A Pattern for Murder

EXCERPT

  I whistled for the dogs and began to jog down to the shoreline that outlined a diamond sea. Within a few seconds, a mournful baying sound stopped me in my tracks. At first, I thought it was the old foghorn used on low visibility night, to warn sailors of dangerous shoals in the deep, cold lake. But the lighthouse had been decommissioned for more than seventy years and, besides, the mid-day sky was azure over the turquoise waves. My heart thumped hard as I turned to find my two canines posed, like sentinels, on either side of something crumpled and still, something hideous. Something that had until very recently been vital and alive. The basset hound bayed again, and emotion clogged my throat. A sudden, swift grief for the extinguished life was joined by fear for the living. The conversation in the lightkeeper's study that I'd overheard from my tiny bedroom leapt into my mind. "You left her along for twenty years." The voice was young, raw, accusing. "I know." The response contained a hint of amusement. "So what're you gonna do about it? What are you going to do for her?" The amusement in the older voice fled. "You mean what am I going to do for you?" A brief silence then as the younger speaker evidently tried to get his temper under control. "I want you to give her the lighthouse. And the money." "I see. And what happens if I don't?" "Maybe," the younger voice raged in a furious whisper, "I'll push you off the tower." With an effort, I forced the memory aside and tried, three times, to punch in the emergency number. When I connected, I hate to wait through about twenty rings. Finally, the voice of my onetime Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Iris Touleheto, spoke in a cheery voice. "Hello? Hello? This is emergency. I am so sorry for the delay. I was down the hall in the little girl's room. Who is this please?" "Mrs. Too, it's Hatti," I said. My voice sounded unfamiliar to my ears. More of a croak. "I didn't realize you were the sheriff department's dispatcher." "Just temporary, dearie. Justin Erkkila is up in Embarrass, Minnesota visiting his daughter and new grandson. Speaking of that, I ran into Hilda Aho at the hardware. She says Waino's current girlfriend is off at Luther League and all he does all day is play video games. You should call him, dearie. Strike while the iron's hot." Mrs. Touleheto, having discovered Waino and me playing spin the bottle during vacation bible school fifteen years earlier, had cherished the hope that we'd someday make a match of it. "I'm married, Mrs. Too," I said, wondering how I'd lost control of the emergency call. "Yes, but Henrikki, a bird in the hand is better than one in the bush. You can't have a baby with a husband who lives somewhere else. And you're not a spring chicken anymore. Tick, tock. Tick, tock." "I need the sheriff," I said. "I'm out at the Painted Rock Lighthouse and someone has fallen from the gallery." She made a disapproving sound. "It sounds as if you need an ambulance." "The victim is dead," I said, bluntly. "The sheriff needs to come out here. Pronto." "Well, dearie, Sheriff Clump's down at the Lunch Box Diner enjoying his pannukakku. He won't like to be disturbed. Anyway, he come into work today in the Corvette and, you know, there's no backseat." In other words, Clump wouldn't be able to transport the body back to our tiny morgue. I stared at the lighthouse and the dogs and the body on the sand and thought how utterly unprepared we were to handle a serious crime. The Keweenaw might not draw a lot of tourists but it was, in fact, the ideal spot for a destination murder.