Close Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  Table of Contents

  Close Up on Murder (A Spirit Lake Mystery, #2)

  Praise for Linda Townsdin

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  About the Author

  Praise for Linda Townsdin

  Linda Townsdin creates tightly woven, fast-paced plots, villains you love to hate and characters you want to get to know. Her second novel in the Spirit Lake mystery series, Close Up on Murder, is even better than her terrific debut, Focused on Murder...in an action-packed, emotional story about family secrets and murderous rage. I couldn’t put the book down!

  –Julie Williams, author of Drama Queens in the House

  Close Up on Murder is a great read! Linda Townsdin has again crafted a tale of small town murder where the summer calm covers deep secrets.

  –Michele Drier, author of Edited for Death,

  Labeled for Death, Delta for Death

  Linda Townsdin's novel, Focused on Murder grabs you immediately...If you like complex murder mysteries, bone chilling thrills with a bit of romance, this should be the next book on your reading list.

  –Sherry Joyce, author of The Dordogne Deception

  Britt Johansson is strong but slightly flawed, just the way a good fictional heroine should be. The plot is compelling and believable, and the author does a great job painting a picture of life in the small Minnesota town of Spirit Lake. I can't wait to read more books in this series!

  –Sacto Books

  The world of the photojournalist is authentically depicted and the author’s descriptions of the snow-bound Minnesota town where the story takes place are vivid, reminding me of the bleak, inhospitable settings of Steve Hamilton and Jenny Milchman’s novels. Focused on Murder is an outstanding debut novel.

  –Nancy Tesler, author of Other Deadly Things mystery series

  Murder is not the only crime going on amid the frozen lakes and frigid forests of northern Minnesota. [In Focused on Murder] Townsdin has created a challenging mystery, spiced it with a cast of deceitful suspects and added appealing touches of noir in the dark settings and some of the dialog. I’m eagerly awaiting Johansson’s next adventure.

  –Mark S. Bacon, author of Death in Nostalgia City

  Copyright © 2015 Linda Townsdin

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without expressed written permission from the author.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Visit us at http://LindaTownsdin.com

  Dedication

  To my husband, Gary Delsohn,

  for his love and support

  Close Up on Murder

  A Spirit Lake Mystery

  Linda Townsdin

  Chapter 1

  I’d stayed away from Little’s Café for two days. Tourists with cabin fever cramming the tables and booths were not my scene. I’d spent the time shooting wildlife photos around the lake—the rain made it more interesting and I was happiest stalking something.

  But this morning my brother’s blueberry wild rice pancakes called to me. I glanced in the window at the crowd of whining kids, complaining parents and ornery fishermen. A familiar old dog waited next to the entrance. I patted Knute’s big shaggy head; he and my dog, Rock, bumped noses and I went in.

  Little and his partner Lars were chatting with someone seated at a booth.

  “Britt.” Little, in his apron, waved me over. My diminutive younger brother’s real name was Jan Jr. after our dad, but that’s all they’d had in common. Our father had been six feet four inches of meanness; now he was six feet under and no one felt too bad about that. I inherited some of his height and bad temper and while I liked being tall, I was working on the bad temper.

  I wove through the tables. Little tilted his head toward the old man in the booth. “Charley’s been waiting to talk to the two of us about something.”

  “Hi Charley.” I slid in across from him. “I figured you were here when I saw Knute out front.” I lifted my chin toward the counter. “And the gorgeous rhododendron gave you away.”

  He smiled at the compliment. “I didn’t think I’d have any luck with the garden this summer. The weather’s a big disappointment for everyone.”

  I nodded, but the weather really didn’t affect me. The bigger disappointment was that I’d been back in Spirit Lake for two weeks and had yet to see the man I loved. I wanted Ben Winter, rain or shine.

  Lars interrupted my thoughts. “I’d better make the rounds with coffee. I’ll leave you three to have that talk.”

  Lars was my age, thirty-four, and mostly bald. A thin fringe of reddish-brown curls stuck out from his baseball cap. Skinny-legged and barrel-chested, he wore suspenders over flannel shirts in the winter and over t-shirts in the summer. In L.A. lingo—circus clown meets Paul Bunyan.

  Little’s gaze darted toward the kitchen, no doubt worried about orders stacking up. “What’s on your mind, Charley?”

  The old man swallowed, licked his lips, but didn’t get a chance to speak. Brown ponytail swishing, Chloe dashed up and handed Little a food order. “Sorry, hungry customers.”

  Little put a hand on Charley’s shoulder. “It’s really busy today. Okay if we talk another time?”

  “Sure, another time.”

  Little hustled off to the kitchen. Charley lifted his coffee to his lips with a slight tremor. “Little was just telling me you’ve been away. I don’t get into town much anymore.”

  “The L.A. Times hired me back as a contract photographer.” I’d been shooting war and weather disasters across the globe for the past months. Floods, hurricanes, earthquakes, you name it. Mother Nature was at war with the planet and its people were at war with one another.

