KILLER INSTINCT
I wanted to strangle the old man—if he didn’t kill me first.
“The only good wolf is a dead wolf,” he said, his nose pointed at me like a bayonet. “Shoot ’em all, every last one of ’em.”
The sun was barely peeking over the tips of Superior National Forest and already I had riled up one of the locals. The only thing on my mind had been keeping my sleep-deprived eyes open long enough to pay Signe Amunson for a coffee and bran muffin, when the old geezer bulldozed into our conversation.
He hobbled closer, displaying an overcrowded mouth of yellow teeth. “Nothin’ but varmints. Worthless murdering scavengers. We got rid of them in the old country. We should do it here, too!”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
The old man’s flannel shirt hung like limp laundry on a wire hanger, as if he had once been a more robust man. Stooped and worn, life in the North Country had obviously been hard on him. I should have felt some pity, or at least a little respect for my elders. Instead, I wanted to mount his grizzly old head on the wall with the rest of the hunting trophies hanging in Last Chance Outfitters.
Thankfully, the store had few shoppers this early and no one else to witness the steam geysering out my ears. I had been listening to this man’s diatribe for the last ten minutes and was about to blow. For the moment, I struggled to hold on to my temper and politely ignored the old codger’s spittle sprinkling my jacket. With the Minnesota Valley Zoo logo stitched into the pocket, anything I said in anger might tarnish the reputation of the zoo.
He jabbed at me with a chicken bone of a finger. “You’re cryin’ boo-hoo because a few damned wolves got shot. Hell, whoever killed ’em ought to get a medal.”
“Ivar Bjorklund.” Signe rebuked him in a voice that could freeze molten lava. It drew a raised eyebrow from the other. “This young lady is a guest in our town—and a customer in my store—so I’ll thank you not to harass her.”
“Harass her? What about me? Them devils been harassing me for months!” His rheumy eyes bristled at me from beneath wiry, stark white eyebrows, as if I were personally responsible for his troubles.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t understand. Are you saying you’re having trouble with wolves?”
Okay . . .
I’m not at my best before my first cup of coffee, and two nights of tossing and turning on Gina’s lumpy couch hadn’t made me any friendlier. Last night had been particularly hard, knowing this morning I’d be part of the team investigating the suspicious deaths of four wolves found in the woods just outside Wolf Lake. Still, I managed to count to ten. And took several deep breaths. It was past time to disarm the old fart. I deal with the uninformed, opinionated public all the time, so I knew how to be diplomatic.
I flashed him my sweetest, suck-up-to-the-donating-zoo-patrons smile and, with the same tone of voice I used when addressing children that don’t know any better, introduced myself.
“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Lavender Jones.” I wasn’t about to give this grumpy old coot any more ammunition by telling him everyone called me Snake. Snake? What the hell kind of name is that for a girl?
Bjorklund eyed my extended hand as if it were covered in hippopotamus poo. “I bet you’re one of them damned SOS tree huggers, aren’t you? We don’t need any more of you goodie-two-boots up here. I heard what you said to Signe. You’re here for them dead wolves those students found. You care more about them mangy four-legged varmints than honest, hard-working taxpayers. Whoever killed them wolves should’ve saved some ammo for the likes of you!”
“Ivar Bjorklund, that’s enough!” Signe’s hand slammed down on the wooden counter behind me, rattling the coins in her ancient cash register. The menace in her eye was as sharp as the hunting knives in the display rack next to her.
I squared my shoulders. A good cause was every bit as eye opening as a jolt of a double latte. I’d had a little too much of this old man’s ignorant rhetoric this morning and was more than willing to let him have it with both barrels—
“Mr. Bjorklund.” Gina jumped out from an aisle of Quetico backpacks she’d been lurking behind. No doubt enjoying my discomfort.
