In Winter's Grip (3 page)

I took the long way, turning north along the canal past the University of Ottawa. I enjoyed this route, and it let me clear my head. By the Rideau Centre, I stopped at a red light and reached for my cellphone. I looked at the brown copper roof of the Chateau Laurier and its castle-like towers as I checked my messages. Two waiting. I played the first. Sam's resonant voice saying goodbye filled my ear, and I felt my spirits plunge. I'd forgotten he was heading to New York. He would be in the air now, likely sipping on a Scotch and soda and reading the paper. That meant I'd be having supper alone again.

The light changed, and I dropped the cellphone into my open purse. The second message would wait. I crossed Rideau Street and travelled north on Sussex, past the bustle of the Byward Market and the spired glass magnificence of the art gallery. I turned right and entered my neighborhood, passing the treed grounds of the Governor General's residence, the extensive property hemmed in by a black iron fence. One more right turn onto our street and the welcome sight of our driveway. I parked and stepped out of the car. The tire marks from Sam's Land Rover were filled with snow. He'd been gone a long time. I lifted my head and looked at our two-storey red brick house, set back from the street and nestled in behind conical cedar bushes and lilac trees, now encased in clumps of snow. Its narrow frontage kept it unassuming, hiding its spacious rooms, rich oak floors and high ceilings. I shivered in my wool coat and hurried up the stone walkway, careful not to slip on patches of ice hidden by the thin snow cover. The porch light was on a timer, as was the lamp on the post closer to the driveway. They lit my way through the early darkness of the chilly February evening.

The first thing I did was run a hot bath. I'd been chilled by the day and soaked for half an hour, letting the Jacuzzi jets pulsate away all the tension from my neck and shoulders. By the time I dressed in flannel pajamas and a housecoat, my stomach was rumbling, and I hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

I heated up a packet of leftover stew from the freezer and poured a glass of pinot noir the colour of crushed rubies. The house was cool, and I settled in front of the gas fireplace in the backroom to warm up. Instead of classical music, I put Jim Croce's “Time in a Bottle” on our antiquated turntable and relaxed into his voice. The wind had picked up, and I could hear it battering the house and rattling down the chimney. Gusts of snow blew past the windows and danced in the lights placed about the backyard. Halfway through my meal, I remembered the phone message that I hadn't listened to. I took a forkful of food and pushed myself to my feet from where I sat in front of the coffee table. I waited until I was sitting once again in front of my meal before retrieving the saved message. It was a moment before I could place my sister-in-law's voice. Hysteria had sharpened Claire's usually level voice, and I felt prickles of fear rippling along my skin.

“Maja? Maja,” a deep breath, “this isn't good news. I don't know how to tell you... It's your father. He was found dead in his backyard a few hours ago. They think...they think he may have been murdered. They've taken Jonas in for questioning.” Another deep breath mixed with a sob. “Maja...call me as soon as you can.”

I had to listen to the message three times before the words finally sunk in. Dad was gone. Part of me rejoiced.
Take that,
you old bugger. I knew you'd get what's coming to you one day, but
it took a hell of a long time.
Another part of me wanted to cry. I lifted my eyes to my ghostly reflection in the patio door. Jonas needed me. The wall I'd so carefully erected around my past was about to come tumbling down. I raised my cellphone again with a shaking hand and dialed Jonas's home number. Claire picked up on the first ring.

“This is so terrible. I just saw your dad, and he was looking fine.”

“He left the hospital on his own?”

“Yes. Apparently before lunch. Are you coming? Jonas needs you.”

“I'm...of course.”

“Thank God, Maja. I can't talk now. Someone's at the door.

“I'll call you when I get in.”

“I'll tell Jonas.”

The first Northwest Airlines flight I could make was six a.m. with stops in Detroit and Minneapolis. If the weather cooperated, we'd be touching down in Duluth a few minutes after noon. I booked a window seat and went in search of my suitcase.

