Close Up on Murder

by Linda Townsdin

  He stalked off. “I can’t protect someone who has a death wish.”

  I followed. “I know you haven’t found evidence connecting the Willards to Charley’s or Rob’s murders, but I told you I saw their truck this morning. And it’s not the first time they’ve been hanging around here. Did you check them out when I told you he was in town?”

  “HP stopped him. He said he came to Spirit Lake to pick up a load of junk from one of the resorts. It turned out to be true.”

  “Maybe he was multi-tasking, Sheriff. And what about Bolger? He didn’t like it when I turned down his offer to buy Charley’s.” My phone vibrated. Little was calling. “What’s going on out there?”

  “Someone broke into the garage. Stay inside. It will calm down in a while.”

  I turned back to Wilcox. “You have an entire county to protect, but my brother is my only issue. If I hadn’t been watching, when Little took Lars to his therapy in the morning, they could both have ended up dead.”

  Thor caught up to me as I stalked away, her face bunched up in a frown. “The sheriff hasn’t slept since Charley’s murder. He’s grilled everyone in that writers’ group, the Bolgers, the Willards and other known crazies in the area and he’s looking at everyone who fits the profile and lots who don’t.”

  I waved her off. “He’s letting this killer slip through his fingers. He doesn’t even have a motive.”

  She flared up. “He’s close, but every time he gets distracted by you going off on your own it sets him back. He’s using every resource he can on it and that has an impact on the rest of the county.”

  That stopped me. I’d been badgering him nonstop and my seeing the light in the garage was pure luck. I nodded. “Point taken.”

  ***

  I’d fallen asleep on the couch still wearing my clothes. Lars’s voice woke me at nine a.m. He stood at the bedroom doorway in his underwear, already appearing worn out. “The deputy is on his way to pick me up for therapy. I could use help with my jeans.”

  One pant leg was cut off to fit over the cast, but still tricky for him to maneuver. Little jumped up from a chair to help, and we made our way into the restaurant. Little shot me his owl scowl on his way to the kitchen to make our breakfast. I hadn’t had a chance to ask what he found out about the mood swings from Dr. Fromm, but it must not have been good.

  Lars lowered himself into the booth and propped the crutches against it.

  I tried for upbeat. “Ready for your physical therapy?”

  He shrugged, his face haggard. “Has Little told you we’re talking about moving back to Minneapolis? Going back to teaching.”

  “Whatever you need to do.” They’d been through so much and maybe they would be safer away from here. What had happened to Lars would haunt him forever. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to be far away from the horror of the past weeks. But the idea of there being no Little’s Café in Spirit Lake and no Little and Lars left a big empty place inside me.

  In a few minutes Little brought platters of blueberry wild rice pancakes. We thanked him but neither of us had much of an appetite.

  Gene read the paper at his usual table in the corner. Today, his camouflage was a Twins baseball cap and a t-shirt with a moose on it. Little talked to him for a minute, frowned, and then bee-lined to our booth. He leaned toward me and whispered. “Gene gave me more details about last night. You could have been hurt.”

  I was ready to defend my actions but Lars put a hand on Little’s arm. “We’re just glad you saw the guy, Britt.”

  Little mumbled something that sounded vaguely grateful. He always got cranky when he was worried about my safety. I let it go and poured more maple syrup on my pancakes.

  Jerry came into the restaurant, saw us and walked over. “Britt, Wilcox wants you in Iona. I’m supposed to follow you.”

  I hopped up. “He must have some evidence on the Willards.”

  “I honestly don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

  I glanced over at Little and Lars. “We can’t both leave.”

  He pointed to the parking lot. “Seth’s out there, Gene’s in here and Wilcox sent someone to pick up Lars for his therapy.”

  I grabbed my camera bag and headed for the door with Jerry following. “You worked all night and now you guys are doing another shift?”

  Jerry stifled a yawn. “Resources. A homicide up in the eastern part of the county last night. Several deputies are headed over there.”

