I stepped into the narrow slot between the bed and the wall and laid the back of my hand on Julia Gallagher's cheek. Still warm. Fifteen minutes? Half an hour? Hard to tell. I checked my watch. Eleven fifty-eight.
Something on her cheek got my attention. I leaned in close. A faint discoloring grazed the surface of the orbital bone under her right eye. A bruise in its early stages. There was also a vague redness around her mouth and jaw and hairline scratches under her chin. But despite the minor damage, it was still a face most men would pay to see, the faint marks doing nothing to reduce the price. And her body, which deserved its own steep admission, would have been an added bonus any other time. But not now. Not when she was dead. I pulled the sheets up to her neck.
I moved to the other side of the bed to the end table with the Indian-drum lamp. On it sat a small clutch purse and a glass vial, the kind used for holding the sort of pills you don't get from a doctor. The vial was empty. I took a closer look at her pupils. Pinpricks.
If she hadn't called me that morning, I would have assumed she had killed herself, either on purpose or by accident. But the possibilities of the coronation coin had filled her voice with desperation and hope. And she'd asked for help. Not usually the sign of someone ready to take her own life. Whoever had murdered her had opted for accidental death over suicide. There was no note.
I took a handkerchief out of my back pocket and opened the purse. Not much, just a brush, keys, lipstick, eyeliner pencil, and a compact. A small black-and-white photograph with thick, white borders was tucked into an inside pocket. It was of a cheerleader and a football player. The cheerleader looked a lot like Julia. The football player looked a lot like Russ. Julia looked a lot like both of them.
I pulled out the compact and opened it with the handkerchief. The small circular mirror was dusty with makeup powder. But beneath the thin layer of dust I could see short dark lines like hen tracks. I lightly blew at the dust. The tracks became strings of tiny words scrawled on the mirror with eyeliner pencil. I didn't get the chance to read them.
Footsteps thumped on the small wooden landing leading to the front door of the cabin. Then the screen door screeched open. I snapped the compact shut, wrapped it in the handkerchief, and slipped it behind the wallet in my back pocket.
Determined boots clomped over the linoleum tile of the main room. Then a cop with no hat stepped into the doorframe to the bedroom. The .38 Special he aimed at me looked like an early model.
"Don't even breathe.” He said each word as if it deserved its own chapter.
I doubt he'd confronted many murder suspects at the scene of the crime in his significant—based on the lines on his face—years of rural law enforcement, but he showed the calm of a jeweler. The patch on his sleeve said “Pope County Sheriff."
He said: “Where should your hands be?"
I raised them.
His face was uneven and pockmarked, as if it had been fashioned out of clay by the clumsy thumbs of a novice sculptor. But his hair was star quality, thick and black and naturally wavy. Hair that women would instinctively run their fingers through while forgetting about his face.
He kept the gun aimed at me but dropped his gaze to the body on the bed. His thin lips pushed out together and his eyes frowned in disappointment. “Poor thing."
Another cop with no hat appeared over the sheriff's shoulder. He had the face of a character actor in his mid thirties, handsome until you looked a little closer. That's when you noticed his square jaw wasn't square enough, his blue eyes weren't blue enough, and his sandy hair wasn't thick enough. But what dropped him from character actor to extra was his nose. It was flat on the bridge and swelled out on the tip like the surplus dough left at the end of a rolling pin. A .45 filled his holster.
His eyes fell to Julia and he shook his head. His face screwed up into a welt of pain. Then he turned and hurried out of the room. I could hear him gasping and fighting back tears as the screen door squealed, then slammed shut.
The sheriff sized me up. “Let's play follow the leader.” He jerked his gun toward the main room. “You start."
"Aye, aye, captain.” I led him into the room without any dead bodies in it. The sheriff holstered his gun and turned off the radio. I left my hat on.
