Hurley walks over to the doorway of the log cabin vignette, giving Olsen a few seconds to recover. “I’ve heard it’s going to be a banner year for the deer hunt,” he says in an easy, friendly tone. “Do you hunt, Mr. Olsen?”
“Of course I do. It’s a tradition in these parts, and I’m always in favor of preserving tradition,” he says with a smile.
“What do you typically hunt?”
“Well, I participate in the deer hunt every year, and I used to do duck season, too, though in recent years I’ve been less religious about that one. I’m also an avid fisherman, though only in the warmer months. I’ve given up on the ice fishing. These old bones don’t take to the cold very well anymore.”
“Is that your trophy?” Hurley asks, nodding toward a deer head on the wall in the vignette room.
“It is,” Olsen says with a smile. “Caught that eight-point buck about ten years ago and had it stuffed. It’s been hanging on that wall ever since. It fits in well with the cabin theme, so I figured I’d donate it to the museum.” He pauses and winces. “And to be honest, I didn’t care to have those eyes staring down at me in my home. Don’t get me wrong. I love the sport of the hunt, but I try to have respect for the creatures I’m killing.”
“That’s a bit of an oxymoron, isn’t it?” I say, feeling irritated. “You respect the animals so much that you kill them?”
Hurley shoots me a look that tells me to hush up and back off. Then he looks over at Olsen and shakes his head. “Women . . . they don’t get it, do they?”
“Most don’t,” Olsen agrees. “My wife was the same way.”
I try shooting eye death rays at both men but they are ignoring me.
“What do you hunt with?” Hurley asks in a sociable tone.
Olsen looks momentarily puzzled. “What or who?”
“Actually both,” Hurley answers with a smile. “Tell me what first.”
“Well, in recent years I’ve tried out some of these newfangled, high-power rifles some of the guys use, but to be honest, I prefer to hunt old school. I have an older rifle, a Winchester that I’ve used off and on for years. But during the deer hunt, I prefer to use my bow. I believe it gives the animals more of a fighting chance and levels the field a little. I don’t want to stack the odds too much in my favor. Some of these fancy guns they use nowadays take all the sport out of the hunt.”
“Do you use a crossbow?” Hurley asks.
Olsen makes a face and shakes his head. “Don’t like them. I have a compound bow and a regular old-fashioned bow. Frankly, I prefer the old-fashioned one most of the time.”
“A bow and arrow,” Hurley says with a grudging look of admiration that I know is faked. “That takes some talent and practice.”
“My father taught me when I was a boy,” Olsen says with obvious pride. “And his father taught him. A family tradition handed down through the generations.”
“It sounds like fun,” Hurley says with a friendly smile. “Does anyone else around here hunt with a bow and arrow?”
“Sure,” Olsen says. “Several guys I know here in town use bows.”
“Anyone you can recommend?” Hurley asks. “I’d like to hook up with someone who’s good with the arrows. That’s the way I prefer to go, too. Like you said, it seems fairer and more sporting that way.”
“Bo Jurgenson is quite good. Better than me, though I’d never admit it to his face. I’ve been out with him a time or two in years past. You can probably find him over at Swenson’s hardware store on Third Street. His brother-in-law owns the place and Bo works the afternoon and evening shift there. Bo actually makes arrows for some of the locals and he teaches archery. Dan Hooper is good, too, and he’s a diehard bow and arrow man. He’s a car salesman over at Kohler’s Used Cars but I don’t think he’s there now. He typically takes a week off during deer season and goes north.”
“Thanks,” Hurley says, writing down the names. “Have you been out yet this season?”
Olsen nods and smiles. “Sure enough. I went out yesterday with a couple of friends, old farts like myself. Didn’t bag anything, though.”
“How about today?”
Olsen shakes his head. “Nah, my bones were aching too much, and it’s damned cold out there.” He shoots me an apologetic look. “Sorry for the language, miss. That one slipped out.”
“No problem,” I say with a forced smile.
