In Winter's Grip (5 page)

The yellow and black tape across our back door made me pause a second, but it would not stop me now that I'd come this far. I pulled the yellow tape aside and fit my key in the lock. It turned as if I'd used it every day for the past twenty years. The familiarity of the key's weight in the lock brought back memories hooked onto feelings long forgotten. Once inside, I slammed the door shut and leaned against it with my eyes closed tight. I sucked in air like a drowning swimmer and tried to still my frantic heart.

“Mama,” I whispered.“Your Maja's come home.”

My father's kitchen had changed little since the last time I'd been in it. The same green linoleum on the kitchen floor, lifting a bit around the edges; the original tired oak cupboards; the old Frigidaire in the corner. A new rectangular pine kitchen table and matching chairs looked out of place in the otherwise drab room. I circled the space, trailing my fingers along surfaces. The house was still on its programmed heating cycle, and I heard the furnace kick in. I'd hardly noticed how cool it was until that moment. I heard the clock ticking loudly on the wall over the stove, the same clock that my mother had picked out of the Sears catalogue thirty years before. The room smelled stale, the dankness heightened by a mixture of cooking grease, overripe bananas and rotting potatoes, and I suddenly couldn't wait to leave it. I went quickly down the darkened hallway into the living room. Here Dad had splurged on a new couch and leather recliners that encircled a big screen television. He'd acquired a state of the art sound system too that had place of honor on top of a shelving unit. The ornaments and pictures Mom had collected were gone, but lower down on the shelving unit, my father had placed a framed picture of himself and two buddies dressed in hunting gear and holding rifles. In the photo, Dad was grasping a handful of dead ducks by their feet and grinning into the camera.

I walked over and picked up the frame, staring into Dad's face and trying to see any part of him that I could latch onto. I had no idea why I thought the essence of him would be captured in a photo when I'd never been able to find it in real life. He looked fit and ruddy-faced, as if time had held off aging him. His blonde hair had turned a soft white, cut in a layered style, and his eyes were still a deep vivid blue. I put his picture back next to framed photos of Gunnar. In the first, he is a baby in Claire's arms, and in the second he is school age, grinning into the camera with his top front teeth missing.

New carpeting led to the stairs and up to hallway on the second floor—forest green with a pattern of tan swirls. It wasn't thick enough to hide the creaks as I slowly climbed. I hesitated on the landing and watched dust dance in the sunlight seeping in through the slats of the metal blind that covered the window above my head. The same brown paneling I remembered lined the walls. It looked streaky in places, faded like well-worn leather shoes. The door to my parents room stood open, and I stepped inside. I don't know what I expected to find, but it wasn't this. The bed was gone, and in its place were a stationary bike, a rowing machine and an apparatus that had weights and pulleys for working out the upper body. Free weights lined the floor in front of bright blue mats like the ones we'd had in gym class. I jumped when I turned and saw myself reflected in a floor to ceiling mirror that lined one wall. My face was pale and my eyes tired. I looked like I needed a hot bath and a good, strong drink. Those would come later.

My father had taken Jonas's old bedroom as his own. The double bed and oak headboard were new, but he'd kept the chest 33 of drawers and my mother's hope chest. I crossed the room and tried to open the chest, but it was locked. I didn't feel like searching for the key—not yet. The walls were washed-out beige, and I could make out the outlines of Jonas's posters that Dad had removed without bothering to paint. The one on the far wall had been the famous poster of Farah Fawcett, the one with her sitting nearly sideways in a red bathing suit with her head thrown back and a smile the size of a quarter moon on her face. Jonas had had a crush on her that lasted the entire television run of
Charlie's Angels
. A thick duvet covered the bed while curtains in a matching caramel colour hung at the window. If Dad had kept my mother's ornaments and photos, they were tucked away out of sight, perhaps in the locked chest.

