by Mary Logue
After Amy had acquired the phone records of the Baldwins and the Swaggums, it had turned out that Mrs. Swaggum had called Anne on the day Anne had killed herself. Mrs. Swaggum had been looking for her husband and had gone down the list of people he had recently worked for. Her call must have petrified Anne.
Claire felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Rich settling into the seat next to her. He gave her a nod and she put her hand on top of his.
The District Attorney presented the charges and his recommendations to Judge Barker. “August first, Chet Baldwin came home to find his wife struggling in their cabin with Dean Swaggum. It appeared to Baldwin that his wife was fighting the man off, trying to get away from him and he wouldn’t let her go. Baldwin pulled Swaggum away and they fought. Swaggum, being larger and younger than Baldwin, had the advantage. Mrs. Baldwin shot Swaggum, intending only to stop him, but the bullet caught him in the side and hit his liver. He died immediately.
“This version of the story has been corroborated by Anne Baldwin’s sister, Colette Anderson. She claims that her sister had told her what had happened. That it was all her fault. Not quite two weeks later, Anne Baldwin used the same gun and killed herself. Forensics verifies that the same gun was used in both deaths. The bullet that killed Dean Swaggum was found in the cabin.”
“Chet Baldwin did aid in the cover-up of the murder of Dean Swaggum, helping his wife hide the body in Lake Pepin. Because he made this confession while he thought he was dying, it is admissable in a court of law.”
The judge addressed Chet Baldwin, “Would you agree with this summation? Is this how it happened?”
“Yes, your honor.”
Claire found this exchange especially odd to watch because Judge Barker and Chet Baldwin had been friends for years and
often went hunting together. Yet here they were in a court of law, acting as if they didn’t know each other.
“Why did you dump the body in Lake Pepin? Why didn’t you and your wife come forward with your story?” the judge asked.
Claire waited for Chet’s answer. This was the question she had tried to snake out of his mind—what had he and Anne been thinking? Talk about a pointless murder leading to a pointless death. For nothing at all. If Anne and Chet would have come forward, they might have been charged with negligent homicide, but there was also a chance they would have gotten off—plus even if they would have been found guilty, it wouldn’t have meant much prison time.
Chet cleared his throat. “Scared and ashamed, your honor. We weren’t thinking clearly. Anne was scared that she would go to jail and I didn’t want anything to happen to her. I didn’t want anyone to know what we had done.” Chet looked down and shrugged, then added, “Your honor.”
The District Attorney continued, “Although at first Mr. Baldwin was not completely cooperative with the sheriff’s department, I do not feel that he is a flight risk at the present time. His mental health has been in question, but he is currently taking an antidepressant and seeing a therapist. Dr. Donley, his therapist, feels that his mental health has stabilized.”
With some emotion in his voice, the DA went on, “Chet Baldwin has been a member of this community all his life, more than that he has served on the board of commissioners for many years. He has a farm to take care of, animals that he must tend to. He needs to get back to his life. We are recommending a bail of not more than $50,000.”
The judge nodded. “I do not need to consider this for a moment. Chet Baldwin has been an upstanding member of this community and we owe him a great deal. A tragedy has taken place in his life and he will have to face that in a court of law. But now I want him to go home and take care of his farm. I set bail at $50,000.”
Claire was surprised that the judge had set it so low, next to nothing. She glanced over at Rich and he smiled with his eyes.
While Chet was in jail, Rich had come to see him every Sunday morning and every Wednesday night, the official visiting hours. He had taken care of Chet’s farm and tended to his animals without complaint, but she knew he was ready to be done with all that. She also knew Rich had come today hoping to drive Chet back to his farm.
As they all stood, Rich leaned into her and whispered in her ear. “Bentley will be so happy to see Chet again.”
