The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies (6 page)

Chapter Eight

Blinds were pulled against the windows that would have let in the sun. It rendered the room dim—dark to McIntire who had spent several minutes gazing over the brilliant waters of the bay before entering—but blessedly cool. From what he could see there was no one else taking advantage of the refuge from the sweltering heat.

“Hi there. Haven't seen you in a coon's age. Hot enough for ya?” Hilda Ellman spoke from the gloom behind the bar, but, thankfully, didn't wait for an answer. “Isn't this just ghastly?” She slapped her newspaper. A photo of the Black Creek schoolhouse filled half the page. A smaller one of Reuban Hofer's tractor was wedged in below it. “Did you…? Were you…?” she went on, with hesitation in her words but hunger in her eyes, “at the scene? It must have been ghastly.”

When McIntire volunteered no ghastly details, she contented herself with, “Any idea whodunnit?”

“Not so much as the slightest.” McIntire ordered a couple of Pabsts and ushered his guest into his favorite of the four booths—the one farthest from the door.

The man's name was Bruno Nickerson, and he lived across the bay in Benton. He tipped up the bottle and poured about three quarters of its contents down his throat. “That hit the spot.” When he removed his hat, the band of sweat that encircled his head coincided precisely with his band of remaining hair. “To what do I owe this kind invitation? I take it I'm being plied for information. Well, I can be bought. Go ahead and ply.” There was definitely a sneer lurking beneath the jocular smile.

McIntire waved to Hilda for two more. “We don't know much about Reuben Hofer. I had no idea he'd been anywhere near here before he moved in at the end of May. How long was he at the camp?”

“The whole time it was open.”

“Which was?”

“Not all that long. It started up some time in 1944. Toward the end of the war, they closed it down and shipped everybody out to California to fight forest fires. And good riddance it was.” He took an only sightly less eager gulp from the second bottle and wiped his lips on his sleeve. “Even if it did put me out of a government job.”

“Weren't the COs free to go at the end of the war?”

“Some were, maybe. Most were in until forty-six or forty-seven, I think. Hell, the government was getting a lot of work out of most of them. Reuben Hofer took off from the camp in California and ended up spending some time in federal prison, Milan, I think. I don't know when he got out. I didn't even know for sure he
was
out, until I heard he was murdered.”

“You say you were out of a government job?”

“Well, ya, ain't that what we been talking about?” Nickerson sipped more judiciously at his remaining beer.

McIntire reached for his own. “I thought the CPS camps were run by churches.”

“Not Gibb's Bay. Not all the Conchies objected for religious reasons. Some were more political, Socialists, mostly. They didn't go to the church camps. There were a few places run by Selective Service. The one in Gibb's Bay—it was an old CCC camp—was where they stuck the COs that the rest of them couldn't handle. The dyed-in-the-wool trouble-makers.”

“Pacifist trouble-makers?”

He gave a derisive, hops-laden snort. “They had their ways, and they weren't always that goddamn peaceful. They were different from the ordinary bible toting objectors. A bunch of them had college educations. We had doctors, college professors, ‘intellectuals,' people who knew how to get around the system. Quite a few were Jehovah's Witnesses, but they weren't any of them particularly religious, not your Quaker and Amish types.”

“But Reuben Hofer was one of those Quaker and Amish types.”

“He might have started out all peace and brotherly love, but by the time he got to Gibb's Bay, he was one ornery son-of-a-bitch.”

And seemed to have stayed that way, if his son's opinion was anything to go by. If the inmates had been allowed to leave the camp at all, go into town, Hofer might have spread that orneriness around. Enough to bring on that urge to kill? A grudge that reached fruition when the injured party discovered the grudgee was back in town?

“What sort of trouble did these trouble makers make?”

“About any damn thing they could come up with. A few times they ripped the place up, broke into the storeroom and dumped everything onto the floor, smashed eggs, made a mess generally. Most of the time, they just refused to do anything we told them, or they'd scratch their heads and pretend they didn't know how. So they'd spend all day chopping down a sapling or sweeping out a truck. They were supposed to be doing work of ‘national importance.' In Gibb's Bay that was building dikes and shit like that for the game refuge, which they didn't see as all that important, so mostly they just laid around. Called themselves the ‘Tobacco Road Gang.' Asshole Gang, more like. They got a big write up in
Time
magazine, so they were really swell-headed after that.”

