Matthias placed a clay bowl full of water down beside the dog and then pushed the door open for Standish. “Ladies first.”
“I’m not much of a lady.”
“Manners are what separate us from beasts.” He waved at the open doorway.
The early morning sunlight, still weak from Wodin’s heavy shadow, did little to light up the room. Standish paused in the doorway, unsure where to go to keep an eye on Matthias, and realizing as she thought it that she’d left her back exposed to a man she half-heartedly suspected of murder. She was shit at this detective thing.
Matthias hurried past her to light the oil lamp on the table, and color spilled out everywhere.
She had never seen a room so full of color.
Every flat surface had been painted with some kind of pattern or creature: parrots and blue birds and cardinals winged across butter-yellow cabinet fronts, where green turtles replaced the handles. Pink and purple baskets filled with dried herbs and produce hung from the high ceiling. Even the wooden floor had green vines and fantastical flowers entwined around its edges. She turned in a slow circle, taking it all in.
“The paint’s not very tough,” he admitted. “I have to touch it up. That’s why I didn’t want Hattie to come in here. Claws, you know.” He slipped off his boots and went to the corner cupboard. “There’s tea,” he said. “Cold, that’s how I take it.”
The back side of the cupboard was cunningly made of pierced tin, and a little breeze wafted out of it as he took out a jar of yellowish liquid and a pie. She hadn’t thought much about life without refrigeration. It suddenly seemed like a fantastic luxury.
He put the jar and the pie on the little kitchen table, its surface still plain wood, although its legs were the same green as the painted vines they rested on. She took a seat and sternly reminded herself that just because the man liked to paint cute animals didn’t mean he wasn’t a killer.
“So you painted all this?”
He brought down plates and cups. “Gives me something to do at night. And it reminds me of my wife.”
“Your wife?”
“She loved animals.” He cut a slice of the dark brown pie and slid it on a plate. He pushed it across the table. “Shoofly. Belle Sounds made it.”
She found herself leaning in, curious. “Who’s Belle Sounds?”
“Just one of our people. Came over about a year ago from the Ohio farms and married one of our natives. Her husband’s been a good friend over the years.” He sat down across from her and smiled. “I think she’s worried I can’t cook for myself.”
“And is she right?”
He had dimples. She hadn’t noticed that, but they flashed at her now. “Depends how you define cooking.”
She laughed. “I’m about the same.” Taking a bite of the pie, she found it sticky-sweet and tremendously rich. She couldn’t believe this man had killed Duncan, or that any of his people had, either. “Matthias, tell me why you don’t pay shipping on Songheuser ships.”
“Those papers. I thought that might be what you meant.”
“Those papers. Yeah.”
He picked up his fork, put it down. “The Believers of Canaan Lake had some trouble when they first came here. It was Songheuser’s fault, so they made a very generous settlement with us in exchange for dropping any kind of lawsuit. As long as our people maintain farms in Canaan Lake, we’re entitled to use Songheuser’s ships for free shipping to and from the planet.”
“The first colonists got here over a hundred years ago.”
“Well, we are mostly self-sufficient, and our products are mostly used locally. But when we first arrived? Yes, it was a very generous settlement.”
“What the hell did Songheuser do?” Even as she said it, she remembered the diary. The woman who’d written it had been one of those first settlers, she was sure of it. She itched to go home and read the thing.
“I don’t know all the details,” he said. “As you pointed out, it was a long time ago. But as far as I can tell, the company failed to ship all the colonists’ supplies. The first crops failed, and more than half the settlers died in their first year at Canaan Lake. It was a devastating blow to the community.”
“That’s horrible.” Standish frowned. “But why was Duncan interested in your shipping papers? And how did he get them?”
“I gave them to him. He said he was looking into something about the amount of traffic at the spaceport. I just assumed he was trying to gather enough data to persuade Songheuser to expand their communications department. Duncan thought we needed better coverage out here — all over the planet, really.”
“You sound like you think that’s funny.”
