A Lonely Way to Die: A Utah O'Brien Mystery Novel (Minnesota Mysteries Series Book 2) by Jonni Good

doesn’t matter. The baby will be fine,” Mildred said. “When the husband comes, we’ll go and pay our respects. If he lets us, I mean.”
    “But, Mother, you know what they keep saying about that man in the papers. He’s in a rock band, and they’re getting a divorce.”
    I was not comfortable with the way this conversation was headed. Mort and I kept walking towards the door.
    Emma followed us. “You can see that, can’t you? You can’t hand a baby over to a man who sings in a rock band. He’s hardly ever home, and those people do drugs, you know they do.”
    Emma’s normally pretty hazel eyes were rimmed with red, although she wasn’t crying yet. I held out my arms, offering a hug, and she moved into it.
    When she pulled away, the tears were falling down her cheeks, and the house was filling up with the acrid smell of burnt chocolate chip cookies. I patted Emma’s shoulder, and we left.

 
     
    SEVEN
     
     
    Jocko followed us back to the snowmobile and jumped onto the seat. The wind was picking up and snow was starting to move into long rows and drifts. I pulled my scarf over my hat, babushka style, to get more protection for my ears.
    “Why did you say that about Wally wanting Josie to keep the baby?” I said. “I didn’t hear him say that.”
    “Well, we can’t give the baby to a suspect, can we?”
    I looked back at the house. Emma was looking at us through a gap in the curtains. When she saw me looking, she gave a little wave, and moved away from the window.
    “For the baby?” I said.
    “It happens.”
    “We need to go see Carol Kramer,” I said.
    “You call Carol, I’ll call your mother and see how things are going at home.”
    “Ask her to look up Carol’s number for me.”
    I waited, stomping my feet to make them feel warmer, while he talked to Josie. It would have been more reasonable to call Carol before we left the museum, and I was kicking myself for not thinking of it sooner. Mort ended the call and said, “She has to call someone on the library committee. The number isn’t in the phone book.”
    We waited, listening to the wind whistle in the branches overhead. When she found Carol Kramer’s number, she called Mort back and he repeated it to me. I punched it into my cell phone with cold fingers.
    Carol’s husband answered. “Who is this?”
    “Harold, this is Utah O’Brien. Is Carol home?”
    “Yeah.”
    “May I speak to her, please?”
    “What for?”
    I was too cold to play games. “Please ask your wife to come to the phone.”
    He yelled out, “Hey Carol. It’s for you. It’s that crazy broad from the museum.” Then the phone landed on something hard and bounced.
    He could have used the other B word, so I figured he was trying to be polite. A game was playing in the background, and a boy’s voice called out instructions to the players on TV. I never understood why guys did that. I checked my watch—it was a few minutes after nine, which meant they were yelling at a taped game.
    Carol picked up the phone. I told her my name, and then told her that Gwyneth was dead. She caught her breath. The phone went silent, except for the sound from the television. The noise receded as she moved away from the set, but she stayed off the phone so long I started to wonder if she dropped it, or fainted or something.
    Then a door opened and closed, and wind hit the mic on her phone. She was taking the call outside, probably on her porch.
    I asked if we could get together and talk. She agreed to meet us at the old house, where Gabe and his baby sister spent the night. Carol said she was worried about the pipes.
    The house was about half a mile out of town, where the first section road met the highway. Mort knew which one it was.
    “I’m not riding this machine all the way out there in a blizzard,” I said.
    “Of course not. That would be crazy. We’ll take your truck.”
    We rode the snowmobile back to the museum. Billy Mack was out on my parking lot with his John Deer