The room's decor looked like it had been cut from a pattern found in Field and Stream. The walls were paneled in pine planks thick with shiny varnish. The floor was covered by industrial-strength tiles that had lost their shine from decades of shoes and sand. A scattering of tea-colored wicker chairs and a wicker settee were strewn about the small room like an exhausted road crew at the end of a long, hot day. I took a seat in a wicker rocker and expedited the interrogation.
"Name's Darrow Nash. I'm a private detective from Los Angeles. Mrs. Gallagher called me this morning and asked me to meet her here tonight.” I jerked a thumb towards the bedroom. “That's how I found her."
He looked at me like a traffic-court judge. “You got anything to back that up?"
I took out my wallet and gave him the celluloid sleeve holding my driver's license on one side and a photostat of my P.I. license on the other. He studied them closely. “This doesn't prove you didn't kill her."
I pulled two tickets out of my suit jacket and handed those to him. “Airline and train. Add them together and you come up with too late."
He examined the tickets.
"My train got in to the Glenwood Depot at eleven-thirty. Then I got a lift from a farmer by the name of Ole Isdahl. He let me off here no more than ten minutes ago. I haven't even checked in yet. He said his wife was going to visit relatives in some place called Thief River Falls. That enough detail to back me up?"
He handed me my papers. His face was grim. “I know Ole. And I know Johanna was leaving tonight to visit her mother.” He turned and slowly walked away from me with one hand massaging the back of his neck. “Her mother has consumption.” He stopped in the doorway to the bedroom and stared at Julia Gallagher. “No note."
"She called me this morning and said she needed help. She wasn't kidding."
The hand stopped massaging and clung to the back of his neck as if hanging on for dear life. “Poor thing."
I aimed a thumb at the door. “What's with your partner? His first homicide?"
The sheriff kept his eyes on Julia. “Glen Eaves.” He lifted his chin toward Julia. “That's his stepsister."
* * * *
Eaves sat on the wooden front step to the cabin, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees as he looked off toward Lake Minnewaska. Any tears he might have shed were gone from his cheeks.
The sheriff spoke to him through the screen door. “You okay, Glen?"
"Yeah,” he said without taking his eyes off the darkened lake. “I just can't imagine why she'd let this happen."
I studied his sullen profile from over the sheriff's shoulder.
"I know she had some problems,” he said, “but I never thought she'd let it go this far."
No one said anything for a moment. I didn't like the silence. “Who found her?"
The sheriff answered first. “Glen did. About half an hour ago. Then he ran to get me."
"Any signs of a struggle?” I said.
Eaves turned and looked over his shoulder at me with an expression that said I must be a sap. “Who the hell are you?"
The sheriff answered for me. “Darrow Nash. He's a P.I."
Eaves wasn't impressed. “It was an accident, Nash. The vial was empty. Pump her stomach and you'll find enough pep pills to kill the Fighting Seabees."
"When did you see her last?"
"She was at the house today, cleaning, boxing things up, digging through stuff. My mother died a few weeks ago.” He put his hands to his face. “Why is all this happening to me?"
"Did you find a note?"
Eaves jumped to his feet. He leaned toward the screen door. “Why would she leave a note? It was an accident. Nobody beat her up, nobody shot her, and nobody broke her neck. It was the narcotics. What m
ore proof do you need?"
The sheriff pushed the door open and stepped out. “Take it easy, Glen.” He grabbed Eaves by the arm and led him toward the lodge. “Nash is a private dick. He can't pound sand without asking questions. I need you to do something for me."
As he let the sheriff steer him away from Cabin Number Eight, Eaves gave me a good long look before dismissing me with a flick of his wrist. I tried not to smile.
* * * *
The peddler holds the coin up in his dirty fingers. “It says right on it ‘1483’ and 'Edwardus Quintus.’ One of the two princes in the Tower murdered by that bloodthirsty usurper Richard III, or so they say. I have it on good authority, governor, that this here coin is from the museum.” He gives us another look at the brown picket fence in his mouth.
"The British Museum?” Russ's eyebrows shoot up.
"Aye."
