The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-six

“The kid pounced on it like Christmas candy. Sure as hell, she'd seen it before.” Koski slapped the car roof. “Then she got all foxy. Said she ‘use to' have one like it but it must have got lost.”

“Why would she lie about it?”

“Who the hell knows what goes on in a kid's mind? My guess is she knew it was something her old man had, or something her old man had swiped.”

“If he'd stolen it, would she know it?”

“Kids know plenty you'd never suspect. Especially girls.” Koski, with his three daughters, was no doubt in a far better position than McIntire to make that judgement.

“But Reuben Hofer didn't leave that stone on the table.”

“No, I don't suppose he did. The hand's been dead too long to be his. But it belonged to somebody who's either dead or walking around short a limb. That's a little more serious than a stolen rock. Or even a stolen earring.”

“But, like you said, we can't just dig up the countryside looking for a one-handed corpse.”

“No we can't, and it ain't turning out to be all that easy to dig at the CO camp. It's federal property. We need a warrant, and Carlson is making a god-awful fuss about not messing things up. A one-handed living person might be easier to find.”

“It would be crazy to think the hand belongs to somebody who just misplaced it.”

“This whole damn thing is crazy. I sent it off to the state police. No point in doing anything much until we get it checked out by an expert. If they can say approximately how old it is once and for all, we can put out the word for any people missing around that time. I don't know what else we can do now.”

There didn't seem to be anything else. He was right; if the bones postdated Reuben's time at the CO camp, as Carlson seemed to think, there was no point in looking for the rest of the body there.

McIntire said, “If Reuben was walking off with some valuable artifacts, he'd have had to find some way to smuggle them out of the camp—and somewhere to smuggle them
to.
I can't think he'd have turned it all over to Bruno. He could have passed the stuff on to somebody in town, somebody he trusted more, as in Wanda Greely. Wanda and Bruno might been more than just casual acquaintances, or card playing buddies. And one more thing, he added. “Wanda Greely lied when she said she hadn't seen Reuben Hofer since he left here in forty-five.”

“Ya?”

“She mentioned that back in those days he didn't have the beard, so she apparently knew he'd grown one lately.”

“Was his picture in the paper? That might have shown him with the whiskers.”

McIntire hadn't thought of that. But, “No. I didn't see a picture, and photographs might be another of those things Hofer didn't believe in. Their wedding photo was of Mary Frances alone.”

“Wanda might have heard about it.”

Koski had a point. Hofer's whiskers were unusual enough to provoke comment. “Well, you kind of had to be there. The way she said, ‘He was good looking. He didn't have the beard then,' gave me the distinct impression she'd seen him with that beard.”

“Well, we'd better get back at her. Check out her alibi with her husband, for all the good that'll do.”

“There's a kid. He might not lie.”

“Surely you jest.”

McIntire hoped it wasn't Leonie's absence that led to his ready agreement to once again pay a visit to Wanda Greely.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Sister came into the kitchen and turned off the radio right in the middle of Queen for a Day. At first Ma didn't say anything. Then it was like she remembered that Pa wasn't there, and they could do what they wanted.

“Jane, this isn't the colony.” She made a ‘tut' with her lips, but she didn't turn the radio back on or tell Sister off.

Sister didn't pay any attention. She talked softly, like that was the only polite way to talk, and you couldn't do it with the radio on. It made it sound like she was saying nice things, even if the words weren't nice. “Are you sure Joseph should be spending so much time with that man?”

“What man? Father Doucet?” Ma sounded like she couldn't believe her ears. “He comes to see to Joey's religious instruction. I think it's very thoughtful, since I can't take him to the catechism classes.”

“They are not studying religion now.” She grabbed the kettle of water out of Claire's hands without asking.

Father was outside with Joey, watching Sam put posts in for a new fence by the barn.

Sister dumped the water in the dishpan. She turned away quick when the cloud of steam hit her face and said, “He might not be the best influence on a young boy.”

“A priest? A bad influence?”

