Blow Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  I filled the stove with wood so the cabin was warm and poured freshly made coffee for my guests. Not as good as Little’s but what was? I sat across from them, and when we were all comfortably sipping in our cozy circle, I asked Edgar about his family and if he was doing okay with his diabetes. He took his time answering, and all the while my foot jiggled. It wasn’t rude if he couldn’t see my foot, right? Early on I’d learned not to blurt out a direct question and shut down the whole conversation, but this was the second time they’d come to Spirit Lake to see me in less than a week.

  I asked Henry about the casino as I always did. Henry was a tribal leader now and kept the Dreamcatcher running smoothly by always being present. His master’s in business made him the best person for the job.

  Henry asked about Bella, Chloe and the college bombing. I updated them, but left out the drone attack, embarrassed I’d taken Edgar’s warning so lightly.

  Edgar sat forward. “Please come closer, Britt. I want to see you.”

  I pulled my chair over, feeling the old man’s energy. Sometimes it was like sparks coming off him. I checked to see if his ghost ancestors were with him, but if they were, they weren’t visible to me. At times, I’d gotten a fleeting sense of them, but gave up trying to catch what I called his entourage. My photos showed a low-lying trail of mist where moments before taking the shot, I’d seen a group of Native Americans in full regalia and caught a barely perceptible thrum of drums. My only explanation was that I’d developed an imagination in my thirties.

  Edgar’s grizzled old face came close to mine. “You felt that insect’s sting.”

  How did he know what happened? I started to tell them about the drone, leaning to touch his arm. He jerked back, startling me. His agitated hands signaled to Henry.

  Henry said to me, “He’s sorry to ask, but would you mind returning to your original place across the room?” Henry looked embarrassed at the request, but Edgar’s head was high, slightly cocked.

  I jumped up. “Of course. Would you like more coffee?”

  They both said they did and I escaped to the kitchen with their cups and refilled them, giving us all time to settle.

  I set the cup next to Edgar. The color drained from his wrinkled face and he spoke rapidly in Ojibwe to his grandson. Henry answered, also in Ojibwe. I sensed a whir of activity in the room and a vibrating sound.

  Henry stood. “I’m sorry, we need to go.”

  Within minutes they were in the truck. Henry backed out of the driveway, his head out the window. “I’m not sure what happened, but I need to take him home.”

  I stayed on the step, afraid to get too close and set off Edgar again. “I’m so sorry. Call and let me know how he’s doing.”

  The tires threw gravel and they were gone. Rock was next to me, his ears lifted as if he, too, listened to something my ears weren’t picking up.

  “What happened, buddy?”

  He circled a few times, dashed back inside and lay on his bed by the stove, his paws over his muzzle. I grabbed my jacket from the hall tree and called to him. “Let’s go back to Little’s. It’s too weird here right now.” That was the third time in a row Edgar had recoiled from me.

  Ben called as I stepped into the café. Little wasn’t crazy about people having loud conversations on their phones in the restaurant so I took the call outside, pacing back and forth in the parking lot, flicking nervous glances at the night sky.

  “Thought you’d like to know, we’re bringing Brian in.”

  I stopped pacing. “What about a drone connection?”

  “We haven’t tied that to him yet. He’s been researching bomb-making sites.”

  That sounded incriminating but might also be a kid’s curiosity. “Weldon’s still number one on my personal suspect list.”

  “You shouldn’t even have a suspect list.”

  I bristled. “You know the guy who was killed belonged to the Students for Peace, right? Weldon hated that group. I saw a Facebook photo of Weldon and Jeremy in a yelling match at a protest.”

  “We know.”

  “Have you found out anything about Martin Birch? Maybe he was working with Weldon.”

  “Zero on Birch so far. We checked out Weldon’s drone community connections and got a warrant for his garage. There was no evidence of weapons.”

  That wasn’t what I’d expected to hear.

  Ben said, “The reason I called was to ask if you’re coming to my place for the night. If you can’t, Wilcox will send a deputy to your house. I’m on my way home now.” His voice dropped to a sexy rumble. “I’ll make dinner.”

