Buttons and Bones (17 page)

He looked over her shoulder at the shawl in the magazine, covered with animal figures. “Looks complicated.”

“Yes, I’ll have to ask Peggy for help with it.”

“You’re going to bring that magazine back with you?”

“Yes. I’ll show it to Jill, of course, but I’m sure she won’t mind—she doesn’t do crochet.”

As the sun settled behind the trees, the air grew chilly and they left the shed and went back to the cabin. There, Connor built a fire in the pot-bellied stove while Betsy lit the kerosene lamps. They made a supper from the cold cuts and hard rolls they’d brought along. By the time they’d finished eating, it was fully dark outside and the lamps made a golden warm glow in the living area.

“ ‘The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it,’” said Connor.

But Betsy pictured the whole hemisphere of the earth turned away from the sun, facing the immense darkness of space, and the little lamps felt like incredibly frail pinpricks against such an appalling void. “‘O Lord, Thy sea is so great, and my boat is so small,’” she said.

Connor chuckled, surprised. “I’ve felt that at sea many a time.”

“Is it a lonesome occupation?”

“I never thought so, but the crews are small, even on the bigger vessels, so it’s helpful if everyone has a talent for getting along. It can be kind of a shock to be at sea with only a dozen other people to talk to for several weeks, then get turned loose in a big city full of tens of thousands of strangers.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

As they were clearing the card table, there came the big giggle that was the call of the loon.

“My God, they sound just like the recordings!” said Connor, turning to look toward the back of the cabin.

They sat up for a while, talking of inconsequential things; then Connor, whose arm had slipped around Betsy without her noticing it, leaned in and gave her a gentle kiss. She kissed him back, and he kissed her again, more warmly. She felt herself begin to respond and yielded to it.

Before she realized it, they were at it like a pair of teens— and then she did realize it and it made her chuckle, breaking the mood.

Connor seemed disappointed by her amusement, even when she explained it, but he understood the concept of a broken mood. He set about rebuilding it, tender but insistent and very patient.

Later, Betsy banked the fire while Connor went out for a bucket of water to set on top of the stove to warm for morning.

They went to sleep to the haunting music of the loons.

Fourteen

IN the morning the bucket of water was only a little warmer than the air, but better than the chilled water produced by the pump. Betsy and Connor did minimal ablutions, dressed, and set out for The Lone Wolf. It was a little after eight, but the sun had come up in summer strength, promising a warm day. Betsy wore white linen slacks, a deep-red bell-sleeved blouse ornamented with five large buttons down each sleeve, and sandals. Connor wore faded jeans, a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled back, and deck shoes. They rode in silence. Connor was not a morning person.

They pulled into the rustic lodge-like building with its moribund gas pumps in front and parked on the gravel apron near the steps. Three cars were already parked there.

The steps led up to a wide deck. A separate entrance off to the right led into a liquor store.

They entered through a creaking screen door and stood for a moment to allow their eyes to adjust from bright sunlight to the deep-shade interior.

On their left stood the big, old-fashioned bar and at its near end sat five well-seasoned men. Betsy immediately recognized three of them from her last visit, though she hadn’t gotten their names. The smallest one, who was also obviously the eldest, recognized her, too.

“Wasn’t you in here just a week or so ago?” he asked. “You was with that Larson fellow, bought that cabin they found the skeleton in.”

“That’s right,” said Betsy, stepping forward. “I’m Betsy Devonshire and this is my friend Connor Sullivan.”

“Ralph Olson. Grab a stool if you’ve a mind to. The coffee’s terrible but it’s better than the water all by itself.”

“Now, Ralph,” chided a plump old man in a high, rough voice, “don’t go bad-mouthing things, or Pat will run us all off.” He nodded sideways at the dark-haired young woman behind the bar. “My name’s Don Tjerle.” He pronounced it “surely.” He held out a big, soft hand. Betsy took it and slid onto a vacant stool next to him.

Connor sat down at the end of the group and, with a gesture, ordered a cup of coffee. “Black,” he mouthed.

“I take my coffee with all the fixings,” stated Betsy.

“So what’re they gonna do with them bones?” asked Ralph, after Betsy had doctored her coffee to her satisfaction.

“I don’t know, I was hoping you might tell me.”

“I heard they’re looking for family in Germany to send them home to,” said Don. As he spoke, Betsy noted his high cheekbones and curiously slanted light blue eyes—Finn traits. But
Tjerle
was a Norwegian surname. There were some who would consider him of mixed blood.

“Why do that? Isn’t there a cemetery right in Remer?” asked the biggest man, both tall and heavyset. He had small, merry eyes and a short nose under straight, thinning white hair. “You know, where they buried the other POWs.” He nodded at Betsy. “Kevin Swanson,” he said by way of introduction.

“Nope,” said Ralph. “None of the other ones died at that camp, they all made it home safe.”

“How do you know so much?” demanded Kevin.

“Some of it I remember,” said Ralph. “The rest I read about in a book, which you could do worse than read.”

“Ahhhh,” growled Kevin. “I don’t believe you read any book, I don’t believe you know how to read.”

“No, it’s Donny who doesn’t know how to read.”

“Never saw any need to learn how,” said Don with a small, judicious nod. “I hired a secretary who could read, and I practiced law for thirty years without cracking one law book.”

Connor, smiling to himself—he didn’t watch the old men plaguing one another—finished the last of his coffee and signaled for a refill. “Have you got anything suitable for breakfast you can sell me?” he asked in a low voice while the young woman refilled his mug.

“Raised donuts,” she said. “Fresh this morning. Otherwise there’s pairs of hard-boiled eggs back in the chill box.”

