The three-story, square mansion loomed as a menacing challenge. It hid the key to a murderous mystery. With its rotting floors, boarded windows and falling-down ceilings, the old house held its own brand of danger.
He paused to gently knead his pulsating leg.
The fragrance of new green growth and pines swaying in the breeze soothed his nostrils and lungs. The place lulled him back to a time when he and a seventeen-year-old powderkeg rolled in sweet timothy grass not too far from here. By the pond behind the mansion, in the meadow, he'd stolen a kiss to the muted buzzing of honeybees dipping into the dandelions next to them. As he'd dipped his mouth toward hers, tasting—
He bolted up in a sweat, not caring how much his leg hurt. His eyes darted back to the bay.
A dot of scarlet, she strutted along the same path they used to take, hand in hand.
Anticipating? What was theirs for the taking in the meadow?
The path hugged the curve of the bay, then followed up the tiny stream feeding the bay and Spirit Lake. It led into the woods and to magical places. The glen. The downed tree trunk among the bed of ferns. The high ridge and the scenic lookout. The little church. Their church.
Sweat trickled down his neck.
Disgusted with himself, he grabbed his backpack and unzipped it. Work beckoned. He rummaged around, pushing aside books and maps, the outdated deed, the box from his dresser, odds and ends of plastic containers and packets of dried food. Finally, he found the plastic bag with Mike's bank box contents. He plucked the photo out.
The photo showed an unknown officer wearing a circa World War II uniform. On the back, Mike had written, “Aunt Flora has the key to everything about M.R. Look under her skirts, but don't tell Langley, V."
Flora was long dead, so Cole had no idea what to do about finding her “skirts” unless the old house possessed a hidden closet. He hoped it would be that simple.
Cole knew “M.R.” stood for Marco Rojas. He glanced again at the unknown, handsome fellow in the photo. What was the connection between him and Rojas? An official red stamp smudged one corner. Langley, Virginia, was CIA headquarters. Mike had been deathly afraid of even the CIA getting its hands on the mysterious evidence. Why? Why hide it here? In addition, what would Cole do once he found anything, or this man?
“If only I hadn't been so involved in my life and had paid attention to yours, dear brother. You might be alive and our Mister Rojas would be behind bars."
You just go your merry way.
A new kind of sweat broke out on his upper lip. It was the residue of remorse, sorrow and guilt, the deep love for a brother, the condemning voice of a woman he had no business connecting with now. It all bombarded his head and gut with a hurricane force. He understood the pressure would only dissipate one way: bring down Rojas. Put him away for good, or be six feet under himself.
He set off across the weedy yard toward the mansion.
* * * *
LAUREL HURRIED back down the path for her cabin, swiping at her face and the anger pressing hot all over her. A good brisk walk helped relieve the tension of being with Cole. Was she afraid of him? Yes. He had the power to unravel her way of life she had so carefully carved over the years.
She tore through the cabin's front door, ducked into the kitchen to splash cold water on her face. She imagined Cole swirling down the drain and out of her life.
She needed to also change every stitch of clothing to rid herself of any trace of him. Once in her bedroom, she sucked in her breath. His blood stained her bluejeans.
Pushing them off in a flurry, she kicked them across the room, then bounced down on the bed. She'd kissed him like a teenage ninny. And he threatened to stomp around in that house—and her heart—chilling her to the bone if she allowed it.
She slipped on fresh jeans and a bright yellow flannel blouse. She bought the cheery blouses by the gross, her mother liked to say with great sarcasm. But Laurel found flannel something injured animals liked to snuggle up to. When a shirt wore out, it retained its soft nap, perfect for lining nesting boxes for baby birds fallen from nests or baby rabbits washed from burrows in summer downpours.
Her time in the basement with Cole, his haggard, but handsome face—flashing before her now—stilled her fingers.
Recovering, she attacked the buttons, feeling comfort with every closure.
She flicked a gaze to the framed photographs resting on a corner of the dresser. In one, her father held up a huge fish. In another, her father and Sheriff John Petski beamed with stringers of bluegills. Her parents’ wedding picture sat tucked behind and alongside Kipp O'Donnell's.