“He smokes, and he probably drinks.” She looked at Claire and spoke even softer. “Who knows what else those people might do. It's all secret.” Ma didn't answer that, and Sister said, “Not to mention that he keeps Joseph from his chores.”

“He's eight years old!” Ma just shook her head. “Like I said, this isn't the Colony.” She switched the radio back on.

Sister had to talk louder. “No, it is not, and I think it is time I went back.”

She'd just got there. Claire had been thinking she was going to stay for a long time.

Ma said, “Oh, my goodness!” like she didn't want her to go, but then right away she added, “If you think it's best. When were you planning on leaving?”

“In a day or two.” It sounded like Sister's mind was made up already, or else Ma not asking her to stay made it up then and there. “And I will take Claire and Joseph with me. With all that's happening now, this is no place for them.”

Claire almost dropped the bowl she was carrying. Sister sounded like she'd made up her mind about that, too.

“I couldn't get along without Claire, you know that.”

“Just Joseph then. For the time being, anyway.”

Ma didn't say anything for awhile. She just stared out the window to where Joey was standing with Father Doucet. Now they were looking at the swallow nests on the barn. “I don't think that would be a good idea.”

It was funny. When Sister talked, she sounded all gentle, but her words were like there'd be no arguing with her. Ma said, “I don't think,” like she wasn't quite sure, but you could tell by the sound of her voice that she meant, “nothing doing!”

Sister didn't seem to know that. She scrubbed at the scalloped potatoes burned onto the sides of the roaster until Claire thought she'd go right through. “Joseph will be much better off away from here. At least until this business about Reuben is over.”

Ma just tapped her fingers on the table for a while. Then she said, “Claire, go out and ask Father to come inside. You can stay out and keep Joey company.”

“What kind of advice do you expect to get from him? He is not going to give up one of his merry band.”

“I'm not looking for advice. I just told you. My children are staying with me. All of them.”

Sister dumped the dishwater down the sink with a whoosh. It probably flooded out Joey's farm. She dried her hands on her apron. “I'll go fetch the pied piper. I need Joseph now, anyway.” She stomped out the door without waiting.

Claire stood next to Ma, and they watched out the window.

“Maybe we'll have a fist fight on our hands,” Ma said.

“I'm betting on Sister.”

“She's got the power, I'll grant you that, but Father's light on his feet.”

They couldn't hear what the two were saying, but it was enough to make Sister send Joey off to the hen house, and Sam stop his hammering to listen. He was around the corner of the barn, so Ma and Claire could see him, but Sister didn't know he was there.

They talked for a few minutes. Mostly Sister talked, with her hands folded in front of her, and Father listened. Then Sam must have made some noise, because Sister looked in his direction, and walked farther away. She talked a little more, lifting her clasped hands to her chest like she was praying. Then she went after Joey, and Father Doucet headed for the house, looking sort of pale.

“Seems like I owe you,” Ma straightened her dress. “She certainly seems to have got the better of him.”

Claire zipped outside to where Sam was nailing the top wire to the fence posts. He was nicer when Jake wasn't around. He might tell. Claire asked, “What were they talking about?”

“Never you mind.”

“Ma wants to know.”

“Liar.” He gave a whack with the hammer.

“She wants to take Joey away with her, was that it?”

“She wants to take you, too, Smarty Pants.” Sam looked at the sun and sneezed three times. Claire wished she could do that.

“Ma already said no. Tell me what she said, or, next time I sweep up, I'll accidentally find your cigarettes.”

That did the trick. Claire was proud of herself. She didn't have any idea where the boys hid cigarettes.

“She said Ma was too blind to see what needed to be done, but that Father Doucet had…influence. Ma'd do what he said, and if he let religion get in the way of children being protected, she didn't think much of his precious church. And then,” he squinted at the sun and gave another loud sneeze, “she said she knew he'd see reason, and she'd let him know how to get in touch when that time came.”

