Starr Tree Farm

by Ellen Parker

  “Any male not a customer,” Daryl reached down to turn on a table lamp.

  “Travel agent is a Mrs. Stennis. Her husband farms six miles or so south of Wagoner. Soybeans, hay, and llamas.”

  “Hmmm. Didn’t know about the llamas.” Daryl rubbed his chin. “I’d drive you home now for a few hours rest but I doubt she’d let me back inside. Can you make do with the daybed?”

  “I’ve slept in worse places.” In comparison to packed dirt with a mud wall windbreak in the middle of Nowhere, Afghanistan, the pillows and bright quilt looked like a Hilton. “And you?”

  “After the sun comes up and the sheriff arrives, I’m off to Rochester.”

  Brad raised his eyebrows at the final word. “Carlstead case moved out of our hands.”

  “A detail I want to check.” Daryl glanced back to the kitchen as if confirming Laura’s location. “How much of a look did you get at the original ID Carlstead was using?”

  “About a blink. The Rochester detective, Logan, commented on the quality, among the best he’d seen. He hesitated to give me the copy.”

  “I believe it.” Daryl lowered his voice another level and kept his back to Laura. “Early in my career we arrested a counterfeiting ring. Excellent work on pre-watermark paper. Our team managed to pick up on them via a signature tornado in the left front corner. A tiny one. Gave the engraver the name ‘Cyclone Harvey.’ A fine case.”

  “Related how?” Brad glimpsed Laura perched on the utility stool eating her supper … snack … whatever name you gave to food in the new hours of the morning.

  “Harvey finished his sentence four years ago.”

  “Relatives in the area?”

  “That’s the word.”

  “I’ll take first watch. Two hour shift?” He’d be a good soldier and obey his boss. His call to Kimberly for the Beel case had already slid one notch down on priorities.

  • • •

  “I should make you both sleep with the cattle.” Laura directed her words to Daryl but remained aware of Brad getting a drink of water in the kitchen. In the half hour since the electricity returned, the two men had staked claim on the informal dining room and now they were sending tendrils out to other areas.

  Daryl stretched out on the daybed, pillowed his head on interlaced hands, and met her gaze. “You’ll think differently of this after you get a few hours sleep.”

  “Optimist.” From first sip to final swallow the oversized mug of hot chocolate finished moments ago failed to relax either her stomach or her brain. She guessed it would be one of too many times when she’d lay in bed with her eyes closed and her mind racing. The only question remained which of several unpleasant scenarios would visit this time.

  “You must have me confused with a different uncle.” He continued a steady look in her direction.

  “I don’t have you confused at all.” She paused at the hall entrance, and yielded to good manners. She remained uneasy about Brad in the house, in her opinion he was a suspect in all but the arson incident. “Don’t worry about your words, Brad. There’s nothing wrong with them at all.”

  “Laura … ”

  She turned away and closed the bedroom door before he could say another word.

  The furnace finished its cycle and the house lapsed into silence. Laura lay under a quilt staring at flowered wallpaper by the soft light of the shaded desk lamp. How many times will I count that square of roses tonight? Exhaustion draped over her and she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  Scott waggled his hand, signaled her to follow at a distance as he stepped into the carnival maze of mirrors.

  She watched him turn out of sight to the right, counted three seconds, and moved forward. Five. Six. The number of her images surrounding her seemed to multiply with each step. “Wait up.”

  Explosions and crashing glass filled the air.

  She stumbled around the next corner, dropped to her knees, and cradled Scott’s bloody head in her lap as she screamed.

  “Laura.” Light and sound broke a bubble around her. “Open your eyes. Take a deep breath. You’re safe. On the farm.”

  She reached out, wrapped her hands around the first thing they encountered, and squeezed. A corner of pillow gave way.

  “Flashback. Rerun. Open your eyes. Look at me.”

  Her eyelids eased up, closed, and opened again. She whimpered and drew the scene into focus. What’s he doing here?

  Brad lowered down until his face was level with hers. “Take deep breaths on my count, Laura. One. Two. That’s good.”

  “Go away.” Her words emerged limp.

  “Not yet.”

  She exhaled with a shiver. The aftereffects of the nightmare made her check her hands for blood and shards of glass. Piece by piece the room and contents came into focus. It took a few more moments before the reality of the dream sent her into another bout of the shakes.

  “You’re safe.” Brad spoke softly and evenly. “You talk. I’ll listen.”

  “Is that how it works?”

  “Worked on the ward at Brooke.”

  She pushed to a half sitting position and pulled the quilt to her chin. “I’m not in the army.”

  “Trauma doesn’t require a uniform.”

  He didn’t have the posture or expression of a man willing to leave easy. Maybe if she played along a little, pretended to be a good patient to an amateur psychologist, he’d back off sooner rather than later.

  She pressed her back against the pillows and clung to the edge of the quilt. “New nightmare tonight. Scott still lay dead at the end of it.”

  • • •

  Brad forced his gaze to move around the room. A shaded lamp on Roger’s desk gave unobtrusive light, enough to reveal portions of her face as she inspected him. He dampened his lips, prepared to talk, but paused. Bad idea. I don’t want to spook her into silence.

