English pulled up the long drive and parked in front of a multicar garage. Cork got out, walked to the door, and rang the bell. He expected no one to answer and was surprised when the door swung open. A big-boned blonde filled the doorway, a woman who was clearly descended from Vikings and who looked as if pillaging might be second nature to her. She was probably in her forties, but her sour expression added a decade to her looks. She said nothing in greeting, just gave Cork a blue-eyed glare that might have sent a lesser man packing.
“Good morning,” he said in the cheeriest tone he could manage. “I’m wondering if I could speak with Demetrius Verga.”
“He’s not here.” Flat and hard.
“Do you have any idea when he might be home?”
“None.”
“And you are?”
“Not Mr. Verga.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me where I might find him.”
She pointed toward the lake. “Out there.”
“When he returns, would you mind giving him my card?”
From his wallet, he took one of the business cards he carried for his private investigation work.
She studied it, then looked at him, and there was interest in the hard blue marbles that were her eyes. “You’re a private detective?”
“I do private investigations and security consulting.”
“What do you want with Mr. Verga?”
“If you were him, I’d tell you. But you’ve already made it clear to me that you’re not.” He smiled pleasantly. “On the other hand, if I knew who you were, I might trust you with that information.”
“Bibi Gunnarsdottir. I’m Mr. Verga’s housekeeper and cook.”
“Cork O’Connor. It’s a pleasure, Bibi.”
He offered his hand. She took it with no great enthusiasm and continued to eye him as if he might yet be after the family’s heirloom silver.
“I’m looking into the disappearance of Mariah Arceneaux, on behalf of the Arceneaux family.”
“Bad Bluff.” She said it with such distaste that she might as well have simply spit.
“I just came from speaking with Joe Hammer. He’s the Bayfield County sheriff’s officer who’s in charge of investigating both Mariah’s disappearance and Carrie’s death. I understand that the two girls were friends and that they both disappeared at the same time.”
She shut down, went cold. “You’re right. You should be talking to Mr. Verga.”
“And I know. You’re not him. But would you deliver my card?”
She considered him and the card and finally gave a slight nod. “Is that all?”
“Yes, thank you.” He started to turn away but swung back. “One more thing, Bibi. Does it hurt much?”
“Does what hurt much?”
“That big chunk of ice up your ass.”
As he headed back to the pickup, Cork heard the door slam behind him.
“Anything?” English asked when Cork got in.
He shook his head. “And they say the glaciers are melting.”
Before they pulled away, Jenny gave a final look at the home that Carrie Verga had apparently run from. “I can understand why Mariah would want to get away from her life on the rez, but why would a girl who had all this turn her back on it?”
“And the questions continue to mount,” her father replied.
• • •
They found Port Superior Marina south of Bayfield, asked about Verga, and were directed to an empty slip. Cork tried the man’s cell phone again. Still no answer.
“What now?” Jenny asked.
Cork looked at English. “You said you know Mariah’s basketball coach.”
“Her name. I don’t know where she lives.”
Cork said, “If Bayfield’s anything like Aurora, somebody here does.”
And that proved to be true. They found Leslie Littlejohn in the swimming pool at the Bayfield Area Recreation Center, leading a dozen senior women in water aerobics. Although it was ungodly humid in the pool area, they stood waiting fifteen minutes until the session ended. When Littlejohn climbed from the water, they introduced themselves.
She wore a black bathing suit, was tall and slender, and kept her dark hair short. Her eyes were a startling auburn. She appeared to Cork to be in her late twenties or early thirties. And clearly, there was Native blood in her.
Cork explained their business, that Mariah’s family had asked them to look into her disappearance.
“Kind of late for that, isn’t it?” Littlejohn said.
“What do you mean?”
She grabbed a white towel from a webbed chair at poolside and began to dry off. “Somebody should have been looking for that girl a year ago.”
“Maybe so,” Cork said. “But we’re here now and doing our best. Mariah apparently talked about you a good deal. We’re wondering if there’s anything you can tell us about her that might help.”
“Why don’t we go to the lounge and sit down?” Littlejohn suggested.
They followed her to a bright little room with a couple of tables and chairs and a narrow view of one of the streets of Bayfield that ran toward the commercial fishing docks on the lake.
“Nobody pays teachers a living wage these days,” Littlejohn said, sweeping her hand the length of her suit. “I supplement my income by working at the rec center, full-time in the summer, part-time the rest of the year. Fortunately, I love what I do.”
Cork said, “What can you tell us about Mariah?”
“A great kid. Despite everything.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“She’s Bad Bluff Chippewa. Strike one. She attended a school that, despite the fact that eighty-five percent of the students are Native, I’m one of only two Indian teachers. There are significant challenges in that environment, for staff and kids alike. Expectations, resources, prejudices, you name it, it’s a challenge.”
“Are you Bad Bluff?” Cork asked.
