The Boreal Owl Murder (18 page)

“Well, the view is certainly spectacular,” I commented. “Let’s see how the food measures up.”

I ordered us both a glass of red wine to tide us over while we looked at the menu, since I know it takes Luce a long time to order. Not that she’s indecisive. She’s just that thorough: when we try a restaurant for the first time, she reads through every single description of every single item. I swear she’s memorizing ingredients to try back at home in her own kitchen. Anyway, it takes a while, so I settled back to gaze out at the lake and mull over the events of the day. Every so often, Luce would make little noises of interest or surprise as she contemplated the menu, but for the most part, I was on my own.

The more I turned everything over in my head, the more I was convinced that Luce was right about someone following Rahr, because there was no other way to account for the murder taking place at the exact remote spot that only Rahr frequented.

Unless, of course, Rahr brought his killer along with him, but that seemed highly unlikely for several reasons: (1) everyone Knott had talked with, from Mrs. Rahr to Alice to Ellis to other professors in the department, insisted that Rahr was a loner and that he always worked alone on-site; and (2) Rahr’s vehicle was found parked at a trailhead, so if he’d brought someone along, they would have had to hitch back to town on a sub-zero day; and (3) there was no reason to hike that far into the woods to do the deed when the killer could have done it just as easily a whole lot closer to the road.

If I went with the scenario of Rahr being followed, that would better explain the location of the murder, because the Boreal site was Rahr’s destination. Once he was working there, he wasn’t a moving target, but—as I’d just experienced myself this afternoon—a sitting duck. Did Rahr know he was being tailed? If he did, that might explain the hammer as a weapon of defense, though that sounded like an awfully weak conjecture, I had to admit, since you’d have to be anticipating close combat to use a hammer. We’re talking owl research here, I reminded myself, not commando training. So if I dumped the idea about the hammer as weapon, that left the hammer as tool—for spiking trees, apparently. And why would Rahr be doing that? According to Alan, people—make that environmental terrorists—spiked trees to keep the trees from being cut down. But S.O.B. had made sure the trees weren’t going to be cut down by convincing the DNR to stay out of the forest to protect the Boreal Owls’ habitat.

Luce made an “Ooh” noise and licked her lips. I assumed she was reading the dessert suggestions.

Which brought me to two conclusions: there was something sinfully chocolate on the dessert menu, and for some reason, Rahr thought that trees around the Boreals were in danger of being cut, so he went to extreme measures to stop that from happening.

But then someone stopped him.

I drained my wine glass and looked around the Splashing Rock. Only two small tables were empty, including one in the corner two tables away from us. As I watched, the hostess brought another couple to be seated there. The man sat down with his back to me, and the woman sat down on the other side, facing him. I noticed she had the same wavy chestnut hair like my mom.

It was Margaret Montgomery, the director of S.O.B.

I blinked.

She was still there.

Coincidences everywhere lately.

I waited until we ordered—it was the arugula salad and venison medallions with roasted garlic potatoes for me, while Luce went for the lingonberry vinaigrette salad and pan-seared walleye with champagne sauce (having Luce for a girlfriend, I notice these things now)—before I excused myself and went to Montgomery’s table.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Luce.

As I approached the corner table, I was struck by how much bigger Montgomery looked than my mother. I don’t know that she was any taller, but she looked broader and heavier through the shoulders. Off camera, she also looked harder—less like my mom, who wanted to chase you down and cuddle you to death, and more like the kind of mom who gave you stiff kisses once a year on your birthday. Then again, I figured it probably hadn’t been an easy week for her with the media hounding S.O.B in the wake of Rahr’s death.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I happened to notice you being seated, and I wanted to meet you.” I held out my hand. “I’m Bob White. I’m a birder, so I’m familiar with your work for the Boreal Owls.”

Montgomery smiled and took my hand. A lot of class, I thought. Here I was imposing on her quiet dinner, and she smiled graciously at me. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. White. Actually, I know your name, too.”

I could feel my eyebrows lifting in question.

“The Minnesota birding community has quite the grapevine, and you’re on it regularly. What was that most recent find you posted on MOU’s list serve just last week? A Goldeneye, was it?”

