Hunter’s Dance (5 page)

VIII

Her father…lived in the splendor of her glowing existence.

The pine tree–climbing-wagon, with Pete Koski at the wheel, rolled into the yard and made an about-face that sent the Barred Rock hens scuttling for cover. McIntire dumped the dregs of his coffee into the sink and grabbed his coat and hat from the chair by the kitchen window. The sheriff stood by the open car door kneading the small of his back—if anything about Koski could be called small. As McIntire watched, he bent at the waist, first back, then to each side, and finally forward to place his hands on his knees. This posture he held for so long that McIntire wondered if he might be stuck there. At last he straightened up, completed the ritual with a few fascinating hip rotations, and stuffed himself back into the car. All this did not bode well for the constable. If investigating this death was going to involve frequent trips to the Shawanok Club, McIntire had a pretty good idea who might be doing it. He could hear it now:
You wanna take a run out to the Club, Mac? You're a hell of a lot closer than we are
. When Koski's back started to protest, and there were mundane errands to run, McIntire seemed to live a hell of a lot closer to the whole county. But, come to think of it, he'd much prefer making this trip on his own to going as Sheriff Koski's silent, and considerably narrower, shadow.

He closed the screen door behind him, careful not to let it bang shut. Leonie was still sleeping, not an unusual circumstance. His wife considered anyone who rose before ten hopelessly provincial. “I know,” she'd say, “if I wanted to avoid provincial, I've married the wrong man. But I do what I can to maintain some standard of gentility.”

Nor had his aunt yet emerged from the spare bedroom—his own childhood sanctuary—where Leonie had so eagerly tucked her in with that ominous, “Now, dear, we expect you to stay as long as you like.”

When he'd returned home the previous evening to find Siobhan stretched out on the wine-colored plush sofa with the venerable spaniel, Kelpie, warming her feet, and smoke rings dancing over her head, recognition had been immediate. She might have walked out only the day before. Except for the web of fine wrinkles that lent her forehead the patina of crazed pottery, the impish face was much as it had been when he'd last seen her, when she was nine or ten years old. She was still slim and straight and her curls were as red, if not suspiciously redder, than ever.

He'd never known Siobhan well or thought much about her. She'd always been a bothersome, and vaguely sneaky, kid, one he did his utmost to avoid. Apparently this was not the case with Pete Koski. The sheriff eyed the dark red Lincoln convertible parked next to the barn. “Your rich uncle die?”

“Might very well be. The car belongs to my aunt.” McIntire yanked in his right foot and pulled the car door shut as Koski stepped on the gas. “She's as alive as ever though, and from the looks of all the baggage she hauled into my house last night, she plans to stay that way for quite some time.”

“Your aunt, eh? Pretty flashy car for an old lady.”

“Old lady? I don't expect she'd care much for that designation. It's my father's half-sister. She's considerably younger than I am.”

The car gave a lurch that left McIntire with a lump on his forehead and a new perspective on Pete Koski. “Siobhan? Siobhan is back?”

“You knew her, then?”

Koski's expression was as close to that of a dream-struck schoolgirl as could ever be imagined on the face of a six and a half foot John Wayne doppleganger. “Yeah, you might say that. Down!” This last was aimed toward the back seat, where the sudden stop had brought Geronimo leaping to attention. “She didn't bring her husband?”

“I understand she's not married at the moment.” At Koski's satisfied grunt, McIntire added, “Though, last time I looked, you were.”

The road through the trees hadn't gotten any smoother, straighter, or shorter overnight. And the Power Wagon hadn't gotten any easier riding, or faster. McIntire slumped down to keep his head a safe few inches from the roof and changed the subject. “How'd things go last night?”

Bonnie Morlen had insisted on identifying her son's body. After futile argument, the Club steward had turned chauffeur and driven her and her husband, following the sheriff, to the mortuary in Chandler. They'd been accompanied by—they might have guessed—the Club's full-time resident doctor.

“She held up okay when she saw the body,” Koski said. “Guibard covered the boy's head, so she didn't see the scalp wound. They don't know about that. They can hear all the details when the autopsy's done. Damned if she didn't faint dead away afterwards, though. When she looked at his stuff.”

