They parked in front of the constable’s office on Harbor Avenue. Hodder unlocked the door, went inside, and turned on the lights. He disappeared through a door at the back where Cork saw the bars of a holding cell. He heard Hodder’s boots thumping down wooden stairs, and a moment later the sound of them returning. Hodder brought with him several folding chairs. Cobwebs hung between the legs. He set the chairs against the wall and opened them one by one, brushing at the cobwebs.
“Sorry,” he said. “I haven’t crowded this many people in here in a long time.”
Cork noted the furnishings were spare: a fine old wooden desk, a vintage rolling chair, a couple of tan metal file cabinets. On the wall next to the door was a bulletin board pinned with wanted posters, an emergency evacuation route, assorted flyers related to town events, and a photograph of Hodder standing on a dock holding up a lake salmon and grinning like an idiot. Framed certificates hung on the other walls. Occupying the space directly behind the constable’s desk was a print of Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party. Cork smiled broadly. The same print hung in his own office back in Aurora.
“Anybody want coffee?” Hodder asked. “Be glad to make a pot.”
Nobody responded and he let it go. He sat down and one by one the others followed suit. Charlie slumped in her chair with her arms clasped across her chest and a defiant look in her eyes.
“Introductions first,” Cork said. “I’m Corcoran O’Connor, Jewell’s cousin. I’m sheriff of Tamarack County, Minnesota.” He reached across the desk and shook Hodder’s hand.
When he’d heard about Bell’s murder, Cork knew he couldn’t sit on his hands in the shadows any longer. A girl was dead. Another kid was in the hospital. Someone was after Charlie. Ren might even be a target, too. Cork understood the risk of revealing himself to Hodder, but it was what he had to do. He’d find a way to deal with Jacoby; first he had to deal with this.
“Family reunion?” Hodder smiled at Dina.
“Not really, Ned,” Dina said. “I’m not related to the family at all. My real name is Dina Willner. I’m a security consultant.”
Hodder frowned. “Why the charade? What are you doing up here?”
“That’s a long story and doesn’t have anything to do with what’s going on,” Cork said. “But we’d be glad to help in any way we can.”
Hodder thought about it. “I guess I appreciate that.”
“Why don’t we start with Bell’s death,” Cork offered. “I can’t imagine it’s a coincidence, him killed just as Jewell and Dina start asking questions.”
“If Del was involved in the girl’s death, why kill him?” Hodder said. There was a coffee mug on his desk. He wrapped his hands around it and rolled it back and forth between them as if he were trying to sculpt it into a new shape.
“I never liked him,” Charlie said. “He was always looking at me.”
“At Providence House?” Jewell asked.
“Whenever he was at our place drinking with my dad. At Providence House he was just kind of around. He didn’t really talk to us or anything.”
“He was the one who told you about the shelter, right?” Dina said.
“Yeah. At first I wasn’t sure about it, because I knew he’d be there and I thought he was creepy, but he never bothered me.”
“What about the other kids?” Dina asked. “He ever bother them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever see him talking to Sara?”
Charlie thought about it. “Maybe, but not like serious or anything.”
“You know who Calvin Stokely is, right?”
“Sure.”
“Did you ever see him at Providence House?”
“No.”
“Look, maybe we’re way off here,” Jewell said. “Maybe Del and Calvin had nothing to do with this.”
“Most murders involve people who know one another. Sara Wolf knew Delmar Bell,” Cork said, “and the connection through Stokely to the Copper River is hard to ignore. And we’re not trying to convict anybody yet, just looking at possibilities. But you know these guys, Jewell. What do you really think?”
“I hate to think what we’re thinking about anybody.”
“What about Stokely? Could he have killed Delmar Bell?” Dina said.
“Why would he?” Jewell replied.
“Maybe when Del saw us at Providence House, he panicked and Stokely was afraid he’d talk.”
Outside, dark had settled gently over Bodine. The flash of headlights crossed the windows and through the glass came the sigh of engines dying. A minute later Detective Sergeant Olafsson came in followed by a woman, a uniformed sheriff’s deputy. He paused and scanned the gathering in Hodder’s office.