“Bring me two donuts,” said Connor and slid off his stool. “Want a hard-boiled egg,
machree
?” he asked Betsy.

“Yes, please,” she replied.

So long as the young woman was there, she went up and around the curve of the bar, refilling mugs. “And I’ll have a donut, too, thanks,” Betsy said when the woman got to her.

The last man put a big hand over the top of his mug while fishing in his pocket with the other. He pulled out a dollar bill and then two quarters and put the money on the bar. “That does it for me, I’m going fishing,” he said and started for the door.

“Hey, Tony!” called Don.

“What?”

“What did I say to make you go away? So I can say it earlier tomorrow.”

Tony snorted derisively and went out, letting the screen door slap shut behind him.

Connor came back with two packs of eggs. Betsy took one egg—it was already peeled—and put it on the little plate that held her glazed donut. The donut was tasty, the egg was fresh, and despite the warning, she found the coffee strong without being bitter, and warming to her soul. Even Connor was starting to look more aware of his surroundings.

“Did this place used to be a bar?” he asked halfway through his second egg.

“It was a tavern first,” said Ralph. “Man name of John D. Brigham built it, some people still call this place Brigham’s. Later, that room where the coolers are got added, and it became a dance hall, then the addition that’s a liquor store was put on. During the war, this place had the only phone hereabouts, so Brigham had to take telegraph messages about soldiers killed or missing in action and deliver them. Hated that part of it. He got drafted himself toward the end of the war, even though he was in his middle thirties by then. They took him because he was single.” Ralph looked around at the other men, pleased by their attention, then looked at Betsy slantwise. “Take a look at the front door over there.”

Betsy and Connor—and the other men, too—turned to look at the open door. It was painted gray and had numerous black, thumbhole-size pock marks in it.

“Those are bullet holes,” he said. “Not all of you know Brigham bought it in Chicago and brought it up because the bullet holes was put in it by John Dillinger.”

“Is that true?” asked Betsy.

Don said, “It could be. Gangsters were heroes up here in the thirties. They’d come up here when the heat was on back home in Chicago or Saint Paul. You wouldn’t believe it today, but this was a great hideout for that kind of man back then.”

“That’s interesting,” said Betsy. “That door story doesn’t seem likely, but it’s interesting.”

“Gangsters liked it up here because it was quiet and the lawmen weren’t always poking their noses into everyone’s Is business.”

Ralph said, “Did you know it was from up here they got the word s
itting duck
? It comes because commercial hunters used to take a live wild duck and put a collar on it and fasten it to a stool—this is also where they got the expression
stool pigeon
, because they did the same thing with a wild dove—lots of folks couldn’t tell the difference between a pigeon and a dove. They’d put the duck out at the edge of a marsh an’ when the big flocks go over, the fastened-down duck would call and the others would come in for a landing and get shot. Or a dove stuck out in a field would call its friends to help. They used to send barrels full of ducks and pigeons and geese to Chicago restaurants.”

“Ralph, you are a walking encyclopedia of local history, you know that?” remarked Don.

“Yeah,” said Kevin, “but how much of it is true and how much of it is the product of brain fever brought on by underwork?”

“God blame it, it’s all true, every word! I got one o’ them duck collars at home in my garage. I could show it to you anytime you like, you bet!”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you could,” said Kevin, nodding elaborately. “Right after you finish making it.”

Betsy said, “Ralph, since your memory is so good, maybe you can help me with something.”

“Probably,” said Ralph, sneering at his compatriots, then looking very confidently at Betsy.

“During World War Two, a husband and wife named Matthew and Helga Farmer owned the cabin the Larsons bought. Would you happen to know anything about Helga Farmer? Her maiden name, for example?”

Ralph fell silent for a few moments. Then, “They had a big ol’ ’36 Auburn convertible she drove while he was away. He was in the Army but stationed somewhere in Wisconsin, I believe. Story we heard told was, he ran off when he got orders to ship out to a war zone. They had Army investigators up here looking for him, a lot of people remember that, you bet. Someone said they saw her kiss him good-bye at the train station and cry as it pulled out for Chicago. What
was
her last name afore she married? She had family around here.”

“I heard it was von something,” hinted Betsy.

“That’s right, it was von Dusen!” shouted Ralph. “There was a whole kit ’n’ kaboodle of ’em up here, but they’re about all gone now, I betcha. She had three—no, four—no, three brothers and a sister but all that generation is dead or moved away—she was the baby of her family. My mother said they treated her bad and that’s why she married that Army fella when she was barely grown up enough. Musta been sixteen or seventeen and her mother and dad wouldn’t come to the wedding, my mother told me. Said her brother had to give her away. Her parents had meant her to stay at home and take care of them in their old age. They even took her out of school. But somehow she got this little old part-time job waitressin’ and met this Army officer and he just swept her off her feet—or maybe she swept him, she was a really pretty thing, with big blue eyes and blond hair that didn’t come from a bottle. I kinda remember her—at least I remember I used to think she was prettier than Betty Grable.”

“So there aren’t any von Dusens left in the neighborhood?”

“Well, am I a fool or what? Got a memory like a sieve. Yes, there are, or a grandson anyway. You go over by Snowball—”

Kevin interrupted. “There ain’t any Snowball, Ralph, you know that.”

“Yah, but there used to be and there’s still Snowball Lane. Out offa 54, couple-few miles, it’s the first tar road on the right past Stoney Creek Road. Look for a church with a red door, it’s a mile or two beyond that. The oldest son’s grandson’s farming it now, name of . . . of Larry. Larry von Dusen. Nice house, white with black trim, and a big red barn. You can’t miss it.”