See Also Murder

by Larry D. Sweazy

  From there I tended to Hank. Got him his morning bath and shave, rolled him and checked for bed sores, then proceeded with his exercises. He was quiet and distant, and I didn’t push. Losing the Knudsens and Ardith so close together and in such a horrible manner, was enough to stagger a healthy man, and even more a man in Hank’s condition. I let him be, and considered his silence as grief. When I left the room, his face was turned toward the window and he barely offered me a word of any kind. Even though it was as beautiful a day as one could ask for, the gray gloom of recent events continued to affect us both. I felt like I was walking in glue.

  Once I was finally free for a moment, I considered what was left for me to do. Calling Hilo seemed out of the question; this was no time to return the amulet to him. I was left with my thought process, with the personal index I had started writing to put my mind in order.

  I considered it for a moment, then decided the best thing I could do was call the library and clear my mind of the possibilities of Norse headhunters, or why an act of murder might have been committed. I was stuck on the thought of motive, because that seemed lacking to me. The only thing that tied the three murders together was the amulet, and only then because of the mistletoe left in Ardith’s hand. The murderer had connected them himself, left a calling card—one that seemed important—and one only I would recognize as a link to the amulet and the tale it told.

  CHAPTER 20

  I picked up the phone and listened for Burlene Standish before I dialed the library’s number. The line was dim and normal, but I proceeded cautiously, listening with every turn of the rotor for someone to come on and interrupt me—or listen in.

  Calla picked up on the second ring. “Library.” I was relieved to hear her voice. It was almost as if life was normal and everything was as it was supposed to be. For a brief second, anyway. Not long enough.

  “Calla, Marjorie. Do you have a second?” Silence answered me back. Silence and the crackle of the line. It lasted for what seemed like an eternity but was maybe only fifteen or twenty seconds. “Calla, are you there?”

  “I’m here,” she finally said. Her voice was sharp, annoyed. I imagined her face drawn in, the lines around her lips as deep as a Badlands’ canyon.

  I hadn’t talked to her since leaving town yesterday. A lot had happened since then. I wasn’t sure she’d heard about Ardith, since there was no hint of compassion to be found in her voice at all.

  “Is this a bad time, Calla?”

  “What can I do for you, Marjorie?” The question was impersonal, businesslike.

  I drew in a deep breath. “Did you find Herbert?”

  A breath in, a hesitation, then, “Yes, thank you very much. He was down at the Wild Pony, thanks to you. Do you know how long it’s been since a shot of whiskey has touched that man’s lips? Now he has to start all over again, and I don’t know that he has it in him. The fights he has fought, Marjorie. You just don’t know. No one does.”

  I was taken aback and hardly knew what to say. “I didn’t mean to upset him, Calla,” I whispered, then turned away from the bedroom just in case Hank was straining an ear my way. “He came to me to tell me about Lida’s cousin, I didn’t seek him out. I wouldn’t have troubled him with anything concerning the Knudsens, you have to know that. Everybody understands how fragile Herbert is.”

  “He’s not fragile. He’s wounded and he’s never recovered.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You should be more aware of your words, Marjorie. You know better. You of all people.”

  There was nothing I could say to that. Calla was right. In normal times I might of thought about what I had to say, how it might affect someone—the key word there was might. But these weren’t normal times, and I wasn’t myself. I was numb from the inside out.

  “Well,” Calla continued, “whatever you said to him set him off on a fine bender, the likes of which I’ve not seen in years, that’s all I know. Your snooping around was the last thing he needed.”

  “You heard about Ardith?” I really wanted to scream, “I wasn’t snooping!” But I restrained myself.

  “I did. Of course, I did. Do you think something like that would go unheard of in this town? It’s awful, just awful. Everybody was afraid before, but now they’re really, really scared. Even the sheriff’s wife wasn’t safe. How can we sleep at night?” The edge fell off of Calla’s voice, but it wasn’t too far away. “Hank all right?” she asked after a long second of silence.

