Blood Country (5 page)

“So he might have been messing around. The racy geriatric set. How do you get away with doing that in a small town?”

“I don’t know. Plus, I don’t know if the information on his relationship with his wife is of much help. She’s been dead for five years.”

Meg came barreling down the stairs and grabbed her mother around the waist. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweets. How did school go?”

“Fine. I tried not to think about Mr. Anderson too much. I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Honey, that’s fine. But you can tell people if you want to. It’s not a secret.”

“I don’t like to talk about that stuff. Nobody understands.”

Claire gave her a big hug. “I know what you mean. Sometimes it can feel like that.”

Meg lifted away from her mother and looked at the table. “What’s that?” she asked, disgust deepening her voice.

Bridget leaned against the sink. The macaroni and cheese did look a little weird. For one thing, the color was wrong. The dish should have been yellowy orange, but it was more white than anything. “Dinner,” Bridget said hopefully.

“Fancy hot dish,” Claire said encouragingly.

“Looks like you forgot something. Maybe you should have stirred it a little more,” Meg said.

They all sat down and looked at it. Bridget dug into it and discovered that the dish had stratified. The top was hard and crusty with the burned parmesan, then there was a layer of dry noodles, then there was a soupy bottom of separated milk. She put some on her plate and stared at it. No one said anything for a moment. Then Bridget sighed. “I don’t think it’s edible.”

“You might be right,” Claire agreed.

“There’s always peanut butter,” Meg mentioned.

Bridget picked up a piece of the pasta and put it in her mouth. Tasteless and tough. “I don’t think I’m ready to be a mom.”

“C
LARK DENFORTH.
“ The man getting out of the car held out his hand to her. As they shook hands, Claire introduced herself. She pointed out her house right across the street. Meg waved to her from the window. Bridget was staying on until Claire got back.

The young blond man snapped with excitement. His hair stood up with some kind of gel in it. His cheeks shone, speckled with freckles. Claire would have guessed his age to be twenty-four, probably just out of college. Maybe had done a tour at Quantico. That could be good. He’d know the latest methods for collecting evidence at a crime scene.

“What’ve we got here?” he asked, pulling a briefcase out of his car.

She took him to the gate and motioned him to stop. “Mr. Anderson was standing next to his garden bed. As near as we can figure, he got hit in the head with a shovel and dropped.”

“Have you kept people out of here?”

“We’ve tried.”

He spent the next two hours taking prints off the small universe of Landers: the white gate leading into the garden, the door handle, the kitchen counter, medicine cabinet, the bottles of pills that stood next to the sink—although Claire had told him they had no reason to believe the perp had gone into the house—and, of course, the shovel. The house and garden were dusted with the fine powder that shows prints. It looked as if someone had taken a bath and gone crazy with the talcum powder.

When Denforth had finished with the shovel, Claire took it from him. The shovel looked its age, dirt crusted on its spade, the handle grimy with the sweat of years. She thought it was Landers’ shovel, but that was hard to tell; she didn’t know his garden tools that well.

“How do you think the assailant got here?” Denforth asked her.

“Could have walked up from the highway. Parked by the Fort, it’s the bar in town. Tomorrow I’ll ask around.” Claire planned on talking to everyone in town tomorrow. Find out where everyone was at seven o’clock. It should be possible with a town this size. Someone must know something or have seen something.

“You gonna take the shovel?” she asked.

He nodded. “Murder weapon. We’ll run a few more tests on it in the lab. Be sure we don’t miss anything.”

Claire looked at the shovel she held in her gloved hands. What she really wanted to do with it was hoist it up like a bat and let fly with it, but she knew she shouldn’t. What if some speck of hair or fiber came flying off it with the velocity of her swing? So she only lifted it in her hands and felt its weight. It didn’t weigh much more than her broom. Anyone could have conked Landers over the head with it. A small woman, a big man. Possibly even a child.

Night settled around them. April in Wisconsin was a tease and therefore cruel, Claire thought, hinting of warm, sunny days and then delivering rain and wet wind. But this day had stayed warm. She wrapped her arms around herself as Clark put the shovel in a bag and climbed into his car. Claire watched him leave and gave him a wave. Landers’ house, empty of any life, they left dark.

Denforth’s car lights flickered around the corner and disappeared. The shovel was going to Eau Claire with him. He’d call her, he said, if they found anything at all. The shovel, that old implement of so much good, had been used in the end for destruction. Why a shovel? Claire kept asking herself.

