Past Imperfect (23 page)

McIntire closed the ledger and patted the chair. “Mia, sit down.”

She sat without taking her eyes from his face.

“Mia, I don't know for sure, but I think Pete might have heard something from Warner Godwin. It might be something unimportant, but he's bound to check on every single thing.”

“Heard what? What could Warner Godwin say about Nick? As far as I know, they've never met.”

“Warner doesn't know Nick, but he says that Nina did.”

“I suppose she did. Nina's father owned a garage up on Forty-one where Nick used to take his car. Nina helped out there sometimes.” Mia's face turned from rosy to ashen as his meaning became clear to her. “Please don't try to tell me that this Nordic god business…”

“No, not that Nick was the man in Nina's diaries. This was something that happened a long time ago, before Warner met her. She was very young.” That wasn't helping. He should never have brought this up, never have said anything. “Warner doesn't claim that they…. He doesn't know how far things went,” he lied.

“Nick doesn't do anything halfway, you know that.” She looked at him with disbelief. “Warner Godwin
told
you this?”

McIntire nodded.

“That my husband had something going with his wife, my own cousin?”

“That's what Warner
thinks
. Maybe he's wrong.” What a tangled web he wove. “She wasn't his wife then, and Nick probably didn't know then that Nina was your cousin. Nina didn't.”

She put her forehead in her hands for a long minute. When she raised her head again, her look of bewilderment was replaced by one of anger. “And you're telling me this for my own good no doubt.”

“Would you rather have heard it from the sheriff?”

She stood and walked to the doorway, where she turned to face him. Her fury was palpable. “Yes, John, believe it or not, I would rather have heard it from the sheriff. I would rather have read it in the
New York Times
. You are the last person on this earth I would have wanted to hear it from! Didn't you humiliate me enough thirty years ago? You have to find some way to do it again? You left me. You left all of us. What gives you the right to come interfering into our lives now, into
my
life?” Her wrath faded and her mouth was set in a firm line.

“You know Nick is all I have left,” she said. “I'm not going to let you take him away from me, too.” Her voice had a bitter edge. “Why couldn't you have stayed away? Why didn't you just stay dead?”

XXIX

When McIntire awoke on July Fourth, only the muffled rustling made by Leonie as she dressed told him that it was indeed morning. It was impossible to guess the time. The room was almost as dark as night, due partly to drawn curtains, but mainly because of the heavy blankets that had been draped over their rods, placed there for McIntire's comfort.

He had been typing industriously the previous afternoon, chronicling the day in 1924 that Ole Bertelsen had acquired twenty more acres of land, when the sudden disappearance of his right thumb and the keys f, g, and r had put him in the all too familiar grip of panic at the knowledge that the next thirty-six hours of his life would be lost to him.

He had suffered from occasional migraines since he was a child, and although his brain told him it would pass with no lasting ill effects, the end-of-the-world terror he felt when the malady struck never dimmed. He had crawled to his bed and remained there, leaving it only to relieve himself of his breakfast and lunch, and a good-sized portion of his vital organs, it seemed.

Leonie had returned from her last-minute Independence Day preparations in the late afternoon. After draping the windows and offering him tea, she had sensibly left him alone. Sometime in the waning hours of the evening she had come to him and inquired as to whether she might be of help by getting his blood flowing to some part of his body other than his brain. At his answering groan, she had toddled off to sleep in the guest room, leaving her husband to lie awake through the long night, listening while the cacophony of the frog recital faded away to a dead stillness broken only once by a far off train whistle.

After what seemed like an eon, the raucous voices of crows stirring in the spruce trees outside the window told him that dawn was approaching. A light rain began to fall, its whisper blotted out pain, and at last he had slept.

Leonie finished dressing and, seeing him awake, tiptoed to the bedside. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Not much,” was his feeble answer. “What time is it?”

“About ten. I'll be on my way in a bit. It's raining a little. We're going to have to set things up indoors. Can I get you something to eat before I leave?”

McIntire's insides gave a lurch. “I don't think I'm ready to eat quite yet,” he said.

“Well, I'll leave you some tea in a thermos. Be sure you drink it
before
you get out of bed.”

“Please make it coffee, Leonie. As a matter of fact, maybe I could drink a little right now.”

Leonie hustled down the stairs and reappeared shortly carrying a tray laden with a steaming cup, a dented red thermos, and a plate upon which rested two of those carbonized slices that the British call toast, accompanied by a minuscule pat of butter. She placed the tray on the bedside table and smoothed the blanket over his chest. A hat decorated with tiny red, white, and blue ribbons was positioned at a jaunty angle on her yellow curls.