She picked up his photo. He always cocked his head when he smiled. He'd been a big man, as tall as her father, different than Cole ... but tall as Cole now. She rubbed her thumb over the glass, clearing away the haze of dust. Kipp's eyes were hazel, not the deep chocolate coals she thought suited a man named Cole. Both men's eyes held a devilish twinkle. She'd never thought about that singular similarity until now. She stared wide-eyed at Kipp. Why had she been about to marry him? She was embarrassed to realize enough time had passed that she had to think hard about it.
Her father approved of Kipp from the moment he strolled into town looking for a job. The two men hunted and fished together, and she remembered a certain wild edge about him ... that matched Cole's. But unlike Cole, Kipp would leave on trips and always return. When he promised her a family, a home and a good way of life here on Spirit Lake, she needed to believe him. He single-handedly patched the rift between her and her father over Cole.
Simply put, Kipp could do no wrong in her father's eyes. If she occasionally had doubts about loving Kipp as deeply as she should, she would tuck them away. He was “steady,” a man that a woman would be a fool not to try and love. Even her mother had agreed Kipp represented everything that Cole was not.
Then the fishing accident stole Kipp and her father. Both of them drowned in the blink of a cold day. All the doubts about Kipp were never played out. The wedding dress was returned, the VFW hall rented out to someone else's party.
Her heart feeling heavy, Laurel put the photo back. Maybe she should be glad Cole charged back in her life. His presence was a reminder that she'd gotten on with things. Her life held no room for men overloaded with testosterone. Men like Cole were interruptions in a woman's life, that's all. That's what her father had claimed all along.
She hurried out to the shed behind the cabin, taking the long way outside instead of through the breezeway to grab a stout twig on her way. She would fashion it into a perch for the owl. When she arrived at his cage, she found him huddled in a corner.
“My poor little Owlsy. At least you're standing up a bit perkier."
A brown-flecked broken wing hung crooked. She would tend to it once he'd acclimated himself more. She fastened the branch across the inside of the cage, raised the heat lamp and slid a water dropper bottle in place between the spaces in the hardware wire mesh. He jumped back, opening his beak to threaten her. Her heart tharumped for him.
“I'm going into town now and when I get back, we'll see about wrapping that wing. And I want you to try that perch and consider how good this water will taste. You hear?"
She moved on to clean the other cages and replenish food. Rusty the fox licked her fingers through his wires and gulped down his soft dogfood the moment she slid the bowl through the wire hatch on the front of the cage. Laurel giggled, then an intrusive thought sobered her. She couldn't help but think about Cole over there with dried food and nothing else to eat. She shook her head, though, wishing away the distraction and quelling her nurturing instincts. Let Jim Swenson offer him a meal.
She finished up chores, tossing hay to the deer and ground corn to her small flock of chickens that shared the pen.
In her minivan, she drove the five miles southwest along Spirit Lake to Dresden. The wildflowers crowding the edges of the road kept reminding her of Cole. Not now, but back then. In their meadow.
She punched on the air
conditioning. When had it gotten so hot?
She stopped at the bank first to cash a couple of checks from the wildlife foundations that helped support her. The checks were meager—and she wondered why her father had been so stubborn as to send back Cole's checks? Or not tell her about them?
Chiding herself to quit thinking about Cole, she then went to the post office to retrieve her medical supplies shipped from a Superior veterinarian clinic. Would Cole get to the doctor without her?
After putting the supplies in her van, five small children accosted her with smiles. She wondered what Cole's son was like, now in hiding, not in the sunshine, and probably not smiling. It made the pit of her stomach ache.
A little blond cherub bounced up and down. “Laurel, Laurel, we have baby ducks in our backyard."
“We call them ducklings,” Laurel said, tousling the girl's blonde curls and giving her a quick hug.
“Yeah, baby duck ducklings. Quackers."
The kids screamed with giggles. Laurel grinned. “Anybody here want a taffy apple?"
