Blow Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  The question was whether she called to have a personal chat or did she have an assignment for me? I checked my watch. It was two hours earlier in L.A. She’d be at the paper and never mixed work and personal life unless I’d done something especially troublesome. I wasn’t ready to leave Spirit Lake.

  The students left the building at noon. After I’d filmed them hurrying down the steps and dispersing in various directions, I packed my equipment and slid down from my perch. No one noticed me. Odd that security was so lax after a bombing. I’d fully expected to be rousted out of this tree on the first day.

  I passed the library, trying to stay out of the flow of kids going to the food court. Brian and a younger girl, same height, same hair color, although she was slimmer than him, stood at the bottom of the steps talking. I recognized her from the morning I watched Brian’s house. It was his sister.

  I moved closer, dropped cross-legged to the grass, blending in with a nearby trio of students staring at their phones. Bending over my own phone, I checked them out.

  He said, “You’re supposed to be in school.”

  She tossed her head. “High school kids get lunch breaks just like you college dudes.”

  “C’mon, I need to pick up a book before lunch. We can eat at the food court.” She skipped up the steps and through the doors with him.

  I waited until they were inside the library, then went in. They were a few yards ahead, moving toward a bank of books. Out of earshot, she tossed her head and said something. He grabbed her elbow and pushed her behind one of the stacks. I stuck my head in a book and hurried to the shelves directly across from them.

  Her voice rose. “I am going with you.”

  Brian didn’t whisper this time. “No, you aren’t, Jenna. We’ve been over this.”

  “If you don’t let me I’ll tell Mom and Dad what you’re doing.”

  Someone jostled me and said, “Sorry.” Brian and his sister hurried away. Had I been listening to an innocent brother-sister altercation, or something more sinister?

  Chapter 11

  I wanted to continue following Brian and his sister to hear more of their conversation at lunch but concern for Chloe took priority. Little’s report about her sounded to me like she was too composed for someone who’d just had her foot amputated.

  In the waiting room, Ray’s chin rested on his chest, a rhythmic gurgle emanating from his throat. I stepped past him to Chloe’s room and caught her crying. Unsure how to help, I said, “I’ll come back later if you want.”

  “Please stay.” She wiped away the tears sliding down her cheeks. “I guess it’s hitting me that I don’t have a foot anymore.” Her voice rose a reedy octave. “How am I going to work at Little’s or go to school or do anything normal?” She grabbed the sheet into a bunch and buried her head in it.

  I sat close, but didn’t touch her or speak and let her tears roll down her cheeks, not wanting to shut her down until she’d gotten it all out.

  In a few minutes she hiccupped, and said, “I tried so hard to be brave for Little and my dad, but I’m not brave. I’m scared. My life is practically over and it was just starting. Who’s going to hire me now? And no guy is ever going to want me with an ugly metal spatula sticking out from the bottom of my jeans.”

  I grabbed a wad of tissue, sat next to her on the bed and handed it to her. She flung herself into my arms and let loose with another torrent of crying.

  When that subsided, she blew her nose. “I’m sorry I got you all wet.”

  I smoothed her bangs to the side. “You don’t have to be brave right now. Anyone would be scared. It wasn’t fair and there’s no question your life is going to be different, but Chloe, what do you think when you see someone with a prosthetic?”

  She wiped her eyes. “I feel sorry for them.”

  “And what else?”

  She considered the question for a moment. “They’re brave and I admire them because they go on to do lots of amazing things, athletically as well as other ways.” A tiny expression of hope appeared on her face. Then her lids closed and she fell asleep. She must be exhausted.

  Nurse Connie, or Cranky as I sometimes called her behind her back, passed me in the corridor on the way out. “Connie...”

  She halted, glancing at her watch. “Dr. Fromm needs me.”

  “Do you know anyone around here who has dealt with what Chloe’s going through?”

  She adjusted the round glasses. “Someone young like her, who’s had a limb amputated and is getting on with life, who might talk to her about their feelings and experiences?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s standard procedure in rehab, but I could ask someone to come in and talk to her now.”

  “Thanks, Connie.”

  “Well, then.” She continued her purposeful stride down the hall.

  Connie was the best nurse in the hospital and not to be blamed for being impatient with a person like me. Angry and feeling sorry for myself, I’d lashed out at her, Dr. Fromm and everyone I loved when my hands were burned last year. Bad at self-reflection, I, too, hurried on.

  On the way home, I punched the autodial on my car’s console. It wasn’t a good idea to keep Marta hanging for long. She picked up immediately and didn’t bother with the niceties. “I know you need a good long time to recuperate from that last horrible assignment, although they’re talking Pulitzer...”

  I cut her off. “You know how many people died?”

  She gasped. “Oh, God, that was insensitive, forget I said that.”

  The tension in my jaw loosened. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Here’s the thing. The former administration said no boots on the ground in Syria and now guess what? It’s happened and the editors want it covered. The timing’s wrong, but if you want the assignment it’s yours.”

  She’d been talking at warp speed and slowed herself down with an expulsion of air. “You don’t need to cover this. I can send you on something domestic or less volatile when you’re ready to come back. No one will think less of you.”