By one o'clock the following afternoon, I was wending my way in a rented Chevy Cavalier up Highway 61, heading north through Minnesota towards the Canadian border. The snow was deep and mounded along the sides of the road, covering the rock outcroppings and lying heavy on the branches of fir and spruce. At Two Harbors, I pulled off the highway for a rest stop at Betty's Pies and bought a large cup of bitter coffee in a Styrofoam cup, and on the spur of the moment, a strawberry rhubarb pie to bring to Jonas's. The coffee warmed my hand through my thin glove, and I took small sips as I walked through the snow to my car in the parking lot. While I'd been inside, a layer of snow had covered the car, and I swiped at the back and side windows to clear enough away to see, snow crunching under my boots as I circled the car. Even as I settled myself in the front seat, thick flakes had recovered the cleaned surfaces. I turned the heater on high and flicked on the windshield wipers. They thump-thumped against the glass and left icy streaks in their wake. Driving would be slow going for the last leg of my journey.

I'd called Claire from the Duluth Airport. The phone had woken her from an exhausted sleep, but she reported that Jonas was on his way home from the police station. The police had questioned him off and on for most of the night but couldn't come up with enough evidence to charge him. Her voice had been worried but relieved at the same time. She said Jonas would be thrilled to see me.

I pulled back onto the highway, sorry to leave the friendly comfort and yellow lights of the restaurant behind me. Even though the falling snow hindered my view, I knew that the drive through Northern Minnesota was a thing of beauty. The two-lane road curves through thick coniferous forests, and I caught glimpses of rocky shore and grey-white stretches of Lake Superior that awakened my senses. Town names rolled off my tongue— Castle Danger, Beaver Bay, Taconite Harbor, Lutsen. Near the town of Lutsen, I pulled off the highway and drove down a newly plowed side road towards the lakeshore. A rock face caked in snow cut steeply into the Lake Superior basin. The grey clouds hung heavy in the sky while the snow drove down past the ice cakes that rimmed the shoreline, the lake heaving. I stayed inside the car with the heater up full and prepared myself for the final few miles that led to Duved Cove.

Who would want to murder my father? I was at a loss. Jonas was not a choice I considered seriously. He'd never stood up to my father, even in the days when the old man had ruled our lives with an anger unparalleled, even after my mother made her last stand. Did it matter to me who had murdered someone of my flesh? I focused my gaze upwards towards the leaden sky.
My
father had been murdered.
My breath quickened. Maybe it did matter after all. I'd loved him once, I'd tried to love him...and that should be enough to make it matter. The snow picked up steam as the wind pummelled the car. I shivered inside my wool coat and placed one hand over the heater. The air blasting into the car was still cold. I reached down and put the car into drive. It was time to face my demons.

I waited for three cars to pass by on the highway before easing into traffic. Twenty minutes and I would be home. Less than half an hour to Duved Cove.

THREE

M
y brother Jonas and I were thought to resemble each other, often mistaken for twins when we were younger. My father Peter Larson had Scandinavian roots, like many of the families who had made the trip from Sweden to settle in Minnesota. My mother Annika Sigredsson was first generation American. Her parents had emigrated to up-state Minnesota six months before she was born. Jonas and I had the same blue eyes and white-blonde hair of our ancestors, although where Jonas had curls, my hair hung in poker straightness. Like my father, Jonas had grown to six foot while on that score, I resembled my mother, both of us topping out at five four. When I wrapped my arms around my brother for the first time in six years that January morning, the bond was as strong as if we'd never been apart. After giving me a kiss on my forehead, he stepped back and looked at me.

“You haven't changed much,” he said. “You're wearing your hair shorter, but the rest of you is the same.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I think. I was hoping you'd find me more sophisticated or something.” Secretly, I was pleased that Jonas saw me as I'd been. There were many times when I felt like that young me had disappeared. I looked him over too. He was two years younger than me, but his hair had darkened and was streaked with grey strands. Tiny lines now rimmed his eyes. He still looked lean and slightly curved inward at the shoulders. “You've grown a beard,” I said. “It suits you.”

