A Pattern for Murder (The Bait & Stitch Cozy Mystery Series, Book 1)

by Ann Yost

  After the initial excitement died down, Arvo excused himself to go home for Sunday dinner and everyone else sat down at the cloth-covered tables in the dining room to feast on pannukakku and coffee. Most everyone. Garcia left and Miss Thyra excused herself and went upstairs. There was plenty of gossip to catch up on especially for Aunt Ianthe and Miss Irene who had been out at the lighthouse for a week. I listened carefully, hoping to solve the mystery of who had called the college paper with the mysterious tip.

  Mrs. Edna Moilanen took the lead. Every small town has its social register and Red Jacket was no exception. Mrs. Moilanen, a well-upholstered widow in her late sixties, enjoyed a position at the top of the social pyramid. Her power derived not from her age or the fact that she had been born in Red Jacket or even that her late husband had been a deacon in the church and an assistant manager at the local mine. Mrs. Moilanen's status came from the fact that for more than twenty years she had maintained her hold on the office of president of the St. Heikki's Ladies Aid, the most prestigious, most dignified, most important post among the church basement crowd.

  Like most of the women in Red Jacket, Mrs. Moilanen has her short, gray curls washed and set weekly at Myrna's Beauty Salon and, except for church and other special occasions, she dresses in a pair of polyester slacks and polo shirts embroidered with seasonal designs, like Christmas trees, pumpkins for fall and bunnies for spring. During the winter, she trades the polo for a collared sweatshirt but the idea is the same.

  Mrs. Moilanen poured lingonberry syrup on her wedge of pancake and prepared to hold forth.

  "Ianthe," she said, "you and Irene must meet the new girl in town. She looks like an angel. And sings like one, too. So lovely is her voice, isn't it, Janet?" Mrs. Moilanen appealed to the pastor's wife, Mrs. Sorensen, for support.

  "Just like an angel," the pastor's wife confirmed. "You will appreciate her voice, Irene. She's never off key, is the thing."

  I glanced at Aunt Ianthe and noted a slight stiffening of her spine. Mrs. Sorensen had no way of knowing that she'd nearly put her foot in her mouth. She, alone of the women at the table, had not been in Red Jacket twenty years earlier during what Pops sometimes referred to as the potential continental divide. After a lifetime, the friendship between Aunt Ianthe and Miss Irene had been threatened when the church organist decided to retire to Lake Worth, Florida with her husband and the post opened up.

  Miss Irene, as the town's piano teacher, was the obvious selection and it never occurred to her or anybody else that Aunt Ianthe, a primary school teacher, had musical ambitions, too. When both ladies turned up at the interview with the then-pastor, he had to do some quick thinking and the result was a solution as neat as Solomon's. Neater, because it did not involve slicing a baby in two. The pastor suggested that Aunt Ianthe, who has never been a fan of sharps and flats, would play all the hymns written in the key of C, while Miss Irene would take on all the rest, including that jewel in the crown, Be Still My Soul, by Jean Sibelius.

  "You will enjoy the songbird's fine voice, too, Ianthe," Mrs. Moilanen said, demonstrating one of the reasons the arrangement had held for twenty years. The community didn't just tolerate my great aunt, they appreciated her. "Her name is Liisa Pelonen and she has had to transfer to Copper County High because the school at Allouez closed. She needed a place to stay in town and Arvo and Pauline invited her to live at the funeral home."

  "What about her parents?" Aunt Ianthe was deeply interested in the tale.

  "She has only a father, a hermit who lives alone near Ahmeek. He will probably welcome the solitude. In any case, Arvo and Pauline have gone to town decorating a room all in pink for the girl. It is such a happiness to them to have a daughter in the house at last."

  "Liisa Pelonen is not Arvo's daughter." Resentment echoed in Ronja Laplander's deep voice. Ronja, who is short and squat with straight dark hair is the mother of five hopeful daughters all of whom resemble her. "Arvo and Pauline are acting foolishly," she added, with a touch of venom. It did not take long to find out why.

  "Liisa," Mrs. Moilanen said, perhaps with some idea of punishing Ronja for interrupting her story, "would make the picture perfect St. Lucy."

