Blow Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  Her sharp old eyes regarded me. “You looking for that gypsy who peddles a bunch of foolishness? She’s trouble.”

  “Little asked me to pick up herbs from her. She hasn’t been to town lately.” Half-truths didn’t count as lying in my book.

  “She rented the Pearson place, but it has to be falling apart after so many years being empty. She tried to sell her concoctions in the salon but I told her no thank you.”

  “How do I find that farmhouse?”

  *

  The compact two-story farmhouse hardly appeared habitable. Paint long gone, except for a deep purple door. Tattered curtains flapped from open windows. The porch canted to the right. I pulled into the yard and recognized the faded orange VW bus parked off to the side.

  The driveway was overgrown with weeds, but a footpath had been worn to the door. I got out of my SUV. “Wait, Rock.”

  To the left of the house, an enclosed herb garden sat in the middle of an overgrown field dotted with scrub trees. The slight breeze sent a hint of fragrance my way. I raised my head and sniffed the heady combination of scents, noticing a well-trodden path that led to a barn.

  Rock barked at something in the woods on our right, and in the next second Emmaline emerged. She wore short boots and an ankle-length black skirt and black shawl, her hair a wild halo as if backlit by a brush fire. I left Rock in the SUV and walked toward her waving.

  Hardly more than five feet tall, she carried a basket filled with wildflowers and berries “May I help you?”

  I held out my hand. “I’m Britt Johansson. You don’t know me but I’m a friend of Violet’s.” Closer scrutiny revealed a few wisps of eyebrows above her pale grey eyes. “I saw you leaving the salon the other day.”

  She waited, not taking my hand.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but Violet can’t leave the salon with Bella away and she asked me to let you know that your products are all gone and people are asking for more.” I tilted my head. “You don’t have a phone?”

  “No phone, no computer, iPad or any of that. It interferes with my ability to intuit and that’s how I make my living.” Her chin lifted. “People come to me to communicate with loved ones who have passed or to ask about the future. I need a clear channel to do that.”

  I wanted to get a photo of the wizened and elvish-looking woman with the fireball of hair. “Sorry to pry. I’m just delivering a message from Violet. And my brother, Little, wanted me to ask you for herbs.” I held his note out to her.

  She took it and ran a finger down the printed lines. “Thank you. Violet can tell her customers I’ll bring more tomorrow, and I’ll deliver these items to Little as well.” Her gaze bored into my chest. “A black mass clouds your heart chakra. It’s protected so I can’t yet see what is underneath it, but there’s death and violence.”

  I stepped back. How did she know about the dark stain on my soul?

  A sly upturn appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Trouble sleeping?”

  I headed toward the car. “I’ll tell Violet you’ll see her tomorrow.”

  A loud crash from the barn startled me. “What was that?”

  “Cats.”

  “Are you sure? Should we see if everything’s okay?” My LA Times Editor Marta said I had the curiosity of a cat and I wanted to see what feline could cause that much commotion.

  Her mouth turned up. “I meant it about you not sleeping, dear. Those dark circles tell me you need relief.”

  Violet mentioned Emmaline had herbs to help a person sleep. Had Violet told her about me? My voice dropped. “I do have trouble sleeping.”

  “Please, let me help you. You’ve been so kind to deliver Violet’s message.” She ushered me toward the steps.

  “You sure we don’t need to check the barn?”

  “Nothing to concern yourself with, dear.”

  I took another quick look toward the barn, then followed her inside. She led me through rooms with peeling flowered wallpaper to a kitchen with bunches of herbs hanging from racks attached to the wall and ceiling. She pointed to a round table covered with a patterned cloth, a candle and deck of tarot cards in the center. “Please sit.” She saw me staring at the cards.

  “Would you like me to read for you?” She shuffled the deck with child-sized hands, age spots and knobby knuckles an odd contrast.

  I read the card on top, the King of Cups with the warning under it—Beware of ill will. “Thank you, but I need to get back.”

