Page 2 of The Girl from Devil's Lake

“It’s Roper—Steve Roper.”

“All right,” the operator said. “I’m contacting the sheriff’s department right now. It was smart of you to call for help.”

Steve went back outside and rode his bike out to the county road so he could wave down the cops when they arrived twenty minutes later. A lone deputy showed up first followed by a speeding ambulance. The deputy checked Grandma Lucille’s wrist for a pulse and then shook his head at the arriving ambulance attendant. Then he stood up and walked over to Steve.

“I’m Deputy Dan Hogan with the Polk County Sheriff’s Department,” he said. “You’re the one who called it in?”

Steve nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“Steve Roper.”

“What happened?”

Steve shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. When I came home from school she was just lying there. Is she going to be okay?”

The deputy shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Steve.”

“You mean she’s dead?”

The deputy nodded.

Steve knew he couldn’t show what he was really feeling. That would give the game away. So he dropped heavily to the ground where he buried his face in his hands. “That’s awful,” he mumbled.

“Yes, it is,” the deputy said, pulling out a small notebook. “Who all lives here?”

“Grandpa and her live in the house. Mom and I live in the trailer out back.”

“Where are they now?”

“Mom’s still at work. She’s a waitress at the Country Inn in Fertile. Grandpa’s in town getting his tractor fixed. Grandma looks after me once school gets out until Mom gets home.”

“Your grandpa’s Orson Hawkins?”

Steve nodded.

“And the tractor’s being fixed where—Cooper’s Tractor Repair in Fertile?”

Steve nodded again.

Deputy Hogan closed his notebook. “Okay, Steve,” he said. “Why don’t you come have a seat in my patrol car while I see what I can do to get ahold of your folks.”

What happened after that was a flurry of activity. For a while, cops were all over the place. Detectives came, and so did the coroner. After that Deputy Hogan took Steve to the sheriff’s office in town where they had him tell his story again and again. Eventually they took his shoes away because they wanted to see if the soles matched the bloody footprints they had found in the kitchen.

Finally, Mom and Steve were able to go back to their mobile, but Gramps, after being questioned by the detective, had to stay in a motel in town for almost a week because his house was considered a crime scene. But much later, that first night, Steve’s mother came into his room to tell him good night.

“Are you sorry she’s gone?” Steve asked.

His mother sighed. “Not really,” she said. “I never liked her much, but I’d never say that to Gramps. She was good to him. Now go to sleep. I’m going outside to have a smoke.”

That had been one of Grandma Lucille’s rules—no smoking inside the house. Steve’s mother smoked like a fiend. Her brand was Lucky Strikes. Gramps smoked cigars—Montecristos. After supper in the evenings, the two of them would sit outside on the steps or, in the winter, on the sunporch to enjoy their smokes. And every year without fail, for Christmas, Steve’s mother had given Gramps a box of Montecristo cigars.

The year Steve turned five, Gramps had handed him one of his empty cigar boxes. “Every little boy should have one of these,” Gramps had said.

“How come?” Steve had asked.

“To hold your treasures,” Gramps had answered.