Hunter’s Dance (26 page)

So that explained the pink cheeks that cropped up at the mention of Greg Carlson and his delight in a home-cooked meal. When Ellie Wall mentioned Bonnie's visiting “uranium guy” she may not have been referring to Melvin Fratelli. Apparently Bonnie
had
spent the night her son died, or a part of it, necking in a back seat.

So now what? He'd probably have to go to Koski. With Bambi dead, all an enterprising young fella had to do to make himself a wealthy man was wrest Bonnie away from the greedy bastard she was married to. This affair wasn't something they could ignore.

Why was it that every time he learned something new, he ended up feeling less like an investigator than like a busy-body snoop? How could Fratelli live with it? Come to that, as far as McIntire knew, Fratelli hadn't learned one damn thing, and if he had, he sure hadn't told the sheriff.

XXXIX

She had her own ideas on many things, as one always does who sits much alone and lets her thoughts dwell on what her eyes have seen.

The geese had taken shelter under the running board of Pete Koski's new station wagon. Mia envied its shiny maple side panels. Otherwise it was a clumsy-looking thing. Boxy with tires like a logging truck. It didn't look like it could move fast enough to catch many criminals.

She leaned against the table and stared out the rain-streaked window, limp as the dripping shirts on the clothesline. At least the sheriff had done her the honor of coming out to take her statement. She hadn't had to endure the humiliation of going into his office. Or infinitely worse, telling her tale to his nephew, Cecil Newman. Although it might have been fun to give Deputy Newman his day of glory apprehending another Mrs. Boston. Cecil was hardly out of diapers when the infamous Mrs. B. had eliminated that troublesome spouse. Koski had been in office then, though. Mia turned back to him.

“Am I going to be charged?”

“For what? Attempted cure of an alcoholic? I expect our eager-beaver county attorney is after bigger game.”

“Husband poisoning's not big game? What's Mrs. Boston got that I don't?”

Koski looked as weary as Mia felt. “She had a few more husbands, for a start. I don't think you need to worry.”

Mia wasn't so sure. Warner Godwin's term as County Attorney hadn't been all that illustrious so far. The perpetrator of the only serious crime committed since he'd taken office had been declared unfit to stand trial. He might be looking for a chance to show off. Well, maybe her distant cousin relationship with his late wife, and hence his daughter, would save her.

“Mrs. Thorsen.” The sheriff cleared his throat and began again. “Mrs. Thorsen, you seem to be about the only person to get into Bonnie Morlen's good graces.”

Mia nodded. “Oh, you bet. I'm her dearest friend. Not something I'm all that crazy about being.”

“She needs somebody.”

“I guess so.”

Koski shifted on the spindly kitchen chair. “So do we.”

“We?” What was the sheriff getting at?

“Mrs. Thorsen, it just ain't normal for the parents of a murder victim to behave the way Bonnie and Wendell Morlen do. I could understand if they'd stayed in Connecticut, but, dammit, they came all the way back here. Supposedly, they're interested. So why won't they talk to anybody? It don't make sense!”

“I don't know about Wendell, but making sense is not one of Bonnie Morlen's strong points.”

“How often do you see her?”

“If I don't go over every few days, she calls.”

“Have you ever seen her husband at home?”

“I have
never
seen Wendell, period,” she said. “But I don't live in Bonnie's back pocket, and I don't go over on weekends. He could be around then.”

“Does she say where he is?”

“No. She only says he's away, or he's finishing up that work for the Club. Can't somebody there help you?”

Maybe Koski didn't much care for Mia telling him how to do his job. At any rate, he didn't answer directly. “We can't make the Morlens tell us anything they don't want to,” he said. “We got no legal right to question either of them, or even to know their whereabouts. But there's something damn funny going on.”

Mia fingered her braid. “If I had to make a guess, I'd say Bonnie Morlen is, to put it politely, just plain nuts.”

“And Wendell?”

“Like I said, I've never met him. But I couldn't blame him if he'd as soon spend his time in Lansing or anywhere but with his wife.” She hesitated, then said, “It's not like Bambi was his own son.”

Mia wasn't sure if the sheriff knew, but he demonstrated no surprise, only emphatic disagreement. “Yes it is. I spent hours with that man in my office. It is
exactly
like Bambi was his own son. Which is why it's strange that he's making himself so scarce, now.”