“Jenny Wakefield is picking me up, so the car will be here if you feel well enough to come to town later.” She put an arm under his shoulders and eased a pillow under him. “It's going to be awkward, you know, your not being there.”

“I know, I'm expected to pin on my badge and make sure the revelries don't get out of hand. If the picnic degenerates into an orgy, call me. I'd arise from the dead to see Inge Lindstrom performing the Dance of the Seven Veils. Anything less and folks will just have to be on the honor system.”

“Nobody's going to believe you're really sick. Most likely they'll figure you're taking the opportunity to spade up their turnip patches looking for bodies, while they're all safely out of the way eating ham and baked beans.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth when her smile disappeared, and she sat down on the bed with a thump that sent her husband's stomach pitching northward. “Oh dear, there's nothing funny about this. That poor child! And that poor woman, knowing her daughter is lying somewhere out there in the—” her lamentations were interrupted by the sound of a car horn, and a slightly subdued Leonie left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

McIntire sat back against the pillows and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and letting his body adjust itself to the more upright position. After a minute, he reached for the cup of rapidly cooling coffee. He took a single swallow and set the cup back on the table, slopping a dollop of its contents into the saucer in the process. He felt exhaustion, helplessness, and self-pity. Leonie might have been joking but, as usual, she could have read his mind. With most everybody from miles around in town, he really would have had the freedom to explore the more private areas of the neighborhood…and likely get torn apart by dogs in the process, he admitted.

More importantly, the murderer himself might be planning to use the deserted countryside to his advantage to destroy evidence, maybe better conceal the body, or even move it, if he'd just temporarily hidden it somewhere. Although why any of that should be necessary McIntire couldn't imagine. Cindy Culver had effectively disappeared off the face of the earth. Still, it would be interesting to see which of the township's residents attended the picnic, and for how long.

He might also have been able to watch for unusual behavior. He couldn't imagine that even the most cold-blooded of slayers could conduct himself in a completely normal fashion with his victims' families across the room, or across the table. Koski would be likely to put in an appearance, if only because this was an election year. But he would be making the rounds of the various gatherings in the county; he wouldn't be able to stay long. Well, it couldn't be helped. McIntire could take no action today, at least not for hours. Like Hercule Poirot he would have to resort to the use of his little gray cells.
Zee little gray cells, zay have zee great pain,
McIntire said aloud.

He dozed off again and awoke with no idea of how much time had passed. The coffee in the cup was cold and the room seemed a shade or two brighter. He fumbled to find his glasses. The dark blob on the bedside table was resolved into the familiar alarm clock. Twelve-fifteen. He eyed the browned and curling bread. He wasn't that hungry yet.

After hitching himself up a bit higher on the pillows, he screwed the top off the thermos and took a tentative sip, then, satisfied that the liquid was not hot enough to cause major damage, a larger gulp. Maybe his brain cells could function after all.

It was almost a certainty that the murderer was a member of the immediate community, or possibly of Chandler. It had to be someone who knew Nels well enough to have reason to want him dead, and someone with whom Cindy Culver was adequately acquainted to send her into spasms of ecstasy when he wrote requesting her to meet him—or agreeing to
her
request that they meet.

One question that he hadn't entertained was that of
why
the body had been taken away. Unless the murderer had been aware of Mia's presence, he should have believed that Cindy's disappearance wouldn't even be noticed until that evening when she didn't return to Godwin's. That would give him more than twelve hours to get well away from the scene. He might have hidden the body to try to delay the discovery of the girl's death, thinking that it would appear that she had run away. That wouldn't have bought much extra time. As far as they knew, Cindy hadn't taken anything with her to indicate that she planned to be gone overnight, and she wasn't invisible on that train. Her destination was well known.

After the killing, the murderer either left immediately and then shortly returned for the body and the belongings, or he heard Mia descending the jump and hid until she left. Mia hadn't started down until after she heard someone walking away, but she wouldn't have been able to tell how far that person had gone. If the killer knew that someone—Mia—had already seen the body, he didn't remove it just to conceal the fact that a murder had been committed. But then why? Was there some mark stamped on Cindy's body that would have pointed to her slayer?

McIntire poured more coffee and flipped his pillow over to its cool side. He remained still for a few moments before drinking.

The killer had a vehicle nearby—probably hidden, another point in favor of a local culprit, or at least someone familiar with the back roads of the area. The body had been carried to the vehicle. There were no signs of anything being dragged through the woods. It was a point for the killer being male or an unusually strong woman. Cindy was petite, but even a small body would be difficult to carry, and, if she had been taken out through the gravel pit, the job was accomplished quickly. Guibard parked there shortly after seven o'clock.

