Witch Cradle (18 page)

“I suppose you heard about the fella.”

“Jack Stewart. I heard.”

“What do you think?”

“It makes sense to me. Nick never did think Jack was dead. But he still doesn't think so. He says Nelda gets some pretty fishy looking mail, and he figures it's from Jack. Money for the kids, maybe.”

That could account for some of Nelda's skittishness. So could losing mine-widow status and the potential of becoming a murder suspect.

“Knowing that it was Jack, if it was, doesn't help with knowing who killed them,” McIntire observed.

“It could provide another motive,” Mia said. “Jack Stewart was one of the strike breakers back when we were kids, remember? He'd have hardly been more than a kid himself at that time. People didn't talk about it after he married Nelda and moved here, but that doesn't mean they forgot.”

No, McIntire was sure of that. Forgetfulness was not a local virtue. “Orville Pelto says Rosie and Sulo Touminen weren't too fond of each other.”

“Rosie wasn't fond of Sulo. She couldn't stand him. Mainly because Sulo was a bit over-fond of Rosie.”

Another suitor? “I'm beginning to wish I'd known this woman.”

“Maybe Sulo thought Rosie might appreciate his attention. Anyway, he was always trying to corner her somewhere. She wasn't shy about telling him to get lost, but he seemed to think she was just playing hard to get. I figured he'd laid off once she was married, but maybe not. I was surprised when I heard she sold the farm to him.”

“You sure she really didn't like him? Maybe it was one of those protesting too much things.”

“Sulo? He spits tobacco into a Campbell's soup can!”

“Even back then?”

“Well, maybe he wasn't so bad in those days. But…nah, if Rose was carrying on with anybody, it wasn't Sulo. You know,” she pushed back the blanket and scratched at her leg above the edge of the cast, “I don't think it was Jack Stewart either. I don't believe Rose was having an affair at all.” Mia picked up a knitting needle and ran it under the plaster. “She might have flirted a bit, but I just don't think she'd have—”

Through the window McIntire could see Nick making his way, with that curious forward-leaning gait, to the kitchen door. He stood still for a moment before lifting his foot to the first step, then hesitated again. McIntire turned quickly back to the room. “She was in bed. In her flimsies.”

“Well, yes, that does seem a bit suspicious.”

Nick was visible through the half-open door to the kitchen, shuffling about, feeding wood into the heater. He didn't come through to greet McIntire or his wife, and Mia seemed oblivious to his presence.

“I had to tell Koski about the money.”

Mia was resigned. “I suppose he'll be wanting it. Or Teddy will.”

“Koski will probably want to hang on to it as evidence.”

“And he'll want to know why Papa kept it, and why he didn't tell anybody.” She straightened up, and the blanket slipped to the floor. “I want to know, too.”

The uneven thumping of Nick's steps echoed as he laboriously ascended the stairs. McIntire stood and spread the cover back over her legs. “Is he okay?”

She pressed her lips together. “I wouldn't know.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

The door to the barn stood open, held in place by a shovel. McIntire peered inside. It was unoccupied but for the quarter horses, Spirit and Traveler, munching hay in their separate stalls. McIntire approached as near as he cared to. “You should be ashamed,” he said, “sitting on all that horsepower, letting the woman who feeds you shovel the snow.”

“I'd say so.” Leonie came in the door with a pail of water in each hand. She lowered one of them to the ground with a huff and a splash. “So you're home.”

“That I am.” McIntire moved forward to take the remaining bucket from her, but she gripped it and walked past him.

“Is it all right if I ask where you've been?” She slapped the burly haunch that blocked her entry into the nearest stall, stepped inside, and waited while Spirit, or Traveler—McIntire was never sure which was which—sank his nose into the water and siphoned it up.

“Didn't you see my note?”

“It didn't say where you were going.” She moved to dole out the second portion of water to Traveler, or Spirit.

Hadn't it? “I went to Marquette to see Melvin Fratelli.”

Leonie ran her fingers through the thick hair of the horse's neck as he slurped. McIntire moved closer. “Come on inside. It's freezing.”

“It's always freezing.” She slipped out of the stall and faced him. Her eyelashes were tipped with frost. “You might have woken me up. I'd like to get out a bit, too.”

“If you want to argue, it'll have to be indoors.”

