See Also Murder

by Larry D. Sweazy

  My mother, if she were still alive, would chastise me. Tell me to keep a stiff upper lip, a woman’s work was never done . . . all of the clichés she constantly wore on her sleeve to help get her through the day. I had abided by them for a long time, but my restraint was weak, overrun by my fears, my weaknesses, and my own grief.

  After a few minutes of sitting in the library parking lot blubbering like an unwound idiot, I took another deep breath. “You have to get through this,” I said to myself out loud, then looked in the rearview mirror, wiped my eyes, straightened up my face and hair in the mirror, and put the truck in reverse.

  When I pulled away, I noticed a green Chevy sedan sitting across the parking lot with the window down. I couldn’t see the driver. His or her face was hidden behind a newspaper. It was odd, but not unheard of. A lot of people came and went from the library. It was most likely someone taking a break from work and seeking refuge in the shade of the towering oaks.

  I looked away from the Chevy and headed toward my cousin’s house with a gnawing feeling that I couldn’t quite get a hold of—or let go of. It was one of those feelings like something was wrong. Of course, my mind turned toward home, to Hank. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to him and I wasn’t there.

  I stopped a short way down the street at the first telephone booth I came to.

  It sat on the corner, just outside the Rexall Drugstore. I was going to be late to Raymond’s the way it was, and a few extra seconds wasn’t going to make any difference in my timing, or my cousin’s mood, which I predicted was going to be foul and snarly even if I were on time.

  A quick wind greeted me as I stepped out of the truck. I glanced upward, at the sky, to see the gray rain clouds finally trailing away. Clear blue sky was behind it, pushing the storm away with the force of a thousand bulldozers. If I had to bet, the roads would be dry by the time I got home, and any evidence of the morning rain would be gone.

  I dropped a dime into a slot at the top of the payphone, a tall black rotary dial phone that’d had a heart engraved in it a long time ago. Rust had set in. I ignored the etching and dialed my home phone number.

  Ardith picked up on the fourth ring. The phone was on a party line, and our ring was two longs followed by two shorts. “Hello,” she said, “Trumaine residence.”

  “It’s me, Ardith,” I said.

  “Marjorie, I didn’t expect to hear from you till you got home. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Of course. I just wanted to check on Hank.”

  “He’s fine, Marjorie.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Well,” Ardith said, “he wanted to play hide and seek, but I told him that was entirely out of the question.” There was a chuckle at the end of her words, and that made me smile briefly.

  “All right, then,” I said. “I was just worried.”

  “He won’t let me close the window,” Ardith answered. “Wind’s fierce right now, but it doesn’t seem to matter to him.”

  I sighed. “Leave it open,” I said. “Shep’ll look after him if the need comes—if you’re worried about something more than dirt coming in.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “We all are, Ardith. We all are.” Silence fell between us, and the telephone line hissed and echoed as the wind jostled the lines between the phone booth and the farm. “You tell Hank I’ll be home shortly,” I finally said.

  “Did you find out anything, Marjorie?”

  “Not yet. I’m on my way to my cousin Raymond’s house. I hope he’ll have something to tell me.” I glanced up and saw the taillights of a car blink red, slow down, then speed up and turn the corner, disappearing from my view. It was another green Chevy or the same one at the library, I wasn’t sure.

  “All right, you be careful then.”

  I didn’t answer right away and stared after the car. It was probably just a coincidence, but I rarely saw green Chevy sedans, and I had already seen two of them—or one twice—in a short time.

  My mind was trained to see patterns of information, but it was also trained to discard pieces of data that were irrelevant. Not everything in a text made its way into an index, nor did silly details belong in my consciousness at the moment.

  “Are you still there, aye?” Ardith asked.

  “Yes, yes,” I said, focusing on the telephone. “I’ll be careful.” I hesitated before hanging up the line. I wished the receiver at home had a long cord on it so I could hear Hank breathing, talk to him for just a second, but that was an impossibility.

  I made my way to the truck, taking notice of the wind as I did. It didn’t seem any different than normal, but then again I was in town, and that always made a difference. There was more to deflect it here than there was out in the country.

  Raymond Hurtibese lived on the Dickinson University campus in a small bungalow just across the street from the Student Union building, a huge limestone building that looked more like a giant mausoleum than a meeting place.

  I hesitated on the walk up to the door of the well-kept cottage. Raymond and I weren’t close; we only saw each other on festive occasions and at funerals. Our relationship was similar to that of my father and his sister’s—distant at best and bound only by blood. We saw each other out of necessity rather than pleasure.

  My father had had a great intellect but chose to live his life as a farmer, destined to wager his fortunes against the forces of nature rather than climb the academic ladder to tenure. His anger about his career choice was rarely visible, but it usually showed itself in the form of disappointment—aimed directly at me.

  I’d indexed a book once that chronicled several Jewish families from Eastern Europe. The book was a marker of success since the immigrants, who had not been allowed to own farmland in their home countries, brought their garment-making skills with them to the new world. There was a market in New York City for high-quality clothing. But that wasn’t the point. The next generation, the immigrants’ children, were almost all doctors or lawyers, highly skilled professionals. They hadn’t disappointed their parents like I had disappointed my father by marrying Hank.

