See Also Murder (20 page)

Of all the duties that I'd assumed, it certainly had never fallen to me to be the guard and sentry of the land I claimed as my own; at least not directly, literally. Hank, in all of his frustration and inability, could not stand tall and don the armored suit of a knight like he once had. He could no more ready himself to do battle with evil outside the door than wipe the sweat from his forehead. Along with everything else, I had no choice but to protect us both. Whether it was out of fear or anger, I jumped to the task without any obvious hesitation at all.

I grabbed the shotgun from behind the door and rushed outside with Shep close on my heels.

It was a decent trek to the second barn, but one I'd made a million times in my life. I could've walked that path barefoot in the middle of the night with my eyes closed. I'd done that, too, when a sow was in the midst of birthing a litter and having troubles, or when the need of some tool dictated it in the middle of winter, and everyone else's hands were too busy to run and get it. There were certainties that came with living on a piece of land for the whole of your life, things that came easy, void of thought. Then there were things you couldn't see because you'd been staring at them for years, walking the same path. It was Hank's accident that had pried my eyes open to the realities of life. The Knudsens' murders, and Ardith's, too, had shown me something else: Never believe that there is nothing to fear on your own land. You're never safe. Not really.

The roar of the combine was a different, unexpected kind of concern. Funny thing was, my heart was as calm as it could be and beating normal. I'd had enough of death and worry to last a lifetime, and if I was the one to put an end to the current madness, then so be it. I'd be glad to be the one to do it.

Hank could not do much else other than offer a whisper of caution as I leapt from the room. The strain of the last few days was obvious on his face, more frightful than anything my imagination could dream up. I should have worried about leaving him behind, but I didn't, couldn't. I was rushing toward a fight, an angry wet hen set on protecting her brood, the henhouse, and everything beyond. Pity the fox who was looking for an easy meal.

I glanced over to the police car at the head of the drive as I came off the front stoop and saw Duke Parsons running my way, fumbling to get his service revolver out of his stiff holster. I didn't stop, didn't wait for the roly-poly deputy to catch up. I hurried as best as I could, barefooted, to the second barn, holding my skirt down with one hand, my grip firm on the shotgun with the other. Luckily, the grass was cool and moist against my feet.

I made sure a shell was in each barrel as I came around the corner, then flipped off the safety and gripped the shotgun with both hands. I was less concerned about showing my panties to a stranger, and more concerned about staying alive. No matter the result, I was ready to raise it to aim, pull both triggers, and offer any monster I saw a double-barrel hello.

But there was no monster, no apparent killer set on drawing me out of the house to do me in. My breath suddenly stuck in my chest, and I felt like I had fallen underwater at the sight that greeted me.

The two boys before me were the last two people I had expected to see.

I blinked and refocused my eyes as the combine came into clear sight. I stopped dead in my tracks and felt a wave of shame wash away my assumptions and fears.

Duke Parsons made it to my side just as the recognition settled itself in my overactive mind. It wasn't a killer I was staring at. It was Peter and Jaeger Knudsen, up on the combine, giving it a tune up, making sure it was set to go come harvest. For a moment, they looked normal, and I was sure I looked like a woman who had lost her mind— and her way—offering a threat instead of a warm hello.

The combine's engine was loud even though it was only a four cylinder. The front reel wasn't turning, or it would have been even louder. By most standards, our combine was a small machine, an Allis-Chalmers Gleaner Model E, but it was big enough to do the job we needed it to do—and it was all we could afford at the time we bought it—more than we could afford, truth be told. I feared the combine would never be paid off and might be repossessed when I needed it the most.

The Gleaner was clean metal, not painted, so it was mottled gray with red letters noting the manufacturer, but that was all. It was a utilitarian machine and wasn't fancy in the least or made for comfort. The hard perforated iron seat wasn't even enclosed. Hank couldn't afford such an extravagance, nor could he see need of any kind of housing. He'd said it'd be like closing in a tractor. He liked to be out in the elements, see what was below and all around him. But the truth was, he was no different than any other man in our parts. I saw how he had looked at the big fancy combines, showing up at the implement dealer, the ones with enclosures and car radios. He had green envy in his eyes. Those were long days in that uncomfortable seat, out in the weather, no matter how much a man loved it. He'd be stiff and hardly able to walk once the chore of cutting the wheat was done.

