Meadowlark (8 page)

That made sense. A holiday phobia is common enough.
Sometimes enforced bonhomie bothers me, too. I relaxed a little. I
wanted to believe Hugo had gone away of his own free will. "Do you
think the upcoming workshop triggered him off?"

Marianne sighed. "I guess so, but I'm surprised."

"Surprised?"

"The feeling's different this time. Sure, there's that reception
the first night, but Bianca told Hugo he didn't have to come to it.
Apart from that there isn't any reason for him to tense up. He isn't
living here now. Besides..." She opened the oven.

"Besides what?" I asked, distracted by the savory
aroma.

"If he was going to bolt, he'd leave just before the conference
starts. Friday or Saturday." She put on a padded glove and pulled a
vast casserole from the oven.

"What's that? It smells great."

"Shepherd's pie."

I watched as she glazed the surface with a smidgen of butter.
The crust looked like mashed potatoes. She popped the ceramic dish
back in the oven. I tried to imagine being organized enough to
produce high tea for ten followed by a complete dinner for six a
couple of hours later.

She glided to the refrigerator and began pulling vegetables
out. Marianne never seemed hurried and, if she was harried, it was
not because of her culinary responsibilities. She took a plastic salad
spinner from a cupboard and began rinsing greens.

"May I help you?" I asked again.

"No, thanks. There's coffee if you want it."

I poured a mug of coffee.

"Cream's in the fridge."

"Thanks." I laced my cup with cholesterol. "You said Hugo
was fragile."

"Did I?"

"Earlier. Did you mean physically or emotionally?"

"Physically, I guess." She twirled the spinner. "It was Agent
Orange."

Something clicked. "The skin condition?"

"That and the stomach problems. His wife kept having
miscarriages, too. That's why they split. She couldn't take it."

I set my coffee cup down. Marianne was hitting close to
home. As far as I knew Jay hadn't been exposed to Agent Orange.
Still, what if he had been and didn't know it? I lifted the cup and
sipped. "That's so sad."

Marianne cocked her head. "Yes, it was. But Hugo's not sad,
really. Just quiet. He likes his work."

"No chemicals."

"No pesticides and no chemical fertilizers." Marianne's air of
precision reminded me of her comment about the cinnamon. She
didn't sound belligerent or pedantic, just precise. "Hugo's crew is
boat people," she added, giving the greens a last critical twirl.

"What?"

"The crew for planting and harvest. Weeding, too. They're
refugees. Bianca used to hire Mexicans." She took a huge ceramic
salad bowl from the cupboard and began tearing lettuce into
bite-sized pieces. "The year before Del started working for her, the
Immigration people raided Bianca's crew. Most of 'em were illegals.
She had to pay a big fine, and the story got into the paper. It was
embarrassing. She decided to work with the Vietnamese after that.
They have green cards."

"Boat people--that was a long time ago. They must be middle
aged."

"They are. Hugo says they were peasants, couldn't read and
write their own language. There were classes for them at the college,
but a lot of them dropped out of the program after a couple of years.
They're women mostly, and they do what they've always
done--farmwork."

I turned that over in my mind. "But Hugo--"

"Hugo gets along with them okay. He talks their language a
little." She took out a French knife and began slicing a purple onion.
She broke the slices into perfect rings.

Mike galloped through to the mudroom at that point
without dallying for small talk. I heard the door slam as he went
out.

Marianne finished her salad and carried the bowl to the
dining room. Eventually she allowed me to help her set the table. I
felt useless and resentful of Bianca for dragging me out to the
farm.

Why had she wanted me? As a witness? She must have
known I would be of no practical help. Of course she hadn't expected
to find the bike. I pictured Hugo's sturdy mountain bike. He took
good care of it. If he had meant to abandon it at the farm, wouldn't he
have left it in the car barn? Not, I supposed, if he wanted to avoid
pursuit. My mind made tight circles of speculation.

"You going to join us for dinner?" Marianne smoothed a
napkin.

"No. My husband's taking me out on the town."

She sighed. "Lucky."

The telephone rang. I followed her back to the kitchen.

"Yes," she said into the receiver. "Yeah, she's still looking.
Did you check the barn?"