  ***

  Matthew and his father sat slightly forward, hands cuffed behind them in the back seat of a deputy’s car. I zoomed in on their sullen faces. That shot was worth the trip.

  Feeling vindicated, I swaggered toward Wilcox. “Thanks for inviting me, Sheriff. Did they confess?”

  Wilcox leaned back against the side of his vehicle. Cowboy hat pushed back, arms folded across his chest, he was barely able to contain the smile twitching at his mouth. Had I ever seen him smile?

  Something moved behind him. He stepped away from the window and pulled open the door. A barking flash of black and white leapt out. “Rock!” I ran the last few yards, aware of Wilcox reaching into the back seat to lift Knute to the ground but my arms were already full of barking, licking, squirming dog. Knute got into the hug fest too. After a few more minutes of bliss, I ran my hands over every inch of them to make sure they weren’t hurt.

  Wilcox coughed. I stood up and brushed myself off, embarrassed at the unleashed abandon of our joyful reunion. I wiped my eyes with my shirt tail. “How did you find them?”

  “We came over here to check on the family’s whereabouts last night, and to question them about what they were doing in Spirit Lake earlier in the day. Plus, we got an anonymous tip this morning to check the property. I’ll show you where the dogs were hidden.”

  I looked back at the deputy’s car with the Willards in it, wanting to grab them by the throats, but followed Wilcox down the lane to the building where they’d held their meetings.

  He pushed open the door. “They were in here.”

  I took pictures of the interior but there wasn’t much to see. No dog food or dishes, no scratch marks on the door.

  “Rock would have tried to get out unless they caged him.”

  Wilcox said, “They took decent care of the dogs. They were muzzled and on short ropes, but they didn’t seem to be thirsty or hungry.”

  “Stealing them and locking them up was decent care?”

  He tugged at his hat. “I’m saying they weren’t starved or abused.”

  Rock dug at the junk pile but came when I whistled and we walked back. The Willards were still waiting in the sheriff’s car.

  The window was open a couple of inches. I yelled. “Why did you steal my dogs?”

  Matthew opened his mouth to speak but his dad told him to shut up. “We didn’t have anything to do with that. Those dogs were not there yesterday.”

  “You’re lying.” I hit the window with the palm of my hand and Matthew flinched.

  Mr. Willard said, “Someone all along has been trying to get my boy in trouble.” His mean eyes peered at me. “I bet it was you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I want a lawyer for me and my boy.”

  I shot more pictures of father and son. They protested and I kept shooting just for the fun of making them mad.

  Wilcox told the deputy to take them to Branson.

  I stepped back. “Where’s Mrs. Willard?”

  “Grocery shopping. We sent a car to pick her up, but thanks for helping me do my job.”

  It was easier when he was being his usual sarcastic self but still hard to talk past the lump in my throat. “Sheriff, thank you so much for finding my dogs.”

  He cocked his head toward the Willards. “If you press charges I can hold them long enough to question them about this other stuff, but stealing dogs is a misdemeanor. I can’t put them in jail.”

  “I’ll press charges.”

  They pulled away and I called Little to tell him the
news. He shouted it out to the staff, and I heard cheering in the background.

  Rock tried to climb into my lap in the SUV. Knute stretched out on the back seat, a spot familiar to him. I buried my face in Rock’s neck, glad the sheriff couldn’t see my sloppy tears. “I’m not taking my eyes off you guys ever again.”

  Jerry materialized at my window and I jumped a foot. “Are you okay, Britt?”

  He was parked behind me, waiting to follow me back to Little’s. I coughed. “Just getting the dogs settled.” My red-rimmed eyes stared back at me in the rearview mirror. My nose looked like I worked for the circus.

  Jerry said, “Finally some good things are happening on this freaking case.” He got in his car and waved for me to go.

  My call to Ben went to voice mail. He was likely out of cell range. I gave him the message, knowing how happy he’d be when he listened to it.

  Little laughed and cried and ended up with so much dog slobber on him, he’d have to shower before going back to the kitchen. He ruffled Rock’s fur. “They’re getting steak after what they’ve been through.”

