Close Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  I sat at the kitchen table, surveying the room again. The sheriff’s people had gone over the place with much more professional equipment and experience than I had. I’d hoped something might speak to me, but what wasn’t there spoke loud and clear. My brother and I had inherited a cottage and a chunk of lakeshore from an old bachelor who grew flowers, kept to himself and had no family. We’d also inherited his murderer, who’d said, “You Will All Die.” Did that mean us? Should we alert our mother in Palm Desert? I didn’t want to think about that, but she might be able to shed some light on my dad’s connection.

  I stepped around the side of the house to Charley’s destroyed garden, feeling eyes watching me from behind every tree, but reminding myself that this killer hadn’t harmed me before when he’d had the opportunity. A shed at the south corner was partly obscured by a lilac bush. An unlocked padlock dangled from it.

  Charley’s mud-caked garden shoes were beside the door. Bags of high-quality organic fertilizers were stacked in one corner. I picked through a coffee can full of nuts and bolts and old keys, searched through containers of plant food and open bags of fertilizer, coming up with nothing.

  A fairly new rototiller sat in one corner. Sadness settled over me. Charley’s garden was all he’d had in life.

  We hadn’t been able to have a funeral for him yet. His body was still in Minneapolis. In the meantime, burying his trampled flowers seemed like a decent way to say goodbye to him. I pushed the rototiller into the garden. It shouldn’t take more than an hour.

  I made my way down one row and up another, attempting to keep the unruly machine from zigzagging all over the place, and eventually found a rhythm. Charley must have hired someone to do the job; this would have rattled his old bones. Wilcox would have interviewed everyone who had contact with Charley, but I’d mention it.

  The blades chewed at the stalks and decayed blossoms, dragging them under until there was nothing but furrows of soil where once a vibrant and magnificent garden had been. His plants would no longer reach to the sun, drink in the rainwater or bring joy to people.

  After an hour of monotonous teeth-jarring effort, sweating in the humidity and heat, I stopped the jiggling machine and went to the house for a drink of water. Charley’s glasses must have been broken along with the dishes. I held my damp hair back with one hand and tilted my head to drink from the tap.

  Several big gulps refreshed me enough to resume. Rototilling was one more activity to add to the list of things I’d never do again. My shoulders ached but the trampled plants would soon be plowed under and we wouldn’t have to look at the distressing sight again.

  I wiped my eyes with my shirt and stripped to my tank top, also soaked with sweat as I neared the end of the last row. With one last burst of energy, I rammed the thing forward. The blades struck something hard, the machine shrieked and bounced back at me. It lunged again, jangling my entire body with its crazy dance. I got it under control, backed it away and shut it down, gasping from the effort. The rototiller would just have to sit there. I wasn’t going to wrestle a rock out of the garden.

  My hair hung heavy on my back and the cool lake water beckoned. At Charley’s dock, I scanned the blue expanse, populated with sailboats on one of the few sunny days so far. I kicked off my gym shoes, peeled off my sweat-soaked jeans and dived in.

  I rolled and floated under the cool water until my lungs ached. The silent and wavering lake world was a favorite hangout of mine, until I remembered that Rock and Knute might be somewhere down there—the wood gravestone hanging from my dock with their collars attached was the killer’s message. My mouth opened in a silent sob.

  A yellow perch slithered against my leg, startling me into realizing how vulnerable I was. I’d left the gun on a bench in the shed and my phone in my jeans pocket.

  Feeling sad and stupid, I surfaced and pulled myself up on the dock. My breath caught. Someone watched me from a boat several yards out.

  Peder waved and the boat moved in my direction.

  My hand shot out to stop him. “Don’t come any closer for a minute. I’ll be right back.” My wet tank top and underwear clung to me. I’d feel more comfortable chatting with clothes on. I hurried to the house, knowing he was watching.

  I rooted through the closet and put on a worn white shirt, then walked back to Peder, buttoning as I went.

