THE NIGHT GLENN ZIMMER DIED
The blast and the flashes of light awakened Dr. Metcalf. Flames were shooting upward from his neighbor’s house, Glenn Zimmer’s house. Twelve below zero, it was one of the coldest nights that January.
The doctor stuck his arms in the sleeves of his robe, slid into his slippers, yanked the quilt from his bed, and ran downstairs, then out the back door, in case there was anything he could do.
There wasn’t.
Glenn’s workroom, a one-story addition, was gone. The explosion ripped off the back of his two-story house. The front bedroom, flowered wallpaper flapping, was open to anyone who wanted to see inside.
Fire trucks and police cars from the south shore towns came blazing. Neighbors, in winter coats over their nightclothes, watched and shivered a safe distance away. Excitement like this was a rarity in Grandview. One person stood alone and watched from across the street.
“Go home, everybody,” the fire chief ordered. “There’s nothing you can do here. No need for you to stand out here and freeze. Go home, we’ll take care of this.”
By the time the last of the fire was out, the fire chief told the doctor that the medical examiner was on the way. There wouldn’t be much to examine.
The doctor assured the chief that Glenn’s wife, Mary Ann, died the summer before; he had been with her and Glenn and the priest when she died. Their children were grown and lived on their own. Only Glenn would have been trapped in the explosion.
The police considered the death suspicious; they immediately sealed the scene.
It might have been different. The tangle of events that resulted in Zimmer’s death began months before this night. THE NEW AGENT
The September before Glenn Zimmer died, Betty Bliss arrived for her first day in the Bayside office of Chandler Realty. She had studied and passed the tests to become a Minnesota Realtor.
In case the other agents were watching her, she pretended to be busy while she waited to meet Lola Bakken.
She opened the box of her new business cards, tucked several in her billfold. She opened her new briefcase, took out a magazine, the September Cosmo. She circled a picture, underlined a paragraph, as if making a note of something important.
Lola Bakken arrived looking preoccupied. She’d had enough years in the business to know how to solve problems for her buyers and sellers.
She hung her trench coat in the supply room. She poured herself a cup of coffee in one of the blue mugs the office gave to clients.
She was focused on finding a licensed plumber willing to work Labor Day weekend. If the Foster house didn’t pass a re-inspection Tuesday, it could be days before she could arrange a new closing. The Fosters were anxious to be moved in before their first baby arrived.
Gretchen, the weekday receptionist, greeted Lola, “Mr. Foster called twice. You’re supposed to call as soon as you get in. His wife is having twinges. Her mother says it’s probably false labor.”
Great.
Something was different. Lola saw a blonde pixy occupying the desk next to hers.
Now what?
That desk had been vacant since Lola moved to the Bayside office. She preferred it unoccupied; she was used to spreading out.
“Hi, I’m Betty Bliss,” the blonde said. “I know who you are, you’re Lola Bakken. Cecil says you’re the top agent here.”
“Don’t believe everything Cecil says.”
The new woman was almost pretty, early thirties. She had a wide smile like an ad for teeth whitening.
“My license came. Cecil said if I’m going to be successful, I can learn a lot from you.”
“Oh? Cecil’s the one who gets paid to train new agents.”
Lola called Harry Shaw Plumbing. The girl who answered said Harry was out for the day; he was home with the flu. In other words, he was at his cabin. Minneapolis people empty the city to go north the last long weekend before Minnesota’s ten thousand lakes freeze over.
Betty again, “Cecil said I should sit next to you so I can listen to you. If you tell me what to do, I can help you with some of the boring stuff, run errands.”
“Thank you. I work alone. Always have, always will.”
“If I have a question, if you aren’t busy, may I ask you?”
The woman was annoying, but she was not easily discouraged, a good quality for anyone in sales.
“If I’m not in the middle of something, and if I know the answer, I’ll help you. But not now, Betty Bliss.” Lola knew she was being bitchy. This was not one of her saintly days.
The door to Cecil’s office was ajar so he could overhear what he wanted to hear. He came out of his office and sat on the corner of the new agent’s desk.
“I told Betty,” he said, “You have to be tough if you’re going to survive in this business. Am I right, Lola?”
“Later.”
Cecil disappeared. He did not like to be ignored.
Lola called Martin; he was to pick her up at her condo at eleven-thirty. They were to go someplace for lunch, drive to his farm to spend a tranquil, three-day holiday, sit on the front porch, and listen to crickets. She got Martin’s recorded greeting. He had already left. Martin could let himself in her apartment. He would wait.
Lola called the next plumber on her list. Why didn’t they answer? Her coffee was cold. She sensed someone standing behind her chair.
“I know I shouldn’t bother you.”
“What is it, Betty?”
Lola suspected that Cecil intentionally gave Betty the desk next to hers. She punched in another set of numbers.
She turned to Betty, “Next time you see Cecil, get him to show you what you need to know.”
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