  “It will take me a moment to prepare the herbs for you.” She dipped her head toward the chair.

  I sat on the chair’s edge, not sure what was making me jittery. Emmaline snapped on gloves similar to those used by law enforcement to gather evidence and lifted the lid from several canisters. A pungent smell assaulted my nostrils.

  Using tongs, she plucked out a bunch of this, a pinch of that until she’d filled a plastic bag. She held it out, her eyes boring into me. “Make yourself a cup of tea with these herbs just before bed. I promise you will sleep and dream no more.”

  So eager for a good night’s sleep, I nearly snatched it from her fingers. “Thank you. What do I owe you?”

  She waved away my offer and steered me to the door. “My thanks for driving all the way out here.” She held up Little’s list. “I’d better get busy with this.”

  Rock and I drove down the rutted road faster than was prudent. What was going on behind Emmaline’s wide expanse of forehead? I felt a little spooked by the whole experience.

  Jackson Road was south of town so I looped around to Spirit Lake, let Rock out at Little’s and swung by the salon, trying to ignore the twinge of guilt that my helping Violet was deceiving Bella.

  Violet was sweeping up from the last customer when I walked in. “Hi, Britt. Did you find Emmaline?”

  “She’s coming tomorrow with more supplies. She even gave me something to sleep better. I’d like to know who told her about that.”

  Violet’s pink skin turned slightly mauve. “I don’t remember if I said anything, but now you have something that will help you. What’s so wrong about that?”

  “I was teasing, the herbs are great. But did you also know Emmaline is a fortune teller?”

  Violet got extra busy with her dustpan. “She doesn’t call herself a fortune teller.”

  “I’ll bet she told yours.”

  “Sometimes she reads tarot cards for us. She’s really good.”

  “Us?”

  “On Wednesday evenings she comes here and does readings for some of the ladies who like her products. It’s not that expensive, not really.” Violet glanced at Bella’s rocker. “Don’t tell Mom!”

  I left shortly after, assuring Violet that her secret was safe with me. Bella would likely already have the information. If Emmaline was using Violet, then that distressed me, but Ben was right, Violet was a grown woman, and she didn’t need her mother and me running her life.

  Chapter 9

  Cynthia’s office door was open. I took that as an invitation to go inside.

  She peered over her reading glasses. “What brings you to town this afternoon?”

  I perched on a chair. “Barry’s people are checking out students and looking for connections to terrorist organizations, but the Students for Peace were holding a rally that day. Has Jason talked to them about what they saw?”

  “You’ll need to ask him. He’s out on another assignment right now.”

  “I want to check them out.”

  She pushed her glasses on top of her head. “You make me sound like a broken record, Britt. The paper wants only highlights on this. They don’t need a daily story from us.”

  “I know, but if something happens, shouldn’t we be there to record it?”

  “My freelance budget isn’t big enough to pay you for that. I’m sorry.”

  I leaned in. “What if I work on my own time? Just pay me if I get something good.”

  She adjusted her glasses back on her nose. “I forgot how much of a bulldog you are.” Her lip
twitched. “I kind of miss it, even though it’s annoying.”

  One editor said I was a curious cat and the other one called me a bulldog. Enough with the pet metaphors.

  At my desk, I pulled up the college’s Students for Peace Facebook page. They’d taken pictures at all their rallies. A quick scroll gave me a sense of the scene. In a few of the photos, the Bomb ISIS group and Students for Peace clashed. But while there were angry gestures, there was no physical violence. The same guy I’d seen at the press conference harassing them was in many of them. I recognized the Honeywell ball cap. Finally one picture showed a clear view of his face. I sat back. The bad-tempered guy from Medicine Falls, Duane Weldon, stared back at me.

  Why would that old guy be hanging around the college causing trouble at peace rallies? The tingling sensation in my spine told me I was onto something.

