Degree of Guilt

After a year of teaching rotten students and dealing with an even more rotten boyfriend in Chicago, Maggie Witkowski wants to enjoy her inheritanceher grandparents lakeside cabin in northern Wisconsin, the idyllic summer retreat of her childhood. As she begins cleaning the neglected cabin, Maggie has no idea that the past is about to catch up with the present in a way she never could have imagined.With most of the cabins heirlooms sold by her mother, Maggie is left with nothing but her memories and a multitude of problems. Worse, the townsfolk who doted on Maggie as a child have branded her grandfather a murderer. And then there is the ghost who suddenly makes his appearance known. Dead since 1963, Larry Denison is helplessly attached to the Witkowski cabin. A rascal during his life, he must now perform a good deed before he can gain entrance to a happy eternity. Unfortunately, Maggie, whom he sees as the pain in his side, is his only way outand up.In this intriguing mystery, a woman defending her grandfathers name must brave insults, pranks, and assaults on her life to find the truth and ensure justicewith the help of a ghost with his own agenda.

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DEGREE OF GUILTBy BARBARA HARKENiUniverse LLCCopyright © 2013 Barbara HarkenAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-9950-1 CHAPTER 1MAGGIE WITKOWSKI'S THINKING WAS PRETTY basic. Any day nobodypissed her off was a good day. That's why those birds were drivingher nuts. She was in idyllic northern Wisconsin, for crying out loud, notsome tacky pet shop on the South Side. She pressed her feet against thegravel, stretched her long legs—they hadn't called her Maypole Maggiefor nothing when she was a kid—and listened to the fresh outbreak oftwittering from the trees surrounding the cabin."They oughta outlaw chirping before ten o'clock."The gravel felt like old friends, but those birds—they might as wellhave been her high school students on the first day back from vacation.She grabbed her ankles. No good talking to birds. Focus on the goal,woman. She would run. For the first time in too many years, she hadreturned to Hornsboro, Wisconsin, and Wall Lake, the summer homethat had defined her youth. Before she was old enough to throw snits asa teenager, before she had grown into a woman who dealt with the samekind of snits from streams of teenagers in her classroom these past fouryears, she was a child who went to Wisconsin every summer to stay foreight glorious weeks with her grandparents. Three months ago, aftermonths of living in hell from a debilitating stroke, her grandmother, JeanWitkowski, had died and left Maggie the family place. The papers hadbeen signed and mailed back to Jean's lawyer with feelings bittersweet.She was an heiress. She was a grandchild orphan.The roots of her past clung to her. She would offer up a ritual ofphysical exercise, her sweat as a blessing and good-bye, followed by severaldays of moving in, the cleaning and rounding up of all the childhoodheirlooms that had been stored while renters had vacationed there.She grimaced. Lord, she hated running. A little yoga, maybe a tape ortwo—she had brought enough of those to whip herself back into fitness.But running. Running meant no turning off the tape or breaking for aSnickers. Running meant bugs, icky things that swarmed around her likefirst-graders on sugar.While she wiped her hands on her shorts, she gave herself a shortslap for her carping, felt the roll of her shoulders, the circling of her neck.This is for you, Grandma Jean. You too, Grandpa Lou. Drawing in a breath,she took in the sharp, sweet smells, tasted the freshness and promise, sodifferent from the sting of diesel in her neighborhood in Chicago. Just asshe filled her lungs, a new rash of bird noise broke out.She picked up an acorn and hurled it at the nearest tree—let thosetwittering fools think about that—and after one more deep breath,lifted her torso higher, set her hands on her thighs. As the wetness ofthe morning lapped around her ankles, and the sun struggled to breakthrough the timber, she dug in her heels, grunted, and took off—tenpaces, then twenty. On went the count as she jogged up the lane towardthe road.Midway up the lane, the past tugged at her. She turned around andlooked back. There was something about this very spot, the slight turntoward the cabin, the beginning of the