by Deb Baker
Only I wasn’t here for small talk.
“A warden was killed yesterday. You hear anything about that?”
“Just that he’s dead,” Walter said.
“Who told you?” I sipped my coffee, noticing Cora Mae hadn’t touched hers. She slid her chair back as far from the table as possible.
“The Detroit boys came in from the bait pile early yesterday. They knew.”
“You’re still renting out bait piles to out-of-towners?”
Walter nodded.
“Where are they staying?”
“I’ve got a trailer out back.”
Leasing chunks of land to hunters is common practice around Stonely. There aren’t many jobs to speak of, and taxes have to be paid on the properties, so some people have resorted to renting to the city boys, most of them coming from Chicago or Detroit. However, it’s not a popular way to add income, and those who do it generally don’t make announcements to the community.
“My grandson seems to be missing,” I continued. “Anybody around here see him?”
Walter shook his head back and forth. He rolled up the sleeves of his worn, red flannel shirt and took a long gulp of his coffee. I noticed red welts skittering over his arms.
“Looks like you got yourself into a mess of stinging nettles,” I said.
“I was sicklin’ brush over on the side of the south fence, and must’a got in it there. Didn’t even notice till I was done. Stuff runs for miles all along the fencing on that side.”
Stinging nettle can grow as tall as a large man. It looks wispy and harmless along the edges of clearings, snuggling up against fences and outbuildings where people tend to walk. Then it waits patiently for some poor sucker to come wading through it. If you rub up against it, small hairs poke through your exposed skin injecting formic acid, the welts leap up, and the itching starts and goes on forever.
I heard you can boil and eat the new growth of a stinging nettle--that could come in handy if you were lost and starving. Boiling supposedly neutralizes the acid. Of course, you’d need a pair of gloves to pick it and a pot to boil it in, which aren’t convenient items to locate out in the woods.
Lost and starving reminded me of my mission.
“I need to find Little Donny,” I said, draining my coffee. “Maybe the Detroit boys know something useful. How many piles are they sitting on?”
Walter scratched his welts. “Three. But they’re buried deep. Can’t drive your truck in.”
“No, but your ATV ought to do just dandy.”
****
The ATV was painted in camouflage, or camo as we like to call it. Brown with large green leaves. And it roared like a souped-up racecar down the path Walter had pointed out to us.
“Hang on tight,” I called over my shoulder to Cora Mae as I opened up the machine on a straight stretch. “Let’s see what it’ll do.”
I was having so much fun, I almost blew right past the first bait pile.
Pre-work is everything in bear hunting. Since a bear travels in a circuit ranging from several days to several weeks, a hunter tries to hold him in an area as long as possible by enticing him with tantalizing treats. The smellier, the better.
I smelled the pile before I saw it.
Pulling over, I crawled off the ATV, adjusted my oversized weapons handbag on my shoulder, and began surveying the site.
The Detroit boys sat like ants on a log and watched. Cora Mae noticed them immediately. She patted her hair and re-tucked her blouse. Then she made more detailed clothing adjustments, slowing down for their benefit, opening a button on her blouse, and fanning herself like she was overheating.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I snorted. “Give it a rest.”
They must have heard us coming a long way off, which is the disadvantage of the ATV mode of travel. You aren’t going to be sneaking up on anybody. I suppose I looked pretty ridiculous driving up in blazing orange and freshly mended suspender pants riding on a camo ATV, but they didn’t notice my attire since they were all staring at Cora Mae, the sandwiches clutched in their paws forgotten.
I have to give it to Cora Mae. She can turn a man’s head no matter his age. He can be twenty years older or twenty years younger than she is. She’s definitely got sex appeal.
These three men were in their early fifties, give or take a few years, and they looked alike. Large round faces and large facial features with big honking noses and wide-set eyes.
“Hey, boys,” Cora Mae called, strolling over, apparently in her element. “Let’s introduce ourselves.”
