The business district of Aurora was three blocks of shops, all small enterprises—Johnny’s Pinewood Broiler, Glint’s hardware, Marv’s Men’s Clothing, the First National Bank. At the corner of Oak and Fourth, he passed the red-brick structure that was the North Star Veterinary Clinic, and he thought about distemper and reminded himself to ask his mom about getting a booster shot for Jackson. In the next block, he passed Pflugleman’s Rexall Drugs, and he thought about the scent he’d caught when Mrs. Pflugleman passed him at the wake, the same fragrance that had been on the folded note in Big John’s grave. He paused a moment, trying to put those two things together in a way that made sense, but a big drop of rain hit his forehead, and he moved on quickly, wanting to get the route finished before the storm came. As he tossed the last of his folded papers into the doorway of The Novel Idea, the town’s only bookstore, a Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department cruiser pulled up to the curb.
“All hell’s going to break loose in a few minutes,” his father called to him. “Want a ride home?”
* * *
“No birds this morning,” Cork told his father as they drove. “I didn’t hear a one.”
“Probably sensed the storm coming. Hunkered down like most intelligent creatures.”
The storm had indeed broken, with a fury of wind and lightning and thunder. The wipers on his father’s cruiser worked furiously to keep the windshield clear in the deluge. Liam O’Connor drove slowly, the headlights illuminating a curtain of rain.
“You know Mrs. Pflugleman, Dad?”
“Babette? Sure. Why?”
“She smelled good last night.”
“Really?” His father glanced at him and smiled. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“I guess.”
“Not as pretty as your mom.”
“I was just wondering about that smell.”
“Probably some cologne or perfume.”
“Which one?”
“Even if I’d caught the scent, I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”
Cork wanted to tell his father about the huge thing he’d seen twice now. But they’d been only glimpses and then they were gone. He wasn’t sure if his father, a man who demanded hard evidence, would believe him. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself.
His father dropped him off at home. Cork and Jackson ran through the downpour to the garage, where Cork kept the canvas bags for both his morning and afternoon routes. He hung the bag on the peg where he always hung it and was about to leave when he spotted the Louisville Slugger, which his father had given him on his tenth birthday, leaning against the wall next to the door. He picked it up and swung it and liked the solid feel of it in his hands. He set it beneath the canvas bag he’d just hung, thinking he’d take the sturdy baseball bat along with him on his route the next morning. Although he wasn’t sure of what he’d seen that day, it had scared him plenty. And if it turned out to be more than just his imagination, he wanted to be ready.
CHAPTER 11
By the time Liam O’Connor knocked at the door of Sam’s Place, the storm had passed. The sun was well above the horizon and the sky was showing a promising blue. Sam Winter Moon had a cabin on the Iron Lake Reservation, but midspring through late fall, he usually slept at the Quonset hut, the better to get the place ready every day for business.
Liam and Sam Winter Moon had become friends, joined by a bond that two reasonable men could form out of their reasonableness, but solidified further by their shared experience in World War Two. They almost never talked about the war, but there was a tacit understanding that they’d been scorched by the same fire, and it made them, in a way, brothers.
Sam opened his door immediately and, despite the early hour, seemed pleased to see his friend. “Good timing, Liam. The coffee’s just finished perking.”
There was something enormously comforting about Sam’s Place. Some of it was the good aroma of hot fry oil that permeated the place and always made Liam think of French fries. Some of it was the simplicity of what Sam needed for his own comfort, the few well-chosen furnishings. And some of it was, of course, the man himself, one of those welcoming souls who seemed able to put even the most contentious spirit at ease.
Sam poured them both coffee and they sat at the small table, which Sam had made himself of birch.
“What’s on your mind?” Sam said.
“I want to run something by you.”
“I figured you were after more than just my coffee, good as it is.”
Liam said, “Cork and Billy Downwind hiked out to Lightning Strike yesterday afternoon. Cork told me Billy Downwind felt something there. He believed it was the spirit of Big John.”
