“He talked about a place that was very special to him. Said that before he died, he wanted to bury the diary under this special tree, so that there’d always be a piece of him there.”

  “Really.” Melvin didn’t look very interested. He was starting to get squirmy.

  “In a way, I take it as a last request. Except, I don’t know where the tree is, Melvin. I thought maybe you might. He called it the Devil’s Tree.”

  Melvin gave her a blank stare. “The Devil’s Tree?”

  She nodded.

  He thought for a moment, crossing his arms over his thick stomach, then shook his head. “Can’t say that I ever remember him talking about anything like that, Cora. Sorry.”

  Her spirits sank. A second later, the pie arrived. Wasn’t that just like life, she thought. One minute you’re up, full of hope, the next minute you’re flat on the floor. And then somebody serves you pie. Cutting off a bite with her clean spoon, she thanked Melvin for his time.

  As he edged out of the booth and started to walk away, he stopped. “You know, Cora,” he said, turning around and resting his knuckles on the table. “There was this one tree. It’s up near my cabin. The tree’s dead but it’s still standing, and you always see a lot of crows in it. Kirby wanted to build a deer stand in a tree about ten feet away from it once, but he was afraid that the crows would scare off the deer. Those birds make such a racket. Anyway, I could be wrong, but it seems to me that I remember him referring to it as a Devil’s Tree once— because of all the black crows, and because it was still standing when by all rights it should have fallen over long ago. I thought it was kind of funny at the time, but also kind of true.”

  Cora thought it was creepy. “That’s fascinating, Melvin. What kind of tree is it?”

  “A weeping willow.”

  “You own that property, don’t you? The cabin and the property surrounding it?”

  He nodded. “Ten acres.”

  “I don’t suppose you could tell me how to get there? If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to bury that diary just like my dear husband wanted.”

  “Sure, Cora. Anything you want.” He grabbed a clean napkin from another table, pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket, bit off the plastic tip, then drew her a quick map. “You can’t miss the tree,” he said finally, pushing the napkin toward her. “It’s due north of the cabin, right along the river.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find it.”

  “You’re welcome to use the cabin while you’re there.” He wrote down his secret hiding place for the spare key. “I only go there on weekends.”

  “Thanks, Melvin. You’re a good friend.”

  “If I see some fresh digging, I’ll know it was you burying your piece of Kirby. Well,” he said looking over his shoulder, “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “You do that,” said Cora, tucking into her piece of pie, resisting the urge to jump up and shout Eureka!

  April, 1964

  Dear Gilbert:

  Thanks for your letter. Sorry to hear your parole was rejected. Maybe next time it’ll be different. Also, sorry to hear you’ve been under the weather. I suppose those prison doctors aren’t the best and the brightest, but they’ll fix you up. I don’t think too many people die of bronchitis. Hey, I’m joking. Of course they don’t. But when something like that lingers a long time, it’s hard to live with. If I could, I’d send you some of my wife’s chicken soup. Viola’s the best cook. I’m actually getting fat. Hey, didn’t I promise to send you a picture of her? I’ll include one before I seal up the letter. She’s a little older than me, and maybe she’s not the best-looking woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, but I think she’s wonderful. She’s just what the doctor ordered after a long stretch on the road.

  Life’s been pretty good to me lately. Got a new company car. It’s a Chevy station wagon, but it’s got a lot of zip. Handles real well. I love being out in the country. Who would have thought a city boy like me would end up traveling the back roads to a bunch of hick towns.

  Believe it or not, Viola’s got me real interested in classical music. Every now and then I can pick up a radio station in the car that plays the classical stuff. You know, Beethoven, Brahms, Bach? Viola gives piano lessons. She’s also the town librarian. I suppose you could say she’s refined. I like that. And I’ve really grown to appreciate Chopin’s etudes, and Wagner. Man, that Wagner had some major darkness in him to write the way he did. And you know me. I was born angry. That music makes me want to drive a hundred miles an hour, roar like a banshee. When I listen to it I feel powerful, strong, like I could live forever.