“I don’t need to send video mail or whatever you call it. I’m content with my lot.”
Standish took another bite of the pie to cover a laugh.
He put down his fork. “Why are you smiling?”
“Because email is pretty much the whole reason I’m on this planet, and you don’t even believe in it.” She took another bite of the sticky pie and then remembered. “You said you had some papers to show me.”
“Yes.” He got up and opened a bin filled with potatoes. He brought out a big yellow envelope tucked in the back. “Duncan wanted to update the survey maps. He didn’t think they were current.”
“Was he right?”
Matthias nodded. “He’d found at least one road that wasn’t on the maps. A service road, out in Sector 13.”
“I’ve seen it. That’s where we found Duncan’s body this weekend.”
“We. You mean you and Peter Bajowski.” Matthias sat down at the seat beside her. He held the envelope tightly enough to crumple the edges.
The shoofly pie in her stomach turned over. She owed Peter her life, twice over, but she knew the face Matthias was making. “Is there something wrong with Bajowski?”
He hesitated. “I don’t have any proof.”
She waited. He was close enough she could smell him, a clean smell like cut grass and earth.
“Duncan was working on a project toward the end,” he said, slowly, as if he was still working it out in his head. “He said it had something to do with this group of Songheuser biologists he’d been drinking with at the Night Light. He was really worried about the project, but he didn’t want to talk about it until he’d done some more digging.”
The Night Light. It was the closest bar to her house, but it wasn’t a favorite with the office crowd. Anybody who wanted to drink without making a lot of gossip at work would know that.
“And Bajowski’s a biologist,” she mused.
“I don’t trust him. He doesn’t like Believers or farming, and he’s made that clear at plenty of community meetings. Plus,” he hesitated again. “Plus, Duncan told me he thought Peter was jealous he had a new boyfriend. He said he knew Peter was still in love with him.”
Standish pushed away her pie. She knew it, too. And jealousy was a powerful motive for murder.
There was just one thing: she couldn’t believe Peter could kill anyone.
For humans, language is the way we create. Engineering is an application of math, the language of measurement and quantification. Music? Yes, a language, with different dialects created in different ancient Earth communities and regions and times. Paintings speak in shapes and colors that are dependent on human visual systems and deeply embedded notions of symbology. These different kinds of languages give us the power to manipulate our own world, but each limits those manipulations to the forms of the tool itself.
Languages in all their infinite variety are rooted in our bodies and our societies, and those roots are like strictures. We are defined by them as we define with them; we are strangled by them as we close our fingers around their throats.
— from THE COLLECTED WISDOM OF MW WILLIAMS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HUGINN, Day 174
The baby. No one can stop talking about the baby. Vonda still lays in bed, Orrin doesn’t leave their house; only Doc and I saw
the little thing, but somehow everyone knows what happened. In prayer meeting, everyone’s eyes were on me. I tried to ignore them and think on God, on what He would want me to learn from all of this.
Everything I learned on Earth is a jumble in my head. Perhaps it is because I am so hungry.
In the garden I planted behind the house, only the potatoes have sprung up. If potatoes can look wild, these ones do. It will be a long time until harvest, and I already fear the roots I’ll dig. Will they be potatoes, round and harmless and wholesome, or pale grub-like things, their fat and loathsome bodies full of poison and stained with mold? I’d believe anything of this world now. Oh, that poor broken child!
Elder Perkins blames cryo. It is an unnatural thing, a kind of death, he says, and all that entered that death must be corrupted and deformed. Is he right? Can he be? Everything we’ve brought with us has passed through the sere darkness of space. All of us and all our creatures rested in the cold sleep of cryo for eleven long months before we reached this world.
I do not know if we brought death with us or if it was already waiting for us in this cold, wet place, and I do not know if our decision to come to Huginn was guided by God’s grace or our own untrustworthy will.
I am praying for a sign that we are right with God.
