The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies (24 page)

“The Iowa farm girl never saw it.”

“I'm glad of that.” She dabbed at her nose. “Three hundred-fifty pounds?”

“Maybe three-seventy-five.”

“Cripes.” She pulled a compact from her handbag, opened its gold cover, took a quick peek, grimaced, and snapped it shut. “Are you going to question my husband? About the murder?”

“I don't think we need to do that. You should keep better tabs on your old man. While Reuben Hofer was getting shot, Chet was cooling himself off at the Moosehorn bar in Thunder Bay.”

“You bastard.”

Koski accepted her tribute with a bow of his head. “We'll hang on to the gun for a while, though. Just in case. Which reminds me. When you paid your kindly visit to the widow, did you see a gun in her house?”

“I told you, I only took one look in the door and skedaddled. You'll have to ask Bruno.”

Chapter Forty-five

It was an interview McIntire did not intend to miss, even if it meant sharing the back seat of Koski's lethargic but loud Power Wagon with his two prisoners and the dog. It didn't. Koski had business with his nemesis, Myrtle Van Opelt, J. P. McIntire left him at the justice's house and drove the Power Wagon to collect the two youths himself. Mrs. Hofer chose not to come along, even with the large vehicle, and she also hadn't gotten hold of an attorney.

“I don't have a telephone.”

“I understand, Mrs. Hofer. We'll get somebody.”

“They shouldn't be going alone. I wish Jane was still here.”

“Are you sure you don't want to change your mind? Come along?”

“No. No, I don't think so. Jake and Sam are almost grown men, and they've done nothing.”

She wasn't however, able to tell him where Jake and Sam were at the moment. “Claire's in the garden. She'll know.”

Claire wasn't in the garden. She was standing next to the Power Wagon, a pair of blue jeans three sizes too big belted around her middle, gingerly approaching Geronimo, who sat on the front seat with his head out the window.

“He's friendly,” McIntire said.

She swung around, face frozen in fear and disappointment. Obviously the child hadn't expected the wagon to have brought John McIntire.

“Your mother says you can tell me where to find your brothers.”

The outline of the earspool was plain under her thin dress, as she shrank back, pressing herself against the car door.

“No. They're not here. I think they went somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don't know. Maybe fishing. They probably won't be home until supper time. You can come back then.”

She'd almost had him fooled into leaving, when Reuben Hofer's Allis Chalmers, pulling a wagon loaded with round bales of hay, pulled into the yard.

In twenty minutes, the boys were reasonably clean from the neck up and seated in the backseat of the wagon. They rumbled off to the Van Opelt's to retrieve the sheriff, at whose arrival Geronimo was consigned to the cargo space, an effrontery that left him growling under his canine breath every second of the interminable trip into Chandler.

Koski put his wife onto the job of securing a lawyer and seated the boys in the outer room of his office. In a few minutes they were enjoying a game of checkers accompanied by apple pie, also compliments of Marian Koski, whose cooking had been responsible for more than one minor crime wave.

McIntire took the opportunity to walk over to Paulson's Drugs to look for a card for Leonie. She'd still be away on her birthday. Maybe he should send a gift, but that would be trusting the mail to get it there before she was on her way back home. He took some time searching for a card that was romantic without being too flowery, big without being ostentatious, and tasteful without being exorbitantly expensive, finally settling for too flowery, ostentatious, and expensive.

When he got back to the sheriff's office, Attorney Solomon Scott was just entering the door. Even the multi-talented Marian obviously had her limits. Solomon was old enough to have been the original, but the similarity ended there. No doubt he was the best she could manage on such short notice, and would do as a temporary measure.

He nodded to Jake and Sam, and asked if they knew why they'd been brought in. They both said no, with shakes of the head and round innocent eyes. That seemed to be good enough for Solomon. He tugged at the shiny lapels of his black coat to pull it more snugly against the eighty degree temperatures, and preceded the sheriff into his private office.

Mrs. Koski also insisted on being present, to “take notes,” which made for a crowd in the inner sanctum.

Koski started with the older boy, leaving his brother to stew himself into a state sufficient for a blubbering confession, McIntire guessed.

