Blow Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  I said, “Barry’s team likely has a list but they don’t have the video showing who typically used those steps at the time of the explosion and which direction they were going. It’s random, but surprises can lead somewhere, right?”

  “Might be worth looking at. We’ll trade info.”

  “Can I come and get the list right away?” I pawed through the closet for my overnight bag, just in case.

  “How about I head down to Spirit Lake? I haven’t had one of Little’s meals in too long.”

  Half in the closet, I straightened, knocking hangers to the floor. “Sorry?”

  “And you know I want to see you.”

  Taking advantage of his light-hearted teasing, I pushed a bit more. “Would you bring one more thing? It’s probably already on your laptop.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I need a list of everyone who attended Summer Fest including staff and talent.”

  “To be clear, I’m only doing this because it’s better for you to be staring at a computer than putting yourself in some psycho’s sights.”

  That comment called for a verbal slap, but he had the lists and I definitely wanted to see him. A quick peek in the mirror reminded me that he was spending a lot of time with Barry, with her creased pants, crisp white shirts and flawless makeup. I put on a clean black T-shirt, less faded than others and brushed my hair, frowning at the mirror. Maybe Violet had something for dark circles.

  Rock yipped and ran out when Ben pulled into the drive. Rock got first dibs on his attention, but when it was my turn, Ben folded me into a full-on bear hug. I tugged him toward the bedroom, he tossed his jacket on the coat tree and in the next hour nothing mattered but the two of us twined together in my big, soft bed.

  When I moved toward the shower, Ben lay back against the pillows, arms behind his head. “You know if you wanted us to live here instead of my house in Branson, I’d do it.”

  This cabin had been a refuge for both of us. Abandoned by his own mother, Gert’s twin sister, he’d spent much of his childhood here with his aunt when he wasn’t needed on his dad’s resort.

  He’d been pressing me to move in with him in his cedar home on Branson Lake and I did love it, but couldn’t imagine leaving the cabin. Almost too small for me, it simply wouldn’t work for both of us to live here. Another of those unsolveds in our relationship. I said, “How about yours as the official home, and this one the cabin retreat?”

  His grinned. “In other words, if it ain’t broke...” He threw off the sheet and joined me in the shower.

  Dressed, but not quite ready to get back to the world of explosions and mayhem and with arms around each other’s waists, we walked out to the deck off my bedroom. A low-flying V of Canada geese swooped up and angled southward until vanishing into the horizon.

  Ben cleared his throat. “Robyn’s asked me about doing an exclusive year contract with the BCA.”

  “You’re not interested, right? You’d be stuck in a city.” Ben had only ever wanted to be a forest ranger.

  “It’s only a year. She wanted two but I said no to that.”

  He was interested. The waves lapping against the shore weren’t calming.

  “I’d take a leave of absence and relocate to Minneapolis temporarily.” He pushed a strand of hair behind my ear, something he’d always done to soothe me.

  I moved away from his touch. “What do you get out of it?”

  “More continuity on cases I work on with them, learn the latest technology. They’re funded better than the forestry service.” He looked out over the lake. “Maybe I’m ready for a different environment.”

  My arms crossed. “You hate change.”

  His head cocked. “Do I?”

  Unable to stand still for this conversation, I dropped onto the porch swing and pushed with my feet, liking the raspy squeak. “What about when I come to Spirit Lake? You won’t be here.”

  “How’s that different? I live in Branson, you live here for a few weeks every few months. We’ve hardly been together since you came back.” He waited for the swing to slow and sat next to me. “When you’re in town, I’ll take time off and spend it here with you.”

  My foot jammed forward jerking the swing sideways. “We both know that’s a best case scenario.”

  His arm draped across my shoulders. “You, of all people, can’t begrudge me this. I can’t believe you have an issue with it. ” He tucked a strand of my hair behind my other ear. “She just threw it out there today.”

