“Not that I recall. Why?”
Cork considered sharing his suspicions about the sexual abuse in Charlotte’s past. But everything about Solemn at the moment felt clean and refreshed, and Cork figured there was no point dragging him through the mud. “No reason.” He stood up. “I’m sure Jo will drop by later. You need anything in the meantime?”
“Everything I need, I have. Thanks.”
Cork lifted the phone and called for Borkmann, who opened the door. Up front, Marsha Dross was talking with some people in the waiting area, a man, a woman, and a boy. The man wore old corduroys, the line of the wales worn and broken in places. His blue dress shirt was frayed at the collar and sleeves. The woman wore a light brown housedress with little chocolate brown flowers along the hem. The boy was in a wheelchair.
“We came down from Warroad,” the man was saying. He gripped a blue ball cap in his hands, and turned it nervously while he spoke. “We heard about the roses and about the Indian who talks with Jesus. All we’re asking is a minute of his time. We just want him to put a hand on our boy here, that’s all.”
Their son sat in the wheelchair with his fingers curled into claws, his head lolled back, his mouth hanging open. His mother stood beside him, looking past Marsha Dross, as if locked somewhere behind the deputy was the answer to all her prayers.
Cork walked outside without waiting to hear the response he knew Dross would give. He stepped into the sunlight of that late May morning and saw a television news van pull into the parking lot of the sheriff’s department, and then another. He went to his Bronco, got in, and watched for a few minutes as the cameras and cables came out and two more vans arrived.
There was no way around it now. The circus had begun.
JUNE
21
THE NEWS OF THE MIRACLE went national. After that, every day, starting an hour or two after sunrise, the faithful began to gather in the park between the jail and Zion Lutheran Church. Their numbers varied as did the reasons they came. Some believed that the angel of the roses and the vision of Solemn Winter Moon were somehow connected, that Solemn was blessed, and that what had already occurred was not the end of whatever it was that God intended for Tamarack County. Some, like the Warroad couple who believed Solemn’s touch would free their son from the curse of his body, came seeking a personal miracle. Others were merely curious and visited the now-famous cemetery, then joined the crowd in the park on the slim chance that during their brief stay they might catch a glimpse of Solemn and get a snapshot for an album. One day a vendor arrived selling minidonuts and corn dogs from a mobile stand. After that others showed up, hawking T-shirts and icons, snow cones and cotton candy. People put out lawn chairs and blankets and the park had the feel of a festival. Cy Borkmann told Cork that he’d talked with some folks who visited sacred sites all over the country, and who’d just come from Hillside, Illinois, where the Virgin Mary was reputed to appear in a cemetery every day but Tuesday. They hadn’t seen the vision but were hoping in Aurora to be able to see the man who’d talked with Jesus, maybe even hear him speak.
Jo advised Solemn not to say anything publicly and to give no interviews to the media. Even so, a lot of information had already leaked. Maps purporting to show the location of Solemn’s vision were circulated, and the reservation crawled with pilgrims seeking the footprints that Jesus, in his Minnetonka moccasins, might have left behind.
Mostly, these were outsiders. The natives of Tamarack County who’d watched Solemn grow up and who knew the darker aspects of his history didn’t believe for an instant that he’d been tapped on the shoulder by the Son of God. Even though local business boomed, many residents of Aurora resented the reason for the intrusion and griped about the disruption of their own lives caused by the publicity.
They showed their sentiment in exactly the way Jo had feared. On an afternoon in the first week of June, with little more deliberation that it took to choose a new pair of shoes, the grand jury handed down an indictment of Solemn Winter Moon for first-degree murder.
“All a grand jury hears,” Jo had explained to Solemn earlier, “is the evidence against you. All they see is the prosecution’s case. There’s no opportunity for us to challenge the assumptions the county attorney has made, to question the evidence, to cross-examine witnesses. The point of a grand jury is to make sure that such a serious charge as first-degree murder isn’t made frivolously. Honestly, if I were on that grand jury looking at the evidence as Nestor Cole, our county attorney, will undoubtedly present it, I’d be hard-pressed not to indict.”
