See Also Deception

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Lester’s smoke wafted my way, and I looked at the waiting Studebaker.

  “But you’re all right?” Jaeger said.

  “I need to go see to Hank. It’s been a trying day from the start. Thankfully, Olga Olafson said he was doing all right since I’d seen him last.” I paused, looked at the sky, then back at Jaeger. “Duke and a few deputies showed up right before the funeral started. They arrested Herbert Frakes for murdering Calla.”

  It was as if the wind had drawn back and stopped to listen to our hearts beating.

  “Herbert Frakes?” Jaeger said. He scrunched his forehead in confusion, just like his father used to. “I would’ve never thought it.”

  “Me either.”

  “You think it’s a mistake that they arrested Herbert?”

  “I don’t know what to think now.”

  “You should tell Duke about your tires bein’ slashed and the phone line bein’ cut. See if they think Herbert did that, too. Though I can’t figure why he would. Does Herbert even have a car?”

  “Not that I know of. He could have used Calla’s car, I suppose, but I don’t know why on earth he’d do such a thing.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want you to leave the house?”

  “I thought of that, but it doesn’t settle well. To be honest, that act felt far more nefarious than someone not wanting me to leave. I think I was lucky Pastor John Mark stopped by to check on me.”

  Jaeger heaved a visible sigh. “Feels familiar, doesn’t it?”

  “A little too much for my liking. I don’t want you to worry. I think the worst of all of this is behind us.” I wasn’t sure I believed that, but Jaeger’s face had gone pale as a new-fallen snow the second I’d mentioned Herbert’s arrest. I knew he was reliving all the pain brought on by his parents’ murders.

  I let silence settle between us for a long second, while the Studebaker sat idling, waiting. I could smell the richness of the exhaust and was reminded that the engine needed maintenance. “I need to get off to see Hank. Thank you, Jaeger. One day soon, you and I are going to sit and talk about how I can repay you for all of your kindness.” I wanted to reach up and peck him on the cheek, but I’d never been affectionate with him before, other than a consolatory hug, so I restrained myself even though he looked like he needed comforting.

  Jaeger shook his head. “You don’t need to worry about anything right now other than what you got right before you, Mrs. Trumaine. I’ll be fine. Me and Lester got things under control, and like I told you, come spring I’m gonna bring on some extra hands. Sooner if I have to.”

  I nodded and turned to go to the truck, but Jaeger stopped me with an unexpected question. “Ma’am—Mrs. Trumaine?” he said.

  There was an urgency in his voice that I couldn’t deny. I spun around. “Yes?”

  “A man from New York called my house. Said he was looking for you.”

  I went numb. “Was his name Richard Rothstein?”

  Jaeger nodded his head. “That sounds right.”

  “He’s my editor from H.P. Howard and Sons. I gave him your mother and father’s phone number a long time ago as backup, if he needed to get ahold of me and couldn’t reach me at home.”

  “He wasn’t very nice,” Jaeger said.

  “I’m sure he is nice, Jaeger; it’s just that he has a lot of things to do. Did he say what he wanted?”

  “He did,” Jaeger answered. “He wants you to call him right away. He said that index you’re working on is late, and he wanted to know where it was.”

  It was like the wind had climbed into my ears and jumbled up all of the words. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I said the index you’re working on is late, and this Rothstein fella seemed fit to be tied. Like he’d woke up and drank a cup of hornets instead of a cup of coffee.”

  CHAPTER 38

  The last task before I send in a completed index to my editor is to check each and every page reference to make sure that it matches up to the text. It’s a tedious task, but I’ve also marked the reference on the page in red ink so I can easily find it in the end. The index would be a completely unusable document if a reader looked something up and it was supposed to be on page thirty-nine, but it was on page ninety-three instead. I’d done that before, transposed a number in my hurried march to finish a day’s work, and had only caught the mistake at the very last moment, when I’d edited and double-checked the index.

  With everything that had been going on in my life, now I had to wonder if I’d written down the wrong deadline or transposed a date or number for the Common Plants of the Western Plains: North Dakota index. It was the only quick explanation that I could come up with for Richard Rothstein’s call. Late? How could I be late?

  I couldn’t imagine being deemed unreliable, and, even more, I feared losing what steady income I had coming in. Punctuality was a matter of pride, as well as a necessity and requirement by the publisher—any publisher, not just mine. There were production and printing costs to producing a book, and my job as an indexer was the last task in the long, arduous process of publishing a book. If I missed the deadline, most likely the book wouldn’t arrive on bookshelves when it was supposed to, and that in turn would cost the publisher revenue, and most likely me my job.

  I gathered myself the best I could, made sure I was correct in what I had heard, then sent Jaeger and Lester on their way. I had a phone call to make before I could do anything else.

  The closest telephone, obviously, was inside the funeral home, which meant returning to an empty chapel still filled with sad floral bouquets and lingering hymns that promised salvation and eternal life. I shivered as I imagined Calla’s lonely casket sitting in wait to be transported to the crematorium.

