A Double-Pointed Murder

by Ann Yost

  When I returned to the parlor I found Elli sitting cross-legged on the floor. Most of the others were gathered around, watching her remove items from a very old, very stained cardboard box.

  “I noticed this up in the attic recently,” she said, with an apologetic glance at me. “I don’t know what’s in here but somebody has written “The War Years,” on it.”

  “Maybe it’s Hitler’s ashes,” Vincent Tallmaster said. “Open it, open it, open it!”

  “Geez Louise,” I muttered.

  Chapter 8

  She didn’t open it. At least not right away. Instead we all stared at the corrugated cardboard that had gone limp with time as if it held, instead of memorabilia, a terrorist bomb.

  “That doesn’t look familiar,” Aunt Ianthe said, with a slight frown. She and Miss Irene were among the oldest lifelong residents of Red Jacket and, as such, represented our institutional memory. “My brother fought in the Korean War and, I believe, Elli’s grandfather did, too. This must be letters from those days.”

  “No, no,” Vincent shook his head decisively. “No one is interested in that war. Evil is what draws an audience. People are fascinated by Hitler. Hitler is the key to the success of What’s in Your Attic? This refers to World War II. There can be no argument about that.”

  Eventually Elli tried to untie a knot that had hardened in place some seventy years earlier. After a few seconds though Harry Dent produced a folding knife from his hip pocket then he neatly slit the twine. Elli didn’t thank him. She just opened the top of the box and once again we were all staring at it.

  “Holy moly,” Elli said, echoing my thought, as we stared at a heavy-looking, old-fashioned gun.

  “Looks like a Mauser,” Seth said, “standard issue for German soldiers during the war. Probably picked up as a souvenir.”

  “Eureka!” The exclamation came from Vincent Tallmaster.

  “Is it loaded?” Aunt Ianthe asked, anxiously.

  Harry took it out of Vincent’s hands and peered into the chamber. He looked very comfortable with the weapon in his hands. “No bullets,” he said, smiling at the elderly lady.

  “What else is in the box?” Mrs. Moilanen was so interested that she’d set aside her knitting.

  Vincent held up a medal on a ribbon.

  “An iron cross,” Seth said, in a stunned voice. “It’s almost as if this stuff was planted, as though someone knew we were going to use a World War II theme. Look at the swastika on the medal and the pair of oak leaves.”

  “Another souvenir,” Harry Dent said. “These are almost certainly the belongings of a Finnish-American soldier. The pistol and the medal may have been taken from a fallen officer. I have to tell you there’s nothing too remarkable about this. I ran into quite a bit of war memorabilia when I was on the art theft squad. In fact, you can buy this kind of stuff on the Internet.”

  “There are letters, too,” Aunt Ianthe said, peering into the box. “Maybe they explain about these German artifacts.”

  Elli held up a stack of envelopes, all of which had been neatly slit with an opener. The letters were still inside. She handed them to Harry who extracted one and examined it for a moment. Vincent became impatient.

  “What does it say?”

  “Pure gobbledygook.” Harry grinned and handed me the letter.

  “It’s Finnish,” I said, recognizing the umlauts. “It is dated July 22, 1942 and it starts off, Rakas Tati. Dear Aunt. And the sign off is Kunnioittavasti.”

  “Ah, that is very, truly yours,” Aunt Ianthe said. “Who wrote the letter, dearie? And who is the aunt?”

  “It’s signed, Ernst.” I examined the back of the envelope. “And the recipient is Mrs. Bengta Hautamaki, Red Jacket, Michigan. No postal code, of course.”

  “I don’t remember anyone named Bengta,” Miss Irene said, thoughtfully. That didn’t surprise me, as she and Aunt Ianthe had been children at the time the letter was sent. “The sender was Ernst Hautamaki,” I said, reading the return address. And then I looked at the postmark and a tremor ran down my spine.

  “I don’t remember any Hautamakis,” said Mrs. Moilanen, who by my calculations must have been little more than a baby in 1942. “There have been Victormakis, Lahtimakis, Vihreämakis.”

  “Mustamakis, too,” Aunt Ianthe said. “Remember Lula?”

  “Why so many Makis?” Harry asked.

  “Maki means hill,” Elli explained. “There are a lot of lakes and fens in Finland. Apparently there are a lot of hills, too.” And then my great aunt asked the question I’d been dreading.

  “What about the postmark, Henrikki,” Aunt Ianthe asked. “Was it sent from Helsinki?”

  The postmark was blurred and faded but legible enough to understand. I spoke with some reluctance.

  “Not Helsinki. It was posted from Munich.”

  There was a stunned silence. Mrs. Moilanen recovered first.

  “Munich? You mean the Munich in Germany? Was this young man, this Ernst Hautamaki, a Finnish Nazi?” She had pushed herself to her feet.

  “No, no, Edna, I am certain that is not correct,” the Reverend Sorensen said. “I am certain there will be some other explanation. My Finnish is a bit rusty but I imagine I will be able to translate enough to get an understanding of it.”

