Hunter’s Dance (24 page)

McIntire could think of no good response to that.

The archeological revelations reminded him of the photos in his own pocket. As Carlson waved to Fergus behind the bar and swung out the door, McIntire pulled out the envelope. His heart beat faster as he opened it and removed the pictures.

McIntire did not consider himself an art critic, but he was impressed. The photographs mostly depicted people in those effortlessly candid poses whose seeming spontaneity belies the work and talent that went into their composition. Karen Sorenson and Ross Maki faced one another across the hood of the Morgan. A group that included Bonnie and Wendell Morlen milled about on the porch of the Club lodge. Greg Carlson looked intellectual next to his dolmen. So, despite Carlson's claims, there was someone who might have known what he was really looking for. And that someone was now dead.

A few were the more usual scenic shots of woods and water. A doe knee-deep in a stream; a longer distance shot that included a swimmer cutting through water, slim arm lifted above a white shoulder. All else was dark, water, tendrils of hair, trees edging the scene. Not Superior. One of the Club's smaller lakes and ponds.

McIntire had spread the snapshots on the table. Three rows of six, and one extra. Nineteen pictures. He removed the strips of negatives from the envelope. Five strips of four. Twenty negatives. Which meant that one of them hadn't been printed. In the dim light the negatives were only black squares. He gathered the snapshots and walked to the bar. “Fergie, you got a flashlight back there?”

McIntire returned to the booth with the torch and another drink. He passed the negatives over the light. At the end of the second strip there it was, no doubt deemed too prurient to print. A woman in bra and half slip, naked slim back, and a cloud of—McIntire transposed hues—dark hair. On the negative it was difficult to tell more than that this girl wasn't the Nordic blond Karen Sorenson. Her position in front of an open bureau drawer gave McIntire another clue to her identity. The unfortunate Miss Haggerty caught in her encounter with the chipmunk.

He stacked the pictures and contemplated the group on the Shawanok Lodge porch. Bonnie Morlen wearing ruffles and a cherubic smile. Wendell seated on a folding chair, relaxed and incongruously urbane in the rustic setting. Both so apparently satisfied, surrounded by affluence and…. McIntire aimed the flashlight at the shot. There, lounging casually against a pine railing, gazing speculatively at the back of Bonnie Morlen's neck, was Siobhan McIntire Henry's latest flame, the charming and debonaire Rudy Jantzen.

McIntire had no sooner began engaging in some speculations of his own, when he glanced up to see the object of those conjectures advancing toward him, with his Aunt Siobhan glued snugly to his side.

“Well, Siobhan,” McIntire stuffed the photo into his pocket, “what takes you so far from my well?”

“If you want to keep your water to yourself, you might keep your hands off my car.”

“Sorry. Mine needs some cleaning.”

She wrinkled her nose. “So I noticed. Well, I tracked you down. If you want a career as a car thief you'll have to work on it.”

She turned to her silver-haired companion. “Rudy, I'd like you to meet my…cousin, John McIntire. John this is Rudy Jantzen.”

Jantzen's handshake was hearty. He smiled, showing square white teeth and the notorious dimples. “Great to make your acquaintance, at last. Siobhan's told me about you.”

McIntire bit off a mention that Jantzen's reputation had preceded him, also. “What'll you have?” Both Siobhan and her escort requested beer, and McIntire made it three. He said as he slid back into the booth, “What brings you to our part of the world?”

“Business,” Jantzen stated. He took Siobhan's hand. “And lately a bit of pleasure.”

Siobhan smiled sweetly at him.

McIntire felt on the verge of retching. “What kind of business is it you're in?” he asked.

The question netted a look of warning from Siobhan, but Rudy answered smoothly, “Real estate. Development. I've been looking into the possibility of opening a marina here for pleasure boats. I have two on the west coast.”

“Two boats?”

“Two marinas.”

“This might not be the best climate for a venture of that sort.”

“I'm beginning to find that out.”

“You giving up on the idea?”

“Most likely. I thought of branching out into hunting lodges.”

“That why you've been at the Club?”

