The Singing of the Dead (26 page)

He leaned forward, slowly enough so that she could move out of the way if she wanted to. She stood where she was, even angling her mouth to meet his.

He drew back. “One more time, Angel? Please?”

She couldn't find it in her to resist his plea.

He undressed her, one article of clothing at a time, not hurrying, barely touching her, hanging her garments one by one on the coatrack inside the front door. A frisson of awareness danced over her skin, not entirely due to the chill spring air and the stove not yet being lit for the evening. It had been a long time.

When she was naked, except for the stockings held above her knees with satin garters and the high-heeled shoes with the rhinestone heels, he stood looking at her in silence.

When he spoke, she was startled out of her sensual absorption by the real despair in his voice. “You're still as beautiful as ever.” He walked around her, and she could feel his eyes on her body like a caress. “Damn you,” he whispered, and kissed her again, thrusting his knee between her legs and pressing up. He took her hips in his hands and ground her against him.

In spite of his ungentle handling she began to respond, but the wool of his suit was rough against her breasts, and she whimpered in protest.

He broke away, panting. “Don't move,” he whispered. “Let me look at you.”

He walked around her again as she stood trembling.

When he walked behind her for the third time, he paused for so long she asked, “What? What is it, Matt?”

“God, how I loved you,” he said, and something hit the back of her head, and the Dawson Darling knew no more.

T hey were waiting at the Niniltna airstrip the next morning when George Perry flew in with the Anne Gordaoff entourage. She got out of George's leased 206 first, and when she saw Kate she smiled with what looked like genuine friendliness. “Hello, Kate.”

“Hello, Anne.”

“How was your day off.”

“Educational,” Kate said. “You know Jim Chopin.”

“Of course, as who doesn't?” Anne smiled and held out her hand.

“Ms. Gordaoff. Some information has come to my attention about Paula Pawlowski. I wonder if I might speak with you for a few moments.”

Darlene, at Anne's shoulder, said, “We've got a schedule to meet, Jim. We don't really have time for—”

He kept his eyes on Anne. “That's a shame. Let's go, then.” He put his hand beneath Anne's elbow and urged her toward the blue-and-white Cessna 180 with the state trooper logo on the fuselage parked to one side of the strip.

“What?” Darlene said. “Wait a minute, where are you taking her? Jim?”

He halted, looking down at Anne. “We can talk here,” he told her, “or we can fly to Tok and talk at the post there.”

It was all pure bluff, of course. He didn't have a warrant— yet—and she didn't have to go anywhere with him. Kate thought Anne probably knew that. Darlene didn't, and she was spluttering with rage. Tracy Huffman glanced at Kate and then buried her nose in her DayTimer. Tracy'd always been good at staying out of the line of fire, a talent Kate envied. Doug Gordaoff took one step forward and then halted, silent, watching. Erin was indifferent to anything but her own misery.

Tom, to his credit, said in a loud, angry voice, “Get your hands off my mother.” His father put a hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off. “Let her go,” Tom said. It was the first time Kate had seen him exhibit anything remotely resembling familial feeling, and she was surprised.

“You want to stay out of this, son,” Jim said.

Anne stared up at him. “You know, don't you.”

“Know what, Anne?”

She looked over her shoulder at Kate. “You found out.”

“Paula Pawlowski did,” Kate said. “It was in her notes.”

Anne's shoulders slumped a little. “Maybe Billy Mike will let us use the conference room at the association.” Her smile looked forced. “At least we'll be in out of the cold.”

“Let's go,” Jim said.

Tom managed to contain himself until they were seated at the table in the conference room before he burst out, “Is this about Paula Pawlowski? Because if it is, and if you're dumb enough to think Mom had anything to do with it, you're just plain crazy.”

Jim frowned down at his notebook and made a minute correction to an entry. Kate, looking over his shoulder, saw that the notebook was open to a completely blank page.

“Besides, she was giving a speech at a dinner in Ahtna at the time.”

“At what time, Tom?” Jim said without looking up.

“The evening Paula Pawlowski died. And after that she was in our hotel room, with Dad, all night.”

Tom couldn't know that, but for the moment, Kate held her peace.

Jim looked up for the first time, straight at Anne. “Where were you the following afternoon, Anne?”

She looked startled. “Why, I don't know, I—” She looked at Darlene.

