“Grand Marais,” repeated Betsy. “That’s a beautiful name. Is it a big city?”
“It’s sometimes called the Scandinavian Riviera.” Jill smiled, as if at a joke.
“What?” asked Betsy.
“You’ll see.”
“What happens at a stitch-in?” asked Betsy.
“It’s like the Monday Bunch, only it goes on for two days. There’s usually a class on some aspect of needlework, a time for show-and-tell, lots of friendly advice from people sitting near you, and plenty of time to make some real progress on a project.”
Betsy looked out the window. The land was nearly level, the pastures outlined with trees and shrubs, with shaggy farmhouses and newer suburban models tucked among more trees, their chimneys smoking faintly.
After a while she slept again. No dreams this time, or when, after a period of looking out the window, she dozed off. Again she woke, this time to a landscape only a little whiter than near the Cities, with small, well-kept houses, their chimneys steaming, set back among crowds of naked gray trees. She yawned. Was she never going to stop feeling sleepy?
Jill said, “It must be frightening to find that sleuthing is the talent God gave you, rather than one for counted cross-stitch or finding a good man. And you can choose to bury this talent if you like. But I’m not sure that will give you the peace you’re looking for.”
Betsy, annoyed at Jill for nagging but too tired to argue, watched a long row of billboards approaching, advertising a casino. “Where are we?”
“Hinckley. About halfway to Duluth.”
She closed her eyes—really, this seat was almost too comfortable—and immediately fell back into a dream-troubled doze.
With a start, she asked, “Are we nearly there?” and was dismayed at the whiny-child tone of her voice.
“No, we’re still half an hour out of Duluth,” said Jill.
They were passing a lake dotted with what looked like old-fashioned outhouses. Ice fishermen, she knew, were huddled inside them, poised over a hole chopped in the ice, holding a miniature fishing rod. “Do ice houses ever fall through?” she asked.
“Once in a while. They’re supposed to take them off the ice pretty soon—they’re already off down in the Cities.” Jill glanced over at the lake. “I see they’ve ordered the cars and trucks off up here.”
Betsy said, “I remember somewhere in Wisconsin they used to put an old car out on a frozen lake and you could enter a raffle to bet when it would fall through.”
“They used to do that up here, too. Look, I was thinking while you were asleep, and I think I understand why you feel you shouldn’t feed the dream-maker any more real-life crime. And I’ll support you if you choose to do that. It’s a shame, though; I’ve met exactly one other person with your talent for solving criminal cases.”
“Was he another cop?”
Jill nodded. “She, actually. A Saint Paul detective. But she wasn’t like you, she’s one of those people who operate at a whole different level than us humans. Another cop told me once that all she has to do is walk into a room and the perp will start sweating, and pretty soon the truth comes out of his pores, too. You’re not like her because you’re amiable, and because you solve these things like it’s a game. But like her you’re seriously good.”
“If this were a game, I wouldn’t mind going on with it, because I wouldn’t mind losing once in a while. But murder is serious, peoples’ lives are at stake. If I accuse someone falsely—” She sighed and put her head back, closing her eyes. “I could not bear that.”
After a minute or two of silence, Jill said quietly, “All right, I promise I won’t ask you to go sleuthing again, and I’ll discourage others from coming to you.”
“Thank you,” Betsy murmured. Having received the support she felt she badly needed, Betsy relaxed—and suddenly didn’t feel quite as exhausted.
Jill said, “Did I tell you Lars is selling his hobby farm?”
Lars was Jill’s boyfriend, a fellow police officer and a workaholic. That he’d give up a source of hours of backbreaking labor surprised her. “No, you didn’t. What’s he going to do with the money, invest in something that’s even more work?”
Jill laughed, and Betsy asked, “Does he ever take a vacation?”
“Not since I’ve known him. Oh, he takes time off, but it’s just so he can concentrate on some major project, like refinishing every floor in the house that went with the farm he’s about to sell.”
They were coming into Duluth, a city set on a broad and high terraced hill overlooking a magnificent harbor. I-35 swooped in a big curve down the hill, then ran near the lake. The overpasses had silhouettes of Viking ships carved into them.
