Witch Cradle (26 page)

That was the sticky part. “The note asked that Ted let people think they'd gone together. That he not let people know what she'd done. Rose wouldn't have wanted anyone to find out how she died. She might have begged that it be kept a secret.”

Koski nodded.

“When she was dead, the visitor bundled her into the blankets and placed her body in the well. Then he marched Cedric Hudson, at gunpoint, to the edge of it and blew his head to smithereens.”

“Before or after stripping off his clothes?”

“After,” McIntire said. “This person realized that if he was going to keep Rose's secret, he'd have to make it look like the doctor died far away. He might have spent hours sitting by Rose's bed, waiting for her to die. He'd have had a while to plan.”

“Enough time to get her to a hospital perhaps? And if he wanted it to look like the old man died far away, why not just put him in the car and see to it?”

A few niggling inconsistencies. “He threw the doctor's body into the well, too.” On top of Rose, that was what bothered McIntire the most about his hypothesis. Would someone who loved Rose leave her to spend eternity under her murderer? “He threw whatever was lying around over the bodies. Trash, the clothes, maybe more bedding. Then he cleaned up as best he could, flipped the mattress over, and drove the doctor's car back to the lighthouse.”

“Leaving his own car at the Falks'?”

“It's not all that far. He could have walked back, got in his own car, and gone home.” Or to watch bodies being pulled from the Massey-Davis mine in Ishpeming.

“Not at all worried about the time that somebody would come by, find that Hudson wasn't around, and go looking for him?”

“And absolutely correct in that. It didn't happen. And what if it had? Cedric Hudson was an old man. He could have wandered into the woods and gotten lost or stumbled into the lake. He might have gone to see a relative and not told anybody.”

McIntire hadn't thought about it until he said it. Why not just let people figure the doctor had wandered off? Why bother with the suicide? “Maybe he does get to worrying, maybe people are beginning to mention that they haven't seen good old Cedric in a while. So he punches a hole in the boat, starts it up, maybe throws in a rock or two to make sure it sinks, and sends it off into the waves.
Voila,
everybody knows what's become of the old boy.”

Koski spoke from the depths of gloom. “Maybe it was Jack Stewart.”

McIntire laughed. “More likely Nelda. It had to be somebody who stuck around long enough to fake the suicide. Or at least lived near enough to make the trip.”

“Like Orville Pelto?” Koski asked. “He says he spent the night at the mine.”

“A convenient alibi,” McIntire said. “And one that's hard to prove one way or the other.”

“Have you talked to him?”

McIntire nodded.

“John.” Koski fidgeted with his pencil. “Orville Pelto is the closest thing we got to a real suspect.”

“I'd say so.”

“And he's the only one we got that knows shit about what was going on with Rose and Teddy Falk back then.”

What was he getting at?

“I think maybe….” The pencil broke. “We don't want him scared off.”

McIntire waited.

“His kid's already been booted out of the country. If Orville thought the same thing might happen to him….”

“We don't want to do anything that could bring him to the attention of Melvin Fratelli, is that what you're saying, Pete?”

“Well, you know—”

“I think I get your meaning.”

Koski grinned and nodded. “Good. By the way, I got the papers.” A bundle of yellowed broadsheets lay on the window ledge. The Finnish-language news from August, 1934.

“Stick your papers up—”

“Sheriff—” Marian Koski put her head around the door. “Oh, Mr. McIntire, I didn't see you. Pardon the interruption.”

McIntire assured her it was perfectly all right, he was just leaving.

“Don't forget your papers.”

Chapter Fifty

The coffee had a burned taste to it, or maybe the bitterness came from McIntire himself. He sat in his usual spot by the window. No rising sun to greet him. It was long since up. He hadn't been eager to face this day.

The papers lay where he'd left them when he'd come in last night. He pulled a copy of
Amerikan Suometar
to him and tried to flip the switch in his brain that would enable him to make sense of it. It was no use, he saw only a page swimming with vowels.

