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

by Ann Yost

  I thought that through.

  "You have a point. Maybe he or she didn't know. Maybe it has nothing to do with what he said to Riitta and everything to do with his earlier statement that he was going to keep the trust fund money and turn the lighthouse into a golf course."

  "Hatti," he said, looking directly into my eyes, "think about what you're saying. Who would commit murder to make sure that a municipality wasn't cheated out of a building? Who was that desperate to save the lighthouse?"

  Two names flashed before my eyes. Tom Kukka and Riitta.

  I stared at the attorney, helplessly, at my wit's end.

  "You know what? I think you might be right about the letter. Not that someone else wrote it but that it was superseded by another letter, one that deeded the lighthouse and the money to Riitta, personally."

  "Why? Why do you think that?"

  "Mostly based on the fact that Alex Martin was a top-notch businessman which means he was used to putting everything in writing. My guess is that, after he decided to give the property to Riitta, he wrote a letter to that effect and that the killer found that letter up in the watch room. Found it," he repeated, "and destroyed it."

  "Oh."

  "But don't forget, Martin had the lifetime habits of a mogul. He'd have made a copy. In this case, the situation being as irregular as it was, he'd have made a copy and hidden it."

  I gasped. "You think the copy is somewhere in the watch room."

  "I'd bet a cup of coffee on it."

  "What-what would that letter tell us?"

  "For one thing, it would tell us his real wishes. And it's possible, and even likely, that the letter will give us a clue about the identity of the killer."

  "You think Alex knew someone intended to kill him?"

  "Maybe not that. But he was as astute as they come. How many times in your brief acquaintance did he make the point that he never let anyone take advantage of him? My guess is he was out to punish someone and that punishment was going to take the form of a public denouncement. Hatti, we've got to get into the lighthouse and find that letter. It's the only way we'll be able to get Tom Kukka off the hook. It's the only way to keep Danny from being arrested or, worse, Riitta."

  "But how? The lighthouse is off limits. Clump has locked it down. No one's allowed in."

  A mischievous smile twisted the attorney's lips and his eyes twinkled. There is something appealing about a rule-follower who can, from time to time, break out of the box.

  "What about the milk chute rule? Surely we can get around the sheriff's embargo."

  "We?" He nodded.

  "My plan is to go on out there after the tea party. I've got to run down to Houghton to the office but I'll be back late in the afternoon. I can stop by for you and Riitta and we can go on out there together. My theory, in case you're wondering, is that there's safety in numbers, if only the fact that we can't all fit into the Frog Creek jail cell." His crooked grin was very endearing.

  "If we break in to steal the letter, it won't be admissible in court will it?"

  "I don't think the thing will get that far," he said, the twinkle disappearing from his eyes. "Whoever did this is one of us, Hatti. I think we can count on a confession somewhere down the line." He seemed to remember Tom Kukka. "A real confession," he amended. "I think we can get this whole thing resolved in the next few hours. What do you say?"

  I nodded. "What do you think really happened?"

  "My gut tells me it was one of those charged conversations that got out of control. I think we can mount an effective defense based on the unusual circumstances and the family connections."

  "You still think Danny did it?"

  "Let me put it this way. I do not expect Danny to pay a great penalty. I expect he'd suffer a lot more if Tom Kukka wound up with a life sentence."

  At long last Arvo arrived at our table balancing three lidded cups of coffee. I didn't remember until that minute that I'd intended to drink water. I'd already had enough caffeine to send me to the moon, as Pops would say, without a rocket ship. There was a dreamy look on Arvo's face that made me very uneasy.

  "Hazelnut blizzard latte for Hatti," he joked, putting down one of the cups of plain coffee, "black forest light roast for Erik and coconut raspberry lemonade cream tart espresso for me."

  I thanked him but wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to have a Starbucks franchise in Red Jacket.

  "Did you know," Arvo said, "that Finns drink more coffee than any other country in the world on a per capita basis?"

  "It doesn't surprise me," I replied. "I imagine we've cornered the market on Vics Vapo Rub, too."

  "I love to hear stuff like this," Erik said. "I've got a lot to catch up on in terms of Finnish culture."