North of the city, bluffs stood with their feet in the icy water of Lake Superior. I-35 ended and they picked up Highway 61, which ran through tunnels in the bluffs. Then the land opened out again, though now Betsy noticed something stressed about it, something very opposite from the lush farmland farther south. The snow cover was deeper, but Betsy sensed the soil under it was thin, as if bedrock were just a few inches below that. Naked granite poked up here and there, dark brown or rust red, ancient stuff, worn smooth between the creases. Trees, fewer in variety, looked to be struggling. Betsy told herself not to be foolish; for all she knew, the trees were young, the soil rich.
But knowing that in Mississippi and Georgia the azaleas were blooming, and in Maryland the tulips were nearly finished, while here one could still go ice fishing, troubled her adopted California soul. She was not bred to be icebound despite her youth in Wisconsin.
The towns north of Duluth were small and looked as stressed as the land. Small houses, some merely cabins, shabby bars, and unkempt gas stations lined the road. Here were nothing approaching the beautiful mansions in the northern suburbs of Duluth. Of course, these buildings weren’t flimsy, like the shacks Betsy had seen on a trip through the Deep South years ago. Up here, a person couldn’t live in a house with thin walls or broken windows.
How did the people manage to survive in Minnesota before insulation and storm windows? Betsy wondered. And what on earth did the pre-Columbian Indians do when winter set in?
But she didn’t ask Jill; she only gazed out at the tall pines and clusters of aspen—or were they birch? She didn’t know. The trees thinned out and there was Lake Superior on her right, a beautiful, restless slate blue. DMC 824, thought Betsy, absently comparing the color to a floss number. Wait a minute, she thought, the lake ice is out already. I guess there are signs of spring up here after all. That thought occupied her happily the rest of the journey.
3
“Look for the entrance sign for Judge Magney State Park,” Jill said, so Betsy looked.
They had gone through Grand Marais a few miles back and Betsy had seen why Jill smiled when she called it the Scandinavian Riviera—it was a pretty little town, especially in contrast to the hardscrabble villages they had gone through. Like Duluth, it was on a steep hill that stepped down to Lake Superior, but just as this hill was much more modest, Grand Marais couldn’t hold a candle to Duluth, much less the Riviera. And therein lay the joke: Scandinavians, who dominated Minnesota culture, were presumed to be an unassuming people who would find this modest little town just their speed.
Highway 61 ran alongside the lake. The trees were mostly pine, with the occasional cluster of birch. The snow cover was deep and fresh, and by the plumes of exhaust coming from other cars, the bright sun hadn’t managed to raise the temperature anywhere near freezing.
The sign was easy to spot; it was one of those green billboards the federal government puts up. A dozen yards past it was a commercial billboard with an American Indian feather headdress on it, announcing the entrance to Naniboujou.
Jill slowed, signal blinking, and made a right turn onto a narrow, snow-packed lane. A hundred yards away was a two-story rustic building covered with black wooden shingles under a gray roof. A scatter of trees marked the broad lawns beside and behind the lodge. A shingled t
ower marked the front of the building, and all along the wall beside it were tall, many-paned windows rising to peaks, framed in red.
The car crunched to a halt in the parking area, and Jill shut off the engine. “All out,” she said. Betsy, very stiff, stood a moment outside the car and took a deep breath of the still, bitter-cold air.
As they walked to the lobby door—which wasn’t in the tower, but alongside it—Betsy saw the restless surface of Lake Superior barely twenty yards away. No beach was visible, just a shallow drop-off at the edge of the lawn to blue water. She could hear little waves shushing.
“Come on,” said Jill, and Betsy saw her standing beside an open door.
The lobby was very small and strangely shaped. Shelves between the door and a single double-hung window were full of sweatshirts in various colors. A shelf under the window held collectibles and books, a theme that continued on more shelves. The rest of the room was mostly a check-in counter, with a wooden staircase and a door marked PRIVATE beyond it, amid a whole collection of odd angles.