“What’s this,” he said, “a town meeting?”
Hodder said, “You know Ren DuBois already. And Ms. Willner.”
“I thought it was Walport,” Olafsson said.
“Willner, actually,” Dina said. She pulled a business card from her pocket and offered it.
Olafsson studied the card. “Security consultant. What’s that exactly?”
“Among other things, I do private investigation.”
“She was with the FBI,” Ren said.
“That so?” Olafsson didn’t sound impressed.
“This is Jewell, Ren’s mother,” Hodder went on. “And Cork O’Connor, Jewell’s cousin. Also a sheriff in Minnesota.”
“Sheriff.” He shook Cork’s hand without enthusiasm. “Seems like we got plenty of help, eh?” He didn’t sound excited. His stern gaze settled on Charlie and he stepped toward her. “You must be Charlene Miller. I’m Detective Sergeant Olafsson.” He extended his hand.
The girl didn’t respond, didn’t even look up from the spot on the floor where she’d nailed her eyes, just sat with her arms folded across her chest and her lips cemented in a thin line. Olafsson drew back his hand.
Hodder stood up. “Have a seat, Terry.”
“Siddown,” Olafsson said. “I’m fine. All right, who’s going to lay it out for me?” He crossed his arms, as if mimicking Charlie’s obstinate gesture, and he stared at her, which did no good since she didn’t look at him. “Charlene?”
“I’m not saying anything,” she said under her breath.
“That so?” Olafsson swung his gaze to Ren. “How about you?”
The boy glanced at Charlie, who was locked so tight in herself, Cork doubted there was any key that would open her now. Ren looked to his mother, who nodded.
He told it in pieces, chunks of story broken by “mmm’s” and “uh’s.” In the end, however, a fairly complete narrative emerged including even the details that he’d probably rather not have Olafsson know, particularly that the kids were getting high at the old picnic shelter on Copper River when Stash saw the body. Olafsson listened, jotted notes, and stopped the boy only a couple of times to ask a point of clarification. Ren told Charlie’s story, too, of what happened at the trailer. Olafsson asked Charlie, “Is that correct?” The girl’s only reply was a silent nod.
Hodder stepped in to make the connections: Charlie and Sara Wolf and Providence House, Providence House and Delmar Bell, Bell and Calvin Stokely, Calvin Stokely and the cabin on the Copper River. And finally the speculation about Stokely, Bell, and the dead girl twenty years ago.
The detective put his notepad to his forehead and closed his eyes a moment. “Okay,” he said. “If these men killed the Wolf girl, and if they were willing to kill these other kids who saw the body in the river, why dump the body there in the first place? Why not just bury it?”
Cork asked, “Has the autopsy been done? Do you know the cause of death?”
“I haven’t had a chance to look at the report.” Then Olafsson added defensively, “I’ve been busy. A lot’s been going on.”
“Any way you can find out?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Maybe they didn’t dump her body. Maybe she wasn’t dead when she went into the river,” Cork explained.
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The blond feathers that were Olafsson’s eyebrows dipped toward each other. “You think she went into the river on her own? What, tried to run or something? Drowned?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Huh.” Olafsson pulled a cell from inside his jacket and punched in a number. “This is Terry Olafsson. Give me Wayne Peterson. . . . Page him then. I’ll wait.” He kept the phone to his ear and eyed Charlie. “One thing nobody’s told me is where you went after you found your father dead. Did somebody hide you?”
Charlie stubbornly maintained her silence.
Olafsson spoke to Ren. “Do you know?”
“She didn’t tell me,” he replied quickly.
“Right,” Olafsson said. Then he spoke into the phone. “Yeah, Wayne, it’s Terry. Say, I haven’t had a chance to look at your preliminary autopsy report on the Wolf girl’s death. What’s your initial finding for cause of death? Uh-huh. . . . Uh-huh. . . . When will the analysis be complete? Uh-huh. . . . Okay. Thanks, Wayne. ’Preciate it.” He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his jacket. “Drowning, he says. Which would be consistent with falling into Lake Superior. We won’t know where she died until they’ve finished analyzing the water in her lungs.”