  “How long are you in Minnesota?” His voice wavered as if it didn’t get much use.

  “I head to South Sudan at the end of summer.”

  He shook his head. “Terrible what’s going on there.”

  “It is.” My entire career had prepared me for the upcoming assignment. My intention was to spend the next month recharging so I’d be ready, but the truth was that I was always ready.

  Chloe slid a plate of blueberry wild rice pancakes in front of me. “I went ahead and put in your order.”

  I smiled my thanks. Most pancakes made me want to curl up and sleep, but my brother’s pancakes had an energizing effect—a part of his cooking mystique. I ate them nearly every day.

  The rain let up after breakfast, and I walked Charley and Knute
home. He lived a mile farther than my cabin, a long way for a ninety-year-old, even with the help of his cane. The old retriever had his own arthritis issues, so we took our time. Rock, a black and white blur, chased squirrels.

  We crossed the Paul Bunyan Trail, strangely empty. Most summers it was like a freeway with packs of bike riders like bumblebees with their neon outfits and helmeted heads whizzing by. Bike up! On your left!

  At one of our frequent rest stops, I asked, “What did you want to talk about, Charley? I’ll be sure to let Little know.”

  His brow furrowed. “I don’t know if your dad ever told you, but I knew him before the drinking got so bad.”

  “That must have been a long, long time ago.” Sarcasm was another character flaw I was working on. My dad had been a heavy drinker since I could remember. Charley was an old bachelor who lived on the south side of the lake. Dad would take him the Sunday papers and spend the afternoon visiting. He also took his thermos of coffee laced with blackberry brandy and loaded with sugar. He’d come home wired and drunk, carrying a rhododendron bouquet from Charley’s garden.

  “Where did you and Dad meet?”

  Charley’s kind eyes surveyed me. “You take after him.”

  Did he mean that as a compliment? I’d stretched to five-ten by junior high and even had my dad’s eyes, my best feature when I was healthy and happy, but they broadcast every lost hour of sleep, every anxious thought and every drink too many before I got sober.

  He hadn’t answered my question. “You were friends with my dad before he left the service, before Vietnam?”

  A dark cloud crossed his face. “War can make men do terrible things.” He stopped to rest.

  I studied him out of the corner of my eye. Was he talking about my dad or himself?

  Knute hitched along, favoring one leg, and finally stopped altogether. Charley said, “You go on ahead; we’ll take our time.”

  It would be noon before they got home at this rate. “I’ll get the SUV. We’re almost at my turnoff.”

  He squinted at the sky. “Looks like we’re in for another shower so I’ll take that ride, and thank you for offering.”

  I sprinted to my cabin, liking the opportunity to get some exercise, and pulled the SUV up next to Charley and Knute within a few minutes. Charley needed a boost getting in, Rock jumped in back and I hoisted the old dog in next to him.

  We followed the Spirit Lake south loop to his house. I asked, “Do you have any family?” A nosy question, but someone should be looking out for him.

  His milky blue eyes watered. “Just the nice people of Spirit Lake and Knute.”

  I pulled off the two-lane road and into his driveway and helped him down from the high seat, but getting the eighty-pound Knute to the ground was a bigger chore, even for me.

  Charley leaned on his cane. “Would you like to come in for coffee? We can talk about what I wanted to tell you and Little, in case...”

  “Coffee sounds good.” I searched his face for clues. In case what?

  He straightened and pointed toward the west side of his house. “Let me get my shears and cut some flowers for you. Would you like that?”

  His house blocked the flower garden, but I remembered the riot of color from years past. “I’d love it. My cabin could use some cheering up in this gloom.”

  I waited in the yard while he made his way to the house for his shears, wondering what he was having such a hard time telling me. Knute circled and Rock sniffed the air. Both dogs got busy checking the perimeter. They must have smelled something interesting.

  Charley’s place backed up to the lake and was surrounded by woods much like mine, but his was more isolated. Even the lake took on a deeper blue in this secluded inlet.

  Before opening his door, he stooped, picked up a white piece of paper from the porch, frowned at it and shook his head. “Britt, I’m afraid I’ll have to offer you that coffee another time.” He held up the small rectangle; I assumed a business card. “Something I need to attend to.”

  “No problem. Is everything okay?” He must not have heard me because he stepped inside and closed the door without answering. I shrugged, not my business. “Rock, let’s go buddy.”

  Back at my cabin, I pushed my yellow kayak into the water and dug in with the paddle, heading straight out from shore, working up a sweat. I’d check with Little later. He’d know more about the old guy’s situation, and maybe what Charley needed to tell us.

  Chapter 2

  The next day, the sun popped out after a brief morning shower and Rock and I headed to town for lunch.

  I’d hoped Little’s would be less crowded so I could eat in peace, but cars jammed the parking lot. Another option would be to cook my own meals, a radical choice and one I avoided whenever possible.

