Blow Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  We made our slow way to a couple of faded red Adirondack chairs at the lake’s edge. I would have helped him, but I didn’t dare take his hand again. He’d been known to say strange things to me, but he’d never recoiled at my touch.

  Once we were seated, birch trees swaying above us on this breezy fall day, I asked him about his family and he talked about his great-granddaughters, nieces and grandson, Henry. I was worn out by the time he ran out of relatives. It wasn’t like Edgar to ramble. Maybe he’d gotten senile since I’d last seen him.

  He said, “Tell me about that business at the college.”

  “So far they’re still gathering evidence and interviewing people.” I told him about the BCA’s involvement, about the student who died and about Chloe.

  His eyes squeezed shut, quadrupling the lines crisscrossing his leathery skin. “Terrible for that young woman. Chloe has a good heart. Do they know who would commit such an awful crime?”

  “It’s kind of a scattershot investigation. As near as I can tell, they don’t know anything for sure. Maybe you’ve given it some thought?”

  “I see a spider web covering our region like a dark shadow.” He shivered.

  “Are you cold, Edgar? Shall we go inside?”

  “Let’s sit here for a while.” He folded his arms around his thin frame.

  “I have hotdish in the car for you.”

  His lips smacked. “Little’s chicken wild rice?”

  We walked back toward his house. I angled over to the SUV and brought the hotdish to him on the porch, chuckling to myself. It would be called a casserole anywhere else but Minnesota.

  He didn’t invite me inside but said to thank Little, then hesitated. “That explosion in a faraway marketplace troubles me. The demon you brought back with you has made you into prey. Be wary.” He closed his door before I could ask what that meant.

  Edgar was a tribal elder and said to travel with a group of long-dead Ojibwe ancestors who advised and protected him. He’d never been shy about sharing what was on his mind and offering advice, usually unsolicited and undecipherable, so this was no different. But what was more puzzling than his words was his behavior. That was the shortest visit I’d ever had with him. He always invited me in and offered tea but this time he couldn’t wait to get rid of me. The old guy’s prey comment puzzled me.

  I bounced along the rutted road onto the highway, watching for Edgar’s ghostly group in full regalia shimmering through the trees, but they were no-shows. Maybe they’d taken a dislike to me. Or maybe Edgar had. I coughed away the lump in my throat and distracted myself by drinking in the landscape.

  Ben called as I pulled off the highway and onto Spirit Lake’s main drag. I asked how the investigation was going.

  “Wilcox’s team is interviewing the people who were hurt in the Summer Fest explosion. I’m working with Robyn’s group. They’re running everyone through their various databases who had a ticket to the event, checking for a red flag. It attracts college kids and lots of kids from Medicine Falls are Branson students. Maybe some of the same people were at both events.”

  I recalled Sheriff Anderson’s kid in the BSU sweatshirt at his dad’s office. “Ask Anderson’s kid if he witnessed the Summer Fest blast. His dad said he was near the college explosion.”

  “You know that how?”

  “That was the day I went to Medicine Falls with Barry’s team.”

  “Thanks, we’ll check him out.”

  “Did you get anything on Duane Weldon?”

  It sounded like Ben flipped through a notebook. “Here’s what I have. He’s seventy. He was an electrical engineer for Honeywell for twenty-five years. When he retired, he and his wife sold their home in Minneapolis and moved to Medicine Falls.”

  “That’s it?”

  “You’re asking a lot for a guy you’re suspicious about because he’s ornery and locks his garage.”

  Speaking of ornery, I’d forgotten to visit Bella, and that reminded me I’d also promised to check on Violet. The salon, one-half of a duplex, would be closed on Sunday, but Violet might be home. Mother and daughter lived in the other half. I said goodbye to Ben and took a left onto Baker Street.

  Violet stood on the salon step talking to a woman with long, bushy hair the color of faded brick. Violet went back inside and the woman stepped away, calf-length black skirt and fringed shawl floating around her as she walked. She clutched a cloth satchel draped across her shoulder.

