“That didn’t answer my question about where you got the photo.”
I tried for an innocent tone. “The family lives east of Branson and I dropped in for a visit today. I was looking at the picture and forgot to put it back.”
His lip curled at my lame explanation. “Jaysus, Britt, don’t show that to Little.” He leaned in close to my ear. “Seriously, the less he knows, the less he’ll worry.”
“I won’t tell him, but there’s no way I’m letting this go until Wilcox has the killer behind bars.”
Lars shot a glance toward the kitchen. “Promise me you won’t disturb our customers by showing that picture in here. We’re safe during the day and Wilcox has someone coming to watch the place tonight.” A group of customers came in, and Lars hustled away with a smile plastered on his face.
Lars didn’t want me to show the photo in the restaurant so I hit the street, aware that Wilcox wouldn’t look into the coincidence of Matthew’s recent release from prison and the Spirit Lake hate crimes without evidence or facts.
People were milling around town, entering and leaving the tourist shops. The back of my neck itched as if someone watched me. It wasn’t unusual for me to get a few curious looks. My height and the camera around my neck attracted attention. I disregarded the itch.
After an hour, I’d shown the picture in nearly every business in town with no luck. My last stop was Erickson’s Hardware. The store had the largest square footage of any business in town. People around here were do-it-yourselfers. If they couldn’t figure out how to fix or build something, a neighbor offered assistance. I passed the photo around to the staff. They said the same thing at every stop. Hard to tell, the kid resembled half the kids in the county. But everyone admired the deer head.
They all shook their heads when I asked if anyone had been spouting any anti-gay comments recently. They’d get the occasional question from tourists or hunters about Little and Lars. Most of the business owners would simply say, “You like the food and the service is good, right?” Haters sometimes showed up, but murder, especially the horrific murder of Charley, was different.
Not expecting anything, I pushed open the door at Bella’s. The familiar bell tinkled above me. Violet had one customer in the chair and two others in line. Bella stood at the register running a credit card for a woman. When the woman left, Bella peered at the picture through her bifocals.
“Sure I know who that is. He just got out of prison and he’s living with his parents up in Iona and working with his dad. I remember when he went in. His folks were associated with one of those white supremacist cults, but they haven’t been in any trouble that got them on the police logs. They usually get younger and stupider people to do the dirty work. Their older son’s not around.”
She plumped down into her rocker, picked up the remote and switched the channel on the wall-mounted television to CNN.
Violet bent over the photo. “Look at the size of that rack.”
***
According to Mrs. Willard, Sunday was church day. I wanted to see this church of none of your goddamn business. Could it be a front for anti-gay activities and possibly a connection to Charley’s death? I set out early in the morning with my binocs, camera and backup equipment. The only time I didn’t carry a camera was in the shower. Sometimes I couldn’t see clearly unless I was looking through a rectangle.
I backed the SUV into position in my hideaway on the Willards’ road and waited, sipping from a giant coffee and working my way through a bag of Little’s blueberry muffins. This was a fishing expedition. When the family left for church, I’d follow, and maybe even slip into the services unnoticed.
Shortly before ten, a caravan of two pickups and one battered Ford passed my spot heading toward the Willards’ home, carrying mostly men, a couple of women and two or three children. The church must be on the property.
After making sure no one else was coming, I hiked up the road keeping close to the woods. The vehicles were not in the driveway. Scouting the area behind the house, I found car tracks leading down a dirt road barely wide enough for one vehicle. Tufts of weeds and grass covered parts of the rutted path. The recent rain meant muddy going for those cars. The quarter-mile trail led me to the cars and trucks parked near a weathered outbuilding. Rifles were mounted above the back windows in the pickups. I photographed several license plate numbers.
Lots of these old homesteads had outbuildings. This one was the size of a one-room cabin and surrounded by woods on all sides except for the driveway area. The building had one open window, maybe three by five, and the door was closed. No dogs barked. If there were dogs, I’d run like the wind back to my SUV.