It seemed Leonie did want to argue. She turned and stomped off to the house. McIntire closed and latched the barn door.

Once inside, she seemed to thaw a bit, both physically and metaphorically. She warmed her hands over the gas burner before sliding the kettle onto it. “I thought you didn't care for Mr. Fratelli.”

“I didn't go to pass the time of day.”

“What
did
you go for?”

“He can't possibly really think that there's some sort of seditious activity going on in St. Adele. I wanted to find out what he's up to. Why he's making all this fuss over—”

“And did you?”

“Not really.”

“So you traveled all that way for nothing?” She didn't wait for an answer. “I don't see why it's so important to you. As you say, the Star of Hope Society is hardly a communist front organization, even if that is what Melvin Fratelli thinks. He's not going to find anything, so what difference does it make?”

“Erik Pelto isn't a Red saboteur either, but Fratelli has managed to ruin his life without half trying.”

“Do you think he'll really have to leave the country?”

“I haven't heard of anybody actually being deported. But fighting it can go on forever. Knut Heikkinen has been in jail in Duluth since October. That German war bride is still sitting in Ellis Island after almost two years. Even if Erik gets out of jail, he won't be able to find a job. Not teaching.”

“No,” she agreed, “and that's the worst of it. It wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have a family to support. It's not their fault.”

“Orville's staying with them now. I stopped off when I passed by. The hearing will be in Duluth in a couple of days. They're hoping the charges will be dropped, or Erik will get out on bail.”

Leonie poured water into the pot, put down the kettle, and walked to him. She put her arms around his neck and rested her chin on his head. “I'm sorry I was so grumpy. It's getting to be a long winter.”

McIntire assured her that it was quite all right. He shouldn't have gone without letting her know.

She kissed the top of his ear. “So that was your day then?”

He leaned back into her throat. “It's not quite over yet.”

“I mean, did you stop anywhere else?”

Her neck was warm against him. He only hesitated a second. “No.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

“That one will do.” Leonie pointed to the beige crockery mixing bowl on the top shelf. “No! Don't you dare budge. I can stand on a chair.” She smiled. “Some of us own kitchen stools.”

“Do tell? You have my sympathy.”

Leonie wiped the dust from the bowl and proceeded to mix up her New Year's Day Punch. “A bit late, but this is the first occasion I've had. I'll put the ginger ale in at the last minute.”

She had come early, as Mia had known she would, and for which she felt guiltily grateful.

“But how could Mr. Stewart have traveled from the mine back here to Rose's without anybody seeing him? How did he get to work? Presumably he didn't drive back and fore.”

“No. The mine location had a bunk house. Jack stayed there during the week and came home Sundays. There were a few men that did that, and they'd have taken turns driving I suppose. I don't know how he could have got from the mine to the Falks' house after the accident. If he had a car and he left in it, there wouldn't have been any question about whether he was alive or not. There was talk that he'd taken off with one of those railroad handcars, but he'd still have had a long walk from the tracks to Falks'. There used to be a bus running from St. Adele to some of the towns around, but if he'd been on that, people would have noticed.”

“A bus? Here?”

“There were more people then.”

“And,” Leonie arched her eyebrows, “if anybody had picked him up and given him a ride, they'd have noticed, too.”

“But they might have kept it to themselves.”

“They would probably still remember.” Leonie floated slices of apple in her brew. “How is Nick doing?” she asked.

“As well as can be expected, as they say. I suppose John told you he's not going back to work. The new mailman will be permanent.”

Leonie nodded. She was looking a little green around the gills herself, and Mia asked, “How have things been with you?”

“Perhaps a little cabin fever. This winter already seems longer than last year's. There's Sally.” Leonie dived into her grocery bag one more time, and brought out another bottle. “Just a wee drop.”

“Not gin?” Mia had heard the English were fond of it. She wasn't sure the ladies would be, outside of Elsie Karvonen.

“Vodka. They won't even notice.”

“Isn't that unfair?”

“Only if you don't tell.”

“Are you going to?”

“I will if they ask.”

Sally Ferguson's car was followed by the Lindstroms' Chevrolet. The two vehicles spit forth seven women, each dressed in her best bib and tucker and carrying a pan or a bowl or a box.

“Safety in numbers,” Mia said.

“Everyone was a little surprised you agreed to this.”