A small woman with long auburn hair, she placed her shapely frame between Bjorklund and me, where she stood her ground like a bull terrier up against an ornery steer. “You know who I am? Gina Brown from the wolf institute.” Her commanding voice belied the sweet softness of her face. I tried to move around her, but she put a hand out to stop me. This is the way it had been in college: me putting my foot in my mouth and Gina coming to the rescue. Her timing was better these days. This time she stopped me before I could taste shoe leather.
“I know who you are, Flicka,” the old man answered, eyes narrowing into watery slits.
“Then you know if you’ve got a problem with the wolves, you talk to me. Don’t take it out on my friend. She’s doesn’t work at the institute.”
Confused, Bjorklund jerked a thumb at my khaki jacket.
Gina shook her head. “That’s not one of our uniforms. She works for the zoo down in Apple Valley. She’s here to film Zoofari.” When the blank stare came, Gina added, “The wildlife series? Sunday night? Channel three?” She indicated my arm patch, hoping the visual aid would jog a response.
Ivar Bjorklund snorted. “From the Cities? Ain’t that just wonderful.” Meaning, of course, it wasn’t. “Last thing we need is some fancy-ass six-one-two-er sticking her nose in our business.”
“Enough!” Signe barreled around the counter, her ample breasts jutting out like a pair of targeted torpedoes. Easily she had fifty pounds on him and was just as tall. “This is my store and I won’t let you treat a customer like that. I thought you had better manners Ivar Magnus Bjorklund.” She planted her hands on her sturdy hips. “Lily would be ashamed of you.”
At the mention of Lily, the old man wilted. I’d seen basset hounds with happier faces.
Gina tugged on my arm and yanked me into an aisle filled with Gore-Tex gear. “You got yourself in the middle of a firestorm that time.”
“I could have handled it.”
Gina snorted. “Yeah, like a rattlesnake. You were poised for the kill.”
I didn’t argue the point. Maybe it was just as well. I wasn’t just representing the zoo but also Zoofari. Bad publicity would reflect on the show. And that mattered too much. Jeff and I had put a second mortgage on our home and sold off other assets to make the little zoo series our own. Which was why I was in Wolf Lake, scouting locations for our next episode. Headlines that read Snake Jones Attacks Senior Citizen wouldn’t have gone far toward signing up the ever-important sponsors we needed. Although they might have gotten me a stint on The Jerry Springer Show.
“What was that crack about six-one-two-ers?” I asked, sneaking another peek at Bjorklund, who was getting a harsh dressing-down from Signe.
“Remember when Minneapolis and St. Paul were still under the six-one-two area code? Calling you a six-one-two-er is an old Wolf Lake slam.” Her sly smile left me with the impression she was guilty of using the slur herself. I smiled back thinly, willing myself to relax and take my internal warning system off full battle stations alert. It was kind of funny. I had wanted some local color. Just got a bit more than I had bargained for. I prided myself on being a pleasant, easy person to be with, not some crazy woman out to slap up angry old geezers.
“What was that about SOS?” I asked.
She lifted her shoulders. “Some eco-cranks leaving notes on people’s doors. Call themselves Stewards of Superior.” She offered me a sympathetic sigh. “You must have sucky karma. The crankiest guy in St. Louis County, and you find him. It’s not usually this exciting around here, y’know.”
I did know. As the gateway to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, Wolf Lake, Minnesota, was one of the crown jewels in the national park system. Dad used to rent a cabin on Burntside Lake, just northwest of town, for a week each July. With no hot running water or indoor plumbing, it hadn’t been Mom’s favorite vacation spot. So it was Dad’s week with the kids while she stayed home to sanitize the house in peace and quiet. Like all tourist economies, Wolf Lake catered to its visitors. Signe’s Last Chance Outfitters offered camping supplies, clothing, fishing gear, maps, and souvenirs to the curious and the ill prepared. Amid the birch wood wainscoting, rustic pine floorboards, and bodiless animal trophies mounted overhead, she had installed a convenient little grocery and coffee bar. These touches, coupled by her Mother Earth personality, made Signe’s a sought-after comfort zone...
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