The wind whistled. The day was full of clouds with a hint of rain. Seth Tryton stood at the top of Palisade Head, staring at whitecaps that splashed across Lake Superior. He walked with trepidation to the three-foot tall rock wall lining the edge of the cliff and looked over the edge to the rocks and water a hundred-seventy feet below. He shivered. The Fedora blew from his head, rolling across the rock and grass before it stopped at the feet of a man sharing the view.
“Gotchya,” said the stranger. He plucked it from the ground and stepped toward Tryton, holding the hat in an outstretched hand.
“Thought I lost it for a moment, there,” Tryton said, planting the hat back on his head. “Thanks for catching it.”
The stranger was a little younger than Tryton, probably fifty something, and short: probably no taller than five-foot seven, a round face with dark, brown hair of medium length, a friendly smile, and a hell of a strong grip.
They decided to sit and visit on two boulders set back from the wall. Seth confessed that he was traveling alone with no spouse, children or grandchildren accompanying him. He was there for a holiday, he said, just to relax and enjoy the North Shore of Minnesota.
“I actually live near here,” said Peter Karonen. “Up near Finland.” Tryton cocked his head a little. Karonen acknowledged the questioning look and said, “It’s a little town inland, not far from Silver Bay. I come up here often just to look out across the lake. It always makes me feel alive when I stand—or sit, with the breeze in my face, a memory in my heart… and drink in that.” He nodded toward the lake. “Sometimes it’s rough like today, and other times it’s as smooth as a whore’s ass. It’s like no other place in Minnesota.”
Tryton chuckled at the reference to the whore’s ass. He’d known a few in his day—long ago. But he still cherished the memories. They talked on for a while, getting more acquainted, enjoying each other’s company. Karonen stood, signaling an end to the conversation and began the short walk to his nearby truck. Tryton followed and opened his car door.
“Hey, if you want to follow me to my place I’ll give you a beer, whiskey, or whatever and I can tell you about some great, out of the way places to visit around here.”
Tryton only hesitated a moment before accepting the offer. He followed Karonen’s truck to Finland.
Gerald Hodges was drying the dishes when his phone rang. He picked up on the third ring.
“Gerry?” the voice asked. Hodges recognized Earl Mancoat’s voice.
“I’m sorry,” he lied. “There is no Gerald here. You have the wrong number.” He started to hang up.
“No, Gerry, don’t hang up. It’s Earl, Earl Mancoat. We gotta talk. Seth Tryton’s missing, maybe killed, maybe murdered.”
The words froze in Hodge’s brain. Seth, dead? He brought the phone nearer his better ear.
“I’m listening,” he said.
