by Rickie Blair
We bonded over bowls of smoky corn soup and scones, which Joe pronounced as skawns. “A type of fry bread,” Lynda explained when I asked.
“Is this your favorite meal?” I asked.
Joe nodded solemnly. “We eat it every day. When we can’t get antelope hearts.”
I paused with my spoon halfway to my mouth. “Antelope—what?”
Lynda flicked a finger on his arm. “Cut that out, Grandfather. You know perfectly well you’d rather have chicken fingers and chips.” She turned to me with a roll of her eyes. “He likes to put on a show for the tourists. My grandmother makes corn soup and bannock once a week, and always saves some for me. There are no antelope here, by the way. Plenty of deer, though.”
“Venison steaks?” I asked.
“And venison sausage.” Her eyes widened. “Delicious.”
“I’ve heard you have a terrific pow-wow in the summer.”
“Yes.” She nodded enthusiastically. “Drumming, costumes, competitive dancing. It’s fun. My cousins come up from the States for it. You should come this year.”
“I’ll try. It sounds like fun.” Placing my drained bowl to one side, I leaned in. “Joe, I have a few questions your granddaughter thought you might be able to answer.”
Sipping a spoonful of soup, he waved his other hand to indicate the museum displays down the hall. “Lynda knows more about this stuff than I ever will.”
“It’s not the artifacts I’m wondering about. Although I did bring a few arrowheads I wouldn’t mind getting an opinion on.”
“I’d be happy to take a look,” Lynda said.
Reaching for my shoulder bag, I pulled out my Anne of Green Gables pencil case, placed it on the table, and opened it.
Lynda selected one of the arrowheads, examining it. “This is fairly ordinary. Except—see this broken tip?”
“Is that significant?”
“It means it was found at a campsite. Not dropped on a trail somewhere. Stone arrowheads are fragile. They can only be used a few times before they break. The tip of this one probably broke off during a hunt, and the owner brought the haft end home to be reworked into something else.” She dropped the arrowhead into the pencil case. “Do you know where it was found?”
“I’m afraid not, no.”
“Is there a reason you kept these?”
“They were my mother’s. I wondered if they came from the same dig—the one I mentioned.”
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “They could have. But if she found them during a dig, they should have been catalogued and stored. The researchers are not allowed to take anything.”
“Even if it’s worthless?”
She nodded. “Technically. But I imagine souvenirs occasionally left the site. Your mother’s arrowheads aren’t numbered, which means they’re not from the official collection. There’s no way to tell where they came from.”
“Then you don’t want them back?”
She smiled. “No. Although if she had anything else…”
“Sorry, no. But if anything turns up, I’ll let you know.” I turned to Joe. “Do you remember a dig here about twenty years ago, run by the university? Professor Randall Dignam was in charge. I believe they were researching the Neutral Indians.”
“There was a lot of digging,” he said slowly. “It all looked the same to me. White guys wandering around, spouting nonsense.”
“Grandfather,” Lynda said in a warning tone.
“You’re not descended from the Neutrals, are you?” I asked.
“No, we’re Six Nations—Mohawk,” Lynda said. “And they’re called the Attiwandaron.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
She waved a hand. “No problem.”
“The one I’m referring to was notorious because Professor Dignam vanished that summer. My mother was among those questioned by the police. It was intense for a while.” I pulled the photo from my handbag, then handed it over. “This is him.”
Joe’s brow furrowed as he studied the picture. “I do remember him, now’as I see his picture. He was okay. Not as bad as most.”
Lynda grinned. “You must wonder why I ever went into anthropology.”
I smirked. “We all have relatives.”
Joe ignored my taunt. “What did you say his name was?”
“Randall Dignam. Randy.”
“Yeah, that was it. Randy. Very fond of corn soup, he was. There was a big to-do when he went missing. The dig was closed down for the season and everybody went home.”
“Does the woman look familiar at all?”