  He’d tied up his boat. “If you don’t mind my asking, why were you swimming here when your cabin is around that bend?”

  “Little and I just found out we inherited this place. My dad and Charley were friends, and the old guy had no family.”

  His eyebrows lifted above his aviators. “You had no idea you’d inherited?”

  “None at all. And do you always spy on women swimming alone?” My tone was light, but a spark of paranoia flared.

  He pointed toward town. “I’m just on my way back from Little’s. I could tell it was you from your hair streaming behind you under the water.”

  Peder’s high forehead and the tip of his nose were slightly sunburned. His voice quiet, he said, “I didn’t know if you’d still speak to me after I let you down.”

  “I’m sorry I was so hard on you. You warned me about the gas, but I wouldn’t let you stop to refuel.”

  “How is Lars doing? You hear all kinds of things around town.”

  “We’re hopeful he’ll be able to identify his attacker when they bring him out of the coma.”

  “That’s great news.” He ducked his head with the shy smile I liked. “We should take advantage of this rare sunny day. Feel like going for a boat ride?” He held out his hand.

  The wind in my face would feel wonderful under normal circumstances, but right now I doubted if I’d ever feel carefree again. “I need to get back to the hospital. Little worries.”

  We both turned as a green Forest Service truck pulled into the drive. “That’s Ben!” I ran to him, wanting him to wrap his arms around me and hold me there until everything was better. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  He got out of the truck, took in Peder, my half-dressed body and wet hair. “I see I should have.”

  Chapter 18

  I hugged him and pointed toward the garden. “I was rototilling and got so hot I jumped in the lake.”

  “Rototilling?”

  I took his hand and tugged him forward. “Come and meet Peder.”

  He stepped over my crumpled jeans on the dock. Peder waited by his boat, inscrutable behind his aviators.

  “Ben, this is Peder.”

  Peder put out his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  At six-two, Ben towered over him. He shook Peder’s outstretched hand. “Little tells me you’ve been helping to keep an eye on Britt.”

  I darted a look at Peder, confused. What was Ben talking about? “Ben, how did you know to find me here?”

  His gaze shifted back to me. “I stopped at the hospital and Little said you hadn’t come back from the airport and weren’t answering your phone. He told me about the will. I figured you’d be here.”

  “I must have been in the water when you called.” My cell phone rang. “That’s probably Little now.” I fumbled for it in my jeans pocket.

  Wilcox was on the line. I had to hold it away from my ear. “I’m with Little. Where are you?”

  “At Charley’s. I’m standing here with Ben and Peder.”

  Wilcox said, “The guy from the writers’ retreat. We interviewed him when we canvassed the houses around there.”

  “He’s a friend. I was just leaving, Sheriff.”

  He didn’t sound mad anymore, just tired. “I can’t protect you if you don’t do what I ask. What would Little do without Lars and you? Think of that before you go off on another tangent.”

  I’d just had an idea and went with it as usual. “I’m sorry. Tell Little I’m fine.”

  “You said Ben’s with you? I need to talk to him. Tell him I’m calling his cell now.”

  Peder started his motor. “It sounds like
you need to get back to Branson.”

  I waved as Peder’s boat pulled away, distracted that Wilcox wanted to talk to Ben. I hoped that’s all he wanted.

  Ben’s brows were drawn together. I asked, “Are you mad about something?”

  He pulled me to him. “Just worried about you running around by yourself.”

  My legs did that wobbly thing and I kissed him. “I’m sorry you were worried but glad you came.”

  He held me close. “We’re still in the middle of my investigation, but I had to see you.”

  My head rested on his chest, my arms were still circling his waist. “Why don’t we go to my cabin after you talk to Wilcox?” He bent to kiss me again but his phone rang.

  The call from Wilcox was short and one-sided. Ben said, “Okay, Sheriff. I’ll be there.” His eyes rolled as he hung up.

  “What about the cabin?” I was too old to pout but that’s what was going on internally.