“She's going home in a couple of days.” Claire was glad to be able to tell something Sam didn't know. “I'll get her to make some cinnamon rolls before she goes.”

“Sister ain't gonna take orders from you.”

“All I have to do is get out the yeast. She'll come nosing along and take over.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

Wanda Greely's home was damn near as pink as her shop, and that was only on the outside. She stood in the doorway in a sunset-colored blouse blinking her astonishment, or perhaps it was meant to be a seductive batting of eyelashes.

“Not to be rude, but what do you want now?” It was definitely run of the mill blinking. “Sheriff sent you on another little errand, has he?”

She opened the door just wide enough for McIntire to get through without quite brushing against the parts of her body that thrust out the farthest. McIntire decided to take that as a welcome.

The door opened directly into the living room. McIntire was getting so habituated to the rosy hues surrounding Mrs. Greely, that he hardly noticed more than the puce-colored scrollwork that trimmed the case filled with fishing rods and hunting rifles. That was a novel touch.

“Is your husband at home?” he asked.

“They've gone fishing. You're safe.”

“I was hoping to have a word with him, too.”

“Corroborate my alibi, as they say? Why bother? We've had plenty of time to cook up a story between us.” She stood with her arms folded, not exactly tapping her foot, but her toe was twitching.

“A story for Thursday, maybe not for Friday.”

“I need one for Friday now, too, do I? You have a remarkably short memory. On Friday, I was trying to chase you out of my shop.”

That was true. For a short part of Friday anyway.

McIntire took the earspool from his pocket. “Have you seen this before?”

“No. Not to remember. What is it?”

“Don't you know?”

She held it between her thumb and forefinger and put it to her eye, peering at him through the hole. “I spy.” She dropped it back in his hand. “It could be a curtain weight, but it's sort of thick and lumpy.”

“A curtain weight?”

She walked to the window, toes protruding from her fluffy mules that sank into pale coral carpet, then bent, in a way that tightened her clothing across all the rounder areas, to lift one of the magenta colored draperies. “It's sewn into the hem. To keep them hanging straight.” She smoothed the curtain over her hand, exposing a circular shape in the cloth. Then she let it drop with a thump.

“Do you know anybody with only one hand?” McIntire asked.

“I don't think so.” It was accompanied by no blinking or batting. “I met a woman the other day with only four fingers, though. She was at the Hofers'. Maybe you should go after her.”

A slam sounded at the back of the house. “Mom!” Quick footsteps sounded and a door at the end of the room swung open bringing a rush of cool air and a stocky white-haired boy holding a stringer with a pair fat walleyes. “Two! I landed them myself!”

His excited babble was joined by a voice deeper and filled with laughter. “Bring them back to the sink.” The door opened wider. “Hello! I didn't know we had company. Let me just wash this fish off my hands.” The two of them disappeared, leaving the door swinging.

None of Reuben Hofer's son's had inherited his hungry-hawk eyes. None except this one.

Wanda Greely's hand, and her eyes, extended toward McIntire in a gesture of defeat and pleading.

She waved him into a chair, seated herself on the sofa and took a cigarette from a box on the coffee table. By the time her husband was back, all soapy-clean, she was herself again. “This is John McIntire, Darling. He's been sent direct from the county sheriff, investigating Reuben Hofer's death.”

From all appearances, Chet Greely was older than Wanda by a few years, but not by enough to be some doddering sugar-daddy who'd be likely to have had the wool pulled over his eyes. He sat next to her, his body turned slightly away to face McIntire. “That was an awful business. Four kids.”

“Did you know Mr. Hofer?” McIntire had to start somewhere.

“Not really. Wanda mentioned him a time or two. But I don't recall that I ever met him. I was away most of the time then, working at the shipyards in Superior. ‘Course Wanda had them flocking around, soon as they heard her old man was out of town.” It was a simple statement of fact, delivered with neither jocularity nor rancor and with a squeeze around his wife's shoulders. He said again, “Terrible thing for that family. Four kids.”

Mr. Greely seemed genuinely concerned, relaxed, and amiable. A different animal from Wanda.

