Past Imperfect (6 page)

The feeble pun was unintended. Leonie rolled her eyes. “Well,” she responded, “he didn't seem to think there was anything peculiar before he packed Mr. Bertelsen off to the undertaker.”

“That can't be helped now.” He dug his spoon into a dish of Jello containing some unidentifiable shreds of what he hoped were either fruit or vegetable, but looked disturbingly like shredded wheat. “Maybe Guibard could have been a bit more thorough, but it seemed perfectly simple. He knew that Nels was violently allergic to bees, and he knew that he was stung by a bee. He found the stinger
and
the bee itself.
Ergo
, the bee sting killed him.”

Leonie removed his empty plate and sat down. “The doctor also knew that Nels' life depended on the medication that
he
provided to him. Nels gave himself the medication. Nels is dead.
Ergo
, maybe something was queer about the medicine…or maybe it was just too much for him. Epinephrine is strong stuff. If Mr. Bertelsen had a heart condition or something, maybe it could have been the medication that killed him.”

The Jello laden spoon stopped in mid-air as her implication dawned on him. “And the good doctor wanted to cover it up? Leonie, your cynicism never ceases to amaze me!”

“
My
cynicism? I'm only suggesting that an elderly doctor might feel a bit of guilt at the death of a long-time patient. That's a far cry from what you're hinting at! But whether it was the bee sting or its cure that caused his death is sort of beside the point. It was still a honey bee in his shirt ‘what done it.'” She picked up the teakettle and headed for the sink. “John.” She turned to face him. “You don't honestly think someone deliberately set out to kill Nels Bertelsen?”

“I don't quite know what to think,” he replied. “This isn't something I want to have to think about at all, and I sure as hell don't want to get people all stirred up over what could very well be nothing. But first thing tomorrow I'm going to pay a visit to Lucy.”

“I think that's a good idea,” Leonie told him. “I don't recall that you stopped long enough to tender your condolences at the funeral today.”

VI

McIntire found Lucy splitting firewood for the winter that would come all too soon. He stood well back and watched in awe while she braced a chunk of maple with her booted toe, swung the ax high, and brought it down with a crack. She tossed the two pieces haphazardly onto a stack before squaring her shoulders and turning a bulldog countenance to him. Once McIntire made it clear that he hadn't come with an eviction notice, she exhibited no qualms about dropping her ax and her truculent aspect and inviting him into her kitchen to discuss Nels Bertelsen's last days on earth. She bustled about, placed two cups of coffee and a plate of funeral brownies on the oilcloth covered table, and began responding blithely to his questions without seeming to wonder in the least at his reasons for asking them.

“He gen'rally got up about three-thirty when he was going way out on the lake. He always ate breakfast at home first, even though it was the middle of the night. He had to get out to his bait nets by daylight—around four or four-thirty.”

“Did he leave at his regular time on Friday?” The doctor had speculated that Nels died shortly before the Lindstroms found him because he figured that Nels and Simon would have come to pick their bait nets at about the same time, and Nels had already started to haul his nets in when he died. Of course, they only had Simon's word for that. They also only had Simon's word for it that Nels was dead when they found him.

“Well, I'd guess that he did,” Lucy replied. “Leastwise there weren't no reason why he wouldn't of, that I know. But I didn't hear him leave, so I can't say for certain what time it was. He was always careful not to make a lot of racket when he left. We had separate rooms, you know.” She spoke these last words with such an intimate air that McIntire felt a transitory twinge of guilt before he continued his prying.

“It must have been annoying for such a fastidious housekeeper as you obviously are to have someone coming home everyday smelling like fish.” McIntire bestowed what he hoped was an admiring smile upon his hostess and helped himself to a brownie.

“Oh gracious sakes, no.” Lucy fairly bounced with enthusiasm. “Nels was always such a darlin' about that. He changed clothes on the boat, or sometimes out in the summer kitchen, and no matter how tuckered-out he was, he always washed up before he came into the house.” Her lips trembled a little, and she paused to dab at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “If he hadn't been so thoughtful, he'd probably be alive today. I can't, for the life of me, figure out why a honey bee would of got on the boat, and it was actually
in
his shirt, the doctor says.”

“Maybe the bee got in when it was hanging on the clothes line.” McIntire had just thought of it.

“That does happen now and again, bugs and spiders and such on the clothes, but I always turn everything six-ways-to-Sunday, and shake it out good.”

