Once my father stepped out of the courtroom, however, there was less to admire. As with me, alcohol for him was a hard burning thing, not be touched for too long without pain and danger. He was, or so I’ve been told, an unpredictable drunk known for long weekend benders with his courthouse cronies. Drinking is always an escape, a way out of the world and its endless disarray, and it made my father a risk to others in the way people who try to elude reality always are. He just didn’t care, about himself or anyone else, when the booze took hold, and that’s how he ended up killing my mother.
Her name was Dorothy Swaboda, and she was by all accounts a lovely woman who’d grown up on a dairy farm near Pineland. I say “by all accounts” because I have no memory of her. All I have are a few photos and some of her old jewelry, including a simple gold bracelet I’ve worn for years as my way of keeping in touch with her spirit. She was tall, light-haired, with a solid Slavic face. In the photos she always looks stern, or maybe unhappy. She was thirty-five when she married my father and I was born six months later, the baby behind the wedding. I was just shy of two when she died.
It happened one night when I was in the care of my two aunts. My father and mother went out for dinner at Gentry’s Supper Club, now long gone. The club was on Fortune Lake, about ten miles west of town, at the end of a twisty county road. After dinner and more than a few cocktails, my father got behind the wheel of his Buick Electra, my mother in the front seat beside him. It was pitch black along the road and my father missed a turn at high speed. The Buick went off the road and overturned, ejecting both occupants. My father survived the wreck. My mother was dead at the scene.
It was a clear-cut case of vehicular homicide but my father never faced charges for his drunken act of destruction because he had friends in all the right places in Paradise County. Still, everyone in the county knew the real story. Two weeks after the accident, my father resigned as county attorney for “personal reasons,” according to the local newspaper.
Once my mother was gone, my father didn’t relish the thought of raising a child—I think he always saw me as an unfortunate mistake—and he gladly turned me over to Katherine and Anna, my mother’s unmarried sisters. They hated him, of course, for killing their sister and did their best to keep me away from him. On the rare occasions we did see each other, he showed little interest in me, and I came to think of him as a ghost barely visible at the edges of my life.
When I was twelve, he moved to Las Vegas and went into practice there with an old friend from law school. We didn’t talk or stay in contact, and he was as lost to me as if he’d disappeared in a hurricane on the high seas. Then one day in 2010 he returned to Pineland, a sick old man in search of care and sympathy, and that’s how I ended up back in town as well.
Now Cassandra Ellis was looking for her father, and I wished her luck. I really did. But I hoped she wouldn’t be too disappointed in who and what she found.
Just after six, Camus began barking at the door and when I looked outside I saw Jason Braddock dropping Cassandra off. He waited for her to leave in her car before driving away. I wondered how her interview with Arne and Jason had gone, but I figured she could take care of herself, and I didn’t think she would have said anything to get me into more trouble than I already was.
Not to worry. More trouble would find me before long.
Camus always sleeps with me, but he’s a restless soul, and he’ll often get up in the middle of the night to wander around and bark at phantoms in the dark. I try to ignore his nocturnal yapping, but when it becomes especially loud and persistent I know something is going on. The day before, Arne had set him off by approaching the front door. Now, at four a.m., Camus was going crazy again, and I dragged myself out of bed to investigate. I found him at the front door, making tight counterclockwise circles and sounding as though Armageddon might be at hand. But it wasn’t the end of the world. It was a wooden cross burning in my front yard.
I turned on my yard light and went outside, just in time to see a vehicle racing away from my cul-de-sac. The driver was running without lights and I couldn’t make out a license or identify the make of the vehicle. The cross, about four feet tall, was burning fiercely, sending out angry sparks, and I was worried my house might catch fire. As I turned to go back inside and call 911, I saw something else—the letters “KKK” chalked on my driveway.
Cassandra Ellis had appeared at my door just twelve hours earlier and now she was clearly the target of a hate crime. It made me sick. But the burning cross and the reference to the Ku Klux Klan also had a deep personal meaning for me. There was an old, awful sin in the Zweifel family history and whoever had staged the ugly scene in my yard appeared to know all about it.
I called 911, then went looking for my kitchen fire extinguisher. But it was dead, so all I could do was wait and watch until help arrived. The fire had all but burned itself out, the cross vanished into a pile of ashes, by the time a deputy sheriff pulled up. Two fire crews appeared a few minutes later with pumper trunks but there was little for them to do except hose down the last of the embers.
“What the fuck?” Arne said when he stopped by my office at the courthouse later in the morning and took a seat across from my desk. “You’re just in the middle of everything, aren’t you? You sure that was a cross in your yard?”
I hadn’t managed to get any photos of the cross, and that seemed to make Arne suspicious. “Of course it was a cross,” I said. “Besides, you know about the message.”
“Yeah, my deputy got pictures,” Arne said as he dug out a Marlboro and lit it.
“There’s no smoking in Paradise County public buildings,” I reminded him.
“I’ll let the BCA know. I have no doubt they’ll get right on it, assuming they’re not busy trying to find any remains of that cross. It’s a weird deal, if you ask me.”