  His thumb traced the line of my jaw, tight under his touch. Now I was one of those people who didn’t want their loved ones to change. I stood. “We should check those files.”

  We left the bedroom in a different mood than when he’d pulled into the driveway. Ben poured himself coffee and sat at the table. “What’ve you got?”

  I scrolled through my video footage showing him what I had in mind.

  His brows drew together. “I see what you mean about needing to compare.” He handed me a USB flash drive. “The lists you wanted. Robyn hopes this will keep you out of the way for a while.” He raised his hands in surrender mode. “Her words, not mine.” He grinned. “She wasn’t expecting you to be as curious as you are.”

  Sheriff Wilcox had the same attitude about me, but it got under my skin when it came from Barry. Wilson didn’t try to tell me how to run my life.

  We had an early dinner at Little’s. Ben was solicitous and I was prickly. Little raised an eyebrow at my sour face. I’d fill him in later. We didn’t stay long. Little wasn’t in a great mood either—he’d been to see Chloe, who was in a lot of pain, and Lars was still absent. That put things in perspective for me concerning my behavior toward Ben.

  At my place, we sat in Ben’s truck facing the lake, windows open to the evening chill, listening to the slap of waves along the shoreline. Our hands sought each other in the familiar scene, balance restored in the pale moon and swaying birches. My fingers untwined from his, traveled up his chest and circled his neck. “Want to stay?”

  He leaned into me, forehead touching mine, our eyes locked. “I do.” His phone rang. He listened, hung up and made a wry face. “Robyn’s called a meeting.”

  Of course she had.

  He observed me from under half-closed lids. “There’s nothing between Robyn and me. You get that, right?”

  Embarrassed the jealousy gremlin had taken over, I said, “The unexpected news blindsided me at first. Go ahead to your meeting. I’ll get to work on those lists.” Sometimes I forgot to behave like a grown woman.

  The truck pulled away and much as I hated to see him go, the timing was right. There was something I needed to do. I grabbed my camera pack. The Lundbergs should be finishing dinner by the time I arrived in Medicine Falls.

  *

  Lights were on inside their home and smoke curled from a chimney. A trim woman, polite but reserved, answered my knock. “May I help you?”

  “I’m Britt Johansson with the StarTribune. Is your husband home?”

  A slight frown. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’d like to talk to you both if you don’t mind.” I tried for a reassuring tone, even though my information wouldn’t be welcome. “It won’t take long.”

  A man with thin hair and a thick mustache came down the stairs. “What’s this about?”

  “May I step in for a moment?”

  He studied my lanyard and camera. A look passed between them and they invited me in.

  I stood just inside the entryway, fully expecting to be thrown out as soon as I opened my mouth. “I’m checking into the blast at Branson State. It involved a drone and your neighbor Duane Weldon has quite a collection. Is there anything you could tell me about him?”

  Mrs. Lundgren’s hand went to her throat. She flicked a look at her husband like a scared rabbit. He took her hand. “Why do you want to know? Your ID says you’re a photographer.”

  I got that a lot. A journalist is a journalist whether it’s reporting or photographing
stories. “Weldon disrupts the Students for Peace group and rallies, and the student who died belonged to that group. I’ve been following his movements.”

  Mr. Lundberg stiffened. “What does that have to do with us?”

  “I don’t know, but I wanted to warn you that last night he sent a drone with a camera on it to your upstairs window.”

  He paced a few steps away and back. His voice rose an angry octave. “He does that to find dirt on all of us who live near the Summer Fest event site so he can force us to vote it down. He doesn’t want it to start up again.”

  “Have you asked the authorities to get him to stop spying on you?”

  His wife shook her head hard.

  He said, “If my wife’s employer or mine found out what he knows, we’d both be fired. He’d been leaving us alone lately, but they’re voting on Summer Fest again next week. Last night was a warning that we’d better vote no.

  “And that’s what you’ll do?”

