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.
My 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.”
“The shovel that you got from the shed.”
Jonas