Black Otter Bay

by Vincent Wyckoff

  “Holy . . .” she muttered.

  Ben sat up beside her. “What?”

  Abby studied the big man and his heavy load, trying to make it out to be something other than what she guessed it to be. Maybe it was a roll of carpeting, a rug, even a heavy blanket. The man strode directly into the water at the weedline, and when a hand, and then a forearm, slipped into view from the back of the bundle, Abby knew her worst suspicions were true.

  Ben saw it at the same time, and Abby had just enough time to slap a hand over his mouth before he cried out. She pulled him down beside her.

  “Ben, Ben!” she whispered harshly into his face. “You have to keep quiet.” She held a hand over his mouth while imploring him to silence. His eyes were wide, wild, and his tears warmed her fingers. “It’s okay, Ben. We just have to stay quiet. Please. We’ll get out of here, you’ll see. But you can’t make a sound. Okay?”

  They lay together in the tall grass, Abby’s hand near Ben’s face, ready to clamp down should he begin to cry out again. She worked her thoughts over the situation, trying to make some sense of what they’d seen. There could be no denying those images though, the flopping hand and lifeless arm. She had no idea who the man in the waders might be, much less the person hanging over his shoulder, but Abby was determined to find out.

  When Ben finally relaxed against her, she moved her fingers away from his face and he emitted a whimpering sigh. Up to her knees she rose again, slowly lifting her face to the waving tips of grass. The man was well out in the water, still struggling with the weight on his shoulder.

  “Ben,” she said softly after lying down next to her brother again.

  He interrupted. “Did you see what I saw, Abby?”

  She nodded. “It’s okay, Ben. He doesn’t know we’re here. If you stay quiet, he’ll go away, and we can go home.”

  “That’s all I want, Abby. I just want to go home.” His voice rose again. “It’s all because we skipped school.”

  Abby put her finger over his lips. “Quiet, Ben. It’s not because of anything we did.” She bit her lip and took another quick glance at the man in the water. “You stay here. I’m going to get a closer look at the car and the license plate.”

  Ben grabbed at her. “Oh, no, Abby!”

  “Shhh! It’s okay. He can’t see you here, and he’s way out in the water. I’ll be right back. I’m just going to get his license plate number. He’ll never know.”

  “Abby, please.” Tears rolled down Ben’s face.

  “I’ll be right back. Just stay quiet, and then we’ll go home, okay?”

  Ben answered by shutting his eyes and clasping his hands together in prayer. Abby smiled when his lips began moving in silent entreaties. She reached out to stroke his shoulder, and then turned to crawl through the brush toward the car.

  Rocks poked at her hands and knees, but the car was even closer than it had appeared through the tall grass and in short order she was at the driver’s door, the chiming ignition tolling like a funeral dirge. She rose up to look inside and saw plush leather seats, a folded road map, and a black sport coat on the passenger’s side. Stretching higher, she peered over the dash and through the windshield at the man. From this range he looked even larger than before, his spiked hairstyle adding three inches to his height. Up to his thighs in water, his broad back arched up and outward from the close-fitting hip waders. They seemed too small for him, Abby thought, like they didn’t belong to him, especially considering the fancy trousers and black linen shirt he wore. His right hand grabbed at the nylon rope attached to Rose Bengston’s marker buoys, while his left arm still clutched the bundle draped over his shoulder.

  Stealing a quick glance behind her, Abby gasped when she spotted Ben running for the safety of the woods. But another peek over the dash showed the man still in the water, his back to them. When Ben made the treeline, Abby relaxed in the knowledge that her little brother could find his way home through the woods as easily as a city kid following street signs.

  She dropped to her knees to crawl to the back of the car. Completely hidden from view here, she turned sideways to look behind her down the neglected road. Weeds and rocks jutted up between the wheel ruts. That’s why the car had appeared so suddenly, she realized. Like magic. The big sedan would have been barely moving over this rough terrain.

  A flash of light reflecting through the trees interrupted her thoughts. A moment later, another flash, this one closer. Then she heard the rumble of a failing exhaust system and caught a glimpse of an old pickup truck approaching. Now Abby experienced her own heart-stopping panic as she realized she was about to be trapped between the man in the waders and the oncoming truck.