  Mrs. Lundberg said, “We can’t just pick up and leave like some others. We have two kids at Branson State and thank God they weren’t in the explosion.” Her lips thinned. “If that nasty man had something to do with it, I want him locked up.”

  “He hasn’t been accused of anything, we’re just asking questions. Can you give me the name of one of your neighbors who’s left town?”

  Mr. Lundberg gestured toward the east. “The Millers moved to the next county to get away from his prying drones. They’d just built a greenhouse and nursery on their property and Anna was building up a business.”

  “Do you know what he was blackmailing them about?”

  They shook their heads. “Sorry.”

  “You can tell me what he had on you. I won’t tell anyone. He’s the one I’m after.”

  Mr. Lundberg looked at his wife. A flush stained her cheeks. He said, “We’d rather not. If it got out, we’d both lose our jobs.”

  “I understand. I won’t mention our conversation to anyone.”

  She put a hand on my arm at the door, her expression bleak. “He’s wrecking our lives.”

  Confronting dirty corporate tycoons or politicians didn’t cause me a moment’s hesitation, but I left sorry about asking the Lundbergs personal questions.

  *

  Thanks to Emmaline’s tea, I slept through the night again, although still groggy the next morning. I called to Rock, “Ready for a run this morning, buddy?” He hopped around as I changed into running gear.

  We pounded along the Paul Bunyan Trail for a mile when I noticed Rock panting. I slowed to a stop and let him rest. “You get lazy lying around with Knute? Let’s go to the lake and get you a drink.”

  We left the trail and angled toward the lakeshore. I wasn’t that energetic either and focused on my feet to keep from tripping over fallen branches in this overgrown section of woods. Ahead, Rock let out a series of sharp barks.

  Someone was walking toward us. Not comfortable with strangers appearing out of the blue, I stiffened, alert. Rock ran back to my side, hackles up. The kid was five inches shorter than me and had a slight limp. He wore head-to-toe camo and carried a bow. A quiver hung over one shoulder. He stopped a few yards away and waved. “Nice dog.”

  Still wary, I straightened to my full height. “Who are you?”

  He took a step back. “Martin Birch.”

  My interrogator tone softened. “You’re not from here.”

  “The Cities.”

  I squinted into the woods. “Where’s your hunting stand?”

  He pointed away from the direction he’d just come. He wore a camo ball cap backward over brown hair in a thick wad of a bun at the nape of his neck. “It’s in a tree over there. I was going back to it.” His head tilted toward the lake. “Haven’t seen any deer so I crossed the trail to check this side. Are you a game warden or something? I have my permit right here.” He patted a pocket.

  “Just curious when I saw the bow. It’s a nice one.”

  He waved goodbye and walked haltingly in the direction of his stand.

  Rock slurped up lake water before we picked our way back to the trail and continued home. He hadn’t wagged his tail once at the young man. I was usually friendlier too, but couldn’t shake the anxiety that plagued me these days. One thing, I’d be sure to wear neon orange the next time. I’d forgotten about bow hunting season.

  *

  Skipping breakfast at Little’s and address in hand, I drove to a town southwest of Bleecher County. It was time to follow up on the couple Weldon drove out of Medicine Falls.

  A stocky man about my age answered the door. I introduced myself and showed my credentials to add legitimacy to the impromptu drop in.

  “What is this about?”

  “I’d rather talk to both you and your wife.”

  He tugged at his ear.

  Knowing full well he’d be sorry he talked to me, I said, “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “Anna’s working in the garden.” He led me around to the side of their modest home. His wife was bent over a bed of plants. She straightened when she saw us, trowel in hand.

  He said, “I’m Kevin. This is Anna.” The young woman wiped her muddy hands on bib overalls stretched tight in front and shook my hand, throwing a questioning look at her husband and then at me.

  Still smiling, I asked, “When are you due?”

  Her face softened. “Next month.”

  I gave the same spiel I had to the Lundbergs, adding that one of their neighbors told me they left Medicine Falls to get away from Weldon.

