On one hand, I was in no mood to listen to gossip about the Jacobsens’ marriage, but on the other, I knew that Nils was dead. Maybe what Darlys had to say was important. “I didn’t know that. Anna seems like she’s at her wit’s end, but she never talks much about her life at home.”
“Oh, Anna wouldn’t say a cross word about Nils when we’re out on Ladies Aid duty. She wouldn’t inflict her personal troubles on anyone. You know that. None of us do that.”
“I’m glad she has you to talk to.”
I expected Darlys to keep on talking, but she didn’t. The line went silent. I strained my ear and thought I could hear distant voices. I couldn’t make out any words. “Are you still there, Darlys?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “The sheriff is at the door. I have to go.” The phone went dead. I knew why Guy was at the Jacobsens’ house. He had the worst news for Anna Jacobsen that anyone could ever imagine.
CHAPTER 9
Night returned right on schedule. There was no such thing as a lingering evening in January. Darkness arrived abruptly, showing up before the clock struck five as if the color black had ownership rights to the world.
I had finally gotten warm after standing next to the stove for nearly an hour. The phone remained silent, and as tempted as I was to call Anna’s house I knew there was nothing I could offer her other than my sad condolences.
Words held an unintended hollowness after death visited a house. My own widowhood had taught me that lesson. I knew I couldn’t save Anna from drowning in grief or confusion. Some people never recovered from such a loss. Darlys was at the Jacobsens’ house, and I was sure Anna’s family would brave the weather and drive down from Stanley to provide her some much-needed comfort, because I could offer none. At least not on this night.
I had some time to arrange my words, to find some depth to them if I could, before I saw Anna again. I’m sorry for your loss wouldn’t do.
At that thought, I moved from the stove to the window in the front room. There was nothing to see except blowing snow and Hank’s security light burning brightly over the garage. The blanketed white land was monotonous; there were no distant lights, no stars in the sky, no sign of life at all. I was surrounded by nothingness.
I kept the Revelation .22 in sight wherever I went. Between the door lock, the rifle, the dog, and my own wits, I was determined to stay safe, to survive the darkness. I had work to do, a deadline to meet, bills to pay, and a friend who was in need of whatever comfort I could offer.
The tracks I’d made after I returned home had already vanished under four inches of snow. Another five inches waited in the forecast for tomorrow. Running into town to Anna’s house was out of the question. The roads would be too treacherous to drive on in whiteout conditions. No matter how prepared I was, spending time stuck in a ditch wasn’t something I yearned to do anytime soon.
I couldn’t consider a world without Nils Jacobsen. I had known the man all of my life. Not that we were friends, but we knew each other, had gone to school together. We weren’t in the same grade, though; Nils was two years younger than I was. In a town like Dickinson, everybody knew everybody, or at least knew of them. Now I knew Nils’s story, beginning, middle, and end.
In the past, me and Hank would have talked the day’s events through, shared our memories together, and poured out our grief at such a loss. He was my comforting voice of reason, even after the accident. I missed the calmness Hank brought to every situation, no matter how dire the situation seemed. I wasn’t sure that he could have made sense out of Nils Jacobsen’s death, but he would have tried.
I looked away from the barren view, then made my way into the kitchen. Hank couldn’t help me now. I had to find my own strength to carry on. Collapsing into a puddle of tears wasn’t going to make anything better. I’d need to cook something to take to Anna and her family.
The phone started to ring again, startling me. I jumped unconsciously and held my breath. Two shorts, one long. The pattern of rings announced that the call was for the Standishes. I imagined the news of Nils’s demise traveling from one house to the next. Mills was most likely still at work at the Red Owl, calling Burlene to tell her what he knew. For a brief second, I was tempted to pick up the receiver and listen in on their conversation, like Burlene had on mine so many times before. Someone answered on the third ring, rescuing me from my temptation.
