Hunter’s Dance (19 page)

“Hey, this ain't how we got here!”

“You want to go back the way we came, be my guest. I'll take the high road. With luck when we get to it, we can hitch a ride back to our cars.”

“I need to get my—”

“Forget about the damn Geiger counter.”

“I paid two hundred bucks for that thing.”

“You got snookered.”

Once under the canopy of the trees, they proceeded without speaking, concentrating on finding their way in the darkness. Fratelli pulled out one of his fleet of compasses and turned his flashlight on its face. “Do you think there really are wolves here?” He twisted his wrist to let the compass to catch the light. “Where do you suppose that old codger got the Scotch?”

McIntire wasn't sure about the wolves, or the whisky either. “I can tell you for damn sure he didn't make it himself! It seemed okay to me.”

“Okay? I guess! Johnnie Walker, gold.”

“No kidding? Well, I doubt they sell it in Chandler. Nobody around here has that kind of money.”

Fratelli stuffed the compass back into his pocket. “I imagine Morlen might be able to squeeze it into his budget.”

XXVII

She was the gayest and most foolish of women.

McIntire returned the handset to its cradle with a crack that threatened to rip the phone off the wall and brought Leonie scrambling from the living room where she'd been sequestered with the ironing board and the week's episode of
Tales of the Texas Rangers
. “What's happened?”

McIntire took a cup from the cupboard. “Nothing! Not one damned single, solitary thing has happened,” he slammed the cup on the table, “and I'm starting to wonder why.”

He sat down and stared into the empty vessel. “Bonnie Morlen comes galloping back claiming to be desperate to find her son's murderer. Well, just how eager can she be? She won't let the sheriff or the state police in the door, just hides out, tinkling away on that piano and plying Mia Thorsen with cocoa. That woman lied through her teeth when the state police talked to her, wouldn't admit to being out the night her son died until they forced her into a corner. Said she was afraid she'd get into trouble for not having a Michigan driver's licence. Talk about feeble excuses! Her personal private investigator is traipsing around the woods playing Yosemite Sam, while she packs tidy lunches to keep up his strength. And she's been pretty cozy with Prospector Imposter Carlson, the only person I can imagine would have known that ancient Michigan Indians were given to drilling holes in skulls.”

Leonie rescued the cup. “That poor woman has had a terrible tragedy. I don't suppose she's being completely rational.”

“Rational? Bonnie Morlen is a complete fruitcake,” McIntire said. Leonie didn't disagree.

“And now,” McIntire continued, “to top it off, I've been trying to call Pete Koski, and Marian tells me he's gone to see Adam Wall.”

“What's wrong with that? You seemed pretty sure that Adam Wall might have known about his skull-drilling ancestors. Mr. Koski must consider him a suspect.”

“Something is suspect, that's for sure. I called Ellie Wall to see if I could catch Koski before he left their place. She said Adam and the sheriff weren't back yet. They went to Fenster Lake for bass—again. Yes, that's what she said,
again
.” He nodded as Leonie held out the coffee pot. “Thanks. Does anybody care at all that the boy's dead? What about his father? Is Wendell Morlen ever even around?”

An unearthly squeal sounded from the front yard. Leonie smiled and patted her husband's arm, “Well, love, from the sound of those grinding gears, I'd say that Melvin Fratelli, P.I., is on the job after all.”

“He probably wants my advice on where to get another blasted Geiger counter.”

“You're both wrong.” Siobhan swept into the room on a wave of cigarette smoke and Prince Matchabelli. “He's here for me. We're going to Chandler to see
Sunset Boulevard
, and then perhaps out for a little Halloween celebration.” She turned her back and looked over her shoulder. “Are my seams straight?”

Siobhan didn't wait for a judgement. She was out the door before Fratelli had chance to beep his horn. Or change his mind, McIntire reckoned.

“Halloween?” Siobhan's chatter suddenly registered in McIntire's mind. “Oh, lord! This can't be Halloween?”

“No,” Leonie told him. “You've got until Saturday to gird your loins for the big night. And gird you better had. Don't forget what happened to Sally's milk cow last year.”