“Anyway, like I said before, these old bones don’t take to the cold much anymore and frankly all that walking around tends to inflame my bad hip. Broke it a few years back, and while it works good enough since they fixed it, it gets right cranky when the weather turns. Besides, I had to open up the museum here.”
Now I know why Olsen looks familiar. I was on his case when he had his hip repaired.
Thor meanders his way back into the room, making Hurley sidestep again. I realize that anyone entering the museum might end up with cat hair on them and wonder if Olsen keeps a log of visitors.
“Do you have a guest book, Mr. Olsen?”
“Sure do,” he says. He points to a book on his desk and I walk over and open it up, scrolling through to the first empty page with my free hand. The most recent people who signed in came two weeks ago, and they listed their home town as Lancaster, Pennsylvania. “Does everyone who comes in here sign in?” I ask.
“I try to get them to, but I can’t force them. Most of the out-of-towners do. None of the locals do.”
So much for the guest book being of any help.
Hurley says, “Mr. Olsen, can you tell me where you were this morning between the hours of five and eight?”
Olsen stares at Hurley, and after a few seconds he huffs out a little breath of shock and annoyance. “Are you suggesting that I have something to do with Lars being killed?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Hurley says with amazing patience. “I’m simply asking you a question.”
Olsen glares at him, clearly affronted by the implication. “If you must know,” he says, tugging at his vest, “I was at home. I came here to open up shop at ten.”
“Is there someone who can verify that?” Hurley asks, further incensing Olsen.
“No, there is not,” Olsen says, tight-lipped. “I’m a widower and I live alone.”
“I’d like to take a look at your archery equipment,” Hurley says, smiling in an effort to win back Olsen’s trust. But it’s too late.
Olsen narrows his eyes and stares at Hurley. “You’re not asking about bow hunting because you’re interested in doing it, are you?” he says. “Is that how Lars was killed? With an arrow?”
Hurley doesn’t answer. He simply looks back at Olsen and lets the silence tick by.
Olsen shakes his head in irritation. “I’m not giving anybody my archery equipment. And if you have any other questions for me, I suggest you call my lawyer. I’ll be happy to write down his name for you.” He grabs a pen and notepad from the desktop.
“That won’t be necessary,” Hurley says, and for a few seconds, Olsen looks smug. But his expression rapidly falters when Hurley adds, “You can just bring him with you to the police station the next time we talk. I’ll be in touch.”
As Hurley and I leave, I can feel the heat of Olsen’s glare burning through my back, and my mind conjures up an image of an arrow following the same track.
Chapter 12
I toss the keys at Hurley a little harder than is necessary and, as we settle into the car, I slam my door and give him a dirty look. “What was that comment about women and hunting all about?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just didn’t want you to get Olsen off topic.”
“Well, it was kind of insulting.”
Hurley looks over at me and sighs. “Is this an example of those hormones you keep talking about?”
My glare turns icier. “Seriously?” I say, scowling at him. “Just because I stick up for some poor defenseless animal and take a stance on a subject, I’m being hormonal?”
“N
ot then, but maybe now?” Hurley bites his lip and leans back against the driver side door. He looks like he’s ready to bolt from the car at any moment, just in case my hormonal blast goes nuclear.
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “I’m sorry,” I say, “but I can’t justify hunting down and killing an animal for sport. If people were dependent upon hunting for food, it would be different.”
“You’ll get no argument from me. Unless we’re talking about cats.”
Hurley’s comment is clearly an attempt to make me smile. It works. “Speaking of cats, I got a sample of Thor’s fur,” I tell him, pulling my hand from my pocket. I reach into the glove box where I know Hurley keeps extra evidence bags and place the fur in one. As I’m sealing and labeling it, Hurley checks his phone again and frowns. “Have you ever hunted?” I ask him, hoping to divert him from the Emily problem.
“Nothing four-legged,” he answers with a wink and a wicked grin.
“Okay, fair enough. What did you make of Mr. Olsen?”
