Chapter 6

February 9^th, 2026

I have a Monday routine, I get home around 7:30am, eat a real meal, usually takeout, go to bed and then wake up around 5pm. Because of Murdelicious I went to bed late, closer to 9am, and snoozed my alarm until 6pm. There’s still time to get my routine back on track. The first thing I do is log onto the Murdelicious Pod Patreon, I want to see the recipe list for the tater tot hot dish and if Emilia has posted any bonus recipes, she has, score! Swedish meatballs, that’s also going on the grocery list. With the list made I take my dirty laundry to my in-unit washer and dryer, it was a bit more expensive, but after two years in a coed dorm at UMD I’m never going to do community laundry ever again. I will die on that hill. I throw a detergent sheet into the bottom of the LG washer, mom convinced me to switch from detergent to detergent sheets, better for the environment, she says, I turn the dial to normal cycle and choose cold water, better for the environment.

I grab my phone, which has the grocery list, I can’t do a paper list, too bulky and awkward, and grab my reusable bags, half were woven by my mom from a variety of plastic bags from Cub, Target and Byerly’s. I take the stairs down four flights to the open-air parking lot, I hope I can get to Byerly’s before the hot food bar closes, usually at 7pm, I could really use a warm cup of wild rice soup. I call my mom once I am on Excelsior heading towards 100 north, I always go to the Byerly’s on Duluth Street, it was our family dinner stop after high school hockey and soccer games.

“Good evening, Sandra,” mom sounds like she’s washing dishes, I keep telling her to get a proper dish washer, but she refuses, not environmentally friendly.

“Evening mom,” I say, I shift into third, then fourth and I’m on 100.

“How was the weekend?” She’s asking about my shifts, she always does.

“We had a medevac from a bad crash on I-90 north of St. Cloud, and one from Mille Lacs, a truck fell through the ice,” mom acknowledges my statement, she wishes I’d request a change from the ER. I never will, I like the variety. It’s one of the bonuses of working at a trauma one center.

“I heard about that crash on the news,” the water stops, and the splashing begins again. “Tractor trailer heading to Fargo jack-knifed, the SUV was demolished…” she trails off.

“No one died mom, we saved them,” it had been a long surgery, and the couple is still in the ICU, but they will make it, I pass an old Volkswagen Golf, the man driving it is intimidated by my WRX and tries to speed up, in shift into fifth and fly passed him.

“Oh thank, heavens,” she sighs and the splashing stops. “Cheryl from book club, you know Cheryl?”

“Cheryl Andersen or Cheryl Johnson?” I ask, I have an inkling where this is going already. I take the Duluth Street exit and get into the left turn lane.

“Andersen,” mom says, she’s done with the dishes, and I hear the porch door slam, it’s been slamming for twelve years, I hear the faint chitter of Robins and Song Sparrows, I can visualize where she’s headed in the garden, under dads Maple tree. “Her son,” I roll my eyes, it’s not that I’m not interested in dating, it’s that I need a partner that understands my work schedule and doesn’t get all pouty when I can’t make an event on a Saturday night, I need a partner that’s not going to expect me to cook dinner and do the laundry, someone like my colleague Alyssa’s husband, he stays home, watches their twins and takes care of the house. “She has a son, Owen, he’s thirty-two, went to Armstrong, I think you probably played his younger sister in hockey, I know your brother played against him.” Mom rambles on about how Owen just came back to the cities after getting a doctorate in economics from NYU. I’m sitting in the Byerly’s parking lot, it’s 6:40pm, I have twenty minutes, and I hope they haven’t started shutting down early. She lists off more attributes, cabin on Leech Lake, member of Calvary Lutheran, the church I used to attend and haven’t in thirteen years.

“Sandra?” Mom sounds annoyed, “Sandra are you still there?”

“Yeah, just got to Byerly’s,” I lie, I’ve been sitting in the lot for the last five minutes. “Hang on while I switch to the phone.” I turn off the car, grab my bags from the passenger seat and head into the grocery store.

“So?” I know what’s coming next, and I’ll agree just to get her off my back. “Can I give him your number, he’s pretty handsome.”

“Sure, mom,” I say while filling a bowl with wild rice soup. I sit by the windows looking out at the parking lot, I watch as a little girl in a Golden Valley Hockey hoodie holds her parent’s hands and look away.” Mom,” I say, “what do you remember about Sherry Lindquist?” Mom goes quiet for a minute, I hear the birds chirping and her breathing, its increased speed. “I’m listening to a podcast and they’re re-examining her death.”

