Murder on the Iditarod Trail

by Sue Henry

  “Why’d you come in by yourselves?” Jensen asked Martinson. “You agreed to keep together.”

  The big man took offense.

  “I never agreed to that. Is this a race or a goddamn nursery school? Those guys in Rainy set that stuff up. I had nothing to say about it and I’m gonna run my own race. You got a problem with that, fucking arrest me. Now I got dogs to feed.”

  He stomped off toward his team.

  Alex let him go, commanding his fists to unclench. Tempted to force compliance, he made himself take a deep breath and forgo personal satisfaction. He saw Martinson yank his lead dog to its feet, then look back over his shoulder. Alex watched until the musher drove his team out of sight down the street to wherever he would spend a few hours before going on to Ophir.

  In the café, Jensen found Becker and coffee for them both. He sat down and warmed his hands on the heavy mug for a few minutes before pulling out his pipe and tobacco. Right about now, he thought, Jessie Arnold, having completed her twenty-four, would be leaving Rohn. With bad weather in the burn, he wondered how long it would take her to cross it. She’d arrive sometime early tomorrow, he guessed.

  Looking up from his coffee, he found Phil Becker watching him. Becker had stayed behind in McGrath to examine the sleds of Rick Ellis and T. J. Harvey. Now the younger trooper shifted a little in his chair, shrugged his shoulders, and grinned.

  “I saw it out the window. What do you think of him?”

  “Who? Oh, Martinson. I can’t make him out, but I think it’s a front. I just wonder what’s behind it. He sure doesn’t want either of us to get inside the smoke he blows.”

  “Got a problem with cops?”

  “Maybe.”

  A roar rattled the windows, and a large military helicopter with double rotors came down on the airstrip. Grabbing his parka, Alex gulped the rest of his coffee. “Check the rest of those sleds,” he told Becker. “See you when I get back.” He reached the door as Holman, opened it, on his way in to get him.

  Two hours later, after dark, he was back in McGrath without Holman. Hardly setting down, the helicopter paused just long enough to let him leap out before lifting off, Anchorage bound.

  Ben Caswell came toward him from the company store swinging a plastic gallon of milk in one mittened hand. Alex waited, pipe clenched in his teeth, burning like a small furnace. Wind whipped the smoke away into the dark.

  Caswell grinned. “We got a dinner invite. Holman’s wife sent word, she’s got a moose roast in the oven. I already corralled Becker, who has things to tell you. Where’s Matt?”

  “He stayed with Mike Solomon to drive Pollitt’s team into Nikolai. He’ll get a hop back in an hour or two.”

  “Pollitt okay?”

  “No. He’s pretty bad. Hit a piece of half-burned tree that trashed part of his sled and broke his leg. Compound fracture involving the knee. Solomon found him down beside the trail. Good thing one of them had flares. He couldn’t have traveled anywhere but up and out.”

  “Any way it’s related to the rest of this?”

  Jensen pulled thoughtfully on his pipe before answering.

  “I don’t think so, Cas. Don’t see how it could have been rigged. Still, it makes me sit up like an old hound when someone says ‘hunting.’”

  “Well, let’s get on the outside of Mrs. Holman’s dinner. Then we’ll talk it around a little.” They headed off toward a snug log house, two blocks from the airstrip. “With Holman running the trail, I feel like we ought to hang out the widow’s lamp tonight.”

  Alex gave him a questioning look.

  “Old custom. During the gold-rush days, the freight and mail drivers went out in all kinds of weather and the roadhouses hung out lanterns to let folks know that a team was on the trail somewhere in the great white. They kept those lanterns burning until the musher came in okay.

  “Now they do it for the racers. Up in Nome they put up a lantern when the race starts in Anchorage and they keep it burning as long as even one musher’s between the two points.

  “McGrath doesn’t usually have one, but maybe tonight we should.”

  Coming in from the cold, Alex found the warmth of the Holman house almost overwhelming. They had stripped off their parkas and boots and hung them with the rest of their outdoor gear on hooks in the Arctic entrance, a small, porch-like space between two doors designed to keep the cold from the main part of the house.