The boys turned out to be brothers – Marlin Smith, Remy Smith, and BB Smith – and none too bright. Detroit schools must not turn out too many rocket scientists. But I had to admire the creativity of their parents. While I’d named Blaze, Heather, and Star after horses, the Detroit boys were named after firearms.
“It smells like someone died,” I said, after making sure the odor wasn’t floating over from the boys. “What a stench.”
They seemed to notice me for the first time. Marlin pointed at a five-gallon bucket hanging from a large tree branch. “Walter goes smelting in the spring, throws a bunch of them in a bucket, seals it, and lets it sit all summer in the garage. Then we string it up and I shoot a hole in it with my twenty-two so it dribbles out onto the ground. Have to shoot a hole a little lower every day to keep it dripping. Works like a charm.”
I scrunched my nose. “See any action yet?”
“Not yet, but somebody has. Been hearing shots on and off all morning.”
BB grinned at Cora Mae. “How about some lunch?”
Cora Mae and I settled in with turkey sandwiches and cold Budweiser beers. We traded dumb bear stories for a while before I got to the point.
“A warden was killed out this way yesterday,” I said.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Marlin said with a nasty little smirk. His brothers laughed.
“You know the guy?”
Remy chimed in, through a mouth packed with bread. “Don’t need to, they’re all alike. DNR agents used to be hunters, meaning once upon a time they thought like hunters, like us. Now they’re all a bunch of tree huggers with fancy degrees.”
I nodded. “Yup. The DNR’s been infiltrated by those Sierra guys.”
“And don’t ask the DNR anything, or right away they want to arrest you.” BB Smith added.
I glanced at him sharply. “Someone want to arrest you?”
BB looked startled. “Uh, no.”
“My grandson’s lost out here,” I said, taking a bite of my turkey sandwich and noticing Marlin frown at BB. “You guys see at kid about nineteen?”
“Some guy walked through here coupla hours ago,” Marlin said. “Just said howdy and moved on through, heading that way.” Marlin pointed down the path in the opposite direction from Walter’s place.
I was excited. “Was he big and wearing orange?”
“Yep,” Marlin said, taking a swig of beer. “That was him all right.”
I jumped up and pried Cora Mae away from an eyeball stare she had going with BB Smith. “Come on, Cora Mae, I know that was him.”
“Half the men around here are wearing orange. It could be anybody.” Cora Mae brushed herself off, slowly running her hands over the front of her blouse. BB actually drooled.
“Gotta go,” I said heading for the ATV with Cora Mae in tow. I thought of something and turned back. “Has the sheriff been through asking questions?”
“You’re the first.”
Figures. I’m always one step ahead of my son. He must be too busy doggy sitting to do any real investigating.
“I don’t know what it is about you, Cora Mae.” I said as we thundered down a wide trail used by snowmobiles in the winter. “You always manage to pick out the dumbest one in the pack, quite a feat considering the limited choices back there.”
“Nothing at all wrong with dumb,” Cora Mae replied.
****
The other two bait piles were pretty much like the fi
rst. The Smith brothers had strung smelt buckets at each of them, so it wasn’t any trouble finding them. We followed our noses. The piles were deserted for the moment, since all the boys were together and busy stuffing their faces. There was no sign of Little Donny.
Cora Mae held a white embroidered hanky over her nose and mouth, and mumbled. “Big and wearing orange isn’t much to go on.”
“It was him,” I insisted. “I have a feeling.”
We drove past the last of Walter’s piles and came to a fork in the trail. Normally we’d have to make a decision about which way was the correct one, but in our case, it was handled for us. The ATV conked out right at the fork, and refused to start up again.
I jumped off and checked the gas. Bone dry.
“You’d think,” I said to Cora Mae, “Walter could have made sure we had enough gas.”
Cora Mae didn’t speak, just looked up at the treetops and frowned. I followed her gaze and saw rain clouds forming above us in dark, angry swirls. The birds were flittering past, heading for cover.