McIntire didn't need to be reminded. Opal had shown up on All Saints' Day painted an unimaginative purple. It had been mildly amusing at the time. Dealing with the culprits had been Walleye's job.

“I'll worry about colorful cows and tipped outhouses another day. Right now I have weightier things to sort out. But it's late, and I can do it better after I've washed off the residue of Esko Thomson's delightful abode.” He stood and tossed the dregs of his coffee into the sink. Boys would be pranksters, he guessed, but he'd rather they didn't do it on his time.

“I wonder if he'd do an interview.” Leonie's expression was one of unashamed avarice.

“Are you talking about Esko?”

“Naturally. How many people have lived a life like that? In this day and age! It would make a fantastic story. I might be able to sell it back home. With photographs, a magazine might take it! Maybe
Picture Post!
The man's an original.”

“Not all that original around here,” McIntire said. He took both her hands and kissed the fingers. “No, my dear one, I think this time you'd better forget it. Esko and Old Bessie don't take kindly to visitors.” How true was that? Thomson had been eager for McIntire and Fratelli to stop for that warmer-upper, even to the point of suggesting they spend the night. Leonie echoed his thoughts.

“He took kindly to you.”

“He was ready to let Old Bessie have her way with me until I called on Pa to save me.”

“Well, it's only natural for him to be suspicious,” she argued. “Out there all by himself in the forest. No protection but his own wits—and that shotgun.”

“You make him sound like Daniel Boone. Esko Thomson is a grubby little scavenger.”

Leonie's eyes still had that newswoman's gleam. “You have to admit it is rather romantic.”

“
Romantic?
He lives in complete and utter squalor. He's got cats hanging from the ceiling, for God's sake! It ain't exactly the American Dream.”

“But, don't you see,” Leonie said, “that's exactly what it
is
. Freedom. He's found a way to do exactly as he pleases, without asking for anything, living on what nature provides.”

“Or what other people leave lying around unguarded.”

“Well, you wouldn't understand, because you haven't had to be dependent on anyone else. If you were a woman, you might see things differently. You might appreciate how that sort of self-sufficiency is a rare and special thing.” She seemed to notice that she still held McIntire's empty cup. She grimaced and returned it to the table with only slightly less force than McIntire had used earlier. “It's not really fair.”

“How's that?”

“A woman wouldn't be able to live that way. She'd end up locked up somewhere.”

“As she probably should be! Same goes for Esko.” McIntire leaned forward and kissed his wife's nose. “You're not dependent on me, Leonie.”

“I know,” she said. “That's why I married you.”

McIntire turned once again to the stairs.

“I'd wait a wee bit if I were you.” For someone who had recently declared her independence, Leonie's voice sounded uncharacteristically timid.

“Why?”

“Siobhan spent the last hour in the tub. I doubt there's hot water left.”

XXVIII

She could conceal her anger, preserve it fresh and new for years. She was a richly gifted person.

“Boston cream pie.”

Mia accepted the proffered plate and balanced it on her knee.

“You could use a little meat on your bones.”

Mia forced a smile. She wondered what Bonnie's reaction would be were she to reach for the cake on
her
side of the tray with a, “I'll just take that, Dearie. You could do with a bit less padding on your bottom.” Strange how it was considered perfectly acceptable to comment on her thinness. Well, Mia supposed she had the better of it. She could assuage her hurt pride by consuming innumerable pieces of Boston cream pie with impunity.

“Have you spoken to Mr. McIntire?”

Mia nodded. “He said he'd check with Greg Carlson and the sheriff. See if they know where your son's things might be.” Once again she didn't mention the maps she'd found in her truck. That probably wasn't the kind of belongings Bonnie was looking for, and they were out of her hands now.

“But you haven't heard anything?”

“I'm sure if anything turns up, John will bring it to you.”

“Oh, I'd really rather he didn't.” She gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. “I know this might sound…silly, but I absolutely can't bear to deal with those policemen. They bring everything back. I see the sheriff or Mr. McIntire and…all the pain…they were the ones who told me about….”