“I’m glad you’re on my side,” Solemn had joked.
“I’m trying to prepare you for the worst,” Jo explained. “If they indict, we go to work. We’ll have a chance to make a trial jury see things from another perspective, to question everything the prosecution lays before them.”
“I appreciate what you’re doing,” Solemn said.
To her client, Jo presented a positive image, but after the indictment was handed down, she shared her concerns in private with Cork.
“I’m thinking of moving for a change in venue.”
They were sitting in Jo’s office in the Aurora Professional Building. Outside, the sun hung in a cloudless sky and the temperature was a balmy seventy-five. Because the windows were closed and the building’s central air fed an artificial coolness into the room, the feel of the early summer day was lost on them.
Cork shook his head. “Judge Hickey’ll never agree. Maybe you can hope for a good jury selection.”
“What I’d really like to have is something that will destroy the heart of their argument.”
“Like what?”
“How about another suspect?” Jo leaned forward in her chair. “You’ve been asking all along, if it wasn’t Solemn who killed Charlotte then who was it. I held you back because I was afraid if you didn’t find anything, we would have hurt Solemn’s chances for no good reason. Well, Solemn’s got nothing to lose now. The prosecution has blinders on. They’re not looking for anybody else. We can turn over any stone we want and see what’s hiding there. It’s time for you to do what you know how to do.”
A smile dawned on Cork’s lips. “You’re turning the bloodhound loose? I can sniff anywhere I want?”
“Sic ’em,” she said.
As soon as Jenny arrived at Sam’s Place that afternoon, Cork apologized, left her to handle things alone, and drove to North Point Road. He parked in front of Arne Soderberg’s house and knocked on the door. No one answered, but he saw Lyla’s gold PT Cruiser in the drive, so he walked around in back. Lyla was in her garden, pruning bushes. She wore white cotton gloves, a broad brimmed visor that fully shaded her face, a yellow blouse, and tight white shorts. She pruned the branches with quick snips, and Cork couldn’t tell if she knew what she was doing and didn’t have to think a great deal about it, or if she was pissed and taking out her anger on the plants. Her back was to him. She bent over, bent low, and her tight shorts cupped her butt cheeks like a pair of lusty hands.
Cork walked closer and spoke up. “Lyla?”
Startled, she stiffened and quickly turned.
“I’m sorry,” Cork said. “I knocked. No one answered. I’m looking for Tiffany.”
“She’s not home from school yet. What do you want with her?”
She held the pruning shears low in front of her with the blades pointed at Cork. If she were to lunge at him, she’d prune a part he would sorely miss.
He said, “To talk about her friend Charlotte Kane.”
“Charlotte Kane was no friend.”
“I’ve been told they spent a lot of time together.”
“I don’t understand what concern that is of yours.”
“I’m consulting on Solemn Winter Moon’s defense.”
He’d decided that consulting was a good umbrella term for whatever it was he was doing.
“I’d rather you didn’t talk to my daughter,” Lyla said.
“Talk to me about what?”
&nbs
p; Tiffany had come into the yard the same way as Cork, from the side of the house and soundless. She carried a graduation robe, a satiny green and gold, the high school colors.
“Charlotte Kane,” Cork said before Lyla could respond.
“I don’t want you talking to him,” Lyla said.
“Do you think I have something to hide, Mother?”
“This is not our business.”
“Oh, spare me,” Tiffany said.
Mother and daughter locked eyes, glares slamming into each other like wrecking balls.
“Very well.” Lyla said it as if instead of capitulating she were granting her daughter permission. She yanked off her gardening gloves and walked to the house.
Tiffany laid her gown over the back of a black wrought iron lawn chair.
“Graduation tomorrow night, right?” Cork said.
“None too soon,” the young woman replied.
“Big plans?”
“University of Hawaii in the fall.”
“A program there you like?”
“Yeah. It’s called the get-the-hell-out-of-here-and-stay-warm program. What do you want to know about Charlotte?”
