by Loretta Ross
“Really?” Death quietly reached over and put a hand on Wren’s knee, grounding her in case she started feeling stabby. He didn’t think she was carrying a weapon, but with Wren he could never be sure.
“And I thought maybe we could promise not to say anything. Let her return the dagger, but talk to the museum director and arrange it so she didn’t get in trouble. And then maybe she’d be grateful and—” Henry broke off.
“And she’d like you?” Wren asked, her voice dry.
“Yeah …”
“Okay,” Death said. “So you flew down here in your dad’s private jet. What did you do when you got to the airport?”
“Trevor went and got a car. I don’t know where he got it. I waited with her. I found out later the car was stolen, but I didn’t know that at the time.”
“Right. And then the three of you headed for the yacht club—sorry! Supper club. In a stolen car?”
Henry nodded.
Death looked around, taking in the rest of his audience for the first time. “The most direct route here from the airport was over the highway from the north,” he explained. He turned his attention back to Henry. “It must have been a shock finding out you couldn’t go that way anymore. But the water, it wasn’t completely over the road yet, was it? Too high to drive, maybe. But you could still walk it.”
“Trevor wanted me to drive right through it. I was afraid we’d float off the road and turn over and drown.”
“You parked in the driveway of an abandoned house and left Ingrid with Trevor while you walked over to ask your father what to do about the girl you kidnapped.”
“I didn’t kidnap her,” he objected. “I just brought her here without asking her first. And it was Trevor’s idea. He offered to watch her.”
“I’ll bet he did.”
“And it didn’t occur to you that it might be a bad idea to leave a young girl alone with a rapist?” Wren demanded.
“He hadn’t been convicted,” Henry said. “I didn’t think he’d do anything. I didn’t expect to be gone that long.”
“And then what happened?” Death asked. “How long were you at the club? Were you out on the boat with your father and Mr. Larsen when Mr. Larsen saw Ingrid on the shore?”
“They were just getting ready to go out when I got there. Father said to come with them. He didn’t have time to talk to me right then.”
“Obviously,” Claudio said, “I would have made time if I’d understood what the issue was.”
“So you’re out on the boat and Mr. Larsen sees someone in a Viking costume. Then what happened?”
“Then my idiot son practically passed out,” Claudio said. “It was apparent to me that this had something to do with him, so I sent him ashore to go take care of it.”
“And what did you do?” Death asked Henry.
Henry shrugged. “I went back to the car.”
“Did you cut through the trees or follow the road?”
The younger Bender frowned at him, perplexed. “I followed the road. Why would I go into the woods? There are bugs in the woods. And snakes and bobcats and things.”
“Right. Okay, so you went back to the car. And what did you find?”
Henry turned his attention back into the fire, gazing into it like a seer gazes into a crystal ball. “Nothing. They were gone. Only the dagger. And so much blood …”
“Did you look for her?” Neils Larsen asked, voice hard. “Did you follow them?”
“No! I didn’t want to find her. I didn’t want to see her like that.”
Claudio spoke again. “We figured, if she was alive, she’d turn up. If he’d killed her, there was no point looking. It was nothing to do with us, after all.”
“Nothing to do with you? Nothing to do with you?” Jacob Larsen spun and reached for his sword again, and it took Edgar and Jackson both to hold him back. “It had everything to do with you. You and your son were responsible for this, you miserable, crawling, filthy lowlife.”
Death waited a beat, giving everyone a moment to calm down. “And you never heard from Trevor again?” he asked.
“No. I told you. I’d given him money to start a new life.”
“Right. Was Ingrid there when you gave that to him?”
Henry shrugged. “Well, yes. It was when we were on the plane.”
“And we’re talking about cash, right?”
“Sure.”
Death nodded once, decisively, and looked to Salvy. “You got that picture, Sheriff ?”
Salvy took a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and passed it to Death. Death held it up in front of Henry, who looked away.
“Look at this,” Death said. “This is a facial reconstruction of the body they found in the woods.” He let a hint of the old gunnery sergeant creep into his voice. “Look at it.”
Henry raised his head slowly and opened his eyes. He stared and blinked.
“But that … that’s …”
“Not Ingrid. No. It’s Trevor, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I mean, it could—I mean … I don’t understand.”
“Trevor Burt wasn’t the first man who’d thought Ingrid Larsen would be an easy mark. She was assaulted at a party the winter before and got away by punching the football player in the throat. Trevor didn’t kill her. She got the dagger away from him, and she stabbed him with it in self-defense.”
“Why didn’t she come to me,” Neils asked, anguished. “I was her father. I was right there.”
“I don’t think she ever saw you on the boat,” Death said. “You didn’t see her clearly enough to recognize her, after all. You didn’t even think it might be her until you found out she was missing. And she was probably in shock. Traumatized. When she’d punched the football player, everyone blamed her for it. She’d knifed Trevor. She must have been expecting everyone to blame her again. She ran to the lakeshore and there was Henry Bender, on a boat, asking his father to help him frame her for theft.”
“But what happened to her?” Maggie Larsen demanded. “Where is she now? Are you saying she’s still alive?”
