Murder at Spirit Falls

by Barbara Deese

  The rest of them laughed, but Grace looked abashed. “I guess we—I deserved that,” she said, more to herself than to the others.

  When the group started back toward the cabin Grace hung back, her eyes downcast as she shuffled along, falling further and further behind her friends. Something in the road caught her eye and she squatted to pick up an ornate metal button, a Celtic knot forged in silver.

  “Look what I found,” Grace said, but either no one heard her, or, she suspected, they were ignoring her to let her know they disapproved of her mockery. With a shrug, she dropped the button into her sweater pocket.

  6

  Good morning, my beautiful beasts,” Robin said to the cats lying at the foot of her bed. Samson and Delilah stood, stiffening first their front legs then their back in a stretch, arching with a ripple that went from nose to tail.

  Brad was long gone. In the three days since she’d returned to their house overlooking Lake Harriet, she’d seen very little of him, which was not unusual, nor was it unusual lately for them to converse with words that just skimmed the surface. He’d asked the proper questions—how the cabin looked, if she’d taken a lot of pictures, how high the creek was. She’d asked about his week—had he played racquetball, did he meet Catherine’s husband, Erik, for lunch as planned, or had he once more been called away to deliver a baby—all which once would have stimulated animated conversation, but had lately become no more than mechanical pleasantries.

  While she showered, Samson and Delilah took turns drinking from the faucet she’d left dripping into the vanity sink. They waited at the top of the stairs while she toweled off, and purred loudly as she slipped into leggings and a sweatshirt. Like synchronized swimmers, the smoke-gray cats pushed off the top step and arced down ahead of her, hitting the landing at the same instant, rounded the corner and skidded to a stop in front of the refrigerator. Samson, the one with longer hair, crowded in to supervise every movement of Robin’s hands as she operated the can opener. Delilah sat motionless, squeezing her eyes together in pleasure.

  “You really are luscious creatures,” Robin cooed as she scooped fishy-smelling mush out of the can. They chirruped a response and dipped their faces into their hand-painted dishes. She continued to eulogize them as they ate, and when they were done, they stretched out on a sunny spot on the kitchen floor to have their lithe bodies brushed and stroked, ending with a gentle tug on the two tails.

  Brad’s breakfast dishes were still in the sink, so she rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. The coffee carafe was cold to her touch though it was not yet seven o’clock. She poured herself a mug and slid it into the microwave.

  With reheated coffee, her reading glasses and the Star Tribune in hand, she settled in her favorite spot in the sunroom, an extra-wide, high-backed chair with an oversized ottoman. Samson plopped himself on the stack of newspapers next to her like a furry animated paperweight, and began to perform his ablutions. Robin eased the front section out from under him, glancing at the headlines and the highlights from other sections of the paper.

  “West Saint Paul Woman Missing. See page 1C,” was the front-page teaser. She sighed and pushed her glasses up to rub the spot between her eyes. Despite the spring sunshine she felt a chill. No one forced her to read it, of course, but when Samson went tearing maniacally after dust gremlins, Robin’s eyes were drawn to the missing woman’s face, smiling at her from the stack of papers.

  She was an attractive young woman with shoulder-length dark hair and an endearing smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Somebody’s daughter, thought Robin. Her family must be half-mad with worry. She hurled the Metro section across the room.

  It had been forty years since Robin’s school picture had graced the pages of the Star and the Tribune and the Pioneer Press, but it wasn’t the kind of thing one ever forgot. After losing Robin in a custody battle, her father had taken her on a not-so-scenic tour of the United States that had lasted the better part of a year, a trip that had cost him his freedom and her mother her laughter. Instead of skipping rope and roller-skating and having slumber parties with her classmates, Robin had spent what should have been her fourth grade year being hustled from one tacky bungalow or motel room to another, crammed into a closet whenever someone came to the door, with instructions not to make a peep.