The murderer was also someone whose presence on the roads in the early morning hours would not be seen as unusual. McIntire reluctantly came back to Nick. He knew that any suspicions he had about Nick Thorsen were likely to be colored by his personal feelings, although the antipathy he felt for the mailman was balanced by a sincere desire not to give further injury to Mia—regardless of what she might believe.

There was no denying that Nick had the opportunity. He could easily have made a quick loop through the trees, followed Cindy into the woods, and killed her. If he had heard a noise on the jump he would have known immediately that it was Mia on one of her early morning explorations and could have hidden until she left. He was really the only person to fit this possibility, since if the murderer knew Mia was on the jump, he would naturally suppose that she had seen what happened. If it was anyone other than Nick, Mia would have been the next victim. McIntire couldn't believe that Nick would directly harm Mia under any circumstances.

And, try as he might to ignore it, if the blackmail theory was the correct one, Nick Thorsen would fit neatly into that picture, too. But would he commit murder to keep Mia from finding out about a romance that, if rumors were to be believed, was only one of several? Well, an affair was one thing, a child was another—not something Mia would so easily forgive. Did Nick himself even know about the pregnancy? Godwin had said that he might have paid Nina off. If it had been that easy, why not just do the same with Cindy, and take the diary?

Did Nick hate Nels bad enough to kill him? He was out late the night before Nels died, and if he hadn't drunk enough to affect his judgment it would be the first time. The tavern was less than a half-mile from Bertelsen's dock. McIntire could see him planting the bees as a spur of the moment prank. But Nels' death was not the result of a prank. The killer had planned it months in advance and had gotten into his house at least twice: to take one vial of adrenaline and replace its contents with bug killer, and later to switch it with his new one. And getting into Bertelsen's house had been made significantly easier by the demise of the wheel-chasing Truman.

But
was
Cindy blackmailing somebody over the love affair? She had known about the Nordic god for months. It was hearing of the death of Nels Bertelsen that got her onto that train.

So who else was known to be out that morning? Lucy? According to Elsie Karvonen, Lucy had not made her appearance until about nine o'clock. She'd have had plenty of time to throttle Cindy, stuff her body into the trunk of Nels' car, and stroll out onto the road where she was seen by Wylie. But if she'd hidden the car in the gravel pit, she'd gotten it out before the doctor parked there about seven-fifteen, and Wylie said she was back home about that time—on foot.

Lucy's harsh voice could be mistaken for a man's, but Mia said the person she believed to be male had only spoken a few words. That didn't sound like Lucy. And it was hard to picture Cindy going into raptures over a summons from her. Lucy
had
started into town that morning. She was out there when Wylie offered her a ride, which she had refused for the feeblest of reasons.

Lucy could easily have been responsible for
Nels'
death. With Christina Bertelsen still living, she probably wouldn't profit from it, but she might not have known that.

Wylie Petworth, of course, since he generally drove a pickup truck, would have the best means of driving off the maintained roads to conceal his presence. Wylie knew the woods for miles around as well as he knew his own cabbage fields and could have gotten the body out with efficiency. But would he have offered Lucy a ride if he had a body in his truck? And, assuming that Cindy was killed to hush up what she knew about Nels' death, Wylie had no motive that McIntire could see. Nels and Wylie didn't always get along, but two people who are that close seldom do. Of course you never know what might have gone on between them through the years, but Wylie would be the last person to profit from Nels' death, especially since Nels' mother was still alive. By the time everything was laid out on the table and the attorneys had finished picking the bones, Wylie could wave that orchard and its income goodbye.

McIntire would bet that if anybody outside the family knew that the old lady was still alive, Wylie did. He'd had the Bertelsen financial records for years, and you didn't have to be able to read Norwegian to see that they contained no documents relating to the death of one of the farm's owners. Wylie could have had hopes of buying the property after the dust settled, but that would be taking a chance that somebody with deeper pockets and a closer relationship to Warner Godwin or his colleagues didn't come along. Not to mention that some shirt-tail kin could turn up and lay claim to the whole ball of wax.

What about Warner Godwin? He surely wouldn't want his late wife's infidelities to become common knowledge. Although he had chirped right up about her pre-marital shenanigans. Why? To throw suspicion into another quarter? Godwin knew where Cindy was going and when. He could have followed her, killed her, and driven through the hills to Marquette, disposing of the body on the way. The roads through the mountains weren't that good and would have been especially tricky after all the rain the night before, but they were probably passable, and Godwin had that Jeep that Koski envied so much. That route was less distance than the main roads, but it might have taken longer time-wise. Still he could easily have made it. His dentist appointment wasn't until ten-thirty. Cindy might have snooped around and come across some unsavory information concerning her employer and Bertelsen.