Murder Grins and Bears It

by Deb Baker

  Fred headed for the truck and began to circle it at a trot.

  Once I was sure that Grandma was safely back in the house, I opened the passenger door, Fred leapt into the cab, and we watched the world go by in slow motion.

  A little later, Cora Mae and Kitty pulled up, but I ducked down in my seat, feeling the need for my own private space. Fred, sleeping by my side, was also out of view. From my side mirror I saw George come around from the back. Cora Mae fluffed her hair, bumped out her Wonderbra’d breasts and went for him like a guided missile.

  Kitty stomped over, too, and the three of them wandered toward the backyard.

  I risked another peek out at the road. I worried that if I looked away from the road for even a second, that might be the exact time my target would drive by and I’d end up sitting here for nothing.

  Sure enough, there he came, driving by without as much as a glance at my house, like a man on a mission.

  I started the truck, intent on making a stealthy getaway. But Fred must have jiggled a few buttons when he jumped in, because the truck’s siren started blaring. Kitty lumbered toward the driveway to see what the commotion was about, but I quickly turned off the siren and blew out of the yard.

  So much for stealth.

  But I had my man in my sights, and he didn’t seem to react to the noise coming from my house.

  ****

  Carl Anderson, the shifty-eyed sneak, sure seemed to be chow down a lot of food lately. In fact, every time I saw him, he had extra food tucked in a bag under his arm. And that casserole.

  What kind of Yooper male makes a casserole for his card-playing buddies? He’d be laughed right out of the game. Card-playing men brought jerky and beer and maybe a bag of chips to the table. That was it. And George knew nothing about any poker game that night.

  And when was the last time Carl had asked about Little Donny?

  Never. That’s when. He’d never asked if Little Donny had been found.

  Why?

  Because he knew exactly where Little Donny was holed up. And Carl was feeding him.

  Carl’s station wagon turned right at the four-way stop in downtown Stonely, then made another right onto Porcupine Trail. I stayed back as far as I dared. The Trouble Buster stood out like a canary among sparrows, with its yellow paint job and fancy lettering, and I worried that he’d spot me.

  It dawned on me when we ended up on Porcupine Trail, and I thumped myself on the head with my hand for my denseness.

  It should have been obvious all along.

  Sure enough, I saw Carl pull into Grandma Johnson’s driveway and hide his car from the road by driving around behind a row of cedars.

  What a perfect hideout. Since Grandma was now living with me, her house was vacant and secluded, the ideal place to hide if people are searching for you.

  I continued driving down Porcupine Trail until Carl had enough time to get inside the house. Then I swung around, ran the truck through a shallow ditch, and parked at the far end of my mother-in-law’s property.

  Fred and I trudged through the brush and approached the house from the rear. Peeking through a window, I saw Little Donny talking to Carl. I almost fell to my knees with relief. Instead, I wiped a stray tear away and sunk down under the window with my knees up by my chest while Fred mauled me and licked my face.

  All I wanted to do was cry long and hard now that I knew my grandson was alive. Cry and hug him and then swat him and Carl for worrying me so much. But I knew I had to pull myself together.

  “Get off me, you big slobber,” I whispered to Fred, crawling from under the window and rising. “My grandson has some explaining to do. Let’s go.”

  I wondered if having conversations with your dog was less crazy than babbling to yourself when no one else was around.

  I guess it depended on whether or not the dog answered.

  Fred grinned and ran for the steps.

  ****

  “I must have been sleeping pretty soundly,” Little Donny said, while we huddled at Grandma’s kitchen table and watched him pound down Carl’s bag of day-old bear bakery. He slapped his hands together to shake off the crumbs and didn’t look like he’d been through nearly the wear-and-tear I had trying to find him. “Because they were already by the bait pile when I woke up. I never heard them coming.”