  My panic about the index suddenly receded as my thoughts turned away from myself and back to Calla. I had to wonder what Calla would have thought about Herbert being arrested for her murder, which prompted me to wonder even more if she had known all along who her killer was. Or was the act a surprise to her? Did she have time to be scared, to be frightened for her life? Or was her death a shock to her as much as it was to everyone else? One minute you’re here and the next—well, it’s all over. No time to fix things, no time for regrets, no time to say goodbye. It wasn’t the first time I’d hoped that Calla’s death had been quick and painless, and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

  I shivered again and decided I didn’t want to go back inside the funeral home. Ten more minutes, if it took that long to find another phone, wasn’t going to calm Richard Rothstein down or change his attitude. But putting off the call any longer than that seemed a bad idea, too. Once I called him, I’d turn right around and call Olga at the hospital and check on Hank, then rush right over there. It was the best plan I could come up with, considering the news Jaeger had brought me. Tea with Nina and Claude Tutweiler was out of the question, as much as I hated to admit it. I wanted to talk to them, Nina, in particular. She was a link to Calla, a way forward, but socializing would sadly have to wait for another day.

  I closed my eyes and tried to think where to go. It only took me a second to realize that the next closest telephone was at the library. Even with Delia Finch there, it was the one place in my life that had always given me comfort, and in an odd way it felt fitting, like going to someone’s home after a funeral to pay your respects. The library was where I had spent most of my time with Calla Eltmore. It was where she had lived, and, unfortunately, where she had died. It would always be her home as far as I was concerned.

  As I got out of the truck, I thought I heard a rumble of thunder in the distance. I looked up at the graying sky and silently hoped for rain. A dry October in North Dakota was a rarity, but it was more than that. I felt the dryness from the inside out. There was nothing more I wanted than to stand in the middle of a storm and allow it to soak me to the bone. Then maybe I could cry again. Tears had left me, drained out of me like a well that had given up its last drink and offered the promise of nothing more.


  There was more rumbling swirling around me than just in the sky. The street in front of the library was filled with traffic, gawkers coming and going. I struggled to find a parking place and ended up walking two blocks just to find my way to the entrance.

  I stopped before ascending the steps and pressed down Lida’s black dress the best I could. I wasn’t comfortable in it, which didn’t help when it came to facing Delia Finch. She had looked down her nose at me on our first meeting; I could hardly imagine what she would think about my state of dress this time around. But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter what she thought of me. I had every right to come to the library. I just didn’t have the right to use the telephone.

  The inside of the library sounded like the aftermath of a concert, where the audience lingered, discussing a great performance, reluctant to leave, to give up the experience. But this was no celebration. A crowd had gathered in the expansive main hall. I knew it was a delayed reaction to Calla’s death now that the truth of it had come—that she had been murdered and had not killed herself. Herbert’s arrest had changed everything. The town could grieve openly, and for that, at the very least, I was glad.

  I stopped just inside the vestibule, not by choice but because I had to. The crowd between me and the counter, where I assumed Delia Finch stood, seemed to be at least ten people deep. There weren’t anywhere near that amount of people, really, but I was accustomed to the library having only one or two patrons in it at a time, not a hundred.

  I made my way to the front counter and immediately found myself under the steely gaze of Delia Finch.

  “Mrs. Trumaine,” she said. “What a surprise to see you.” She didn’t mean it, of course. I could almost taste her sarcasm.

  “I have a favor to ask,” I said.

  Delia Finch leaned in close enough to me that I could smell the aftermath of her tuna salad lunch, and said, “I’m sorry?” Then she cupped her hand to her ear, showing me that she couldn’t hear me.

  “A favor,” I said a little louder. “I need a favor.” I didn’t want to be too loud, draw any undue attention to myself. I was tempted to look over my shoulder to see if I had, but I didn’t. I didn’t break eye contact with Delia. Never show an angry dog any fear at all. It was Hank’s voice offering me advice on how to navigate the natural world.

  Before she could answer, or decline my request before even hearing it, Delia Finch’s attention was drawn away by a man who had suddenly appeared at my right shoulder. It was Nils Olson, a reporter for the Dickinson Press.

  Nils was a frumpy man who looked and smelled like he had just come from the Wild Pony or one of the other taverns in town, but he was a good writer and, as far as I knew, an honest and hardworking journalist. He had cut his teeth as a reporter during the war, come home and gotten a degree at the local college on the GI Bill, and stayed in the same house he was born in. Not much happened in and around Stark County that Nils didn’t know about.

  “Excuse me, Miss Finch, could I speak with you a moment?” Nils said, turning his attention to me quickly. “Oh, beg your pardon there, Marjorie. I didn’t mean to cut you off.”

  “That’s all right, Nils. It’s good to see you.” I stepped back from the counter.

  “How’s Hank?”

  “Holding his own.” I felt Delia Finch’s glare on me. I was stealing her spotlight. Her gaze was so intense and hateful I had to look away. When I did, my eyes fell on the door that led into Calla’s office. It was cracked open, like Delia had rushed out of it without pulling it all the way to. I had used the phone on Calla’s desk before, and I hoped to use it this time.

  I looked back to Delia and smiled. “Never mind,” I said to her as I stepped back. “Nils, it’s good to see you.”