  I guess it’s hard to explain about the music, how it makes me feel, but when you grow up thinking you’re nothing, that your dad didn’t care enough about you to even stick around and see how you turned out, things get to you in a way they don’t get to other guys. I never thought music would help me, but it has. My brother seems to be able to live with what our dad did, but for me it still hurts. I could never just abandon someone, just walk away and never come back. I remember thinking in high school that I hated my dad’s guts so bad, if he showed up, I’d beat him to death with my bare hands. I still would.

  Hey, here I’m going on about my childhood and yours was even worse. Kids are so important, man. But you have to teach them right from wrong. Hell, if anybody knows about wrong, it’s me and you, right?

  Hang tough,

  J. D.

  16

  Sophie sat behind her desk in her office at the Maxfield Plaza, punching in the work number of Laura Walters’s best friend, Rebecca Scoville. She’d found Rebecca’s home number in the Minneapolis area phone book and had left several messages on her answering machine to no avail.

  Earlier in the day, she’d driven out to Deep Haven, the suburb where Rebecca lived, hoping she might talk to her in person. Pulling up in front of an attractive two-story brick home on a quiet, tree-lined street, she hopped out of the car and proceeded up the winding walk to the front door. After ringing the doorbell she waited, but when nobody answered, she took a pen and a notepad out of her purse. She was composing the message when a woman popped out of the neighboring house and headed in her direction.

  “Morning,” said the woman, tucking her T-shirt into her running shorts. “You looking for Becca?”

  “That’s right.” Sophie backed up so that the neighbor could pull the mail out of the slot.

  “I’m Sandy Revas.” She flashed Sophie a friendly smile.

  “Sophie Greenway. Is Rebecca out of town? I’ve left her several phone messages but she hasn’t returned my calls.”

  “You a friend or a client?”

  “Neither,” said Sophie. “We’ve never met. I was hoping to ask her a few questions about a woman we both used to know.”

  Sandy brushed a lock of brown hair away from her forehead. “Becca’s out of town on business right now. That’s why I’m taking her mail.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what does she do for a living?”

  “She owns an investigation and security agency. Northstar Investigations.”

  “She’s a P.I.?”

  “Yeah, but don’t call her that to her face. She loathes the way books and TV portray people who do professional investigation for a living. It’s nothing like Magnum, P.I.—or Kinsey Millhone.”

  Sophie smiled. She already knew that. But she’d never give up her crime novels. “Do you know when Rebecca will be back?”

  “I don’t,” said Sandy. “Call her office. Someone there will probably know.”

  “Northstar Investigations,” repeated Sophie.

  “It’s in Minneapolis, near the Art Institute.”

  Sophie thanked her, then returned to her car and headed back to the hotel. She made it just in time for a staff meeting. An hour later she was in her office punching in Rebecca’s work number.

  Three rings later, a male voice answered, “Northstar Investigations.”

  “I’d like to speak to Rebecca Scoville, please.”

  “She’s not in. Can I take a message?”

  “When do you expect her?”

  “Well, I thought she’d be in this afternoon, but now I hear it may be the end of next week. If it’s urgent—”

  “No,” said Sophie. She left her name and number and asked that Rebecca call her as soon as possible. Feeling thwarted but still hopeful, she sat at her desk and worked on hotel business until six, when she finally quit for the day and headed up to her apartment.

  She found Bram ensconced on the balcony overlooking downtown St. Paul, with Ethel, their elderly mutt, lying next to him. In his gym shorts and T-shirt, he looked hot and sweaty, as if he’d been working out. It wasn’t like him to use the fitness center on the eighth floor. Generally, when the elevator passed the dreaded spot, he’d close his eyes or make the sign of the cross to ward off evil vibrations. Exercise was so unlike him, Sophie wondered what was up. His shoes and socks were resting next to his chair, and his bare feet were propped up on the iron railing, the only part of him in the sun. He was also drinking a beer. Grabbing her own beer from the refrigerator, she joined him. “How was your day?” she asked, giving him a quick kiss and Ethel a quick ear rub, then lowering herself wearily onto the chaise.

