Buttons and Bones (21 page)

“All right.”

Mike was, as usual, aggravated when he got on the phone with her. “What have you done now?” he growled.

“I decided to help Jill Larson find out how that skeleton came to be in the root cellar of the cabin she and Lars bought up on Thunder Lake.”

“Why in the name of all that’s holy couldn’t you leave it to the sheriff’s department up there? They’re competent.”

“I know, and I’m sorry I’m adding to your law enforcement burden. But this could be an important clue for you—aren’t you involved in the investigation, too?”

“No, I’m not. And neither is Lars. It’s a Cass County problem. And maybe Stevens County, too, now, since that’s where Morris is. Don’t handle that card any more than you have to; I’ll come by later and take a look at it.”

“All right. Thanks, Mike.”

Just as she hung up the phone, the door sounded its twin notes, and Betsy turned to greet another customer.

She was a trim senior woman with white and gray hair, cut to fall just over her ears. “Are you Betsy Devonshire?”

“Yes, she is, and I’m Godwin DuLac,” replied Godwin. “How may we help you?”

“I’m Violet Putnam McDonald, and I understand you are interested in hearing about Helga von Dusen Farmer.”

“Why, I was trying to return your phone call a little while ago,” said Betsy.

“I got impatient when you didn’t call yesterday and started for here first thing this morning. Wilma Griffin works for the sheriff’s department, you know, and she said the sheriff told her you have a reputation for solving crimes, so after I talked with Investigator Mix, I decided you ought to know, too.”

“Know what?”

“What I know about Helga. You see, I used to know her.”

“You mean, when you were a child?”

“No, I am actually several years older than she is.”

“Was,” corrected Betsy. “I’m afraid she’s dead.”

“Oh, dear, dead?”

“Yes, she died fifteen years ago, of a stroke.”

“Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. She was a very sweet girl.”

“How well did you know her?”

“We weren’t good friends or anything like that. We spoke when we met about what we’d been doing, we exchanged recipes—she had a recipe for pickled green beans that was very good. Things were rationed during the war, of course, so we were always looking for recipes that didn’t call for fat or butter.”

Godwin said suddenly, “Mock apple pie.”

She looked at him in surprise, then smiled. “That’s right, made with Ritz Crackers and lemon juice. Not
quite
as good as the real thing, of course, but surprisingly not too bad, if you closed your eyes and dreamed a little. But how do you know about such things?”

“I’m a fan of old-time radio shows, and a lot of the recordings include the commercials.” His voice took on a radio announcer’s timbre. “‘
The Johnson’s Wax Program
, starring Fibber McGee and Molly!’ ”

Violet beamed at him. “Ovaltine sponsored
Little Orphan Annie
, and Jell-O sponsored
Jack Benny
. But who was sponsored by Ritz Crackers?”

“Nobody I know of,” replied Godwin, “but when you get interested in an era, you start picking up other things about it. I don’t remember where I read about the mock apple pie.”

“We’re wandering from the topic,” said Betsy. “If I bring you a cup of tea, Mrs. McDonald, will you answer some questions I have?”

“Thank you, yes.”

In a couple of minutes the women were seated at the library table with a pretty porcelain cup of Earl Grey in front of each of them. “What do you want to know first?” asked Violet.

“Did Helga work at the POW camp in Remer or in Longville?”

“There wasn’t a POW camp in Longville.”

“Are you sure? Someone described it to me.”

“That’s why I decided to contact you. There is a
lot
of incorrect information about those camps. Many people mistake the forest sites where the prisoners worked cutting down trees for where they slept at night.”

“But she said the ruins had all gone to raspberry bushes and the bears were feasting there to fatten up for winter.”

“There is an old logging site that was thick with raspberry bushes for years after the loggers left, but it’s gone back to forest now. It was right next to our farm, I can remember hearing the prisoners talking and even singing while they worked.”

“Where was the camp where they slept, then?”

“There were three camps, Remer, Bena, and Deer River. Helga worked at the Remer camp.”