  I nodded, bit my lip. The realization that he’d had no way to defend himself when the killer was on our land had already been examined in my mind a million times, but I hadn’t been able to settle the fact that I left him in the first place. I had left Hank and Ardith to face some vile monster on their own. I shuddered at the thought of what would have happened if I had been home when the killer came calling. “He’s fine. Hank’s as fine as Hank can be. He’s fine,” I said.

  Calla knew it was a lie, but she didn’t press. “That’s good to hear. You call to find out about Herbert, or is there something else, Marjorie?” The sharp edge on the side of her tongue was back.

  “I am concerned about Herbert, Calla. How could I not be? I know what he means to the library, to you.” There had always been speculation that Calla and Herbert were more than coworkers, that they were romantically involved, but I had never broached the subject with her and she’d never offered. I thought she was affectionate toward Herbert and looked out for him like a big sister might. If there was anything else between them, then it was none of my business, simple as that.

  “Of course, you are,” Calla said. “But there’s something else isn’t there?”

  “Yes.” She knew me too well.

  “I figured as much. What is it? What do you really want, Marjorie?”

  I recoiled from the telephone. I didn’t like Calla Eltmore’s tone. I didn’t like it one bit. In all of the years I had known her, she had always reserved her snippiness for other people, usually out of earshot, but sometimes not. She could make the smartest person feel stupid with just a glare. A sharp comment could melt a child. She ran the library like it was a ship and she was the captain born to the right. I had always accepted that the library was Calla’s domain, expected it, really, but I was upset enough already, I didn’t need one of my only remaining confidants to abandon me. I needed the empathetic Calla, not the hard-nosed biddy everyone else thought she was.

  Truth was, I’d never thought it would be my turn to endure Calla’s spiteful tongue. We were friends, colleagues in an odd sense. Our jobs were similar and required the same kind of organized mind, the same kind of curiosity. Calla Eltmore was an intellectual mother to me. She’d directed me to Chaucer and Chekov and warned me off Wilkie Collins and Edgar Allan Poe. I’d ignored that warning of “vulgar writing,” as Calla had called it, choosing instead to find out for myself what kind of writer Poe and Collins were. But our bond had been broken somehow, in an unintentional way that I struggled to understand.

  “Maybe it’s not as important as I thought,” I said, reconsidering my query about Norse headhunters. “I can call back, Calla. Everybody’s on eggshells right now. I just thought if you had a minute, you could look something up for me, that’s all. It’s not that important.”

  “Don’t call me back, just ask me now. Is it a reference question?”

  “Yes,” I said, with another nod. “I’m just curious if there’s any . . .” I paused, knowing what I was about to ask would sound strange, even to Calla. “Any headhunters mentioned or represented in Norse mythology?”

  The telephone line hissed and buzzed. “Headhunters?” Calla asked. “You’re serious?”

  “Yes, completely.”

  “I’ll have to check on this, Marjorie.” A hint of familiar curiosity and normalcy returned to her voice for a brief second. “I wasn’t expecting that. Why does this concern you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “The book I’m indexing isn’t clear, and I’d like my cross re
ferences to be accurate,” I lied.

  I wasn’t going to tell her that I was in search of a motive for the killings. The question sounded outlandish even to me, and I wasn’t really sure I would find a motive in the book I was working on. It was a stretch, and I knew it.

  “It might take me some time,” Calla said. “Are you going to be around home?”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I answered.

  “All right, I’ll call you when I find something.”

  “Thank you, Calla. I really appreciate it.”

  “I have to do my job, regardless of how I feel about things.”

  “Please tell Herbert I’m sorry.”

  “Tell him yourself. You can just tell him that yourself. If he’s not here, I’m sure you’ll be able to find him at the Wild Pony,” Calla Eltmore barked, then the line went dead, dead as it had been when I picked it up. All I could do was shake my head and hang up.

