JUNE 25

Lorraine heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway an instant before Barca let her know that they had visitors. She shushed the big golden retriever, then looked out her kitchen window as a white delivery truck came to a stop a few feet from the front stoop of the old farmhouse.

The passenger door with a “Bert’s Appliance” sign on it, swung open, and a man holding a clip board in a gloved hand got out. The name Otto was embroidered over the pocket of his shirt.

She opened the door a few inches before he had a chance to knock. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Are you Lorraine Blethen?”

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

Barca pushed his nose through the doorway, his tail banging against Lorraine’s leg. “Barca. Get back,” Lorraine admonished; then to the man: “Don’t mind him. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

           “We have appliances to deliver,” he said. He had a slight accent. German, Lorraine thought.

“You must have the wrong place. I didn’t order any appliances.”

           “Says they are a gift.” He pointed to a box on the delivery ticket, and then handed Lorraine the clipboard through the partially opened door. “See.”

           “Well, I’ll be,” she exclaimed. She stood with her mouth open for a moment, astonished, until the deliveryman interrupted.

“Can we come in to see where the appliances go, and what we have to remove?” he asked.

“Of course. Of course.” Lorraine opened the door. “Barca. Stay.” she ordered.

The man hesitated.

“Um. Could I ask you to put your dog somewhere?” he said. “My partner is scared of dogs.” He cocked his head, motioning toward the driver still seated in the truck.

“Oh. Of course,” Lorraine replied, handing the clipboard back to the man and taking Barca’s collar. She pulled the reluctant dog into a room just off the kitchen and closed the door.

The driver had a permanent half-smile, caused by a scar near his left eye which pulled the corner of his mouth upward. Short and muscular, Lorraine wondered how a man who looked so powerful could be afraid of dogs.

She turned and led the two deliverymen into the kitchen.

Without warning she was airborne, powerful arms lifting her like a rag doll and slamming her onto the kitchen table. In shock from the suddenness of the assault and the collision of her face with Formica, Lorraine tried to grasp what was happening. She felt herself being carried into the living room and flung on the sofa. Gloved hands wrenched her onto her back. Fear of sexual assault ripped her brain out of its malaise. A scream erupted from deep within her, but a pillow crushing down on her face muffled it before it reached her lips.

She struggled to breathe but the pillow was merciless, growing more oppressive by the second. She could hear barking, Barca, as helpless to protect her as she was to defend herself. Brutish hands pinned her body, throttling her feeble attempt to break free, but they didn’t rip at her clothes. She wasn’t going to be raped. 

She was going to die

She felt her lungs coming apart as they fought for air that wasn’t there. Reflections in her brain turned purple, then yellow, then orange. Pinwheels replaced the color, then turned into black holes. Her muscles grew taut as she strained against the unyielding hands, searching for any micron of oxygen.

Her body convulsed. Once. Twice. Words from long ago floated through her mind as her lungs exploded: you'll be the death of me.

***

Lorraine Blethen had lived in a turn-of-the-century farmhouse, a mile west of the quiet town of Zumbrota, for over forty years, the last thirty by herself after kicking out her philandering husband. She rented the tillable acreage to local farmers to support herself. She was shrewd in her business dealings, active in her community and church, frugal with her money and strict with her daughter, Mary, who fled from Zumbrota and her mother the day after she graduated from high school. 

Lorraine’s feisty personality, self-confidence, and willingness to share her abundant opinions made her a community gadfly, loved by some, hated by a few, given a wide berth by most.

A week after her passing, the Goodhue County coroner issued his report: Lorraine’s death was, indeed, a homicide; the first in Goodhue County in over a decade. 

The report caused a social earthquake, morphing the here-to-fore friendly community into a cesspool of innuendo and suspicion. Strangers were met with distrustful stares and cold shoulders. People made their children come into the house before dark and started locking their doors. Conversations over pancakes at Bridget’s Café came with whispers and furtive glances.

As the investigation stretched into weeks, and then months, local police started receiving anonymous tips on who the murderer was, or might be, as neighbors saw an opportunity to settle old feuds.

The name most often heard when Zumbrotans whispered about “The Murder” was that of Lorraine’s grandson, Hamilton.

“He’s weird. Some kind of artist. Those artsy kinds are unstable, and they’re always broke. Sonofabitch probably killed her for her money.” “She didn’t have any money.” “She had that farm. That’s worth a lot.” “Hmmm.”

“Can’t trust him. He’s Black, you know.” “No, he’s not. He’s Middle Eastern, or East Indian. I met him once.” “Black, brown, doesn’t matter. Her daughter was so screwed up on drugs that she was probably doing a half dozen guys at the same time. Who knows what he is?”             

“What about her daughter? Maybe she did it.” “Hell, Mary ain’t been around here for 30 years.”

“Dorothy says it’s somebody from an appliance company. Ya think Ralph mighta done it?” “Shit, Ralph couldn’t organize a Sunday school picnic. Don’t know how he finds his way home from the store at night.” “Yeah, but…” “Yeah, but nothin’. That bastard grandson of hers probably hired someone. He did it, I tell ya.” “Hmmmm.”

Notwithstanding the rumors, suspicions, conspiracy theories and outright lies, and despite the best efforts of the Zumbrota Police, the Goodhue County Sheriff and the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, Lorraine Blethen’s murder remained unsolved.