Rock Harbor Series - 01 - Without a Trace (14 page)

Her revised plans racing through her head, she nodded her thanks at Lars, took her knapsack, then rushed toward the door.

What a change to have something to look forward to. Bree sat on the couch with her legs under her and pored over a real estate book. Where could she buy land for her training center? For the first time, she saw how the publicity that came Samson’s way could benefit her. An old schoolhouse was for sale about five miles out of town. It came with ten acres that ranged from meadow to forest. That might work. She’d have to call the agent and take a look.

In spite of her enthusiasm for the project, Bree couldn’t seem to settle tonight. Staying home with a frozen pizza didn’t sound at all appealing. Anu would be glad to have her come by for supper, or she could go to Naomi’s, but neither prospect felt right. Her thoughts drifted to Fay’s death. The information Fay might have had about the cabin in the woods was gone with her. But if she could track Fay’s movements for the past few weeks, maybe she could get a feel for what quadrant to search. She couldn’t imagine there really was a plane seat outside that cabin, but she had no other direction to look right now. At least it was a goal.

Samson needed to be fed, then she could go to town and see if she could find out anything. She fed the dog then got her coat. “Want to go out, Samson?”

His ears pricked at the word “out.” He barked and ran to the back door. “No, we’re going to town,” she told him. She could stop by the sheriff’s office to see if he’d heard anything. The blood test might be
back by now. At work today, she’d hoped Mason might stop by with news, but there had been no sign of him.

The air held a hint of moisture that promised rain or snow. October was not too soon to get major snow, but they’d been lucky this year. The stars were like ship lights bouncing off the black waves of the lake. The wind had picked up, and the crash of the waves on Lake Superior was oddly soothing. Rock Harbor’s streets were deserted, a pleasant state of affairs after summer’s high traffic.

Visitors loved the quaintness of the town with its Victorian buildings and community activities. But for a time, the residents owned the town again. Rock Harbor had “nine months of winter and three months of company,” the saying went, and that was pretty accurate. Tourists came for the fishing and hunting, for the natural beauty of this land of waterfalls, and for the festivals with their Finnish or Cornish food and fun.

Many people in the Midwest never seemed to realize the enormity of the North Woods. And it wasn’t just the miles and miles of pristine forest, it was the heavy snow and frigid temperatures that hindered Bree’s efforts to find her family.

Rock Harbor County Jail sat stolidly in the center of downtown, across the street from the Copper Club Tavern. Built five years ago, its white stone edifice seemed out of place amid the gracious brick buildings that lined downtown. She opened the door, and Doug Montgomery looked up from his perusal of a fishing magazine. The desk was battered with gouges made by countless deputies over the past fifty years. Montgomery eased his bulk back into the worn leather chair and gazed at her over the top of his spectacles.

His oversized head sported a great thatch of thick blond hair like some Nordic warrior of long ago, though the resemblance stopped there. The blue eyes peering at her were too dulled with apathy to ever envision sailing across the ocean in an ancient longboat. Bree had to wonder what criteria the sheriff used to hire his deputies. But maybe
in a town the size of Rock Harbor, Doug was one of the best he could find.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Nicholls?” he said.

“I don’t suppose the sheriff is around?” she asked.

Doug shifted in his seat. “Nope. He left about an hour ago.”

“Any news on the blood we found by the road?”

He scratched his head. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to let out that information or not.”

“Come on, Deputy, I’m the sheriff’s sister-in-law. I found the blood.” Bree took a step closer to the desk and tried to peer over the deputy’s arm at the papers lying scattered under his meaty hand.

He covered the papers with an arm then slowly lifted it again. “Well, I guess that’s all right then. The blood seems to be hers, all right. At least it’s the same blood type. We don’t have the DNA back yet.”

Samson had been right. Bree’s initial elation faded, and her stomach roiled. Murder in Rock Harbor, or manslaughter at the very least. “That means Fay didn’t die of a climbing accident,” she said slowly.

“Looks that way,” the deputy said. “The sheriff called in the state police forensic experts. They’re coming over tomorrow.”

“What time?” She intended to tag along and see what they had to say.

“About eight.”

