first thing I noticed about Tobias Olsen as he kicked open the door and stepped inside the room where I was standing was the Glock pistol he held with both hands, pointed directly at my legs. The second was the police uniform under his open leather jacket. I slowly raised my hands and grinned, even though my bottom lip and chin felt like they were quivering uncontrollably.
“Hey, Tobias,” I managed to enunciate, since it felt like all the saliva had disappeared from my mouth. “Been a long time.”
Tobias lowered the gun and squinted at me through pale green eyes. He was over six feet and on the husky side, big enough to put the fear of God into me. “As I live and die, if it ain’t Maja Larson.” He lowered the gun and clicked on the safety before slipping it back into the holster on his right hip. “It’s been over twenty years, but you haven’t changed much.”
“The last time I saw you was high school graduation. You’ve taken up with the law, I see.”
“Sorry about your old man,” Tobias said, the corners of his mouth drooping momentarily. “Still, you shouldn’t have crossed the police tape, Maja. Figured you’d know better.”
I shrugged. “Just felt like something I had to do.”
Tobias ran a hand through his bristly grey hair as he looked around the room. His eyes rested on the two boxes I’d opened. “Find anything interesting?” he asked as he crossed the floor to look inside.
“Just some books. This used to be my bedroom.” I didn’t know why I felt I had to explain.
“I remember,” Tobias said.
“That’s funny.” I tried to look into his eyes to see what he’d meant by that remark, but they stayed fixed on the boxes. “I don’t remember you ever being in my bedroom.”
“You had all the guys dreaming. You must have known that, Maja. Every red-blooded boy in high school with an iota of testosterone knew where you slept every night.”
I felt myself blushing. I lowered my head and started for the door. “You’re as full of shit now as you were when we were teenagers, Tobias Olsen,” I said.
He laughed. “How about we go into town and I buy you breakfast as a peace offering?” I could hear him rise from where he’d squatted to open one of the box lids and follow behind me.
I reached the door and put my hand around the doorknob. I turned and pretended to be considering his offer. “Okay,” I said after a few beats. It would be a good chance to find out what he knew about who’d murdered my dad. Besides, I’d become hungry all of a sudden, and the thought of scrambled eggs, bacon and another cup of coffee was more appealing than poking around in my father’s cold, depressing house.
Tobias followed me through town to Frida’s Coffeeshop, which was located on a flat piece of land at the base of a hill. If I’d kept going on the same road, at the top of the hill, I could have turned left onto Highway 61 to head north to the border. Frida owned a motel and some cottages that were strung out like a necklace around the bay. It was a pretty spot to have breakfast.
We found a table near the window. I sat so I could see the woods and snow stretching down the incline toward the frozen lake while Tobias angled himself so he had his back to the wall and a good view of the room.
After the coffee’d been poured and we’d placed our orders to a younger version of Frida, likely a granddaughter, Tobias leaned forward and studied me as if I had something written across my forehead. “I see you got married,” he said finally. “Word was you became a doctor and moved to Toronto or somewhere up in the wilds of Canada.”
“Ottawa, actually. I married a businessman named Sam Cleary. We met through a friend when I was visiting her in New York City. My name’s Maja Cleary now.”
“He’s Canadian?”
“Yup.”
“So you took his name and followed him to Ott ee wa. Never been there myself. Would you recommend it as a place to end up?”
“You’d probably miss the lake. We have rivers but nothing like Superior.” I took a sip of coffee and set down my mug. “What about you? Did you ever leave Duved Cove?”
“I worked in Duluth for a few years, got married, had a kid, divorced and moved back here.”
“Do I know who you married?”
“Lindsey Schnerring. You might remember her. She was a year behind us in school.”
“Wasn’t she a cheerleader?”
“Yeah, that’d be her.” Tobias stopped talking and took a sip of coffee. He set the cup down. “I’m thinking about heading to Florida soon.”
“A transfer?”
“Sure. I’m getting tired of these winters and the snow. I want to try out beaches and heat for a bit.”
“Are there many from our high school still living around here?” I asked. I would never ask directly about the one person I craved to know about. When I’d turned my back on Duved Cove twenty years earlier, I’d never said Billy Okwari’s name again, not even to Jonas.
“Quite a few left from our class. Your buddy, Katherine Lingstrom, she married a dentist and moved to Madison. Her mom still lives in that house on Strathcona near your dad’s place. Do you keep in touch?”
I shook my head.
“Too bad. You two were joined at the hip all through school— and pretty nice hips at that. I guess time and distance can end any relationship.”
“I’m glad she’s doing so well.” I ignored his comment.
“Of course, your brother is still here. He’s got a few buddies in town from his original gang. Adrian and Fish. They’re both working at the mill.”
“Jonas mentioned Becky Holmes is working in the hospital.”
“She’s Becky Wilders now. There’s probably lots of people still around who you’d recognize, although we’ve aged enough that we’re all starting to look like our parents.”
I tried to hide my disappointment. Billy Okwari had been in our class at school but had been quiet and kept to himself—I’d say invisible to almost everyone else. It had taken me some time to realize he’d wanted it that way. No wonder Tobias didn’t give me any news of Billy now.
Our breakfasts arrived, and we ate without talking. I wasn’t as hungry as I’d thought. The eggs acquired a rubbery consistency as they cooled, and I knew they’d come out of a package. I put down my fork and looked at Tobias. “So what do you know about my father’s death? Have you any idea who killed him...or why?”
Tobias chewed on a piece of toast and waved the crust at my plate. He talked with his mouth full. “Should have warned you against the scrambled. If you want real eggs, you have to have fried or poached.” He looked around the room as if it held the answers. “Can’t tell you much about who’d want to kill your father,” he said before taking a swallow of coffee. “Your dad was well liked. He’d recently notified U.S. Customs that he’d be cutting back his hours to part-time, which doesn’t mean