* * *
Chet sat on the back steps of the house he had lived in all his life, watching the sun go down, Bentley stretched out at his feet like a dark shadow. His first day home and he had done all he wanted to do, left instructions for everyone. He didn’t want to sleep in their bed without Anne. He didn’t want to eat dinner without her. All he wanted was to be with her again. They had made some bad mistakes, but they had made them together. That’s all there was to it.
Chet leaned over and stroked the dog’s head. He was such a good dog. Could almost run the farm without Chet.
“Bentley, you want to go see Anne?” Chet asked.
The dog lifted his sweet brown eyes up to Chet’s and whined.
“You’ll see her soon enough, you old thing.”
Chet thought of the last time he had seen Anne. She had been hysterical, sure that Dean’s wife would go to the police and everything would come out about what they had done. Her face had been streaked with tears and she had screamed at him. He didn’t want to remember her that way.
Chet let his head hang down between his shoulders, feeling the weight of it all. He had thought he would not lose her if she had some guy on the side, keeping her happy. He had pushed her to try to find someone she could have sex with. Some crazy idea he had about what she needed. Now he saw all she had wanted was his love.
So, for him, she had tried it, had a one-time fling with an easy-going guy who came to take a tree down for them. But she had hated it. The fact that she had slept with someone else made her feel dirty. When Dean came back, asking for more, she had resisted him. That’s when Chet had come home and found them in the cabin.
Later, when he asked Anne why she had had the gun with her, she had said that she was scared of Dean. She thought he might pull something and she wanted to be sure she could persuade him to leave.
Too late to fix any of it, Chet thought. He stroked Bentley and lifted the gun to his head. The side of the temple seemed like a good spot to aim at, right by the ear.
He raised his eyes to the sky and they filled with tears, not
of sorrow, but of sweetness. Only one person could make him want to leave this wonderful earth, only one woman. Unlike any other. Maybe she’d forgive him. As long as he was wishing, maybe in the afterlife he’d be able to make love to her again. That would be heaven.
Bentley whined at Chet, his eyes on the gun.
Good thing Bentley liked Colette. She would have her hands full taking care of the farm, but it would be good for her. Since she quit drinking, she needed something to keep her busy.
“It’s okay, Bentley my boy. I know you’ll be fine.”
Chet had asked Rich to stop over in the morning. He was sorry that his friend would find the mess he was leaving behind, but not such a big mess anymore. He wished he could explain it all to Rich. But his friend would just have to figure it out for himself.
The last thing Chet saw was a bird rising up in the far meadow. He couldn’t tell what kind of bird it was, but it flew toward him—its dark wings pulling through the air like delicate knives—and he knew it was time.
* * *
The heat had lifted. Instead of rising to over ninety degrees in late afternoon, it had stayed in the low eighties, the humidity dropped off to near normal. Claire sat on the deck to watch the sun set.
Curt and Meg blasted out the front door.
“We’re going swimming,” Meg announced.
The two lanky teenagers stood next to each other, brimming with all that was good about youth: energy, freshness and hope. Curt had on nothing but a pair of cut-offs, and Meg appeared to be wearing only a long pink t-shirt with a gold peace symbol printed on it. Claire assumed she had a swimsuit under the shirt.
“Glad to hear that. Wouldn’t want you to run around town like that,” Claire sat up to watch them leave. “Where are you going?”
“Just down to the lake.”
They walked off and, halfway down the driveway, they grabbed hands and took off running.
Meg had talked to Claire a few nights ago about the decision she and Curt had made to hold off on having “full-blown sex” for at least a year. “It’s been kind of a relief,” Meg said. “Now we can relax for a while and just mess around.”
Their decision was certainly a relief for Claire. Sex. She couldn’t help thinking about all the problems it could cause: unwanted pregnancies, awful diseases, destruction of bodies and souls.
That morning Amy had told her she had broken up with Bill. She had hinted at some unacceptable behavior on his part, but Claire hadn’t pushed it. She had never thought it was a good idea for those two to be going out anyway and she certainly didn’t want to get involved in their problems. All she had said was, “Sorry. But now’s the time for you to play the field.”
