“The husband’s death made her a little crazy?”
“A whole lot crazy, to live in near poverty, paying out all that money to a guard service, while holding on to a prime property like this. And to let it deteriorate the way she did…”
“Maybe I’m beginning to understand her brand of craziness.”
Sigrid shook her head. “No, you’re not. You’ve just hit one of those temporary bumps in the road of life. But Janice Mott…It makes you wonder if there’s something on this property she didn’t want anyone to find.”
Abel shook his head. “Professor, if what you say is true, you’re in big trouble. But why on earth would Maggie want to kill you?”
“Well, there’s a substantial life insurance policy. And our marriage has been pretty much dead for a long time.”
“Still, murder…Besides, how would she know to rig those accidents?”
“She worked around contractors in the Twin Cities, knows more than the average person about construction. Easy for her to weaken a floor joist or roof beam, or to cause an electrical fire.”
“I just don’t buy it.”
“I didn’t want to believe it, either. But as I told you, each time I’ve found something that indicated the accident was rigged.”
“Wouldn’t she be able to hide the evidence?”
“Some things you can’t hide.”
“I don’t know, Professor.”
Time to go. Cal stood. “Whether you believe it or not, I want you to remember this conversation. If anything happens to me, repeat it to the police.”
On his way out of town, Cal adhered to the speed limit. The local law was strict on speeding, stricter yet on drinking and driving. He didn’t want to call attention to himself, not that way.
After Sigrid left to motor back across the lake, Maggie decided to begin clearing out one of the bedrooms. Cal had insisted they make outdoor work and the cabins their priority before it grew cold, and reserve interior work on the lodge for the long snowy winter. But under the circumstances, there was no way she could endure even part of those months living in the single front room; the more space she freed up now, the better she’d survive till springtime.
The bedroom she’d chosen was on the first floor, behind the dining room and kitchen-most likely the former own ers’ living space, as it connected to another room with a stone fireplace. Both spaces were crammed with heavy dark-wood furniture, probably dating from the late 1940s. The curtains, the rugs, the upholstery, and the mattress had been ravaged by mice and mildew. In the closet, clothing hung in such tatters that it was unrecognizable. The walls were moldy and water-stained, the floorboards buckled.
It’s more than I can contend with. Nonsense. Look what you’ve contended with already.
She began with the bedroom, heaving the mattress from the bed and dragging it through the kitchen-outdated appliances, restaurant-style crockery on sagging shelves, rusting pots and pans on a rack over the stove-and out a side door. The rag rugs and curtains and what remained of the clothing went next. She’d build a pile and hire a hauler who posted on the bulletin board in the supermarket to take it away.
Inside, she looked over the furniture. The bed frame and springs were good; add a new mattress, and it would be a huge step up from the futon in the front room. The bureau’s attached mirror had lost much of its silvering; Maggie looked into it, saw herself reflected patchily. In an odd way, she liked the image; she looked the way she felt.
Other than the mirror, the bureau was a fine old piece, and she was sure mice hadn’t been able to penetrate its drawers. She began exploring them. The top one on the right was stuck tightly, and it took a few tugs to open it. Inside were a man’s possessions: handkerchiefs, a pocket watch, a scattering of miscellaneous cuff links, a ring with a large blue stone, a wallet in its original box, obviously a gift that hadn’t been used. The drawer on the left was empty.
The second drawer protruded an inch or so from the ones above and below it. Maggie tugged it open, found a man’s clothing: T-shirts, underwear, pajamas. Something thudded at the rear, and she pulled the drawer all the way out and removed it.
A blue cloth-bound book. Ledger of some sort.
She flipped back the cover. Not a ledger, a diary, in a woman’s back-slanting hand. Blue ink fading but still readable.
April 2, 1948
Our first week here at Lost Wolf Lake! It is so beautiful. I can’t believe that John and I had the good fortune to buy the lodge. The own ers, who built it in 1913, are old and ill, and made us a very good price. There is a large clientele, and all of the rooms are reserved through the coming season. We’ve left the guest rooms and the cabins as they were-they have been very well kept up-but I’ve ordered all new furniture for our suite, and delivery has been guaranteed for tomorrow. I’ve never kept a diary before now, but from here on out I will, to document our happiness.
Car door slamming below. Cal returning, hours late, with the water and extension cords.
Maggie hesitated only briefly before she shoved the diary back behind the drawer where she’d found it.
“You’re limping, Professor. What’s the story this time?”
“Bruised foot. I was bringing in some firewood and the pile collapsed on me.”
“You been to the hospital?”
“For a bruised foot?”
“Well, I was thinking you ought to be documenting these things that’re happening to you. If Maggie is responsible…”
“Look, Abel, forget what I told you.”
“Thought you wanted me to remember, in case…”
“I shouldn’t’ve said the things I did. Nothing’s going on out at the lake, except that I’m clumsy. I was in a bad mood and I’d had a few Leinies before I came in here. I talked out of turn.”
“But…”
“Speaking of Leinies, can I get one, please? And then we’ll talk about more pleasant stuff, like the streak the Twins’re on.”
“Maggie, I think there’s something you ought to know.”
“Sig! I thought I heard your boat. Help me with this armchair, will you? The guy’s coming to haul the junk away tomorrow.”
“It can wait a minute. We have to talk.”
“What’s wrong? Cal…he’s not…?”
“So far as I know Cal’s fine…physically. But mentally…I was talking with Abel Arneson at the Walleye Tavern last night. Cal’s been spending a lot of time in there on his runs to town.”
“I suspected as much. But a few beers, so what?”
“Drinking beer isn’t all he’s been doing. He’s been saying some nasty things to Abel. About you.”
“What about me?”
“Cal told Abel…he told him you’re trying to kill him.”
“What?”
“He only talked about it once, over a week ago. Said all these injuries he’s sustained lately were your doing. The next time he was in, he claimed he’d had too much to drink and talked out of turn. But Abel doesn’t believe him.”
“My God! Cal’s injured himself a lot, yes, but that’s because he’s clumsy. He’s always been clumsy. Does Abel really believe what he said?”
“He doesn’t know what to think.”
“Do you believe it?”
“I believe I may have been wrong before. You should watch your back, Mags. You just may be living with a crazy man.”
“I took your advice and went to the hospital this time, Abel. The cut required stitches, and now there’s something on record.”
“So you’ve changed your mind about talking.”
“Yes…Last time I was in, I was feeling a misguided loyalty to Maggie. All those years, our two boys, et cetera. But this last accident…that tore it.”
“You’ve got to look out for yourself.”