I had yet to crack the structure of The Central Flyway book. I think I was avoiding the task. The topic of migration hit too close to home. Migration meant change, travel, and transformation. I was in the midst of migrating from wife to a widow. I was in a new place in my life, somewhere that I had never been and didn’t want to be.
Along with the typewriter, I had other tools on my desk. I had books to help me understand books. I kept the USDA course book close by, though I rarely cracked that textbook open these days. The other books on my desk, however, gained more use. I was constantly dipping into The Chicago Manual of Style, the eleventh edition, published in 1949, and Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary, published in 1913. The Webster’s had belonged to my father, and I was loathe to replace the dictionary with a newer edition. I loved the smell of the book, and the knowledge that my father’s fingers had touched the pages gave me comfort. He loved words, loved that we shared a passion for them. I also kept a Roget’s Thesaurus close by, and a pad of paper to keep notes on.
I had added a new addition to the desk since Hank had died. An ashtray sat to the right of my typewriter. I smoked at my desk when I was stuck, when I needed a break, or when I was hungry. I’d never smoked at my desk when Hank was alive. That was a larger abomination than allowing the dog to sleep on the davenport.
My Salems were secure in my purse. I had no desire for a cigarette. I needed to work.
I took up the first page proof to read. The opening chapter of the book had nothing to do with birds, but it introduced the reader to John J. Audubon’s emigration to America and subsequent journey west. I was immediately pulled into Audubon’s young life in Missouri when the New Madrid earthquake struck in 1811:
I thought my horse was about to die, and would have sprung from his back had a minute more elapsed; but at that instant all the shrubs and trees began to move from their very roots, the ground rose and fell in successive furrows, like the ruffled water of a lake, and I became bewildered in my ideas, as I too plainly discovered, that all this awful commotion was the result of an earthquake.
The section was from The Life of John James Audubon, The Naturalist, published in 1868 by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, and edited by “His Widow.” There was no mention of Audubon’s wife’s name in the text as the editor of the memoir. I stopped reading and searched the page proofs, only to find Audubon’s widow’s name mentioned a few pages later: Lucy Green Bakewell Audubon.
My mind swirled with index entries, but I was stuck on the notion of Lucy Audubon’s name omitted from the cover of a book she had worked on. The work was, after all, her husband’s legacy, as well as her own. Surely she’d supported her husband’s endeavors all the way up until the time he’d died. Her effort was a connection between us. One I wasn’t sure that I liked. Maybe the title, “His Widow,” was merely a reflection of the times, being nearly a hundred years in the past.
In today’s world, women were crossing new boundaries into society. Betty Friedan had published The Feminine Mystique a year ago, and Margaret Chase Smith, the first woman elected to both the House of Representatives and the Senate, became the first woman to run for a major political party’s nomination for president in 1964. The world was changing, though I hadn’t seen much of this so-called women’s movement come to North Dakota. I only knew of such things because of my many visits to the library in Dickinson, the newspaper delivered to my door every day, and the reports I heard on the radio. I didn’t own a television set. I guessed I wasn’t that modern, but I was modern enough to see discrimination when the intent was clear. The first entry I made for the index was:
A
Audubon, Lucy Green Bakewell, 9
I knew there was nothing I could do to right a historical wrong. An indexer’s opinion on any matter found in a book was forbidden to be included. My job was to structure the information so a reader could find what they were looking for, and nothing more. Influence was out of the parameters of my contribution to the book.
I exhaled deeply, then went on to type other entries on separate index cards:
A
Audubon, John James, 1–5
E
earthquake, New Madrid (Missouri, 1811), 5
N
New Madrid (Missouri, 1811) earthquake, 5
The last two were examples of double posting, of putting the same information in two places. Readers didn’t look up a term in the same way, so having more than one access point into the text was helpful, and a requirement of a good index—as long as there was enough room in the pages allotted for the index.
I read on down the page, but I was more distracted than I thought I was. My mind continued to drift back to the present, away from Audubon’s journey.
I got up and checked on the knoephla soup and decided the consistency wasn’t quite right yet. Then I went to my purse and grabbed my cigarettes. Shep raised his head and watched me make my way back to my desk.
The wind continued to rage outside, and I imagined that the snow had kept up like promised, obscuring any sign of the living or dead. My mind turned back to Nils Jacobsen and Tina Rinkerman as I struck a match to light my Salem, forgoing the saltines to stave off any hunger I might have felt.
Indexing helped me focus my mind. I had to be completely engaged in the text to decipher and organize the references properly. Focus wasn’t a problem on normal days. This was no normal day. Maybe a cigarette would help me forget that a good man was dead and a young retarded girl was still missing. There was nothing normal about that.
The first question that came to my mind was this: Was the murder a random act?
I drew deeply on the cigarette, held the smoke in my lungs longer than I should have as I pondered on the question.
I didn’t have a clear answer to the question of motive for Nils’s murder. I didn’t have enough information. Actually, I had only questions and no answers. Starting with: What was Nils doing in the shelterbelt in the first place? Was he lured there? Or did he go there of his own accord?