  She grabbed the bumper of the car and lifted herself up to read the license plate. With the trunk still open, however, she discovered the license plate was over her head on the back of the trunk lid. Out of time now and acting on instinct, she stood up to get a better look, and came eye to eye with the man in the waders.

  Returning to shore over the slippery, rocky lake bottom, he’d been watching the approaching truck when he spotted Abby as she stood up behind his car. The dark sunglasses obscured his expression, but his quiet, cautious steps became lunging splashes as he quickened his pace. Abby grabbed the trunk lid to look at the license plate, but all that registered was the fact that it was from Illinois. Then she was running, first down the road to put some distance between them, then into the woods just before the pickup truck rounded a veil of balsam trees and lurched into view.

  Charging through the tall grass, Abby hit the treeline at a dead run. She heard the man yell, calling for her to stop, but panic had temporarily taken over, and she dashed through the woods like a rabbit before the hounds.

  Running had always been a good tonic for Abby. She remembered family outings when, as a child, she’d raced her father through the woods, darting along winding forest pathways, the fresh air pounding through her lungs. And now, the harder she ran, the more her spirits lightened and her thinking cleared. She knew the man would never catch up to her in those waders. A grin spread across her face when she realized that if he stopped to take them off, well, he’d simply never see her again.

  Leaping boulders, skipping over exposed roots, she flew through the woods like a breeze through the treetops. She thought the pickup truck looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. She’d be willing to bet it belonged to a local, though. Abby smirked with glee at the notion of someone from town asking the man from Illinois why he was wearing waders but not carrying a fishing pole.

  Soon she spotted Ben up ahead. She knew they’d dodged a dangerous situation and successfully made their escape. Feeling just a little smug, she ran hard to catch up to her little brother, to let him know they were both safe. It would be a while yet before she remembered their backpacks lying near the shore of Big Island Lake, just a dozen or so steps from the big, shiny Cadillac.

  TWO

  Marcy Soderstrom

  “I can tell you right now why summer finally got here,” Red Tollefson stated from his seat at the counter in the Black Otter Bay Café. Red was a retired highway department foreman. He still carried his large frame with a confident, rolling swagger, even if he wasn’t as solid as he’d been in his working days. Thick waves of graying red hair covered his head, and he still boasted the barrel chest and gnarled, workingman’s hands common throughout the north country.

  Turning sideways on his stool, Red shuffled a deck of cards while glancing outside, as if to confirm that summer had indeed finally arrived. Owen Porter reset the cribbage pegs, patiently awaiting Red’s explanation. It was that quiet time of early afternoon when the lunch crowd had left but the regulars from the day shift at the taconite plant, in search of a cup of coffee and a card game, hadn’t arrived yet.

  Red squinted up at Owen, an extremely tall, lanky man perched uncomfortably atop his stool at the counter. Hunched over, Owen resembled a prehistoric insect, with his gangly limbs jutting out at odd angles. He was curr
ently working afternoon shifts at the plant, so he’d be leaving soon for work.

  The wrinkles around Red’s eyes creased up with humor. He glanced across the counter to be sure Marcy was listening. “Summer finally got here because I wasted twenty bucks last Saturday tuning up my damn snowblower.”

  Owen suppressed a grin while drumming the fingers of one hand on the counter. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said. “Nobody tunes up a snowblower in May.”

  “Hey, the way this winter was going, a fellow couldn’t be too sure.” As if suddenly realizing how ridiculous it sounded to be fixing a snowblower in May, Red shot a defensive frown at Marcy and added, “Anyway, at least it’s all ready for next year.”

  Marcy folded the newspaper she’d been reading and dropped it on the counter. Grabbing a dishrag out of the sink, she swiped at coffee stains while directing her blue-eyed smirk at Red.

