Chloe took my plate away and I went to say goodbye to Lars in the bistro. The guys had created a cozy outdoor seating area under the pines with round tables and bright yellow umbrellas. It opened off the bar on the south side and was the only alternative to Olafson’s.
Lars chatted with a group of people I’d noticed before. The group of five usually gathered in the late afternoon and were sometimes joined by a gray-bearded man who wore cargo shorts and a t-shirt with Tenth Annual Spirit Lake International Writers’ Workshop printed on it. A woman at the table stared at me. The leering fisherman from the dock sat next to her and three others had their backs to me. Lars looked my way and I waved goodbye. He returned my wave and I headed home, curious about the writing group that included a leering fisherman and a rude woman.
I fed the dogs, but needed something to do to keep my mind off the letter, Charley and the absent Ben. I changed to my swimsuit.
A thick rolling cloud hung above a band of sunlight and backlit the forest along the west side of the lake. A few boaters were out and a couple of jet skis zipped through the waves. Sailboats were heading to shore.
Hoping to beat the rain, I worked through the waves, not so high this time, the rhythm of swimming helping to focus. I pulled myself onto the city dock and watched the sky decide what it wanted to do. The sun hit my shoulders and melted the goose bumps. I squeezed the water out of my hair. Bella would not be happy that I’d subjected it to the elements again.
Footsteps behind me reverberated on the planks. One of the group from the bistro uncoiled the rope from a blue and white speedboat. I recognized the boat. He was the friendly guy from the day before who’d offered me a ride.
He walked over, smiling. “You’re the same swimmer I saw yesterday.”
I’d noticed him with the group Lars was talking to earlier. Blond-streaked hair hung across one eye, he had a high forehead and long, thin nose with eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses.
He introduced himself as Peder Halvorsen from Norway.
I reached up and took the hand he offered. “Britt Johansson. I’ve seen you at Little’s with the writers’ group. What do you write?”
His shy smile disarmed me. “I write bad poetry, Anke is working on a thriller, another fellow, Neil, is doing a fishing guide book and two students are writing short fiction that I don’t understand at all. It’s quite interesting.”
Thunder boomed in the distance and I stood. “It looks like the rain’s coming again. I’d better head back. Nice to meet you, Peder.”
“I’d be happy to give you a ride.”
“Thanks for offering but I enjoy swimming.”
He tossed his book bag in the boat and hopped in. He didn’t look like he spent time at the gym working on those abs, but he moved with an athletic spring in his step. With frown lines between his brows and faint laugh lines, I guessed him to be in his early forties.
I dove in. Good thing I was madly in love with my forest ranger. That was one good-looking bookworm.
***
Little’s call woke me at five a.m., his voice strained. “Can you come over right away and help us? Some kids spray-painted the windows and we need to get it cleaned off before we open.”
I pulled on jeans and t-shirt, grabbed my camera and drove over. From long habit, a camera went everywhere with me, and I usually carried a backup.
My headlights illuminated the black scrawl across the café’s lakeside windows—You Will All Die. A small voice inside me tried to deny the magnitude of what it said, and then I realized that Little and Lars were scrubbing at the writing. I jumped out of the SUV waving my arms. “Stop!”
Lars stopped scraping, but Little ignored me and continued sponging away the residue. “There’s no time. Help us.”
I grabbed the sponge from Little. “Are you nuts? The sheriff will never find out who did this if you get rid of the evidence.”
Little backed off while I took photos but said, “After what happened to Charley, people are already freaked out. That’s all they’re talking about. If they see this, no one will come to the restaurant for the rest of the summer.”
“I get it that you don’t want to scare the customers, but staying alive is also important for your livelihood, especially if this is the same person who killed Charley.”
He picked up the sponge and Lars started scraping again. I called Wilcox, ignoring their protests.
When he arrived, the guys were polishing the windows. Wilcox tore off his cowboy hat, slapped it against his leg and yelled at me. “What were you thinking? Why did you let them scrape it off?”
I’d taken photos of car tracks and footprints, but didn’t hold out much hope. Little and Lars had trampled the ground and wiped the windows clean. I lifted my camera as a peace offering. “I have photos. You can see if it’s a match to Charley’s house, and the letter.”
Wilcox settled his hat back on his head and turned to the guys. “What happened?”
They gave him a hurried statement and hustled inside to make sure the restaurant opened as usual.
In a few moments, Thor arrived in a spray of gravel. She lugged her evidence kit out of the car, surveyed the blank windows and scuffed driveway. “Uh, I’ll do my best.”
Wilcox pulled at the brim of his cowboy hat. “The graffiti guy wasn’t foolish enough to leave us a can of spray paint with his fingerprints.”
My body had been trembling nonstop since I saw the message. I went inside the restaurant and dropped onto a seat at the counter. Wilcox followed and helped himself to a cup of coffee. He even brought one for me.
“Sheriff, what are you going to do to protect Little and Lars? This is related to Charley.”
Wilcox said, “They’ll be safe in the restaurant, but they shouldn’t go anywhere alone. I’ll station a deputy outside at night.”
