Murder at Spirit Falls

by Barbara Deese

  He exhaled loudly, trying to clear the memory. It was all part of a life that was no longer his.

  Arriving at his two-story, he parked his truck in the three-car tuck-under garage. Overhead, a Boeing 757 roared at full throttle as it gained altitude, a sound he’d long ago tuned out.

  After scuffing off his shoes in the mudroom, he headed for the refrigerator to fill a generous highball glass with Jim Beam, enjoying the crackling of fissures in the ice cubes, the clinking of ice against glass as he lifted the drink to his lips. He took one sip at the kitchen counter, another on the way to the loft overlooking his living room. Flipping on the television with the remote, he buzzed through a few channels, threw down the rest of the drink. A convulsive cough made his eyes water. He pulled out his handkerchief, wincing as he dabbed tentatively at the tip of his nose.

  His eyes scanned the room, coming to rest again on the television broadcasting some imbecilic talk show. He hit the remote again until he found the five o’clock news, with a perky, dimple-chinned reporter telling about the safe return of a dog. “Sappy” was the word that came to Ross’s mind, but he didn’t change the channel. Suddenly, over the reporter’s shoulder, a photo appeared, the same photo of the dark-haired beauty they showed practically every night now, and the reporter was saying, “Now a new development in the Melissa Dunn case …”

  His lip curled in contempt. “Christ! Is that all you morons can talk about?”

  “… brought in for questioning for the second time.” The picture changed to old footage of Martin Krause being interviewed in front of the sign at Bradford College. “Authorities are calling President Krause a ‘person of interest’ and say he is cooperating …”

  Ross pressed himself into the soft pillows of the sofa as a wave of vertigo overtook him. He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, a commercial was addressing the seemingly cataclysmic problem of erectile dysfunction.

  “Nice transition,” he said to the television. He snickered as he thought how Martin’s sorry plight was made sorrier by the pharmaceutical sponsor. “Poor old Martin.” At first, when Martin had been questioned, he’d felt sorry for him, but the more he thought of it, the more his pity was tinged with disgust.

  He tipped his glass back and crunched the remaining ice cube. Martin, he’d long ago realized, was typical of the kind of influential but spineless sort that was always drawn to Ross Johnson’s strength. In his pathetic attempt to emulate his old friend, Martin Krause had waded in the pool of risk, but knowing he didn’t have the constitution to swim with the real risk takers, he’d blubbered for help as soon as things got a little rough.

  Without knowing he was doing it, Ross’s hand had slipped into his shirt pocket to grasp the vial inside. He clutched it in his palm, letting it seduce him. Happy dust. In his mind, he lined up the fluffy white contents, stuck the straw in his nostril. His nose throbbed in painful response to the thought.

  Holding the vial up to the light, he was surprised at how little was left. He considered the dilemma for only a moment before going to the master bathroom, where he groped under the sink for the white paper bag he’d stashed there only yesterday. His heart raced. Not that he would make it a habit, he told himself. Injecting cocaine was, after all, for hardcore addicts. He ripped open the bag, then carefully, he added water to the vial, drew the mixture into the syringe.

  Seated on the closed toilet, he wrapped the plastic tie around his arm at the elbow, made a fist and plunged the needle into the prominent blue vein.

  The euphoria hit almost immediately, and it was intense. He moaned with pleasure. The syringe fell to the floor with a double plink as plastic bounced on tile.

  The first sign of trouble was an involuntary head jerk, a violent clenching of the jaws. The second followed almost immediately, a sharp blow, like a fist striking him in the chest, knocking him back. When his legs jerked out from under him, Ross slumped back and to the left until he was firmly wedged between toilet and wall, his mouth wide as he gasped for breath, his hands twitching helplessly at his throat.

  As soon as he and Brill left the cabin, Sheriff Harley called the detective in Minnesota. Maki was out, but returned the call within minutes. Harley, who was, at that moment, pulling over a speeder with a broken taillight, said he’d call him from the office.

  Back at the office, Brill, bless her soul, had begun the tedious task of making an official report of their morning adventure. Harley whistled to himself as he settled into his chair.

