A Superior Death (32 page)

The week passed peacefully, and for that Anna was grateful. The most traumatic incident on the north shore was cutting a fishhook out of the thigh of an urbanite up from the Twin Cities on his first fishing trip. He got no sympathy from his companions, all seasoned lake fishermen, who felt he should dig it out himself.

Lucas Vega came by Amygdaloid on his way up from Windigo on one of his periodic tours of the island. He had a cup of coffee with Anna and told her the results of the autopsy and Stanton’s alibi sleuthing.

With the time of death established, Stanton had been able to check alibis. Hawk and Holly had been cleared of committing the murder. On the night Denny had been killed they were in Grand Marais. The
3rd Sister
was in the Voyageur Marine undergoing minor repairs. Hawk and Holly had closed the bar at the hotel toasting Denny’s nuptials. At three o’clock in the morning the bartender had taken them back to his place and stored them in his guest room. Brother and sister were too drunk to drive.

Unwilling to abandon his drug theory completely, Stanton still considered them possible accomplices. If Denny had been killed by drug dealers, the Bradshaws might have been involved in his alleged drug-running business.

Jo Castle had been completely cleared of suspicion. She had been alone on her wedding night but had been so distraught by what she believed to be the groom’s defection to another woman’s bed that she had spent the night on the phone to her mother. Jo’s mom corroborated the story, as did AT&T. The call had started near midnight and gone till nearly dawn. Denny’d been seen alive around ten-thirty P.M. when he and Scotty had had their little scuffle. The ninety minutes Jo was unaccounted for wasn’t time enough to commit a murder on the other side of the island at the bottom of the lake.

Anna was unsurprised at the news. In her mind they’d all three ceased to be suspects. She was sorry Hawk and Holly had not been freed from the entangling web that was being spun around the crime. The
3rd Sister
was still not safe from impoundment.

The Chief Ranger went on to tell Anna that the autopsy and the ensuing investigation noted that the dive knife Jim found had been open and the blade chipped from recent use, and the corpse had lacerations on the fingers, as did the diving suit’s gloves. Particles of paint were found on the gloves. Findings indicated something more than a death by natural causes. The investigation was far from closed.

Vega commended Anna on her unraveling of the Bradshaws’ part in the mystery and suggested she take a couple of days off from patrol and clean the ranger station at Amygdaloid. He was not amused by her assertion that the rat droppings and spiderwebs were historical artifacts and necessary to maintain the building’s rustic allure.

With a charming shyness, he declined a second cup of coffee. He had a dinner date, he said, with Patience Bittner.

 

 

 

 

F
or all the gentility of delivery, a Chief Ranger’s suggestions were orders. The last two days of Anna’s work week were spent elbow-deep in soapy water swamping out the office and putting up with the good-humored ribbing of the fishermen about finding her true calling.

On Monday evening, the day before her two lieu days, the
3rd Sister
docked at Amygdaloid. Anna was rehanging the door on the pit toilet, moving the hinges slightly to give the screws a better bite into the weathered wood.

She’d seen neither Hawk nor Holly since Hawk’s confession over egg salad. Feeling cowardly, she pretended not to see him walking up from the dock.

“The glamour never stops, huh?”

Mustering a smile, she turned. He stood a few yards away, out of the pit toilet’s olfactory range. “Never does,” Anna said. She reapplied herself to her screwdriver, keeping eyes and hands busy. “I hear you and Holly have lost the distinction of being prime suspects.”

“Mostly thanks to you.”

“I heard it was thanks to public drunkenness in Grand Marais.”

Hawk laughed obligingly. Anna began to feel a little more at ease. Still, fearing silence, she asked: “Any squirrels this trip?”

“No squirrels. Next week. A couple out of Florida. He knows all there is to know about diving. Told Holly so on the phone. But a client’s a client. We’ve got to make hay—or payments—while the sun shines.”

Anna finished the top hinge, tested the door, and then, for the first time, really looked at Hawk. He appeared tired and worn. “Are you worried about losing the
Third Sister
?” she asked.

“Stanton’s still nosing around. There are enough rumors floating on this lake to keep him interested a long while.”

“What rumors?” Anna asked.