I wondered how long services lasted. I made my way to the back, then sidled around to the open window. Cigarette smoke wafted out. I stifled a sneeze. Mrs. Willard talked about me. “She was no parole officer. I described her to Matthew here and he said his parole officer was a man for one thing.”
Several people spoke at once but I couldn’t catch their words. Mrs. Willard said, “She could be from one of the groups that try to keep us from spreading the word.”
“Until we find out, everyone watch your backs.” That might have been Mr. Willard or someone else from the congregation. “Dale, did you distribute those flyers like you were supposed to?”
A younger male voice spoke. “I stuck a bunch up at that gay bar on Fourth Street and put some up at the community college. I’m all out now.”
“Good for you. We need to get to them before it’s too late and Satan has them in his claws.” That sounded like Mrs. Willard.
“This has nothing to do with that woman checking me out, but didn’t we agree to cut back on the small stuff for a while? Me and dad are working on a bigger project.” That had to be Matthew.
A nasal male voice. “We’re all in this together. Since when did you and your boy go off and do your own thing?”
It sounded like Matthew’s father again, “It’s not like that, Orin.”
I couldn’t distinguish any specific voices after that comment. Everyone started talking at once, loud and agitated. Matthew’s father said, “Margery, jump up there and make more copies for everyone before we leave. The parade is tomorrow and the fair is next week. You can pass out the literature, just no vandalism for a while. That’s all we’re saying. Be strategic, people.”
The sound of a copier chugging surprised me. I didn’t see any electrical lines. Maybe they used a generator. A six-foot-high pile of junk sat a few feet from the shed. The generator could be hidden there. I’d have to check it out. What were they printing that was so secret they couldn’t keep their printer at the house?
Someone made a hate-in-the-name-of-the-lord speech and wrapped it up. Matthew’s father spoke, “Okay, folks, let me know if you see a tall, long-haired blond woman hanging around. If she found Matthew here, she might be watching the rest of us too. Be wary.”
A woman’s high-pitched voice responded. “They can’t keep us from doing our work.”
“That’s right, sister. Remember, let the other Church of the Creator groups handle the rest of it. Our mission is to eradicate the homos and that’s what we need to concentrate on.”
The hair stood up on the back of my neck, signaling it was time to leave, but before I could go, chairs scraped back, feet shuffled and the group spilled out.
Flat against the back wall, I waited until everyone pulled away. After the dust settled, I walked around the building, taking photos from all sides. The junk pile was made up of old car parts, farm machinery, piles of brush and wood, toasters and blenders, all blasted by the elements. Several cans of black spray paint with no caps lay in a heap on one side of the pile. I shot photos of them, picked one up with a Kleenex and set it aside to take back with me.
They’d shut the window, closed the curtain and padlocked the door before leaving. A black cable partially covered by debris snaked around the building to the back of the junk pile. I followed it to a generator tucked between a wri
nger-type washing machine and a sprung easy chair.
A sound came from the woods in the direction of the Willards’ house. I stopped breathing and peered into the trees, nervous about being cut off from my SUV. Nothing else disturbed the quiet and I drew in a deep breath. Maybe a deer had stepped on a fallen branch. I wanted to look through the window, and then I’d get out of here. The place made me edgy.
They’d wedged a stick in the window, an effective enough lock to keep it from sliding more than a quarter inch. I reached around to see if there was wiggle room to pop it out of its weathered tracks, and heard the unmistakable crack of a pump-action shotgun behind me. I froze.
“We shoot trespassers here. Turn around.”
I turned in slow motion. The rest of the group materialized out of the woods, standing with legs spread and guns pointed at me.
Chapter 6
I recognized Mrs. Willard’s Glock—the rest carried rifles. Matthew held a big hunting rifle. The buck’s head popped into my mind.
