Murder Passes the Buck (4 page)

front of the television to wait for Little Donny.

_Two

Word for the Day

SIMPATICO (sim PAHT i koh) adj.
Gets along well with or goes well with another; compatible.

“
Where were you last night?
”
I asked Little Donny the next morning when he staggered to the table.

I finished writing my new word on a scrap of paper and included the pronunciation since it wasn
’
t an easy one to say
— it sounded Italian.

Little Donny looked like he
’
d partied too hard and smelled like stale beer and probably would have stayed in bed if I hadn
’
t rolled him out.

“
Herb
’
s Bar.
”
Little Donny rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and squinted at me through narrow slits.
“
What time is it?
”

“
Way past time for you to drive me over

to Chester
’
s house. I have some investigating to do.
”

“
What happened to your hair?
”
Little Donny
’
s eyes were peeling open. His hand held his head, keeping it from flopping on the kitchen table. I set a bowl of cornflakes down so if his hand gave out he
’
d have something soft to fall into.

“
I
’
ll be waiting outside.
”
I ruffled his hair as I passed.

George Erikson sat in a plastic lawn chair under the apple tree. I walked over to talk to him, since Little Donny was moving slow and I had a wait ahead of me before he could pull himself together and come out. Wasting time with George wasn
’
t exactly a hardship.

George
’
s father, Old Ben Erikson, and Barney developed a close friendship in spite of their age difference, and after Barney died, Old Ben told me he
’
d promised Barney he would look after me if anything ever happened to Barney. I thought he needed more taking care of than I did, but nothing could dissuade him. He
’
d made a promise and he
’
d keep his promise, but that
’
s a Swede. Loyal to the last.

So Old Ben sent his son around every day to do odds and ends and when he died in the spring at the ripe old age of eighty-nine,

his son kept coming round.

I have a small Christmas tree business that brings in enough money to pay the property taxes. George trims the trees twice a year, then cuts and wraps them for sale in late November during hunting season. This year, I plan on sharing the profits with him even though he
’
s refused in the past.

George is a few years younger than I am, sixty, give or take a few years. He wears flannel shirts, colored t-shirts, and his trademark cowboy hat with a stuffed rattlesnake wrapped around the crown. You can see its fangs like it
’
s about to strike.

Oh, and his buns are still tight. I may be getting old, but my eyes still work. He looks great in blue jeans. George used to be a construction foreman but quit to go into business for himself as a
carpenter
. He has that lean, mean, construction physique.

George and I are simpatico; we have the same view of life: take it easy, but don
’
t forget to grab the gusto.

“
What happened to your hair?
”
he said, amusement shining in his eyes.

“
Celebrating hunting season.
”
I stuffed the hunting cap back on my head and tucked the loose strands under it. I sat down on a chair next to him and could feel the

cold of the plastic working into my legs and thighs.

“
I hear Chester Lampi took a bullet yesterday,
”
George said, adjusting his cowboy hat. He still had a full head of hair under the hat, dark brown with a touch of gray at the temples.
“
A stray bullet, they say.
”

“
I don
’
t know about that stray bullet business,
”
I said.
“
It seems too convenient to me. What do you know about Chester?
”

“
Kept to himself.
”
George had Barney
’
s chain saw between his boots and began rubbing oil in the joints with a rust-colored rag.
“
He
’
s got a son who lives east of town. The son got married last month
— a blonde from down south someplace. Chester wasn
’
t happy about it. Marrying an outsider and all.
”

Chester wouldn
’
t have been happy about that.

We don
’
t have Blacks, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, or Asians in Stonely. Finns and Swedes settled the area. Culturally diverse to the people here means some fool sold his property to a Polack or a Kraut.

I
’
m more German than anything else, which I guess makes me one of those cultural diversities, and the word Kraut has been dropped one or two times within my

hearing. My maiden name was Miller. I met Barney in Washington, D.C., in 1956 after arriving from my family farm in rural Ohio and finding work as a bookkeeper for the State Department. He was a marine stationed there and I fell in love with him the moment I laid eyes on him. I always loved a man in uniform.

I came home with him to Stonely. People weren
’
t too happy about that, either. Times never change, and some haven
’
t forgotten that I don
’
t really belong. Forty-some years in the U.P. doesn
’
t give you automatic citizenship. You need three or four generations for that.

“
I ran into Chester at Ray
’
s last week,
”
George said, working the oil around the metal of the saw.

