See Also Murder (7 page)

The other reason I hesitated on the walk to the door was the passing resemblance Raymond held to my father. There were enough ghosts in my mind, and I was less than enthusiastic to add another one.

Raymond opened the door before I knocked. He feigned a smile and said, “You're late.”

I smiled back, fully expecting his disdain. “It's so good to see you, Raymond,” I said. “I appreciate the time you've taken for me.” I extended my hand for a handshake. There were no kisses or hugs on this side of the family. Offering an excuse would have only prolonged the situation, and I was intent on getting the information I needed as quickly as I could so I could leave and go home to my Hank.

Raymond shook my hand weakly. His palms were sweaty, and I recoiled immediately. He stood squarely in the doorway staring at me.

“May I come in?” I asked.

“Yes, of course.” Raymond turned sideways in an exact manner so he was flat against the open door.

I took a deep breath and walked into the bungalow.

“Your call was a surprise, Cousin Marjorie,” Raymond said. He wore tan cuffed slacks, a blue Oxford shirt, and highly shined black loafers. A few years older than myself, gray was starting to show in Raymond's thick head of wheat-brown hair. His beard was meticulously trimmed, and his dark brown eyes perused me from head to toe, judging my hand-sewn attire as unacceptable.

“I don't get away from the house much these days,” I said.

“I imagine not. How did you manage to today?”

“Ardith Jenkins was kind enough to look after Hank,” I said.

“The sheriff's wife?”

“Yes, we've been friends for eons.”

Raymond stared at me curiously, then said, “Have a seat.” My cousin swept his hand fully across his body as if he were allowing me into a forbidden kingdom.

I sat down in the closest chair I could see, a soft high-back leather chair that faced an impressive stone fireplace. The fireplace didn't look like it had ever been used. “I can't stay long.”

Raymond sat down across from me in a matching chair. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, no thank you. There's no need to go to any trouble.”

“It's no trouble, really.”

I shook my head no, and opened my purse.

“Are you
still
writing those indexes?” he asked.

I had wrapped the amulet in linen and tucked it in a side pocket of my purse—in the spot I usually hid my cigarettes if I had any. Hank disapproved of my smoking. I knew I was breaking Hilo's warning not to show the jewelry to anyone, but I'd run into a brick wall. As much as Raymond annoyed me, I felt like I could trust him, though I had decided not to tell him everything—like where the amulet had come from and why I was really there.

I pulled the amulet out of my purse and began to unwrap it, all the while trying to ignore Raymond's tone concerning my indexing work.

I knew Raymond thought it was remarkable that a woman without a college degree could do such a job, coupled with the fact that my formal training as an indexer was certified by a correspondence course and administrated by the United States Department of Agriculture. He never failed to make his dismay well known.

“Yes,” I said. “I'm currently working on a book by Sir Nigel Preston. Are you familiar with his work?”

“I can't say that I am.”

“A study on headhunters. It's really fascinating. You should read it once it's published.”

Raymond feigned another smile. “I have no interest in headhunters.”

“I had no knowledge of the subject, either,” I said. “But it is very well written, and I have found it to be a wonderful read.”

“How can you pretend to index a book you know nothing about?”

My mouth went dry. Raymond had pulled me into a game already, and I was on defense. I should have known better. Instead of taking the bait and engaging in an academic argument defending my credentials, I held out the amulet for the taking.

How many indexers in the world were also experts on headhunters? My skill was the ability to parse information and answer all of the readers' questions, not write a treatise or text on the subject. Even if I had said such a thing, I would not have enlightened Raymond. I would have just dug myself in deeper.

“I was hoping you could tell me something about this,” I said.

Raymond hesitated, eyed me directly, then took the amulet without a concession of defeat.

He examined the amulet with a close eye, gently turning it over from side to side. “Where did you get this?”

I didn't answer. “Do you know what it is?”

