Blood Hollow

by William Kent Krueger

  “No more so than most folks, I’d guess.”

  “I’ll pray for him.” He returned to his chair and sat down with his hands folded in his lap. “I’m still going to trial?”

  “We’ll have to see about that.” Cork signaled Pender, who was on cell block duty that day. “If I were you, Solemn, I’d pray a little for myself.”

  Solemn looked up at him, looked out of the deep brown wells that were his eyes. “Some days that’s all I do. It’ll help me, praying for someone else.” He hesitated, as if reluctant to say the rest. “Thank you for all you’re doing. Only …”

  “What?”

  “Maybe some things that are secret should stay that way.”

  “Sometimes we just turn over rocks, Solemn. What’s there is there.”

  Heading out of the department, Cork passed the opened door of the sheriff’s office. Soderberg was not inside. Gooding came over from the front desk.

  “The sheriff got a call from the county attorney a few minutes ago,” Gooding said. “He took off right away. Listen, Cork, even if you could prove that he was with Charlotte Kane that night, it doesn’t mean he killed her.”

  “Maybe not, but it’ll raise a hell of a question in a jury’s mind. I’ll catch you later, Randy.”

  In the parking lot, he got into his Bronco. Although it was still morning, the sun was hot already. He rolled down his windows to let in air. He was about to crank the engine when he spotted Arne Soderberg sitting in his BMW, staring. The wing that housed the prisoners was in front of him, and he seemed to be looking at the dull brick wall. Cork watched for a few minutes until Soderberg started his car and pulled out of the lot.

  The sheriff drove slowly. At Fourth and Holly, he ran a stop sign. Not fast, just drifted through as if he didn’t see it at all. He headed out past the town limits and turned onto North Point Road. He pulled into the drive of his home, got out, and went inside. Cork cruised past the house, drove a hundred yards, turned around, parked, and waited.

  Less than five minutes later, Soderberg stepped out. He backed from his drive and headed into Aurora. He skirted Oak Street, the county courthouse, stayed well away from the sheriff’s department, and kept going south. At the far end of town, he turned onto Lakeview Road and wound his way up the hill to the cemetery.

  At that time of the morning, the grounds were almost deserted. Just beyond the gate, Cork saw Gus Finlayson, the groundskeeper, standing in the cool shade of a big maple, tossing hand tools into a small trailer hitched to the back of a John Deere garden tractor. Finlayson waved as Cork passed. Far ahead, the BMW pulled to a stop under a familiar linden tree, and Arne Soderberg got out. By the time Cork’s Bronco rolled up behind the car, Soderberg was already down the hill standing at Charlotte’s grave.

  For a long time, Cork sat in his Bronco. He watched Soderberg smoke a cigarette, then light another. He remembered the wonderful fragrance that had filled the cemetery the day the rose petals appeared. Now the air smelled of cut summer grass, a good scent, but not at all a miracle. After a while, Cork got out, and descended the hill.

  Soderberg saw him coming. “Haven’t you done enough damage, O’Connnor? Just leave me the hell alone.”

  Cork looked at the towering marble monument erected in Charlotte’s memory. “She was a beautiful young woman, Arne.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “I suppose not.” He let a few breaths go by. “That day on Moccasin Creek when you saw her body, it must have been hard on you. You didn’t know she was there, did you?”

  Fingers of smoke crept from Soderberg’s lips, stroked his cheeks and his hair, then lifted free of him and drifted idly away. “She was alive when I left Valhalla.”

  Cork nodded. “The problem is this. There’s no way for you to prove it.”

  Soderberg reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. Without a word, he handed it to Cork.

  It was a receipt for the purchase of 13.6 gallons of gas, a credit card transaction bearing Soderberg’s signature. It had been generated at the Food ’N Fuel at 1:27 A.M. on January 1.

  Soderberg said, “I was in Aurora when Charlotte was killed. It was Winter Moon. I know it was that son of a bitch.”

  Cork handed back the receipt. “What are you going to do, Arne?”

