by Ann Yost
“We’re not kids, Hatti. We were married for thirteen years.” She spoke calmly but her face had turned pink. “It wasn’t a one-off.”
“Holy moly!” I forgot all about the incriminating phone number as a lightbulb exploded over my head. “You don’t have the flu. You’re pregnant.”
Sofi and Lars had tried for years to have another baby after Charlie.
“Ironic, isn’t it? I mean everybody knows how much we wanted another child,” she said, wearily. “And everybody knows Lars would do anything in the world to protect our reconciliation, especially if he knew about the baby.”
“He doesn’t know?”
She shook her head. “But Sheriff Clump isn’t going to believe that. That’s why I want to stay out of this, Hatti. There’s no way I can help Lars and I can hurt him a lot.” She sighed. “I’m heartbroken about Cricket’s phone number but I don’t want to hurt him. Charlie doesn’t need to have a father serving a life sentence down at the federal prison in Milan.”
“You can’t stay in hiding forever.”
“I know, I know. That’s why you’ve got to pin this on somebody else and fast. And, for pity’s sake, Hatti, don’t breathe a word to anyone about the phone number.”
“Wait a minute. How did you know it was Cricket’s phone number?”
Sofi lips twisted.
“For one thing, her name was next to it. For another, there was a printed message on the notepaper. It said, anything your heart desires will come to you.”
“A line from When You Wish Upon a Star, Jiminy Cricket’s song in Pinocchio,” I said. “Sounds like she was a romantic.”
“Or, at least, she knew her cartoons.”
Chapter 7
My head and heart were so full of the news about the baby, both the joy of it and the potential danger to Lars, that I was surprised to find half the town of Red Jacket at the B and B, assembled for the purpose of coming up with a theme for What’s in Your Attic?
Miss Irene was seated at the upright piano softly playing Victorian parlor tunes like Love’s Old Sweet Song, and The Lost Chord, and a medley from Stephen Foster.
Music was something my great aunt and her best friend had in common. It was also the one thing that had threatened their eighty-year friendship.
The near-disaster was precipitated by the departure, some twenty years earlier, of the organist at St. Heikki’s Finnish Lutheran Church. Miss Irene, who had taught piano to the children of Red Jacket all her professional life, was considered the natural successor but it turned out that Aunt Ianthe, a primary school teacher who is also musical, wanted the job. Needless to say, the conflicting wishes set up an awkward situation and (according to my mother) the town was on tenterhooks until the then pastor, the Reverend Virjo came up with a Solomon-esque solution.
Aunt Ianthe, he’d decreed, because of her aversion to sharps and flats, would perform the hymns written in the key of “C” and Miss Irene would get all the rest, including the coveted, jewel-in-the-crown, Be Still My Soul, by our musical uberhero, Jean Sebelius.
“And so,” Pops said, out of earshot of the ladies, “thanks to the wisdom of Pastor Virjo, peace was restored in the valley. And without cutting a baby in half.”
* * *
But, back to the present.
Aunt Ianthe, Mrs. Moilanen and Diane Hakala were knitting socks out of the new, self-striping yarn that I’d ordered for my shop. Mrs. Paikkonen, sitting on a straight-backed dining room chair, was working on a pair of plain gray socks and Mrs. Sorensen, perched on a settee, was creating a Fair Isle sock with a ring of tiny reindeer around the cuff. All the finished socks were intended for Fibber McGee’s Closet, our local charity outlet.
Seth sat next to Helena Tallmaster on the mahogany-framed love seat Elli had reupholstered in a lush green-and-pink striped fabric and Harry Dent, who favored me with an amused glance, leaned against the wall next to the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest. Serena Waterfall dressed in a fuchsia-colored sweater and an immense pair of puce-colored bib overalls that did nothing to minimize her bulk, was plopped on a chintz-covered hassock. She appeared to be eating yogurt out of cup and the comparison with Little Miss Muffet was inescapable.
I joined Elli on the shallow step that separates the front hallway from the parlor.