The sheriff's unexpected show of empathy left Mia feeling a trifle callous. “Well, maybe he's been trying to lose himself in his work,” she offered.

The sheriff nodded. “Could be. ”

“So,” Mia said, “I don't know any more about Wendell than you do. I'm afraid I can't help you. And when Bonnie finds out it was me poisoned Bambi, I don't suppose we'll be bosom buddies anymore.”

“I wish you wouldn't tell her.”

“Not tell her? Why? She's bound to hear anyway. How would it look if I didn't say anything?”

“Bonnie's not gonna be out gossiping with the neighbors. She won't hear, at least not for a while. It's good if she has a friend, someone she can trust.”

It dawned on Mia that the sheriff might have more than Bonnie Morlen's social life on his mind. “Is there something you want me to do, besides keeping an eye out for Wendell?”

Koski smiled. “I want you to let Mrs. Morlen know that we're about to make an arrest.”

XL

The lake lies spread out before it and close behind it is the cliff, with steeply rising top and a look of wildness and romance which well suits an old mountain. But the smithy, that is not as it ought to be.

A litter of antiquated farm machinery and rusting motors created an obstacle course between McIntire and the entrance to St. Adele's former blacksmith shop. But in the tall weeds, the tracks of a narrow vehicle were clearly visible. It was the perfect hiding place. Although only a short walk to the town hall, it was completely screened from view thanks to debris, trees, neighboring derelict buildings, and, in the wee hours of the morning, darkness.

It was midday now. With no darkness to conceal him, McIntire looked around to assure himself that he wasn't being observed. No point in arousing curiosity. He pulled one of the double doors. It caught the edge of the concrete floor, and grated in a way that set his teeth to vibrating, but opened readily enough.

The windowless room was not much brighter than it would have been when Bambi was here. McIntire stopped worrying about being seen and pushed both doors open wide. The space was low ceilinged and airless. It smelled of old wood and dust. Hooks on the walls contained a few remnants of past days: the pitted rim of a wagon wheel; a 1932 calendar from a bank in Chandler; a cobweb-laced horse collar, its leather still smooth and uncrazed. The floors were largely bare but for the pale yellow stems of a few stunted weeds growing up through cracks. A darkened area showed where the forge had once stood. One corner was occupied by a tattered cardboard box. A heap of assorted rubble lay near the door.

There was little to show that this building had once housed a business that was a vital part of the commerce of St. Adele.

Papa Feldman's Morgan had brought in clumps of mud and dead grass. McIntire trained his flashlight on the floor to avoid treading on the traces of footprints that showed here and there and walked to the place he imagined Bambi would have stood when he got out of his car. No footprints here, only a small heap of gray ash.

If it was the perfect place to conceal a car, it was also the perfect place to attack its driver. Bambi wouldn't have dared to turn on his headlights. He'd have been a sitting duck for anyone laying for him. But he hadn't put up a fight. Could he have been meeting someone here? Had someone come with him? The theory that he'd been stopped on the road by an acquaintance or someone feigning car trouble was out now. He'd presumably gotten into this building in one piece and under his own steam, and he wouldn't have let himself be seen on his short walk across to the town hall.

McIntire shivered. He could understand why the kid had chosen to make that trip to the woodshed over spending the night in this dungeon.

He walked slowly around the building, shining his light into the corners, all of which were thick with dust and spiders' webs. No one had lain in wait for Bambi Morlen there. The box in the corner contained a store of paint cans, lidless and empty.

He returned to the door and the jumble of rubble off to one side. The usual trash. A single mouse-chewed felt boot liner, some yellowed newspapers. A gallon size gasoline can, still showing a few flecks of red paint, nested amongst a couple of pairs of ancient trousers and sundry other rags. Everything exuded an aroma of age and motor oil. McIntire gave the can a nudge with his toe. It met with unexpected resistance. He trained his flashlight beam onto it.

Around its handle, a few greasy smudges gleamed, but it showed no trace of the dust that had collected on its surroundings. Rags, paper, gasoline. Was Bambi an intended arson victim? Was this yet another failed attempt on his life? Or a plan to destroy evidence?