“Me too. When I said okay, it took Sally so long to answer I thought she must have fainted.”

“Well, we have you captive now, in your own home. Nowhere to run. You may as well go arrange yourself in regal splendor on your couch.” She helped Mia to her feet. “It won't be too bad. Sally doesn't like to drive in the dark.”

For the first time in her life, Mia felt some irritation at the lengthening days. She followed Leonie's advice and took herself off to the living room. At least she wouldn't have to see the looks on their faces when they laid eyes on the state of her kitchen. They didn't know the half of it. They should have seen it before Nick's gallant attempt at washing the floor. Fortunately, unlike Mia, none of them was tall enough to see the top of the refrigerator. Those unsuspected layers of dust on her neighbors' high spots were Mia's single source of housekeeping smugness.

Irene Touminen was the first to extricate herself from the buzz in the kitchen that accompanied the unwrapping of bodies and foodstuffs.

“How are you doing? You look well.”

“She's lying. You look ghastly.” Elsie Karvonen strode in behind her, redolent with the odor of a recent permanent wave. She handed Mia a glass half filled with the lukewarm punch. “This is a hell of a note. When do you get that thing off?”

Mia put the glass on the table. She hadn't consumed an ounce of liquid since her early morning coffee and didn't intend to. They were all probably itching to find out how she managed with a cast on her leg and no indoor toilet. She wasn't about to satisfy their curiosity.

The ladies knew their business, and the period devoted to greetings was mercifully short. In fifteen minutes they were all seated, some in greater comfort than others, each balancing a plate of assorted tidbits on her knee.

“What do you suppose Delilah will do?” Sandra Culver popped a cracker layered with brilliant orange cheese, topped with a pimento-stuffed olive, between her perfectly formed lips. Mia hadn't expected her to come. Since the death of her oldest daughter, Sandra had stuck close to home. Maybe some of that had to do with that daughter not being around to take over the care of her numerous younger siblings.

Inge Lindstrom spoke up. “Go with her husband, what else would she do?”

“Go with him where?”

“Back to Finland,” Lucy Delaney said. “Poor little mouse. She hardly sticks her nose out of the house here where she speaks the language.”

“Back
to Finland? Has Erik ever lived there? Stuff and nonsense! He fought in the war, for cripe's sake. The kids are American citizens. They'll fart around for awhile, keep him in jail, but they're not gonna deport him.” Elsie Karvonen drained her glass and started to the kitchen. “It seems like sort of a coincidence that it came up now, though.” She spoke just as the kitchen door swung shut. “You don't suppose it could have had something to do with the murders?”

“Erik and Delilah? He must have been all of twelve years old, and I doubt Delilah was even born yet.”

“How old is that girl anyway?” It was Sandra, and the question sounded bleak.

“Not very,” Sally replied. “Makes you wonder how old she was when they…got together.”

“I thought of that.” Lucy tutted and munched at the edge of a Swedish rosette with understandable hesitance. It was probably left from Inge's Christmas baking. “Maybe there's other reasons he ain't the best choice for teacher.”

“That's something we don't have to worry about. He might not be kicked out of the country but he sure won't be teaching again.”

“Well, I do feel bad for the family. Whatever he's done, it's not their fault.”

Mia wondered if any of them had taken the trouble to visit Delilah to see for themselves how she was faring. Her broken leg at least served the purpose of alleviating her own guilt.

Grace Maki answered the question. “I went to see Delilah yesterday. Orville's there to keep an eye on things. Unfortunately the FBI's taken to keeping an eye on Orville and whoever else might be hanging around. They drove by and gave my car the once over while I was there. Poor little Delilah's scared half to death, and I don't blame her.”

“Goodness, she's probably got more to worry about than the FBI what with feeding those kids and keeping them warm. The house is only rented.”

“Do you think possibly we might do something to help?” Leonie asked. “Perhaps the church…?”

The short silence was broken by Sandra Culver. “Did you have something in mind?” Her words were cautious. Mia empathized with Sandra's wariness. Leonie McIntire had a good heart, but when it came to Christian charity her schemes were sometimes awkward for the donors and closer to humiliating for the recipient.

“They're going to need help, at least while Erik is in jail and probably after that,” Leonie answered. “How will they get along?”

Elsie returned with a full glass. “They'll let him out. He can get another job. He's young and healthy.”