I was confused and sad at the same time. I had tried everything I knew to clear my mind, except one. When I was confused, I made an index of my thoughts and the events that I couldn’t see clearly. I did that when I needed a fresh start, a better way of looking at things. I wrote down my thoughts with the hope of deriving a conclusion of some kind.
J
Jacobsen, Anna (I hesitated to type widow)
Jacobsen, Nils (victim)
M
missing girl
Tina Rinkerman
who was the last person to see her?
motive
who would want to kill Nils?
why did Tina leave?
R
relationships
did Nils know Tina?
murder and disappearance related?
Rinkerman, Adaline (mother)
Rinkerman, Tina (missing girl)
Rinkerman, Toren (father)
Rinkermans (three sons, find out names)
S
suspects
could be random, but doesn’t make sense
none right now
T
troubles
did Nils have any problems?
did the Rinkermans have any troubles?
V
victim, Nils Jacobsen
W
who saw Nils last? (I don’t know)
CHAPTER 11
The wind, of course, still blew, but it was blunted in town by all of the buildings. Snow came and went, but much lighter than the day before. There was no blizzard or storm predicted for the day, only blowing snow, flurries, and subzero temperatures. In other words, a typical January day in North Dakota.
Jaeger Knudsen had opened our road with his tractor. The drive into town was easy, especially after I had turned onto the paved county road that led into town. I was only behind the steering wheel for an hour. Twice as long as the trip would take in summer. I was in no hurry to become an official member of the Ladies Aid, but there was n
o turning back.
The Jacobsens lived in a single-level brick house, three blocks from the Red Owl, on the corner of Sims and 3rd Street. The house sat directly across the street from the Stark County Courthouse, a four-story Art Deco–inspired building built in the mid-1930s. The government building was a durable artifact of the Great Depression and the Works Progress Administration and had stood the test of time. The snow-covered courthouse looked like a wedding cake.
Coming to town brought a clear realization of the sacrifices I made by living out on the farm. There were no businesses or services within walking distance of my house, only treeless fields, rolls in the fields—the wheat looked like ocean waves in the summer—and sloughs that reflected the constant changes in the sky. I loved the land, my house that had been built with my grandfather’s bare hands, and every acre of our farm. Even now, as alone as I was, I couldn’t consider selling the place and moving into town. I’d feel closed in, lost without the sight and sounds of the magpies and meadowlarks. I was sure Shep would go mad with nothing to herd but the mail carrier.
Nils Jacobsen walked to work on most days, and I did envy townsfolk who could pop in and out of the library. Getting information for an index or finding a book to read for pleasure was never going to be the same for me without Calla Eltmore as the librarian behind the reference desk. I’d avoided the library as much as possible since her death. Delia Finch, the new librarian, had big shoes to fill. I hadn’t warmed up to her yet. I wasn’t sure that I ever would.
There was nowhere to park in front of the Jacobsens’ house. Cars lined the block, and all of the plug-posts for the block heaters on the courthouse-side of the street were already taken. I worried about the Studebaker in the cold. The temperatures were below zero. I had jumper cables with me, along with blankets, flares, and some candy bars, in case I got stranded. Survival gear was my lone passenger on this trip. Shep was at home, stowed away in the bathroom so he didn’t spoil the rugs in case I was gone too long.
I found a spot to park half a block away. I heaved up the Dutch oven full of knoephla soup and made my way carefully to the Jacobsens’ house. Thankfully, folks in town kept their sidewalks shoveled, but the cement was still slick. One wrong move and I’d fall flat on my behind, sending the soup flying.
I’d left my Carhartt overalls at home. Instead, I’d dressed in my best funeral clothes. I was covered in black from head to toe. I wore a knee-length wool coat I’d had since Hank and I had married, along with a dress that I’d made myself from a McCall’s pattern and my trusted Montgomery Ward shoes. My toes were about to freeze off without thick wool socks to protect them, but I wanted to present myself as a full member of the Ladies Aid and an appropriate mourner. I knew more about one than I did the other.
I set the Dutch oven down on the stoop and knocked on the door.
I held my breath and squared my shoulders, waiting for what came next—a room full of sad, confused, grief-stricken people. I knew the mood of the gathering all too well, though I could never pretend to know the shock of murder as well as Anna Jacobsen did. My own troubles and grief were unimportant and best left behind, but I couldn’t help but bring them with me. I had expected Hank to die at some point after the accident, but I’d had time to gird myself, as much as that was possible, for the loss. I didn’t think Anna was expecting Nils to die anytime soon. They were still in the midst of raising a family. I’m sure they’d planned on growing old and gray together like Hank and I had.
The door opened, and I was relieved to see Darlys Oddsdatter’s familiar face. “Oh, there you are, Marjorie,” she said. “Me and Theda were just talkin’ about you.”
I forced a smile. “I hope the talk was all good.” I wasn’t real comfortable around Theda Parsons. I had expected Lene Harstaad to be there, too.
