Gift Horse E-Book

Terri Martin

• Herausgeber: Modern History Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 455

Beschreibung

Tucked away in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, the village of Peshekee has more to worry about than the long winters and steelhead fishing. Scandal and a suspicious death or two visit the rural village, setting speculation and gossip into motion. After her post-college career collapses, Kat Wilde finds herself living with the family cat in her parents' basement. With no other prospects on the horizon, Kat is offered a gift she can't refuse: inheriting her late uncle's failed equine venture, Wildwood Stables. There, she sees hope for regaining independence from a pity job at Dad's accounting firm. Attracting the attention of Nikko Olsen, a local woods cop, leads to unconventional romance and adventure. The discovery of a corpse, along with disturbing encounters at the old horse campground, launches a spate of entanglements that unravel as Kat stumbles onto family sins and secrets.
"I want to be Terri Martin's Kat Wilde in Gift Horse: the reluctant recipient of a run-down horse boarding stable whose spirit is exceeded only by her heart! Thrown by the discovery of a dead body in her barn, Kat is determined to solve the mystery, aided and abetted by a host of endearingly wacky characters. Martin's Gift Horse is a pleasure ride, with enough bumps, turns and twists in the trail to keep the reader glued to the saddle -- right up until a very satisfying ending."
-- Nancy Besonen, author of Off the Hook
"Kat Wilde, a Gen Z woman trying to find a life in the rugged wilderness of the U.P., stumbles into an unlikely inheritance that reignites the fire of her forgotten youthful passion for horses. She is a down-to-earth heroine I rooted for at every turn, as she and new beau, Nikko Olsen, unravel the schemes of a murderer and impostor."
-- Victor Volkman, Marquette Monthly
"I thoroughly enjoyed meeting Kat Wilde, our guide through the landscape of Gift Horse. Her humorous choice of language comes through - even during the most desperate events, of which there are many. Things start with a few signs of danger and soon grow into dead bodies and blackmail."
-- Bob Rich, author of Hit and Run
From Modern History Press

Leseprobe

Gift Horse: A Kat Wilde U.P. Mystery

Copyright © 2024 by Terri Martin. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 978-1-61599-839-5 paperback

ISBN 978-1-61599-840-1 hardcover

ISBN 978-1-61599-841-8 eBook

Published by

 

Modern History Press

www.ModernHistoryPress.com

5145 Pontiac Trail

[email protected]

Ann Arbor, MI 48105

Tollfree 888-761-6268 (USA/CAN)

Distributed by Ingram Book Group (USA/CAN/AU)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To all God’s Creatures

Especially Horses

The phrase, “don’t look a gift horse in the mouth” originates in St. Jerome’s commentary in Paul’s letter to the Ephesians.

In Latin, the proverb is:

Noli equi dentes inspicere donati

(never inspect the teeth of a given horse).

Also by the Author

Adult

Short Stories-Humor

Roadkill Justice

High on the Vine: Featuring Yooper Entrepreneurs Tami & Evi Maki

Church Lady Chronicles: Devilish Encounters

Full Length Novel

Moose Willow Mystery

Children’s

The Home Wind (age 9+)

Voodoo Shack (age 8+)

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

About the Author

Prologue

“Now who’s the liability?” the woman snarled, swatting at a cloud of gnats. “That stupid rain flooded this so-called trail. Oh, we’ll make it through, you said. Know what? You’re a loser and we’re screwed.”

“Just shut up, okay?” he said, gritting his teeth. “We’re fine. Lots of time. Highway’s just over there.”

“Yeah? Great. And I suppose we’re going to thumb a ride to Maple—whatever that place is, DAMMIT! My shoe’s coming off.”

“Maple Auto Sales and Service. I think it’s just a few miles up the–”

“A FEW MILES!”

“This is the U.P. We can hitch a ride. People are very helpful up here.”

“Well that’s just perfect. How about we call? Maybe they’ll come get us. You know, send a limo.”

“No limo. We have a sedan lined up along with our passports.”

“What kind of place is this anyway?” she said. “

“They have unique services.”

“So call them. I can’t walk in these shoes. And the bugs—something’s crawling up my neck. What the hell’s crawling up my neck?!”

“There is nothing crawling up your neck. And we can’t call. No cell service out here.”

“Of course there isn’t. Christ! I just hate this God-forsaken hellhole. Help me up the bank. I’m slipping. And get the goddam thing off my neck.”

* * *

A half mile back, Sergeant Tori Haapala saw that the two were going at it. The woman took a swing at the man. He grabbed her arm and jerked her along. The call had come in as a possible domestic around Maki Corners on US Highway 41. Very strange, walking along there, miles from everything. No disabled car in sight. No nearby houses. Haapala flipped on her overheads and braked, sending the cruiser into a bounce.

“Six-one to dispatch, ten-twenty-six.”

On the scene.

“Ten-four,” dispatch responded.

Haapala watched the two stumbling along the shoulder. This was trouble. When they heard the crunch of tires, the pair jerked around and spotted the cruiser. Both made a feeble attempt to run, but the woman stumbled and fell. The man kept going. An APB alert had just come in on felony suspects—a man and a woman—thought to be fleeing on a Polaris ORV, likely heading east from Peshekee on trail two, adjacent to Highway 41. The off-road vehicles (ORVs), which looked like the love child of a Jeep and golf cart, were ubiquitous on the two-track roads and backwoods trails of Upper Michigan.

Extreme caution. Considered armed and dangerous.

“Hot damn!” Haapala said and snatched her radio mic off the dashboard.

