Hank nodded yes.
“You don’t mind do you, Miss Marjorie?” Jaeger asked.
“No,” I said, “not if Hank doesn’t. I could use a bit of fresh air myself.”
“If you catch sight of that lughead brother of mine, send him my way, would ya?” Jaeger said to me.
I stood up as he stepped around behind the wheelchair. “I’ll do that. Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“I have no idea,” Jaeger said, as he started to push Hank toward the hall, “But you can bet on one thing. The next time I see him, he’s gonna get the what fors and a foot to his behind for leavin’ me here all alone.”
As I came out of the women’s room, a hand reached out for me and looped inside my arm. The act startled me, but didn’t surprise me, considering the circumstances. But I was a little surprised when I realized that the hand belonged to Calla Eltmore. Her fingers felt like printed pages against my skin. It was the first bit of comfort I’d had since I’d arrived at McClandon’s.
“You look like you need to step outside,” she said. Her face was void of any emotion, and her voice was a blank slate. I didn’t know if it was an invitation to share a familiar moment, a secret cigarette, or not. I hoped so.
“That would be nice,” I said.
“Good,” Calla said, pulling me away from the parlor that held the two caskets.
Even more vases of flowers lined the hallway that led to the back door. I was desperate to escape the thick fragrance—it was worse than being in a room full of women wearing Chanel No. 5, but I was worried about Hank. He’d never been alone in Jaeger’s care before.
We exited the back door of the funeral home, and I found myself fully protected from a steady downpour of rain by a canopy similar to the one out front. It was like standing under a giant white umbrella that smelled faintly of bleach and flowers. The aroma of blooms seemed to seep through to the exterior of the building.
Two men were standing up against the wall of the house, both smoking cigarettes. One I recognized, was glad to see—Herbert Frakes—but the other, I had never seen before, even though he looked distantly familiar. As glad as I was to be free of the inside of the funeral home, I suddenly had the feeling that I’d been hornswoggled.
I cast a questioning glance to Calla. She sighed. “This is Roy Agard. Lida’s cousin. I thought you should meet in private the first time.”
I looked back to the unknown man, took him in as completely as I could before I said a word. A rare moment of reflection before my mouth got ahead of me. The surroundings had subdued my mood. All that I knew about Roy was what I had heard, and I was prone to believe that he was a lowlife thief.
Roy Agard kind of looked like Lida, in an odd, sepia-toned picture kind of way. His face was off center, a little like Jaeger’s, and he had a similar dark look about him. He was dressed in decent beige slacks and a clean and ironed white Oxford shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, without a tie. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing a faded blue tattoo of a ship’s anchor on his right forearm. He didn’t look like a thief to me. But what did I know? I couldn’t ever recall meeting one before.
I instinctively stuck out my hand to shake, and Roy Agard seemed surprised by the gesture but returned it in kind. He had a gentle, confident handshake, and a surprised look on his face that I’d seen before when offering a firm, nice-to-meet-you, grip.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said to Roy as sincerely as I could. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Calla dig into her purse for her cigarettes.
“Thank you,” he said, staring me in the eye. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Really?” I said. Calla offered me a Salem, and I took it without hesitation.
Roy Agard nodded. “I have to say, I’ve never met an indexer before.”
I flashed a smile as he dug into his pocket, produced a matchbook, struck a match, and offered me a light, all in a practiced, gentlemanly motion. I liked him, even though my sensibility flickered deep in my bones and told me not to. If Lida didn’t trust him, I shouldn’t either.
“I don’t imagine you have,” I said, after I exhaled the first draw on the cigarette. “Indexers are a rare breed, especially in North Dakota. We winter here.”
“It’s always winter here,” Roy said.
“Which is why I never leave. I like the quiet.” I was trying to relax, but it was difficult. Herbert Frakes stood back against the wall silent, staying dry. He never took his eyes off me.
Herbert had on a suit that looked like it had just come off the Salvation Army rack, but it may have been the only one he owned, never having much cause for wearing it.