Relieved, I searched for something I could cook. I had plenty of cream and some broth I’d frozen the last time I’d boiled a chicken, so I decided to make knoephla soup. The soup was a staple in most North Dakotan kitchens. Pronounced “nefla,” the soup’s origin was German. Knoephla meant little knob, or button, which is what the little pieces of dough added to the creamy potato soup looked like. Everyone, including my family, had their variation on the soup, which was really more like a thick Russian stew. I’d stood next to my mother in the kitchen as often as I could and committed the recipe to memory as a young girl. The comforting soup was simple enough to make and a viable meal option in deep winter when meat was sparse. The dough was tough, and the buttons took time to roll and snip, but the end result was worth the effort. Knoephla was my favorite soup. The soup had been Hank’s favorite, too, and, like most good soups, it was more flavorful the next day. There was no question in my mind that the soup would be the perfect comfort food to take to the Jacobsens.
I set about thawing the broth in my mother’s ceramic Dutch oven, then headed to the larder in the mudroom.
The larder was empty. The vegetables I needed were in the cellar. The thought nearly stopped me in my tracks. I stepped back from the larder and reconsidered my options. I really didn’t want to go back out in the cold, but the knoephla soup would serve two purposes; the effort would provide my supper and food to take to Anna’s house. I sighed, acknowledging that I had no choice, grabbed up the .22 and a flashlight, then headed for the door. Shep followed after me. I was tempted to make him stay in the house, but that thought only lasted a brief second. I needed the dog’s ears and eyes as much as I needed my own. Besides, the root cellar was another place I hadn’t searched. For all I knew, Tina Rinkerman could have sought refuge there, even though I didn’t think it was possible.
My hand was on the doorknob when the phone started to ring again. I stopped, cocked my ear to the phone, and was almost relieved when the series of rings announced the call was for me. I set everything down and hurried to pick up the receiver.
“Trumaine residence,” I said.
I heard nothing but static, and then a distant click—the same sound I’d heard when someone was eavesdropping on my conversations. I gritted my teeth, “Hello,” I said, not doing anything to clear the annoyance from my voice.
“It’s me, Marjorie. It’s Darlys.” She was loud and clear. I hesitated for a second after she said her name, trying to figure out if I needed to let the person listening in know that I knew they were there, but the distant click came again. I was sure they’d hung up. Honest mistakes happened all the time.
“Oh, Darlys, you sound awful,” I said. “Are you all right?”
“No, Marjorie, I’m not. Nils is dead. Somebody shot him.” Darlys sniffled, then broke into a sob.
I drew in a deep breath and looked away from the phone. Shep was waiting by the door, ready to go to the cellar. “No,” I said as softly as I could. My hand trembled and my body went numb.
Darlys heard me. “You know what I’m saying is true, Marjorie,” she whimpered. “You were there. You found Nils when you were out on the field with Guy Reinhardt.”
Along with the numbness came fear. Something deep inside my stomach felt broken. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you,” I whispered. “Guy requested that I not say anything to anyone.”
“You could have told me,” Darlys said.
No, I thought, I couldn’t have. We didn’t tell each other everything. No one did. I didn’t know Darlys well enough to trust her with a secret so large, so critical. Our paths hadn’t really ever crossed unt
il Pastor John Mark had sent the Ladies Aid to my front door. And with her husband being a dentist, a professional, Darlys had a larger group of friends and memberships to organizations than I could have ever imagined. I liked her, but that didn’t mean I trusted her.
“I hope you’ll forgive my omission, Darlys,” I said. “I was only doing what I thought was right, what the sheriff asked of me. This is such a horrible situation. I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t know what to say other than that.”
Darlys drew in a deep breath, and I heard the strike of a match, then that first long draw on a fresh cigarette. “I didn’t tell anyone that you knew,” she said, exhaling.
“How did you find out?” The words jumped out of my mouth before I could stop them. I had to know.
“You shouldn’t be mad, Marjorie.”
“I’m not mad. Curious is all.”
“Theda told me Duke brought you back to the Rinkermans.”