  A warm tingle traveled through my body igniting all systems and it wasn’t due to the thought of dinner. “I’ll bring dessert.”

  The low timbre of his voice undid me. “I was hoping you were my dessert.”

  Nothing Ben said ever came out cheesy. I almost said I’d be extra sweet for him, but didn’t have the nerve. I’d have been terrible at a phone sex job. I said I’d be there soon and hung up, all aflutter.

  I tucked the phone away, went inside and peeked in the kitchen. Little hummed as he added the finishing touches on a plate. He loved what he did and today it seemed to take his mind off Chloe and Lars. Although never as busy as during the summer, the café continued to do decent business every day.

  Little caught me observing him work and raised an eyebrow. I said, “I’m staying at Ben’s tonight. Rock’s out back with Knute.”

  “I’m glad you two found time to be together with everything that’s going on. Shall I send dinner with you?”

  “Ben’s got it covered, but if you don’t mind, I’ll take a couple of cookies for dessert.”

  His hand went to his heart in mock horror. “For a date? Not acceptable. Ben loves my cranberry Bundt cake.” He bustled out to the dining room and sliced two thick pieces, slid them into a container and wished us a lovely evening.

  *

  Ben was already cooking when I arrived. He led me to the kitchen. “What did the doc say about your arm?”

  “They didn’t believe my drone story. He wants me to have a physical.” I’d forgotten to make an appointment for blood work and pick up the prescription.

  “You should do it.” He stirred a pot on the stove.

  I put my arms around him from behind and rested my head against his back. “Everyone’s my keeper now.”

  He pulled me close. “If that’s a job offer, I’ll take it.”

  “Speaking of job offers, what’s the latest on that long-term thing Barry’s dangling in front of you? It’s not like you’ve cleared out every evil doer operating in the national forests.”

  He held me at arm’s length. “I’m not the only ranger. Robyn’s new in her position, that’s why we’d never crossed paths when I’ve worked with the BCA in the past. She knows her stuff though.”

  “That’s what Carpenter said.” Sorry I brought up the subject, I sniffed. “What’s cooking?”

  “Spaghetti. You can help out with the salad.”

  We worked together well, most likely from the early years when we were inseparable. We’d begin our summer days playing softball at the old grade school diamond with a ragtag group of kids, eat lunch at either his or my house, then spend the rest of the day on the lake competing for who caught the most fish or swam the farthest.

  He said, “You’re far away.”

  I grinned. “Remembering that time we swam from Gert’s cabin to the city dock and I left you in my wake.”

  “The one and only time you beat me. A fluke.”

  “I challenge you to a rematch next summer.” We still took competition seriously.

  When the meal was ready, we filled our plates in the kitchen and carried them to a sleek hardwood slab, the opposite of my scarred old oak table. I tried a couple of bites and set my fork down.

  He sipped a beer and broke off a chunk of sourdough. “Spaghetti’s one of my specialties. Most people rave about it.”

  “It tasted great, but I’m not hungry ri
ght now.”

  Later when we made love, even though my heart was in it, the rest of me wasn’t. Ben raised up on one elbow. “I’m worried about you.”

  “Emmaline’s tea is helping.”

  “When we were camping last week, bad dreams woke you every night. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you need to talk to someone. It’s affecting your health.”

  “I can handle it.” Or would that terrified eleven-year-old girl strapped with explosives live in my dreams forever? The thought was unbearable. “My nightmares have stopped.” Thanks to the sleep herbs. I’d brought the last of the tea with me, but I’d need to get more. The idea of being without it made my palms sweat.

  He stroked my back.

  Knowing what I was about to say was bad timing, I said it anyway. “Marta wants me to go to Syria.”

  He stopped the soothing motion. “Tell her no.”

  For the first time in my career, I didn’t want to go on a dangerous assignment, but if I refused, I might never be able to face the hard stuff. “I’m sorry I brought it up, but wanted you to know.”