  “Isn’t that the theme song from Leave It to Beaver?” Brill appeared at his side, looking down at him with amusement.

  “No,” he said gruffly. It was actually from the Andy Griffith Show. “I need to make a phone call. Did you need something?”

  She shook her head and backed away.

  Filling him in briefly on the results of the search, he told Maki, “I told the handyman not to go calling Johnson about the search, but there’s no way to stop him.”

  “We’re going to want to talk to Johnson,” said Maki. Harley could hear papers being shuffled on the other end. Maki read out loud the Minneapolis address of their latest Person of Interest. “Maybe we’ll get an unmarked out there. We’ve got one on Krause. We don’t want anyone rabbiting on us.”

  That evening after a little meditation in a bubble bath, Robin decided to tackle her worries. She began after Brad had looked at the day’s mail and headed upstairs.

  “Come sit with me for a minute,” she suggested.

  With a wary look, he sat next to her on the edge of their king-sized bed.

  “Cate and I talked about marriage,” she began, trying to ignore how he closed his eyes in resignation, sucked in a breath for the ordeal.

  “I’ll make this part brief.”

  “Does that mean I’m going to get it in installments?” He grinned lopsidedly.

  “Brad.” She took his hand. “I love you. We have a good thing.”

  “I agree. I love you too.” He started to stand up, but she held his hand.

  “Cate was talking about the bad times—hers and Erik’s—and I just want to say that we can’t let it happen to us. We just can’t.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” He looked into her eyes and kissed her with more feeling than he’d shown of late. “I’m not interested in anyone but you.” He slid off the bed and went to the sink to wash his face.

  Still sitting on the bed, Robin watched her husband as he went through his after work ritual of pulling off his tie and hanging it over the bedside chair, then stripping off his shirt and tossing in onto the bed next to her. She traced the raised pattern of the bedspread with her finger as she took measured breaths.

  Most women would describe Brad as handsome. He still had a full head of hair, mostly brown with a few silver strands. His once too-narrow face had fleshed out in recent years. His facial wrinkles, mostly smile lines, only gave him character. She could see why he had more than his share of patients who developed crushes on him.

  She took a breath and launched into her next subject. “Brad, I’ve made a decision.”

  No response.

  “I’m going to have the surgery. It may not make sense to you, but I need to follow my gut on this. Brad? Did you hear me?”

  Obviously, as far as he was concerned, their conversation was over.

  “So that’s the way it’s going to be?” She felt tears well up. “You’re giving me the silent treatment?”

  “You’ve made it clear it’s your decision.” He spoke so softly she had to strain to hear him. “I don’t see much point in saying something, just so I can be ignored.” Stepping into their walk-in closet, he selected a smoky-blue polo shirt, the same color as his eyes. He stood, shirt in hand, seemingly lost in thought.

  Robin thought he might say something more, but judging by the thin line of his mouth, she knew she waited in vain. Defensive and frustrated, she saw him with a critical eye. Over the years, Brad often told people that he’d maintained his med school weight.
Now Robin noted that some of it had shifted from chest to belly.

  She checked out her own reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door, knowing that her own downward slide had been in progress already when it had been surgically and hormonally accelerated. Having attained her new ideal weight over the course of chemotherapy, she was now annoyed to discover she was regaining the pounds, mostly around her middle—due, in part, to the anti-cancer drugs she would be taking for five years.

  What was maddeningly obvious to Robin was that Brad, standing in his boxers, was completely comfortable in his own, well-maintained, middle-aged skin. Aging men simply didn’t lose their appeal the way women did, she thought with mounting resentment. She felt the heat in her chest and face simultaneously, felt the sweat pop out on her upper lip, and wished that just once Brad and his ilk could experience a hot flash. She grabbed his cast-off shirt and jammed it into the hamper.

