"I'm sure it is. I was wondering if I could talk to you sometime."
"Of course,” Susan said. “But I don't know anything. We broke up...” And her bottom lip quivered, just a little.
"I know. But, before that, did he ever talk to you about the meatpacking plant?"
"Of course. He hated it. He hated the cruelty of it toward animals. He was a vegetarian, you know. He hated the exploitation of the workers. But he wouldn't quit. He felt that he had to fully understand what was going on, become one with the workers, work from within.” Her lips tightened away to nothing. “Of course, there was another interest...” She got up, her untouched banana split in her hand. “I'm sorry, but I have to go home and practice."
She rushed out of there. She still loves him, I thought, as I got a pop to go.
* * * *
I was driving the long way back to the station, around Laskin, when I spotted the Park and Sell lot on the bypass. I'd forgotten about that, and I'd bet so had Peterson. Steve Davison had opened it up a couple of years ago—anything to make money without hardly working—and there were always at least a dozen cars there. Today there were fifteen, none of them Connor's. So I called Steve.
"I've got a license,” he said.
"I know that, Steve. I just want to know if you've sold a ‘97 Chevy Camaro in the last year."
"Why?” His voice was nervous, but it always is when he talks to the police.
"I can get a warrant,” I said.
"I'll have to check my records."
"Sure. Can I check them with you?"
There was a pause, and then he said, “Sure, no problem."
"I'll be right over."
"Wait!"
But I clicked the cell phone shut and went. Steve's office is in his house, specifically, his garage. He was waiting for me.
"I've looked, but I haven't sold anything like that. I haven't even seen anything like that."
"You sure?” I started to look through his records.
"Uh-huh. You can check for yourself. Whose car is it?"
"Was,” I replied. “Connor's. The guy whose body we found last week."
"Oh.” Steve's relief was palpable. Something else to check into when I had the time. “No, I didn't handle anything like that."
He was telling the truth. “How many of these park and sell lots are there around?"
"Just mine in town."
"In the county?"
"Well, there's one in Howard, and one over in Flandreau, Brookings, and probably Huron."
"You own any of them?"
"No, this is my only lot. Though it's a nice money maker. Maybe I should expand."
"Maybe you shouldn't. You're barely keeping track of what you've got.” Steve grinned, barely, and I smiled back. “Thanks for your help, Steve."
I went to Howard, but hit pay dirt in Flandreau. The lot owner was Wally Thielbar, and Connor's car was still on his lot. Well, I said it was a junker.
"I swear, I didn't know anything was wrong with the deal,” Thielbar said at his office. “She brought it in with the title, made out to her."
"She?"
"Dark haired woman, in her twenties.” He pulled out the paperwork. “Maria Jensen."
The little liar, I thought. Both her and Manuel. But why would Maria kill Connor? Unless Manuel did it. And the whole story about the baby and Connor was a lie. But Matt said she was pregnant, and Matt hadn't lied to me. Maybe Manuel killed Connor because he knocked Maria up? And Maria was afraid to tell because...
I looked up at Thielbar. “You think you could identify this woman if you saw her again?"
"Oh, sure,” he said. “When she took off her sunglasses to sign the papers, I saw her eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. Very striking, for a woman with black hair."
* * * *
When Susan Nelson opened her door and saw Thielbar standing next to me, first she looked like she was going to faint, then like she was going to run. You could see the options shaking through her. Then she turned around and went inside. I followed her, but she was only picking up her purse.
"All right,” she said. “Let's go."
I took her out to my patrol car, and nodded to Peterson in his patrol car across the street. Thielbar rode with him. I started the car and wondered how she'd gotten the title—but of course, I realized, Connor would have just kept it in the car. I glanced back at Susan. She was staring at me in the rearview mirror, with those damned blue eyes.
"You shouldn't have taken off the sunglasses,” I said. “It would have been a perfect frame-up if you hadn't."
She winced. Then she started crying. “He never touched me,” she said. “Never, except to hold my hand. I thought ... I thought ... And then I found out he'd been with her, that she was pregnant. And he was going to marry her."
