The Deader the Better (16 page)

“Great minds think alike,” she said.

As Rebecca cast off the bow line, I eased the boat out into the
current. J.D. had been right: As we moved downstream over the mouth
of the boat ramp, I could feel the deep rumbling of the hole in the
bedrock beneath my feet. I gave it some gas and sent us sliding over
the water toward the far shore. I worked the bank upstream for the
better part of a mile and didn’t see a thing, so I turned around.
Six hundred yards downstream from the homestead, I saw the Avon, tied
to a little floating dock set back in a recess in the bank. I eased
the sled over to the downstream side and tied us up. We followed the
power lines into the settlement and then the signs that said DAYCARE
CENTER—with an arrow, no less—to the daycare center. Modern
woodsmanship. Northwest Indian tribes learned a great deal from the
mistakes of their eastern brothers. They hired first-rate lawyers and
ended up with the choice real estate instead of the land nobody
wanted.

The building sat on an outcrop of rock overlooking the Pacific
Ocean. Painted in traditional red and black and white, a stylized
eagle adorned the area above the door. To the north, forty or so
houses looked out on a narrow bay and ramshackle marina. To the left,
a stone breakwater stretched nearly all the way across to the nearest
island. North and south for as far as the eye could see, the ocean
was studded with rocky outcrops, some big enough to have trees
growing on top, others barren and sharp as teeth. Daycare occupied
the landward end of the building. Two women and about eight kids were
playing a board game at a table. The shrill sound of children echoed
from elsewhere in the building. One of the women rose from her chair
and crossed the room. She was short and stout and had probably never
in her life cut her hair. It hung to the backs of her knees like a
shiny black curtain. “Help you folks?”

“We’re looking for Claudia Springer,” Rebecca said. The
woman’s face closed like a trap. “Don’t have anybody by that
name.” Before either Rebecca or I could respond, she asked, “You
folks know where you are?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“No,” she said quickly. “I do not excuse you. This land
belongs to the Hoh people. They said it in court and on a paper. You
have no place here. Go back to the United States where you came
from.”

“Please—” Rebecca began.

“Would you rather I called the tribal police?”

And it probably would have ended right there, except at that
moment two more women entered the room from a doorway to our left.
They led a column of about a dozen chattering children into the room.
Why, I don’t know—it’s not like I’m any good with kids; maybe
he missed his father and somehow, in his little mind, had us
connected—but Adam Springer broke from the ranks and ran to my
side, holding out his arms and shouting my name. I picked him up and
kissed him on the cheek. He stuck his face into my neck and hugged
me. The little guy was a bit ripe. I guess getting shot at will wreak
havoc on a guy’s potty training. The woman smiled. “Children
don’t lie,” she said. “You come with me.”

“LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT,” I SAID. “THE NIGHT AFTERJ.D.’s
death. After his body…after he was already on his way to his
parents…that’s when the house got shot up?” Claudia nodded.

“And you didn’t use the fire extinguisher to put out the
fire?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I was so scared. I just grabbed the kids
and ran for the boat. I knew they couldn’t follow me here,” she
said.

Since the night of the fire, Claudia and the kids had been living
in two rooms over the tribal offices. Sheriff Hand had brought the
news of J.D.’s death late on a Wednesday afternoon. Knowing that
Claudia and the kids were out there alone, he’d brought along a
trio of local church ladies, who’d made tea, fussed with the kids
and done all the things that well-meaning souls do in a moment like
that. They’d provided everything from shoulders to cry on to
helping with the delicate business of telling J.D.’s elderly
parents the news. They’d called the Springers’ car insurance
company. They’d called J.D.’s life insurance provider. Two of the
women had stayed overnight. As she spoke, I remembered what Ramona
Haynes had said about small towns and a sense of belonging. First
thing in the morning, right after Deputy Spots drove off with the
church ladies, Claudia had begun to pack. What she wasn’t planning
to take, she carted up and locked in the shop. About three o’clock
that afternoon, a gray Ford Taurus pulled to a stop in the driveway.
Claudia’d given me his business card. J. Morris Thompson, Senior
Adjuster, Prudential of North America. Seattle address and numbers.