“Could Nels have taken the shirt off the line himself?”

Lucy's jaw dropped. “Nels never took in the washing,” she said.

McIntire had to admit that the image of the stolid fisherman retrieving laundry did defy credibility. “You say sometimes he left his clothes in the summer kitchen. Could the shirt with the bee in it have come from there?” Maybe Nels had taken the shirt with him but had not changed until he was on board.

Lucy looked even more astounded at this suggestion. “Believe-you-me, Nels made sure that there was no way a bee was about to get into any building on this place! He's always been careful, but after last fall…October, I guess it was, he found a nest of hornets in the biffy.” Her lips began to quiver once more, but this time McIntire saw no hint of tears in her eyes. “It was in the hole. Only thing we could figure is that it was up under the roof and fell in. Nels heard the buzzing before he sat down, or he might have gotten quite a surprise.” She gave in to a bout of hearty laughter, in which McIntire joined her.

“Well, Wylie sprayed them, but after that Nels really went all out. He tarred up cracks that a chigger couldn't squeeze through, and put hooks or locks on both sides of every door, so nobody could leave them open accidentally. The springs on the screen doors are strung so tight I'd be whacked in the rear ten times a day if I didn't step lively!”

McIntire could well believe that it would take some fancy footwork to keep that ample caboose ahead of a slamming door.

“You cannot imagine,” Lucy went on, “just how aggravating it is to have to unlock a door every time you want to go in or out, and lock it again after you go through. I must admit I didn't always do it when Nels wasn't around. But,” her fist thumped the table, “I did
not
let any bees in that summer kitchen!”

“No, I'm sure you didn't,” McIntire agreed hastily. “Do you lock the doors to the house when you're not at home?”

“Nels started insisting on doing that this spring, too. We never did before. Course we used to have a watchdog. Hit by a car.”

“What about the
Frelser
, did Nels keep her locked up?”

“I reckon so,” Lucy answered, “but I've never once set foot on that boat, so I can't say for sure. Nels was always after me to take a little spin, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I swear, I get the heebie-jeebies just looking at the waves on that lake.”

McIntire decided that witch or no, Lucy was not without her good points.

“So you don't hail from the seacoast, I take it?” It was worth a try.

For a split second Lucy froze like a doe caught in the headlights. Then she smiled and lowered her eyelids demurely. “No,” she replied. “My man always said I came straight from heaven.”

McIntire knew when he was beaten. Lucy's roots would remain solidly underground for the time being.

“You and your—you and Nels were both early risers, weren't you? I don't imagine you see many other people out and about when you go to town in the morning.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised, not everybody can afford to lay in bed half the morning like you retired folks.”

“Who? Who gets the jump on me?” McIntire assumed an air of indignance, an expression that came readily, although his pique stemmed less from unwarranted assumptions concerning his sleeping habits than from the reference to his unemployed state.

Lucy sipped her coffee and gazed at the ceiling. “Well, the mailman. I see him lots of times at the railroad crossing. Course he's headed for the post office, same as me, and you'd think he'd offer me a ride, wouldn't you? He never does, no matter what the weather. I could be toes-up in the ditch freezing to death, and he'd drive right on by with his nose in the air. How does he keep that job anyway? I don't think he cares whose box he puts that mail in as long as his bag is empty at the end of the day. Maybe he is a little off in the upper story, but that's no excuse for treating your neighbors poorly.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, her black eyes locked on McIntire's. “I'm not one to gossip myself, but I've heard from those that do that he's a mite free with the ladies, too…well, people like that always get what they have coming to them sooner or later. Bad manners bring bad luck, I always say.”

McIntire resisted the urge to cross himself and to inquire if Nels had done anything to upset Lucy before he died. “So who else do you see out early…like Friday morning for instance?” He groaned inwardly at the blatancy of the question, but Lucy's wariness had melted away.

“Friday, the day my dear man died, you mean? Let's see… David Slocum was out in the orchards when I left. He's been doing some work for Wylie. Nels and Wylie had a real set-to about that, let me tell you. Nels didn't want the kid on the place, said he was lazy and no-good, and after that business with the Culver girl…they had to send her away, you know.”