  “Tell me,” she said, hating the aggressive edge to her words, and knowing she was straying from the topic. “How would you feel if you’d had, say, a radical prostatectomy? Do you think you’d be so comfortable undressing in front of me right now? Do you suppose your self-image would change if you had no testicles, and then, to add insult to injury, you had to take estrogen to keep the cancer away?” She knew she was being confrontational, a stance that never ended well for either of them, but she just couldn’t stop herself. Or wouldn’t.

  He swallowed noticeably and answered without meeting her gaze. “I guess I’d just deal with it.”

  Her physical self stood completely still while her mental self stuffed him in the hamper and jammed the lid tight over him. Maybe a few turns in the washing machine would get his attention. And then she’d hang him out to dry by his … She pulled herself together and said, “That’s what I’m doing, Brad. I’m dealing with it. In my own way.”

  “As you say, in your own way.” He shrugged the shirt over his head and left the room.

  After staring numbly at the spot where he’d been standing, she desperately wanted to talk to someone without a Y chromosome. She dialed Cate’s number, but after getting the answering machine, she tried her cell phone number.

  Robin could hear Cate swearing as she fumbled the phone. It clattered and then Cate answered. “Robin, I can’t talk right now. I’m on my way to the emergency vet.”

  Robin wondered which of Cate’s many pets or rescued strays was sick this time.

  “It’s Prickly. I think he’s having some type of seizure.”

  Robin wished her luck and hung up, pondering the disturbing idea of an epileptic hedgehog.

  24

  He felt the vibration in his bones before he saw the car ahead of him on Interstate 94. Four boys, laughing and gyrating to rap music, waved at him as he passed them in the sheriff’s car. He crossed the bridge spanning the St. Croix River that connected Wisconsin to Minnesota.

  Harley’s mind returned to churn over the evidence they’d found at the Johnson cabin, together with what Maki had told him when they’d talked late last night. Maki thought that with the evidence, his department would be able to execute a search warrant on Johnson’s Minneapolis residence today. With any luck, that would end in an arrest. In addition, Martin Krause was supposed to come in for further questioning.

  A smile creeping onto his face, Harley knew these two men would have a lot of explaining to do. He looked forward to Krause’s next harebrained story to explain the new evidence.

  Only minutes across the Minnesota border, traffic slowed to a crawl. Making his way through Saint Paul’s rush hour traffic, Harley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, grateful as ever for his small town life. By the time he merged onto 35E, traffic had eased, but at Highway 36, it was gridlock again.

  In Roseville, Harley parked at the far end of the lot adjacent to the police department. Getting out, he clicked the remote’s lock button, waiting to hear the lock engage. When he dropped his ring of keys into his pocket, the added weight caused his pants to slip, so he pulled his belt one notch tighter. I’m becoming damned near svelte, he thought.

  Stepping into the building, he nodded to the receptionist, who gave him a dazzling smile, “Good morning, Sheriff Harley.”

  Feeling his ears redden, Harley croaked out “Morning.”

  “Go on back, Sheriff. Detective Maki’s expecting you.”

  “Thanks.” Harley grinned self-consciously. He resisted the urge to smooth his hair. As he passed by her desk, Harley caught a whiff of her perfume. Shalimar, he knew that scent, and every time it took him back to the summer when he was twenty-two. That was the year he had met Libby, who was home from a school in New York. He was caught up with her talk of theaters and museums. In the end, their relationship had been just a fling for her, but not for him. Beautiful and classy, he thought, pulling his eyes away from the blonde. Way out of your league, Harley.

  Detective Maki looked up from the stack of papers in front of him. “Come on in, Sheriff. Glad you could make it.” Maki stood and they shook hands over his desk. Harley eyed the plain wooden chair, remembering that it wasn’t exactly ergonomically designed for his butt. He sat anyway.

  “Coffee?” Detective Maki had already turned to fetch a second cup from the Mr. Coffee machine on his credenza. “I decided it was easier to buy my own coffee maker.”

  “Huh?”

  “Sensitivity training.”

  Harley continued to give him a blank look.

  “You know, no asking secretaries to fetch coffee …”

  “Oh, yeah,” Harley said, catching on. “My deputy and secretary did their own sensitivity training. Brill’s pretty direct that way.”

