A Yarn Over Murder

by Ann Yost

  “I tried to anticipate what she would like. I invited her to tweak it in any way she wished.” She sounded tired. “I guess I am too much out of touch with today’s young people. Perhaps Mrs. Laplander is right that I couldn’t understand about St. Lucy because I don’t have a daughter of my own.”

  It was such a delicate moment. Pauline Maki revealing vulnerability and at a loss. I wanted to throw my arms around the taller woman and reassure her. I wanted to say I was sure Liisa had loved the room. But I knew, with every fiber of my being, that Pauline had missed the mark and that Liisa Pelonen had never felt this room was home.

  “It doesn’t mean she didn’t care for you,” I finally said, softly.

  The fine eyes focused on me and I thought I detected new lines of strain in the pale skin around them.

  “Thank you, Hatti.”

  I finished looking through the drawers and found, as expected, piles of neatly folded pink underthings, camisoles, bras, panties. The jewelry box contained only a set of beautifully matched pink pearls.

  “We gave those to her for the homecoming dance,” Pauline said. “I wanted to make her a dress and I let her choose the fabric. When she chose white, I knew the pearls would be the perfect complement.”

  A clock chimed from somewhere in the house and both of us realized it was getting late. It was time to head over to the church. Pauline offered me a ride and I accepted. In the silence of the luxury car, I thought about what I had just seen.

  On the one hand, it was disappointing. Liisa Pelonen had had secrets and the room she’d occupied for six months hadn’t revealed them.

  On the other hand, the room told me a lot about Liisa’s hostess. Pauline had seen motherhood through rose-colored glasses. The room had fulfilled a fantasy about welcoming a child into the house. Had Liisa been able to live up to the expectations for that dream? Could anyone have measured up to it? Had disappointment colored Pauline’s attitude toward the girl? Had it diminished her interest in the surrogate daughter? And, most important of all, had it prompted Pauline Maki to get rid of the girl who hadn’t really wanted to be her daughter?

  I glanced at the grim but calm face of the woman beside me and thought not. Pauline had decades of learning to cope with disappointment. She’d found her talisman, her defense against the chaos. There was no reason for her to kill Liisa Pelonen.

  I found myself praying that Sonya would give us a verdict of accidental death.

  Ten

  Visitors to Red Jacket were always dumbstruck by the soaring spire and flying buttresses of St. Heikki’s Finnish Lutheran Church, to say nothing of the gargoyles.

  Today, despite the cold temperatures and the relentlessly falling snow, the arched doors stood open. The Reverend Sorensen and Mrs. Moilanen stood inside to offer a welcome, shake hands and direct pageant-goers to the front pews of the sanctuary. The chancel was swathed in white sheets studded with foil-studded stars that matched those on the cone-shaped hats of the starboys and girls and on the tips of their wands. A large, evergreen advent wreath sat on the baptismal font and ropes of holly hung from the choir stall.

  Arvo and I stood together in the narthex while Pauline and the other mothers fussed with the costumes of the participants. Astrid Laplander, short and squat, her dark unibrow particularly prominent against her white costume, tried to stand still while her mom teetered on a step stool trying to attach the heavy evergreen crown of electrified candles on the girl’s head.

  “Why is that wreath slipping down over her eyes,” Arvo asked, in a whisper.

  “It’s too big,” I said, and added without thinking, “it wasn’t made for her.”

  “Ei.” No. The single syllable made my heart ache.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Liisa would have been perfect. Astrid is just a girl.”

  He made an effort to smile.

  “The first St. Lucy was just a girl, too, Henrikki. Maybe we—I—have made it too much about beauty. Do you think it was her beauty that got her killed?”

  The comment shook me. Luckily, there was no time to answer, as Miss Ianthe struck the opening chords of the traditional song and the children set off in pairs toward the altar as they sang the familiar words.

  The evening is beautiful,

  little breeze blows fresh and light.

  Or to be late? The evening is beautiful.

  Come quickly my boat,

  Saint Lucy! Saint Lucy!