Death hesitated and took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. He couldn’t even imagine how it must feel to be in the Larsens’ shoes right now. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can tell you what I think happened. I think she stabbed Trevor in self defense and ran, but when she saw Henry and his father she panicked and hid, probably until nightfall. She sneaked into the loft of the boathouse, for shelter maybe? And while she was up there she found some boxes of T-shirts, so she changed clothes and hid the bloody costume. Would she have had shorts or something on under the dress?”
“Yes,” her mother said. “She wasn’t supposed to, but the faire organizers made an exception for her. She was insecure after what had happened with the football player. She wore blue jean shorts with a heavy belt. It gave her peace of mind.”
Death nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, so she changed clothes and snuck away. She’d have gone back the way she came because it was
the only road she knew. Only, unlike Henry, she’d have gone through the woods and tried to stay hidden. When she went across the creek, she must have found Trevor’s body. He’d chased her when she ran, but he only got that far before passing out from blood loss. He was probably long dead by then. She knew he had money, and she was desperate. She thought she was going to be accused of murder. She didn’t dare go home again. So she took the cash and disappeared.”
“Disappeared where?” Jacob asked.
“That I can’t tell you,” Death said regretfully. “And I don’t know of any way to trace her after all this time. The best advice I can give you now is to make this story known. Put it on your website, call the newspapers, have everyone you know share it on Facebook. See if you can get it televised. If she’s still out there, maybe she’ll hear it and contact you.”
“I feel like an idiot
,” Wren said. She was back at Arnhold and back in costume, fluorescent paint and all. She’d just been running around in the woods, reenacting the chase scene for a news crew from one of the local Springfield channels.
Randy made an elaborate show of zipping his lips and throwing away the key.
“You better really throw that key away, buster,” she warned him good-naturedly.
“It’s for a good cause, honey,” Death said. “One of the news guys told me they expect this segment to get picked up nationally. It really is the best chance we have of helping the Larsens find Ingrid.”
Neils and Maggie Larsen, with Jacob and his wife and daughters, were sitting beside the fire in their Viking costumes being interviewed by the reporter. Salvy had joined them. The eighth-century village was filled with anachronistic cameras and lighting fixtures, and a white van with the station logo on the side was just visible in the parking lot, through the trees.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could find her before Thanksgiving so she could spend the holiday with her family?” Wren asked.
“You mean tomorrow?” Death asked.
“Don’t be silly. Thanksgiving isn’t …” Wren froze. “Oh my God! It is tomorrow! I haven’t even done any shopping yet.”
“Don’t worry. I went last Wednesday. I think I’ve got everything covered. If I’ve missed anything, we can stop and pick it up on the way home.”
“Are you crazy? Have you ever been in a grocery store the night before Thanksgiving?”
“That bad?”
“Yeah!”
“Okay. We’ll send Randy then.”
A young production assistant came over and interrupted them. “Mr. Bogart? They’d like you to join them now, if you would.”
“Which Mr. Bogart?” Randy asked. “The handsome one or my brother?”
The PA just smiled at him and shook her head and Death got up and followed her around the fire pit, drying the palms of his hands on his jeans as he walked.
Wren looked around. “Where did Cam go?”
Cameron Michaels had been the first one interviewed, to give the news team the background story about Ingrid’s disappearance and the ghost story that had grown from it. Now he was nowhere in sight.
“He wouldn’t leave,” she added. “Surely?”
“He was checking out one of the cameramen,” Randy said. “Maybe they slipped off somewhere together.”
“No. The cameraman’s right over there.”
“Huh. I don’t know, then.”
The person calling the shots (Wren wasn’t sure if she was called a director or something else) signaled for the cameras to roll and the reporter introduced Death. Wren and Randy fell silent, watching the interview. The newsman asked Death a few questions about himself and how he became a private investigator and reminded viewers that this wasn’t the first time Death Bogart had made the news in his new profession. Then he got down to Ingrid Larsen’s missing person case.
“There are so many different aspects to this case. How in the world did you figure it all out?”
“You know, I don’t really know,” Death said. “I guess it’s like a jigsaw puzzle. Once you get a good look at the shape of the pieces you can get a feel for where they go. The more pieces that slip into place, the better idea you get of what the picture looks like. And the more you can see of the picture, the easier it is to make the pieces fit.”
“And you believe she ran away because she was afraid she would be accused of murder?”
“That’s our theory, yes.”
“But she wouldn’t be prosecuted for that if she returned now, is that right?” The reporter directed that question back at Salvy.
The sheriff shifted on the hard bench and leaned forward. “That’s correct. We do believe that she killed Burt in self-defense. Even if we felt otherwise, though, we have Henry Bender’s testimony that she was kidnapped from the faire in Cincinnati and brought here against her will. And we know that she was left alone with Trevor Burt, who had already run to avoid facing a rape charge. There were no witnesses to what happened and the physical evidence is inconclusive. It would be impossible to prosecute her and have any chance of proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was anything but self-defense. And frankly, prosecuting someone without a compelling case is nothing but a waste of taxpayers’ money.”