Guy was right to be worried. People talked. That was clear to me now. I shouldn’t have gone searching for Tina Rinkerman with him. I should have paid my respects to her parents, left my pies with them, and returned home. The bad taste of regret started to grow in the back of my throat. I wanted to join Darlys and share a cigarette with her, but my purse was out of reach.
“How’s Anna?” I said, hoping to change the subject.
“The doctor had to medicate her to calm her down.”
“I understand.”
“Her mother’s coming down from Stanley to help look after the kids. Theda and Lene are staying at the house until she arrives.”
Anna wasn’t originally from Dickinson. She was an outsider, introduced to Nils by a friend of a friend at a high school basketball game in Stanley. Nils was older than Anna, but I wasn’t sure by how much. Anna had no family in town. As far as I knew, all she had was the church and the Ladies Aid. She never spoke much about her life outside of taking care of Nils and her three kids.
“I’m relieved that Anna’s mother will be there for her,” I said. My mother had already passed away by the time Hank had his accident. The only family I had to lean on were the lessons my dead parents had taught me: Keep your head up, carry on, don’t inflict your troubles on anyone else, wait your turn. My father had patience. My mother had backbone. Surviving on the prairie for as long as they did demanded strength and persistence, their gifts to me.
“I’m going to need your help, Marjorie,” Darlys said.
“How so?”
“I’m hoping you’ll fill in for Anna. Join the Ladies Aid officially. We have to help her now. She needs us, but there are more needs in our world that need tended to than hers. The Rinkermans have a tragedy all their own, and there’s more to give to the congregation than most folks know. Some people have a tougher time getting through winter than others. Those folks would be mortified if the rest of the world knew their trials. I trust you, Marjorie. And I think you need us as much as we need you.”
Darlys might have been right about that, but I was leery of joining anything, especially anything connected to the church. I still had my own crisis of faith to deal with.
I had to admit that I was lonely, and I was going to cook food to take to Anna’s house anyway, so I was already halfway to joining. I worried whether Theda Parsons and the other women of the Aid would welcome me into their club. All of them had worked together for years.
Saying yes to Darlys would get me out of the house—away from indexing, which had gotten little attention in the past few days. I’d helped run the farm in the past, and I’d taken care of Hank at the same time. Helping Darlys wouldn’t require me to juggle my duties like I’d had to when Hank was alive. I’d still met my deadlines and handled everything that came my way. Maybe I needed more on my plate than I thought I could handle. Maybe that was normal for me.
“Well,” I said into the receiver, “I really don’t see how I can tell you no, Darlys.”
CHAPTER 10
The root cellar door was buried under a snowdrift that looked like a wave frozen in mid crash. One footstep would collapse the sculpture. I took no pity on the icy art, though I was relieved to see the snow was pristine, undisturbed by visitors of any sort, including Tina Rinkerman. I kicked the drift from the door, then eased down the steps with the bright beam of my flashlight leading the way. Even though I had no reason to hope, I held my breath as darkness vanished from the root cellar and light won a short-lived battle.
Shep stood next to the door. He didn’t take his eyes off me. I grabbed up some potatoes and carrots for the knoephla soup and made my way back up the stairs, careful not to slip on the snow that had followed me in. I was a little sad that I was alone, that Tina Rinkerman hadn’t taken up residence underneath my house. Her presence would have answered a host of prayers, and brought a conclusion to one tragedy, anyway.
Maybe she’s still alive. I brushed away the thought like I had the snow. I really didn’t believe a girl like Tina could survive ten minutes on her own in this kind of weather, much less two days. She’s dead. We haven’t found her yet. I was as sure of that as I was the darkness I left in my wake.
I rushed back into the house with Shep on my heels. I tried not to consider Tina Rinkerman’s fate any longer—lost in a cold world—but I had to wonder if the search for her was going to continue. No one had said so. A murder investigation would take precedence over the search for a missing girl. Guy Reinhardt’s top priority would be to find the person who had killed Nils Jacobsen. Then I wondered again if the County Sheriff’s Department had the resources to handle both situations; their budget seemed constantly strained.