- 1 -

The horses were long gone. I looked around the derelict grounds, which bore little resemblance to the place I’d visited as a child. Winter-dead weeds bobbed in the biting wind broadcasting that nature was reclaiming its territory. Weather-worn outbuildings begged for a fresh coat of paint, or perhaps just a can of gasoline to end the suffering. Across the rutted parking lot, a decrepit mobile home looked a bit off plumb, as if leaning against the unrelenting wind. A rusty pickup truck sat in a potholed drive next to the place. It appeared to have four flat tires and no tailgate. An equally questionable horse trailer was backed in next to it. The finish was badly oxidized and faded lettering that had likely once said Wildwood Stables now said ild ood ables, which had been owned and operated by my late Uncle Phil. The grounds were situated at the dead end of Horse Camp Road, a two-mile-long private drive featuring a slew of washouts, overgrown vegetation, and unavoidable ruts. One would think that such a nefarious approach would have discouraged trespassing, but empty beer cans, used condoms, syringes and God knows what else gave evidence that the place was the frequent destination for naughtiness.

“So, what do you think, Kat?” asked my father, breaking into my mental ramblings. Kat was short for Kathryn and my last name, Wilde, invited unwelcome name meddling resulting in the annoying high school nickname of Wildcat. I guess it could have been worse, since I was very tall for a girl (5’9”) and the mean girls tried to dub me Amazon Woman, but it never stuck. Plus I had been pretty good at volleyball in my day.

Dad looked at me then hoisted one foot up on a rickety corral board. Well, to a cowboy, it was a corral. To an English equestrian, it was a paddock. I fancied myself as the latter.

In order to spare Dad’s feelings, I tried to be diplomatic, without being too enthusiastic. “Well, it certainly is a fixer-upper,” I said, infusing my voice with false perkiness. Oh my God, how things have fallen to rack and ruin! was what the voice in my head was saying.

“We could do it,” Dad said. “We’d get some hired help, and of course Clara would need to be convinced. There would be a certain financial investment involved.”

Clara was my mother who rarely shared the same visions as my father. However, they seemed to make it work, even though I often felt pressured to “pick sides.” Sometimes I longed for a sibling to share the burden of strong-willed parents. I guess when I was born, either my parents felt they couldn’t improve on perfection, or believed it best to save the world from too many Wildes. Either way, they never provided me with a brother or sister to loathe and blame things on.

Looking at the substandard accoutrements throughout the compound, it was likely that Mom and I might share a similar opinion of the place. I would have to say that on a scale of one to ten regarding career opportunities, the defunct Wildwood Stables was around a two (with a “one” being either waitressing or prostitution). However, it’s not like I had a lot of options glowing brightly on my horizon. But horses?

I had loved riding as a kid. When I was just a tot and we visited Uncle Phil, he plunked me on some dead-broke horse and led me around in a circle. As I got older, he took me on trail rides through the Crystal Lake Wilderness that abutted the Wildwood property. I remembered the sense of freedom, being out there on a horse.

Eventually Uncle Phil hired an international grad student from the college to teach English riding. The girls, including me, all thought he was positively hot, since he had an English accent and said things such as, Now luv, you were smashing on that first jump but bloody awful after that. I even won third place in a small schooling horseshow, which was more of a teaching learning experience than a true competition, and only included students from Wildwood Stables. And granted, there were only six kids in the class (to assure everyone got a ribbon), but still…

Basically, though, there was tedium in learning the intricacies of equestrianism, which largely involved riding in endless circles in an enclosed riding ring on a “schooling” horse that likely realized he had few options for escaping the annoying human bouncing around on his back. The metaphor was not lost on me. I mean, when you go in a circle, you never really get anywhere.

“Your Uncle Phil loved this place,” Dad said, “but he was not a practical man. He lived and breathed horses but had no head for business, despite my advice. I mean, he was such a softie.” Dad sighed. “People took advantage. He hemorrhaged money. But, damn, I sure do miss him. He…well, he was just such a good guy.”

My Uncle Phil had passed away that last fall after an agonizing bout with cancer. He had never married and Dad was his only sibling. Uncle Phil’s “kids” were his horses. Dad loved tossing aside his plastic pocket protector, briefcase, and horn-rimmed cheaters to do manly things around the stable with his brother. Mom, on the other hand, did not care for the smells and roughness of a stable, and insisted that though women certainly could try to compete in the corporate world, I should learn certain domestic skills if I were to survive in a misogynistic society. So, while Dad and Uncle Phil were busy fixing fences, looking at a new horse, or stacking bales in the barn, I was learning the intricacies of a successful molded gelatin salad.

Eventually impending adulthood found me heading off to college at Michigan Tech, so horses moved far into the rearview mirror. And of course, college segued into a job and the pretense of being a grownup. My mom was of the notion that my job working as a grant writer for U.P. Regional Hospital would lead to my landing a suitable husband with an M.D. after his name. Preferably, I’d hook a specialist, perhaps in cardiology or orthopedics or even plastic surgery, which might come in handy for her down the road. Youth is gone in the blink of an eye, Mom would mutter wistfully when she primped in the mirror. To me, mirrors were nothing less than wicked.

Grant writing was a dreary vocation. Dad’s a certified public accountant, which he finds rewarding and even exciting. However, he is not your stereotypical CPA. Admittedly, he carries a briefcase and keeps his readers close by, but seldom does he wear khakis or button-down shirts to the office. Physically, Dad is tall and actually quite rugged-looking. Lately he has been dabbling in the rustic appearance of not shaving, which Mom hates. While I have inherited Dad’s height, I also received Mom’s genetically flawed hair, which springs into brown unruly curls with the least bit of humidity. She says we have Hungarian blood, which is apparently responsible for big hair. While Dad’s side of the family offered an Irish/English bloodline, Mom’s leaned toward Eastern European. In other words, I was a hodgepodge of genetic disarray, like the pooch at the shelter whose info card says “mixed.”

“The horse camp was a great idea,” Dad said, waving his arms skyward. “If Phil hadn’t gotten sick and had to shut it down, he would still be going strong and the place would be in tip-top shape.”

