Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) Read Online Free
Author: Julie Kramer
emotions in check during harrowing experiences like knocking on the door of a family who has lost a child. “I’m being realistic.”
That seemed fair, considering we all have hidden motives on the job and off. I wasn’t yet at the point where I knew the purpose of the package wasn’t just mailing teeth: it was delivering death.
CHAPTER 7
I called my mom from my cell phone as I walked from the cop shop toward the station via the skyway to avoid the brisk January wind. I’d trained her not to call during newscasts when I might be live on the air, but she sometimes forgot. Reaching out to her when it was convenient gave me leeway to duck her calls when it wasn’t.
She immediately tried persuading me to attend my fifteen-year high school class reunion, about a hundred miles south of the station. “It would be a nice way for you to keep in touch with your old friends.”
I’d received an email urging me to attend because if enough alums showed up, the bar would give us a free keg. Turnout had been on the decline for previous reunions, so the organizers thought they’d try moving the gathering to winter when farmers—who made up much of the class—weren’t so busy.
I’d deleted the invite, but Mom had seen the event mentioned in the Monitor Review, my hometown’s weekly newspaper. “It says your classmates are even touring the Spam Museum.”
“Mom, I’ve spent a lifetime trying to escape jokes about Spam.”
I’d grown up on a family farm in southern Minnesota where Hormel was legendary. My folks and our neighbors all sold cattle and hogs to the Fortune 500 meatpacking company. Funnything was, I’ve never actually tasted Spam. We’d butchered our own beef and pork on the farm, so it was cheaper to eat it off the hoof than from a tin.
But without a doubt, Hormel had put money in my family’s pockets, so my mom started lecturing me about how canned meat had won World War II for America and our allies. “Without Spam, we might be living under communism.”
“I can’t hear you, Mom. You’re breaking up. Must be all the tall buildings downtown. Sorry.”
Then I hit end on my cell phone just as I reached the parking ramp where I’d left my car. I knew Bryce would be preoccupied with the evening newscasts, so I left him a message that the police had custody of the teeth, and that we had no story—yet.
“This may be one of those that takes weeks to chase down evidence and even run forensic tests,” I explained.
Chatting with my mom made me think of my childhood priest, Father Mountain, who was currently assigned to a church in St. Paul. I decided to stop by the rectory before heading home for the evening. As he welcomed me, the smell of cinnamon drew my attention to a still warm apple pie on the kitchen counter.
He noted my interest. “Mrs. Houle just made that pie.” His parishioners were always dropping off homemade treats to remain in his good graces. He demonstrated his generosity by serving me a hefty slice oozing with apples.
“This must be the best part of being a priest,” I said. “Warm pie on a chilly day.”
“No.” He shook his head. “The best part is saving souls.”
“When are you going to save mine?” I asked, digging in.
“Only you know that answer, Riley. You can’t be saved until you want to be saved.”
I regretted teasing him about his calling. Eternal salvation was not a discussion I wanted to have just then, so instead, I told him about my incognito package. “At least people don’t send you creepy things in the mail, Father.”
“Instead, they tell me creepy things in person and I hold their guilty secrets forever in my heart.”
That was more theatrics than I usually heard from him; typically he used humor to make a theological point. “Is that a hint I’m due for confession, Father?” My priest. My dentist. My boss. I was surrounded by people with a claim on my time.
He responded with only a demure smile, hinting perhaps at being the keeper of
That seemed fair, considering we all have hidden motives on the job and off. I wasn’t yet at the point where I knew the purpose of the package wasn’t just mailing teeth: it was delivering death.
CHAPTER 7
I called my mom from my cell phone as I walked from the cop shop toward the station via the skyway to avoid the brisk January wind. I’d trained her not to call during newscasts when I might be live on the air, but she sometimes forgot. Reaching out to her when it was convenient gave me leeway to duck her calls when it wasn’t.
She immediately tried persuading me to attend my fifteen-year high school class reunion, about a hundred miles south of the station. “It would be a nice way for you to keep in touch with your old friends.”
I’d received an email urging me to attend because if enough alums showed up, the bar would give us a free keg. Turnout had been on the decline for previous reunions, so the organizers thought they’d try moving the gathering to winter when farmers—who made up much of the class—weren’t so busy.
I’d deleted the invite, but Mom had seen the event mentioned in the Monitor Review, my hometown’s weekly newspaper. “It says your classmates are even touring the Spam Museum.”
“Mom, I’ve spent a lifetime trying to escape jokes about Spam.”
I’d grown up on a family farm in southern Minnesota where Hormel was legendary. My folks and our neighbors all sold cattle and hogs to the Fortune 500 meatpacking company. Funnything was, I’ve never actually tasted Spam. We’d butchered our own beef and pork on the farm, so it was cheaper to eat it off the hoof than from a tin.
But without a doubt, Hormel had put money in my family’s pockets, so my mom started lecturing me about how canned meat had won World War II for America and our allies. “Without Spam, we might be living under communism.”
“I can’t hear you, Mom. You’re breaking up. Must be all the tall buildings downtown. Sorry.”
Then I hit end on my cell phone just as I reached the parking ramp where I’d left my car. I knew Bryce would be preoccupied with the evening newscasts, so I left him a message that the police had custody of the teeth, and that we had no story—yet.
“This may be one of those that takes weeks to chase down evidence and even run forensic tests,” I explained.
Chatting with my mom made me think of my childhood priest, Father Mountain, who was currently assigned to a church in St. Paul. I decided to stop by the rectory before heading home for the evening. As he welcomed me, the smell of cinnamon drew my attention to a still warm apple pie on the kitchen counter.
He noted my interest. “Mrs. Houle just made that pie.” His parishioners were always dropping off homemade treats to remain in his good graces. He demonstrated his generosity by serving me a hefty slice oozing with apples.
“This must be the best part of being a priest,” I said. “Warm pie on a chilly day.”
“No.” He shook his head. “The best part is saving souls.”
“When are you going to save mine?” I asked, digging in.
“Only you know that answer, Riley. You can’t be saved until you want to be saved.”
I regretted teasing him about his calling. Eternal salvation was not a discussion I wanted to have just then, so instead, I told him about my incognito package. “At least people don’t send you creepy things in the mail, Father.”
“Instead, they tell me creepy things in person and I hold their guilty secrets forever in my heart.”
That was more theatrics than I usually heard from him; typically he used humor to make a theological point. “Is that a hint I’m due for confession, Father?” My priest. My dentist. My boss. I was surrounded by people with a claim on my time.
He responded with only a demure smile, hinting perhaps at being the keeper of
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