“Of course,” Mia said. “I understand.” She didn't really, didn't understand why Bonnie Morlen hadn't pitched her tent on the courthouse lawn, why she wasn't making Pete Koski's life hell. “I'll ask John if he finds anything to let me know. Course I can't do that with the sheriff.”

“You're all so
tall
.”

It came from nowhere. Mia fumbled for a response.

“You…Mr. McIntire…that sheriff is a giant. Is everybody here so large?”

Mia laughed, but suppressed a shiver. The question was almost childlike. “We pretty much come in all sizes.”

“Is your husband big, too?”

“Not especially. You've probably met my husband. He delivers the mail. Nick.”

Bonnie's genuine smile indicated that she'd indeed met the mailman. “Oh, yes, a very nice man. So helpful. I'm afraid he's gotten a few things mixed up though. Left mail in the box that wasn't meant for us. I suppose since we're new here….”

“Oh, new has nothing to do with it. He's been at it for thirty-five years. Everybody's pretty much used to it. Nick claims he's doing the neighborhood a favor by shuffling the mail a bit. Forces people to keep in touch with the folks down the road.”

“Really? How interesting.”

Did this woman have any sense of humor at all? Mia instantly felt ashamed. How much gaiety could one expect from a woman whose only child had been kidnapped, murdered, and mutilated? Although, as chagrined as she felt, Mia couldn't bring herself to like the little Betty Crocker opposite her. She might be all Boston cream fluff on the outside, but rare glimpses of the inner Bonnie hinted that the chocolate and cream disguised a core of strychnine. Maybe she was trying to play Nero Wolf, sitting home and eating while Mia took care of the Archie end of things.

Bonnie cut off a piece of the cake with her fork, then paused with it halfway to her mouth, eyes bright as any gossip-seeking housewife. “Have you heard any talk? Is the sheriff closing in on anybody? How about those Indians?”

It was galling, but Mia managed, “I understand that Mr. Koski has been spending quite a lot of time with the Walls.”

Bonnie gave a satisfied nod. “Before we came here, Wendell used to joke that he was heading west to do battle with Indians.”

Could Adam Wall and his lawsuit actually have had something to do with the murder? Mia hadn't seriously considered that before. “Did Bambi know about the lawsuit?” she asked. “Would he have heard about it from his father?”

Bonnie opened her mouth, hesitated, then seemed to make up her mind. She put down the fork. “My husband is not Bambi's father.”

Her triumphant expression said that she wouldn't have been surprised, or disappointed, to see her visitor faint dead away from such a revelation.

“I see,” Mia stumbled, “…everyone just assumed…I guess you can't do that these days.”

“I married Wendell before my son was born,” she said. “Bambi never knew.”

Mia could think of no response to this, and Bonnie didn't wait for one.

She began making precise folds in the starched napkin on her lap, creasing them down with her thumbnail as she spoke. “I was expected to be a musician, a singer. I
was
a singer. I started performing when I was three years old. And I was good. Not quite good enough to have the career my mother wanted for me, in opera, but I didn't care. When I was fifteen, my aunt took me to opening night of
Showboat
at the Ziegfield Theatre. It was a Christmas gift. After that, I wanted to do nothing but musical comedy. But my mother wanted Aïda, not Ado Annie. She hired the best teacher she could buy. He was older, incredibly handsome, sophisticated—and married. Mama didn't get Aïda. She got a grandson.”

Bonnie continued to fold as she talked. “Wendell worked for my father. He was young, single, reasonably presentable, and ambitious. I'd met him a few times. I was in no position to argue. We made a bargain and we both stuck to it. My mentor got a quick trip to California, I got a husband, Wendell got my daddy's money, and my son got a father.” She spoke without bitterness. “And he was a good father. Wendell never treated Bambi as anything but his own child.”

Wendell's record as a husband may not have been so illustrious; once again acid oozed from the sugary crust. “But Bambi doesn't need a father now, and that man is not going to get one penny of my mother's money!

“The money,” she explained, “that Bambi would have come into when he turned twenty-five will now go to me. And I'm going to make sure that Wendell never gets his hands on it!”

The naked rage in Bonnie's voice was painful and spellbinding at the same time, like watching a burning building.