“How much was he insured for?”

“Three hundred thousand dollars.”

“Good service,” I’d commented.

Her eyes filled with tears. “They’re not going to pay,” she
said.

Rebecca beat me to it. “What?”

“He said they had some questions regarding J.D.’s death and
were withholding payment of the claim until they were satisfied about
how he died.” Rebecca and I eyed each other. She took the lead. “We
had some questions, too,” she said. We took turns. She told Claudia
how we knew the car had been fully engulfed when it left the road.
Claudia just shook her head; she seemed numb, as if unable to process
the ramifications of the news.

When I started with the unneeded gasoline, however, Claudia perked
up.

“That’s exactly what I told him,” Claudia said. “And he’d
never have carried gas in the Subaru, anyway. That was the family
car. We had an agreement about not carrying messy things in the
station wagon.” She pounded the table in front of her with the flat
of her hand. “That’s even more ridiculous than J.D. not paying
the taxes.”

“You’re saying he paid them?”

“Of course he paid them. It’s right there in our checkbook.”

Checkbook notations only prove you had a pen that worked, so I
asked, “Do you have a receipt?”

She nodded. “The county says it’s not one of theirs.”

“It’s not on letterhead or anything like that?” Rebecca
asked.

“It’s just a plain receipt. It’s not even signed,” she
said. I thought she was going to bawl, but she kept it together.

“What did we know? It was the first time we’d ever paid them.
We had no idea what an official receipt looked like.”

“What about the check?” I tried.

“It’s never been cashed,” she said.

I felt like I was lost in the Twilight Zone, so I backtracked.

“Tell me again what the insurance guy said.”

She started to sob, so it was hard to understand.

“He…he…didn’t quite come out and say it…he…” She
balled her hands. “He said that…considering J.D.’s position and
all, they weren’t satisfied that it was an accident.”

“Neither are we,” I said.

Now she began to bawl. “You don’t understand,” she said,
struggling to get it out. “They think J.D. killed himself so the
kids and I could have the insurance money.” A dam broke somewhere
inside. Her body was wracked with sobs. Rebecca went to her side and
held her as they rocked slowly back and forth on the sofa.

Rebecca’s arms were around Claudia, but her eyes were locked on
mine. We’d never even considered suicide, and yet, if you looked at
it that way, suicide explained everything. Faced with bankruptcy and
ruin, J.D. doesn’t see any way out for his family except to stage
an accident. That way no matter what happens with the property, his
family has a nice little nest egg.

What didn’t make sense was the timing of the attack on the
house. In a town the size of Stevens Falls, everyone knew what had
happened to J.D. Springer within an hour of when he went over that
embankment. I mean, who’s going to sneak out in the dead of night
to terrorize his widow and children? To what end?

“What happened after the insurance guy left?” I asked. She
blew her nose, swallowed most of a Dr Pepper and told me the story.
Naturally, she’d been upset. She’d been telling herself that no
matter what, at least she’d be getting the insurance money. “I
guess I kind of went to pieces,” she said. By the time she had
regained some measure of composure, it was just about dark. She’d
called J.D.’s parents to say there had been a change of plans and
that she and the children would be over tomorrow afternoon.

The shooting had started at about ten-thirty that night. The kids
were asleep. Claudia was lying in bed looking at pictures of their
life in Montana. Like I’d figured, the first barrage took out the
lights. By the time shots had started tearing through the windows,
she and the kids were hunkered down in the living room, with two log
walls between themselves and the shooters. By the time she worked up
the courage to do something about the fire, smoke had filled the
upper half of the cabin.

“I waited till after the firing stopped,” she said. “It got
really smoky. I was afraid if I left by car, they’d be waiting for
me up on the road, so I put the kids in the Avon and came over here.”
She looked from Rebecca to me and back. “I didn’t know what to
do,” she said and began bawling again. Rebecca held her while we
both assured her that she’d done exactly the right thing.

She separated herself from Rebecca and ran both hands over her
face. “I’ve got to get myself together,” she said. She looked
at me.