  “Are you asking me or the dog?”

  “Whoever cares to answer.”

  Without raising her head from the terra-cotta tile, Ethel looked up at Sophie with unusually baleful eyes.

  “She’s in an ugly mood.”

  “She isn’t the only one.”

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “No, really. I want to know.”

  “I am so out of shape.”

  She laughed, glad that it wasn’t something more serious. “Join the crowd.”

  “But it looks good on you.”

  “Please. I need to lose ten pounds before Christmas. Otherwise—” she drew a finger across her throat. “—it’s curtains for all my slinky holiday outfits. I’ll have to walk around in a tent.”

  He sipped his beer, looking morose.

  “Bram?”

  “What?”

  “Are you really concerned about your weight? You’re a gorgeous, handsome hunk of a man. There are guys out there who’d kill to look as good as you do.”

  “At my age. Why didn’t you finish the sentence, Sophie?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Don’t humor me.” He sat up, then leaned forward in his chair, looking uncomfortable.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You know, honey, maybe you should get a physical. You haven’t had one in years.”

  “I hate doctors.”

  “And I hate dentists, but if I don’t go see one occasionally, my teeth will fall out.”

  “Let’s change the subject.”

  He really was in a rotten mood. “Okay,” she said, not sure what else to do. “Did you interview someone today, or was it the usual Baldric-inspired free-for-all?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  She’d been so preoccupied for the last few days, she was ashamed to admit she didn’t. Then it struck her. “The governor?”

  “Give the lady a cigar.”

  “How did it go?” Finally, she felt she’d hit on a topic that could pull him out of his funk.

  “It was a blast, Soph. Jesse Ventura is the best guest I’ve ever had on. He’s funny, quick, and he says what he thinks. I mean, the guy doesn’t sound or act like any politician I’ve ever known. The phone lines were lit up like a Christmas tree for the entire hour.”

  Bram had first interviewed the governor last spring. The program had gone so well and they’d had so much fun together that they agreed to meet for lunch the following week. From there, they’d struck up a friendship. Sophie felt they were an unlikely duo since Ventura was so rough-and-tumble, and Bram was, well, more . . . sophisticated. But in this case, their opposite natures seemed to complement one another. And since they both enjoyed the good life, loved a good laugh, and had similar political views, Ventura had agreed to make Bram’s radio show a regular event. This was the third time he’d been on.

  “The gov told me he’s thinking of having a white-tie ball at the mansion next December. If he does, he wants me to be in charge of the artistic elements, as he put it. He thinks I have impeccable taste. I do, you know, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Have you ever told him you didn’t vote for him?”

  “No,” he said, wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead. “It hasn’t come up. And it won’t, if I have anything to say about it.” He gave her stern look.

  “Mum’s the word.”

  “I’ll vote for him next time—when he runs for president.” After chugging the rest of his beer, he continued, “I’ve got some other news I think you’ll be interested in. I talked to Al Lundquist this afternoon. He stopped by the studio before I went on air.”

  Al was one of St. Paul’s finest, a buddy of Bram’s from way back.

  “And?”

  “I asked him about the Runbeck murder case. Thought I’d see if he knew anything we didn’t.”

  “Did he?”

  “Are you going to drink that beer or just hold it against your cheek?”

  Taking a quick swig, she handed him the bottle.

  “Thanks. Okay, here’s the scoop. The Bureau of Criminal Apprehension sent some hotshot out to Rose Hill because the local sheriff’s department has never handled such a high-profile homicide before. They did some testing back in the B.C.A. lab and figured out that whoever blew up Runbeck’s truck did it with nitrogen tri-iodide.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a chemical compound that’s often used by terrorists because it’s so easy to make. Al said you could even find recipes for it on the Internet.”

  “Can they trace it?”

