2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  Chapter Seventeen

  Crooked Creek Lodge

  “I’m so sorry, Miss O’Bourne. We don’t have a single empty room available until Monday.” The young male clerk looked flustered. “Is there something wrong with your accommodations? We’d be happy to do all we can to rectify the situation.”

  “No, the room is wonderful, but …” Jessie looked at him helplessly, then glanced at Esther and Arvid, who waited nearby. Then she leaned over and whispered to the clerk. “I seem to be getting notes slipped under my door. Notes that are obviously meant for someone else. Notes,” she paused, “that aren’t very nice.”

  He leaned conspiratorially in to hear her. “Oh. Oh, no. Do you know who they are for? Or who they are from?”

  “No. No, I don’t. But they are quite upsetting.”

  A flush of pink rose up his neck and he met her eyes, his tongue sweeping over his lips nervously. His glance swept down to her breasts and quickly back to her face. “Ah. That kind of note. I am so very sorry. Can you just throw them out without reading them?”

  “I…Uh. Well, I don’t think they’re not the kind of note you’re thinking—” Jessie was interrupted by Esther’s cool voice.

  “Never mind,” she said. “My husband and I will change rooms with her. We’re in 212. Arvid and Esther Abrahmsen. Switch the names on the room invoices and we’re all set.”

  Esther took Jessie by the arm and led her away from the desk to where Arvid stood, staring into the display case of dinosaur fossils. “Look at the size of this tooth.” He peered into the exhibit and began reading the label. “Did you know the first T. Rex ever discovered was found in Montana? Garfield County in 1902.”

  Both women ignored him.

  “That’s a sweet offer,” Jessie said to Esther in a no-nonsense tone, “but I most certainly will not take your room.” She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. In fact, I even have my 9mm pistol in the room safe. Thank God I took it in with me before Benny was killed and the Hawk was confiscated. It isn’t as though I’m helpless.”

  “One of these suckers would rip a man right in two,” Arvid said. “Man-eaters.” He looked at the two women squaring off over the hotel room issue. “Yep. Man eaters.”

  Esther glared at Jessie, who met her gaze with equally determined blue eyes.

  “Oh, don’t be stubborn, Jess.” Pointing at Arvid, Esther asked, “Would you feel safer with your pistol? Or would you feel safer with this big lug who also comes with his own gun. Imagine that. I’m so lucky. It’s a twofer.” She put her hands on her hips. “Let me tell you, I’d bet on my husband hands down and he’ll be in the room to protect me from anything that comes my way. You are taking our room.”

  “But—,” Jessie began.

  Turning to look at the women, Arvid said, “No buts. Esther’s right. We’ll switch. No argument.” Then he grinned at Esther, put his arm around her waist, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Let’s go move rooms.” Then he scowled. “Don’t s’pose we have time to grab dinner. But they’ll have hors d’ oeuvres at the reception and if we’re still hungry, we can eat something more substantial afterward.”

  “Maybe we should wait and switch the rooms after the reception. Both Esther and I need to change clothes for the evening reception, and Esther can’t be late, since she’s the pianist.”

  “Nah, we’ll hurry,” Arvid insisted. His expression hardened. “Fischer was real serious when he told me to keep an eye on you. I don’t think it should wait. We’ll meet you at 510 in about fifteen minutes with our suitcases and one of those rolling carts and help you haul your bags and the big beasty boy down to 212.”

  As they walked away, he gestured back at the display case and told Esther. “We should take a weekend trip with the motorhome over to one of these dinosaur digs…see some real fossils. Hey, I can take my fly rods and get in some fishing. Grilled trout for dinner under the open sky.” He waved his hand breezily in the air. He leered at her. “It’ll be real romantic.”

  Esther looked over her shoulder at Jessie and rolled her eyes dramatically. Then she grinned.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Previous December, Billings Airport

  Dom Nielson slung his khaki green canvas duffel bag over his shoulder and looked up and down the road. The plane had been delayed forty-five minutes because of weather, and he was worried that Wheels had given up on him.

  Surely Wheels would’ve checked the flight schedule and been aware of the delay.

