Blow Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  My first instinct was to tell her to mind her own business, but for once kept my mouth shut. She crossed the sidewalk and opened the door to her headquarters before I could come up with a more appropriate response. Later I’d blow up her photo and study it. A face staring directly into my camera revealed a lot.

  *

  The nurse at the station in Chloe’s wing stopped me. “Sorry, visiting hours are over.”

  “Can’t I say hello? I’ll only stay a minute.”

  “Sorry. The poor thing had to be sedated. A friend of hers came by and told her the news about that student who died. Apparently, they were close. She was so agitated, she tried to get out of bed.”

  I’d forgotten about her request. The kid who died in the blast was her friend? Before heading to Spirit Lake, I called Ben to tell him about Chloe’s connection to Jeremy Powers. “She’s in no condition to talk about it now, though.”

  He said, “I understand. We’ll clear it with her doctor first. Poor kid. We talked to Jeremy’s family today.” Ben’s voice was a menacing growl. “We’ve got to get this killer.”

  I said, “Barry’s group didn’t seem to learn anything new in Medicine Falls today.”

  He couldn’t quite hide the jealousy in his voice. “I was going to ask about that.” He didn’t like being out of the loop any more than I did. He added, “I just got home. Come over and we can talk about it. I’ll make dinner.”

  *

  We sat on his deck overlooking Branson Lake, sipping tea. Curls of steam rose from the mugs. A sharp breeze blew across the water and goosebumps popped up on my arms. Ben draped an Ojibwe throw around me. I held up a corner of it. “This is beautiful.”

  “A cousin from Cloud Lake made it for me.” Ben was a quarter Ojibwe, something he’d only learned after his father’s death last year.

  I pulled the blanket closer around me. “I feel so bad for Chloe. She’s all alone in the hospital and now grieving for a friend.”

  “She didn’t need more bad news right now.” Ben stared across the lake. “Barry’s people came up with nothing today?”

  “For me it was mostly waiting while they interviewed residents near the Summer Fest site.” I wrapped my hands around the warm mug. “A grouchy old guy complained about my snooping around his garage.”

  “Were you?”

  “Who locks a garage and covers all the windows around here?”

  He blew on his tea. “Sounds dangerous. We better bring him in.”

  “Can’t you run a check on him? His name is Duane Weldon. Barry had her guys ask the neighbors about him, so I’m not the only one with instincts.”

  “They’ve probably already checked him out, but sure, I’ll let you know if there’s anything.”

  The nippy breeze ruffled the lake, waves slapped at the shore, mirroring my impatience. “What did you and Wilcox do today?”

  “Students are starting to trickle back. We’re talking to them. The FBI’s looking at any ISIS or al-Qaeda allegiance or link. Homeland Security and the FBI are all over the terrorism aspect, checking with students for photos or videos of the rally to see if anyone suspicious shows up.”

  My usual skepticism surfaced. “Every kid who gets online doesn’t make contact or is serious about aligning with a terrorist group.”

  “We have to check out everything.”

  “What about those Students for Peace signs I saw? Does that organization fit anywhere?”

  “The kid who was killed was a Students for Peace member.”

  That was news to me. “Jeremy Powers was in that group?”

  He nodded. “My guess is that the explosion was not targeted at one person, more of a domestic terrorism scenario, but we’re checking everything. We have to follow up on Jeremy and the victims who were hurt in case they were targeted specifically, but right now it looks like a random act.”

  “If the bombing was related to the Students for Peace, why not aim for their group during the rally?”

  “As I said, lots of questions without answers.” His got busy with the grill. “Sun’s going down. Let’s shelve the shop talk.”

  Ben stayed on the deck grilling steaks and I went to the kitchen to toss a salad, one of my few food prep skills. I watched him through the sliding doors, grateful for the way our friendship had slipped into love, even with several false starts.