  Carl chimed in. “There were two of them and they couldn’t see Little Donny because he was stashed inside the brush in case a bear showed up.” I had already guessed as much because I’d seen the flattened grass. “You were supposed to be awake and watching for bear action,” Carl admonished him.

  “Did they say anything?” I asked.

  Little Donny nodded. “One said his integrity wasn’t for sale and he wasn’t going through with it. The other one didn’t say anything, but the first one kept talking like he was trying to explain himself. Like he didn’t want to have to do it but he had no choice. I couldn’t see much because I was flat on the ground and the brush was thick. But I could see them from about the knees down. One had on brown pants like a uniform and the other wore green coveralls, the kind you buy at the farm and equipment store and he had on workboots.”

  “Then what happened?” I took my notebook out of my big purse and started writing.

  “They began pushing each other, and I couldn’t believe it but the one with green coveralls ran over and grabbed my rifle that was leaning against the tree. The other guy started backing up, saying this could be worked out.”

  Little Donny’s hand shook when he picked up his coffee cup and took a drink. “The overalled one said, ‘Too late,’ and he fired the rifle point-blank at the other guy, who fell over, and I knew right then he was dead. I almost died myself from shock.”

  I reached over and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been through a lot for a nineteen-year-old.”

  Little Donny shoved another doughnut in his mouth to keep from bawling, and Carl helped out with the story. “Little Donny yelped when the rifle went off and the guy heard him. Isn’t that right?”

  Little Donny’s eyes looked older than mine. “I took off running when he swung around. He pulled off another shot and I ran as hard as I could. He had an ATV that I didn’t know about until I heard it start up, and then he was trying to chase me through the trees on the machine.”

  “Only Little Donny was smart,” Carl added. “He kept moving through the denser woods where the ATV couldn’t run. You raise ‘em right, Gertie.”

  “Thanks, Carl,” I said, chilled at how close I’d come to losing my grandson.

  “While I ran, I dropped my clothes because orange is so easy to spot,” Little Donny continued. “I’d stripped down to nothing but my pants, and then I found the thickest brush and hunkered down. He drove by without seeing me, but for a split second I thought I was a goner. After, I made my way here and jimmied the back door lock.”

  “Then he called me,” Carl said. “Lucky for him, the phone wasn’t disconnected.”

  I hadn’t turned off any of Grandma Johnson’s utilities because I hoped she’d move back home soon. My mental health depended on believing that.

  “Your prints are on the arrows in Billy Lundberg’s back,” I said.

  “I looked over Carl’s arrows, thinking I might try bow hunting next time.”

  “Did you get a good look at the killer?”

  “Not a real good look, but I think I’d know him if I saw him again.”

  “I asked the same thing,” Carl said. “Little Donny said he didn’t have any distinguishing features.”

  “A big guy,” Little Donny said.

  “All us Swedes and Finns are large,” Carl replied. “It could have been anybody.”

  “Did he see you real good?” I needed to know.

  Little Donny shrugged. “Probably about the same as I saw him.”

  “What happened to your cap?”

  “Like I said, I flung everything off.”

  “And Billy found it and put it on.”

  To me, a flock
of illegal birds hardly seemed like a motive for multiple murders.

  “When Carl told me that a warrant had been issued for my arrest, we decided I better hide until this blows over.”

  Well, this situation wasn’t a light breeze. It was more like a tornado, and I wasn’t sure it would blow over without some interference on my part.

  “You can’t tell anyone that I’m here,” Little Donny said.

  “Your parents are suffering.” I said.

  “You know how mom is? Tell her and she’ll never keep it a secret.”

  Heather was a blabbermouth. Always had been. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

  “You can’t hide forever,” Carl said.

  “What’s that on your arms?” I noticed the familiar welts.

  “I must have got into some stinging nettle when I was hiding,” Little Donny said. “Man, does it itch.”

  “He’s a hunted man,” Carl said.

