted boat motors. I wanted that knife. I dreamed about it every night between Lund’s confession and the arraignment. Sometimes Hattie was in the dreams, watching me search the barn, the fields, the lake. I couldn’t find the damn thing even in my own head.
Fortunately, you didn’t need a weapon to prove murder two in Minnesota, not when you had a spot-on confession, a body, and a mountain of other evidence.
Peter Lund’s arraignment was broadcast on every television from here to Florida. My sister called afterwards to tell me she’d watched it on two channels in Tallahassee. The news crews mostly hung around the courthouse, but some still came out to film their bits on Main Street or in front of the school.
I stood at the back of the courtroom near one of the bailiffs. Bud and Mona and Greg sat in the front row on the prosecutor’s side and friends and family crowded in behind them. No one was talking. I didn’t see Mary Beth Lund anywhere, but Winifred Erickson stalked in just before the judge entered and sat matter-of-factly down in the same row as Carl Jacobs, behind the county defender.
When the judge called for the defendant, every pair of eyes in the room watched as Lund appeared. He walked quietly, looking at the floor, and sat down as meek as a kitten. I could only see the back of his head from then on, and he didn’t so much as move a muscle until the judge asked him how he pled.
“Guilty, Your Honor.” His head tipped up when he said it, straight at the judge, and not a lick of emotion or insanity colored his voice. He might have been ordering office supplies.
There was a trickle of reaction from the seats. The judge ignored it, set the sentencing hearing for three weeks out, and that was that.
On her way out of the courtroom, Winifred stopped to chat.
“I’m blowing that barn up. Next week.”
“You need a permit for that.”
“It’s on your desk. Can’t look at the thing anymore. Makes me sick.”
She nodded behind her, where the Hoffmans were huddled in with the prosecutor, probably getting told that it was going to be a twenty-to thirty-year sentence.
“I’ve already told Bud and Mona. Whether you sign the damn permit or not, I’m blowing the thing to kingdom come.”
HATTIE / Friday, April 11, 2008
THE BARN rose up out of the lake like a water monster, all dark and gloomy on the horizon, like a horror movie set warning people away, but I was excited to see it. Tommy pulled into the parking lot by the beach and let the car idle.
My body still hummed from the play, the adrenaline of being onstage in the lights and sensing that hushed fascination from the audience. Everything had gone perfectly. No scenery falling over, no injuries, no fainting. Everyone remembered their lines and Adam and I totally knocked it out of the park. So take that, Portia. I knew after the dress rehearsal she was secretly hoping I’d fall over and break my arm, so she could play Lady Macbeth and act all smug and knowing about the curse. Maybe something would happen tomorrow. The whole gym could fall down tomorrow, for all I cared. Nothing mattered to me except tonight.
I waited around for a long time, after most everyone else had left, trying to catch a glimpse of Peter. I hoped he’d give me some sort of sign that he was coming tonight, so I took my time getting changed. I threw the bloody costume on to a chair, hung up my crown, and changed into my new sundress with the delicate straps and soft yellow folds of skirt. There was still no sign of Peter when I came out, but Tommy was there. His eyes lit up when he saw my dress and I knew what I had to do. He was even happier when I told him to drive us out to Lake Crosby. Bad as it felt, I just gave him a small smile and stayed quiet during the ride.
Now that we were here, he cracked open the paneling on the driver’s-side door and pulled a flask out of his secret compartment. He took a long pull and gave it to me.
“What is it?” I sniffed and made a gross face.
“My dad’s Jim Beam. Try it.”
I didn’t get more than my lips wet before gagging on the stuff. Tommy laughed.
“That’s even worse than beer.”
“Won’t drink. Won’t have sex. You’re just Daddy’s little angel, aren’t you?” He was smiling as he said it, though, scooting over to my side of the seat. He tried to wedge an arm behind me, but I pushed myself back into the corner.
“Tommy, we have to talk.”
“About what?”
“I can’t go out with you anymore.”
“What?”
I repeated it without looking at him, feeling the hot confusion of his stare. It was so tempting to fall back into the part just to avoid hurting him. Focusing on the barn, I took a deep breath and reminded myself what I’d just told Portia less than an hour ago—I was done acting.
“What are you talking about? Did your shift get changed or something?”
“No.” I kept my voice steady. “I want to break up.”
I could feel him pulling back, retreating to his side of the cab. It was a minute before he asked why.
“Because we’re going different places. It’s not going to work out.”