  Delilah’s low yowl brought Robin back to the moment. She lifted the cat to her face, nuzzling the silky fur against her cheek to restore her own inner warmth. She brushed a tear off the top of the cat’s head, and Delilah turned adoring eyes to her.

  “Oh, you precious girl. Thank you for loving me,” Robin said, and Delilah did her squint-eyed version of a cat smile before curling into a ball next to her owner.

  One hand stroked the cat while the other turned pages of the newspaper in her lap. Robin tried to read the international news, but found that while her eyes scanned one story, her mind was on another.

  The photo that had already imprinted itself on her brain was that of a grown woman—not much older than Cass or Maya. Robin thought about her two daughters, far away in their small liberal arts colleges, one on either coast where they didn’t have to endure at close range their mother’s constant fretting over their safety, or witness just such scenes as this, when the mere photo of a stranger could elicit not only anguish, but a seemingly endless list of cautions, and many sleepless nights.

  She left the crumpled newspaper where it lay, put on her shoes and grabbed a handful of tissues before heading down the hill for her daily walk around Lake Harriet.

  Lake Harriet was just one of twenty-two lakes within the Minneapolis city limits. Four, along with their parks, formed the Chain of Lakes, beginning with Cedar Lake, connecting to Lake of the Isles made famous by the Mary Tyler Moore show, then Lake Calhoun, the largest and most urban, and finally Lake Harriet, one of Robin’s favorite places to be, long before she and Brad purchased the newly-remodeled 1930’s home. It was, they were certain, the ideal location to raise their daughters, and only minutes from downtown and from both hospitals where Brad had privileges.

  Robin was always uplifted by her three-mile walk. Sometimes she wore headphones to listen to a book on tape, but today she wanted to hear the birds and let her thoughts coalesce as they did sometimes when her body was in motion.

  The path she shared with roller-bladers and dog-walkers took her past two beaches, the rose garden, the resurrected Como-Harriet streetcar line and the fairytale-like band shell, popular with music lovers, picnickers, and artists. Bicyclists swished past her on their designated path. Today there were two small sailboats on the water, but all the rental canoes remained in their racks.

  The temperature hadn’t quite reached the promised high of sixty-eight degrees, but with the sun on her back, she was grateful for the breeze. When she became overheated, she held her sweatshirt away from her midriff, wishing she’d layered her clothing for the inevitable hot flashes. By the time she got home, she was ready for another shower.

  With a clammy hand, Martin wiped his mouth and stepped in front of the college monument. It was one of those spring days when the campus just begged to be photographed. New grass blanketed the grounds in soft green velvet, and clusters of apple trees in full bloom looked like white and pink cotton candy. A pair of students flung a Frisbee back and forth, several others sat along a brick wall talking or reading, but most were in classrooms, yearning to be outside.

  Martin cleared his throat and drew the corners of his mouth into his public smile. He watched the anchorwoman—wearing jeans and black blazer, her idea of collegiate wear—prepare for her segment. Her hair was sunny blond, her eyes blue.

  She gave the cameraman a few instructions, positioned herself on Martin’s left and, on cue, spoke into the microphone. “In this lovely place of higher learning, seemingly sheltered from the rest of the city, police are hoping to learn what’s become of one of Bradford College’s employees, Melissa Dunn, whose disappearance was first noted Monday when she failed to show
up for work. I’m speaking with Bradford College President Dr. Martin Krause. What can you tell us about Melissa Dunn?” she said, thrusting the microphone under his chin.

  “Miss Dunn is our director of Development and an important part of our family here at Bradford College. Of course we’re—”

  “How did you learn of her disappearance, President Krause?”

  “The secretary in the alumni office came to me just this morning. Miss Dunn had evidently called in sick last Thursday morning and has not shown up for work since.”

  “And no one has talked to her since then?”

  “Not to my knowledge. One of our staff attempted to contact her several times. Each time her answering machine indicated it was full. She finally contacted Miss Dunn’s mother, who, in turn, contacted me.”