“She was my favorite teacher,” mom says flatly, “she saw something in me, I took as many electives as I could with her. She’s the person that encouraged me to be an English teacher.” I sit with that for a moment and take a few bites of soup. This case is a lot closer to home than just my neighborhood. “Me and my girlfriends would hang out in her class during all our free periods, she was amazing. She wrote me a letter of recommendation when I applied to work at Wayzata and even gave me most of her materials:” I tell her a bit about the podcast, it’s one I’ve listened to before, their fans helped solve a cold case before and their hoping it happens again. I tell her about the tater tot hot dish. “That’s what Mr. Thorsen brought to the wake,” she says passively, she’s upset and is holding it in like a true Scandinavian. “She fell down the stairs in the east wing with six years after I graduated, she was set to retire at the end of the year.” She pauses, I can tell she’s thinking about something, I know she and dad graduated from Cooper together, my questioning brings all that back, I can tell she wants to ask me something. “Hey, Sandra?”

“Yes, mom?

“Why are they looking into this case again?”

“The investigator thinks there was something in her pocket, you know the secret inside zipper pocket. That was open and empty.”

 Mom is quiet for a while. “Are you still coming over Wednesday for dinner?”

“Yeah, I thought I could make Swedish meatballs. Emilia posted a recipe on the shows Patreon.”

“Your Grandma Beatrice would be proud, I look forward to it,” she pauses, “that was the dish she made when William brought me home to meet his family.” She addresses my dad using his official name, she’s reminiscing now, how my grandma made the best Swedish meatballs, she would tease my dad it was the meatballs more than him she fell for that night. “It’s been almost thirteen years since those back aches started.”

“I know, mom,” I don’t wanna talk about it, I don’t even want to acknowledge it, the reason I chose medicine, the reason I couldn’t afford medical school, the reason I poured myself into hockey, I can even go far enough and say the reason I tore my ACL. “Thanks for talking, I’ll keep you posted on the podcast, I’ve gotta get grocery shopping now.” I finish my soup and see big fluffy snowflakes falling on the parked cars.

“Okay, honey,” she sighs, she hates that I won’t talk about him, but when I talk about it I ugly cry, and I don’t even like doing that at home when I’m alone with a pint of Half-Baked Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and a merlot, let alone at a Byerly’s. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, I’ll see you Wednesday.” She hangs up and I put my SHOKZ Opendots one headphones in and start Murdelicious Episode 047 from the beginning, one of my rules is to listen to the podcast twice so I don’t miss any details. I grab a cart and open my notes app to the grocery list.

Back in my apartment the podcast plays on my JBL Bluetooth speaker which sits in the middle of the kitchen island. Emilia is describing why she didn’t elevate the hot dish. The beef is browning on my stove, and my legal pad is on the counter with a blue Sharpie G2 pen laying across it. I follow her directions exactly, brown the beef, add the onions, corn, and peas, then the cream of mushroom. I put the tater tots on in a wild array, my only variation from her directions, and place it in the oven. I take my legal pad to the couch and go over all the details again, listening to the podcast knowing mom was really inspired by this teacher shines a whole new light on it, what was so important that a beloved teacher would be killed over it, what could’ve been the motive? I write another note in the margin of the second page. What was in her pocket? I set the pen down and stare at the page, then I circle the underlined phrase at the bottom of the second page. Who was on the stairs?

February 11^th, 2026

I arrive at my childhood home just before 5:15 pm, the snow has melted off the roads and the sun reflects off the glistening pavement. The Swedish meatballs are over the store brand egg noodles in a Pyrex dish that I have in an insulated carrying case on my passenger seat, my name, S. Longmeadow, neatly taped to the bottom of the pan like mom taught me, you don’t want Deborah from church stealing your nice Pyrex. She’s on the front step before I am out of my car.

“Sandra!” She calls, she’s in slippers, yoga pants and an Ole and Lena’s Pizzeria hoodie, she’s shivering, does she know she can wait behind the door? “Come in honey!” I wave and grab the meatballs from the passenger seat.

The house hasn’t changed since I moved out, the faded sandy carpet, the leather couch with the sagging middle cushion, the walls are almost impossible to see behind the rotating collage of pictures of my younger brothers, their children and I she has plastered around the living room. My eyes gravitated towards the last picture my siblings and I took together, Thanksgiving 2025, my youngest brother Oleander hosted us all at his new house in Madison. Sage had come up from Chicago, I met my niece and got to play with my nephew. I should reach out to them soon.

It smells like home, like it has since I could remember, slightly musty, sweet and something I can’t quite put my finger on. It also smells like she’s been cooking, even though I told her I was bringing food, she never listens, she always has to make something, part of me thinks she doesn’t know how to relax. Old magazines, library books, mail, her computer and her loom take up a majority of the dining room table, she’s pushed aside enough clutter for two open chairs, plates, silverware and glasses with water are already on old placemats.

“I know you were bringing the meatballs, so I made bread in the bread machine, steamed some green beans and made a dessert,” mom says sitting in the same spot she’s sat at this table for as long as I could remember. How is it I said I would bring food, and she still ended up making more than I did? Moms.

“Thanks, mom,” I set the meatballs on an old National Geographic magazine, a cheetah is majestically looking at the camera. “How’s work been?”