Tracy Huffman snapped open her DayTimer. “She was passing the talking stick at a healing circle for recovering alcoholics at the Ahtna Medical Clinic at three P . M . That lasted until five

P . M ., when she joined the residents of the Ahtna Pioneer Home for dinner in their cafeteria. She was there until seven P . M ., maybe a little longer because they had a lot of questions about the plan to phase out the longevity fund.”

“And after that, we went to dinner with the Kegturyaq Native Association, and then to our rooms, where we read until we went to sleep,” Doug said.

Doug Gordaoff seemed to have rediscovered his marriage. Interesting, Kate thought, given that she'd seen him hit on more women in a twenty-four-hour period than even Jim Chopin could manage.

“Thank you, Doug,” Jim said, with a corresponding scribble. The notebook was all for show, a tool of intimidation. Most people who'd been called in to help the trooper with his investigation couldn't keep their eyes off it. Something in the act of someone taking down your words as you speak made people immediately wonder what they had said wrong, made them want to correct themselves, rationalize their behavior, contradict what they'd said before, or, fatally, attempt to explain themselves. It was a natural human reaction to try put the best light on one's actions, no matter how amoral, asocial, abusive, or bloody.

And that was when Jim nailed them in interrogation. He never actually wrote anything down in the notebook, though. When it came to write the official report, he wouldn't have forgotten a single detail. It would all go into the computer and be printed out in damning black and white that always stood up in court. Jim Chopin was a district attorney's wet dream.

A good cop and a good pilot, Kate thought. Two good qualities.

She shifted in her chair. Speaking of rationalization, what had happened between them in Bering in July or at the garbage dump in Ahtna was no reason for her to endow Jim Chopin with character. He'd been kind to her, yes, and she was grateful, but it stopped there. She concentrated on the conversation, like she should have been doing in the first place.

“And you were where during this period, Doug?”

Aha, Kate thought, repressing an unwilling smile. Jim was making it known that he was well aware that if Doug Gordaoff was Anne Gordaoff's unbreakable alibi, then Anne Gordaoff was Doug Gordaoff's alibi as well.

Doug stared. “I was with her, of course.”

Kate didn't know it, but she and Jim were thinking exactly the same thing at that moment. How convenient.

Jim looked at Erin Gordaoff. “Where were you, Erin?”

“Who said you could call her by her first name?” Tom said, rising to his feet and leaning forward with his hands on the table. “Who said you could call my mother or my father by their first name? Show a little respect, and we might think about answering your questions.”

“Where were you, Erin?” Jim said.

“I don't know,” Erin said, her tone close to a whine, and Kate thought what a dreary young woman she was. Hard to believe she was Anne Gordaoff's daughter. Maybe fairies had pulled a switch in the crib.

“What's with all these questions?” Tom said. “You march us in here like we're under arrest, and now you're interrogating my family like we know something about Paula Pawlowski's death. We don't.”

“Someone killed her, Tom.”

“Well, that somebody isn't sitting around this table.”

Jim consulted his nonexistent notes. “Where were you that night?”

“Now, just a damn minute,” Anne said, an unaccustomed flush rising up into her face. It was the first time Kate had seen her upset.

Jim looked up for the first time, meeting her eyes squarely. “Tell us about your great-grandmother, Anne.”

There was a silence that stretched out like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point. No one moved. For a while it seemed like no one breathed.

“What do you mean, tell you about my great-grandmother?”

Anne said, but it was a poor attempt, and she had waited far too long to make it.

“The Northern Light,” Jim said.

There was another silence.

“She's dead,” Anne said. “She's been dead since 1915. I never knew her.”

“That's not what I asked you, Anne.”

“What's going on, Mom?” Tom said. “Which great-grandmother?”

Jim waited for Anne to answer. She didn't. He said, “The last threatening letter you received, Anne, the one telling you to pay up or they'd tell.”

Anne was pale but composed. “Yes?”

“I just got the report from the crime lab in Anchorage. It was written by someone else other than the writer of the original letters.”

“Oh. I don't understand. I—have two people been writing me hate mail?”

“No,” Jim said, “one person has been writing you hate mail, and a second person, a completely different person, has been trying to blackmail you.”