  "What about your Swedish side," I asked, curiously. "Do you want to learn about that, too?"

  "I identify with the Finns. I'm not much on those little red ponies."

  "The Dala horses. I have to admit, I think they're darling. A Dala horse would be pretty on the back of a mitten. Maybe I'll speak about that with Miss Thyra." I realized I was babbling.

  "Look at you," Arvo said to Erik, "you're influencing us with your Swedish culture without even trying. Well, tit for tat. I insist that you join me in a sauna sometime soon."

  "I'd be honored," Erik said. "After all, it will be winter again before you know it."

  "Yes." Arvo's face flushed and his eyes brightened. "Christmas. This year we will have a very special St. Lucy, one who sings like an angel."

  "Uh, Arvo, don't you think we should let the high schoolers make that decision?" I eyed him, uneasily. "That's the tradition."

  "Of course, of course. But there's no question of what they will decide, is there? She is perfect for the role. Perfection." His eyes wandered over to the counter where Liisa was waiting on a new customer. "St. Lucy in the flesh. Anybody can see it."

  I had a feeling Ronja Laplander wasn't going to see it.

  "What did you want to talk to me about?"

  "Hmm? Oh, the St. Lucy festival. This year I want to expand it. We'll draw people from Lansing and Detroit and even Chicago and Gary, Indiana. I want a new costume, one that is custom made and a wreath that can hold real, lighted candles, not just the electric ones. We can have a craft fair, too, with booths in the high school parking lot and food vendors, the way we did for Juhannus."

  "What about the snow?"

  "Hmm? Oh, we'll double the budget for snow removal. And we can have an ice sculpting contest and an old-fashioned wife-carrying contest and maybe even a dog sled race. This will be the best festival ever, Hatti! And I want you to be in charge of it." I just stared at him. "Oh, have you talked with Pauline? We decided to paint Liisa's room pink. Imagine, Hatti-girl, a pink room in our house. It has a canopy bed with a pink spread and even the carpet is pink. A paradise for a little girl."

  I exchanged a dismayed look with Erik Sundback as Arvo continued to talk.

  "And Pauline has chosen a sparkly pink dress for Liisa to wear to homecoming. She'll look like a princess."

  The homecoming dance was held in October.

  "We'll get her another dress for Christmas. Red velvet with lace? Or maybe something white with fur trim."

  "Arvo," I said, unable to help myself, "Liisa is a person. A teen-ager. She isn't a doll."

  He smiled at me. "I know she isn't a doll, Hatti-girl. She's the daughter we never had."

  Chapter 30

  I don't know whether I've mentioned this before but Red Jacket is a small town and pretty much everything, except the Shopko out on U.S. Route 41, is accessible on foot. Despite the heat of the day, Aunt Ianthe and Miss Irene had expressed a preference for walking the three blocks to Erik Sundback's house and I agreed to stop by to pick them up.

  "Why, Henrikki," my aunt beamed at me when she opened the door. "You look so festive."

  I knew she was reacting to the emerald eyes in the cat on my tennis shirt and possibly, the large plastic hoop earrings I'd added at t
he last minute. I thanked her.

  My aunt was wearing a cotton shirtwaist with a blue-and-white polka-dot pattern and a fabric covered belt. Miss Irene's dress was a similar style but made out of seersucker with a thin red-and-white stripe. Both ladies wore strap-on canvas sandals that revealed the reinforced toes of their stockings. Both wore white beads, carried white pocketbooks and their knitting bags.

  "You look lovely, too," I said. "Both of you. A breath of pure summer."

  "Oh my, how poetic," Miss Irene said as we set off in the mid-day heat. "I wonder if we should have worn hats," she said, after a few minutes. "And gloves. My mother was a big believer in hats and gloves."

  "The gloves would be too warm, dearie," Aunt Ianthe said, "and, as for the hats, you know what the Good Book says about lilies of the field."

  It was a perfect intro for Miss Irene and she took it.

  "And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin."

  There seemed to be nothing to add to that.

  "How have the two of you adjusted to being home again," I asked.