She didn’t ask with a lot of interest, and Cork figured she was only talking with him because she knew it would irritate her mother.
“I’ve been told you were pretty tight.”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“You spent a lot of time together?”
“What’s a lot?”
“Why don’t you just tell me about you and Charlotte.”
Tiffany was dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a light blue sweater. The sweater seemed a little warm for the day, but it was a good color for her, and showed her figure well. She looked bored with the questions.
“We did some things together. Partied a little.”
“She partied with Solemn Winter Moon for a while, too, then broke up with him. Any idea why?”
“He got to be creepy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Always accusing her of seeing someone else.”
“Was she?”
“Until she went out with Solemn, she didn’t have a boyfriend. Her father was against it or something. I think she just got tired of Solemn. He could be weird sometimes. Moody as hell.”
“Did she get along with her father?”
“Who does?”
“Did she talk about him?”
“Not much.” A moment passed in which Tiffany seemed to be contemplating deserting Cork. Instead, she surprised him. “When we first got to know each other, just after she moved to Aurora, sometimes we’d spend the night at her place, a sleepover, you know. After a while, if we did one, we did it over here.”
“Why was that?”
“Her old man was creepy.” She seemed to like that word.
“In what way?”
“Always sneaking around, watching her. We’d be in a room talking and I’d look up and there he’d be, lurking in the doorway. She told me she thought he listened in on her phone calls. He was always giving her the third degree, where was she going, who was she going with.” A deft sweep of her hand and she flipped back a strand of blonde hair that had blown across her cheek. “It’s funny, though. She could say whatever she wanted to about him and her aunt, but let anyone else say anything and she went ballistic. She could be weird, too.”
But not creepy, Cork guessed.
“Did she ever talk to you about suicide?”
“No way.”
“Did she talk about things that were important to her?”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Life, love, plans after high school.”
“She just wanted to get away from here. Like that was a news flash.”
“Solemn’s been charged with her murder. What do you think?”
“Maybe he killed her. The jealousy thing and all.”
“Suppose Solemn was right, Tiffany. Suppose Charlotte had been seeing somebody else. Any idea who it might have been?”
“If I were you, I’d talk to Dr. Kane.”
“Why?”
“He was, you know, like her shadow. If he did listen in on her calls, he probably knows a lot he hasn’t said.”
“Was she close to her father?”
“What’s close?”
“Did they show affection? Give one another kisses, hugs, that kind of thing?”
“I don’t remember. What difference does it make?”
“I just wondered if you ever saw anything between them that might have made you a little uncomfortable.”
“Saw anything?” It took a few seconds before she divined the true intent of his question. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Ewwww. Now you’re getting creepy.”
“Just a couple more questions,” Cork said. “You were at the New Year’s Eve party out at Valhalla. I saw your name on the list your dad’s people put together.”
“So?”
“Did your parents know you were going?”
“Oh yeah, like they’re going to let me go to an unchaperoned blowout at Valhalla. I told them I was at Lucy Birmingham’s house for a New Year’s sleepover, okay?”
“Did anything creepy happen at Valhalla? Between Charlotte and anybody?”
“Solemn and Charlotte argued a little. Nothing serious. That’s it. Excuse me, but I have a lot to do for tonight. Are we done here?”
Cork could see she was finished with him in her own mind and would probably give him nothing more. “I guess so.”
She picked up her graduation gown and went into the house.
Cork stood a moment in the garden that Lyla Soderberg had created. Roses dominated. They hadn’t bloomed yet, but Cork was sure they would. Lyla had a way with roses, knew what made them grow. She seemed on less certain ground when it came to a family. But in that, Cork knew, she was not alone.
22
CORK LEFT HIS BRONCO parked in front of the Soderberg house and walked the quarter mile up North Point Road to the old Parrant estate, a huge thumbnail-shaped plot of land at the end of the peninsula, surrounded by cedars. Cork lingered on the drive, which was lined with peonies, and he took a good long look at the imposing house. An undeniable power emanated from all that dark stone, but it seemed to Cork a joyless energy, with anger at its heart. He thought about Judge Robert Parrant and his son. The father a brutal man, the son even worse. Violence, betrayal, death, these had been their lives and their legacy. Fletcher Kane and his family had fared no better. Charlotte was dead, and no sooner had she been buried than Glory took a powder, vanished without a clue. Cork understood. He’d probably have fled that doomed house, too.
