Superior Storm (Lake Superior Mysteries) (3 page)

“She said that?” I was slightly shocked.

“Well, not exactly. She said you'd been shot, but that it wasn't serious. I figured the rest out myself.”

“It's good to know you are so perceptive.”

“I knew you'd appreciate it,” she said. There was another pause. “Seriously, are you really OK?”

“My life isn't in jeopardy, if that's what you mean. I'll be fine. It
does
hurt a little
,
though.”

“See, I
knew
it.”

“I give up,” I said. “Anyway, I won't be in today. Hopefully I'll be OK for tomorrow.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Just some sympathy,” I said, and hung up on her laughter.

Leyla took me to my doctor, who, as expected, prescribed both a painkiller and antibiotic.

“You never know where a bullet has been,” was his comforting explanation for the antibiotic. We then went to the drugstore and got the medicine.

“It's getting close to supper time,” said Leyla. “If you want, I'll take you home and make you supper.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That would be wonderful.”

My home is a newer
N
orthwoods
-
style cabin, up on the ridge, a mile or
two above
Lake Superior
and maybe two or three miles south of Grand Lake. My living room and deck boast an ever-changing view of the largest freshwater lake in the world; a deep, clear, cold romancer of men and killer of ships, the lifeblood and livelihood of Northeastern Minnesota.

Most of Minnesota is not known for spectacular scenery. While there are plenty of quiet lakes and tall forests, it is also pretty flat, and most of the state is just good, fertile Midwestern farm land. But the coast of Lake Superior is the stunning exception. Granite cliffs plunge into clear, deadly cold water. Ridges rise mountain-like off the lake and waterfalls of tannin-stained streams hide in the folds of the hills.
And always, l
ying to the
south
east
is the giant freshwater behemoth, changeable as
a
diva, but twice as beautiful.

It was almost dark when we got to my cabin, but on clear days the water has a way of holding light, and we could see the glimmer far out to the empty southeast. My leg seemed to have stiffened up, and I was
feeling the pain pretty severely
.

Leyla got me on to the couch and came back with water and my pills.

“Thanks,” I said. “I think there's some leftover spinach pie in the fridge. I don't mind if you just want to heat that up.”

“You can make a pie from spinach?”

“Don't knock it 'til
you've tried it,” I said. “Spinach, Italian sausage, eggs, and cheese – all inside a pie crust – how can that be bad?”

“Well, I guess I could try it.” She sounded doubtful.

“Make whatever you want,” I said. “I hope to be in la
-
la land soon.”

She found the pie and put it in the oven to warm up. Then she brought a glass of white wine over, and sat on the end of the couch opposite me, facing my direction. It was an ordinary couch, but with her on it, it looked like it belonged in a millionaire's mansion.

“Are you in la
-
la land yet?”

“No, but I'm starting to feel better.”

“Jonah, why is it complicated?”

“What?” Maybe I was in la
-
la land after all.

“Why are
we
–
us – complicated? That's what we said to Dan today. Because, I mean
,
I know we've talked, and I said it to Dan too, but the truth is, it isn't complicated for me.”

I looked at her steadily. “What do you mean?”

“I know how I feel. I know what I want. It isn't complicated for me. I want to be with you.”

I tried to look out over the lake, but with lights on in the cabin, the glass doors out to my deck were just black.

“You could say something anytime now.”

I looked back at Leyla. “You're right,” I said. “I am the one making it complicated. I hope someday it won't be.”

“You still haven't forgiven me.” Her voice was thick with emotion.

“No, Leyla, that's not it. I have forgiven you. But it takes some time to rebuild trust. When the chips were down, you trusted a multiple murderer before you believed me. It takes something to recover what was lost there.”

“I was here for you today.”

“Yes, you were. You are.”

“But that's not all of it, is it? It's not just about trust.”

I thought for a
while. “No, I guess not.”

Leyla had a trick of looking beautiful, even when she cried.

I reached out and grabbed her hand. “Leyla,” I said. “I want it
to be uncomplicated. I want to
be with you
freely, with no reservations
. Like the EMT said, I often think I must be crazy to even let this be 'complicated.' But I will never give you less than total honesty.”

She sniffed and nodded.

“I'm working on it. I'm trying to figure out what my problem is – because it
is
my problem, not yours. The trust thing is part of it. I don't know what the other part is yet. But I will figure it out.”

“What does that mean? Do you want to date other women? Do you want me to be looking for other men?”

“No,” I said. I may have said it a little bit firmly, because Leyla actually smiled. “I'm not interested in anyone else. That wouldn't help me.”

Her smile broadened. “You sound pretty sure about that part.”

“I can't ask you to,” I said, “but I was hoping that you could wait for me while I work on this. You know, not date anyone else.”

“So you want to date me exclusively – except you don't want to date me.”

“Couldn't we be kind of, I don't know, friends with a future?”

“
Friends with a future?
Sounds like a slogan for the Army or something.”