  Carl could say that again. If the killer thought Little Donny got a good look at him, my grandson had more than the law to worry about.

  chapter 14

  Black bears are an integral part of life in the U.P. But if anyone tells you we have grizzlies, don’t believe them because it isn’t true. If anyone tries to tell you how dangerous our bears are, don’t listen to them. Unless, of course, you encounter a mama with her cubs.

  Then you better run like…well…like you have a killer bear on your butt.

  Fat chance of getting away, though, because our bears, in spite of their slow, clumsy gait, can outrun any human alive. And once they catch you, you’re shredded cabbage.

  That’s what happened to BB Smith when he decided to wandered away from his stinky bait pile to relieve himself against a Michigan conifer.

  “Never, ever, leave your weapon behind,” Walter said to him. “Why do you Detroit boys always have to learn everything the hard way?”

  We were sitting around Walter Laasko’s cluttered table, having ended the usual standoff in his yard.

  “I survived, didn’t I?” BB’s bandaged arm hung in a sling and he bore several stitches for nasty gashes on his cheeks.

  “And who do you have to thank for that?” Remy asked. “Me, that’s who.” Remy turned in my direction. “I heard him screaming and thrashing around in the bushes and so I came running. I didn’t want to shoot at the bear because what if I hit BB instead? I didn’t want to get too close in case she went for me, so I shot in the air a few times and she ran away.”

  Walter groaned. “Another thing I tell you over and over, practice shooting for hunting season before you get up here. What good does a rifle do if you can’t hit what you shoot at?” He reached over to the counter and held up a coffee pot. “Gertie, how about some coffee? It’s still hot.”

  I nodded and Walter poured some in a cup. It oozed out of the pot thick, like city sewer sludge, and it smelled old. He handed it to me.

  “This calls for a little snort,” he said, unscrewing the cap on a bottle of brandy. I wondered how many of Walter’s special occasions called for a shot or two. It seemed like every visit deserved an alcoholic toast.

  I held a hand over my cup while Walter poured booze for the three brothers. Soon Marlin, Remy, and BB Smith would be running around in the backwoods, fired up on brandy, sporting weapons they couldn’t shoot straight even when stone cold sober.

  That’s life in the northern woods during hunting season.

  “The bear cub was so cute,” BB said, slurping brandy tinged with a splash of coffee. “Looked almost like a big furry puppy. I thought it was lost in the woods. Friendly little thing.”

  “Another hunting rule flushed down the toilet,” Walter crabbed. “Never approach a bear cub, ’cause the mother bear is always someplace nearby.”

  “I’ve never seen such a black bear,” Marlin said.

  “That’s why they call them black bears,” Walter said, not bothering to hide the disgust in his voice.

  “I saw one out west, it was brown,” Remy said.

  “Well, ours are black.” Walter tasted his coffee and added more brandy.

  “How’s the stinging nettle, Walter?” I asked, wondering how to ditch my cup of mud.

  Walter rubbed his arm. “A little better. I spit on it as soon as I realized what happened and applied baking soda when I got home. That did the trick.”

  “It’s odd that an old pro like you would get caught up in nettle.”

  “Happens to the best of us.” We looked at each other. Walter grinned and I saw gaps in the front of his mouth where teeth used to be.

  “Maybe you can show me where it is so I can look out for it,” I fibbed. “I don’t know what stinging nettle looks like.”

  “I’ll show you as soon as we wrap up here.”

  Ordinarily at a pause in the conversation like this, we would have one of our traditional Yooper silences where we regroup and move on to another topic. But the Detroit boys weren’t used to our ways, and the quiet bothered them. I could see them squirming, trying to think of something to keep the conversation going.

  “Let’s tell her about the warden,” BB said, gleefully breaking the silence.

  “Let’s not,” Marlin said, flatly, his coffee cup frozen in midair.

  “Too late, blabbermouth,” Remy said.

  “She’s not going to turn you in,” Walter said. “She’s one of us.”

