Fortune Lake, like thousands of others in Minnesota, is a big puddle of greenish-blue water fringed by birches and evergreens. Cabins and a few year-round houses peek out amid the trees, and in summer docks shoot out like long fingers into the lake. But April is closer to winter than summer in Minnesota, and a crust of ice still covered the lake by the time we got our first view of it.
“Freedom Beach and Fortune Lake. Kind of cool the way those names come together,” Cassandra said.
“The lake is actually named after Richard Fortune,” I said. “He was an early settler. The name didn’t bring him much luck, though. I read somewhere he drowned while he was out fishing.”
I directed Cassandra down a narrow gravel road that parallels the lake’s eastern shore. It was twisty enough that she had to drive slowly. We rounded one last curve and saw a weathered wooden sign supported by a pair of log posts: “Freedom Beach, est. 1963.”
A series of driveways led off on the right and Cassandra crept along until we found one with the address Dorothea had provided.
“So does Dorothea own the cabin now?” I asked.
“No, she sold it about five years ago to another Black family. But I’m sure they won’t mind if we take a quick look at the property.”
There wasn’t much to see because the cabin was gone, its remains outlined by the concrete blocks that had formed its foundation. Ash and pieces of charred wood littered the area. Clearly, the cabin had burned down.
“Damn,” Cassandra said. “I wonder when this happened?”
“Recently, by the looks of it, and I’d be willing to bet it was an arson fire.”
“We’re on the right track then, aren’t we? This can’t be a coincidence.”
Arlen Sandquist lived in a year-round lakeside home a quarter mile north of Freedom Beach. It was a ramshackle place that had begun life as cabin before a series of what looked to be handbuilt additions transformed it into a house. Sandquist met us at the front door. He was in his eighties, stooped and bony in the way old men often are, but he moved quickly and his mind, we discovered, hadn’t slowed a bit.
After the usual introductions, he invited us into his knotty-pine living room, where a picture window looked out over the lake. The room was tchotchke heaven, a museum of bad taste that had taken years to assemble. I liked it right away, if only because it reminded me of my aunts and their love of Catholic kitsch in all its varieties. Sandquist brought in a pot of coffee and a pile of glazed donuts and told us all about Earl Bradley and Freedom Beach and the events of 1985.
“Most people around here didn’t want to have nothing to do with the coloreds down at the beach, but I didn’t see a problem. People are people, right? Anyway, me and the wife went over there one day and introduced ourselves and that’s how we met Earl. Salt of the earth, Earl was, and boy, did he know plumbing. Helped me put in a new bathroom and wouldn’t take a cent for his work.”
“I’ve heard he was a fine man,” Cassandra said, letting Sandquist’s reference to “coloreds” pass without comment. “We stopped by his cabin but it was burned to the ground. Do you know when that happened?”
“About three weeks ago. Somebody torched the place. Sheriff thinks it was kids screwing around. We’ve got some real delinquents around here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cassandra said. “May I ask how long you’ve lived here?”
“Well now, that’s a story. Me and Jeanie—that was my wife, she’s dead now—bought this place from Peter Swindell in nineteen eighty-five. It was just a cabin then. Mr. Swindell was anxious as all get out to sell the place so we got a good price. And now somebody’s murdered him and his son and that other fellow. Isn’t that something?”
“It surely is,” I said. “A big mystery if there ever was one. It’s interesting to learn your place once belonged to Peter. I didn’t know he had a cabin out here.”
“Oh yeah, it was in his family for years. It was real nice as cabins go. Full bathroom, big kitchen, even a nice concrete patio Peter put in just before we bought the place. Then Earl came along and helped us add on.”
Sandquist was a roundabout narrator, and we went with him along several long loops before finally reaching the story of Patricia Gordon and her baby.
The essence of Sandquist’s account was that a “colored” woman—he never learned her name —had appeared at Freedom Beach in the summer of 1985 with an infant she claimed was Peter’s son. Sandquist said he’d learned this juicy tidbit from Earl Bradley, who with his wife had temporarily taken in Patricia and her child.
“I guess you could say it was regular scandal, but everything got fixed up in the end,” Sandquist said. “Earl told me Peter made arrangements to have the baby adopted and sent off to be raised somewhere else. St. Cloud, I think it was.”
Cassandra and I exchanged glances. She said, “Do you know the name of his adoptive parents there?”
“Let’s see, Earl told me once. It was a German name, I think.”
“Biersdorf?” I suggested.
“Yes, that could be right, but I really don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”
“It was,” Cassandra agreed. “I’m curious about one other thing, Mr. Sandquist. Do you know what might have happened to the mother of the baby?”
“No. I never met her, and she was gone by the time I bought this property from Mr. Swindell. Say, do you think they’ll ever figure out who murdered him?”
“I’m sure they will,” I said. “It’s just a matter of time.”
“I hope so. Now, if you need to talk to me again anytime soon, I’ll give you a phone number where you can reach me. I’m going down to Maple Grove for a couple of weeks to visit my daughter.”
He jotted down the number on a scrap paper. Then he went over to one of the room’s many tchotchke-choked shelves and returned with a small plastic statue, which he handed to me.
