“You heard me mention that investigation?” Diane said.
“The old man was being investigated?”
“I think so, but I couldn’t get anyone to confirm it. I found out when I was researching that piece I wrote. So I called down to the Lawyers Professional Responsibility Board. They have a database. I’d heard he’d been investigated before. Over the last 20 years there were three investigations, none resulting in more than a warning. If I wanted to know more they told me I’d have to come and review the files myself. But then the clerk let something slip about another investigation, recently opened.”
“I’m not surprised,” Sam shrugged, “given the old man’s temperament.”
“When I followed up on the clerk’s comment, he said he misspoke. I took that to mean there was no current investigation, but just to double check I asked Jeff Dunlap and he said they couldn’t talk about ongoing investigations. So I think the clerk meant he couldn’t say anything and Dunlap was telling me an investigation was ongoing.”
They thought about it.
“What good is a burned down office building to a dead man?” Diane wondered.
“There’s the paper trail, if the old man was foolish enough to leave one,” Sam suggested.
“But about what?”
“About whatever he was being investigated about?”
“I guess,” Diane said doubtfully. “But what difference does it make to a dead man?”
“If the old man was alive, it could have been cause.”
“But he isn’t.”
The only thing that surprised Sam Rivers was that he wasn’t surprised. He had a letter written in his Mother’s hand, containing a will that was executed and notarized several days later than the date of the will on file. Her comments in the letter indicated she was leaving Sam everything, that she was suspicious of what her husband would do, which was why she was also leaving Sam the cash in the duffel in the hiding place only Sam and she knew about. But the letter was two years old, and now Williston Winthrop was dead. Sam wished the old man was still alive. He’d like to face him in front of a judge, reverse the finding of the probate court, and recover his mother’s things. And if he could prove the old man doctored the will, so much the better. For now he’d settle for pulling his mother’s estate from the dead man’s hands, and away from the rest of his larcenous friends.
There was still the question of the statute of limitations on contesting estates. For now he would have to keep the letter out of it. Her words were important, but his later version of the will should suffice.
“Maybe it’s time to pay Jeff Dunlap a visit.”
“Maybe it’s time to see if our story has legs.”
Chapter Twenty
January 31st, mid-day—Dean Goddard’s house
Dean Goddard was finally snowblowing his drive when Belinda stuck her head out the front door. She waved for Dean to stop. When he did she said, “Jeff’s on the phone. Wants to speak with you. Says it’s important.”
Dean looked up, nodded. He parked the blower so he could walk around it. The snow was deep. Eight inches in Vermilion Falls. He knew it was deeper around Defiance, and even deeper out by Winthrop’s farm and the surrounding area.
“Guess what,” Dunlap started.
“I’m in the middle of digging out. Give it to me quick.”
“Guess who’s back in town?”
“Rudy Perpich.”
“Very funny.” Rudy Perpich was a dentist turned three-term governor, one of few who came from the Range. He was popular, but dead. “I happened to have liked Rudy.”
“I did, too. With everything else that’s going on these days, I just thought we might get lucky.”
“Clayton Winthrop.”
“Clayton Winthrop? Who the hell is Clayton Winthrop?”
“Will Winthrop’s estranged son. Remember me telling you he had a son?”
Dean remembered. “What’s he after? A piece of the estate?”
“Sort of. Turns out he’s been in Colorado all these years. Changed his name to Sam Rivers.”
“Is he a nut case?”
“Not at all, from what I remember. He was two years ahead of me, kind of a loner, but a pretty good guy. Not sure why he changed his name, but he’s nothing like his old man. He’s a special agent for U.S. Fish & Wildlife. A wildlife biologist. Specializes in wolves. And here’s where it gets interesting.”
“Yeah?”
“He comes over here with Diane Talbott.”
“Nice looking company.” Dean looked over his shoulder to make sure Belinda was out of earshot.
“Not bad. I was waiting for her to do more than unzip that down coat. Hard to hide a body like that.”
Dean Goddard smiled. “What did they want?”
“Diane’s an old friend of Clayton’s mother. I mean she was an old friend.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Clayton’s mother left a copy of her will with Diane. Said if Clayton... Sam Rivers ever returned she should give it to him.”
“What?”
“I know. It’s a little strange.”
“Why did Talbott wait?”
“She didn’t know it was a will. Just a sealed envelope.”
“And she never opened it?”
“Said it was Miriam’s dying wish.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean said doubtfully. “And I’ve got a feeling I know what the will says.”
“You guessed it. This one’s a little different than the one probated two years ago.”
“What a surprise.”
“It’s notarized. And it’s dated several days after the will used by Probate Court to settle Miriam Winthrop’s estate.”
“Let me guess. In the probated will everything went to the old man. The new one leaves everything to the kid.”
“You got it. Only he isn’t much of a kid anymore. He’s grown up. Serious. Pleasant enough. But he doesn’t give me the feeling he’s a pushover or a crook. They also had a copy of the probated will. Guess who notarized the one leaving Miriam Winthrop’s estate to Williston?”