The moment of silence was barely detectable. “Staying with friends,” Jantzen said. “If you've got friends in a place like that, it'd hardly do to stay anywhere else, would it?”

“Oh, dear,” Siobhan broke in, “Rudy, sweetheart, do you think you could be a dear and get me some cigarettes?”

Rudy Sweetheart nodded obediently and made for the bar.

“What the devil are you up to, John?” Siobhan was the fractious ten-year-old McIntire remembered.

“Only looking out for your interests, Cousin Siobhan.”

“Just look out for—”

Rudy was back with the requested Winstons. Siobhan looked at her watch. “Oh, darling, I expect you need to go. I know you have to get out early tomorrow. I'm sorry to keep you so late. You just run along. John can drive me home. Or I can drive him home.” Her expression said that John could easily end up walking home, if he gave her any more trouble.

McIntire averted his eyes from the fond farewell.

When they were alone he spoke more soberly. “What do you know about this guy, Siobhan?”

“Enough. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. I've been doing it most of my life.”

“You only just met him.”

“Well, I haven't run off to Las Vegas with him.” She smiled. “Yet.” She lit the cigarette. “What are you so suspicious about?”

“Did you know that he had been at the Club, that he was acquainted with Morlens?”

“I knew he was there this summer, sure. So what?”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Why would I? It wasn't some kind of secret. It's not a crime to know someone who dies, and it's not a cause for suspicion.”

“Having a tryst with the married mother of a murder victim on the night he dies might be a cause for suspicion, or at least cause to question his morals.”

“And you think Rudy did that?”

“Bonnie Morlen was out with somebody the night her son was murdered. Somebody who was not her husband. She was with him most of the night.” He pulled the photograph of the group at the Club from his pocket. Siobhan gazed for a long time at the image of Rudy Jantzen with his eyes trained on Bonnie Morlen. She sighed and screwed the cigarette against the side of the ashtray.

“Rudy wasn't with Bonnie Morlen that night,” she said. “He was with me.”

“The murder happened before you came. You hadn't met Rudy Jantzen then.”

“The murder happened the night before I came to St. Adele. I spent that night in the Chandler Hotel. I met Rudy right here in this bar.
We
were together most of the night.”

XXXV

The mother could not die who had brought down such misery on her child.

“She's gone!” Leonie's voice on the telephone carried exactly the same tone as her, “She's back!” had a little over a week before.

“Well, she's not a prisoner, Leonie. Maybe she went into town, or for a walk. I'd say it's high time she got out a bit.”

“Her car's still here. She might have left on foot, but I don't think she only went out for a stroll. Her oven's on, and there's a pan of something that might once have been bread rolls in it.”

“You mean you're in the house now? When did you take up breaking and entering?”

“I didn't break. But I did enter. The door wasn't locked, and I smelled smoke. I can't believe she'd walk off and leave things. Oh, God! You don't suppose she's been abducted, too?”

“Leonie.…”

“Oh, I'd forgotten for the moment that Bambi kidnapped himself. I still can't get used to it. I'm sure she couldn't either. Do you think she might have done something to herself…?”

Whatever had made them leave that woman alone? “She probably wasn't thinking clearly and forgot about the biscuits. Maybe she's gone somewhere with Wendell.” It was as much to reassure himself as Leonie. It didn't convince either of them.

“I think you should get here, straight away.”

“You've got the car, remember.”

“Take the bike or Traveler.”

“Leonie, if some guy in a cape and a long mustache is in the process of tying you to a railroad track, or you're up to your belly button in quicksand, I might get on that bike, or even be convinced to saddle up old Traveler. Otherwise….”

“Oh, all right,” Leonie relented with a sigh in her voice that said,
I married a panty waist
. “Start walking, and I'll meet you. Judging from the condition of these biscuits, she's already been gone for some time. They'd make excellent things for your ice hockey.” McIntire heard a clunk which he took to be a wheat-based puck hitting a table top. “Hurry, John. It's freezing out there, and she could get lost.”