  “The whole idea of having us go through sensitivity training was a good idea, up to a point, but whatever asshole came up with the idea of circulating a list of all the offensive terms we shouldn’t use to refer to women … Well, let’s just say it backfired on them when the men got hold of it. We can’t call ’em ‘bimbos’ anymore, but it doesn’t say anything about ‘bims.’ That kind of thing. And worse.”

  “I can imagine.”

  After topping off his own cup, Maki sat back at his desk and absent-mindedly cracked his neck. “After I got your call last night, I sent an unmarked to cover Johnson’s house. We’re not going to let that SOB skip out on us.” Looking at the wall clock, Maki said, “Krause and his attorney should be here any minute.”

  Maki’s phone rang. Grabbing the handset, he listened for a moment. “Thanks, Ginny.” He hung up and gathered the papers in front of him, straightening them with a rap on the desk. “Well, our first pigeon has arrived.”

  Martin Krause appeared to have shrunk in stature. Seated next to him was a haughty middle-aged man in an expensive suit. His hair was poufy and salon-streaked. He gave a nod to Maki and Harley as they entered the room. Harley recognized him as one of Minnesota’s most prominent criminal attorneys. Bringing out the big guns, he thought. That’ll cost him, unless of course, the college picks up the tab.

  Harley settled across from the attorney.

  “My client wants to cooperate in any way possible to clear up this issue.” The attorney exuded confidence.

  “That would be refreshing.” Maki took the seat next to Harley. Though he stared at Martin, his words were to the attorney. “Your client has been less than forthcoming.”

  “He’s here, isn’t he?” the lawyer shot back.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Maki made Martin go through the fateful weekend once more, this time, with no hedging or prevarication about the nature of his relationship with Melissa Dunn.

  Martin, seeing no new traps, began to relax.

  Letting out a loud sigh, the lawyer scowled. “I don’t see the point of all this. If you have nothing new—”

  “Just trying to make sure we have Mr. Krause’s story straight, Counselor.” Maki turned and gave Martin a sinister smile. “Mr. Krause, I’m sorry, it’s Doctor, isn’t it? Now, Dr. Krause, has your Mercedes ever been involved i
n an accident?”

  Martin’s forehead furrowed. “Accident?”

  “I don’t see the relevance.” The lawyer sounded bored.

  “Oh, it’s connected.” Maki draped one arm over the back of his chair. “For instance, there’s the new upholstery and fresh paint job.” Maki smiled as he asked, “Would you like to explain this, President Krause?”

  “My car is almost a classic.” Martin said primly. “With classics, you have to be concerned with esthetic maintenance as well as mechanical.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Krause,” Maki barked. “We already know that your car went off a dirt road in Wisconsin and plowed into a tree.”

  The lawyer quickly seized Martin’s arm to stop him from making any response. He needn’t have bothered. Martin was stunned into silence. “May I have a moment to confer with my client?”

  Harley pursed his lips, the corners of his mouth upturned. It was obvious that this little tidbit had been news to Martin’s lawyer.

  “Sure. We’ll be back in a few minutes.” Maki and Harley got up. The detective made an obvious show of flipping the camera switch as he exited the room.

  Upon their return, the lawyer leaned forward. “My client would like to explain about his car.”

  “Explain away.” Maki stretched his legs under the table as Sheriff Harley leaned forward intently.

  “Okay, it was in an accident, but I wasn’t driving.” He spoke passionately, looking directly into their eyes. “I wasn’t even there.”

  Maki grunted. “Let’s go back to that Friday evening. You and Melissa Dunn were at the cabin of Ross Johnson, and at some point she got upset. What happened next?”

  When Martin spoke, his eyes were downcast as if reciting to a headmaster. “It’s like I told you before, I didn’t know until later that she’d left the cabin. When I did realize she was gone, I went looking for her, but then the rain got so bad, I went back to the cabin. Somebody else had left and I figured she’d gone with them. But then those people came back and said they’d seen a car in the ditch. That’s when I discovered my car keys were missing.” He tilted his head back and took in a deep breath.