by Mary Logue
When he had talked to Marie this morning before he left, she had said that Andy was holding his own, but hadn’t come around yet. He was stirring, she said, and all the nurses had been encouraged, saying it was a good sign. Earl was worried that his son would not wake from this coma, but he worried more that Andy would come around and not be able to function in the world. How hard it would be to see his healthy, strong son turned into an invalid.
Marie had also said something about a deputy coming around, wanting to talk to him about the Schuler murders. Would he never be rid of that family? Would he sleep with their bones the rest of his life?
Earl lumbered back to his car. He pushed the driver’s seat away from the steering wheel and tipped it as far back as it would go. To catch the breeze and let it blow through the car, he opened all the windows. He was facing north, so he would be sitting in shadow.
When he closed his eyes, he saw the Schuler farm as it had been the night he went to return the saw he had borrowed. He had called when he got to the house, trying to raise someone, but no one answered. It struck him as very odd, seeing as the front door was wide open and it was dinnertime. He stuck his head inside the kitchen door, and that was when he had seen Bertha. She was lying on the floor. He couldn’t figure out why she would be doing that. The oddest thing he had seen. He took one more step and he understood. She had a bloodred corsage on her housedress. A pool of blood circled her hand. The baby was partly under the table. He hadn’t even looked at her.
He had to force himself to walk through the kitchen to pick up the phone that was attached to the wall. His hands were shaking so hard he could hardly even dial, but he called the sheriff.
“They’re murdered out at the Schuler farm,” he had said. “I’m afraid they might all be murdered. Please send help.”
Then he had gone to sit on the steps. He knew he should walk through the house and see if anyone was still alive, but he didn’t think he could even force himself back into the same room with Bertha.
As he sat there, trying to get up his courage and find the rest of the family, someone had come out of the house to talk to him. He had never told anyone about that person being there alive. He had decided not to, and he had lived with that decision. It might be time to tell what had really happened that long-ago summer night.
He would do anything to bring Andy back. Whoever was threatening the county with the pesticides wanted the truth; he could give it to them. The more he thought about it, he might do it no matter what.
He clung to the steering wheel with his hands and slept. In his dreams, he was heading north, trying to find his way home.
Claire decided she had someone else she had to talk to—Charles W. Folger, born seventy-one years ago. Claire remembered him telling her he was that old, bragging about it. Claire decided to look through the databases to see if she could pull up anything on Charles Folger, but she found nothing. He might be a weirdo, but he was a quiet, prudent weirdo. Possibly until now.
Thinking back to her first interview with Folger, she remembered how antagonistic he was. Maybe he just didn’t like women law-enforcement officers, but maybe he didn’t like women. Maybe he didn’t like authority figures. She wanted someone else there to watch how this man handled himself. Because she was going to push him hard to find out what he knew.
This might be the break they’d been waiting for.
Tyrone was on the phone in the conference room. He and Singer had set up in there. He thanked someone, then hung up. Looking up at her, he asked, “What can I do for you?”
“You want to take a run with me?” she asked him.
“Sure. Where we going?”
“Check on an agronomist.”
She pointed out a patrol car to him and he climbed into the passenger seat. After they drove out of town, he wrinkled his nose. “Something smells around here.”
“Good fertilizer,” she told him as she waved her hand.
“So that’s what’s been coming off the fields as we drive through this county.” He laughed.
They drove a while in silence, and then she asked him where he was from. “Chicago. The Big Chi town.”
“How do you like Madison?”
“I dig it. For a smallish city, there’s a lot going on. The university saves it from just being another dairy town.”
“Do you miss Chicago?” she asked.
“Do you miss Minneapolis?” he returned.
“Yes,” she said. “But not as much as I would have when I was younger.”
“How old are you?”
She looked at him, surprised at his question, not sure what to do with it. “Are you serious?”
“Want me to guess?” he said.
“Absolutely not. That might ruin any chances we might have of getting along. I’m slightly past forty.”
“My, my, but you’re holding your own against time.”
“And what about you?”
“Thirty-five and climbing.” Tyrone looked out the window and said, “This is beautiful country. I didn’t realize Wisconsin could be so hilly.”
“Yes, this bluff country is gorgeous.”
Again, they drove a ways in silence. He shifted in his seat and asked her, “How do you get treated as the only woman in the sheriff’s office?”
“How do you get treated as an African American at DCI?”
“Touché,” he said.
“To answer your question—mainly fine. I think the younger guys—Billy, Scott—are easier with me. The older deputies don’t like it that I’ve jumped over them as the investigator for the office. They might grumble, but they do it softly, not so’s I can hear.”
“Yeah, I’ve had one or two problems, but I actually think some of the guys think it’s cool to work with a black guy. I’m more apt to run into problems out in the field.”
“How’ve you been doing in Pepin County so far?”
He gave it a thought, then turned and smiled at her. “Fine.”