  Relieved to take off heavy insulated boots, Alex padded around, like everyone else, in his stocking feet. By the time they had finished Emma Holman’s good dinner and were well into coffee, he was so tired he could scarcely see to set a match to his briar. However, he was soon yanked awake by Becker’s news.

  Wickedly, Cas had insisted that they take a break from the investigation while they ate, which, Jensen noticed, had been nearly impossible for Becker. Now he all but stumbled over his words in his haste to give Alex his news.

  “It’s there,” he said. “Just like you thought. A worn spot on one stanchion. It fits the size of the bottle exactly, including the serrations from the lid, and rests right next to a toggle on the sled bag.”

  “Which sled?”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re going to love this one. Not Schuller. I went over every possible inch of his sled. Then I did the same with Martinson, who wasn’t too happy, by the way. Nothing. It was Gail Murray’s.”

  “Murray’s?”

  He nodded, smug.

  Caswell grinned. “That’s right, Alex. I impounded the sled. We got lucky. Murray said she had no idea what was up. She got a little rattled but was changing sleds here anyway and let us have it easily enough.”

  Becker shook his head. “She was completely confused. Schuller’d probably figure it out if he knew. We told her to keep it to herself, but . . .” He shrugged. “What do you want to do?”

  Jensen hesitated, fumbling to get his thoughts in order. If I’m this tired, with good meals and time to sit down every so often, he thought, what can Jessie be feeling after standing up all day on the back of a sled, especially with that storm on the burn?

  As he thought, a thumping in the entrance announced Holman’s arrival. Emma emerged from the kitchen to greet him with a hug and the assurance that his dinner hadn’t been eaten by someone else. As soon as he was seated in front of a full plate, Alex asked, “Matt, how long will Murray, Schuller, and Martinson be here?”

  “Not long. They twenty-four’d in Rohn. Hardly anyone’ll take more’n four or five unless the weather turns really mean.”

  Caswell drew circles on the tablecloth with the handle of his coffee spoon.

  “It doesn’t prove a thing, you know,” he said, slowly. “She wasn’t in Rainy Pass when Smith’s dogs were poisoned, even if she was at Skwentna and Finger Lake. All we know is that the container was on her sled long enough to make marks.”

  “Suggestions?” Alex asked, looking around the table.

  Holman spoke after a minute of thought and a swallow of coffee. “We could apply a little pressure. Let’s go down to McGuire’s. It’s the information pipeline. When they get ready to leave we’ll hear it and can go watch. Just stand around and watch. It won’t hurt to let them wonder why.”

  “That’s fishing, Matt.”

  “Sure. But maybe we’ll get a nibble. Nothing to lose.”

  Alex eyed a comfortable-looking overstuffed chair near the wood stove across the room and sighed. As much as he didn’t appreciate the idea of the dark, cold night, he agreed they should go.

  “Okay. But first tell us about everyone on the list, Matt. We still need your perspective.”

  Holman frowned and stuffed a last forkful of roast and gravy into his mouth. When he could, he growled through his chewing, “Don’t like it much, you know.”

  “I know. We’ll try to help you out. Start with Martinson, who’s not a model of cooperation. He’s g
iven both Phil and me a hard time. He named Turner, Banks, and Bill Pete as having camped with Koptak in Skwentna, and he thought there might have been one more but said he couldn’t remember who. Who is he? Where’s he from?”

  Stiffly, looking down at his plate, Holman answered.

  “Wasilla. Moved from Delta Junction three years ago.”

  “What’s his problem? Is he always this tough?”

  “He’s not real sociable, but he’s a good musher. Honest. Great with his dogs. Had a hard time a few years back. Almost lost his kennel in Delta when some kind of virus went through his lot. It didn’t leave him much. He’s just getting back up there.”

  “Hey,” Becker said, breaking in. “I forgot. When I talked to Mike Solomon in Rohn, he sort of apologized for Martinson. Said he was under a lot of pressure to make some money in this race or he would have to sell a bunch of his dogs to keep his kennel.”

  “Maybe . . .” Holman responded. “Know he went in debt pretty bad last year.”

  “What else?” Jensen asked.