  Soderberg looked up, squinting at the sun. His face was full of deep lines, like a flat stone fractured with a hammer. “Funny how things change. Yesterday I had the world by the balls.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Cork said. “The rose petals in the cemetery on Memorial Day. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, especially now in light of what you and Charlotte shared. I’m thinking it was you. Some kind of grand gesture. You used Soderberg Transport and the department copy of the gate key, all for Charlotte. An amazing memorial. Am I right?”

  “Go to hell,” Soderberg said. He flicked his cigarette away. It tumbled end over end, trailing smoke and embers, until it hit the stone on the next grave down the hillside and exploded in a shower of sparks. “Go to hell and burn, you meddling son of a bitch.”

  27

  CORK FOUND JO in her office.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “I filed the motion. Everything goes public now.”

  Cork sat down. “I just talked with Arne Soderberg. He as much as admitted the affair with Charlotte, but he insists he didn’t kill her.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “It appears that he has an alibi. And, yeah, I guess I do believe him.”

  Jo picked up a paper clip from her desk and turned it round and round between her fingers. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  He smiled; she didn’t.

  “Thinking what?”

  “I don’t like it, but I’m thinking maybe Arne isn’t the only Soderberg we should be looking at.”

  Cork considered the implication and leaned forward, resting his arms on her desk. “Lyla?”

  Jo shrugged. “She left the Lipinski party early. And if she knew about the affair, she had motive.”

  “Marion Griswold said she dropped her off around midnight. I suppose there was enough time for her to drive to Valhalla before Charlotte was killed.”

  In fiddling with the paper clip, Jo had bent it all out of shape. Cork saw that it now resembled a figure eight. Or the symbol for infinity.

  “We should probably talk to Lyla. But …” She hesitated. “I don’t know. If she’s innocent, if she really didn’t know about the affair, it seems cruel to badger her.”

  “A few questions judiciously phrased and we might be able to put everything to rest quickly.”

  Jo looked up from the paper clip. “What does your gut tell you about this one?”

  “That it will feel better after I’ve fed it a few answers.”

  “The truth is, mine will, too.”

  She tossed the paper clip into the wastebasket beside her desk.

  When Cork pulled into the drive of the Soderberg home, he saw that Arne’s BMW wasn’t there, nor was Lyla’s PT Cruiser. But a little red Miata was. Tiffany was washing it. She wore jean shorts and a purple Viking football jersey. A bucket of sudsy water sat on the drive. The water hose snaked out from a spigot on the side of the house. The end was capped with a brass spray nozzle, closed at the moment. Tiffany bent over the car with a big yellow sponge in her hand and worked at lathering the hood. When she spotted Cork and Jo, she actually smiled. It was a better reception from her than Cork had experienced … ever.

  “Nice,” he said. He put a hand on the sporty little car.

  She beamed. “My graduation present.”

  “Congratulations,” Jo said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Is your mom home?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea where we might find her?”

  “She went to the gallery.” Her eyes drifted lovingly back to her Miata.

  “It’s Wednesday,” Cork said. “The gallery’s closed.”r />
  “I’m just telling you what she told me.”

  “Thanks.” Cork started away, then turned back and asked casually, “Have you seen your father lately?”

  “No. He’s probably at work.”

  “Sure.”

  After they got back into the Bronco, Jo took a long look at the young woman. “God, I feel so bad for her. She has no idea.”

  “I don’t know,” Cork said. “It could be that when the shit hits the fan, she won’t be much surprised.”

  At the West Wind Gallery, Lyla’s car was parked next to Marion Griswold’s mud-spattered Jeep Wagoneer. Cork eased his Bronco beside the other two vehicles. Jo tried the gallery door and found it locked. They walked to the house and stepped onto the porch. Cork knocked at the front door, waited, knocked again.

  Then the scream came.

  It came from the south, from beyond a thick stand of red pine. Cork leaped from the porch and began to run in that direction with Jo at his heels. He could see a narrow, well-worn path through the trees and he made for it. He hit the stand of pine just as another scream cracked the morning air.