I deduced she was talking to Del. She made an affirmative
noise. "Half an hour." She hung up. "Del and the boys are coming in.
They didn't find nothing."

I didn't think they'd had enough time for a thorough search.
Outside, a car started after two grinding whines and drove off. I
checked my watch. Five fifteen.

At five thirty Bianca and Angie came in and other cars left.
Bianca looked discouraged.

"No luck?"

She grimaced. "Zippo. It's awfully dark. I think you're right
about needing bloodhounds. I keep imagining Hugo unconscious in a
corner of the old barn." Marianne turned the oven down. "Del said
there was no sign of Hugo at the barn."

I stood up. "The deputy will probably wait until morning to
do a police search. Do you want me tomorrow, Bianca?"

"I wish you'd stay now--"

I shook my head. "No, Jay and I have a commitment. I will
come out tomorrow, though, if you need moral support."

She nodded, drooping.

"I'll show myself out." I went home, feeling futile and
obscurely used. I was sorry for Bianca, though. Her distress seemed
genuine.

When I returned to the farm the next morning, a sheriff's
deputy and a dozen volunteers from the Search and Rescue team had
already set up a systematic search of the grounds.

I drove around to the back of the house and parked on the
asphalt between a county van and a cop car. Marianne must have
been watching for me because she was standing by the car, dressed
for a hike, by the time I got out.

"Hi. Bianca and Angie are showing the deputy the bicycle. Do
you want to come out to the old barn with me?"

I pulled on a pair of wool gloves. "Sure."

"I brought a flashlight." She showed me a small but powerful
electric lantern. "Del says it was too dark in there yesterday to see
much."

"Where are the interns?" I locked my door and stuffed the
keys in my jacket pocket.

"Out with the rescue team. So are Del and Keith."

We began walking along the dirt track that led to the fields
and sheds I had seen the day before from the kitchen window.
"Where is the barn?"

"'Bout half a mile--over the ridge past the broccoli field and
the ice house."

As we walked along I could see figures in the distance
moving slowly, eyes to the ground. They were coming toward us, so I
supposed they must have begun at the farthest field. They had
probably already searched the barn.

Marianne was not in a talkative mood. Neither was I. It was
misting out, and the air carried eerie sounds--crows cawing, a log
truck shifting gears on the highway, the occasional shout from one of
the searchers. We passed the two metal sheds I had seen Jason and
Bill enter the day before. My boots beaded water and the legs of my
jeans were damp. I wished I'd worn a longer jacket. I stuffed my
hands in my pockets and trudged along. Marianne set a good
pace.

"That's broccoli," she announced as we approached a
smallish shed. Behind and beside it, I could see rows of plants so
heavy with moisture they looked gray in the dim sunlight. They were
well-grown. I had heard that some crops wintered over or were
planted in January.

Like former President Bush, I am not a fan of broccoli,
though I will eat a dutiful portion if necessary. The field looked as if it
could supply the broccoli needs of a whole regiment of Republicans.
The ice house, unstained cedar with a tarpaper roof, abutted the
field.

"What's that?" Marianne stopped, head cocked.

"Sounds like an electric motor." The rain was coming down
harder, and I wanted to keep moving.

"Somebody must've turned on the ice machine." She strode
to the ice house door. I followed.

The door was latched but not locked. She yanked the door
open, switched a light on, and clucked. "Look at that. Knee-deep in
ice. Bianca will have a fit."

I entered behind her, stepping into a puddle. There was a
fug in the air, as in cold unlit spaces. Mold. Rotting plants. Something
else. "A fit? Why?"

"We don't need ice until we cut the broccoli. It has to be iced
before it's trucked out. But we won't start the first harvest until the
end of the week."

The room was divided roughly in half, with a storage area,
then empty, to the left and an icemaker with a catch-basin roughly
the size and depth of a large hot tub on the right. The tub was heaped
with fresh ice. A scatter of cubes so new they hadn't begun to melt
strewed the wet floor. The walls and ceiling of the ice house showed
foil-sheeted insulation. It was colder inside the building than
outdoors.