  Marcella Soderstrom had worked in the café most of her adult life. In her mid-thirties now, Marcy’s world seemed to revolve around the ebb and flow of customers. She opened the diner most days, started the coffee pots percolating while turning on the lights and heating up the griddle, then spread the bundle of Duluth newspapers along the counter for the morning regulars. She found something comfortable and affirming about this ritual. In a way, Marcy felt she played an integral role in the lives of the townsfolk of Black Otter Bay. The café gave her a sense of purpose, and she took pride in being there to greet the early-morning risers.

  “How come you weren’t out fishing for the opener instead of working on your snowblower?” she asked.

  “Bah!” Red snorted. “The opener is for amateurs. All them yahoos from Duluth and the Cities with their fancy rigs. They just get in the way.” He leaned over to Owen, as if about to impart some secret knowledge. “Water’s too cold, anyway,” he explained. “Walleyes haven’t even spawned yet. I’ll wait a couple weeks for the commotion to settle down a bit.”

  Marcy said, “I heard some of the lakes aren’t even open yet.”

  “They would be if that clipper hadn’t blown through. Day like today, though, they’ll open up real quick.”

  Owen looked up from his cards. “Speaking of warmer weather, when are your folks coming home?”

  Marcy smiled. “Who knows? I talked to them last weekend, but when they heard it was snowing again, they didn’t mention anything about coming home.”

  Marcy lived with her folks. Since retirement, they’d been migrating to Phoenix for the winters, and it seemed they stayed a little longer with each passing year. They’d begun by heading south after New Year’s. The next year it had been Christmas, then Thanksgiving, until last year they were gone by Halloween, and they never returned before the trees budded out and summer was in full swing.

  “Well, you can give them the all-clear now,” Red piped up. “Tell them I tuned up my snowblower, so it won’t snow anymore this year.”

  Marcy laughed as she turned to stack dishes in the dishwasher. She was a tall, strong woman. What she lacked in beauty she more than made up for with personality and energy. She was big-boned, and that meant she constantly struggled with her weight. Her worst fear was that she’d gradually grow larger and dumpier as she aged. “Oh, Lord,” she often prayed to herself. “Don’t let me become like all the old, boring, work-worn women of this town.”

  Her complexion was that of a fair-skinned Scandinavian and she had nondescript features. Her goals were as modest as her appearance, and she was more than satisfied with her job in the café. If she’d admit it to anyone (which she wouldn’t), her greatest aspiration would be to one day own and manage the restaurant herself. Another thing she’d never make public is that she was convinced her Prince Charming would one day walk through the café door. She no longer daydreamed about either of these fantasies like she did ten years ago, but the conviction remained that in one way or another, her future was linked to her involvement with the diner.

  While she took her responsibility to the café and the townsfolk very seriously, Marcy was part of that younger generation that changes hair color as easily as changing clothes. And not your normal, everyday colors, either. On St. Patrick’s Day, you could bet her hair would be a brilliant lime green. Stripes of red, white, and blue for the Fourth of July. She’d painted hearts on her cheeks for Valentine’s Day, and wore a Santa Claus hat on Christmas. The old-timers in town got a kick out of it. Anybody else and they’d say she was crazy, probably on drugs or something. But Marcy was one of their own, and they embraced her eccentricities as they would a favorite daughter.

  “Hey, Marcy,” Red had called out one time, loud enough for all the morning regulars to hear. “If I asked you to marry me, would you get a tattoo or dye your hair a special color for the wedding?”

  “If I had to marry you,” she’d retorted amid the catcalls and laughter, “I’d shave my head and join a convent.”

  Marcy glanced across the diner at the large picture windows facing Highway 61 and Lake Superior. It was the middle of May, but the trees along the highway had only recently leafed out. Their soft green hues glowed against the indigo blue background of Lake Superior. She acknowledged that Red had been correct about one thing: last weekend the café had been hopping with out-of-town fishermen. The small gravel parking lot had been packed with pickup trucks and boats.