Dad’s kudos for his late brother were a bit of a stretch. Uncle Phil faced a mighty headwind by promoting horses in Upper Michigan where the winters are long and horse enthusiasts are scarce. Still, he made a fair go of it by eventually converting from a boarding/ training facility to a destination horse camp geared for tourists who were willing to trailer their equine charges to the great Northwoods for a unique camping and riding experience. Additionally, he maintained a string of horses to use for guided tours that could last a few hours or a few days out in the 17,000 acres of the Crystal Lake Wilderness. With a fair amount of advertising, the stable generated enough business to allow Uncle Phil to eke out a living doing what he loved. Then the two, make that three-pack a day habit caught up with him.

“I think your Uncle Phil would want us to carry on his legacy and the timing is perfect for you to oversee this. After a bit, we can check out the campground. Pretty sure it’s gone to seed, though.”

Dad. Always looking out for his little girl—now a youngish woman of 25 who had been left flapping in the wind. Perhaps it was Dad who encouraged me to carry on the family tradition of crunching numbers. However, balancing financial spreadsheets, doing tax worksheets, and scrutinizing business plans is much different from writing grants and begging for money. It seemed everyone expected me to magically solve their financial woes, which was not typically the mission of foundations looking for a sexy way to peddle their influence and flaunt their munificence. This irreconcilable difference in revenue expectations earned me a pink slip before I could even land one date with a dashing young doctor, not that I was trying that hard.

Parents in general carry the invisible subtitle of “fixer.” My fixer was trying to salvage Uncle Phil’s legacy and shove me toward the dubious prospect of making it happen. Since the termination of my grant writing career, I had slid down several rungs of the so-called corporate ladder to land a pity job as part-time file clerk and errand girl at my father’s office.

The most humbling aspect of my downfall involved giving up my spiffy little apartment in Marquette, with a view of Lake Superior. My folks’ house was a lovely three-bedroom ranch with a somewhat finished-off basement. Mom and Dad of course had the “master suite,” which included a spacious bedroom with a private bath and jetted tub, dual sinks, and an enormous walk-in shower. A sliding door on one side of the room led out to a private patio where the parental hot tub was located. The smallest bedroom of the house had served as a catch-all over the years, which included items collected for the annual church bazaar, abandoned craft projects, a couple of dusty exercise machines, and a litter box for the cat. Since my old bedroom had been thoughtlessly converted into a home office once I had left the nest, the only option upon my return was to move into my parents’ basement. How pathetic is that?

As our tour of the decrepit Wildwood Stables continued, Dad and I crossed the parking area and entered the stable, which was an enormous pole barn and the only building on the place that didn’t need razing.

“Barn’s one-twenty by forty,” Dad said, looking around. “Seems in pretty decent shape.”

Rows of box stalls lined both sides of the barn and an asphalt aisle ran down the middle. The end of the barn had a space where a few bales of moldy hay were stacked. I counted a total of seventeen stalls, each with a sliding door with vertical metal bars at the top. It gave the unsettling appearance of an abandoned prison. I half expected bony hands to be clutching to the bars, begging for freedom. Something swooped overhead, making me duck. I swear it was a bat.

“Owl,” Dad said. “Probably after the mice.”

I guess a predatory owl was slightly more desirable than a bat.

One corner of the place held a room that featured a door hanging askew on one hinge. Dad and I entered, using the light from our phones since the electricity had been shut off. An anemic patch of light struggled through the small, grimy window at one end of the room. Cobwebs festooned every nook and cranny and dust motes drifted in the beams of our lights.

“What died!” I said, gagging. “Wow, this place needs some air.”

“Probably a racoon or skunk. They like to make dens under places like this and sometimes don’t make it through the winter. We’ll have to search for burrows along the foundation.”

I looked around, holding the collar of my coat over my nose and mouth. Forlorn wooden racks that had once held saddles and bridles joined the cobweb festival. Mouse droppings trailed along the racks and likely along the edges of the room into hidey holes where the propagation of the species flourished. A large steel box sat at one end. A mantle of dust covered the lid, which was closed and padlocked.

“That’s where the grain was kept,” Dad said pointing to the box. “Always locked when not in use just in case some Houdini horse managed to get into the tack room to rummage around. Phil said a horse will eat itself sick or even to death.”

Speaking of sick, the dead smell seemed to be growing stronger. Perhaps an entire family of vermin had met its demise in the catacombs lurking beneath the asphalt floor.

Dad pointed his phone flashlight at the padlock. “Guess we need to find a key and see what got left in here.”

I squinted at the padlock. “Combination,” I said.

“Maybe I should just get some bolt cutters,” Dad said. “I hate to think there’s rotting oats or corn in here. Maybe that’s what we smell. Stuff ferments and mildews. Let me check the tool shed.”

When Dad returned with bolt cutters, I had managed to pry open the small window, but the brisk April air had done little to dispel the stench.

“Okay, Kat, stand back in case the padlock shoots off. Don’t want any injuries. That’s all your mother would need to put the kibosh on everything.”

The padlock dropped benignly to the floor. Dad tugged on the lid, which was acting a little stubborn.

“Christ,” he said. “Help me lift this thing.”

We gave it a big heave-ho. The lid relented with a screech as we flung it back against the wall.

A tsunami of putrid air knocked us back, causing me to stumble and fall on my keester and Dad to grab a saddle rack, which tore out of the wall.

“Holy Mary Mother of God!” Dad bellowed.

Me, I just scrambled outside and retched into a dirty pile of snow alongside the barn.

After expelling my hearty country breakfast, I sat up and tried to clear my head, gasping in the brisk air. What I had just seen certainly wasn’t a dead skunk or racoon.

“You okay, honey?” Dad said as he hurried to an open area and pulled out his phone. “No sense in calling 911. Not much we can do for the poor soul in there. I’ll just call Ollie. I think I have a couple of bars on my phone.”