It begged a question, and McIntire asked, “So why'd they get away with it?”

The roll of his eyes said it sure as hell wasn't through any fault of Bruno's. “We didn't have any real authority over them, weren't allowed to use force with the little darlings. They weren't subject to military law, and we weren't military anyway. We were just supervisors. Mamas to feed them and tuck them in at night. We could yell orders ‘til we were blue in the face, but if they didn't do what they were told, there wasn't a Goddamn thing we could do about it. They could leave on Sundays and would go into Benton and generally raise hell. Some of them were well off; they'd get money sent from relatives.”

“Hofer?”

“No. Reuben didn't have a rich daddy. But he was one hell of a card player. What didn't get blown on booze and women mostly ended up Reuben's. Or a good percent of it anyway. The other guys would stake him.”

“Is that why you remembered him?'

“What?” It hadn't seemed like an offensive question, but Nickerson looked up with a stare half bewildered and half angry, like McIntire had asked if he'd stopped beating his wife.

“Would you remember all the inmates at the camp, or is Reuben Hofer a special case?” McIntire asked. “Did you strike up a friendship with him that brings you here to express your sympathy?”

“No!” The emphatic response was followed by a short embarrassed silence before he went on, without exactly answering McIntire's question, “Reuben didn't have friends, particularly. Not that the other men disliked him. He just wasn't one of the guys, if you know what I mean. He wasn't such a loudmouth as some of the rest, but now and then I got the feeling he was a ringleader, putting the other guys up to the shit they got into.” He held the sweating bottle to his temple with the faraway gaze of a moonstruck teenager. “The guy had a sense of humor though, believe it or not. He went around with this big ball chained to his leg. It was just a hunk of pine, carved round and painted black, so it wasn't heavy, but he dragged it around like it weighed a ton. He shoulda been on the stage.”

Hilda approached with a rag to wipe the wet rings from their table. “Need anything?”

McIntire shook his head before Nickerson had a chance to say otherwise. Both men sat silently while Hilda busied herself, lurking at the adjoining booth, straightening menus and tidying the ketchup bottle. When she eventually gave up and retreated to the bar, McIntire asked, “So what did make you decide to call on Mrs. Hofer?”

“Why not? It seemed like the polite thing to do.”

Maybe, but why should Nickerson assume that Mrs. Hofer would have any interest in meeting her late husband's prison guard? Wouldn't a nice card be more appropriate? McIntire waited.

“Anyway, I have something that belonged to Reuben. I wanted to give it to the widow.”

McIntire didn't comment, just continued to sit with what he hoped was an expectant look on his face,
ala
Pete Koski. Obviously his technique needed work. Nickerson dropped his gaze to his bottle, but only volunteered, “It might have sentimental value.”

“Would you like me to deliver it for you?”

“Oh, I don't think so. I'd like to speak to her in person anyway. I'll wait for the funeral.”

“I don't think there's going to be one,” McIntire said. “Not around here.”

Seeming to belie his resounding denial of friendship with Hofer, Nickerson's disappointment was evident. “Are they leaving? Pulling up stakes already?”

“I wouldn't know about that, but Reuben will be buried back where he came from.”

Nickerson nodded in understanding, and swigged down the last of his beer.

Chapter Nine

When Sheriff Koski brought Sister back, he came into the house to talk to Ma. Since Sister was there to make coffee and put out Mrs. Thorsen's cake, Claire didn't have any excuse to hang around, but nobody told her to leave. Which was good, except that the kitchen was getting crowded, and she couldn't think of anything to do with herself. It wasn't like she could just pull up a chair and have a seat next to the sheriff! She went into the front room and sat on the davenport where she'd be out of sight, but could hear what they said. In case anybody came in, she faked that she was looking at the
Saturday Evening Post
.

Sheriff Koski gave a big huff and a groan when he sat down, just like Ma did. He said, “Your husband's body will be released to you by tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“There'll be an autopsy report by then, too. So we should know more about what happened.”

Ma just said, “Thank you,”again, and the sheriff gave another cough in his throat. “Mrs. Hofer, did your husband own a gun?”

Claire felt her stomach go queasy and stared at the page, trying not to listen. There was an advertisement with a picture of a bathroom with a great big tub. That would be heaven. A real bathtub. Someday, if she got some privacy, she was going to fill up the copper boiler and take a bath in that. If she fit.