His knock wasn’t answered immediately. He waited in the deep porch shade, listening to noisy crows that had established a small rookery in the cedars down toward the lake. The door was opened a minute later by Olga Swenson, the housekeeper.
“Afternoon, Olga,” Cork said. “Is Fletcher in?”
Olga Swenson wasn’t a cheerful Swede. Before Kane hired her, she’d been a waitress and part-time cook at the Pinewood Broiler. Her dour nature had probably kept the tips minimal, which may have explained why she’d gone to work for a man like Kane. She seemed just about as thrilled to see Cork at the door as she’d been to see him park his butt on a stool at the Broiler.
“Yah.”
“Could I speak with him?”
She appeared to view this as a burdensome request, but she stepped aside and let him into the foyer. “I’ll get Dr. Kane.”
She walked down the hall toward the room Cork knew was a study. She knocked, opened the door, then came back.
“He’s not there.”
“Upstairs, maybe?”
She scowled, turned, and climbed the steps as if mounting a gallows.
“Mind if I sit down while I wait?” he called.
Without a word, she lifted her hand and waved him in.
He wandered into the living room. He was about to sit on the sofa when a photograph on a bookshelf caught
his eye. He walked over and took a look. It was of Glory and a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen. They were standing in the desert with a big pipe cactus behind them. Glory had been wearing a straw hat, which she held in her hand so that her face would be clear in the shot. The girl wore a baseball cap that shaded her features. Even so, it was clear that she had a large gauze bandage over the left side of her face, and that she stared unhappily at the camera. She looked vaguely familiar to Cork, but he couldn’t quite place her. He took the photo down to study it more closely.
“He must’ve gone down to the boathouse.”
Cork turned quickly. Olga Swenson had come downstairs quietly and was eyeing him as if he were a thief.
“I was just looking at the picture.”
The housekeeper’s expression softened just a little. “It used to be in Charlotte’s bedroom. That room’s closed all the time now. It seemed kind of lost there, so I brought it down. I don’t even think Dr. Kane’s ever noticed.”
“Do you know who this is with Glory?”
“Her daughter.”
“Glory has a daughter?” It was the first Cork had heard.
“Had. I think her name was Maria. They told me she died.” She wiped her hands on her apron and nodded toward the lake.
“Like I said, Dr. Kane’s probably down at the boathouse.”
“Thanks.” Cork put the photograph back on the shelf and walked to the front door.
“I don’t imagine he’ll be thrilled to have company,” Olga said.
“I’ll take my chances.”
After Olga closed the door, Cork stood on the porch a moment thinking about Glory and the daughter she’d lost. Was there a curse on the Kanes, he wondered.
The front of the house was well kept, but the long, sloping back lawn was a different story. The grass was badly in need of cutting, the blades grown tall, ready to seed. Making his way to the boathouse, Cork felt as if he were wading into a deep, green sea.
The view of Iron Lake from the end of the point was one of the best on the whole shoreline. The day was calm and the water hard blue. The only sound was the noise of the crows in the cedars. Fletcher Kane stood on the dock, casting a line into the lake. He was using a fly-fishing rod, casting as if the lake had trout. Iron Lake had trophy walleye and northern, fat black bass that lurked in the weeds, and sunnies and bluegills in the shallows, but it had no trout. Tall and awkward-looking most times, Fletcher Kane seemed a study in grace as he cast the line. His long body moved in some rhythm that beat in his head. Out and back, out and back, his long, mantislike arm cocked and released, and each time the fly at the end of the line touched the water at almost the same spot with no sound, no splash to mark the moment of delicate connection, only a widening circle of ripples that gently warped the blue steel look of the water.
Blood Hollow (Cork O'Connor) Page 17