“Well,” he said. “It's most definitely Norse. I can't quite say how old it is, but it looks authentic. The wolf is—”

“—Fenris,” I said. “The serpent is Midgard, and the woman is the goddess Hel, the ruler of the realm of the dead. All of them are Loki's children. I'm assuming the figure in the center is Thor.” I couldn't help showing off my knowledge of the myth and competing with Raymond. It was an old game.

Raymond eyed me carefully. “You've done some research.”

“A little. I seem to remember that Aunt Gilda had a similar piece of jewelry. Or something like it. That's why I called you. I thought you might know something more than I could find at the library.”

“I sold all of mother's things a long time ago. Most of it was costume jewelry. Junk. I don't remember the piece you're talking about,” Raymond said, tapping his fingers on the table.

I didn't believe him, but it didn't seem worth pursuing at the moment.

Raymond stood up, a curious look on his face, and walked to an orderly bookshelf next to the fireplace, searched it quickly, and pulled out a worn, leather-bound book that was as thick as a brick. “You are aware that a piece like this was stolen from one of my colleagues not too long ago, aren't you?”

I shook my head no. “Is Sheriff Jenkins aware of that?”

“I'm sure that he is. Has he seen the amulet?” Raymond squinted his eyes, staring at me warily and clutching the book in his hands as if it were a weapon.

I wasn't going to answer Raymond, but I was miffed that Hilo hadn't told me about the theft, left me uninformed so that I looked like an idiot. I was miffed—the sin of omission was the same as a lie as far as I was concerned. It would be the first thing I asked Hilo the next time I saw him.

“Do you need money, Marjorie?” Raymond asked before I could answer his question about the amulet.

“Heavens, no. That's not why I'm here.”

“I just thought, given your current situation, that times might be, um, desperate.”

I curled my toes in my Sunday shoes so much that they hurt. I wasn't about to allow Raymond to see my anger. “If I were a thief, Raymond, would I come to you?”

“I wasn't suggesting that you were a thief, Marjorie.”

“Bull crap, Raymond, that's exactly what you're suggesting, and you know it.” The words popped out of my mouth before I could stop them.

Raymond flipped open the book, escaping my glare, ignoring my outburst. It was not the first time that he had been at the receiving end of the sharp end of my tongue. A distant smile flittered across his face. He loved getting under my skin. “I think you're absolutely right about Loki's children,” he said.

“I can't find anything to decipher the writing on the edges,” I said, reeling in my tone, glad the topic of Hilo's knowledge of the amulet had receded. Sometimes, it was just best to give Raymond a win and move on.

“I think you should talk to Professor Phineas Strand,” he said, flipping through the pages. The amulet was tucked underneath the book, secure in his grasp. “He will be most interested in seeing this, especially if it is from the collection that was stolen.”

“Does he live on campus?”

“Just around the corner.”

“Are you friends?”

“Ah,” Raymond said, ignoring my question about his relationship with the professor. He stared at a page in his book without a flinch of any kind. “It looks like it is for protection. Much like a St. Christopher's medal. Thor is the key to that. The chaining that weaves in and out of the runes was a common protective design.”

“Protection from what?”

“Evil, of course.”

I nodded.
It didn't work
, I thought. But I didn't think it had been in Erik Knudsen's possession for protection. At least, I hoped not.

“The Scandinavians brought this kind of thing with them when they immigrated,” Raymond continued. “By then Christianity had pushed the myths into a category of sin. Believing in anything other than the word of God was heresy, but there were always those who were hesitant to rid themselves of the old stories, of the old ways of their ancestors, even if those beliefs and trinkets were held in secret.

“Protection amulets were plentiful in the early eighteen hundreds according to this text. Almost all of them featured Thor as a centerpiece. There is much debate about the writing. Several scholars have tried to interpret amulets like this, but they all come up with something different. Unfortunately, many of the old traditions were passed on orally, leaving a lot of room for conjecture.”