“Is there a book about these three camps?” asked Betsy. She wasn’t willing to say out loud that she didn’t know whom to believe.

“I’m sure there must be. I’m speaking from memory, adult memory. The woman you spoke to was a small child during the period the POWs were up there. I’m sure a lot of what she told you is repeated from stories she’s heard or even overheard.”

“Yes, she said as much. How did Helga come to work at the camp in Remer?”

“She started as a volunteer, teaching the prisoners to knit and crochet. Believe it or not, the men were grateful to her. The three camps used to have competitions in the crafts— painting, wood carving, needlework—and the Remer camp always walked away with the needlework contest. They also had soccer and boxing competitions, I remember seeing photographs of the teams in our newspaper. Anyway, she had taken a class in typing in school, and when the company clerk proved to be as bad a speller as he was a typist, she volunteered to do that part of his job. Inside of three months, they hired her, and got someone else to teach the boys to knit.”

Betsy asked, “Do you remember when Dieter Keitel ran off from the camp?”

“Corporal Keitel is the one they never caught. Yes, I remember there was an awful fuss, just like with the other four. Posters were put up with his picture on it and the sheriff formed a posse that roamed the forest for weeks. The others were found, but not Corporal Keitel. He could speak good English, they said, so they were afraid that if he could get out of the area, he might be able to blend in somewhere. And that’s what everyone decided must have happened, that he got to the Twin Cities, or more likely Milwaukee—that city had a large German community—and was taken in by a family. Only now they find these bones and that ID tag, so it seems he never got very far after all.”

“How do you think he came to wind up in that root cellar?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. If he turned up on their doorstep, the Farmers would have turned him in, and if he put up a fight and was killed, they would have reported it. After all, he was the enemy and Major Farmer was a soldier. His death would hardly be considered murder.”

“What did they do, the prisoners?” asked Godwin, who had chosen to re-sort a bin of patterns so he could eavesdrop. “Sit around cooking up escape plans?”

“No, they worked. The Geneva Convention said they could be put to work, so they were. Cutting down trees mostly. But planting them, too, in the summer. And painting public buildings. When the war was over, they were shipped to other camps in Europe. There was some kind of scandal about the French camps, they held them too long or in bad conditions, I forget which. Maybe both. And of course, any that got sent to Russia simply disappeared. Some wanted to stay here, one or two even got engaged to local girls. But they had to go home and apply to immigrate.”

“Were they treated all right?” asked Betsy.

“Oh, yes, warm clothing—marked with big black
P
and
W
on the back and legs, of course—and some of them wore pieces of American military uniforms, surplus I guess. Or at least they looked like American Army uniforms with the brass buttons and other insignia taken off. And good food, though after the death camps were found, they wouldn’t give them cigarettes anymore and I think they got more potatoes and less meat. Those photographs out of Germany! Some parents wouldn’t let their children near the papers if they had those photos in them. But before that happened, they were treated very kindly. People used to wave to them going by in their trucks to the camps where they did the logging. And volunteers came and brought special treats or taught classes. Some of the locals who could speak German were asked to translate—the guards weren’t top-drawer, of course; the best of them were overseas getting shot at, poor fellows. Now I think of it, Helga could speak German; she came from a family, the von Dusens, who spoke German at home. My husband was a farmer with a wife and two little children, so he was exempt from the draft, thank God. But he listened to the radio news every night and followed the progress of the invasion after D-Day on the maps in the newspapers.”

“Do you remember Helga’s husband?” asked Betsy.

“Major Farmer, the deserter? I don’t believe I ever met him, not to talk to. He was stationed somewhere in Wisconsin and came up on the occasional weekend, but of course they were much more interested in staying at home than going out.” Violet blushed very lightly.

“Do you remember if Major Farmer’s desertion happened around the same time as Corporal Dieter disappeared from the camp?”