“Jesus, Terry,” Hodder said, rising from his chair. “You think all of these odd things are coincidental? Maybe in a city like Marquette, but not up here.”
“What do you want me to do?” Olafsson said.
Dina spoke up for the first time. “It would be interesting to talk to Calvin Stokely, don’t you think?”
Olafsson lifted his hands as if quieting a restless mob. “Everything you’ve told me that you believe connects Stokely to the girl’s death is pure speculation. I’m more than a little reluctant to barge into the Copper River Club without something a lot stronger.”
Olafsson’s cell phone rang, the ring tone playing a snippet of a tune vaguely familiar to Cork. As Olafsson pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, Hodder, who’d noticed Cork’s slightly furrowed brow, leaned over and whispered, “The Wolverine fight song.”
“Yeah?” Olafsson answered. He listened. “I see. I’d be interested in knowing if you find anything that we can trace to Sara Wolf. . . . All right. Keep me posted. Oh, Earl, have you got a TOD on Bell yet?” He looked up at the ceiling. “Killed between three-thirty and four? Thanks.” He put the phone away. “State police. I asked them to keep me informed during their investigation of Bell’s murder. They’ve been going through his place. They found Rohypnol. A lot of it.”
Rohypnol. The date rape drug.
“All right. I’ll go up there, talk to this Stokely.” Olafsson pointed to Hodder. “I want you with me.” To the deputy who’d come with him he said, “Stay here until I get back, Flo. I’d appreciate you folks sticking around, too. And, Ms. Miller,” he said to Charlie, “as of right now, you are in protective custody.”
“Meaning?” Jewell said.
“While I’m gone, Deputy Baylor here will make arrangements for Charlene to stay with the juvenile authorities in Marquette.”
“Is that really necessary?” Jewell shot back.
“Look, she’s a material witness to a murder, Ms. DuBois. In addition, if what you’re all telling me is true, then her safety’s an issue. What would you do if you were me?”
“I’m not going to juvie,” Charlie said.
“Charlene, I’m not giving you a choice here. Flo,” he said to the deputy, “she’s your responsibility.”
“Understood,” Baylor responded.
Dina said, “We couldn’t get past the front gate at the Copper River Club.”
“You didn’t have jurisdiction,” Olafsson replied.
“They’ve got money,” Dina said. “My experience is that money usually trumps everything but a court order.”
“We’ll try it friendly first.”
Dina shrugged. “Your call.”
40
For a little while after that, the constable’s office felt like a tomb, with Charlie buried in it.
The look on Charlie’s face—a twisting of fear, anger, and betrayal—hurt Jewell deeply. She felt responsible, as if she’d guided the girl unwisely. How could she make Charlie understand that Detective Olafsson was right? Safety was the most important concern, and Charlie was far better off in the custody of the Marquette authorities than open to the threats posed by the dark woods that isolated the old resort. In those woods, anything could hide.
Poor Ren looked pathetic, studying Charlie with such concern. Maybe he felt guilty, too, because he’d been the one who told her story. Maybe he saw that as betraying her to the enemy. But he’d had no choice.
“I’m not going,” Charlie said, talking to the floor.
“It would only be for a short time, isn’t that right, Officer?” Jewell said.
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
Charlie lifted her head and pointed her chin at Jewell. “Why can’t I stay with you?”
“You wouldn’t be safe.”
Charlie turned to Dina. “Would you be there?”
“I’d be there,” Dina assured her.
“Then I’d be safe.”
A warm smile touched Dina’s lips. “I’d make sure of it.”
Charlie looked at Jewell again, accusing. “See?”
“That may be good enough for us,” Cork put in gently. “But I don’t think Detective Sergeant Olafsson will see it the same way.”
“I didn’t want to come here,” Charlie said. “I didn’t want to tell him anything. I didn’t want to tell anybody.”
