In Sheep's Clothing (15 page)

“B-12? Like the vitamin?”

“Yes,” he said. “I know it doesn't make any sense, but I'm almost positive that is what he said.”

“That's it? Was there anybody else in the room?”

“No,” he said.

“What about … You said he was crawling toward the phone? So he hadn't made it to the phone yet?” I asked.

“That's right.”

“So, who called 911?” I asked.

“I don't know,” he said.

“How much time passed between the time you found him, you pulled the knife out, and the authorities came in?” I asked.

“Oh, like, seconds. I saw his legs behind the counter, I ran around the counter, immediately realized that the only way he could be saved was to take the knife out and put pressure on the wound. I pulled the knife out, was getting ready to take my shirt off to hold against the wound, because I couldn't find anything else, when Rudy came in. I was going to have Rudy call 911 when he came in, because I knew he was right behind me. It would only take him a minute to use the toilet. Anyway, I looked up at Rudy, then the deputies burst through. I panicked.”

“Lord,” I said. “That's not a lot of time to play with. So somebody either had to have come into the store and seen him there before you came in, or else the killer dialed the police from his cell phone or something. How else did the sheriff know that somebody had been stabbed at the marina?”

“Okay…?” he said.

“Which means, if somebody came in and saw him before you came in, then that person can verify that you weren't in there stabbing Mr. Bloomquist in the throat,” I said. “Maybe we don't have to solve who did the murder. Maybe we just need to find a witness who can prove that you didn't.”

He sighed. “Well, that's encouraging,” he said.

I reached across the table and squeezed Colin's hand. “I'll do everything I can to get you out of here,” I said. “All right?”

He nodded. “You look like shit,” he said.

“That's all right,” I said. “
You
just asked for
my
help. The world is mine for the taking.”

“That's not funny,” he said.

“Yes, it is.”

“I could be going up the river for life,” he said.

A vision of my mother's face, shattered by her husband going up the river for life.

“Okay, you're right. That was uncalled for,” I said. “Try not to worry.”

“Right,” he said.

I stood up to leave. “I'll bring you a cheeseburger or something,” I said.

“Better make it three. I might be here awhile,” he said.

The esteemed Sheriff Simon Aberg made me wait two hours before I could talk with him again. But I suppose that was all right, since Rudy had to be “officially” questioned and I would have had to wait for that as well. I called my Aunt Sissy and told her what had happened. She'd already heard about Brian, but had no idea that we were involved in any way. I think she was beginning to reevaluate her invitation to us.

It was eight
P.M
. and my stomach was grumbling, my head felt like it had suddenly split in two and started growing in different directions, and I was just downright ticked off. Finally, the sheriff came out and motioned for me to enter his office of white ceramic tile. As I entered his office, all I could think was,
So this is what an igloo looks like from the inside.

“What happened to your eye?” he said, and motioned to a lawn chair. It must have been the expression on my face that caused him to explain. “Some guy bled all over the other one and I had to get rid of it. I'm waiting for my replacement chair. Have a seat.”

I sat down.

He gave me a raised eyebrow. “The eye?”

“Oh, Roberta Flagg punched me,” I said.

“She did?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I said something less than glowing about one of her ancestors.”

“Oh,” he said. “Bad move.”

I just nodded.

“Want to press charges?”

“No,” I said. “No, that's not necessary.”

“What are you guys doing up here from Missouri, anyway?”

“Visiting my aunt. And the guys were fishing,” I said.

He sucked his teeth, as if he'd eaten corn on the cob for lunch. “So, what did you want to see me about?”

“Look, I know you can't share the specifics with me about the case,” I said. “But, I was wondering … today … who … how did you find out that somebody had been murdered at the marina? Was there a 911 call?”

He sighed. “Why?” Then he tapped his pencil on his desk.

“Because if whoever called 911 actually saw a body lying in a pool of its own blood, with the knife sticking out of its neck, and my stepfather was nowhere around, then I'd think you'd have a tough time continuing to believe that my stepfather killed him,” I said, as calmly as I could manage.

He seemed to acquiesce, even if only his mind. I could see it on his face. “I'll check into it.”

“Good,” I said. “That's all I ask.”

“Does it hurt?” he asked and pointed to my head.

“Yes,” I said. “I think I'm getting just a small taste of what it feels like to be the elephant man. My head actually feels heavier on this side.”

He tapped his pencil again.

“I'm sure it will feel better tomorrow,” I said.

He snickered.

“Also … I know this probably has nothing to do with the case, but I actually spoke to Mr. Bloomquist earlier in the day,” I said.

“Really?”

“Yes. I went out on the lake with the guys for the morning and then they brought me back at lunchtime and I went … I went and did some sightseeing,” I said. “But before I left, I talked to Mr. Bloomquist.”

“What about?”

“Well, his family tree, actually. See, I'm a genealogist and I work for the historical society for Granite County, Missouri,” I said. “And, well, it's a long convoluted story about why I was speaking to him, but when I first approached him, he wasn't sure who I was or what I wanted. He said something odd.”

“What was that?”

“He said, ‘You can tell Kimberly Canton my answer is still no.' Do you have any idea who Kimberly Canton is, or what he was referring to?” I asked.

His expression dropped. “Real estate developer,” he said. “She's been trying to get everybody to sell their lakefront property.”

“Oh.”

“I think she's trying to find a good-sized lake, upstate a ways, that she can monopolize. You know, go in and just turn the whole thing into a resort. But she'd have to have a one-hundred percent buyout. Or at least close to it,” he said. “She's been after Brian to sell that marina for a long time. She wants my measly five acres, too. Some of us have sold, some of us are still holding out.”

“How much does Brian own?”