“Lida’s maiden name was Agard?” I asked.
Roy shook his head no. “My mother was her mother’s sister.”
“Oh,” I said, and just stared at the man. Calla had edged over by Herbert, and the two stood there like an old married couple, watching Roy and I like they expected something to happen, fertilizing my initial feeling of being dragged outside for a reason. But the mechanics of my mind overtook that feeling and quickly pushed it away. Curiosity veered toward the familiar, a recognition of similarity and patterns. Agard was precariously close to Asgard. Odin and Frigg were rulers of Asgard. Loki hated the gods of Asgard. Hated them enough to kill Balder. It was an intriguing coincidence. One that was hard to overlook.
A little knowledge was a dangerous thing. I had dipped into several pericopes of Norse mythology—not nearly enough to see a complete picture, but I had enough extracts to digest a bit of foundational knowledge. Agard and Asgard were too close not to ring a bell.
I sighed loudly as I realized that Roy Agard was staring at me anxiously. He suddenly seemed nervous or frustrated, and I matched him in that regard. I had to push away my suspicions of the myth being connected to the murders. It was entirely possible that I was confusing one story with another and they had absolutely nothing to do with each other. Or they had everything to do with each other . . .
“This is difficult for me,” Roy said. “I had hoped that Lida and I would be able to clear the air, but that is impossible now.”
“I’m sorry; I don’t understand.” I took a long drag off the Salem, turned my mouth away from him as I waited, and exhaled the smoke from deep within my lungs.
It was his turn to sigh. Roy relaxed, let his shoulders sag, and I worried that he was about to fall over, but he righted himself almost immediately, an expert sailor temporarily thrown off course, pulling in the jib at just the right moment. I was intrigued by his tattoo.
“If a man is lucky in his life, Mrs. Trumaine, he’ll grow old and learn from his many mistakes. There are things in my life that I have done, that I’m not proud of, but the past cannot be changed. You knew that Herbert, Hilo, Erik, and I went to war together? Signed up together down at the courthouse the day after Pearl Harbor?”
I shook my head no. I knew that Herbert and Roy had served together, and that was Hilo was in the war, but I didn’t know where or what he did. He didn’t talk about it. I hadn’t been sure about Erik, even though it made sense that they went off together, considering time and circumstance.
“We were all scared to death,” Roy continued, “but none of us would admit it out loud. Anyway, they had a sending off party for us all out at Lida’s. Her and Erik were tight as glue even then, but that was before they were married. Things got slow, I went wandering, and I came across my aunt’s collection of keepsakes that she’d brought over from the old country. And I . . .” He hesitated, looked to the ceiling of the canopy, then to the ground, and then to me. “And I took one. I took one.”
“One what?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew.
“A medallion, an old copper thing that I heard my mother say was for protection. I was scared. I wanted protected.”
I sighed. “I know,” I whispered. “Peter told me, said you’d taken something but wouldn’t say what.”
“I’m sure he would know. Lida hated me for it. When t
he thing came up missing, I blamed it on Erik. Her mother never trusted him after that, even after we all came back. We all came back—whole, at least physically. I always believed it was that thing that saved us.” Roy glanced back at Herbert, then to the canopy as the rain started to come down harder. “I tried to make things right, but Lida and Erik would have none of it. I was shunned, forbidden to step foot on their property or to speak to their children. In the end,” Roy said, with a quiver in his voice and a burgeoning waterfall under both eyes, “I gave it to Hilo. He said he’d return it, make sure Erik got it back since they were still on good terms.”
I heard Hilo’s voice inside of my head. “This was in Erik’s right hand. I was hoping you could tell me what it means.” And my whole body went limp. It felt like all of my blood had rushed to my toes. “When was this?” I asked in a cracked voice.
“Years ago. I moved to Minneapolis not long after. I tried over the years to settle this, but Lida wouldn’t hear of it. She was stubborn that way. I guess I didn’t try hard enough.” He looked to the ground, the defeat old and tired.