My voice rose. “They need someone in front and in back. There are several entrances and one person can’t watch all of them at once.”
“Okay, Britt, calm down. No one wants anything to happen to them. I’ll put my best deputy on this. I don’t have the resources to keep two patrols here.”
I forced myself to get the anxiety under control. I’d seen much worse, but perspective went out the window when it came to my brother being threatened.
Wilcox went into the kitchen to attempt to talk to Little as he raced to set up for the breakfast crowd. I slipped outside. Thor was bent over gathering items from the gravel driveway and bagging them.
I asked, “Anything?”
She didn’t look up. “Hard to tell. The usual cigarette butts and gum wrappers. I’ll bag everything. You never know.”
By the time a group of locals trooped in, Lars was ready for them. “We’re a little behind this morning, folks, bear with us. Had to get those windows sparkling so you can see the lake. It’s supposed to be a beautiful day, my friends. Not a cloud in the sky.”
Wilcox came through the swinging kitchen doors.
Jake from the hardware store asked, “Why’s the sheriff here? What’s wrong?”
Lars faked a smile and poured him a cup of coffee. “The kind sheriff is here to keep the peace in case you get too rowdy this morning, Jake.”
Wilcox tipped his cowboy hat and left.
Mid-morning, after the first rush of customers, I joined Little in the kitchen. “How’re you doing?”
His chin came up. “I know it was wrong to clean the windows, but everyone seeing that was unbearable to me.”
“No one blames you. I sent my photos to the sheriff’s so they can see how it matches up to the letter and the writing on Charley’s wall.” Saying that out loud caused a tight band of fear to grip my chest. Little clutched the slotted spoon in his hand so hard his knuckles whitened.
I said, “You heard Wilcox. He’s going to have a deputy guarding you guys tonight, and I’m going to help track down whoever did this.”
Little’s voice raised several decibels. “No. You promised.”
“That was before you
became a target.”
All color drained from Little’s face. Lars came into the kitchen with a breakfast order. His expression mirrored Little’s. Among the customers, Lars pretended all was well, but we knew better.
I watched each person who entered the restaurant all morning. Early afternoon, the woman from the writers’ group stood outside to finish her cigarette, came in alone and sat at a table for two. She opened her laptop and typed, casting glances at me that lingered too long to be polite. I guessed her to be in her late thirties or early forties. She looked as tall as me but about twenty pounds heavier. She pushed short wavy hair back from her face. The definition in her bare arm told me it was all muscle.
Needing to stretch my legs, I found Lars and told him I was going home to check on Rock and Knute. “I’ll be back soon.” He nodded, distracted by a group of people entering the restaurant. I ran my X-Ray gaze over them as he led them to a table in the bistro. The writing group woman’s eyes were on me again. I tried to analyze the look. Not friendly or unfriendly. I raised an eyebrow and she turned away to talk to the person next to her.
At the cabin, I filled Rock’s bowl but Knute hadn’t eaten much. He’d take a few bites and lose interest. I whispered in his ear. “I’m sorry for not promising this sooner. I’ll find who did this to Charley and stop him before he hurts the people I love too.”
The woman from the writers’ group had given me an idea. Instead of sitting at Little’s with nothing to do, I’d take my laptop with me and do some research. Full of purpose, I headed back to Little’s.
Keeping one eye on the door, I sat at a small table, opened my laptop and began researching hate crimes in the area covering the past five years. Sadly, there were many to choose from—the haters who did it because their god told them to and the white supremacists who went after everyone who was different.
So who was the hater? If it was someone local, why now? Little and Lars had been in Spirit Lake for almost four years. Charley had lived here for forty years. That made me think we had a new hate element in the area. I kept digging, and interestingly, the same name came up several times in my Internet search.
Matthew Willard, kicked out of Branson University at nineteen for gay bashing activities. He started with anti-gay slurs at students who were leaving a gay-friendly bar. He wrote on someone’s car in the parking lot of a bowling alley. His behavior escalated and he attacked a student in a bar by using anti-gay taunts, hitting him in the head with a beer bottle and beating him. He was charged with assault and a hate crime. He had been released from prison a month ago so he’d be twenty-two. His parents lived in Iona, a town east of Branson.
I surveyed the restaurant. The bad guy wouldn’t dare try anything with all these witnesses. I closed the laptop. Mr. and Mrs. Willard were about to receive a visitor.
Chapter 5
The drive to Iona, eight miles southeast of Branson, took half an hour. Another ten minutes on a twisting two-lane road led me to a turnoff marked by a beat-up mailbox. “Willard” was written on it in black marker.
I turned down the gravel road wondering what I’d find. My intention was to get a visual clue from the kid’s family and find out more about him. Wilcox would be furious with me, but I’d fill him in if anything interesting happened. I reached in my glove box for a clipboard with a notepad attached to it.
The weathered gray clapboard house might have been yellow at one time, but was now a dingy gray. I didn’t see a vehicle but maybe they’d parked in back. Unsettled air caused ripples on the surface of a stagnant pond across the road from the house. I scanned dark clouds overhead as I knocked on the door. I re-tucked my white shirt into black slacks, waited a minute and knocked again. “Hello, anyone home?”