“How could you think otherwise, Marjorie? We’re so happy you’re joining us.” Darlys smiled briefly, reached out and touched my shoulder, then looked down at the Dutch Oven. “Oh, that smells good. Well, come on, get in here out of the cold.” She peered up at the sky, and said, “The snow’s not too heavy today. Things could always be worse.”
I agreed, then picked up the soup and walked inside the Jacobsens’ house. The front room was small and packed with people from town and beyond. I spied a few familiar faces right away. Burlene Standish, who looked away as soon as I walked in the door, stood talking to her cousin, Olga Olafson. Olga worked the reception desk at St. Joseph’s Hospital. I’d had plenty of interaction with her over the last two years. She looked away, too, when we made eye contact. My comfort level wasn’t exactly on full tilt, but I wasn’t going to show any discomfort to anyone in the room. I smiled as much as I thought was allowable for the situation.
I had expected to see Frank Aberle, the assistant manager at the Red Owl, but he was nowhere to be seen. He was probably manning the store. The weather had let up and they were probably busy with people restocking for the next wave of heavy snow. The grocery store never closed in January.
Duke Parsons stood inside the door. I almost didn’t recognize him. His brown uniform shirt was neatly ironed and tucked in, his black boots were polished, and his silver badge sparkled from the overhead light. He wore a stern face and looked me over in an official way. “Mrs. Trumaine,” he said with a nod.
“Hello, Deputy Parsons.” I forced another smile. I still couldn’t believe Duke blamed me for losing the election. He had a lot of nerve telling me such a thing. “Good to see you,” I said. We both knew that I didn’t mean what I’d said, but there was no use allowing the tension to spread inside the Jacobsens’ house. Doom and gloom sat heavily on every face I saw.
Six young children sat on the floor in the corner, parked in front of the television. Black and white images flickered, and the sound of a Saturday morning cartoon filled the room. The program was some kind of antics with a talking cat and mouse named Tom and Jerry. The children were lost in the make-believe world. None of them were laughing. Either the cartoon wasn’t funny, or the children had been given instructions to be seen and not heard.
Three of the older children belonged to Anna and Nils. I didn’t recognize two of the others, but I knew the youngest to be Pastor John Mark’s son, Paul Mark. I looked around the room and saw Pastor standing in the corner talking to Henrik Oddsdatter, Darlys’s husband.
“Come on,” Darlys said. “Theda’s in the kitchen with Pastor’s wife. The neighbor lady, Helen Greggson, is helping out, too, but she had to run home for a second. Do you know her?”
The name didn’t ring a bell. “No, I don’t think I do. I should say hello to Pastor real quick, don’t you think?”
Darlys glanced at Pastor, then at Henrik. Her faced changed, went blank, emotionless. “Yes, of course.”
She cut through a crowd of fifteen people, and I followed. Both men saw us coming, stopped talking, stood, and waited. Pastor and I matched in our black attire, while Henrik Oddsdatter was dressed as stylishly as his wife was. He wore a tweed jacket, a brown pullover sweater, and a tie to match the flecks of gray in his sideburns. His smile was perfect, as one would imagine a dentist’s smile should be.
I set the Dutch oven on the floor next to my ankle. I could still feel a bit of warmth radiating from the soup. My toes started to thaw.
Pastor took both my hands into his. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you, Marjorie,” he said. His summer blue eyes sparkled with sincerity, and his perfect yellow straw-colored hair made him almost glow.
“Yes, well, I’m happy to help out.”
Henrik stood and watched. He didn’t have a smile on his face, and, with a hard-set jaw, he was easy to mistake for an angry man. That was how his face was made. Everyone knew him to be a gentle dentist and a kind, generous man. He spoiled Darlys to a fault, gave her everything she could want, including the finest wardrobe I had ever seen.
“Connie’ll be so happy to see you,” Pastor continued.
I forced a smile and withdrew my hand. I couldn’t tell him
that I didn’t want to be at the Jacobsens’ house. No one did. “Well, I hope to be of some service in the next few days.”
“Your presence will be a comfort,” Pastor said.
I smiled politely, then turned my attention to Henrik. “Hello, Doctor Oddsdatter. I rarely see you outside of your office.”
Darlys stood beside me, still as an owl on a tree branch.
“The day demanded that I be here. You may call me Henrik, please.” His Swedish accent was apparent and endearing. His face softened when he spoke.
“Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry to see you here, though.”
“Yes, so sad.” Henrik looked down at the children watching the television. “Mrs. Jacobsen left to care for four children all on her own.”
“Three,” I said, before I could stop myself from correcting him. “They only have three children.” It was an odd comment, and I wondered if Henrik and Darlys knew whether Anna was pregnant for sure.
“Yes, of course. Three. I see so many families in my office it is hard to keep up,” Henrik said.
“I imagine it is.”
“Have you read any good books lately?” Henrik said.
The question took me by surprise. “Only for work,” I answered.
“Yes, this indexing thing you do. Darlys has filled me in. I am fascinated by a mind that can organize a book like you are able. We must speak of your skill sometime soon. We have something in common, I think.”
“What is that?” I said curiously.
See Also Deadline Page 7