Murder in the Air (29 page)

On Wednesday evening, Bram and Sophie drove up to Minton. They were both sorry they had to miss the memorial service for Valentine Zolotow, but it couldn't be helped. The meeting with Arn O'Dell's granddaughter took precedence. Since Sophie had already planned to take the evening off, she insisted on coming along. Bram was glad for any excuse to get her away from the hotel. At least on the ride up, they'd have some time to talk.

“So,” said Sophie, opening the map as they sped along the highway, “if it looks like the letter is authentic, what are you going to advise this woman to do with it?”

Bram signaled and then took the 694 cutoff. “Give it to the police.”

“You think you can convince her to do that? From what you told me, she sounds pretty scared.”

“Look at it this way, Soph. If Arn O'Dell lied about what he saw the night Kay Collins was murdered, then maybe the killer is still out there. If that's the case, then the only way anyone involved in this mess is going to stay safe is to put the real murderer behind bars.”

“I'd never thought about that, but you have a good point.” She gazed out the window at the city lights. “You know, that old murder case has become a local obsession. As I was coming out of Rudy and John's apartment this afternoon, I overheard two people in the stairwell talking about it. Then, later, when I stopped at Lund's to get some groceries, two women in front of me at the checkout counter were arguing
about whether or not Justin Bloom had really loved Kay Collins. Can you believe it? And then, when I got back to the hotel, the bellman who parked my car asked me if I knew what the next
Dallas Lane
episode was about, specifically what would it reveal about the real murderer.”

The real murderer, thought Bram, staring at the road ahead of them. “God, I wish I felt more confident that we
could
find the truth.”

“You're pretty bothered by all this, aren't you, honey?”

“Yeah, I guess I am. I keep thinking back to what O'Dell's granddaughter said earlier today. It wasn't terribly specific, just something about her grandfather telling her a different story from the one he told officially. I mean, maybe I'm jumping to conclusions. Maybe what he said was true, but he only told part of the story. Or maybe the whole thing was a lie. I wish I'd pressed her to tell me more.” He glanced over at Sophie and saw that she'd closed her eyes. She was exhausted. She hadn't come to bed last night until after two, and then she'd been up and gone before dawn. He decided to let her rest.

Half an hour later he pulled onto the Highway 10 turnoff. Noticing that Sophie was now awake, he said, “We're getting close.” He nodded to a lighted billboard:
PINE LAKE MOTOR INN, ONE MILE
.

She looked out the window as the headlights hit a sign. “ ‘Welcome to Minton, population four hundred and twenty-eight.’ Quite the thriving metropolis.” She continued to watch as they sped past an abandoned gas station.

“And there's the grain elevator,” said Bram, slowing the car. He turned left in front of it. “Now, we follow this road until we come to the lake. O'Dell's cabin should be the first one on our right.”

As they drove down a hill away from the highway, the road became bumpy and narrow. A plow had come through all right, but Bram was glad they'd taken his four-wheel-drive. It wasn't the kind of terrain he wanted to navigate in Sophie's Lexus. The lake was probably out there somewhere in the darkness, but his attention was consumed by the deep,
icy ruts in front of him. As they drove on, the road became shrouded in fog.

“Boy, it's dark out here,” said Sophie, yanking the collar of her coat more snugly around her neck. “This feels like a werewolf movie.”

“Over there,” said Bram, pointing. “Can you tell if that's a road? O'Dell's granddaughter said to turn right.”

“Didn't O'Dell's
granddaughter
ever give you her name?” said Sophie. She sounded annoyed.

“No, she didn't. And I didn't ask.” Bram made a hard right and then pulled onto another deeply rutted road. This one was more of a driveway. Now that the headlights were pointed toward the cabin, he could see it in the distance. It was just a shack, really. One story. Probably big enough for a makeshift kitchen and one main room. He doubted there was plumbing or electricity. As they came closer he couldn't see a light. “That's funny. She said she'd leave something burning in the front window.”

“Maybe she's not here yet,” said Sophie.

“Since we're fifteen minutes late, I don't know why she wouldn't be.” He turned off the headlights, but left the motor running. “So, now what?”

Sophie unbuckled her seat belt. “We wait, I guess.”

