Hunter’s Dance (15 page)

“Might well have,” McIntire agreed. “But Bambi wasn't abducted from the dance. He left on his own at about eleven o'clock. We don't know what time he ran into his kidnappers, and they couldn't have known in advance that he'd be leaving so early.” Unless that fight with Marvin Wall had been set up some way.

“Could he have been followed?”

Followed, on mostly deserted roads, to Maki's, the gravel pit, on to the Sorensons' house without being noticed? “No.” McIntire was sure of it. “It seems likely that Bambi stopped for some reason. That somebody thumbed him down for a ride or faked car trouble.”

“How much is uranium worth?”

McIntire had been mentally girding himself for an interrogation pertaining to these people that he supposedly knew so well. This question took him by surprise. But he was ready with the answer. “A ten thousand dollar finder's fee and about three-fifty a pound forever after, last I heard. The government buys it.”

Fratelli gave a whistle. “So if Bambi had found a…vein of uranium and somebody knew it—”

McIntire headed him off. “That's in theory so far as I know, nobody's actually gotten the ten grand. You don't simply fill your pockets and head into town. Uranium's not just lying out there waiting to be picked up. It's in ores, ores that have to be mined by the tons to glean out a few pounds of uranium oxide. It wouldn't be cheap.”

“So you don't figure the boy was killed because he'd struck gold, in a manner of speaking?”

“There's gold out there too, but it's every bit as hard to get out of the ground. I think you're getting way off the track. The motive might have been money all right, but ransom, not claim jumping.”

Fratelli didn't ask for it, but McIntire spent a few minutes recapping the events of that dismal evening as he saw them. If the detective was going to be hanging around he might as well have more information than he'd probably gotten from Wendell Morlen.

Fratelli jotted
Sorenson
on his pad and doodled the S into an arrow shape before he responded. “So the killer was somebody who knew Bambi Morlen and knew he came from a wealthy family, knew he'd be at that dance, knew his old man was buying a piece of land for seventeen grand, knew where to find him after he took the girl home, knew something about poison plants, and was familiar enough with the neighborhood to stick him up in that shed.”

Add
and knew that the neolithic Michigan natives were given to drilling holes in heads
, and that would about sum things up. “You forgot ‘and was seeking justice,'” McIntire said.

Fratelli grunted. “This isn't a major metropolis. How many people can that fit?”

Not many, McIntire had to admit. “It's not that simple,” he said. “Bambi was stabbed an hour, or maybe more, before he died. We can't be absolutely sure that he received that wound from his kidnappers. Or that he was stabbed by the same person that poisoned him.”

“Right. That Indian kid could have been skulking around, seen the whole thing, sneaked in after Bambi was bound and gagged, and stabbed him in cold blood.”

McIntire couldn't quite picture Marvin Wall skulking around the town hall at three in the morning or seeing much of anything in the pitch dark. He went on, “It's possible that Bambi wasn't killed intentionally. The stabbing looks to be a spur of the moment thing, and the doctor says even though he had a hefty dose of the poison, he probably would have vomited it up before he died from it. Or,” McIntire hadn't really seriously considered this before, “it's possible that it didn't start out as an abduction at all. If Bambi's death was unplanned, the murderer, or accidental killer, would have had all day Sunday to concoct that letter and get it to the post office in Chandler, just to muddy the waters.”

“Well.” Fratelli flipped his notepad shut. “I'm not interested in what might have happened. I'm here to find out what
did
happen.”

The man's arrogance was begging for a pie in the face, but McIntire had lost his pie to Bonnie Morlen, and he could grudgingly admit to seeing the guy's point. There wasn't much to be gained by conjecture. It wasn't a puzzle where if you got the right combination you'd be rewarded with bells and flashing lights. They could hash over possible scenarios until the cows came home, but it wouldn't change the facts, or give them any further knowledge of those facts.

A shriek sounded from the second floor. McIntire waved the scrambling investigator back to his seat. Half a minute later Siobhan appeared from the stairwell.

“There's no water.” She spoke in a tone similar to that used by Roosevelt announcing the attack on Pearl Harbor. “I turned on the tub and nothing happened.”

McIntire sighed. “The pump's probably not getting any juice. Most likely a fuse,” he said. “I'll get it in a bit.”