B
RIDGET LEFT SHORTLY
after Claire came home. She had done the dishes and put Meg to bed. The remains of the hot dish were nowhere to be seen; Claire assumed that Bridget had thrown the leftovers away. She said her arm was hurting and she just wanted to go home. Claire thanked her, and they hugged the swift hug of sisters who love each other but who rarely talk about it.

Claire went up to check on Meg and found her still awake in bed. “Mom,” her little sleepy voice rose up from the covers.

“Yes, sweetie.”

“Do you think that the red-haired man came and killed Landers?”

Claire froze. What was Meg telling her? “Red-haired man?”

“The same guy who killed Dad.”

Claire dropped down on her knees next to the bed. “Meggy, did you see him?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but I was too scared.”

“I know it’s not him, so don’t you worry.”

Claire left her to sleep but sat and worried in the gloaming of the falling night. She stared out at the remnant of rose color left in the west, a drift of clouds adding a purple accent. She now had another piece of the murder of her husband. A red-haired man; that might help a lot. What a queer bird she was. She missed her old life, the buzz of the homicide department, the tearing around at the beginning of a case, the intensity of telling the next of kin.

Claire had left the Minneapolis Police Department willingly. At the time, she thought she never wanted to see another dead body in her life. Her husband’s rose up in front of her eyes at the least provocation. But that was nearly a year ago. She was getting tired of sitting in a jail half her shifts and then driving around the blufflands of Pepin County, catching speeders and drunk drivers, for the other half. The only thing she liked better about her job now was the beauty of the country she cruised through.

Originally, she had gone into police work for a reason. She needed to be doing something about the injustices she saw in the world. She had a mind that needed to stretch out and puzzle things back together again. She didn’t think that the structure of the social work system helped people. And her uncle, who had been dead for twenty years, had been a cop. A good cop. The best He had died of cirrhosis of the liver and lung cancer at the age of fifty. She called it dying in the line of duty.

Her heart dropped when she thought of the man who had died. She would miss Landers for a long time. She had known that he wouldn’t live forever, but somehow she thought he would stick around long enough to see her really settled, with a lovely garden of her own. And she was sure he would have, if someone hadn’t slammed him on the head. She would find that someone.

Organizing the case in her mind, she decided the first person she would talk to tomorrow would be Fred Anderson, Landers’ only surviving kin, younger than Landers by ten years. She felt like going over to Darla and Fred’s right away tonight, but she knew it would not be the thing to do. She needed to calm down, figure out how to approach him. Because, as it stood now, she was looking at Fred to be the prime suspect in this case. She also wanted to check into the man who had offered to buy his land.

As she walked across the room to turn on the light, the phone rang. She picked it up and heard a male voice, which she vaguely recognized, asking for her. She paused for a moment before she answered, searching for the voice.

“This is she,” Claire said.

“I’m calling to report a killing.”

Her skin froze. “Another one?”

“It’s not that serious, but I wanted you to know.”

“Not serious?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have started out that way.”

“What?” she asked, still wondering at the voice. “Who is this?”

“Sorry, this is Rich Haggard. Someone has been messing around with my pheasants. One of them got killed. I found it out near the barn.”

“A pheasant?”

“Well, a chick really. Barely two weeks old. Sorry sight on the side of the barn. This is the third time this has happened.”

“How did they do it?”

“I’m not really sure. Maybe they even picked the chick up in their hand and threw it, although I thought I heard a striking sound.”

“How awful,” Claire murmured.

“It is, and I just want it to be on record.”

“I’ll stop by in the morning to make a report.”

“Can if you like. But I really called to ask you, what’s the legality of me shooting someone on my property, someone who’s killing my birds?”

6

F
red Anderson arrived early in the morning. His car rolled up with the lights off, and he didn’t make any noise slamming the door. Maybe he was just being considerate. Slate clouds covered the sky, but a hint of rose tinged them in the east.

Claire saw Fred from the window of Meg’s bedroom. Meg lay sleeping, sprawled across the bed as if she were in full flight. Claire hated to wake her up, but it was time for Meg to get ready for school and time for her to stop Fred before he went any further.

She tousled Meg’s hair, said calmly, “Get up, noodlehead. Go wash the sleepies out of your eyes,” and left the room. Meg would dawdle around upstairs, so Claire headed over to stop Fred. Claire had her uniform on but only one cup of coffee in her when she ran across the street to catch him. His key rattled in his hand, and he was ready to stick it in the front door.

“Mr. Anderson, stop,” she hollered at him.

He turned and smiled at her—the Pillsbury Doughboy incarnate. Puffy cheeks soft as pillows, arms that sprang out from his side, and she bet if she poked him in the stomach, he would giggle.

