“Hey, kiddo, why the long face?” he asked.
He’d known Ophelia her whole life. She’d been raised by her grandmother Hattie after her own mother had died of a drug overdose in a crack house in L.A. Ophelia and his daughter Jenny had been best friends, and there’d been so many sleepovers at the O’Connor house that she’d become like another member of the family. She’d gone on camping trips with them and joined them for a long cross-country drive one year to Disneyland. Hattie Stillday needn’t have warned him about treating her kindly; he felt almost as much affection for her as he did for his own children.
“Business.” It was clear that was all she would say on the subject.
“Running the place alone since Lauren’s gone, that’s got to be tough.”
“What are you doing here, Mr. O.C.?”
It was what she’d always called him. O.C. for O’Connor.
Ophelia was full-blood Ojibwe, a young woman with intense eyes and graceful movements. All her life she’d been a dancer, both traditional and modern. She’d performed the Jingle Dance at powwows and knew many dances from other tribes. She’d also studied dance at the University of Minnesota in the Twin Cities, and her dream had been to create original choreography that combined the elements of native dance with more modern movement. Unfortunately, her dream had been cut short by a car that had run a stoplight in Minneapolis, broadsided Ophelia’s little Vespa, and crushed her right leg. Ophelia, the doctors predicted with surety, would never dance again.
“Actually I came about Lauren.”
“She’s gone.”
“She’s not just gone, Ophelia. She’s gone missing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mind if I sit?”
She gestured toward a chair near her desk, a piece that looked like it had been made in the days of Louis XIV.
“It appears that no one knows her true whereabouts,” he said, after he was seated. “When did you last see her?”
Ophelia sat back, folded her arms across her chest in a move that Cork, as a trained observer, might have taken as unconsciously defensive. He chose to ignore it.
“A cocktail gathering,” she said. “Sunday, a week ago yesterday. The center was empty, and we met late into the evening with some of our volunteers in her private dining room to go over the roster of new artists and instructors coming Monday morning for the next residency.”
“How does that work?”
“Most of our artists come for a week. With each group we try to focus on the medium they’re most interested in. Watercolor, for example, or multimedia or photography. We bring in well-known working artists as instructors. It’s an intense program. We have room enough here for only seven artists and two instructors. Admission is very competitive. We do have one residency that’s different. It’s longer for one thing, anywhere from one month to three months, and it’s designed to highlight an artist Lauren feels is on the verge of a big career breakout and to help with that process. Currently, our long-term resident artist is Derek Huff. Very talented.”
“How did Lauren seem that last night?”
“Excited. She’s always excited at the prospect of a new group. She was positively ecstatic.”
“Ecstatic?”
“Effervescent. Ebullient,” she added.
Which made Cork smile. Being around artists, he decided, was bound to rub off on you.
Above the fireplace mantel hung a painting of Lauren Cavanaugh. It showed a beautiful woman in her early forties, with ash blond hair, green eyes, and flawless skin carefully drawn over the fine bones of a narrow face. Her lips seemed to hint at a smile, very Mona Lisaesque. She was stunning, but it was hard to tell what lay behind that beauty.
When Cork was young, the Cavanaugh name had been synonymous with iron mining and with wealth. Both Max and his sister, Lauren, had been born in Aurora, but neither had been raised there. Their father had taken them away when they were quite young. When her brother returned to Aurora two years earlier, Lauren had followed. Because Max attended St. Agnes regularly, Cork knew him pretty well. But Lauren Cavanaugh didn’t go to church, and to Cork she was an enigma. She’d bought the Parrant estate, which had been empty for some time, and had established the Northern Lights Center for the Arts. She came with a cultural vision, a whirlwind of ideas that swept up a lot of people in Tamarack County. She proved to be a true patron of the arts. She’d organized and funded a lecture series that had brought in artists and thinkers with a broad range of interests. From what Cork understood, the size of the audiences that turned out for the events had been remarkable. According to things he’d read in the local paper, plans were being drawn for a complex that would include lofts, a gallery, and a theater for performing arts. Lauren Cavanaugh’s passion and conviction regarding the importance of art, even in a wilderness outpost like Aurora, was inspiring to a lot of Cork’s fellow citizens, and clearly to Ophelia.