He'd never have believed a supper of grilled cheese sandwiches and fried leftover potatoes could last so long. Leonie had gone upstairs immediately after washing the dishes. Writing more letters, no doubt.

Maybe he was being unfair. Of course she was lonely. Of course she missed her daughters and their children. He'd expected that. She'd just lived through one war. She was terrified at the thought of another, separated from her family, with the A-bomb looming. But that wasn't new, and she'd seemed perfectly fine until the past couple of months. It was only after Christmas that she started getting moody—and secretive about the mail. Now she was buying her own car and making phone calls to attorneys, not to mention those unflattering allusions to his “routine.”

Although, buying a car was not generally something a woman planning an imminent move out of the country might do.

Her footsteps sounded in the bathroom overhead, and he buried his face in the paper.

It didn't take long to find it, an accounting of the subdued send-off given J. Theodore and his wife. It took even less time to realize it held nothing new, other than the scheduled departure date, Monday, August 20.

Leonie came into the room in her blue dressing gown. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked. “I don't ever remember you sleeping this late.”

“Maybe it's contagious,” he said. “Or maybe it's my age catching up with me.”

“It's not being old that keeps me in bed.”

He hadn't meant it that way, but was too tired to try to talk his way out of it. He went back to the papers.

“How old do you think I am?”

“You know I have no idea.”

“Guess.”

She couldn't possibly have so little regard for his intellect. “Leonie—”

“Oh, forget it!”

Maybe it was time to stop forgetting things, sticking them into the back corners of his mind. “I don't know how old you are. That's only one of the many things I don't know about you.”

“Meaning?”

“Like who you've been getting mail from, and writing to, that you keep from me. And why you've been consulting with an attorney.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Patrick Humphrey is a lawyer.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Why didn't you tell me that when he phoned?”

“He didn't.”

He hadn't, that was true. The call had come from his secretary. “Why did you call his office? And why did you lie to me about it?”

She leaned back against the sink and folded her arms. Her voice was gentle, patient, infuriated. “I did not lie to you about Mr. Humphrey or anything else. I phoned Mr. Humphrey's office because I wanted to speak to his partner, Mr. Mondale. You asked me who Patrick Humphrey was, and I said I'd never heard of him, which, at the time, I had
not
.
”

McIntire tried to control his own anger. “All right, I'll rephrase that. Why did you call Mr. Mondale?”

“I need to make a will. I'm getting old, remember.” The flint went out of her voice. “We don't know what's going to happen.” She turned her back.

“I'm sorry, Leonie.” He was only slightly sorry. Maybe she hadn't lied, but she hadn't been strictly open and aboveboard either. She hadn't brought up being in the market for a “solicitor” to make out her will, nor had she mentioned how she planned to dispose of her worldly goods, or her worldly money, of which there seemed to be quite a lot. In McIntire's limited experience, a will is something married couples usually discuss.

“Sorry? Are you? Good! I'm glad to hear it. And if you want to know who I'm writing to, you can ask me. If I think it's any of your business, I might tell you!” She slammed the cupboard door.

McIntire returned to August 17, 1934.

The news of that day and the week to follow was, as everywhere, the death of fifty-one miners. It must have been ghastly, choking, smothering, drowning in a deluge of sand and mud. The incident was held up as a grisly manifestation of the oppression of the worker. An account of the long night of waiting was detailed in an interview with a man who'd been at the scene—Orville Pelto.

So Orville Pelto had probably told the truth. While Rose Falk was dying he'd left his son at home alone and kept vigil at the mine.

