The Boreal Owl Murder

by Jan Dunlap

  Another deer skipped across the road just ahead of my headlights. Luckily for both of us, my lead foot never dropped at night, so Bambi had plenty of time to scamper off into the bushes. The deer community would have to steal someone else’s headlights tonight.

  Luce was too quiet in the passenger seat, so I decided to try to lighten the mood. “Did I ever tell you about the time my mom got accosted in the grocery store?”

  She turned in her seat to face me. “The grocery store?”

  I shot her a quick grin. “Yup. Right in the catsup aisle. I was there with her. I must have been about five years old. My mom had on this sweatshirt that read ‘Trust me. I’m a mother.’ This woman comes up to her and stands right in front of my mom’s shopping cart, blocking her way. She gives my mom this really mean look and says ‘I hate your shirt. The last person I would ever trust is a mother. Mine was a lying bitch.’”

  “What did your mom do?” I could tell by her voice that Luce wasn’t sure if she should laugh or be appalled.

  “She very politely smiled and said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She turned the cart around and we went back down the aisle the way we had come. When we turned the corner to the next aisle, we both looked back, and the woman was still standing there, looking furious. ‘Let’s blow this pop-stand,’ my mom said, and she took my hand and we walked out of the store—we even left the cart sitting there right at the end of the canned soup aisle with the food we’d selected still in it. When we got home, she told my dad that buying catsup was hazardous to her health.”

  Luce laughed.

  “Bottom line,” I said, “is that there are all kinds of people. But very few of them are seriously homicidal. Or at least, we hope not.

  “Besides, Knott and I both have the same gut instinct,” I told her, “that the scene of the crime is the key here. That’s why we went up there today. The fact that I seemed to attract a bullet there confirms our theory: somebody doesn’t want anyone wandering around that particular location. The threats I got are dependent on where I am, Luce, not who I am. Otherwise, why wouldn’t someone have tried to kill me back home in Savage? What we haven’t got, however, is the lock for the key: why. Why would anyone care so much about that particular place?”

  “The owls,” Luce repeated. “Someone thinks he’s protecting the owls.”

  “From what?” I said, exasperated. Knott and I had been around this mulberry bush at least a hundred times on the ride back to Duluth, and we’d still come up with nothing in our berry buckets to show for the effort. “S.O.B. already got the DNR to make the sites off-limits to loggers. Birders—even groups of them—aren’t a threat to the habitat. Of all people, birders are probably the most conscientious about leaving no traces behind them. There has to be something else.”

  “You know, Bob, you’re wrong about your threats not being connected to who you are.” Luce reached over and patted my thigh. “Whoever is threatening you must know you well enough to know how determined you can be when you’re chasing a bird, and that determination of yours is what’s worrying him. He’s afraid you won’t quit. You won’t stay away from the Boreals, and for some reason, that’s a very, very big problem for him. If you look at it that way, then your circle of suspects just expanded to include most of the birders in Minnesota. Your reputation precedes you, my dear.”

  The car rattled a little as we crossed an old bridge over a stream leading down to the lake.

  Luce was right. I was well-known to Minnesota birders, as well as state troopers.

  Oh, my gosh.

  My license plates.

  If someone knew I was going to the Boreal site this afternoon, all he would have had to do was watch for my plates to go by. I might as well have a big neon sign on top of the car, flashing, “I’m Bob White. Follow me!”

  “What?” Luce asked.

  Suddenly paranoid, I was checking my rear-view mirrors, but there was no one else on the road. Then again, I wasn’t up in the forest. As long as I stayed away from the Boreals, I was safe. Apparently.

  “So, what’s there?” I continued, avoiding Luce’s question. “Flora and fauna. I don’t think a deer bashed Rahr’s head, but could there have been a hunter, an out-of-season hunter, whom Rahr caught in the act? Then he killed Rahr to keep him quiet?”