“The usual. That there’s drug traffic. Secondhand stories of wild parties out on the lake.”

“Anything to the rumors?” she asked.

“Probably. But Holly and I don’t mix enough to know where the stories point. At the moment, I think if I did I’d run and tattle to Stanton. Everybody’s got their price. Mine’s that boat.”

“And Holly.”

He looked pained, and Anna was sorry she’d needled him. She turned back to the pit toilet and began gathering her tools. “Lucas put a moratorium on staff diving the
Kamloops.
Too dangerous, he said. He’s right. None of us but Ralph dive enough to be really good at it. But something was going on down there. Something to do with the porthole where Denny’s knife was found,” Anna said. “Another look at the site couldn’t hurt.”

She could see the suggestion filtering into Hawk’s mind. He and Holly were professional divers, the best, and they had a vested interest in the outcome of the investigation. “You’re a jewel,” Hawk said suddenly and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “If nothing else, it’ll keep us from feeling so helpless.”

“Take pictures,” Anna called after him as he ran back toward the dock.

 

 

 

 

T
uesday morning, the first day of Anna’s weekend, she motored over to Lane Cove, then walked overland the five miles to Rock Harbor. Mid-July, and the island had settled into the heart of a summer so lush her desert-born-and-bred mind could scarcely conceive of the largess. In clearings between stands of pine and aspen were meadows waist-deep in wildflowers. Red wood lilies, fire-colored jewelweed, the delicate blue flags of the wild iris, joe-pye weed; and everywhere the brilliant yellows of the Canada hawkweed.

In Texas each fragile blossom had been cause for celebration. Many times Anna had left Gideon to munch the dry grasses while she crawled among the rocks for a better view of a solitary claret cup. Isle Royale had such wild abundance she found herself taking it for granted, walking blind through a shimmering patchwork of living color while her mind toiled away on some tedious detail of human interaction.

The bustle of Rock Harbor came almost as a relief. She was freed from the responsibility of appreciating a beauty so complex it was nearly a burden. “Let’s get small,” Anna said, and loosed her mind to its petty pursuits.

Jim Tattinger gave her a lift to Mott Island in the
Loon,
Resource Management’s runabout. He was full of the autopsy and the alibis. It was his contention that the Bradshaws had been let off too lightly. “I thought that Holly might be okay, but Denny’d gotten to her. She had that hard edge women get when they’re older. She’d do anything, I bet. There’s that twin thing,” he insisted. “Like in the movies. One’s in the bar while the other one kills somebody and everybody thinks it’s the same person.”

How the one in the bar could toast himself all night in front of dozens of witnesses, Jim didn’t say.

Though she often found herself hoping he was the culprit, in her heart of hearts Anna suspected Jim Tattinger was too little to have murdered Denny Castle. Not just physically spare but psychologically shriveled. Kicking dogs or pulling the wings off flies seemed more his style. Anna knew he would feel no guilt. His self-justifications were rock-solid from years of exercise. Had Jim committed a murder, he would never give himself away from remorse, and would feel only anger and resentment if his crime was brought to light.

Were he stealing artifacts, destroying their historical significance, and robbing the public trust, Anna could easily imagine him on the stand, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny neck, nasal voice whining: “It was just a bunch of old junk hardly anybody got to see anyway. At least now it’s where people can look at it. . . .”

Anna let him rattle on. Tattinger had become what Christina always referred to as “a bit of a pill.” There was no arguing with him because there was no substance to his complaints. Just sourness born of disappointment.

Even in this generous and understanding mood, Anna was glad to escape his company when the
Loon
docked at Mott.

Sandra Fox was in the dispatch office. For once both radio and phone were silent. She sat with her feet up on the printer table reading
Peyton Place.

“Reviewing the classics, I see.” Anna flopped down in the visitor chair and winked at Delphi.

“I only read the underlined parts.” Sandra set the book aside. “It’s sociological research. I’m gathering tons of insight into the Park Service in general and Isle Royale in particular.”

“It’s beginning to feel a little like that, isn’t it?”

“You make it sound like a bad thing,” the dispatcher said with a comfortable chuckle. “All part of the grand comedy, Anna. A veritable combination pizza of life laid out on our dinner plate.”