But what Cork saw in the painting above the mantel was a woman who looked down on him, and her hinted smile could easily have been one of contempt.
“Did she ever talk to you about why she came back to Aurora?” he asked.
“Simplicity,” Ophelia replied.
“Where was she before?”
“Where wasn’t she? Europe, Australia, India, South America.”
“And now Aurora. For the sake of simplicity. It seems to me that what she’s set out to accomplish here is far from simple.”
Ophelia gave a brief laugh. “Lauren isn’t a woman who can sit still. She’s a fountain of ideas and inspiration. She keeps a tape recorder with her all the time so that, whenever a new idea strikes her, she can record it and not risk forgetting. I’d love to listen to one of her tapes.”
“So would I. Is that possible?”
Ophelia looked taken aback. Offended even. “Absolutely not.”
A delicate bell rang in the dining room.
“Lunch,” Ophelia said. She stood up and reached for the cane that hung from the back of her chair.
“Just a few more questions,” Cork said.
“Why are you asking?”
“I’ve been hired.”
“Who?” Then it became clear to her. “Max.”
“I’m not confirming that,” Cork said.
She sat back down.
“When you last spoke with Lauren, did she mention a trip at all?”
“No,” Ophelia replied.
“Did she talk about visiting someone, a friend?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Does she have friends? A special friend maybe?”
“She has lots of friends.” She’d answered the last few questions with a look of impatience, but now she frowned and thought carefully. “No, she has lots of acquaintances. Her life is filled with people, but she doesn’t seem to have anyone especially close. At least not that she’s ever talked about.”
“What about men?”
“You mean like dating?”
“Or whatever it’s called these days.”
Ophelia laughed. “She’s beautiful, she’s smart, she’s funny, she’s rich. Men make fools of themselves over her all the time.”
“But does she date?”
“Mr. O.C., I’m her colleague. Actually, I’m her employee. She doesn’t share every intimate detail of her life with me.”
“Just asking.” Cork heard footsteps, lots of them, outside Ophelia’s office. Artists who’d worked up an appetite. “It’s my understanding that she hasn’t contacted anyone since she left. No e-mails from her personal account. Does she have an e-mail account she uses for business?”
“Yes, but if you’re hoping to look at it, you’re out of luck. It’s password protected, and I don’t have the password. Are you always this pushy?”
Cork smiled. “This is just inquisitive, kiddo. When I’m pushy, believe me, you’ll know it. Could I see her living quarters?”
“Living quarters? This isn’t a barracks, Mr. O.C. But I suppose it wouldn’t be a problem for you
to see her residence.”
Ophelia’s cane was of beautiful design, polished hickory with an eagle’s head carved into the handle. She leaned on it heavily as they left her office and turned down the hallway, which was blocked by a door that hadn’t been there the last time Cork was in the house. Ophelia used the crook handle of her cane to knock. She tried the knob, which turned, and she pushed the door open. Beyond lay the first floor of the north wing, several rooms that had become the private residence of Lauren Cavanaugh: a study, a parlor, a small dining room, a bedroom, a bathroom. She hadn’t carved out a lot of the house for her own use, but what she occupied she’d done in style. Every room was beautifully furnished and impeccably cleaned. The parlor was decorated with stunning artwork-paintings and photographs-of the area, taken by a variety of the North Country’s finest artists.
“Your grandmother’s work,” Cork said, pointing toward a series of framed photographs.
“And mine, too,” Ophelia said proudly, pointing to some images that hung near her grandmother’s.