  He shook his head. “If the murderer had used dynamite, I guess it is traceable. But this stuff isn’t. Al said the B.C.A. guy figured that the perp mixed up a bunch of the stuff, crawled under Runbeck’s truck and found a spot where the exhaust pipe and the fuel tank are relatively close to each other. Heat sets the compound off. The murderer probably figured that Runbeck would start the motor, back out of the drive, and a little way down the street the heat would cause a chemical reaction, and pop—the explosion would hit the fuel tank and the truck would go up like a firecracker. Runbeck’s home is on the edge of town. The closest house to it is maybe half a mile away. Only thing is, Runbeck must have sat in the drive for a minute or two, so it detonated in his backyard.”

  Even on a warm summer afternoon, Sophie felt herself shiver at the thought. “Somebody must have really hated him.”

  “Al said that the local sheriff would already have arrested John Washburn if Washburn wasn’t still in the hospital recovering from a stroke. They don’t think it will be long before they have a strong enough case to convict.”

  Sophie petted Ethel’s head. “Could a guy John Washburn’s age crawl under a truck and do all that?”

  Bram shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Poor Bernice.”

  “Yeah,” said Bram, blowing over the top of his beer bottle, “I feel sorry for the entire family. And, if what you suspect is true, Washburn could be a double murderer.”

  The phone inside the apartment began to ring.

  “Want me to get that?” asked Bram.

  “No, I will,” said Sophie, glad that his mood had improved. She’d eventually have to dig it out of him— whatever it was that was wrong—but not right now. Grabbing the cordless phone off the coffee table in the living room, she clicked it on. “Hello?”

  “Mom?”

  “Rudy, hi! I was hoping it might be you. How’s the cafe search going?” She sat down on the couch.

  “Okay, I guess. My main impression is that real cafes are a dying breed. Most of the small towns I’ve visited have a pizza parlor and a Chinese takeout, but the old-fashioned cafes are few and far between.”

  “But you have found some.”

  “Oh, sure. One place served the best chocolate pecan pie I’ve ever tasted.”

  Sophie smiled. “Where are you now?”

  “Well, I headed west on Tuesday, and now I’ve worked my way up almost to Fargo. I’m in Loomisville at the moment, about to have dinner at Dub’s Lounge.”

  “Sounds kind of sleazy.”

  “Well, let’s just say it’s not much like the Chatterbox Cafe in Lake Wobegon. A lot of the places I’ve found have attached bars. I’m sure it’s the only way they can make a go of it financially. Hey, but there’s one bright point in all this.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The coffee house craze hasn’t made it into every nook and cranny of the boonies yet. At least there are a few places in this world where you can still get bad coffee.” He laughed.

  Sophie looked through the double French doors leading out to the balcony and saw Bram pick up Ethel and cuddle her in his lap. She was getting to be such an old dog. They wouldn’t have her much longer. “What about that photo of John Washburn? Has anybody recognized him?”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I’ve shown it to dozens and dozens of people, but nobody knew a thing. Until today. When I drove into town, I stopped at a gas station. The man behind the counter inside the office— his name was Morey—looked like he was in his seventies. So I pulled out the picture and asked him if he’d ever seen this guy before.” Rudy paused.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense!” Sophie cried. “This is no time to use your dramatic skills.”

  “Okay, do you have a pencil and paper?”

  “Just a minute.” She went into the kitchen. Finding some scratch paper and a pen in the drawer next to the sink, she said, “Shoot.”

  “The guy at the gas station, Morey Hall, said that the man’s name was Jim Newman. He married a woman who used to be the town librarian. Her name was Viola Little. They lived in house that was torn down about ten years ago. I guess there’s a Wal-Mart store there now.”

  “What happened to Viola?” asked Sophie.

  “Morey said he thought she was still alive, in a nursing home somewhere, but he wasn’t sure. I guess she was quite a few years older than Newman. No other family around. If she is still alive, she’d be in her eighties. I left the photo with him and he said he’d try to find out more information. I wrote the number at the paper on the back.”