Close Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  Nothing happened when I jabbed the shovel into the dirt at the northeast point, and my next effort yielded the same result at the southeast corner. Something crackled in the woods behind me. I whirled and peered into the trees. Another twig snapped. I focused the camera into the woods. Two sets of eyes looked at me, too low to the ground to be human or deer. The hair stood up on my arms. Ears forward, a pair of grey wolves watched me, unmoving.

  I took a deep breath and clicked. They turned and blended into the brush. Only then did it occur to me that I should have reached for the gun. If it had been the killer, my camera wouldn’t have stopped him. Adrenalin pumping, I almost wished it had been the killer so we could get this over with one way or another.

  The wolves visit unsettled me. I reached into my jeans pocket and brought out the agate Edgar gave me last year with a wolf’s paw etched into it. He’d said the gift was to remind me that even lone wolves needed their pack. I slid it back into my pocket, squinted one more time at the woods and hurried to the northwest corner of Charley’s garden.

  I found more rocks. Not quite willing to give up, I set my boot on the shovel and gave it one last push, frustration driving the spade deeper into the earth. It hit something hard, jarring my shoulders.

  My heart beat a little faster. I reminded myself it was likely a rock. After another quick look around, I leaned into the shovel and dug around the hard surface until a rectangular shape emerged. I slid the spade under it and strained to lift it out of the ground.

  A small, brown suitcase with straps, the kind found in antiques stores, came out with a pop and I nearly fell over backward. I used the spade to break the lock, then dropped to my knees to undo the straps.

  A leather-bound journal wrapped in plastic and held with a rubber band sat on top. Next to it was a jeweler’s box, also in plastic. I lifted out both items but didn’t want to take them from their wrapping with my dirty hands. A bag full of silver dollars filled the bottom. Emergency getaway money? I’d count it later.

  I stepped back and photographed the scene—the spade stuck in the ground, suitcase with silver dollars spilling out of it, plastic-wrapped journal and jewelry box.

  Shoving the bag of coins back in the suitcase, I closed it and dashed to the house with the journal and jewelry box. Fumbling for the key, I hurried inside and locked the door. Leaning back against it and breathing hard, more from tension than exertion, I looked around.

  The interior smelled musty and hadn’t been disturbed since the last time I’d been there. When my heart rate returned to normal, I set the gun and items on the table, opened the kitchen window a couple of inches, washed my hands and angled my chair to face the door.

  Now would be a good time to call Wilcox. I reached in my pocket for my phone when it rang. Marta’s name came up on the display. I debated answering but picked up on the third ring. “Hey, Marta.”

  Her voice came through loud and clear amid the newsroom din. “How long are you going to stall? South Sudan is in the middle of a civil war, the Times needs to be there and I can’t keep them from giving it to someone who really wants it.”

  I jerked to attention. “Who really wants it?”

  “Randy Gonzales is lobbying hard and he’s ready to leave today.”

  I yelled. “Don’t give it to Gonzales. I need a couple more days.” He was my arch nemesis at the Times. We were in constant competition and being available was crucial.

  “The sheriff and your Ben Winter can handle one murder. Your job is here and you know what’s at stake.”

  She meant my job was at stake. I couldn’t lose it again. “I told you Ben’s working a different case in the BW.” She would throw him in my face. I’d be leaving again and we’d hardly been together. The memory of those two spectacular nights made my heart hurt.

  A theatrical groan on the other end of the line. “It’s not totally up to me, you know that.”

  “Please, Marta. I’m the one to do it. It’s what I’m best at.”

  “I know, but we have a small window on this. Gonzales could take a different assignment and my judgment would be questioned for stalling him.”

  It wasn’t the first time Marta had put her reputation on the line for me. “Seriously, I’m packed, ready to go as soon as I nail down one remaining detail on this guy.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” She hung up with a grunt.