The man standing in front of me was mid-fifties, mid-height and weight, and the mean stare meant business. He moved closer, keeping his shotgun pointed at my chest. “What are you doing here?”
“I want to join your church.” My effort to speak with confidence came out sounding more like a scared mouse.
“You’re trespassing on my property. I have the right to shoot you for that.”
My throat closed. “That seems a little extreme.”
Matthew pointed to my camera. “She’s taking pictures, Dad.”
Mr. Willard spoke to the group. “What we have here is that StarTribune photographer who was plastered all over the news about five months ago on that trafficking thing over in Spirit Lake.”
He turned his gaze to me. “Frankly, I was all for what you did, keeping foreigners out of the U.S.”
Even though his take on it was skewed, I hoped it would keep him from shooting me. I’d helped rescue four Vietnamese girls from being trafficked through Canada into Minnesota. That particular ring had been shut down, but trying to stop the sex trade was like trying to hold back a raging river with a beaver dam.
My knees trembled, but I looked directly at the elder Willard. “Tell them to put down their weapons before someone blows my head off and I’ll explain why I’m here.”
He nodded to the others. They dropped the weapons at their sides but moved in closer.
The problem was I didn’t know what to say. I’d taken photos in the past of some of the physical damage hate factions like this did to the groups they despised. They liked to attack with bats and beatings. My cell phone rang and I jumped, thankful it hadn’t done that while they were inside the building and kicking myself now for not turning it off. I studied the screen. Maybe the call could save me. “My editor in Branson knows I’m here. She’s checking on me.”
“Tell her you’re having a chat with the nice people out here who just finished their Bible study and I might let you out alive.”
I hit answer. “Hi, Cynthia.” I listened, then said, “Thanks for checking. I’m still talking with the Willards out in Iona but I’m heading home now.”
Lars was sputtering when I hung up. I muted the sound in case he called back. This group didn’t need to know I no longer worked for the StarTribune.
Mrs. Willard put her hands on her hips, presenting a good view of a Ban Gay Marriage slogan on her gray tank top. “Why’s the paper doing a story on us? We haven’t done anything.”
I turned to Matthew. “Actually, it’s you we’re interested in. We’re doing a follow-up since you recently got out of prison. I wanted to take your photo and ask if our reporter could get an interview with you.”
Mr. Willard said, “My boy works with me. He’s not talking to any press to bring more media attention to our home. Now, get the hell out of here. Next time I catch you trespassing on my property, I will blow your head off.”
I raised my camera. “I’d like to take a picture of your group.”
“What you can do is hand me the camera.”
Stepping back, I said. “I’ll press charges if you damage it.”
He yanked the strap from around my neck, nearly taking my head with it and took out the memory card.
“Give it back to me.” I mentally slapped myself in the head. Never knowing when to quit is a problem I’m still trying to overcome.
He tossed the camera at me, raised his shotgun and blasted a round into the air. “Now get out.”
I moved fast down the lane, grateful for my long stride.
They followed me all the way to my SUV. Mr. Willard stood aside for me to back out of my not-so-great hiding place. “Don’t bother bringing the cops. By the time they get here, there will be no evidence of what you think you saw. Anything you say will be the word of a trespasser against our word as God-fearing members of the community.”
He held the shotgun in one hand and pointed it at me. “We are strategic and now we will be watching you.”
I wanted to stomp on the accelerator but drove away at a normal speed, swallowing several times to keep my breakfast from coming up. When that was under control, I checked my phone. Missed calls from Lars and Little. I returned the call from Lars first to get my story straight with him and find out what he’d said to Little. “What’s up?”
He sounded relieved to hear my voice. “Little was nervous that we didn’t know where you were. I figured you’d done something stupid, especially after you called me Cynthia.”
“I checked out an anti-gay group in Iona and wanted them to think I still worked for the bureau.”
“Jaysus, be careful. Does Wilcox know what you’re doing?”
“No, and you better not tell him.”