Sam gave a single nod. “So?”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“It could be just a kid missing a man he loved and imagining that he hasn’t gone away completely. That seems understandable. But it’s also possible that what he felt was exactly what he thought it was.”
“The spirit of Big John lingering there?”
“Why not? Look, in the war, I often heard the voices of men I knew had been killed. There’s a reason that we Ojibwe believe it takes a while for a human being’s spirit to find its way to a final place of peace.”
“No one on the rez believes Big John had fallen off the wagon, but it’s clear that he was drinking again.”
“Those whiskey bottles at Lightning Strike?”
“I also found a box of empties behind his cabin. When Sigurd Nelson was preparing Big John’s body for burial, I had him take some samples so that I could send them to the BCA for a blood alcohol level at the time of death. I got the report, Sam. His blood alcohol level was extremely high.”
“Hard to believe he could keep folks from knowing something like that. There are no secrets on the rez.”
“Stay with me on this a bit, Sam. Suppose Big John had gone back to drinking, any idea what might have caused it?”
“In my experience, for a lot of unfortunate folks, Indian and white, it’s simply that alcohol has set its hook and won’t ever let go of them completely. If not that, then maybe a great disappointment of some kind.”
“Has anyone that Big John cared about died recently?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What about a broken heart?”
“Lots of women on the rez wouldn’t’ve minded taking up with Big John, but I haven’t heard of anyone lately. And believe me, I’d know. Like I said, no secrets on the rez. By the way, how’s Cork doing? Going back to Lightning Strike after what he saw there, that couldn’t’ve been easy for him.”
“He’s got it in his head that Big John’s spirit is sticking around because there’s something he wants. And he thinks he and Billy Downwind are supposed to find out what that is.”
“Does he have a clue?”
“Crumbs, he says, but that’s it.”
“Crumbs?” Sam Winter Moon smiled.
“Something Henry Meloux told the boys. Follow the crumbs.”
“When Henry suggests you do something, there’s always a reason, Liam. Just let go of your rational thinking for a moment. Just be willing to accept that maybe the boys are right. What is it, do you think, that the spirit of Big John might want?”
“Sam, I’m not even going to entertain that thought. If I let myself be guided by spirits, I might as well stop calling myself a cop. Something I can hold in my hand, examine with a magnifying glass, run a ballistics test on, those are the kinds of crumbs I deal in.”
“What are you going to do about Cork? He seems set on finding his own answers.”
Liam shook his head. “One thing I know. If something scares you, the best thing to do is take action. Give yourself a sense that you have a measure of control. I’m thinking that’s what Cork is doing here. So I’ll let him play his game.”
“That’s what you think it is? A game?”
“If it becomes more serious than that, I’ll step in. Thanks for the coffee, Sam.”
Liam stood up and
headed toward the door. At his back, Sam said, “Sheriff O’Connor.”
Liam turned.
“Know what I think it is that Big John wants?”
“What’s that, Sam?”
“What we all want. Just the truth.”
CHAPTER 12
By ten a.m., the time he and Billy Downwind had agreed to meet at Sam’s Place, Cork was bicycling over the Burlington Northern tracks that lay between the business district of Aurora and the Quonset hut on the shore of Iron Lake. The rain had cleaned the July dust from the air, and the morning felt fresh and new. Under the bright morning sun, Iron Lake was a great shimmer of welcoming blue. There were boats cutting the surface, a few moving slowly, trolling, a couple of small sailboats catching the light breeze that had continued after the passing of the storm. No fast powerboats yet, but there would be later.
Billy Downwind was already there, and he stood with Sam in the gravel parking area, both of them eyeing the Quonset hut.
“Billy here thinks yellow,” Sam said without prelude when Cork dismounted from his bike. “Thinks it’ll make the place pop.”
“You know, catch the eye,” Billy said. “The Mexicans in California paint everything bright colors.”