  "Pah!" Ronja's wide face flushed a dull red and her small, dark eyes narrowed. She shook a stubby finger at the Ladies Aid president. "This girl cannot be St. Lucy. She is an outsider. It is Astrid's turn this year."

  The honor of playing St. Lucy in the yearly parade and pageant is as highly sought after in Red Jacket as head cheerleader in Texas. Even though the choice is ostensibly made by the youth of St. Heikki's, there is a kind of unspoken pecking order that is usually observed. It wasn't an absolute that Astrid Laplander would be chosen this year but it was likely and clearly, Ronja was counting on it. The thing is that Arvo reserves the right to make the ultimate decision about anything remotely municipal and if Liisa were as lovely as advertised, he would be sorely tempted to choose her to represent the community. And, of course, Ronja knew all that.

  "Well, as far as I'm concerned, it should be Astrid this year," said Diane Hakala, the pharmacist's wife who could afford to be generous as her only daughter, Barb, had held the crown last December. Ronja's face relaxed until Diane added, "or, maybe Meg Linna."

  "Meg Linna?" Ronja's practically spat out the name. "No way. She is only half Finnish!"

  Diane shrugged, as if tired of the subject. "Edna," she said, "tell Ianthe and Irene about Claude."

  Claude, who belongs to Ollie Rahkonen, sexton at the Old Finnish Cemetery and all-around handyman, is a reindeer. Once a year he pulls the sleigh in the St. Lucy parade. Otherwise he grazes and molts and provides companionship for Ollie. Aunt Ianthe's forehead wrinkled in concern.

  "What about Claude?"

  "He's been sick," Mrs. Moilanen explained. "Off his feed, you know? Ollie took him to see the midwife."

  I choked back a laugh. The midwife is my friend Sonya Stillwater who, when she arrived in Red Jacket two years ago, thought she would be promoting women's health and delivering human babies. She had adapted gracefully to the multiple-hats rule and she regularly treated sore throats, sewed up split lips and bandaged bloody knees.

  "Did Dr. Sonya cure Claude?" Miss Irene asked.

  "She told Ollie to feed him milk-bread and scrambled eggs until his stomach settles down but it was Einar who really cured him." She smiled at me. "He told Ollie to put Claude in the sauna."

  She pronounced it sow-na, the approved Keweenaw usage. Sauna is the first line of defense in our community for practically any illness. If it doesn't work, coffee is next followed by Vic's Vapo Rub. If none of those cure you, as Pops says, it's time to head to the marble orchard.

  "We have some health news, too," Aunt Ianthe said, soberly. "Flossie Ollanketo collapsed last night on her way to sauna." There were several gasps and exclamations of dismay. "Doctor Kukka gave her some medicine," my aunt reassured them. "Flossie is still asleep but he says she will be all right."

  "So she ate too many sausages last night?" Ronja Laplander put the question.

  Aunt Ianthe shook her head. "She had a heart palpitation and I know why. She was upset about the lighthouse."

  "What about the lighthouse?" The question came from Edna Moilanen.

  Aunt Ianthe and Miss Irene exchanged a glance. Miss Thyra stared down at her untouched plate of food.

  "You haven't heard about Johanna Marttinen's son coming back?"

  "Of course I heard," Edna said. "What of it?"

  "He came to claim the lighthouse and the money that goes with it," Aunt Ianthe said. "The retirement home will have to close."

  Chapter 8

  The guests finally left around noon and Aunt Ianthe and Miss Irene went upstairs for a rest while I helped Riitta clean up the dining room and the kitchen.

  When the last plate had been washed and dried and returned to the cupboard and we'd sponged off the counter tops, Riitta poured two cups of fresh coffee and handed me one. She leaned against the island in the center of the kitchen
.

  "Hatti, you have a good head on your shoulders."

  "There are those who would disagree with you," I said, lifting my cup to take a sip. She didn't smile.

  "I'd like to run something by you." I nodded. "Last night I went up to the watch room to talk to Alex. As you've probably figured out, we knew each other years ago and I thought I would see if there was any way I could convince him to let us have the lighthouse." She held her cup between her hands as if she craved the warmth. "It was pleasant. We reminisced a little, talked about stuff."

  "Danny?"