Amy had laughed. “What field’s that—the farm field?”
Claire looked up as Rich walked out the door onto the deck.
She felt a deep want for him rising up in her warm body. She was one lucky woman.
“You feeling okay about leaving Chet alone at his place?” “Yeah, he seemed really calm when I dropped him off, almost happy I’d say. Gave me the feeling he was glad to be back there.” He rubbed the top of her head. “How’re you doing?” “Perfect. You feel like taking a walk down to the lake?” “A walk?” Rich rarely liked to go for a walk. But then he labored hard all day long, tending the pheasants, while she was usually stuck sitting behind a desk or in a car, driving around. “Yeah, a stroll. It’s such a beautiful night. The kids are going swimming in the lake.”
“I don’t think they need us guarding them.”
“No, but how can we waste this sunset?”
He reached down to pull her up. “I have a better idea.”
About the Author
Living on both sides of the Mississippi River, Mary Logue writes children’s literature, memoir, and has published three books of poetry. After publishing two stand-alone mysteries—Red Lake of the Heart and Still Explosion—she started the Claire Watkins series: Blood Country, Dark Coulee, Glare Ice, Bone Harvest, Poison Heart, and Maiden Rock. With Pete Hautman, she has also written the Edgar-nominated Bloodwater mystery series for children. Whether in Wisconsin or Minnesota, she makes her home with Pete and their two toy poodles, Rene and Jacques. Visit her at www.marylogue.com.
If you liked Point No Point check out:
Frozen Stiff
CHAPTER 1
New Year’s Day: 1 am
I’m ready, thought Claire as she watched the fire pulse deep red in the woodstove, I want this for the rest of my life.
She was reading a bird book Rich had bought her for Christmas. He was nodding off in the chair next to her, his head bent over and the book in his hands about to fall. The stroke of midnight had come and gone. They had clinked their glasses and finished off the bottle of champagne and then, too comfortable to get up from their chairs, decided they would watch the fire for a while longer.
Claire couldn’t believe they had made it past midnight. They hadn’t managed to stay up so late the last few years. She tried to convince herself that she wasn’t waiting up for Meg to come home. Her daughter had gone to some friend’s house to play her new Wii game, and had promised she’d be home by one. Only one time had she not made her curfew, with disastrous results. But since then, she had been Johnny-on-the-spot.
Hard to think that in less than two years, Meg would be gone. She was slowly pulling out of their lives already, working at the Red Wing YMCA on Saturdays and taking a college class in River Falls, driving an old Toyota Corolla that Rich had fixed up for her. Claire found it hard to imagine life without her energetic, darling daughter breezing through it.
For eight years she and Meg had been living with Rich in his family farmhouse, longer than she had lived with her husband. Rich reminded her of the Mississippi, which flowed just a block away from where they were sitting: down the driveway, across Highway 35, and through the Fort St. Antoine park. He moved along steadily, but those waters ran deep and, every once in a while, he would surprise her in an amazing way. He was her able companion and had been next to her, supporting her through some very hard times.
Claire knew that he had trouble with how involved she got in her work. Being the lead investigator—the only investigator—for the Pepin County Sheriff’s department did put a crimp in her home life from time to time. Rich would complain, and then have a good meal waiting for her when she finally showed up.
For all his griping, Rich more than supported her. He had grown up in Pepin County, unlike her, and he understood how vital her police work was to the health of the community. He knew how information moved through the county, he knew who was related to whom, he knew the lay of the land. He was her guide in what had been a new country for her and often told her what she could not see.
He was a good man and the love of her life.
Claire turned to wake him. The book was wavering in his lap. When it fell, Rich jolted awake. Claire laughed.
He glanced over at her to see what had happened and then smiled with warmth in his eyes.
“Time for bed?” she asked.
“I guess.”
She rose from her chair and knelt down next to him. A touch of gray showed in his black hair. She reached up and brushed his face. “Will you marry me?”