Ray owns the general store on Main Street and sells hardware, gun supplies, and gasoline, and he has a pretty good stock of grocery items.
“
Chester told me he was thinking about getting a winter home in Florida.
”

“
Yeah, right,
”
I said. When toads fly. Chester was dirt poor. His house wasn
’
t much bigger than that hunting blind they hauled him out of. In fact, the hunting blind was built better.
“
He must have been kidding with you.
”

“
No, he was serious.
”

“
Sounds suspicious to me and worth checking out.
”

“
Everything sounds suspicious to you. I suppose you think Chester was murdered.
”
When I didn
’
t answer, George looked up from greasing the chain saw and raised his eyebrows. Here we go again, his eyebrows said. I noticed he couldn
’
t do that one eyebrow thing that Cora Mae
’
s so good at.

“
It sounds like Chester came into some money all of a sudden.
”

George shrugged.

“
What was Chester buying at Ray
’
s?
”

George thought it over.
“
I don
’
t know. It was already bagged.
”

George didn
’
t know it, but he was sitting this very minute right on top of my buried treasure. After Barney
’
s funeral and burial in the Trenary cemetery, Blaze drove me over to the Escanaba bank, and I hauled out every penny I own. Barney and I were savers our whole life so it amounted to quite a stockpile. I made Blaze wait outside so he wouldn
’
t find out what I was doing and try to interfere.

The teller had to get the manager to approve the whole thing. He tried to talk me out of closing our account, but I stood firm. When I make up my mind, nobody can

change it. I filled a grocery bag with the bills as the teller counted them out, then stuffed an old shirt on top to conceal the money.

Never trust the federal government, I say. They
’
re out to get you. That crooked president, the IRS, all of them, a bunch of thieves waiting to pounce on good, law-abiding citizens the minute you turn your back.

Barney didn
’
t see eye to eye with me on this issue, but once he was gone I went and rescued our money. I buried it in a steel box right under where George had his tight buns parked, right under the apple tree Barney and I planted the first year we were married. I know it
’
s safe and I don
’
t need it right now anyway. My Social Security is enough to live on, but it
’
ll be waiting for me when Social Security runs out of money one of these days, when that bunch of thieves in Washington steals it all.

The cold from the plastic lawn chair numbed my thighs and sent chills shooting down my legs. I stood up and shook them out. Flecks of snow swirled in the breeze and the ground was crunchy with frost. I wore wool socks with my boots and long underwear under my hunting jacket, but George sat casually in a white long-sleeved

tee shirt and unbuttoned red flannel. His

nipples stood out in the cold like bird dogs

pointing.
“
Time to put on a jacket, George.
”
“
Not till January, Gertie. You know my

rule. No coats till January.
”
I can live with that.

Bear Creek snakes around Tamarack Township, passing through the boundary line of my back forty. It also meanders through Chester
’
s land. I left Little Donny in the truck and trudged through the low spot between the blind and the creek, looking for clues to Chester
’
s death. I carried my twelve-gauge shotgun just in case. I wasn
’
t sure what I was looking for, so I kept my eyes sharp.

Chester
’
s blind was perfectly situated, a few yards off of Deer Run, a series of deer paths heavily traveled by herds of deer. City folks think deer leap every which way through the woods, but they don
’
t. They have their own road system, and Deer Run is one of their superhighways.

This section of the path wound through some marshy low land with reeds and old cattails poking up, and ahead I could see young tamarack trees framing the ridge. My boots crunched through a thin layer of ice

as I went. It was slow going because if I stepped in too deep, I would have water over the top of my boots. I tested each step and occasionally looked back at my sunken footsteps.

Eventually, I reached the ridge and continued following Deer Run down the other side to the creek. The creek water still flowed, with a thin crust of ice beginning to form on the surface. A young turkey, startled by my presence, rose in the air and, with enormous effort, cleared the top of the trees. I
’
m always fascinated watching those big birds fly.

When I could no longer feel my nose, I headed back, taking a smaller deer path. It veered west of my original trail and crossed over the ridge. Reaching the low marsh, I spotted broken ice patches leading toward Chester
’
s blind. The same kind my boots made coming out, only I hadn
’
t come through this way.

I followed the broken ice, trying to match my footsteps with the broken patches, but whoever came through had a wider stride than I did. About fifty yards out, the footsteps widened as though the owner began to hurry, perhaps running. I paused and looked around. From here I could see Chester
’
s blind. With a high-powered scope, I