McIntire stepped out into the light and pulled the sheriff's padlock from his pocket. The door that had uttered the scrape when he opened it stuck fast, and he lifted it to swing free. The source of its recalcitrance lay in the weeds, a thin rod about ten inches long, formed with a loop at one end. The other end protruded through a tear-drop shaped lump of lead. The point extended about three inches, was slightly bent, flattened a bit, honed to a lethal sharpness, and covered with a flaking substance much the same shade as the rust on the gas can. McIntire broke off a stalk of goldenrod and ran it through the loop. He lifted the object into the sun. He didn't know its exact usage, but he knew what it was. Or had once been. A surveyor's arrow. And he only knew one person who might have such an implement.

XLI

He who will live in the wilderness should have bright memories. Otherwise he sees only murder and oppression among plants and animals, just as he has seen it among men. He expects evil from everything he meets.

“Esko Thomson.”

Sheriff Pete Koski leaned back in his chair and sighed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

McIntire dropped the arrow onto Koski's fishing map. “This handy-dandy…
instrument
has Esko Thomson written all over it. Accidental poke, hell! It was cold-blooded, premeditated homicide. That demented runt's been working on killing somebody for years, and he's finally done it.”

“John, you're talking like you've got shit for brains. Esko's about as harmless as they come.”

“Harmless? Don't forget I recently spent a few hours facing the business end of his shotgun.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake. Like you said, Esko's a shrimp. It's not like he can back up anything he says with muscle. He's been waving that thing around since he was a kid. It's the only protection he's got, and it's probably older than he is. I doubt he even has shells for it.”

“Which may be why he had to use other methods for getting rid of Bambi.”

“What possible reason could Esko Thomson have for wanting to get rid of Bambi Morlen?”

“Bambi
was
one of those gol-damned uranium hunters.”

“Was he? Well, not so you'd notice. And Esko wouldn't have known it. Besides, he hasn't bumped off any of the other five hundred gol-damned uranium hunters out there. And if he'd wanted to, he wouldn't of had to come into town to do it.” Koski gave the object a shove with his pencil. “What the hell is that thing?”

“It's a surveyor's arrow. I don't know what it's for, exactly. The weight on it makes it double as a plumb bob.”

“Where would Esko get surveying equipment?”

“Have you seen his place?” McIntire asked. “There's not much that loony bastard doesn't have. There's been no shortage of surveying going on along with the uranium hunting. He could have picked it up most anywhere.”

“And sharpened it up to kill Bambi Morlen?”

“You bet!”

“Why?”

McIntire hadn't gotten quite that far. “I can't imagine why. Who knows what could be going on in his puny little louse-infested head? He's been out in the woods a long time.” What motive could Esko have? “Well,” McIntire offered, “so far as I know, he's a squatter. He doesn't own that land. If anybody did find minerals on it, he'd be out.”

“But John, use your head. Esko wouldn't know those kids were looking for uranium, and even if he did, they'd be the last ones he'd figure to actually find it.”

The sheriff was showing some logic there. “But the fact remains,” McIntire insisted, “that somebody rifled through that car and through Karen Sorenson's purse. Somebody that left smudgy fingerprints. And the clincher, somebody dumped the ashtray and took the cigarette butts. Who else but Esko Thomson would have done that?”

“How do I know? The Wall kid was out running around loose. He probably ain't above smoking butts.”

That was true enough, but Koski didn't wait for McIntire to admit it. “You think,” he went on, “that Esko somehow figured out that Bambi would be in the blacksmith shop, waited there, jumped him and stabbed him in the back with this thing?”

“Not quite,” McIntire said. “I think he threw it.”

“Like a dart?”

“Precisely.”

The sheriff was renowned for his proficiency at darts. McIntire could see him turning the possibilities over in his mind as he examined the weapon.

McIntire took his advantage. “I saw Esko nail a crow with a rock at thirty yards. He's a regular Dizzy Dean.”

“How could he have known Bambi'd be in that garage?”

McIntire conceded that there were some gaps in his theory. “I don't know. But there might be somebody that does.”

Koski pulled a ring of keys from a desk drawer and walked to the door. “Marian, get Ross out, will you?”