  The detail was that I didn’t know who the killer was. I aspired to total honesty in our friendship, but wasn’t quite there yet. Gonzales had been the one who told management my drinking affected my work, and he’d argued against hiring me back. Marta had likely dangled him in my face just to get me moving faster. She was not above coercing when she wanted something, and I’d been known to weasel around a subject. I rolled my eyes—another relationship that needed work.

  I put Marta and South Sudan out of my mind and slid the jewelry box from its plastic casing. Inside the box was a tarnished silver locket. A lock of blond hair fell into my palm when I opened it. It held a picture of the man in the wedding photo and a baby. I replaced the hair and zipped into the bathroom. Charley’s hairbrush sat on the sink counter where he’d left it. A flutter of hope lifted my spirits. The DNA door had just opened to finding out if the man in the photo was Charley.

  Next, I concentrated on the journal—four by six inches, the cover cracked with age, pages yellowed. With extreme care, I opened it. Inside the front cover, in neat script was the name, Gunnar Johansson.

  I didn’t remember hearing about a family member with that name but he must be related to us. I turned the page, holding my breath in anticipation of getting some answers.

  It was written in Norwegian. I wanted to bang my head against the table. I should have expected that. A yellowed newspaper clipping fell out as I thumbed through the pages. I unfolded the thin newsprint. The headline and copy were in Norwegian. Under that, a picture of a man in uniform posed with a woman and two boys, a teenager and younger child. Below it, a photo showed the distorted face of the same man—his head cut off and staked in front of a house. My stomach lurched and I peered closer. Two mounds of similar size with white coverings lay nearby. I couldn’t read the writing, but the next photo showed a head shot of the man in the wedding picture, the name Gunnar Johansson in bold above it. Were we related to a murderer?

  I looked closely at the rest of the photos. There were two children in one photo, one teenager and one much younger, but the two mounds on the ground were similar in size. If the small child escaped, he would be in his seventies now, at least. I re-wrapped the journal and locket. I needed someone quick who could read Norwegian. Peder.

  Holding the gun in front of me, I slid into my car and reached for the ignition. The journal and jewelry box were on the seat next to me, my camera around my neck. A shadow flitted across my driver-side mirror. I went for the gun, but a shout stopped me from aiming, and then I recognized the figure outside.

  I jumped out of the car and threw my arms around Ben. “What are you doing here?”

  He unwrapped my arms and stepped back. “Trying to get myself killed, I guess.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Not long. I looked in the kitchen window and saw your gun and decided not to risk my life by making any noise.”

  My chest heaved as if I’d run a marathon. I might have shot him. “Wise choice.”

  “Besides, I wanted to keep watch in case someone was out there.”

  I nodded. “A couple of wolves came too close for comfort earlier, but that’s all. Ben, I found a journal. It’s in Norwegian so I haven’t read it yet.” I stopped. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Process of elimination. You weren’t at the cabin or at the bureau.” His eyes showed their disapproval.

  “You still didn’t answer my question about why you’re back in Spirit Lake. I suppose my brother had something to do with it.” I leaned back against my car.

  “I got three calls this morning.” He ticked them off on his
fingers. “Bella, Wilcox and Little, all telling me you were running around alone and about to get yourself killed.”

  Itching to learn what was written in the journal, I snapped. “Heartwarming to know my friends and family have such faith in my ability to take care of myself.”

  His look stopped me and I offered a weak smile. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

  He faced me in the classic Ben fighting stance, his legs apart, arms crossed, head lowered. Something else upset him. My chin came up. “What have I done now?”

  His voice sharp, he said, “Were you just going to leave? Could you have picked a more dangerous time to go to Sudan?”

  I pushed myself off the car. “It’s my project and I need to get there before Marta gives it away.” The look on his face told me that was the wrong thing to say. I tried again. “This is important, women and children are dying.”

  His jaw clamped. “I feel like an idiot racing to get my case wrapped up. No wonder you were in such a hurry for me to go back to the BW. You were already planning to leave. You never intended to stay through August.”