My mind was a conflict of ideas, of possibilities, and of sad things that I hadn’t even considered—but one thing kept rising above the rest. “Have you seen Peter since you’ve been back?” I asked Roy.
He shook his head no. “I wish I had,” he said, sadly.
Calla stepped forward, away from Herbert, and dropped her Salem to the ground. “I saw him this morning,” she said.
“Where?” I demanded.
“Leaving here. It looked like he was heading toward the college,” Calla said. “I thought it was odd, all things considered. I thought he should have headed back toward home.”
I looked toward the college and thought of one person I knew who I could link with the amulet, with the knowledge of what was going on, who was on my suspect list in the index that I had created, and a shiver shot straight up my back.
“I think Peter might be in trouble,” I said. “I just hope I’m not too late in figuring that out. I just hope I’m not too late.”
CHAPTER 35
Calla agreed to look after Hank, and without any hesitation at all I ran out from underneath the canopy into the pouring rain. It was the kind of downpour that we usually saw early in the spring, long and drawn out, the grayness like a suffocating blanket pulled all around you, threatening to wash all of the nutrients out of the soil, a blessing that quickly turned into a curse.
I was quickly reminded that I had on heels and slick-soled shoes, instead of my plastic muck boots, as I tried to flee, to get to where I was going. I nearly fell as I tore around the corner of McClandon’s. Luckily, I was close enough to the yellow wall and bounced off of it with enough force to restore my balance. Optimism kept me vertical.
My hair quickly became an Aqua Net helmet, and my makeup was peppered with the pushing rain, streaking it, washing away my feeble attempt to look presentable for the visitation. I didn’t care about anything other than finding Peter Knudsen.
I made my way to the front of the funeral home, shocked to see the line of mourners had not diminished, but grown, just like the amount of cars stuffed into the parking lot and beyond. Black umbrellas and vehicles overflowed into the street for as far as I could see. But I was only looking for one thing, for one person, and it didn’t take long to find him.
Guy Reinhardt stood taller than everyone else, directing traffic with a flashlight that bore a tapered orange cone on the end of it. He stood guard at the funeral home’s entrance just like he had protected the gate at our house. It was hard to miss him in his all-weather gear; Guy was wearing a bright yellow slicker, and his Mountie hat was covered in the same kind of plastic. He looked like a single blooming flower in a field soaked with black and gray tears.
I rushed to him, avoiding the puddles the best I could, holding my purse over my head with one hand, and trapping my skirt to keep it from flying up with the other.
Guy must have heard me coming, because he turned around when I was about ten yards from him. He stood stoic, as a curious expression washed across his face. “Marjorie?” he said, arching an eyebrow.
I stopped before him, stared at his chest, and tried to catch my breath so I could speak. I kept my purse over my head, but it had failed in the effort to keep me dry and protected. I was soaked to the bone, my best black dress glued to my body.
“You’re the last person I expected to see out here,” Guy said. “It’s rainin’ cats and dogs, don’t you know?”
“It’s Peter,” I blurted out. “I think he’s in trouble.”
A car slowed just as the last of my words tumbled out of my mouth, a long Lincoln Continental the color of blood, the engine quiet, like a miracle machine of some kind. An unknown man rolled down the window and shouted to Guy, “Lot full?”
Guy ignored the man, looked down to me. “What’d you say, Marjorie?”
“I think Peter Knudsen is in trouble. Serious trouble. Nobody’s seen him since this morning, and he was heading toward the college at that, not toward home. He’s in trouble; I know it.”
Guy Reinhardt sighed, then looked away from me, back toward the bright yellow Queen Anne house. The impatient man in the car revved his engine, and Guy snapped his head back to the Lincoln. “Move on, mister, lot’s full!” he yelled, motioning the bright orange cone away from him.
The man started to protest, but the look on Guy’s face must have been severe enough to stop him. He rolled up the window and drove off in a huff.
“You best go talk to the sheriff,” Guy said to me.
“Hilo’s here?”