Everyone called Sheriff Olsen “Ollie” because his real first name, Marion, invited ridicule. Dad and Ollie went to high school together where neither enjoyed a ton of popularity.

“Hello, yeah, this is Gary Wilde. Is Sheriff Olsen in? It’s important. Sure, I’ll hold. Thanks.”

I took a handful of semi-clean snow and washed my face as best I could. Eventually, I wobbled to my feet. I stared off into the woods, taking deep breaths, willing the image in the box to vanish. Eyes, staring up from its feed box coffin and mouth, frozen in a scream, were deeply etched into my mind. Probably for a very long time.

- 2 -

Apparently finding a body is one of the times you should dial 911. Unlike, say, finding a spider in your shoe or reporting that the neighbor’s dog pooped on your lawn.

“What the hell, Gary!” Sheriff Olsen whined. “You didn’t think to mention to Suzanne that there was a damn corpse in that, that—”

Suzanne Williams was the dispatcher at the Peshekee County Sheriff’s Department.

“Grain storage box,” Dad supplied. “Sorry, I mean he—or she was beyond CPR and I thought—”

“Jesus! I thought maybe you were just calling to set up steelhead fishing,” Olsen said.

“I said it was important,” Dad said.

“Fishing is important. A body is a damn EMERGENCY!”

People always said that Dad and Ollie would never be mistaken as brothers. Whereas Dad was tall and cut from a rugged cloth, Ollie Olsen was designed after a fireplug and likely shy of the 5’7” he claimed to be. Dad said Ollie had lost most of his hair after high school and though he claimed he never ate donuts, something had contributed to the noticeable paunch that strained the brass buttons on his uniform jacket.

Sheriff Olsen was pacing around outside the barn while his deputy, Sergeant Tori Haapala, was working to secure the scene. Tori was the first female to be deputized in Peshekee County and had been on the force for almost ten years.

I wondered what the point was of stringing yellow crime scene tape around since there were no gawkers gathering round, threatening to destroy evidence. In fact, there were no close neighbors to intrude. The disreputable Horse Camp Road ran off Little Mountain Road, which was at least paved but not densely populated and mostly led to seasonal camps. Wildwood Stables was about as remote that a place could be and still be on the grid. Nobody could hear you scream, I thought. A shiver ran down my spine, and not from the cold.

“So, what’s next?” Dad said.

“We wait for the state police and the medical examiner,” Olsen said. “I don’t suppose you have any coffee.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting company,” Dad said.

I had to agree with the sheriff that a nice cup of joe would have been welcome. Or maybe a good, stiff drink. I had lost all sensation in my hands and feet, and felt one of my special headaches creeping in. Seeing a corpse—and not a nice fixed-up one lying peacefully in a satin-lined casket—had a way of ruining one’s day.

“How long before the troops arrive?” Dad said.

“Well, now, that’s the hundred-dollar question,” Olsen said. “Maybe another half hour.”

I paced and stomped my feet, trying to get some feeling back. Most of all, I was trying to shake that horrid odor, which hung with me like a twenty-four-hour bug.

Dad looked at me. “Kat, if you want to take the truck home, I can catch a ride with Ollie after we’re done here. Right, Ollie?”

“Only if I can put you in handcuffs and lock you in the back seat,” Sheriff Olsen said. “Maybe see if my Taser works.”

“Ha ha,” Dad said. “How are your tax returns coming, by the way? Two days left ol’ buddy. Ready to hand them over?”

“Shut up, Wilde,” said the sheriff. “I just need a few more things, then me and EZee Tax Home Version have a hot date. You CPA dudes will soon go the way of the dodo.” He looked down the driveway. “Where the hell are those guys? Maybe I’ll go sit in the cruiser and start my report.”

“Don’t expect me to get you out of the late fees,” Dad yelled after him. “I’m not a magician. And also, no cute stuff like saying that your hunting gear is a uniform expense.”

I think Sheriff Olsen did the one-finger wave then slammed the door of his police car. Dad and Ollie Olsen had been the nerd duo of high school. The constant bantering started in those early years and had continued well into adulthood. Each had stood up for the other at his wedding. They went to camp every year and bickered about who was the worst cook and the best hunter. Each had saved the other’s life and each claimed superior heroism. It went on and on. My mother and Ollie’s wife, Frieda, just rolled their eyes heavenward when the four of them were together.

The Olsen’s only offspring, Nikko, had been one year ahead of me in high school and was a football jock. Though I had a humungous crush on him, he gave no indication of any mutual feelings. Nikko went to college on a football scholarship while I had to pay my own way, with the help of my parents. Nikko did not exactly follow in his father’s footsteps of law enforcement but came close by becoming a conservation officer for the Department of Natural Resources. He was currently assigned to Ontonagon County and, according to his mother, came home when he needed his laundry done or a home-cooked meal.

Sergeant Haapala came over to Dad and me shaking her head. “Don’t mind him,” she said nodding toward the sheriff’s car. “He’s in a snit over budget stuff. He’s always a bit cranky this time of year.”

“He’s cranky every time of the year,” Dad said. “Even Christmas.”

“Especially Christmas,” the sergeant said. She looked down the driveway where two vehicles minced their way toward us. “Thank God.”

“Okay, well, since I don’t want to see my father treated like a common criminal, I’ll stick around so we can ride home together,” I said.

“You sure?” Dad said. “All that Taser and handcuff stuff was nonsense, you know. At least I think it was.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said. “I think I will borrow the truck though and take a look at the campground.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Dad said handing me the keys.

While the equestrian campground was within walking distance under fair-weather conditions, the winter residue of slush and mush made driving more appealing. The two-track leading to the campground was fraught with the same bone-jarring potholes and washouts that the main drive offered, but at least it was shorter.