“That's ridiculous,” Anne said. “That's just—that's silly. I don't have anything to be blackmailed for.” She looked around the table. “My family—”

“Yes, let's talk about your family,” Jim said. “Your family's got legs in Alaska, both literally and figuratively, starting with the Dawson Darling, who danced for her supper at the Double Eagle Saloon in Dawson City, who worked the Fairbanks Line, and who later moved to Niniltna to open the establishment known as the Northern Light.” He sat back, very much at his ease, and waited, blues eyes steady in an unnerving stare. It was said that Jim Chopin could look at you with that stare and make you confess to murdering your own mother, even if you'd been on Maui at the time.

“That was a long time ago,” Anne said, almost sullen.

“Yes, it was, and I couldn't give a damn, but you might not agree.”

Anne shifted in her chair. “It's not something we talk about a lot in my family.”

Jim agreed. “Some families are little more uptight than others.”

“Uptight?” Anne said. “She was a prostitute. She sold her body for money. It's not something to be proud of.”

“What?” Tom said.

“What?” Doug said.

“What?” Erin said.

Tracy's eyebrows flew up into her hairline.

Darlene's expression didn't change.

“Not something to be proud of,” Jim repeated. “Is it a secret you'd kill to keep, Anne?”

“That's enough,” Darlene said. “This conversation is over.” She looked at Jim with a pointed expression. “Unless you want to arrest someone?”

Jim let them wait while he thought about it. “No,” he said at last, and let the room relax before he ratcheted up the tension again. “Not at the moment.”

Darlene didn't move a muscle. “Fine.”

“I would like a list of Anne's activities for the rest of the day, however.”

“Fine,” Darlene said again, giving Tracy a curt nod before she swept out the door, herding the Gordaoffs in front of her.

Tracy sighed. “Just once I'd like to be on a winning team.”

Kate spoke for the first time. “You think the fact that Anne's great-grandmother was a hooker during the Gold Rush will lose her the election?”

Tracy shook her head. “Not the fact that her great-grandmother was a hooker, Kate. The fact that Anne kept it a secret.” She opened her DayTimer. “Anne's having lunch at the Roadhouse in an hour. She'll probably be there until three, when we come back for the start of the cheerleader tournament.”

“You overnighting here?” Jim said.

Tracy nodded and picked up her bag. “Well, hell, Kate. It was fun while it lasted.”

They grinned at each other. “You sticking with the campaign?”

Tracy shrugged. “They're still paying me, so far as I know.” She shook her head and said mournfully, “This was such a slam dunk a month ago. What the hell happened?”

When she was gone Jim looked at Kate and said, “Good question.”

She sighed. “Yeah.”

The door opened and they looked up. It was Dinah, flushed and breathing hard, as if she'd been running. “Finally,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

“What's up?” Kate said, Dinah's urgency pulling her to her feet. “What's wrong?”

Dinah looked at Jim Chopin. “Good-bye, Jim.”

He stood behind Kate. “What's going on?”

“It's personal,” Dinah said. “Good-bye.”

“I guess I can take a hint.” He reached out a hand and chucked Dinah beneath the chin. “So long, gorgeous.” He adjusted the ball cap over his eyes. “Kate.”

When the door closed behind him, Dinah said, “Somebody told Jane how to get to your homestead.”

“She came back? Where'd she stay last night?”

“I don't know. All I know is she went out to the Roadhouse and six-packed Frank Scully, and he loaned her his truck. Bernie drove in to tell Bobby she's on her way. Where's Johnny?”

Kate was already out the door. “With Ethan.”

“Is your truck here?”

“Parked next to the airstrip.”

“I'm coming with you.”

“Like hell.”

“Auntie Vi's got Katya, Bobby's already on his way, I'm coming with you.” She was in the cab of Kate's truck before Kate was. “Kate?”

“What?” The truck scattered gravel and snow twenty feet as Kate pulled a broty on the way to the road.

“There's something else. Not about Johnny, about Anne.”

“One thing at a time,” Kate said, and floored it.

Bobby's pickup was pulled neatly to one side of the road, the offside wheels pulled to the extreme edge of the very narrow shoulder. Jane had left the end of Frank Scully's pea green Dodge Ramcharger sticking out into the road; Kate gave it an ungentle nudge with the Chevy, and it turned out Jane had left the Dodge in neutral. It rolled forward until the two front tires ran off the side of the turnaround and got itself well and truly high-centered on the edge. “Shit,” Kate said.