  I scrolled through more rally photos and stopped at one in particular. Weldon’s face was thrust forward in an angry grimace, his index finger poked Jeremy’s chest. Jeremy’s mouth formed an outraged O.

  The Students for Peace leader’s name and phone number for the organization were listed and I tapped it into my phone.

  “Students for Peace, this is Kyle.”

  “Hey, Kyle, I’m a StarTribune photographer covering the explosion and I’d like to meet with you if you’re available.”

  “I already told the sheriff and BCA what we saw that day. My classes are done and I was just leaving campus.”

  “Too bad, I thought you might like some coverage of the good work your organization does. Thanks anyway.” I waited a beat.

  “I have about fifteen minutes if you want to meet now.”

  “I’ll be outside the food court in ten minutes.”

  When I hung up the phone, Cynthia’s head craned around her computer. “You know the paper won’t want a story on that group unless you come up with something new about Jeremy.”

  “I didn’t specifically tell this kid we were doing a story. I’ll make no promises.”

  I took the stairs two at a time to street level and hustled to the food court.

  Kyle slouched at a table outside wearing the same scruffy beard and plaid shirt from the Facebook page.

  “Hi Kyle. I’m Britt. Can I get you coffee or something?”

  “Thanks, I’d like a kombucha.”

  I ordered one for each of us and when we were seated with our bottles popped open and fizzy, I said, “Can you give me a summary of what you were doing and what you saw when the blast went off?”

  He checked his watch. “Like I told the sheriff, we hadn’t even planned a rally that day, but one of our group saw the Bomb ISIS people on the quad so we grabbed our placards and set up across from them. They spread so much hatred, cause racial tension, and we want to balance that. We don’t like the negative vibe.”

  “Did you ever have any serious altercations with that group?”

  “We’re Students for Peace. Fighting is not exactly our thing.”

  “What were you doing when the bomb went off?”

  He took a sip of his drink, then had difficulty swallowing. “I was calling to Jeremy to join us. He was heading to the food court for lunch, but he saw us and stopped.” Kyle’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “That’s when it happened. Suddenly there was lots of smoke and kids screaming. We ran. We were afraid there’d be more explosions.”

  Was Jeremy in the wrong place at the wrong time? If there was a connection between the Students for Peace and the death of one of their members, it wasn’t clear.

  Knowing how that scene must have affected him, I touched his arm. “I’m so sorry about your friend.”

  He tossed his backpack over a shoulder. “I don’t like to talk about any of this. It’s hard, you know? Maybe he’d have made it down the steps if we hadn’t distracted him. I mean, he was a good friend, a really good guy.”

  “I understand, but you couldn’t have predicted what would happen.” I asked, “What can you tell me about Duane Weldon, an old guy who wears a ball cap and harasses your group?”

  “He hates us. His kid died in Iraq, and that was a terrible thing, but he says we’re insulting his son’s memory and comes to all our rallies and heckles us. We mostly ignore him.”

  I stood up. “Thanks for seeing me. Before you go, I’d like to take a photo of you in case we use some of this in a story.”

  He smoothed his beard. “I wish I had one of my signs.”

  I asked a couple more questions, shooting as he talked, but my brain was connecting an angry heckler, peace rally group and the death of a member.

  “Thanks again, Kyle. I’m really sorry you lost your friend that way. I know from personal experience those images don’t go away, but maybe they’ll fade after a while.”

  He recapped his drink, stuck it in his backpack and loped across the green. I debated whether to try another sip of the one in front of me. It tasted like something Little would like me to drink so I took it with me, maybe he’d strain it or something. The stuff floating around in it unnerved me.

  Kyle’s story about Weldon made me sorry for the old guy’s loss. He had a reason to be angry, but being at every rally seemed like obsession to me. And what about the locked garage?

  *

  Curiosity propelled me to Medicine Falls. I’d waited until dark knowing parking would be tricky. Anywhere conspicuous would spark a series of neighborhood calls to discover who the car belonged to and they’d send a posse to find out about it.