  Knute paced in front of the door, whining and circling. Charley must have had cabin fever too. Rock ran to Knute, but instead of the usual sniffing and bumping noses, Rock mirrored his agitation.

  I scratched behind the old dog’s ears. Seeing Knute reminded me Little and I hadn’t found out what the old guy wanted to talk to us about. Now would be a good time.

  Charley wasn’t in any of the booths. Little zipped around the kitchen, a whirling dervish with ten arms going at once, stirring, prepping, grabbing items from the refrigerator and barking orders at his helpers. “Hey, baby brother, have you seen Charley? Knute’s outside looking for him.”

  Little didn’t look up. “Ask Lars or one of the kids working the tables. I haven’t been out of this kitchen all morning. When the weather’s bad, everyone comes to town.”

  “I noticed.”

  He grinned. “I love it!”

  When he wasn’t scowling at me, Little had the face of an angel. Creamy skin, eyes the color of Norwegian fjords, silvery blond hair. He took after our mother, now living far away from Minnesota winters in sunny Palm Desert, California.

  He frowned at my hair. “I don’t like you being in the kitchen with that flying loose, but since you’re here can you reach that for me?” He pointed to a giant jar of pickles on a shelf above his workstation.

  Inwardly rolling my eyes, I grabbed it and set it on the counter, then left him to his stove. Every trip to the grocery store involved helping a customer snag something out of reach. Early on, I’d envied the petite girls but now I embraced my impressive wingspan.

  I spied Lars filling coffees at the big round table in the corner and asked about Charley. He hadn’t seen him either. He said, “I figured Ben came to town when you didn’t show up for dinner last night.”

  “Ben’s still working on his project.” I left thinking about Ben and the events that had brought us together. I’d worked for the L.A. Times right out of college for twelve years until they’d fired me for drunk and disorderly behavior a year and a half ago. I also divorced my philandering husband. My boss at the Times helped me get a job at the Minneapolis StarTribune northern bureau, so I’d moved home to Spirit Lake, stopped drinking and fallen in love with Ben Winter. Last year I’d finally gotten the dark-haired forest ranger with the hawk nose and squinty eyes to admit he loved me. It turned out to be bad timing, because I’d been rehired at the Times and had to leave for L.A. two days later. I’d been longing to be with him ever since.

  I walked through town asking about Charley. It took all of fifteen minutes to make the circuit. There were only two business streets. One faced the lake and the other was on the highway one street over. My last stop was Robertson’s grocery.

  No Charley. Maybe Knute was confused. Dogs suffer from dementia just like elderly people. I circled back to Little’s.

  Knute hadn’t moved from his post. Rock paced around him. I ran in and told Lars I was taking the dog home. “If Charley comes in let him know I have Knute and call me if he needs a ride, too.”

  He nodded, hustling to seat a family of six.

  Knute walked much faster than yesterday, but started limping about half way. Once again, I stopped at my cabin for the SUV, lifted Knute into the b
ack seat and drove to Charley’s. The old dog moaned when we turned into Charley’s drive. If Charley was home, I’d ask about taking Knute to the vet.

  I opened the driver’s side door for Rock, but Knute bounded over the seat and leaped out, falling in a heap. He gathered his legs under him and limped to the west side of the house. I followed, calling Charley’s name. A blood-curdling sound came from the garden and I ran toward it.

  Knute stood in the middle of the garden howling at something high above him. I moved closer and the hair rose at the back of my neck.

  Charley’s severed head was on a stake, his sightless eyes staring down at crushed yellow, pink, and purple blossoms, the green stalks flattened and all of it mashed into the earth like a muddy stew. His head, the massacred rhododendrons, their scent overpowering in the summer humidity and Knute howling up at him was too much. My knees buckled.

  Rock’s nose in my armpit startled me back into action. I fumbled for my phone and tapped in the sheriff’s number.

  When I told him where I was and what I was looking at, his response was typical Wilcox. “Don’t touch anything and do not call the media. You don’t work here anymore, Johansson.”

  Next, I called Cynthia, my old editor at the StarTribune bureau in Branson, and then reached into my jacket pocket for my camera. I photographed Charley, his house with the lake in the background, the destroyed garden, the keening Knute. I turned in a circle taking in the house and woods. We’d have to find the rest of his body.

  I had seen worse—carcasses of starved babies in Somalia, bodies dismembered by automatic fire that ripped through entire towns and left carnage everywhere, the horrible aftermath of natural disasters, and deaths of people close to me. My reaction was always the same: hands shaking, stomach gripped by nausea, tears springing to my eyes, a need to sit down and look away, but I didn’t look away until the job of documenting was finished. I swallowed my rage and sadness and pity, willed my hands to stop trembling and kept shooting until I had it all.

  Still howling, Knute wouldn’t move when I tried to coax him away from the garden. I walked to the front of the house. The door was ajar and I peeked inside. The sight stopped me cold.