So what had happened? It seemed simple. Rose Falk was alone, making ready to leave the country. Someone had gone to see her, to help or say goodbye, or both. They'd found her dead or dying at the hands of Dr. Cedric Hudson, and they'd killed him. It could have been almost anybody. The killer had driven Hudson's car back to the lighthouse, easy enough to do in the night without much risk of being seen. That was all they needed to do. Check the doctor's mailbox now and then. Maybe move the car to make it look like it had been used. Hudson generally went for a visit with his grandson in the fall. He wouldn't be missed for a while. When a letter or two arrived from that grandson, wondering when the old man was planning to arrive, the killer was forced into action. He couldn't be absolutely sure no one had seen the doctor on his way to his call on Rose Falk, or that Rose hadn't told someone that he was coming. It would be best to defuse any sticky questions. He didn't need a complicated scheme. He could let himself be seen in the doctor's coat and hat, “waving and going into his funny little house.” He could go out around sundown on a stormy November evening, stick a landing net upright in Hudson's boat, dress it in the man's trademark hat and coat, glasses in pocket, start up the boat, and send it off into the waves. That was the end of it for sixteen years, until a tree went down in an ice storm.

Once again, it could have been almost anybody. Anybody but J. Theodore Falk, who was long gone, but who had done the killer a great favor when he'd sent those postcards from his wife.

Eban Vogel lived in the neighborhood. Eban hated Cedric Hudson and, the most damning evidence, he had that watch.

Orville Pelto and his son spent the winter less than thirty miles away, and Orville was in love with Rose Falk.

But Eban was with Claudette, and Orville had told the truth about where he'd spent that night.

It seemed that everybody had told the truth. Almost everybody. One person had lied every step of the way.

McIntire stood up. “It looks to be a fine afternoon. I think I'll go see what Sulo's up to.”

“Are you talking about—?”

“Ice fishing.”

“That's a fine idea. Dwelling on murder isn't good. You'd do well to get your mind off it for a time.”

What a luxury that would be. To take his mind off those wretched deaths and all the miseries they had brought to the living. To be able to enjoy the hard blue sky and the sun on the snow. To have nothing more pressing to think about than trying to lure a fish to a hole in the ice. To sit in comfortable silence with Sulo Touminen. The time he spent with Sulo would be anything but comfortable.

Sulo, who'd sold Rose's house for a few stacks of hay, and who'd been so eager for Earl Culver to dismantle it. Sulo, who'd encouraged Culver to add more debris to the well; who'd been diligent at filling it in but hedgy about its location. Sulo, who claimed to be in Escanaba when Rose died. Sulo knew Rose would be alone that night. Sulo knew about finding the bill of lading and the passport and could easily guess that it was the Thorsens who had found it. Sulo had gone to Thorsens' to move some furniture the day after Mia's accident. Was it in the room where Cedric Hudson's watch was ultimately found? And finally, Sulo spoke only rudimentary Finnish and needed McIntire to translate letters from his Finnish cousins.

However angry Leonie might be, her domesticity won out. “You'd better take a lunch,” she said. “It's getting on for midday already.”

Eating would probably be the last thing on his mind, but it was nearly noon, and it might be a long day. Leonie had a lunch bag and thermos ready before McIntire had finished bundling himself into what he hoped would be an adequate amount of clothing. She was suspiciously enthusiastic about his expedition.

“You eager to get rid of me?” He spoke as flippantly as he could manage.

“Yes.” The response was straightforward and delivered without a smile. It left McIntire with nothing more to say.

***

McIntire was in luck. Sulo was apparently running late, too. He exited the barn, gave the door a shove and a hearty kick, and walked toward the woodshed. At the sound of McIntire's slamming car door, he turned, and the face under the wool cap was transformed into his sister's.

“You're going ice fishing? Wonders never cease!” Irene lifted her hands in mock surprise.

“I thought I'd give it a try.”

“Well, you're surely dressed for it.”

McIntire tried to ignore the glint of mirth in her eyes. Someone dressed in her brother's bib overalls and mackinaw had little room to snigger. Especially given that they were a perfect fit.

“I hate to disappoint you,” she said, “but Sulo left hours ago.”