  I pulled onto the unused Summer Fest road, took a minute to tuck my hair under my hood, and zip my jacket against the cold, and then hurried through the woods behind Weldon’s place. Homes here were on several acres and no one bothered with fencing. The full moon was an extra bonus.

  No dogs barked as I made my way to the freestanding garage and I said a silent thank you to the god of good luck. The garage’s side and back doors were still locked. I sidled up to the window and peered between the bent blinds at the dark interior. A flashlight might alert Weldon to my presence if he happened to look out a back window of his house, but he’d be easy to outrun if necessary. I flipped on my light.

  It took a few blinks for me to make sense of the shadowy shapes lined up on a worktable—a cross between robots and giant insect extraterrestrials. I mentally rolled my eyes. Too many monster movies—they were drones.

  The largest was roughly three feet in diameter. I squinted and saw one the size of a tarantula and a slightly larger one mounted with a GoPro, one that was half-built, and a tarp covered something else at the end of the table. A sound from the house startled me. It was time to get out of there. Taking a chance that Weldon might see the flash, I took several fast photos through the opening, then sprinted back the way I’d come, thankful for the wooded areas between homes, helpful for someone hanging around where she had no business.

  *

  Rock waited for me inside the cabin. He often used the doggy door at the back when he was tired of chasing squirrels. I fed him and called Little to check in. We might not talk for weeks when I was on assignment, but when I was in Spirit Lake we either saw each other or talked every day.

  He said, “I figured you were with Ben when you didn’t stop by for dinner.”

  “Not Ben, but I’ve been all over today and I found Emmaline’s place. She’ll bring your herbs tomorrow.” Omitting information wasn’t lying, especially if it kept my brother from worrying about me.

  “Good, thanks.” He said the café was closed and he was getting ready for bed.

  “Goodnight, then, and say goodnight to Lars for me.”

  He didn’t reply right away. “Uh, I’ll tell him.” He hung up before I had a chance to ask if everything was okay. I already knew it wasn’t. They were probably still arguing about whether Lars was leaving. Tomorrow I’d see if Little wanted to talk about it.

  I opened my laptop and Googled drones. There’d been a lot on the news lately about them flying where they shouldn’t and how they’d proven to be a danger to
other aircraft. The one that landed on the White House grounds caused an uproar. They used weaponized ones in the military, and there’d been a viral video showing a hobbyist with a drone outfitted with guns. Did Weldon’s anger at the Students for Peace get out of hand?

  After half an hour on the Internet I was overwhelmed with too much information. One organization, the Drone User Group Network or DUGN, had eight thousand members, but it looked like none were in Minnesota. Minnesotans might not be joiners, but I’ll bet there were as many drone enthusiasts here as in other states. The organization touted using flying robots for the good of humanity. My guess was that there were secret Facebook groups, other organizations, and probably lots more on the dark net sites. Then there’d be the lone wolf hobbyists, who didn’t connect with others on social media or in person. That didn’t even take into account the U.S. government and its law enforcement agencies. Was the whole world flying drones as a job, hobby, for national security, or something nefarious?

  Internet research always gave me a headache. Finding things out by asking questions and taking pictures suited me better. I stretched and tapped in Ben’s number. My intentions were twofold: to tell him what I’d learned about Weldon and find out if he was free for what was left of the evening. He answered, his voice barely audible. “I’m kind of tied up here, can we talk tomorrow?”

  “You’ll be interested in this. I’m no longer surprised Weldon locks his garage. He must have thousands of dollars in drones in there. He builds them.”

  Like a laser slicing through the phone line, he said, “How did you find out the bomb was delivered by a weaponized drone?”

  “Wait. What?”

  “You’re telling me it’s a coincidence you discovered this guy Weldon has a garage full of drones?”

  Ben’s tone raised my hackles. “I had no idea. All I was doing was checking to see why he locked his garage.”