Chapter Two
Alex Westmore eyed a contract, satisfied with the latest revisions, then hit ‘send’ as his inter-office phone dragged his attention. “Yes?”
“Package via messenger.”
“Houston Environmental?”
“That would be it.”
“Bring it in, Mags.”
“It’s safe?”
He laughed and didn’t deny the truth in her words. “For the moment. I’m done with the Schelke file. As much as I can be at this point. I’ve calmed down.”
Maggie Kennison bumped her way through the door, her hands clutching a thick manila envelope and a tall stainless steel coffee mug. She nodded toward the curling steam. “Thought you might be needin’ this.”
“You thought right.” Alex reached for the envelope as Maggie set the travel mug to his right. “Tell me again when the world became so totally self-absorbed that a campaign bid for state legislator takes precedence over the welfare of children.”
“Influx of television, circa 1965, when the American public carried their first media outrage to the polls,” Maggie shot back. “Civil rights, Viet Nam, Tricky Dick, assassinations. No one can afford to look bad on the tube, Alejandro.”
He grinned. Only Maggie and his mother used his full name, and since they were of similar age and friends, he didn’t argue with either. He ran a cutter along the envelope’s upper edge. “Well, let’s see what Tommy Houston has to say.”
“And be grateful for environmental insurance,” Maggie noted. She eyed her watch. “I’m grabbing lunch with your mother. Do you want me to bring something back? She’s buying.”
Alex shook his head. “Actually, I owe her. Put lunch on my tab and surprise her.”
“She’d be more surprised if you showed up and ate lunch with her yourself.”
Alex eyed his desk, the clutch of papers in his hand, and the office in general. “I’ll catch her for supper some night this week. Promise.”
“Then I’ll hound you until you do.”
“There are limits to administrative assistant duties. You understand this, don’t you? It’s not exactly a new concept.”
Maggie did an about-face and headed for the door. “Not in this office. I used to change your messy diapers. Don’t be forgettin’ that, boy.”
“As if I could.” Alex laid out the report before him, scanned the pages with care, then focused on one key phrase.
“…former owner accepted compensation for rights of disposal.”
Alex flexed his hands, re-read the words, and fought a growl. If accurate, and it most likely was because Houston Environmental didn’t make mistakes, Horst Johansson allowed dumping on the land he’d slated to be the green zone for The Northwoods, the inviting upscale home development Alex nestled into the sloping fields of the old Johansson/Ekstrom farm. “What on earth was the old coot thinking?”
“Possible sources of contamination: Drexler Machining, Kurt Manheim, owner, deceased (out of business), Chippewa Paint, Tandy Bartwick, Jerold Bartwick, co-owners, deceased (out of business) and Wurstheim Auto, Wilhelm Wurstheim, deceased, company purchased by nephew Daniel Wurst, currently known as Big W Auto Depot, 17410 Albemarle Street, Rummy, Wisconsin.”Alex leaned back in his chair, fingering the page.
So Horst took money in exchange for allowing caustic chemicals to be dumped in the upland edge of the over two hundred acre farm they’d inherited from Norma’s parents. Why? Did his illicit late-life habits have such deep roots? Or was he looking for the lazy man’s way to bilk every cent he could out of what had been a gracious, well-cared-for farm? Even without today’s knowledge concerning environmental hazards, a farmer understood the sanctity of top soil, the friability of land, the preservation of natural resources.
“Contamination likely occurred in a twenty-plus year span concluding in mid-nineteen-seventies.”
Additional documents confirmed the likelihood of that assertion when compared with waste produced vs. identified toxins. Horst wasn’t the only landowner who sought additional cash flow during tight times or bad seasons, which was why Alex shelled out big bucks for environmental insurance each time he purchased speculative parcels. He’d only had one other occasion to use its benefits, when a strip mall site near the Interstate turned out to be a former dumping ground for a major Wisconsin company. In that case the company coughed up over three million to foot its share of the clean-up, the county an additional one-point-five million, and Alex had been given a tidy sum of insurance money to make up for lost time and profits, money he promptly re-invested in stocks and more real estate.