She shook her head. “Ho-Chunk from Baraboo.” She ran her fingers through her hair, which was still wet and reminded Cork of sleek otter’s fur. “The message Native kids here get too often is that their situation is hopeless. They have no future, no reason to strive, to learn, to try to make a difference. They frequently come from homes where no one values education, probably because the parents grew up hearing the same messages their children still hear today, or worse.”
“What about Mariah?”
Littlejohn smiled in a sad way. “She had such potential. You’ve been to her home?”
“Yeah.”
“A lot to overcome, but I really believed she had it in her. You should have seen her on the basketball court. A natural. Where did that come from? Who knows? But it was there. The ability, the passion. At least for a while. Then something happened. She just . . . changed.”
“What? Overnight?”
“Not quite. I saw it first in her play on court toward the end of the season. She lost something. That’s how it felt. A part of her just fell away. She didn’t bring the drive she had before, the passion. Distracted, I thought at first. You know, that age, boys and all. But there was more to it, I’m sure. She missed her last two games. Just didn’t show. And the next thing I heard, she’d run away.”
“Did she talk to you about what might be going on?”
“Believe me, I asked her. She said nothing was going on. Said she just wasn’t interested in playing basketball anymore. This from a kid who used to show up early to practice and stay a long time after to shoot hoops. You don’t have that kind of passion and then just lose it like you might your cell phone.”
“There was a change on her Facebook page,” Jenny said. “Not long before she disappeared, she posted an entirely different kind of picture than she’d had up before. A disturbing picture for a thirteen-year-old kid.”
�
��Yeah, I saw that. And when I cleaned out her basketball locker after she stopped showing up, I found some pretty disturbing items of clothing. Thong underwear, for one thing. And a bustier. They weren’t cheaply made garments.”
“Did you ask her about them?” Jenny said.
“Of course. She said no big deal. A lot of girls wore them.”
“Is that true?”
“A lot of girls wear underthings they think are sexy, but usually not at thirteen and usually not expensive items. Not like what I found in Mariah’s locker.”
“What did you think?”
“Honestly? I thought she was involved in something way beyond what a thirteen-year-old kid should be involved in.”
“What did you do?”
“I talked to our school social worker. She talked to Mariah and to Mariah’s mother. Nothing came of it. And then Mariah was gone.”
Cork asked, “Did you know Carrie Verga?”
“Yes. She played basketball, too. She was good, athletic. But nobody on the team played like Mariah.”
“What did you think of Carrie?”
“A beautiful girl. No trouble. She was Bad Bluff, like Mariah, but her family has money. Her mother was killed in a boating accident a couple of years ago. Carrie was a real quiet girl, and I always wondered if that tragedy might have had something to do with it. And then Carrie runs away and ends up drowning.” She shook her head as if the situation was inexplicable to her.
“The two girls disappeared at the same time. Folks seem to think they ran away together. What do you think?”
“They were pretty tight. So, yeah, I’d say it’s a real possibility.” Her face darkened, and she seemed to be looking inside herself for an answer to a question she had voiced. “You know, I honestly believed they’d come back. I’ve seen kids run off before, and almost always they come back. And now that Carrie’s dead, I’ve got to say, I’m really scared for Mariah.”
“Was there anyone else that Mariah and Carrie hung out with who might be able help us? Another teacher, another teammate? The school social worker?”
“You’ll have trouble talking to Liz. That’s our social worker. She spends her summers working for some kind of camp for troubled kids out in Wyoming. I can’t recall where. But there was a girl Mariah mentioned a lot, another girl from the rez, someone I didn’t know, someone older. I’ve only been teaching a couple of years, and this girl dropped out of school before I arrived. Went off and became a model or something. Her name was Raven”—she thought a moment—“Raven something. I can’t remember exactly. Mariah was all gaga because she had great clothes and a nice car. It’s the kind of thing that impresses kids.”
Cork took out his notepad and pen and wrote Raven Something. He said, “It seems strange that Carrie Verga would be gone for a whole year, and then suddenly wash ashore so near to Bayfield. We spoke with the investigator in charge of the case. He told us he thought Carrie might have been involved in prostitution and had been hiding out here somewhere. Do you think that’s possible?”
“I suppose anything’s possible. But hiding out here?” Littlejohn shook her head. “Not unless she’d been locked up in an attic somewhere.” It didn’t sound like a joke.
“Did the investigator or anyone else in law enforcement talk to you?”
“No. No one’s talked to me officially. This is the first, if this is really official.”
“I used to be the sheriff of Tamarack County, Minnesota. I’ve retired, and this is what I do now. I can’t arrest anyone, but I can still track them down.”
She opened her hands in a show of complete cooperation. “Anything you think might help you find Mariah, you just ask.”
Cork took a business card from his wallet and handed it to the woman. “I think we’re okay for now, but if you remember anything that might be helpful, would you give me a call?”
“Sure.” She read the information on the card; then her attention swung suddenly to Daniel English, and she offered him an engaging smile. “You look awfully familiar. Do I know you?”
English said, “We never actually met before this.”