STANDISH’S BRAIN was full as she headed to Heinrich’s on Friday after work. It had been a long week, a week she’d spent avoiding Peter Bajowski and wondering if Sheriff Vargas was making any better headway on Duncan’s case than she was.
She stopped and stared. Just past the Mill Cafe, Main Street had been blocked off for a few blocks, the street itself filled with booths and tables. It looked like the kind of arts festival her mother would have been irresistibly attracted to.
“Hi, Miss Kate!” Olive Whitley called over her shoulder as she darted by.
Standish tried to catch her elbow but missed by a mile. The girl was headed toward the table where Chameli was setting up a display of jewelry.
“Oh, it’s Last Friday!” Niketa cooed as she caught up with Standish. “You should check it out.”
“Last Friday?”
“It’s this farmer’s market-slash-art show thing they started last year. Artists come from all over for it.” Niketa urged her into the crowd, nudging her toward a vendor selling necklaces carved from polished links of horsetail wood.
Standish shook her head and left Niketa behind. She just wanted a beer and a burger, not noise and a crowd.
Then a stand caught her eye and she stopped. She’d never seen yarn so soft-looking, or colors so vibrant. The pink and yellow looked just like rock-eater lichen.
“Soft, isn’t it?” A woman suddenly appeared behind the table, hoisting a basket filled with more varieties of yarn. Her bonnet and old-fashioned dress marked her as a Believer.
Standish pulled back her hand. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” the Believer woman said. “That how I persuade people to buy my yarn. The softness is irresistible.”
“That’s for sure.”
She stepped out from behind the table. Beneath the blue bonnet, her hair was a striking corn yellow. She could have been an entertainer with that hair and figure. “Are you a fellow craftsperson?”
“I crochet,” Standish admitted.
“And you have a dog,” the woman added in a surprised tone.
“She’s very well-behaved.”
“I see.” The woman put out her hand. “I’m Vonda. You must be Kate Standish. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
There was something offputting about the woman, a chilliness that came through despite her friendly demeanor.
“It’s a small town,” Standish said. She reached for a skein of fluffy purple. “Can I pay with a funds transfer, or...”
“Funds transfer is fine,” Vonda said, watching Standish enter the details on her hand unit. “I’ve got more of that dye lot if you run out,” she said. “Stop by the Morris farm any time. Sector 3.”
Vonda Morris. The name was familiar, but Standish couldn’t place it. She hadn’t met that many Believers since she’d arrived in Canaan Lake, either.
“Thanks.” Standish gave her a wave and tucked the yarn under her arm. She was glad she’d found the stand, but she wasn’t so sure she wanted to spend more time with Vonda Morris.
She hurried toward the bar, which was still quiet enough that Belinda was reading a book. Standish waved at the bartender. She reached for a bookmark.
“Whatcha reading?”
Belinda made an embarrassed face. “Nothing.” Standish caught a glimpse of the spine — The Monkey Wrench Gang — before Belinda thrust it behind the beer taps.
Maybe in a town like Canaan Lake, reading environmentalist fiction was something to be embarrassed about. Standish wouldn’t give her shit about it, though. She settled onto a stool. “Cool fingernails.”
Belinda studied her hand. “They just turned green the other day. Do you think that’s a medical thing?”
Standish blinked at her. “They turned green?”
“Weird, right? Anyway, you want a stout?”
“Please. And I’ll take my usual.”
“I saw you coming. Hattie’s no-salt patty should be up in a second.”
“Hey, Belinda,” someone called out from behind Standish, and Standish winced a little.
She turned around to smile up at the speaker. “Brett. Long time no see.”
“What gives, Kate? I thought you liked me.”
She’d somehow managed to avoid him, too, this week. They’d played pool on Wednesday, but she’d given him the slip. This thing with Duncan was more interesting than sex. Not to mention Brett was an honorary deputy for Vargas. She couldn’t exactly admit she was working on the case with her new Believer comrade when Brett was a legit operator.
“I do like you, Brett. I just… Finding that body kind of cooled me down.” She paused, measuring the odds before playing the disability card. “It really stirred up my anxiety.”