“You didn’t happen to bring an umbrella?” I said, perching my Blublocker sunglasses on the top of my head.
Apparently Cora Mae was giving me the silent treatment, like it was my fault we were out of gas and stranded in a thunderstorm.
The sky opened up and pelted us with large, wet drops.
“Head for the trees,” I called, and we scampered for the canopy. I tried holding my handbag over my head for protection, but almost clonked myself silly from the weight of the weapons landing on my head. Almost broke my sunglasses, too.
Cora Mae had on those strapped sandals with high heels she’s so fond of, so I reached the trees ahead of her.
That’s why I was first to spot the body.
I crammed four white knuckles into my mouth to stop the scream rising in my throat. My knees buckled beneath me and I leaned heavily against a tree for support. I slid down the tree and sat there with my legs straight out in front of me.
Life passed before my eyes just like they say it does when you’re near the end. Only it wasn’t my life snuffed out.
Was it Little Donny?
I thought of my favorite grandson visiting every summer since he was a little tyke, wanting to know everything there was to know about hunting and fishing. Always was the curious one, wanting to go back to the beginning, to his roots. He wasn’t one for that fancy Milwaukee city life Heather forced on him. I’d been hoping that one day soon he’d move to Stonely and live close by.
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and Cora Mae came into focus. She brushed past me and walked toward the body, which was lying face down partially covered by a pile of leaves.
Two long arrows jutted out of the dead man’s back.
Cora Mae floated in slow motion, blocking my view, then she was hauling on his jacket from the back and moving around to his other side and pushing, struggling to turn him enough so she could see his face. She pushed and shoved for a long time. To give her credit, she could be tough as toenails when she had to be.
The whole time, all I could do was watch in helpless terror.
Eventually, I saw him flop back down, the arrows solidly planted. Cora Mae stood up and said something to me, but it sounded garbled, like listening to the radio between two stations. My ears felt plugged up and I had to grip my lower lip with my top teeth to stop the shaking.
I blinked fast several times and that seemed to help. “What?” I squeaked.
“It’s Billy Lundberg,” Cora Mae called.
“Billy Lundberg, the drunk?”
“How many Billy Lundbergs you think live around here?” Cora Mae had her hands on her hips, dark mascara streaks washing down her cheeks with the rain.
My knees were still weak when I pushed off from the tree and stumbled over to get a good look to make sure. Looking down, I felt a little guilty over the relief I was experiencing that Billy was dead, not Little Donny. And I was feeling giddy over being the first investigator at a crime scene.
Billy had been the town drunk since way back. He lived alone after his wife got disgusted with his bad habits, packed up the kids, and disappeared. Billy might have been socially dysfunctional, but he was a regular churchgoer. A Catholic, if I remembered right.
Billy had seen his last confessional.
“He’s not stiff yet,” I noted. “Must have happened this morning.”
His head was turned to the side. I tried to close his eyes for him like I’d seen on television, but they wouldn’t go.
“The eyes are the first things to stiffen up,” I explained to Cora Mae, wondering if I was right.
We were standing side by side over Billy, both shocked and thinking about what to do next. The rain wasn’t letting up, but it didn’t matter anymore. The two of us looked like we’d just climbed out of Lake Michigan after a nice swim with our clothes on. Cora Mae’s top was plastered to her chest and her jet-black hair was hanging around her face in little dripping curls.
A steady mixture of blood and rain slithered away from the body.
“Give me a hand, I said, wiping water from my face. “We better search him.”
“Touching a dead body gives me the willies.”
“You just about bear-mauled him a few minutes ago.” Cora Mae’s been around more dead bodies than anyone I know. She buried three husbands and every one of them she found dead by herself.
“All right,” Cora Mae agreed. “I’ll check his pants.”
Figures.
Billy wasn’t carrying much – a ring of keys, a wallet with two dollars and a driver’s license, and a pocketknife. A travel mug tipped on its side lay next to the body. I didn’t have to sniff too close to the rim to know it had been filled with straight whiskey.