Guy shook his head. “No, I expect to see Hilo later, sometime today. You best go talk to Duke Parsons. He’s the acting sheriff now. Will most likely be the one they pick after things settle down here.”
The rain had not ceased. Lines of water dropped between us, a curtain that couldn’t be crossed. I was glad of that. I could hear the hurt and disappointment in Guy’s voice as it fell to the ground with the rain. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” he said. But it clearly wasn’t. Guy Reinhardt looked up questioningly to the sky for a long second, then back to me. “You really think Peter’s in trouble?”
I nodded. “I do. I really do. I think he knows more about what’s going on than he’s let on. I think he might be in real trouble. If we don’t go now, it might be too late.” I couldn’t say that I wanted it to be Guy to go with me, that I had more confidence in him than I had in Duke Parsons. I most likely didn’t have to. A light flashed in Guy’s forlorn eyes; an opportunity taken that might change things, an open lane on the basketball court that suggested he still had a shot that he could make.
“All right then, I suppose we best look into it. If it was anybody else, Marjorie, I don’t know . . .” he said, shaking his head.
“I know, I know. We need to hurry. I’m afraid we’re too late the way it is.”
“Come on.” Guy reached out, touched the back of my shoulder gently, and directed me toward his police car. “Where are we going, Marjorie?”
“To my cousin Raymond’s. I’ll show you the way.”
The inside of the Ford was warm and dry, but I was sopping wet—water quickly filled the plastic floor mat underneath my feet. Guy had taken off his slicker and thrown it in the backseat before climbing in behind the steering wheel. He glanced at me, must of seen a quick shiver, and turned the defrost on as high as it would go. The windows fogged up right away. He wiped the windshield with a dry handkerchief, but it didn’t do any good, the moisture returned as quickly as it had vanished.
“We’re gonna have to sit here for a minute,” Guy said. “I can’t see to drive.”
“That’s all right.”
“I don’t have a towel.”
I shrugged, wiped the rain off my shoulders and dress the best I could. The police radio sat silent, turned off. All I could hear was the pelting rain trying to penetrate the roof of the Ford.
“Why do you think your cousi
n’s caught up in all of this?” Guy asked, as warm air blew out of the vents toward us, drawing moisture away from the windshield.
“I’m not sure. It’s just a gut feeling. Raymond’s always been a collector. He had a rare book that might’ve been in Professor Strand’s possession before he died, and Peter mentioned that he’d done work for Strand. Maybe he knew Raymond, too. The boy seemed awful upset when he learned the professor had been killed.”
“Wouldn’t you be if you were in his shoes? His parents being killed like they were?” Guy asked.
“I would be, but he was more upset than normal. Peter is a sweet boy. At least, I’ve always known him to be. I’m not sure I know anything anymore. But what if Peter was like a relative of his who had made a mistake at a young age, took something for a reason he thought was a good one, but got caught up in something that was out of his league?”
Guy shrugged. “I don’t know, Marjorie.”
“Look,” I said, “I know this won’t make much sense to you—I’m not sure it does to me—but I think the amulet that was found in Erik’s hand was part of a bigger set and somebody wanted the complete set, the whole collection, because it was worth more. For whatever the reason, Peter might have been tricked into taking it, or letting someone know that it existed, and they were trying to get it—get it anyway they could. Raymond is the most likely person I know who could be Loki.”
“What? Who?”
“It doesn’t matter. It would take too long to explain. I might be wrong. Honestly, I might be. I’ll know when I see what kind of car is in Raymond’s garage. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before now. I guess when Calla told me that was the direction Peter was heading in, all of the patterns combined, and they all pointed to Raymond. He killed Thor a long time ago. I didn’t want to see that then, but I do now. I’m sure he did it on purpose.”
“Thor?” Guy asked.
“Hank’s dog. He ran over Hank’s dog on purpose.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll be embarrassed if I’m wrong, but if I’m right . . . well, we have to find out. We have to find Peter Knudsen. Every answer I come up with says that we should check Raymond’s house first.”
See Also Murder Page 23
