Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 02 - Love Can Be Murder (2 page)

Iver chuckled. “I’ve never known a woman to meddle more than Flora Fredrickson. My Mabel would never do that, although she did say something about inviting that ‘poor boy’ to dinner along with Jane,” he said with a sly smile on this face.

Chip stared into the glass pie case as Bernice loaded the day’s special, strawberry rhubarb. The mirror behind the counter reflected the café’s tables and booths. He studied the morning’s clientele.

“Out front I saw lots of pickups with mounted shotguns and dogs. Those guys look like hunters,” said Chip, nodding to a table of men wearing hunting caps and khaki shirts with patches on the pocket. “What season is it?” he asked Iver.

“I take it you’re not a hunter. Can’t hunt anything in July. Water fowl season doesn’t start until the end of September. Those guys are on their way to the Outdoorsman Hunting Club in Webb. Probably going there to work with their retrievers.” Iver lifted his cup and signaled Bernice for a refill.

“Maybe what you need, Chip, is a hobby to take your mind off Jane. That Runt of yours is a born retriever. You could whistle-train him. He’d make a fine bird dog.”

“Not sure hunting is for me. Although, I must admit Runt could use some obedience training. You have a hobby, Iver?”

“Well, I guess you could say my collection of Escher lithographs is a hobby.”

“You never cease to amaze me,” said Chip shaking his head. “You collect Escher prints?”

“Yup, got a few. Only they’re not prints, they’re originals.”

Just when Chip thought he had Iver figured out, the guy would hit him with a stun gun. Escher originals no less.
I’d like to own a few, even one.

Iver drained his cup and put some change on the counter. “Well, I better get to my road maintenance duties. Some fool teenager took out the stop sign on County Road 25. Second time I’ve had to replace it this summer. See you around, Chip.”

Chip’s toast arrived and he took a few bites. He looked at his hair in the mirror behind the counter. He didn’t mind the curls on the back of his neck. What he was less pleased about were the gray hairs which had started to crop up among the dark blond.

Between Jane’s rejection and the mounting pressure to write, he had lost his appetite. He finished his coffee, and headed home to his yellow farmhouse. It was the only yellow farmhouse in Boone County, and his color choice had sparked lots of comments around town. He didn’t care. Every time he drove up to his house, it made him smile.

As he sped along the gravel road, a cloud of dust swirled behind his Volvo. So far July had been hot and dry, much to the corn farmers’ liking. He opened the sunroof and windows and stuck his elbow out the side. He was ready for the wave that seemed to be the peculiar custom along this stretch. When passing a vehicle or a person on the road or at their mailbox, a wave was considered good manners. There were several wave styles. He especially enjoyed the finger wave … just one finger lifted off of the steering wheel—it made him feel like a true Iowan. He stared at the cloudless, china-blue sky and watched a solitary hawk swoop and soar like a glider plane. It dove into a field after its prey … both majestic and savage at the same time.

Chip’s dark mood suddenly returned, and he began to percolate and brew evil thoughts about the fate of his hero, Dr. John Goodman. He was sick of the hero in his crime novels, and sick of John’s perfect life as a famous neurosurgeon and crime solver. He had grown to hate John’s handsome face and six-pack abs, and he was envious of his romance with Jo, the fetching FBI agent.

* * *

July 25, 10:30 a.m.

Lucinda,

Working away on Mind Games. Thinking of ending this trilogy with having John murdered. First chapter to follow soon.

Chip

July 25, 10:32 a.m.

ARE YOU NUTS?! You cannot kill off the hero. That would be like John Sandford offing Lucas Davenport or William Kent Krueger fatally wounding Cork O’Connor. He’s your money ticket. You can put him in danger or even maim him, but he must survive for more novels to come. Get your head on straight and send me a copy. SOON.

Lucinda

Chip read Lucinda’s reply, which was as acerbic as usual, and then sat down at his computer determined to make Dr. John Goodman suffer as much as he himself was suffering. Living vicariously through his alter ego was not working for him anymore. He re-read the epilogue of
Brain Freeze
and got an idea of where he could begin. His conversation with Iver about hunting popped into his head as he wrote the opening scene of the novel he had entitled
Mind Games
.