“He’s a bit of a zealot with the history stuff,” Hurley says, looking relieved to have the status quo restored. He starts the car and cranks up the heater. “But I don’t think he’s enough of one to kill someone over it. What did you think?”
“I’m not sure. He does have a cat with some black fur on it.”
Hurley nods slowly. “Unfortunately the cat hair just complicates things. Anyone who visited that museum could have picked up a cat hair. So as far as I’m concerned, we’re back at square one.” His phone rings then and I pray it’s Emily. But when he sighs and answers with “What’s up?” I know it’s not.
I wait as he takes the call, my curiosity burning, wishing I could hear whoever is on the other end because Hurley isn’t saying much. It’s a thankfully brief call, and after saying, “Thanks,” and disconnecting, he fills me in.
“That was Jonas,” he says. “We got a hit on that print we found on Lars’s neck.”
“Really? Whose is it?”
“It belongs to your friend George Haas. Sounds like there might be a little more to his story than what he told his buddy at the convenience store.” He glances at his watch. “Haas was out hunting pretty early this morning. Think he might be back home by now?”
“Maybe, but that’s assuming he comes home at all. A lot of these guys have cabins they sleep in overnight, like that one you and I stayed in last year. And George is not my friend; he’s just an acquaintance. Someone I grew up with.”
“O-kay,” Hurley says slowly, shooting me a dubious look.
“You’ll understand my distinction once you meet him.”
“Ah, one of those,” Hurley says with a knowing smile. “I can’t wait.”
The Haas farm is located about two miles outside of town on the west side. It’s a livestock farm that used to raise dairy and beef cows, but now houses pigs and chickens. Like many of the other farmers in the area, the Haas family was forced to sell off some of their property in years past in order to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. Their best grazing fields were the most valuable and salable plats and they, along with the cows, were whittled away over time. Now all the Haas family has left is a ten-acre field that’s too rocky to grow anything, fifty acres of wooded land, and an unpleasant aroma that hangs in the air year-round and occasionally drifts into town if the winds are right.
The family home is a typical Wisconsin farmhouse: two stories, once-white clapboard siding in need of paint, and a yard littered with ancient rusted trucks and farm implements. I think there was a law at one time that required farmhouses to be painted white because you hardly ever see any other color, the same way the barns are all red.
The Haas barn is the requisite red color—at least most of it is, because it, like the house, is badly in need of a paint job. We hear the grunts, snuffles, and occasional squeals of the pigs coming from within. There are several other ramshackle buildings around the house, and a fenced-in mud pit that I assume is the pigs’ play area.
Hurley grabs his camera and takes a moment to film the house, the barn, the other outbuildings, and the surrounding area. When he’s done he turns the camera off and we climb creaky wooden steps onto a large, covered front porch that is furnished with a ragged, torn old couch, the requisite rocking chair, and a small, rusted, wrought-iron table. Several lawn chairs are folded up and leaning against a wall. The front door has a window in the top half of it that’s covered with a lace curtain that was probably white at one time but is now a shade of dingy gray. There is no doorbell, so Hurley knocks on the glass.
We can hear the approach of someone inside—a series of heavy footfalls accompanied by the squeak of old floorboards. A vague shape appears behind the curtain, pauses for a moment, and then the door opens, allowing the figure to materialize into a rotund woman of about sixty with steel-gray hair pulled into a bun. She is wearing overalls with a plaid flannel shirt beneath, and mud-rucking boots.
“What can I do ya for?” she asks. Her face is a road map of farm history, etched and carved from time, the elements, and hard work. But her icy blue eyes look lively and alert. I’m betting she doesn’t miss much.
“Mrs. Haas?” Hurley says.
“Yeah, what of it?”
“I’m Detective Steve Hurley with the Sorenson Police Department and this is Mattie Winston with the medical examiner’s office. We’re here to talk to George.”
“What you want with my son?” she asks, those eyes narrowing to a steely glint.
“It’s regarding an investigation we’re conducting.”
Mrs. Haas, whose first name is Irma, shifts her gaze to me. “Who’s dead?” she asks.