leveling as the lane stretchedtoward what for the child Maggie had become a promise, the perfectmarriage of fun and safety, the tranquility, the unconditioned love of asummer with her grandparents. The best of her childhood was all aroundher, this primal world of green ferns, gnarled brush, the dappling ofsunlight through the forest growth. Her past.Folding her arms while she ran in place, she paid homage to the twomost loving people in her childhood, the grandparents who had her heartlong before they won the hearts of the citizens of the community, thattightknit group of mostly Norwegians who at first had listened to thename Witkowski and raised their eyebrows."Love you to the moon and back!" Her voice tumbled forward,gathering momentum, until the words—her childhood morning greetingto her grandfather—spilled through the trees to the left and the cabin tothe right. The thought touched her like a comforter keeping out the coldWisconsin night.Maggie turned back to face the road and took off with a quick hikingpace as the grade of the lane turned steeper, each crack of a stick underfoot, each crunch of gravel a sound of ownership. At the top of the lane,she turned east, feet to blacktop on County Road HH. Swept by a lightbreeze, the early June morning wrapped itself in the smell of sun andwildflowers. While Maggie ran along the shoulder, she let the past runwith her, warming her as much as the sun in its muscle memory.Then the next half mile hit. June still wrapped itself in the smellof sun and wildflowers, but Maggie was not so fortunate. Sweat andcelebration started their battle, and she remembered just why she hatedto jog. By the curve that turned south, sweat won. Another half mile andMaggie sat on the side of the road, thighs wrapped in red spandex, gaspinglike a fish in the last throes of life. She had reached the turnaround point,the old Willson barn, long deserted and left to fall apart on its own timeschedule.She and her cousin used to sneak out and smoke cigarettes behind itwhen she was twelve. That is, until Grandpa found out. That deep voice.Those huge hams of arms crossed against a barrel chest. Cigarettes werehistory. She smiled at the memory.The barn meant she could turn around. Arms folded over her head,she looked at the building across from her once more and chuckled. Thenshe took a whiff. Lord. She smelled like old pee, and she was only half-done.Her mind issued a command.Off your duff and on your feet, woman. Go. Maggie obeyed and took off.Familiar markers along the road mocked her. Curve ahead. Great. Notonly did she have to run, she had to be able to navigate. Look out for deer.That's all she needed, a run-in with Bambi. Who needed large game? Withher luck, she'd trip over a lost badger looking for water. Her throat raspedto a road that didn't care, "Don't bring up water. This was your idea."Then sweet Jesus, there it was, the battered mailbox her grandfatherhad long ago painted orange. It looked tie-dyed now, mostly rust and graywith a couple of patches of orange that had earned survivor status. Neverhad one woman been so happy to see something so blatantly ugly. Shelumbered up to that piece of junk and leaned against it.Her black hair was a mass of spirals twisted by sweat and humidity,her eyebrows two black swaths over ice-blue eyes that threatened to rollinward. Even the cleft in her square jaw begged, Mercy. Armpits awashwith the truth of her state, she unwrapped herself from the mailbox,leaned over, and grabbed at her T-shirt, now spotted with pockets ofsweat. Maggie Witkowski—runner with a mission—had come fullcircle back to grumbling, punctuating her angst with, What's with sweat,anyway? People act like it's the Holy Grail. She allowed herself a good bellyscratch and then exhaled a last huge puff of air and hobbled down the lanetoward the house, the aspen, oak, and birch of northwestern Wisconsinlining the path as she drew closer.Nothing wrong with taking a moment. The place was simply toobeautiful to pass up a look, and just maybe her body would forgive herif she stopped for a few seconds of thankfulness. Oblivious to the graveland sticks beneath her, she eased down and scanned the scene, knees up,arms folded over them. Silence graced the scene she surveyed. There wasthe tree where she had buried her grandfather's silver-dollar collectionwhen she was nine—held it for ransom so that he would take her to townfor