Littlejohn’s startling auburn eyes spent a moment assessing Jenny, and Cork had the sense that she was trying to get the lay of the land and if there was anything between his daughter and the game warden.
“Are you from around here?” she asked English, with more than casual interest.
“Hayward. Lac Courte Oreilles Ojibwe.”
“Ah. I’ll bet you came to one of Mariah’s basketball games when we played down there, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Odd that I didn’t notice you then.” She smiled and said, “Well, boozhoo.”
Chapter 9
* * *
Bayfield sat on hills on the lee side of the peninsula, with a view looking east toward Madeline Island and south across Chequamegon Bay. It was a small town full of lovely old buildings that in winter held a population of only a few hundred permanent residents. But at the height of the summer season, the streets were choked with tourist traffic. The day had turned hot. When Cork and Jenny and English left the rec center, they walked into a world that wore shorts and tank tops and cheesy T-shirts and shady hats and sunglasses. It was well past noon, and they were hungry. They found a cozy little place called Maggie’s but had to wait for a table. When they were finally seated, Jenny stared at her menu with a troubled look on her face.
“Don’t see anything you like?” Cork asked.
“I see a lot I don’t like,” she replied.
“You’re not talking about the food, I suspect.”
“I’m talking about Mariah. Who is she?” She gave English a penetrating stare.
English responded with a puzzled look, as if the question didn’t seem to make sense to him. “My cousin.”
“No. I mean, who is she? Nobody seems to know, really. All we hear is that she’s an Indian girl who had potential. Then she changed. How does that make her any different from any other thirteen-year-old girl? We all change when we become teenagers, change dramatically.”
“We don’t all run away,” English said.
Jenny ignored him. “I’m wondering what she dreamed, what she feared, what she loved, what she read, what made her laugh. I’m wondering who she is—here.” She made a fist and thumped her breast above her heart. “I’m wondering what the answer to Henry’s question is.”
“Henry’s question?”
“What’s Mariah’s most precious possession?”
“The key to why she ran away?” English asked.
“I don’t know. But I still want the answer.”
Cork said quietly, “The deeper you go, the more personal it becomes, Jenny. Henry gave me a fine piece of advice once. He told me that anger blinds. That to hunt, you need a clear eye, and for that you need a clear mind.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Not yet maybe. But if you allow this to become deeply personal, you will be. And in the end, you won’t only be blind, you’ll be hurt.”
“So your answer is not to care.”
“My answer is to keep a clear mind and a clear eye. It seems to me the best way to help Mariah, if she can be helped.”
“And I think you ought to be able to care, care deeply, about someone, and still think clearly.”
“All right,” he said.
“All right?” She seemed surprised that he’d given in so easily.
“So how do we do this?” Cork said. “How do we find out who Mariah is? How do we find out the answer to Henry’s question? Because it was obvious that her mother didn’t have a clue.” He glanced at English. “Any idea?”
English shook his head. “The Arceneauxs are blood relatives, but I know my next-door neighbors better. Between the government boarding schools and all the relocation policies, Indian families have been torn
apart. With us there’s more to it than that. See, my great-grandmother married a good man, Lac Courte Oreilles Anishinaabe. Veteran of World War One and proud of it. Owned a gas station. Great mechanic. Still alive when I was born. I remember him fondly. My great-grandmother’s sister, things were different for her. Married a Bad Bluff Shinnob, a fisherman. What they called a herring choker. Knew how to handle a herring net, but couldn’t handle the booze. Been a battle for them up here. Don’t get me wrong. We’ve had our struggles, too. Wouldn’t be an Indian’s life if things came easy. But we’ve always been strong on family where I live. The battles we’ve fought have been against governments, bureaucracies, stupid prejudices, not against each other. We’re some of the lucky ones. We know that. I think the Arceneaux bunch know it, too, and there’s always been a little bad blood there. So Mariah?” He shrugged, clueless.
Jenny said, “Girls sometimes keep diaries or journals.” She thought a moment and then said with a sudden epiphany, “Or they post their lives on Facebook.”
“But don’t you need to friend her or something to see her Facebook page?” Cork said.
“I’m one of her friends,” English said.
Jenny said, “I thought you didn’t keep track of the Arceneaux branch of the family.”
“Don’t really follow anyone on Facebook, but I do have a page. Mariah shot me a friend request a couple of years ago. I accepted.”
“Let’s take a look at Mariah’s Facebook page.” Jenny pulled her smart phone from her purse. “Damn it. Battery’s dead.”
“There’s probably a computer at the public library,” English suggested.
“Let’s go see.” Jenny got up.
“You haven’t eaten,” Cork said. “You need to eat. Keeps the mind clear.”
Jenny gave a little growl of grudging consent and sat back down.
They all ordered fish sandwiches. Cork requested the Lake Superior whitefish. English and Jenny both had the lake trout. Despite the crowd in the little restaurant, the food came quickly.
Between bites, English said, “So what’s the trained mind of a private investigator think at this point?”
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