  Anyway, Raymond’s mother, my Aunt Gilda, was a smart woman in her own right. She’d married well and seemed to make all of the right choices—a fact she never let my father forget. Raymond’s father, my uncle, Walter Hurtibese, had been the Dean at Dickinson University until a few years before his death, and Aunt Gilda was the “good woman” behind her man, taking to the social aspects of university life like a hummingbird to a patch of red, nectar-heavy flowers. She’d pushed Raymond down the same path before she passed on herself, a few years after Raymond attained the position of assistant professor.

  The other reason I hesitated on the walk to the door was the passing resemblance Raymond held to my father. There were enough ghosts in my mind, and I was less than enthusiastic to add another one.

  Raymond opened the door before I knocked. He feigned a smile and said, “You’re late.”

  I smiled back, fully expecting his disdain. “It’s so good to see you, Raymond,” I said. “I appreciate the time you’ve taken for me.” I extended my hand for a handshake. There were no kisses or hugs on this side of the family. Offering an excuse would have only prolonged the situation, and I was intent on getting the information I needed as quickly as I could so I could leave and go home to my Hank.

  Raymond shook my hand weakly. His palms were sweaty, and I recoiled immediately. He stood squarely in the doorway staring at me.

  “May I come in?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course.” Raymond turned sideways in an exact manner so he was flat against the open door.

  I took a deep breath and walked into the bungalow.

  “Your call was a surprise, Cousin Marjorie,” Raymond said. He wore tan cuffed slacks, a blue Oxford shirt, and highly shined black loafers. A few years older than myself, gray was starting to show in Raymond’s thick head of wheat-brown hair. His beard was meticulously trimmed, and his dark brown eyes perus
ed me from head to toe, judging my hand-sewn attire as unacceptable.

  “I don’t get away from the house much these days,” I said.

  “I imagine not. How did you manage to today?”

  “Ardith Jenkins was kind enough to look after Hank,” I said.

  “The sheriff’s wife?”

  “Yes, we’ve been friends for eons.”

  Raymond stared at me curiously, then said, “Have a seat.” My cousin swept his hand fully across his body as if he were allowing me into a forbidden kingdom.

  I sat down in the closest chair I could see, a soft high-back leather chair that faced an impressive stone fireplace. The fireplace didn’t look like it had ever been used. “I can’t stay long.”

  Raymond sat down across from me in a matching chair. “Would you like some tea?”

  “No, no thank you. There’s no need to go to any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble, really.”

  I shook my head no, and opened my purse.

  “Are you still writing those indexes?” he asked.

  I had wrapped the amulet in linen and tucked it in a side pocket of my purse—in the spot I usually hid my cigarettes if I had any. Hank disapproved of my smoking. I knew I was breaking Hilo’s warning not to show the jewelry to anyone, but I’d run into a brick wall. As much as Raymond annoyed me, I felt like I could trust him, though I had decided not to tell him everything—like where the amulet had come from and why I was really there.

  I pulled the amulet out of my purse and began to unwrap it, all the while trying to ignore Raymond’s tone concerning my indexing work.

  I knew Raymond thought it was remarkable that a woman without a college degree could do such a job, coupled with the fact that my formal training as an indexer was certified by a correspondence course and administrated by the United States Department of Agriculture. He never failed to make his dismay well known.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m currently working on a book by Sir Nigel Preston. Are you familiar with his work?”

  “I can’t say that I am.”

  “A study on headhunters. It’s really fascinating. You should read it once it’s published.”

  Raymond feigned another smile. “I have no interest in headhunters.”

  “I had no knowledge of the subject, either,” I said. “But it is very well written, and I have found it to be a wonderful read.”

  “How can you pretend to index a book you know nothing about?”

  My mouth went dry. Raymond had pulled me into a game already, and I was on defense. I should have known better. Instead of taking the bait and engaging in an academic argument defending my credentials, I held out the amulet for the taking.

  How many indexers in the world were also experts on headhunters? My skill was the ability to parse information and answer all of the readers’ questions, not write a treatise or text on the subject. Even if I had said such a thing, I would not have enlightened Raymond. I would have just dug myself in deeper.

  “I was hoping you could tell me something about this,” I said.

  Raymond hesitated, eyed me directly, then took the amulet without a concession of defeat.

  He examined the amulet with a close eye, gently turning it over from side to side. “Where did you get this?”

  I didn’t answer. “Do you know what it is?”

  “Well,” he said. “It’s most definitely Norse. I can’t quite say how old it is, but it looks authentic. The wolf is—”

  “—Fenris,” I said. “The serpent is Midgard, and the woman is the goddess Hel, the ruler of the realm of the dead. All of them are Loki’s children. I’m assuming the figure in the center is Thor.” I couldn’t help showing off my knowledge of the myth and competing with Raymond. It was an old game.