  “This shouldn’t take long. Let’s meet at my place in Branson after I see Wilcox.”

  My mood instantly improved. “That works, and I can check on Little.” I pulled on my sticky jeans and dirt-caked shoes and headed to my car. He waved as his truck rolled out of the driveway.

  I remembered the rototiller and trudged over to the garden. Charley wouldn’t want it left out in the damp night air to rust. I inspected the blade, hoping it wasn’t damaged. Up close, what I mistook for a rock through my sweat-blinded eyes was a sharp corner that didn’t appear rock-like. I dug the dirt away with my fingers, but that was taking too long.

  With a trowel from the shed, I dug up a shallow rectangular box. It was padlocked. Wilcox had scared me so I tucked the box under my arm and rolled the rototiller back to the shed. A coffee can full of old keys and bolts sat on a shelf. One of the keys might open the box, so I stuck the gun in my waistband and grabbed the can, hurrying back to the safety of my car.

  Miserably uncomfortable in my clothes and dying for a shower, I took a quick detour to my cabin.

  I bent to pick up a small, white rectangle lying on the mat in front of the door. It said ‘Morris Bolger, Developer.’ I swallowed hard, remembering Charley stooping to pick up this man’s business card. I hurried inside.

  This time I showered fast, with the bathroom door propped open and my gun and phone at arm’s reach.

  Ten minutes later, I grabbed my laptop and a hammer and hurried back to the SUV. The hammer might come in handy if none of the keys worked.

  On the way to the hospital, I debated calling Ben, but he’d let me know when he and Wilcox were finished. I intended to find out what Morris Bolger wanted from me, but first I called my mother to ask her about our family’s connection with Charley. After putting up with my father for so many years, she was enjoying her retirement in Palm Desert, loving the year-round warm climate and doing all the things she’d missed out on early in life.

  Little had already told her about Charley and Lars. Little and our petite mother had the same delicate features and sensitive nature. Neither of them stood a chance against my dad. A towering inferno of repressed anger most often expressed in verbal abuse and in Little’s case, physical.

  Mom and I caught up since our last chat, and I assured her she didn’t need to come to Spirit Lake right now. I asked her about Charley.

  “Your father never talked about his visits with Charley. Not a surprise since he didn’t talk to me about anything.”

  “It sounds like you still hate him.”

  “I don’t, but it wasn’t right that he was so mean to Little, especially since his father did the same thing to him. You’d think he would have been more understanding.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your grandfather, Rolf, was hard on your dad. He never thought your dad was tough enough.”

  “The only thing I know about my grandfather is that he died before I was born.”

  “I don’t know much either. After Rolf died, we inherited his house and moved to Minnesota. Your grandmother passed away years before that.”

  She changed the subject and told me she’d been thinking of taking a cruise with her boyfriend, and I encouraged her to do it sooner rather than later. Her parting comment rang in my ears. “You’re watching over your brother, aren’t you?”

  The new information about my father’s childhood collided with my own memories and instead of going back to the hospital, I detoured to the town cemetery.

  Driving through the arched vine-covered gates, I felt the weight of all those souls but was looking for one in particular. I hadn’t visited him since the funeral. I’d been sixteen and the reason why we were burying him.

  A dead rhododendron plant sat in front of his headstone. Not even Charley would be visiting him now. With my heart as hard as the granite oblong anchoring him to the next world, I nudged the stone with my toe. “What was Charley’s secret?”

  I listened for an answer, but the only sound was a distant buzz of the groundskeeper riding his mower in drowsy circles among the graves. My heart softened a fraction. “What Mom said about your childhood doesn’t alter the fact that you abused her and Little, but I’m sorry for kicking you out of the car that night.” I bit my lip, holding back the flood of remorse. “If I’d been more mature, I like to think I would have handled it differently.”

  A breeze lifted the blades of grass next to his grave. I picked up the dead plant and dropped it in a bin before hurrying to my SUV.

