Murder in the Devil's Cauldron

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Murder in the Devil's Cauldron

Copyright © 2010 by Kate Ryan

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are either the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
whatsoever to actual persons, living or dead, business
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respecting the author's work.

The women of the Santa Rosa Connections who
were there when it really counted. In particular, Jan Kucker, Star
Dewar, Jessica Malmberg, Suzanne Cochran, and Kathy Nichols.

I'd also like to thank Sherrie Canaga for
being a great friend and for being willing to read the first
pre-publication version and giving me her input.

Mr. Graham - my 12th grade English teacher
who was not only a great teacher, but was the only one not
surprised when I told him I wanted to be a writer.

Stephen King - his books got me through one
of the most difficult times of my life. Reading Misery over and
over (in particular) taught me how to keep going and become
Scheherazade to myself.

Susan Boyle - her amazing success and courage
gave me the inspiration to keep going, in spite of roadblocks and
difficulties.

A month before his wedding, David Fowler
drove to the North Shore of Lake Superior to find the perfect spot
to dispose of his soon-to-be-wife. There had to be some place up
there that would work. It was just a matter of finding exactly the
right spot.

When Diana accepted his proposal two days
ago, she had immediately announced that she wanted to spend their
honeymoon at the famous Storm Point Lodge so they could hike and
enjoy the great outdoors.

"I've always wanted to explore every one of
the state parks," she had gushed. "Wouldn't it be fun to do that on
our honeymoon? It'd be so romantic. Really give us time to talk and
be together."

Fowler thought it sounded revolting.

As he drove, Fowler shuddered at the thought
of all the hiking she wanted to do. What she didn't know (and
Fowler had conveniently forgotten to mention), was that he hated
hiking and loathed the great outdoors. As far as he was concerned,
people who enjoyed climbing over big piles of rocks and getting
eaten alive by giant mosquitoes were certifiable.
Good god
,
why on earth would anyone go through all that, plus get sweaty and
exhaust themselves into a puddle when they could sit by a nice
clean pool or have a civilized drink in air-conditioned comfort?
Not to mention the black flies, army worms and a whole host of
charming creatures that bit, stung or otherwise proved that there
truly was a hell.

Needless to say, he never passed
those
sentiments onto Diana. Not when it might mean she'd change her mind
about getting married. And especially not with millions of dollars
at stake.

What he was looking forward to was all the
possibilities the location provided. Not only for getting rid of
her. But also for getting his hands on her bank account quickly and
easily. It was the opportunity he'd been looking for most of his
life. Even better, it was her idea in the first place.

It took him three hours to get to Duluth and
then another hour on the narrow highway that ran next to Lake
Superior all the way up to the Canadian border. Not far from the
Storm Point Lodge, he found a cheap motel at a wide spot in the
road where he used one of his fake ID's.

Using an alias probably wasn't necessary. The
motel had clearly once been one of those stay-every-year kind of
places where everyone knew everyone else and everyone came the same
time each year like a frickin' high school reunion. But that was
clearly in the long-forgotten past. Now it was little more than a
run-down hole catering to the just-passing-through crowd who only
wanted a few hours of sleep at the lowest possible price. After
all, who the hell would stay at a place with a name like the
Bide-A-Wee Motel, he thought with more than a little disgust as he
drove into the parking lot.

Fowler took one look at the guy who ran the
place and knew he could have registered as Peter Pan for all the
attention the guy gave him. He'd be willing to bet that the guy's
wife had taken off years ago for livelier places and better
weather. In fact, Fowler wouldn't be surprised to learn that the
guy had stopped caring about who was staying here (or for how long)
so far back that he likely couldn't ever remember caring.

Still, using his real name could easily
create a major problem, so he got out one of his little used IDs.
When Fowler handed him the registration slip and his ID, though,
the guy looked at him and grunted.

"You aren't, by any chance, related to Ollie
Bakken, are ya?" the guy asked.

Fowler was so surprised, he just stared at
the clerk for a moment, then remembered he'd given the guy his ID
for Ricky Bakken. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Just a guess," the guy said. "I'm a big
hockey fan, ya know? We made it to the state tournament every year,
but always got knocked out in the first round by Roseau, ya know?
Saw Ollie play a couple of times, including that one-oh game
against Johnson. Fact is, I saw him play his first season with the
Stars when they were still here."

"Well, I'll be damned," Fowler said. "Never
thought I'd run into a fan of Ollie's here after all these years."
And that was the truth. The butt end of nowhere and he had to run
into someone who'd actually heard of Ollie Bakken.

"You play, too?" the guy asked now.

"Naw," Fowler said. "Ollie got all the hockey
genes in our family. Fact is, I can't skate worth a damn."