McIntire penciled a faint check on the page to mark his progress with Gösta
et al
. He tugged his jacket on as he went out the door. It wasn't freezing—quite. It was damp and darkly overcast. A wind that had come out of Canada, and picked up speed over a couple of hundred miles of thirty-eight-degree water, hurled an icy mist into his face. He ducked back into the house for gloves and a cap with earflaps.

Leonie came bumping down the road before he'd made it much past the end of the driveway. “Just what did you say to that poor woman to make her take off like this?” she demanded when he opened the door. The car still exuded a faint aroma of
eau de Marvin Wall
.

“You don't know that she took off. And what makes you think it was something I said?”

The gears screeched as Leonie cranked the Studebaker around in a U-turn. “I didn't exactly mean you specifically. I was talking about all of you, the state police, and the sheriff as well. Has anybody considered what Mrs. Morlen's feelings must be? Well, maybe I
am
talking about you. And that Pete Koski, blithely telling her that her son died plotting the most cruel extortion imaginable and then simply walking out and leaving her on her own!”

“I wouldn't say we were exactly blithe. And we didn't have a whole lot of choice about leaving her alone. She practically threw us out.” Leonie was right, and his intention to send his wife over was no defense. “She didn't answer the door when we got there,” he added lamely, “and when she did, Pete had to force his way in. Now I think of it, I wouldn't be surprised if she saw you coming and was lying low 'til you got tired of knocking and left.”

“Well, I'd be greatly surprised. I didn't only knock. I walked right in. And I didn't notice her cowering behind the piano. But we'd better check. If she is in the house she probably locked the door after I left.” Leonie shifted down and turned into the mansion drive. “Why didn't you get Mia, for God's sake? She lives closer than we do, and Bonnie talks to her. She's gotten pretty chummy with Mia, actually.”

McIntire's reasons for not summoning Mia Thorsen were self-centered and short sighted and not something he wanted to discuss with his wife.

Bonnie Morlen did not answer their rapping, and Leonie opened the unlocked door. McIntire wondered if the defense department was aware of the toxic gases that could be created by a few charred blobs of bread dough. A chair that looked as if its components had been produced by a family of beavers stood in the hall. McIntire shoved it in front of the door to hold it open.

Leonie called out, “Mrs. Morlen, are you here?” She turned to her husband. “I guess we may as well look around. She might be…sick or injured. You take the basement. I'll go upstairs.” Her customary efficiency returned, and she stepped briskly to the staircase, then stopped. Her fingers tapped the polished rail. “It's a big place, maybe we should do this together.”

McIntire was all for that. It was looking like he
was
a panty waist.

Once upstairs they did split up, each taking one side of the wide hallway. Nine bedrooms. Three were obviously in use. Wendell must return periodically, if not exactly to be welcomed with open arms. A fourth contained a rumpled bed but no other signs of regular occupancy. An overnight, or afternoon, guest?

Twenty minutes of innumerable closets and bathrooms later, they descended to the main floor—kitchen, pantry, living room, dining room, library. Mercifully, there was no basement. There was also no sign of Bonnie Morlen.

McIntire felt only minimal relief. If a conscientious housewife like Mrs. Morlen intended to take her own life, she might well choose not to mess up the rented house. And nobody could last more than a few minutes in that lake.

The combination of guilt and grief that Bonnie must be feeling could drive a far more stable person to drastic acts, of which suicide was only one.

“I'll look around outside,” he told Leonie. “You better stay here in case she comes back.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm not staying here. But we can split up. I'll carry on looking in the woods between here and the road, but I'll check the house every now and then in case she comes back.”

McIntire nodded. “I'll take a walk along the shore toward Walls.”

“Walls? What makes you think she'd go there?”

“If she thinks one of them is responsible….”

“But you told her that Ross Maki set things up to make it
look
like Marvin Wall.”

“Because he was convinced Marvin killed Bambi, and he didn't want him to get away with it.”

“Sounds more like he wanted to steer the suspicion to Marvin and away from himself. But I see what you mean. You think Bonnie would go after them? How? What could she do?”

“I think Bonnie Morlen is building up a head of steam that won't take much to set off. I suspect that this craziness all along has been aimed at getting to Bambi's killer before the law does.”