Everyone, including Miss Irene who remained at the piano but stopped playing, was watching Vincent Tallmaster who stood in the center of Elli’s thick, maroon-colored Persian carpet, a scowl on his handsome features, his hands clasped in front of him as if he were about to perform an oration. Or an aria.
“We’ve been spitballing,” Harry said to me, out of the corner of his mouth, “in the time-honored manner. Each of us has written down an idea and the good padre here has volunteered to read them aloud for consideration without giving away the author.”
I managed to look at the Reverend Sorensen who was shuffling a handful of post-it notes but my main attention was on the lifted eyebrows of Aunt Ianthe and the pinched expression on Mrs. Paikkonen’s face. Dent’s use of the word “padre” smacked of Catholicism, and therefore, blasphemy.
Harry, unaware of his faux pas, smiled at the minister.
“Go ahead, Dick.”
Dick! I’d forgotten that the pastor’s given name was Richard. Folks in Red Jacket always called him by his title but the reverend didn’t flinch. He withdrew his reading glasses from the pocket of his cardigan, put them on and cleared his throat.
“Our first suggestion is the Finnish-American tradition including a brief history of the farmers who immigrated to copper country in the late 1800s.” He looked up, over his glasses, apparently unable to resist an opportunity to educate. “It was to be a temporary move. The Finns were farmers, not miners, and in nearly every case they intended to earn enough money to buy land when they returned to the homeland. What happened, and this is the exciting part, is that they stayed to embrace and enrich America. They started unions and newspapers and churches. They put down roots and lived by example. They revered education and founded a fine liberal arts college here on the Keweenaw.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Sorensen said, jumping in. “With a theme like that we could educate viewers about the historical highlights of the region, like the Italian Hall Disaster of 1913 when seventy-three persons, most of them striking mine workers and their children, lost their lives during a Christmas party when someone falsely yelled Fire!”
“That seems a little downbeat,” Mrs. Moilanen said, looking up from her knitting. “We should highlight something more positive, like Sisu.”
“See-soo?” Vincent frowned. “Is that the way you pronounce see-saw?”
“No, dearie,” Aunt Ianthe said. “Sisu is a quality of perseverance in the face of adversity.” She smiled as her needles clicked. “It refers to tenacity and stoicism and bravery in the Finnish culture.”
“Too earnest,” Vincent pronounced. “Not what I’m going for. And, anyway, that theme must have been done to death. What else have you got?”
The Reverend Sorensen peered at the notes in his hand.
“Ghosts and ghost towns.” He looked up over his reading glasses. “There are quite a few small mining settlements that have been completely abandoned on the Keweenaw,” he explained. “Some buildings remain but they are empty.”
“The ghost town idea is interesting,” Seth said, diplomatically, “but I can’t quite see how empty houses would play into our goal of finding forgotten treasures in local attics.” I had to agree with him.
“In any case,” Serena Waterfall said, “the ghost towns may be the homes of the departed. We would not want to disturb them any more than we want to disturb the ghost in the mirror down at the theater.”
“Our departed are located on Church Street,” Mrs. Paikkonen said, stiffly. In the Old Finnish Cemetery or, as Pops calls it, the marble orchard. “And, of course,” Mrs. Moilanen added, “in heaven.”
“Or Tuonela,” Aunt Ianthe said, with a twinkle. “That’s the land of the dea
d in Finnish mythology.” She paused and nodded at Miss Irene who quoted First Corinthians.
“O death, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting?”
“If we’re going to have a theme about death, maybe we should focus on the rash of killings we’ve had up here this year,” Mrs. Moilanen said, practically. She measured the red, blue and yellow striped stocking with her hand. “Murder is always popular.”
During the sudden silence that descended on the room, Elli whispered in my ear.
“Somehow I don’t think Arvo will see that as the best way to lure tourists up here.”
Vincent seemed to be considering the suggestion but, after a moment, he shook his head.
“Too specific. We don’t want to turn this into a true crime show.”
“In other words,” Harry drawled, “we don’t want the murders to eclipse the attic treasures.” Vincent frowned.
“We need something dramatic but not life-and-death. Something more than long-dead copper mining and Finnish kitsch.”