Chapter Two

Mind Games
, by Charles Edward Collingsworth III

East Central, Minnesota

Late July

This was his favorite part of hunting. The pre-dawn anticipation. Perfect stillness, completely unobserved by his prey. Attuned to every nuance of movement.

He had already scoped out the location, watching for behavioral patterns. It took him less than a week to figure out the habits of his prey. Enough preparation to come closer and blend in. Patiently waiting in the small copse of trees on the edge of the clearing, he emptied his head of all things but his intended target.

A light, welcome breeze lifted the hair that peeked out from his dark green baseball hat. It was already humid, although the sun had yet to make its appearance. Minnesota was in the middle of a heat wave, with temperatures averaging in the upper nineties for the past week. The Hunter removed his hat to wipe the band of sweat which had gathered on his forehead and pulled his shirt away from his body. Cupping his hand around the face of his watch, he shielded the glow. 5:15 a.m.
Not much longer.
He felt calm and in control.

No movement around the perimeter.

He had concluded his reconnaissance yesterday. It was a good feeling—a job well done. There was no better feeling than the one right before the kill.

No hurry, though.
The hunt was to be savored. His mother used to say that life was about the journey, not the destination. His lips curled up into a smile.
What would Ma say if she could see my journey now?

It had been an ebony night, with heavy clouds obscuring the thin slice of moon overhead. Darkness had always been his friend, but now the light outside had turned to a gray-blue hue and he was beginning to make out more distinct shapes through the trees. He raised his rifle, and peered down the sights, looking for any sign of his prey. Still too early.

A crow cawed behind him and he heard the distant buzz of a car on the road. He lowered his rifle and crouched down. It was still dark enough to obscure his movements, but he was taking no chances. He was a careful man.

As he pushed aside a small branch to have a better view, it snapped back and grazed his cheek. He let out a quiet curse, and reached up to touch the scrape. He pulled his finger away with a stripe of blood smeared across it. He licked it off with the tip of his tongue, savoring the saltiness.

Out of the corner of his eye, he detected a flash of color. He raised his gun once again and searched the trail. His heart pounded in his chest.
There!
He removed the safety and peered down the scope. The rising sun blazed on its head, reflecting strands of copper. His target was moving rapidly toward him. He took a deep breath and released it slowly as he began to squeeze the trigger.

Agent Jo Schwann looked beautiful in his crosshairs.

Chapter Three

Turners Bend

August

Chip bought a dog whistle and the book,
How to Train Your Retriever
. He quickly learned that he would not be able to break Honey, his golden retriever, and Runt, her son, from their bad habits of sleeping on the furniture and begging at the table. Runt, however, loved the whistle-training sessions with his master. He raced to the side yard whenever he saw the whistle in Chip’s hand. In no time he learned to come, sit, heel, stay and retrieve. Honey found a spot in the shade of the red maple and watched like a soccer mom in the bleachers. The training sessions were not only diversions for Chip, but also his excuse for slacking off on his real work … writing
Mind Games
.

Chip was putting Runt through his paces when he heard the rumble of a pickup in the distance. Soon he saw Jane’s rusty red truck turn off the main road and head down the long drive to his farmhouse. Their “friendship” had been somewhat tense and awkward the past month. Chip cautioned himself not to be too hopeful as he watched the truck come to a stop by the shed.

He was disappointed to see it was not Jane, but her son, Sven, who jumped out of the cab and strode toward him and the dogs. During the past year Chip had seen Sven mature from a gawky, misdirected teenager into a self-confident young man. He was tall and lanky and wore his reddish brown hair styled like the pop singer whose name always escaped Chip. His jeans were tight and his muscle shirt revealed a few chest hairs. Chip liked the boy, and Sven had seemed to grow closer to him since the absence of the boy’s father.

“Hey Chip. I’m just stoppin’ in to say ‘bye’ before mom takes me up to Minneapolis for orientation week at MCAD.”

“I’ve heard good things about the Minneapolis College of Art and Design. I’m sure you’ll do well. You have time for a Coke?”

“Sure.” Sven sat on the back steps waiting for Chip, who entered the house and returned with two cans.

“What about your friend Leif? What’s he up to?” asked Chip.