  “It doesn’t have to be you. You aren’t the only one who does this work.”

  “I get it that the world will continue if I never take another photo. Maybe it’s my ego or maybe I’m afraid I’m letting someone down who needs me, but as many of us as possible have to keep doing it because the world is overwhelmed with bad shit people should know about and I can’t just sit by doing nothing.”

  He buried his head in the crook of his arm.

  I said, “You’ve said the same thing about your job—the bad guys are winning and all you can do is try to catch up.”

  His voice muffled, he said, “I know. You’re right. But I’m a simple man. I want you to be safe with me here, in this home I built for us.”

  “You had someone perfect for that life.”

  “Ellie wasn’t you.” He exhaled. “I’m trying, but it gets harder to let you go.” He faced away.

  “It’s not easy for me either.” Just like a blind person traced a stranger’s face to record its planes and textures, I spread my hands into a fan and moved them across Ben’s broad back and down thighs strong as tree trunks. The touch memory lived in the pads of my fingertips, the roll of my palms. When we were apart, all I had to do was fan my fingers and I felt him.

  I’d done it so many times there should be no surprises, but a half-inch scar just under his rib cage stopped my travels. It wasn’t new. How had I missed it? What else had I missed? I started again.

  His hand came around, found mine and brought it to his lips. “Are you memorizing again?”

  I thought he’d drifted to sleep. “Maybe.”

  “It’s my turn.” He wrapped his long frame around me. With one hand he smoothed my tangled hair. I pushed my face into his chest, inhaling his woodsy scent. His fingers trailed along my spine and continued to duplicate all the paths I’d just made along his body. With each touch the tension in my muscles loosened.

  He whispered. “You don’t need to memorize. The BCA’s close to completing the explosion investigation, and we’ll have time to be together. Sit out Syria. That place is too damned dangerous and unpredictable.”

  My feet hit the cold hardwood and I dug in my pack for the tea mixture. “I’m making tea. Can I get you something?”

  His jaw tightened. “I’m not finished talking about Syria.”

  “It’s my job, Ben.”

  “Only a crazy person would go there now. Has Marta lost all reason? Tortured and beheaded journalists. Is it worth your life?”

  Arms crossed, I said, “You face crazed drug dealers and traffickers in your job. You’ve been shot at and hospitalized but it doesn’t stop you. How is that so different?”

  He ticked off each point on his fingers. “I carry a weapon. I can protect myself. I am a trained investigator and I don’t run half-cocked into the middle of things. We plan ahead and strategize before entering known dangerous situations, usually with backup.”

  “And I am a trained photojournalist. I document conflict, I don’t engage in it.” At least not intentionally. I headed for the stairs, ready for the conversation to end before it escalated into a serious argument. Why had I argued too forcefully about going to Syria? Playing devil’s advocate with myself? I didn’t even want to go.

  He pulled on sweatpants. “I’ll come down with you. Let’s have Little’s cake.”

  Cake didn’t sound good.

  He stepped in front of me to flip on the lights. When I started down behind him my legs buckled. He caught me in a free fall and lowered me to the stair. “What happened?”

  I coughed to give myself time to figure it out. “Light-headed, that’s all.” I held out my bag of herbs. “Do you mind making it for me?”

  He took the bag. “You need to go to the hospital.”

  “I tripped over my own feet. Good thing you’re an immovable object or I’d have taken you with me.”

  He helped me back to bed and brought cake back for him and tea for me. He leaned against the headboard, half-heartedly eating his cake. I was glad Little couldn’t see it.

  I drank the tea, waiting for it to work its magic. I’d intended to tell Ben about Edgar’s strange behavior, but the Syria issue distracted me. His soft snoring told me it was too late for more conversation. I set the empty plate on his night stand and turned out the light.

  Ben had an early meeting in the morning. We avoided talking about Syria but he made me promise to get the lab work done before going back to Spirit Lake.