  "Well, dearie, we can't seem to stop talking about the two murders, you know? Irene believes someone killed Alex Martin in a fit of passion."

  "Really?" The fact that Miss Irene's theory coincided with Erik Sundback's idea of impulse, surprised me.

  "Because he was so handsome," Miss Irene said. "Just like a movie star. Looks like that just drive a person wild."

  "So you think it was a woman?"

  "Not," Miss Irene said, mysteriously, "necessarily."

  "I have a different take on it," Aunt Ianthe said, before I could question Miss Irene further. "Looks are all very well and good in fiction but in real life, I believe it comes down to the money. Isn't that what they always say? Follow the money. Who gets the money in the end?"

  "You mean the lighthouse?"

  "The lighthouse, yes, and Johanna Marttinen's fortune. But what about the rest of Alex Martin's money. Surely he was a wealthy man."

  It was an excellent point and one whose answer I didn't know. Chakra had said she was owed ten million dollars but whether she got that as a settlement at the time of her marriage or it was something she'd get in the event of Alex's death, I didn't know. And, anyway, he was worth ten times that much. Who got the rest of it?

  "Frankly, Hatti, human beings are self-centered and greedy."

  I stared at this woman I'd known all my life. I couldn't remember hearing her speak critically before.

  "Irene doesn't like to hear me say it, but, the fact is, you learn a lot about human nature in a third-grade classroom. Selfish, greedy and cruel. It takes a lot of work to turn a child into a compassionate adult, Hatti. That's why we have parents. That's why we have church. Most important of all, that's why we have community."

  "But, Ianthe," Miss Irene said, "even if you are right about the reason for killing Mr. Martin, what about Flossie?"

  "Flossie, my dear, knew too much. You know how she liked to listen to conversations that no one else could hear? It was her great skill and she was so proud of it. She must have discovered a secret and that secret threatened someone so she had to go. Someone was clever about the syringes. Very clever. My land! Look at the hollyhocks in Ralph Bekkala's yard. They are monstrous. We'll have to ask him whether he uses anything more than compost."

  The sky was a deep blue with a few fluffy clouds along the horizon and we lapsed into conversations about the conditions of the yards and gardens we passed. It felt normal, restful, as far from murder as it was possible to get, and I was almost sorry to reach Erik Sundback's house on Cedar Crescent.

  It was strange to be visiting the old Eilola house, considering my lifelong obsession with the crescent.

  Small towns in Michigan, unlike those in New England, are seldom built around a quaint town square. They are more likely to be on a grid and Red Jacket is a perfect example. Our east-west streets are numbered while our north south streets have names like Oak, Maple and Chestnut.

  Cedar Crescent was the exception to the rule. It started to run north and south then it unexpectedly curved as it hugged the grassed area of Quincy Park. As a child I'd been mortally envious of the kids who lived on Cedar Crescent because of their proximity to the flooded ice rink. It was just across the street. After I trudged home from school, with my snow pants and parka soaked, I had to wait for my mom to throw them in the dryer before I was allowed to venture back outside. Then it would take me at least twenty minutes to plunge through the snow with my skates over my shoulder and by the time I reached the ice rink, I'd get about fifteen minutes of skating until the street lights came on, the universal signal that it was time to head home. Contrast that to the kids who didn't even have to take off their school clothes. All they had to do was drop their backpacks, pick up their skates and cross the street. For years I convinced myself that Sirrka and Matti Nyykonen and Edward and Peter Johansson and Maria Hulkko had surpassed me at both figure skating and hockey purely because they lived on the Crescent.

  Most of the houses on Cedar Crescent were like the rest of the housing stock in Red Jacket, built with wood, steeply pitched rooflines and saunas. Many of them had been ordered pre-fabricated from the Sears catalogue and they'd arrived via cargo train from Chicago.

  The Eilola house, so-called, Erik told us, because three generations of that family inhabited it in the middle of the last century, had been Sears's deluxe model and originally purchased by a mid-level mine manager. For the past several decades it had been either rented out or empty and Erik, looking around for an investment and seeing its potential had been able to snag it for a very low price.