“Wonder what Billy was doing way out here?” Cora Mae said.
“Probably got too drunk to find his way out. He’s done it before.” I studied the two arrows jutting from his back and walked around to try to follow traces of blood. “Looks like he crawled for a while.”
I watched the rain begin to wash away the trail.
“Let’s get out of here,” Cora Mae said.
We started down the path leading out of the woods. I guessed it was going to be quite a hike. But we hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard thrashing in among the trees, a few loud shouts, and a bone-chilling howl.
Blaze and No-Neck Sheedlo came stumbling out of the brush, pulled rapidly by frothing Fred. Fred was straining against the lead in the direction of Billy Lundberg’s body, and the two fat boys were struggling to slow the beast down.
Blaze was too winded to say a word, which is just how I like him. He leaned over and gasped.
“Any luck?” I asked. “Finding anything unusual out in the woods, son? You ought to have the case almost solved, what with that smart dog and all.”
I waited patiently for Blaze to catch his breath. Sheedlo wrapped the end of the leash around a small tree and knotted it. Fred, temporarily forgetting his mission, got busy peeing on each side of the tree. When he finished marking the tree, he apparently remembered why he was out here in the first place and started lunging against the leash.
“Haven’t found Little Donny yet, if that’s what you’re asking,” Blaze managed to wheeze. His wet pants clung to his chunky legs, which were splattered with mud clear up to his knees. “What in the world are you two doing out here, Ma?”
“Visiting.”
“Fred picked up Little Donny’s scent and we followed it for awhile,” Blaze said, raggedly, pointing vaguely into the woods. “Then he lost it. We were just about ready to quit and call it a day when Fred let loose, howling and carrying on.”
Blaze sat down on a fallen tree, and I noticed the rain had stopped. I could see the squall moving away as quickly as it had appeared, leaving us soaked and chilled.
Blaze took off his sheriff’s hat and wiped his face with his arm.
“This is too much like work for me,” he said. “Never been much of a runner.” Or
a walker, swimmer, or exerciser, I thought. Anything requiring calorie loss scared Blaze.
I heard a rifle shot in the distance. Then another.
Fred began making more racket than an uninvited raccoon in a coop full of chickens.
“We came from down the road,” I said, studying the lunging dog. “No sign of Little Donny. But that’s the least of your problems right now. I think you’ll need that…” I pointed at the cell phone attached to Blaze’s belt. I paused for effect. “You’re gonna want to call for help with poor Billy Lundberg, who’s lying in the leaves back that way.”
“Dead drunk again, I suppose,” Blaze said.
“Something like that,” I said.
chapter 5
Deputy Dickey arrived with his entourage, wearing the same jacket he’d worn yesterday. His hair looked one day greasier too. Dickey managed to drive down the trail followed by a sheriff’s pickup truck. Volunteer deputies hung out of every window and came swarming out of the truck bed when it stopped. A dead man in the woods brings out the entire community.
Cora Mae and I gave statements while the pickup truck tried to back down the trail to find the Detroit boys for questioning. Later, BB and Marlin appeared, each driving an ATV. They wandered over to watch.
Deputy Dickey strutted over to them. “This is a containment field. Important evidence is being gathered. You’ll have to move out.” He gestured to a volunteer, who stepped closer to let the Smith boys know they meant business. The boys went back to their ATVs and Cora Mae and I followed them.
“Cops are all over our camp,” Marlin said to Cora Mae, “like flies on duct tape. You wouldn’t believe how many questions they asked us.”
Cora Mae put her hand on BB’s shoulder. “How about a ride out of here, Big Boy?”
Cora Mae’s been watching too many old movies, but BB appreciated it. He smiled wide.
“Hop on.”
Cora Mae snuggled behind BB on his ATV and I climbed up behind Marlin, clutching my weapon handbag tightly between us. One false move from the Detroit boy and he’d be rolling on the ground, zapped with my trusty stun gun. “We’re going home,” I called to Blaze.