  Her eyes shot to mine. "Oh, so you figured that out, did you?"

  "It's kinda hard to miss. They look like matching sun gods."

  She sighed. "Danny figured it out, too. I should have told him years ago instead of making up a fictional dad. Alex had said he would never come back but I was always afraid he might change his mind. I didn't want to risk a custody battle or any unpleasantness. I didn't want anyone to find out."

  "But Johanna knew, didn't she?"

  Riitta nodded. "Like you said, it was hard to miss the resemblance. We didn't talk about it but I figured that was why she decided to support my dream of making the lighthouse a retirement home for the disenfranchised."

  "It was probably why she gave Alex a year to come back," I said, remembering my conversation with him. "She hoped he'd come back and find his son."

  Riitta's eyes widened. "I hadn't thought of that but it makes sense. You know, he wasn't even angry with me. He just said he owed me and wanted to make reparations."

  I wondered if she knew about Danny's visit to his father but decided it wasn't my place to mention it.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist.

  "Here's the thing. He told me he was giving me the lighthouse and the money. He said he had made a bundle and that I deserved some of it for raising Danny alone. He said he'd never miss the trust fund money and that he had no intention of ever coming back to the Keweenaw, so he wouldn't miss the lighthouse, either."

  "Wow! Riitta, that's huge! It means you and Tom and Mrs. O. and Miss Thyra and Captain Jack can stay here. And you can afford to do the renovations to house more elderly people. Aren't you excited?"

  "Oh, yes. Of course. And Grateful. But, Hatti, there's something weird. He told me about his plans last night but this morning when I woke up, he'd changed his mind."

  "What?"

  "There was a letter shoved under my door." She pulled a folded envelope out of the pocket of her white slacks and handed it to me.

  The typed letter was addressed "To Whom it May Concern" and signed by Alexander Martin with yesterday's date. I read it aloud:

  "This is to state my intention of transferring the ownership of the Painted Rock Lighthouse along with a trust fund of five million dollars to the Copper County Board of Commissioners. The building is to be used in perpetuity as a retirement home for indigent seniors. The trust fund is an endowment to support the retirement home and is to be administered by the presently constituted County Lighthouse Commission."

  I looked up from the letter.

  "Your name isn't in it." She shook her head. "It isn't what he told you last night." She shook her head, again. "But it amounts to the same thing, right?"

  "Oh, yes. It doesn't matter at all. He stipulates that the commission should continue to run it and Arvo, Erik and I are the commission. It doesn't change anything. It's just weird, is the thing."

  "Have you talked with him about it today?" She shook her head again.

  "That's why I wanted you to take his breakfast up to him. I knew that when we got to talking it would take awhile."

  "Riitta," I said, suddenly remembering, "he wasn't up there. I left the pannukakku, figuring he was down in the bathroom or taking a nap somewhere. The food was probably cold when he got back," I added, apologetically. "As far as changing his mind, I wonder if he wanted to take the burden of ownership off of you. I mean, if you decided you didn't want to operate a retirement home, say, if you got married or moved away, you would have to get out from under the responsibility of the lighthouse and the retirement home."

  "That's probably right," she said, slowly. "I guess I'll have to ask."

  "What has it been like to see him again," I asked, suddenly curious.

  She smiled, faintly.

  "He's just as handsome as ever. More, really. But there's a hardness under the surface, you know? A kind of meanness. It may have been there before and I was too young to notice. Or, it may have developed during his years in business."

  "Or, maybe you notice it now because you're comparing him with Tom, who hasn't got a mean bone in his body."

  At the mention of the doctor's name, her pretty face went blank and she ignored my comment.

  "I guess if I want to know what he was thinking, I'll have to go to the source," she said. "And there's no time like the present."

  "I think I'll take the dogs out."

  "Oh, Hatti, would you walk down to the oil house? It isn't like Jack to miss pancakes. Tell him to come on up and I'll make him a new batch."

  I was happy to do it. One of the fascinating things about the world's largest fresh water lake is the way it changes with the seasons and with the time of day. On a hot, sunny summer day in the early afternoon, the deep blue of the lake challenges that of the sky and the richness of both shades almost hurts your heart. I hurried outside, anxious to see the lake at its most regal but as I started up the yard to the dune, I realized I'd lost the dogs. I turned around to whistle to them but the sound died on my lips and I knew my view of the lake would have to wait.