“Hey,” Duke Parsons, yelled, “what're you two doin' up there?”

Jaeger was on top of the combine, a good twelve feet up, peering into the engine, watching it like a clockmaker intent on finding a flaw in the tick. He didn't flinch at the deputy's question, didn't act like he'd heard a word, and probably hadn't with the engine running like it was. Or he was ignoring Duke, which was just as much a possibility.

Peter, the younger of the two, was standing on the ladder attached to the side of the machine. He looked down to us and nodded, then tapped on Jaeger's shoulder, alerting him to our presence. The dark-headed boy looked up, glanced back to the engine, then shut it off. It sputtered, coughed, and gasped with a loud exhale as it shut down. The whole combine shook like a small explosion had gone off underneath it before it finally went quiet. The timing had been off since the end of last season.

Peter scurried down the ladder and landed on the ground with a two-footed thud. His ever-present smile was missing, and his shoulders sagged like he was carrying invisible buckets in both hands. His eyes were red, and it didn't look like he'd had any sleep in the last few days at all. Peter, the light-haired, smile-prone boy that I'd known since the day he'd come into the world, happy as a lark, looked like a forlorn old man.

“Mrs. Trumaine,” he said, with a doff of his faded green John Deere cap. He never would call me Marjorie.

He forced a smile, but it disappeared as quick as a snow bunting landing on the white ground in January. “Deputy? Is there a problem? Ma'am?”

I shook my head no, and watched Jaeger make his way down off the combine. I hadn't released the shotgun or the shame I was holding onto.

Jaeger was the bigger, more muscular, of the two boys. He took after Lida's family, she'd always said. Truth was, the boys looked more like cousins than brothers. They had the same nose and eyes set back on their faces, but their complexions and dispositions were as different as Jupiter and Mars. Jaeger's left eye drooped slightly, and he wore a little scar there, just under his eyebrow, that was hard to miss. It looked like he'd fallen on a broken pop bottle at some point in his life, but Lida'd told me of the scar a long time ago when I was lamenting the fact that I'd never experienced the joy of childbirth.

Lida's first pregnancy had been a difficult one, and the doctor'd had to use forceps to pull Jaeger out of the womb. The way she saw it, he was content to stay there and fought all the way out. Lida thought Jaeger was still angry about that, because unlike his brother he almost never smiled. He seemed perpetually angry at something, though it might have been just the shape of his face, how he held his mouth. I'd always just found him to be focused, diligent, and intense. Good qualities for a man intent on being a farmer on unforgiving land.

“You two are the last people I expected to see here today,” I said, resisting the temptation to rush to them both and pull them into the biggest hug I could offer.

Just seeing them lightened my heart, then it sank deeper than it had since I saw Ardith lying dead behind the first barn. “What are you doing?”

Jaeger stepped forward, his face as long as Peter's, his hands drenched in fresh oil, black as dried blood and smelly as old soil. “Told Hank last week we'd see to it that the Gleaner was tuned and ready to roll. Just doin' what we said we'd do, Miss Marjorie.”

I nodded. “You two have other things to do,” I whispered as I looked to the ground. “You should be at home. Don't you have folks coming?”

Jaeger didn't break eye contact with me. “If it's all the same to you, ma'am, it's easier bein' here than anywhere else.” He looked out over the field that led to their house. They'd walked over, taking a familiar and comfortable path that was out of eye sight from the road and the parade of gawkers.

I nodded. “I suppose so,” I said. “Are you hungry?”

They shook their heads no in unison, and I felt bad all over again. I didn't imagine they had much of an appetite at the moment, but I was just leaning on the past, remembering them eating through the cupboard like termites after a long day's work.

“You're all right, then, Mrs. Trumaine?” Duke Parsons said, as he started to back away. His service revolver was still in his grip, only down at his side. He looked relieved that the monster killer of my imagination hadn't shown up.