  Where the path ended a hundred yards through the pines, Cork could see a sparkle of blue he knew to be Little Otter Lake. It was a small body of water, but Griswold owned the land all around it and had the lake to herself. He ran hard, not knowing what he was heading into, feeling the rush of adrenaline. He wished he were carrying his revolver and wished, too, that he’d warned Jo to stay back. God only knew what awaited them.

  He pulled up quickly before he broke from the cover of the trees. He could see an old wooden dock thrust out from the shoreline into the lake. At the end of the dock stood a naked woman, beautiful and slender and so deeply tanned her skin was the color of deer hide.

  There was splashing in the lake, a froth of white water a few yards away from the dock. In a moment, a head bobbed to the surface, and from the mouth of that head a little stream of water shot into the air.

  Jo stood next to Cork, and they both watched as Lyla Soderberg climbed onto the dock, naked and laughing. She embraced Marion Griswold and they kissed. But only briefly before Lyla shoved Marion off the dock. As the woman hit the water with a big splash, Lyla let out a scream of delight.

  Cork and Jo walked back to the house. They stood on the porch where the geraniums hung in pots, and for a while they didn’t say anything.

  “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard Lyla laugh,” Cork finally said.

  “It’s the first time I can remember her looking happy.” Jo tapped a geranium pot and it swung idly, casting a shadow that cut back and forth across her own.

  “Do you want to leave?” Cork asked.

  “No.”

  In a little less than half an hour, the two women came walking up the path through the pines. They were fully dressed, but hadn’t dried themselves completely so there were places where Lyla’s white silk blouse clung to her, showing pink skin beneath.

  Lyla hesitated when she saw Cork and Jo, but Marion came ahead smiling.

  “Been here long?” she asked.

  “A while,” Jo said. “How was the water?”

  “Purely refreshing.” Marion arched a dark eyebrow. “Maybe you should take the plunge sometime.”

  Lyla stopped at the bottom of the porch stairs and looked up. All the laughter was gone from her. “What do you want?”

  “Just to ask a couple of questions,” Jo said.

  “I’m not in the mood to answer.”

  “New Year’s Eve,” Jo said. “When you and Marion left the Lipinskis’ party together, where did you go?”

  Marion said, “I already told Cork. She came here.”

  Jo said, “Is that right, Lyla?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you prove it? Either of you?”

  “Now, why would we have to prove anything?” Marion asked.

  “Lyla’s name has been mentioned in connection with Charlotte Kane’s murder,” Jo said.

  “My name? That’s ridiculous. Why?”

  Jo glanced at Cork. He nodded.

  “Because your husband was having an affair with her,” Jo said.

  “That … that girl? I don’t believe it.”

  “He pretty much admitted it,” Cork said.

  Marion gave a wicked little laugh. “She really was quite a lovely young thing. Bully for him.”

  “So you see, it’s not so ridiculous,” Jo said. “Killing your husband’s lover, that’s a pretty sound motive.”

  “Only if you love your husband,” Marion said. “Lyla, tell these folks how you feel about old Arne. And maybe, while you’re at it, how you feel about me.”

  Lyla shot her a look of horror.

  “Relax, sweetheart. These people are not stupid.” Marion mounted the stairs and sat in one of the wood rockers in the porch shade. “Like I already told you, Cork, we were here. A private New Year’s Eve celebration. Just the two of us.”

  “You told me you took Lyla home a little after midnight.”

  Marion gave Cork a smile that was all innocence. “I’m afraid I told you a little white lie. Didn’t want to raise any eyebrows. It was really three A.M. And I’ll swear to that in court.”

  “Is that true, Lyla?” Jo said.

  Lyla’s gaze drifted from Marion to Jo. She gave a silent nod.

  Jo said, “All right.”

  Lyla’s legs seemed to go weak, and she sat down suddenly on the steps. She looked away from them all, looked past the hanging geraniums, looked toward the pines that hid the little lake where she’d been laughing.

  “Charlotte Kane and Arne,” she said to herself.

  She wasn’t laughing anymore.