  Larry and Lydia sat like a couple of sphinxes, one on each side of a figure that had, very recently, been human, but wasn't any longer. Garcia's anonymous tipster had been right.

  I felt a blast of grief echoed in Larry's mournful bay. The body was facedown, tanned arms spread out, golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. Long lashes protected the unseeing turquoise eyes. The regret that swamped me did not include surprise and I realized I'd known, ever since I took his breakfast up to the empty watch room. I'd known it would end like this. I'd fought the knowledge but I'd realized Garcia's information was accurate. I cursed to myself. How was I supposed to tell Riitta?

  Chapter 9

  It occurred to me, belatedly, that I should check for a pulse. But when I touched his exposed neck and watched his head flop like a flower on a broken stem, I hastily withdrew my fingers. He'd clearly plummeted from the gallery. There appeared to be a nasty gash on the side of his head, too, as if he'd hit a stone when he'd fallen to earth. Only there wasn't any stone. Not an accident, then. I realized I'd never considered that it was an accident, anymore than I thought it was suicide. Alex Martin had come into our little world and shaken things up enough to make someone push him off the tower. There were lots of questions, such as, when was he pushed? Why were his polo shirt and khaki pants damp? Had this happened during the night, perhaps even before the start of the rain? If so, where had the body been when the dogs and I came out here before dawn?

  But all those questions could wait for an investigation. The single, harsh, horrible truth was that Alex Martin had returned home to die and that the Keweenaw had experienced its first murder in the twenty-first century.

  My cheeks were wet and my eyes stinging and I had one dog under each arm hunkering against me, providing comfort before I thought about calling the cops. It took three tries to punch in 911.

  The phone rang and rang. And rang some more. I wondered why the sheriff's department didn't have an answering machine and concluded that it was because they were supposed to answer each and every emergency call. But they weren't answering this one. I started to count the rings and got to eleven when a familiar voice apologized.

  "Hello, hello, oh, I'm so sorry about the delay! I was down the hall in the little girl's room. So, what can I do you for, then?"

  "Mrs. Toukolehto?" The woman had been our primary grades Sunday school teacher twenty years earlier. "Are you
the sheriff's dispatcher?"

  "Well, I am for just the moment, dear. Justin Erkkila's over to Embarrass, Minnesota visitin' his daughter and I'm holding down the fort so to speak. Who is this?"

  "Hatti," I said, "Hatti Lehtinen. I'm out at the lighthouse."

  "Oh yes. I ran into Janet Sorensen at the hardware last week. She told me your dad was sending you out there on account of the crickets."

  I couldn't help contrasting this, the second example today of the efficiency of our grapevine, with the fact that a 911 call could go unanswered for long minutes. And then something occurred to me.

  "Mrs. Too, earlier this morning did you get an anonymous phone tip about a body at the lighthouse?"

  "I don't know, dear. Let me check my log sheet." She was silent for a moment. "No. No tip. Just a fender bender over in Lake Linden and Mrs. Saarinen calling from Hellmuth to say Samson was up the tree again and could we get him down. Why are you calling? Did Larry wander off?"

  I felt an ominous foreboding as it came to me how woefully ill-equipped we are to handle a murder investigation.

  "No. Larry's fine. The fact is, there's a body at the lighthouse." I knew it sounded melodramatic but, geez Louise, it was only the truth. "We've had a sudden death."

  "I'm sorry to hear it! And on Juhannus, too. Good gracious! It's the old lady isn't it? Flossie Ollanketo? Diane Hakala over at the pharmacy told me Doc Kukka just renewed the old lady's heart medicine and he wasn't his usual self. Looked upset as if he was afraid it would be the last time. So her heart finally gave out, eh?"

  "It isn't Mrs. O. I mean, she did have a kind of heart attack last night, but she didn't die. It's someone else. Could you send the sheriff out right away?"

  "Someone else? That other old lady? The one who's supposed to give the mitten talk today? Or is it that old man who takes care of the Fresnel lens? I've wondered if it wasn't too much for him climbing up to the top of that tower to clean up the beacon."