  “Once,” Laura leaned against the headboard and worried the edge of the flannel sheet with both hands. “One time, in a year plus a week now, I actually dreamed Scott whole. We danced. Does that sound silly?”

  He shook his head, afraid to shatter her fragile beginning.

  “We were at home. Scott coaxed me away from fixing supper. I read his lips about a surprise out on our deck. There, in the glow of our porch light we waltzed. In the snow. The first flurries of the season. They lodged in his hair. His hair was the deepest of dark chocolate, one shade less than black, and tempted to curl when he didn’t get a haircut. I remember laughing and teasing him about his looks in old age. Before … ”

  His missing arm ached to reach out, caress her cheek.

  “So much blood. It stays bright red in the nightmares. In real time, it turned dull so fast. His shirt … red going rust as I fumbled, searched for a pulse that wasn’t there. That I knew couldn’t exist.” She swiped at sparse tears with the back of one hand.

  He moved his attention to the window in time to see the rotating yellow lights of the snowplow push down the road. “Continue.”

  “I can’t.”

  Wrong. They all say that before they spill the worst. He looked at her face and didn’t fight the prompt rising in his throat. “Gun?”

  “On the floor. Next to his chair. A revolver. Snub nose.” She turned away for a moment then released a huge sigh. “It belonged to his business partner. The coward got someone else to pull the trigger.”

  Brad nodded encouragement but she turned away and busied her hands with a box of tissues on the far bedside table. So Laura labeled Gary Browne a coward. That assessment matched up with the interview he’d conducted. Browne’s sister understood her younger brother. He kept his face neutral and determined to ask again to see Daryl’s file on Scott Tanner’s death. The one interview and glimpses of a few photos didn’t give him enough information to weave into the next trail to fo
llow.

  “Leave me to my ghost, Brad.”

  He raised his gaze, studied the sheen of tears in her deep blue eyes. “What would it take to make Scott a pleasant memory instead of a nightmare?”

  “A miracle?” She tipped her head back as if the answer might be penned on the ceiling. “An arrest? A conviction? Justice? His life needs to be worth that. One time, months ago, I made the mistake of spinning Detective Wilson’s words into hope. I can’t afford to do that again.”

  “Crashed on the asphalt?” He risked a half smile.

  “While speeding.” She pulled a chain holding two rings out from a hiding place. “Yesterday, today, tomorrow,” she held the smaller ring until three small diamonds glinted in the soft light. “The killer stole tomorrow.”

  He waited and let understanding seep in.

  “I … I can accept that Scott’s dead. I can’t accept … refuse to understand … why no one seems to care. The police put his file at the bottom of the pile. We’ll work on it when we have more time. When all the other gun violence cases are solved. Even Daryl sits on his hands, listens politely, and does nothing.”

  He’s tracing the new partner. Digging into family background. Working on Scott’s case every day. Brad exhaled, aware to the end of his missing fingers that he couldn’t say a word to Laura. “A host of people care, Goldilocks.”

  “Even the park ranger?”

  “Affirmative. He cares more than most.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I won’t be in to open the office until late, Brad. Have you called Ken?”

  “He’s next on my list.” Brad poured fresh coffee into his travel mug. The official sunrise remained close to an hour away. Lights glowed from the high windows of the milking parlor where his parents worked with the herd. Time to touch base, let them know to expect he’d be gone all day.

  A couple of minutes later, after leaving a text for Ken, the Rolling Hills Realty broker, and stashing his coffee in the truck, he entered the bright world of the milking area. Sanitizer and cattle breath greeted his nostrils.

  “Late night. Is everything okay?” Robert continued to clean an udder prior to attaching the milking machine.

  “Good as expected. Sheriff will be by for a look in daylight.” He checked the number on a bright yellow ear tag. The reality in this familiar place cleared more of the haze from his mind. Morning farm chores and the ritual with the coffee maker distracted him from thinking of Laura finally asleep when he’d left with Daryl half an hour ago. “I’m headed to Wagoner.”

  “All day?” His mother called from the cattle entrance door.

  “Expect so. I’ll call if you need to set a supper plate for me.”

  “Drive careful. Eric plans to come up for the weekend. Let Amy know if you can give him a ride.”

  Brad smiled at mention of his nephew. The boy exhibited all the signs and symptoms of having inherited the dairy farmer gene. He begged to spend school breaks helping his grandfather and complained the minimum at the dirty, physical chores. “Message received.”

  Before starting his truck he dialed Kim’s cell. She didn’t answer so he left a message that Frieberg Investigations would accept the case. “One of us will be contacting your parents later today. We’ll want to see your uncle’s house.”

  • • •

  “Say again.” The dark-haired man slammed the fridge door, turned his back to it, and concentrated on the distinct, hoarse voice on the phone.

  “Don’t play deaf. Right on your doorstep. Deal with it.”

  “Certainly.” Sweat crept from his skin and pooled in the valley between his shoulder blades. Who? When? And all those other questions that would do nothing but endanger his own life halted on the back of his tongue.

  “Use the alternate number to report. That is all.”

