Harris figured Dom got that quality from his mother, Vi, who’d been an accountant until she retired—a financial whiz. He also knew, since their farms were on adjoining properties and his own mom went to Vi Nielson for advice, that Dom’s folks had invested beaucoup bucks while she was still working. Her investments were the reason the Nielson farm always had new equipment. New outbuildings. Hmmm. Yeah, the continual list writing probably came from Dom’s mother’s influence. Watching the pencil swipe furiously back and forth, he studied Dom. Then he rubbed his chin as he thought about the notes Berg Nielson had received. There was no guile in Dominic Nielson. He wasn’t stupid. But he was naive, unlikely to see the rot in other people because he was such an upfront guy himself. It would be hard for Dom to think Adele’s death could be anything other than accidental, and hard for him to find the louse writing the notes. Freeman shut his eyes in deep thought. Somehow, they were connected. Had to be.
The note campaign Dom told him about—because that’s how he’d sum it up, a targeted ‘campaign’ to drive Berg Nielson over the deep end—was diabolical. The threats seemed designed to make old Berg ever more wary, and they’d built in intensity until Berg was no doubt paranoid as a schizophrenic. “Tell someone about your product or service at least ten times and escalate the message, and soon they begin to believe it” was a standard phrase in the marketing classes Harris had taken before enlisting.
He didn’t have a lot of sympathy for Berg Nielson. He’d never much liked the straight-laced old grouch. But his insides twisted whenever he thought of Addy’s death. It took a cold-blooded killer to shoot the beautiful teen. After the violent deaths he’d seen during his stint in Iraq the idea of killing—especially killing for no reason—made him ill. It must’ve been a sick bastard that killed that sweet kid. And what for? So far as he could see, no reason at all. Hell. Maybe it was accidental.
Freeman yawned and stretched. His body ached. Man, he hated hiking. They’d hiked miles and miles the past three days. He pulled off his boots and flexed his toes, eliciting an involuntary grunt. Yeah, his dogs were sore and his ankle stiff as a rusty gate hinge. He rubbed his throbbing feet and looked around at the concrete block walls. Glancing over at Dom—still scribbling away at his endless lists—he thought how nice it would be if he were the one heading home for good. Wouldn’t he just love to settle down with a good paying job on the outside, something in advertising, instead of looking at these ugly grey walls another eighteen months. Maybe after he got out he’d use the GI bill and go back to school. After he graduated he’d get a loan and start his own company. Yeah. Crooked Creek Marketing. Nah, too dull. Something with more snap. He’d ask his stepbrother for some ideas. The big lug had imagination oozing out of his pores.
“Hey, Nielson. You said you hadn’t told your dad yet that you were coming home. Why don’t you surprise him? My step-brother, Wheels, is staying at the house right now. Remember him? Goes to all kinds of art shows. We used to only see him during the big show in March. Especially after his dad died. Then he showed up out of the blue for a visit. He stayed on after Mom went to the nursing home. Maybe he could pick you up at the airport and drop you off at the farm.”
“Naw. That would be too much of an imposition.” Dom tapped the pencil point on the notepad.
“Heck, he’d be glad to get away from the place for a few hours. Wheels was on the go all the time before Mom started failing. He kept in touch with her, though.” Bummed a lot of money off her. “Then he got sick. He was visiting at our place—recuperating from some kind of god-awful stomach surgery—when she had the stroke. Mom said he’d been painting the entire inside of the house and doing some machinery repairs. He likes machinery. The only thing is, he isn’t much of a farmer. And I swear the poor clod doesn’t know the cows from the bulls.” Harris gave a short laugh.
“Who’s been taking care of the ranch then?”
“You know how nice the Christofferson brothers are?”
Dom nodded.
“We’ve been having them take care of the fields and Angus herd ever since Pop died. They don’t charge us much. Just take a small percentage when hay or cattle sell.”
“Yeah. I remember. There were three brothers. The youngest one, Richard, is Dad’s lawyer.” Dom ground his pencil in a small sharpener and inspected the point. On his list he wrote ‘get an appointment with Richie Christofferson and write a new will’. “If I recall, Chet and Merle stayed on the farm.”
