Blood Hollow co-4

by William Kent Krueger

  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.”

  “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.

  Mar
ion 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.”

  Goodman nodded. “Cy.”

  The wattle-throated deputy. A nice man, a competent officer. But sheriff?

  “Where is he?” Cork asked.

  “That’s part of the problem. He has the day off. Took his wife down to Duluth for some hospital tests. So…”

  “No one is officially in charge.” Cork summed it up.

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “It’s all process,” Cork said. “Bail is posted, prisoner released. Doesn’t matter whether we have a sheriff present.”

  “What about getting Solemn home safely?” Dot asked.

  “We’ll do our best to get him to a vehicle, but after that, it’s out of our hands,” Gooding said.

  Bledsoe and the paperwork arrived about fifteen minutes later. “There’s something going on out there,” he told Gooding. “I think they know about Solemn.”

  Gooding went to the window and looked toward the park across the street. “Jeeze, you’re right. They’re swarming this way.”

  “We should probably take Solemn out the back,” Cork said. “Keep him out of sight of the crowd altogether.”

  Gooding stepped to the office door. “Marsha, see if we’d have any interference taking Winter Moon out the back emergency exit. Pender, go out front and keep the crowd away from the front door.”

  “Who put you in charge?” Pender snapped.

  To which Dross, as she departed on her errand, replied, “Just do it, Duane.”

  Gooding turned back to the others in the sheriff’s office. “Cork, if it’s clear in back, why don’t you go out and bring your Bronco around. Dot, Jo, it might be best if you just stayed put for a while. You, too, Ollie.”

  Dross came back and stood in the doorway. “The coast is clear in back.”

  A general buzz had begun outside the opened window, voices rising, and Cork left the office quickly.

  Deputy Pender stood on the sidewalk, facing the crowd that pressed toward the jail, his hands on his hips, fists against the leather of his gun belt. As Cork stepped into the late morning sunlight, he saw Pender lift his right hand and hold it up, as if he wer
e trying to halt traffic at a busy intersection. His left hand went to his lips, and he gave a long shrill blast on a metal whistle.

  The crowd, as it milled its way across the street and onto the grass of the sheriff’s department, reminded Cork of cattle crossing a road. At the sound of Pender’s whistle, those near the forefront did, indeed, attempt to halt, but they were pushed ahead by those behind.

  Pender gave three more whistle blasts. At last, the forward movement stopped.

  “Go back to the park,” Pender shouted. “I want everyone to move back across the street to the park.”

  The sugar-cinnamon smell of minidonuts drifted ahead of the crowd. Yellow balloons on long white strings bobbed above their heads. Somewhere near the back, a boom box was playing “Horse with No Name.”

  “Move back,” Pender said. “I’m not going to warn you again.”

  The front line held.

  Cork figured it was a good time to get his ass out of the way. He slipped behind Pender and headed across the grass to the parking lot. No one seemed to pay him any attention. All eyes were intent on Pender.

  “Winter Moon,” someone yelled. “We want Winter Moon.”

  “Let him out!”

  “Let us see him!”

  “Free Solemn!”

  Free Solemn. They’d found the cry, and it went up in a chorus, from mouths that had never personally spoken a word to Solemn Winter Moon.

  Cork drove out of the parking lot and turned away from the crowd that acted as a barricade across the street. He maneuvered around the block and pulled to the curb at the back of the building. The cell phone on the seat beside him chirped.

  “How’s it look?” Gooding asked.

  “Clear,” Cork said.

  “Ten-four. We’re coming out.”

  No sooner had Gooding hung up than Cork spotted a few people edging around the corner of the building. Among them were the Warroad couple with their wheelchair-bound son. Why they’d broken away from the crowd up front, Cork couldn’t say, but there was nothing he could do about it now except hope that he was able to get Solemn away before anything serious occurred.

  The couple wheeled their son toward the Bronco, coming as if they knew what was happening. Behind them, the other few who’d deserted the crowd hung back, their gazes shifting back and forth between the wheelchair and the crush of people up front.