Jonas ran his hand over his chin and cheeks and grinned. “Keeps me warm.” He lifted my suitcase, turned and motioned towards the house. “Come inside out of the cold. I've put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

I followed him around the back of the house and climbed the steps to his deck. It had been freshly shovelled, and weathered cedar planks showed through the snow. I took a moment to look over his property. It extended back to the woods with a steep drop down to Lake Superior. His nearest neighbours, the Lingstroms, were a good mile away, half the distance back towards town. The snow continued to fall silently around us. I could smell their wood stove—he was burning spruce if my nose remembered correctly. We stepped inside.

My brother was a carpenter, and he'd built this house using local pine and cedar. Inside, the kitchen and the walls were red cedar, and the cupboards were painted a soft white. Jonas had built a table and stained the wood a golden brown, tucking it into an alcove encircled by windows that looked out over the side yard and a stand of birch trees and spruce. A gold and brown-glassed Tiffany lamp hung over its centre. I watched him pour two cups of coffee, noticing his hand trembling. He set the cups on the table and we sat kitty corner to each other at one end. As he handed me one, some of the coffee slopped onto the table. I pretended not to notice.

“Claire's gone into town to buy something for supper and then she'll pick up Gunnar from a friend's. They should be back in an hour.”

“It'll be good to see them.” We both drank from our cups. The coffee tasted of hazelnuts and sweet cream.

“So, what's the situation with Dad?” I asked. With Jonas, I didn't have to couch what I said. We didn't speak often, but we understood each other. “How did he die exactly?”

Jonas held his coffee cup with both hands and seemed to hunch into it. He looked into its depths as he spoke. “Dad decided he was well enough to leave the hospital and checked himself out. That was Friday, the morning after I called you. First I'd heard that he'd left was when I drove into town to visit him in the hospital around two o'clock. Becky Holmes was on the floor and she filled me in. I told her I'd drive to his place to check on him.”

“Becky became a nurse?”

“Yeah. She married Kevin Wilders, but I still think of her as Becky Holmes.”

“There was a time, I thought you and Becky...”

“Well, high school romances don't always end happily.”

“That's for sure.”
You and me, Maja, we'll be together forever.
Billy Okwari's black eyes intense and certain. His lips warm on
mine, sealing the deal.
“Did you find Dad?” I asked, more harshly than I'd intended.

“I didn't get over to see him until about five o'clock. I got held up.” Jonas's eyes met mine then slid away.

What aren't you telling me, Jonas,
I thought, but I let it go. He'd tell me when he was ready.

“It had started snowing just after lunch. I thought I'd shovel off Dad's back steps before I went inside to see him. I tramped through the snow to his shed and took out the first shovel I grabbed for. The sun was setting, but there was still enough light to make out shapes in the shed. The shovel wasn't hanging up as usual but leaning up against the wall. You know how meticulous Dad is about putting things back in their place, and I guess that was the first indication that something wasn't right. Didn't seem like much at the time, though. Anyhow, I started back towards the steps. Dad has his outdoor lights on a timer, and it was bright enough. I was about to start shovelling when I looked over and saw him next to the woodpile.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah, Dad. He was covered in snow, but I could make out his shape. The snow was dark around his head.” Jonas hesitated. “I took off a glove and brushed the snow off him. I don't know why, since I knew he was dead. He was lying on his stomach, but his head was turned to the side like he was listening for something deep in the ground. It was a shock to see his eyes open, frozen in place. His mouth was gaping as if he'd been trying to yell. The back of his head was caved in like a melon. I...I grabbed the shovel and leaned it up against the steps. I just left. Man, there was blood...everywhere. It looked like somebody'd spilled a bowl of cranberry sauce in the snow.”

“You didn't call the police?”

Jonas shook his head. “I couldn't seem to make myself think. I sat in the truck for I don't know—a minute and then drove to Hadrian's bar. That's where they found me. I sort of blanked, I think. All that blood. It got to me, you know?”

“Oh, Jonas. I'm so sorry.”

Jonas lifted one shoulder in a shrug. He didn't raise his head. I put my hand around his wrist that rested on the table. “Did they tell you what happened?”

“Somebody thwacked him in the back of the head with the shovel.”