“Listen, it’s more than weird. It’s scary. You know who that message was directed at.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, you do. It has to be Cassandra Ellis.”
“Okay, if she was the target, why was a cross burned on your lawn? Who even knew she’d been to your house?”
“That’s a fair question, Arne. Let’s see now. There’s me, there’s you, the Jasons, some of your deputies—”
“Oh, I get it. The KKK has a secret cell in my office and they’re out burning crosses on your fucking lawn. That’s a genuinely pathetic idea.”
“Let’s hear a better one then.”
“I don’t know. You’re the only person who saw the cross. You tell me.”
“So I did it all myself? Is that what you’re thinking? That idea doesn’t even rise to the level of pathetic. But how about we get back to Cassandra Ellis? She’s still in town from what I understand. Has anybody told her about the cross burning and the message?”
“Not that I know of. The fact is, there’s no real evidence to say it was directed at her. Could just be some stupid kids.”
“Who happened to select my lawn to do their dirty work? Not a chance, Arne. It was a carefully premediated act. There’s something else you should know.” I told him about my family connection to the KKK.
“No shit,” Arne said. “So you’ve got some white hoods in the family closet. But it was a hundred years ago. Who the hell would know that besides you? Makes a person wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Wonder away, Arne. Just make sure you tell Cassandra what happened. And while you’re at, suggest to her in the strongest possible terms that she return to Chicago. She’s in jeopardy here.”
“Sure, we’ll do that. But you met the woman. She’ll do what we she wants to do and that’s it.”
“Sounds like you had a tough interview with her. How’d it go, by the way? Any big revelations?”
Arne dumped his cigarette into an empty cup on my desk and stood up. “None of your business,” he said as he went out the door.
I wasn’t convinced Arne would tell Cassandra the full story so I called her at the hotel as soon as Arne left. There was no answer in her room. I left a message for her to call me just as my nosy assistant, Doug Wifferding, came into my office. He was holding a newspaper and looked very concerned, which is how he looks almost all the time.
“Saw Arne walking out,” Doug said. “What did he want?”
“He just wanted to say how much he admires me,” I said. “So what’s up?”
“Have you seen the StarTribune this morning?”
“Not yet.”
“I just got it. Have a look at this.”
Doug laid the newspaper’s regional page in front of me. A headline jumped out: “MYSTERY MESSAGE FOLLOWS DISAPPEARANCE.” The story below included the Serenader’s message word for word and reported, more or less accurately, how I had found it. This news was attributed to “a knowledgeable source in Pineland.”
“I wonder who the source is?” Doug said. “Arne’s going to be really pissed.”
“Arne’s always pissed,” I said.
As to who’d leaked the message to the Minneapolis newspaper, I had no idea. But I fully expected Arne would lay the blame on me.
10
My favorite watering hole in Pineland is the Dead Lumberjack Saloon and Eatery. Its original owner was Ron Berglund, who’d actually been a logger. Ron lost an eye and a small piece of his face when a chainsaw went berserk on him one afternoon in the woods, and in the early 1970s he won a multimillion dollar settlement from the manufacturer. His attorney, by the way, was my father. Ron used his new-found fortune to open the saloon.
Ron is long gone and his granddaughter, the magnificent Kaitlyn Berglund, now runs the place. Kat, as everyone calls her, has long brown hair that cascades past her shoulders, inviting hazel eyes and a dewy freshness that belies her age, which is somewhere in the vicinity of forty. She’s Pineland’s resident sex goddess, and when men come into the bar you can almost see their fantasies swirl around them, like steam coming out of their pores.
I’ve known Kat since I came back to Pineland and we’re an intermittent couple. She’s not the sort of woman who feels the need to be in a steady relationship, much as I’d like that, and so we go out now and then and enjoy an occasional romp between the sheets. I’d marry her tomorrow if I could—she’s smart, funny, good-hearted, and flat-out gorgeous—but I know that will never happen. She’s just too independent to be bound by matrimony. Kat also functions as rumor central in Pineland because men always like to tell a beautiful woman secrets, especially if she’s plying them with alcohol.
“Well, here comes another lost soul,” she said when I wandered in for a drink Monday night. “The usual?”
“Why not?” I said, bellying up to the saloon’s long bar. Hanging behind it is one of the Dead Lumberjack’s chief accoutrements—a gigantic old painting of General George Custer, golden locks flowing in the wind as he bravely meets his end amid a scrum of Indians at Little Big Horn. The painting, a piece of hack work from the 1890s, depicts the Indians as raving savages in a predictably offensive way, and I once asked Kat why she kept the damn thing, which her grandfather installed when he built the place.
“It’s a testament to human stupidity,” she told me. “What could be more appropriate for a bar?”
Although Jack Daniel’s is my usual drink, I always order a margarita at the Dead Lumberjack. It brings to mind tropical sands, warm ocean waves and Kat lolling about in a bikini. A man just has to dream.
When Kat delivered my margarita, she said, “I hear you had a little excitement last night.”
“Yeah, the KKK rides again, or so it seems.”
“Any idea who might be behind it?”
“Nope. So much shit has happened the past couple of days my brain can’t keep up with it.”
“Maybe a margarita will help.”