"Me neither. Only game I really wanted to
play and couldn't skate my way across the rink. Let alone get to
the puck with a stick." He pushed the room key across the counter.
"Here you go. Just drive 'round back. Third one in."

"Thanks." Fowler took the key and returned to
his car. As he opened the car door, he looked back at the motel
office and saw the clerk just sitting there, looking into space.
Fowler shook his head. Guy's mind was probably already on whatever
trash talk show was blatting mindlessly away in the next room and
hoping he wasn't going to miss any of the juicy details.

Better that, though, than thinking about any
connection he might have to Ollie Bakken, Fowler thought. He
hesitated, then drove around back where he could get away from the
road noise. Not to mention staying invisible. Although the car was
rented, it never hurt to be cautious. He knew people sometimes
remembered the oddest things. He'd learned a long time ago that
paying close attention to seemingly minor details would take him a
long way.

The next day he set out early. The North
Shore was littered with state parks, cliffs, trails and a plethora
of places to hike. All of them provided accident opportunities, but
he was looking for the one that would give him the best chance for
success.

He started with the most popular parks. While
the Enchantment River State Park was practically next door to the
Storm Point Lodge, it wasn't that popular as it offered the least
amount of challenge for serious hikers. He figured his best chance
would be at one of the more popular places, so he started with
Gooseberry in the south and worked his way north. Tomorrow, if he
hadn't found what he was looking for, he'd start at Cascade in the
north and worked his way south.

The locations he saw on the first day gave
him several ideas on how to get rid of Diana. Most of them involved
the huge cliffs rising up from the lake for miles, edges jagged and
disjointed from eons of freeze and thaw. Had he been an art lover,
he might have thought the cliffs were Braque paintings come to
life. However, he was not an art lover. What he primarily saw was
how simple it would be for Diana to fall off a cliff. How easy it
would be to have an accident.

When he saw the cliffs at Tettegouche, he
exulted. This place was fantastic. This place seemed to have been
created for him.

Fowler laughed. He never would have guessed
that he'd actually enjoy something about the North Shore. "Thank
you, Diana," he said mockingly as he drove back to the motel. Guess
she
was
good for something besides her bank account after
all.

On the second day, he went back out even
though every muscle in his body protested. He decided that if he
didn't find what he was looking for today, he'd call it quits and
go with the obvious. Having Diana fall off a cliff had its
drawbacks, but he knew he could make it work if that was his only
choice. However, as there were still a few unexplored locations, he
figured he'd check them all out and then decide.

At first, he found pretty much more of the
same. Lots of cliffs. Lots of places to fall or something equally
prosaic. And then, late in the afternoon, he stopped at the
Enchantment River State Park. At this point he wasn't really in the
mood. His feet ached, his back was killing him and dreams of Chivas
in a tumbler crowded out just about everything. But he'd seen an
intriguing note in one of the brochures he'd picked up, so he made
the sacrifice and pulled in.

And there he found exactly what he was
looking for.

The Devil's Cauldron.

It was even better than he expected or could
have come up with on his own. It was beyond perfect. Fowler stood
at the edge for a long time and knew that this was going to be the
most spectacular con he had ever run.

It was just two weeks after Starr Nelson's
twelfth birthday and she felt as if she was turning into a fried
mushroom.

After five hours in an old Ford Escort Wagon
with faded red paint, hard seats and no air-conditioning, all she
really wanted was to get where they were going. The lack of
air-conditioning might not have been so bad had it not been 96
degrees with 90 percent humidity most of the way. Not only were her
legs stuck to the seat, but her mother snapped at her every time
she tried to get unstuck.

"Can't you sit still for a few hours, for
god's sake?" she'd demanded, her face tight.

The first time she said it, Starr had
foolishly replied. "I was just trying to get comfortable."

"Then figure it out and stop squirming," her
mother said. "I agreed you could come if you behaved yourself.
Don't make me regret it."

Starr made a face, but not before she had
turned towards the window and the miles and miles of pine trees
that lined I-35. The next few times her mother snapped at her,
Starr didn't say anything.

She wasn't trying to be a pain. It was just
that she would start thinking about the way she would photograph a
stand of trees they were passing or what exposure she would use to
shoot the river they had just crossed. And then, despite all her
intentions to not move a muscle, her body would try to unstick
itself and she'd be in trouble again.

Another part of the problem was that her
mother hated it if Starr talked when she was driving. If that
hadn't been the case, Starr would've asked her all kinds of
questions about where they were going, but so far that was one
mistake she hadn't made. Of course, her mother hated it when Starr
said
anything
, but Starr decided not to dwell on that. She
knew how her mother felt about a lot of things and knew the
advantages of not getting into it. Not to mention the disadvantages
of bringing any of them up.