by Mary Logue
“Do you think there’s any chance that the sheriff could be persuaded to dredge the bottom of the bay?”
“No and no,” Bill said as they stepped off the dock. “First, he wouldn’t. Secondly, so what if we found the cement block or whatever, what does it prove? We still got nothing.”
Amy pulled away from him. He was right and she knew it. One of her fantasies about being a deputy was that she would find just the right thing at the right moment to put the whole case together. She kicked at the sand and still all she saw was dirt. Which is what you should find on a beach in Wisconsin. Maybe an agate if you’re lucky.
She walked over to the big green dumpster. Just on the odd chance there might be something of interest, she went on tiptoe and looked in. A slight squeal slipped out of her mouth when she caught a flash of red.
“Bill, come here. I think I found something.”
* * *
When Rich got home he was happy to find Meg stretched out on the deck of the house in the shade with a book, wearing a bathing suit and listening to his old transistor radio.
“You’re actually using that antique?” he asked.
“Seems to fit my mood. Some songs sound better on it.” She smiled up at him, then wrinkled her nose. “Hey, what was up with you and Mom last night?”
He realized he hadn’t told Meg what had happened to Chet. Somehow he felt like he could manage it now. He didn’t feel so completely thrown. Maybe it was not coming out of sleep,
maybe it was even half a day’s time, but it might have been his successful confrontation with Bentley. He felt more able to take on what the world dished him.
“Chet’s wife was killed last night.”
Meg sat up, the book falling onto the deck. “You’re kidding. How did that happen?”
“She was shot.”
“Who did it?”
“Not sure yet. She might have done it to herself.”
“You mean like suicide.”
“Yup.”
“Doesn’t seem like her. I mean I didn’t know her very well or anything, but she always was so upbeat.”
Rich didn’t want to go into it with her anymore, so he asked a question that she never got tired of answering. “Where’s your boyfriend today?”
Meg glanced up into the woods. “Oh, I think he’s taking a hike. We might get together later, but he’s got to help his dad with the haying this afternoon.”
“He’s a good kid.”
“Rich, he’s not a kid. He’s going to be eighteen in two months.”
“Old enough to join the army and get married.”
“Neither of which he’ll do, I’m sure.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
* * *
“I want to see her.” The woman’s voice was blunt.
The secretary had told Claire that the gravel-gray haired woman looking over the counter at Claire was Anne Baldwin’s sister. Looking at her more closely, Claire figured her older sister. Claire hoped so, because the woman looked a lot older than Anne had been.
Claire guessed that the woman was in her fifties, which meant she had a good fifteen years on Anne. But then she also looked as if she had lived those years in a hard way, deep lines around her mouth from smoking, drooping eyes from drinking. But she wore a clean white shirt and jeans, and when she put her hands on the counter to plead her case, her long nails sported red polish.
But there was a resemblance. Where Anne’s hair was short and blond, the sister’s hair was peppered gray, but they had the same wide mouth and light blue eyes. This woman was an older, tougher version.
“There’s just me and my sister left around here. Our parents are gone. Brothers moved away. She’s all I had left,” the woman said in explanation of her request. At this point the woman’s voice trembled and she bowed her head and said, “I know you need someone to identify her.”
“That really won’t be necessary, Ms… .”
“Colette Burns. That was Anne’s maiden name too.”
Claire continued, “She’s already been identified by her husband.”
“Good enough, but I need to see her. I want to see my sister.” Colette hesitated for a moment, then added, “Please. I think it’s the only way I’ll really believe that she’s dead.”
It was unusual to get such a request and when it happened, Claire tried to discourage the relatives from this kind of viewing, asking them to wait until after the funeral home had done their work on the body. Usually the families agreed to this. But Colette seemed particularly persistent. And there was something about the woman that touched Claire—probably her situation. Claire could easily see herself asking the same thing if anything happened to Bridget. Plus, it would be a good opportunity to talk to the woman, see what Colette could tell her about Anne’s mental state.
“She’s at the morgue in the hospital. Just a couple blocks away. I’ll take you over there.”
In the squad car, Claire asked Colette how she had found out about her sister.
“Somebody told me. They must have heard it on the news. I tried to call the house and got no one so I called you guys.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t get in touch with you. We didn’t realize she had any family close by.”
Colette said, “I’m not too close. Live over west a ways. You know Waseca? It’s in Minnesota.”
“Yes,” Claire said. “I’m from Minnesota originally. Is that where you two grew up? Waseca?”
“Close to there. Out in the country.”
“Makes sense to me that Anne grew up on a farm. She was always so good with animals, especially that dog of hers.”
There was a stunned silence, then Colette said, “I gave her Bentley. Did you know my sister?”
“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t mention that. The man I live with, Rich Haggard, is good friends with her husband Chet.”
“Where is Chet? I tried him at the house a bunch of times. Is he okay? And what happened to her? I couldn’t quite take it all in. All I heard was that it was some kind of shooting.”
“Yes. We’re not sure of much more.” Claire debated for a moment, then decided she might as well tell Colette what she knew. “Late last night Chet called and asked for help. When I arrived on the scene, your sister was already dead from a gunshot wound. Chet was in a state of shock. I have to tell you that there is the slight chance that Anne killed herself, but we’re really not sure yet of anything.”