“He dropped out of school the month before graduation, and I haven’t seen much of him this summer. We’ve been friends for so long, but it’s hard to hang on to friends who are going down a different path.”

“I, for one, am happy about the path you’ve chosen. You’re going to do great things, make great films. I just know it.”

“Thanks, Chip. I won’t forget how much you’ve helped me.” Sven took a sip from his pop can, as he watched the dogs. “Hey, looks like Runt’s turning into a fine bird dog. Dad and I would’ve loved a dog like him for duck hunting. We had old Archie, but he died before I got my first shotgun.”

The two sat, drinking their Cokes and watching Runt nose around the yard. A wasp buzzed around Chip’s can, and he shooed it away. The heat of the sun made their cans sweat. Sven finished his pop and crushed the can with one hand. He tossed it into a nearby garbage bin and said, “No rim … two points,” pumping his arm.

Chip debated whether or not to broach the issue of Sven’s missing father and Jane’s ex-husband, Hal Swanson, who had skipped the country with several federal agencies on his trail. Since Sven had brought up the subject, he decided the time might be right. “I’m sorry about your father, Sven. It must be hard for you. Have you heard from him?”

Sven stared off into the distance, taking a few moments to respond. “No. I know he’s done some bad things, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t miss him. Ingrid and Mom refuse to talk about him. Why did he do it, Chip?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Sometimes it’s just a slippery slope. One thing leads to another. And, his drinking probably clouded his judgment.”

“I didn’t tell Mom or Ingrid this, but two undercover DEA agents came to the house right after the Fourth of July and questioned me about Dad. They asked if I knew where he was and if I knew anything about drug money. I told them I didn’t know anything and didn’t believe Dad was involved in buying or selling drugs. They kind of creeped me out. They were dressed like migrant workers, but I could tell they were packing heat.”

Chip chuckled and shook his head. “Packing heat … I think you have been watching too many TV crime shows.”

“Or reading too many crime novels.” They both laughed.

“The FBI said several federal agencies would be involved, so I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Chip. “In fact, I remember those two guys and wondered who they were. Undercover DEA agents, huh? I never would have guessed.”

Sven hesitated, and then said, “I’m sort of worried about Mom. Don’t mean to pry, but what’s with you two? I thought you had like a romance going on.”

“So did I, but maybe she just needs some time to work through things. I don’t have the best track record with women. Piece of advice for you … stay away from those pretty girls at MCAD.”

Sven laughed. “That’s one piece of advice I probably won’t follow.” He reached into his back pocket. “Oh, I brought something to show you. I found it this summer when I was working with the Historical Society on that documentary.”

Sven pulled an old, sepia-colored photograph from his jeans pocket and handed it to Chip. “Seems Turners Bend had a theater for movies and stage shows back in the 1930s. It was named the Bijou. It was in the empty building next to Harriet’s House of Hair. Sylvia Johnson told me she remembers it from when she was a girl, and that it was a grand place with gilt fixtures and a crystal chandelier and red velvet curtains. She said the owner died some years ago, and she heard the marquee that was taken down is stored inside.”

Sven returned the photo to his pocket. “Wouldn’t it be cool if it was restored and
The Cranium Killer
movie was shown at its grand re-opening? Maybe the director or some of the stars would even come to town. If I weren’t going off to school, I’d get the town to do it.”

Chip could sense the boy’s excitement, and it was catching. “That’s a great idea. Maybe I can help.”

Just then Runt began to bark and chase something across the yard. He stopped at the woodpile and stuck his nose between the logs. Sven ran to the pile and pulled a baby kitten out of the gap.

Chip grabbed his whistle and blew the commands for ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ and Runt complied. Sven returned to the steps with the kitten clinging to his shirt by its claws. “Aaw, look at her, Chip. She can’t be more than six weeks old.”

“How do you know it’s a female and how old she is?”

“First of all, she’s a calico. See the three colors, white, black and orange? All calicos are females. Second, you’re forgetting that my grandfather was a vet and my mother is a vet. I’ve been around animals my whole life. She’s pretty scrawny and matted. I bet she’s really hungry. We better feed her. Here, hold her. It looks like you have another pet.”