A rough table of unfinished planks leaned against the near
wall. A row of short-handled, wide-bladed knives gleamed above the
table. Three scoop shovels in a neat line rested against the edge of
the ice machine.

I walked over to the hill of glistening ice cubes. "Smells like
my refrigerator."

"Yeah." Marianne wandered into the storage space and
looked around. "Wait till Bianca sees the electric bill. I'd better shut it
off." She moved back toward the entrance.

I was looking at the ice. "Maybe somebody wanted to store
something..." Abruptly my heart slammed into distress mode. I
picked up one of the shovels and began scraping ice off onto the
floor.

"No, oh, no." I don't remember which of us said that.

We stood for a frozen moment staring at my excavation. The
toe of a filthy sneaker showed through the ice. I had found Hugo
Groth.

The shovel I had used to clear away the ice clattered to the
concrete floor. For perhaps half a minute Marianne and I stood
staring into the bin. I thought I could see the distorted outline of
Hugo's body, but that may have been imagination. The sneaker,
however, definitely held a foot. I could see the sock and a bit of pale
skin. I imagined I could smell death.

The ice machine whirred. Marianne breathed raggedly. I
didn't breathe at all. Then, as we stared, the machine clacked. Fresh
ice cubes cascaded down until they buried the shoe. The process
must have been triggered by the level of ice in the bin.

I grabbed Marianne's arm. "We have to get out of here." I
pulled her across to the door and out into the drizzle.

"Oh, God, he's...it's...like a meat locker!" Marianne covered
her mouth.

"Don't think. Don't even try to imagine what's in there. We
have to get help."

Marianne turned away from me, gagging, and threw up on a
clump of grass. I clenched my eyes shut, willed my stomach not to
respond.

"I'm s-sorry." She had found a tissue and was wiping her
mouth. I took a gulp of air and counted to thirty, slowly clearing my
mind. Across the open broccoli field the crows cawed. A truck
rumbled on the state highway.

I exhaled on a slow count. "We have to get help. One of us
should stay here to be sure nobody else enters the building. The
other will have to go find the deputy. You said Bianca was showing
him Hugo's bike."

"Yes. They're at the flower house."

"Where are the greenhouses?"

"Over... Never mind. I'll go. I don't want to stay here alone."
She started off, wide shoulders hunched in her red jacket, tissue still
pressed to her mouth. She had gone half a dozen paces when she
stopped dead and turned around. "I'm an idiot. I can use this."

She pulled a portable phone from one pocket, extended the
antenna, and punched in a number. Her hands shook so hard she
almost dropped the phone, but I heard it buzz and a voice reply.

"It's Marianne. Lark is with me. We found Hugo." Quack,
quack from the phone. "No. He's dead. In the ice house." Silence.
Quack, quack. "I told you, in the ice house!" Marianne began to sob.
"He's buried in ice. Somebody turned the machine on." Quack.

Marianne, still weeping, retracted the antenna. "That was
Bianca," she choked. "They're coming."

"Was the deputy with her?"

"Yeah." She drew a quivering breath. "Dale Nelson."

I knew Dale. I had met him the previous summer under
unpleasant circumstances. We got along. Jay had worked with him
on that case and at least two others, and Dale was now a detective
sergeant. He had been the senior patrol officer for the county when
we met. If Dale had responded to Bianca's call, either she had pull or
she was very persuasive.

She was very persuasive. I knew that.

"Give me the phone, please, Marianne. I need to call my
husband."

Marianne handed me the transmitter. She didn't hesitate,
but, even so, I felt defensive.

"Jay helps the sheriff's evidence team on difficult cases. This
one will be a stinker because of the ice. How the hell does this
work?" I had been avoiding cellular phones. I ripped off my wooly
gloves and stuck them in my pocket.

Wordless, Marianne showed me the Talk button. I tapped in
our number. When the phone began to ring, I held it to my ear and
looked around me. The Search and Rescue team would be
approaching the broccoli field from the east. So far they were hidden
behind the ridge at the far rim of the field.

After half a dozen rings Jay answered.

I said, "It's Lark. We found Hugo's body."

He cleared his throat.

"Dale Nelson's here--at the farm, I mean." I explained where
I was and what I had found. I'm sure I was incoherent.