  Kevin said, “We’re not getting into that. He’s left us alone and that’s all we wanted.”

  I explained again why I was interested in him. “I want to find out if your story leads me closer to connecting Weldon to the college explosion.”

  “He’s a mean sonofabitch and I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Anna plucked at her shirt. “We don’t want to dredge this up again. We’re free of that man here.”

  Kevin said, “Would you excuse us for a minute.” He put his arm around Anna’s shoulder and led her out of earshot.

  I pretended to be admiring the garden while straining to hear what they said, but didn’t catch any of it. They came back, drooping.

  He said, “Anna and I went to college at Branson. It’s where we met. If Weldon had anything to do with that kid’s death and we didn’t tell you what we know about him, we’d never be able to live with ourselves.”

  “I promise not to share anything you say unless it relates to the bombing.”

  He tugged his ear again. “I’m a contractor and I made a mistake. If it got around, I’d have a hard time getting another job in Minnesota.”

  Anna’s head whipped around, sending her braids swaying, “Do you have to talk about that?”

  He went on. “I wanted to build Anna the greenhouse and nursery she needed. My construction work wasn’t enough to cover all the items I needed. Up here, we get a few good months of work and that’s it. So I picked up leftover materials after a job was finished one time.”

  “How did Weldon find out?”

  “It had to have been a drone. He had an aerial shot of me picking up the wood for the planter boxes. Anna was mad at me and I didn’t do it again, but then Weldon showed up with that picture of me throwing the scrap into my pickup. I hadn’t seen the harm at the time, but no one would want to hire me if Weldon convinced them I was stealing.”

  She said, “So we voted the Summer Fest down and then when we understood he’d never stop bothering us, we dismantled the greenhouse and left town.”

  “Do you believe he’s capable of detonating a bomb at the college?”

  Anna said, “Maybe. He went a little crazy after his son was killed. Then his wife left him and he turned on everyone.”

  I thanked them. “You didn’t have to tell me your story and I appreciate your willingness to take that risk.”

  Their eyes sought each other’s, and I sensed something unspoken. I said, “You can t
rust me.”

  They held hands as they watched me drive away. Digging into the Lundbergs’ and Millers’ private lives hadn’t shed any light on the bombing. All I’d done was make both couples anxious again. No question Weldon was mean, but was he capable of murder?

  *

  One of the local sites I’d visited during my drone research posted a flying robot race event in Fargo at two p.m. on Saturday, which was today, and there was still time to get there. The Millers’ home was only two hours from Fargo. No other drone events were scheduled in Northern Minnesota over the weekend. My guess was every drone enthusiast would be there and that might include Duane Weldon. Viewing him in that environment and who he interacted with could reveal something helpful. At the very least, I’d chalk it up to drone research.

  Chapter 13

  I called Cynthia and proposed doing a feature on the drone event for the paper. “I’m near Fargo already.”

  “Go ahead. Drones make news. They’re controversial. The paper might run it in the regional section or in the online edition.”

  An hour later, I pulled into a field similar to the Summer Fest site. An attendant in a reflective vest sent me to the end of a long row of cars and trucks. I parked in the gravel and crunched to the race entrance marked by yellow and blue sponsor flags.

  Spectators and those entering the race milled around. I climbed to the top seat of a set of bleachers between more sponsor flags flapping in the breeze. The layout was a combination race and obstacle course, each one different based on drone size. Yellow discs like the type I’d seen on sports fields marked the courses. The colorful scene was similar to a race car track, only a different kind of loud.

  The Fargo television van with KVRR emblazoned on the sides pulled up, and a couple photographers and reporters with lanyards stating their affiliations moved through the crowd.

  Race contestants tested and tinkered while spectators gathered in chatty groups. I framed a long shot, then hopped down to the ground and wove through the crowd, surrounded by whirring sounds. A crash yards away made me jump, but the guys controlling the downed drones only laughed. I moved closer. One of the guys said, “Rematch?”