“Why?”

“Maybe she wants to take charge of the punishment, make sure it's quick and severe. Or she might feel that personally avenging her son's death will assuage some guilt.”

“Guilt over what?”

“Don't mothers always feel guilty?”

“No, they do not! Despite the best efforts of the psychiatric world.” Leonie buttoned her coat up to her chin. “But she still thinks Marvin Wall killed her son?”

“I don't know who she thinks did it, or if she's zeroed in on anybody. But if she believes we're getting closer, who knows? Let's get a move on before we freeze in our tracks. If she comes back, give a couple of blasts on the horn.”

McIntire took the short path through the trees to the lake shore. The wind, a stiff breeze in the shelter of the trees, roared itself into gale proportions over the open lake. Slate gray water churned into great undulating swells that exploded onto the sand with a steady cadence, obliterating any interruptions in its smooth, packed surface. Further from the water, as the wide expanse of beach crept toward the woods, undisturbed footprints wound through the litter of driftwood. Bonnie Morlen, and maybe her husband, had obviously walked here frequently. A well defined path ran parallel to the shore in the grassy ground between the woods and the sand.

McIntire's heart gave a jolt when he spotted prints leading from this upper path straight toward the lake. Small depressions ran in an unerringly straight line. The soft sand was damp and packed; the tracks were distinct. When he came near, McIntire could detect that the prints led from the water up to the path. Unless Bonnie was a mermaid, she'd been walking in the lake, or at least at its wave-washed edge. Why did this disturb him so? A brisk walk in the cold to sort things out after ghastly news wasn't something hard to understand. He'd likely do it himself.

The blast was close enough to make his ears ring. A gunshot definitely, but not the ubiquitous shotgun or deer rifle that punctuated the Upper Michigan autumn. A brief pop, three more following in quick succession, from the woods at his back. What the hell? Should he duck? Should he run? Dig himself into the sand like a crab? He yelled out “Hey!” and was rewarded by a sudden movement of blue among the trees. He hastened toward it.

“Mrs. Morlen.” He nodded. “Good afternoon.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. McIntire. Did I frighten you?” She clutched a small black pistol in both hands, pressing it to her starched ruffled chest. Little Bo Peep with a side arm.

McIntire moved away from what he reckoned might be the direct line of fire. “You should be wearing red, if you're going to be in the woods during hunting season.”

“Oh? Oh…I'm sorry,” she apologized again. “I'll try to remember that.” She wore no coat, only a loose cardigan approximately the same shade of blue as her lips.

“Would you mind telling me what the devil you're doing with that thing?”

Bonnie looked at the gun as if she hadn't noticed it until McIntire pointed it out. “I'm getting some practice.” She waved the barrel, in a way that made McIntire again consider digging a foxhole for himself, toward a row of bottles, all still intact, set up on a not too distant stump. “Mr. Fratelli brought it for me. Spending so much time here alone, I thought I might need protection. He showed me how to shoot it.”

Thank you, Melvin Fratelli.

She stared bleakly at the bottles. “But it's hard to keep from shaking when it's so cold.”

“We were worried about you. My wife came by to see if there was anything she could do.”

For the first time in McIntire's acquaintance with her, Bonnie Morlen attempted a smile. Its effect was ghastly. “I told you and the sheriff, I'm fine. Why can't you understand that I need to be left alone?”

“You left your oven on.”

Her face crumpled and she dropped the gun to her side and began shivering violently. “Oh, gracious, I—”

“It's all right, Mrs. Morlen. I took care of it.” Leonie McIntire appeared. She slipped out of her coat and bundled it around Bonnie's shoulders.

McIntire took the gun from the icy fingers. He removed the two remaining shells and pocketed them.

Leonie kept her arm over the shaking shoulders. “We'd better go now. It's much too cold here.”

“Yes, it must be nearly lunch time.” Bonnie Morlen spoke through chattering teeth. “My husband will be home soon. I'll have to make more rolls. So silly of me to…. You must excuse me.” She brushed a few grains of sand from the borrowed coat. “My gun please, Mr. McIntire.” McIntire handed it back.