He shook his head as if to clear it, then said, “I don’t know. I kinda like it the way it is.”
She swatted at him with her hand. He pulled her up into his lap and took her face in his hands. The kiss wasn’t like the hungry embraces they had at the beginning of their relationship, it was deeper and more satisfying. A kiss that said I’m here, next to you, where I will always be.
Claire heard the back door open. Rich and she pulled apart as if they had been caught doing something they shouldn’t. Then they laughed. Her daughter was home. She heard Meg open the refrigerator door, always her first act when she walked into the house. Like most teenagers, she was constantly hungry.
“Hey, old fogies! You stayed up.” Meg came to the doorway of the living room and yelled in her outdoor voice, “Happy New Year!”
New Year’s Day: 3 am
The woman lounged in bed, waiting. She knew he would be here soon. She loved this time before he came, the anticipation of his energy, his desire. In many ways, her imagining what was to come was better than what actually happened. Her New Years’s Eve would start when he walked through the door.
She had gone out with Carly and Petra for a few drinks at midnight, but when some guys starting hitting on them, she cut out. The girls were like, You can’t leave now. But she knew those two could handle the men all by themselves.
The radio was playing party music. She had taken a long bath, done her nails, put on a silk t-shirt, then taken it off, and climbed into bed. She had thought of getting a bottle of champagne for the occasion but he was more of a Budweiser kind a guy. She had a six-pack waiting in the fridge.
While she lolled in bed, she imagined her life to come. Just travel for a while. Paris sounded good to her. Her French wasn’t half shabby. She knew how to say, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” As long as she could say that, order a glass of wine, and buy some clothes, she’d be set.
A knock sounded on the door of her apartment. Finally. She waited a minute. The next series of knocks came louder, harder.
She rolled out of bed and walked to the door, swishing her hair back over her shoulders.
She opened the door and watched his face open when he saw her standing there, naked.
“Whoa,” the tall boy said.
She led him to the bed without saying a word. There would be time for talking later.
New Year’s Day: 6 am
> Clyde Hegstrom knew the cows didn’t really care that he had been up late last night, way past his usual bedtime of nine o’clock, nearly closing the bar. He milked them at six in the morning because that’s when they needed to be milked, their udders filling up to the point of pain otherwise.
His herd of six cows also didn’t care that his 17-year-old daughter Bonnie had delivered a baby two nights ago, and almost lost her life doing it. That he had drunk himself silly last night. That his wife was so upset that she couldn’t even talk. That she hadn’t been home in two days. The cows didn’t care that it was twenty below zero with windchill too low to measure.
Clyde could hear their soft lowing as he trudged to the barn. His head felt heavy on his neck and filled with compost.
The barn smelled of cud and sweet hay. The cows turned their heads to him and greeted him with loud snuffles and moans, all in their own familiar sounds. He didn’t have to think about what to do. The pail came to his hands, the stool sat on the ground. He still milked his small herd the old-fashioned way. He was sure he got more milk out of them that way, and he was even more sure that they enjoyed it more.
He started with Hilda, the oldest cow, who was pushing eighteen, the upper end of her life span. Her mother had rejected her so Clyde had raised her with a bottle. She was his big baby.
He leaned his head into her warm, soft hide, his hands started their work, milk hissing down into the pail. The warmth of the cow’s soft body comforted him and he found tears bathing his face.
New Year’s Day: 9 am
Sherri Walker was not looking forward to going back to the “cabin” as Dan called it. She hadn’t been there in a month, since Dan had dropped the divorce bomb on her as they were having drinks.
He had chucked her under the chin, like a little girl, which she hadn’t been in thirty years, and said, “Don’t think this marriage is working any more.” She had started to cry, but tears never worked on him. The only thing that worked was sex and while he hadn’t turned her down that night, he hadn’t been overly enthusiastic. A week later, he had divorce papers served on her.