  ***

  Little’s brows drew together when he saw me walking toward him. “You said you were taking Sarah to the airport. Wilcox was furious.”

  I’d done it again, following whichever way the wind blew, forgetting people were worried about me. I’d counted on Little sticking close to Lars since Sarah wasn’t there and hoped he wouldn’t notice how long I’d been gone. “I’m sorry and I’ll explain, but first tell me how Lars is doing.”

  His voice was strained. “The same. The doctor’s with him now.” He pointed to the heavy bag dragging on my shoulder. “What’s that?”

  “A clue maybe.” I set the bag between us on the waiting room couch and pulled out the box. “I’m dying to see inside, but wanted you to be with me when I opened it.” I told him where I found it and reached for the coffee can. “Maybe the key’s in here.” A few people shot curious looks at us, but most were lost in their own worries.

  Sorting through the nuts and bolts for keys and methodically trying them took Little’s mind off Lars. I was willing to live with my impatience until he’d tried every key if that would give him a few moments of peace.

  When he ran out of keys, I took the metal box outside where the noise wouldn’t scare anyone and whacked it with my hammer. The lock broke, and I hurried back inside so we could open it together.

  I set it on his lap. “You’re the anthropologist, you unwrap it.”

  He carefully removed the airtight wrapping, revealing a five-by-eight-inch gold frame with a white mat, yellowed with age. In the photo, a fair-haired man in a gray suit stood next to a woman—a foot shorter, even in her pumps. She wore a dressy blue suit with wide shoulders. A matching hat with a feather and netting perched at an angle on her upswept hairdo. A few dark tendrils framed her smiling face. A white blouse with a loose bow at the neck and a string of pearls around her throat peeked out from her suit. She held a bouquet of yellow and white rhododendron. His hand covered hers; both wore gold wedding bands. The couple smiled radiantly at the camera.

  I breathed, “It’s a wedding photo.”

  Little pointed. “This has been colorized, and look at the lower right corner. Here’s where it was taken. Gundersen Photography, Trondheim, Norway, 1940.”

  “Do you think it’s Charley and that he had a wife?”

  Little peered closer. “They look young. It’s hard to tell if there’s a resemblance, but this guy is tall and thin like Charley.”

  Not liking where this was leading, I paced in front of the couch. “If it was Charley’s wedding photo, why
not display it in his house?”

  Little said, “Dad’s family came from Trondheim.”

  I stopped pacing. “Let’s not make assumptions.” I sounded like Wilcox. “Coming from the same place could be the reason they became friends.”

  “I’ll see if something’s written on the back of the photo.” He concentrated on the picture, turning the frame over and using his fingernail to bend tiny nails holding the backing in place.

  I watched from behind his shoulder, a spark of excitement fluttering in my stomach. He pried it off and we both leaned in for a closer look.

  His shoulders slumped. “It’s blank.”

  I threw myself into a chair.

  “Wait, there’s more.” He reached into the metal box and brought out another object. I would have ripped off the plastic, but Little took his time.

  He squinted at a man’s gold wedding ring. “Something’s inscribed, but I can’t read it. It needs to be cleaned.”

  I held it between my thumb and forefinger bringing it close to my eyes, but couldn’t read it either. “I’ll take it to Gray’s Jewelers in the morning.”

  Little brought out the final object, a white lace handkerchief, now yellowed, with the initials, RS, embroidered in one corner.

  We pondered the handkerchief, picture and ring until Nurse Connie stopped to tell us the doctor had finished examining Lars. “I’m afraid there’s still no change.”

  Little went to Lars and I opened my laptop and Googled Trondheim, Norway, 1940. A section about Trondheim and Hitler’s occupation of Norway during that time period caught my attention but my cell phone rang, interrupting further research. It was Marta.

  Her words were more clipped than usual. “You don’t return my calls, now?”

  “I’m sorry. A lot is going on here and I’m in the middle of it.”

  “I know what you’re in the middle of. That sexy forest ranger you couldn’t wait to get back to see.”