Anna laughed. She’d been taking things too seriously. Monomania did that. And she was not yet cured. “Find anything out about Jim’s quitting the Virgin Island job?”

“Oh, Anna, you user you! No flowers, no candy, you never call me the next day.” Sandra chortled and Anna squirmed. “As a matter of fact, I did garner the odd tidbit. Alicia Folk is the dispatcher down there. Good talker. Nice gal. After a few preliminaries, I got the goods. It seems our Jimmy boy was having a torrid affair with the District Ranger’s daughter. The DR raised a modest stink, and Jimmy left for a healthier climate. Who would’ve thunk it? Still waters and all that . . .”

Anna shook her head. “That can’t be it. Affairs in the Park Service are so common as to be de rigueur. I’m surprised first wives haven’t been declared a threatened and endangered species. An affair with a woman—even the boss’s daughter—”

Sandra interrupted with a clucking of her tongue. “You are jumping to conclusions, Anna. Making assumptions. Did I say the affair was with a woman?”

Anna waited with a blank mind and a blank look on her face.

“The District Ranger’s daughter was twelve years old.”

Anna had a sour taste in her mouth. She needed to talk with Patience.

Sandra looked fire from blind eyes. “Kinda makes you proud to be human, don’t it?”

“What happened to the little girl?” Anna asked.

“Who knows? Little girls are always spirited away in cases like this. What could happen? Hopefully she wasn’t pregnant. Hopefully she wasn’t punished. Who knows?”

“Why didn’t Jim get canned? Seems there were grounds enough.”

“You know the gub’mint. It’s harder to fire somebody than it is to get a tax bill passed in an election year. He was counseled. Had to serve a little time on the couch. That stuff seldom seems to take.”

Anna made a mental note to ask Molly why. And if anybody ever got their money back. She stood, stretched. The joints in her ankles cracked, and Delphi cocked a concerned eyebrow. Sandra picked up
Peyton Place
and settled it against her thighs.

“Let me know when you’re finished with that,” Anna said. “I think it should be required reading for all law enforcement personnel.”

“You dig, you get dirt,” Sandra replied philosophically.

Lunchtime had come and gone. Anna was beginning to feel light-headed. Back out in the sunshine, she found a warm, windless place on the dock and dug her sandwich and water bottle out of her daypack.

Twenty yards away Scotty Butkus and Jim Tattinger stood together near the fire-weather box in front of the ranger station. There was just enough of a breeze to move the line on the flagpole, and the low grumble of their words was punctuated by ringing as the metal fasteners hit against the pole.

Anna could tell by the looks they shot her way that they were not only talking about her but wanted her to know it. She’d not made a friend of either. For all her bravado, she knew Scotty could and would make trouble for her. Even if it was only the burr-under-the-saddle variety, it would be tiring to deal with. It was already tiring. She chose to ignore them.

Ducklings—black ducks—feathered now but still in the impossibly cute stage, rocked around the stern of the
Loon.
As if on cue, they’d all flip bottoms up and for several seconds Anna could see nothing but orange feet and brown feathery rumps. The mother paddled nearby, a running commentary of instructional quacks percolating from her bill.

Anna chewed her cheese sandwich and resisted the urge to throw so much as an illegal crumb to the baby ducks.

The ducklings put her in mind of Donna Butkus, who fed the birds every morning on a secluded stretch of shore; Tinker and Damien standing by, opportunistic birders who’d never dream of feeding the wildlife—or missing a chance to view it if someone else did.

She pictured Donna from the descriptions she’d been given since the woman was first reported missing: an old-fashioned pretty, gentle, southern dumpling, the perfect Texas wife. Married young and—one presumed from the rest of the package—innocent, to a man more than twice her age, then swept away from family and sunshine and home to a snowed-in Houghton winter.

Anna imagined her loneliness before her sister, Roberta, had come, her disorientation. Scotty would react the only way he knew how: with anger and alcohol. Denny, with his gentleman’s ways and fanatic’s intensity, had stepped into the breach. Donna’s confusion must have deepened into pain, all her training, socialization, upbringing cleaving her to a husband whom she may not ever have really loved. A husband who beat her. Scotty’s jealousy would grow. There would be drunken scenes, tears, more violence.