It broke my heart. Until I heard her make the same speech, with the same tears, at the trial. It got her sentence cut a little, to twenty years.
Copyright © 2009 Eve Fisher
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Novelette: THE NECKLACE OF GLASS by Mike Culpepper
* * * *
Tim Foley
* * * *
Thorolf's farm was full of bustle. Neighbors who had not seen one another all winter slapped hands in greeting and fell into farmer-chat about the miserable spring, the new crop of lambs, and prospects for a good summer. Their wives embraced old friends, greeted less-liked women more coolly, and eyed one another's dress and decorations. Slaves bundled their masters’ belongings into the long hall and herded their horses into the near pasture. Thorolf, the godi, looking as regal as possible, presided over all. Marta, his wife, welcomed the guests with words and gestures that subtly reminded them of her status. Gerda, their pretty, plump, sixteen-year-old daughter, chatted and flirted with Gunnlaug, a young man who had a small farm.
Ordinarily, Colm didn't like to attend the Sacrifices. Slaves usually didn't get to share the meat, and if they stayed back on their farm, they could run the place with a slack hand and enjoy being masterless for a few days. But this year Bjorn ordered Colm to accompany him to look after the horses and run whatever errand might come to mind. Even so, Colm didn't mind going to this Sacrifice because Gwyneth would be there, and there might be opportunity to share a few words with her, or even flirt a bit.
Bjorn's wife, Aud, had brought several slaves along. Aud's only daughter was married to a Hebridean, and her sons, too, lived far away. There were only slaves to look after her. She seemed not in good health, thought Colm, and looked as though she were losing weight. Gwyneth attended her carefully, steering her out of the crowd toward the benches where she could rest.
A sudden commotion caught Colm's attention and he caught the arrival of Magnus, a well-to-do farmer. But it was Ingveld, Magnus's wife, who was at the center of a hubbub of women, all exclaiming and marveling at her necklace. Ingveld's necklace held five large pieces of colored glass, two blue, two green, and the largest, a brilliant red, all polished smooth as eggs. Women chattered and reached forth tentative fingers as though to touch the object, then pulled them away. The men stood back silently, envious of Magnus that he could so adorn his wife. But Colm suspected that the necklace had actually been the gift of one of Ingveld's sons, Eystein, who had been raiding in Ireland.
Colm's eyes narrowed as he watched the crowd buzz around Ingveld and her necklace. He himself had been stolen from Ireland as a child, sold as a slave to Bjorn, then brought to Iceland. Probably the glass in Ingveld's necklace had once studded a reliquary or a crucifix and been turned into women's jewelry by a goldsmith—perhaps himself a slave—in a Norse holding in Ireland.
Ingveld's other son, Halldor, made his way through the women and tried to greet Gerda, Thorolf's daughter. But Gerda's greedy eyes were fixed on the necklace and she would not turn her face to Halldor. Eventually, the young man gave up and moved away.
Now everyone had arrived. It was time for the sacrifice. Thorolf, dressed in a white robe, hushed the crowd. People sorted t
hemselves out, men to one side, women to the other, as Thorolf walked between them toward the stone-walled shrine that held the figures of the Gods. A white mare was tethered near the shrine. The only marking on the horse was a patch of brown on one flank—a vertical stripe with a crossbar. Maybe it looked a little like Thor's hammer or Tyr's spear or some other symbol of some other deity. Perhaps the Gods had marked this horse for their own. Bjorn turned the mare toward the crowd so that they could see the mark that had doomed this animal to sacrifice from the moment of its birth.
Colm looked at the mare's fat flanks and felt his mouth water. He hoped, for a moment, that he might have some morsel of meat from the feast but he knew that, with all this crowd, there would be none for the slaves. He pushed the hope from his mind before it could fester into resentment or anger or any of the other emotions that might lead a slave to his doom.
A large bowl was placed before the mare, who dipped her muzzle into it briefly. The crowd murmured its approval, thinking the horse was looking to its fate. But Colm thought the animal sought to find water or feed in the vessel. Thorolf flourished a great, sharp knife and spoke a few words, dedicating the sacrifice to the Gods, then he cut the mare's throat.