“State your full name and age.”

“Jacob Reuben Hofer. I'm seventeen.” He was relaxed, polite, and mature. “You can just call me Jake.”

“Okay Jake. I'm not going to beat about the bush. Have you ever fired a gun?”

“Pardon?” He turned that innocent stare on the sheriff. “Do you think maybe you could shut the window? The waves…I can't quite hear.”

Marian put down her notebook and closed the window, shutting out the sounds of the lake, and the cool air it generated.

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.” Koski replied, then after a period of silence, “Answer the question.”

“What was it again?”

“Have you ever fired a gun?”

“Oh, that's right. Ya.”

“Ya, you
have
fired a gun?”

“Sure.”

The ready admission seemed to leave Koski temporarily disarmed, and McIntire asked, “Does anyone in your family own a gun?”

“My grandfather gave one to my mother.”

“And have you ever fired that particular gun?”

“Ya. My grandpa showed us how. He made us practice.”

Koski recovered, “Do you know where that gun is now?”

“In the house somewhere, I guess. My mother always hid it because my father doesn't believe in—”

“Right. We know about that.”

There was nothing in the youth's demeanor to betray agitation, or any emotion at all. Was that an indication of innocence, or the mark of a cold-blooded killer? Despite their denials to Lawyer Scott, there was no doubt that both boys knew exactly why there were there, and that should have given even the most blameless of kids a bit of a sweat.

Although if sweat was an indicator, Solomon Scott was the only one in the suffocating cubicle with nothing on his conscience. He sat, dry-browed and stiffly upright, thin purple-veined hands folded. His gaze was focused unerringly on Pete Koski's face, except for those periods of time that the lids sagged, and his chin dropped to his chest

“When your father died,” the sheriff continued, “where were you?”

“I was with my brother, hilling the potatoes.”

“What time did you go out to the potato field?”

“I don't know. Sam did the milking first, and I cleaned the barn. I don't know what time it was.”

“Make a guess. Early?”

“Oh ya. We hadn't been up all that long. Just long enough to eat and do the chores.” The kid could use a radio.

“And how long did you stay in the potato field?”

“Until in the afternoon, when Father Doucet came out and said that my mother wanted us to come inside.”

“Did you leave the field at any time before that?”

“No.”

“Not even for a few minutes?”

He bit at his fingernail, but replied without a blink. “No.”

“Did your sister, or your younger brother, bring your dinner out to you?”

“I—I don't remember, not for sure. We weren't all that far from the house.”

“You didn't go inside to eat,” Koski said. “I was there.”

“Then Joey must have brought it to us.”

Just when Jake was showing signs of weakening, the sheriff wiped his hands on his knees and said, “Marian would you escort this young man out and bring in his brother?”

It didn't seem like a sensible move, but Koski's earlier stratagy had worked. Samuel David Hofer entered the room shaking like a leaf.

Koski moved to open the window. “Unless you have a hearing problem like your brother?”

“No.” Sam said. He'd picked up the sheriff's sarcasm. “He didn't make it up. Jake's ear makes noises by itself, so sometimes he can't hear other things very well. It got hurt.”

“From what?”

Maybe the tremors stemmed from a source other than fear. He answered bitterly and without a pause. “From Pa knocking him in the head.”

Marian Koski's breath whistled back into her lungs. Even Solomon opened his eyes a peek.

Sam glared at nobody in particular. “I don't care who knows. Jake was supposed to get gas for the tractor, but he went in the ditch, and the store was closed when he got there. So Pa hit him. Hard.”

“When did this happen?”

His confidence faded. “I'm not so sure. A while ago. Maybe two or three weeks.”

“Could it have been shortly before your father died?”

The tremor increased, and Sam clenched one black-knuckled hand with the other and moved them under the table. “It might have been. I don't remember exactly. You have to ask Jake.”

“I will. He must have been pretty peeved about it.”

“Who wouldn't be?”

“Did your father hit you and your brothers often?”

“No. We didn't give him any reason to. Jake got along with Pa the best of any of us, and Pa didn't need to hit him. It wasn't Jake's fault he fell asleep.”