“That’s right. They’re our go-to guys. We might not trust Wheels with the ranch, but he can certainly drive to Billings and pick you up from the airport. He might like a little gas money. He has a lot of expensive hobbies.”
“Well, I could have him pick me up if he’d let me pay him. I don’t like to be beholden. The drive to the airport would be tiring for dad. So I guess if Wheels doesn’t want to pick me up, I’ll rent a car.” Dom looked thoughtfully down at his notes.
Harris smiled. Quack, quack. he thought. He suspected Dom was checking that row of ducks to see if ‘check on car rentals’ was scribbled on the list.
Dom looked up. “Maybe I can talk to your step-brother after my plans are solid. When I get home, Dad’s got an old truck I can use until I find myself a junker.” Dom looked at his list and added a note. ‘Ask Dad if the truck still runs.’
Harris looked over Dom’s shoulder at the lengthening list and smiled. In his mind’s eye, he saw the row of ducks standing at attention—orange feet with the heels clicked firmly together, yellow bills pointing forward, each with a wing raised in salute.
“You know what I think?” Harris asked.
Dom grunted.
“I think this loony toon is more dangerous than you think. And you’re too damn gullible and trusting.”
“No. I’m not that trusting, Harris,” Dom said in a low tone. “This situation doesn’t feel right. Not right at all. I think the bastard who’s writing dad these notes might be the same person who killed Addy.” He looked down at his list. “I just can’t figure out who—or why.” He looked up and the two men locked eyes. “But when I do, I’m going to get him.”
“I’m at least twice as intelligent as you, you know.”
Dom looked up then. “You don’t say.”
“I think you need some help with the crazy note writer. Tell you what. If you haven’t found out who it is by next month, and gone to the Sheriff, I’ll put in for leave and come give you a hand.” Harris grabbed Dom’s notebook and tore a page out of the back. Then he snatched the pencil from Dom’s hand. “And I have an idea.”
“Hey,” Dom protested.
“Okay. You know who’s smarter than both of us put together?”
Dom immediately threw out a name.
“Yep. That’s who I’d pick too. He’s a good buddy. We should run this by him and ask him to investigate. I’ll have him look at the note your dad sent if you’ll leave it with me. He always said he wanted to see Montana. I’ll tell him we can’t pay him a nickel, but if he’ll come and investigate we’ll show him a good time.”
“Harris, someone killed my sister.” Dom’s eyes were dark and serious. “There’s a chance someone truly means to harm Dad—and once I get home, maybe me, too. Both of you might be taking a risk if you come out to Crooked Creek and try to help.”
“So, it could be a dangerous job and we can’t give him hazardous duty pay.” He grinned. “I know what we can do. If he agrees to come and investigate, we’ll each leave him twenty bucks in our wills. Or our entire estate.” He chortled. “Oh wait. That is my entire estate. Hell, I vote we add him to our wills anyway. He’ll know it’s a joke.
“You’re such a drama queen,” Dom chuckled. “Agreed. But only if you let me write the will. I can actually spell and it’s my paper and my pencil. And Harris?”
“Yeah?”
“This will is serious business. It’s no joke.”
Harris slowly held out the sheet of notepaper and dropped the pencil into Dom’s waiting hand.
&n
bsp; “Okay. No joke. Done.”
“Done. I’ll buy the beer.”
Chapter Sixteen
Crooked Creek Sheriff’s Office
Sheriff Fischer turned the small tractor around and around in his big hands, inspecting it. Then he plunked it down on a stack of papers. Even if Jessie and Arvid had not handled it, the miniscule John Deere would give up no fingerprints. It was too bumpy with the mechanics of the real machine duplicated in miniature but without working parts.
“I don’t like it,” Fischer said in his gravelly voice. “You breeze into town, find a body in your motorhome, claim you’ve gotten threatening notes, but don’t mention them before our interview today. Now, you say someone is leaving toy tractors outside your hotel door. Miss O’Bourne, your story seems…” He cleared his throat, the sound reminding Jessie of the low growl Arvid’s dog, Bass, could produce if provoked. “…far-fetched.” He leaned back in his oak desk chair and glowered at her, the front legs of the chair leaving the ground as he tipped way back, arms crossed over his chest. “Weren’t you raised in Sage Bluff and didn’t Arvid say you were there last summer? That’s only a couple hours from here. You also had work in last year’s art auction, so you had plenty of reason to meet Benny. You sure you didn’t know him before you came to town?”