“Do you need a doctor? HR can recommend a shrink in Space City.”
“Actually, I’m headed there tomorrow.” It wasn’t a lie, either. She’d added a check-in with the psychiatrist to her visit with Dewey, since she wanted to keep on Niketa’s good side. It would be a waste of time, but she’d signed the contract with Songheuser, and staying on Huginn meant staying employed.
“You’ll miss Rob McKidder’s memorial service, then.”
“That’s too bad. Maybe we can get together Monday?”
“Next week’s going to be hell for me. Got a company veep coming into town and all us security boys will be working double shifts.” He plopped down on the barstool and waved at Belinda.
A company VIP. Standish hoped she had a lot of off-site work orders next week. Then another thought occurred to her. “That’ll cut into your work with Sheriff Vargas, won’t it?”
“Oh, I haven’t done anything since we hauled Dunc’s bones out of the woods. We’re still waiting for forensics to get around to the autopsy. Plus, Sheriff’s thinking it was just an accident or maybe a suicide. I mean, who’d kill Duncan Chambers? Everybody liked him.”
“An accident? How could somebody accidentally shoot themselves in the chest?”
“Hey, those air bolt guns need a lot of maintenance. He could have been trying to adjust the chamber, and pow! Bump the trigger. I’ve seen weirder things, sweetheart. And Duncan did not know his way around firearms.” Brett’s hand settled on her thigh, heavy and hot as a fresh-grilled steak. Standish stood up.
“I’ve got to make an early start tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
She walked away before he could get any ideas to go to bed early with her. She didn’t believe Brett’s accident theory for even a second, not when Chambers was snooping into the town’s secrets. If Brett was right, and Sheriff Vargas wasn’t going to investigate this as a murder, then she and Peter were the only people in Canaan Lake trying to figure out who killed Duncan Chambers.
THE SILK TIE lay heavy in Peter’s hands. He laid it on the back of his neck and slid his fingers slowly down its serpentine length, smoothing the gray fibers against his skin. The last time he’d worn a tie was at Duncan’s memorial service. They’d sat in stiff-backed chairs with a blown-up photo of Duncan smirking down at them, the air filled with the stink of hothouse flowers brought in from Space City. Duncan would have preferred a few swags of horsetail fronds and a pot of Christ’s fingers, but Songheuser had hosted the service.
He made a half-Windsor and slid it into place, doublechecking the knot in the mirror. The tips of his shirt collar stuck down on either side of the silvery knot like bared teeth — canine teeth. Not really the thing to wear to the funeral of a man ripped apart by wild dogs, but tradition was tradition. If Duncan’s memory had to be profaned with the waste of Earth-flavored imports he never would have approved, then it seemed only reasonable poor Rob would get buried surrounded by men in toothed collars. We celebrate your death with our death grip on tradition. He realized his mind was wandering, and he headed out of the bathroom.
It had been over a week since he’d found Rob lying in the street, and he hadn’t stopped dreaming of it yet. There were circles like trenches under his eyes, and he’d started dozing off at his desk while he was labeling specimens. Just one night, that night he spent on Standish’s sofa, had offered him any kind of decent sleep. If he could sit at the bar all evening, letting the stupid wash of conversation and the beer foam soften all the edges away, he might have been able to sleep, but he couldn’t stand all the eyes at Heinrich’s.
“It’s a small town, man,” he reminded himself. “A damn small town.”
He slipped on his dress shoes and found his keys on the shelf by the door. His hand unit sat beside them. Most mornings he checked his email first thing, but not today. He wasn’t going to get sidetracked with memos from the higher-ups. Today was just about Rob McKidder.
Outside, a weak sunlight trickled over the street. A man and woman left their house, dressed in black and clearly headed to the same place he was. McKidder hadn’t been a churchgoer, but the Catholic church had become sort of a community center for the town, and Father Donovan had a nice, non-liturgical ceremony ready for these occasions.
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