McIntire remembered that Earl and Sandra Culver's oldest daughter had gone off to care for a motherless family in Chandler while she finished her schooling. If he had thought about it at all he would have supposed the reason for the move to be economic. “Oh, my no,” Lucy informed him. “They sent her there to keep her away from David. It happened after the dance last fall—the Hunters' Dance, you know.”

Ah, yes, the Hunters' Dance, the biggest event on the St. Adele social calendar, bar none. Pinning on his badge and leaning against the wall watching those Hunters dancing had been McIntire's first official duty after taking his oath of office. Now that he thought of it, the necessity of having a body with a badge leaning against the wall during the soirée may well have been behind the townspeople's haste in finding a replacement for old Walleye. Other than confiscating a case of cheap beer from the trunk of the Wilke boy's car, McIntire didn't remember confronting any problems involving youngsters. Most of the kids were too busy trying to ensure that their parents embarrassed them as little as possible to stir up any trouble of their own.

“They left the dance together,” Lucy was saying, “David and the Culver girl
and”
—she gave a satisfied “tsk” before delivering the climax to her tale—“didn't get back until eleven o'clock Sunday morning!” She sighed and dropped her hands in her lap, for a moment seemingly overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. “Anyway, when David started working around here this spring, Nels got all wound into a tizzy over it, but Wylie said the orchards were his business now and Nels didn't have a blessed thing to say about it. Then he brought in sheep to keep the grass down, and Nels really raised Cain about that. He hated sheep, always getting out and trampling through the garden. I sometimes think Wylie just did it to show him who was boss. He seemed to sort of enjoy getting Nels riled.”

As McIntire recalled, getting Nels riled was not exactly something that took a hell of a lot of effort. He steered the conversation back to the hired hand. “Did David always turn up so early? From what I've heard he's not known for being the industrious sort.”

“Well, I'd have to say I haven't noticed him here before ten o'clock or so very often, now and again maybe. But it's a big orchard, I might not always see him.” She picked up a brownie and shoved the plate toward her guest. “I think Nels was wrong about David. Wylie says he's a good worker, and he's always been a perfect little gentleman to me. He was considerable help cleaning things up to get ready for the funeral.” She chewed and swallowed. “He's quiet as a mouse though. It's like pulling teeth to get a word out of him, but such a nice looking young man, just as cute as a bug's ear. It's a shame he can't seem to make anything of himself.”

Lucy had more anecdotes concerning encounters with various neighbors, leaving home early or coming in late, but, though fascinating, all had happened at least two weeks prior to Nels' death. McIntire decided to branch out into another subject.

“As I recollect from the good old days, Nels wasn't always the easiest person in the world to get along with. Some might think you must be a saint to have put up with him.”

“Well,” Lucy admitted humbly, “he could get a mite cantankerous at times, but, like I say, I had my own room. I'd just go in and shut the door and let him rant 'til he got it out of his system.”

“Did Nels have disagreements with anybody else before he died—outside of Wylie and David?”

Lucy let out a snort. “Let's see…there was the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker…Tom, Dick, and Harry… the doctor, the lawyer, the Indian chief. No, I reckon that ain't quite right, he got along okay with Warner Godwin—and Charlie Wall, too—but he
had
been a little miffed at the doctor.”

“Miffed at Guibard? Why?”

“Oh, he had some cockamamie notion about grinding up dead bees and feeding them to Nels; said it would cure his allergy. Nels said he never did trust the guy, and now he was beginning to sound like a witch doctor. He was going to start getting his medicine from the druggist instead of directly from the doctor.”

“Did he do that?”

“No, he still had the stuff Guibard gave him last winter. Anyway, Nels was a sweet man, rest his soul, but he did like to complain. He was always in a snit over something. It would be easier to count up the folks Nels
wasn't
on the outs with. He probably griped to the undertaker about the way his suit was pressed. But I think most people did the same as me, ignored it. Everybody was used to the way he was. There was a big crowd for his funeral.”

After a final half-cup of coffee, McIntire bid Lucy good-day and left, taking a short stroll past the summer kitchen, which was not now, and probably never had been, a kitchen. Christina Bertelsen had kept a stove here for boiling down maple sap in the spring, and she would likely have done her laundry in it during the few warm weeks of the year. Now it contained a staggering assortment of garden tools and shelves packed with bottles and cans, most bearing a skull and crossbones on the label. If Lucy had wanted to rid herself of her paramour, she wouldn't have had to bother with bees.

The building did indeed appear to be impervious to any type of vermin.