  I reached out to him. “That’s not true. All I wanted was to be with you this summer, but Marta moved up the timeline.”

  He didn’t move and my hand dropped to my side. I should have told him about the change in plans sooner. It wasn’t that I didn’t care. My head snapped up. “Wait a minute. How did you find out?” I hadn’t told anyone about Marta changing the timeline on Sudan. I hadn’t even had time to think about it.

  He pointed toward the house. “I was outside the kitchen window watching you. You always yell into your phone.”

  He walked away. “My car’s on the road. I’ll wait for you.”

  I called out. “I found out who the guy in the wedding photo is.”

  He turned his head toward me, still walking. “Meet me at Little’s. You can tell us all at the same time. I’ll call Wilcox.” He turned to face me. “You haven’t called him yet, right?”

  “I was just going to.” I opened the door to my SUV and watched him—long stride and broad shoulders, now slightly bowed—until he rounded the bend to his car. I leaned back against the seat. I’d ruined it again. Maybe if I could get him to stay until tomorrow, I could make it up to him. We’d been doing so well.

  I put the SUV in gear, then remembered the bag of coins in the garden. I’d rebury it and tell Wilcox. I could have asked Ben to help bring it to the car, but he’d gone. I didn’t want to ask him anyway. My feelings were hurt too. Nobody ever saw my side of things.

  I nudged the suitcase back into its hole and kicked dirt over it. On the way to my car, I flipped back through the photos to see if I’d gotten good shots of the scene where I’d dug up the suitcase. I went one too far to the photo of wolf eyes and did a double-take. Several yards forward and to the left, a hooded human shape crouched behind a tree, blurry as if ducking from the camera. I forwarded to the next photo when the wolves turned away, but the human had disappeared.

  With the gun in front of me, I stalked toward the tree. I’d had enough of being watched.

  No one was there, no surprise. There were footprints but the familiar cigarette butt was evidence enough. Scooping up the Marlboro cigarette butt in a leaf so oil from my skin wouldn’t contaminate it, I sprinted back to the car and fishtailed out of the driveway.

  Ben was still waiting at Charley’s turnoff. He said, “You were supposed to be right behind me. I was about to go back for you.”

  “Anke was out there watching me. It’s not the first time.” I jumped out of the SUV and showed him the photo and cigarette butt.

  He dug a bag from his glove box and put the butt in it. “I’ll get Wilcox. Send me the photo and go to Little’s. Wilcox will want to pick up Anke, and he’ll have Thor meet us at Charley’s. It will be a while.”

  I pointed back toward Charley’s. “There’s a suitcase in the garden with coins in it. Northwest corner.”

  He barreled down the road.

  Chapter 24

  The sheriff and Ben would round up Anke, and then go back to Charley’s. I had time to make a quick stop at Peder’s before turning Gunnar’s journal over to Wilcox. The sheriff wouldn’t tell me what the journal said until he was ready. I drove along the lake’s south loop toward Peder’s cottage, hoping to find him home. Others in town could read Norwegian but tracking them down would take precious time.

  Keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, I tried a couple of driveways before finding the right one. I pulled farther into the yard until the lake was visible and saw Peder’s speedboat tied up at the dock.

  The cottage looked like other modest summer home on the lake, although I wouldn’t have chosen a location so shaded. A haze of fog had set up camp in the trees surrounding it. The land sloped down, lower than Charley’s or my place and dense trees blocked any effort the sun might make to penetrate the gloom. No wonder Peder spent so much time at Little’s.

  The secluded road reminded me that no one lived close enough to hear a cry for help. Anke could have followed me. My gaze darted to the bag on the passenger seat with my camera and gun. A voice in my head said, “Do not leave your car.”

  I’d almost talked myself into turning around when the door opened and Peder came toward me waving. I waved back, relieved.

  He said, “I’m so pleased you came by. It will save me a trip to the restaurant to say goodbye.” His mouth turned down. “My poor Sasha is sick and I must hurry back home.”