Russ looks at me, his icy blue eyes flickering in the glow of a streetlamp, his lips stretched in a smile of anticipation. His hair is short and straw-colored. His face is the type that will always look younger than it really is, unblemished, stubbled with whiskers so blond and sparse that they're almost invisible.
"So it's stolen?” I say.
The peddler winks. “It's wartime, governor."
A roar rises from the crowd in the street as a fight breaks out. Too many soldiers, too few women.
Russ digs into the back pocket of his dress-uniform pants. His eyes grow hard and panicked at the same time. “My wallet's gone.” He snaps a look behind him at the way we'd come, as if the pickpocket might still be lingering at the scene of the crime, counting his loot. “Son of a bitch."
"How much?"
"About seventy bucks."
"That's a month's pay. Why were you carrying so much?"
As he stares back toward where we'd been, Russ's face softens and he accepts his fate. Then he turns to me and smiles. “Living for now, Darrow. Living for now."
* * * *
The heavy night air clung to my back as my suitcase and I followed them at a safe distance across the manicured lawn toward the main lodge of Pezhekee Resort. Lake Minnewaska, lying forty yards off to the right, was nearly invisible in the blackness except for tiny dots of light from the far shore that glistened like tears on its shifting face. A travel-worn breeze made the large oaks and elms sigh in whispers and carried with it a hint of wood smoke from a distant campfire, but it did nothing for the heat. Just rearranged it.
The sheriff sent Eaves off to the left toward the parking lot behind the lodge and waited for me to catch up. From there, we headed for the lobby.
His name was Dan Parrish. He'd been the Pope County sheriff for ten years, and a Glenwood cop for the ten before that. Glenwood was his hometown. He walked at a heavy-footed, deliberate pace as if he needed to be somewhere but needed some time to think before he got there. He ignored my efforts at trying to pick up the pace.
The lodge was wide, with two stories, two dormers, and a large sun parlor tacked to the side closest to Cabin Number Eight. A string of first-floor porch windows along the entire front of the building kept an unblinking eye—a dozen of them—on the lake. The main entrance sat beneath a portico that extended ten feet out from the left side of the porch.
We walked up four steps covered in red outdoor carpeting and stopped at a storm door with a screen in it that led into the porch. Behind it was a polished oak door with a large oval window. The oak door was locked, but a sign said to press the buzzer for after-hours check-in. We never got the chance.
A woman was crossing the lobby at a fast walk. She was within a handshake of fifty. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she wore jeans and a short-sleeved gingham shirt with red-and-white checks. Her face was tanned and weathered, making her look her age, but giving her an earthy sensuality.
She crossed the porch and pulled the oak door open. “I saw your squad, Dan,” she said. “What's wrong?"
Parrish took her elbow. He steered her into the main lobby and led her toward the back near the registration desk. There, he began to tell her in quiet tones what we'd found in Cabin Number Eight. She held her hand over her mouth as she listened.
As I waited, I scanned the lobby of the Pezhekee Resort. It wasn't very big, but it was just what a private dick from L.A. would imagine a Minnesota resort to be: miles of wood paneling, heavy beams, overstuffed couches, braided rugs, built-in bookcases, and hanging lights with antler shades. One wall was taken up by an oversized fieldstone fireplace with a thick, rough-hewn beam for a mantel. A pendulum clock hung near the door behind me. It broadcast loud, ponderous ticks that made resort life seem interminable.
Off to the left was a sun parlor that housed a piano, more braided rugs, and a scattering of white wicker chairs. A darkened dining room lay to the right. The smell was classic resort lobby, a sweet mixture of wood polish and wood smoke.
Parrish brought the woman over to me. She looked upset but capable of handling a crisis.
"Darrow Nash, this is Clare Henry. Her father started this resort in nineteen fifteen."
We shook hands. Hers was stronger than mine.
"Mr. Nash,” she said. “Welcome to Pezhekee Resort. I took your call this morning for your reservation. Can I check you in?"
"Any room,” I said, “but Cabin Number Eight."
She didn't smile. I didn't expect her to.