At first I wasn’t sure I had found the right place, but the tin roof of an outhouse glinting through the overgrowth verified that, indeed, this was the rustic horse camp. The sad remains of a few slapdash corrals stood throughout a cleared area. Splintered picnic tables and dilapidated fire rings marked the individual campsites where equestrians and cowboys could pitch their tents or park their truck campers. Horses likely would have been secured on a picket line or put in one of the corrals. I noted a weed-choked hand pump with no handle. Winter brown ferns and brittle grasses inundated the campground, and sapling trees and brambles taking root sprouted throughout. Dad had been right. It had “gone to seed.”

I got out of the truck and wandered through the campground. In spite of its state of disrepair, one could imagine the peace and serenity of sitting around the campfire at night after an exhilarating day on the trail. Tired horses would doze or munch from their hay bags. Perhaps someone would be playing songs on a guitar that folks knew and could sing along. There might be beer and marshmallows. Maybe it would be a family bonding experience or just a group of adults getting away from it all. There would have been no highway noise or other distractions. Cares would fade and melt into the sunset. Uncle Phil did have a grand idea here. But for reasons only God knows, the stars did not align favorably for him. I wondered if they would for me.

There was, of course, the minor inconvenience of a body in the tack room—a well decomposed one at that. I supposed that along with finding a lot of cheap help and begging for discounted materials, getting Mom onboard, and tilting at the ridiculous windmill of hope, we would need to have the crime—how could it not be murder? —solved or at least fully investigated before things could move forward.

I sighed and walked toward the truck and its toasty-warm cab. As I pulled around the circle drive, something caught my eye in the woods—something seemingly out of place. I wondered if I was seeing the results of illegal dumping. That was a common thing in the Northwoods, where idiots saw no problem with throwing their trash out in the brush.

I pulled the truck over, hopped out and trudged through crusty snow to take a closer look. Indeed, there was an assortment of things indicating that this was not an ordinary makeshift dump. The main item was a nylon tent along with a number of human tracks all over the site. The door of the tent was unzipped and flapped in the breeze, making a snapping noise. The area had once been a campsite tucked away in the woods and still held some stones for a campfire ring along with a partially collapsed picnic table. Charred chunks of wood lay scattered in the ring and a tiny thread of smoke rose from the center. A couple of blackened pots and pans and an old-fashioned enamel coffee pot sat on the picnic table and a metal fire grate leaned against a nearby tree.

My heart began to pulse in my ears as I willed myself to bend over and look inside the tent, praying mightily that it would not contain another body. Well, there was no odor, except maybe a lingering smoky smell that clung to the nylon. A jumble of clothes and blankets were strewn about. I noted in one area—perhaps the designated tent “pantry”—that there was a loaf of bread, a bag of potato chips, some Cup-a-Soup packets, a box of crackers, and a jar of peanut butter along with various canned goods. A coffee can sat off in a different area, perhaps serving as either a storage container or a chamber pot. A more chilling discovery was a very large knife—really a sword of some type— propped against a tent pole in the corner. It appeared free of blood residue, but I didn’t venture inside to check.

I was trying to convince myself that I had simply stumbled upon a squatter’s campsite and not that of a psychotic murderer who stashed bodies in grain storage bins. While the homeless population in big cities slept in doorways and on sidewalks, it wasn’t unusual for a person in the U.P. who lacked a roof over their head to simply set up camp somewhere in the thousands of acres of wilderness, or in this case, an abandoned horse camp, complete with rustic amenities.

I hurried toward the truck, hoping to catch Sheriff Olsen and report my discovery. I gave one last glance toward the squatter’s compound and damned if I didn’t see something move in the woods. In light of the day’s disturbing discoveries, I fairly leapt into the truck and hit the lock button, then tried to focus on the movement in the woods. Perhaps it was the homeless guy—or gal—returning to their humble abode to sharpen his/her machete.

But it clearly wasn’t human. It looked toward me and tossed its head, as if impatient, gossamer mane fluttering. A horse. What was a horse doing roaming the woods? Could it possibly belong to whomever had set up the camp? Unlikely. I squeezed my eyes shut then opened them slowly, wanting to believe that my overactive imagination was playing with me. Maybe it was just a deer, but it wasn’t. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a movement and watched the horse’s hindquarters disappear into the woods. And there was no sound. No sound at all.

- 3 -

His name was Jupiter and he was sitting on my face. Hard to tell what time it was since I was immersed in inky darkness. The more pressing concern, however, involved the difficulty of breathing with a 16-pound cat blocking my air intake in order to make a point. It took me a minute to orientate myself. Okay, I was in my temporary quarters in my parents’ basement sleeping off the delightful experience of the previous day: exploring Wildwood Stables. The remnants of my headache lingered along with tingling cold in my extremities. In all the excitement—if finding a decomposing body is considered exciting—I think I had forgotten to feed Jupiter, an intolerable transgression.

Dad and I had hung around Wildwood until the remains of the unknown dead person were removed (a job that ranks below everything, including waitressing and prostitution) and the potential crime scene was processed. Since the “victim”—who upon initial examination was identified as female— had been not of this world for a very long time, likely months, collecting physical evidence had challenges. While clearly decomposing as evidenced by the stench, the “remains” had been somewhat preserved during its feed bin slumber due to the well-below-freezing temps of the U.P. winter months.

And, to their credit, the crime scene investigators did due diligence with photos, lifting fingerprints (likely Dad’s and mine), inspecting tire tracks, recording footprints in the mud, searching all the buildings, the mobile home, decrepit truck and horse trailer, weeds, corrals, and moldy hay bales. They took into custody a large number of empty beer cans (assorted), used condoms, hypodermic needles, and miscellaneous trash. Actually, this was good and saved me the trouble later on when we started the massive cleanup of the place.

Sheriff Olsen had sighed dramatically when I told him about the squatter’s campsite but agreed to ask the staties to include it in their investigation. The consensus was that it was likely unrelated to the body in the feed bin, but no stone would go unturned. Unfortunately, the resident of the campsite did not return during the police canvassing of the area, so one of them put his card in a plastic storage bag and attached it to the tent zipper with a note to call or come to headquarters. Everyone knew that wasn’t going to happen. It was recommended we post no trespassing signs and eventually tear down the camp ourselves.