  Speaking into the camera, the newswoman said, “Although her car remains in the underground parking garage of her apartment, Melissa Dunn has not been seen. Police are asking for anyone with knowledge of Miss Dunn’s whereabouts to contact …”

  Martin’s face was grim as he, too, looked into the camera. It wasn’t until the crew turned off their blasted lights and started packing away equipment that he realized the interview was over. When they piled into the news van and took off, Martin headed to his own car, where he pulled his cell phone out of the pocket of his sports coat, scrolled down his address book and pressed Send.

  Ross answered on the third ring, annoyance evident in his voice.

  When Martin finished telling him about his television interview, Ross said, “It sounds like you handled it the way you had to. Is there anything else?”

  Still talking, Martin wheeled his car out of the parking lot. “I just can’t stop thinking about her. I keep picturing how she was … so vulnerable.” Tears welled up in his eyes.

  There was a long silence before Ross asked, “Why do you keep referring to her in the past tense?”

  “I just mean, the last time I saw her. She was so beautiful.” He was almost sobbing now. “I just want her back. All day I half expected her to walk into my office and say she just needed some space to cool off. She’s done that before, you know, just started beating herself up for being involved with a married man, pressuring me to leave Brenda, and then she doesn’t speak to me for days. She always came back, though, Ross. Always.”

  “I know.” Another long pause. “You need to pull yourself together. She’ll turn up eventually and you—”

  The car ahead of him suddenly slowed in traffic and Martin slammed on his brakes.

  Ross, once the squeal of rubber and Martin’s swearing subsided, said, “You’d better concentrate on your driving. And unless you want to tip your hand to Brenda, you’d better put Melissa out of your mind. If Brenda gets any hint that there’s a connection, well, I don’t have to tell you. Martin, listen to me, there’s nothing more you can do.”

  “I was just thinking—”

  “There is nothing more you can do,” he repeated.

  Working in her darkroom, Robin’s mind played around the edges of the state of her marriage. Neither of them, she realized, had made much effort to please each other lately. For some reason, they had, without even discussing it, settled into a routine of separate mealtimes. Part of it, of course, had to do with Brad’s hours. But that was nothing new.

  It had been a long time ago, but she remembered very fondly the early years when he would come home late and they’d dine on cheese and pâté, crackers and wine. More often than not, exhausted though he’d usually been, he’d had energy for lovemaking in those days. She smiled sadly remembering those evenings, how they used to finish their bohemian meal, then begin undressing each other in stages, his jacket and belt, her shoes and pantyhose coming off in the living room, his shirt at the top of the stairs, her blouse and bra at the bedroom door.

  When had it changed? When the babies had come, when she’d had to choose between Brad’s unpredictable schedule and regular mealtimes for the children, she had begun eating with the girls. Brad’s meal was set aside to reheat whenever he got home. But then the girls left home, first Cass and then Maya, and she and Brad had distanced themselves even more, like those pitiful couples who, once the children are grown, find the only thing they had in common was their offspring. Had it really come to that?

  Having lost her concentration, Robin set aside her equipment and left her photographs for another day. Climbing the stairs from the basement, it struck her that perhaps it wasn’t Maya leaving home that had brought about the most recent changes, but Robin’s almost concurrent diagnosis of cancer. First the surgery, then the chemotherapy, when certain food smells caused her to throw up whatever she had been able to eat. Brad had taken to stocking the refrigerator and pantry with bland food for her—Jell-O and chicken soup and crackers—then eating his own dinners, usually fast food, on the way home, so as not to fill the house with offensive cooking smells.

  “Well,” she said to herself in the hallway mirror, “You can be a victim or you can get off your butt and do something about it. What’s it gonna be?” Her image nodded back at her.

  Tonight, Brad expected to be home at a reasonable hour. Surely it would set a new tone if she fixed him one of his favorites for dinner, maybe stuffed pork chops with braised apples. She made a list and set off for the grocery store.

