Witch Cradle (29 page)

Fratelli slid in next to his prisoner, the tires spun on the snow, and McIntire and Teddy Falk stood staring at their taillights. The entire operation had taken less than five minutes.

“Shit.” McIntire peered into the Pontiac's window, “She's got the key.”

Touminen's rusted Ford pickup, bed heaped with sawdust, sat off to the side.

Teddy opened the door. “Key's in this one. Hop in. I'll get you back to your wife.”

McIntire was well beyond hopping. He groaned his way into the cab. Falk perched on the edge of the seat and stretched to reach the clutch. They chugged out onto the road.

“The boys taking you for a little joy ride?” McIntire asked.

“Ya,” Falk replied. “They found me a job. Place in Minnesota. Honeywell.”

Whatever offenses the man had committed in J. Edgar Hoover's and Joe McCarthy's eyes, he was about to atone for them.

“Why'd she lock Sulo in there?” Falk wanted to know.

“Because he figured out what she'd done, and she knew I was getting close to it, too.”

“It was Irene that killed Cedric Hudson?”

McIntire nodded. “And buried your wife in the cistern.”

Teddy grunted. Nothing surprised him. “Thank you. At least it's over. We can let Rosie rest now.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

Rose could rest at last, but she might be about the only one. Did tracking down her killer make things better for anybody? McIntire put the question to Leonie the next day.

She thought for a while. “Her widower has a new job.”

Already another moral dilemma. Was he obligated to let Leonie know that Teddy Falk's employment with a major munitions manufacturer might involve some bothersome overtime? That a counter-agent's work is never done?

Leonie went on, “Irene Touminen killed an old man and was responsible for concealing the death of a young woman and her unborn child. She left them all three to rot away under a pile of garbage. She ought not to have gotten away with it for almost twenty years.”

“And if she's convicted of any of those crimes, Irene will rot away in some women's prison for who knows how long. What good does that do? She was a frightened and desperate woman. She wouldn't have done it again.”

“She almost did! If Irene had her way, her brother would be dead and taking the blame.” She knelt on the floor before him. “And shortly after she called in on Nelda Stewart, the poor woman decided to end her life. That might not have been a coincidence.”

McIntire wished he could believe that it was Irene's visit and not his own that had driven Mrs. Stewart to her barn.

“Murder will out.” Leonie looked up into his eyes. “You couldn't have kept this to yourself, and you can't expect evil to result in anything but more evil. All you can do is try to put a stop to it. Which you did.” She pulled the bandage snug around his knee. “Dr. Guibard says I should see that you stay off it for a few days.”

“Good.”

“You said
if
Irene is convicted. Do you think she might not be?”

“The only evidence that Irene intentionally locked Sulo in the ice house will have to come from Sulo himself. He'll never face up to that, and a jury might well see killing Cedric Hudson as excusable. There's not even any evidence that she did that. If she decides to plead not guilty, deny the whole thing….”

“But trying to pin it on Eban Vogel, and then on her brother? Maybe they'll find her fingerprints on the watch.”

McIntire shrugged. “She was tidying up Mia's room. It was a nice watch. She picked it up to have a closer look.”

“How could she have done those things? Do you think her mind is not quite right?”

Another crazy? Was he the expert on such matters? McIntire didn't reply. Leonie leaned against his knee and closed her eyes.

McIntire touched her hair. “Are you going to leave?”

“I promised two years. I keep my promises.”

The two years would be up almost before the snow was off the roof. “I'll try to keep my promise, too.”

“Did you think that it didn't matter? That after we were married I'd whither-thou-goest no matter what you got up to?”

What
he
got up to? How about hunting him down and marrying him under false pretenses? “I suppose maybe I did,” McIntire admitted.

“I don't know if I can hold you to our agreement. Neither of us knew enough about what we were promising. Things turned out to be different from what we expected. Things might change again. There could be another war…or things closer to home.”

She didn't come right out and say it, but there was no point in ignoring what she meant. Mia Thorsen might, before too long, be a widow. If that happened—
when
that happened—would it change his life with Leonie?

He and Mia were two sides of the same coin, a dismal coin. As a couple, they would have made a slightly bigger shadow, nothing more. Together they'd have lived a life of gloom, feeding on each other's cynicism. Nick had been the perfect mate for Mia, and Leonie was…. “You know I could never have a decent life without you.”

“No,” she said. “You couldn't. I'm sure of that.”

“I didn't finish telling you about the time I spent in New Jersey.”

Once again the mention of that sojourn triggered a rap on the door.

Leonie stood and pulled aside the curtains. She mouthed, “G-man.”

Now there was someone who'd made quite a lot of hay out of McIntire's discovery of those bodies. Melvin Fratelli had delivered up a Soviet agent and hauled in a murderer. Maybe it would satisfy his blood lust for a while. He knocked again. McIntire called out, “Nobody home!”