“Hal Young?”
“You’re a hundred percent. You been taking Ginkgo Biloba supplements?”
“Just naturally intelligent. Is the probated version legit?”
“Appears to be. Miriam Winthrop’s signature looks a little fruity, but that could have been her illness. On the other hand, it could also mean that scumbag Williston Winthrop forged his dead wife’s signature and cheated his son out of his mother’s inheritance.”
“How’s the signature on the new will?”
“Pretty damn good. Better than the probated version.”
Goddard thought about the break-in at Miriam Winthrop’s house. “When did Sam Rivers get into town?”
“Yesterday morning.”
The timing wasn’t right. Goddard wondered about it. Maybe Sam Rivers was lying. “Why didn’t Diane Talbott mail the letter to Rivers?”
“Miriam made Diane promise to hold it for him, not to mail it. Diane says she was worried about Williston finding out about it. Even if she mailed it from Brainerd.”
“That’s a little paranoid.”
“A lot of people owed Williston. He might have gotten wind of it. But I agree, a little paranoid. Could have been a little dementia, too, on Miriam’s part, given her deteriorating health.”
“So he waits until the old man dies before returning home. I guess there was no love lost.”
“None, from what Sam said. And he has absolutely no intention of contesting his father’s will. But he wanted to pursue getting probate to change his mother’s estate, because he believed it was his mother’s wish.”
“Can he do that?”
“Not sure. I’m not that familiar with estate law.”
“It’d be interesting to see
him take something from that Club.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“So what’s he like?”
Jeff paused. “If you met this guy you’d pick up a different vibe from him. He seems...” Jeff thought about it, “genuine, no nonsense. The kind of guy you’d like to spend time with in a fishing boat, casting a line and drinking a couple beers.”
“So he’s absolutely nothing like his old man,” Dean said.
“Sitting in a boat and having a couple of beers with Williston Winthrop wouldn’t be my idea of a pleasant afternoon. Sam Rivers is different.”
The Sheriff still thought Sam’s presence, the break-in at his mother’s house and the appearance of a new version of the will were all incredibly coincidental. Though Dean had to admit, Sam Rivers kept good company—Diane Talbott was smart, capable and good looking. Maybe Sam Rivers was a carpetbagger charmer? Dean knew some USFW people. They were nature people, not carpetbaggers. He would have to meet Sam Rivers and get his own feel for the prodigal son that had blown in from out west. “What are you going to do?” he finally asked.
“I’m going to call a probate judge. Friend of mine. See what’s involved. Sam Rivers might be able to reopen the estate, if this new will turns out to be legitimate. On the other hand he might have to sue in civil court.”
“I’d love to see him prevail.” Dean thought of Bill Grebs. The cop, and the rest of them, wouldn’t like it.
“That’s what I was thinking. Anyway, Sam Rivers seems like a pretty decent guy. You know what field agents do for U.S. Fish?”
“All sorts of stuff. They police the species list. Take care of the animals,” Dean said, grinning a little. “Paul Williams over in Grand Rapids is a freshwater biologist and USFW special agent. He does a lot of work in wetland habitat, but in fairness he does plenty of investigations too. You heard about that walleye poaching ring he broke up last year, up by Leech Lake?”
“That was the USFW?”
“That was Paul Williams. There was a wetland reclamation project a couple years back that was illegal but plenty complicated. Williams surfaced it. U.S. Fish & Wildlife is a little more sophisticated than our local DNR conservation officers,” the Sheriff said. “But their turf is the wild, not towns. And they only take notice if animals are involved, not people. Still, I should meet Sam Rivers.”
“You should. I’ll try to think of something. Thought you’d want to know.”
“Thanks.”
The Sheriff rang off and returned to his snowblower. He was at it fifteen minutes before Belinda stuck her head out the front door and motioned to him again.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Smith Garnes,” she said, holding up his cell phone.
The Sheriff parked the blower to the side and re-entered the house, taking the phone.
“What’s up?”
“I guess Walt Gibbons was right,” he started. “Bad luck comes in threes. You remember the feeder stock Williston had at his farmhouse?”
The Sheriff thought about it. He remembered walking by the barn. He remembered the smell of cattle, and someone mentioned it. “Yeah,” he said. “Calves?”
“Yeah. Pretty big calves. Three of them. Wolves got in last night and killed them.”
“I’ll be damned,” he said, matter of fact. When he glanced over the phone Belinda was scowling. He mouthed ‘sorry,’ and turned away. “Wolves went into the barn?”
“Sounds like it. Angus Moon called the DNR. They’re sending Steve Svegman out. Svegman remembered about Williston’s accident and thought we should know.”
“That was good of him,” the Sheriff said, thinking of the young conversation officer. “You ever heard of wolves getting into a barn?”
“Nope,” said Garnes. “But I suppose it’s possible.”
“Maybe I should join our young CO. Just to have a look.”
“Thought you might want to.”
