Close Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  I walked to the edge of the lake, wanting to jump in and wash away the feeling that I’d been in the presence of something diabolical. Was that act to lure me in or keep me away? Had my arrival caught him about to do something to my cabin? I didn’t know, but I was sure he had not seen the light in prison.

  I ruffled Rock’s fur and patted Knute’s head. “Good watch dogging, doggies.” Neil, the fisherman, had moved away from the cove. Now he knew where I lived.

  ***

  I sometimes used Gert’s mini-office between the cabin’s laundry room and garage. The five-by-eight-foot office space was tight for someone my size, but there were some connections I preferred not to make on my own laptop. A rack of clothes hid the office door and even Ben didn’t know about his aunt’s secret office. I hated to keep secrets from him, but he was in a branch of law enforcement as a forest ranger and that meant following the rules. That didn’t always work for me.

  Gert’s computer was useful for connecting with Sebastian, a young hacker from Minneapolis. She had rescued him from freezing to death in a fish house two winters ago. He’d gotten in trouble with his folks for a hacking prank that cost them a lot of money to fix.

  Sixteen, depressed and guilty, he’d run away. While staying with Gert, Sebastian helped her figure out who embezzled from the Dreamcatcher casino. Gert’s financial sleuthing got her killed. That was nearly two years ago. I found his email address on a sticky note on her computer and contacted him. Since then, he’d helped me a couple of times.

  I booted it up. Usually nocturnal, I was surprised when he responded right away.

  –Hey, Britt, what do you need?

  Sebastian didn’t do chitchat. I said hello and got to the point.

  –It’s not an emergency, but could you put your tentacles out and see if you can find a twenty-seven-year-old kid named Trevor Willard? He used to live in Iona Township, Minnesota. His parents are big into the World Church of the Creator.

  –What are you doing messing with those haters?

  –As little as possible, believe me. And one other thing I know is a longshot. I’m looking for background on a ninety-year-old Spirit Lake guy who moved here forty years ago. We don’t know anything about his life before that or any family. His name was Charles Patterson. He was murdered.

  –No problem. It’s relaxing to kick back with this low-level stuff.

  –Please tell me you aren’t behind the collapse of the world economy.

  –What’s the challenge in that?

  –How’s college life?

  –On summer break, doing security work for a bank.

  His security work didn’t mean he was the guy wearing a badge, positioned at the door to protect customers from bank robbers.

  –That’s ironic.

  I couldn’t see the smirk, but it was there. Sebastian signed off.

  He was likely deep into figuring out how to prevent more hackers from breeching major financial institutions. I’d asked him details about how he worked, but understood when he brushed off my inquiries. If someone asked how I achieved a certain effect on a photo I usually said I just point and shoot. They wanted to hear what settings, lighting, lenses, all that. But after all these years, I don’t think I could break it down anymore; that part was automatic, like driving a car. You use what you’ve learned and instinctively make the right moves at the right time.

  I shut down Gert’s computer and rolled the rack of plastic-covered winter clothes in front of the low doorway.

  Too tired to attempt another nighttime vigil at the restaurant, I brought the dogs in and locked the front door. Then I closed the sliding door leading to the deck from my bedroom and locked it. That was a first; I loved falling asleep to the sound of waves against the shore. Wilcox had better find this guy quick. This was turning out to be a scary, depressing and lonely summer.

  ***

  At five-thirty a.m. my phone woke me. Wondering if it was a dream repeating Little’s call about the windows from two days ago, it took me a minute to answer. Lars’ voice rose several octaves higher than a choir boy’s. “You have to get down here right away. It’s the bistro.”

  I could hardly push the words out. “Is Little hurt?”

  “He’s hyperventilating, but he’s not hurt.”

  “What, then?”

  “Just hurry.”

  Chapter 8

  I rounded the corners on two wheels, slid into the restaurant driveway and ran toward the bistro. A deputy with his phone at his ear held up a hand. “You can’t go in there.”