I could see my father's profile in Raymond's face, softened by the diffused light of the room. I knew curiosity when I saw it, but there was something else, an expression bound by a tightness of the lips and a spark in the eyes.

“Is that all you can tell me?” I asked.

“Yes, other than I will tell you that once you leave, I will be straight on the phone to Professor Strand.”

I stood up and extended my hand. “I would do the same thing if I were in your shoes, Raymond. But you needn't worry; I'll go there myself and talk to him.”

He stared at the amulet, tightened his grasp on it. I half expected him to run off with it, to play a game of keep away like I had seen him do so many times at family reunions when we were children.

I didn't budge and did not withdraw my hand until the amulet was securely in my possession. I wrapped it up in the linen, tucked it back in my purse, and headed for the door.

“The book?” I asked, before I walked outside. “What was the title?”

“Ah, Larrson's,
The Book of Norse Symbols
. A small printing. 1901. A first edition, I might add. I've had it in my collection for some time, but I've never cracked it open until now.”

“The library didn't have it,” I said, running through the titles in my mind that Calla had brought me. “How do you spell the last name?”

“No, I don't imagine they had it. Larrson with two Rs, but that shouldn't have mattered.”

I was glad to step out into the fresh air. Raymond watched me leave, but said nothing further. Which was just as well as far as I was concerned. His lack of mention concerning Hank didn't surprise me, but it rubbed my craw.

I expected nothing less, though it would've been pleasant if a member of my own family expressed an interest or a hint of caring about Hank, but that was just wishful thinking.

The only thing I knew to do was flee Raymond's presence as fast as I could.

CHAPTER 8

I rang the doorbell on Professor Strand's door not two minutes after leaving Raymond's house. I could hear the phone already ringing inside. The stoop had dried from the rain, but the leaves of a potted geranium still bore water drops.

I hesitated to press the doorbell again after hearing the phone ring on persistently, but I felt I had no choice. I wanted to reach Professor Strand before Raymond did.

But in the end, it turned out that the professor was not at home. I stood at the door for another five minutes, listening impatiently to the phone screaming to be picked up. I should have asked Calla for a couple of cigarettes, or stopped and bought some of my own, but I hadn't. I could use some calming down. Raymond was as frustrating as ever, and if I had it to do all over again, I would never have shown up at his door in the first place.

From there I drove to the campus's administrator's office to find out if the professor was teaching a class. He wasn't, I was told by a snippy woman outside the dean's office. Professor Strand had a class scheduled later in the afternoon, and when I pressed I was told that no one in the office knew where the professor was, nor was it a concern.

It seemed that I had no choice but to wait for a couple of hours or to head back home. I decided to go home—with a couple of stops in between.

Once I got back in the truck, I sat there for a second, letting everything Raymond told me settle in. I reached in my purse, pulled out my notebook, and scribbled down some more notes: the name of the book Raymond had used and the fact that Hilo had not told me about the theft were my main topics.

Satisfied that I wouldn't forget anything, I drove off the university campus without looking back. My discomfort of the place had only been reinforced.

I stopped at the payphone outside the Rexall again, only this time I called Calla at the library. I knew I should have driven straight home, but I had another nagging feeling in my stomach, like I'd missed something this time, not so much that there was anything wrong.

As always, Calla answered the phone. “Library, how may I help you?”

“Hi, Calla, this is Marjorie. I need you to check on something for me.”

“Sure thing, what do you need?”

“Can you check on a book,
The Book of Norse Symbols
, for me? The author's name is Larrson. Two Rs. I don't think you have it there. At least I didn't come across it earlier. Could you see if you've ever had it? What the publishing history is?”

“All right. Hold on, Marjorie.”

I heard her put the receiver down and walk away, so I closed my eyes and tried to gather my thoughts, tried to justify why I was questioning my cousin's actions and words—other than it was normal, since I held him in such low esteem and didn't trust him at all.