Page 37 of Nothing Ever Happens Here

“Detective, it’s Evan Carmichael… Officer Carmichael.” They say their hellos and small talk before Herb gets impatient and gives him another “move it along” gesture.

“Say, you heard about the podcast we’re doing? We thought it would be good for people to hear directly from law enforcement—kind of like a press conference, in a way. Of course, only public, on-record type information, but a goodwill gesture that shows the police are handling whoever seems to be…” He pauses and Herb mouths “terrorizing.” Evan ignores this. “Whoever seems to be responsible for the recent attacks and threats.”

To my surprise, Riley tells us that he’s off duty tonight and his wife is going to the meat raffle at the VFW, so we can come over for a drink and he’d be happy to chat with us on our very popular podcast.

Before I know it we’re piled into the van,the whole gang of us singing along to Billy Joel and driving the black, icy roads over to Riley’s two-story near downtown Rivers Crossing.

“Whoa…ohh, ohh, ooh…” Millie starts, singing over everyone else. Herb took an hour trying to figure out which shareable snack would be appropriate for the occasion and somehow landed on caramel corn and spicy cashews. He holds them in his lap proudly and Mort pokes and taps at all of the audio equipment he carries in a Bartlett pear box from Aldi. Bernie sits quietly with his favorite afghan spread over his legs, the way I always see him in my mind. If someone said to me, “picture Bernie this second,” it would be what I’m looking at right now, a peaceful, meditative look across his face and the afghan his wife crocheted for him across his lap. He notices me staring and looks at me. I give him a wink and he winks back.

When we arrive and all of us old bats make our way over the icy drive with Evan’s help and without any fractured hips, we find ourselves in Riley’s basement where a roaring fire burns in the brick fireplace. He holds a lowball glass of whiskey and wears a thick woolen sweater. He welcomes us in, looking a bit surprised as one after another of us round the corner of the narrow staircase, and now there are six of us standing in his finished basement with its red carpet, shabby pool table, and plaid couches looking like everything you’d expect in a northern Minnesota lake town. Dated, endearingly tacky, full of warmth and wood paneling.

He offers us all drinks and we linger around the fireplace sipping on whiskey sours…except Evan, who’s driving and technically working still, holding a Diet Coke.

“This is for you,” Millie says proudly as she hands the detective a pot holder made of the good yarn from Threaded Treasures.

“Oh. For me?” he says, with the same confused look everyone has when she thrusts a square of knitted yarn at them.

“It’s a pot holder,” Herb says.

“It’s a prayer square,” Millie corrects.

“What the hell is a prayer square?” Herb asks.

“It’s blessed with a prayer and given as a symbol of love and goodwill,” she says.

“Oh, lovely, Millie. Thank you so much. Belinda will love it too.”

“I thought it was a pot holder.”

“Up yours, Herb,” she says with a dismissive wave, directing her attention back to Detective Riley and giving him googly eyes.

“I got a pan of Hamburger Helper sitting on the one you knit for me back home as we speak,” Herb adds, genuinely confused.

“Why don’t we all sit,” Mort suggests, and everyone finds a spot on the plaid couches except for Riley, who sits on the brick hearth of the fireplace.

“Nice place ya got here, Dennis,” Herb says. I see he’s pulling out the first name. I wonder if that’s a premeditated tactic to take him down a notch, but knowing Herb, probably not. He opens the canister of spicy cashews, takes a handful, and passes it around the room.

Dennis Riley is young enough to be Millie’s son, but apparently she can’t help herself and she has her chin resting in both palms, gazing at him. He’s a tall, heavy guy with ruddy cheeks and disproportionately small hands, and I just don’t see the appeal.

After a few minutes of small talk about how great the fried walleye is at the new sandwich grill in Duluth and how it’s been snowing for days and how Riley’s wife called and won six pork chops at the meat raffle tonight and how she’s his good luck charm, Mort finally gets impatient and moves to plug in the audio equipment and Evan helps him set up,making it look extra official.

The wind outside howls and rattles the drafty basement windows. Millie helps herself to a second drink and Herb gives Evan the nod that he should start. Evan nods back. He taps a cocktail spoon against the side of his raised Diet Coke can and we all quiet down and look in their direction, on the other side of the fireplace where the microphone is plugged in. Evan nervously sits down and taps it twice to make sure it’s on. Mort then places the mic and stand in the middle of us all to pick up everyone’s voice.

Evan begins reading the lines we gave him. I must admit, I thought he’d memorize some of the talking points and speak a bit more extemporaneously—he’s not exactly a natural.

“What we know,” he begins. “We’re here with Detective Riley of the Rivers Crossing Police Department to get some more information about the recent attacks that have occurred in our town. Detective, can you tell us a little bit about what you know so far?” he asks. The point of having Evan lead was that all of us are virtually invisible and Riley is a guy’s guy and would take things more seriously if this was Evan’s thing too and not just a bunch of nosy geezers playing armchair detective, but Riley looks flushed.

“Is this live?” he asks.

“No,” Mort says. “No, no. We will add all of the intro material and thank our sponsors and everything…then we will edit this down and polish it up so only the stuff you want to keep will air.” I think Mort about exploded with delight at saying the words “our sponsors.” He really is getting a big head about that.

“Well,” Riley starts. “We are doing our best to follow up on all leads. We are aware that people are anxious and concerned that they or their families could be in danger, but…”

“I’ll tell ya what we know so far,” I say, and Mort looks horrified that things are happening out of sequence, but who wants ten minutes of vague nonsense and filler words,really? This is all crap he already said on the news, and that’s not what we’re here for.

“We know that Shelby was threatened with a note and later attacked at the lake ice fishing, and again at her home. And so it’s implied in a roundabout way that there is no public threat and this is maybe a personal vendetta. But wealsoknow that Otis Thorgard died under suspicious conditions—perhaps foul play—and might be connected to Shelby and the disappearance of Leo Connolly. Are you opening a search for Connolly again, since he should be a suspect in both the case of Otis and Shelby right now? Do you have any other suspects?”

“Ugh…” Riley takes a handkerchief from his pocket and dots the sweat on his forehead. “We’re looking at all potential suspects at this stage. All of this only just happened, and we are still dusting for prints and running DNA, so we’ll have more to announce on that soon,” he says, trying hard to recover and not spoil his moment in the spotlight. The whole gang is looking at me railroading Riley and going off plan, but I don’t slow down.

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