A Yarn Over Murder

by Ann Yost

  “Thank you both for taking on the booth,” I said. “It makes my job as acting police chief so much easier.”

  Aunt Ianthe’s blue eyes were shrewd.

  “I would guess, Henrikki, that you cannot wait for your parents to get back from the Mayo. It is a great responsibility to be in charge of the law though, luckily, we have no crime in Red Jacket.”

  “Thou shalt not kill,” Miss Irene said. For once, there was no smile on her face and my blood ran cold. Did my elderly relatives know about the death of Liisa Pelonen? But that was impossible. For one thing, Pauline Maki was in charge of the secret. And, for another, Aunt Ianthe would have mentioned it to me first thing.

  “Oh, I almost forgot to show you what Irene and I found up in the attic.” Aunt Ianthe said, struggling out of her lawn chair to retrieve something from a box. It was a doll, probably eighteen inches high, with bright blue eyes and thick blond braids. She was wearing the plain white shift, red sash and the crown of candles of St. Lucy.

  “Doesn’t she look like Liisa? I believe I made the outfit for Sofi many years ago but Irene and I thought we would give it to Arvo.”

  “Why Arvo?”

  “To try to make up for his dear girl missing her chance to sing in the festival,” Aunt Ianthe said. “You know, of course, that she is still sick and that Ronja Laplander’s daughter is to take her place.” I nodded and my great aunt sighed. “I’m afraid little Astrid does not have much of an ear.”

  “Or a voice,” Miss Irene said. “But God works in mysterious ways.”

  “Yes,” Aunt Ianthe said, thoughtfully, “but it is hard to imagine what He is thinking on this one.”

  “It’s a consequence,” Miss Irene said, somewhat unexpectedly. “Liisa had no time to put on the longjohns.”

  I couldn’t help wondering whether the girl would still be alive today if she had bundled up before the parade and failed to catch a chill and a sore throat. Had she been murdered (if she’d been murdered) because she’d been unlucky enough to catch a cold? Or was there something more behind her death, a relentless killer who would have found an opportunity one way or the other?

  “She was dreadfully pale in the sleigh,” Aunt Ianthe said.

  “And I looked, and behold a pale horse: And his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.”

  The quotation took my breath away. It must have shaken Aunt Ianthe, too, because after a short pause she said, “be careful with Revelations, my dear. It is not popular in some quarters. And, I am certain, it would upset Pauline.”

  “What makes you say that?” The question was out before I thought.

  The old ladies exchanged a pointed look.

  “Pauline is very protective of Liisa,” Miss Irene said.

  “Very protective,” Aunt Ianthe echoed her friend. “We don’t believe we have ever seen her as happy as she has been this year. Motherhood is what she was missing.”

  “Pauline Maki isn’t Liisa’s mother,” I said, with more heat than necessary.

  “No, dear. Of course not. It is make-believe. But not, I think, to Pauline.”

  Miss Irene’s next words struck a chord somewhere inside me.

  “No more lies,” she quoted, “no more pretense. Ephesians.”

  A pair of trim, middle-aged women, lift tags hanging from the zippers of their puffy ski jackets, stepped into our booth.

  “What an exquisite sweater,” said one of them, gazing at the reindeer prancing across my aunt’s generous chest. “I had no idea there was such a strong Norwegian influence in the UP. Are the mittens for sale?”

  There was a brief silence, and I knew Aunt Ianthe was trying to decide whether or not to point out that we were Finns not Norwegians, and Miss Irene was working on a suitable Bible verse about making mistakes. It seemed like an excellent time for me to move on, and I excused myself and stepped out onto the canvas-lined concourse. An instant later I felt a gentle hand at my elbow. I looked down into Miss Irene’s concerned face.

  “There is something wrong, isn’t there, Henrikki? I can sense it.”

  Pops always jokes that Miss Irene has the Finnish Second Sight. She does seem to have the knack of reading between the lines and of probing below the surface.

  “Something about Pauline and Arvo.”

  I found I couldn’t lie to her.

  “Yes. But, Miss Irene, I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  She patted my arm.