“I know,” Aunt Ianthe said, with a smile. “What about Hatti’s new yarn shop? She could use the publicity and everybody in the UP loves knitting you know.”
“You have a yarn shop?” Serena’s pale blue eyes focused on me.
“A hybrid. Knitting and fishing supplies,” I said. “It’s called Bait and Stitch.”
“That sounds unique,” Serena said, thoughtfully. She turned to Vincent. “You know, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to shoot some scenes in local shops. And a yarn shop would make a colorful backdrop.”
“But that’s just a venue, it isn’t a theme!” Vincent wailed.
I wanted to offer something and suddenly, I knew what it was.
“There is something at my shop that might be suited for the show,” I said. “I’ve got a Rya Rug hanging on my wall. It was originally woven as a wedding gift for a bride in Finland. Somehow it wound up in our attic and Pops gave me permission to hang it in the shop.”
“What is a Rya Rug?,” Harry Dent asked. Serena answered him before I could.
“It’s got long, dense pile double-knotted for extra warmth,” she explained. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkling. The animation made her almost pretty. “A Scandinavian handicraft created originally for sailors heading out to sea. I can’t believe you have one,” she added, looking at me. “They’re not easy to find, at least not in good condition.”
“Since this one was a wedding present and was never used at sea, it still looks good if a little yellowed. It’s got a white wool background with a tree of life woven in red.”
Vincent’s quick frown revealed his lack of patience with the subject.
“We need more than a rug. We need a theme,” he said, injecting a note of impatience in his voice.
The Reverend Sorensen adjusted his glasses and read, “Romanovs.”
It didn’t take much imagination to know who had suggested the idea of featuring Russian artifacts and, after a short pause, Helena said, “we could use this annoying snow as a background for keying in on the Russian Revolution and featuring such things as jewels, crowns, goblets, Faberge eggs. Russia is the quintessential metaphor for winter.”
“Good gracious,” Aunt Ianthe said. “I don’t believe there is even one jeweled egg in Red Jacket, then.” Her comment prompted another quote from Miss Irene.
“Or if he shall ask an egg, will he offer him a scorpion?”
“A scorpion?” Helena Tallmaster shuddered.
“I’m certain Luke meant it figuratively, dear,” Aunt Ianthe said, comfortingly.
“I’m afraid there is another problem with a Russian theme,” the Reverend Sorensen said, apologetically. “Russia is Finland’s neighbor to the east and the Finns’s greatest nemesis. In fact, there was a series of wars in that region during the 1930s and 40s.”
“You mean World War II, of course,” Vincent said, condescendingly. “That’s been done to death.”
I darted a look at Elli and I could tell, by the stricken expression on her face that she foresaw the same disaster that I did. A hush came over the others, too. Aunt Ianthe and Mrs. Moilanen stopped knitting and Miss Irene, who had resumed playing with the soft pedal, froze in the middle of Lumi, Lumi, Lumi, (Snow, Snow, Snow). I held my breath, hoping no one would correct him. And then I heard Harry Dent’s pleasant voice unwittingly pounding the final nail in the coffin.
“I believe the good reverend refers to the Winter War between Finland and Russia. It was that conflict that prevented the Finns from joining Great Britain and the Allies in the war against Hitler.”
“Oh, yes,” Serena said, trying to be helpful. “Finland was neutral during World War II. Like Sweden.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping against hope that the Reverend Sorensen, a man of the purest ethics, would not feel that he had to clarify the situation. Once again, though, Harry stepped in.
“Finland,” he said, “was greatly outnumbered by the Russians and needed an ally. Neither the United States, the United Kingdom nor France could help out because of the non-aggression pact they had signed with Stalin. Hitler offered troops in exchange for access to the nickel mines in Karelia. Finland really had no choice.”
Helena Tallmaster was quick to grasp the relevant point.
“So the Finns became Nazis?”
That wasn’t strictly true but it wasn’t strictly untrue, either. If only, I thought, Vincent would dismiss this tidbit the way he’d rejected the others. Unfortunately, he was enchanted.