Jewell got up from her chair and knelt beside Charlie. She laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder and looked into her stubborn, frightened eyes. Oh, how many times had she seen this look over the years? How many times had she spoken to Charlie like a mother?
“Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to, and we do them because we know they’re the right things to do. If you kept quiet and the men who killed Sara walked away free, how would you feel, Charlie? Especially if they’re the same men who killed your father?”
Charlie didn’t answer, but her eyes glossed with tears, and Jewell held her.
“Are you hungry?” Jewell said quietly. “Sometimes a full stomach can brighten a pretty dour prospect.”
The girl nodded.
“I’m hungry, too,” Ren said.
Jewell stood up. “Who else?”
“I’d eat,” Cork said.
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” Dina threw in.
“How about a slew of cheeseburgers from Kitty’s?” Jewell suggested.
“And fries?” Ren said.
“All right, fries.”
“And a milkshake?”
“A milkshake it is. Chocolate?”
“Awesome.”
“How about you, Charlie?”
The girl gave her slender shoulders a shrug, then nodded.
“Officer?” Jewell said to the deputy.
The woman Olafsson had referred to as Flo was stocky, with a plain, square face and deep-set suspicious eyes. She’d moved to Hodder’s desk and had seated herself in his chair.
“This Kitty’s, where is it?”
“Right next door.”
“They have onion rings?”
“The best.”
“Well, then, all right. As long as you’re offering. I’ll take some rings and a small coffee, black. Here,” she said, reaching toward the back pocket of her khaki uniform pants, “let me give you some money.”
Jewell waved her off. “Think of it as small-town hospitality.”
Cork stood up. “I’ll give you a hand.”
“Me, too,” Dina said.
“Ren?” Jewell looked at her son.
He shook his head, eyeing Charlie. “I’ll stay.”
“Be right back,” Jewell said.
Outside, Harbor Avenue was lit by street lamps. Halloween was approaching, and witches, ghosts, and goblins cavorted among giant orange pumpkins in the window
s of the shops along the street. Many of the establishments were already closed for the night. The sidewalks were nearly empty. Once summer ended, there was nothing you would call a nightlife in Bodine except for weekends, when leaf peepers or snowmobilers took over the town. A cool breeze came off the lake, and leaves crawled the street with a scraping sound like crabs across rock.
“The food was a good idea, Jewell,” Dina said. “But are we really going to let them take Charlie?”
“You have a better idea?” Cork asked.
“Piece of cake to spring her.”
“Don’t forget, Dina, I’m trying to keep a low profile here. And the truth is, Charlie’s much safer in their hands.”
“Did you take a good look at her?” Dina persisted. “Kid looks like she’s about to be tortured.”
“It won’t be a picnic, I’m sure,” Jewell said, “but Charlie’s a very strong young woman.”
“Strong women get scared, too.”
“Let it go, Dina,” Cork said. “We’re not interfering.”
She eyed him with obvious disappointment. “This from you? A few days ago in Minnesota, I watched you walk into the wilderness knowing that a crazy man was out there waiting to kill you, and you did it to protect a young woman you didn’t even particularly like. But for Charlie you won’t cross a crumby hick cop?”
“I’m a crumby hick cop, too, Dina. And I understand where he’s coming from.”
“Let’s stop arguing and get some food,” Jewell broke in. “We’ll all think better once we’ve eaten.”
Kitty’s Café was the place locals gathered for a cozy meal and community. In the morning, it usually bustled with activity, the half dozen tables, the three booths, and the small counter full for two or three hours after the door opened at six A.M. The daily special was chalked on a blackboard beside the malt machine. Tonight the special was Swedish meatballs, mashed potatoes and gravy, peas, and peach pie. It was a quiet night. A couple Jewell didn’t recognize sat at a booth, both eating the meatballs. Gordon Ackerson was hunched at the counter, a ball cap on his old head, his arthritic hands working at cutting a fried pork tenderloin while he talked to Marlys Johnson, the waitress.
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