They hopped up and down, arms stretched high. “Me! Me!"
“Come on then."
Laurel herded her brood down the sidewalk crowded with vacationers, then into the small grocery operated by her friends Una and Ted Watkins. She and Una had met in college. After visiting Dresden, Una fell in love with its quiet pace. When the grocer retired, Una and Ted bought it the same day.
While the children picked out the apples coated with the most caramel and nuts, Laurel found herself wondering how tasteless dried soup mixed with lake water would be? Hadn't he loved her fried egg sandwiches once upon a time?
After ringing up the apples and scooting the children back into the outdoors, Una asked, “You gonna tell me what's making you look like a ghost today or do I have to drag it out of you?"
Laurel picked up a shopping basket and headed for the fruit aisle. She grabbed a fat orange. “Can I get a crate of these? My orioles love them, but I discovered they seem to perk up baby squirrels."
Una crossed her arms. “They're on special. As is my listening. Now tell me what gives."
Laurel set her basket on the cantaloupes. “Cole's back."
Una's eyes grew wide. “The guy you couldn't talk about in college without grinding your teeth? The man who..."
“The same.” Laurel's heart grew heavy as stone. She related Cole's story to Una.
Una whistled. “Holy cow. Don't you think you ought to tell all this to David?"
Laurel frowned. She and David Huber graduated the same year from high school. He was one of the few who hadn't shunned or avoided her after the fateful summer with Cole. He insisted she hang onto a dream—any dream. When he went off to college to become a lawyer, he insisted she come along, even if she'd spent her last dime bailing Cole out of jail and paying for property damage they'd caused, and paying her father back over the ensuing years. And while many young people got jobs in other towns and didn't return, David had. She liked that about him. With him here, she felt she could also return. She knew their friendship could develop into something more if she'd let it.
“No,” Laurel said, rubbing her hands against her sleeves, “You know David worries worse than my mother."
Una frowned. “Then you haven't seen David recently?"
“I've been too busy and the sheriff delivered an owl this morning that needs attention. Why?"
She didn't like the way Una swallowed before speaking. “It seems a couple days back someone wrote an anonymous letter asking that the township not raze the old mansion. David stopped in this morning for a can of coffee and mentioned to me he got another letter just yesterday asking about the deed, and that he'd need to talk to you."
Laurel froze. “Cole couldn't have written those letters."
She handed her empty shopping basket to Una, fear pelting her to a numbness. “He can't move back into that place. I won't have it, Una. He'll find out everything. I can't re-live that. I'm happy now. Very happy."
“He won't move back. David will think of something."
Laurel left the store to find David.
Out on the street, a prickle crawling up the back of her neck halted her. She turned, and there Cole stood anchored across the crowded street, leaning against the corner of the stone building that housed the drugstore.
His hawkish gaze meant only one thing. Cole knew something he was aching to discuss. With her. Now. And he wasn't particularly happy about it either.
* * * *
“LAUREL!"
Cole saw the mane of red hair toss when she spun and headed in the opposite direction. By the time he limped into the fray of the sidewalk and watched for a break in the traffic he'd lost her. He cursed to himself, then supposed confronting her could wait. He had to adjust to new worries.
He'd followed her advice about getting medical attention, but the officious Dr. Donna Corcoran mumbled something about certain injuries being reportable to the law. Before he knew it, Cole ended up with a date to see the sheriff later. Cole then visited the local weekly newspaper office before picking up the antibiotics the doctor prescribed. What he had read fueled his confusion.
The messy Dresden Chronicle's morgue yielded a yellowed edition from ten years ago. Its front page story about her engagement to a Kipp O'Donnell proved Laurel had fallen in love after Cole left town. Why then had she made it seem that Cole had ruined her life forever? It was a lie. Lies weren't part of the Laurel he had known. That niggled at him. To him, Laurel was like an exquisite vase. To find a crack in perfect beauty sent the owner in a rage to know who did it and how it happened.