Siobhan's “But—” was interrupted by her notice of the visitor. She snugged up the belt of her fuzzy blue robe, replaced her peevish frown with a smile and stepped forward.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know you had company.” She smoothed the hair over her ears. “Never mind about the fuse now. Maybe I'll just get a cup and have some coffee.” She backed through the kitchen door and was back in record time with a cup, a saucer, and freshly applied lipstick. McIntire performed the introductions.

“A private investigator! How exciting! I bet you could tell stories that could scare the pants—” she giggled—“that could scare the bejeebers out of a girl.”

Since there was nary a girl in sight, that didn't appear to be a problem. Fratelli pulled out a chair and offered a cigarette for Siobhan's empty tortoiseshell holder. McIntire filled her cup with coffee and went off to the pump house to change the fuse.

XXII

She was leaving life, the real life, but it did not make much difference to her, she who could not live but only act.

The Ford mansion wasn't a particularly impressive building. It was big, Mia would grant it that, but even the seven white pillars that held up the roof of the porch—it probably had a fancier name than porch—couldn't keep it from looking like a small-town schoolhouse. It had stood for close to twenty years, facing an expanse of white sand beach, furnished and tidy, ever ready for its celebrated owner who, so far as anyone knew, had yet to spend a night under its slates.

Mia remained a short while under the trees waiting for her courage to grow, wondering if she'd be greeted by some pickle-faced housekeeper or a gaunt and tortured bereaved mother. Maybe Mrs. Morlen wouldn't be home, and it would be the husband. That thought was about to send her scurrying back down the drive, when a shadow moving across a window told her she'd been spotted.

The woman who answered her knock
was
dressed in a house-maidish manner, in a plain gray dress with a white collar and a sparkling white apron. She admitted, though, to being Bonnie Morlen. Her far-from-gaunt features showed no emotion other than a mild look of surprise at seeing her visitor. It was a reaction that Mia, standing just a hair under six feet, had long been accustomed to.

“I'm Mia Thorsen,” she said. “I heard you'd moved in. I just came to see if there's anything I can do for you.” The woman's expression remained static, her gaze fixed, and Mia struggled with the urge to make a quick retreat. “And,” she continued, “to tell you how sorry we all are for your loss.”

Bonnie stared for a moment longer, then gave her head a shake. “Forgive me, the doctor has been filling me full of pills that seem to do nothing more than slow down my brain. Please come in. How kind of you to visit.” Her voice was beautiful, soft and full. But without feeling.

Taking Mia's elbow, she led her into a high-ceilinged room. It was Scarlett O'Hara's worst nightmare. The dark papered walls and carved, white-painted woodwork battled with chairs and tables fashioned from pine logs, sofas draped with Hudson Bay blankets, and a polar bear rug whose sparse fur hinted that its original occupant might have frozen to death. The single piece of furniture in keeping with the home's southern plantation elegance was the baby grand piano that stood before a bank of tall windows.

“Please sit down. I've made cocoa.” Mrs. Morlen directed her to a seat facing a blazing hearth. The fireplace was large enough to have easily held the rough hewn settee, and Mia would have been hard pressed to resist the temptation, had she been the tenant. A varnished wood fish-box, serving as a coffee table, was already laid with a tray holding a pair of plain white pottery cups. Mia folded her hands in her lap as her hostess filled the cups with steaming cocoa from an ornate china pot. Was the woman clairvoyant, or was she expecting someone else?

“If this isn't a good time….”

“No. No, please. I'm grateful for the company.” The words were welcoming, but Bonnie Morlen's tone was empty. Maybe that was the pills, too. “Excuse me one moment, while I get some fresh tarts.” Bonnie picked up a plate of tiny pies and walked out of the room. She returned with the same plate containing what looked to be the same pies.

“Thimbleberry,” she said. “I hadn't heard of thimbleberries before. I hope you like them.”

On such short acquaintance, Mia felt it might not be appropriate to say that she would rather eat a dead rat, maybe even a live one, than a thimbleberry. She smiled, “They're lovely.” They were. Perfectly formed, golden, and decorated with a berry-shaped dusting of sugar.

“Do you live nearby?” Mrs. Morlen asked.

“Over on the Swale road, a little north of the town hall.”