He studied the picture carefully. “I don’t think so. She mighta been there, but I can’t remember.”
“Is this your mother?” Lynda asked, gesturing for Joe to hand her the photo.
“Yes. She’s dead now.”
“I’m sorry. She was pretty.”
“Smart, too. She wanted to pursue a career in archaeology, but she gave it up in favor of English and Ancient Languages.”
Lynda handed back the picture. “Why did she do that?”
After I tucked the photo into the box, I closed the lid. “I think it had something to do with the events of that summer.”
“You mean the professor bein’ murdered?” Joe asked, draining the last of his soup. “That would put you off, all right.”
“Murdered?” Lynda turned to me with an expression of shock. “Was he?”
“No. The police decided he left the country to escape fraud charges.”
Joe gave a snort of derision. “Fraud? That guy couldn’t even cheat at poker.”
His granddaughter’s jaw dropped. “When did you play poker with him?”
“Don’t recall.”
She clapped a fist to her waist. “Then how would you know if he was cheating?”
“Don’t recall that, either.”
“Did Grandmother know about this?”
Joe looked cagey. “Might have,” he muttered.
Lynda opened her mouth again, but before this could morph into a family squabble, I stepped in. “Was Randy particularly friendly with his female staff?”
Joe wrinkled his brow. “The women? Don’t think so.”
“I’ve been told there were rumors—”
“None that I heard. But I wouldn’t, would I? None of my business what they got up to.”
Lynda put a hand on my arm. “Grandfather doesn’t mean any offense by that, Verity.” She glared at him. “Do you?”
“No.” He seemed confused.
“Why did you think he was murdered?” I asked.
“He wasn’t interested in money. Lost almost every game he was in. I wouldn’a pegged him for financial funny business.” He hesitated. “But there was something going on.”
“What?”
“Dunno. He was worked up about something, though. That last week, he used the phone at the central office quite a bit. I heard he did a lot of yelling.”
“Who did you hear that from?” Lynda asked.
“The Oneida woman who used to work there? The bannock bread woman?”
“Evelyn’s grandmother?”
“Yeah. She musta told me.” He leaned in. “The night he disappeared, a couple of the fellas saw somebody sneaking around the tents. A big guy, they said. Wearing a hat. The next morning, the professor was gone.”
“Did these men tell the police?” I asked.
He snorted again. “No way. They were here for a game that wasn’t exactly public.”
“Did the professor take part in that game?”
“Nope.”
I leaned back in my chair, flummoxed. “When everyone woke the next morning, Professor Dignam had vanished.”
He nodded. “Murdered.” At his granddaughter’s raised eyebrows, he added sheepishly, “Maybe.”
“Everyone assumed he left after midnight, when the camp was asleep. But if he didn’t show up for that game, he could have left hours earlier.”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“They didn’t
search for him when he failed to show?”
“Nah.” Joe chuckled. “They figured he’d lost enough money. Never thought anything of it until the next day.”
“If you believed he was murdered, you should have gone to the police.”
“No thanks,” he said decisively. “They wouldn’t have believed us. They might even have arrested us. Besides, didn’t you say he turned up later?”
“Yes. Why did you think he was murdered? Because of the yelling?”
Joe leaned in, lowering his voice. “He didn’t take his Jeep when he left.”
“He didn’t?”
“It was still here the next day. And not just that—he was excited about something. At one of those games—” Glancing at Lynda, he added, “Which I may or may not have been at—he said he’d found something. Something important.”
“Do you remember what it was?”
He frowned, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Lynda and I leaned in, holding our breath.
“Nah,” he said, finally. “I got nothing.”
On the drive home, I went over Joe’s story. A big man—wearing a hat—had been skulking around at the same time the professor went missing. Who could it have been? Had this man taken him somewhere? And had he gone willingly? No matter how many times I thought it through, I came back to the same question—who would have wanted Randall Dignam dead?