  “Of course, Henrikki,” she said. “Please let me know if I can help.”

  A lump formed in my throat as I thought how much I loved the two old ladies. I found myself pitying the beautiful dead girl and taking comfort in the fact that she had spent her last months with a couple that loved her like a daughter. Family really was everything.

  Seven

  There was a healthy turnout at the festival and Sofi’s booth which offered coffee and fudge (even if the latter was eggnog-flavored) was the most popular spot. Despite the long line of customers, my sister turned the operation over to her daughter, grabbed my arm and hauled me over to one of the card-tables borrowed from St. Heikki’s social hall.

  “How dare you just tell me Liisa Pelonen’s dead, then just leave me in the lurch.”

  “Ssh,” I put my finger to my lips. “How did that leave you in the lurch?”

  “Curiosity, silly. I want to know who, what, when, where and why.” She paused. “And how.”

  “You already know who,” I pointed out. “And when. I don’t know yet how she died or why or whether it was an accident.”

  Sofi leaned so that her eyes were only a few inches from mine.

  “But you don’t think it was an accident, do you, little sister? This whole thing wouldn’t be so hush-hush if there were an innocent explanation.”

  “That’s not true.” Sometimes I’m oppositional with Sofi just because she’s my big sister. “Arvo didn’t want to ruin the rest of the festival by making it public.” I paused. “Or, maybe it was Pauline. Anyway, everybody worked hard on this and the Snow Train thing is riding on it.”

  Sofi sat back in her chair.

  “Does anybody really believe folks are going to drive ten to twelve hours just to ride around the UP in a train that will probably get stuck in the snow?”

  “It’ll be like the Orient Express,” I said.

  “Yeah. Up to and including a killing.”

  “Hush! I mean it, Sofi. I promised discretion on this.”

  She didn’t argue with me. Instead, she wiped her face with a tissue she had in her pocket and then fixed her eyes on the passersby.

  “Have you come up with a motive?”

  “Not really. I mean Ronja was upset about the St. Lucy thing and apparently Barb Hakala’s boyfriend fell for Liisa hook, line, and sinker. Nothing else.”

  “She was extraordinarily beautiful,” Sofi said. “You know, that kind of beauty carries a heavy mandate. All eyes are on you all the time and people are judging. I imagine that people like Princess Grace and Audrey Hepburn had to be diplomatic at all times. Admiration isn’t far from envy and envy isn’t far from hate.”

  I stared at my sister. I wasn’t surprised at her insight but I was surprised that she expressed it.

  “You sound like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “I hadn’t. Not until the insect.”

  Three years earlier Sofi’s then-husband, Lars Teljo, had a one-night stand with a barmaid whose first name was Cricket. It seemed to me that the affair was the final straw in toppling a shaky marriage. Sofi’s view was that Cricket, aka the insect, had destroyed a healthy union and a perfect family.

  “Surely you don’t think Liisa was killed because she was so beautiful.”

  “Why not? St. Lucy was.”

  That wasn’t strictly true. St. Lucy (if, indeed, she existed) was martyred because she refused the hand of an Italian nobleman, preferring to stay pure in the name of Christ.

  “You know, H, it’s possible that, just like with St. Lucy,
some guy wanted Liisa and she refused him so he killed her.”

  I thought about the hockey-stick wielding Matti Murso. Somehow, that didn’t seem any more plausible than considering Ronja or Diane Hakala or either of their daughters.

  “Maybe Sonya will say it’s an accident.”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath.” She frowned. “What is it they always say about killing women? That it is someone in the family circle? Some man.” Horror flashed in those baby blue eyes. “You don’t think that Arvo…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Of course not. That’s absurd.”

  Arvo and Pops have been best friends for many years and the funeral director has been an honorary uncle for Sofi, Elli and me. When we were younger he’d show up on Christmas Eve wearing the costume of Joulupukki, (literally, Yule Goat), which is our version of Santa Claus. Our relationships with the Makis were much like those with the aunts; they attended our celebrations, our recitals and school events, and we considered them family. The only difference was that we did not have the run of the mortuary but that never bothered me. I understand that it is Arvo’s business and has always been his home but I’ve sometimes wondered how Pauline could bear to live just a floor above the corpses.