  He looked at his phone. No messages. He set his bag down on the icy pavement and wrapped his arms around himself, shivering in the military jacket suitable for Georgia weather, not winter in Montana. Ten minutes later, his teeth began to chatter, and he went into the terminal to wait. Another fifteen minutes passed, and he went back out into the cold, looking down the road. He hoped his ride wasn’t sitting in the ditch between Crooked Creek and Billings. Pulling out his phone, he was about to punch in Wheels’ number when a GMC Yukon barreled up. The tires of the SUV tossed slush onto the sidewalk as it swerved in and parked at the curb. Dom jumped back, but then got a look at the driver in the cab and smiled. He tucked the phone into a pocket and lifted his duffel.

  The driver’s window slid down. “Hey soldier, need a lift?” Wheels grinned at Dom. “Or were you waiting for someone better looking and long-legged?”

  “I was, but I guess you’ll have to do,” Dom quipped. “I’d almost given up on you. Pictured you stuck in the ditch.”

  In reply, Wheels just gave a grunt.

  After Dom stowed his bag in the back, he jumped into the front passenger seat and extended his hand. His own was dwarfed by a huge paw encased in a brown suede winter glove. Wheels was massive, his head was broad, his face round and tan. His hair was covered by a knit hat and the hood of his brown down jacket. Under the jacket he wore heavy-weight brown Carhart coveralls. The effect was of a humongous brown creature.

  I’m getting a lift from Bigfoot, Dom thought, smiling slightly.

  Thinking back, he realized he’d only met Wheels a couple of times. He was almost a generation older than Dom and Harris, who’d been high-school friends as well as army buddies. Dom calculated in his head. Wheels must’ve been at least seventeen when Tom Freeman remarried. Harris was born when the Freemans were old enough to be grandparents.

  “Thanks, man. I really appreciate your picking me up,” he told the big man. “Sorry you had to wait. I was afraid I was going to be bumped until tomorrow morning because of this storm. How’re the roads?”

  “Nasty. Very nasty. Calling them roads is a misuse of the English language,” Wheels joked. “The plows are out. We should make it okay on the freeway, but I don’t think your dad’s lane has been cleared. I might have to just drop you at the driveway entrance. I’m sorry. I know you wanted to surprise your dad, but it’s going to be so late by the time I drop you off that I took the liberty of calling him to let him know you were coming home, and we were on the road. Told him he might want to just go to bed and leave the door unlocked for you. Well, actually, I had to leave the message on his answering machine. He was probably in the john.” He glanced at Dom. “You strong enough to haul that little bag up the lane? Didn’t the Army build up any muscles in those scrawny arms? Haw, haw.” His guffaws echoed in the cab like backfire from a Mack truck.

  Dom laughed, too. Taking a bit of good-natured teasing was a small price to pay for a ride home. And he’d made it before Christmas, too. Three days before. There’d still be time to find a tree and bring a little Christmas into the old farmhouse. “That’s okay, Wheels. You’re right. It’ll be midnight before we get there. It wouldn’t be a good idea to surprise an old man in the middle of the night, anyway.” Lucky stiff is probably already in bed, Dom thought. “Harris applied for leave, by the way. He said to tell you and his mom hello, and that he’d call when he knew his schedule.”

  Wheels nodded and grinned. “Be good to see the little piss-ant.”

  Heading out of Billings toward Crooked
Creek, the visibility became poor. Dom stared into the mesmerizing flakes hitting the windshield, white against the black of the unending asphalt. He yawned. After several minutes of small talk, his eyelids drooped.

  “Sorry,Wheels. My body’s still on Georgia Time. Put the radio on if you need something to keep you awake, would you? Give me a yell when we get close to home. I have to catch a few winks.”

  “Will do. Man, it’s miserable driving in this crappy snow.” He peered through the windshield. “I’m going to follow this semi as long as I can. He can probably see the road better’n us. At least he’s blazing us a trail.”