  I looked over at Walter, sitting at his dirty table with brandy on his morning breath and no teeth in his head, and wondered when I became one of him. It must have snuck up on me so slowly while living all these years in the backwoods that I didn’t notice until it was way too late.

  But a private investigator is like an American Indian shapeshifter - mysterious, elusive, and able to blend in whenever she needs to. I decided to take Walter’s comment as a compliment despite its potential to insult.

  “Tell me what happened,” I said to BB, remembering his words that first day I met him, something about a warden wanting to arrest him.

  “They were shining way back by that last bait pile,” Walter said. “And they got caught.”

  “Shining” involves hunting at night with spotlights, and it’s illegal. Out-of-towners like to drive down our back roads after dark, piles of them stuffed into trucks, looking for good spots to shine their lights and take wild shots at startled animals. Unfortunately, our local warden, Rolly, rarely catches them.

  I scowled for effect.

  “I know,” BB said, reading my face. “We shouldn’t have been doing it and we didn’t catch anything anyway so it doesn’t matter. But we were sitting there by the bait pile minding our own business when we heard an ATV coming. We thought it was Walter so we didn’t hide.”

  “Pretty soon the ATV stopped at the edge of our light,” Remy said. “And we saw that it was a DNR agent and we were caught right there with the spotlight on our bait pile and rifles and no good excuse.”

  “We thought we were going to jail for sure,” Marlin agreed.

  “When was this?” I said.

  “Real early in the morning when it was still dark, the same day that warden was killed.”

  I perked right up, and it wasn’t because of the caffeine. The Detroit boys must have been the last to see Warden Hendricks alive, other than Little Donny and the killer in overalls.

  “What did he look like?” I said.

  BB shrugged. “He stayed in the shadows but he had on the clothes. You can’t mistake that brown uniform for anything else.”

  “And he had a sidearm,” Marlin added.

  “And he talked real slow like John Wayne,” BB added. “He said he was in a hurry to get somewhere but we should wait around and he’d be back to arrest us.”

  “‘Sit tight,’ that’s what he told us.” Remy leaned over and said, confidential-like, “Yeah, right, like we’d wait there because he told us to. How dumb does he think we are?”

  “Yeah,” Marlin said, and added, “We came back to our trailer and hid the spotlight and went
out again at dawn. But we stayed clear of that bait pile and we had our story worked out. It would be our word against his. Three against one. Later that morning we heard he’d been killed.”

  I shot a glance at Walter.

  He could easily have followed the warden on his own ATV. And he had a motive. The warden had threatened three of his paying customers with jail time, and judging by the meagerness of his furnishings, Walter couldn’t afford to lose the additional income.

  “What do you think about all this?” I asked him, my eyes skimming over the stinging nettle welts on his arms.

  “Bunch a’ fools,” Walter said, kicking back from the table and mistakenly thinking my question was aimed at his guests rather than at the general situation. “Let’s go. I’ll show you the stinging nettle now.”

  “We’re headed back out to hunt,” BB said, and they all rose, draining the last dregs of coffee and brandy and gathering their equipment.

  “Guess it’s just you and me then.” Walter gave me a toothless grin and picked up his sawed-off shotgun.

  “Oh, look at the time,” I said, feigning a glance at my watch. “I have to run. I’ll take a rain check on that offer.”

  “In the meantime, watch where you walk,” Walter said. “It’s dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Studying his expressionless face, I couldn’t decide whether or not I’d just been threatened.

  I beat it out of there before the Detroit boys vacated the premises. No way was I going to get trapped alone with Walter.

  ****

  I drove home, mulling over the new developments.

  An experienced private investigator solves the crime through a process of elimination. I’d been practicing by solving sudoku logic puzzles in our local newspaper. They require patience and the ability to reason, using different variables and different patterns. Guessing and scribbling down a random number doesn’t work in sudoku and it doesn’t work in my business.