  “I will translate the letter,” Mrs. Paikkonen said, twitching it out of my hand. No one argued with her. For one thing, we all knew that she read a Finnish edition of the King James Version every night. For another, well, no one ever argued with Mrs. Paikkonen. She was formidable. When we were younger, Elli and I had believed she was a witch. And not the good kind, like Glinda.

  “I will study this carefully tonight and give you an accurate reading tomorrow.”

  “Absolutely not,” Vincent said, glaring at the older woman. “I have to know what is in the letter now.” He sounded like a thwarted five-year-old.

  “Mrs. Paikkonen is correct,” the pastor said. “The position of Finland during World War II was a delicate matter. It wouldn’t do to exploit a letter from a nephew to his aunt. It is important to get the translation right.”

  As curious as I was about the letter I was also relieved to get a reprieve. I needed time to work on Lars’s predicament and I needed time to think. As I walked back to the Queen Anne with Larry and my guests, I couldn’t believe that just last night Elli, Sofi, Sonya and I had been celebrating with confetti and molasses popcorn balls and cheap wine. It was less than twenty-four hours into the New Year, Sonya was long gone, Sofi was hiding out (and pregnant) and I was up to my forehead in Nazis and murder.

  * * *

  I gave Serena the master bedroom and assigned Harry to the one formerly used by Sofi and Lars. It had crossed my mind that it might feel weird to have the out-of-towners in the house but it turned out I was too tired to care. As soon as I snuggled under the woolen blanket in my childhood bed with Larry serving as a hot water bottle for my feet, I was out like a light. In fact, I was smack in the middle of a very enjoyable scene in which Jace was on his knees apologizing to me for our breakup when a familiar, rasping voice interrupted.

  “Rise and shine,” Betty Ann Pritula shouted. “In the words of Thomas Jefferson, early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. It’s the second day of January and there are big, big doings on the Keweenaw!”

  Chapter 9

  I’d instinctively crushed my pillow over my head and missed part of her patter. By the time I sat up, Betty Ann had launched into her public service announcement.

  “You, too, can be on television! Come one, come all to the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that awaits you this morning at the historic Red Jacket Opera House, where world-renowned television producer-slash-host-with-the-most Vincent Tallmaster is taping the pilot episode of the soon-to-be-smash-hit show What’s in Your Attic?”

  The thought flashed through my mind that Arvo had not left us completely high and dry as regards the invasion of the television people. He’d written a press release for Betty Ann,
possibly a month ago, before the discovery of a body in his sauna had changed his life forever. I listened as Betty Ann continued.

  “Scour that attic for heirlooms and family treasures, everything is worth considering, from that ancient toboggan to your grandmother’s mangle iron to that set of Wedgewood china to those brilliant Marimekko tapestries from the 1970s. Look for paintings, too. You never know when something that you thought was just a doodle by your Uncle Paavo might turn out to be an authentic Picasso. International experts will evaluate your treasures and offers will be made on each and every valuable. Show your community spirit and your acting chops and help put Red Jacket on the map!”

  At least, I thought, trying to find a silver lining, the announcement hadn’t included the word Nazi.

  My sense of relief, though, turned out to be premature. A few minutes later, while I was toweling dry my short hair, Betty Ann returned to the subject.

  “Friends,” she said, with slightly less enthusiasm in her voice, “I have an update on the television pilot. The powers that be have informed me the show’s producer and host, Vincent Tallmaster, has decided to build his show around a specific time in history, that of World War II. He wants to encourage you to bring artifacts that reflect that time, in particular, the role of the Finns who were, as you know, engaged in several wars during that period. Items might include weapons, souvenirs or objet d’art from the, uh, Third Reich or something more domestic, such as a poster of Rosie the Riveter.” She paused. “In other announcements, four to six inches of snow is predicted for this afternoon and the Copper County High School Miners will face off against the Watersmeet Nimrods tonight at the ice arena in Hancock. Come down and root for your team!”

  I made a face in the bathroom mirror. Surely there couldn’t be much in the way of Nazi memorabilia in Red Jacket. After all, Finnish Americans had been solidly on the side of the Allies, the U.S. and Britain. The worst that would happen would be a set of Hummels or some other teutonic bric-a-brac. But I frowned as I thought about the Nazi flowers, flags and colors planned for the television pilot. I had to find a way to derail that.

  I dressed hurriedly in a gray sweatshirt bearing the words I have a crappie attitude under the emblem of a grinning fish, a pair of clean jeans and some hand-knitted socks, then I ran a brush through my still wet hair, slapped on a little lip gloss and headed for the stairs. I was aware of a slight feeling of excitement at the thought of Harry Dent sleeping across the hall in Sofi’s old room. And then I wondered at myself. I’d been devastated by the breakup of my marriage but sometime, during the months apart, I’d begun to be aware of men. Other men, that is. There was Max Guthrie, for example. Gradually, I’d been attracted to what I saw as his masculinity combined with a genuine liking for women. Harry Dent, I thought, seemed to fit into the same category. Off-limits but intriguing.