“Thanks, Deputy.” Snapping her fingers at Samson, Bree turned and went to the door. Outside, the evening winds had picked up, and she pulled the hood of her sweater up over her head. Her hunger faded in light of this more pressing news. If it hadn’t been so dark, she would have been tempted to go out to the site and poke around. Instead, she settled for a pensive walk around the quiet streets.

By the time she’d crossed the courthouse square for the fifth time, her head was clearer. The neon light above the Suomi Café glared through the gathering mist along Kitchigami Street like a lighthouse
guiding the ships to port. The aroma of fish stew and cabbage rolls wafted into the street, and her hunger raged to the fore again.

Across the street she saw Steve Asters exit the bank. Bree glanced at her watch. Seven o’clock. He was working late. Steve locked the door behind him then came toward her. Even from here, she could see the way his shoulders slumped.

Bree watched him for a moment before walking toward him. “Hi, Steve,” she said softly.

His head jerked up as if pulled by an invisible rope. The pallor on his face deepened when he saw her, then color flooded into his skin. “What do you want?” he muttered, his gaze wandering back to the ground.

“Want to join me for a sandwich and coffee?”

“No thanks. I couldn’t eat anything.” He looked at the ground. “Everyone looked at me today like they think if I really loved her, I would be home grieving. Well, I can’t stand the empty house. Is that so hard to understand? I don’t know how I’ll get through the funeral tomorrow.”

“Have you talked to the sheriff?”

“He stopped in to see me about an hour ago.” His gaze probed her face. “He said it looks like the blood you found by the road is Fay’s. That means someone killed her, doesn’t it?”

“It still could have been accidental, a hit-and-run driver maybe.”

“You don’t believe that,” he said.

His shoulders slumped even lower, until Bree wasn’t sure he wouldn’t simply slide to the ground. In spite of herself, she couldn’t help the niggle of sympathy she felt for him. But maybe it was all an act. She, of all people, knew how convincingly a man could lie.

She narrowed her eyes. “No, I don’t believe she was hit by a car. And even if it did happen that way, it’s still manslaughter, especially since whoever killed her arranged her body at the foot of the cliff.” That’s what had bothered her, she suddenly realized. Fay had been
arranged like a mannequin. Her body had been staged, even to the arm flung out as if to try to catch herself.

“Well, it wasn’t me!” Steve finally seemed to recover some life and straightened his back to stare her squarely in the face.

She’d always liked Steve, but then, whoever said she was a good judge of men? She’d laugh if it weren’t such serious business.

The wind blew tendrils of hair across Bree’s eyes, and she brushed them away. “Let’s get out of this wind. You can at least drink some coffee.”

He shrugged then followed her into the café, where she led him to a back table.

Molly came to the table. “What’ll it be, Bree?” She barely looked at Steve.

“I’ll have some cabbage rolls and fish stew,” Bree said. “And maybe some lingonberries for dessert. Oh, and a coffee—for Steve too.”

Molly wrote down the order then nodded and hurried away, returning moments later with the coffee pot. She filled their cups without comment.

“See what I mean?” Steve said. “Everyone looks at me like they think I’ll pull a knife on them any second. I’ll probably have to move away.”

Bree dug a handful of pistachio nuts out of her pocket. “Want some?” she asked. He shook his head, and she split a shell with her thumbnail and popped the nut into her mouth. “The sheriff will find out who did it,” she told him.

Steve gave a bitter laugh. “Mason’s too wrapped up in the election campaign to care. As long as he has a suspect—namely, me—that’s all he’ll care about. I’ve always laughed about small-town gossip. But now the finger is pointed at me, and it’s not fair! I loved Fay. We had our problems, including money. I’m not denying that. But that doesn’t mean I killed her.” He wrapped his fingers around his coffee cup and stared at the liquid.

Bree stared at him. Could he know something about the location
of the cabin? He was her only source of information. “Do you know where she’d been hiking recently? She mentioned seeing a cabin with an old airplane seat in a ravine near it. It’s probably nothing, but I’d like to check it out. I just don’t have any idea of where to look.”

Lost in his own thoughts, Steve didn’t answer for a long moment. He finally blinked and looked up. “She never talked much about her hiking.”

“Think,” Bree urged.

He took a gulp of coffee. “I think maybe she mentioned hiking out near Ten Mile Peak. But she was all over the place. I can’t even remember when she said something about it. Sorry.”