“Anne has been low lately, but I can’t see her doing something like that. Not in her nature. But I’d be surprised if it’s Chet. If you knew them at all you know that he doted on her.”
They pulled into the parking lot of the hospital. Claire asked her, “Why do you say that Anne wasn’t doing so well recently?”
“She’s been hinting that they’ve had problems. She never told me exactly what was going on, but she did let on that something was wrong. I asked her to come stay with me for a while, but she said she couldn’t leave Chet. Not really like her. If only …” Colette stopped and started to shake, sucking back tears.
Claire reached out and touched her arm while Colette calmed herself.
Colette rubbed a hand through her hair and wiped her eyes. “Sorry about that. I’m really not much of a crier, but I just can’t believe she’s gone. It’s like it shoots through me. I forget for a moment, then—blam—I get hit with it again. Anne’s dead. My little sister’s dead.”
Hearing Colette say the phrase, “my little sister,” Claire’s mind flew right to Bridget and how she would react if anything happened to her own little sister. A stabbing sorrow hit her too.
“I can’t imagine how you’re feeling,” Claire said, trying to regain her composure. “It has to be a nightmare.”
“I just can’t believe it.”
Claire got out of the car quickly so Colette wouldn’t see her wiping tears from her own eyes. When Colette stood on the sidewalk, still crying, Claire slipped an arm under hers and led her into the hospital. They walked down a lo
ng hallway and took the elevator down a floor to the morgue.
Holding onto Colette’s arm felt like the least she could do to comfort the woman. Sometimes just having someone touch you was all that was needed when the going got rough.
Claire sat Colette down, went into the morgue and arranged to have the gurney wheeled into a private room. A few minutes later, they were standing over the covered gurney that held Anne Baldwin. Colette was holding a smashed Kleenex in her hand. She looked up at Claire and nodded her head.
Claire gently lifted the sheet off the woman’s face, pulling it down to her shoulders. In death, Anne looked cold and tired, face just a shade warmer than the sheet. A lot of her energy had been in her eyes and they were shut. The round bullet hole in the middle of her forehead looked unreal, more like an ornament than a wound.
At this sight, Colette pulled her breath in and clamped her hands over her mouth.
“It’s hard. I know,” Claire said, surprised at how much it was affecting her to see her friend like this. It was as if she had
forgotten who was under the sheet, who this dead woman was.
Colette shook her head with a jerk, then burst out, “Now I know for sure she didn’t do it. No question.”
Claire looked down at the white face of Anne more carefully. “Why do you say that?”
Colette’s hand hovered over Anne’s forehead, pointing down at the bruised hole in the middle. “Anne would never shoot herself in the face. She loved the way she looked. She took such good care of herself, her skin and all. She would never have shot herself there. In the heart, yes, but never the face.”
CHAPTER 9
A crumpled piece of rusty-red fabric tucked into a cardboard box is what had caught her eye. Since the edge of the dumpster was over her head, Amy asked Bill to lift her up so she could reach down into the dumpster and see what it was. She didn’t want to admit to him that she was hoping it was a blood-soaked rag or sheet.
“Gross. What’s down there?” he asked.
“You are the most finicky cop I’ve ever known. I’m not sure, but I think what I’m seeing is something sort of reddish.”
He bent over and cupped his hands together, offering her a boost. She stepped into his hands and was amazed, as always, at how easily he lifted her weight. Amy hung over the rounded metal side into the interior of the dumpster, trying not to breathe, and managed to hook a finger around an edge of the fabric. Once she got a firm grip on it, she put her weight back into Bill’s hand-stirrup and let him lower her back down to the ground.
“What’ve you got there?”
“Let’s see,” Amy gently shook out the red fabric and saw the she was in fact holding a t-shirt. Not stained red, but obviously dyed a rusty-red. Amy held up the red t-shirt and they both
looked it over. The garment was a very large and fairly dirty red t-shirt. When she scrutinized the label, she read 100 percent cotton and then XXL. The shirt was turned inside out so Amy couldn’t tell yet if anything was printed on the front or back.
“Why would someone throw this perfectly good t-shirt in the dumpster?” Bill asked.
“I don’t know. A million reasons. Didn’t like it. Spilled something on it. But it’s definitely our mystery man’s size, extra extra large.” Amy said. “There are no holes in it, but it does look like it’s been worn and it’s kinda dusty.”
“What is that all over it?” Bill asked and ran his finger down the shirt.
Amy said, “You know I suppose we should be wearing gloves.”
“Oh, come on. You can’t leave fingerprints on fabric. What are we going to mess up? We’re not even sure that it’s connected to bloaty boy.”
“I just have a feeling.”
“Gosh, that is so girlie. You’re such a smart cop, I forget you have that woman’s intuition.”
Amy ignored that remark, but slipped her gloves on and then rubbed a finger down the t-shirt fabric. She sniffed the light-colored powder that collected on her fingertip and then stared at it closely. “I think it’s sawdust.”
“Throw it back in the garbage. It’s nothing.”