  Back home, she unpacked the groceries and unwrapped the cut flowers, iris and daffodils, which she arranged in her grandmother’s cut-glass vase. When the girls were young, this time before dinner had been Robin’s favorite part of the day, when Cass and Maya would sit at the kitchen counter to do their homework. Invariably, they would stop now and then to talk about their day at school, rewarding her with little glimpses into their lives away from home.

  She’d always had something for them to snack on—homemade cookies, still warm from the oven, clusters of grapes, pretzels to dip in cream cheese. She used to tune the kitchen radio to a classical station, in the belief that it would aid their studies and calm them after a busy day. Usually they would leave their studies after a while to give her a hand with dinner. They were both proficient and inventive cooks by the time they were in junior high. At least, she told herself, the girls would not be living on Cheetos and candy bars at college.

  Chopping an onion, Robin’s eyes watered. She wound up wiping her mascara off on the back of her hand. After sautéing the onion in butter, she added it to the bread and corn stuffing, which she packed into the slit pork chops. Humming as she worked, she wrapped the chops with twine, browned them and slid them into the oven. There were so many dinners she had eaten alone in recent years, a fork in one hand, a good book in the other, and although she had come to enjoy her alone time, there was something immensely satisfying about cooking for someone else.

  Tonight, she set the table with cloth napkins, blue pottery dishes, the flowers and a vanilla-scented candle. Even if Brad didn’t comment on her efforts, his mood would be mellow. She ducked upstairs to reapply makeup and slip into a black sundress that Brad particularly liked. Once she slid her prosthesis into the built-in bra, she checked herself in the mirror and liked what she saw.

  The house was filling with the aroma of good food. Robin snapped off the kitchen radio, the classical station having gone to its scheduled talk format, and absent-mindedly turned on the small television near the breakfast counter to watch the six o’clock news while she prepared the rest of the dinner. She had so completely pushed aside her earlier distress that she was ambushed by the lead story. Salad tongs poised over wooden bowl, she looked at the screen, averted her head, looked back.

  “I know that man,” Robin said out loud. She wiped her hands and dialed Cate’s number. “Turn on Channel 4,” she said.

  7

  The cream Porsche crawled up the long driveway, slowing as it passed the Johnson cabin and nearby gazebo. Seeing no other cars, the driver proceeded to the far side of the property where two neglected outbuildings stood. The paint, once traditional red, had been subjected to su
b-zero winters and hot humid summers so that now only patches of pinkish brown remained on the weathered wood. The Porsche stopped within fifteen feet of the larger shed, the one that had once housed farm animals but was now used for storage.

  The driver sat motionless for a moment after turning off the engine and with it, the muffled bass of the stereo. Retrieving a small cylinder from the glove box, he pocketed it.

  José emerged from behind the wheel, alert as he scanned his surroundings, silent but for the poplar leaves fluttering in the breeze. He strode almost noiselessly to the shed and, grasping the door’s wooden handle, threw his weight into it. The warped door groaned open.

  Dusty motes of moldy hay attacked his nostrils. After sneezing violently in the shadowy interior, he pulled out a fresh handkerchief and blew his nose. Setting his sunglasses atop his head, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, but no matter how long he stared at the space beneath the loft, there was no ladder where it had been only days earlier. Nor was there anything, he decided, looking around, that he could use to improvise. Cursing in two languages, José kicked the wall, setting off a new dust shower. He groped his way to the outside where his sneezes, though they echoed loudly, failed to clear his sinuses.

  He considered his options. Undoubtedly, his presence had already been noted by the nosy little handyman, he reasoned, so he set off on foot in search of the man’s trailer. After twice finding himself following a dead-end path, he turned and spied George’s green trailer through the trees.

  Someone was singing, if that atonal and nasal sound could be called singing. “His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean. And you’re the best thing that he’s ever seen.” The words were vaguely familiar. José shook his head and almost stumbled over George, who knelt behind his humble dwelling, apparently sorting his roadside treasures for recycling.