  We’d been best friends since sixth grade, but things almost changed when he turned sixteen. We’d spent the summer apart. He worked as a volunteer for the forestry service and spent most of his time in the Chippewa National Forest. I scheduled powwows and greeted tourists with resort brochures and fishing guides for the Chamber of Commerce. From my vantage point just yards from the prettiest lake in the county, I watched boats tie up to the dock, fishermen making their way to Olafson’s bar to brag about their catch, or water skiers in speedboats walking across the street to a drugstore that still had a soda fountain. And the job kept me from missing Ben too much. In years past, we’d spent every long summer day fishing, swimming and exploring the woods.

  The week before school began, I glanced out the Chamber window and my fifteen-year-old heart skipped a beat. A tall, dark-haired boy stood on the city dock with his back to me. His broad shoulders filled out a white T-shirt, snug against the muscles in his arms, the breeze ruffled his dark hair. When he bent toward his boat, I saw the familiar hawk nose in profile. My face flushed and my thoughts scattered. It was only Ben. I hadn’t recognized my childhood buddy—this Ben made my heart beat faster.

  I walked over to him on the dock, tentative. He stepped back. “You look different,” he stammered, “I mean good.”

  I’d filled out a bit too, only instead of muscles, I had curves.

  “Want to take a ride?”

  “Give me a minute.” I ran to the Chamber and put a plastic clock in the window—Back in an Hour.

  We sped across the lake, throwing shy glances at each other. Within minutes, the sky darkened, the wind whipped up white caps and Ben concentrated on keeping us from capsizing in the choppy waves while I held on tight. Our sweet moment passed. Maybe it was foreshadowing what was to come.

  It would be almost twenty years before we looked at each other like that again. I’d left town at eighteen and hadn’t been back until over a year ago when Ben’s aunt, my friend Gert, died and she’d left me her cabin and Rock. That was the beginning of my reentry into the Spirit Lake community.

  Now, we sat across from each other at a hardwood table between his kitchen and living room, the fire warm on my back.

  His voice deepened. “I like it when you’re here.”

  Ben’s home was masculine, warm and inviting, like him. Open-beamed ceiling, gleaming wood floors, rock fireplace and a huge television mounted above the mantle. A dark chocolate leather sofa, soft as butter beneath my fingers. I carried my dishes to the sink, not really ready to leave. “I should head back soon.”

  He followed me to the kitchen and wrapped his arms around me. “Don’t go.”

  “I didn’t bring clothes or even a toothbrush and Barry might want me first thing tomorrow.”

  “Maybe I want you first thing tomorrow.”

  Ben was a man of few words, but they were always the right ones. Catching a moment here and there wasn’t exactly the way I’d hoped to spend my time with him during this vacation, but I wasn’t complaining. We headed to the loft, arms around each other’s waists. When I was with Ben, all that was bad in the world receded and the best place to be was tucked up against him.

  Hands were on my arm, shaking me. I swam up from the dream and Ben’s comforting voice brought me all the way back to wakefulness. A sheen of sweat covered my body. I licked my lips. “What happened?” I already knew the answer.

  He gently held me. “You were having a bad dream. You were yelling ‘run!’” He brushed damp hair away from my face. “Do you want some water?”

  I nodded, but when he threw off the covers, I clutched at him. “Don’t go yet.”

 
; He held me until my heartbeat slowed and then went for the water. I gulped it so fast rivulets ran down my chin.

  He cleared his throat. “It seems to me you need help with this. You should talk to a therapist who specializes in PTSD.”

  “That’s not what this is. I’m not a combat soldier. It’s not like I haven’t been in situations like that before.” The night air against my damp T-shirt and clammy skin made my teeth chatter. “It will work itself out.”

  “We won’t call it that if you don’t like it, but what I said is still a good idea.”

  I protested again but he held up a hand. “All I’m asking is that you give it some thought.” He pulled a Chippewa National Forest T-shirt from his dresser. “You’d better put this on.”

  I tossed my damp shirt on the rug and pulled the clean one over my head. “What time is it?”