  "You'd better believe it's been a money pit, though," he told us, as he showed us around. "I had to rip out every beam, stud and strut, lay new floors and put in new drywall, plumbing and electrical. I added a couple of bathrooms and expanded the kitchen, too, but I think it has paid off."

  We all agreed with him.

  "It's a showplace," I said. He shook his head and smiled at Riitta who had joined us. "I know it needs a woman's touch," he said, softly, taking her hand. She smiled at him and I tried to be happy for them both.

  "Quite lovely," Aunt Ianthe said, gazing around the living room at the modern furniture and bare walls. There wasn't an antimacassar in sight.

  "Very Swedish," Miss Irene added, which is her diplomatic way of calling something sleek and colorless.

  "Mr. Sundback is Swedish, dear," Aunt Ianthe reminded her friend. "Not that there's anything wrong with that."

  Erik laughed. "I'm not offended." He sent a bold look over to Riitta who blushed. "I'm hoping to get more Finnish influence here. Maybe a Marimekko wallhanging and some Toikka birds."

  The doorbell rang and he excused himself.

  "Oh, my dear," Aunt Ianthe said, gripping Riitta's forearm, "is there something going on between you and Mr. Sundback?"

  Riitta looked at me and I tried to think of some way to fob off my aunt but there was no need because Mrs. Moilanen sailed into the room, her bosom extended like the prow of a ship.

  "The house has good bones," she said, in her decided way, "but you really must add more color. Perhaps a few needlepoint samplers on the walls?"

  As the rest of the guests arrived, Riitta greeted them and Erik Sundback took me upstairs to his study, which turned out to be the first room on the right at the top of the stairs.

  Stepping into the room from the dark, narrow hall, was like stepping into Charlie's chocolate factory. It was light, bright and filled with color that filtered through the stained-glass hangings on the tall windows and life, in the form of strategically placed asparagus ferns. Rows of books marched along built-in bookcases painted white and overhead, a fan, reminiscent of the café in Casablanca whirled, creating a refreshing breeze and a gentle monotone. A restored, antique desk and chair sat in one corner and the wooden floor was covered with a thick, brightly colored Persian rug. Photographs and paintings of sa
ilboats and views of the sea hung from the white walls and there was a sense of peace and well-being and summer throughout the room.

  "This is where I want to die," Erik said, with a wink, when I looked at him.

  "It's where I'd want to live," I replied. "What a sanctuary!"

  "I have to admit I spend most of my time here. It keeps me from missing the water, you know?"

  I looked at him, curiously.

  "Why did you move up here, anyway? What prompted you to buy this house?"

  "Like I said, it started out as an investment. It just seemed like I ought to put my money into something substantial. And then, as the renovation got underway, it got more and more complicated and expensive and I started to kind of obsess over it, you know? I didn't want to admit I'd made a mistake. I had put too much into it to abandon the project but was sucking up money like a sponge. I was frustrated. And then, when I realized I'd developed feelings for Riitta, it all became clear. It was worth all the expense because I was building a home for the two of us." He grinned at me. "That may sound pretty silly coming from an old bird like me."

  "Could I ask you something?" He nodded. "Why did you agree to sit on the lighthouse commission? It seems to have changed your whole life."

  "You're right, Hatti." He seemed surprised to realize it. "I did it because, as Johanna's attorney, I was asked. I found I enjoyed it and I liked Arvo and Riitta."

  "So you have no regrets?"

  He laughed. "It's not possible to get to my age with no regrets. I have a few. I have hopes, though. I think the changes are all going to be for the better."

  "What will happen with the lighthouse if Riitta marries you?"

  "It shouldn't be materially affected. If necessary we can find someone else to live there. I'll admit I don't want to share her all the time. And, between you and me, I don't really want to live there."

  "And Danny?"

  I realized I was holding my breath. I knew Erik suspected Danny of the murders and I thought his answer would reveal just what he thought the young man's prospects were.

  "Danny's set to start college at Michigan Tech this fall," he said. His smile indicated he understood the reason for my question. "He can live down in Houghton. Hell, he can live in my condo if he likes. It makes a damn fine bachelor pad."