Violet thought a long time about that. “No. No, it didn’t. Corporal Keitel ran off when it was still summer, and there had been snow on the ground for months when the Army came up here looking for the major.” She thought some more. “It was probably the same year, though it might have been early the next, but the two events didn’t happen one right after the other. I remember seeing Helga standing in the snow outside the train station, crying because she’d just seen her husband off to combat duty.”

“That must have been hard on her.”

“Hard on a lot of Army wives—but yes, she was very young, and her husband up to then had served in the support forces stateside. It must have been a shock to both of them when he got orders to report to an overseas location.”

“Do you know where his orders would have taken him?”

“No, except it must have been to the Pacific, since he was taking the train to California.”

Violet, who was going to spend the night in a motel, was persuaded to cancel her reservation and stay in Betsy’s guest room up in her apartment. Betsy called Jill to tell her about Violet, and Jill hinted she’d like to talk with Violet herself and so Betsy invited her to come over after supper.

That evening, Violet sat on the couch stroking a beautiful, overweight, highly pleased cat while Betsy made a soup-and-sandwich supper. Sophie purred and purred; the only time she was happier than when getting unshared attention was when she was eating, and her dinner—a small scoop of Iams Less Active—was long finished.

“All right, Violet, if you will come to the table, the meal—such as it is—is ready.” As Violet approached the little round table in the dining nook off the kitchen, Betsy continued, “I’m so glad you were willing to take pot luck with me.”

“I’m grateful you invited me. Finding an inexpensive but tasty meal in a strange town is always a chancy thing.” She came to the table and said, “Now this looks perfectly delicious.”

Betsy had served open-face tuna melts and mugs of tomato soup, with slices of fresh tomato on the side. She believed in setting a pretty table, so there was a small vase of late-summer flowers on the yellow-checked tablecloth.

Because she wanted Jill to take part in any conversation related to Helga Farmer and Dieter Keitel, Betsy asked questions about the Longville area and the little town itself.

“We celebrated the centennial of Longville in 2006,” said Violet, “though it wasn’t actually incorporated as a village until 1941. It started as a restaurant serving loggers, and then supported a wood pulp factory, though nowadays it’s just for tourists and people looking for a summer place ‘up north.’ ”

“It’s an attractive town, and that idea of turtle racing was a great one.”

“Yes, it’s been going on for forty years now.”

“It has? I had no idea!”

“Yes, the children who first came are bringing their grandchildren to the races nowadays.”

With impeccable timing, Jill arrived just as Betsy finished putting the dishes in the sink to soak. She greeted Violet warmly. “I am very glad you drove all that way just to talk to Betsy, and I hope you don’t mind my horning in on your conversation.”

“Not at all, my dear. I think the more minds we can bring to this conversation, the better.”

Jill said, “Oh, Betsy, Lars got a copy of the description issued by the sheriff back when Dieter Keitel first ran off. It includes a picture of him. I thought you might like a look at the man.”

“Oooooh, thanks!” said Betsy, reaching for the two sheets of paper Jill was holding out.

The top one was a printout of a jpeg file. The sheriff’s department had scanned a wanted poster, complete with photograph. WANTED, it said in big, black letters across the top. Under the word was a black-and-white picture of a very young, thin, scared-looking man with staring pale eyes, a little too much nose, and a wide mouth compressed into liplessness. “Dieter Keitel,” ran a paragraph under the photo, “age 20, height five feet six inches, weight 145, speaks good English, a Corporal in the German Army, escaped August 30, 1944, from Remer, Minn. If seen, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO APPREHEND, contact Sheriff Bob Jensen, Walker, Minn.”

Violet took a look at the poster and nodded. “I remember seeing this posted in the drugstore, the post office, and the grocery store,” she said. “Just like the others.”

The second sheet was a doctor’s report of a physical examination, describing him in medical terms as undernourished and by his own report inoculated against various diseases. There were blurry fingerprints inked at the bottom. It noted that he had a mole on his left breast and a gold crown on his “30th mandibular molar.”

The mole was long gone, but Betsy recalled with fearful clarity the gleam of the gold tooth.

Jill said, “We don’t have a photograph of Helga. Can you describe her for us?”