Blood gushed in a great spurt. The mare sank to her knees as Thorolf steadied her head over the brimming bowl. Blot was the word for sacrifice and blood was its meaning. Thorolf lay the dead horse's head upon the ground and took up a whisk of birch branches. He dipped it into the bowl of blood then entered the shrine. He chanted some words, then reappeared, dipped the whisk again, then went back inside. Colm knew that Thorolf was feeding the idols in the shrine, lashing them with blood. Thorolf came outside and dipped the whisk again. His white robe was spattered with red. Colm had heard that there were three figures in the shrine. One of Thor, the much beloved god; one of the goddess Freya, mistress of herds and crops and all fecund life; and one of Njord, who had to do with ships and sailing and also that final voyage, death. Thorolf kept returning and taking blood back inside the shrine until the bowl was emptied. Sometimes the men or women in the crowd would chant, not words so much but sounds from deep in the throat that made the hair on Colm's nape prickle. Mostly though, they watched in silence.
Now Thorolf, covered in blood, walked to the group of men and pressed his thumb to each man's forehead, marking it with blood and calling out the man's name as he did so. The women would have their own ceremony in the morning, possibly something to do with Freya, but that was something Colm knew nothing about.
Having named all the men in his community, Thorolf signaled to several who quickly skinned and butchered the horse. Just inside Thorolf's longhall, others built up the fire under a great cauldron. The women poured in water to boil, then added great chunks of horsemeat. Choice pieces, like the liver, were roasted separately and would be given to favored guests. Thorolf called all inside the hall to be seated and drink beer until the women brought around the horsemeat to eat and the broth to drink in toasts to the long life and good fortune of all present, to those who had passed on, and to the Gods that oversaw all.
A shout roused Colm from his contemplation of pagan rites. He was delegated with another slave to haul barrels of beer from the storeroom to a spot closer to the benches in the longhall, where the women could serve it. The casks were open, so they could not be rolled in. Instead, Colm and the other slave worked them up onto small sledges, then dragged them along to a spot just outside the storeroom and behind the benches. The other man was a big, powerful Slav. Colm allowed him to do the heaviest work. Which was only fair, he thought, since one of them had to supervise the operation.
The men's benches ran the length of the hall parallel to the pit where a small fire of dried dung smouldered. That fire would be built up bright as the evening progressed. Thorolf sat at the center of the group, a carved wooden screen behind him. Probably the screen normally stood in the stove-room, a smaller, warmer place off the end of the longhall. That was where the family and guests would gather on ordinary occasions, but there were far too many people here to be accommodated in that space tonight!
On one side of Thorolf sat Colm's master Bjorn, who had become Thorolf's trusted lieutenant. On the other side sat Magnus, then his son Halldor. The women's table was set before the door into the stove-room, at a right angle to the men's table. Marta, Thorolf's wife, finished serving each guest his first drink with her own hands, then took her place at the center of the women's table. Ingveld took the place to Marta's right, Aud, the one to the left. Gerda sat next to Ingveld, then Gerda's friends. The older women sat next to Aud, their rank decreasing the farther from the center that they sat.
Lesser women and slaves continued the serving. Marta and Thorolf exchanged a glance, a silent signal, and Thorolf rose from his place. He had changed his bloody godi's robe for an elegant embroidered surcoat with great carved buttons of bone decorating the front. All eyes turned to Thorolf, and the hall hushed as he announced that he and his good friend, the prosperous farmer, Magnus, were uniting their families. Magnus's son Halldor and Thorolf's daughter Gerda were to marry in the fall. Thorolf then gave gifts to Magnus, a fine bow, a set of carved chessmen, and silk trousers from Greekland. Magnus gave gifts in return, excellent leather shoes and a decorated spearhead taken from the grave of an Irish High King. Each gift that was accepted indebted a man to the giver. Thorolf wanted very much to have Magnus in his debt since Magnus's farm was close to another godi's holding, and it was up to Magnus who he would ride with to Althing and who he would support in case of trouble. But a man would always support the father of his son's wife, especially if there were grandchildren.