  The tight expression on Arvo’s face eased and I thought about how much he loved our Finnish-American customs. Was this, like Pauline’s greenhouse, his answer to the terror? Did everybody have a passion that filled in the crack in the teacup? If so, what was mine?

  Pauline joined us and Arvo put his arm around her spare shoulders. The gesture looked awkward rather than natural, no doubt because they were nearly the same height. She swayed toward him but did not attempt to lay her head on his shoulder and I got the sense that there was no real comfort. Each of them felt the grief alone.

  After the pageant, the Makis and I made our way down the stone steps to the basement kitchen, where Pauline joined the women of the Martha Circle, who were setting up punch, coffee and plates of pastries including Joulutorttu. Normally even the whiff of the seasonal prune tarts sets my stomach on edge because it reminds me of the day, a year ago, when Jace told me it was over. Today, though, there was too much to think about to dwell on the past. Arvo and I stepped into the parlor that was currently functioning as a green room. Coats, jackets, boots and mittens, empty juice cartons and food wrappers littered the shabby furniture and every surface.

  The performers and their parents poured into the room to change out of their costumes, exchange greetings and compliments and gather up their belongings and Arvo took my arm and drew me back into the now-empty hall.

  “So, Hatti-girl. Any progress?”

  I wanted to remind him that I’d only been working on the investigation for a few hours, that we didn’t even know yet whether Liisa’s death was accidental or otherwise. I swallowed the urge to make excuses.

  “I haven’t been able to find out too much about her. It seems nobody knew her well and there was nothing personal in her bedroom.”

  “Ah,” he said, separating his fingers and running them through his rug of hair. “Her room. It is something special, yes?”

  I thought I detected a hint of disapproval but his eyes twinkled and I realized it was more complicated. He was acknowledging that the decorating was over-the- top, but that he understood Pauline’s need to make what she felt was a perfect environment for their surrogate daughter.

  “Liisa did not spend too much time in that room,” he said, with just a touch of dryness. “She was at school or choir practice or out. In the evening, she liked to visit me downstairs.”

  I was startled.

  “Downstairs in the embalming room?”

  “Yes and the office. Wherever I was working. She liked to talk about her dream of becoming a famous singer.”

  “I’d have thought the greenhouse would be more pleasant to visit.”

  “Yes, yes. She did so at first. But her skin began to itch and it turned out she was allergic to the fertilizer.”

  “That must have been hard on Pauline.”

  “Joo,” he said. Yes. “I asked her once and she said it was all right, that she spent time alone with Liisa after school.”

  An idea suddenly occurred to me.

  “Did Liisa like to use the sauna?” Naturally, I pronounced it sow-na, in the approved Yooper dialect.

  Arvo chuckled. “She did, then, but not for bathing. She likes to do her homework in there.”

  She studies in the sauna with the wooden benches and the lack of heat? Apparently, the pink really had been too much for the girl.

  “What about friends?”

  “We told her she could have people over but she never did. She must have been friendly with Barb Hakala and Astrid. They were in her class, but they never visited her here at the mort
uary.”

  “What about boyfriends?”

  “Just Matti. And just that once. For the Harvest Dance. Liisa,” he said, his eyes moist, “was a homebody.”

  “Arvo,” I spoke as gently as I could, “Liisa was dressed when you found her. Do you think she could have been going out somewhere?”

  “No.” The word was definite but I noticed he didn’t meet my eyes.

  “Is it possible she was running back to her father’s house?”

  “No.” This time he looked directly at me. “She would have said.” He squinted at me. “You look stressed, Hatti-girl. The festival is nearly over. Why don’t I call the sheriff.”

  He was trying to let me off the hook, I thought, and possibly he just wanted the whole business over and done with.

  “Let me stay on it a little longer,” I heard myself say. “At least until we know why she died.”

  My cell phone rang and I excused myself to answer it.

  “You’d better come over to the funeral home.” Sonya’s voice was grim. “I’ve found something.”