Leonie dumped the bag of ice into the sink and opened the door. Her “good day” was slightly more civil but no more welcoming than her husband's greeting.

Fratelli dropped the key to McIntire's Studebaker on the table.

“How's the knee doing? Must have been one hell of an experience. You coulda died.”

“I could have, along with a young woman from halfway round the world with two babies whose husband has lost his job and is being hounded out of the country that has been his home all his life.” It was all the misery McIntire could fit into a single breath.

“Having a wife and kids don't make Pelto any less communist. Whether he goes or not is up to Immigration. But one less commie in this country is okay by me.”

“We know that, Melvin.”

“Particularly those with a subscription to….” He pulled a thin magazine from his pocket and slapped it on the table.
“Science and Society.”

“He's a science teacher.”

“This rag has nothing to do with science, unless you call Karl Marx a scientist.”

So why was Fratelli bringing the evidence of Pelto's treachery to McIntire?

“John.” The agent pulled out a chair and sat. He placed his hands on the table. “I know you aren't taking this very seriously, and I'm concerned about that. It's a serious business and we could use your help. That's why I brought this.” He picked up the magazine. “And now I'm going to tell you something else. Something in strictest confidence.”

So McIntire had made the transition from suspect back to prospective colleague. He wasn't sure he cared.

“Does this mean I should leave?” Leonie's eyes grew round.

Fratelli studied her face for a minute. “You appear to be a sensible woman. Just remember this is top secret.” At Leonie's solemn nod, he continued, “Certain documents have been found. Maps. Maps of this area, showing mines, railroads that carry the ore, docks they carry it to. This is information the Russians would love to get their hands on.”

“So why don't they get their own map?” Leonie asked.

“These are their maps, or would have been if we hadn't intercepted them. What we want to know is where the information came from.”

“Perhaps from the Michigan State Highway Department?” Leonie was indeed a sensible woman.

“State highway maps don't show mines.”

“But that information isn't private,” Leonie pointed out. “They could look in the phone book. Or just drive around and—”

“Have you noticed anyone doing that?”

“Driving around?”

“Maybe slow, keeping their eyes open. Like they were looking for something.”

“Only you, Mr. Fratelli.”

McIntire sighed. “Melvin, if you have some specific evidence that one of us is a Soviet spy, get back to me. Otherwise, this is still a free county.”

“And people who don't like it are damned well free to leave. Not like some of those places your precious Erik Pelto and his bunch would like to turn us into.” He stood up brusquely. McIntire pulled back his bare feet.

“Mr. Fratelli,” Leonie inquired, “wouldn't you like to purchase one of the church's cookery books? Only one dollar. The money is going to help a family in need.”

Fratelli opened his wallet. “I don't really have anything smaller than a five—”

“How very generous of you!” Leonie gently removed the bill from his fingers and replaced it with five shiny new copies of
The St. Adele Zion Lutheran Church Ladies Auxiliary Recipes
and Household Hints
.
Fratelli opened his mouth, then closed both it and his coat.

“Happy hunting,” McIntire told him. He closed the door on Agent Fratelli's back. For a long time, he hoped. “Better hide that before it dawns on him who the needy family is.”

Leonie folded the bill and stuffed it into her neckline. “I believe you were going to tell me about a trip to New Jersey.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

“Can I borrow your wife?” Pete Koski, in three layers of wool, filled McIntire's porch.

“What did you have in mind?”

“We got to search Touminens. It's just a formality since the woman confessed, but it's gotta be done. Sulo's home now and he ain't gonna be pleased.”

“So you want Leonie to wrestle him down? Sure thing, we'll drive over.” If Koski wanted Leonie to exert her placating influence on Sulo, her husband would be part of the deal. The sheriff didn't argue, only asked, “Can you get around?”

“Well enough.” McIntire would have crawled if that's what it took to participate in the search of Irene Touminen's house. Her confession to McIntire—killing the doctor and the ensuing collusion with Eban Vogel to cover it up and protect Rose's good name—had satisfied the sheriff and the state police, but they hadn't been there to hear it. McIntire was still unsettled by Irene's demeanor during their encounter, and by the lack of hard evidence. She had only to plead not guilty, deny it all, and it would be McIntire's word against hers. He swallowed four aspirin and got into his coat.

There was nothing tougher than an old Finn, except maybe a relatively young one. Sulo's twenty-four hours in the ice house seemed to have left no lasting physical effects. He peered around McIntire's shoulder to the car. “Shit, I thought you were maybe bringing Irene home.”

Leonie moved forward. “It could be a while, Mr. Touminen. You'd be wise to be prepared to be on your own for a time.”

“Who's going to do the milking?”