And realized the prime candidate was currently visiting Leafy Hollow.
Frank Thorne.
Chapter Twenty-One
The door of the 5X Bakery was propped open with a brick when I parked a few doors away. A plastic sheet had been taped over the smashed front window. One edge flapped in the wind as men tromped in and out in heavy work boots. The broken glass had been swept away, and a workman was measuring the wall.
Inside, Emy was behind the counter, tossing stale baked goods into a plastic garbage bin with gloved hands. Her breath frosted in the air.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
She paused, resting a hand on the edge of the bin. “Not bad. The insurance adjuster came by. They’re sending a crew in a week or two to start the repairs. It’s freezing in here, though.”
“Are you covered?”
“Pretty much. I had loss-of-business insurance to pay for lost sales. But there’s no way to know if future trade will be affected.”
“You should hold a ‘crash-and-grab’ sale.”
“Lorne agrees. He’s working on a mockup of the online ad.”
“That boy has come a long way.”
Emy smiled. “He’s not a boy, Verity. Not anymore.” She pulled off her plastic gloves and dropped them on the counter. “I still need to test the coffee maker and re-calibrate the ovens. The insurance adjuster said to check everything for damage. Just in case.” She cupped her hands and blew air over them. “So—how’s the investigation going?”
“Well…” I watched a workman hammer a sheet of plywood over the flapping plastic, then reach for another from a stack propped against the nearest lamp post.
Emy placed a hand on my arm. “Come upstairs where we can talk.”
Her apartment upstairs was also chillier than normal, but warmer than the bakery. Emy closed the door at the top of the stairs, shutting out the hammering and shouts from below.
“Go into the living room. I’ll put the kettle on. Peppermint tea?”
“Thanks.”
I settled into the overstuffed sofa, putting my stocking feet up on the coffee table. I’d been in Emy’s apartment often enough to feel at home. There were more of Lorne’s possessions in the apartment every time I saw it—not just extra toothbrushes and shaving gear in the bathroom, but hockey sticks and gym bags in the hall, sweaters tossed carelessly over armchairs, and textbooks stacked on the coffee table. Most were standard accounting texts. As a former bookkeeper, I was familiar with those. But a paperback with a vivid cover caught my eye.
I picked it up to scan the title—Take Flight! A Guide for Newly Hatched Entrepreneurs—then turned to chapter one. It was titled, Crack that Shell!
Hmmm. Either a motivational volume, or a cookbook.
Emy returned with a mug of tea.
Dropping the paperback on the table, I took the mug from her hand. “Thanks. So—when is Lorne moving in?”
She sat in an armchair to sip from her own mug. “Don’t ask me. I’ve stopped mentioning it. You know how he is.”
“We have to work on that man. It’s silly you’re still living apart.”
“Lorne is more conservative than you think.”
“Meaning he wants a ring on your finger first?”
“Yes, but not until he can afford it. And we’re not just talking about a ring, either.”
“You already own this building. What difference does it make? Can’t he just pay you rent if it would make him feel better? That’s what Jeff insisted on doing.”
“He could.” Emy curled one leg under her. “But I think the problem is the way I got this building.”
“Because it was a gift from a former paramour?”
“Paramour? Have you been reading Dickens again?” She shook her head. “Trevor was a former lover. We parted amicably, and he gave me this building. He was wealthy. It wasn’t that big a deal.”
I raised an eyebrow at this.
“Okay, he was extremely wealthy. So what?”
I took a long swallow of tea before placing the mug on the coffee table. “It’s no use asking me. I don’t understand men.”
“True.” Emy placed her own mug on the table with a smirk.
I made a face at her. “Thanks.” I reached for my tea to drain the last of it, then replaced the mug on the table with a sigh.
Emy leaned in with an intent look. “Are you and Jeff having problems?”
“Not at all.”
“Is it the investigation, then? What did you find out?”