Halldor smiled over at the women's table, clearly pleased with his bride-to-be, but Gerda had eyes only for Ingveld's necklace. She was practically drooling over it, thought Colm. Marta and Ingveld were exchanging gifts as well and making subtle signs to reinforce their status and position in the community. They seemed to get on well, though, and Colm thought that there would be few mother-in-law difficulties, always a potential problem. Ingveld took off her necklace and allowed the other women to hold it and examine it more closely. Slave girls bustled around the tables, bringing the gifts for exchange and cleaning up spilled beer.
Suddenly there was a commotion at the men's table. Halldor and Gunnlaug were shouting at one another. Gunnlaug shoved Halldor, who slapped his hand where his sword hilt would be if he had worn a weapon to the feast. He then lunged forward, but other men grabbed Gunnlaug by the shoulders and hustled him from the hall. Red faced, Halldor took his seat just as the slave women began serving the broth. Gunnlaug wouldn't be doing any toasting with the community this year, thought Colm. In fact, he had best leave the area, if he valued his life.
The hall had begun to settle when a sudden cry rose from the women's table. Ingveld was standing, hand at her throat, shouting for her necklace. The other women at the table glanced at one another and raised their empty hands to show that they didn't have it. Magnus shouted and rose from his seat to glare at the women's table. Thorolf sat frozen, his stricken gaze fixed on his daughter's face. Other eyes followed his and Gerda found herself the target of a dozen accusing stares.
"Search me!” Gerda spat out and rose from the bench, then climbed onto the women's table. Gerda looked defiantly about her, then unbelted her apron and pulled it over her head. She threw it down on the table and took off her blouse, her overskirt, then dropped her underskirts to stand completely naked before the crowd.
Colm caught a glint of pride and pleasure in her eyes. She's enjoying this, he thought. She enjoys being the center of attention.
Not to be outdone, two of the other young women at the table leapt up beside Gerda and began removing their garments. The older women glanced nervously about. They had no desire to have their bodies compared to these girls!
"Wait!” Marta rose and took command of the situation. “Come back into the stove-room. You can undress there.” The women made their way through the door.
Ingvel
d's face was stricken with embarrassment. Gathering herself, she reached up a hand to Gerda and helped her prospective daughter-in-law down from the table. Ingveld snatched up some of Gerda's discarded clothing and draped them over her naked shoulders. As the two women followed the others into the stove-room, she cast a beseeching look back at her husband.
Magnus regretted his outburst now. He fell back into his seat. “Perhaps the women can straighten this out."
"Yes,” said Thorolf, “This will be settled properly. We will have a toast.” He looked about for a woman to serve the table but they were all in the stove-room. Thorolf got up himself and brought cups of broth to each place. Then he raised a toast: “To the wisdom of women! May there be much here tonight and always!"
But an hour later, Marta led the women back from the stove-room and told her husband that the necklace had not been found. Men dismantled the women's table and benches to make certain that the necklace had not been dropped there on the dirt floor, but there was no sign of it. The table was reassembled and the women returned to their places.
Ingveld and Marta held a quiet, worried conversation. Gerda sat proudly in her place wearing a self-satisfied smile. The other men and women spoke quietly, eyes shifting about. Thorolf turned to Magnus and offered him gifts: some valuable horses, cutting rights on a rare piece of treed woodland, the very surcoat he was wearing. Stone faced, Magnus refused them all.
Colm watched the uneasy scene. Thorolf had not called for more beer yet. Probably the godi was weighing the value of lulling his neighbors with alcohol versus the danger posed by a crowd of drunken men. Still, Thorolf would not want to be called stingy, and soon enough the beer would start flowing.
Bjorn approached and Colm stood up, attentive to his master. “You're a smart man,” said Bjorn. “If you can think of anything that will help this situation, you will be rewarded."
Colm was amazed. Not only was he a slave, but he was half Bjorn's age, yet the man came to him for help! Once before Colm had solved a sticky problem for Bjorn, but that was not something they had ever discussed—better not to know of some things, or at least not to speak of them. Still, Colm had no choice now but to nod, agreeing to help as he might.
AHMM, November 2009 Page 4