“It looks fine the way it is,” Cork said. “People don’t come for the color. They come for the hamburgers.”
“My thinking exactly,” Sam said. “But it never hurts to try new things.”
Cork wasn’t so sure. Usually, he liked things just the way they were.
“So, what are you two up to today?” Sam asked.
Billy glanced at Cork, who shrugged and said, “Just goofing around. You know.”
Sam gave him a half smile, which Cork couldn’t quite interpret. “I haven’t just goofed around in years. Sounds inviting.”
Cork was afraid the man was going to suggest that he join them, but Sam said, “Have fun. Me, I’ve got work to do.” He headed back toward the Quonset hut, but before he reached the door, he called out, “I’ll see you at the funeral this afternoon.”
After Sam had gone inside, Billy said, “So, what do we do now?”
“Exactly what Mr. Meloux told us to do.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll see. Come on.”
They mounted their bikes and Cork led the way. At the corner of Elm and Second, where the post office stood, a voice hailed them from behind. “Cork! Billy!”
Jorge biked toward them, pumping his pedals to beat the band. They waited, and after he came abreast of them, they waited a bit more while he caught his breath.
“Hey, Billy,” he finally said between gasps.
“Hey, Jorge.”
“Heard you were back. Sorry…” Jorge paused and took a deep breath. “Sorry about your uncle.”
“Thanks. I heard you were with Cork when… you know.”
“Yeah,” Jorge said.
They shared an uncomfortable quiet until Jorge said, “What’s going on?”
“Yeah,” Billy said. “Where are we going, Cork?”
“Some of this is going to sound a little crazy.”
He filled Jorge in about Lightning Strike and what he and Billy had sensed there. Then he told them both about the scent of the note in Big John’s grave, which had also wafted off Mrs. Pflugleman at the wake. What Cork didn’t share was the towering thing he’d seen in the shadows that very morning. He couldn’t say why exactly
“So, what are we going to do?” Billy said.
“Talk to Mrs. Pflugleman.”
“And ask her what?”
“I don’t know. We’ll figure that out when we get there.”
“Okay if I come?” Jorge asked.
Billy gave a nod. “Sure.”
And so they became three.
* * *
Cork’s mother and Grandma Dilsey occasionally talked about Mrs. Pflugleman, who, like Colleen O’Connor, was half Ojibwe. The other half of her genetic makeup was Italian. As a young man, her father had worked quarries in Italy, and after he came to America, had found work in the North Star Mine. Mrs. Pflugleman always looked to Cork like a movie star. Her hair was black and long and silky, her cheeks prominent, her eyes dark and sparkly. The pharmacy was the only store in town that handled anything near high-end cosmetics, and Mrs. Pflugleman’s face always looked flawless.
When Cork and the others walked in, she was arranging face creams on a shelf. She turned and bestowed on them a smile outlined in luscious red.
“Good morning, boys.”
They all said good morning back, and she waited, holding that perfect smile on her lips.
“A good ceremony last night,” Cork finally said.
“Yes.” A cloud of sadness crossed her face. She looked at Billy. “I’m so sorry. Your uncle was a good man.”
“Thanks.”
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to your mother,” she said. “How’s everything going in California?”
“It’s nothing like here,” Billy said, his tone bitter. It was the first time Cork had heard him speak so sourly of his new home.
“You’re not the only ones who’ve left the rez. Every time I visit Allouette, the town seems so empty. They say the Relocation Act was a good thing, but I wonder.”
Like many other Ojibwe families, the Downwinds had abandoned the reservation because of the Relocation Act of 1956. Grandma Dilsey had explained the legislation to Cork, an act of Congress that funded relocation of Native families from reservations to certain designated cities. The government paid for the move, promised to help each family find housing, and offered to foot the bill for vocational training, if necessary. On the surface, it seemed like a pretty sweet deal.
But Grandma Dilsey had said that it was simply another attempt to eradicate the Native cultures.