Claire stood down at the bottom of the steps. She wanted him to come away from the door.

“I need to get a few things,” Fred said and turned back to the door.

Claire did not want to have to climb up the steps and physically stop him from going in the house. “You can’t go in there, Mr. Anderson.”

“I have a key.” He showed her the key.

“I know you do. But no one is allowed in your brother’s house yet.”

“I’m his brother. I have a right. There are things inside I need to get.” Fred had started to whine, and he turned the key in the lock.

Claire felt an odd kind of anger run through her. This dopey old man wasn’t listening to her. She found that she wanted to rap him on the head as if she were his schoolteacher. She ran up the steps and grabbed him under the arm as the door swung open. She threw him off balance but didn’t hurt him. However, for a moment, there was a hunted look in his eyes.

The two of them stood in front of the door to the living room. The house already smelled musty. How could that happen so fast? Landers’ desk sat in one corner of the living room, and Fred’s eyes flew to it. Claire noted that and then reached out and pulled the door shut. Fred jumped. Claire locked the door, handed him back the key, and then, continuing to hold his arm, firmly escorted him down the steps. The muscle of his arm had the soft consistency of bread. Fred wasn’t smiling anymore.

Claire didn’t want to talk to him right now. She had to get Meg off to school, and she still felt too angry at him. “Why don’t you go down to the Fort and get a cup of coffee, and I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

Fred rubbed his arm as if Claire’s grip had hurt him. He looked back at the house. “Darla wanted me to get a few things.”

“She’ll understand, I’m sure.”

“We need to talk to a lawyer. My brother just died. We have to take care of things—like the funeral and such.”

“I’m more than aware of that. We’ll take care of it over coffee. I’ll have time to sit and talk then.”

Fred’s face had pulled in, lines creasing his cheeks. Worry passed over his face like a cloud, then it cleared. “Cup of coffee sounds good.”

T
HE FORT ST.
Antoine Café was the town center: a bar, grocery store, video store, pool hall, dance hall, and restaurant rolled into one. Claire nodded at Wally, the owner, and ordered a cup of coffee before joining Fred, sitting by himself at the window. He hadn’t joined the group of older men sitting at the end of the bar. They gathered there every day to talk over the weather and happenings of the world. A nice group of men, including the mayor, Lester Krenz, and board member Sven Hulmer, but Fred didn’t fit in. He had come to Fort St. Antoine many years ago but had never become a part of the social workings of the town.

Claire was glad he was alone; she didn’t want everyone listening to what she was going to ask him. News spread like fire through this town without her dumping kerosene on it. She sat with her back toward the gathering of men and said hello again to Fred.

“How did my brother die?” Fred asked.

“He had a heart attack.”

“That’s what I figured. That’s what I told Darla. She got all worked up about seeing him in the garden with the shovel lying next to him.”

“What was she worked up about?” Claire added cream and sugar to the coffee that had been set in front of her. She had skimped on her breakfast and needed the extra calories.

“You gotta understand Darla. She’s very sensitive to all sorts of things. Always has been. She gets feelings about things, and I’ve come to learn to listen to her feelings. She said when she saw Landers there on the ground, she had a bad feeling. I think she might be a little psychic. I mean if there is such a thing. If there is such a thing as being a psychic, then my Darla is one. But I don’t believe in that stuff much, myself.”

“Was she more specific about what her bad feeling was?”

“She thought that Landers had come to a bad end, that someone had killed him. I told her there was no way, but she said his body lying there didn’t look natural.”

“Well, your wife was right, Mr. Anderson. Landers was, in effect, killed. He did have a heart attack, but it was after someone hit him with the shovel.”

“I’m his closest of kin, you know.”

Claire took a quick sip of coffee to cover her reaction to his statement. This is how he responded to hearing the news that his brother had been killed? “I had assumed as much. Landers never had any children, did he?”

Fred lurched toward his coffee and took a big gulp. “Nope. His wife was always a little sickly. She couldn’t have kids.”

“That’s what he told me.”

“So that means that I own his house and land now. When will I be able to go into his house?”

Claire sat back in her chair. Fred had just learned that his brother had been killed, and he wasn’t asking her any of the right questions. He didn’t seem to be wondering who had done it.

“Fred, where were you Monday night between seven and eight?”

“On my way to a pinochle game in Plum City.”

“Were you alone?”

“Sure. Darla stayed home. She doesn’t like to play pinochle.”

“What time did you leave the house?”

“About six-thirty.”