“There was some disturbance at the Hofers' home on Thursday evening, and again on Friday. We're asking everybody who knew them to tell us what they were doing on those two occasions.”

“Disturbance? And you're asking Wanda?”

“And you. If you don't mind.”

“Far as I remember, we were here, together, like always.” He didn't turn to see his wife's affirming nod.

“With your son?”

Wanda spoke with cold formality. “Would you like me to call him?”

“That won't be necessary, Mrs. Greely.” McIntire addressed her husband. “You say you never met Reuben Hofer?”

“No…. No, I never laid eyes on the man.” His demeanor remained bemused and affable, but when McIntire stood, he could see that Greely's hand, behind his wife's back, was clenched into a fist.

***

The earspool hadn't been found dangling off Mia Thorsen's absent finger, but she might be worth consulting. She'd spent that afternoon cleaning the Hofers' house and had done a damn thorough job of it. If Reuben had a stash of artifacts, she might have seen something.

McIntire found her on her knees, pulling weeds from around some beets, a reminder that he hadn't touched Leonie's vegetable garden since she left.

Mia's garden had always been the source of undisguised amusement, bordering on ridicule, in the neighborhood, but she seemed to be putting a little—or possibly a lot—more effort into it this summer. Her husband's lack of employment might have something to do with that, both from its impact on her grocery bill and…“Hiding out?” McIntire asked.

She straightened up, rubbing both knees. “I used to read at this time of day, have a piece of cake, a cup of coffee, maybe a wee nap. Now, with Nick home all day….”

“He disapproves?”

“Naps and cake are only worthwhile when you take them on the sly.”

Maybe that was why existence without Leonie had lost so much of its punch. Had Mia discovered the secret of life? Guilty pleasures?

“How's Nick doing?”

“Not so bad. It's easier now, with the weather good. I'm not looking forward to winter.”

Here was another situation in which McIntire was lost without Leonie. She had ways of finding things out without seeming snoopy. The best McIntire could do was, “Is he getting any sort of treatment? Medication?”

Mia shook her head. “He won't hear of it. He doesn't even drink anymore, not even though Guibard said it might do him some good, in moderation.” That brought a smile. “Nick never was one for moderation.”

She wiped her hands on her baggy, too short, trousers. “I was hoping that you'd come to tell me what went on at Hofers' house that sent you scurrying over here the other night.”

“I came to show you.” McIntire dug into his pocket. “I thought maybe you might have seen something like it when you were cleaning.”

Mia took it from his hand and held it up to the sun. “I have. Not when we were cleaning, and not exactly the same. Fancier. The carving was different, and it looked like it had some copper on it at one time.”

“You saw it in their house?”

“No.” She twirled the stone on the tip of one of her remaining fingers. “It was on a string around Claire Hofer's neck. She said her father gave it to her.”

“You didn't see this one anywhere?”

She shook her head. “You're not going to take it from her, are you? The poor little waif has practically nothing, and she was so proud of it. I stupidly told her that Papa made the furniture in the bedroom for me when I was a kid.”

“It might have been stolen.”

“From where?” A trickle of blood, dark and crusted, ran below her ear, the attack of a late season black-fly.

“Reuben might have dug it up when he was in the CPS camp.”

“Dug it up? That's not stealing.”

“It is if it's on federal land.” According to Carlson, digging on federal land was illegal, but maybe he had ulterior motives.

“Stealing from the government doesn't count. It's almost anti-American not to.”

“It could also be the item whoever ransacked the house was looking for.” And so might not be the safest thing for a small girl to have hanging around her neck.

“Is it valuable?”

“Greg Carlson said not terribly. But if Hofer had an entire collection of the stuff, all together it could be worth a tidy sum.”

“They're dirt poor. If Papa Hofer had a pile of gold doubloons and pieces of eight, wouldn't he have sold them long ago?”

“I suppose he would have. That's probably why the burglar doesn't seem to have found what he was looking for.”