I grimaced as I tapped my fingers on the sofa arm. “I drove out to that archaeology museum. Asked them about my mother.”
“Did they tell you anything useful?”
Clasping my hands across my stomach, I winced.
Emy half-rose from her chair with an expression of alarm. “What’s wrong?”
It was hard to voice the words.
“Spit it out—what is it?”
I took a deep breath. “I think my father is a murderer.”
Emy’s mouth opened and closed a few times as she stared. “What?” she spluttered, dropping back into her chair.
I recounted Joe Montoya’s story about the stranger skulking around on the night Professor Dignam disappeared. When I was done, I slumped against the sofa, feeling queasy.
“Whoa. You think it was your father?”
“It fits the facts.”
Emy rose to pull a bottle of brandy and two small glasses from a cabinet against the wall. After placing the glasses on the coffee table, she tugged out the bottle’s wooden stopper and poured out two measures before handing me a glass. “I think we need something stronger than peppermint tea.”
I drank half before placing my glass on the table. The alcohol burned in my chest. “Thanks. Although now I am in a Dickens novel.”
“Those Victorians knew how to solve a dilemma or two,” Emy replied, sipping her own brandy. She leaned forward to place her glass on the table with a solid thud. “Now. Let’s discuss this. I’ve met your father. He has a lot to answer for, but I find it hard to believe murder is among his crimes.”
“I don’t want to believe it either but, like I said—it fits the facts.”
“Did the police question Frank about the professor’s disappearance?”
“Not as far as I know, but Frank left the country a brief time later. Maybe his departure had nothing to do with his quarrel with Mom. Maybe he left to avoid being questioned.” I picked up a puffy throw pillow and clasped it to my chest, feeling glum.
“Walk me through it,” Emy urged.
Setting the pillow aside, I counted off on my fingers. “One
—Adeline said my father was jealous, usually without cause. Two—there were rumors of an affair between my mother and Professor Dignam. My father likely heard those rumors. Three—Dignam argued on the phone with someone in the days before he disappeared. That could have been Frank, warning him to stay away from his wife. Four—a strange man was seen sneaking around the dig on the night the professor disappeared. And five—my father has a criminal record.”
Emy held up a hand. “Wait. What? You never told me that.”
“Jeff discovered it when he checked up on him. Mostly fraud. Nothing violent.”
“Hmm. Still—fraud is not murder.”
“Yes, but his record would have come up if the police questioned him. And if Mom was having an affair, Frank would be the obvious suspect when her alleged lover disappeared.”
With a little puff of breath, Emy picked up her glass, drained it, and poured another. Raising an eyebrow, she held the bottle over my glass.
“No, thanks. I want to keep a clear head.”
She stoppered the bottle, then set it to one side. “Have you shared this theory with Jeff?”
I hesitated before answering. My drive home from the museum had been miserable. As much as I hated my father for abandoning us, he was my father. How could I turn him in on suspicion of murder? And yet, how could I withhold the truth from Jeff? I had repeatedly gone over it before deciding to lay my dilemma at Emy’s feet. She’d never reveal my secret, and I could count on her to provide a sensible sounding board.
“Not yet,” I said with a groan. “I don’t know if I should tell him.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if he arrests Frank?”
Emy’s eyes widened, and we shared an unhappy look. Slowly, we picked up our glasses and sipped our drinks, averting our eyes.
I thought what I really wanted—why I came to Emy with my dilemma, rather than Jeff—was for her to discover the flaws in my theory. She didn’t let me down.
Emy put down her glass. “You realize there’s a hole in your story?”
Narrowing one eye, I asked, “Which is?”
“No body. If Professor Dignam was murdered, where’s his body?”
“Sometimes, there is no body in a murder case,” I countered. “It’s not essential to prove guilt.”
“Also,” Emy continued, undeterred by my rebuttal, “the police didn’t think he was dead. He contacted his wife, right? And you said the woman at the university also heard from him after he disappeared.”