Scott snored in agreement.

“So when your father got mad, you just kept out of his way?”

“He hardly ever got mad. He was just plain mean. We stayed away from him as much as we could all the time.”

A truck loaded with logs rumbled along the main street, putting a temporary halt to the questioning and giving Koski the opportunity to stand and stretch his back. He lit another cigarette before he continued, leaning against the window frame. “Jake says he knew how to use your grandfather's shotgun. What about you?”

“Grandpa showed us. He said every man should know how to handle a gun.”

“Where is that gun now?”

“I guess it's in the house somewhere. I ain't sure where Ma keeps it.”

“What about shells?”

“There might have been a few. Ma hid those, too.”

“Slugs?”

The boy shrugged. “Maybe.”

“You can go back with your brother. We'll get you home.” Koski pushed back his chair. “Sol!”

Scott's head jerked up with whiplash force.

“We're done here.”

McIntire put out his hand to keep Sam in his seat. “I talked to you the morning after your father died. Do you remember?”

“Ya.”

“And do you remember what you were doing?”

“We were still hilling the spuds.” He smiled for the first time. It was with the same sort of sarcasm the sheriff exhibited. “You said you'd help.”

“Sorry. But you managed to finish up without my assistance. When?”

“That same day.”

“When I was out there, talking to you, you weren't even half done.”

“We're fast.” Sam clearly began to see where this was heading. “When we want to be, that is.”

“What kept you from wanting to be fast the day before? The day your father died?”

He gave a shrug. “It was hot.”

“Yes, it was. So hot that maybe you didn't spend all day in that field.”

“Well,” he admitted.,“maybe not the
whole
day.”

“So where were you?”

“We might have gone off for a while. Maybe done some exploring. Just to cool off. It was boiling hot, and Jake's head hurt.”

McIntire recalled the aroma of the previous night's meal that had lingered in the Hofer's kitchen the day after Reuben's death. “Might you have gone down to the river to do that cooling off?

“Could be.”

“And possibly get some fish for supper?”

Homicide was one thing, but fish and game laws were serious business. Koski glowered. “That was your fish trap?”

“It was Grandpa's.”

Koski shooed him back to his brother. When they were once again engrossed in their checker game, with Marian hustled off for a restorative snack, he uncased Greely's twenty gauge and carried it to the doorway of his office. “This look familiar?”

“Where'd you get it?” It burst out of Jake Hofer before his brother gave him a shove.

“That ain't ours, you moron!”

Koski closed the door, with a self-satisfied grin.

McIntire dropped back into his chair. “It doesn't tell us a whole hell of a lot. All shotguns probably look alike to a kid that age.”

“It tells us Grandpappy's shotgun was in the ballpark, and that Jake, at least, expected it to be somewhere we wouldn't find it. I thought you were one hundred percent convinced those two are guilty as all hell.”

“I was ninety percent convinced, and I still am. Might be down to around seventy-five now though. They just don't seem like murderers. Maybe with their old man gone, the kids are turning back into kids.” That had certainly been true of young Joey.

“Well, I ain't ready to arrest them, by a long shot, but I'd sure as hell like to find out what happened to that shotgun.”

“Talk to Bruno. It
could
have been stolen.”

“That's right.” He brightened up and patted the gunstock on his knee. “Ya. Maybe Wanda's been filling us full of shit, and this
is
the one!”

Chapter Forty-six

First that skinny jerk had come over and started picking on Joey, and the next thing Claire knew, he was back, taking Jake and Sam away. To jail. He had the sheriff's car so it had to be to jail.

It was horrible back in Iowa; everybody at school knew her father was in prison. The kids here didn't know. She could have started all over again. Now her father was murdered and her brothers were in jail. The chance for a new start was gone, and this time, it would be way, way worse. Claire didn't even try to stop the tears that ran down her face and dripped onto Spike's ears.

Joey came running out onto the porch and yelled. “Claire, come here! Hurry up!”