  Barreling past him, I stopped short just inside. In the eerie dawn light, the severed heads of a dozen squirrels, weasels, rats and an opossum hung from umbrella spokes. They smelled as if they’d been dead a while.

  I wanted to run from the sight of their contorted grimaces, but I needed to get photos before Wilcox arrived and banned me from the scene. Little and Lars were together and safe, so I hurried back to the SUV and grabbed plastic booties and gloves. From long habit, I always kept extras in my camera bag.

  The deputy, in his twenties, razor haircut and jaw thrust forward stood with his legs in a wide stance.

  I asked, “Who are you? Where’s Jerry?”

  “I’m Riley. We changed shifts a couple hours ago.”

  “You didn’t hear anything?”

  His arms crossed over his chest. “I wasn’t asleep if that’s what you’re suggesting.” He shot a nervous glance at the parking lot, likely not looking forward to Wilcox’s arrival.

  I swept the area with my hand. “This took more than a few minutes.” I stepped around Riley and raised my camera, ignoring the nausea and began documenting the scene.

  Deep in concentration shooting close-ups of the cord used to tie the creatures’ heads to the umbrella spokes, the sound of cars braking on gravel alerted me that my time was up. Doors slammed and Wilcox, Thor and Erik walked through the archway. Eddy, Spirit Lake’s night watchman, pulled up shortly after, bleary-eyed. Everyone knew he nipped at a bottle during his rounds.

  Wilcox was so busy tearing into Riley, he didn’t have time to tell me to get out of there. Thor gasped when she saw the bistro. “This is twisted. I’d say creepy kids’ prank if it wasn’t for what happened to that old guy.”

  Wilcox registered my presence. “You have no business back here.”

  Normally, I wouldn’t let him dismiss me without a fight but I turned without a word and went into the restaurant. I’d gotten what I needed and wanted to see my brother.

  Little sat in a booth with his hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea. His whole body trembled. Lars sat next to him with his arm across Little’s shoulders.

  “Hey, Little,” I said. His eyes didn’t quite focus on me. I moved in close to his face. “The sheriff and all those people need coffee and something in their stomachs. I could use some coffee too.”

  Lars said, “Jaysus, Britt. Leave him alone. Can’t you see he’s upset?”

  Little nudged Lars to move and scooted out of the booth. “Lars, put the coffee on and make it strong. I’m going to the kitchen to bake cinnamon rolls. That should mask that awful smell.”

  Lars threw a look at me over his shoulder on his way to make coffee. “I guess you know him better than I do.”

  My brother was wired for taking care of people, especially with food. Little gave me an order, too. “Tell Wilcox I’m opening at noon today so they’d better finish investigating fast so we can clean up that mess.”

  Lars’ face turned green. “We’re not going to serve out there today, are we?”

  “Not today. We’ll make a sign that says, ‘Reorganizing Bistro. Open tomorrow.’” He vanished into his magic realm of pots and pans and ingredients.

  It was still too early for the restaurant to open so we didn’t have to explain what happened to any customers. I went to the bistro to tell Wilcox that Little wanted the creatures out of there ASAP so he could get the place cleaned up.

  Wilcox narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m not cut
ting corners so his customers don’t get upset.”

  I put up my hands in surrender. “Just the messenger. You noted the theme, right? What’s this maniac doing?”

  Wilcox took a minute to think it through. “He wants them too scared to open the restaurant. He might want them dead, but he has to get his kicks first.”

  The words Little and dead in the same sentence sent my system into the same catatonic state my brother had been in earlier.

  Wilcox tugged the brim of his hat forward, his way of saying he was all business. “Anyone this crazy will show himself. I don’t suppose we could get the guys to shut down the restaurant and leave the area until we find him?”

  “Not a chance, Sheriff. Besides, how are we going to smoke him out if his target’s gone?”

  “It’s not how we are going to find this guy.” He jabbed his finger toward my chest. “You stay away from it. What you can do is stick close to Lars and Little.”

