Cold Hunter's Moon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  MONDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 20, 2000–THE RANSONS

  MONDAY AFTERNOON - NOVEMBER 20—THE RANSONS

  MONDAY AFTERNOON - NOVEMBER 20–SWENSON

  MONDAY EVENING - NOVEMBER 20—THE RANSONS

  TUESDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 21–THE RANSONS

  TUESDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 21–THE SEARCH

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON - NOVEMBER 21–THE RANSONS

  TUESDAY EVENING - NOVEMBER 21—THE CRIME SCENE

  WEDNESDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 22—SWENSON

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON - NOVEMBER 22—THE RANSOMS

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON - NOVEMBER 22—SWENSON

  WEDNESDAY EVENING - NOVEMBER 22—SWENSON

  WEDNESDAY EVENING - NOVEMBER 22—RHINELANDER

  THURSDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 23—ANN RANSON

  THURSDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 23—SWENSON

  THURSDAY MORNING- - NOVEMBER 23—JOHN RANSON

  THURSDAY AFTERNOON - NOVEMBER 23—ANN RANSON

  THURSDAY AFTERNOON - NOVEMBER 23—SWENSON

  THURSDAY EVENING - NOVEMBER 23—SWENSON

  FRIDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 24—SWENSON

  FRIDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 24—ANN RANSOM

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON - NOVEMBER 24—SWENSON

  FRIDAY EVENING - NOVEMBER 24—THE HOSPITAL

  SATURDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 25—ANN RANSOM

  SATURDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 25—SWENSON

  SATURDAY EVENING - NOVEMBER 25—SWENSON

  SUNDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 26—SWENSON

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON - NOVEMBER 26—SWENSON

  SUNDAY EVENING - NOVEMBER 26—SWENSON

  MONDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 27—SWENSON

  MONDAY AFTERNOON - NOVEMBER 27—SWENSON

  TUESDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 28—SWENSON

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON - NOVEMBER 28—SWENSON

  TUESDAY EVENING - NOVEMBER 28—SWENSON

  WEDNESDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 29—SWENSON

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON - NOVEMBER 29—SWENSON

  THURSDAY MORNING - NOVEMBER 30—SWENSON

  THURSDAY EVENING - NOVEMBER 30—SWENSON

  FRIDAY MORNING - DECEMBER 1—SWENSON

  SATURDAY MORNING - DECEMBER 2—RANSONS

  SUNDAY MORNING - DECEMBER 3—THE RANSONS

  CLOSURE

  EPILOG—DECEMBER 31

  Copyright Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I cannot possibly thank all the writers who have inspired me to finally write a book of my own. I can thank several bookstore owners who have nourished my interests in mysteries and overflowed my house with books. They include Mary Helen Becker, former owner of Booked for Murder in Madison, Wisconsin; Richard Katz of Murder One, Milwaukee, Wisconsin; Kate Mattes of Kate’s Mystery Books, Cambridge, Massachusetts; Barbara Peters of The Poisoned Pen, Scottsdale, Arizona; and Tom and Enid Schantz of The Rue Morgue, Boulder, Colorado.

  I am blessed with many friends who have encouraged me throughout this process, including: Debra, Alice Ann. Susan, Mary Kay. Connie, and Patsy. A million thanks.

  Dan and Rick, you are the best brothers any girl could have. Thank you for supporting this project from the start. Zane, never quit writing.

  A first-time writer needs help—at least this first-time writer did. Barbara Steiner, what a phenomenal teacher and manuscript editor you are. Carin Siegfried, you have been a delight to work with. Thank you for all the time you spent with me and for your superb editorial insights.

  Last but not least, my husband, Roger. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. You can’t help it if you read only nonfiction. Remember our bet!

  PROLOGUE

  What they say is true. When you’re freezing to death you don’t feel cold. She was lying in the snow watching her breath float up above her in frosty clouds and all she felt was very, very sleepy She had done what she’d seen animals do in deep snow—burrow down into it. Snow is a good insulator but she knew it wouldn’t work forever.