Dinner had been good fresh green beans from the garden, homemade bread, and meat loaf. With just the two of them, they finished only half the meat loaf. That would be good, since his wife might not be up to cooking for a while. He knew what he had to do tonight. He wouldn’t wait too long to get it done, but he felt like sitting another moment or two and allowing his meal to digest.
“That was a good dinner,” he told her.
She looked over at him, surprised. He didn’t often praise her cooking.
“We should be getting some of the new corn any day now,” he said just to say something.
“That’ll be nice.” She started to clear the table.
There had never been enough fingers. There should have been seven and there had been only six. The sheriff’s office would know that by now. He had decided he needed to give them one more. The numbers had to be right. Maybe that was what had been wrong all along. Maybe that was why the truth had never come out. The numbers hadn’t added up. The more he had thought about it last night, the more clearly he saw what he had to do.
“You want some dessert?” she asked.
“What’ve we got?”
“I could offer you a bowl of ice cream or some peanut butter cookies.”
“How about both?” he asked.
“My, but you’ve worked up an appetite today. What about your cholesterol?” she reminded him.
“I’m not sure I want to live that long anyway. Especially not without ice cream and cookies.”
She gave a nervous little laugh. An odd sound in the house. This house had never heard much laughter. She pulled the ice cream out of the fridge, ran the scoop under the hot water, and dug out three nice round scoops for him. Then she put two cookies next to the ice cream in a bowl and handed it to him. She gave herself one scoop and stood up at the counter, eating it.
“Come and sit down,” he told her.
“Naw,” she said. “If I sit down it’s just that much harder to get up again. I want to get this kitchen clean before I go in and watc
h my show.”
She liked to watch the quiz shows on TV. Normally he would go out into the barn and putter around, but tonight he had different plans.
She grabbed his bowl away from him as soon as he was finished and put it in the soapy water in the sink.
He stood up and walked to the window. Clouding up a bit. Tomorrow was the big day. It would have been fifty years ago the Schulers were killed. His wife didn’t know a thing about it. He had never talked to her about it. He had never talked to anyone except his mother. He wondered what his wife would say if she knew what he had been doing. Soon she might get an inkling of what he was made of.
“There’s something I’d like to show you in the basement,” he told her.
Turning from the sink, she gave him an odd look. “In the basement?”
“Wipe your hands and come on down.”
“Can’t you bring it up?” she asked. “My show’s almost on.”
Firmly he took her arm. She resisted for a moment, then gave in as she always did. He walked her over to the basement door and opened it.
She looked wild-eyed at him. She hated the basement. As he started her down the stairs, he said soothingly, “I’ll help you down. Don’t worry. What I want to do won’t take a minute.”
CHAPTER 22
Claire knew that Charles Folger lived up the bluff from her, but she hadn’t realized he lived so close. She figured, as the crow flew, his house was probably only two miles away, but as the road wound, it was more like six miles. As they rounded a bend a few miles down the bluff from Folger’s house, they caught sight of a view of the lake.
“What’s that body of water?” Tyrone asked.
“Lake Pepin,” Claire said, surprised he didn’t know. “That’s right, you came from the east and you haven’t had a chance to see the lake yet. The lake is really the Mississippi River, but since it runs so wide and deep they call it a lake for this twenty-three-mile stretch.”
“This is a first. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Mississippi before.”
“Since it meanders between St. Paul and Minneapolis, I’ve spent my life crossing it. My dad made us spell it out every time we went over it and, of course, as a kid saying the ending, I-P-P-I, seemed pretty risqué.”
As the road took another turn, they lost the lake. Claire came to Folger’s driveway and drove to the end of the lane. Two cars were parked in front of an open garage. Claire remembered hearing that Folger was married. She wondered what his wife must be like to be able to put up with him.
When Claire got out of the patrol car and looked over at the house, she saw that Folger was sitting on his front porch, watching them. He didn’t stand up, he didn’t give a howdy wave; he just watched.
Tyrone came around the car and they walked up to the porch together. “Mr. Folger, may we have a word with you?” Claire asked.
The older man glared, but motioned to two hard-backed wooden chairs sitting next to his on the porch. When she had seen him at work, he had worn a button-down shirt and dress pants. He had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and had put on tennis shoes, but otherwise was dressed the same.
Claire took the chair closest to him and moved it around so she was half facing him. She introduced Tyrone. He swung his chair around so they formed a half circle. Very cozy.
Folger squirmed as they moved in on him. He looked like he was about to bolt from his chair. “What’s this about?”
“I had a visitor today,” Claire started. “Ray Sorenson. He told me about a recent conversation he had with you.”
Folger stood up with a jolt and his chair tipped over backward. “I don’t need to say a thing.”
“No, of course you don’t. But then we might need to take you back to town for questioning.”
“I was just trying to warn the boy about his immoral behavior. I would think he would be grateful that I came to him and not to his father.”
“A warning is one thing, Mr. Folger, but the threat of blackmail is another.” Claire pointed at his chair. “Why don’t you sit back down?”
Folger perched on the edge of his chair as if he were ready for instant flight. “Ray must have misunderstood.”