  *

  The full waiting room was mostly senior citizens. The staff ran the clinic like an assembly line and I was out in forty minutes, a bandage pinching where they’d stuck me in the crook of my elbow. Rock waited outside, enjoying head pats from those coming and going.

  “One more stop, Rock.”

  Getting more herb tea was my highest priority of the day. Thoughts jiggled around in my head as I drove down the rutted Jackson Road. Maybe my attitude toward Emmaline could be more charitable. I didn’t even know her story. Who was I to judge? Since drinking the tea, I’d had no nightmares, but with only a third of what I’d been using left in the bag, last night was rough.

  Emmaline might have mental health problems. That would explain a lot. In my job, I’d come across people who suffered from mental illness, especially when I’d covered that piece for the Times on L.A.’s homeless. That assignment blasted apart my preconceived notions about the people who ended up on the street. They were individuals with different levels of education, had families, high-powered careers, ex-military suffering from PTSD, depression. But one thing they all had in common was a strong desire to live their lives free from institutions, a trait Emmaline also shared.

  I was relieved to see Emmaline’s VW van in the drive as I pulled up to the house. Rock ran off to sniff the perimeter.

  She didn’t answer my knock. Anxiety that I might not get to refill my herbs resurfaced. I called her name and knocked harder. Still no response. She was probably gathering herbs. This could be the perfect opportunity to check out the barn. If she saw me from the woods, she wouldn’t suspect me of snooping. I was simply trying to find her for my tea.

  All was quiet outside the barn, except for a noisy sparrow above me. It darted from under the eaves. A cable ran under the eaves and wires dangled from where I assumed something electronic was once attached. I called out. “Hello? It’s Britt. I’ve come for a refill.”

  There was no response. I walked around the barn, not caring whether my presence was noticed. There were more dangling wires spaced at intervals on all sides. If they’d been connected to surveillance cameras or sensors, someone had removed them. I retraced my steps, this time taking photos.

  The door, wide enough for a tractor or livestock, wasn’t padlocked as before. It stood ajar. An invitation. Rock followed me inside.

  Empty except for ominous looking scythes and pitchforks hanging from a rack, I peered into the dimness. I flipped on a
light by the door and was nearly blinded by the glare from high-powered lights above a long worktable. A cord caught my eye and I followed it to the back of a bench. Several empty surge-protector docks were scattered nearby.

  A woman who said she didn’t use technology had enough outlets to handle a room full of electronic equipment. No dust motes floated in the light streaming through high windows. I ran a finger over the worktable. Clean.

  Rock stayed by my side. If there were cats, Rock would bark and give chase, so the cat story was another misdirection.

  The bright light revealed vehicle tire tracks leading out the door. I’d stepped on them coming in. They were from a small car, clearly not from a tractor. Following them across from the bench, I squatted over a dark substance, stuck my finger into it and smelled engine oil. I took photos of the tire tracks, workbench, lights, and surge-protectors before going back to my car, half expecting her to step out of the trees with a basket over her arm.

  Extra curious and not ready to give up, I hesitated, my hand on the car door, then went back to the house and peeked in the kitchen window. A few dirty dishes sat in the sink, empty herb tins were strewn around and the cupboards were open and mostly empty. The front door was locked and so was the back. The downstairs windows were locked as well but I looked in those not covered with shades or curtains. It all pointed to one conclusion. She’d left in a hurry.

  Chapter 19

  I sat down hard on Emmaline’s porch steps. If she was gone for good how would I get my herbs?

  A quick check of the VW came up empty. No license plates, no insurance card in the glove compartment and no keys. With a final scan of the house, barn and woods, I pulled away in my SUV. “What prompted her sudden departure, Rock?” He stuck his head out the window. Did it have something to do with the barn or did she need to find a new town to sell her products? If so, what was the rush? I drove too fast on the washboard road and forced myself to slow down. My internal organs sloshed like the inside of an antique washing machine.

  I pulled into a diagonal space in front of the salon and hurried inside. Violet waved a pair of scissors from behind her customer.