homemade chocolate-covered peanuts at Winnie's. He threatenedto kidnap her comic book collection if she didn't start digging pronto,that and wash her hands, he had said with a wink. Ten minutes later,fingernails only moderately grubby from raking through the groundcover, they were on their way.She'd plant perennials around that tree base, bleeding hearts, shedecided, that is, once she recovered. Maggie had her breath back, but herlegs and butt tightened up. Memories—sweet as they were—could notcompete with muscles. She heaved herself up and cursed her strainedhamstrings.Get to the porch, woman. Get there and it'll all be over. For another second,she slipped into memory as her mind's eye saw the prize. The gliderwaiting for her. Lou Witkowski had built it by himself, working the woodin the boathouse, hung the glider with pride. "No sense having a place torelax without a glider. A porch and a glider, that's heaven."She'd melt into the softness of its cushions and begin her recovery.She loved that glider. As a child, she'd lie in it for hours, feeling thepresence of forest and lake all around her. A mental blow slapped her.This morning, she had stretched out before her run on the porch—thebare porch. The glider was gone.Why hadn't she noticed? She dismissed the problem even as her mindfilled with the absence. It was probably stored with the other things.In that moment, gone was the hardness of the road under her feet, thewetness of the sweat on her face and under her arms. She felt the joy coilin her arms, the anticipation of restoring the place to its rightful glory.She looked at her watch. A full hour had passed since she'd started thisinsanity. All she had to do was survive a slow jog down the lane towardthe dock where she could dangle her feet, or—what the hell—jump fullbore into the lake. Bad idea. Too much work. The lake was past the cabin.She tossed aside any hope of cool and staggered the last fifty feet, climbedthe wood stairs, and lay on the front porch, sweat and all.I need a beer. She didn't know whether she'd drink it or wear it, but aMiller Lite seemed like the perfect reward for what she'd just endured.One was right inside the front door, nestled in a cooler she had iced downbefore she left.Somewhere out on the lake, a fisherman was putting toward bassheaven, the motor on his boat a purr. A light wind, just the barest wafting,reached her on the porch and glided across the back of her neck. All right,she'd live. Even without a beer. Lord, she needed a nap. She could lie hereall morning—maybe forever. She'd die here, face flat on the woodensteps. Chipmunks and squirrels would use her petrified body as a bridgeto the house.Last night, fresh from Chicago, she had seemed so organized, boxesof supplies stacked on the trestle table immediately inside, clothes hungin the back room, juice, beer, and yogurt on ice. Any teacher worth herchalk well knew the rite of moving from school year to summer, the tasksthat shut down the adrenaline and promised the unknotting of stress.Last night, her hamstrings hadn't cried for mercy.You can gripe later. Wash your face and get to work. Her conscience wastotally without sympathy. It was also right. She'd better put her body,aching or not, into this project full force—hands, back, whatever it tookto restore this place to its former bliss.Minutes later, she was standing at the kitchen sink, alternatingbetween drinking water straight from the tap and throwing it on her facewhen a noise outside grabbed her attention, a crunching punctuated withthe squeal of breaks that said old car. Who'd be out here at the crack of eightexcept another jogger or a North Woods critter, a big one given that much clatter?Maggie took one last drink and turned off the tap. Then wiping her handson her running shorts, she left the kitchen, stepping up the single step tothe great room, opened the screen door, and stepped outside.A Chevy truck—half-blue, half-rust—had rumbled down the laneand parked right next to the front porch. Handy Guy was inscribed onits door, right above a bumper sticker that bragged I'm from Wisconsin.Bite my cheese. The Realtor had promised a handyman once she movedin. Judging by the condition of the vehicle, Maggie wasn't sure whatconstituted handy. The car door creaked open, and out stepped a distantlyfamiliar figure, a lumbering man, his large upper body hoisted onto short,bowed legs."Yo. Miss Maggie. Knew