“A Barrows Goldeneye.” I was both surprised and flattered she made the connection. “I think it was as much a shock to me to see it this early in the year as it was for everyone on the list serve to hear about it.” I returned her smile. “I guess it caused quite the stampede of birders to Black Dog Lake.”

“So I heard. I also heard you were going to run the state fair booth for the MOU again this year. I’m hoping we can get some S.O.B. literature into your hands. Phil Hovde recommended I contact you.”

“Really.” This was news to me. Dr. Phil hadn’t mentioned knowing the director of S.O.B. I wondered why it never came up at the board meeting when we were talking about Rahr and the owls.

“Yes,” Montgomery explained. “I met Phil last summer. He and his wife were spending some time on the North Shore, and one night, they attended a dinner benefit for S.O.B. Well, one thing led to another, and pretty soon we were talking about business investments, and we realized we had some similar interests in that area. As a matter of fact, by the end of the evening, we decided to go in together on a local start-up company as principal investors.”

“Really,” I said again.

Montgomery
’s dinner partner cleared his throat.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she apologized to both of us. “How rude of me. I wasn’t thinking. This is my good friend Vern Thompson. He’s a bit of a birder, too.”

“Bob White,” I said, shaking Thompson’s hand. The man was probably in his late fifties, and his silvering hair was receding on his temples. He looked like he spent a lot of time outdoors because even in March, his skin looked tanned and weathered.

“Vern and I met last spring. We were both on one of Dr. Rahr’s tours up to see the Boreals.” Montgomery paused. “I suppose you’ve heard about Dr. Rahr?”

“Yes,” I said. “I did.” I would have liked to ask her if she knew of any raving lunatics in the S.O.B. organization who wanted to kill Rahr or shoot at birders, or at me in particular, but decided this probably wasn’t the best time or place. I turned to Thompson. “Do you bird often?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” he answered. “I started my own business six months ago, and it’s keeping me pretty well occupied.”

“What business is that?” I asked, glancing beyond him to where Luce had turned around at our table and was waving me back to her.

“It’s a wholesale business. I’m a gardener, really.”

That explained the tan. Lily has that year-round tan too. The thought of Lily made me pause.

“What did you say was your company’s name?”

“I didn’t say,” Thompson said. “It’s VNT. My initials really, but I call the company Very Nice Trees.”

Very Nice Trees. What a coincidence.

“Really?” I said, for a third time.

Thompson laughed. “Yes, I know it’s not the most original name for a company, but it’s truth in advertising.”

I remembered Lily saying something to the same effect.

“And where is your business located, Mr. Thompson?” I asked, ignoring Luce’s waving, which was becoming more insistent by the moment. I figured I had fifteen seconds max before she started throwing silverware in my direction.

“Oh, it’s a ways out of town,” he answered. “I have an office in Two Harbors, but the actual stock is located on a piece of land that’s a bit of a drive north and west of here.”

I nodded and said I didn’t want to take any more of their time. I returned our table and sat down. The salads were waiting.

“Spill it, Bobby,” she said. “You’ve got that totally blank look you get after you’ve had on your politely interested face that covers up your surprised face.”

“What?”

“Maybe ‘blank’ isn’t the right way to say it. It’s like you’re at home but you’re really, really far away from the front door.”

“What?” I had no idea what she was talking about.

She leaned across the table towards me. Her blue eyes looked almost black in the low light of the café. Wisps of blonde hair trailed out from where she’d piled it on top of her head. She stared at me, and I felt like I was getting sucked into her eyes. She smiled very slowly.

Damn, she was gorgeous.

“Do I have your attention?” she asked quietly.

“You sure do,” I said.

“Tell me who those people are, what you talked about and why you’re surprised.”

Did Luce really know me that well to be able to see through all my counselor faces? Even when they were layered on top of each other? I started to put on my politely interested face before I realized I was doing it.

“Bobby!” she practically hissed at me. She sounded like a Canada Goose defending its territory. I thought it was kind of cute, actually. Not that I’d ever say that to her. Especially when she had a fork in her hand.