  “Not much. He’s single. Got into mushing in sprint races. Then before he went on his own, he worked with Redington, the guy who started this race.”

  “Okay. Schuller. He brought in Koptak, didn’t stick around to answer questions, found the bottle, and again took off without checking with me. What about him?”

  “From Fox, outside of Fairbanks. Probably just forgot to see you. He’s got a good chance this year. Runs a really organized race. Gets it all down on paper ahead of time—when to rest, how much and what to feed. Like that. He keeps to himself, but he’s always ready to lend a hand if it’s needed. Won the rookie of the year first year he ran.”

  “Is he okay financially?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Doing good this year.”

  “Murray?”

  Before Holman could answer, Becker shook his head. “I just don’t see that, Alex,” he said. “Except for being in the wrong places at the right time, she doesn’t seem the type. Besides, she gave us her sled and answered all our questions very openly.”

  “He’s right,” Matt agreed. “Gail’s got the weight of her father’s kennel behind her, too. John Murray has a real reputation as a breeder. They’re good folks.”

  He reached across, took the list from Alex’s hand, and went on hurriedly, as if anxious to get it over with.

  “T. J. Harvey lives in Skwentna. My guess is you could clear him just by talking to folks there. He’s their hometown musher, and everyone there helped get his fees together. Those kids think he walks on water.

  “Ellis and Johnson are both from out of state. Montana. Minnesota. Ellis came in a month before the race and has been running his dogs out of Unalakleet to get them used to the coast. Doubt he knows local mushers well enough to get a mad on. He bought dogs off a couple of people though. Koptak, for one. Johnson drove up the highway just before the race.

  “Ellis borrowed two or three dogs from Rod Pollitt—”

  Jensen cut off his monologue to ask a question. “Pollitt seems familiar. Does he live in Wasilla too?”

  “Close. Big Lake. You’ve probably seen him in Palmer. His girlfriend’s a waitress at Jay’s.”

  “If it’s him, the accident in the burn sort of turns it around, doesn’t it?” Becker asked.

  “If it was an accident,” Caswell commented.

  “Oh, it was,” Holman stated flatly. “No way that one could have been set up. Just damn bad luck.”

  He went back to the list. “John Grasle is a middle-of-the-packer. He’s already dropping back. Trains outside of Fairbanks with his wife, and she’s back with the bunch that didn’t get into Finger Lake and Rainy in time to make the list.

  “Still say Bill Pete’s got no business on here, and neither do Arnold, Ryan, or Pilch. I know Jess. She’s determined and stubborn, but there’s nobody more fair. Does more than her share, too. Worked with another musher a while back but didn’t like how he treated the dogs. Handles her own now. Better.”

  Jensen started to say something, then hesitated. Holman waited and Caswell turned his head to look at Alex.

  “Nothing big,” he said finally. “I was just remembering she said she wouldn’t be able to race again next year without the money to get her team in shape.” As soon as the words came out, he felt that he had betrayed her confidence, but he’d had to say it.

  Holman tossed it off. “Sounds like half the mushers in the race,” he said. “Only big names, with big kennels or a supporting business, don’t have to worry about money. Big names mean big sponsors, too.” He went on.

  “Ryan’s another one from near Fairbanks. North Pole. One of the most dependable guys I know. Before he tried the Iditarod, he helped out for a few years as a vet. Was in Rainy for three years in a row and Kaltag once. He’s—”

  “A vet?” Alex interrupted. Caswell and Becker both leaned forward. “PCP was originally a veterinary tranquilizer. Did you know that, Matt?”

  Holman stared at him with a frown. “Can’t say I did. But I think you’re howling up the wrong tree. He’s been working with the sports-medicine people on helping mushers keep their dogs healthier and . . .” His voice trailed off as he thought about it. “Na-a-aw. Not Ryan! He babies his mutts. Can’t be the only one who knows what the stuff would do to dogs.”

  “But he could get hold of it easier,” Caswell noted.

  “Yeah . . . Maybe.”

  “How about Bomber Cranshaw?” Jensen asked. “He was helpful in Happy Valley, but I think he’s got a mean streak, sarcastic anyway. He’s all mouth and gets defensive.”

