Murder Grins and Bears It

by Deb Baker

  chapter 16

  Once I mastered the clutch, I found myself driving toward Crevice Road. I couldn’t get the “birds of a feather” phrase out of my head. A private investigator learns to trust her instincts, and mine were telling me to follow the flocking birds. Cora Mae and Kitty were checking out Walter and his paying guests, so I headed for the raptors.

  Ted Latvala, falconer, red-tooth county resident and hostile gun-totter, had threatened to shoot me, so I planned to avoid him as much as possible rather than present myself again as a willing target.

  I wished I had brought Fred along instead of sneaking out when his eyes were closed. I hadn’t abandoned him altogether, though. Assuming that Grandma would get him if the guinea hens didn’t, I’d left him in George’s care with a firm promise from him to protect Fred from all directions and by any means necessary. George had also agreed to move the Trouble Buster truck back to its spot in my driveway, with Carl’s help, before Blaze noticed it missing.

  Once on Crevice Road, I passed Latvala’s house and pulled into the drive of the first house on the opposite side of the road. As I approached the house with my clipboard, I heard the game playing inside.

  No one came to the door when I knocked.

  I pounded until my hand hurt, then shuffled over to the window and peered in, my free hand cupped around my eyes to eliminate the glare.

  I could see the game playing on a television. It looked like the Packers were ahead, but no one was in the room. After pounding one more time, I gave up and headed for the Ford.

  The front door squeaked open as I was getting in, and a girl about seventeen peeked out. I hustled back and showed her my census identification and went through my introductory spiel.

  “My parents are watching the game at someone else’s house. You’ll have to come back later,” she said.

  “You can answer the questions. They aren’t hard.”

  A guy about her age walked past the door behind her with a guilty look on his face. I realized they were taking advantage of the absent parents and foregoing the football game for a more interesting sporting event.

  In my opinion, kids need their parents more in their teens than when they were younger, and that’s exactly the time parents think their jobs are done and stop paying close attention.

  A ten-year-old has more common sense than four sixteen-year-olds put together. Hormones begin shooting every which way, and teenaged nervous systems malfunction, causing them to lose their reasoning abilities.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, hesitantly. “I’d rather not. I’m a little busy.”

  I bet. I decided to play my hunch.

  “If you don’t answer my questions, I’ll have to find your parents and tell them.” I managed a clear tone of implied threat and leaned to the left so I could stare behind her. “You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

  Her eyes shifted away. “No. I guess I wouldn’t. What do you want?”

  We went through the family basics and I wrote her answers down for effect. “Now,” I said. “I need some information on your neighbor across the street.”

  “You can go over and ask them yourself,” she said, beginning to close the gap in the door by a few inches. I edged my foot closer in case she tried to slam it. I never had so many doors slammed in my face as I have since landing this census job.

  It’s a good thing I have a thick skin and refuse to take rejection personally.

  “Where did you say your parents were?” I asked, again looking behind her suggestively. Now I could add one more experience to my growing repertoire of private investigator tactics. Intimidating children.

  We’ll stoop to anything to solve a case.

  “I don’t know them,” she answered, resigning herself. “They keep to themselves.”

  “How many people live over there?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. We just moved in last month.”

  “Do you notice anything odd about them?”

  “Odd like how?”

  “You know. Unusual.”

  “No. Can I go now?”

  “What about his birds?”

  “What birds?”

  Reluctantly, I let her go back to whatever she was doing and spent the next ten minutes figuring out how to put Little Donny’s beater in reverse. Every time I switched gears and eased my foot off the clutch, I jumped ahead another foot. The car was close to bumping up against the garage door when I finally found the proper gear and backed out of the driveway.

  I had a livelier reception at the next house down Crevice Road.

  “Come on in, Sweetheart, and meet Joe the Man.” Joe the Man flattened himself against the wide-open door so I could enter. Then he leaned into me as I passed.

  The leer on his face wasn’t encouraging.

  “It’s halftime and the missus won’t be home for another two hours,” he said, staggering over and plopping down on a worn sofa. He patted the cushion next to him. “I can make all your dreams come true with time to spare.”

  Another leer. He had the unfocused eyeballs of someone who’d had one or two too many. The proof was scattered on the coffee table. I counted thirteen empty beer bottles, not including the one in his hand, and the game was only half over.

  He patted the cushion again.

  I sat on the arm of an easy chair instead and tried to look businesslike. I had my weapons purse slung over my shoulder and a pepper pen in the penholder of my clipboard. It looked exactly like a pen but it was guaranteed to spray any target up to six feet away. There was a good chance I’d get to try it out today.

  My next catalog order would include a pepper spray pager, designed to look exactly like a pager, but with enough Habaneros pain-inflicting attacker-protection to stop a rhino dead in its tracks. It also had a clip included so it would attach to my purse or belt for easy access.

  “Then I’ll come over there by you,” he said when I didn’t move to join him. The beer must have settled in his bottom because he was having a tough time getting up from the sofa.