  “A poacher, you mean.” Luce thought it over. “I suppose it’s possible. But those are big woods. How slim a chance is it that a poacher would be in the one place Rahr would be? Or that he’d stick around to take a shot at you today? And the idea that a poacher would kill Rahr to keep from being turned in is a little extreme—remember what I said about money, revenge, and jealousy being the big motivators? It’s not like deer are valuable commodities, Bobby. I can’t imagine there’s a thriving business in deer poaching.”

  I had to agree with her. This wasn’t Africa. There weren’t any animals roaming these woods that commanded a big price. Jason had gotten his deer hooves at a garage sale, for crying out loud. And, I had to admit, hearing Luce’s thinking about the subject only confirmed my own conclusions about Stan’s possible hunting status. It had occurred to me he might have been poaching with his rifle and crossbow last weekend, but, as Luce said, any poacher would be careful to steer clear of anyone else in the forest to avoid getting caught. Likewise, what killer would return to check on the body? Only a very stupid one, and I was pretty sure that was one thing Stan wasn’t.

  “That’s why it makes more sense to think someone followed Rahr there,” Luce was saying. “And now, that person is trying to keep other people away, if whoever shot at you today is the same person that killed Rahr. But why? The million-dollar question, right? We just keep coming back to that.”

  I nodded in the dark and took a right-hand turn into the little dirt lot next to a small building with a broad awning over the door. Beside the door, a large wooden sign in the shape of a waterfall was lit by a spotlight suspended under the eaves of the roof; in a clean script, we could read “Splashing Rock Restaurant.” I opened the door for Luce, and we both ducked our heads a little as we went in—we’ve both been in enough places with low ceilings that it’s become sort of a habit. As soon as we were inside, though, low clearance was the last thing on our minds, because the wall facing us was a floor-to-ceiling window looking right out onto Lake Superior.

  “Oh, my,” Luce breathed.

  The hostess took us to our table, one of only about twelve in the white pine-paneled dining room. Luce had been correct when she said the bistro was new, because the scent of the cut pine was still strong in the air. Beyond the window, Lake Superior stretched into the blackness of the night sky; the only way you could tell where the lake ended and the sky began was that below the horizon, moonlight lit up gentle crests of waves as they rocked across the lake, while above the horizon, a million stars twinkled.

  “Well, the view is certainly spectacular,” I commented. “Let’s see how the food measures up.”

  I ordered us both a glass of red wine to tide us over while we looked at the menu, since I know it takes Luce a long time to order. Not that she’s indecisive. She’s just that thorough: when we try a restaurant for the first time, she reads through every single description of every single item. I swear she’s memorizing ingredients to try back at home in her own kitchen. Anyway, it takes a while, so I settled back to gaze out at the lake and mull over the events of the day. Every so often, Luce would make little noises of interest or surprise as she contemplated the menu, but for the most part, I was on my own.

  The more I turned everything over in my head, the more I was convinced that Luce was right about someone following Rahr, because there was no other way to account for the murder taking place at the exact remote spot that only Rahr frequented.

  Unless, of course, Rahr brought his killer along with him, but that seemed highly unlikely for several reasons: (1) everyone Knott had talked with, from Mrs. Rahr to Alice to Ellis to other professors in the department, insisted that Rahr was a loner and that he always work
ed alone on-site; and (2) Rahr’s vehicle was found parked at a trailhead, so if he’d brought someone along, they would have had to hitch back to town on a sub-zero day; and (3) there was no reason to hike that far into the woods to do the deed when the killer could have done it just as easily a whole lot closer to the road.