The Sheriff thanked the Deputy and rang off.
Dean returned to his snowblower. Sometimes clearing off long rows of white powder was meditative. He thought about Sam Rivers. He wondered about the will. He considered Rivers’s occupation. Special agent with the USFW, a wolf biologist. Maybe Dean could kill two birds with one stone? When the Sheriff finished blowing he came into the house, stayed in his warm wear, and called Jeff Dunlap’s office.
“Dunlap,” Jeff answered.
“Hey Jeff. Dean. I’m taking a ride out to Williston Winthrop’s farmhouse. Wolves got into his barn and killed some feeder calves.”
“No shit?” Dunlap said.
Dean turned around to be sure Belinda had left the room. “Shit,” Dean affirmed. “Apparently got in last night and killed them.”
“In a barn?”
“That larcenous old man can’t seem to catch a break.”
“Not that it matters to him.”
“I was thinking it might be an opportunity to poke around.”
“Good idea. Does the DNR know about it?”
“Yeah. Steve Svegman’s the one who called us. He’s headed out later. I’ll try and intercept him.”
“Maybe Sam Rivers the wolf expert would be interested.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. The more the merrier. Know where I can reach him?”
Chapter Twenty-One
January 31st, midday—Defiance
Out at the cabin the CB crackled and popped, said something unintelligible, but with a familiar enough tone to make Williston sit up and listen. He came out of the bedroom, walked across the cabin floor, flipped a switch and managed a voice entirely unlike his own. “Come again?” said a gravelly monotone. “Over.”
After the last remnants of the storm whipped out of the atmosphere, the radio gradually returned to order. Apparently the wake of this storm contained unusual atmospheric pressure, uncharacteristic for the region but a good explanation for the temperature drop and the radio’s unreliability.
“Static,” was how Angus had explained it. “Things still wild out there.”
Now Williston was alone in the cabin and waited for a response out of the calming ether.
“You wouldn’t believe...” started to come in, broken, but unless Williston’s ear had grown rusty, the voice was Grebs. There was a long blank space, a couple of crackling sparks, and then, “over?”
“Come again? Defiance Star? Over.”
“Defiance Star comin‘ across the Range at ya‘, Range Wolf? Over?” Grebs asked.
“Range Wolf picking you up now, Defiance Star. Over.” Williston lifted the talk button and cleared his throat. This wasn’t a popular channel, but thanks to the quirks of the upper atmosphere you never knew when you’d accidentally pick up a message from Anchorage or St. Paul. The beauty of working with a CB radio was that fewer people were using the technology. These days it was generally only truckers and police who used the radios, and less of both as time went on. Cell phones had taken over the airwaves, much easier to use and with much greater ranges. But cell phones were useless in Skinwalker’s Bog.
The emergency channel was 9. It was quiet now, but you just never knew who might be listening. And having someone else hear his voice—a supposedly dead man, however remote the possibility—was something Williston needed to avoid. It would be wise to keep the messages short and enigmatic. Williston knew Grebs was smart enough to take care.
There was a long pause, then “Heir apparent has returned. Repeat... surprising heir in the wind. Checking the weather but wanted to know how you might check it if you were in town? Curious. Over.”
Definitely Grebs. He appreciated the obscurity, but wasn’t sure he followed. Air? “Repeat in different key,” he said. “Over.”
There was another long pause. Williston was just about ready to repeat his request, when the radio barked “Prince.” Pause. “Music now being heard all over our little
town on the Range. Haven’t heard him in what seems like 19, 20 years? Thought the king should know. Over.”
Air... Prince... King? Heir! It came to him like a cattle prod. The prince’s return. Not entirely unexpected. But it was still surprising. He wanted to make sure. “Maybe they listen at the Pit.” he said. “Heard they’re hitting clay. Tons of it. Clay-tons. Over.”
Another long pause. “Heard the same thing. Clay-ton of it. Can’t believe I heard Prince in our small town. Particularly when it’s so cold out. The weather here is clear, but cold. Haven’t begun checking yet. Not sure where to begin. Thought maybe I should check around, see if the weather’s the same all over town. Try to figure if there’s any bad weather brewing? Over.”
Williston thought, then depressed the call button. “Weather checks wise. Pinehaven a must... Hotel... Starters. Over.”
There was another long pause. “Will do. All good ideas. Over and out.”
Williston didn’t risk goodbye.
Clayton had returned. He was surprised it made his pulse rise. The kid was a little late, but still in time to see his old man buried, provided he showed up at the grave. Williston looked off through the cabin window. Through the frost-rimmed glass the thickets of Skinwalker’s Bog were bleary and opaque. There was no telling where this was going to lead, but he smiled, appreciating the development.
If anyone could lead him to his $179,000 and stolen Decimator, it was the kid.
Over the next couple hours Grebs made his rounds. First he drove over to Pinehaven. He pulled into Miriam Winthrop’s drive, parking in snowdrifts near the bottom, wading through heavy snow to the front porch. Everything was covered. He circled the house.
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