“Saint Jude,” he said, “Patron saint of lost objects. Maybe he’ll help you find what you’re looking for.”
“Can’t hurt,” I said and put the little saint in my coat pocket. Down the road, he’d prove more valuable than I could ever have thought.
On our way back to the Cenex lot, Cassandra was so jazzed I thought she’d drive us into a ditch.
“I’ve got to get a shitload of work done today and tomorrow, but how about we go to St. Cloud Tuesday morning?” she said. “There might be records from the Biersdorf home, if that’s where the baby went. Maybe even some photos of the kids who were raised there.”
“Okay, we can do that. I take it you plan to stay in town for a while.”
“Oh yeah. We’re close now. I can feel it.”
36
At home late that afternoon, I took Camus for his usual walk and had just settled in to plow through the Sunday New York Times when my front doorbell rang. I looked out the sidelight and was surprised to see Alice Sigurdson, Arne’s wife. She was wearing a long trench coat of the kind favored by secret agents in spy movies. I had no idea what she was doing at my doorstep.
“I’m really sorry to bother you,” she said when I opened the door. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” I said. I looked down the driveway toward her parked car. “Is Arne here, too?”
“No, I came alone. I know I should have called first, but I didn’t want to leave a trail, if you know what I mean, so I thought I’d take a chance on catching you at home.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said, ushering her inside. “Is this supposed to be some sort of secret meeting?”
“It has to be,” she said, “or I’m in big trouble. Doris said I should talk to you.”
“Doris Moreland?”
“Yes. We’ve been friends for a long time, but now, well, I just don’t know what to do. She said you might be able to help.”
I didn’t know Alice all that well. I’d met her only a few ti
mes, usually at courthouse Christmas parties, where Arne made a conspicuous point of ignoring her. She’s a short, stoutish woman in her fifties, with long black hair fading to gray and a plain country face adorned with the kind of big plastic eyeglasses that went out of style years ago. We’d talked a bit at some of those courthouse festivities, and I’d always enjoyed our conversations. She worked part-time for the county parks department and knew plenty of gossip, which she dispensed with a bone-dry wit. Alice and Arne had two grown children, both living in the Twin Cities, and she liked to talk about them. But she never had anything to say about Arne, and she’d struck me as lonely and unhappy, trapped in the classic dead marriage.
Camus came up to examine Alice, and she seemed pleased by his attention.
“What an interesting dog,” she said. “What’s his name?”
When I told her, she said, “Isn’t that funny. When I was in college, I read a lot of Camus, and then I wanted to go to France and smoke cigarettes and talk about important things all night long.”
“A worthwhile goal,” I agreed. “I had the same thoughts in college, but I guess neither one of us ever made it to France.”
“Not even close.”
We moved into the living room, and once we sat down I figured we might as well get to the point. “You said you wanted to talk. I’m listening.”
“It’s about Arne, what else?” she said. “The fucker.” She pronounced the obscenity with real conviction.
“I suppose this is all about that photo,” I said. “I’m really sorry—”
She cut me off. “That’s old news. Arne’s been screwing around for years. But you know what? He’s got more to worry about than the fact the bimbo in his lap turned up dead. You know, don’t you, that he’s a suspect in Marty’s murder?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I didn’t know until two agents from the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension came to my office Friday and started to ask a lot of questions.”
“I assume it was the two agents named Jason.”
“Those were the ones. Not very friendly types.”
“What did they want?”
“Mostly they wanted to know where Arne was on the night Marty was killed.”
“What did you tell them?”
Alice cupped her hands under her chin and slowly shook her head. She looked ill at ease, maybe not with me but with herself. She said, “I told them he was home, snug in bed with his dear wife.”
“Was he?”
“No. I lied. We haven’t slept together in years.”
We were entering dangerous legal territory. I was officially off the case, and I had no business talking to Alice about her husband’s alibi or anything else involving the criminal investigation. My lawyer brain said I should halt the conversation at once and direct Alice back to the two Jasons at the BCA. I ignored my lawyer brain.
“Where was he that night?”
“Who knows? Maybe out on an investigation. Maybe screwing some bimbo. Maybe murdering people. All I can tell you is that a lot of nights he doesn’t come home from the office until very late, and I don’t see him until I get up in the morning, if at all.”
“And he never calls to say where he is?”
“Are you kidding? Arne doesn’t bother with excuses anymore. He just does what he does. What I think doesn’t matter to him.”
I tried to compose some consoling words but nothing came to mind. A dead marriage is a toxic swamp and outsiders wade in at their peril.
“Did Arne tell you to say he was home all night?”
“No. But if I’d said he was gone, I knew I’d be in big trouble.”
“You’re afraid of Arne?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
No argument there. Arne could definitely be a scary guy.
“Are you worried he’ll harm you?”
“I’m not sure. There’s never been any physical abuse, and he was actually a pretty good father to our kids. But the truth is I don’t know Arne after all these years. He’s just a stranger I live with.”