“No matter. I'll just follow his tracks. Or maybe the trail of crumbs.” A trickle of sawdust ran across the yard to the road, legacy of Touminen's contribution to Simon Lindstrom's ice house.

She laughed. “His will hardly be the only tracks out there, but you shouldn't have any trouble finding him. First you'd better fill me in on the latest. I hear Erik Pelto has gone off to cut wood in Wisconsin. What's happening with Delilah?”

McIntire hadn't heard anything about that.

“Poor kid.” Irene hugged herself against the cold. “What's brought on this sudden urge to take up ice fishing? Or is it to see my brother?”

“I figure it's something everybody should do at least once.”

“See Sulo?”

The lady did have a quick sense of humor. At another time McIntire might have appreciated it more. “Irene, after Mia Thorsen broke her leg, Nick called Sulo to help move a piece of furniture. Do you know what it was?”

“Charlotte Vogel's old bed. They wanted it downstairs for Mia. It weighed a ton and he was there forever putting it together. He complained about his back for a week afterwards. Why?”

“No real reason. Who knows when I might need some furniture moved? Leonie might take it into her head to buy a piano.” He wasn't fooling her for a minute. “I'd better be on my way before I overheat.”

“Good luck.”

McIntire made a final stop at Karvonen's store for a can of Sterno and a couple of Milky Way bars. He also sought an informed opinion on where Sulo and his like might be fishing. The hot spot of the day, according to Elsie, was at the mouth of the bay where it met the open lake.

He took the long way around, telling himself the shorter route might not be plowed. That road would have taken him past Nelda Stewart's home—and her barn.

It was later than he had planned when he arrived at a jumping-off spot, Simon Lindstrom's dock, but he was in no hurry. It wasn't like he was hoping to catch his dinner.

The dock was nearly buried in the great heaps of jagged ice that lay along the shore. Nearby, a narrow space had been cleared away to make a path for dragging blocks of ice cut from the lake to the squat log building where they were stored for packing fish in the coming summer. As he stumbled over a pile of sawdust and onto the frozen lake, McIntire found it hard to believe in summer.

The ice was peppered with figures hunched on up-ended pails, staring between their feet. Here and there a thread of smoke rose where some not-so-hardy soul had dragged out a supply of firewood or a kerosene stove.

One of the fireless was Adam Wall. McIntire crunched across the wind-packed snow to where he sat. Wall seemed even more stunned at McIntire's arrival than Irene Touminen had been, and more poetic. “Is this a vision that I see before me?” He jiggled his line. “You must have the cabin fever really bad. I never thought I'd see the day.”

“And you haven't. I'm looking for Sulo.”

His eyes searched McIntire's face. “You want me to come along?”

“Tired of fishing already?”

“Got my limit already.”

A couple of stiff lake trout lay on the ice.

A little thing like fish and game regulations wouldn't ordinarily get in the way of Wall filling his larder. Maybe his periodic deputy stints had changed his outlook.

“There is something you can do,” McIntire told him. “See if you can find out the dates of the State Fair in Escanaba in 1934.”

Wall nodded and returned to his jiggling. McIntire walked off.

“Careful you don't tip over,” Wall called after him. “You could wind up stuck on your back like a turtle, kicking your legs in the air.”

McIntire scanned the headache-inducing expanse of white and spotted the distant but unmistakable Touminen silhouette, head down, hands in pockets. He struck out in its direction.

Though it was only mid-February, the afternoon sun rode high in an achingly blue sky, giving a tantalizing hint of spring. A wind, barely perceptible in the shelter of the trees, flung itself across the lake, stinging his eyes and sucking away any warmth that sun might have offered. McIntire turned his back to it.

Far out on the ice, how far McIntire couldn't tell in the white-on-white landscape, a tiny figure flanked by another much smaller moved across the snow. Was the woman completely brainless? The ice did not go on forever, and the farther she got from shore, the thinner it would be.