But there would be no corporate or city help for the Johansson/Ekstrom land. The paper trail was thin and provisional when involving small local businesses, especially those whose owners and managers were deceased, and the company defunct.
He’d applied for a Brownfield exclusion, and had approached the state for grant money to aid with clean up and park development, but the application process was tedious, hinged in part on the report he held in his hands.
He’d put off Norma Johansson’s questions. Her puzzlement was his own fault in promising the parkland green zone before he realized something had contaminated the upper acreage, and probably the drinking water below. Luckily the former well owners had tied into the water main three decades back. That averted direct human contamination via the water supply, but the land slope brought gully water into the catch basin to the south of the Johansson homestead, a farm pond that used to comfort their cattle through the heat of summer.
He’d kept quiet because the old lady had enough on her plate. No way did he want to stack grief upon grief. Even tough old birds like Gran Johansson needed a break, and he suspected she had no idea her upper lands were used as a dump zone. Her paternal grandparents had been original settlers of the land, pioneers whose Swedish history trekked back to the mid-nineteenth century. Of the land and for the land, the Ekstroms headed west, settling in Wisconsin’s heartland. They’d shepherded that land for well over a hundred years, caring for it like a mother does a child, the farm’s welfare first and foremost. By three generations in, Norma’s generation had increased the initial farming enterprises. Ekstrom properties and businesses dotted the perimeter of Watkins Ridge and Chippewa Falls. Strong people, driven and prideful, nurturers of the land and their pocketbooks.
But Horst Johansson had betrayed that trust, which meant Norma had little recourse when faced with harsh reality upon his death. Alex had been glad to help, payback for the old woman’s continued kindnesses to a little boy from the wrong side of the tracks.
Frustrated, he decided not to tell her unless absolutely necessary. No sense adding more weight to the yoke she already carried. Pride was big among the old clans, German and Swedish. Alex knew that. Respected it, in some ways, except when that old-world pride interfered with law and justice. Then pride downgraded to racism and injustice.
Not Norma, though. The aging matriarch had never been anything other than good to him despite her sharp ways, especially in the wake of his father’s death.
That thought took his gaze to the faded newspaper clipping, a brief, yellowed reminder of the cold, wet day when they laid his old man in the ground with little ceremony, no more than a handful of people in attendance. He stood and crossed the room, examining the aged photo again. Funny how he remembered the stark funeral more than the man, but considering his father, pretty understandable. Alongside the framed clipping was a current picture of his older brother Cruz in his trooper uniform, his gaze serious as the camera freeze-framed him, stoic and stern, choosing a career rife with temptation and danger.
Cruz had chosen the very career Alex hated, a chasm they carefully avoided from both sides. Cruz chose to fight for good police internally. Alex opted to use the law to shackle bad police tactics. Different men, affected by the same set of childhood circumstances, marking individual paths toward a similar end. Would it help?
Maybe. And maybe not. But the one thing the Westmore boys had in c
ommon besides a love for football? They’d never stop trying.
*
“Easy there.” Gran’s caution came with an edge. Cress fought a retort, nodded, and eased the hinged cedar top back as they tackled the second hand-tooled chest later that day. Chains dangled from both corners, jangling against the striated sides of the fine grain, probably amazed to be utilized after all this time.
Crammed full, the smell of cedar rushed forth as if anxious to welcome the day, its strength compounded by being closed for decades.
“Take care,” Grandma issued once more, her voice tart, but softer. Cress glanced up as Kiera and Audra stepped back into the room, heads ducked, smiles hidden. Kind of.
“I will.”
“And you two: no nonsense.” Gran sent a look across the room, knowing.
“Come on, Gran. None?” Audra crossed the floral throw rug, bent and gave the old woman a gentle hug. “Just a little. Please?”
Gran’s chin came up. Her glasses came down. She stared at Audra as if weighing words, then sighed. “You have the way of your mother.”
Silence reigned.