  He swung his arm, intending to hurl the pre-paid cell across the room but instead pushed it down the counter until it stalled against the coffee maker. His throat tightened as if the very walls shrank the space. He needed to pace — and think.

  After the first circuit of the kitchen, living room, and hall he left a voice mail at the office informing the clerk that he’d be working from home today. The fresh snow worked in his favor. She’d shrug and most likely put in her hours doing Sudoku puzzles and taking a half dozen phone messages.

  In the middle of the second pass through the living room, he paused and watched the sheriff’s SUV lead a Wisconsin State Patrol car southbound. Not much in that direction except the tree farm. Do they suspect? Did I forget something? He resumed pacing and pushed against the doubt waving in one quadrant of his brain. With the initial incident in the middle of a stormy night, he wanted them to be doing a simple daylight follow-up.

  Did Big Eddie know about the woman? Impossible. She remained a local, personal problem. His steps halted in front of the gun safe. No, it was risky. But the little notion grew as he pivoted. The idea took on a life outside of his conscience, making his stomach knot. “Only as a last resort.”

  What threatened the organization enough to have his boss call this soon? Jobs for contract operatives were spaced six months to a year apart, for safety. The payment for the Beel job still bounced around his offshore accounts. He glanced at the kitchen calendar. Tomorrow the funds made their final transfer.

  Moments later, he settled at his computer to open the email account of James Beel’s brother. Subject lines in this account looked innocent this morning.

  Suddenly he halted on a new one from the daughter. Time stamp was less than an hour ago and already the parents had opened it. His tongue swept once across his upper lip as he read the message.

  “Frieberg Investigations agreed to take the case. Expect contact to arrange a visit to the house. Digging out of fifteen inches in sunny Bemidji. Banquet for seventy-five tonight. Busy, busy, busy. Kim.”

  He shivered under his dress shirt and sweater vest. Daryl poking around in Beel’s home? The second reason his nerves never relaxed in this place. The man didn’t miss anything, said little, and assembled pictures from shreds. Did he leave a trace when he picked the lock? Did an incriminating scrap linger on the chair where he stored his jacket? He didn’t touch anything without gloves or disturb the towels waiting outside the hot tub.

  Why this one? He prided himself on care and leaving nothing but a dead body for his quick visit to his marks. Accident. Suicide. Two of his favorite words on death certificates. Seven out of eight. Perfect record until a year ago when something tipped off a medical examiner.

  Tanner. Homicide. He stared at his hands above the computer keyboard. They trembled like his chin in sub-zero cold. This would never do. He pushed away from the desk and paced another lap in the rented house. He detoured to the kitchen for a snack, but the first swallow of milk curdled on the way down. He spewed it into the sink and cursed women.

  He snatched a maple flavored hard candy from a shallow dish on the counter and sucked on it the instant his fingers broke the paper.

  Candy. Did I? He rubbed the delicate wrapper between two fingers and forced his mind back to the St. Louis job.

  A few moments later, he returned to the computer, changed programs, and booked Jason Young on tomorrow’s final international flight.

  He packed a suitcase with ordinary items on the chance the TSA did a manual search. The checked bag would languish, unclaimed, in the foreign airport. The change of clothes and toiletries for the carry on he selected with care. After all, he may have to depend on it for a week or more as he made connections in international airports. Cash, carefully withdrawn from several accounts in previous months, ended up divided between duffel pockets and the money belt he wore day and night under his clothes.

  One more piece of unfinished business. All the cooperation he needed was for her to take one of those walks in the Christmas trees in strong daylig
ht. Questions of homicide would come up. It couldn’t be helped this time.

  He formed a small smile. Big Eddie wouldn’t have a say in this one. Not in selecting time, place, or target. For a moment he tried to picture the seven foot, slender, drug importer smiling wide enough for both gold teeth to show.

  He sucked on another candy and willed the maple sweet to untwist another kink in his digestive system. She’d be his first female target. My final mark. Outstanding hair and friendly eyes made even passing remarks with her memorable. No, he mustn’t think of her as a female with a personality. His hands would be steadier and his eye more certain if she remained a target.

  • • •

  Laura pulled three bales of hay from the lower portion of the stack. Today, with over ten inches of new snow, the step pyramid slope of previous days looked like a practice area for mountain climbing. Moment by moment she discovered new twists and complications to morning chores. Shoveling to open the shed door and to clear the wooden outside manger had not even touched her imagination on New Year’s morning when Roger talked her through the tasks.

  “Do you have a minute?”

  She turned from breaking up the last bale and faced Sheriff Bergstrom. “Are you finished at the workshop?”

  “My associate is tagging the final bit of evidence.” The sheriff gestured with the arm not holding her clipboard.

  “Let’s go to the house. I’ll let the dogs loose on the way past the garage if that’s okay.”

  “Sounds good. How many?”

  They exchanged comments about dogs as Laura led the way. Taffy and Cocoa streaked out of the door and made good use of fresh snow before they inspected the two vehicles and the arson specialist.

  “What did you find?”

  Sheriff Bergstrom opened her covered clipboard on the kitchen counter. “First I want to review a few things with you. When did you last go inside the shed?”