“I'm fine, Duke. Thanks for coming to the rescue.”

“Don't look like you needed me much,” he said with a quick smile down to the shotgun, then back up to my eyes.

I returned the smile and shrugged. We were all in uncharted territory, finding out things about ourselves we didn't know existed— including me.

Duke nodded and walked away, back to his post. I was, at the very least, calmed by his reaction. I trusted him to come running.

I turned back to Jaeger and Peter. “You'll stay for dinner then?”

They both shrugged.

“I'm going to make lefse and potato sausage. I was planning on taking some over to Hilo.” I looked down to the ground, let my words trail off. I couldn't avoid reality, no matter how hard I tried to pretend everything was normal.

Both the Knudsen boys looked up at the mention of lefse and nodded with a familiar, anxious smile.

“Peter'll be glad to stay with Hank, if you need to leave, Miss Marjorie. Won't you, Pete?” Jaeger said.

“Be happy to.” Peter said, and glanced back toward his home. The look on his face was clear. He had no desire to return home anytime soon—and I couldn't say that I blamed him.

CHAPTER 23

Lefse was most often thought of as a holiday treat, a potato-based flatbread that was buttered, sugared, then rolled and eaten with delight. I can't remember a Christmas without it on the table, or when I wasn't in the kitchen at my mother's apron as she mixed the ingredients and then cooked the bread on the same hot iron griddle that I continued to use.

I was twelve when I made lefse on my own for the first time. I had to flip it on the four-hundred-degree griddle with my mother hovering behind me, ready to take over if I got in trouble—she made the task look easy, but it was an orchestra of movement that my young hands were inexperienced at. From then on, the mechanics of cooking the bread was my job. One that I cherished. Though, now, considering lefse as funeral food for Ardith Jenkins, I was less than thrilled with the prospect of all that the process entailed.

The ingredients were easy to keep over the winter, and the recipe was ingrained in my mind, as well worn as the path to the second barn. Boiled, peeled potatoes; mashed, mixed with butter, cream, and salt. Then the flour was folded in until the dough wasn't too sticky to work with.

I rolled the dough out on a board covered with a flour sack and heavily floured, until it was really thin, almost translucent, which is harder than it sounds. The rolling pin was corrugated and had been my great-grandmother's, brought over from Norway. It moved easily across the fragile dough, but would betray me if I pressed too hard. The dough would rip and I'd have to ball it up and start all over again.

After the dough was rolled out, I carried it, piece by piece, to the hot griddle with a lefse stick. The stick was nothing more than a window blind slat with the tip carved to a curve. Mine was worn and oiled with fingerprints from years of use—it was stored back in the blind after use and stood out from all of the rest. To the uninitiated, the slat just looked a little dirty, out of place. Most people never noticed, but our people always did, people who were brought up on lefse.

I fried the first side of the paper-thin bread until it started to bubble, then flipped it—actually, more like rolled it carefully—with the stick, until the bread was done. Then I'd do it all over again until all of the dough was gone.

I usually made a couple of dozen pieces, but since I was feeding the boys and Hank and taking the lefse to Hilo's, I tripled the recipe.

I had just enough potatoes and cream. Baking a cherry pie would have been much easier, but I'd been careless in that effort, wasteful, and didn't have any cherries left.

I liked to eat lefse straight off the griddle, slathered with fresh butter, but in this case I had to cool it—so I layered it in clean dish towels. Some women I knew made cozies to separate and cool the bread, but I'd never gotten around to that sewing project—I had too much to do over the winter the way it was.

Once it cooled, the lefse would travel well and be delicious paired with the potato sausage, another staple recipe of the plains brought over from the old country. Most folks made their own sausage, but since I'd had my hands full in the past months, I got mine at the Red Owl meat counter—most likely made by the butcher, Mills Standish.

The sausage was a mix of pork, ground beef, potatoes, onion, salt, pepper, and a hint of cloves. It aged well over the winter, too, and was a perfect mix with the lefse, when it wasn't used as a treat, but the store-bought sausage paled in comparison to the sausage that came out of my own meat grinder.