Carol Anne Dietrich lost her battle with cancer a long time back. She’d left her extended family, a grieving, worn-thin husband and four young children behind. Like thunderous air crashing into the schism left by flashing light, the loss of their mother gaped each history. Cress broke the silence from her spot on the floor. “Audra’s the nice one among us.”
“Hey. I’m nice.” Kiera raised her objection as she settled into the only comfortable chair in the room while her aged cancer patient grandmother stood nearby.
Silent, Cress eyed the chair and her youngest sister.
“We’re like one of those romance trilogies,” Audra offered as she re-opened her full-sized notebook.
Kiera trained her gaze on Cress. “The sweet heroine, the beautiful heroine, and the—”
“I’m trained in self-defense and pack a Glock .45. Discretion is recommended.” Cress kept her voice mild, letting the gun inference underscore her point.
“Why can’t I be the pretty one?” Audra wondered, but then shot Gran a quick, endearing smile. “Okay, Gran, your show. Let’s continue.”
Kiera stood up from the chair to grab a seat on the floor beside Cress, but Gran’s squawk stopped her. “Don’t be gettin’ them clothes all dirty sittin’ on the floor. Stay right there.” Gran’s worried look gave Kiera’s upscale outfit a once-over. Ivory designer pants topped by a cowl-necked black silk blouse adorned with thick, clunky black and brown beads that set off the outfit to perfection and probably cost a month’s pay at Cress’s level.
And dirt wouldn’t dare descend on Gran’s room, her floor, her dresser, her… anything. Gran fought dirt and dust like Churchill waged war. All or nothing. And she always won. “But Gran, I—”
“Sit.”
Kiera sat, victorious, and managed to look self-sacrificial in the process. Brat.
“Cress.” Gran’s look shifted down.
“Yes?”
“How long will you be here?”
Cress ignored her sisters’ exchanged look as she sipped her second cup of coffee. “Until my leg’s healed.”
Gran huffed. “That’s not an answer.”
“Best I can do.”
“Stacey said your lieutenant called the other day.” Kiera’s voice delved deeper, but stopped short of prying. Barely.
Cress pretended to be absorbed in the task at hand. “Yup.”
“So…”
She turned then, wishing they’d all shut up, wishing her leg didn’t hurt, wishing—
“I’m here until I’m ready to go back. Minneapolis isn’t going to fall apart because one hard-nosed detective has run home.”
“Cress, I…”
“We’ve got work, girls.” Gran stepped closer to the chest, effectively ending the moment.
Cress took the cue. “How can we help you speed this along?”
“Some things need quick.” Gran peered down, over her glasses, meeting Cress’s gaze. “And some need thought. No need to hurry work like this, not when there’s things you should know.”
Cress didn’t do slow. If she had, she’d still be a beat cop. But she hauled in a breath because this was Gran’s timeline. Not hers. “Not to split hairs, but you’re the one fighting life-threatening illness. Kiera was right.” She hated admitting that. “Shouldn’t you sit?” She indicated the edge of the old-fashioned bed with a nod. “I can hand things up to you.”
“There’ll be plenty of time for restin’ soon enough.” Gran’s tone said the topic was closed. “I’ll do while I can do.”
Of course.
Audra pulled up a chair from the old oak desk in spite of Gran’s words. “If you get tired, we can switch up. Okay?”
“Or stop,” Kiera suggested, her left leg already twitching from immobility.
Gran eyed her, stern. “What needs be done, needs be done.”
“Right.”
Kiera didn’t look convinced, but if life wasn’t moving a hundred and seventy miles an hour, her world tilted askew. Curled up in a chair for however long it took to sort out a seventy-two-year-old life would be torture for her.
But not nearly as tortuous as it would be for Cress, so Kiera could just suck it up.
“We’ll see how much we can get done today,” Gran decided. “Then come back to it tomorrow.”
“Perfect.” Kiera didn’t mask the cryptic note in her voice.
Gran turned her way, scolding. “Goods don’t matter like people matter. Their hopes. Their dreams. This chest is filled with more than old things. Your Great-grandpa’s in here. Your uncles. My ma and pa. It’s our history.”