  “I’m sorry about Sasha and sorry you have to leave.” I hesitated, then asked anyway. “I stopped by to ask your help again, only this time I don’t need a boat ride.”

  “Of course, please come in. My flight leaves Minneapolis tonight, so I don’t have much time.”

  “This won’t take long.” I grabbed the journal and we walked up the slight rise to his porch. He ushered me inside. “Please tell me what I can do for you.”

  The living room opened to a small kitchen; a round table with four chairs separated the spaces. I unwrapped the journal at the table. “This was at Charley’s. It’s written in Norwegian and I wonder if you could translate it for me. It’s just a few entries.”

  He reached for it. “Yes, of course. Let’s sit down, shall we?”

  I pulled a chair close to Peder’s. He turned to the first page, cleared his throat and began reading Gunnar Johansson’s journal.

  March 23, 1941—I never expected to be this happy. I thought falling in love with Ruthie and getting married to her was the best day of my life. And today, Ruthie told me I am going to be a father. I had always dreamed of having a family of my own and now I am. I love her so much. She looks like a tiny beautiful bird, but she is strong and so smart. I hope our baby is just like her. I don’t care if it is a boy or girl. We want to have many children.

  Her father did not want us to marry because of our different faiths, especially now. They are Jewish and Hitler is occupying our country. My parents were against the marriage as well, but both families relented when they saw how much we love each other, and they are pleased about the baby. I am the luckiest man alive. I’m writing this journal so one day my son or daughter will read it and know how much this day meant to me. And to renew my vow to do everything I can to protect my family and our citizens from the Nazis.

  I’ve been working with the resistance for more than a year now. It’s true, the Germans overcame our resistance forces in the April 9, 1940 invasion because we weren’t prepared for the attack. The Norwegian army and Allied Forces put up a good fight, but were outnumbered and had to retreat within two months. But the Nazis will never stop us. We are armed, and those who aren’t support us in our activities in many other ways. We sabotage the Nazi operations, go out at night on raids and gather intelligence. We have destroyed their ships and supplies. Some prefer passive resistance and civil disobedience but they are not successful with these thugs.

  Peder licked his lips, swallowed and looked up at me. I leaned in. “Please, keep reading.” Gunnar
sounded like a good guy. Maybe I’d gotten the wrong idea from the photos. He nodded and read quickly through the next entries.

  April 24, 1941—Ruthie wants me to stop my work with the resistance. She is afraid for my life and now that I have the responsibility of becoming a father, she said I have to think of family first. But what kind of man am I, and what kind of father will I be, if I don’t try to stop the Nazis from taking over our country? They have already removed our government. It is up to the resistance to stand up to them. She cried when we argued over this. It was the first time that has happened since we met. It made me so ashamed to have made my beloved wife sad, but I must continue.

  May 11, 1941— Ruthie’s father believed he was safe as a math professor at the Norwegian Institute of Technology, but the Nazis have taken him to a concentration camp along with about fifty other men who were members of their Synagogue. The Germans are using Norwegian police to do their dirty work. How can they turn on their own countrymen?

  September 19, 1941—I had to tell Ruthie her father was killed at Auschwitz. She is inconsolable. He was her only family. I begged her to leave the country but she won’t go. She doesn’t believe they will find her because her last name is Johansson now. A border guard I know has said he will help her get to Sweden, but she continues to say no. She grows bigger with our baby every day, and I am afraid for both of them.

  I hadn’t known much about the Nazi occupation of Norway and must have made a sound because Peder stopped. I said, “I’m sorry to make you read such a horrible story, but please go on.”

  He continued reading.

  November 26, 1942—On this day of hell police officers arrested and detained Jewish women and children throughout the country. They sent them by cars and train to the pier in Oslo where a cargo ship waited to transport them to Auschwitz. Ruthie and our sweet baby girl, Anna, were among them. To my shame, I was not at home but working with the resistance.