  No doubt grateful to be back home, Rock and Knute ate and went right to their beds. As they slept under my watchful eye, I tried to figure out why the Willards took them but I needed more information.

  Jason had said he’d look at statistics for me. Maybe that would lead to something. I called him. “Remember when I asked you to check on hate crimes in Iona Township?”

  Jason said, “Right, the statistics showed that hate crimes were down in the county from previous years.”

  A thought began to take shape. “Did you check on other types of crime?”

  “Just the anti-gay stuff. You didn’t ask about anything else.” He sounded defensive.

  “I wasn’t accusing, but I’m curious. Could you check stats on other crimes in the area?” It couldn’t hurt to throw out a wider net.

  “Sure. If I get anything interesting, I’ll send it to you.”

  Leaning back on the sofa with my feet on the coffee table listening to Knute’s rhythmic snoring soothed me, but doing nothing was unacceptable. I’d been looking at this like a victim and not like a photojournalist. What would Britt the photographer do if this were someone else’s problem and I wanted the story?

  A surge of energy shot through me and I shot to my feet. I’d go after it. I’d been trying to wear too many hats. It was time to do what I did best. From now on the sheriff could do the job of protecting and I would investigate and shoot what I saw. I needed to act now, while the Willards were locked up, in case they were connected with Charley. Unsure of what action to take, I set out to talk to the one person who might point me in the right direction.

  Chapter 23

  Edgar and I faced the lake in his red Adirondack chairs, with tall glasses of iced tea perched on the wide arms. He patted Rock’s head. “It’s good to see you again, friend.” Rock took off after a squirrel and Edgar turned to me. “You say the Willards had them locked in a shed?”

  I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see my nod. “Yes, Wilcox is questioning them now but he’s never been able to connect them to Charley.”

  I told him about the interaction with Mo Bolger.

  He nodded. “That explains a few things.”

  Rock ran to the lake and I tossed a branch into the water. He dove in after it and brought it back. We did that about ten times and I finally quit. I grumped. “I can’t even swim. I have to be watchful all the time now.”

  “Go ahead. You have nothing to worry about here.”

  “I’ve told you what this guy’s done, Edgar. What if he comes after you to get to me? You think your ghost ancestors will protect us?” I looked around. “I don’t see them.”

  “You’re too distracted to see them. Go for your swim. When you said you were coming, I asked a couple of neighbors to watch the road.”

  The lake beckoned me. My limbs wanted the stretch and pull, the cold water washing the tension away. I stripped off my shirt and jeans. “I’m going in.”

  Edgar perked up.

  “I’m in my tank top, Edgar.”

  He cackled. “I may be old and blind but I still have a memory.”

  I waded out and dove in the water. The day was clear and the sun warm on my shoulders. Rock swam alongside me until he tired and went back to sit with Edgar. The past weeks dropped away until I was part of the water, all motion.

  I’d gone about a mile and reluctantly turned back. When I was close to shore, Rock jumped in and swam the last few yards with me. I stepped out of the water quietly, not wanting to wake the snoozing Edgar, grabbed my camera from the bag and shot photos of the old man from the side—the long gray braid resting on his faded blue shirt, gnarled hands folded in his lap, his form shaded by three birches, their branches swaying.

  Rock ran up and shook himself all over me. I took his picture for the nine thousandth time, catching the drops of water flying in all directions, and his paw prints in the sandy soil. The scarred indentations on Rock’s prints reminded me of how they’d gotten that way. He’d scratched at the cabin door until they were bloody, trying to get outside to Gert as she was being murdered. I sighed, thankful I hadn’t lost him, too.

  Edgar’s eyes opened. “Did you have a good swim? I see the weather is turning again. Rain is coming.”

  “I feel much better.” I plunked down in the chair and waited to dry before putting my jeans and shirt back on, shivering a bit. Edgar was right, the air had turned cooler, the sky dim.

  “Thank you for visiting an old man, but you have more important things to do today. We haven’t talked about the purpose of your visit.”