  Before crossing the street, the woman looked both ways, revealing a pale face, deep-set eyes outlined in dark liner and no eyebrows. Twig-like, she appeared to be in her fifties. She slid into the driver’s side of an old VW bus parked in the alley. Her head angled toward the back of the van as if she were talking to someone, or maybe she had a pet. Then the VW nosed out of the alley and veered toward the highway.

  The bell tinkled when I walked into the salon. “Hey Violet, who was the earth-mother alien?”

  Violet was arranging a display of products on a table. Lips pursed, she said, “You’re not exactly a fashion plate, Britt.”

  My mouth fell open. Was Violet channeling Bella? It was the same thing I wore every day—boots, jeans, black T-shirt and black leather jacket. My only accessory was a camera. I grinned. “Nope, I’m not exactly a fashion plate.”

  Rosy dots tinted Violet’s cheeks. “Sorry, but it’s not nice to be judgmental. Emmaline’s really sweet and she needs help.” She grimaced. “Mother’s going to kill me, but I just added several more of her products.”

  “It’s on consignment, right? You’re not investing in it?”

  Violet didn’t look at me. “I am, but that’s not the issue. Mother says we’re liable if products we use haven’t been FDA approved.”

  “In that case, Bella will stop you as soon as she comes back.”

  Violet’s hands went to her ample hips. “Emmaline says I’d be great at running my own salon. Maybe she’s right. If I had a place in Branson I’d do whatever I wanted.”

  “That’s a major step.”

  Violet flushed. “Anyway, maybe by the time Mom is better, people will have tried and liked Emmaline’s products and she’ll have new customers.”

  “You’re a good person.” I handed her a twenty. “Is there something that’s good for sleep?”

  Violet checked her inventory. “She makes one with lavender that’s great for relaxing. I’m out but I’ll order one for you.” The corners of her mouth slanted up. “Thanks, Britt.”

  Violet walked out with me, locking the salon behind her. My phone rang and I waved goodbye to Violet. Barry’s tone was all business. “We’re having a press conference on the quad at five. Will you be there?”

  “I’ll be there.” I’d miss the first couple minutes, but those things never began on time. Cynthia hadn’t called so I texted her before going home for the equipment I’d need for the shoot. She texted back.

  –I’ve sent Jason over. My sources say FBI and BCA have nothing new, so StarTrib likely won’t be interested. A photo would be good just in case. Thx.

  *

  I hurried to the quad, elbowing through the throng, found a good position and lifted my camera.

  The FBI guy took the mic. “We’re investigating several possible avenues—whether this incident is linked to others in the state or if this is a lone actor, or even if this is the work of a group with ties to either ISIS or al-Qaeda. We’re working closely with the local authorities and with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension to get to the bottom of this matter as quickly as possible.”

  He introduced Barry, who added nothing to the FBI’s statement, but she’d gotten her face on the evening news and in the morning paper. I stopped listening and concentrated on getting my shot. My editor called it right. The news event was nothing more than a show to assuage people’s curiosity and maybe assure higher-ups that the FBI and BCA were on the job.

  The gaggle of print and broadcast reporters and photographers pushed close to the stage shouting out questions that
both Barry and the FBI guy deflected with practiced ease. I waved at Jason who was getting jostled in the middle of the pack. I’d have to demonstrate my elbow technique for him.

  I moved to the back of the crowd and to the side as soon as I’d gotten photos of Barry and an overview of the crowd. What was left of the pro-war group—or Bomb ISIS, I wasn’t sure of the message—who were demonstrating when the bomb exploded were back with banners and placards, making a brave show, but their numbers were down. An even smaller group of five students tucked against the arts building half-heartedly held up Peace Now signs. An older guy with a ball cap pulled low over his forehead shook his fist at them and yelled something, but it was out of my hearing.

  The few students gathered in clusters, and townspeople and teachers who’d attended the news conference drifted away as soon as it was clear there was no real headway on the investigation.