  If I went with the scenario of Rahr being followed, that would better explain the location of the murder, because the Boreal site was Rahr’s destination. Once he was working there, he wasn’t a moving target, but—as I’d just experienced myself this afternoon—a sitting duck. Did Rahr know he was being tailed? If he did, that might explain the hammer as a weapon of defense, though that sounded like an awfully weak conjecture, I had to admit, since you’d have to be anticipating close combat to use a hammer. We’re talking owl research here, I reminded myself, not commando training. So if I dumped the idea about the hammer as weapon, that left the hammer as tool—for spiking trees, apparently. And why would Rahr be doing that? According to Alan, people—make that environmental terrorists—spiked trees to keep the trees from being cut down. But S.O.B. had made sure the trees weren’t going to be cut down by convincing the DNR to stay out of the forest to protect the Boreal Owls’ habitat.

  Luce made an “Ooh” noise and licked her lips. I assumed she was reading the dessert suggestions.

  Which brought me to two conclusions: there was something sinfully chocolate on the dessert menu, and for some reason, Rahr thought that trees around the Boreals were in danger of being cut, so he went to extreme measures to stop that from happening.

  But then someone stopped him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I drained my wine glass and looked around the Splashing Rock. Only two small tables were empty, including one in the corner two tables away from us. As I watched, the hostess brought another couple to be seated there. The man sat down with his back to me, and the woman sat down on the other side, facing him. I noticed she had the same wavy chestnut hair like my mom.

  It was Margaret Montgomery, the director of S.O.B.

  I blinked.

  She was still there.

  Coincidences everywhere lately.

  I waited until we ordered—it was the arugula salad and venison medallions with roasted garlic potatoes for me, while Luce went for the lingonberry vinaigrette salad and pan-seared walleye with champagne sauce (having Luce for a girlfriend, I notice these things now)—before I excused myself and went to Montgomery’s table.

  “I’ll be right back,” I told Luce.

  As I approached the corner table, I was struck by how much bigger Montgomery looked than my mother. I don’t know that she was any taller, but she looked broader and heavier through the shoulders. Off camera, she also looked harder—less like my mom, who wanted to chase you down and cuddle you to death, and more like the kind of mom who gave you stiff kisses once a year on your birthday. Then again, I figured it probably hadn’t been an easy week for her with the media hounding S.O.B in the wake of Rahr’s death.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I happened to notice you being seated, and I wanted to meet you.” I held out my hand. “I’m Bob White. I’m a birder, so I’m familiar with your work for the Boreal Owls.”

  Montgomery smiled and took my hand. A lot of class, I thought. Here I was imposing on her quiet dinner, and she smiled graciously at me. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. White. Actually, I know your name, too.”

  I could feel my eyebrows lifting in question.

  “The Minnesota birding community has quite the grapevine, and you’re on it regularly. What was that most recent find you posted on MOU’s list serve just last week? A Goldeneye, was it?”

  “A Barrows Goldeneye.” I was both surprised and flattered she made the connection. “I think it was as much a shock to me to see it this early in the year as it was for everyone on the list serve to hear about it.” I returned her smile. “I guess it caused quite the stampede of birders to Black Dog Lake.”

  “So I heard. I also heard you were going to run the state fair booth for the MOU again this year. I’m hoping we can get some S.O.B. literature into your hands. Phil Hovde recommended I contact you.”

  “Really.” This was news to me. Dr. Phil hadn’t mentioned knowing the director of S.O.B. I wondered why it never came up at the board meeting when we were talking about Rahr and the owls.

  “Yes,” Montgomery explained. “I met Phil last summer. He and his wife were spending some time on the North Shore, and one night, they attended a dinner benefit for S.O.B. Well, one thing led to another, and pretty soon we were talking about business investments, and we realized we had some similar interests in that area. As a matter of fact, by the end of the evening, we decided to go in together on a local start-up company as principal investors.”

  “Really,” I said again.

  Montgomery’s dinner partner cleared his throat.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she apologized to both of us. “How rude of me. I wasn’t thinking. This is my good friend Vern Thompson. He’s a bit of a birder, too.”

  “Bob White,” I said, shaking Thompson’s hand. The man was probably in his late fifties, and his silvering hair was receding on his temples. He looked like he spent a lot of time outdoors because even in March, his skin looked tanned and weathered.