“What makes you ask that?” Hurley says.
She gives him an impatient look. “Do I look stupid, Detective? I know Mattie here works with Doc Izzy and they cut open dead people. So it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that you’re here because someone is dead.”
“Is George here?” Hurley asks, ignoring her comeback.
“He might be,” she says cagily. “Or not. Depends.”
Irma has a reputation for being tough as nails and meaner than a badger. And everyone in Wisconsin—and a few colleges around the country—know that badgers can be downright nasty. I know she isn’t going to cave easily. So I decide to take a gamble.
“Irma, we can go back and get a search warrant for your place, one that would include the coop. Or you can go and fetch George for us so we can talk to him. It’s up to you.”
I have no idea if we could actually get a search warrant, but I learned long ago that lying is not only allowed in police investigations, it’s frequently encouraged. And I know that Irma thinks the hidden basement beneath her barn is a big secret. George once brought a girl named Angela to that space back when he was in high school, hoping for a little base running. And a week later, during a small slumber party, Angela told me and two other friends all about it. She told us how the entrance to the basement was kept hidden beneath some hay bales, and that the family referred to the space as the coop. She knew this not only because that’s what George called it, but because that’s what she heard Irma call it, too. That’s because Irma had found the two of them down there and had a major meltdown right around the time George was rounding on third base. Irma wasn’t upset that George and some girl were half-naked and planning to do the naughty, however, she was upset because George had brought an outsider into the coop.
Angela had been sworn to secrecy, something she readily agreed to because she was embarrassed and eager to escape, and because Irma was an even more frightening force back then than she is now. The only reason Angela told us about it at the slumber party was because she was scared to death of Irma and what she might do to ensure her secret didn’t get out. Angela wanted someone else to know—kind of like an insurance policy—and with typical teenaged überdrama, we all agreed to keep it a secret unless Irma had Angela rubbed out. So in the end, there were four of us who knew: me, Angela, and two other friends
named Linda and Marta. Sadly, Linda and Marta were killed in a car accident the following year, and Angela moved out to California during our senior year, leaving me as the sole local keeper of the secret as far as I know.
In recent years I’ve heard rumors that the Haas family is growing and selling pot to augment the income they earn from their pigs, chickens, and eggs. I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s not hard to imagine that barn basement outfitted with some growing lights and garden beds. And given the annoyed and calculating look on Irma’s face, I think I might be right. Her lips thin down to a narrow hard line and her eyes fire icicles at me.
“George is sleeping upstairs. He was up early this morning for the hunt. Wait here and I’ll fetch him.” She slams the door in our faces, leaving us standing on the porch in the cold. That polite Midwest hospitality that so many hear about tends to disappear when you threaten people’s families and livelihoods.
“I’m not sure she’s going to come back,” Hurley says, checking his cell phone.
“I think she will. Give it a minute.”
A chorus of squeals emanates from the barn and oddly I feel my milk let down. My boobs begin to ache and as I shiver from the cold, my mind conjures up an image of milksicles hanging off my chest.
I try to shake it off, a little spooked by it. Ever since giving birth, my brain has conjured up all kinds of weird—and sometimes scary—thoughts and images, like that arrow coming at my back when we left the museum. It’s as if my newly acquired state of motherhood has opened the door to some dark recess in my brain that was previously sealed and confined. I’ve imagined all kinds of horrible things that might happen to Matthew, to me, or to Hurley, everything from diseases, pestilence, kidnappings, and worse. It got bad enough that I mentioned it to my doctor, who decided I was experiencing normal mommy angst coupled with a touch of postpartum depression. She prescribed something for me to elevate my mood, but I haven’t taken it yet. I’m worried about the effects of the medication on Matthew if it gets into my breast milk. The doctor assured me it was considered safe, but I know what a snow job some of the drug companies can do and I’d rather not risk it. Then again, maybe this concern is just one more dark manifestation, another unrealistic fear conjured up by my mommy-addled brain.
Stiff Competition Page 14