He wasn't in a waiting mood. Switching off the motor, he rolled down the window and listened. All around them, the night was still and quiet. Bram was a city boy, used to the reassuring hum of traffic. He didn't much care for this remote peace and tranquillity. “I'm going in.” He opened the glove compartment and removed a flashlight.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Stay here. When I'm sure everything's safe, I'll wave to you.” Before Sophie could offer any objections, he climbed out of the driver's seat and headed up the front path. Someone had been here all right. He could see footprints in the snow. As he bent down to take a closer look, he heard the car door slam. He turned and saw Sophie hurrying toward him.

“I'm not staying in that car all by myself,” she said, pulling on a knit cap. “What are you looking at?”

“Footprints. If I were Sherlock Holmes, I'm sure I'd learn a lot. As it is, they just look like winter boots. It could be a man or a woman. Or both, for that matter.” He glanced up at the cabin.

“It seems pretty quiet,” said Sophie. As he stood she snuggled close, slipping her arm through his. “Why don't we go have a cup of coffee somewhere and discuss our next move? My treat.”

“They don't serve coffee at abandoned gas stations.”

“There's got to be some sort of cafe around here. Small towns have great cafes. I'll bet we could even find one that serves homemade pie.”

“Sophie, I'm an adult. You can't bribe me with food.”

She shot him a disgusted look. “Of course I can bribe you with food. I do it all the time.”

“Look, you were the one who insisted on coming along.”

“Yeah, but I didn't think it would turn into an
X-Files
episode. Dark creepy houses and blazing flashlights.”

“I thought we were in a werewolf movie.”

“I have a fluid imagination.”

With their arms locked together, they approached the front door.

“I don't think anyone's here,” said Bram, trying the knob. He was surprised when the door opened easily in his hand.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” said Sophie, hanging on to his arm as if it were a life raft. “Why wasn't it locked?”

Bram switched on the flashlight. “Is anyone here?” he called, inching cautiously into the front room.

In one corner he could see an oil heater, but it wasn't on. The air inside was every bit as cold as the outside air. The only difference was that inside, he noticed the faint odor of cooking grease mixed with wood smoke, another indication that the cabin had recently been used. And he'd been wrong about the plumbing. Not only did it appear that there was a working kitchen complete with woodstove and sink, but behind it, he could see a door leading to a small bathroom. Undoubtedly, the water had been shut off for the season.

That and the fact that there was no electricity made the cabin an unappealing place to spend a winter's night.

“All the comforts of home,” he muttered, shining the light over every nook and cranny. The main room contained a threadbare couch partially covered by a crocheted afghan, a couple of tattered La-Z-Boys, and a small bookcase, mostly filled with junk. The floor was covered by a stained indoor/outdoor carpet.

“I think we've been stood up,” whispered Sophie.

It seemed a reasonable assumption. “God, I could strangle that lawyer with my bare hands.” As he stood looking over the empty room he gradually became aware of another odor, something more pungent than the grease. “What's that other smell?”

Sophie sniffed the air. “Kerosene, I think. The scented variety.”

On a table next to the kitchen window, Bramnow spied an oil lamp. “I'll bet that's the light she said she'd have on for us. And it
was
on, or we couldn't smell it.”

“Then who turned it off?” asked Sophie.

Their eyes locked.

Bram's whole body felt suddenly tense, alert, as if he could run a marathon. Breaking free of her grip, he rushed over to the table. Removing the glass cover on the lamp, he touched the wick. “It's cold, damn it. Where
is
she?”

Sophie remained near the door. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but I don't like this, honey. Let's go.”

“This is so…
infuriating”
There had to be some clue, some indication of where she'd gone. “I thought we'd find some answers tonight. Now all we've got are more questions.”

“I'm freezing.”

“I wonder if there's a back door.”

“No, only this one. Come on, honey.”

“Just another minute.”

“Bram, you know I'm not easily scared. But something's wrong here. I can feel it.”

He hadn't checked the bathroom yet. He couldn't leave
without taking a look. Shining the flashlight on the doorway, he stepped inside. Instantly, his eyes were drawn upward. “Oh, my God.”

“What is it?” said Sophie, rushing to his side.

He moved to block her entrance. “You're right, let's go.”