I walked past the bathroom and kept going to my own bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was shut. I took another deep breath and turned the knob. Once again, the room's contents surprised me. My father had removed my bed and all my childhood things. In their place were piles of boxes and pieces of old furniture stacked against the walls, much like you'd find in an attic. The only item left in the room that I recognized was the faded rosebud wallpaper. All other traces of my occupancy were long gone or packed away out of sight. I moved closer and pried open the cardboard flaps of a large box, curious about what it held. Dozens of paperbacks were neatly arranged in rows, their covers glossy and brand new. I opened the large box next to it and found a boxful of hardcover books; the third box held Bibles, black covers with gilt lettering. Had my father become an avid reader? Had he turned to religion? I couldn't remember that he'd ever sat down to read anything more than the newspaper, let alone consider theology in any form. In addition to the Bibles, there were mysteries, historical fiction and
New York Times
bestsellers, light escapist reading.

I straightened and walked over to the window to look at the streaked sky through the boughs of the old pine. I raised the blind and a swirl of light dust drifted around me like flour. Lowering my gaze, I looked across the yard at the trees at the end of our property. As a girl, I'd spent many hours daydreaming at my desk, which had been positioned in front of the window. For the first time since I'd entered the house, I felt like I'd found something of my own. I closed my eyes and imagined myself back in high school with nothing in front of me but a school assignment and possibilities.

If I hadn't been so still, I might have missed the heavy creak of the loose floorboard on the stairs. I held my breath. A second creak even closer, and I exhaled slowly. I whirled around. Whoever had entered the house had done so without my hearing them. The half-open bedroom door seemed like an impossible distance away, and I knew I couldn't get to it before the intruder reached the landing. I was cornered. My breathing was too loud in my ears, but I willed myself to stay calm. If the person creeping up the staircase meant me harm, I'd know soon enough.

FIVE

T
he first thing I noticed about Tobias Olsen as he kicked open the door and stepped inside the room where I was standing was the Glock pistol he held with both hands, pointed directly at my legs. The second was the police uniform under his open leather jacket. I slowly raised my hands and grinned, even though my bottom lip and chin felt like they were quivering uncontrollably.

“Hey, Tobias,” I managed to enunciate, since it felt like all the saliva had disappeared from my mouth. “Been a long time.”

Tobias lowered the gun and squinted at me through pale green eyes. He was over six feet and on the husky side, big enough to put the fear of God into me. “As I live and die, if it ain't Maja Larson.” He lowered the gun and clicked on the safety before slipping it back into the holster on his right hip. “It's been over twenty years, but you haven't changed much.”

“The last time I saw you was high school graduation. You've taken up with the law, I see.”

“Sorry about your old man,” Tobias said, the corners of his mouth drooping momentarily. “Still, you shouldn't have crossed the police tape, Maja. Figured you'd know better.”

I shrugged. “Just felt like something I had to do.”

Tobias ran a hand through his bristly grey hair as he looked around the room. His eyes rested on the two boxes I'd opened. “Find anything interesting?” he asked as he crossed the floor to look inside.

“Just some books. This used to be my bedroom.” I didn't know why I felt I had to explain.

“I remember,” Tobias said.

“That's funny.” I tried to look into his eyes to see what he'd meant by that remark, but they stayed fixed on the boxes. “I don't remember you ever being in my bedroom.”

“You had all the guys dreaming. You must have known that, Maja. Every red-blooded boy in high school with an iota of testosterone knew where you slept every night.”

I felt myself blushing. I lowered my head and started for the door. “You're as full of shit now as you were when we were teenagers, Tobias Olsen,” I said.

He laughed. “How about we go into town and I buy you breakfast as a peace offering?” I could hear him rise from where he'd squatted to open one of the box lids and follow behind me.

I reached the door and put my hand around the doorknob. I turned and pretended to be considering his offer. “Okay,” I said after a few beats. It would be a good chance to find out what he knew about who'd murdered my dad. Besides, I'd become hungry all of a sudden, and the thought of scrambled eggs, bacon and another cup of coffee was more appealing than poking around in my father's cold, depressing house.