“My husband was well paid to marry me, and he's more than collected in full. But it's never been enough to suit him. He's been waiting like a vulture for my father to die. I could have lived with that. But I'll be damned if he's going to profit from my son's death!”

She placed the napkin, now a jaunty linen sailboat, on the table. “I came back here to see that the people responsible for killing my baby suffer for it. But before I left Westchester, I instructed my attorney to file for a divorce.”

Divorce was for movie actors. Mia had never known anyone who'd been divorced. Except possibly Siobhan, now that she thought of it. She steeled herself to ask, “So are you separated from your husband now?”

“No more than usual. Wendell works a great deal. He's often away from home.”

“But your husband
is
here in Michigan? Not back in Connecticut?”

“He's still trying to get that Club business straightened out. That keeps him in Lansing most of the time. Otherwise, yes, he's here.”

“Even though you've asked for a divorce?” Mia couldn't conceive of that kind of situation. She also couldn't believe that she had actually been so ill-mannered as to question her hostess about it. Well, Bonnie had brought the subject up herself.

“Wendell thinks it's the grief talking, or one of my little whims. He thinks I'll get over it.” Mia could understand the bitterness that underlay Bonnie's words.

Bonnie took the napkin back in her lap. “Mrs. Thorsen, do you have children?”

She'd expected it, had figured it would come sooner than this, but Mia, as always, flinched at the question. For once though, she didn't sugarcoat the response. “I had three children,” she said. “They all died shortly after birth.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” She reached forward to give Mia's hand a perfunctory pat. “Then you can't know what it's like to lose a child you've raised.”

The anger and tears were too close to the surface. Mia put down her cup. “I really have to go now, Mrs. Morlen.”

“You'll let me know—?”

“I'll call you if I hear anything.”

***

The gate left smudges of rust on Mia's coat where she leaned against it. After a short hesitation, she pushed it open and walked through. Her steps made no sound on the thick golden carpet of pine needles as she crossed to stand before the single stone that marked the graves of her parents. She tried to appreciate that the bodies of the two people who had created her were there under her feet, tried to feel their presence, to realize that if the earth was removed she could look on what was left of them. But it was something she couldn't grasp. Strange that she had only to slice into a loaf of fresh bread or catch a whiff of Fels Naptha soap, and her mother would be beside her again, still brown-armed and strong. Charlotte Fogel's death at forty-one had ensured that she would stay forever young. It had overnight transformed her vigorous husband into an old man.

Mia knelt and brushed the needles off the small white slab embedded in the soil. The stone contained an engraving of a single lady slipper over the inscription:

Nicola Ramona Thorsen

May 6 1925 - May 10 1925

Age 4D 8H

The only one of Mia's and Nick's three children to live long enough to be given a name and a place in the town's cemetery. The daughter Mia had held, and suckled, and sung to, even while every trace of those hours was being erased from her brain by fever. It was the ultimate cruelty, letting her keep her baby for nearly five days, almost a whole week, only to wipe that perfect life from her memory forever.

Maybe it was selfish, but she found it hard to sympathize with a woman who'd had her child for close to two decades.

She heard the soft closing of a car door and looked around to see Nick walking toward her. He leaned against a nearby headstone. “You shouldn't come here, Meggie. It only makes you sad.”

Mia turned back to the stone. “Mostly it makes me angry,” she said. “And I intend to keep that anger good and fresh, until I meet God face to face.”

“You shouldn't say things like that.” His voice trembled.

Mia reached for his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “Nick, you'd better see a doctor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You're shaking, you're stumbling…you're driving in the ditch.”

“That's nothing new.”

“I think maybe it is.”

“I could lose my job.”

“Now,
that's
nothing new. You've been on the verge of losing your job since nineteen-twenty. If you're sick, getting sicker isn't going to help you keep working. You have to see a doctor.”

Mia had expected her suggestion to be met with anger, but there was only weariness in Nick's response. “There's nothing wrong with me. I just need to slow down a little. I'm getting older, that's all. We're all getting older.”

Mia didn't comment, only knelt to sweep the blanket of gold back over the tiny stone.