The dark-haired man behind the counter greeted Jill warmly by name, and Betsy wondered how often Jill had been here. Betsy glanced to her right, through an open doorway, and her eye was startled by a large open space painted in primary colors. She went for a look, stepping into a room forty feet long and two stories high, full but not crowded with tables draped in midnight blue. There was a man in a brown uniform sitting alone at one of the blue tables, lingering over a cup of coffee.
There was a huge cobblestone fireplace at the far end, with a small fire burning brightly. A pair of cranberry couches faced one another in front of it. A row of French doors marched down each side of the room. One row looked out over the parking lot, the other looked into a sunlit lounge.
Betsy took another step into the room. Every inch of wall and ceiling was painted from the smallest box of Crayolas in unshaded blue, yellow, red, green, and orange. Squiggly lines, jagged lines, and rows of the pattern called Greek keys covered every surface—except between the French windows, where there were big faces, with Aztec noses and tombstone teeth and half-moon ears. It was startling, bold, amusing, wonderful.
“Come on, we’ll drive around back,” said Jill.
“What?”
“Our room’s easier to get to through the back door.”
“Oh. Okay.” Betsy, trying to look at the room and follow Jill at the same time, stumbled, and Jill caught her by the arm. “Who painted that room?” Betsy asked as they went out into the cold again.
“Antoine Goufee, a Frenchman. It was back in the twenties, and I hear they haven’t so much as touched it up since.”
“What was he smoking, I wonder?”
Jill laughed. “It is interesting, isn’t it?” She started the engine. They drove around the side of the building, which stood at a more-than-ninety-degree angle to the front portion. Jill pulled up at the far end. There were four other cars already there, like their own, crusted with road salt. “Let’s unload.”
The back door was unlocked. It let into a plain wooden stairwell that smelled faintly of age. At the top was a landing with a couple of fold-away beds. Through a door there was a richly carpeted hallway paneled in golden knotty pine. Prints of nineteenth century Native Americans punctuated the walls.
Their room was at the other end of the hallway, through a door set at an angle. This place is just full of angles, thought Betsy.
It took two trips to bring up the luggage and needleworking equipment. The room was small, and seemed smaller because its walls and ceiling were also paneled with planks of knotty pine. The bed was a four-poster, its cover forest green, and the two windows had narrow blinds behind forest green drapes. There was a fireplace with a dark metal surround flush against the wall, a small desk, a closet. The bathroom was little, too.
“See?” said Jill. “No phone, no TV.”
“Uh-huh,” said Betsy, looking at the one bed. It was queen-sized, but she had not shared a bed with another female since she was nine. Still, the bed looked as inviting as it had in the brochure. Despite all her dozing in the car, she craved a nap.
Then she looked at her two big suitcases. Oh, why had she brought so much? The task of unpacking seemed overwhelming.
Jill said, “You look all tired out. Care to trust me to unpack? You take your knitting and go down to the lounge. It’s really pretty down there.”
“No, I couldn’t, really…” Betsy began to sigh, then stopped. If she couldn’t nap, not having to unpack was a very pleasant second choice. “Well, thanks,” she said. She picked up her canvas bag and went out. There was a staircase right across the hall, and Betsy went down it to find herself in a short passageway that led to that amazing dining room. This time she was at the fireplace end. The big smooth stones, she saw, were matte ovals of granite, probably taken from local rivers. The small fire was still burning cheerfully, and the cranberry couches looked very inviting. The room was empty; the man in the brown uniform had gone away. On the far wall, a large Indian’s head was thrown back in laughter.
Betsy went for a look into the sunlit lounge. It ran the length of the dining room, but its ceiling was low and it was painted a soft, warm cream. Six pairs of windows lined the room, and groups of couches and chairs with deep cushions and wicker arms invited one to come in and be comfortable. Sunlight picked out the polished surfaces of low tables and deep windowsills, the narrow green and blue stripes of the cushions, and the fuzziness of the leaves on the potted geraniums.