  The Black Otter Bay Café had been in existence in one form or another for over one hundred years, ever since Agda Hjemdahl began serving home-cooked meals to commercial fishermen outside her back door. By the turn of the last century, when the lumber business expanded across northern Minnesota, she’d added a small lean-to on the back of her house to accommodate the hungry foreigners passing through to the newest logging areas. A staunch Norwegian Lutheran, Agda wouldn’t allow the bachelor Finns or Swedes, and especially the dark Slavic and Italian loggers, to take a meal inside her own house. When she served up kettles of stew in the little back room, however, the ribald roar of foreign tongues could be heard throughout the town.

  By the 1920s, a road was punched through the woods from Duluth, and the tourist industry began in earnest. Worn out from long days of cooking and washing dishes as well as laundry for the bachelor laborers, Agda retired and sold the name of her café to businessmen from Duluth. In the terms of the sale, she’d insisted on a lifelong stipend, and thereafter Agda served graciously as the village matriarch until her death in 1968, at age ninety-nine.

  Marcy maintained that Agda’s spirit still occupied the premises. Whenever something turned up missing, or fell over for no apparent reason, or a door closed or a light suddenly turned on, Marcy jokingly blamed Agda. And even though she’d passed away years before Marcy was born, the self-reliant, hard-working founder of the café had been a mentor and spiritual colleague for much of Marcy’s adult working life.

  After buying the café from Agda, the businessmen erected a huge log structure with rooms to rent as well as a large dining area and saloon. The new establishment became known as The Black Otter Bay Roadhouse. During Prohibition, liquor arrived on boats from Canada, and the Roadhouse became a popular hangout for the rich and not-always-legal business community. Al Capone was rumored to have stayed there, and in the back rooms, business transactions and poker games went on sometimes until dawn.

  In 1970, the old building burned down, and once again it became a legitimate mom-and-pop café and store. The rebuilt diner was modern and boasted state-of-the-art kitchen facilities. The décor was rustic but plush, the food hardy and reasonably priced, and soon the Black Otter Bay Café was a daily Greyhound and charter bus tourist stop. But that was four decades ago, and with no further updates or remodeling, the old furnishings were wearing out. The linoleum floor was worn bare, with hardly a vestige of its black-and-white checkerboard design still visible. Tables were scratched and further marred by cigarette burns.

  To the local customers who ate at the café every day, however, the decline had been slow and unnoticed. The same patrons used certain tabl
es and stools each day, as if reserved signs had been posted for their convenience. Tourists more commonly used the booths, although someone like Red might occasionally take a booth for a rare meal out with his wife.

  Marcy’s gaze swung back inside from the picture windows and landed on the giant lake trout mounted over the cash register counter. Weighing thirty or thirty-five pounds, the huge laker had hung on the wall for as long as Marcy could remember. A thick coat of grease and dust lined the back of the enormous fish, a fact that irritated Marcy to no end. Whenever she looked at it, she vowed to get the stepladder and climb up there to clean the old relic. So far, however, that task had gone undone. As the thought crossed her mind again, she spotted the county sheriff’s squad car pulling into the parking lot. A moment later, Sheriff Marlon Fastwater stepped through the café’s door. Red and Owen called out their greetings while Marcy grabbed a coffee cup and placed it on the counter in front of the sheriff’s customary stool. By the time he sat down, Marcy was pouring coffee, and with a free hand grabbed a napkin to set near the cup.

  “Afternoon, Sheriff,” she said. “Who’s winning the battle today?”

  The sheriff smiled while trying to stick a thick index finger through the coffee cup’s handle. Failing that, he grabbed the handle between two fingers and lifted the cup to drink. His massive hand made the cup look like a dollhouse accessory.

  Marlon Fastwater was as tall as Owen Porter, and broader than Red Tollefson. When he placed his trooper hat on the counter, thick waves of glistening black hair highlighted the shimmer in his eyes, which were so dark they were almost black. At fifty years old, he’d been the sheriff of Black Otter County for over twenty years, ever since the time when, as a young police officer, he’d walked in on a late-night robbery of the local municipal bar. A transient had a gun pointed at the bartender. Fastwater locked eyes with the young man while instructing him to drop the gun. Most folks considered the sheriff’s intimidating size and fearless, calm demeanor to be as effective a weapon as the .44 Magnum he carried in a hand-tooled leather holster on his hip.