  Raymond eyed me carefully. “You’ve done some research.”

  “A little. I seem to remember that Aunt Gilda had a similar piece of jewelry. Or something like it. That’s why I called you. I thought you might know something more than I could find at the library.”

  “I sold all of mother’s things a long time ago. Most of it was costume jewelry. Junk. I don’t remember the piece you’re talking about,” Raymond said, tapping his fingers on the table.

  I didn’t believe him, but it didn’t seem worth pursuing at the moment.

  Raymond stood up, a curious look on his face, and walked to an orderly bookshelf next to the fireplace, searched it quickly, and pulled out a worn, leather-bound book that was as thick as a brick. “You are aware that a piece like this was stolen from one of my colleagues not too long ago, aren’t you?”

  I shook my head no. “Is Sheriff Jenkins aware of that?”

  “I’m sure that he is. Has he seen the amulet?” Raymond squinted his eyes, staring at me warily and clutching the book in his hands as if it were a weapon.

  I wasn’t going to answer Raymond, but I was miffed that Hilo hadn’t told me about the theft, left me uninformed so that I looked like an idiot. I was miffed—the sin of omission was the same as a lie as far as I was concerned. It would be the first thing I asked Hilo the next time I saw him.

  “Do you need money, Marjorie?” Raymond asked before I could answer his question about the amulet.

  “Heavens, no. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “I just thought, given your current situation, that times might be, um, desperate.”

  I curled my toes in my Sunday shoes so much that they hurt. I wasn’t about to allow Raymond to see my anger. “If I were a thief, Raymond, would I come to you?”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that you were a thief, Marjorie.”

  “Bull crap, Raymond, that’s exactly what you’re suggesting, and you know it.” The words popped out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  Raymond flipped open the book, escaping my glare, ignoring my outburst. It was not the first time that he had been at the receiving end of the sharp end of my tongue. A distant smile flittered across his face. He loved getting under my skin. “I think you’re absolutely right about Loki’s children,” he said.

  “I can’t find anything to decipher the writing on the edges,” I said, reeling in my tone, glad the topic of Hilo’s knowledge of the amulet had receded. Sometimes, it was just best to give Raymond a win and move on.

  “I think you should talk to Professor Phineas Strand,” he said, flipping through the pages. The amulet was tucked underneath the book, secure in his grasp. “He will be most interested in seeing this, especially if it is from the collection that was stolen.”

  “Does he live on campus?”

  “Just around the corner.”

  “Are you friends?”

  “Ah,” Raymond said, ignoring my question about his relationship with the professor. He stared at a page in his book without a flinch of any kind. “It looks like it is for protection. Much like a St. Christopher’s medal. Thor is the key to that. The chaining that weaves in and out of the runes was a common protective design.”

  “Protection from what?”

  “Evil, of course.”

  I nodded. It didn’t work, I thought. But I didn’t think it had been in Erik Knudsen’s possession for protection. At least, I hoped not.

  “The Scandinavians brought this kind of thing with them when they immigrated,” Raymond continued. “By then Christianity had pushed the myths into a category of sin. Believing in anything other than the word of God was heresy, but there were always those who were hesitant to rid themselves of the old stories, of the old ways of their ancestors, even if those beliefs and trinkets were held in secret.

  “Protection amulets were plentiful in the early eighteen hundreds according to this text. Almost all of them featured Thor as a centerpiece. There is much debate about the writing. Several scholars have tried to interpret amulets like this, but they all come up with something different. Unfortunately, many of the old traditions were passed on orally, leaving a lot of room for conjecture.”

  I could see my father’s profile in Raymond’s face,
softened by the diffused light of the room. I knew curiosity when I saw it, but there was something else, an expression bound by a tightness of the lips and a spark in the eyes.

  “Is that all you can tell me?” I asked.

  “Yes, other than I will tell you that once you leave, I will be straight on the phone to Professor Strand.”

  I stood up and extended my hand. “I would do the same thing if I were in your shoes, Raymond. But you needn’t worry; I’ll go there myself and talk to him.”

  He stared at the amulet, tightened his grasp on it. I half expected him to run off with it, to play a game of keep away like I had seen him do so many times at family reunions when we were children.

  I didn’t budge and did not withdraw my hand until the amulet was securely in my possession. I wrapped it up in the linen, tucked it back in my purse, and headed for the door.

  “The book?” I asked, before I walked outside. “What was the title?”

  “Ah, Larrson’s, The Book of Norse Symbols. A small printing. 1901. A first edition, I might add. I’ve had it in my collection for some time, but I’ve never cracked it open until now.”

  “The library didn’t have it,” I said, running through the titles in my mind that Calla had brought me. “How do you spell the last name?”

  “No, I don’t imagine they had it. Larrson with two Rs, but that shouldn’t have mattered.”

  I was glad to step out into the fresh air. Raymond watched me leave, but said nothing further. Which was just as well as far as I was concerned. His lack of mention concerning Hank didn’t surprise me, but it rubbed my craw.