  Walking backward to set up a good shot of the crowd and stage, I smacked into a tree and that gave me an idea. I hoisted myself up and swung my leg onto a limb about six feet off the ground and thick enough to hold me. Violet mocked my monochromatic clothing style, but blending into the background can come in handy in my line of work. I pulled up my hood to complete the camouflage.

  The tree wasn’t the only one in the quad but it was on a slight rise in a central location and gave me a good overview of the entire space. The parking lot and university entrance faced west, the library was in the northwest corner. The student union was straight ahead and north, the damaged communications building to the right and set at an angle at the northeast corner. East of campus, Lake Branson sparkled dark blue.

  Comfortably wedged against the tree trunk, I photographed people walking in my direction as they left the press conference. Snippets of conversation drifted up to me between the branches and leaves. No one noticed me and nothing caught my attention until a couple of students stopped beneath me. A kid in a jean jacket edged away as if attempting to escape an unwanted conversation. The young woman with him tossed her sleek hair and said she was going to a club later if he wanted to meet her there. He moved away another step. “Sure, okay.”

  She pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “What’s wrong, Brian, are you still nervous? They had police stationed around the press conference. We’re safe.”

  He rocked back and forth, likely trying to think of a good excuse. “It’s not that. Just lots of homework.”

  I’d seen this kid just after Ben and I arrived on the scene of the bombing. I was leaning against a pillar at the library trying to shake off a flashback. He was the chubby one talking on his phone about the bomb. There’d been something about his reaction to the explosion that caught my attention, but what?

  He veered off. “See you later.”

  The girl’s head tilted. “Brian?” When he didn’t stop, she continued toward the parking lot.

  I slid off the limb and dropped to the ground, landing with a soft thud, tucked my camera in my pack and followed him.

  Chapter 7

  Brian probably didn’t want to go to the club with the girl and wasn’t sure how to finesse it. Who hasn’t done that? But something about his demeanor after the college explosion made me curious.

  He pulled out his phone and I stopped short, slouched against a building and pretended to hunt for something in my camera pack. I caught a few words. “Can’t meet you now. This girl’s following me.”

  Thinking he was talking about me, I headed up someone’s walkway, ready to knock on the door if I had to. Then I noticed the girl from under the tree was across the street. That’s who he referred to on the call, not me. Brian hurried along, pretending not to see her. She walked back toward the campus. Neither of them had registered my presence so I continued shadowing him.

  After a couple of blocks he disappeared into a two-story house. It wasn’t the usual run-down college student rental, more like a family home with landscaped lawn and fresh paint. I noted the address and loped the six blocks to the bureau.

  Jason had already gone home. I stood in Cynthia’s door. “You were right. Not much happened at the news conference.”

  She stuffed papers in her bag. “Send what you have. We’ll keep it on file. I’m leaving.”

  Comfortable at my old desk, I chose a few photos of the press conference and background shots of attendees, wrote captions and sent the file to Cynthia. My stomach murmured and I checked the clock. Dinnertime, but there was one more thing to do. I tapped in Ben’s number. He didn’t answer so I left a message asking if he had access to the names of the residents who lived at the Maple Street address.

  Belly now in attack mode, I stuffed the photos in my pack and headed to Little’s for food.

  *

  A few customers were still lingering when I arrived. Little leaned over his laptop at the counter, likely checking his favorite food sites. He took one look at me and zipped into the kitchen talking over his shoulder. “Sit. I have just the thing.”

  I must have seemed feral and he feared I’d eat a customer.

  He brought me a hearty sweet potato and lentil stew and then sat on the stool next to me, staring out the window toward the lake, his mouth drawn down. Lars wasn’t in the restaurant. I asked, “Lars trouble?”

  Little’s shoulders drooped. “He keeps talking about leaving Spirit Lake. He wants me to go with him.”

  Mid-swallow, I said, “How can he even talk like that with Chloe in the hospital?”