“You didn't answer my question. Are you going to take it from her?”

“That's hardly up to me.”

“Is it important? You've got this one.” She handed it back. “And you know that she's got the other one. Why would you need to actually have it in your hot little hand? If Reuben Hofer stole it, I doubt he told his daughter that when he gave it to her. It's hers. What do you need it for?”

Mia could make the most ridiculous thing sound so perfectly reasonable. “It's evidence,” McIntire floundered. “Evidence in a murder case. Maybe two murder cases.”

“Two?”

He told her about the hand. “Well, just bones. A skeleton hand.”

“Wylie didn't save his, did he? Pass it on?” She'd thought of it right away. Mia had always had a penchant for the macabre, but given her role in Wylie Petworth's present circumstances, he was amazed that she spoke of it so lightly.

“Don't be morbid. Anyway Carlson says the bones aren't more than a couple of years old.”

Her smile disappeared like a light switched out.

“A couple of years since they were alive, I mean.” McIntire explained.

“Are you going over to Hofers' now?”

“No. I'll leave that to Koski.”

“But you'll tell him.”

“Of course, I'll tell him.”

“I suppose you have to. And he'll figure he's got to confiscate it and tell Claire that the only thing her father ever gave her was something he stole. He was a thief as well as a…pacifist.”

It did sound callous. “I'm sorry, Mia. She might be able to keep it. But,” he added, “she shouldn't be wearing the thing, in case the wrong person sees it.”

Mia picked at the green stains around her fingernails. “Let me tell her?”

“Well….”

“Please. I'll try to explain so she can understand. She's afraid of you, and she might change her mind about Pete Koski, too, once he starts trying to take away her keepsakes. And it will make me seem less of a snitch.”

“I guess it'd be okay.” She might be right after all. It probably didn't matter very much anyway, unless, of course, Claire did know where her father got the artifact.

“It might make things slightly better. None of this is okay.”

No, not for the Hofer family or for Mia herself. “How are
you
doing?” McIntire asked.

“Me? Just fine. I've got an indoor toilet and Nick helping out with every little thing. What more could I want?”

“You're trying to say that like it's true.”

“It should be true.”

“What? You should be happy to have Nick home, underfoot all the time, invading your territory?” It wasn't quite like Reuben Hofer's return to the bosom of his family, but there were parallels.

“I didn't used to think I
had
a territory. When Nick first started getting sick, I agonized over what a fool I'd been for letting myself get so completely dependent on him. I figured that without his income and his driving, I'd be helpless, and we'd both wither away and die. Now I realize that I ran things around here exactly the way I wanted them, and I worked hard at it. I liked it that way. I know he's had to give up just about everything that was important to him, and it's only going to get worse, but his incessant interfering is driving me crazy!”

“That's not hard to understand—and to sympathize with. Anybody would feel the same.” McIntire wondered if Leonie felt that way. She'd been single almost as many years as he had. Did he interfere with her running things the way she wanted them. He didn't think so, but she might see it different. Was just his being there, in her way twenty-four hours a day, enough to get on her nerves?

“I need something else,” she stated. “I need some new territory.”

“What about…?” McIntire inclined his head toward the workshop.

“No. That's just something to keep busy. An excuse to kill time. It always has been. I need to do something with my life, with whatever years I have left. Something more important than hope chests and clock cases. I need to do something that makes a difference to people.”

To two small people in particular. She'd been hovering—scrubbing, combing hair, pushing food like she was fattening them for the county fair. She wanted more, and he sympathized with that, too. He also knew that it wouldn't happen, and she would be hurt once again. Mia's life had been a string of pain, and McIntire had been responsible for some of the worst. That indoor toilet might just be its high point.

“You're thinking that soon I'll have my hands too full for anything else.”

He hadn't been, but it was undoubtedly true.

“I'm not going to let Nick's illness take over both our lives.”

“Do you think you can stop it?”

“No, of course not.” The smile was bleak. “I'm not a complete idiot.”