  Lars set a tray of coffee on the waiter’s station just outside the door of the bistro. “Cinnamon rolls coming up.”

  Thor picked up a cup and thanked him. “I’m nearly done with fingerprinting and photographing. Erik is collecting the, uh, victims for me to check out at my lab.”

  I tried not to grimace. “You’re going to autopsy rodents?”

  She glared. “Their necks were all severed with a sharp instrument. I want to see if I can identify it, if the same one was used on all of them, and also what he used to tie them. It looks like ordinary fishing line, but we want to know for sure.”

  I asked Thor and Wilcox. “Do you want me to send my photos to you?”

  Protecting her turf, Thor had bristled last year when the sheriff asked for my photos on a case, but we’d since resolved that issue. Two sets of eyes were better than one.

  “Yes, send them.” Wilcox didn’t want to give me an opening to be involved in his case, but he wanted the photos.

  I stared him down until he said it.

  “Thank you.” This time he stuck his finger in my face. “But this crime scene does not get in the paper.”

  “If it gets in the paper it won’t be my doing. Little would be furious if customers were scared away.” I took my coffee into the restaurant.

  Wilcox came in half an hour later. “Let’s talk.”

  Lars, Little, Wilcox and I had coffee refills and cinnamon rolls in front of us. I couldn’t eat but the aroma was comforting.

  Wilcox went through the drill, looking us each in the eye. “Have you seen anyone or anything suspicious, out of the ordinary, or had unusual conversations with people?”

  Thinking of Matthew, I had trouble making eye contact with the sheriff.

  Little said, “It’s summer. Of course there are strangers and odd conversations with people.”

  Lars jumped in. “Summer people like to get to know the locals. They want to feel like it’s their home away from home so they ask personal questions. They seem to want a relationship with us.”

  Little nodded. “The restaurant becomes their special place that they discovered and they go back home and tell stories about, in our case, the great restaurant run by the gay guys and how quaint we are and all that.”

  Lars said, “They like my fishing stories. I always tell them the best spots to go.”

  Little smiled at Lars. “We like it too. We get more customers and face it, it’s good to be a popular destination.”

  Wilcox cut them off. “Okay, I get it.” He turned his gaze on me. “You’re not telling me something.”

  I plunged in. “Do you know anything about a hate group in Iona that’s an offshoot of the World Church of the Creator?”

  Wilcox’s eyes bored in. “Only the bulletins we get from around the state when there’s a flare-up of activity. You going to tell me why you’re asking?”

  I left nothing out, even the mysterious big project Matthew and his dad were keeping from the rest of the group, and that I’d seen several cans of black spray paint on a junk pile near their meeting place. “Then they caught me and I told them I wanted to interview Matthew for the paper.”

  Wilcox broke in. “You misrepresented yourself.”

  “They were pointing guns at me.”

  Little gasped. “You didn’t tell us about that.”

  Wilcox paced in front of the booth. “They might not have even known about Little and Lars.”

  I ducked my head. I’d aroused the beast and now, even if they weren’t involved before, they might retaliate. Hitting a popular restaurant would get the World Church lots of publicity. “Sheriff, I have the license plate numbers of some of the group if you want me to send them to you.”

  He nodded. “What else?”

  “Yesterday, Matthew came to my cabin. He said he wanted to get out of the organization and he apologized for the way they treated me.”

  Wilcox looked like he needed an antacid. “You bought that?”

  “At first I kind of did but then he did something that changed my mind.” A shiver ran up my spine.

  “And that was?”

  “He smiled for the camera.” I found the photo on my view finder and showed it to Wilcox and the guys.

  Little recoiled. “That’s not a smile. That’s a tiger ready to pounce.”

  Wilcox blew out a frustrated sigh. “You can’t condemn a kid because he’s not photogenic.” He pointed to Little and Lars. “You guys have never seen this kid in here?”

  They said they couldn’t be one hundred percent sure of it. Lars said, “It can be a zoo in the summer. People become a blur.”

