Chapter 5 Cosi #2
“Your father went fishing that morning in October. It was cold, but we didn’t have snow yet.
Certainly no ice on the lake to prohibit him from taking the boat.
One of the neighbors, Robert Aaron, was out that morning too.
They crossed paths on the water. They didn’t see each other again.
Robert went home before lunch. His wife was making goose and cornflake casserole.
His favorite. He didn’t want to be late. ”
Ilsa nodded, her fingers threading on her lap. “Was Dad alone?”
“Yes. Robert said Ike was alone. And it was Robert who spotted your dad’s empty boat later that day.
He called the station. I went up with three of my deputies and we recovered his body.
I hauled in his boat myself. There was a sharp metal edge on the hull.
And an anchor rope on the floor beneath his seat, likely what he tripped on. ”
Ike must have gotten his feet tangled and, when he’d fallen, hit his head on that sharp edge. I’d found the blood left behind.
Ilsa swallowed hard, her face paling. “Anything else?”
“No.”
I wasn’t just the sheriff. I was also the county coroner and had seen enough injuries and dead bodies to know a head wound like that would have knocked Ike out.
The medical examiner I’d brought in from Helena had found lake water in his lungs and stomach, confirming the ultimate cause of death was drowning.
“Where is his boat?”
“We’ve got a small impound lot outside of town. It’s on a trailer. Covered. You’re welcome to it whenever you’d like.”
She shook her head. “I’d like to sell it.”
Couldn’t blame her for that. In her position, I wouldn’t want it either. “Pamela can help with that, if you’d like. Just talk to her before you leave.”
Ilsa opened her mouth, but closed it before she could speak.
“What?” I asked.
“Dad was . . . acting strange. We didn’t talk often.
Our relationship was . . .” She gave me a sad smile.
“We didn’t talk often. But the last time he called me, something felt off.
He begged for me to visit. He hadn’t done that in years.
About a month before he died, he sent me his will with a note that said he didn’t want a funeral.
He wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered on the island at Cotters in the spring.
Two days after I learned he was gone, a letter arrived in the mail.
He wrote it before he died. I guess I just find it all odd.
Don’t you think? Like he knew he was going to die? ”
“Yes and no. Considering what happened with Donnie, it doesn’t surprise me that Ike was, for lack of a better word, preparing.”
“Donnie?” Ilsa’s eyebrows knitted together. “Who’s Donnie?”
Oh fuck. She didn’t know? I guess she really hadn’t had a great relationship with her father. “Donnie was, um . . . Ike’s friend. Special friend. She died of a sudden heart attack about a year ago. Around Christmas.”
“Special friend.” Ilsa’s mouth parted. “You mean . . . girlfriend.”
“Yes.” They weren’t the kissing-in-public type, but when they walked side by side, he’d have his hand on the small of her back. I’d seen his truck parked outside her place on many occasions.
“Oh.” Ilsa’s exhale was audible. “I had no idea.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think he kept it from you intentionally. Ike seemed like the type to keep personal matters to himself.”
“Personal matters? I’m his daughter.” She stared, unblinking, at her lap for a moment. “Wow. I can’t believe he never told me about her. Especially if she died.”
“It rattled him when she passed. Hard. He seemed to come to town less and less.” And the times he did venture into Dalton, he’d been jumpy and standoffish.
Ike had never been the jovial, chatty type, but he’d become even more withdrawn in his grief.
“My guess is he started to think about his own mortality. Hence him sending you his will and last wishes.”
Ilsa plucked at a tiny fuzz on the fabric of her skirt. “Do you have any idea who might have been outside my house?”
“No.” My answer was the same as it had been last week and the night we’d met. “I still think it was a neighbor.”
“Who didn’t leave any footprints?”
“Could have walked down the road on the tire tracks. Came to the house by the driveway and was poking around. I’m sure they’re all very curious about you.”
“Well, if Dad was as secretive with them as he was with me, then I guess they have cause to be curious.” Her expression tightened before she stood. “Thank you for your time, Sheriff Raynes.”
“Cosi.” Everyone in this town called me by my first name. She should too.
Ilsa opened the door and was gone.
Beyond the threshold, chatter drifted from the bullpen. Pamela’s voice echoed in the hall as she escorted Ilsa out of the station. Hopefully they were talking about that boat.
Ilsa wasn’t the first visitor I’d had in my time as sheriff wanting more information about a loved one’s death, but this was the first time that a feeling of unease crept into my mind when the meeting was over.
The feeling wasn’t doubt. I had no reason to question the investigation. It was more like I wanted to triple-check that all of my ts were crossed and is dotted.
Ike’s death was an accident. I’d been there. I’d seen his body with my own eyes. He might have been reclusive, but he hadn’t had enemies. Who would want to hurt an old man out fishing? For what reason?
None.
I stood from my desk, needing to smell something other than Ilsa’s lingering perfume.
Needing a moment to push the unease away.
With my coffee mug in hand, I went to the break room, refilling my cup.
Then I wandered into the bullpen to check on how things were going with the deputies doing their own paperwork today.
By the time I returned to my office, my cup was nearly empty again. Except that seed of doubt hadn’t vanished. Instead, it was sprouting.
I found Pamela in the filing room, a drawer open as she rifled through folders. “Hey, Pam?”
“Yes?”
“Did Ilsa talk to you about Ike’s boat?”
“She did. I told her I knew someone who might be interested. I’ll make a few calls, see if I can’t help her sell it.”
“Appreciate it.”
“She seems sweet, and with her new in town, I’m happy to help.”
“Yeah.” I frowned, already hating what I was about to ask. “When you get a minute, would you bring me Ike Poe’s file?”
“Sure.” Her forehead furrowed.
Ten minutes later, the file was on my desk, my other paperwork forgotten.
And I was staring at the morbid photographs we’d taken of Ike Poe’s corpse.