“Hang on.” A woman with stringy gray hair opened the door. She wore a stained tank top with a Bible passage on it. I didn’t want to stare at her ample chest too long in order to read it. It wasn’t one of the short passages.
Distrustful eyes locked on mine. “We have cable and we’re not looking to change to whatever you’re selling.”
I stuck out my hand. “I’m Britt Johansson and I’m not selling anything. I wanted to ask you a few questions about Matthew.”
She squinted at my clipboard. Her sharp chin came up, arms crossed over her chest. “You his probation officer? He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“May I come in? I won’t take a minute. I just have a couple of questions.”
She scowled but stepped away from the door. I followed her into the family room. A 9mm Glock stuck out of the waist of her jeans in back, visible under the thin top hanging over it.
Hesitating, I asked, “Do you always answer the door with a gun?”
“You can’t be too careful. I have a permit if you want to check it.”
Mrs. Willard still believed I was her son’s probation officer. That worked in my favor. She pulled the gun from the back of her pants and I held my breath as she set it on the scarred coffee table. She sat on the couch and pointed to an overstuffed chair.
I perched on the edge of it, conscious of the gun between us. She watched me look at the mantel. It held several photos of a blond-haired boy in different stages of development.
“Matthew’s an only child?”
Her mouth puckered, exaggerating the deep lines on either side of it. “The older boy took off a few years ago. We tried to train the homo out of him but the devil had a firm hold.”
Wondering what that training consisted of and where he’d gone, I asked, “What’s his name?”
“We don’t use his name anymore. It’s an abomination in a Christian house.”
Holding the clipboard in the crook of my arm, I left my chair and picked up one of the photos. A snapshot of Matthew standing next to the severed head of a big buck was tucked into the frame of the larger high school graduation portrait. Medium height, muscular, light hair and skin, even features, sharp chin like his mother, camouflage pants and white t-shirt, no tattoos or piercings. Nondescript in this setting, he’d stand out against the sea of colorful young people showing their style, individuality and character all over Southern California.
“He got that buck just before they arrested him. So what’s this about?”
I slipped the snapshot between the pages of my clipboard and set the framed photo back in its spot on the mantel. “Has your son been spending time around the Spirit Lake area?”
She spit out her answer. “He’s been working with his dad salvaging. They go all over the county. He goes to work and comes straight home. We go to Bible study in the evenings and church on Sunday.”
“What church is that?”
“The church of none of your goddamn business.”
Mrs. Willard picked up the gun from the coffee table and stood.
My mouth went dry.
She shoved it back in her jeans. “It appears to me you’re on a fishing expedition and you’re wasting my time. Matthew’s a good boy.” Her head jerked toward the door. “I’ve got laundry to do.”
“Thanks for your time, Mrs. Willard.” I forced myself to walk at a normal pace out the door and to my car. She continued watching from the porch as I rounded a corner.
I backed the SUV onto a side trail half way between the county road and their driveway, out of sight, but with a view of the house and road.
Forty minutes later, an old pickup passed by with two men in it. The back of the truck was piled high with junk. Following the father and son to their home for another visit didn’t appeal to me. If the kid’s mother answered the door with a Glock in her pants, what would the father and son be armed with? A hunting rifle sat on a rack in the back window of the truck, but hunting season was long over. Most people around here didn’t even lock their doors when they went to bed at night, but this family was well armed.
Time to head back. I shivered and pulled onto the highway heading south. The July air had turned chilly and the dark cloud hung directly overhead. In a few minutes, the sky opened up with marble-si
zed hail that sounded like gunshots pelting the car.
***
Little’s voice carried across the dining room and I halted just inside the restaurant door. Ranting wasn’t his style. Lars shot me a look of concern from behind the counter. “I’d better check this out.” He headed back to the kitchen and the strident sounds stopped.
Little could be edgy when cooking for a large crowd. He wanted everyone to leave happy and satisfied. Sometimes his striving for perfection caused him to be gruff with the staff, but they understood and loved him anyway. This sounded different. The hail had come and gone quickly, but the outside tables were still wet and raindrops clung to the umbrellas and dripped from the trees overhead. Chloe went out to wipe down the tables.
I sat at the counter and in a few minutes, Lars brought coffee and sat next to me. I asked, “How’s he doing?”
“I wish we weren’t so busy. We need to get away from here for a few days. This thing with Charley and the window threat has upset him more than he lets on.”
“Couldn’t your staff take over for a while?”
“Little would be more stressed over that.” Lars ran his hand over his bald dome, ruffling the fringe of curls around the edges.
I held out the picture of Matthew standing next to the buck’s head. “Have you seen this kid in the restaurant or in town recently?”
“He looks like half the kids around here.” He peered closer. “We get so many new people coming through in the summer, it’s hard to say. He got himself a big buck there.”
A customer held up his cup and Lars moved away, refilling coffee along the counter before coming back to me.
“Where did you get that picture?”
“I checked online to see if there were recent hate crimes in the area, and this kid showed up from a few years ago. Three months ago he was released from prison for aggravated assault against a gay man.”
Close Up on Murder Page 4