Bonnie shook her head. “I'm not that familiar with the area, yet. Maybe you could help me get better acquainted. Have you been here long?”

“All my life. I live in the house I was born in.”

Bonnie sipped her drink and cocked her head to one side as if assessing its suitability. It apparently passed the test; she sipped again and smiled. “Really? How interesting. In this day and age one hardly expects that, does one?”

Mia supposed that one didn't. She tasted her own cocoa. It was delicious. Unlike anything she'd ever gotten out of a Hershey's can. She placed her cup in its saucer and looked up. Bonnie Morlen's gaze was locked on Mia's hand—the hand which had only four fingers.

“An accident with a wood chisel,” Mia told her.

“How awful for you. It must have hurt terribly.” She gave a shudder and went on, “I imagine you must know nearly everyone around here?”

Mia nodded. It was a rapid change of the subject, for which Mia could only be grateful, and she could see where it was leading. She saw no reason to make Mrs. Morlen squirm. “Are there things you'd like to know?”

Bonnie put her cup on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “Mrs. Thorsen, I've come back here to see that my son's murderer takes up residence in Hell. There are a great many things I'd like to know.”

The woman's bluntness, counterpoint to her prim demeanor, was disarming.

“I'll help however I can,” Mia assured her.

“Bambi's friend, the boy who prospected with him, do you know him?”

Perhaps, Mia thought, she shouldn't have been so eager. “Ross Maki. He works for me.”

The look on Bonnie's face was similar to the one she'd worn upon seeing Mia on her doorstep. “Works for you? At your home, do you mean? Farm work?”

“I build furniture. Ross makes deliveries for me, picks up supplies, things like that.” Bonnie Morlen's eyes widened again. Her continual astonishment getting tiresome.

“Mrs. Morlen,” Mia said, “Ross Maki is a good natured, hard working boy. I've never known him to lose his temper or behave badly in any way. I'm sure he couldn't have had anything to do with your son's death.”

“What's his financial situation?”

“What?”

“Did he need money?”

“I guess we all need money.”

“But here's a young man, out of school—?”

Mia nodded. “He graduated last spring.”

“—a young man, out of school, with no support except doing odd jobs for a…cabinet maker? It sounds to me like he'd need money more than most.”

“Not much more than most people around here.” Bonnie Morlen needed to know that the Shawanok Club was not the Upper Michigan norm. “This is a poor community. There are no jobs for young people. Ross would have left last spring, but his father fell off the roof of their barn and broke his leg. Ross needed to help his mother with the farming. He's been working like a dog, at home and for me, in addition to his prospecting jaunts.”

“But not making any money.”

“That's beside the point now. Ross has been drafted.”

“Is he looking forward to the service?”

“No.”

“So what he really needs is a
lot
of money.” Bonnie picked up her cup, clutching it in both hands and nodding to herself like a down-home Jane Marple. “Oh, I know a boy like that probably couldn't have carried off the abduction by himself, but he'd have been in the perfect situation to help somebody else do it.”

“But who?”

Misery leaped into the dark eyes, and was gone just as quickly. Bonnie Morlen frowned into her cup. “What do you know about the Indian that attacked him?” she asked.

Indian attack? It sounded like the Saturday movie matinee.

“Marvin Wall,” Mia prompted.

“Do you know him?”

“I know who he is. I can't say I'm that well acquainted with any of the kids around here, except Ross. But Marvin's parents have lived here for years. They've been good neighbors.”

“Even though they're Indian?”

Mia couldn't help herself. “I'm Indian, too, Mrs. Morlen.”

Bonnie apologized without a trace of embarrassment. “I'm sorry. I only meant….”

“I know. The Walls are pretty much a part of the community like everybody else. But you're right, most of the Indians around here keep to themselves. My mother did.”

That wasn't quite true, the ostracism of Mia's family had more to do with her father's German roots and the First World War than her Potowatami grandmother—great grandmother, actually, which didn't make Mia all that Indian. The only thing truly Indian about Mia was her given name, inherited from her grandmother when she was five years old, Meogokwe, and no one ever called her that. But she was beginning to feel an antagonism toward Bonnie Morlen that she didn't quite understand. The woman had just lost her son, for God's sake; could she be blamed for being suspicious?