“So what you’re saying,” the reporter said, “is that if Ingrid is out there somewhere listening, it’s safe for her to contact her family?”
“It is,” Salvy said. “And I told her as much this morning.”
“Wait. He what?” Wren said.
Death and the Larsens were staring at the sheriff in disbelief. Salvy just grinned his most mischievous grin. The reporter turned to the camera.
“What the Larsens and Death Bogart don’t know is that the woman who was born Ingrid Larsen saw a news story about this on the internet Monday night. She called the sheriff’s office yesterday and arranged to turn herself in. She arrived late last night and shared her story with the sheriff, and with us, before we came out here today.”
After a dramatic pause, the reporter resumed the tale while everyone gaped at him. “After stumbling across Burt’s body in the woods, Ingrid Larsen took the cash she’d seen Henry Bender give him and ran away, afraid of the consequences if she were found. She obtained a birth certificate for a child who was killed in a tornado in the mid-
sixties, assumed that name, and built a life for herself in Minnesota. She went to college, got a teaching certificate, and taught high school history for nearly thirty years. She’s married, with one daughter, two sons, and three grandchildren.”
The reporter then returned his attention to the Larsens. “Do you want to see her? She thought you might not, after what happened.”
Neils was overcome, tears streaming down his face, unable to speak. Maggie nearly tackled the newsman, grasping his lapels in her fists and glaring up into his face.
“Of course we want to see her! She’s my baby! Where is she?”
He smiled at her and turned her shoulders so she was facing the Mead Hall. One of the assistants standing near Wren and Randy clicked a button on a walkie-talkie. The door swung open and Cameron came out, holding the door for a thin, fair-haired woman in a white shift, blue overdress, and long brown cloak.
Ingrid looked a lot like a younger version of her mom. She wasn’t a large woman, but she walked with her spine straight and her head held high. A sound technician was pacing beside her, holding a microphone over her head just out of camera range.
A few feet from where her family waited she stopped, swallowing hard.
“Hi,” she said. Her voice was shaking and the word came out as little more than a whisper.
Neils moved suddenly, like a statue come to life. He crossed to her in three steps and pulled her into his arms for a fierce hug. Maggie ran after him and wrapped her arms around both of them, and Jacob circled them and joined the group, kissing the top of his sister’s head.
Death shot Wren a delighted, little-boy look. She grinned back and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
“You know, they could pull back all the cameras and stuff and give them a little privacy,” she said.
“I don’t think they even care,” Randy said.
“I’m sorry,” Ingrid was sobbing. “I know you were worried. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m so sorry!”
“It’s okay,” Neils said. “There, there. It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. None of this was ever your fault. It was Trevor Burt and those miserable Benders. They’re the only ones responsible for this.”
“And they’d have gotten away with it, too,” Randy told Wren, “if it weren’t for us meddling kids.”
epilogue
“I like that outfit,” Randy said. “Get Death a Viking warrior costume and you guys can wear them for your engageme
nt pictures.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Death said.
“Oh, no. Oh, no. You went full Scooby. You don’t get to make fun of my ideas any more.”
“I’m your big brother,” Death told him. “I will always make fun of your ideas.”
They were back at Wren’s house. Thanksgiving had snuck up on them while they were occupied with other things. Wren and her parents were in the kitchen, all three of them cooking, and Death and Randy were in the living room searching through already-packed boxes for things Wren and her mother had forgotten to unpack when they were preparing for this meal.
“Here’s a salt shaker,” Randy said. “But it’s a clown. And creepy. Why does your fiancée have a creepy clown salt shaker?”
“I don’t know. And I’m afraid to ask.”
Wren stuck her head through the doorway. “I need a skillet! Find me a skillet! I forgot to get a skillet for the gravy.”
“No, I’ve got a skillet here,” her mother said.
“Oh. Never mind!”
Death had spent the night on the sofa so he’d be there early and Randy had come over as soon as he got off shift. Death had helped Emily slide the turkey into the oven at four a.m., and there were four kinds of pie cooling on the kitchen windowsills and homemade candy in bowls and pans on the coffee table.
Edgar came into the room. “You finding any dishes or shall we eat it right off the table?”
“How fancy do we want to be?” Death asked. “I’ve got dinner plates, and bread plates but they don’t match, and I haven’t found enough bowls for everyone. Randy’s got the silverware, though, and there are glasses. Again, they don’t match though.”
“We’re not going to eat the plates,” Edgar said. “Bring what you’ve got and let’s get this show on the road.”
Death and Randy set the table and the others busied themselves ferrying food in from the kitchen.
“What’s going to happen to the Benders?” Emily asked while they worked.
“The Benders are weird,” Wren said emphatically. “Claudio bought the supper club back at the auction. Did you know that? We didn’t know it the day of the sale, but the guy who had the winning bid was an agent for Bender. And then, on Tuesday, he suddenly just up and signed it over to the Vikings. He said it was so they could use the extra land for educational purposes. I gather he told one of the reenactors—but not Mr. Larsen. The Larsens aren’t on speaking terms with the Benders. I think Claudio said that he wanted to write the money off on his taxes.”