It was followed by another self-conscious gap in conversation, eyes focused on plates—or anywhere to avoid looking at Mia.

Grace finally said, “I don't think they'll accept donations.”

“We could do something to raise money.”

“Wouldn't that be sort of embarrassing for them?”

“They wouldn't have to know,” Leonie said. “Anyway, it might be different for Delilah. She's a child, really. I don't think she'd be too proud to accept help.” She added, “She's not American.”

“You appear to have some plan in mind, Leonie. You'd better tell us.” Sally gave Leonie her chance, and they were doomed. Leonie was too good at convincing people. Her accent always made her sound smarter than anybody else.

“I was thinking perhaps we could make up a cookery book.”

“Cookery?”

“A recipe book. I saw one from a Methodist church in Saginaw. We just put in our favorite recipes. I can print it up, and we could sell it for a dollar or so a copy.” She speared a limp slice of cucumber. “I'm sure people would pay a dollar just to get the secret to these lovely pickles.” She smiled at Lucy Delaney, assuring the twin incentives of pride and competition.

“Well….”

“We can talk about it at the meeting on Sunday.”

Mia was not a member of St. Adele's Lutheran Ladies Aid, and she couldn't be traipsing off to meetings. Maybe she should hang on to the cast for a while. She used the lull in the discussion, no doubt occasioned by visions of culinary fame, to introduce her own agenda.

“Does anybody know,” she asked, “if there'll be a funeral for Rose?”

“I'd certainly think so. Maybe we'd better see to that, too. Her husband's in no shape to organize it.”

“Well, what about one for Jack?”

“If that's who it is.”

She'd accomplished her task, and Mia sat back to listen, trying to eat slowly. She nibbled Grace Maki's baked beans. She hoped there'd be plenty of leftovers, including the punch. That wasn't likely with Elsie around.

“It's so queer.” Irene had been mostly quiet until now. “We thought we'd lost her—and Jack—and now we have to go through it all over again. But life has gone on as usual all these years without them, almost like it didn't matter. Is that how it'll be this time, too? Will it be any different
knowing
that they're dead?” Irene's philosophizing was met with a stares and a few wise shakes of the head. “I just don't know,” she went on, “why nobody seemed to realize that Teddy and Rose didn't leave when they should have. Didn't anybody try to say goodbye?”

“If it happened on the same day as the mine accident we probably just weren't paying attention.”

Sally Ferguson stirred her coffee. “I'll never forget when I heard about all those men dying. Drowning in mud…in the dark. Grace's husband came over and told us the next morning. I was pouring milk into the separator, and half of it ended up on the floor. I didn't take any notice until I found myself standing in a puddle!”

“I was in Escanaba with Sulo,” Irene said. “We stayed with Ma's cousin and his wife. One of the kids had a radio in his room and was up listening to it at all hours. He started yelling. Scared the daylights out of me!”

“It's amazing how fast news spread in those days, even here where we didn't have the radio.”

“But we did have Mike Maki.”

“That's right,” Grace said. “I always say, our three means of communication—telephone, telegraph, and tell Mike.”

“Where does your husband find out all that stuff?”

Grace chuckled. “Telephone, telegraph, and turn on the radio. But that night he got it from Eban Vogel.”

“From my father?” Mia felt a chill.

“It was late, about eleven o'clock, but still hot as Hades. I was just coming out of the sauna, and Eban stopped when he saw my light. He was on his way back from town, seems to me. Looked like he'd been through the wringer. Ross was just a baby, and I remember thinking I wasn't going to ever let him go down in a mine.” Grace shook her head. “And now look where he's ended up.”

Ross Maki had spent three years working on and off for Mia, picking up wood and supplies, delivering her finished work. Now he was in Fort Leonard Wood, being groomed for Korea. She sorely missed him, and not just for his driving abilities.

Mia remembered learning about the accident from her father the day after it happened. She'd come downstairs to find him sitting on the porch steps, staring across the yard. It was a still morning, promising a sultry day to come, but not yet warm enough to account for his damp and ashen face. She asked if he was sick, and he told her that more than fifty men had drowned in a mine. She also distinctly recalled that he'd claimed to have heard the news in the usual place—Mike Maki's sauna.

But it was looking like the source of the story, the first to know, was Eban Vogel.