  “Vern and I met last spring. We were both on one of Dr. Rahr’s tours up to see the Boreals.” Montgomery paused. “I suppose you’ve heard about Dr. Rahr?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I did.” I would have liked to ask her if she knew of any raving lunatics in the S.O.B. organization who wanted to kill Rahr or shoot at birders, or at me in particular, but decided this probably wasn’t the best time or place. I turned to Thompson. “Do you bird often?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” he answered. “I started my own business six months ago, and it’s keeping me pretty well occupied.”

  “What business is that?” I asked, glancing beyond him to where Luce had turned around at our table and was waving me back to her.

  “It’s a wholesale business. I’m a gardener, really.”

  That explained the tan. Lily has that year-round tan too. The thought of Lily made me pause.

  “What did you say was your company’s name?”

  “I didn’t say,” Thompson said. “It’s VNT. My initials really, but I call the company Very Nice Trees.”

  Very Nice Trees. What a coincidence.

  “Really?” I said, for a third time.

  Thompson laughed. “Yes, I know it’s not the most original name for a company, but it’s truth in advertising.”

  I remembered Lily saying something to the same effect.

  “And where is your business located, Mr. Thompson?” I asked, ignoring Luce’s waving, which was becoming more insistent by the moment. I figured I had fifteen seconds max before she started throwing silverware in my direction.

  “Oh, it’s a ways out of town,” he answered. “I have an office in Two Harbors, but the actual stock is located on a piece of land that’s a bit of a drive north and west of here.”

  I nodded and said I didn’t want to take any more of their time. I returned our table and sat down. The salads were waiting.

  “Spill it, Bobby,” she said. “You’ve got that totally blank look you get after you’ve had on your politely interested face that covers up your surprised face.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe ‘blank’ isn’t the right way to say it. It’s like you’re at home but you’re really, really far away from the front door.”

  “What?” I had no idea what she was talking about.

  She leaned across the table towards me. Her blue eyes looked almost black in the low light of the café. Wisps of blonde hair trailed out from where she’d piled it on top of her head. She stared at me, and I felt like I was getting sucked into her eyes. She smiled very slowly.

  Damn, she was gorgeous.

  “Do I have your attention?” she asked quietly.

  “You sure do,” I said.

 
; “Tell me who those people are, what you talked about and why you’re surprised.”

  Did Luce really know me that well to be able to see through all my counselor faces? Even when they were layered on top of each other? I started to put on my politely interested face before I realized I was doing it.

  “Bobby!” she practically hissed at me. She sounded like a Canada Goose defending its territory. I thought it was kind of cute, actually. Not that I’d ever say that to her. Especially when she had a fork in her hand.

  I shook my head to clear it and started telling her about my conversation with Montgomery and Thompson.

  “So, why didn’t you say you wanted to see his greenhouses?” Luce asked, carefully tasting the vinaigrette.

  “Because he wasn’t exactly inviting me to stop by,” I replied. “He didn’t offer me a business card, didn’t ask me if I had any gardening needs. You’d think someone who’s only been in business for six months would still be marketing himself every chance he got. Thompson’s not.” I stuffed a forkful of arugula into my mouth. “Tomorrow we’ll drive out to his place and see it. How’s your salad?”

  “The lingonberry is a little heavy, I think, but it’s still good. I have high hopes for the walleye, though, not to mention the old-fashioned chocolate pudding cake for dessert.”

  As it turned out, she liked my venison more than her walleye. (She always snitches from my plate—Luce says it’s her responsibility and obligation as a professional chef.) The cake, however, was excellent, and Luce begged the owner for the recipe, promising to credit the Splashing Rock when she used it at the conference center.

  By the time she had the recipe in her purse, Bradley Ellis showed up in the dining room doorway. It looked like our after-dinner drink was still on. Two points for you, I thought. You’re either innocent or incredibly brazen. He caught my eye and nodded.

  He only took a few steps into the room, though, before he made a detour.