  “He’s not himself.”

  Now that my stomach was getting what it wanted and I was aware of my surroundings, I realized Little looked worse than sad, he was miserable.

  He closed his laptop. “I don’t want to be without him, but I like running this restaurant so much better than teaching.” His head lowered. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Peeved, I waved a chunk of homemade bread at him. “Doesn’t he want you to be happy too?” There were two sides, but Little’s well-being was my first concern, always.

  “He does want me to be happy and I want him to feel safe. But he won’t even go fishing anymore.” He slid off the stool. “I need to plan tomorrow’s menu. Please talk to him?”

  My mouth opened and closed, at a loss about what to say to Lars, but when Little asked me for something I responded the only way I knew how. I rose from my seat. “Where is he?”

  Little’s expression lightened a bit. “He’s in the apartment, stewing.” He glanced at the bowl in front of me. “The theme of the day. Finish eating, though, and thanks.”

  No longer hungry, I went to the back and tapped on the apartment door, then opened it without waiting to be asked. “It’s me.” This chat wouldn’t be great timing if he was already upset, and frankly I wasn’t sure staying in Spirit Lake was right for him. Maybe he needed a different environment and more professional help. His body had healed, but it drove him crazy that he couldn’t remember what had happened to him that awful day last summer.

  He sat in front of the television, staring at a fishing show. I dropped into the recliner across from him. “It’s obvious you guys are having problems and I’m here to talk if you want to.”

  He darted a look at me without moving his head. “He put you up to this, didn’t he?”

  “He said you were talking about leaving Spirit Lake, going back to the University.”

  “And you’re supposed to talk me out of it. All you care about is Little, but what about what’s best for me?” He wiped a hand across his face. “Maybe I’m not good for him anymore. Not like this, afraid of my own shadow. I was the one he used to depend on, especially when you disappeared for so long.”

  I cringed at the familiar refrain. He and Little didn’t pass up an opportunity to remind me I’d left for college and hadn’t come home for years. It had taken all last year to get our relationship back on track—I couldn’t let Little down now.

  “C’mon, Lars, you know you love each other. Can’t you deal with these issues here?”

  He gripped the armrest
s. “It freaks me out to be on the lake, and now I’m afraid to go back to Branson State, the place that was supposed to be my refuge. I can’t live like this and you have no business judging me. You don’t talk about it but you’ve been jumpy and irritable since you came home. You’re not sleeping.”

  Ruffled, I said, “Who told you I don’t sleep?”

  “Have you checked a mirror lately? Your eyes are all buggy like you saw a ghost, and the purple circles underneath are dead giveaways.”

  I was here to talk about their relationship, not my sleep problems. “I’m sorry for upsetting you, but you need to work this out, for both your sakes.”

  “He could come with me.” Lars turned up the television volume and I backed out, hoping I hadn’t made things worse. Knowing we were both dealing with similar issues made me uncomfortable. Who was I to be giving advice?

  Electric mixer whirring, Little glanced up as I passed by, his expression hopeful.

  I said, “Sorry, not sure I helped.”

  His face fell and he went back to his prep for the morning.

  *

  At home, I enlarged and printed all the photos from the press conference. Blown up, I can see who people really are in that moment—inner strength in the flicker of an eye, cruelty in the barely perceptible slant of a lip. My camera eye sees into souls. With the photos fanned out on the round oak table between my kitchen and living room, I softened my eyes and let them travel over the images, an old-school habit that always revealed something I’d missed through the viewfinder or on a computer.

  Brian showed up at the corner of a photo I’d taken that first day. His expression showed disbelief, confusion and something else. Shortly before that, on the phone, he’d sounded more angry than upset. And he’d been at the press conference.

  The older guy in the ball cap at the peace rally appeared vaguely familiar and worth following up. I stretched and headed to the shower. It was early in the investigation and too soon to make assumptions.

  A little later, my phone rang. I shut off my hair dryer and grabbed it.