  I made my way back to my desk. It was my safe place when the world turned dark. Or it had been. All I had to do was look past my bookshelves, out the window, to the first barn, and the image of Ardith Jenkins’ dead, bloody body appeared in my mind.

  It had been one thing to hold the amulet in my hand and imagine it settled in Erik Knudsen’s stiff dead hand, but to see Ardith murdered in cold blood on my own property—well, that was unimaginable, something I knew I would never be able to forget or recover from.

  I looked away from the window, stood up from my desk, and took in the work that awaited me.

  The page proofs were stacked and rubber-banded together so they wouldn’t fly off. They waited to be replaced, to be used as a foundation for the pagination change. The shoe box was closed up, bound with a well-used piece of twine. My dictionary was closed, and the typewriter sat empty, void of paper. All that remained on my desk was a single document held down by a rock from the yard; my own personal index. The one I had started to create to clear my mind. It wasn’t complete either and waited as a repository of my thoughts. I knew there was a clue there somewhere—somewhere in the knowledge I’d collected and the events that had occurred. I just couldn’t see it, couldn’t see the why and the who. Motive and killer.

  It was a job that I was less than qualified for, but Hilo Jenkins had set me on that path, and now he was indisposed, more grief stricken than I could imagine.

  I felt like finding the killer was up to me now.

  I just had no idea how on earth I was going to be able to do that.

  CHAPTER 21

  I glanced out the window just to make sure that Duke Parsons was still parked out front. I was relieved to see that the deputy was sitting in the car, his arm anchored out the window, a fresh cigarette dangling from his stubby hand. The wind pushed away the steady stream of smoke as soon as it touched it.

  A magpie sat on the fencepost, looking out over the barren road. The tragedy-seeking traffic had died down to a trickle, much to my relief.

  I had no idea how long we’d have protection from the county sheriff’s department. I hoped a police car would be parked in the drive until the killer was caught, but I wouldn’t express that to Hilo and inflict my worry on him. He had enough to deal with.

  But I had no desire to stay on the farm with just Hank and me there. If the sheriff’s wife couldn’t fend off a killer, how would I be able to? Just the thought gave me a January shiver. Could you kill a man if you had to? If you had no other choice, Marjorie? What would you do? I didn’t know how to answer those questions. I hoped I would never have to find out.

  Regardless of what came, the fact was that Duke was still out there—watching, waiting, directing traffic, and protecting us the best he could—and that gave me a small dose of comfort. Of course, it was still daylight. Any false sense of security I felt would disappear once the sun fell from the sky, even if it was Guy Reinhardt who came to relieve Duke.

  I settled back down in front of my desk and grabbed the index I’d started earlier. I needed my notes, too, since I really didn’t expect the quest I’d sent Calla off on to pay off, to provide a real motive for the murders. I was deluding myself if I really expected an answer to be found in some obscure book. Still, I thought the idea of headhunting was worth checking out. It might help me to assign motive.

  But at that moment, my mind turned back to mistletoe.

  I had only made one entry in the murder index under the main entry, concerning the plant.

  Ardith Jenkins: mistletoe found in hand.

  The winter-inspired shiver I’d experienced earlier returned and didn’t leave as quickly as the last one. I could hardly comprehend the reality that Ardith was really dead.

  The mistletoe was far more viable as a clue than my curiosity about headhunting. I figured that hunch was a dead end, or at the very least, it would tell me whether the Norse people participated in the practice of decapitation for religious reasons or just as an act of war. Maybe that would help. The mistletoe, however, was real, left by the killer—I supposed—on purpose, as a message, as a link to the Knudsen murders. That was clear. It was also clear that the message, the mistletoe, was left for me, or for someone who understood the symbols and origin of the amulet left behind at the previous murder.

  Did the killer know I had the amulet? If so, how? Only Hilo knew, and he’d sworn me to secrecy. A swear that I’d easily kept—with one exception: Raymond. It was all something to consider.