  I’m ashamed to say that the lurch in my stomach was excitement. It was the first concrete step. I was going to find out how Liisa Pelonen turned up dead on the floor of the Makis sauna.

  Arvo had answered his phone at nearly the same time and he said, “Pauline wants to leave. She’s calling to ask if you want a ride back to Calumet Street.” I nodded and he disappeared down the corridor toward the kitchen. An instant later I felt big hands cupping my shoulders from the back and a word was whispered into my ear.

  “Umlaut.”

  My stomach flipped again and my heart galloped but even before he turned me to face him, I knew it was Max. I found a smile for him despite the shock of hearing the nickname my husband had used for me.

  Max’s weathered face with its craggy features and the deep crinkles around his smiling brown eyes, was always a welcome sight, I reminded myself. He smelled of snow and pine and some sort of sexy soap. It was probably Lava, but it smelled sexy to me.

  Max Guthrie has way more than his share of testosterone.

  “Helluva show,” he said. “So, just for the record, what was this St. Lucy supposed to have done to rate a yearly festival?”

  “She turned down an offer to marry an Italian nobleman because she wanted to keep herself pure for God. His friends stabbed her in the eye and she bled to death which is why the costume includes a red sash.”

  “Ye gods. What about the candle thing on her head?”

  “St. Lucy Day is also about bringing light to the cold, darkness of winter.”

  “Are the stories related?”

  “Nah.”

  “Huh. I’ve told you this before, Umlaut, but you’ve got one weird little community up here.”

  There was affection in his voice and a twinkle in his eyes. Max was not only attractive, he was likable. I know some people (Sofi, Elli, sometimes me) thought he might be perfect for me since we were both in the fish business and for-all-intents-and-purposes, single. All I knew was that I got a tingle in my spine when he showed up even when he used the unfortunate nickname. I suddenly remembered what Sonya had suggested in our telephone call that morning.

  “Max, do you have a law enforcement background?”

  “Who says so?”

  For whatever reason, I was reluctant to bring Sonya’s name into the conversation. I waited and he finally answered.

  “U.S. Marshal Service, among other things.”

  Pauline Maki appeared in the hall behind us and I knew I didn’t have much time.

  “I need to talk to you about something sensitive.”

  He glanced at the approaching woman, nodded, slightly and said, “tonight?”

  “At my house. After the smorgasbord.”

  “I’ll bring the wine and doughnuts.”

  “Doughnuts?”

  “For breakfast.” He winked, then turned in one easy, coordinated move and nodded to Pauline before excusing himself.

  Breakfast?

  Eleven

  Sonya greeted Pauline and me at the funeral home’s front door. I was struck, as always, by the midwife’s serene beauty. Her eyes appeared as dark as her hair except when the light caught them at a certain angle and it was obvious they were dark blue. Her complexion was soft and creamy as if she’d cruised through the thirty-five years of her life.

  I sensed it wasn’t true although Sonya never complained nor had she ever talked about what had brought her to the Keweenaw.

  “Let’s sit down somewhere,” Sonya said. Pauline, hauling on her hostess hat, invited us up to her remodeled kitchen. “I’ll make tea.”

  It was a gracious gesture but underscored, at least for me, how Pauline had never completely blended into our community. No one else in Red Jacket would have offered anything but coffee.

  A few minutes later, the three of us, seated at a charming, enamel-topped table, were sipping tea from fragile bone-china cups. I couldn’t help wishing it was coffee.

  “I don’t believe Liisa’s death was an accident,” Sonya said, getting right to the point. “I’m sorry. I know that makes this more difficult for you.”

  Pauline’s hand, the one that held her teacup, trembled. My reaction was different. I felt an odd sense of excitement.

  Not an accident.

  “What makes you think that?” Pauline asked.

  Sonya nodded. “The cut on her head isn’t deep enough to have killed her. I’d be inclined to say she fell on something sharp.”

  “There was nothing in the sauna where she was found,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “Is it possible she had an accident somewhere else and that she staggered to the sauna and bled out?” Pauline asked.