“Won’t hurt. So, Kat, since you’re the closest thing to an omniscient sage here in glorious Pineland, what do you think happened to Peter?”
“Somebody took him,” she said. “He’s probably dead by now.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I know Peter, and, no, it’s not because I ever slept with him. But he did come in now and then to have a drink and stare at my boobs.”
“Can’t blame him for that.”
“Thank you, mister chauvinist pig. When Peter wasn’t busy ogling, he always talked about how happy he was to be back in Pineland with his mansion and his fancy cars. You know what he actually told me once? He said, ‘I’m the king of Paradise County and it’s good to be king.’”
“What a dickhead.”
“True. But the point is that he was clearly enjoying himself here. I also know for a fact he wasn’t in any financial trouble. So there’d be no reason for him to take off and disappear.”
“How did you find out about his finances?”
“That qualifies as a bartender’s secret. I’ll tell you something else. From what I hear, Peter doesn’t have a will. So if he is no longer among us, darling Dewey will get the money. The estate’s supposedly worth ten million or more, not counting the mansion.”
“What about Peter’s ex-wife?”
“I’m told she’s dead.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “Somebody else just told me the same thing.”
“And who would that be?”
I gave Kat a brief account of my visit from Cassandra Ellis. “There are so many leaks in Arne’s office I’m sure half of Paradise County already knows about her,” I said.
“That half includes me,” Kat admitted. “Heard the news from a party who shall go unnamed less than an hour ago. Any chance this Ellis woman might really be Peter’s daughter?”
“Yes, there’s a chance. A DNA test will tell the tale if she can get Dewey to cooperate.”
“Dewey’s a turnip. I doubt he has any blood. Maybe they can get some of his saliva. But you can bet he won’t jump at the chance to see his inheritance cut in half.”
“I’m sure he won’t. Speaking of the Swindell family, who do you think snatched Peter?”
“Not a clue as to that, I’m afraid. Maybe our new friend, the Serenader, knows.”
“Sounds like he’s already the talk of the town.”
“He is. You know what the strangest thing about it is? The name. Why does the guy call himself the Serenader?”
“Maybe he’ll start singing to us before long,” I offered, “and then we’ll know. But you’re right. It’s a very odd name. It has to have some special significance.”
“My regulars are already speculating on who the guy might be, but it’s just the usual barroom bullshit. How about you? Any ideas? Think of me as your voice to the community.”
“No, I’m in enough trouble already, so I think I’ll keep my stupid mouth shut.” I swigged the last of my margarita and swung off the bar stool. “One and done for me tonight. But if you hear any interesting talk about the Serenader, let me know, will you?”
“Your wish is my command,” Kat said.
“In that case, I wish you’d come over to my place later tonight.”
“Not tonight, my lonely man. But soon. We’ll have some drinks and play. How’s that?”
“I can hardly wait,” I said.
On my way out I ran into Ed Boudreau, one of the Dead Lumberjack’s regulars. Ed is a full-blooded Ojibwe and the chief financial officer for the Grand Lac Band, who own and operate the Paradise Pines Casino. He’s about fifty, tall and craggy, with a wide, friendly face and long black hair tied into a ponytail. I found him in his usual costume of faded blue jeans and a buckskin jacket. Ed speaks fluent Ojibwe, passable French, has an MBA from Wharton, can work magic with a spreadsheet, and is of the general opinion that white people are crazy. He is also profanely funny.
“You already done staring at those m
arvelous tits?” he asked. “The evening is still young.”
“Your turn, Ed. But remember, George will be watching you.”
“Well, we all know the only good Custer is a dead Custer,” Ed said with a grin. “That’s an old Indian saying, if I’m not mistaken. Speaking of assholes, what the hell happened to Peter?”
“Nobody knows,” I said. “Any thoughts?”
“Maybe. But I prefer to stay out of white mischief.”
Ed was well acquainted with Peter and his activities. The Grand Lac Band helped finance the Paradise Resort Hotel, and there were rumors Peter had cemented the deal with some suspicious payments to certain Indian “charities.” But if Ed was involved in some dirty business with Peter, I’d never find out about it. The band was its own little world, one in which I had no jurisdiction.
“You’re not fooling me, Ed. You love white mischief. It gives you something to make fun of. If you do know something that might relate to Peter’s disappearance, I’d love to hear it.”
“All right, here’s a ‘maybe’ for you, but you didn’t hear it from me. Agreed?”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Then you might want to look at something called the ‘cloud fund’ in Peter’s accounts.”
“And why should I do that?”
“I’ll leave that for you to figure out. Let’s just say I think Peter had a secret and it was costing him a lot of money.”
“And you know this for sure?”
Ed put a hand on my shoulder, which surprised me, and said in a solemn voice, “Wise old Indian never lie. He see much. He know much. Be wary, white man.”
Then he let out a great roar of a laugh and headed into the Dead Lumberjack. “Titty time. Bye, Paul.”
Ed’s cryptic reference to the “cloud fund” piqued my interest. He liked to screw with people, especially those of the white variety, and maybe that’s all he was doing now. Even so, I decided to make some inquiries, just to see if such a fund existed.
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