  Wilcox jammed his cowboy hat lower over his forehead. “I’ll assign a deputy inside the restaurant.”

  Little protested, but Wilcox put his hand up. “He’ll be in civilian clothes. Britt, you’d be smart to stay with the guys. It will be easier for us to protect you if you’re all in one place. I’m already shorthanded.”

  “What if they vandalize my cabin? Burn it down?” I wasn’t sure how I could stop someone, especially if it was a group of the World Church people, but refused to leave the place unprotected.

  “Why did I know you would say that, Johansson?”

  “I’ll ask Eddy to drive by my cabin a few times on his nightly rounds. With a deputy parked on the corner at Little’s, the rest of the shops on Main Street should be safe, right? It wouldn’t be leaving his usual rounds unprotected for long.”

  “If you won’t budge, that’s what we’ll do.”

  “Plus, I have two watchdogs now,” I said to the sheriff’s retreating back.

  Little eased out of the booth, his face drawn. He straightened his shoulders and said to Lars. “We’re behind schedule. We’d better hustle if we’re going to have the main café open for lunch.” He walked to the kitchen like a drunk trying to appear sober.

  Thor and Erik left with the bagged heads and other possible evidence. A van arrived and two men wearing jumpsuits walked toward the bistro. Thor used a discreet cleaning crew for situations like this. She said it was only the second time she’d had to call them.

  Some of the staff arrived to begin their shifts and wanted to know what was going on. Lars said, “Someone vandalized the bistro. We won’t be serving out there today.”

  By midafternoon, my mood matched the gloomy drizzle. The place was jammed with tourists and locals, who didn’t know what to do if they couldn’t swim, fish or race around the lake in speedboats. A few local fishermen would be out, but there were differing opinions about whether fishing was better or worse when it rained. That’s what the subject at the counter was all about, with Lars right in the middle of it. The fisherman from the retreat sat next to him, gesturing and spouting off about his vast experience, arguing with everyone. It occurred to me that he might be riling up the group to get better information for his book. His presence annoyed me since the leering incident. People will show you who they are instantly if you’re alert enough to catch it.

  Little was in the bistro with Edgar, a nearly blind Ojibwe elder, who perfo
rmed a cleansing ceremony to clear out the bad vibes. Native American culture was Little’s specialty when he had taught anthropology at the University. Little visited the old guy and listened to his stories whenever he could get away from the restaurant and they’d become friends.

  I slipped outside and stood under the awning next to Little. Edgar sang and waved a bundle of smoking sage. They estimated Edgar’s age to be mid-nineties—but to me he was timeless. I wasn’t even sure he was a mortal.

  His grandson Henry, a big moon-faced man, guided him among the tables and chairs. Today, Edgar’s waist-length white braids were tied off with simple red bands. Depending on which great-grandchildren did his hair that day, the braids might have colorful elastic bands or even sparkly bows at the ends. He wore his usual button-down denim shirt, his jeans held up by a concha belt.

  After the ceremony, we trooped into the restaurant and crammed into a booth. Little brought Edgar’s favorite chicken-wild rice hotdish to the table and excused himself to get back to the kitchen. We ate in silence.

  Edgar was ready to talk about the bistro after Chloe cleared the dishes. The creases in his face folded in on themselves. “I’m troubled. The anger seems new and yet old.”

  That’s exactly what I expected from Edgar. How was that supposed to be helpful? We had a bit of a history. He’d guided Ben and me to solve a couple of bad crimes but he was maddeningly nonspecific.

  Still, I listened when he spoke. Edgar had lived on the reservation for so many years he was tuned into its land and people on levels I couldn’t comprehend. If Edgar was disturbed by something out of the ordinary in Spirit Lake, people needed to pay attention.

  Sometimes I could swear I saw a small group of ethereal Indians hovering behind him. He called them his ghost ancestors and seemed tickled that I’d sensed them. I kept trying to get a photo but they were never there when I checked the viewfinder. I didn’t try to figure it out. It gave me a headache.