Hunter’s Dance (27 page)

“Did you know it was Esko?”

“I do now. You saw the whisky.”

“You suppose it could be coincidence?”

“What do you think?”

McIntire nodded. “Scurvy little thief.”

XLII

There came over her suddenly an irresistible longing for a married woman's titles and dignities.

Siobhan mashed the end of her cigarette into a pool of egg yolk. She pushed back her chair, gripped the belt of her green robe, and fanned her face with its frayed end. “My, isn't it hot in here? I think I'll simply have to take off my ring.” She waggled the fingers of her left hand, the third of which was adorned by a thin gold ring bearing a small pearl. When neither of the McIntires did more than stare dumbly, she smiled. “I'm announcing my engagement. Leonie, you can make it front page news!”

“It's an engagement ring?”

“Rudy doesn't approve of diamonds. He says they're produced by slave labor.” Siobhan polished the gem on her robe. “And I think it's lovely.”

Leonie recovered with her usual grace. “It
is
lovely, Siobhan. You took us by surprise. We're very happy for you, aren't we John?”

If it meant Siobhan would be setting up housekeeping in someone else's abode, McIntire was prepared to be ecstatic. “Are you planning to stay around here? Or in Chandler?”

“Oh, lord, no! We haven't decided for sure where we'll go yet. Rudy has the business in California, and he's had the offer of a position in San Antonio.”

“We'll be sorry to see you go.” Leonie really did sound sorry. How did she manage it? Maybe it was the potential for visiting the happy couple in Texas, or as Leonie might think of it, Mecca. She got up from the table and struck a match to the gas burner under a kettle of water. A bucket by the door and Siobhan's dry hairline were evidence that the pump was once again on the fritz. McIntire would have to get to the bottom of the fuse problem. He regarded his twice-daily bathing aunt. Maybe there was no hurry.

“Have you set a date yet?” he asked and hoped he sounded interested rather than eager.

“We got the license yesterday,” Siobhan answered. “We're not planning to have a big wedding, just the JP. I'm hoping you'll stand up for me, Leonie.”

“I'll be honored. But this is awfully sudden. And are you sure—?”

“Oh, positive!”

“Are you sure you want our Justice of the Peace to do it?” McIntire asked.

Siobhan paused in lifting her cup. “Why? Is there something wrong with him?”

“It's not a him,” McIntire told her. “It's Myrtle Van Opelt.”

“Myrtle…” Siobhan spoke hesitantly. “You're not talking about
Miss
Van Opelt?”

“The very same.”

“How can that be? How can she even be still alive? And she's a woman…isn't she?”

“She says so,” McIntire replied, “and I, for one, am prepared to take her word for it.”

“But how did she get elected?”

“If Miss Van Opelt asked for your vote, would you turn her down?”

“Blast it.” Siobhan frowned. “She probably doesn't approve of second marriages.”

Or third
. McIntire glanced at Leonie. “I doubt Miss Van O approves of any inter-gender fraternization,” he said.

“Oh, lord, she's sure to remember the time….”

“Ah,” McIntire nodded, “the cornflake and Karo incident. Even I remember that, and I was thirty-five hundred miles away when I got news of it.”

“Well,” Siobhan said, “marrying people is her job, after all. We've got the license. It's perfectly legal. It's not like she can simply refuse.” McIntire and his wife both responded to the confident remark with a silent stare, and Siobhan clutched his arm.

“Can't you arrange it, John? Please! You were always Miss Van Opelt's pe—” Siobhan interrupted her plea with a judicious cough. “You always knew how to handle her.”

“I don't handle her quite so well these days. She doesn't figure I bring her enough business.”

“So now's your chance.”

“All right,” McIntire relented. “I'll see what I can do. Let me know the date, or give me a general time frame. The justice doesn't cater to whims.” McIntire forced himself to look into his aunt's eager Granny McIntire eyes. “Are you sure you don't want to wait a while, Siobhan?” he said. “You hardly know this guy.”

It was true. Rudy Jantzen might not be a kidnapper or murderer, but he was still a mystery. At the very least, he may have been influenced by Siobhan's conspicuous affluence. Maybe that was being unfair. Siobhan could be charming in her own way and was probably good company under the right circumstances. Jantzen didn't seem hard up, and Siobhan was not the gullible sort.