“I think he's got thirty acres or so altogether. Hell, some people own as much as a hundred or so acres, not all of it shore, you understand, but still land that connects to the lake,” he said. “It's big now. Up on Superior, if your family bought land fifty or so years ago, you'd be a millionaire today.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Now, Olin Lake isn't quite as prime as Superior,” he said. “But it's still choice land nonetheless. It'd make a nice little resort town, don't you think?”

“Well—”

“Some people think so. There's a lot of pressure to sell. Olin would suddenly be on the map, so to speak,” he said. “I mean, fishing season already brings a horde of tourists and fisherman. But nothing like it would be if it was a resort town. What I can't get people to understand is that if one person, Ms. Canton, owns it all, then it's profit for Ms. Canton, not the town of Olin. Or any of its people.”

“I understand. The town I live in is a tourist town. But all of the townsfolk own their own businesses. We work together as a town, but if business is good, it's good for the individual, not one big corporation.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That's what I—and the mayor—have been trying to tell people.”

“Well, that's interesting. You think you need to question Ms. Canton? I mean, Brian seemed pretty irritated when he thought she'd sent me. Maybe there's something to it,” I said.

“Maybe,” he said. “Thanks for the tip.”

“All right,” I said. I wrote down Aunt Sissy's phone number and my cell-phone number. “This is where you can reach me. If anything should develop where my stepfather is concerned.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Have a nice evening, Mrs. O'Shea.”

“You, too, Sheriff.”

Sixteen

My head hurt a lot worse the next morning. It wasn't quite as swollen, but all of my movements seemed to feel as though they were happening ten seconds after I commanded them to move. I rolled over, bunching all of the blankets up as I went, to find Rudy staring at the ceiling. “You all right?” I asked.

“Couldn't sleep,” he said.

I kissed him and laid my head on his chest. “As lame as it sounds, all I can say is it will go away. The vision of … it. The blood. Believe me, I know.”

“Yeah, I know you know. Now I'm wondering if I've been an insensitive jerk to you,” he said.

I giggled. “A jerk sometimes. Insensitive sometimes, but never the two together.”

“Thanks.”

“I'm joking,” I said. “You're my rock. Always have been.”

We lay there a few more minutes until we smelled breakfast cooking. “You know, I could get used to this. Having breakfast ready when I wake up,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“But it ain't going to happen,” I said.

“No,” Rudy said. “You gonna call your mom?”

“Yes,” I said.

“When?”

“After breakfast,” I said.

“Well, let's go eat so you can call her,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, can't wait.”

We fumbled our way out of bed, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. I let my nose be my guide, since at least one of my eyes wasn't seeing too well.

“Oh, you look like hell,” Aunt Sissy said when I came into the room.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You don't look too hot, either,” she said to Rudy. She put his coffee down in front of him.

“Where's Uncle Joe?” I asked.

“He's outside getting ready to work on that shelter,” she said. “He could use a hand today, if you're not going to be out on the lake today, Rudy.”

“No, I'm not going to be fishing today,” he said. “Probably won't fish again until I'm safe and sound in my own state. I'd be happy to help Uncle Joe with the shelter.”

“Good,” she said.

Aunt Sissy put the food on the table. I tried to eat with my head propped on one hand. Don't ask. It just felt better that way. We were all quiet, just shoveling the food in. Nobody had anything important to say, and we all felt stupid for making idle chitchat. So we just said nothing.

Finally, I broke the silence. “Is there somebody other than Roberta Flagg who works at the historical society?” I asked.

“Why?” Aunt Sissy asked.

“Because I'd like to get back in there and look at some things, but I really don't want to run the risk of ticking off Miss Minnesota Boxing Champion,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “You'll have to go tomorrow. It's the only day other than Sunday that she takes off. She has Tiny Holmann watch things for her.”

“Great,” I said. “Then I'll go to the library today. The one in Cedar Springs. You can take me there. Right?”

“Yes,” she said. “So did you make it to the cemetery?”

“Yeah,” I said.

She glanced at Rudy.

“He knows everything,” I said.

“Oh,” she said.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“How did I know what?” she countered.

“That Konrad Nagel couldn't have killed his son? When did you have a chance to check it out? You didn't even know Konrad's name. You couldn't have figured it out before me,” I said.

“I didn't,” she said. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Then why did you send me to the cemetery?”

“Because of Emelie. I had to deliver a tree to the Catholic church in town. I got to thinking that now that I had a name to go with this story … Anna Bloomquist … maybe I could find where she was buried. You know, something tangible. I wanted to see it for myself.”

“I certainly understand that,” I said.

“Boy, does she,” Rudy added.

“And so I went to the Lutheran church, went out into the graveyard, and found Anna's grave. And I found her parents' graves. But I could never find the grave for her daughter, Emelie. No marker, nothing,” she said.

“I noticed that, too.”

Aunt Sissy got up and began putting the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. She talked while she piled them in. “So, all the way home I kept thinking, Where is little Emelie?”

Silence hung in the air.

“Where do you think little Emelie is?” Rudy asked.

She shut the door to the dishwasher and looked at me. “I don't know. I was hoping Torie could tell me that. It's not the end of the story until I know where Emelie Bloomquist is. If she's buried here on this property, instead of a cemetery, then I want to know where the grave is. I want to put a marker up. If she's not…”

“If she's not, what?”

“I don't know. If she's not buried in the cemetery with her parents and she's not buried here, then where is she?”

“Oh, jeez,” I said. “Again, Aunt Sissy, we may never know the answer to that question.”

“I don't care. I want to try,” she said.

“All right,” I said, holding up a hand in surrender. “I noticed that Sven is not buried at the Lutheran cemetery, either. Maybe there's a family plot somewhere else. Like, like the cousins that they lived with when they first moved down here,” I suggested.