  “Not true and you know it. They’d call me washed up.” No one at the Times could know about my nightmares or panic attacks. Maybe it was PTSD, but I refused to use the term. That would get me disability and a job on the desk if I was lucky. My jaw tensed again. “What’s the timeline?”

  “A week. We’ve been making arrangements to get journalists into the country by hooking up with a special operations force out of LA. This one is more dangerous than anything we’ve ever done. The editors argued over it for days.”

  “I might need more time.” I summed up the story about the explosion. Marta didn’t have patience for extended versions of anything.

  “What is it with all the crime in your bucolic Northwoods?”

  “It’s no different from anyplace else except there are fewer people, and not always nicer ones.”

  “Clock is ticking on this one.”

  My gut cramped and weakness washed over me. I was relieved to be sitting down. “I’ll let you know in a few days, Marta.”

  “What just happened? I don’t like the sound of your voice. Usually, you get excited about assignments like this. Are you all right?”

  “You my editor or my mom right now?”

  “I have another call. Love you.”

  “You, too,” I said, but she’d hung up. A good story was always her first priority, something we had in common, but this time my first reaction was that I didn’t want this assignment at all.

  *

  Little stood behind the counter staring out the window. I glugged a cup of coffee hoping a jolt of caffeine would perk me up. “The BCA and StarTrib don’t need me so I’m at your service.”

  He wiped his hands on his apron. “Thanks, but we can manage.” The groove between his brows told a different story.

  “What else am I going to do? Ben’s busy with the BCA and I’d like to spend time with you.”

  He blinked, unused to my sweet side. It was hard for me to put my e
motions into words and it sounded awkward. Learning a new behavior takes time. Little’s silly grin made me feel pretty good about myself.

  During the afternoon lull, Little left for Branson to check on Chloe. When he returned, he said Nurse Connie had brought in a kid who’d lost part of an arm in a boating accident and had learned how to use his prosthetic. “He and Chloe were still talking when I left.”

  That was quick. I’d be sure to thank Connie.

  The restaurant closed at nine in the fall and winter and that suited me. I was tired of answering questions about Lars, saying only that he was visiting his family in Chicago.

  As the last customers trickled out, I pulled my laptop from my camera bag and started reading news stories about the carnage in Syria, creating a file of articles and images showing how women and particularly women journalists were treated by ISIS and Assad. The stories added to my already shaky attitude about the new assignment. My head popped up at the sound of a heavy sigh. At the other end of the counter, Little hunched over his list of the next day’s menu items.

  I closed the laptop and scooted over next to him.

  Hurt and confusion moved across his face. “We didn’t fight or anything. He just left.”

  Lars was obviously never far from Little’s thoughts. I said, “His text said he was taking a break, right? That didn’t sound final.”

  “It’s what they always say when they don’t want to admit they’re never coming back.” He bowed his head to the list, a message to me he didn’t want to talk about it.

  I packed the laptop into my camera bag and filled a to-go cup with coffee. Little frowned. “It’s not decaf.”

  “It doesn’t affect me.”

  He snorted. “From the person who can’t sleep at night. Where are you going?”

  He’d never let up if I didn’t tell him the partial truth. “Someone used a drone in the college blast. I’m doing some research.” Snooping around was a more accurate description of what I intended to do, but I sailed out the door before he asked more questions.

  The dogs were stretched out on the braided rug in the workshop. In cold weather, Lars kept the potbellied stove going so they always had a warm place to sleep after roaming around town. My hand rested on the cold stove. Would Lars be back and jetting around the trails on his Ski-Doo this winter? I let Knute into the apartment at the back of the restaurant and headed to my place with Rock riding shotgun.

  *

  Dressed in black with a couple of dog treats tucked in my jacket pocket, I grabbed my camera bag by the front door and Rock and I were off to Medicine Falls. Ben said the BCA would check out Weldon, but they weren’t taking the old guy seriously in my view.

  Watching, or as Edgar called it, hunting, took my mind off Ben. At least when we were thousands of miles apart there was no hope of seeing him and I was able to concentrate on my work. Now I knew he was close by but untouchable.

  I parked on the unused Summer Fest drive again and Rock and I cut through the trees to the back of Weldon’s place. Rock liked a stakeout. He stayed close, ears forward, alert. My camera strap was secured around my neck, the camera zipped under my hoodie to keep it from bouncing if I had to make a run for it.

  The light was on in Weldon’s garage. Ben didn’t want me getting in the BCA’s way but my intention was to watch, not interact. There was no need to get closer than the stand of birches—the windows were covered anyway.

  Within half an hour, the door opened. The light illuminated Weldon carrying a drone the size of his hand. It was the one with the GoPro attached. He locked the door and got in his car. I sprinted back to my SUV with Rock at my heels.

  It wasn’t hard to catch up to him. I left my lights off and followed his taillights. Weldon stopped about a half mile down the road and parked a few yards from a driveway. I pulled into a dirt road no wider than a trail, gave Rock a treat and whispered, “Stay, buddy.” Then I hurried after Weldon.