As I checked in the sheriff made some calls. When he was done, he flipped on the dining-room lights and we sat down at the nearest table. The dining room was large and paneled in knotty pine and illuminated with light fixtures that looked like Indian drums. They hung by chains from large square beams that ran across the ceiling. The beams were held up by square wooden poles with support arms that angled up and gave me a picture of what the Indians must have looked like as they were marched off this land at gunpoint.
Clare Henry came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with a pot of coffee, some cups, and two slices of rhubarb pie. “Something to tide you over.” She set the tray on the table and handed me a piece of paper. “And I'm sorry, Mr. Nash, but in all the commotion I forgot that a telegram had come for you earlier this evening."
"Thanks, Clare,” Parrish said.
I thanked her too and slipped the telegram into the breast pocket of my suit jacket where other men stuff tufted handkerchiefs.
"Dan, is there any way we can keep this quiet?” She gently placed each item on the table as she gazed at the rugged terrain of the sheriff's face. “I don't want the other guests to be upset by all this."
"We'll do what we can. I sent Glen Eaves for the coroner and they should be here soon. Once the coroner's done, we'll have Julia's body taken to the hospital. We should be out of here by sunup. But Number Eight should be left as it is. We'll need to look at it some more."
"Thanks, Dan.” She squeezed his shoulder. He patted her hand. I got the sense it wasn't the first time they'd squeezed and patted.
"She runs this place by herself,” he said as he watched her walk away. “There's a staff, of course, but she's in charge. Her husband Jack died about three years ago."
"She looks like she might want someone to fill the vacancy good old Jack left behind.” After I said it, I noticed the ring on his finger. He noticed me noticing the ring on his finger. He gave half a smile and flicked ashes into the ashtray. I let that be his answer.
"Did she see or hear anything?"
"No,” he said. “Number Eight is off on the sun-parlor side. It's hard to see from there. Especially at night."
The pie was sour, the coffee black. I was beginning to like Minnesota resorts. “I don't suppose you get many murders around here."
"No. This is the first one since I've been on the force. But it's this kind of thing that makes me glad I'm sheriff. Some cops just want the file to go away as soon as possible. That's not me."
"That's Eaves."
He nodded. “Never met a first impression he didn't like."
"Did you know Julia Gallagher?
"
"Sure, everyone did. Young. Pretty. Married Pete Gallagher, the captain of the football team, right out of high school. Then the wheels fell off. She became what people in these parts call a fallen woman."
"How far did she fall?"
"She became a stripper on skid row in Minneapolis. Worked all the clip joints down there. Drank too much. Probably narcotics, too."
"How did she end up there after marrying the captain of the football team?"
"Hard to tell. Fleet Pete—that was his nickname—was recruited by the Gophers and went down to the Cities to play for them but quit after his first year. Homesick, I guess. I think she thought he had his sights set higher than being a Glenwood farmer for the rest of his life. He came back here. She stayed there. I don't think they were ever formally divorced."
"What's he like?"
"Like any young man who realizes his best days are behind him. Angry. Bitter. He's a decent farmer, but when he gets a snoot full, he likes to disturb the peace."
A pair of headlights turned up the drive that led to the back parking lot, followed closely by another set. Parrish twisted his body as he watched the cars move slowly past the sun-parlor windows across the lobby from the dining room. “Coroner's here. Eaves, too."
Then he stubbed out his cigarette with a pointedness that said we were done.
* * * *
Parrish wanted to monitor the coroner's work. Apparently, the man was a local M.D. who'd never cared for postmortems and gave the effort to match. But before we left the lodge I stopped in the Men's room. It wasn't the coffee or the pie that sent me in there.
The door was a paneled job that I locked behind me. The room itself was small and spotless, just a stool, a sink, and a mirror. Black and white asphalt tiles the size of record sleeves for forty-fives were laid out in a checkerboard fashion. The walls—more shiny knotty pine—were too clean, lacking any telephone numbers, lewd drawings, or dirty words. Even the air was too clean, scouring my nostrils with ammonia and floor wax.
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