“We'll all help out where we can. You'll do fine.”

When he heard that the sheriff intended to search the house, Sulo swore and added, “Irene ain't gonna like somebody snooping through her stuff.” McIntire was relieved to watch him stalk off to the barn. He would as soon have Sulo well away while he snooped through his sister's stuff.

Koski was accompanied only by Cecil Newman. This mission was no doubt another considered too sensitive for Adam Wall.

Cecil, by virtue of his stature, or lack of it, was assigned to explore the attic.

“We'll leave the kitchen for last,” Koski decided. “Anything she wanted to keep to herself would probably be in her bedroom. I'll take a look.” He followed Newman up the stairs. That left the living room for McIntire.

There was little to search. The room held a sofa, two chairs, a floor model radio, a good-sized bookcase and, snugged up to the coal-burning heater, the sewing machine. He pulled open one of its two drawers. Thread, scissors, pincushion. Nothing criminal. The other held more of the same. He turned to the glass-fronted bookcase. Its top shelf held a thick stack of letters from the Finland Touminens. Letters that McIntire had translated. Proof, at least, that Irene might have expressed some surprise at Rose Falk's postcard. Not much help but every little bit—

“Mac, come on up here a minute, will ya?” Pete Koski sounded about as excited as McIntire ever heard him.

Irene Touminen's bedroom was like herself, all contrast. Stark white walls, a chest lacquered in gleaming ebony and deep blood-red, smooth globular lamps. The bed was covered with a patchwork quilt, jewel-colored scraps of velvet joined with gold and silver braid. It was on this that the sheriff's attention was fixed.

He pointed to a russet-toned triangle. “That look familiar to you?”

McIntire's heart gave a leap. “It's what the watch was wrapped in.”

“That's what I thought.” Koski scooped the quilt into his arms.

It wasn't a lot, but it was something. Maybe they would be able to match the shape of the fragment with the watch to one on the quilt. Maybe the remains of the garment it was cut from was still in that attic. Maybe some shreds of it were with the sewing materials.

Koski opened the closet door, and McIntire returned to the living room and the bookcase. The volumes were unremarkable. A smattering of novels, classic and contemporary; a bible; textbooks that must have been from Irene's nurses' training.

The middle shelves were filled with more of the sewing implements. Knitting needles, balls of yarn, folded bits of fabric, none of them velvet. He opened a polished wood box. It held—he recognized them this time—crochet hooks. He closed the box, then opened it again. There were five of the hooks in graduated sizes, each in its own spot. Five hooks and an extra indentation; a space for a sixth. A larger one. Except for the loop on its end, it would not be much different from the knitting needle Mia had mentioned as an alternative to Hudson's services.

He ran his hand along the spines of the books.
She begged me to do it.
Twice she'd said it. She wasn't talking about the note, or the roses on her grave. She wasn't talking about keeping Rose's secret.

“Sulo seems to be behaving himself. I may as well go home.” Leonie stood at his elbow.

“These are crochet hooks,” McIntire told her.

“I can see that.”

“The biggest one is missing.”

“Too bad. Irene will probably have plenty of time for handiwork for the next few years.”

“Mark Guibard had it. It was with Rose's body.” Not just in the well,
with her body,
with those things that were bundled into the blankets and quilts.

“She was pregnant. Maybe she was making….”

“Rose wasn't crocheting booties. She didn't want to have a baby. She was terrified. The needle belonged to Irene. Irene was her only friend. Irene was a nurse.”

Leonie put her hand to her mouth and turned the sickly pale shade that McIntire felt. “Are you saying it was Irene? That she did the abortion?”

“And fetched in the doctor when things went bad. It was too late.”

“It must have driven her over the edge.”

“It might have. On the other hand killing the doctor might only have been a way out of an awkward situation. Even if she realized that it was too late, that Rose was going to die, it wouldn't have been too late to go for the notorious abortionist. The perfect scapegoat. All she had to do was get him there. She had a car. Sulo had gone to Escanaba. It would have been easy. She might have told Hudson Rose was having a miscarriage. He'd have known better. When Rose died, Irene had to make damn sure he didn't tell how it really happened. That turned out to be pretty easy, too. Jarvi's old shotgun was behind the door, loaded and ready.”

Irene had set out to conceal Rose's death before it even happened, composing that ambiguous note to Teddy. Sitting at her friend's bedside, waiting for her to die, she'd have had plenty of time to plan how she could dispose of evidence, how she'd handle Cedric Hudson, sending him into the well, hanging on to his clothing.

“The only thing she had to worry about was if people started wondering why they didn't hear from Rose. There might be awkward questions. But she duped Eban Vogel into helping her out, keeping quiet, and Teddy played right into her hands.” McIntire closed the lid on the box. “Irene must have been ecstatic when she got that postcard from New York City.”