William Krueger - Trickster's Point

He hadn’t eaten at all that day and was famished. He grabbed a breakfast sandwich-biscuit, egg, sausage, cheese-and a cup of coffee from a convenience store on his way out of town and headed toward Yellow Lake, a community a few miles south of Aurora. Just outside that small town, he pulled off the road and parked in front of a long, ramshackle structure built of corrugated metal and that was decorated with signage crying out archery supplies, bow-hunting equipment, targets, decoys, and a fully equipped indoor practice range. Above the entrance loomed a huge,

handcrafted placard that read: STRAIGHT ARROW, INC.

Cork opened the door, and a little bell tinkled, a fragile and incongruous sound considering what was represented by the merchandise inside. The place seemed empty, except for the presence of a cat that lay on the countertop next to the register. It was a Chinchilla Persian, an old feline with long fur the color of campfire smoke.

“Hey, Mattie.” Cork spoke softly to the cat. “Where’s the old man?”

“Old man?” The voice, indignant, came from the back room. A moment later, a guy with a square build and silver hair appeared, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and jeans. “This old man’ll be happy to kick your butt, you don’t speak more respectfully.”

“Morning, Dale,” Cork said.

Dale Basham came to the counter and stroked Mattie’s fur. “Wasn’t sure if I’d be seeing you again this season.”

“Why’s that?”

Basham shrugged. “Accident like the one up at Trickster’s Point with Jubal Little, I figured you might be thinking of hanging your bow up for good. I tell guys all the time, don’t shoot at the first thing that moves. You? I figured you knew better. Trained by Sam Winter Moon and all.”

“What exactly have you heard?”

Basham picked up the cat, who began to purr.

Basham and Mattie were an interesting pair. Basham was Oklahoma born, had been a pilot during the war in Vietnam, then flown for Northwest Airlines. When he’d retired as a commercial pilot, he’d moved north to open the Straight Arrow. He’d brought along Mattie, a cat that was now more than two decades old and famously loved by Dale Basham. In the last few years, Mattie’s heart had stopped five times, and Basham, using gentle CPR, had brought her back to life each time. On the surface, he might have appeared gruff-they’d called him Bash when he was in the service-but Cork figured any guy willing to do mouth-to-mouth on a feline couldn’t be all badass. Strange maybe, but certainly good-hearted.

“What have I heard?” Basham put the cat back on the counter, and Mattie sprawled out-loose limbed and eyes closed-in a way that made Cork think the animal had suffered another heart attack, and maybe he’d see Basham in action. But the cat’s purr box kept running. “Heard Jubal Little took an arrow in the heart. Hunting accident. Sheriff’s Department claims they’re still uncertain about some of the details. Got all that from the television and radio. Also heard, by way of the grapevine, that you were alone up there with him, and it was you who shot him.”

“That’s what folks are saying?”

“Enough of ’em that it got to me. Also heard they found some other fella dead up there, yeah? What’s that all about?”

“You want to know the truth, Dale, that’s what I’m trying to figure out. And maybe you can help me.”

“Me?”

“You’re the only retailer of archery equipment in these parts, so I figure most of us bow hunters buy from you.”

“Or the Internet. Christ, I hate to tell you how much business those damn online stores have cost me.”

“You know most of the good bow hunters in the area?”

“Lot of ’em.”

“Lester Bigby bow-hunts, doesn’t he?”

“Sure. Don’t know if he’s any good, but he buys here.”

“Buys materials to make his own arrows?”

“Nah. He usually buys RedHead carbons. He’s got himself a Bear Carnage, a top-of-the-line compound bow.”

“Thought you said you didn’t know if he was any good.”

“Having a big dick doesn’t guarantee a guy knows how to score. Got a lot of hunters come in, spend a shitload of money thinking the gear alone’ll do the trick. You shop garage sales a year later and you can pick that stuff of theirs up for a dime.”

“Have you seen Lester recently?”

“Came in just before season opener, bought that Bear Carnage I told you about.”

“What about Isaiah Broom?”

Basham shook his head. “Makes all his own gear. Arrows, bow, quiver. Hell, heard he fashions his bowstring out of elk sinew. Christ, I don’t know anybody who gets that into it. He’s good, I hear. Real good. Leastways, I never heard of him shooting anybody by accident.”

By accident. That was the key phrase. Jubal Little’s death had been no accident.

Cork decided not to try to change Basham’s understanding of what had occurred at Trickster’s Point. Until he knew who the real killer was, it would be useless to argue. And when the truth was finally known, argument would be unnecessary.

L ester Bigby was a wealthy man. When he was twenty-two and just out of college, he’d taken over his father’s logging operation, which had, by then, fallen on hard times, mostly because Buzz Bigby had come to prefer drinking to running his business. Lester turned the situation around and, when things were looking good again, sold the operation and invested the money in stocks. He chose wisely and did well, and then began doing the same for other people in the Arrowhead region of Minnesota. He’d established a good reputation as an investment counselor and had built a solid clientele. A couple of years earlier, he’d created the Crown Lake Development Company and had purchased a very large tract of land southwest of Aurora that included its own pristine lake, one of the very few in the area without any cabin homes already on the shoreline. Last spring, he’d begun construction of a luxury resort, but building had been halted in midsummer. Jubal Little was a large part of the reason.

Lester had built himself an ostentatious house on North Point Road, just outside the town limits. If there hadn’t already been a number of outrageously ostentatious places on the point, his would have stood out magnificently. As it was, it became just another in a line of homes that, in Cork’s opinion, had no place in what should have been the natural and simple beauty of the shoreline of Iron Lake.

He pulled into the drive, a ribbon of blacktop that curved through a lot of lawn and landscaped garden and stopped at the portico in front. Noon wasn’t far off. The sky was clear blue, and the sun was bright, and the grass sparkled with the wetness of the last few days. Cork got out and was about to ring the bell when the door opened suddenly. Lester Bigby’s wife, Emily, stood there, clearly startled to find Cork blocking her way.

“Oh!” she said and took a step back.

“Sorry, Emily,” Cork said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just about to punch the doorbell.”

She put a hand to her breast, as if stilling a wildly beating heart. “It’s all right,” she said. “I just… It’s all right.”

Like her husband, she was small, in her late thirties or early forties, attractive, with dark brown hair, long and nicely styled. She dressed well, expensively but not showy, and because Jo, who’d served with her for several years on the library board, had spoken well of her, Cork was inclined to like her.

“I’m looking for Lester. I tried his office in town, but he’s not there. I was just wondering if he might be home.”

“No, he’s not,” she said, still a little breathy from the fright.

“Know where I might find him?”