“They tried blankets tainted with smallpox. They tried guns. They tried boarding schools. Now they’re trying this. It’s all meant to separate us from one another, to wring out of us what makes us who we are. Anishinaabe, Navaho, Dakota, Blackfeet. We are the legacy of our ancestors. We are the vessels of all their learning, all that they held sacred. No one tries to drive Ireland out of the Irish who’ve come here. There are so many damn polka bands oompahing around that you’d think everyone in America is Czech. And I swear, Franco-American spaghetti has become our national food. But God help you if you’re one of The People.”
Mrs. Pflugleman had been holding a jar of face cream. She set it on the display shelf and said wistfully, “When I was a girl, I dreamed of going to California and becoming a movie star. My senior year in high school, I was Aurora’s Blueberry Princess.” She half-turned and struck the pose of a starlet, one hand on her hip, her face lifted, her red lips in a coquettish smile. Cork thought she was every bit as pretty as Elizabeth Taylor.
“You could still be a movie star,” he said. “You wear perfume like one.”
“It’s called White Shoulders. You like it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cork said. “But I liked the one you wore last night better.”
“That was Shalimar.” She leaned to him in a conspiratorial way. “My husband owns the joint, so I get to wear whatever I want. Shalimar is my favorite. I always wear it for special occasions.”
“So you wore it special for Big John?”
“I guess.” Again, that cloud of sadness cast its shadow over her face.
“Did you know Big John pretty well?”
“I thought I did.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “He was so handsome when he was young. Most of us girls had crushes on him. Even girls who weren’t Indian. I would never have suspected…” She glanced at Billy and didn’t finish.
“Did you maybe visit Big John’s grave yesterday, Mrs. Pflugleman?” Cork asked.
“His grave? No. Why?”
He’d seen detectives on television ply people with question after question until they cracked. But Cork had hit a dead end in his own questioning, and he stared at her dumbly.
He was saved when her husband
hollered from behind the pharmacy counter, “Babette! Customer in hair care!”
“Duty calls. I’ll see you two at the funeral,” she said to Cork and Billy, then she walked away, leaving the ghost of White Shoulders behind her.
“Well,” Billy said. “Where did that get us?”
“It wasn’t much,” Jorge agreed.
“But it was a crumb,” Cork said. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 13
It was nearing lunchtime, and Jorge suggested they head to his house to grab a bite.
“Mom fixed fried chicken for dinner last night,” he said. “I know she’ll let us have the leftovers.”
Jorge and his mother lived at Glengarrow, the big estate outside of town. It was the grandest home and grounds Cork had ever seen. The house was gray stone, three stories, a great central square with wings stretching off either side and so many windows that on clear days the reflections of the sun made it seem as if there was a fire in every room. The old carriage house had long ago been converted into a garage large enough to hold four vehicles, with a living area above it. When Jorge wasn’t much more than a toddler, his mother had been hired as a companion and caregiver to Aurelia MacDermid, the doddering old matriarch of the family, who was sliding into dementia, and they’d moved into the apartment on the second floor of the carriage house.
The boys leaned their bikes against the wall of the carriage house and clambered up the outside stairs. Music flowing through the screen door greeted their arrival. Cork recognized the song from all its play on the radio: “It’s My Party.” Jorge’s mother was singing along at the top of her voice about how it was her party and she’d cry if she wanted.
Cork knew her story. Across their long friendship, he and Jorge had shared everything about their families. She’d been born in Chihuahua, Mexico. Her parents, who were dead now, had migrated north and worked the agricultural fields of Southern California. She’d met Jorge’s father and married him while he was training at Camp Pendleton. He’d been deployed to Korea during that war and had come back in a coffin draped with an American flag. Although Jorge had never known him, he kept a framed photograph of his father dressed in his Marine uniform on the desk in his bedroom, where he did all his drawing. In a snap case in the top drawer of his dresser was the Bronze Star his father had been awarded posthumously.
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