“My husband was a pacifist,” Ma said. She sort of laughed even though it wasn't funny, like she did when she didn't have the money for the Electrolux man. “Reuben hated guns. He would never own one.”

That was true. Ma hadn't lied, but she hadn't exactly told the truth; Pa didn't have a gun, but
they
had one. Grandpa gave it to Ma. He showed the boys how to shoot it and made them practice. He also showed them how to take it apart so they could clean it, and so Ma could hide it from Pa. It was in the chest of drawers where they kept the sheets and pillow cases and stuff they weren't using, like winter clothes in summertime and things that were too small for Sam but didn't fit Joey yet. Pa never looked there.

The sheriff's chair creaked, and Claire hoped it wasn't the shaky one. “Your sister-in-law mentioned that, and she said that your husband spent some time in a CPS camp near here. It's possible that something happened there that…led to his death. What do you know about the other men he met in the camp?”

So it was true what the pink lady said. In the war, Pa was right here in Michigan.

“Not a thing,” Ma said. “Once in a while Reuben mentioned a few things that happened, but no one by name, far as I remember. It wouldn't have meant anything to me, if he had.”

“What about afterwards, when he was in….”

“Prison? No. He hardly ever talked about that.”

He did talk about it sometimes. Once he said to Jake and Sam they didn't realize how good they had it, to be free to come and go as they pleased. When Jake said, “Good, I'll go right now,” Pa looked really mad and told Jake he'd go, all right. He'd go out and paint the barn like he was told. Jake did.

Sheriff Koski asked again, “Are you sure? It must have been a disagreeable experience. I'd think he'd at least do a little griping.”

“No,” Ma said. “He just wanted to forget about it. He'd chosen to go to the CPS camp of his own free will. He was true to his convictions. He felt like he accomplished something there, but when it started it was only supposed to be for six months. It ended up dragging on for years. And he didn't think they'd any right to expect him to risk his neck jumping out of planes into forest fires for no pay, or to lock him up for refusing to do it.”

“He might have told your sons a few stories. Maybe—”

“Reuben wasn't a big talker, especially about himself,” Sister butted in. “You're looking pale, Mary Frances. Do you need to lie down?”

Ma always looked pale, and she didn't ever need to lie down in the daytime anymore.

Sheriff Koski's chair scraped on the floor. He was standing up. He didn't stay much longer, just told Ma to let him know if she thought of anybody Pa might have been on the outs with, and that he'd be back soon. When he went outside, Sister went with him. They stood by his car talking for so long that Claire gave up watching.

The front room was like an oven. Claire went to the chest and got down on her knees to open the bottom drawer. When she was younger, about four, she liked to lie on her back and draw pictures on the underneath side of the chest. She must have been puny; she would hardly be able to get her head under there now, but her drawing would still be there. Maybe some day people would look at it and know that a girl had made the pictures years ago. By then she might be a famous artist and the chest would be worth a thousand dollars. She should write her name on the bottom so people would know it was her.

The drawer was stuck tight. She gave a mighty tug. It came shooting out, and she landed on her butt on the linoleum. She sat still. Ma didn't yell, and no snoopy brother showed up.

It was gone. Claire dug under the wool socks and long johns. Her stomach began to hurt. It just wasn't there. Her father had been killed with a gun, and their gun was gone.

The floor squeaked, and Claire stood up fast. How could Ma sneak up on her like that?

“What are you looking for?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“That's down in the cellar, in an empty jar.” Ma's lips sort of twitched when she said something she thought was funny, but it wasn't polite to laugh at your own jokes.

“I was just seeing if there are some blue jeans. Maybe some of Sam's old ones will fit me.”

“They'll fit you like a potato sack. You'll have to tie a piece of baling twine around your middle and look like Huckleberry Finn. Anyway, they're in the next drawer.”

“Oh, that's right.” Claire shoved the bottom drawer in quick.

“While you're at it, get out the good sheets. We'll need to get the bed on the porch ready for Jane.”

“Sister might like the white ones better.”

“She's company.”

The drawer with the sheets wasn't pushed in so far, and it was easier to open. The sheets with the roses were folded underneath the plain white set. Claire reached in to take them out. The brown wood of the gun peeked through. She'd been so stupid. She thought it was in the bottom. She didn't even think of it being in another drawer.

“Maybe you're right after all,” Ma said. “Take the white ones. Jane doesn't like anything too fancy.”