  “No,” I said, sharply, fingering the pepper pen and watching him sink back down. “First you have to answer questions.”

  “Ah, coy, are you? Okay. Bring ‘em on.” He leaned back, tipped the bottle, and took a long chug, then tried to focus on me with vacant eyes.

  I decided to skip the census introduction and all the fake questions that preceded the real ones since my interviewee could pass out at any time.

  “Tell me about your neighbor, Ted Latvala.”

  Joe the Man lost the thread of our conversation when the band finished marching across Ford Field and the second half of the game was about to begin.

  “We better hurry, My Little Football,” he said. “We need to kick off.”

  His Little Football wasn’t too worried. He’d never make it off the sofa.

  “Ted Latvala.” I raised my voice and spoke slowly. “What’s he up to?”

  “I should report him,” Joe the Man blustered, refocusing, and working himself up. “Running a business out of his house without the proper license. Day and night. And the riffraff coming around…”

  I’m sure Joe the Man could define riffraff for me on one of his sober days.

  “What business? Falconry lessons? Target shooting? What?”

  “Welding or something,” he said. “They’re at it in the back shed all night long. They don’t even start till most of us are getting ready for bed. Sound carries out here and it drives me and the missus nuts.”

  “Welding?” I said. “Like soldering metal? Are you sure?”

  “Clanging and…” He turned his attention back to the game. “Lions are going to lose this one. Oh. Oh. Look at that. Run. RUN,” he screamed at the television set with more energy than I expected. Then he slumped back. “They deserve to lose playing like that.”

  My game was almost over, too. I’d lost Joe the Man to an alcoholic daze. “I have all I need. Thank you for your time.”

  “Don’t go yet. We’re jus
t getting started.” He raised a limp arm in an attempt to grab me as I passed, but his timing was off and he fell sideways on the sofa.

  “I have work to do,” I said. “Start without me.”

  ****

  Warden Hendricks had died with a bird feather in the tread of his shoe and a red bear tooth lying nearby. None of my favorite private investigators on television would have ignored those clues. Maybe birds and bears tied in with Walter and the Detroit boys, and maybe they didn’t, but I had to follow them to their natural conclusion. Only after eliminating them as possibilities would I be able to move on.

  Which led me to Ted Latvala.

  I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of dodging buckshot spray, but I had one more thing to do before going home.

  I was wearing my running shoes and dark clothes, and they’d blend into the tree line. I left my orange cap and jacket in Little Donny’s car and reluctantly decided that my weapons purse would slow me down. I tucked the pepper pen in my pocket, threw the purse on the floor, and left the Escort parked in Joe the Man’s driveway.

  I had at least an hour before his wife would return. More than enough time for a quick surveillance run without the missus discovering a strange car in the drive. I figured the Lion’s game would provide enough entertainment at Latvala’s to keep him busy so I could slip in and out undetected.

  I walked down the road without encountering any passing cars, slid into the pines along his driveway, cut into the woods, and tromped through the bramble until I came to the back of his house. Four outbuildings loomed ahead, close together, three of them sheds and one larger building behind those. They were my targets.

  The noise of cheering televised football floated on the air.

  I noted several pickup trucks in the driveway, along with the same pile of scrap vehicles I’d seen the first day of our fiery acquaintance. I stopped behind the first shed with my heart thumping in my chest and beads of nervous perspiration on my forehead. I concentrated on regular heartbeats, and when I got my nervous system under control, I peeked through a small window.

  I spotted a tractor, a lawnmower, and a snowmobile. Nothing useful.

  I’d have to check the next building, and that meant a pass right through the backyard in full view of the house. I held my breath, stilled my beating heart, and ran across the yard, stopping behind the shed-like building.

  Nothing from the house. No movement anywhere and no sound other than the game. I pressed my ear against the building and listened.

  I heard male voices close by and flattened tightly against the outer wall.

  The Packers must have scored because I heard hooting and clapping. The game was playing right inside the building next to my head - not in the house.

  Just great.

  Couldn’t they watch the game in the house like everybody else? Who hangs out in a shed during a football game?

  I rifled through my options. Although the best choice seemed to be running away as fast as I could, my curiosity wouldn’t let me. I scooted along the small building, crouched under a window on the far side of the commotion, and forced myself to look through the dirty pane.

  I fastened my eyes on the back side of three scruffy characters, all riveted to the game’s action on the other side of the room. A commercial break began, and instead of using the time to pop open another beer like most men would, they went to work.

  Joe the Man had been right about the welding. One of them clamped a welding hood on his head and flames shot from a torch in his hand. While the others watched, he attacked a piece of pipe on a workbench and sparks flew.

  I saw piles of steel and iron rods and metal gizmos everywhere. I have to confess that I know nothing about welding gadgets and equipment, but whatever these guys were making, it seemed like I’d stumbled onto a hobby group sharing a common metal-making interest.

  This surveillance run hardly seemed worth risking buckshot in my backend.