“The Finns fought on the side of Germany? That’s amazing! That’s stunning! Why doesn’t anyone know about this? We can break the news! Think of the marketing possibilities! Finnish-American boys fought native Finns. Just like the Civil War! Brother against brother!”
“More like second cousin against second cousin,” the Reverend Sorensen said, uncomfortably, “and, in fact, no Finnish soldiers ever fought American soldiers. All the conflict was on the Eastern border against the Russians.”
“No one has to know that.” Vincent’s color was high and he raked his long fingers through his spray-stiffened hair. “That’s the theme. This is the theme! The Finnish role in World War II as depicted through attic treasures from Northern Michigan. It’s a winner! A sure winner!”
I exchanged another glance with Elli. Arvo was going to be distinctly unhappy about this. It’s not that we Finnish Americans are ashamed of any of our history but the World War II connection with the Nazis, which we are taught was forced upon Finland, is not a period we like to emphasize.
The summit meeting broke up soon after that and while I was standing in the kitchen loading coffee cups into the dishwasher, I heard Harry Dent’s voice in my ear.
“Surveys show that ninety-five percent of viewers will watch anything on TV with Nazi in the description. This idea may actually produce an audience for the show and it can’t really hurt the Keweenaw.”
I turned to find him only about twelve inches away and I inhaled his masculine essence. The man had an undeniable sex appeal.
“Where are we going to find enough objects that relate to World War II, never mind the Nazis, in attics that are full of kerosene smelters, snowshoes, and old bathtubs?”
“I imagine we’ll have to expand the perimeters,” he said. “But just think about the excitement of revealing the little known secret about the Finns.”
I scowled at him. “Just so you know, Finland was the only country to pay back its war debt.” He chuckled.
“Most commendable.”
“What we need,” said Vincent, bursting into the kitchen through the swinging door that connects it with the dining room, “is Nazi memorabilia. Swastikas and that sort of thing. And, anything that connects the two countries. There must be books and letters written about the partnership. Find those. And we’ll need a clever tagline, something like, Swastikas and Saunas or Finns against Kin, or The Finns had an axis to grind.” He looked at me standing at the sink with my hands in dishwater. “Get on that, will yo
u?” Vincent exited with a flourish.
“Look, Cupcake,” Harry said, “we can keep this dignified. There must have been some contact between the Finnish-Americans in Michigan and the Finns facing the Winter War, you know, relief efforts and so on.” I searched my memory.
“There was the Finnish Relief Fund established by Herbert Hoover. Americans, many of them Finnish-Americans raised millions of dollars to help the refugees from the Winter War. And, of course, it is well known that even when Finland was a co-antagonist with Hitler, Helsinki refused to indulge in any of the anti-Semitic practices.”
Vincent whirled into the room again but only briefly.
“Take a memo,” he said, focusing on me. “I want replica Nazi flags for the backdrops and flower arrangements in Nazi colors whatever they are. Handle that.” He disappeared before I could speak.
“Why,” I said to Harry, “is he behaving as if I’m his private secretary?”
A warm, male hand ruffled my hair and sent shivers of awareness down my spine.
“Must be your Aryan coloring,” he said, with a grin.
I wasn’t sure whether he snatched his hand back or I moved away first when, an instant later, Serena Waterfall came through the swinging door.
“Did you know that Hitler had no red in his aura?”
Since the war-mongering dictator had been dead for seventy years I wondered how she could know.
“No red?”
Serena shook her head and the twists and corkscrews of orange hair bobbed and weaved. She had her cell phone with her and had clearly consulted Google.
“Blue and yellow. It’s surprising, really, since red is the color of aggression. It’s also the color of sexuality, though. And the theory is that he was impotent.”
I felt the red that was missing from Hitler’s aura flood up into my face but neither of the other two was looking at me. Harry’s lips had quirked into a half grin and Serena was gazing at him with stars in her eyes. I wondered whether her infatuation with him was new or whether they had a history. She certainly didn’t seem to be his type. Not that it was my business, I reminded myself. My job was to get back to investigating Cricket Koski’s murder, and, if at all possible, to deflect Vincent from ruining Finland’s good name on national TV.