  But I also had to consider the opposite, that the killer didn’t know that I had possession of the deadly jewelry. It would mean the message wasn’t for me. Then, I had to wonder, who was it for?

  There was no way that the mistletoe could have floated through the air and landed in Ardith’s hand by accident. It’s a plant that, to my knowledge, that didn’t grow in North Dakota. I was certain that it was placed there with intention, and that someone had to go to some trouble to get a live sprig, since it couldn’t be found growing along the side of the road.

  The origin of the plant was something to consider, but more important was the origin of the amulet. If the amulet was stolen from Professor Strand, then he would most certainly know the story of Loki and Balder. He would know all of the characters associated in the mythological murder plot, and he would understand the meaning. Surely, the professor knew more about the thing than I had discovered in my small amount of research. If that were the case, then Strand would understand the significance of the mistletoe, too. But he had not been home when I’d left Raymond’s cottage to go see him, and I had failed to try and contact him since. A lot had happened to keep me occupied. I had also been unable to speak with Hilo and tell him of my findings, as muddled and inconclusive as they were.

  Maybe, I thought, staring at the short, incomplete, index, maybe, I need to talk to Duke or Guy. I nodded. It was a good idea, especially if I didn’t get a chance to speak with Hilo if the appropriate opportunity presented itself. I was sure that Hilo Jenkins was grief stricken. He and Ardith had been married since the dawn of time. But I was more comfortable with talking to Guy than I was with Duke. Duke seemed like a decent guardian, but Guy seemed more inclined to go after someone. Maybe it was his ambition, that innate desire to keep moving. Truth was, I trusted Guy more than I did Duke. Probably because I knew more about Guy. Duke was just a man in a uniform doing his job. Guy Reinhardt had a sad story attached to him. One that made him likeable to me.

  I sighed out loud again.

  Shep had followed me back into the room after my conversation with Calla and had situated himself between the desk and the door. It was quickly becoming his normal spot.

  The dog took no notice of my sigh. Maybe he was getting accustomed to hearing my release of frustration. Or maybe he was listening to Hank and not paying any attention to me. It was a possibility.

  Mistletoe. My mind went back to mistletoe. Why did someone leave mistletoe in Ardith’s hand? I dug into my notes to reorient myself with the myth that was imprinted on the amulet. Balder was killed by mistletoe. I made an index entry:


  B

  Balder

  god of light

  killed by mistletoe

  second son of Odin. See also Loki; Odin

  It was the mistletoe that I was stuck on, so I perused the story, my notes, a little closer.

  Balder had started to dream of his death, so his mother, Frigg, traveled the earth to obtain an oath from every object, living and dead, not to do harm to her son—but she overlooked mistletoe. So Frigg failed to protect Balder and left a door open for harm to come to him.

  Did that mean something? Did the protective quality of the amulet fail to keep Erik and Lida alive? If it was stolen and placed in their hands, that didn’t make sense. But if it was Erik’s—or Lida’s—then the amulet’s placement might have meant something significant. But what?

  Was the mistletoe an afterthought? Or something more? Loki tricked Frigg by wearing a disguise and asked Frigg directly what could harm Balder—and she told him. She told him, but she didn’t know it was Loki that she was speaking to.

  So, I had to wonder, was there somebody here in Dickinson, somebody that knew Erik, Lida, and Ardith, and who was presenting themselves to be someone other than who they really were? Maybe wearing a disguise, looking for a weakness?

  I made another entry, only this one under V:

  Vulnerabilities. See mistletoe

  But what was at stake here? Why did Erik and Lida need pro­tection? From who, or what? None of it made any sense to me. All I knew was that the mistletoe was a weapon, fashioned into a dart during a game and given to Hoder, Balder’s blind twin brother, by Loki and used to kill the God of Light innocently. Loki didn’t kill Balder. Not physically. But he knew what he was doing. Hoder was innocent—but he was a killer.