  *.*.*

  The wind blew the snow into knee-high drifts across the yard as Berg Nielson hurried through the door, slammed it behind him and piled his armload of wood near the fireplace. He hung his jacket in the hall closet, put his fogged glasses on the sideboard, then dropped an apple log onto the fire, prodding the embers to life with the poker. He sniffed. It smelled wonderful. After pruning one of the Haralson apple trees several years before, he’d let the branches dry, then salvaged every inch of the dense, aromatic wood. Still, he wished he’d listened to Addy and installed a gas fireplace in the living room and put more insulation in the attic. As cheerful as the fire was, it didn’t do a good job of keeping the place warm. Slipping a flannel shirt jacket on over his sweatshirt, he lowered himself into his armchair, then sat watching the hypnotic flames. In the corner of the room, a small light blinked unnoticed on the rarely used answering machine.

  Maybe he should turn the thermostat up now, get the house nice and warm in case the power failed. Berg scowled. The utility bills had been atrocious. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford it. It was the principle of it. The power companies were getting too big. Greedy bastards. He shivered. Grumbling under his breath, he got up, dialed the heat up a notch and heard the furnace kick on.

  Money down the drain.

  He went to the kitchen and put a kettle of water on to boil for instant cocoa. While the water heated, he methodically checked the windows and doors. He’d gotten another threatening note that morning. This one was the worst yet. He’d given up on that young lout, Jacob, down at the Sheriff’s Office. Today, Berg had breezed right in and demanded to see Sheriff Fischer instead. As he’d suspected, the little snot hadn’t told Fischer about any of the previous threats. Sheriff Fischer asked him to bring all of the notes to his office before noon. Berg heaved a big sigh, remembering the relief he’d felt when he realized the Sheriff had taken him seriously.

  Peering out the last window, he could see the snow still coming down like gangbusters. When he was out getting wood from the pile, he saw that the driveway was already filling with drifts. Tomorrow he’d plow it out with the big Ford, the one with the snow blade. And he’d write Dom to let him know it would sure be nice to see his son, but he didn’t need to rush home just to protect his old man. His stomach churned, though, thinking of the last note.

  Old. After the cancer and then losing Addy, I’m just feeling so damn old. But I’m not so feeble I can’t protect myself a bit, though. I wonder if that demon who’s been writing these goddamned notes would be crazy enough to come after me on a night like this.

  He glanced over at the shotgun propped in the corner of the room. Maybe he should replace the birdshot shells with buckshot, but at close range there wasn’t much difference in the damage either would do. Deep in thought when the teakettle whistled, he jerked in his armchair as though an explosion had rocked the house. He walked into the kitchen, dumped a packet of instant chocolate into a mug and shakily added hot water. As he brought the empty mug back to the sink a while later, the lights flickered and went out.

  *.*.*

  “Wake up, Dom. We’re just about at your dad’s driveway.” He reached over and gave Dom’s arm a shove. “Hey, wake up, will ya? I don’t want to stop more than a minute. Got to backtrack and see how bad my own driveway is. I plowed before I left, but it’s been coming down so hard I might have to walk in and plow out the drifts again before driving in.”

  “I’m awake.” Dom yawned and straightened. He looked blearily around. He checked his watch. Nearly midnight. The snow still fell in fat flakes and was driven sideways by a sharp wind. It was going to be a white Christmas. A very white Christmas, by the look of it. “I surely do thank you. Much appreciated.”

  Wheels came to a stop, letting the motor idle while Dom retrieved his duffel and shut the back door. Dom glanced at the driveway, trying to judge the depth of the snow by the light from the open vehicle door. “Yeah, it would be stupid to try the driveway. It looks pretty bad.”

  “You going to be okay getting to the house?” Wheels smirked. “I’ve heard of people getting lost in their own yard when it’s as nasty as this.”

  “Nuts. I could walk in with my eyes closed. No problem.”

  “See ya, then.” He gave Dom a sloppy salute.