“Can you give me the names of the men you play pinochle with?”

Fred settled his eyes on her. “Why?”

“That’s when Landers was killed. You didn’t happen to drive by his house, did you?”

“No, it’s not on the way to Plum City.”

“You didn’t happen to see anybody parked on the highway on your way out of town? A strange car? A strange person?”

“Don’t remember that I did.”

“Do you know anyone who would want to kill your brother?”

Fred drank another sip of coffee. He puffed out his cheeks and then slowly let the air out. “You think you know my brother. I know you and him got to be friends. But you don’t really know him that well. My brother could be very selfish. He was like that all his life. He never wanted to share with anyone. I wouldn’t be surprised if there aren’t quite a few people who wouldn’t have minded giving him a good chop.”

“I’d like those names too. Along with your pinochle buddies'.”

“Well, you might have to ask around, because my brother and I didn’t stay in touch for nearly twenty years. If I were you, I’d start with his partner in business, Leo Stromboli.”

“I’ll check into it” She handed him a pen and a piece of paper to write down all the names. “Also, your brother had had a call from a man, offering to buy his house. Do you know anything about that?”

Fred fussed. “I told him I’d take care of it”

“You told who?”

“Oh, Ted Brown. He’s working with Landowners of America.”

“On some sort of development?”

“Yes, and I’m going to be in on the deal this time.”

“What’s the deal?”

“Come to the town board meeting if you want to hear more about it.”

Claire stood up. “I’ll do that.”

Fred thought of one more thing. “So when can we get his body?”

A
s FAR AS
Bridget was concerned, everyone was sick.

She counted out sixty tablets of 10-milligram amitriptyline for Mr. Swanberg. He had had shingles and looked like he was still in a lot of pain.

“Felt like my skin was burning. Felt like little electric shocks all over my back. Never felt anything like it,” the old man told her, looking up at her from his hunched-over height of under five and a half feet.

She told him to let her know how he was doing in two weeks. It would take the medication that long to take full effect. He wagged his head, and his sky-blue eyes blinked twice. “You’re a swell-looking gal,” he said.

She laughed and thanked him. He turned away and walked out of the pharmacy with a bit more bounce than he had come in with. Bridget hoped the medication helped him. It was about the only chance he had of relief from that type of pain.

She had filled all the prescriptions that had been called in. There was usually a rush right when she got in, and then it slowed down. Now, all day long, people would be stopping by to pick them up. Her sore arm had kept her up last night, but it wasn’t the only reason she had gotten little sleep.

She looked over all the bottles and boxes of pills she had available and wondered which one she should take. She had never done that, slipped a pill into her own hand and tried it. She knew what all of them could do; at least she had studied and read about them. But she knew of none that could relieve the heartache that she was feeling.

Chuck hadn’t come home last night. She had called his brother this morning and asked if he was there, and she could tell by the long pause that whatever came out of Ted’s mouth, it would be a lie. “He crashed on the couch. I think he left to get something to eat.”

She wanted to believe it. Maybe it was true. But Chuck had never stayed out all night long before. He would stay out late, but in the middle of the night, she would feel him slide into bed next to her, slip a hand around her waist, and kiss her on the back of the neck.

She had met Chuck during her third year of pharmacy school. Her car had broken down on the freeway, smoke pouring off the engine, and she had been forced to pull over. Chuck had pulled right in behind her. He had hair that any woman would die for—strawberry blond and down to his shoulders. Cutoff jeans and a torn sweatshirt. He had opened up the hood of her car and had it fixed, and the promise of a date that night, before she even had a chance to look at the engine.

He wasn’t her type. He was open and sweet where she tended to like them dark and brooding. He was good with his hands.

Maybe that had been her downfall. He hadn’t read a book in years; she couldn’t go to sleep if she didn’t read for at least a half an hour. He had barely graduated from high school. She was getting a doctorate of pharmacy. He was five years younger than she—she was thirty, and he was twenty-five. They were married within the year.

His family was from Wabasha, twenty-two miles south of Fort St. Antoine, and they moved down there when she was done with school. She got a job at the pharmacy in town, and he started working for the garage. They bought a house, nothing special, a sixties rambler, but she liked it. They could see the Mississippi River from their deck. Since they were on the outskirts of town, she could keep a horse. It had been her lifelong dream. So she bought Jester. Sometimes Chuck teased that she loved Jester more than anyone else in her life. It wasn’t true, but it was awfully close. When she rode him, they felt like one body. Chuck was afraid of the horse, wouldn’t go near him unless Bridget was around. He refused to ride.