Another thing: the police found no hoofprints indicating that a horse had been wandering through the woods. This earned me a few furtive glances and shoulder shrugs. “Lots of deer tracks, though,” one officer had said. “The cold can play tricks.” Yeah? Since when does the cold transform a deer into a horse? They all thought I was a bit off tilt. After all, I was living a life of shame in my parents’ basement.

I none too gently removed Jupiter from my face and plunked him (also none too gently) on the floor and swiped at the cat hairs stuck to my face. Jupiter vocalized his opinion of my rudeness and strutted toward the stairs. When he got a few steps up, he looked over his shoulder and let out a banshee-like scream that made the roots of my hair levitate.

“Okay, okay! Fancy Feast for his highness coming up!”

Jupiter had been a stray that Mom took in on a cold morning in January during a nasty polar vortex weather event. I had been assigned as his caretaker to help earn my keep during my temporary return to the parental nest. For all the perks he enjoyed, (neutering notwithstanding) Jupiter never showed one iota of gratitude. His surly attitude might explain his homeless situation to begin with. Jupiter was mostly black with a white paw, a white tip on one ear, and about half of the other ear completely missing. One can only imagine what the “other guy” looked like. He had spooky yellow eyes and, most notably, his tail was like a giant bottle brush weirdly marked with spiraling silver rings flowing from beginning to end in a kind of Fibonacci sequence. The silver rings were why he was named Jupiter because Mom thought Jupiter was the planet with the rings. When I told her it was actually Saturn with the mysterious rings, she shrugged and said that he just didn’t seem like a Saturn, so we stuck with Jupiter, spiral tail rings and all. My opinion, the rings indicated he was part racoon or ocelot, or maybe space alien, which explained his despicable personality.

“Kat!” Mother bleated from the top of the stairs. “I’m headed to (sound of cat yowling)—oh for heaven’s sake, Jupiter, she’ll feed you in a minute—anyway, I’m headed to— (sound of cat yowling)—and I’ll pick up—(yowling). Good Lord, Kathryn, will you please feed this cat?”

With that, Mom clacked away in her heels and slammed the door. It was Sunday morning, so I suspected she was headed to church—a place whose doors I hadn’t darkened since Christmas Eve. I’d managed to avoid the Lenten and Easter services earlier in the month due to various conflicts, real and fabricated. I’d settle up with God later for my transgressions.

I trudged up the steps with Jupiter trying to entangle himself around my ankles, perhaps warning me that he could cause an unfortunate accident resulting in an unscheduled trip down the stairway. I snapped open a can of savory salmon “With Real Flakes!” and plopped it in Jupiter’s food dish, then changed his water. He casually sauntered over to the food and gave it a critical sniff. Apparently, it passed inspection and he dove in, making annoying humming noises as he ate. After I scooped out his litter box, I considered my feline duties complete. Ironic that my nickname “Kat” was a play on words for the creature that I was mandated to serve.

I opened the fridge to look for dinner options. We always ate dinner at lunchtime on Sundays, then snacked on junk in the evening. It was a Wilde tradition, except for Mom, who limited her snacking to unbuttered popcorn and perhaps some fruit. And while I could cook—Mom had seen to that—I was limited to culinary basics. My go-to standby was meatloaf featuring my secret ingredients: salsa and Worcestershire sauce. These added zip to the mundane basic ingredients of seasoned breadcrumbs, an egg, onion, ketchup, and salt and pepper. Sides generally included mashed potatoes (pre-made available little tubs at the store), gravy (from a jar), and green beans (from a can). Sometimes I’d add dinner rolls (from the bakery) or a pie (also from the bakery). However, I had to have the materials and very few were inhouse. While I had given up my cozy little apartment, I still had my aging Subaru with over 200K on it. I grabbed the keys and headed to Manninen’s Market, which everyone called Manny’s, since Manninen had an overload of “n’s” to deal with.

I made a mad dash through Manny’s and the express self-checkout, which took my bank account balance dangerously close to overdraft status. However, this week was payday at Wilde Accounting, so if I could make it until Friday when my paltry three-day-a week income would auto-deposit into my bank account, I would remain solvent. Of course tomorrow was only Monday, and I needed gas and really needed to see my stylist. But no rent was due for my basement abode at the Wilde homestead, nor utilities, so there was that.

When I got home, Mom still had not returned and Dad was apparently at the office, even though it was Sunday. Being less than a week from the dreaded April 15 tax filing deadline, things were furiously busy at the office. Sunday was also Dad’s gym workout day (no crowds) and I think Sheriff Olsen said something about meeting up there.

I got the meatloaf thrown together and molded into a pan then popped it in the oven. I put the pre-made potatoes in a bowl ready to nuke and the gravy heating in a saucepan. I plopped the green beans in a serving dish, blobbed on some butter and salt and pepper and readied it for the microwave. I put the rolls in a basket and the pie displayed on the counter. Cherry, Dad’s favorite. Mom likely would pass on the pie, always being mindful of her waistline.

Jupiter, apparently attracted by the smell of cooking, emerged, and positioned himself next to his empty food dish.

“You just ate!” I said as I set the table. “The vet says you are too fat,” I added.

This revelation did not seem to alter Jupiter’s position on things. After all, if humans were eating, so should the cat. He drove the point home by blocking my path wherever I went and became more aggressive in his position by jumping on the table and sniffing the butter.

“Get down!” I yelled.

He blinked at me then sat on one of the plates. When a car pulled up, which I swear he recognized as Mom’s Buick, Jupiter jumped down and vanished, leaving a deposit of cat hair on the vacated plate.