What would be a sigh coming from most people was more like a blast when it came from Lars. “Hurry back. Little won’t settle down until he sees you.”
“Tell him I didn’t have cell service.” I’d kept a lot from Little when he was too young to understand things. Even though he was a grown man now, I continued to protect him from being upset. Early conditioning is hard to shake.
My trip to Iona had turned out to be dangerous, I’d learned nothing incriminating about them and now they knew about me. At least by not telling Wilcox, I saved myself from another tongue-lashing. The sheriff wasn’t interested in my gut feelings.
***
A late lunch crowd packed the restaurant. When Little saw me he tore out of the kitchen. “I’ve been worried about you.”
I slid onto a stool. “Sorry, I lost track of time.”
His hands went to his hips. “That happens with you a lot.”
My nerves were still jumpy. It’s not every day people point guns directly at me. Before he could go into his usual spiel about how inconsiderate I was, I put my hand on my stomach and tried to look pitiful. “Any lunch left?”
He disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a giant plate of something purple alongside brown rice. I sniffed. “Smells like Thai.”
“It’s called Eggplant Delight.”
Little’s didn’t have a food theme. My brother cooked whatever captured his interest. It pleased everyone, and the locals were grateful for the variety. He hurried back to the kitchen. Mouth full, I called after him. “Thank you. It’s delicious.”
I sipped tea and watched the open air bistro begin to fill. People were coming in off the lake after a day of recreation on one of the rare sunny afternoons this summer. I waved at Lars, busy pouring wine and beer at the bistro bar. He’d created his own specialty cocktail for the summer folks—the Sun ‘n’ Fun. I no longer drank alcohol but the beverage smelled citrusy. It was a big hit even when the sun wasn’t shining and no one was having fun.
Peder, the blue and white speedboat guy, sat at a bistro table. He caught my eye and made a welcoming gesture indicating the chair next to him. I snagged a couple of cookies from the baked goods display and joined him.
He moved a yellow writing pad out of the way. “Not swimming today?”
/> “Not yet, but it’s a good idea.” The lake was in full view from our vantage point on a little knoll under the birches. I offered him a cookie.
He bit into it. “Very good.” His accent was heavily Scandinavian and reminded me of my great aunts, who’d never lost that lilting speech pattern. I nibbled my cookie. Lemon, my favorite. “Where’s the rest of your group?”
“Vik often sends us out to do writing on our own.”
“Is Vik your workshop leader?”
“Yes, also Norwegian, although he’s like you, born in the U.S.”
Lars brought a pitcher of iced tea to our table. “Refill for you, Peder?”
He looked at his watch, pushed his glass toward Lars and thanked him. “I’ve finished my piece and have half an hour left until we meet back at the cabin.”
Lars said, “I didn’t know you two had met, or is Britt harassing the customers now?”
I said, “We met at the city dock.”
Lars clapped Peder on the back and headed to another table. “You two scandahoovians enjoy yourselves.”
Peder tilted his head. “But isn’t Lars also Scandinavian?”
“Half. His mom was Swedish but his father is Jewish. His name is Jacob Lars Weinstein. He used to be a history prof at the University of Minnesota but since moving up here with Little, he’s definitely embraced his inner Swede.”
Licking cookie crumbs from my fingers, I stood. “I need to check on my dogs. Thanks for inviting me over.”
Peder gathered his things. “And I need to get back for the reading.” He held the door for me on the way out. Chatting with Peder almost made me forget the Willards.
***
A flash of fear slid through me as I opened the door my cabin. I should start locking it now that I’d stirred up the anti-gay haters.
I stepped in the shower, hoping to wash away the image of guns pointing at me. My cell phone rang and I reached out to grab it from the counter, but the caller had hung up.
It was Ben. Maybe he was coming home. I hurried to finish showering, put on a t-shirt and shorts and stepped out to the deck, shaking my hair like Rock shook water from his fur.
Close Up on Murder Page 5
