She and Burman walked to the small, dark outbuilding.
“Nothing here but wood,” Natalie said after flashing her light around the inside of the little building. “What about the lean-to on the barn? Can we have a look in there?”
“Sure, look away.”
The trio walked over to the lean-to. Burman pulled open the door. The hinges squeaked.
Natalie flashed her light around the lean-to and spotted two skinned animals hanging from a crosspiece.
“Well, well,” Natalie said. “What have we here?”
“Couple of dead goats. Ain’t no law against butchering your own goats, is there?” Burman said. He tugged on his dirty cap.
Natalie and the sheriff walked close to the carcasses. They saw a couple of fresh goat hides on the floor, along with the severed heads.
“Yeah, they’re goats all right,” said the sheriff.
“Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Burman,” Natalie said. “We’re doing a little checking. Heard there had been some deer poaching going on in these parts.”
“Figured that’s what you were lookin’ for. You satisfied now?”
“Thank you, Mr. Burman. You’ve been most cooperative. Good night, now.”
Natalie and the Sheriff climbed back in her pickup, and she drove out the Burman driveway.
“Somebody must have tipped him off,” Natalie said. She pounded her hand on the steering wheel. “Wonder who that could have been? Nobody knew I suspected Burman except maybe that reporter from the Farm Country News . He said he’d been out here earlier today and saw Burman cutting up some meat. That reporter, his name was Josh Wittmore, didn’t say anything about seeing a couple of goats hanging.” She pounded her hand on the steering wheel again.
“Damn,” she said.
The sheriff, with the hint of a smile on his face, said nothing.
7. Tamarack River Ghost
Oscar Anderson and Fred Russo stood on the banks of Tamarack River at the former Ira Osborne Commemorative Park, now known simply as the Tamarack River Park. It was a warm, sunny October day. The maples were showing off their fall colors, deep reds mixed in with a few yellows. The oaks on the higher ground above the river were just beginning to show their fall colors—browns and quiet reds. The sky was a deep blue with no hint of cloud or haze.
Fall rains had increased the river level a little, but not much.
“Well, whaddya expect we’ll catch today?” asked Oscar as he tossed his jointed fishing lure out into the river and began slowly cranking the handle of his spinning rod.
“What was that you said?” asked Fred.
“Fish, what kinda fish we gonna catch today?”
The river was a bit noisy in front of the park; a rocky rapids stirred up the current.
“Yup, think you’re right about that,” answered Fred.
“Right about what?”
“What you just said.”
“All I said was ‘What kinda fish you think we’re gonna catch?’”
“Hell, I don’t know what kinda fish we’ll catch. We’ll be lucky if we catch anything,” said Fred. He was concentrating on his bobber, which had floated off into a little pool of still water where the river made a turn by the park. Fred liked to fish with worms and a bobber every chance he got. He let his friend fuss with fancy stuff, the bright-colored lures with hooks hanging everywhere, and the fancy Daiwa fishing rod and reel hiskids gave him for Christmas last year. Fred used an old Shakespeare Rod and Johnson reel he bought thirty years ago. He saw no need to replace what he had as long as it worked, and it worked just fine.
As the sun climbed higher, the day warmed and the fall colors became even more intense.
The two old men sat staring into the water, dozing in the warm sun.
“Say Oscar, I’ve been thinking about the old ghost that lives on this river.”
“Why?”
“’Cause that’s what I’m thinking about.”
“I probably know more about that ghost than you do,” said Oscar. Each year Oscar Anderson, at the opening ceremonies for the Tamarack River Winter Festival,
“Nothing here but wood,” Natalie said after flashing her light around the inside of the little building. “What about the lean-to on the barn? Can we have a look in there?”
“Sure, look away.”
The trio walked over to the lean-to. Burman pulled open the door. The hinges squeaked.
Natalie flashed her light around the lean-to and spotted two skinned animals hanging from a crosspiece.
“Well, well,” Natalie said. “What have we here?”
“Couple of dead goats. Ain’t no law against butchering your own goats, is there?” Burman said. He tugged on his dirty cap.
Natalie and the sheriff walked close to the carcasses. They saw a couple of fresh goat hides on the floor, along with the severed heads.
“Yeah, they’re goats all right,” said the sheriff.
“Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Burman,” Natalie said. “We’re doing a little checking. Heard there had been some deer poaching going on in these parts.”
“Figured that’s what you were lookin’ for. You satisfied now?”
“Thank you, Mr. Burman. You’ve been most cooperative. Good night, now.”
Natalie and the Sheriff climbed back in her pickup, and she drove out the Burman driveway.
“Somebody must have tipped him off,” Natalie said. She pounded her hand on the steering wheel. “Wonder who that could have been? Nobody knew I suspected Burman except maybe that reporter from the Farm Country News . He said he’d been out here earlier today and saw Burman cutting up some meat. That reporter, his name was Josh Wittmore, didn’t say anything about seeing a couple of goats hanging.” She pounded her hand on the steering wheel again.
“Damn,” she said.
The sheriff, with the hint of a smile on his face, said nothing.
7. Tamarack River Ghost
Oscar Anderson and Fred Russo stood on the banks of Tamarack River at the former Ira Osborne Commemorative Park, now known simply as the Tamarack River Park. It was a warm, sunny October day. The maples were showing off their fall colors, deep reds mixed in with a few yellows. The oaks on the higher ground above the river were just beginning to show their fall colors—browns and quiet reds. The sky was a deep blue with no hint of cloud or haze.
Fall rains had increased the river level a little, but not much.
“Well, whaddya expect we’ll catch today?” asked Oscar as he tossed his jointed fishing lure out into the river and began slowly cranking the handle of his spinning rod.
“What was that you said?” asked Fred.
“Fish, what kinda fish we gonna catch today?”
The river was a bit noisy in front of the park; a rocky rapids stirred up the current.
“Yup, think you’re right about that,” answered Fred.
“Right about what?”
“What you just said.”
“All I said was ‘What kinda fish you think we’re gonna catch?’”
“Hell, I don’t know what kinda fish we’ll catch. We’ll be lucky if we catch anything,” said Fred. He was concentrating on his bobber, which had floated off into a little pool of still water where the river made a turn by the park. Fred liked to fish with worms and a bobber every chance he got. He let his friend fuss with fancy stuff, the bright-colored lures with hooks hanging everywhere, and the fancy Daiwa fishing rod and reel hiskids gave him for Christmas last year. Fred used an old Shakespeare Rod and Johnson reel he bought thirty years ago. He saw no need to replace what he had as long as it worked, and it worked just fine.
As the sun climbed higher, the day warmed and the fall colors became even more intense.
The two old men sat staring into the water, dozing in the warm sun.
“Say Oscar, I’ve been thinking about the old ghost that lives on this river.”
“Why?”
“’Cause that’s what I’m thinking about.”
“I probably know more about that ghost than you do,” said Oscar. Each year Oscar Anderson, at the opening ceremonies for the Tamarack River Winter Festival,
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