  “Early, let’s get some sleep.” He reached for me but the sky had already begun to lighten. Dawn was my favorite time of day, another chance to start over, and I wanted to be ready when Barry called me. I slid out of Ben’s arms. “I can’t sleep now.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  He lay there watching me, his dark skin and hair against white pillows and all tangled in the sheets. I slipped back under the covers and kissed him behind his ear. He put an arm around me. “Does this mean you’re not leaving?”

  “Not just yet.”

  Half an hour later, I kissed him one last time and grabbed my jeans from the floor. “This time I’m going.”

  He took my hand. “At least consider talking to someone.”

  “I’ll be fine. Sorry for the drama.”

  *

  Back home at my cabin, I lifted weights and did sets of pushups and sit-ups in the guest room transformed into a gym. Ben’s suggestion that I needed therapy was all wrong. What I needed was to keep up my fitness routine. Healthy body, healthy mind.

  Keeping fit helped me stay competitive in my work. More often than not, I had to race to a scene with a pack full of camera equipment, and my strong legs had saved my life a few times when we’d had to run from a dangerous situation.

  After showering, I called Cynthia and told her about hanging out with the BCA yesterday. “They’ll probably need me again today, but I wanted to check with you first.”

  “Nothing scheduled, you’re a free agent.”

  When Barry still hadn’t called by ten, I checked in with her. “I’m available today if you need me.”

  She sounded distracted. “Thanks, we’re good.”

  “By the way, did Carpenter and Tremont get any dirt on Weldon from the neighbors?”

  “They did not and please don’t expect me to give you information regarding our investigation, no offense.”

  “None taken.” I was used to getting shut down by Sheriff Wilcox so Barry’s attitude didn’t surprise me. Her next words did though.

  “Your forest ranger is working with us today. The word is that he knows everybody and we need someone local to get those closed-mouth Scandinavians and Germans to open up to us.”

  Ben often worked with the sheriff and BCA on cases that had an impact on the national forests, but this wasn’t exactly related. He knew nearly everybody in the county though and was always ready to lend a hand. When Little and Lars opened the restaurant and townspeople were skeptical about a gay couple running it, he helped bridge that gap.

  “I know everybody around here too.”

  “Good point. If you hear anything, let us know and we’ll handle it. Ben’s law enforcement. You’re not.”

  When I’d first returned to Spirit Lake a year and a half ago, it surprised me that Ben didn’t exactly spend his days communing with nature. He carried a weapon and was an expert on anything related to the national forests. Plenty of dirty deeds happened in the vast wilderness along the U.S. and Canadian borders. The sheriff often used him on major crimes and it wasn’t out of the ordinary for the BCA to ask for his help. The BCA trumped Wilcox in this situation.

  Barry hadn’t exactly given me the green light to carry out my own investigation, but I was a journalist. I didn’t need her approval. And her tone when she’d said, “Your forest ranger” caused a slight warning signal in one of the dark caves of my brain. Wind whistling through the birches sent me to the window. Whitecaps on the lake. I rooted through the closet for a warmer hoodie, tossing clothes around like Rock rooting out a badger.

  Hoodie zipped, I tossed everything back into the closet and threw a log in the stove with more force than necessary.

  Much had happened since I’d come back to Spirit Lake after such a long absence. I’d worked for the L.A. Times right out of college until they’d fired me for drunk and disorderly behavior. I’d eventually gotten that under control and divorced my philandering husband, a major contributor to my drinking. My boss at the Times helped me get a job at the StarTribune’s northern bureau. I’d unexpectedly reconnected with Ben, and was surprised to fall in love with him. He said I’d broken his heart twice and he wasn’t going to go through that again. And so it took me a year, but I’d finally gotten the forest ranger with squinty eyes to take a chance on me.

  I picked up a favorite framed picture of two grinning and gangly thirteen-year-olds holding a string of fish between us. His dark hair blowing in the breeze, now military short. Mine the same as now, hanging to the middle of my back, tucked behind my ears. Smiling at the memory, I wiped away the dust with my shirt and set the picture back on the bookshelf.