Ma's coffee cup was on the floor and she was standing up, leaning with both hands on the table. Her face was grey and sweat ran down her neck. She talked fast, in little spurts. “I don't feel very well. I'm going to lie down. I want you to run to the Thorsens' and get Mia to call Doctor Guibard. Tell her it's an emergency.”

Claire was froze. Stuck to the spot.

“Go now!” Then her face tried to make a smile and she touched Claire's hair and said what she always said when there was a hurry, “Immediately, if not sooner!” She reached for the side of the door and started for the bedroom. “And take Joey with you.”

Claire didn't wait another second before she was out the door and down the steps.

Joey wheezed behind her, “Don't go so fast. I can't keep up!”

“You can catch up!”

Claire had never run so fast in her life, or felt like she was going so slow. When she finally got there, Mia Thorsen was in her garden, and Claire's side was hurting so bad she couldn't hardly tell what she wanted. Mrs. Thorsen had long legs, and could walk almost as fast as Claire could run. When Claire got to the door, she heard, “Yes, I think an ambulance would be best.” Then she came out the door and yelled for Nick.

She touched Claire's hair, too. “I'm going to go to your mother now. I want you to stay here with Joey ‘til I get back.” She moved her finger to under Claire's chin and stared hard like Pa used to do. “Promise.”

Claire promised, and Nick and Mia Thorsen took off in the car. Even though he was sick, Nick Thorsen drove as fast as Father Doucet.

When she couldn't hear the car any more it got very quiet. Joey came along the path from behind the workshop. He had given up running, and so had Spike.

“Is it okay to go inside and get a drink?” His face was red as a beet, and Spike was panting.

It was probably okay.

Thorsens had running water. Claire opened the big cupboard and took out two glasses. Her hands were so sweaty she could hardly hold on to them. She had to stretch to reach the faucet. She held a glass under the spout and turned the handle. Water whooshed out and splashed back all over her face and down her front. The glass slipped out of her hand and crashed into a million pieces in the sink. She'd have cried if Joey hadn't started to.

“It's nothing to bawl about,” she told him. “I'll clean it up in a minute.” She dried her hands and held the other glass under the faucet. This time she turned the handle very slowly and let the water trickle in. “Be careful.” She handed it to him. “Take it outside.”

Cleaning up the broken glass took a long time. She picked it all out and put it in a brown bag. Some of it fell down into the sink drain. Nick would probably be mad, but she didn't know how she could get it out.

She put some water in a glass for herself and went out to sit on the steps next to Joey. After she drank some, she put the glass down and tipped it so Spike could have a drink.

“She'll go to heaven. If she dies, she'll—”

“Shut up, Joey.”

In a while they heard a siren. They both knew what it was—an ambulance coming to get Ma. Claire kept her face aimed away from Joey so he wouldn't see how scared she was.

It wasn't how things went in books. In books there was some danger you had to fight, not just bad things happening that you couldn't do anything about. Maybe it was easier to be brave if you only have one danger or one enemy to worry about. You can fight it, and when you get it over with, everything is fine. You can go home and forget about it.

The sirens stopped. Joey looked up. “They're there now.”

It seemed like a long time before they heard the sirens again, taking Ma away. So long that Claire was starting to be afraid they wouldn't ever hear them; that it was too late for Ma to go to the hospital. So hearing the ambulance was a good thing. Ma wasn't dead. But she might die. She was having a heart attack, Claire knew that. When people had heart attacks, they died.

When the Thorsens' car came back, it only had Nick in it. It took him a while to get out, and he walked slow.

“Your mother is on her way to the hospital.” When he talked, he sounded almost as jerky as Ma had. “Mia went with her. Where are your brothers?”

“Jake and Sam are in jail,” Claire said it as mad as she could. “John McIntire came, and he took them to jail.”

Nick didn't say anything to that, then he asked, “You hungry?” Joey shook his head. Claire was sort of hungry, but it wouldn't be polite to say so.

Nick went inside, and Claire heard him on the telephone, but she didn't bother to try to listen to the words.

After a while he came back out and said, “I'm just going to start the sauna going.” He gave Spike a dirty look and walked down the path with teensy baby steps.

Joey started to cry. Claire didn't know what to do, so she just sat.