“Hello Kat!” Mom chirped as she stepped into the kitchen. “Oh. You’re cooking,” she said with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. “I brought home some take-out, but I see we have a breakdown of communication. I think the cat was yowling when I was talking.”

“We can stick the stuff you got in the fridge—”

“Well, it’s Chinese and I’m not sure how…oh, no matter. Of course, we will very much more enjoy your meatloaf. Again,” she said, stuffing sacks in the fridge and shedding her coat. She eyed the table. “The fork goes on the left, dear—with the napkin, and the knife and spoon on the right, with the sharp edge of the knife pointing toward the plate.” She busied herself rearranging my table settings then picked up one of the plates. “Oh my, cat hair. And why has the butter got this strange indentation in the middle?”

Dad saved the day. He parked his truck in the driveway then hustled into the kitchen. “Wow!” he said. “Smells great in here. I never get tired of your meatloaf. I’m starved!”

That was more like it.

Jupiter reappeared and sat by his dish. He liked my meatloaf.

One big happy family.

* * *

“We are cordially invited to appear at the police station tomorrow to give our statements,” Dad said, as he buttered a roll. He scowled at it for a moment and picked off a couple of Jupiter hairs. “Ollie and I checked out the Silver River to see if the steelhead had started—which they haven’t—and anyway, he wants us in tomorrow. I figure we can take a long lunch from the office, do our sworn statements, and grab a burger.” He paused and picked off another cat hair. “My treat, of course,” he added.

Typically, Dad tries very hard not to show favoritism to me in the office setting, and that generally included my chipping in for the office coffee, lunchtime pizza and so on. Being the boss’s daughter had challenges, with people being afraid that I’d blab about workplace goings-on to him. More than once I walked into a room and had everyone abruptly stop talking. It was a bit unsettling.

“Ollie’s boy, Nikko, came along too—to the Silver,” Dad said. “He’s a good kid. I think he’s up for a promotion with the state—specifically the Department of Natural Resources, or DNR as he calls it.”

“You could do worse, Kathryn,” Mom said. Apparently, Mom had downgraded her son-in-law expectation from wealthy surgeon to woods cop. After all, I was in the middle arc of my 20s.

“Whaaa?” I said, dropping my fork with a clank. “Nikko is a jock who never gave me a second look.”

“Well, he asked about you,” Dad said. “Anyway, he’s hoping to get some kind of supervisory job and spend less time slogging through the marsh. I invited him over to watch the game later today. Also, he’s real interested in the horse camp.”

“He is?” I said.

“Yup,” Dad said with a smile.

It seemed that my parents were so desperate to be rid of their deadbeat tenant (yours truly) that they are trying to fix me up with a guy who has never given me a second look—or even a first look. Plus, excuse me, but I could find my own dates. If I wanted to.

- 4 -

I arrived at the office exactly three minutes early, hung up my coat, and threw my purse on the circa 1950s desk located in my tiny cubbyhole. Wilde Accounting occupied a storefront on River Street in downtown Peshekee (pronounced pah-sheek-ee), the Peshekee County seat. The upstairs had once been an apartment that the storeowner of days past had occupied. Originally the store had been a leather goods shop, which went into obscurity with the passage of time and death of the owner. Wilde Accounting purchased the space after it sat vacant and neglected for years and converted the living/kitchen area into a combo storage/breakroom. Dad’s office occupied the former bedroom, which has a spectacular view of Crystal Lake.

“Good morning,” I said to the office secretary and overlord, Rose Gustafson.

Rose glanced at the wall clock, which I suspect she set according to the nuclear clock.

“Morning,” she clipped back. “Sounds like you had quite a weekend at your uncle’s place,” she added, as if she were talking about attending a backyard barbecue.

“I’m quite surprised that you are here today,” she added. “After all, it’s not every day that someone is murdered in Peshekee County.”

Rose was baiting me. I had no idea how she knew about Dad’s and my weekend discovery, and even more curious was that she called it murder. But my lips were sealed.

“Well, it is tax time, and the police seem to have things well in hand,” I said, booting up my computer. “It’s best we don’t discuss it.”

Rose sniffed, clearly annoyed that she couldn’t extract any gory details out of me. And to top it off, I was punctual, which gave her less overall leverage in our sparring relationship. I was quite certain—actually positive because I snooped—that Rose kept a log inside her right-hand top desk drawer to notate any office transgressions, including tardiness, swearing, not replacing the toilet paper roll, or—God forbid—improper handling of a client file. Each employee’s name had two columns: one for the date and time and another for the offense. We called it her Nasty List. Watch it (whomever), you better not leave that empty pop can just sitting there or you’ll get on Rose’s Nasty List! While I wasn’t exactly sure how Rose’s Nasty List could be used against me and the others, it was intimidating. Dad likely didn’t take much stock in such nonsense, but I was always edgy when called into his office, fearing I’d been tattled on and that he'd sternly remind me that even though or actually because I am family, I am not only expected to pull my weight but actually exceed minimum expectations. The fact that I let the paper tray in the copier run out, again, did not go unnoticed nor that I’d left my coffee cup (they know it’s mine because it has a deranged cat on it) soaking in the bathroom sink. I suspected that I was not alone in my Nasty List anxiety and truthfully, I had to hand it to Rose in her subtle “control by fear” tactics.

But two could play the game. I always made it a point to arrive early at the office, or at least on time. I also tried to be the last one to leave and lock the place up. I loved to dilly dally, just to annoy Rose. Clearly to her, there was to be only one brown-noser go-getter in the office, and that was she and by association, her son, Gerald, whose status was a few notches above me. While Gerald—or “Gussy,” which is a nickname derived from Gustafson—did not have an actual office, he was assigned a reasonably roomy cubicle located near a back window that overlooked a small parking lot. Gussy poked his head up over his partition and gave me a lopsided smile then muttered something indecipherable, which I surmised to be the normal morning platitudes, or maybe he was trying to grill me about the body in the grain box. Gussy could best be described as a geek on steroids. He had an oversized Adam’s apple, which tended to bob vigorously when he was stressed. He was pale, balding, painfully skinny, had tape holding his glasses together, and had the demeanor of an abused house pet. Plus, at age thirty-ish, he lived with his mom. Not that I could really judge.