“But—”

“We need to get out to the car right away.”

“Why?” She struggled to push past him.

He grabbed her by the arms and looked her square in the eye. “We have to call the police. She's dead, Sophie. Believe me, you don't want to see it.”

Her eyes searched his for an explanation.

“She's hanging by a cord from one of the ceiling pipes. We were too late. Someone got here first.”

Giving herself a moment to let it all sink in, she slowly removed a cell phone from her pocket. “I brought it in with me—just in case.”

A breath of icy air shot down his spine. Taking it from her hand, he immediately placed a 91 I call. “I want to report a murder,” he said into the mouthpiece. “What? No, I don't know the name.”

“You're sure it was a murder?” asked Sophie, looking at the open doorway.

Covering the mouthpiece, he said, “What else could it be?”

The sheriff held what remained of the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply, a bit of the ash falling onto his boot. He'd driven up a few minutes earlier and parked behind Bram's Explorer. The flashing lights from his squad car shot a colored strobe against the cabin's shingled exterior. “We don't get many deaths like this one around here.”

Bram and Sophie had given a brief statement to the first officer on the scene. When they were done, the officer had asked them to wait in their vehicle until the crime scene could be examined.

“How much longer is this going to take?” asked Bram, holding his gloved hands over his ears. He wanted some
answers, but he didn't want to stand around freezing any longer.

The sheriff flicked his cigarette butt into the snow. He was an older man. Balding, stocky, with large, meaty hands and a deeply lined face. In the harsh, edgy light, he reminded Bram of a badly done woodcut. His name was Olson. Henry Olson.

“Well,” said Olson, “what with the cold, it's gonna be pretty hard to tell how long she's been dead.”

“I suppose,” said Bram. Making small talk about dead people wasn't one of his strong suits.

“You say this woman was a friend of yours?”

“No, we've never met. If you'll read my statement, I explained that she's the granddaughter of Arn O'Dell. This used to be his cabin. I assume she inherited it when he died.”

“Yeah, seems to me I do remember something like that” said the sheriff, taking off his cap and scratching his head. “But he's been dead for years.” His expression hardened as a man came out of the cabin. “Hey, Tom,” he said, his voice deepening. Perhaps thinking he needed to make introductions, he added, “This is Dr. Tom Kowalski. County coroner.”

It sounded like a TV show, thought Bram. The inanity of it turned his stomach.

“It wasn't a suicide,” said the coroner, ignoring Sophie and Bram as he pulled the plastic gloves off his hands.

“What was it then?” asked the sheriff, lighting up another smoke.

“She was strangled.”

“Of course she was strangled, Tom. She was hanging from a cord.”

“No, I mean she was strangled first. That's how she was killed. From the looks of her, I'd say someone came up behind her, wrapped that cord around her neck, and … you get the picture. He strung her up to that pipe later.”

“Why on earth would he do that?”

“Beats the hell outta me.”

“Have you ID'd the body yet?”

“Yeah,” said the coroner, taking some thermal gloves from his pocket and yanking them on. He looked Bram up
and down, then said, “Her name's Betty Johanson. I know her. She plays bridge with the wife.”

Bram was confused. “I thought she lived in the Cities.”

“Not unless she's leading a double life,” said the coroner.

“You're not talking about the Johanson that lives just up the road?” asked the sheriff.

He nodded. “She's a widow. Lives alone. I called her nephew to ask him to come over to the lab. I'll have to do an autopsy, so we might as well get it over with tonight. The nephew said he was in her kitchen a few hours ago when she got a call from some friend in the Cities. A woman. He didn't catch the name. The woman asked Betty to run over to her cabin, stoke up the oil burner, and put a light in the window. Betty said, sure, she'd do it. Apparently she had a key, or knew where to find one. I figure when she got here, someone was waiting for her, surprised her, and, well, that was that.”

Bram's confusion finally lifted. “Then it's not O'Dell's granddaughter.”

“No, sir. No relation,” said the coroner.

Questions raced through his mind. Why had the granddaughter called this woman in the first place? Was it simply that she was going to be late and wanted a light on in the window just in case he got to the cabin first? If so, had this neighbor woman been mistaken for the granddaughter? Who really
was
the intended victim?