“And yet it looks so small.” Kiera flashed a less-than-innocent smile Gran’s way. “Okay, Gran. Your show.”
Her words darkened Gran’s demeanor. Kiera stuttered, then backtracked, not too successfully. Hard to be discreet when you’ve just dissed a potentially dying person. “I mean—”
Gran bent and lifted the first item from this chest, a hand-crocheted baby gown, ivory-white, thin, delicate yarn giving the garment a look of old world lace. Beautiful. Seamless. Amazing.
“This was my christening gown,” Gran explained, extending her hands. Cress reached up and ran a reverent finger across the nubbed fabric as if touching something holy, beyond special. “My grandmother made it before I was born. We all used it, Sylvie, me, my brothers. And then your mother wore it and used it for you girls.”
“Three generations.” The respect in Audra’s tone reflected Cress’s emotion. Unlike Audra, she was the queen of toss this and throw that, refusing links to anything for too long. But something like this, the feather-soft cotton yarn warm and smooth—
“So far.” Gran didn’t make eye contact, but this was Gran. She didn’t need to. “It might get used again. Who’s to say?”
“It’s lovely.” Cress opened her hands. “May I?”
Gran handed it over. Nimble, Cress unfolded the minute gown. Small things tumbled from the folds, landing in her lap. “What’s this?” She smiled as she shifted her look back to Gran.
“Booties.” Audra laughed as she reached across, extricating the petite foot warmers. “And a bonnet.”
“You put boys in bonnets?” Kiera again, not making points. Probably not caring. Typical.
“Everyone did.” Gran’s gaze stayed locked on the intricate gown, her eyes softened in remembrance of tiny feet, holy water and scented oils. “They were just babes. Why, in my day, boys actually wore little dresses until they walked.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“That’s how it was,” Gran protested, frowning. “They were babies.”
“So, Gran.” Audra brought the booties to her face, inhaling deeply. “I love that smell,” she intoned, sounding like she really meant it. Cress hated the odor, a smell of old times and days gone by. Blech. “Cedar. Fresh wood. Amazing how it holds its scent.”
Traitor.
Gran snorted. “Whoever has the first grandchild, of course.”
“And the race is on,” Kiera muttered, shifting. The chair creaked, even under her anorexically thin backside, but Gran didn’t hear either. Or ignored both. More likely.
“Sooooo……” Audra paused, pen aloft. “I’ll write: ‘open for possibilities’.”
“And we can always share it as need arises,” Cress piped up.
Grandma looked at her hard. “That would require dating. In my day a girl let a man court her. Take her places. Try the waters.”
“I think Cress has tried her share of water.”
Cress shot Kiera a ‘strangle you later’ look.
Gran shrugged. “There’s water and then there’s water. Them that swim with the weak fish never quite make it upstream.”
How did an old lady who lived nearly two hours away know so much about her life?
“Nice analogy.” Audra nodded, flashing Cress a grin. “I can just picture our Cress, heading to the spawning pool. She’d make a great trout, especially with that old gymnast’s arc.”
“And you’d make a nice corpse. Shut up.”
“Of course there’s always local offerings if you’ve used up the wealth of possibilities in the Twin Cities,” Kiera tossed in, her tart look perfect from every camera angle. Reason enough to smack her right there. “And Chippewa Falls has its very own man-brand. Brawny. Bold. Quite Midwestern. ”
Note to self: buy untraceable poison and apply liberally to sisters’ iced tea. Cress angled a look her way. “And sample your leftovers? No thanks. Can we get off the subject of me and get back to work here? My leg’s getting cramped.”
When all else fails, throw the sympathy card. Audra clucked, but Kiera just elevated both brows in a look that wasn’t even close to borderline sympathetic.
Audra took the gown from Cress’s hands, set it on the bed, and returned to her seat. “Next.”
A pint-sized hat and coat followed in brown, black and blue plaid, the hat done in aviator cap style, ear flaps and all. The look was all boy, total antique, yet timeless, something an English lad would don to scuff through stone streets on his way to some fancy prep academy. “How sweet.”
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