She'd obviously managed pretty well for herself so far. But still…. “Maybe we should try to find out a little more about him,” McIntire suggested.

Siobhan spoke brightly. “I know him better than you could ever imagine.”

McIntire didn't want to imagine. “Melvin Fratelli will be crushed.”

Siobhan went back to admiring the pearl. “He'll live.”

XLIII

For so is man, too weak to meet sorrow in all its bitterness.

The five-mile round trip stroll into St. Adele to go
mano a mano
with Myrtle Van Opelt had done McIntire good. He had prevailed; the marriage would take place. At this point even the smallest success felt like a major triumph, and the defeat of Justice Van O was no paltry victory. The Studebaker was, once again, in its proper place under the white pine. Leonie was back from wherever she had so mysteriously disappeared to that morning. Some breaking news story, no doubt. A visitor from Ironwood, maybe, or a litter of puppies. The Lincoln convertible was absent. All was right with at least this small part of the world.

The door swung open from the inside as McIntire reached for the knob. Leonie stood smiling in the doorway. She put her forefinger to her lips and spoke brightly.

“Hello, darling. How nice that you're home. We have a guest.”

Over his wife's blond waves, McIntire beheld, seated at his kitchen table, what had lately been Wendell Morlen, bleary-eyed, rumpled, unshaven, and not smelling very good.

“Mr. Morlen,” Leonie's smile didn't fade. “I think you know my husband.”

The saucer clattered as Morlen placed a dainty china cup into it. His nod was more of a tremor. He didn't try to rise.

“Mr. Morlen is feeling a bit under the weather,” Leonie said. “I thought a cup of tea would be in order.”

Morlen looked like a stiff shot of bourbon might do more to bring him around. When he spoke his hello, it was clear he'd already had a go at that method.

“Could you help me for a minute, Leonie? I have something in the car.” McIntire turned to the ragged attorney. “You'll excuse us for a moment?” He took Leonie's arm and led her into the yard.

“Where in hell did you pick him up?”

Leonie looked over her shoulder to the door. “At the Sundown Motel in Hancock. The lady at the desk said he'd been holed up there for almost a week,” she said. “I think he's been drinking.”

That seemed like a safe assumption.

“How'd you know where to find him? And why didn't you just tell the sheriff?”
Or me
, he didn't add.

“Mr. Morlen hasn't committed any crime.”

“Don't be too sure.”

“He's lost his only son. He blames himself. He thinks Bambi wanted to leave because of him. So the boy planned that goofy scheme, and he ended up dead. Think how your father would have felt after you ran off to the army, if you'd been killed.”

How would Colin have felt if his son had died a war hero? McIntire had no time to think about that now. Maybe he never would. “How did you find him? Koski hasn't been able to track him down.”

Leonie wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “He had to be somewhere. I didn't think he'd go too far away. I asked the linen man.”

“The who?”

“The man who drives the lorry to pick up laundry. The American Linen Company. He stops at the filling station in Chandler. And he goes to most all of the inns. I reckoned he'd notice if that Cadillac was parked at one of them for any length of time.”

If the linen man and Nick Thorsen ever got together there'd not be a secret left in the county. Leonie's reporter's instincts had once again served her well. The next obvious question was why she had undertaken this search for the wandering Morlen. She answered it before he could ask.

“His wife needs him.”

In McIntire's opinion, Morlen's wife needed a straightjacket. “Well, before she gets him,” he said, “I'm going to ask him a question or two.”

“He's in quite a weakened condition.”

“I'm counting on that.”

Morlen hadn't moved. He had downed the tea, however, and Leonie hastened to refill his cup.

“Maybe we could have some coffee,” McIntire suggested. “Please,” he added in answer to Leonie's forced smile.

He didn't give Morlen or himself a chance to think. “Wendell, on the Thursday before your son died, you withdrew a pile of money from a bank in Marquette. Why?”

Morlen's head swivelled in an attempt to focus on McIntire's face. “It wasn't a pile. It was three thousand. I was going to Lansing. I needed some cash.”