  The Times had hired me back on contract and now I toggled between Spirit Lake and wherever the Times sent me. It was my choice whether to take the assignment, but I couldn’t say no, no matter how much I wanted to be with Ben. At thirty-four I was still trying to figure out how to navigate a professional and personal life. By my last check, I wasn’t doing great with either.

  Chapter 6

  Little’s was filling up with local business people, mostly men, taking a morning coffee break. The owners of Erickson’s Hardware and Jake’s Bait walked in together and joined a few others at the round table in the corner. They’d start first with the weather, then get to the important topics—fishing and hunting. The women liked to meet at the same table around three in the afternoon. Their conversational range was a bit more diverse, lately lots of politics, but kids and cooking usually dominated.

  Lars headed over to find out what kind of pie the men wanted with their coffee. Little brought me a blueberry wild rice pancake and sat on the stool next to me, taking his own break before the noon rush. “Thanks, bro.”

  He lifted a strand of my hair and dropped it as if holding something slimy from the lake bottom. “It’s wet.”

  “It takes a long time to dry after a shower.” Before he offered hair advice, I started grumbling. “The BCA and Cynthia don’t need my services. How am I supposed to find out what’s happening?”

  Little set his cup down. “You’ve got to be kidding me. The idea is for you to rest until Marta sends you on another assignment.” He crossed his arms. “We’ve had this conversation before. What’s wrong with you?”

  A flush warmed my cheeks. I knew how much Little worried about me and how important it was for him that I relaxed when I was at Spirit Lake. With a mouthful of pancake, I asked, “What should I do, though, to relax?”

  “You’re pathetic. Why don’t you visit Edgar? He knows you’re back and the drive to the res is gorgeous this week with the fall colors.” He headed to the kitchen. “You can take hotdish and I’m sure he’d like to see Rock.”

  Checking in with the nearly blind Ojibwe elder was a good idea. For someone who hardly left his home, he had uncanny insight into everything happening in the county. I called after my brother. “Since you’re up, I don’t suppose you’d bring me another pancake?”

  His back was to me, but I sensed another eye roll.

  I hadn’t told Little about my nightmares, he worried enough about my physical health without adding the burden of my failing mental health. But I couldn’t si
t by when another young person died in a bomb blast after I’d witnessed the eleven-year-old Nigerian girl waiting for some asshole to remotely detonate her and kill a hundred people. Fighting back was how I defeated the nightmares.

  *

  Full of pancake, I loaded Edgar’s hotdish into the back of the SUV and held the door for Rock to hop in front. Something pinched my lower left side as I slid into the driver’s seat. Leaning back to dig into my jeans pocket, I pulled out the vial of Emmaline’s Wild Blueberry Oil, rubbed a few drops into my dry hands and tossed the vial into the cup holder.

  I left the highway and took the Spirit Lake Loop to Edgar’s. Most of the land and lakeshore belonged to the Ojibwe. In fact, many lakeside resorts and summer homes were built on land leased from the Indians more than a hundred years ago.

  Little was right; the drive along the winding reservation road circling the north side of Spirit Lake was spectacular. The trees reflected in the lake made me dizzy as if seeing double. A slight mist fell, turning the landscape into a virtual fairy land. In jeopardy of driving into a ditch, I pulled over, set up my camera and spent the next twenty minutes lost in the landscape before continuing on my way.

  At the familiar fork in the road, I made a right at the sign—Edgar Turner 1 mi. I’d called ahead and the old guy was waiting at his door when my SUV slid down the hill to his house. Nestled in a grove of trees, Edgar lived in a new cedar home facing the lake.

  Rock reached him before I did and the ninety-plus-year-old man stooped to pet him, his white braids falling forward. He tilted his head in my direction. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Hi. Edgar.” I stepped forward and took his hand, but he snatched it back as if he’d touched a cactus.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He frowned and gestured toward the water with a gnarled hand. “Why don’t we sit by the lake?”