  A bright, almost fluorescent, full moon lit up the dark cloudy sky off to her right. From the moon’s position she figured it was either nine at night or three in the morning. Stars were everywhere, scattered amongst gray blots of clouds. The moon’s reflection on the snow-covered ground created a ghostly light show all around her. Bare branches and huge tree trunks reached up towards the moonlight, casting strange shadows on the sparkling snow. When the wind blew, the trees and their shadows swayed back and forth ominously. The eerie whistling of the wind whipping through the trees should have already scared her to death, but she had always loved the sound of wind.

  A helicopter flew over. She saw red and blue lights winking their way across the sky, and for a moment got excited that it was coming for her. With tears freezing on her cheeks, she watched the lights fade into the distance.

  She yelled for help again, but her voice was so hoarse that she wasn’t sure anyone could hear her. She had never wanted to go to sleep as badly as she did right now but she knew if she did, she was dead. If she got up and walked maybe she could stay awake … stay alive.

  She grabbed the dead tree limb she had used as a walking stick the last time she fell and jammed it down into the snow close to her left hip. She slid her left foot up underneath her and struggled up on her leg. The stick snapped and she stepped down on her right leg. She toppled to the ground, screaming as excruciating pain shot up her right leg. Her right arm hit the ground and the pain that shot through it put an end to her hopes that it was just sprained. She gave up and burrowed herself another hole in the snow drifted around a fallen tree. As she curled up in her makeshift igloo, she began to think about God.

  When you lose hope, you lose everything, but she couldn’t help feeling like there wasn’t much hope for her. She wasn’t one to pray for things. She had always believed that God helps those who help themselves. With all the poor, helpless people in the world, she had always felt like it wasn’t right for her to beg God for help. She knew now that she wasn’t going to get out of this without divine intervention. Sobbing with fear, she closed her eyes and began to pray.

  She didn’t know when she drifted off but she roused when something began tugging at the scarf around her neck. She heard a growl and thought about the wolves living in the area. The last thing she remembered was trying to bat the animals away from her face, and wondering if she was dreaming since she knew wolves didn’t attack people.

  MONDAY MORNING

  NOVEMBER 20, 2000–THE RANSONS

  Just as Ann drifted into a marvelous dream, the gunshot went off. She rolled over and dropped her feet to the floor just as two hundred pounds of dog slammed into her, knocking her back on the bed. Then she remembered she was in the middle of hell week, otherwise known as deer hunting season in northern Wisconsin.

  “Get off me, you beasts,” she yelled, struggling to see her alarm clock. She couldn’t believe it was only 5:45 A.M. Surely it was a sin to be up this early, unless you hadn’t gone to bed yet. In the midst of trying to kick the dogs off and gather enough covers to crawl back under, she heard footsteps on the stairs. She groaned and gave up any thought of getting back into her dream.

  “Off,” commanded a deep male voice, just as the ceiling light went on. All three dogs jumped off the bed and sat demurely at his feet.

  “What is going on up here?” John asked, as he bent down to pick up Sheba, a black Schipperke, and pet the two golden retrievers. “Between the gunshots outside and the noise up here, it sounds like an invasion.”

  “I could swear that gun went off right in this room, so surely it must have been on our property.” Ann yawned as she crawled out of bed and staggered to the sliding glass doors leading to t
he deck. She squinted, trying to see into the woods bordering their backyard. In a couple of weeks a full moon would reflect on the snow and make the woods come alive with light. Now it was moonless and pitch dark outside.

  “It wasn’t on our property but it was very close,” John said, as he walked up behind Ann and wrapped his arms around her.

  Meanwhile, the dogs took turns crowding each other to stand in front of the door and look out into the woods. Suddenly Duke, the oldest and biggest golden retriever, growled and lunged at the glass. Two more gunshots went off, seemingly in the next room.

  Ann stumbled back to bed and crawled under the covers. “John, please go away and let me die in peace. And take these devil dogs with you,” she said, trying to kick the dogs off the bed.

  Ann swore she had just put her head on the pillow when her alarm went off at 9:30. She got up and went to look out the sliding glass door. The sun was shining on ten inches of new fallen snow. The thermometer hanging off the side of the house read five below zero. Weather reports had predicted nightly lows below zero for the rest of the week.