“His stuff?”

“His personal junk. Wallet, shoes, jacket, that kind of stuff. We asked her to look at it to be sure that everything belonged to her son and sign for it, in case it's needed as evidence. She picked it all up, one thing at a time, said it was all his, and then”—he moved his arm in a sweeping arc—“timber!”

McIntire remembered when he was eighteen years old, entangled in the First World War. The body of a boy from St. Adele, Sandy Karvonen, had been brought into the camp in France where he was stationed. He'd gone to see him, something he felt he had to do. The lifeless body was so far removed from the Sandy he knew, that he felt nothing more than confused incomprehension. Later, back at his job of translating mail for army censors, McIntire had been handed Sandy's final letter to his parents. For the first and only time of that war, maybe of his whole life, he'd cried for hours.

“Things caught up with her, I suppose,” he said.

Two cars were pulled off the side of the road near the Club's entrance, each with an unkempt-looking man dozing behind the wheel. When Koski came to a stop at the gate, the drivers woke up quickly enough and galloped to the car. The windows stayed rolled up, Geronimo growled deep in his throat, and the guard limped out and waved them through. The iron gate swung closed behind them with a clang.

“Reporters!” Koski gave the word the inflection he might had it been
cannibals
. Election time was almost four years away, and he could afford to slam gates in faces, or car doors on fingers if it had come to that.

McIntire was more sympathetic. “They've been hanging around all summer waiting for the Big Story. If they can't get Henry Ford or uranium, maybe murder's the next best thing.”

“Probably even better.”

They were met at the Morlens' door by an elderly man whose exhaustion was evident from the gray circles under his eyes, but who nonetheless had the strength and confidence to flatly refuse them entry.

“My daughter can't possibly see you now. I know this is a backward place, but I would think even here you'd have the civility to allow a mother a little time to grieve for her son.”

So this was the Daddy whose supposed passing had filled Wendell Morlen with such poorly disguised glee.

For a moment Koski seemed on the verge of retreating as bidden. Then he looked down from his dominating height and spoke with uncharacteristic deference. “Sir, from all appearances your grandson was murdered. We really don't have time to wait around. We'll try to be considerate, but we'll need some information from your daughter and her husband.”

The man kept his foot planted behind the door as if he expected them to bring on the battering rams. “Wendell isn't here. He's gone to make arrangements for the transfer of my grandson's body. And Bonnie's been sedated, so you'll simply have to come back some other time.”

He was pushing the door into the sheriff's chest when Bonnie Morlen appeared at his back. “Don't bully the sheriff, Daddy. Come in Mr. Koski, Mr. McIntire.” She looked gray and groggy. Her voice was a hoarse whisper, and her words came deliberately, as if speech had been something painstakingly learned instead of coming naturally. “I want to find out what happened to Bambi at least as much as you do.” Her father stepped obediently away from the door, but stayed by her side as she wandered, like she was finding her way for the first time, back toward the living room, leaving the men to follow.

A sofa piled with blankets and pillows had been drawn up before the fireplace. Maple logs blazed, belting out heat and sucking up oxygen, leaving the room still and stifling. A sour smell rose from the towel-covered bowl that still sat near the hearth.

Bonnie introduced her father as Daniel Feldman. He nodded but didn't offer his hand, instead picked up a patchwork quilt and bundled it around his daughter's shoulders. She pulled it more closely around herself, sat down and croaked, “What is it you want to know?”

Koski sat quietly for a time before responding, maybe savoring the uncommon circumstance of being offered a chair big enough to hold him in comfort. He exhaled a great sympathetic sigh and began, “Mrs. Morlen, weren't you concerned when your son didn't return home from the dance on Saturday night?”

“No. It's a long drive from St. Adele on bad roads. I wasn't expecting him until yesterday afternoon.” She cleared her throat. McIntire winced at the rawness of the sound. “I was making cinnamon rolls. Bambi loved my cinnamon rolls.”

Mr. Feldman leaped to his feet and carried the bowl off toward the kitchen.

“Where was he planning to stay the night?”