Her friend who had given him a ride to Dresden revealed little. Jim Swenson talked about the new beaver pond built upstream from the Tilden place, and the return of eagles over the past few years. Cole took note of the reverence in Jim's voice when describing how Laurel helped release a young pair of eagles off the scenic cliff near her cabin. It was the same cliff where he and Laurel had once watched nighthawks chase the moon.
Cole shook his head. While she flew with eagles, he dealt with turkeys like Rojas.
He glanced around. Could he forget Rojas for the moment? Under the sunny sky and a backdrop of whispering pines, far from oceans and gunshots in trainyards, perhaps he could. He needed to ask Laurel all the questions he'd failed to earlier. About her family, her life, everything. He needed to prove to her—no, first he needed to prove to himself and to his son—that he cared about the feelings of others.
He scanned the bobbing heads in hopes of spotting her. When his gaze hit the hardware store he remembered Laurel mentioning a Gary Christianson. Perhaps Gary could fill in the blanks about Laurel's life.
* * * *
A STEP INSIDE the store brought smells reminiscent of his brother's marina and a catch caught at his heart. The pungent odor of oil and grease mingled with paint and hemp ropes. Everything had its place above a spic and span gray tile floor. Mike must have appreciated it. Had he been in this store? Probably, Cole thought, tamping down an icy finger of darkness threatening to mist up his eyes. Whoever said big boys didn't cry was a fool.
A stout man with a thatch of blond hair and flushed cheeks strode up the aisle carrying a towering box of flags. Cole noted “Gary” on the embroidered shirt pocket.
Gary plopped the flags next to the counter and grinned. “Howdy. The Fourth's ‘round the corner. Ever seen our little town gussied up for it?"
Cole's heart tripped a beat. He'd forgotten about the parade and fireworks he'd watched with Laurel. “No, I haven't,” he lied, feeling an odd pang of resentment that he needed to lie.
“Then you're in for a treat. Stayin’ that long?"
“I'm not sure.” He imagined not living with fear for a partner. Instead, he and Laurel would sit side by side on lawn chairs and watch a parade, with Laurel waving a flag and smiling at him. The Fourth was almost a month away. Did he dare stay that long? What if Rojas showed up? Cole didn't like thinking about a shootout on Dresden's Main Street.
Having more doubts again about prying into Laurel's past and getting involved, Cole muttered about needing tools. Gary hopped to the task of finding the best brands and selections, from a crowbar to a battery-powered stud finder. Cole pulled out the last of his cash.
Gary asked, “You must have quite the building project."
“More like tearing down."
“Where at?"
Cole found himself grasping. “Laurel Hastings hired me to help salvage odds and ends in the Tilden mansion."
“Almost forgot that old gangster's place is going to be fire department tinder any day."
“Gangster's place?"
“Yup. Lots of these big mansions on lakes in northern Wisconsin were built around the turn of the century by the Chicago crime families. Kind of a getaway,” Gary said, chuckling.
“How appropriate,” Cole muttered. But what about his great-aunt? “I thought a lady lived there for many years."
“Sure did. Rumor is she was romantically involved with a gangster. Some say he gave it to her as a gift."
While Gary took tags off the tools, Cole stood silent, barely managing to contain his questions. Was any of this true? His parents never uttered a word, but why would they? Was Flora the family outcast? Had she married into the mob? Was that why the property had been abandoned or forgotten by his family? Had Mike discovered anything about this rumor?
He asked Gary, the talking tourist brochure, “Do you think there's a vault out there?"
“As in something built underground? With loot?” He rang up the tools. “Not likely that after all these years you'd find buried treasure."
“What about blueprints? Historical society or library nearby?” Cole was desperate.
“No, but you might ask the town clerk, Attorney David Huber. He and Laurel likely discussed the rumors."
“Why's that?” Cole asked.
“David tells me they talked about refurbishing the mansion at one time but Laurel discouraged him."
“Because she wants to return the land to its natural state. Jim Swenson explained that she received some government grant. Something about creating meadows to bring back the elk population."
Spirit Lake Page 7