Maybe it was the drugs. I couldn't help myself. I began to laugh, knowing it was inappropriate. The more I tried to suppress it, the funnier it got. Soon
,
my whole body was shaking
,
and I felt tears coming to my eyes.

“
Join t
he Army
; find
friends with a future
?” I was gasping for breath.

To my relief, she began to smile
,
too. She shook her head.

“I'm letting you off easy, because you've been shot, and you're on painkillers.”

“Thank you,” I said wiping my eyes. I felt slightly more serious. “For everything.”

She looked at me, and her open vulnerability was like a powerful drug. “Still, I like the sound of it. Especially the part about the future.”

“So you'll wait?”

She looked me in the eye. “I will wait Jonah. But not forever.”

She cleaned up the dishes and then came and sat back on the couch. I was starting to feel pretty good from the painkillers.

“We always seem to have this tension,” said Leyla, “but I was wondering if I could ask you about the robbery, as a journalist.” Leyla was the managing editor for the
Grand Lake
Gazette
. Circulation was around 12,000, but I knew the Associated P
ress, and possibly even Reuters,
would be likely to pick up Leyla's story from the wires.

“I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to tell,” I said.

“That's what I was talking to Chief Jensen about while you were waiting in the car,” she said. “I'll abide by his wishes. Whatever he said is off limits, is off the record.”

“Freedom of the press?” I asked.

“Maintaining good relationships with my sources,” she countered.

I told her what I had experienced.

“Ethel Ostrand's money is killing me,” I said. “How many people are ever present at a bank robbery in their whole lifetime? And yet I'm there with a widow's life
-
savings in cash right when it happens.”

“Bank robberies are usually investigated by the FBI. The resources of the
f
ederal
g
overnment will be all over this one. They'll get it back.”

I was starting to get sleepy. The support of the FBI seemed like a good reason to relax and not worry about it, at least until I slept a little.

I didn't wake up until morning. Leyla was gone
,
but my own pillow was under my head on the couch
,
and I was tucked warmly under a wool blanket.

“What do you mean the FBI won't be investigating this? Don't they investigate all bank robberies?” I was holding the phone a little too tight.

“This wasn't a bank robbery
,
Jonah,” said Dan Jensen. He sounded tired, but I was too unsettled to care much.

“Dan,” I said, “I was there. I was in a bank. It was robbed.”

“No
,
Jonah,” he said with excessive patience. “The
people
in the bank were robbed. They didn't take any money from the bank itself.”

“You mean they didn't rob the
bank
?”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you. They only robbed the customers. No money was taken from the bank itself.”

“So it's not a
f
ederal crime?”

He sighed through the phone. “No
f
ederal crime. No FBI.”

I was quiet.

“They aren't exactly the saviors the movies paint them as anyway,” said Jensen.

“Sorry Dan,” I said, finally paying attention to how he might be feeling. “I didn't mean to insult you. You guys do a great job around town. It's just that I lost a quarter million dollars of someone else's money. I want all the help I can get.”

“
The s
tate
p
olice will be in on this to help us,” said Dan.

“OK,” I said. “What can I do?”

He was quiet for minute. “Nothing right now
,
Jonah. If you think of anything new you might have forgotten, call me right away.”

“Dan,” I said, “you think you'll get any of the money back?”

“I really don't know Jonah,” he said. “But we'll get the suckers who did this. I promise you that.”

We hung up, and I limped out of my home-office into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I had slept late, so I wasn't quite done with my first pot. I was experimenting with a chicory blend that was popular in New Orleans, in the theory that coffee from the South might help keep me warm in the North.

I fed a few more logs into my fireplace, and then
limped
around my living room. It was a cold day in early autumn. The ridge fell away from
the
house like some gaudy ocean wave, decked out in gold, red
,
yellow and green. The lake lay at the bottom of the hill like a silent blue monster, biding its time until it could roar with the force of November storms.

I thought about the robbery. There was an athletic man of medium height who could jump onto the bank counter from the floor. There was a bigger man. There was a short slim guy. Possibly, they had a
getaway driver. They had a quarter million dollars just from me; possibly as much as a hundred thousand more, considering the business owners making deposits and the people cashing paychecks.

Now all I had to do was take
these facts
and solve the case, because surely I could do it better than any of the professionals who were working on it. After all, they had only devoted careers to this sort of thing, whereas I was a highly trained pastor.

One thing was inescapable. Ethel Ostrand deserved to hear from me personally. Reluctantly, I shaved and dressed in my pastor uniform of
Dockers
and a
mostly
clean, blue,
button
-
up shirt. Clerical collars make me feel like I'm choking. Because it was fall, I added a sweater and my brown leather jacket. Grand Lake was a small town. Very few people there needed a white collar to know who I was and what I did.

With a certain amount of pain, I drove to Ethel's house and limped to her door.

“Have you heard the news?” I asked when we were both seated in her museum-of-the-1950s living room.

She did not look happy. “I heard the bank was robbed.”

“They took all of your money
,
Ethel,” I said. “I'm so sorry.”

She looked confused. “Wasn't it in the vault?”