  28

  NEAR CLOSING TIME at Sam’s Place that evening, Cork got a call from Jo. Oliver Bledsoe had just stopped by to inform her that the Iron Lake Ojibwe had decided to bail Solemn out of jail.

  A few minutes later, Bledsoe himself drove up in his gray Pathfinder, got out, and leaned through the serving window. “Got a minute, Cork?”

  Annie was cleaning up, and she told her dad to go ahead. Cork stepped outside and walked with Bledsoe to the edge of the lake. The water and the sky were twins, both of them black in the east but silver along the western edge where there was still the faint ghost of daylight. The air was breathless, the water dead calm.

  Bledsoe wore black Dockers, a white, short-sleeved shirt, and a string tie with a turquoise slide. His hair, like the night, was a mix of black and silver. He put his hands in his pockets and looked out at the water. “I’ve been authorized to arrange bail for Solemn.”

  “I know. Jo called me. When will you spring him?”

  “We’ll have the money tomorrow.”

  Casino money, Cork knew. He wondered if word of Soderberg had got out, and was that the reason for the change of heart.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “A lot of support for Solemn on the rez, what with these miracles and all.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I knew his uncle. About as good a man as I’ve ever known. Solemn, I don’t know except by reputation, which, quite frankly, isn’t good.” Bledsoe shrugged. “Maybe all those years I spent on Franklin Avenue listening to the stories of drunks, Shinnobs and otherwise, have made me a poor audience for this kind of thing. I can’t help thinking that Solemn’s worked a sleight of hand somehow.” He glanced at Cork. “But you know him better. What do you think?”

  “He’s never claimed to be a part of the miracles. He just claims he talked with Jesus.”

  “Not that anyone’s asking my advice, but I’d say it’s not a bad idea to hold on to a little skepticism where Solemn’s concerned.” He turned back toward the parking lot. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you there tomorrow when he gets out. It could be a zoo.”

  Cork nodded. “Just let me know when.”

  As he drove home that night with Annie in the seat beside him, he considered what Bledsoe had said. That it was a good
idea to hold on to a little skepticism where Solemn was concerned. Cork let that piece of advice roll around in his thinking.

  He’d found Charlotte’s married lover, but he didn’t believe that he’d found her killer. At the moment, he had no obvious suspects. Except Solemn. Who had a motive, an opportunity, no alibi, and toward whom all the evidence seemed to point. Cork wondered if he’d simply been fooled? Was it possible he’d allowed himself to believe what he preferred to believe, against all evidence to the contrary?

  “You’re sure quiet,” Annie said.

  “Just thinking,” Cork said.

  Like a cop, he thought dourly.

  Bledsoe called early the next morning and spoke with Jo before she left for the office. The plan was to post bail at ten so that Solemn would be released well before noon, which was when the crowd in the park usually began to swell. Bledsoe hoped to convince the sheriff to help spirit Solemn away without a lot of fanfare.

  Dorothy Winter Moon was already waiting at the sheriff’s office when Cork and Jo arrived. She’d done herself up like a rodeo queen in cowboy boots, tight jeans, and red snap button shirt.

  “I don’t know if this is a good idea,” she said. “People know where we live. They’ll just make life miserable for Solemn and for me. At least here, things are under control.”

  Cork had the same concern, but he made a suggestion. “Maybe he should stay at Sam’s old cabin for a while, Dot. Until this is over and things quiet down.”

  “If he’ll go,” she said. “I don’t know what to expect from him anymore.”

  Marsha Dross had taken them into the sheriff’s office to wait. A few minutes later Randy Gooding stepped in.

  “Folks, things are a little up in the air at the moment,” he said. “The problem is that we’re temporarily without a sheriff. Arne Soderberg turned in his resignation an hour ago.”

  That didn’t surprise Cork. “Seems to me,” he said, “protocol dictates that the most senior officer assume temporary responsibility as sheriff until the county commissioners appoint a replacement.”

  “That’s right,” Gooding said.

  Cork thought a moment. “Cy Borkmann.”