you'd need me from the get-go." MarvinFederinc looked at Maggie and smiled. That is, he looked at her as muchas he could. His left eye focused on her face while his other eye seemed topeer at whatever lay forty-five degrees to the right. The local handymanused to scare the bejesus out of her when she was little and up therevisiting Grandma Jean and Grandpa Lou for the summer. Grandpa hadcalled him "Ferdie, the wall-eyed wonder," and told her to never mindhim, he was harmless, but every time he showed up flanked by his toolset and that eye, she'd gone running for the boathouse.What had seemed terrifying at the age of six was now simply mildlydistracting. Maggie had no idea how Marv knew she needed him thismorning, but then most of this part of Wisconsin had its own psychichotline when it came to someone's business. No need to call for help.The locals read signs or talked to fish, whatever it took to know thecommunity's business—often before the subject of said business knewit herself.Knock it off, Witkowski. The guy's here to help. Cut him some slack. Sheshut down the residual stress of a tough school year. No point in makingher a crank punishing the innocent. Sarcasm was a defense mechanismbest served to the deserving.Good thing Maggie listened to herself. Marvin Federinc was not aman to waste time. Two hours after his arrival, he tackled the last of thejobs—cleaning out the fireplace. Maggie sat on the edge of a wicker chairand watched him, or at least his bowed legs, as he stood inside the cabin'sstone fireplace and banged away. In between grunts and foreign clanksMaggie wanted to ignore, Marv kept up a conversation. "I figured this oldgirl would need me. Critters and soot. They love a home."Maggie shuddered. Soot she could handle. Critters? No way."Yep, I knew soon as I drove up we'd be cleaning her out today. Noneed to haul in all your loot and get everything all sooty." The mumbledher was the ceiling-high, gray rock fireplace now cursed with built-upgunk in its chimney, the only source of heat in the summer home ofher childhood. The place had been closed for the last three years. For allMaggie knew, the chimney was something's condo."Glad you're opening the place after all this time. Worried about it thewhole time it was rented out. At least when it was closed, I could checkup on it once in a while."Don't get me wrong. Renters is okay. Can't blame your GrandmaJean for what she done back then. But them guys was from Minneapolis,"he said, raising his voice to a soprano lilt that bounced off the chimney'sstone walls. "You know. Decorators." His voice lowered into a snort. "Theywas more interested in matching their towels than making sure this thingwas cleaned out and working."Maggie didn't know whether to laugh or climb up and slap him—probablyon the shins since his upper half was still hidden as he workedaway. Instead, she turned around in her chair to face the outside andlooked out the window toward the lake, indulging in memory as shethought of her grandmother. All the tension from the jogging left her,so immersed was she in thought. One year after Lou Witkowski haddied, Maggie's grandmother had pulled up stakes and rented the hometo yuppies who wanted a "cabin" but couldn't commit enough to buy.That had lasted four summers. Now that Grandma Jean had died, it wasMaggie's. In truth, it had been Maggie's for years. She might curse amorning run, but in her heart, she was home.The swish of the birch and the crunch of the oak leaves beneath herfeet. The sweet smells of dirt and lake water. She had carried them likea talisman.Maggie shifted in her chair again, turning back to the present, andwatched Marv, narrowing her eyes. She didn't know which was worse, theguy's soot-soaked John Deere hat or his abuse of grammar. Since she wasan English teacher, one who made her living keeping maimed languageat arm's length, she had to go with the grammar. But that hat ...Finally, the last shower of creosote. Finished. "There you go, Ms.Witkowski. Flue's open, and she's slick as morning bass. Good thing,too. Nights get pretty cold up here, even in June." The man bobbed hishead. "Course, you know that, beings how you lived up here when youwas little, and all. (Continues...)Excerpted from DEGREE OF GUILT by BARBARA HARKEN. Copyright © 2013 Barbara Harken. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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