Fate having taken away from her the chance to dance, Ophelia had turned to her grandmother’s art. Cork didn’t know a lot about photography as an art form, but he thought-and did not say-that Ophelia had a distance to go before her work approached the quality of her grandmother’s.
The bedroom looked in perfect order, the bed neatly made.
“Does someone clean for her, make up her bed?” he asked.
“Our housekeeper, yes. But Joyce hasn’t been in here for several days. There’s been no need.”
The closet was a large walk-in hung with so many outfits that it was impossible to tell if anything was missing.
“She likes shoes,” Cork said, noting what seemed to him to be an inordinate number of pairs.
“She has a weakness for expensive Italian footwear,” Ophelia said, with only the slightest note of censure.
Cork checked her dresser. Sachet in the drawer that held her delicates, and everything was neatly-obsessively-folded.
“Who does her laundry?” he asked.
“Joyce.”
“Does Joyce fold the laundry?”
“Lauren is particular.”
“Clearly.”
Outside the rain had stopped and the clouds were beginning to break. Through the broad bedroom window, Cork could see Iron Lake. Here and there, the gray surface was splashed with pools of glittering sunlight.
“I heard that she had the boathouse remodeled,” he said.
“Yes. A little retreat where she can get away from all that goes on in the big house here.”
“May I take a look?”
Ophelia glanced at her watch.
“It’ll take just a minute,” Cork said. “Promise.”
She accompanied him out a side door and along a path constructed of flagstone. She walked awkwardly, relying heavily on her cane. It was a painful thing to see, especially when Cork recalled the grace with which she’d moved before her accident. Ophelia knocked on the boathouse door. No one answered and she tried the knob. The door was unlocked and she opened it.
“Lauren?” she called, but clearly only for the sake of propriety.
It was a comfortable little nest Lauren Cavanaugh had created for herself, one very large room that included a small sitting area and a bed. Through an opened door in the far corner, Cork saw a tidy little bathroom with a shower. The place was done in rustic tones and had a very intimate feel to it, even more so than her private residence in the large house. It struck Cork as the kind of retreat that might be perfect for trysting.
“Look, Mr. O.C., I’m really uncomfortable with this.”
Cork walked to the bed and pushed down on the mattress. His hand sunk into the bedding and disappeared.
“God, I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Ophelia said, “but I’d like you to leave.”
“Why? I haven’t taken any of her silver.” Cork gave her his most serious look. “The woman is missing, Ophelia. I’ve been hired to find her. If I’m going to do that, I’ll need your help. And your discretion. It would be best if everything we’ve discussed here today stays between us.” Cork started for the boathouse door. “I think I saw a computer in her study back in the house. I’d like to have a look at it.”
“No. I think it’s time you left.”
He smiled, pleased, despite himself, at the iron in her will. Before he could move or speak, someone outside called, “Lauren!”
A moment later, a young man stepped into the doorway.
“What is it, Derek?” Ophelia said.
“I saw the open door and thought maybe…. Any word from Lauren when she might be back from Chicago?”
Derek was tall, athletic, good looking. His blond hair was sun bleached nearly white. He had a tan, too deep to have come from the North Country, and carried himself with the easy grace Cork associated with California surfers. Cork’s and Ophelia’s presence in Lauren Cavanaugh’s little retreat was obviously a surprise to him.
Ophelia said, “No word yet.”
He looked Cork over, his ocean blue eyes lazy and sure. “If you hear anything, will you let me know?”
“Of course,” Ophelia said.
Derek flashed them a smile made of perfect white teeth and left.
“One of the new residents?” Cork asked.
“One of the old ones. Derek is here for three months. He’s nearing the end of his residency.”
“Nice looking kid.”
“I suppose.”
“He seemed pretty familiar with the boathouse.”
“He’s a little relaxed with protocol. It’s a California thing, I think.”
“Maybe.”
But Cork, ever the detective, wondered if there might be more to it than that.