  I pulled a piece of tissue out of my pocket and dabbed it on a corner of the window, hoping to clear away a little dirt for a better view.

  A piercing wail sliced the clear September air. The window must have been set up with an intrusion detector. Dang.

  The members of the innocent hobby club jerked to attention and looked at each other. The one with the welding hood pulled it off, and I could see Ted Latvala reaching for a rifle propped against the wall. He handed it to the welder and grabbed another rifle for himself.

  The rifles triggered a response from me.

  I can handle tangling with a shotgun. You stand a chance of surviving buckshot, even a direct hit. But if Latvala’s aim was as accurate as most Yoopers and he got a bead on me through his rifle’s scope, I’d never make it to the pines alive.

  I’d been on the receiving end of weapons before. Whenever Walter drew on me, I didn’t flinch, knowing he did that to all his visitors until they identified themselves. But something told me these men might be dead serious about silencing trespassers, and I didn’t want to stick around and test the strength of my instincts.

  I ran to the third building, yanked open the door, and rushed inside. Wings beat me in my face and something alive headed out the same door I’d decided to hide behind.

  I closed it as quietly as I could and turned to squint into the dark. The only light came from two small windows. My eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom, and I didn’t like what I saw.

  I faced a shed full of birds. Not cute little yellow canaries or colorful chirping parakeets like my kids had when they were young. These were enormous, hooked-beaked, razor-clawed carnivores with staring, beady eyes. I hoped they’d been fed recently.

  They were everywhere.

  “Shhh…,” I said to them, moving stealthily to test the back window, not finding any way to open it. I plastered myself against the wall, pepper pen clutched in my fist, trapped.

  Nobody inside the bird house moved. Other than the escapee, no one’s feathers seemed ruffled that I had crashed their hen party. One bird bobbed its head in my direction.

  “What happened?” I heard someone say outside.

  “Turn off the alarm before the entire neighborhood hears it. That’s all we need. A bunch of nosy neighbors.”

  The alarm went silent.

  “Anybody see anything?”

  “I’ll check around the house. You go that way.”

  Silence.

  The birds didn’t blink. All eyes were on me.

  “For crying out loud. One of the birds is loose,” I heard Latvala say. “How many times do I have to tell you to be careful when you open the coop door?”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “That’s the same one that makes a run for it every single time it gets a chance.”

  “What a pain.”

  “How are we going to get it out of the tree?”

  “Forget the bird,” Latvala said. “It’ll show up tonight when we feed the rest. Check the perimeter. The alarm went off for a reason.”

  “I think the bird hit the window and triggered the sensors.”

  “I didn’t hear a thud.”

  “The game was pretty loud. So was the welding.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. The last voice that spoke was directly outside. My head must be three inches from his. I had my trusty pepper pen, but it wasn’t going to buy me much time against three scoped weapons.

  If I had to use the spray, I would take out Ted Latvala first and hope for the best with the other two.

  Even through the terror I felt at the moment, I had enough presence of mind - like the detective I am - to wonder why they had intrusion detectors installed on the windows if they were members of a friendly little welding club.

  If they were up to no good and really were selling illegal hunting birds, shouldn’t the building that housed the birds be the one with intrusion protection? No alarm went off when I opened the coop door or when I touched its back window, so I had to assume it was alarm free.r />
  What were they making in the other outbuilding that warranted a security system?

  A shadow fell across the inside of the coop and I knew someone was peering through the window. I stretched as thin as I could against the wall, and promised not to eat another sugar doughnut for the rest of my life if I made it out of here.

  The shadow moved past.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Latvala said. “Fool bird. Let’s get back to work. I promised the next shipment would go out late tomorrow morning.”

  They moved away.

  I didn’t budge for a full fifteen minutes. I hadn’t checked the largest outbuilding but my courage was failing me. The birds continued to stare me down. The floor was covered in bird do-do. I lifted a running shoe and glanced at the bottom.

  My eyes were adjusting to the darkness. Birdie do-do and little feathers stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

  I had found Warden Hendricks’ last stop before he was murdered at Carl’s bear bait pile.

  But I didn’t know what to do with that information or whether or not it was relevant.

  I slunk out the same way I came in, with a pounding heart and a hopeful attitude.

  By then Blaze had arrested Little Donny for murder one.

  chapter 17

  “I told you to stay away from Little Donny,” I said, while slamming bowls onto the table. “What part of ‘stay away from Grandma’s house’ didn’t you understand?”

  Heather boohooed like she always does when life turns up-side-down and she can’t handle it. “I didn’t think it would hurt,” she sobbed.

  “Blaze and his cronies were yakking about you on the police scanner and I didn’t figure it out. It went right over my head. Dickey Snell and No-Neck Sheedlo were following you.” I slammed another bowl. “You led them right to him.”

  Boohoo, snort, blow.

  “Using my house as a hideout!” Grandma exclaimed, leaning on the back of a chair for support. “Is that what you’re saying? Right under my nose, too. We need to go over and see if those roughnecks busted it up.”