  After Wheels drove away, Dom saw that no light came from the house. Maybe the power was out. Shouldering his duffel, he started down the long snowy driveway, instinct, as much as visibility guiding him toward the house. He was thankful for the boots on his feet, but he sure could have used the old-fashioned long-johns he wore while working the farm when he was a kid. The wind slammed biting snow crystals into his face. He trudged on, in some places through knee-high drifts. As he neared the front porch, he slipped and nearly dropped the heavy bag. The house was pitch black. His dad probably went to bed hours ago. Dom tried to turn the door knob and it didn’t budge. Locked. Either Berg had locked it out of habit or hadn’t gotten Wheels’ message.

  He considered knocking but hated to wake the old man. If the window of his old bedroom still had the funky catch, he could climb through and surprise his dad in the morning.

  Wading past the front porch and heading to the side window, he dragged one hand against the house to keep his bearings. At his old bedroom window, he set the bag on the ground and worked the window up just enough to slip through before it refused to budge. He lifted the bag with his left hand and was reaching out to push it into the room before he shinnied through the space. Then he saw a slight flicker of movement on the other side. There was a blast of noise. Splinters of wood and shards of glass exploded outward. Fire burned through his side. He screamed in agony as he fell backward into a featherbed of fluffy cold.

  Shot. I’ve been shot.

  The thought registered a millisecond before his head made impact with something hard under the snow.

  He didn’t hear the sound of glass tinkling onto the interior hardwood floor as it was brushed from the sill or see the light of a flashlight bobbing crazily in the window opening.

  Berg said in a choked voice, “What’s the matter with you anyway, harassing an old man, breaking into my house? God, oh God! All those notes and threats. And if you’re the one that shot my baby girl, I’m glad you’re flat out down in the snow, you scum.” His voice ended in a strangled hiccup. “If you’re still alive, I should shoot you again, dammit. By God, I would too, if I hadn’t called the Sheriff as soon as I heard you rattling the door.”

  Berg left the window. He hurried through the house, slamming the door behind him with a crash before making his way around the house to the still body. “Well, let’s see who the hell you are and if you’re still breathin’.” He swung the flashlight toward the ground.

  Dom came to as the flashlight beam hit him in the face and his father began to scream. He tried to speak, but it came out as an unintelligible gurgle. Then the dark wrapped around him like a heavy quilt.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sage Bluff Sheriff’s Office, present day

  Sheriff Russell Bonham picked up the phone, eyes widening in surprise when he heard Arvid’s voice at the other end. “Hey, Russell.”

  “Hey, yourself. What’s up? You never call when you have time off. I figured you’d be hip deep in some trout stream by now while Esther pounded the piano keys.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Rub it in.” A wistful note c
rept into Arvid’s voice. “Maybe later. I’m calling from our hotel room. Esther’s getting all duded up for the reception. Listen, expect a call from a guy named Fischer. Sheriff Brian Fischer. From here in Crooked Creek. He’s gonna ask you if he can borrow me for a bit and I want you to give him the go-ahead.”

  “Oh, yeah? What are you, a library book, Arvid? Must be one of those big illustrated comics.” Russell chuckled at his own joke. They both knew that Arvid was more qualified than Russell to have the Sage Bluff Sheriff’s position, but the big man liked being what he called ‘semi-retired’.

  “Very funny,” Arvid said in a long-suffering tone. “You’ll want to loan me out because it has to do with Jessie.”

  “Jessie?”

  “Ya. You know, the redhead you won’t admit has you tied in knots? The one you should’ve put a ring on last summer. The big arteest. The one who—”

  “Oh, can it. I know which Jessie. What’s going on?” His stomach clenched. If the Sheriff there needs outside help to handle a case, it can’t be good.

  Arvid filled him in, finishing with, “And then each note comes with this goofy little toy tractor and—”

  “What the hell? A toy? Are you kidding?”

  “Dead serious.” Arvid explained.

  “That’s macabre. There’s not a thing going on here in Sage Bluff right now. Baker can fill in for me. In fact, she’ll be delighted. I’m coming up to Crooked Creek.”

  “Yeah. I thought you might. Well, listen. Fischer will call. I just wanted to make sure you said yes. And let me give you a head’s up. With this big art show in town there’s no available lodging. There probably isn’t space in an RV park either, because Jessie checked earlier. When Fischer calls, ask him where you can park a motorhome.”