  “It couldn’t be Arvo,” I repeated. “Not in a million years. Besides, he loved Liisa like a daughter.”

  “Speaking of daughters,” Sofi said, “you really should talk to her actual-factual father.”

  “Jalmer Pelonen,” I said. “You’re right.” I fished my cell out of my parka pocket. “I’ll see if Arvo has located him yet.”

  Sofi went back to her booth. I found a quiet corner under the edge of the tarp and punched in a number. It wasn’t until he’d answered that it occurred to me Arvo would normally have been all over the festival marketplace. Where was he?

  “Where are you,” I asked, before he could say hello.

  “The Nugget.”

  The Nugget is the relatively new casino on the Copper Eagle Reservation some fifteen miles east of Red Jacket. Built after The 1988 Indian Gaming Regulatory Act, the casino was supposed to bring prosperity for all the residents of the rez. Needless to say, like everything else in the UP and on the Keweenaw, in particular, it was too far from the population centers to score much in the way of traffic.

  “Why aren’t you at the Christmas market? We’ve got a good turnout.”

  “The guys from Lansing didn’t show a lot of enthusiasm for arts and crafts.”

  “What about fudge?”

  “Heh.” It was a tepid laugh, at best, for Arvo. “They had something a little stronger in mind.”

  He sounded discouraged and I tried to cheer him up.

  “They’d probably had enough snow. I notice they all wore Burberries with scarves but no hats or gloves.” The stylish outerwear had made them stand out among the Keweenaw natives who tended to wear heavy parkas, tan, ankle-height Wolverine boots, and the stormy kromer, a fur-lined cap with earflaps invented and sold in Iron Mountain.

  “Any news on the Snow Train?”

  “A shoo-in,” Arvo said. “The detour to the casino clinched it. But I think we’d have gotten it anyway. There’s plenty to see in Red Jacket, what with all our historical architecture and the remains of the railroad and the mine shaft.”

  “And, of course, the ethnic festivals you and Pauline have come up with. Who could pass up a chance for snow, smorgasbord and St. Lucy?”

  There was a momentary silence and I bit my tongue. I hadn’t intended to remind him of last night’s tragedy.

  “You know, Henrikki,” he finally said, “it almost seems as if it didn’t happen, you know? Like I imagined it. Like when Pauline and I go down to the church in a little while, she will be amongst the starboys and girls and she will be wearing the crown and carrying her candle.”

  The wobbliness in his voice nearly broke my heart.

  “I’m so sorry, Arvo.” After an awkward silence, I changed the subject. “Have you been able to get ahold of Jalmer Pelonen?”

  “No. Einar says he is still ice fishing at Lake Gogebic.”

  “Einar? My Einar?”

  “You did not know, Hatti-girl? Jalmer and Einar are old fishing buddies.”

  I tried to imagine Einar having a buddy of any kind.

  “Jalmer goes every year for two weeks at the beginning of December. Like clockwork.”

  “So he should be back tomorrow, right? The fourteenth?”

  I imagined the poor man coming home to the worst news a father could get and added, “poor guy.”

  “He will want to see her,” Arvo said. “I have made her beautiful again, with makeup and the white dress Pauline made for her to wear to the Harvest Dance. She looks like an angel.”

  Even as my heart ached for Arvo, Pauline and for Jalmer Pelonen, I wondered how many laws we’d broken by moving the body. If there turned out to be any indication of foul play, the sauna would be designated a crime scene and it should be sealed off. The very fact that none of that had occurred to me nearly a day later revealed how unprepared I was to investigate this situation. My anxiety poured out in words.

  “We really should call in the professionals.”

  “No, Henrikki. No. Not until tomorrow.”

  I suddenly remembered to tell him about Sonya’s unofficial autopsy.

  “That’s all right with you, isn’t it? And Pauline?”

  Arvo took a moment to consider but eventually agreed.