Bonnie nibbled the precisely fluted edge of a tart. “What did you do with the end of it?”

“Pardon me?”

“Your finger, what did you do with it?”

What should she say? I fed it to the cat? I wear it on a chain around my neck? The inquisition came to a merciful end with a knock at the door. Bonnie pulled her apron off over her head, draped it on a birch-twig chair, and excused herself. Mia took the opportunity to pour herself another half-cup of the intoxicating chocolate. She wondered if it would it be rude to ask for the recipe.

Bonnie's voice carried through from the entry hall. In contrast to its earlier flatness, it sounded strong and expressive, like an actor on a stage. “Why, hello. How kind of you to stop. My husband has gone out, I'm afraid. But do come in.” Mia gulped the chocolate and stood up as Bonnie returned with the newcomer. He was youngish, an impression enhanced by the blond hair combed flat to his skull and the scrubbed flush of his face. And like a child, a faint ring of grubbiness remained above his collar. Surely not an acquaintance from the Club.

Bonnie introduced Greg Carlson. Mia put out her hand. “I've heard about you from Ross. Found the mother lode yet?”

He looked blank for a moment, and Mia once again felt that she'd overstepped the bounds of etiquette. Then he smiled. “I haven't even found the baby-sister lode.” An uneasy silence descended, and he stood shifting from one foot to the other.

“I see there's a piano here,” Mia floundered.

“It's my own,” Mrs. Morlen responded. “I never go anywhere without it.”

That must prove to be inconvenient at times. She should have taken up the harmonica.

“Daddy had it brought from the Club,” she added.

“Is your father here with you?” Carlson glanced toward the door, as if poised to flee should the answer be yes.

“No.” Bonnie turned to the instrument and ran her hand over its polished wood. “He wanted to come back with us, but I needed someone to stay home with my son. I couldn't leave Bambi all alone, back in that cemetery.”

There was no possible reply to that, and Mia took the opportunity to make her escape, despite feeling slightly mean at abandoning the awkward caller to their hostess.

Mrs. Morlen accompanied her into the front hall. When they reached the door she put her hand on Mia's arm and pleaded in a low voice. “I do hope you'll come again, Mrs. Thorsen. It's lonely here with no family or friends. Please, come soon. Tell me if you hear anything. You must understand how difficult this is, the not knowing.”

Mia did understand, and she relented slightly. “Certainly, I'll help any way I can. But anything I hear would be just gossip. If you want real information, you'll need to talk to the police or the sheriff, and maybe your….” Mia hesitated. Possibly it was supposed to be a secret. Well, Bonnie Morlen might as well know that secrets aren't easily kept in places like St. Adele. “Your detective.”

“Melvin Fratelli has his mind on uranium. He spends more time looking for that mother lode than Mr. Carlson does. His
cover
, he says.”

“Maybe if your husband—”

“Wendell is here very little. That's mainly why he accepted when Mr. Fratelli offered his services. He thought I might need protection. And that sheriff has done nothing, only keeps complaining that he needs more deputies. Your constable probably knows more than he does.”

Strange that Mrs. Morlen should express more confidence in a township constable than she did in either the police or the detective for whose services she must be paying through the nose.

“Would you like John to come and see you?”

“No!” It was almost a shout. Bonnie glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice again. “No, please, I don't feel like facing any of those people now. Or any more men.”

Mia could appreciate that. Having to deal with a crew of men out to prove what they could do was often more exhausting than it was worth. Bonnie went on, “I suppose you're well acquainted with him, with Mr. McIntire?”

Mia nodded. “He and his wife live near us.”

“Maybe you could talk to him for me. Find out what's going on….” Tears glittered in the corners of her eyes. “And let me know.”

Mia surrendered. “If you want me to.”

“And could you please ask him if he can find out what's happened to Bambi's belongings?”

“Is something missing?”

“Personal belongings. The police say there was nothing much in his car, and Mr. Carlson has turned over everything that was at the camp, but much of his clothing and personal things hasn't turned up. I'd be so grateful.” The eyes teared up again.

“I'll see what I can do,” Mia told her.

Bonnie Morlen gave her a misty smile and opened the door. Mia wondered what she'd gotten herself into, and why she hadn't mentioned Bambi's map case.