Three thousand constituted a pile in McIntire's book. A mountain. “You borrowed money from your friend Harrington for the train ticket.”

“The money I withdrew was in big bills. Hundreds. They couldn't change it at the station.”

It was quick thinking. So quick that it was likely the same line he'd used on Harrington. And it might well be true. But Morlen had known he'd be buying a train ticket when he took out that cash. The bank had plenty of small bills. McIntire persisted. “Where did that money go?”

“Cards.”

“You lost it at cards? On a Thursday morning?”

“No. It was a stake. I needed three grand to get into the game.” Morlen leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. “I didn't lose. I quadrupled it.”

Quadrupled. Twelve thousand dollars. “You were broke when you got back to the Club.”

“I had bills to pay.” True. He still owed McIntire four dollars. The sunken eyes opened to slits. “I don't always win.”

Gambling debts to the tune of twelve grand. Five or six times McIntire's annual army pension. There were times when he was not sorry to be a member of a less advantaged class. He ventured into more sensitive territory.

“Do you think Bambi might have found out the truth?” he asked. “Could he have known that you weren't his natural father?”

“He knew. He's known since he was twelve years old. I told him.”

“You
told
him?”

“He was figuring it out for himself, and I thought it would be better if I just told him the truth. I didn't want him asking a lot of questions and Bonnie getting wind of it. It would break her heart if she had any idea that he knew. Anyway, it was during the war. My wife and I used to give blood. We were both type O. Universal donors. Bambi tested his own blood in science class. He was A.” He rested his head against the heels of his hands. “I told him what happened, and that his mother would feel terrible if she ever found out that he knew.”

“Did you tell him his father's name?”

“I was his father.”

“Did you tell him Pavil's name?”

“No. No, of course not. Did he find out?” He didn't wait for McIntire's reply. “Bambi knew that the man was Bonnie's voice teacher. Learning his name wouldn't have been any harder than looking at his grandparents' check stubs.”

Small wonder Bonnie Morlen was being eaten by guilt, if she'd recognized the name in the ransom note. Were all young people this thoughtless, cruel, even?

McIntire asked, “How much are you paying Melvin Fratelli?”

“Old Mel?” McIntire barely caught the rest of the reply. “Not one penny more than he's worth.”

“How much is that?”

Morlen's chin dropped, and his head flopped back.

Mel? McIntire grasped Morlen's shoulder. “How much?”

The pink-tinged eyes opened wide. “Mel's been worthless since sixth grade.” He folded his arms on the table and put down his head.

“John,” Leonie had that
He followed me home, Mom, can I keep him?
look.

“Where do you want him?” McIntire gave up.

She regarded the wrinkled and stained clothing, wrinkled her nose, and also relented. “Perhaps the sitting room.”

McIntire stuck his hand under Wendell Morlen's arm and led him to the living room couch. He fetched the Indian blanket from the library and tossed it over him. Morlen snugged it up under his chin. Kelpie, never one to miss out on a warm napping body, waddled over from her spot by the window. McIntire picked her up and popped her under the blanket. She made a rotating lump as she settled down in the vicinity of Morlen's knees. McIntire left the two of them snoring softly in the late afternoon sun.

Were Wendell Morlen and Old Mel Fratelli old friends? Or at least old acquaintances? Well, that made sense. The Morlens probably wouldn't have taken on a complete stranger who approached them with an offer of help to find their son's murderer. And maybe that was why no money appeared to have changed hands.

Leonie stood near the sink, slowly running her finger around the rim of her china cup.

“So,” McIntire said, “you waltzed into a complete stranger's motel room and dragged him off.”

She nodded and put the cup on the counter, apparently satisfied that it had survived its stint with Morlen unscathed. “I guess I did.”

“Did you wear your boots?”

“John!” Her smile faded. “Darn, I wish I'd thought of it.”

“Well,” McIntire said. “Maybe next time. Any chance at all of his getting a shower?”

“Oh, I think so. The pump seems to be working fine now.”

“Good. Might as well clean him up before we take him back to the missus. I don't suppose any of this will be easy on the poor man's ego.”

“Oh,” Leonie said, “I think Mr. Morlen's ego is big enough to look after itself.”