“Fine,” she stands and heads into the kitchen, a moment later she returns with the fresh bread and microwaved green beans. “You know how kids are nowadays.” She has five years left before she can retire, and she’s more than ready. “Always on their phones,” she scoops some meatballs onto her plate. “Did you know just yesterday I caught a boy video calling a girl while she was in the bathroom?”

“Gross,” I say, “what was his excuse?”

“He needed to make sure she was telling him the truth and not cheating on him.”

“Oh geez,” I scoop some meatballs and green beans onto my plate.

“How about you?” Mom says, taking a bite. “Any thoughts on switching your schedule?”

“I like my schedule, yeah, I don’t get my weekends, but I get four days off. I love it.”

“Fine, and have you considered when you’ll reach out to Owen?”

“Mom,” I glare at her, and she backs off.

“I was just asking.”

“I know.”

“This is really good, Sandra.” That surprises me. Mom hardly ever compliments my cooking. “It’s a bit sweeter than what I’m used to, but still really good.”

“Thanks,” I say, “I used the recipe from the podcast I’m listening to. I had to go get Lingonberry jam.”

“Murder-delicious?” Mom asks, she doesn’t understand my fascination with true crime. Dead people’s stories should stay their own, she says.

“Close,” I laugh and take a sip of water, the same old slightly metallic taste. She refuses to get a filter, bad for the environment. “Murdelicious, it’s hosted by two Minnesota natives, one runs Lake Bistro.

“Ohh, your aunt Francis and uncle Bob love their Wild rice and duck dish.”

“I’ll have to get there sometime.”

“Maybe with Owen,” mom quips. I ignore it.

“This latest season has to do with six strange deaths related to Cooper High School.” I say, mom shifts in her chair and focuses on her meal. “Remember Sherry Lindquist?”

“Yes,” mom says, she looks thoughtfully out the window. “She’s who inspired me to go into teaching. I wouldn’t have survived my first year without her guidance.”

“What other teachers do you remember from that time? The podcast mentions a few.”

“Well,” mom looks back at her meal. “There was Mr. Davis the chemistry teacher, Mrs. Nelson the gym teacher, she died in 2001, drowned in Wirth Lake,” she looks back to the window. “There was also Mr. Anderson, social studies, Ms. Hall, choir, Mr. Olesen, he taught math, and of course you know Mr. Thorsen, your old hockey coach. He was a pillar to the Cooper community, he still sometimes collects donations and hands out communion at church.” She gives me a look to mean you’d know that if you ever went. Another reason I like my schedule.

I tell mom about the podcast episode as we eat, she listens, as someone not interested but interested because someone, they love is excited about it. Her demeanor changes when I get to the part about Sherry’s coat.

“Why does the host think she had something in her pocket!” She asks between bites.

“The hidden pocket was open,” I say, “Stacie thinks she was documenting something.” Mom goes quiet and stares at a picture of her and dad, it was taken a year after they graduated.

“I’ll be right back,” she gets up abruptly and hurries upstairs. I take another three meatballs and some noodles while I wait, I can hear her digging around in the upstairs closet.

“Do you remember your father and I talking about Hanna?” She asks, handing me an open Cooper yearbook. I shake my head, and mom taps the page, it’s a picture of my parents as teenagers, their sitting on a blanket on the hood of an 85’ Camaro decked out in orange and navy blue. Next to my mom with her arm around my mom’s shoulder is a teenage girl with long brown, blonde hair and, she has a pretty smile, but something is off with her green eyes. They remind me of the eyes of the girls that come into the ER for a rape kit, she’s been abused.

I examine the picture for a while, mom sits silently, then gets up and returns with brownies and Turkey Hill vanilla bean ice cream.

“What happened to her?” I ask, looking up from the picture.

“Overdose, she used her mom’s pain pills, the summer after we graduated.”

“Oh…” mom serves me a brownie with a scoop of ice cream. I push the brownie around my plate. “What was she like?”

Mom looks at me and smiles sadly, “she was the kindest, funniest person I had ever met, she was a varsity hockey player, track athlete and soccer player, prom queen two years in a row, she told me almost everything.” She trails off and I take a bite of dessert.

“What didn’t she tell you?”

“She was a bit promiscuous,” mom says, “she talked about being with this older guy, I always assumed it was some college guy she met at a party,” I nod and take more brownie. “But then something changed halfway through senior year, she got distracted, distant, something was bothering her, she seemed on edge.”

“Was she afraid?” I ask.

Mom ponders the question, “maybe, one night she came over bawling, whoever he was ended it, started with someone younger, fresher, is the term she used.”

“That’s disgusting,” I say, but I’m hooked.

Mom nods and looks at me, “a week later she was gone. The note never went public, her parents kept it private.”

“Do you think she names him in the letter?” I ask.

“Maybe, I think she told or almost told Mrs. Lindquist too, we were close with her.”

 “Wow,” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Are her parents still around?”

“I see her mother on occasion, usually at church, sometimes at Cub or Byerly’s.”

 “Interesting,” I finish my dessert, and we start to clean the dishes.