The Lake Superior coastline of Minnesota is known throughout the region as the “North Shore,” though in fact the coast here runs from the southwest toward the Northeast, and neither the shoreline, nor the lake are really north of one another. The water is sky-clear, colder than a Scandinavian fjord, and nearly as rocky. It plunges quickly towards depths of over 1000 feet, and so from a distance, the lake appears achingly blue and pristine. Up close it is much the same, rather like a cold Aegean sea. It is not, however, a popular place to swim.
In spite of the chill, the North Shore is the Riviera of Minnesota and northwest Wisconsin. People come here year round to look at the lake to the east and south, and to hike and ski in what native Minnesotans consider to be the mountains that border the coastline. I come from the West, so I can hardly be expected to call them mountains, but they’re pretty enough, and bigger than most Minnesota hills.
Years ago the people cut timber and mined the hills for iron ore. The big timber, the money trees are all gone now, and the iron industry is suffering too. And so highway 61 is the lifeblood of the North Shore, bringing tourists and their money to the resorts and cabins that sprout along the coast like dandelions in springtime.
Some of the resorts are world-class hotels and condos. There are many others too, much like that belonging to Doug Norstad and his family. Named appropriately, if not imaginatively, “Norstad’s North Shore Cabins,” Doug and his wife presided over about 3 acres of rocky shoreline, in which were crowded some ten, rather dilapidated cabins.
Dan Jensen pulled the unmarked police Blazer up to the little cabin that served as the resort office. Resort was probably too strong a word. “Camp” might have been closer.
No one was at the little counter when we walked in. The place smelled of woodsmoke, and cigarettes too. Lucy Norstad had started smoking again when her daughter Missy went missing. A door behind the counter hung ajar, and from the room beyond came the melancholy sounds of a daytime soap opera.
Dan looked at me. The man probably had trained to deal with hostile people armed with knives and automatic weapons, but he was scared to talk to a mild mannered Scandinavian who might have killed his daughter’s murderer. I didn’t blame him.
“Hello?” I called. “Doug? Lucy?” For good measure I banged the little bell that sat on the counter next to a pile of rental forms.
A chair scraped and Lucy Norstad came to the door. Her hair, a lustrous brown a year ago, now hung in straggling gray knots. She had on a pair of big glasses, with hexagonal plastic frames. A half-smoked cigarette hung from her mouth, and her plain dress was wrinkled and spotted.
“Hi Lucy,” I said.
She looked at me with dead eyes. “Hello Pastor.”
Her gaze shifted to Jensen. She looked back at me and shook her head.
“No” she said. “No, no.” She started backing away. “I don’t know what it is, but I can’t take it. Don’t tell me anything else. I don’t want to know.”
I could feel Jensen’s Scandinavian temperament floundering behind me. “It’s OK Lucy,” I said. “We were just looking for Doug.”
“Why?” she was still shaking her head. “Why are you looking for him?”
Jensen was reading the rental forms with avid interest. I was on my own.
“Lucy,” I said, “why don’t you sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down. I don’t want to know. Please just go away.” She gave a little sob, and I could almost see Jensen shriveling into himself.
“OK. It’s OK. Chief Jensen is here with me because someone killed Daniel Spooner this afternoon.”
A little life sparked behind her dull gray eyes. “Daniel Spooner is dead?”
“Shot through the heart,” I said. Very pastoral.
She nodded quickly. “Good. I know it’s wrong, pastor, but I still say good.” Her voice broke and now the tears started in earnest. I looked around the room for a box of Kleenex, but there was none. I let her cry. I thought maybe pretty soon Jensen would start blubbering too, from sheer embarrassment.
After a while I said, “Lucy, we need to talk to Doug. Is he around?”
She shook her head and wiped her nose on her rumpled sleeve. “He went to the Cities this morning.” I felt Jensen stiffen behind me.
“Do you know where he went? We’d like to get a hold of him.”
She nodded. The poor woman probably thought we just wanted to tell him the news.
“He goes down there every Tuesday to see his dad.” She shrugged as if I’d asked another question. “Doug’s dad and I don’t get along very well. In fact, neither did he and Doug until about six months ago, when Doug started going down real regular.”
“Is there a number we can call to reach him?”
Lucy looked around at the shabby, dusty little office. “We don’t have a cell phone,” she said. “You could try his dad’s place. I’ll get you the number.” She started rummaging around below the counter. Muttering under her breath she left the room. A few moments later she returned with a scrap of paper and a phone number.
“When will he be back?” I asked, taking the number.
“He usually stays overnight there, picks up anything special we need for the resort, and comes back Wednesday afternoons.”
Jensen seemed to come out of his shell. “Did anyone go with him today?”
Lucy Norstad looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“Why do you want to know that?” she whispered. “Why does it matter?”
“We just want to talk to him,” I said, shooting Jensen a warning glance.
She kept staring at the Chief. “You think he did it,” she accused him. “You think he shot Daniel Spooner.” She whirled and pierced me with blazing eyes.
“Lucy,” I said, “Chief Jensen just wants to talk with Doug. There aren’t any warrants out for his arrest or anything.” I fervently hoped that was still true. “The Chief here will just call your father-in-law, and he’ll tell him that Doug’s been there all day, and then they’ll start looking for the person who killed Daniel Spooner.”
“But what if he wasn’t there? What if he hadn’t got there yet? What if he stopped for lunch or something, and he wasn’t there when – that scumbag – was killed.”
“Mrs Norstad, if he stopped for gas, or for lunch, or anything, there’ll be people who saw him, and receipts for food and stuff like that. If that’s the case, there’ll be no problem.” Jensen was getting braver.
“All right Lucy,” I said. “I’ll keep in touch. Do you want me to call someone to come out here and sit with you awhile?”
She shook her head, her eyes tearing up again. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Doug will come soon, and I’ll be fine.”
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