Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller (43 page)

 
``Yes, I suppose I was. You don’t really expect something like this. Not here. We are very…isolated.’’

 
``Yes, I’ve noticed.’’

 
``How did the autopsy go?’’

 
``Autopsy?’’ Brant asked, momentarily surprised at the question.

 
``John told me. You and Christine are investigating, no?’’

 
``Oh, yes,’’ Brant said. ``Yes, we are.’’

 
``And the autopsy?’’

 
Brant was thoughtful for a moment. ``We were only able to do an external evaluation.’’

 
Ingrid King knitted her eyebrows together in thought. ``It’s a terrible thing, suicide.’’

 
``So you believe Franz killed himself?’’

 
King dismissed his question with a shrug. ``What else could it be, yes?’’

 
Brant considered the woman across from him. He’d yet to make up his mind about her. She was in her mid thirties and wore the wholesome, fresh outdoors look like a comfortable blanket. Her skin was flawless. She had bright red cheeks, an oval face and the finest-looking blond hair he’d ever seen.

 
Had it not been for the slight air of gloom and hopeless despair that seemed to hang omnipresent at the periphery of her personality, he would have taken her for one of those women obsessed with yoga, healthy eating and auras. Instead, he found her checked reserve unsettling. She wasn’t rude. But there was something about her that didn’t quite fit. Maybe her background, he surmised.
 

 
``Where do you call home?’’ he asked finally out of curiosity.

 
She furrowed her brow for a second time, seeming slight offended at the question.

 
``We live her year round.’’

 
``No, I meant originally. I heard the hint of an accent.’’

 
She smiled demurely.

 
``My accent betrays me sometimes.’’

 
``Betrays?’’

 
``Just a turn of phrase. Perhaps not the right words.’’

 
Brant smiled in turn.

 
``I’ve been away from home so long that I thought my accent had been watered down. But to tell you the truth, a Swedish accent never really leaves you.’’

 
``So that’s it.’’

 
King cocked her head slightly to the side. ``Sorry?’’

 
``We have a Swede in the department back in Boston. You remind me a bit of him.’’

 
``Ah, I see. And what about you, lieutenant? Maybe you have some Nordic blood in you? I knew many boys called Jonas when I was growing up.’’

 
``No, afraid not.’’

 
The wind blew, shaking the wood frames of the room’s only window. Outside, a break in the cloud revealed the half slice of the moon, a sliver of white hanging low in the sky. The tops of the trees danced and jerked as the wind licked at their branches.

 
Ingrid King drew herself in as the lodge creaked and moaned in time with the stiffening breeze.

 
``There’s another blanket in the closet if you need it. Nights can get cold this time of year.’’

 
``The duvet should be fine. I like a cold bedroom.’’

 
``All the same, it’s there if you need it. I hope you can get some sleep. I, myself, may have difficulty.’’

 
``Perhaps we can talk again tomorrow. After breakfast.’’

 
``Yes, that would be fine.’’

 
Brant pulled the duvet up to his chin when he’d changed into his pajamas and had slipped between the covers. The bed was gloriously comfortable. Not too hard or soft. As he waited to be overcome by sleep, he stared at the wood-paneled ceiling, his mind playing back the grim details of the autopsy and the conversation he’d just had with Ingrid King. Allison Carswell loomed large at the periphery of his thoughts. So, too, did Clatterback and Malloy and the question of how their investigations were going in Boston.

 
Before long, he was falling and then there was darkness and he was asleep.
 

``Tell me again how you knew him.’’

 
``We met at one of the cafes in town. He was searching through the job postings on the bulletin board. I knew right away he’d probably have guiding experience.’’

 
``And did he?’’ Brant asked.

 
``Expert level. He could handle a kayak even better than me.’’

 
John King smiled at the memory as he took his wife’s hand in his own.

 
They were sitting in front of the stone fireplace in the main room. The stereo played in the background. A mix of light jazz and classical. Nothing too offensive.
 

 
They’d finished breakfast. Though the sky was gray, daylight streamed in through the windows, dappling the hardwood floors with spots of light.

 
He’d run into them on his way back from the makeshift autopsy room where he’d stopped to ensure the body remained undisturbed.
 

 
``I heard he was good with the customers.’’

 
``Very good,’’ Ingrid King said, glancing quickly to her husband. ``He was very passionate about the lake and the outdoors.’’

 
``I’ve heard he was popular, particularly the women.’’

 
John King smiled awkwardly. Brant wanted to shake him, to provoke more of a reaction.

 
``Not much we can do about that to be honest,’’ King finally said.

 
``How did that make you feel, Mrs. King? Did you have a problem with that?’’

 
Ingrid King picked at an invisible tuft of fluff on the couch.

 
``I didn’t like it, but as John said, there’s not much we could do about it in the end.’’

 
``But you confronted him about it?’’

 
``John had words, yes.’’

 
``And what about you? Did you ever discuss it with Mr. Eichel?’’
 

 
Ingrid King cocked her head to the side in contemplation as she considered the question.

 
``Ingrid steered pretty clear of that,’’ John King finally said, answering the question for his wife. ``We both felt it better that I deal with the situation.’’

 
``I see,’’ Brant said, and after a moment added: ``And did you? Deal with it, I mean?’’

 
``I warned him to be careful. I told him that if it were to become an issue, we’d have to do something more drastic. But we’re all adults here, lieutenant. We’re all mature enough to know these things happen.’’

 
Brant backed away. ``Yes, they do happen, don’t they. How did he react…when you confronted him?’’