“Do you think J.D. killed himself?” she asked. I answered
truthfully. “I don’t know,” I said. “From what I know, I’d
have to say it was a possibility.”

Rebecca jumped in. “It’s also possible it was an accident.”

“Or that…,” Claudia began, “that somebody did that to
him.”

“Equally possible,” I agreed.

“We could try to narrow it down,” Rebecca said.

“How?” I asked.

“The body was neither embalmed nor autopsied. No telling what it
might be able to tell us.” She turned to Claudia. “He wasn’t
cremated, was he?”

She shook her head no. I thought she was going to cry again, but
instead she wiped her nose and said, “That was his wish. He wanted
his ashes sprinkled on the Yellowstone.”

She dropped her hands to her sides. “But after what happened…how
he looked…I couldn’t. I just couldn’t burn him up the rest of
the way.” She turned to Rebecca. “Are you saying that you want
to…”

Rebecca stopped her. “I want to do whatever you want to do,”
she said. “And I want to be honest with you, Claudia. I’ve seen
pictures. With the tissue in that condition, it’s going to be quite
a challenge.”

Claudia paced the room. “Do his parents have to know?”

“The matter is totally in your hands,” Rebecca said. “You’re
the only one with the power to exhume.”

She paced some more, talking more to herself than to us.

“I don’t know what to do. I’ve never had to decide anything.
I’ve always deferred to J.D. J.D. always knew what to do.”

After a while, she stopped pacing and seemed to steel herself.

“If it’s possible to know what happened, I’ve got to know.”

“Then we’ll do it,” Rebecca said.

Making the decision to exhume her husband seemed to give her
strength. We put together a plan. Claudia and the kids were leaving
tonight with Rebecca. Going over to stay with J.D.’s parents. I was
going to hold down the fort at Claudia’s place, at least until the
autopsy was completed. After that, we’d play it by ear.

Claudia and Rebecca began to pack. All she had was the two green
garbage bags she’d fled the house with, so it wasn’t going to
take long. They sent me downstairs. Told me to send the kids up so
they could get them dressed. The other children were gone. It was
dark and quiet downstairs. A single bulb in the kitchen area cast a
dim yellow glow over the room. The woman we’d met earlier was named
Juanita. She was closing up the center for the night.

“It’s good they are going to their people,” she said as she
locked a window. “Bad times like these…you got to be with your
people.” I told her I agreed. “Us Indians, we know that, you see,
’cause one another is all we got.” She pulled a white plastic
liner from the trash can and tied it with a twist tie.

“You think it’s like the insurance guy says?” she asked me.

“You think maybe J.D. killed himself?”

I told her there was no way to tell. “You know J.D.?” I asked.

“Oh sure,” she said. “He come over all the time. Sometimes
for lunch with the kids. Sometimes just to visit.”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“You never know about people,” she said. “I know white
people are crazy about land. They came out here last year…want to
make us rich, they say. Fifty grand for every member of the tribe.
People say, hey, those Lummi people want to give us fifty thousand a
head, I better find my old lady and make me some children.” She
laughed. “I say, hey, we already gave them a bunch of land…so
look what they did to that.” She laughed again. I was lost. The
Lummi were another Northwest Indian tribe. How they qualified as
“crazy white people” was beyond me. I never got a chance to ask.

“Leo,” Rebecca called from upstairs.

It was full dark. I carried Adam and one of the bags. The two
women carried the other bag between them while the little girl walked
out in front of us all. Our pathfinder. We loaded the bags into the
Avon and the people into the jet boat. With the little boat in tow,
we cruised downstream to the confluence and then over to the
homestead. I’d have bet the farm that Claudia would have found some
reason she had to go into the house. Some memento or something that
she needed. But no. All Claudia wanted was for her and her children
to be someplace else. I don’t think she even looked at the cabin on
the way by. We don’t have kiddy car seats and the Springers’ had
been in the Subaru. So we buckled the kids in as best we could.
Claudia rode in between them, an arm around each. Rebecca was behind
the wheel. I leaned in the window and asked, “What’s the best
motel in town?”