We talked a while longer, Alice unburdening herself as though speaking to a marriage counselor. Much as I sympathized with her situation, I wasn’t sure how to proceed.
“I’m afraid there isn’t a lot I can do,” I said. “A special prosecutor has taken over all of the investigating, and I don’t have any real say in what happens. I’m just an interested party now. But if you really think Arne was involved in Marty’s murder, you don’t owe him an alibi. You should go to the BCA agents and tell them the truth.”
“And what if Arne finds out ?”
“I hate to tell you, but he will. The BCA guys will be discreet. You don’t have to worry about that. But at some point they’ll have to bring Arne in for more questioning and then they’ll start pressing him as to his whereabouts on the night Marty was murdered. If he says he was home they’ll challenge him and he’ll figure out pretty quick that his alibi has gone up in smoke.”
“And then Arne will come after me.”
“I hope not. But you can request protection if need be. I guess it all comes down to what you think is the right thing to do.”
“I know. Sometimes I feel like I’m watching a movie and I’m seeing my life disappear right before my eyes. Maybe that’s what will happen. But if Arne really did kill Marty, I couldn’t live with myself thinking I’d covered up for him.”
“I understand. The thing is, your life doesn’t have to be over. Have you thought about leaving Arne?”
“Sure, but, well, I don’t know, it’s just hard. I don’t want to be alone.”
“It sounds like you already are,” I said.
“So it seems.” She stood up. “Well, I should go. I’ll figure this out.”
“You will,” I said and hoped I was right.
“I have a question,” I said to Kat Berglund that night at the Dead Lumberjack, where I’d gone for a margarita infusion. “Why do so many women want to confide in me?” I’d told her in a general way about my conversations with Doris and Alice.
Kat said, “You’re just that kind of guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to explain, but women understand. A lot of guys, they’ve got a nice shiny surface, and they might be good for sex or money or even some semblance of love, but good luck trying to ever really know them. They’re dense objects designed to repel any exploration of their core. You’re strong, Paul, maybe stronger than you know, but you’re not dense.”
“I think that’s a compliment, though I’m not sure.”
Kat leaned over the bar and gave my margarita a quick stir. “It is. Women can tell you’re not a closed book and that you’ll actually listen to them. A lot of men, they don’t listen at all.”
“Did you just say something?”
“Very funny. Now, here’s a chance for you to listen to this woman. Watch out for Arne. A source who shall go nameless says Arne’s convinced you’re the one who planted that photo in Marty’s casket.”
“I know. Arne already called me to tell me he thinks I’m the culprit. We had a delightful talk full of sharply worded observations.”
“I’ll bet you did, but don’t make light of this. My source says Arne is drinking hard and looking for revenge. You know him, Paul. You know the kind of man he is. I wouldn’t put anything past him. If he killed Marty—”
“He’d kill me. I get it. Don’t worry. I’ll watch my back.”
“Do you have a gun?” The question surprised me, but I could tell Kat wasn’t joking. “Because if you don’t, I can lend you one.”
“Well, that’s quite an offer. I didn’t know you’re an NRA type.”
“I’m not. But my father was and he left me a dozen rifles and handguns. I sold most of them but kept a couple of pistols just in case. You’re welcome to take one for personal prot
ection.”
I polished off my margarita and said, “Thanks, but I’ll pass. The truth is, if Arne comes gunning for me, I won’t win the showdown at OK Corral. He’s a lot better at shooting people than I am. Besides, I’m not convinced Arne would kill me in cold blood.”
“I hope those aren’t famous last words,” Kat said.
“Me too,” I said and gave Kat a kiss on the cheek before I went out into the night.
Around the time of Marty’s funeral, Pineland began experiencing a wave of residential break-ins. Doors were jimmied open, windows shattered, jars of change taken from kitchen cabinets and the occasional cell phone stolen. It was petty stuff, and the police believed teenagers were to blame.
In the early morning hours of Monday, April 24, the old Zweifel family home at 310 North Eden Street became the latest target. The burglar made enough noise to awaken my first-floor tenant, Agnes Miller. She promptly called the police.
A Pineland police officer was duly dispatched to the scene at four in the morning. There were no signs of a break-in but Agnes was waiting at the front door and let the officer in. Thinking the burglar might still be hiding inside, the officer called for backup. Only two patrolmen work the night shift in Pineland, and the second officer arrived within minutes. Guns drawn, the lawmen checked on the other tenants, none of whom had seen or heard an intruder. The officers then noted that the door to my father’s old law office was open and went in for a look. They found no one; the burglar was gone.
Although the long dormant office is hardly a repository of treasures, the burglar had ransacked it, going through desk drawers and file cabinets. Nothing of value was taken because there wasn’t anything worth taking. But it wasn’t long before the patrolmen made a startling discovery. Sitting atop my father’s desk was a vintage Smith-Corona Sterling typewriter. A sheet of plain white paper curled around the typewriter’s platen, and a thumb drive rested on the keys. The paper contained a message:
Moreland knew too much and paid the price. Where was Sigurdson when it happened? Where was Sigurdson the night Jill Lorrimer died? Ask him. Let the truth shine forth.
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