Jessie glowered at Fischer. “He was a total stranger to me. My work was shipped to the auction last year. I didn’t attend. And I have no reason to want to come to Crooked Creek and kill anyone. Or cause any other sort of trouble and, believe me, I have enough to do without making up stories just for your entertainment.”
Jessie could feel her fiery temper begin to boil over. Pressure built behind her eyes until she felt she could scream in frustration. Then she felt Arvid’s foot nudge her ankle. She knew the gentle nudge was meant as a reminder to cool her hot, red-headed temper.
“Sheriff Fischer is just doing his job,” Arvid said. “And you have to admit the toy tractors are weird.”
“Maybe someone else was supposed to be in room 510,” Jessie said in a cool tone. “Maybe the notes and toy tractors aren’t actually meant for me.” She frowned. “I mean, how could they be? I hadn’t even heard about this poor girl being shot. And you said it was likely a hunting accident, Sheriff?”
Arvid arched an eyebrow. He was staring at the sheriff with a deeply skeptical expression. Sheriff Fischer had indeed said it was written off as a hunting accident. “You don’t think it was an accident, do you, Sheriff Fischer? I took a look at the tractor. There were two bullet holes in the back window. Now, a person might write off one shot as an accident. But not two.”
“Oh, hell.” He dropped the chair legs to the hardwood floor with a thump. “No, I don’t think it was an accident. And the idea was mentioned that it might have been a vandal, but that doesn’t hold water.”
“A vandal?” Arvid raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah. We’ve had someone shooting holes in machinery and mailboxes this past year. Heck, some of the good old boys get soused and pop off a few rounds at other folks’ machinery. That could have been an explanation if the machine had just been left there, but the ignition was still turned on. She wasn’t just sitting there eating her lunch or taking a break.” He sighed heavily, the expulsion of air like a bellows. “And even though your story is just about as cuckoo as they come, I tend to think you’re telling the truth.” He paused. “I think Adele Nielson was murdered. The poor little gal. The family had a run of real bad luck lately.” His expression was dark. “I asked you about the big tractor the art show is using to display the sign, because Evan Hansen, the assistant art show director, called me about it. He was fuming. He had no idea who put it out in front of the lodge. I called around and nobody gave permission for it to be hauled in from the farm, nor did the art show ask to use it. The Nielson’s lawyer was spitting mad that someone helped themselves to it. It was still in driving condition. But whoever moved it had possession of the key.”
“Why would someone bring it in to town?” Jessie asked. “Especially during the snow we’ve been having.”
“I think somebody placed it there as a huge reminder of Adele Nielson’s death. A threatening message, I think, like the paper messages and little toy John Deere tractors that you’ve been getting. I just don’t know who the threat is intended to frighten. I suspect, but I don’t know. I feel certain that if you ask for a room change, you won’t receive any more of these little gifts.” He plunked the tractor down on his desk. “I have to ask you not to leave town. But it’s just a formality. And because the State forensic guy is dragging his feet on getting your motorhome checked out.”
“What if there is a real threat to Jessie? Some nut case who assumes she knew all about the girl who died and is trying to scare her.”
Sheriff Fischer scratched the back of his neck and then ran a hand over his forehead, squeezing his brows together, causing a furrow between his eyes. “I’d sure be surprised if there’s a real threat to Miss O’Bourne, but of course we would try our best to protect her, even though I’m short-handed at the moment.” He looked at Jessie. “I think it was someone from Crooked Creek who killed Adele. If you’ve been telling me the truth, I think you’re actually safe. I’ll come down and see if I can discover if someone else had been, or was supposed to be, in room 510.”
“What can you tell us about the girl’s case, Sheriff?” Jessie asked. “It doesn’t sound like the Sheriff’s Office has made much headway. And you said the family has had a run of bad luck. Is there any reason someone in the family might have brought the tractor to town?