Ross Maki's face was plumped out and he had a bit of a blush on his cheeks. He looked better rested than he had in six months. A few more weeks in jail and he'd be in tip-top shape. All ready for Uncle Sam.

Koski shook a Camel out of the pack and offered it to the young man. Ross shook his head. The sheriff lit up and sat back. “He's all yours, Mac.”

The sheriff was obviously prepared to have some entertainment at McIntire's expense. McIntire was only too happy to oblige.

“Ross,” he began, “was there anyone else who knew what you and Bambi were planning?”

Ross lifted his gaze from the stained weapon on the desk and shook his head. “No, course not.”

“Where did you talk over your plans?”

“Where?”

It seemed like a simple question, but McIntire elaborated. “Where were you? In Greg Carlson's cabin?”

“Oh. Sometimes there. In the car. When we were out doing the prospecting. Anywhere.”

“What about the note? Where were you when you put it together? Could anybody else have seen it?”

“Bambi did the note at home. I s'pose somebody could have seen it. I don't think so. He'd of been careful.”

“What about in the cabin?”

“There's nobody but Greg. Bambi put the note under the mattress on his cot. I don't think Greg would have looked there.”

No, and he probably wouldn't have stumbled across it when he was changing the linen.

“Could Greg have overheard you talking about what you intended to do?”

“We didn't talk about it when he was around. If he heard, he'd of tried to stop us.” He paused. “He mighta heard us if we didn't know he was coming, I guess.”

“When you were prospecting, did you find anything?”

“Find anything? Like what?”

“Like what you were looking for, uranium. Or gold, silver?”

“We found the old gold mine.” He shrugged. “I guess if it still had gold in it, somebody'd of got to it before we did.”

“Could anyone have thought you'd found something?”

“I don't see how.”

“When you were out, did you see any other prospectors?”

“Earlier in the summer they were all over the place.” Ross glanced at the sheriff's cigarette and cleared his throat. “Not lately, though. There were quite a few people out during partridge season. Hunting, I mean, not prospecting.”

“What about the gear you had in the mine. Any of it ever turn up missing?”

“You mean did somebody take it?” Ross shook his head. “Nah. We didn't have much. Lugging it back there was no fun. That stove was a bear! Nobody'd want it bad enough to drag it back out.”

McIntire took a deep breath. “Did you ever see Esko Thomson?”

“Sure, I've seen him.”

“I mean when you and Bambi were in the woods.”

The boy hesitated. Possibly weighing how much trouble a further admission could add to his already precarious state. “We sneaked up so Bambi could take a look at his place,” he said. “We didn't see Esko though.”

“Did you snoop around a little then?”

“Shit, no! Esko shoots at people.”

The sheriff gave a derisive snort but didn't interrupt.

“Bambi had a case with maps,” McIntire said.

Panic showed in Ross Maki's eyes for only a second before resignation took over. “I got them. I didn't take them. Bambi left them in the van. Honest.”

McIntire waved his denials away. “One of the maps had some old trails marked. It showed that you can get close to the mine a whole lot quicker if, instead of going from Greg Carlson's camp, or the old track in from the sawmill, you drive around and take the trail that goes by Esko's place.”

“We didn't go that way. We didn't want anybody to see us. Anyway it would have been a shorter walk but a long drive from the camp, and we'd of had to leave the car along side the road. Bambi didn't like to do that.”

It made sense. McIntire asked, “Might Bambi have used that trail to get to Esko's place when you weren't with him?”

“I don't think so…he wanted us to go back. He wanted to get pictures. But I doubt if he did. Bambi liked to brag. He'd of told me.”

McIntire forged ahead. “When you picked up the car, the ashtray had been emptied. Would Bambi have done that himself?”

Some color rose in the boy's cheeks. “I emptied it,” he admitted. “I needed a smoke on the drive into town. I didn't have any.”

“So you picked out the butts and smoked them?”

Ross nodded.

“And threw the stubs out the window?”

Another nod; another dead end.

There was only one more thing. “Ross,” McIntire said, “Bambi didn't decide to spend the night in the woodshed until you were at the dance. So you must have talked about your plans at least a little bit while you were at the town hall.”

“Yah.”

“Where were you then? Could you have been overheard?”

“We were outside. It was hard to get away from kids hanging around. Because of the car, you know. We walked over in the trees, by the men's can, so the girls wouldn't follow.”