  I’d learned from Little not to jump right into quizzing Edgar, to wait until he invited the conversation. When I didn’t wait, he’d ignore my questions and talk about his Jacuzzi and how it helped his circulation. Or he’d talk about Little’s chicken-wild rice hotdish. I was glad I’d waited for him this time.

  “Time’s running out and I don’t know which way to focus. That buried box I found at Charley’s isn’t enough.”

  His fingers steepled. “Do you keep all your treasures in one place?”

  For a second I wondered if his mind wandered, and then understood where he was going with the question. I had lots of hiding places for my treasures—buried under the rose bushes, my secret office in the garage and a few more. I jumped up and grabbed my jeans. “Thanks, Edgar!” I might have stopped digging too soon. Charley could have left more clues hidden in his house or garden.

  Edgar stood on wobbly legs. I slung the camera bag over my shoulder and helped him up the hill to his house, his frame fragile as paper.

  He stood in his doorway waving goodbye. “Be wary. This killer is trying to impress you, prove he’s a great hunter. But he’ll go after you wanting to kill when the game bores him.”

  None of Edgar’s neighbors were visible as I drove over the hill. That was the idea, I guess. I waved anyway and turned onto the main road back to town.

  Edgar’s warning chilled my bones. The killer had passed up several opportunities to harm me, and I had taken chances thinking I wasn’t a target. The word “yet” hadn’t occurred to me.

  ***

  Lars was back from therapy. He sat in the apartment’s kitchen nook looking out the window. I’d left Knute behind, but Lars hadn’t seen Rock yet and Rock seemed to know not to jump on him. Lars scratched Rock’s ears and his gaze turned to me. “Your hair is soaked.”

  “I took Rock for a swim at Edgar’s. How was your therapy?”

  He looked out the window again. “Loads of fun.”

  “Are you okay, Lars?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. I’d rather be like you, out risking my neck instead of sitting here waiting to heal.” He rubbed his hand over his almost hairless head. “Not that I’m not grateful to be alive.” His cheeks puffed out in a resigned sigh as he tilted his chin toward the restaurant. “At least Little is so busy he can’t worry constantly. I’m happy for that
.”

  Lars didn’t look happy at all. “At least now I have Rock and Knute to keep me company.”

  Eager to follow up on Edgar’s hint, I left the dogs with Lars and planned my getaway. Gene was on duty in the restaurant and Jerry outside in his unmarked car. I put on an apron, picked up the pot and filled coffees along the booths. At Gene’s table, I leaned in and told him I had to meet with my editor at the bureau and would be back in a couple of hours.

  He reached into his pocket. “I’ll have to ask Wilcox.”

  “Go ahead but I’m leaving now.” He tapped in the sheriff’s number. I pretended not to see him gesture for me to wait, tossed my apron on the kitchen peg, snagged my camera bag from under the counter and headed out the door. Thor’s rebuke about distracting the sheriff by going off on my own caused a twinge of guilt but hadn’t I discovered something he’d missed every time I followed my instincts?

  I turned south instead of north toward Branson, my eye on the rearview mirror. No one followed me as I passed my cabin and kept going to Charley’s turnoff.

  The sheriff’s people did a thorough search of his house the day I found him and hadn’t discovered any helpful evidence, at least none they’d shared with me. My own search of the house and shed hadn’t produced anything either. But maybe I hadn’t uncovered everything in that corner of the garden where I’d found his box of memories.

  At Charley’s, I craned my neck to see if all was clear, and then left the safety of the car, camera strap around my neck, gun in hand. Edgar’s warning reminded me what was at stake. To keep Little safe, I first had to keep myself from harm.

  I grabbed a shovel from the shed and trudged across the garden to the hole where the first box had surfaced. The shovel only hit soil and small rocks. My neck prickled and turning slowly in a circle, I willed my eyes to penetrate the woods. When nothing out of the ordinary caught my attention, I turned back to the job at hand determined not to let fear or discouragement stop me. Maybe he’d hidden boxes at each corner.