“You know, as a Sheriff, I’m in the business of asking questions, not volunteering information. You can probably find the whole sordid story online, Miss O’Bourne.” He turned to Arvid. “God, what isn’t on the internet these days?”
“Yeah.” Arvid gave a low chuckle. “Every time I get on the computer, I’m afraid I’ll find a YouTube video of me pulling on my socks or brushing my teeth.”
Fischer smiled, the relaxation of his features making him look almost boyish. Jessie peered intently at him, then raised her hand and made a slight movement as though making a brush stroke. In her mind, a portrait of the man behind the Sheriff’s badge began to appear—the shape of the head, the shadow under the chin, the heavy-lidded, exhausted eyes. Then, as quickly as his features had relaxed, they stiffened again into his professional persona. Jessie hand dropped to her lap, but she continued to stare, still imagining his portrait flowing onto a non-existent canvas.
Fischer stared back for several seconds, then looked questioningly at Arvid.
Arvid made a dismissive gesture with his hand, then rolled his eyes. “She’s fine. Absent minded. Happens all the time,” he muttered. He cleared his throat loudly.
“Oh. Are we done?” Jessie asked with a slight shake of her head. “I really have to get back.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Fischer said. “As I said, I don’t really think you’re involved except by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I’ve been wrong before.”
“You aren’t wrong, Sheriff.” Jessie brushed a stray curl away from her face.
“Well, switch to a different room. Stay in touch. Don’t leave town. And Miss O’Bourne…”
“Yes?” Jessie swiveled to face him.
Sheriff Fischer looked sheepish. “Thanks for not bringing the cat.”
Jessie grinned. “You’re welcome. And call me Jessie.” She stood, turned and walked through the door.
As Arvid stood and stepped toward the door, Sheriff Fischer put out a hand out to stop him. He gave Arvid a serious look. “I didn’t want to discuss it in front of Miss O’Bourne, but, could you come back to the office after you drop Miss O’Bourne off and discuss the possibility of collaborating with the Sage Bluff Sheriff’s Office on this recent murder? I do think it’s linked to Adele Nielson’s death. And like I said before, I am god-awful short-handed here.”
Arvid looked surprised. Then he glanced at the clock. “Can’t
do it tonight, or I’ll miss my wife’s piano performance at the art show. We can’t do any collaborating until you talk to the Sheriff in Sage Bluff. That would be Russell Bonham. I’ll probably give him a call anyway, let him know what’s happened. Jessie O’Bourne is a family friend. I’d be glad to come and brainstorm first thing in the morning. But why do you think Benny’s murder is linked to that older case?”
Fischer gave Arvid a meaningful look. “Because after the girl was killed, her father received threatening notes exactly like those received by your friend. I didn’t want to scare her but keep an eagle eye on Miss O’Bourne.” He shook his head warningly. “An eagle eye.”
“I certainly will, Sheriff Fischer.” Arvid gave him a serious look. “So, her father got threats, huh? Did he get these weird little tractors?”
“No, but the notes were similar. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.” He cocked his head. “I’ll call the head honcho in Sage Bluff and discuss the collaboration. It’s protocol. And the name is Brian.”
“All right. See you in the morning. And call me Arvid.”
As he turned to go, Fischer asked, “That’s an interesting name. Swedish?”
“Nup,” Arvid grumbled. “No. It is not.” He yanked his ball cap over his short salt and pepper hair and stomped out after Jessie. As the door shut behind him he groused. “Huh. Swedish. As if.”
Jessie, halfway down the hallway, turned and waited for Arvid to catch up. “I thought you were right behind me.” She frowned. “Well. Don’t you look grumpy? Did he think of something annoying to ask?”
“Ya. And you know, I got a birthday next month. I saw these T-shirts on ebay that say, ‘Made in America from Norwegian Parts’. Ask Esther to get me a couple, wouldja?”
Jessie laughed. “Okay. I will. And I saw one that said, ‘Awesome Norse Viking’.”
“Hmmph.” Arvid growled. Then he bobbed his head in the affirmative and grinned. “Yeah, maybe. Black. Extra extra-large.”
2 Death at Crooked Creek Page 12