I shook my head to clear it and started telling her about my conversation with Montgomery and Thompson.

“So, why didn’t you say you wanted to see his greenhouses?” Luce asked, carefully tasting the vinaigrette.

“Because he wasn’t exactly inviting me to stop by,” I replied. “He didn’t offer me a business card, didn’t ask me if I had any gardening needs. You’d think someone who’s only been in business for six months would still be marketing himself every chance he got. Thompson’s not.” I stuffed a forkful of arugula into my mouth. “Tomorrow we’ll drive out to his place and see it. How’s your salad?”

“The lingonberry is a little heavy, I think, but it’s still good. I have high hopes for the walleye, though, not to mention the old-fashioned chocolate pudding cake for dessert.”

As it turned out, she liked my venison more than her walleye. (She always snitches from my plate—Luce says it’s her responsibility and obligation as a professional chef.) The cake, however, was excellent, and Luce begged the owner for the recipe, promising to credit the Splashing Rock when she used it at the conference center.

By the time she had the recipe in her purse, Bradley Ellis showed up in the dining room doorway. It looked like our after-dinner drink was still on.
Two points for you
, I thought.
You’re either innocent or incredibly brazen.
He caught my eye and nodded.

He only took a few steps into the room, though, before he made a detour.

A detour straight to Montgomery.

“I hope you got what you wanted,” Ellis told her, his voice carrying across the room.

He sounded ticked off. I tried not to listen, but it was kind of hard to miss it. The room wasn’t that big, and the other diners weren’t making enough noise to cancel out Ellis’s volume.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Montgomery said.

“Oh, I think you do, Margaret.” He placed his big hands on her table and leaned in. “Weren’t you the one just after Christmas who was raising a stink about keeping birders out of Andrew’s study sites? To protect the owls during mating season? Well, you got it. Nobody’s going to want to go anywhere near those sites now.”

Heads were starting to turn at other tables. Ellis didn’t care.

“But guess what?” His voice dropped a level or two. “I’m planning to pick up where Andrew left off. That study is
mine
, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Back off,” Thompson said, standing up and stepping close to Ellis. “Margaret is sick about this whole thing. How do you think she feels? She was one of Rahr’s biggest allies around here. The Boreals are her bread-and-butter. If you think she’d do anything to jeopardize S.O.B., you’re crazy.”

He held Montgomery’s coat for her. “Let’s go.”

Montgomery slipped into her coat, and they were gone.

“My, my,” Luce whispered. “The roux thickens.”

I wasn’t thinking about any roux, thickening or otherwise. I was looking at Ellis, wondering if he’d taken a shot at me this afternoon. The man certainly looked angry enough to kill someone.

I just hoped it wasn’t me.

I stood up to meet him as he walked toward our table.

“Bob,” he said, shaking my hand. His voice wasn’t as loud, now.

“This is my friend Luce Nilsson,” I said, nodding my head in Luce’s direction. “She’s also a birder.”

Luce held out her hand.

Ellis took it.

Then he covered it with his other hand.

I expected Luce to pull her hand away.

She didn’t.

The man was definitely brazen.

“Luce Nilsson,” Ellis repeated. He smiled.

Luce smiled back.

I stood there, looking at the two of them.
Die, scum.

“Put some candles in your hair and you could be Santa Lucia, the Swedish goddess,” Ellis told her.

Bad move, buddy. I waited for Luce to shoot him down.

She didn’t.

For crying out loud.

“She’s Norwegian, not Swedish,” I corrected him, since Luce had gone mute. “And Lucia is a saint, not a goddess.”

“Oh, no,” Ellis said, looking straight at Luce. “She is definitely a goddess.”

Luckily for Ellis, Luce laughed. If she hadn’t, I was going to punch the man. Not only was he unbelievably brazen, but he was making a pass at my girlfriend.

Instead, I held out my own chair for him. No way was I going to have him sitting next to Luce. “Take a seat,” I told him.

He did, and I pulled a chair from the empty table next to us. I nudged Luce over closer to the window and sat opposite Ellis. I felt like a male protecting my territory.