On a night when beer flowed like Niagara Falls, it was hard to believe that the two hadn't picked the most public spot possible to discuss Bambi's abduction. McIntire asked, “Were you close enough so someone inside might have heard you?”

“Nah, I don't think so. There wasn't anybody inside, anyway. The door was stuck. Bambi tried to fake like that's where he was going, to get away from the girls, but he couldn't get the door open. The light was off, so there wasn't anybody inside. Lots of guys just go out in the trees. And they wouldn't bother to shut the door if they went in, 'cause it sticks.”

That was true. The door to the men's privy wasn't all that it should be. It was easy enough to kick it open from the inside, but once it was closed, anyone on the outside could generally only open it with the aid of a crowbar. One was kept hanging outside the door for the purpose. It was also true that it was unlikely anyone had been lurking inside with the light off, on the chance of picking up spare bits of conversation between teenaged boys.

Ross had the look of a guest reluctant to leave, wracking his brain for something to say that would extend the visit. Not surprising, and to no avail; Koski stuck his head around the door and summoned his wife to escort the prisoner back to his cell. Ross went willingly enough when Marian Koski appeared bearing a plate containing a slice of chocolate cake.

The sheriff stood staring out the window, massaging his troublesome back. “It just can't be,” he said at last. “There ain't no way Esko Thomson could have known Bambi'd be in that shed.”

“There doesn't seem to be a way that anyone could have known,” McIntire said. “But obviously somebody did. And Esko's as good a bet as anybody. I'd say he was waiting when Bambi got there. He planned to hit Bambi with that arrow and burn the place down to conceal the evidence. He could have attacked him from behind, but, as I said, I think he probably threw it. It would have been pitch dark inside the blacksmith shop, but there was a bright moon. When Bambi went to the door, he'd have made a silhouetted target for anyone inside. Whichever it was, throwing or stabbing, the dart didn't go in as far as Esko hoped. Bambi surprised him by not dying or even appearing to be injured, and Esko high-tailed it out of there. He might have sneaked back later to clean out the car, and been interrupted by Ross coming back.” What an appalling shock it must have been for the boy. Had Bambi known what was happening? Seen his meticulously planned adventure start its downward slide?

Koski didn't respond, only reseated himself, poked a pencil through the loop in the arrow, and lifted it onto a sheet of white paper.

“Bambi must have pulled that thing out of his back himself,” McIntire said. He felt again the desolation of the young man, waiting alone in a cold, dark attic full of rubbish, while his life seeped away. “Damn!” He suddenly remembered. “It slipped my mind again. Did you ever ask Ross about that whisky?”

“I know where Thomson got the whisky.” Koski must have been indeed weary. He exhibited not a trace of gloating, and he didn't wait for McIntire to beg.

He began to turn the paper, scrutinizing the weapon as he spoke. “I forgot about it, until Marian reminded me. It was at the county fair, a year or two ago. The newspaper sponsored a contest to raise money for something or other. Red Cross, March of Dimes, something like that. They had this big jar of jelly beans. You had to pay a dollar to guess how many were in it.”

McIntire nodded and waited while Koski touched his finger to the sharpened tip of the arrow and frowned before continuing, “Beckman got businesses to donate prizes—blankets, dish towels, canned ham, that kind of stuff. Whoever came closest to guessing the number of jelly beans walked off with the whole shebang, including a bottle of expensive Scotch whisky.” He rubbed his eyes and bent until his nose was within inches of the weapon. “And the jelly beans,” he added.

“And Esko Thomson won?”

“Hell, no. A woman from down in the Lower Peninsula hit it right on the nose. She was passing through on her honeymoon. Making a trip all the way around the lake. It's a long ways.” He swivelled his chair from side to side. “She had her husband along, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“Thirteen hundred.”

“Jelly beans?”

“Ya. And the distance around Lake Superior. Thirteen hundred miles. That's why she picked that number.”

“Pete, are—”

“Okay, okay. I'll get to the point. They stopped to see the husband's aunt in St. Adele. On the way out of town, they ‘got tired' and decided to take a so-called nap behind a haystack. They pulled the car off into some trees to keep it in the shade. When they got back, the loot was gone, down to the last jelly bean.”