I wondered about Guy, too. I wondered if he had the fortitude and skills to manage two major investigations. But I had faith in Guy. I knew he wouldn’t give up, no matter the severity of the situation. He’d put himself in harm’s way if necessary. Guy Reinhardt was good at his job, and I knew that he was going to be a respectable sheriff. If I were superstitious, I would have crossed my fingers.
With that thought, I headed for the place that gave me the most comfort: the kitchen. Now that I had everything I needed for the knoephla soup, I cut the vegetables and put them in the boiling chicken broth. From there, I set about making the dough, which was nothing more than flour, an egg, a little salt, and some water. I rolled the stiff dough into a long rope, then quickly pinched thumb-sized pieces that looked like buttons. Once the potatoes and carrots were cooked, I dropped the dough into the soup.
I stirred the pot to keep the knoephla from gumming up. Nils Jacobsen’s face flashed in my memory. The dead Nils. The cold, pale Nils with his eyes open and fixed, his head slumped to the side, covered in blood. There was no sign of life anywhere in the shelterbelt. The trees had looked skeletal and dead.
The memory was the stuff of nightmares. I trembled and stirred the soup faster, hoping the dough would expand and finish so I could walk away and leave it to simmer.
Once I’d finished stirring, I cleaned up the mess I’d made, then grabbed up some saltine crackers to snack on and headed to my desk. I needed the distraction of work. If I did nothing but stare out the window waiting for my supper to cook, I’d obsess over Nils’s death and Tina’s disappearance even more than I already had.
Shep remained by the Franklin stove. He did that sometimes, preferring warmth to my immediate presence. I didn’t mind. I knew he had one ear cocked toward the door, always listening for something to move.
My desk chair, a high-backed wood dining room chair cut from durable hickory with a comfortable pillow on the seat, seemed to wrap itself around me in a welcoming sigh as I sat down. I stared at the pile of page proofs that sat next to my manual Underwood typewriter. The little black machine was at least thirty-five years old. A few of the keys showed wear from overuse. The A and the S were almost invisible, but my fingers knew where to go even though the letters on the keys had eroded.
The page proofs were nothing more than unbound book pages laid out flat and printed on one side. There were actu
ally two book pages per proof. I would have to rifle through the pages repeatedly, searching for a single word or concept, making sure to keep the proofs in order. Indexing a book was a tedious affair.
An empty shoebox sat on the other side of the typewriter. By the time I finished writing the index for the book, the shoebox would be full of index cards, divided by twenty-six spacers, one for each letter of the alphabet. The box stood empty, waiting to be filled. Thankfully, the deadline to send the index off to my publisher in New York City was almost a month away.
A month sounded like a long time, but I would need every minute of every working hour to get the index finished in time. The Central Flyway: Audubon’s Journey Revisited, by Jacob T. Allsworth, was three hundred and fifty pages from beginning to end. Each book had a signature, a design feature so the printer could maximize the budget and determine the total number of pages in the book. The signature consisted of even numbers. Most designs were sixteen page signatures. The design affected my job as an indexer. I needed to know how many pages were allotted for the index before I started. That knowledge, which I learned from the USDA correspondence course, helped me select the terms that needed to be in the index. I had to make a lot of decisions at the start of an indexing project, but all I could do now was stare at the pile of pages.
I could only index a certain number of pages every day, usually between twenty and thirty if I spent eight hours at my desk. That kind of focus was possible in the winter, especially now, with only myself to take care of, but I was distracted. I had already lost a couple of days, and I would most likely lose more time to the Ladies Aid and Anna’s tragedy in the coming days.
Each index entry had to be typed on an index card, after I checked for a previous entry. Indexers tended to have great memories, and I usually knew if I had typed a term before—but I still double-checked myself. I was also good at seeing patterns and understanding the structures that most nonfiction books were built on. The type of books I worked on had a heading, a sub-heading, and sometimes, a sub-subheading. Being able to see that structure helped me determine if a term was a main entry, how many pages a topic should range, and whether to include a sub-entry in the index. Some books were built better than others, the structure clear. That helped make my job easier—and faster.
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