At least it was a start. She wouldn’t be searching totally blind.

Steve stared at her for a long moment, then his face grew thoughtful. “You could figure it out, Bree. Fay always said you were smarter than the rest of the town rolled together.” He leaned across the table, and his voice grew excited. “Will you poke around for me?”

Committing herself to Steve—who she still wasn’t convinced had nothing to do with Fay’s death—was more than she was prepared to do. “I’m just a search-and-rescue worker,” Bree protested. “The sheriff has called in forensic help. They’ll figure it out.”

Anger flashed across his face. He stood slowly, as if he wasn’t sure his legs would support him. “So you won’t help me either,” he said dully. “I might as well have the sheriff lock me up.” He turned and rushed from the restaurant.

Bree watched him go. There seemed to be a desperation about him—a desperation that could be caused by guilt.

9

T
he macadam road narrowed until it was little more than a track through the thick forest. The moist scent of leaves and mold drifted to Bree’s nose as she and Samson walked along the side of the road behind the state police forensic experts. She’d been surprised to find that the lead was a woman. Somehow she’d expected a thin man with spectacles and an attitude. Too much TV, she guessed.

The reality was Janna Kievari, a woman of about forty with soft brown hair styled in a becoming chin-length bob. With steel-blue eyes set above a sharp nose, her fine bone structure proclaimed Finnish heritage more loudly than did her name. Dressed in tan wool slacks and a black-and-tan wool blazer with sensible hiking shoes, her no-nonsense manner appealed to Bree. This woman emanated a fearlessness Bree intended to emulate. Janna wouldn’t be afraid to ask questions, to stir the pot even if it angered someone. And neither would Bree.

Mason hadn’t objected to her request to tag along, but Bree suspected it was because the sheriff was relieved to have any kind of help. Rock Harbor was not a metropolis of criminal activity, and she knew Mason felt out of his element at the nature of this crime committed under his watch.

But by the time Janna’s team had collected samples and departed for Houghton, Bree knew no more than she did before they arrived. She’d hoped for some riveting piece of evidence that would indicate what had really happened. The only thing Janna said was that it didn’t appear to be a hit-and-run accident. There were no impressions left by
skidding tires, and the spot where they’d found the blood and hair was too far from the road.

Bree had hoped it would turn out to be just that. Someone covering up an accident would have been better than the alternative. She shivered. It was the sheriff’s problem though, not hers. Her job was to trace Fay’s path the last few weeks and find the woman in the cabin. Useless as it was probably going to be, it was becoming an obsession.

She glanced at her watch. If she hurried, she could get in a couple of hours of searching before the funeral. Samson nudged her hand with his nose, and she absently patted his head. “Ready to search, boy?”

He hunkered down and barked. She opened the Jeep door, and he jumped in. Bree drove out to quadrant sixteen and took Hegg Road to Rock River. Some of the most dramatic scenery in the U.P. could be found here. Volcanic rock outcroppings framed the falls and created a breathtaking 325-foot-deep gorge.

She and Rob used to come here a lot. Staring up at the last traces of fall foliage, the memories washed over her. It was so hard to reconcile the man she loved with what she knew now about his unfaithfulness. In spite of his angry denials, she’d had to face the truth. If he’d come back from the fatal trip, what other excuses would he have offered? She sometimes wondered if she would have forgiven him for Davy’s sake and tried to patch up their marriage. Infidelity would be hard to live with. Besides, he might have wanted to marry that Lanna, whoever she was.

Opening the bag, she held it under Samson’s nose. Davy’s blue shirt, the one with the Superman emblem on the back, had been his favorite piece of apparel. Now it was merely the search article of choice. Sometimes Bree wanted to take it out of its protective bags and bury her face in it, breathe in the scent that had been her son, that aroma of mud pies, Play-Doh, and candy.

She grimaced. This was her new life now—no more dwelling on the past. Samson’s great plume of a tail wagged, and he barked as if to
tell her he was ready to find Davy. Though she always came out here with fresh hope, it was getting harder and harder to sustain that hope in the face of constant defeat. She would probably always search once in a while as she trained dogs in the woods, but this quadrant would be the last for a formal search. Bree closed the bag and tossed it back in the car.