Betsy picked a couch about halfway down, angled so she could lift her eyes and see the lake. She had grown up in Milwaukee, on the shore of Lake Michigan, and had lived many years in San Diego. She found views of big expanses of water homey and comforting. The clean white snow had only a pair of ski tracks across it. A dead birch, its trunk black and white, its limbs lopped short, stood near the shore. A quartet of birds, too far out to be identified, wheeled and turned over the water, which had gone from DMC 824 to a pale blue-gray—DMC 799, perhaps—scattered with golden coins of sunlight. The lawn outside the window wasn’t very broad, and edged with the brown and red stems of leafless bushes. Beyond was a mix of evergreen and birch trees, here and there a narrow pine thrusting itself high above the other trees. There had been a vogue for narrow artificial Christmas trees, but Betsy hadn’t realized there actually was such a variety. She wondered what it was, and a phrase from an old book with a Canadian setting came to her: lodgepole pines. Were these lodgepole pines, so tall and straight?
She opened the canvas bag of needlework. Though she called it her knitting bag, it actually held counted cross-stitch and needlepoint projects, too. But when she was tired she liked the soothing rhythm of knitting. She took out the sweater she was making. She was doing the cuff of one sleeve, and she liked deep cuffs. Knit one, purl one, across and back again, nice and easy. She was doing the sweater in a heather mix of blue wool on number seven needles.
Across and back, across… and back. The room was warm and quiet. Betsy wasn’t a lazy person, but she was physically worn out as well as sleepy. She caught herself nodding and shook her head. Knit, purl, knit, purl, knit… Perhaps she should have changed out of her sweatshirt, she was getting very warm. She looked out the window at the immaculate blue sky, the gray branches of the trees.
Something large floated into view over the trees. A hawk? No, look at that, it was an eagle—and its head was snow white, it was a real, live bald-headed eagle! As if responding to her wish, it curved toward her in its flight and glided down, lower and lower, until it was crossing the lawn nearly at ground level, scarcely six yards from the window and startlingly large. It rose abruptly near the lakeshore to land on top of the dead birch, settle its wings, and look out over the water. In that moment it seemed to become part of the tree; she might never have realized it was there if she had not seen it land. She watched it awhile, but it sat still, so she returned to her knitting.
Knit, purl, knit, purl, then turn the needles around and do more
of the same back across. Knit, purl… knit… purl… Her head was heavy, her eyes closed of their own accord. She laid her head back for just a minute…
“Hello?” said a soft voice.
Betsy opened her eyes and saw a woman had come to sit across from her. The woman was very fair, dangerously thin, with short, pale blond curls. The sunlight made them gleam like a halo. She was wearing a powder blue-and-white Norwegian sweater with elaborate pewter fastenings, the cords and voice box of her neck prominent above it. She had her own canvas bag with her, a light blue one with dark blue wooden handles, and had brought out a counted cross-stitch pattern of a Victorian doll wearing a lace-trimmed dress. Her fingers were very slender, separating two threads from a cut length of lavender floss with tender delicacy. Betsy was sure she didn’t know her, yet the woman looked vaguely familiar. “Hi,” Betsy said.
“Are you here for the stitch-in?” asked the woman. She opened a Ziploc plastic bag and took out a damp blue sponge, bent it in the middle until it resembled an open mouth, then closed it on a section of floss—some women declared that floss was less liable to knot or tangle if dampened.
“Uh-huh,” said Betsy. “I’m from Excelsior.”
“That’s down near the Twin Cities, isn’t it? But I hear we’ve got people coming from as far away as Chicago. I’m only from Duluth.”
Since she didn’t introduce herself, perhaps Betsy was supposed to know her. Seeking a clue, Betsy said, “This is my first time at a stitch-in.”
“Really?” The woman put the tip of the dampened floss in her mouth—Betsy smiled; here was another floss licker, and never mind that she’d already moistened her floss. “This is the first time I’ve come to one at Naniboujou,” she continued, deftly threading her needle, “though I’ve been to lots of others. And of course I’ve been here many times. I just love this place, even though they make us stand outside to smoke nowadays. Maybe it will help me quit.”
Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_04 Page 3