  “Oh, that’s just Bomber. Got a few hot spots. Giving you his bad side, I’d say. He’s a pretty good musher, just talks a lot. I think under all that he mostly cares what the others think. You know, wants respect.”

  “Have money trouble?”

  “He lost a couple of sponsors this year because he didn’t do so hot last year. Don’t know he’s any worse off than anyone else.”

  “Doesn’t like women in the race?”

  “Mmmm . . . says so now and then. But he runs with Jess, doesn’t he? Split up with his wife a couple of years back. She didn’t like mushing, left and moved to Anchorage. Could be part of the problem, but he seems okay now.”

  “Still beat on his dogs?”

  “Shit. Picked that up, did you? Not that I know.” Holman shook his head in disgust as he looked back at the list and ran his finger down it.

  “Who’s left here? Susan Pilch, who’s a real sweetheart. You can forget her. If she’s got a problem it’s taking too good care of her dogs. Her husband’s a contractor and there’s no short bucks there. And Mike Solomon, from Kaltag. A good friend of Smith’s. He wouldn’t know how to hurt another musher. Besides, I think he’d have a hard time in the village getting hold of PCP.

  “There. That’s it. Any questions?”

  “Anyone on there who you think might want to win bad enough, Matt?”

  He waited until he had looked again at each name, then stared straight at Alex before he answered.

  “I won’t finger anyone, Jensen,” he said. “That’s your job, not mine. I don’t want any more killed, but I don’t want any more of this either. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay, Matt. You’ve given us a lot of help.”

  Holman got up, took his plate to the kitchen, where Emma could be heard rattling pans, and returned.

  “Listen,” he suggested, his grin back in place. “Why don’t you guys park here for the night? Two of you can sleep in the other bedroom and one out here on the couch. Emma says she’s got a new pancake recipe and would appreciate guinea pigs at breakfast.”

  Grateful to sleep indoors, they agreed, pushed back from the table, and headed toward their coats and boots.

  “Going down to McQuire’s, Em. You want to come?”

  She came to the k
itchen door. “No thanks. I know what that place is like during the race. You’ll be lucky to get in the door.”

  She gave Alex a sympathetic smile. “Don’t let that gang of tavern rowdies crowd you,” she said. “Or this gang either. You look tired enough to fall over with a good shove.”

  “The cold air will wake me up,” he told her. “Thanks for the dinner, Emma. It was great.”

  The air did help. Bundled once again in parkas and boots, the four men walked up the street and around the corner to the tavern. The door of McGuire’s opened into a roomful of smoke and noise. The ceiling was so low that Alex, the tallest, felt its threat. A long bar stood along one wall, and the rest of the space was filled with mismatched tables, chairs, and tightly packed people.

  As they moved farther into the bar, he could hear a guitar being poorly played and several voices shouting the words to a song about the Iditarod Trail. A pool game was in progress in the back, though the players could barely maneuver space for shots.

  Toward the end of the bar they found enough room to squeeze in, and Holman ordered four of whatever was on tap. The room was stuffy and warm, but as the door seemed to be forever swinging to let people in and out, smoke and heat escaped frequently. Alex unzipped his parka and put hat and gloves in its ample pockets as he looked around the crowd. Some had been there most of the day, from the look of them. One man slept with his head on his arms at a table of seven or eight other celebrants. The din of conversation bothered him not in the least.

  In a frame on the wall behind the bar was a hand­scrawled statement, signed by a previous race winner: “When I die I’m going to heaven because I’ve already been to the Farewell Burn.”

  “Solomon should be in before midnight,” he heard someone say behind him.

  “What’s the word on Pollitt?”

  “He’s in the operating room at the hospital in Anchorage. Don’t know yet.”

  Holman nodded an I told you so at Alex and turned to the only one of the three busy bartenders within earshot. “Schuller, Martinson, or Murray gone out yet?”

  “Not yet,” the man shouted back without missing a glass as he poured mixer into half a dozen drinks. “Schuller slept for an hour and is down at the café getting fed. Murray’s still at Sherman’s. Martinson’s over there.” With a toss of his head he indicated a table across the room.