I needed to figure out exactly how Olaf ended up in the coal chute. The sooner, the better.

EIGHTEEN

We tried to have a normal family evening.

Jake came home from work and, after a quick dinner of fish sticks and scalloped potatoes, he played a few quick games on the Wii with the younger three while I helped Emily wade through her history assignment. Once we were done, I flipped off the television and told each of the kids to go pick out a game. Our game collection rivaled that of any toy store and our kids had been conditioned to play games at night rather than park themselves in front of one mindless sitcom after another.

We let Emily exempt herself from game playing and she holed up in her room, probably texting or SnapChatting with one of her friends. I didn’t mind—after the day she’d had, she probably needed her friends at that moment more than her squabbling siblings. Games were taken very seriously in our household, especially by the three overly competitive younger kids. Jake and I spent the better part of the remaining evening hours refereeing and arbitrating multiple games. After Will claimed his third victory at Blokus, we finally herded them upstairs and into bed.

Jake and I followed shortly thereafter. Once in bed, huddled under the covers, I shared with him my day and what had happened with Emily at school. He was much more rational and much more matter-of-fact than I was, telling me that kids were going to be jerks no matter what and the sooner Em learned to deal with them, the better. He didn’t panic and he wasn’t worried that she’d be ostracized for the rest of her life.

Like I was.

So after he left the next morning for work and Emily was off to school and the other three kids were occupied with their reading for the morning, I spent some time on the Internet, trying to get a more definitive location on Olga Stunderson’s whereabouts.

I decided to start with her because she creeped me out less than Helen Stunderson did. I was still unnerved about our library confrontation and while I was curious about why she’d showed up there and why she’d clearly lied to me, I wasn’t so sure about confronting her on my own.

Olga, however, I’d already faced off with. And while it hadn’t gone well, she’d at least been honest with me. Even if she had been a bit…unhinged.

So I typed her name into the computer and after a few minutes down the Internet rabbit hole, I had her address. I told the kids I was headed to Wal-Mart, which was a surefire way to make sure they had zero interest in coming with me.

“Lock the door,” Will said as I grabbed my keys. He’d unearthed the cookie container and was shoving a whole one in his mouth.

“Why?”

He wiped the crumbs off his chin. “I don’t want any policemen coming in.”

“Policemen are good.”

He reached for another. “As far as you know. I don’t trust anyone anymore.”

He had a point.

“No more cookies,” I warned.

He just nodded, his expression one of innocence, and polished off the one in his hand.

I shook my head and locked the door behind me. I pulled my coat tight to me and hurried out to the garage and my car, ready to make the drive to the other side of Moose River.

Which meant about six minutes in the car.

I’d recognized the address as soon as I’d pulled it up. It was on the other side of the river, where a lot of new businesses had sprung up as people discovered that Moose River was a good place to live if you had to work in the cities. The commute was manageable, but it still felt far enough away from the urban vibe of Minneapolis. National retailers had crept in—Caribou and Office Max and the aforementioned Wal-Mart—but smaller local businesses had taken root, too. Some people hated it, bemoaning the loss of the small town feel that Moose River had maintained over the last two hundred years, but I was philosophical about it. Sure, big box stores were ugly and soulless, but I wasn’t going to complain that I didn’t have to drive half an hour to get a gallon of milk. Good with the bad and all that.

So I knew roughly where Olga’s house or apartment or whatever she lived in was located.

What I didn’t know was that it was also the address for the Moose River mortuary.

I double-checked the address on my phone as I idled at the curb of the town mortuary.

One and the same.

Weird things get weirder.

I pulled into the small lot and shut off the engine. I’d never been in the Moose River mortuary. It was a long rectangular brick building with thick rows of hedges surrounding it. A half-circle drive sat in front of double glass doors and a small plaque with the name and address was mounted on the wall just to the right of the entrance. There was one other car in the lot, so at least I wasn’t interrupting a service.

I got out and shivered against the cold morning wind. I wondered if the Internet had failed me and just given me a wrong address and all I was going to find were more dead bodies. Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something.

I pushed in through the glass doors, and the heated air hit me like a brick wall, thick and suffocating. I shrugged off my coat as I stood in the oval vestibule. It was decorated with stately, somber flower arrangements and tastefully arranged, expensive-looking wood tables and chairs. An air freshener hissed from the wall and the scent was something floral mixed with vanilla. It was meant to be soothing but, combined with the excessive heat pumping out of the vents, only served to create overly warmed, perfumed air.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway on the marble floors and I turned in that direction.

Olga slowed when she saw me, her face morphing from a fake smile to an annoyed frown. Her brown hair was plastered with hairspray, a giant wave lifting off and curling over her forehead. The end of her hair was curled in the opposite direction, the whole effect looking like some sort of ski ramp on top of her head. I didn’t detect much makeup on her face, but the centers of her cheeks were just as pink as they’d been when we’d wrestled in the snow. She wore a gray turtleneck sweater beneath a navy blazer and slacks that matched the blazer and emphasized her wide hips. Older brown flats carried her to a stop a few feet away from me.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I was hoping we could talk,” I said, bracing myself in case she charged.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” she said. “Unless you’re here to confess.”

“I’m not here to confess. I didn’t kill your brother.”

“Oh, baloney.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

She folded her arms across her ample chest.

I took her silence as a yes.

“If I killed Olaf, why would I have left his body in my home?” I said. “Don’t you think I would’ve tried to hide him or something?”

She blinked, but didn’t say anything.

“I met your brother one time,” I said, holding up my index finger. “We had a very nice night. But I never spoke to him again. I never saw him again. And I didn’t hurt him or kill him or do anything else to him.”

She blinked again several times until tears sprouted in the corners of her eyes like tiny ice cubes. “Oh, horse pucky.”

Then she sat down in one of the expensive looking chairs and cried for five solid minutes.

I stood there for the first few minutes, unsure what to do with myself. Then I sat down in the chair next to her and gently put my arm around her shoulders, still wary in case she decided to hit me with an uppercut. But, instead, she leaned into me and cried even harder.

Olga was a professional cryer. She didn’t hold anything back and by the time she was done, her eyes were red and swollen, her nose was dripping everywhere and my shoulder was soaked in tears and snot.

Which, as a mom, I had plenty of experience with and wasn’t grossed out by.