Tobias followed me through town to Frida's Coffeeshop, which was located on a flat piece of land at the base of a hill. If I'd kept going on the same road, at the top of the hill, I could have turned left onto Highway 61 to head north to the border. Frida owned a motel and some cottages that were strung out like a necklace around the bay. It was a pretty spot to have breakfast.

We found a table near the window. I sat so I could see the woods and snow stretching down the incline toward the frozen lake while Tobias angled himself so he had his back to the wall and a good view of the room.

After the coffee'd been poured and we'd placed our orders to a younger version of Frida, likely a granddaughter, Tobias leaned forward and studied me as if I had something written across my forehead. “I see you got married,” he said finally. “Word was you became a doctor and moved to Toronto or somewhere up in the wilds of Canada.”

“Ottawa, actually. I married a businessman named Sam Cleary. We met through a friend when I was visiting her in New York City. My name's Maja Cleary now.”

“He's Canadian?”

“Yup.”

“So you took his name and followed him to Ott ee wa. Never been there myself. Would you recommend it as a place to end up?”

“You'd probably miss the lake. We have rivers but nothing like Superior.” I took a sip of coffee and set down my mug. “What about you? Did you ever leave Duved Cove?”

“I worked in Duluth for a few years, got married, had a kid, divorced and moved back here.”

“Do I know who you married?”

“Lindsey Schnerring. You might remember her. She was a year behind us in school.”

“Wasn't she a cheerleader?”

“Yeah, that'd be her.” Tobias stopped talking and took a sip of coffee. He set the cup down. “I'm thinking about heading to Florida soon.”

“A transfer?”

“Sure. I'm getting tired of these winters and the snow. I want to try out beaches and heat for a bit.”

“Are there many from our high school still living around here?” I asked. I would never ask directly about the one person I craved to know about. When I'd turned my back on Duved Cove twenty years earlier, I'd never said Billy Okwari's name again, not even to Jonas.

“Quite a few left from our class. Your buddy, Katherine Lingstrom, she married a dentist and moved to Madison. Her mom still lives in that house on Strathcona near your dad's place. Do you keep in touch?”

I shook my head.

“Too bad. You two were joined at the hip all through school— and pretty nice hips at that. I guess time and distance can end any relationship.”

“I'm glad she's doing so well.” I ignored his comment.

“Of course, your brother is still here. He's got a few buddies in town from his original gang. Adrian and Fish. They're both working at the mill.”

“Jonas mentioned Becky Holmes is working in the hospital.”

“She's Becky Wilders now. There's probably lots of people still around who you'd recognize, although we've aged enough that we're all starting to look like our parents.”

I tried to hide my disappointment. Billy Okwari had been in our class at school but had been quiet and kept to himself—I'd say invisible to almost everyone else. It had taken me some time to realize he'd wanted it that way. No wonder Tobias didn't give me any news of Billy now.

Our breakfasts arrived, and we ate without talking. I wasn't as hungry as I'd thought. The eggs acquired a rubbery consistency as they cooled, and I knew they'd come out of a package. I put down my fork and looked at Tobias. “So what do you know about my father's death? Have you any idea who killed him...or why?”

Tobias chewed on a piece of toast and waved the crust at my plate. He talked with his mouth full. “Should have warned you against the scrambled. If you want real eggs, you have to have fried or poached.” He looked around the room as if it held the answers. “Can't tell you much about who'd want to kill your father,” he said before taking a swallow of coffee. “Your dad was well liked. He'd recently notified U.S. Customs that he'd be cutting back his hours to part-time, which doesn't mean much as far as I can see. He also told them he was planning a vacation and needed a few months off. Not sure that was a cause for alarm either, but it marks a change in his pattern.”

“Nobody had threatened him?”

“Not that we're aware of. Look, your dad was known for being opinionated, and he was a take-charge, bullish kind of man. That was balanced by his natural charisma and all around good nature. Bottom line, people liked him.”

“What about when he got let go from the police force?”

“Yeah, that was a long time ago, but apparently, people felt like your dad was set up. Nobody liked what happened to him, so he was pretty much handed the customs job.”