“I don’t know. He seems like a pretty smart kid to me. He seemed very clear about what had happened between you two. He was even considering talking it over with his father.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“I think he would.” Claire paused, then went on. “But that isn’t really what we’ve come to talk to you about. Ray also mentioned that you’re quite interested in the Schuler murders. That you have files on what happened. We were thinking you might be able to help us out.”
“It’s nothing. I have a few newspaper clippings. I’m sure most of the older people in this community have the same.”
“Why this interest?” It was the first question Tyrone had asked. Claire felt it was well timed.
Folger tucked his chin into his chest and stared at the porch floor. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try us,” Tyrone urged.
“What do you know about what it’s like to live in a small community?”
“I’m learning,” Claire said.
“Those people were our neighbors. They went to church with us; they sent their kids to school. As far as I know nobody had a big beef against them. And then, boom!—like that they were killed. And nobody saw anything; nobody knew anything. They never found out who did it. We were none of us safe after that. We all followed what had happened. People talked of nothing else.”
“So you kept track of it all.”
“Yeah, to try to understand. I always felt like if we would just know what had happened we’d be a little safer. You could guard against it happening again. But the not knowing was horrible. It ate us up. It changed us.”
Tyrone leaned in a little closer to Folger. “It sounds awful.”
However, Tyrone’s sympathy had the reverse effect on Folger. He reared back. “There’s no law against keeping a scrapbook.”
“No,” Tyrone said. “Could we see it?”
“Stay here. I’ll go get it from the house.” Folger walked into the house and was gone about five minutes.
Claire gave Tyrone a what-do-you-think look and he shrugged. When Folger returned, he had a big scrapbook with a picture of a doe and a fawn on the cover. The pages and the clippings inside were golden brown with age.
“Would you mind if I looked this over?” she asked him. “It might help with the case.” She wanted to see what he had gathered. On first glance it didn’t look like he had anything she hadn’t already gotten from Harold Peabody.
“I guess, but I want it back. I do bring it out from time to time and I did show it to Ray Sorenson. He seemed interested. Not many of the young kids are. I’ve always wanted to know the truth of what happened.” Folger looked at both of them. “And now it looks like I’m not alone.”
“I’m desperately hungry,” Tyrone announced when they climbed back in the car. He felt like he hadn’t had a good meal since he left Madison. He lusted after a juicy falafel sandwich from the Middle East Café or enchiladas with plenty of salsa, but doubted anything like that was available. There might not be any spicy food available in all of Pepin County.
“I think I can take care of that. If you’re not particular. We’re pretty close to the Fort.”
The Fort, he thought; he wasn’t even going to ask. “How about a beer?”
“This little joint I’m thinking of specializes in beer,” she paused, then added, “and hamburgers.”
Tyrone paged through Charles Folger’s scrapbook as Claire drove down from the bluff and into Fort St. Antoine. Nothing struck him as out of the ordinary. Even though the press clippings usually had the date on them, someone had written the date and the paper’s name below. Thorough, anal, but not that unusual. Then he found some loose photographs stuck into the back of the book.
“You see anything in there?” she asked.
“All the usual clippings,
but he’s got a couple of photographs from the scene of the crime. I wonder how he got those?”
“Everyone knows everyone. It probably wasn’t too hard for him to find out who photographed the crime scene. I’m assuming they are the same photos that we have in our files?”
“They look like it.” He set the scrapbook down. “I’ll leave this with you. You can check it over tonight and bring it in tomorrow.”
After driving down through dense woodlands and dropping out of the farmland that crowned the top of the bluff, they drove into a small town that was right on the lake. Claire took a sharp turn up a hill and pointed out a white clapboard house. “That’s where I live,” she said.
It looked like a small run-down farmhouse. He wasn’t good at commenting on housing stock. “So you have a lake view?”
“I only glimpse the lake through the trees in the summer, but in the winter I see it much better.” She smiled over at him. “Do you want to drive down to the lake?”
“Hungry,” he said. “Barely able to talk.”
She laughed. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”
“Nope. I eat meat with the best of them.”
When they walked into the bar, Tyrone felt the cool air wave across his body. His hand instinctively reached up and undid his top button. The smell of the place was fried food, yeasty drinks, and loud laughter. Two men were playing pool in the center of the room. Two women were sitting at the bar holding beers by the necks.
“Hey, Claire” came from the window into the kitchen behind the counter.
“Hey, Clarence,” Claire shouted back.
Claire grabbed two menus from the holder by the cash register and pointed him toward a table. “By the window suit you?”
“Great.”
When they sat down, she explained, “The soup is made homemade every day. And it’s good. Everything else is frozen and fried. Burgers are not bad. The soup is written up on the board. Looks like bean with bacon. Leinenkugel is on tap.”
“You’re making this easy.”
When the waitress came, Claire ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, a cup of soup, and a beer. Tyrone went for the Lakeside Burger, which featured mayonnaise, a side of fries, and a beer. But when Claire’s cup of soup came immediately, he decided he had to have that, too.