Bonnie stared at the sheriff for a moment, then responded. “Oh, I guess you wouldn't know. Bambi wouldn't have been here anyway. He's been working this summer with a man from Minnesota, a college professor looking for uranium, Mr. Carlson. Professor Carlson stays in a cabin on the Salmon River. Bambi's been spending quite a bit of time there.” She smoothed the quilt over her knee and, with a stubby finger, began tracing its pattern of bell-shaped blossoms. “This was to be their last week. Greg—that's the professor's name, Greg Carlson—has to go back home in a few days. We planned to leave soon, too. We've only been here this long because Wendell has to finish up some legal work he was doing for the Club. It's been taking longer than he expected.” She pulled at a loose thread. “Another week or two and we'd have been safe at home. None of this would have happened.”

So the victim wasn't just the only son of a privileged family. He was a uranium prospector, too. Maybe the reporters' perseverence was going to pay off.

“How did your son get involved with this crew?” the sheriff asked. “Was it arranged before you came here?”

“It wasn't a crew,” she said. She shifted to make room for her returning father and continued, “only the professor and another boy about Bambi's age who sometimes helped, too. My son met Mr. Carlson here. Ran into him in the woods, actually. Bambi was interested in what he was doing, and Mr. Carlson said he needed someone to help with surveying. It seemed like it might be a good experience for Bambi…at the time.”

“And this other boy?”

“He and Bambi were quite good friends, I believe. He lives somewhere nearby, so he didn't stay in the cabin. His name is Ross, Ross…something…. I don't remember. We've never met him.”

“Ross Maki?” McIntire asked. He was acquainted with the Makis, having played a few hands of cards with Mike and utilized his sauna on occasion. He knew his youngest son only as an unassertive but amiable young man who sometimes made deliveries for Mia Thorsen. Of late, he had been largely responsible for running the family farm, since his father had broken his leg in a slide off the barn roof. That had happened in midsummer and couldn't have left Ross much time for traipsing around the woods to ferret out uranium.

Bonnie swung her body around as a single unit to address McIntire. “That sounds right. Like I said, we've never met him.”

“And the man they worked for?” Koski spoke, and Mrs. Morlen rotated to face him again.

“What about him?”

“Have you met this Mr.…?”

“Carlson. They didn't really work
for
him, they weren't paid. At least Bambi wasn't paid. I couldn't say about the other boy.”

“Have you met him?” Koski persisted.

“Oh, yes. He often came home with Bambi for a day or two. To get a bath and a good home-cooked meal.” McIntire was amazed to see a definite flush spread over the pallid cheeks. Could even death not dull this woman's pride in her domestic skills?

“Mrs. Morlen,” Koski asked, “what about your son's other friends, kids he went around with, kids here at the Club?”

“I can't tell you any specific names, I'm afraid. They're all gone now, anyway. They'd be back in school.”

“There must be a few who've come here for hunting season.”

“No doubt there are. How would I know? If you want to know who's in residence, ask Baxter. Or knock on doors. What difference does it make who was at the Club? Bambi wasn't.” Bonnie's words showed some spirit, if her demeanor did not.

She leaned even closer to the flames. “Mr. Koski, why are you so sure that my son was killed deliberately? You've said you don't know how he died.” She swallowed. “He didn't look…injured. Couldn't it have been from some natural cause?” Her fingers found a loose thread on the quilt. “I don't like to think it, but I'm not naive, maybe he drank too much, or perhaps it was some illness that we didn't recognize.”

“That could be,” the sheriff admitted, “but he was found tied up. He didn't do that himself.”

“Someone could have done it as a prank, or it might have been part of a game and Bambi couldn't get loose and died of exposure.” She gave a sharp tug on the thread and looked surprised when it snapped off. “It was so cold Saturday night. He wasn't wearing a coat when…when I saw him.”

“He had a heavy jacket on when he was found. The doctor took it off. You'd have seen…” Koski's voice trailed off. Remembering Bonnie Morlen's reaction to examining her son's possessions, McIntire guessed. “Of course it's possible that this was an accident. That's why we're trying to find out who he went around with, his friends.”