  Instead of walking up the driveway, he angled through the woods toward the house as if familiar with the route, the drone in his hand. Stepping into a clearing, he set the drone on the ground and drew a controller from his pocket. The moon cast arcs of light through the trees. I worked the camera settings to do the best I could without flash.

  He set the drone in motion and with a faint buzz it headed toward the nearby house. I filmed the little drone, briefly illuminated by the moon’s faint glow until I lost sight of it. It emerged again framed in the light shining from an upstairs room, probably a bedroom. A flash went off on the drone and within a couple of seconds the house light went off. From his position about ten yards from my hiding place crouched behind a bush, Weldon chuckled. Not a kindly uncle chuckle, more like an evil monster in an animated film.

  Minutes later, the device returned to Weldon with a distinctive buzz. He pocketed the controller, picked up the drone and, passing within a few yards of where I was holding my breath, got into his car. He made a U-turn and headed back to his house.

  I trotted to the driveway, noted the name on the mailbox and hurried to my car.

  Leaving my vehicle where it couldn’t be seen, I stayed hidden in the woods leading to his driveway. Weldon walked from his garage toward his house. I crouched behind a hedge, poking my head up to see what he’d do next. He opened the door and stopped and rotated in a wide arc as if listening to something. I ducked behind the hedge and waited with my heart in my throat until the door slammed and lights went on in the house.

  Was my visit lucky timing or did Weldon spy on his neighbors every night? I’d be paying a visit to the Lundbergs, the name on the mailbox, at my first opportunity.

  *

  Morning was my favorite time of day, partly because it usually included my brother’s blueberry wild rice pancakes. But today, lack of an appetite stopped me from lifting my fork. However, with Little watching from behind the counter, I produced a few appreciative vocals. That satisfied him enough to take his eyes off my pancake consumption. He went to the baked goods display and filled a bag with donuts.

  I set my plate into the dirty dish bin to keep Little from noticing the nearly whole pancake I’d left on it. “Are you sure you don’t need me today?”

  “Thanks, but we’re fully staffed for the weekend. Besides, you look tired.”

  No woman likes to hear that. “I’m not tired.” Emmaline’s herbs even helped me sleep after drinking coffee last night.

  He passed the plump bag to me. “Want to take these to Violet? She’s visiting Bella today. There’s enough for the staff too.”

  Happy to have a purpose, I picked up the donuts and headed out the door. “I’ll take the dogs for some exercise.”

  The bell tinkled when I stepped into the salon. Violet and Emmaline stood next to the now full display of Emmaline’s Organics. I backed out. “You two continue your chat. I’ll stop by later.”

  Violet waved me in. “I was just talking about how you’ve been off hunting down some guy with drones who might be connected with that awful bombing.”

  I’d been watching Emmaline, but my attention snapped to Violet. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Trish was having coffee at the Café and overheard you talking to Little about it. Did they get him?”

  “Trish is a gossip.” I said with what I hoped was a warning.

  “You know small towns.” She hadn’t taken my hint.

  Emmaline edged past me and hurried down the steps, the empty basket bouncing in her twiggy arms. “I have to go.” She threw me a backward stare that withered my entrails before scurrying around the corner.

  “Violet, I don’t get that woman.”

  Violet’s curls bounced. “She’s kind of an introvert but she said she was grateful you took the time to take her my message. She’s brought more of her fabulous products.”

  I dropped into a chair.

  Violet hadn’t stopped talking. “I’ve tweeted and posted Instagram pics of Emmaline’s Organics. You know she doesn’t even have a computer out at that far
mhouse.”

  “She told me she didn’t want technology to interrupt her intuiting.”

  “She’s definitely special. Business has been good for both of us. People come in for Emmaline’s Organics and end up getting a mani-pedi or trim and vice versa. It’s called partnering up marketing.”

  “Good for you, Violet.” I’d already reminded her that Bella would put a stop to it when she returned; there was no point in nagging.

  Violet bit her lower lip. “Mom’s recovering more quickly than we expected. I might be bringing her home this evening.” She shot a worried glance at the full display of vials and pouches.

  “Great news about Bella.” I held out the bag. “Little sent donuts.”

  She peeked in, brightening.

  “I’ll let you get back to your social media. Knute and Rock need a walk.” Something told me there would be fireworks at the salon tonight.

  Chapter 12

  The walk home after taking Knute back to Little’s tired me. I dropped into a chair at the oak table and scrolled through footage from my tree surveillance, a frustrating chore. What I really needed was the list of students who were at Summer Fest to cross-reference with the kids who had classes in the communications building from eleven to twelve Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  I stretched, tapping Ben’s number into my phone. “You busy?”

  “Lot of waiting going on right now. What do you need?”

  “You, mostly.”

  He laughed. “I’m not foolish enough to believe that was anything but a sneaky way for you to ask me for a favor. What can I do for you?”

  Phone in my ear, I wandered to my bedroom and stared at the unmade bed. “You got me, but I really do miss you.” That sounded whinier than intended; I was going for sultry. I told him about my tree project. “I need photos and names of students who have classes in that building during the period before noon.”

  “You want a list of students and their pictures.”