  Ann grabbed her binoculars and scanned the woods and lake. She didn’t see any blaze orange but she did hear gunshots every few minutes. Satisfied that they weren’t being personally invaded, she headed for the bathroom just as the phone rang. No rest, even on vacation, she thought as she picked it up.

  “Ann, I put the dogs in the garage. Don’t forget and let them outside,” John said.

  “I knew it was too quiet in here.”

  “Can you do me a favor?” he asked, shouting to be heard over the construction noise.

  “Sure.”

  “When I pulled out of the driveway this morning I saw something bright red lying up by the pond. I think it may be a deer part. Would you run up and get it before the dogs drag it all over the yard? God knows, they don’t need to get any dirtier than they normally do.”

  “Sure. I need the exercise so I’ll get out there in the next hour.” They hung up after planning lunch for 12:30.

  She hustled into the bathroom to get dressed, wondering what the dogs had dragged in. It wasn’t unusual for them to drag in part of a deer carcass this time of year. Ann looked in the mirror and realized that while John was off on his construction site she was facing her own remodeling project. In the movies women always look like they have their makeup on and every hair in place when they get up. Her dark blonde hair was standing straight up on top of her head and smashed in on the sides. How could someone with absolutely no body in her straight, fine hair look like Don King first thing in the morning? She did her usual war paint, put a curling iron on the ends of her shoulder-length hair, and brushed it out. The mirror didn’t crack, so she sprayed her hair and called it good.

  On good days, after a week of sacrifice, Ann wore size 8 bottoms and size 12 tops. This was not a good week, so she headed to the size 12 section of the closet. Even so, she thought she should get a Congressional Medal of Honor for fighting the battle of the bulge every day of her life.

  She pulled on jeans and sweatpants, two sweatshirts, and two pairs of socks and went downstairs. Northern Wisconsin winters are serious business. With at least sixteen inches of snow on the ground, below zero temperatures, and a brisk wind, it’s possible to get incapacitated and freeze to death in just a few hours.

  Ann put on boots and a red hooded parka. She wrapped a scarf around her face, leaving only her eyes uncovered. She stuffed a couple of trash bags into her coat pockets, pulled on thermal glove liners and a pair of heavy mittens, and headed outside.

  As she hiked up the driveway towards the pond, she marveled at the beauty surrounding her. The snow John had bladed out of the driveway was heaped into three-foot piles lining the drive. The piles were the beginnings of the eight-foot snow tunnels they would be driving through by the end of March. It was one of those mornings when the snow seemed to stick to every tree branch, making the woods look like a winter wonderland. Except for the occasional gunshot in the distance and the wind in the trees, it was very quiet.

  As Ann got closer to the pond, it was obvious that the dogs had been running all over this area. It didn’t take her long to see something partially covered with snow near the pond. It was bright red, which made her wonder what it was. Blood didn’t stay that red, even in cold weather. She pulled out a trash bag as she crunched through snowdrifts up to her knees to examine the thing.

  Ann breathed a sigh of relief when she found nothing more than a shiny red rubber snow boot. As she stooped down to examine it, she wondered how someone lost a boot out in the middle of nowhere. She picked it up and noticed how heavy it was. Ann shook some rubbish out of the boot and bent down to inspect the clumps of brown soggy leaves and grayish white twigs that fell out. She yelled and startled back when a clump of leaves moved. A mouse, obviously scared to death, scrambled out from under the pile of leaf muck and scampered across the snow as she tried to maintain her balance.

  Ann ended up on her butt in the snow with her hand buried in the muck from the boot. Silently admonishing herself for clumsiness, she got to her feet and shook the snow and leaf muck off her mittens. She bent down to brush away the twigs clinging to her sweatpants. Gasping, she stooped down to get a better look. The twigs looked just like the bones from a foot. She sifted frantically through the snow to find the rest of the twigs, or bones, or whatever they were, and pulled out what looked like a partially intact skeleton of a foot. In shock, she sat back on her heels and, for the second time, found herself on her ass in the snow.