  “You do what you must do, Hatti-girl,” he said, with a sigh. “We will see you later, at the church? Pauline is already there, in charge of the pageant. I married a worker bee, you know.”

  “Right. Uh, Arvo, can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Liisa Pelonen?”

  “You asked me that before. The answer is still the same. No, no and no. She had no enemy. She was perfection.”

  “You don’t think she was too perfect for her own good?”

  “Would you ask the question about Jesus Christ? Or Sibelius?”

  I refused to back down.

  “Sometimes people who are extraordinarily good or beautiful incite jealousy in others.”

  “No one would want to kill Liisa,” he said, in a low voice. “No one who knew her.”

  “What about you?”

  “What!?”

  “I mean, what if someone wanted to hurt you through Liisa.”

  “There is no one,” he said, finally. “It must have been an accident.”

  After I disconnected I realized I had no interest in going back into the Christmas Market. I wasn’t needed at the shop and the prospect of going home to change sheets and clean the place for my parents’ return seemed like an uninspired choice. All I could think about was Liisa Pelonen and why she had died last night on the floor of the Makis sauna.

  I left the key to the Jeep with Sofi and started the walk home. The snow was falling but it was a light, fresh, lacy snow. I caught a few flakes on my tongue and breathed in the fresh, cold air.

  Jace and I had never experienced a snowfall together because we’d met in the spring in Ann Arbor then married and moved to Washington, D.C. Since I had grown up in Red Jacket and his grandfather lived on the Keweenaw, we’d talked a lot about the heavy Yooper snowfalls and we’d planned to build snowmen and have a snowball fight at the first opportunity.

  Of course, there never was an opportunity. We hadn’t been married long enough.

  Three blocks of wading through a foot of snow was too long to dwell on the frustrations of my cracked marriage and, by the time I turned from Third Street onto Calumet, I was frantic to think about something else. And then it hit me. Arvo was at the Nugget and Pauline at church. This was the perfect time to revisit the scene of the crime. If there’d been a crime. I was beginning to think that there had.

  Eight

  Even though the funeral home was built during the same turn-of-the-century era as The Queen Anne and the inn, it bore no resemblance to the other two structures. There were no records left from that t
ime, but most of us assumed that the architect must have been eccentric, or, as Mrs. Moilanen liked to say, a crackpot.

  With its thick, ugly shingled roof curling over the upper story like a serpent, its dark brick façade, and the ground floor’s slitted windows, the house resembled a medieval fortress.

  I collected the key from the milk chute just inside the carport on the wall of the downstairs kitchen but I didn’t let myself into the back. Instead, just in case I’d gotten my signals crossed and there was someone home, I circled back to the front door.

  It was a double-door with two separate knockers and two matching plain evergreen wreaths intended to send the message that the Makis were aware of the Christmas season but that they intended to observe the holiday in a low-key, non-decorative way out of respect for any mourners. I picked up one of the knockers and banged it against the door and, while I waited for someone to answer, I felt the old sense of unease that I always felt around this house of death.

  No one answered, of course. Not even a ghost.

  As I unlocked the door and let myself in, the butterflies in my stomach turned into bats. I told myself I was being ridiculous. I’d lived next to the funeral home all my life and I’d been in here dozens of times for funerals. There was nothing to be scared of, nothing at all. Even so, the breath caught in my throat and I could feel my heart thumping against my ribs.

  I slipped off my boots and walked down the shadowed, carpeted hallway in my stocking feet toward the downstairs kitchen at the end of the hall. The kitchen, too, was shadowed and I didn’t turn on a light but the pale light filtering in from the window revealed the 1950s black-and-white linoleum on the floor and, in the corner, the Norge refrigerator with its humped shoulders.

  The Maki money had been spent on the newest wing of the house which lay beyond the kitchen. It consisted of a corridor that connected a greenhouse and a modern, electric sauna.

  As I gazed at the lacy, green-and-black shadows, the pinprick glow from the plant lights and the snow falling on the glassed-in roof, I thought of a snowglobe and the magic of the place drew me inside.