SIX
Ophelia saw Cork to the front gate, where she said, “I got an e-mail from Jenny yesterday. She sounds happy.”
“Ecstatic? Effervescent? Ebullient?”
She laughed. “Aaron seems like a nice guy.” She was speaking of the farmer-poet whom Jenny was dating. “I’m envious.”
“There are good men here, too,” Cork said.
Her eyes dropped briefly to her ruined leg. “Guys here want a girl who can dance at the wedding.”
Cork’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from the belt holster and checked the display to see who was calling. It was Lou Haddad.
“Gotta go, Ophelia,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”
“If I get into trouble, Mr. O.C., there will be hell to pay.” She shook her finger at him playfully, waved good-bye, and closed the gate behind him.
Cork took the call on the way to his Land Rover.
“I’ve had a chance to look at the old schematics,” Haddad said. “I’ve found something.”
“What?”
“Can you meet me at the Vermilion One Mine in an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
It was two o’clock when Cork drove through Gresham again, and the sky overhead had cleared. The clouds had drifted east toward the Sawbill Mountains, beyond which lay the vast, icy blue of Lake Superior. A few chairs had been placed on the sidewalk outside Lucy’s. They were all occupied by folks drinking coffee or Cokes in the shade of a green awning. A couple of protest placards leaned against the wall, and Cork recognized a few of the faces from the gathering outside Vermilion One that morning. As he passed, several pairs of eyes turned his way, and he felt the hostility directed at him as solidly as if they’d thrown rocks.
He knew the sentiments of the residents of Gresham, knew that, despite the money that might come their way from a new mine enterprise, the townspeople were no more eager than the Iron Lake Ojibwe or anyone else in Tamarack County to have a nuclear waste dump in their backyard.
When he approached Vermilion One, he saw that Isaiah Broom and most of the other protesters were still there, but Hattie Stillday had gone. Tommy Martelli logged him in, and Cork headed to the office building. Haddad’s Explorer wasn’t in the lot. Cork walked
inside, gave Margie Renn at the reception desk a brief wave in passing, and went immediately to the conference room, which was empty.
In a corner near one of the windows sat a small easy chair, an end table, and a standing lamp. On the table lay a large book titled Vermilion One: The Rise of Iron on the Range, written by a man named Darius Holmes. Cork sat in the chair and took up the book. A good deal of text filled the pages, the history of Vermilion One and of mining on the Range in general, but Holmes had included a lot of photographs. Cork knew roughly the history and geology of the area. It was taught proudly to every kid in school in Minnesota. Although a large stretch of the North Country was referred to as the Iron Range, there were, as Haddad had pointed out earlier that day, three ranges: the Vermilion, the Mesabi, and the Cuyuna. Aurora lay hard against the Vermilion, the easternmost of the ranges, where the earliest mining had taken place.
In the book, the photographs of the early years showed tough little men in shirts and overalls caked with mud, wearing leather mining caps, pushing ore cars. These, Cork knew, were muckers, the unskilled workers. They were Welsh or Slavic or Irish or Finn or Swede or German and came, many of them, directly from their homelands to work the mines. Others had come earlier, lured by the wealth of timber in the great north wilderness, and, as the forests retreated, had turned to mining. The towns they built-Chisholm, Hibbing, Eveleth, Coleraine, Winton, Kinney, Crosby, Mountain Iron, Bovey-were a patchwork of immigrant neighborhoods: Swedes on one side of the street, Finns on the other, Italians a block to the south, Welsh a block to the north. They were friendly in their work together, but in their neighborhoods, in their marriages, in their religions, they clung to the language and traditions of their own homelands and were suspicious of the others.
The mines grew in number and wealth, and the towns grew with them. Ore from the Range was carried by rail to harbors on Lake Superior and shipped all over the world. The Range became famous, the greatest supplier of iron ore on earth. The money from the mines built excellent hospitals in the communities and fine civic structures, and the Iron Range was known to have some of the best school systems in the nation.
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