“Let me turn it right side out first.” Amy grabbed the bottom of the shirt and straightened it out. Nothing on the back. When she turned it around, her heart jumped in her chest. “Look.”
“What?” Bill asked, staring at the shirt. “I don’t see nothing.”
“Anything,” Amy couldn’t help saying. “You don’t see the tree?”
“So? What’s with a tree?”
“Oh, maybe I didn’t tell you—bloaty guy—he had this exact symbol of a tree tattooed on his shoulder. Which, I’m guessing, would make this his t-shirt.”
“Great. Now we have a guy who we can’t identify with a shirt that has no writing on it.”
“But maybe it means something,” Amy suggested. “Like it’s the symbol of a business or an organization or something.”
Bill turned the shirt around so he could see the tree symbol again. “Yeah. I think you’re right. I got an idea. Feel like a beer?”
“We’re not quite off duty, my dear.”
“Let’s go to Sven’s anyways.”
As they walked into Sven’s Bar and Grill, Amy was hit by the smell of old cigarettes and stale beer. Funny how it seemed stronger in the middle of the day when the bar was nearly empty. No people-smell to tone it down.
“Well, if it isn’t two fine officers of the law,” Sven himself said. Sven, broad as a beam, could barely see over the bar. Amy figured he was no more than five feet tall. He sported a patchy dark beard and slicked his wispy brown hair back with some kind of gel. His gruff voice sounded like it came out of a well. She didn’t know him well, but she knew he ran a tight ship. They didn’t get very many calls from his establishment.
“What can I do you for? Set you up with two frosty ones?” Sven asked as they settled onto bar stools.
Bill looked at her and Amy said, “Thanks, but not at the moment.”
“Show him the t-shirt,” Bill told her.
Amy held up the shirt for Sven’s perusal. They had stopped off at the squad car on the way to the bar and she had bagged it, folding it carefully so the tree symbol showed clearly through the plastic.
“The tree guy,” Sven said.
Amy refrained from saying, “Duh.”
Bill asked the obvious question. “What tree guy?”
Sven shook his head. “Not sure what his name is or anything. He’s come in a couple times. He’s a tree removal and trimmer guy. Don’t think he’s from around here, but I’m not sure. In fact, if I remember correctly, he’s a Vikings fan.”
“Only someone from Minnesota would have that kind of bad taste,” Bill said. He was a hard-core Packers fan. “Interesting. Anything else you can tell us? He a regular? When was the last time you saw him in here?”
Sven combed his hands through his scant beard. “Within the last couple weeks, I’d say. Couldn’t swear to it, though.”
“Can you describe him?” Amy asked.
“Oh, you know, about yea-high,” Sven held a hand out about a foot above his own head. “About yea-wide.” He held his two short arms out as far as they would stretch. “And to hear him talk, about yea-long.” He held his hand out as far as he could in front of the fly of his jeans.
“Into the ladies?” Bill asked.
“If you believed what he said.”
“What color hair?” Amy asked.
Sven scratched his own thinning scalp. “Geez, you know, it’s dark in here most of the time. I don’t pay much attention to that sort of stuff.”
“Could it be red?”
Sven shrugged. “Could be. Kinda dark red.”
“Ever noticed any kind of tattoo?” Amy asked.
“Where?” Sven fired back.
Amy couldn’t help laughing. “You know, your mind’s in the gutter, Sven. On his shoulder.”
“Not that I remember.”
“Was he with anyone when he came in?”
“Not that
I recall.”
Amy felt like they had pushed Sven’s memory about as far as it would stretch. “Thanks for help. If you remember anything else, give us a call.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Bill said as he was looking longingly at the tap on the edge of the bar.
“Can we get a six-pack to go?” Amy asked.
After Sven handed them the six-pack, Amy grabbed Bill’s arm and pulled him toward the door. “So it sounds like he was down here for business, not pleasure, if he is our guy.”
Bill shrugged. “Who knows, maybe both.”
* * *
Claire decided she didn’t want to take Colette back to the department. The woman needed to recover, and sugar was always good for shock so she took her to a little coffee shop in the basement of the hospital.
“They make good pie here,” Claire advised her.
Colette reached out and took the first piece of pie that came to hand. Cherry, it looked like. Claire followed suit. There
wasn’t a fruit pie she didn’t like. Both of them grabbed coffee. Claire paid for it. The least she could do.
Once they were sitting at a table and Colette had a few bites of pie inside her, Claire asked her an easy, non-threatening question. “How far is Waseca from here?”
“Well, depends on which way you come. You know, as the crow flies, it’s only about sixty miles, but then there’s the lake, you see. You have to get around the lake. Usually takes me about two hours to get home.”
“Did you see Anne very often?”
“Oh, you know how it goes. Both of us were pretty busy. I’d say I’d maybe get over here two or three times a year, usually the holidays, and she’d come to Waseca about the same, but we talked on the phone just about every week. We’d check in. Since I’ve been living on my own, Anne’s been real good to me.”
“Just you two in the family?”
“Oh, no. We got two brothers in between us, but they moved away. One’s out in California. The other’s down in Florida. They don’t stay in touch. You know how guys are.”