  “Same to you, Marjorie. Give Hank my regards.”

  “I’ll be happy to.” I stopped and waited for a brief second as Nils turned his attention back to Delia.

  “Is there somewhere private we can talk for a moment?” he asked her.

  Delia looked over her shoulder to the office. I held my breath. I really needed to call Richard Rothstein. Time was ticking away, but something told me she would deny my request even under the best circumstances.

  “Outside, maybe?” she said to Nils.

  He nodded and I held my place, trying my best to blend into the crowd until they both exited the library.

  CHAPTER 39

  I closed the office door behind me as easily and quietly as I could, stepped over to the side, and rested my back against the wall. I tried to blend in, disappear like a sagebrush sheep moth seeking refuge from a hungry blackbird. Big sagebrush (Artemisia tridentate), of course, was one of the common plants in North Dakota, a subject that had been, and remained, at the forefront of my mind. The plant was a host to the moth; its larvae fed on it, making it vital for the moth’s survival. Once the moth lit on the sagebrush, it was almost invisible and mostly safe from predators. All of its troubles were over—for that moment. Unlike mine, which still hinged on facing a frothing Richard Rothstein over a late index. I would’ve rather stared down the blackbird.

  But it was more than hiding from Delia Finch and the lingering crowd in the library that had brought my back to the wall. My heart raced a mile a minute because I was sneaking around, going into a sacred place without permission; it was a curious, desperately rebellious act that was as uncommon to me as a blooming red rose was on the winter prairie. My world was orderly, dictated by a strict style guide—the seasons—and a dose of old-world morality that constantly butted up against the modern, present world. Stepping outside of my known behavior was uncommon to me, at least to this degree. I was essentially trespassing with the intention of stealing, even though I would pay for the long-distance call one way or another. I would admit to my crime after engaging in it.

  The truth was, I’d wanted to see for myself where Calla had died all along, if only to make sense of it all, or to convince myself that it was true, that she was really dead—I constantly needed to be reminded of that fact because I’d always thought that Calla would outlive me. Even now, I expected her to barge through the door at any second, demanding that we go smoke and talk about the latest book I was indexing or that she was reading. Her death was a shock, and I still couldn’t resolve my struggle with mortality.

  I needed to hide, and I needed to be propped up. Two seconds in the room and I already regretted being there.

  There was still a heavy smell of bleach in the room. A odor of a cleaning agent and disinfectant of some kind mixed with the bleach that had washed away the blood and whatever else. It was as if the murder had never existed, like it all had just been another nightmare. But it wasn’t. Bleach and pine-scented disinfectant were as much the fragrances of reality as funeral bouquets were. My eyes immediately began to fill, even though I thought I had used up all of my tears.

  I bit my lip. Get ahold of yourself, Marjorie. I blinked and stiffened my back at the same time.

  The office looked normal, all put back together, nothing out of place other than an accoutrement of Delia Finch’s; an orange and brown striped, fake leather purse sat in the middle of Calla’s desk. It didn’t belong there, was as out of place as I was.

  I wondered if Herbert had been the one to clean up the aftermath of the deed. A lot had fallen to him, including the specter of guilt. If he had murdered Calla, then there was no lack of irony in his duties. But what if he hadn’t? I still wasn’t convinced of it, and though it seemed as impossible as it was improbable, I wanted to ask him myself. I would know for sure then. When I’d sat with Herbert at the Wild Pony he hadn’t seemed nervous or like a man afraid of being caught. He was stunned just like I was, entering the first phase of mourning: Denial.

  My speculation had to wait, unfortunately, for the law and the courts to do their jobs. Until then, Herbert was innocent until proven guilty. I knew that as well as I knew much of anything else. Herbert’s fate was out of my hands.

  The back wall of the office was lined with noth
ing but bookshelves filled with the forbidden books—Lady Chatterley’s Lover, The Price of Salt, Tropic of Cancer, and a host of how-to nonfiction books that broached worldly, carnal subjects that I could barely imagine but was sure Calla had read every word of. A patron had to request each of those books before it could be checked out of the library, and only then after a long moment of scrutiny from Calla. I knew exactly what Betty Walsh had meant when I’d asked her what people around town had thought of Calla. “She could be snobby about the books that you checked out, even though it wasn’t any of her business.” It was, according to Calla, her job, her responsibility and duty to society and the community, to know what was inside every book that came into the library so she would know what was going out of it. She had lived most all of her life inside of books. I was sure of it. And for what?

  I listened for a second and then decided that I either had to make the call to Richard Rothstein or sneak back out of the office—flutter my moth wings away from the sagebrush and take my chances.

  The disinfectant made my stomach turn. It would have been easy to run straight to the hospital without another thought. Some days it would have been easier to just be a farmer’s wife. Not have the worry or pressure of writing a usable, professionally produced index and turning it in on time. But I wasn’t just a simple farmer’s wife. Not anymore. I was a farmer’s wife caregiver. And the farm was collapsing all around me. If I gave up indexing, I would have no way to feed Hank and me. Other than sell the farm. And I wasn’t going to do that. Not now. Not ever. Those acres and that house were as much a part of me as my heart and bones.