 
``I suppose he was aggressive and slightly confrontational. He didn’t make it easy, but that’s what made him such a good guide in the end. He pushed the limits and liked to push others. The guests responded to that. They knew he was good.’’

 
``Do you recognize any of these women?’’

 
Brant placed the photographs recovered from Eichel’s room on the polished wooden coffee table in front of them. He’d held the photos in reserve, not wanting to play his hand until he was sure the timing was right. The snapshots of Allison Carswell were at the top of the pile.

 
John and Ingrid King passed each of the prints back and forth to each other as they scrutinized the scenes. Ingrid King furrowed her brow slightly.

 
``One or two of the women may have been guests last year,’’ she said, finally. ``We get a lot of bookings. It’s hard to keep track.’’

 
``No one from this season?’’

 
John King pursed his lips as he took the photos in hand for a second time.

 
``None that I recognize,’’ he said.

 
``What about this woman?’’ Brant said, selecting a photo of Carswell blowing a kiss in the photographer’s direction.
 

``Sorry, no, I don’t recognize her? Ingrid?’’

 
John King turned to his wife, who dismissed the photo with a wave of her hand. ``Is she special?’’

 
``She might be,’’ Brant said, holding his cards close to his chest. He was unwilling to reveal Eichel’s relationship with the dead woman unless left without choice. ``What about this one? Looks like some of the shots were taken here at the lake. A few seem out of place, but I’d be willing to bet that’s the shoreline right there.’’

 
Brant drew his finger along the bottom of a print showing placid water and the fuzzy green border of the lake’s perimeter.
 

 
``I guess you’re right. But I don’t really see what the relevance is to Franz’s death,’’ John King said with feeling. ``I guess I saw him taking photographs from time to time. But that doesn’t really mean anything, does it?’’

 
Brant sucked air in through his teeth. ``No, it doesn’t. I’m just bothered by one thing. We found these in a shoebox at the back of Eichel’s closet. They’re in sequential order. Except some are missing. Either that or he lost interest in photography at some point down the line.’’

 
John King handed back the photographs he’d been holding.

 
``Sorry, we can’t really help you. Maybe you’re right. He may have grown tired and moved on to something else.’’

 
``Yes, that must be it,’’ Brant said, pocketing the photos for safe keeping.

He found her back in his room when he returned from the interview with John and Ingrid King. Mark Burnard had earlier offered to meet by the rack of lifejackets, perhaps even to take him kayaking should the weather hold. He’d need to change if he was to head out on the lake.

Mallek held two pieces of paper between her fingers. The edge of the first paper had curled upwards. A second similar-looking document was charred and flaked at the touch.

 
``I thought you’d want to see this,’’ she said, gingerly handing him the most degraded of the two documents.

 
``Where did you find this?’’

 
``I was poking around in the dumpster at the back of the lodge. I don’t know if it means anything but I thought it was interesting. This one looks like it was thrown into a fire or something.’’

 
Brant inspected the paper she’d handed him. She was right. The document — whatever it was — had been set on fire.
 

 
Most of the text was unreadable. Brant squinted, tightening his focus for a better view of the faint letters set against the blackened background of what remained of the charred paper.

 
``I’m not really sure I can make it out,’’ he said at last.

 
``It’s difficult.’’

 
``But you have a theory?’’ Brant asked, impressed at Mallek’s instinct and ingenuity.

 
``I can’t be sure exactly, but I’d say it’s an invoice of some kind.’’

 
``How can you be certain?’’

 
``Here.’’

 
She pointed to the heading at the top of the document and ran her fingers down to the charred and jagged border.

 
``It’s really faint but that’s a medical equipment company’s logo. I recognize it because the university uses them for some of our lab equipment. They even make centrifuges.’’

 
``Centrifuges?’’

 
``Hmmmm. We use them to separate blood cells from plasma cells in the lab.’’

 
Brant handed back the document and said: ``Not much use for that around here.’’

``Did you find anything else while you were dumpster diving?’’

 
Mallek shook her head. ``Just the usual garbage.’’

 
Brant smiled at the response. ``What were you doing digging around the dumpster in the first place?’’

Mallek shrugged. ``Isn’t that what you do? I just thought it made sense, that’s all.’’

 
``You’ve got heart, I’ll give you that.’’

 
She smiled at the compliment, but was unsure what she’d accomplished.

 
``So you think there’s something here?’’ she asked.

 
``I didn’t say that. Let’s hold on to these for the moment.’’
 

Mark Burnard stood outside by the racks of kayaks and lifejackets. The afternoon had softened, and the threat of the storm had temporarily receded, leaving a lustrous, mellow light bathing the tops of the trees. The sky was the color of egg shells. The lake beckoned.
 

 
``The Extreme. From TideRace. She’s a beauty.’’

 
Burnard ran his hand along the length of the fiberglass kayak he’d been washing down. His fingers caressed and probed as if he was massaging the back of a lover. The big man brushed beads of water from the kayak’s gently rounded nose.
 

 
``You’re an expert.’’

 
``I know my kayaks, if that’s what you mean.’’

 
``Tell me about this one.’

 
``The Extreme? It’s one of the new ones we bought this season. She’s about 17 feet long. A day hatch at the front, another round day hatch near the bulkhead, and an oval rear hatch. Fiberglass bulkheads, recessed deck fittings, safety lines with reflective threads. Adjustable seat with foam inlays for cushioning. You didn’t come here to talk about kayaks.’’