  The midwife shook her head. “There isn’t enough blood for that scenario.” She sighed. “In fact, there is so little blood I’m inclined to think she was hit after she died.”

  “But, why?” Pauline sounded as if she were about to cry.

  “As a distraction? To cover up a murder?”

  “But what makes you think there was foul play?” Pauline’s voice shook. All the color drained out of her face and I thought I knew why. She was worried about how Arvo would react to a theory like this.

  “I don’t know for certain,” Sonya said, gently. “Death may have been due to natural causes. Do you know whether Liisa had any medical condition that would have put her at risk?”

  “No, no.” She hesitated. “Well, nothing serious. I remember she told us she’d had a little flurry with Afib a year ago but that it was all cleared up.”

  “Afib?” Sonya peered at the older woman. “You mean an irregular heartbeat?”

  Pauline returned the midwife’s gaze.

  “I don’t know precisely what it is.”

  “I don’t know precisely what it is. I just remember she told us she’d had a bout with it in the past but she wasn’t on medication.” She hesitated, then pinched her nose with her forefinger and thumb. “I would have known. If it had been a life-threatening condition, I would have known.”

  I exchanged a look with Sonya.

  “Is it possible the trauma of the blow to the head affected her heartbeat?”

  Sonya shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know enough about the condition. I think the danger is that the heart rate can slow to a point where the oxygen simply isn’t getting to the brain which causes a faint. She may have fainted but that wouldn’t have killed her.”

  I said nothing. Pauline had hunched over. Her right hand shaded her eyes as if she couldn’t bear to look at the present. Or the future. I suddenly wished I’d thought of holding this conference in the greenhouse; Pauline’s sanctuary.

  “I found something else,” Sonya said, in a low voice. Her gaze, fixed on Pauline Maki, was compassionate and I tried to brace myself for bad news. “I found a possible motive for murder.”

  I let out an involuntary yelp and Pauline’s eyes filled with despair.

  “I performed an internal exam on h
er,” Sonya said, speaking slowly and carefully as if aware she was navigating a minefield. “It’s something I’m qualified to do and with a young girl, well, it seemed appropriate. In any case, I discovered her uterus was enlarged.”

  I stared at Sonya and was aware of Pauline doing the same thing.

  “What does that mean,” I finally asked. “Cancer?”

  Sonya tried to hide an involuntary smile.

  “Far from it. There’s no easy way to say this. Liisa was pregnant, Hatti.”

  We heard Pauline’s cup clatter against the saucer and neither of us looked at the woman’s face. The news was a shock on so many levels. I wanted to give her time to absorb it and so, I suspected, did Sonya.

  “That’s just not possible,” the older woman said, in a faint gasp. “She didn’t have a boyfriend. She wasn’t seeing anyone. We knew where she was at all times. It couldn’t have happened.” Her eyes met Sonya’s. “You must be wrong.”

  Sonya’s midnight eyes glowed with compassion.

  “I’m sorry, Pauline.”

  “How pregnant?” I asked, in a low voice. “I mean, um, when did it happen?”

  “About six weeks.”

  “Six weeks?” Pauline repeated the phrase as if it presented another shock. And then, all at once, her face turned the color of clown paint and she collapsed against the back of her chair. Sonya reached her before she could slide onto the floor.

  “Get her a glass of water, Hatti,” she said. She held the woman with one arm and slapped her face gently.

  When she’d revived, a moment later, she accepted a few sips of water and allowed us to lead her into the green-and-white living room and prop her on the sofa. She sucked in a breath and apologized.

  “I’m so sorry to be so much trouble,” she murmured. “it’s all been such a shock.”

  I patted her hand and Sonya told her it would be best if she’d lie down in her room but Pauline shook her head.

  “Oh, no. I have to get over to the smorgasbord.” When we started to protest, Pauline held up a hand. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me but I want to go. I can’t bear to think of Arvo worried about me.” She looked at me. “Hatti, please. If you want to help don’t tell him about this. Not yet. He adored that girl, you know, and this will simply break his heart.”