“I think it’s warming up out there,” I said, attempting to get things back to a neutral topic.

“Hmmm,” Rose said, not bothering to look up from her computer screen. She had to tilt her chin up, though, to look through the lenses of her half-rim glasses. Everyone in the office wore half-rim cheaters except me. I suspect that those who didn’t need glasses still wore them, just to look the part. Rebellious badass that I was, I refused to bow to the social pressure, especially since I still had excellent eyesight. Plus, who was I kidding? As a lowly file clerk, I had no delusions of number-crunching grandeur.

I walked past Rose’s desk to the coffee station located within her invisible domain. Should anyone take the last cup and either forget to make more or turn off the warmer, out came the Nasty List. The plastic name plaque on Rose’s desk said: Ms. Gustafson, Administrative Assistant. Rose did not endorse the title secretary, which, according to her, was outdated and referred to servitude rather than her role as feudal lord of the office minions. Dad said that Rose was “invaluable,” but truth be told, I think he was just a little bit—well maybe more than a little—afraid of her. While Dad was largely a straight-shooter, he was not entirely sinless. Nothing so dire as being unfaithful to Mom or orchestrating a Ponzi scheme, but he was known to sneak off for a couple of brews with the guys when he was supposed to be working late, or tossing a line in the river when he was supposedly attending a meeting, or flying cross-country to a convention that happened to be at a hunting lodge off the grid someplace in Montana. While I knew Dad may have drifted off the rails of propriety on occasion, Rose likely documented each incident in great detail. So long as she was given free rein in her fiefdom, his secrets were safe with her.

And while Rose’s hostility toward me likely was due to my being the boss’s daughter, nepotism did not stop with me since she finagled a job for Gussy as an “in-training” accountant. Gussy was taking online classes to become a certified public accountant. I was certain that Rose helped him with his homework. But until he completed the coursework, Gussy was merely a bookkeeper for some of our clients as well as for the office. Clearly, to Rose, I was some kind of interloper likely lusting after her boy. She assumed all females were after her Gerald, which was a total delusion. In any event, she obviously felt that the sooner I found my way to other gainful employment, the better. That reflected my opinion as well.

“Damn school buses!” spewed a coworker and Dad’s right-hand-person, Char Houle, as she thundered through the client waiting area into the office. “I mean, do they have to stop at every fluffin’ house?”

Char always looked as if she had just stepped out of Vogue. She was blessed with perfect auburn hair, which she kept smartly styled in a chin-length bob. Her makeup was always expertly applied, and she rotated a closet full of classy business suits, tasteful dresses, and strappy shoes. Char was single and a known maneater.

“Char! Such language!” Rose said, pulling open her top right-hand drawer to access the Nasty List.

Char slapped her hand over her mouth and cringed. “Oh, shit, do we have clients?”

“No,” Rose said. “But we could. And I for one do not appreciate such foul language.”

Char poked her head around my cubicle partition. “Hey girl, what the fu—, er heck is going on out at your uncle’s place?”

“Wildwood,” I said.

“She can’t discuss it,” Rose snapped.

“Rose is right,” I said. “I’m to keep my mouth shut for now.”

Rose snorted.

“Allergies?” I said. This earned me a scathing look.

Gerald’s head popped over his partition. “Hey Char,” he said, Adam’s apple bobbing furiously. “You look nice.”

“Hey Gussy,” she said absently, ignoring the compliment as she strode past to her private office. She turned and snarled, “Now I’m out of hearing range, Rose,” then slammed her door.

Rose huffed dramatically and sent a couple of papers fluttering off her desk. “Such a potty mouth.”

Personally, I thought Char livened the place up, though perhaps she was tightly wound.

Dad arrived next, accompanied by Raymond Leblanc, who was Anishinaabe, or Ojibwa. Raymond not only added diversity to the otherwise homogenous office population, but also was our freelance tech guru who kept Wilde Accounting from falling into the abyss of technological malfunction. This was very important when submitting tax returns to those persnickety agents of the Internal Revenue Service. Raymond came when he was needed and didn’t hang around when he wasn’t. He did not embrace the notion of having a cubicle at Wilde Accounting, or with any of his other clients. Raymond always wore jeans and a tee shirt with such catchy phrases as Time to Reboot! or It’s International Geek Appreciation Day, or sometimes shirts that featured Native American themes such as a soaring eagle or a dreamcatcher. He had long gleaming black hair that I would kill for. Today it was pulled back in a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. He was wearing a faded black tee that morning with a vivid red-winged creature on it, which I had learned was called a thunderbird.

“Good morning everyone,” Dad said. “Busy day coming up. Rose, any messages from the Swartz account? I need those spreadsheets yesterday!”

“I’m afraid not,” Rose said, pointing to a stack of pink message slips in dad’s inbox. “But there are several others including that new cannabis place Reed’s Weeds wondering about some deductions.”

Rose plucked the Reed’s Weeds message from the pile and held it at arm’s length as if it contained a deadly virus. Her opinion of handling the account of a cannabis store had been very clear from the start. While we were all skeptical of the proclaimed benefits of such products or their derivatives, Reed’s Weeds was a bona fide business that paid their bills on time. Unfortunately, there may have been inventory issues involving employee benefits and extraordinary merchandise shrinkage. One simply cannot write off the disappearance of products as “charitable donations.”

“Kat, after we meet with Sheriff Olsen, I’ll need you to go to his house and pick up some paperwork from Frieda. Seems Ollie tried to use one of those do-it-yourself online tax returns and apparently didn’t get too far.”