  Despite the cold, Ann felt warm and clammy Sweat rivulets ran down her back and it felt like Krakatowa had migrated to her gut, prepared to explode. She scooped up the debris and the boot, wrapped them in the trash bag, and began walking home. If she had a boot and it had part of a foot in it, then it must be a human foot. If that were true, then where was the rest of the person? How did it get into her yard? She stopped and leaned up against a tree trunk, trying to focus and pull herself together.

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  NOVEMBER 20—THE RANSONS

  A cacophony of barking greeted Ann as she entered her mudroom. She dumped the boot on the washer and got out of her wet outer clothes. The answering machine light was flashing, but she ignored it and ran upstairs to put on fresh jeans and a sweatshirt. She couldn’t seem to get warm. Her mind was going a mile a minute trying to figure out what she should do about the boot.

  She came back downstairs and listened to the calls on the answering machine. The director of nursing filled her in on yesterday’s admissions and discharges and told her to enjoy her two weeks off. Ann was shocked to hear they had done five helicopter transfers in the last twenty-four hours. The second message was from John, asking her to have Gus Lowery’s railroad lantern and pottery ready when he came home for lunch.

  Shrugging off her concerns about the hospital, Ann called the sheriff’s office. The dispatcher listened to her story and said she’d have someone get back to her as soon as possible. Resigned to the waiting game, Ann decided to have a cup of hot chocolate and get Gus’s antiques ready

  She and John had gone to an antique show over the weekend. They were avid collectors and frequented farm auctions where things were sold in box lots. To get the one piece they wanted they usually had to buy a box of things they didn’t collect. They had started selling antiques at the occasional show and many of their friends asked them to look for things they collected. The boxes piled in the family room attested to the fact that they’d found several items.

  Ann unearthed Gus’s box and lugged it to the table in the family room. Before she opened it, she decided to build a fire. Setting up the kindling, the paper, and the logs kept her hands busy but left her mind free to race forward. How long did it take for bones to be picked clean? How long would bones last when they were exposed? Where was the rest of the body? Once the fire was started she settled down to unpack the box.

  The dogs, as usual, acted as an early warning system. Ann got to the front
door just as a large, black-gloved hand reached past the sidelight to ring the doorbell. She opened the door smiling, expecting one of the deputies she knew. The guy standing on her porch was not someone she had met before.

  “Hello Mrs. Ranson, I’m Sheriff Lark Swenson,” he said in a deep voice as he pulled off his gloves and stuck out his hand. “I’m here to take a look at the boot you found.”

  In the mystery novels Ann read there didn’t seem to be any middle ground for sheriffs. They were either dense and hard on the eyes or, if the lead character was a single woman, they were drop-dead gorgeous and unmarried. In real life the few police she’d met were average looking. Of course, she’d always met them bent towards the window of her car as they gave her a speeding ticket.

  This guy was about six-foot-four with broad shoulders and a well-built frame. Dark wavy hair set off a tanned face and startling light blue eyes. He reminded her of a taller, darker, and, if possible, more handsome Mel Gibson. Even Ann, married to a man she adored, couldn’t resist a sneak peak at his ring finger. She mentally thanked the goddess of curling irons and cosmetics that she’d bothered to pull herself together this morning.

  “This is the Ranson place, isn’t it?” His eyes glanced over Ann’s face as she stood mute in the doorway

  “Ah … yes, it is,” Ann stammered, ushering him inside. “I think I missed your name.”

  The sheriff stepped into the foyer and took off his topcoat. Ann hung it in the entry closet as he sat down on the bench to take off his boots.

  “Most people don’t catch it the first time. My name is Lark, like Mark, only with an ‘L’. Lark Swenson.”

  Ann wondered who in their right mind would name their child Lark. She looked into his eyes and couldn’t keep a straight face. Unfortunately, one of her least intelligent stress reactions was hysterical laughter. The remains of a human foot in her laundry room, coupled with the surprise of this guy’s name, struck all at once. Ann bent over and started laughing and crying at the same time.

  The sheriff stood up and took her arm. “Mrs. Ranson, are you all right? Why don’t we sit down.”