  I couldn’t understand this attraction and, I told myself, I didn’t have to explain it. My so-called husband wasn’t here and I didn’t know where he was or what he was up to. I had no one to answer to except myself. I thrust my thoughts into a mental drawer, closed it and threw on my snowboots and pink parka. Then Larry and I waded through the snow between our house and the B and B.

  * * *

  Both the kitchen and dining room were buzzing with activity. Residents had stayed up late cooking and baking to help Elli feed the visitors and they’d come over early to set up a smorgasbord that included Mrs. Sorensen’s delicious kalakukko, a casserole of fish and pork, Diane Hakala’s almond buns and Ronja Laplander’s three-berry relish (blue, cloud and boysenberry). Elli had made fresh pulla and an egg strata and Mrs. Moilanen had contributed her signature dish, vinegar cabbage.

  Seth Virtunan had come across the street with Aunt Ianthe and Miss Irene and their sticky buns, and I filled a plate and took a seat next to him.

  “You seem like a nice Finnish boy. How did you end up in a place like this?” He laughed.

  “I love the UP, especially the Keweenaw,” he said. “I spent several summers up here as a kid. But if you’re asking how I got involved with Vincent, well, he posted some notices at an antiques show I was attending. I have a little shop inherited from my folks and I spend a lot of time at flea markets and so on. Business is slow because, frankly, the younger generations aren’t much into sets of china or collectibles. I’m always trying to figure out how to drum up business so when I saw his notice, I called him. When he told me they were going to videotape in Red Jacket, I was sold. It’s Little Finland up here. It feels like my spiritual home.” He made a self-deprecating gesture.

  “I’m sorry about this World War II theme, though. Vincent clearly doesn’t understand how sensitive a subject that is. Not,” he added, honestly, “that it would stop him. And, in a way, he’s right. People are interested in Nazis.”

  “What’s the story with Helena,” I asked, realizing I was being extremely rude. “She seems like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

  “She’s okay. She’s just unhappy. She made a mistake in her marriage. Vincent’s got a good act and apparently she fell for it. Other than that, she’s smart.”

  “So Helena’s the brains behind the operation?”

  “Oh, no. That’s Harry. Lord knows why he joined our motley crew. I overheard him talking to one of the cameramen and it sounded as if he’d done it as a favor to Serena, although why she’d bother with this, I don’t know. She’s got her own little gallery in Tribeca in Manhattan. Mostly textile art and some pottery. Maybe they just thought it would be a kick.”

  “You speak about them as if they were a couple,” I said, unable to resist a little more prying.

  Seth’s blue eyes revealed concern.

  “They were married for about two minutes years ago but they’ve remained friends. At the moment, I think he’s interested in you, Hatti. I know it’s none of my business but you should watch your step. The guy has broken a lot of hearts from what I hear.”

  His words gave me a little tingle of warmth which I knew was just plain silly. What possible interest could I have in someone twenty years older than I? And a sophisticated playboy to boot? Anyway, I thought Seth was wrong about one thing. I’d recognized the adoration in Serena’s hazel eyes when she looked at her ex. This wasn’t about friendship for her.

  “You know,” he said, “this theme business might just work. The Keweenaw has been trying to lure tourists up here with sauna, smorgasbord and sisu for years. If we could find a real historical connection with Nazi Germany, I’ll bet that would be a strong lure.”

  “But there is no connection, Seth. You know that.”

  We were speaking only to each other but he inched even closer and lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “Listen, last night I did some research on my phone. Get this. In 1942, Finland sent a small contingent of quasi-diplomats to Munich. The individuals were chosen because of their facility with languages, specifically because they could speak German. They were housed at Nazi Headquarters, a place called the Fuhrerbrau, which was one building in a complex that also housed Nazi-looted artwork.”

  I stared at him. “Are you saying that our letter writer might have been one of those diplomats?” Seth shrugged.

  “The letter’s postmark is Munich. What if that letter includes information about what the Nazis were warehousing at the headquarters? What if he was trying to alert the rest of the world to the looting that was taking place?”

  “Through his Great Aunt Bengta?”

  “Why not? Who would suspect a correspondence like that?”

  “But, to what end?”

  “Maybe there’s a reference in the letter to a specific work of art. Maybe it reveals where a lost masterpiece is hidden.”

  I thought about that for a minute.

  “It would be interesting, if not important. I mean the artwork was probably discovered decades ago. But I don’t see how that contributes to What’s in Your Attic?”

  “Sure you do,” he said, with a smile. “A letter of historic imp
ortance would be fascinating for viewers, especially if it does name a painting that we can locate in a museum somewhere. Or, another possibility. It’s well known that the Nazis hated modern artists and that, in some cases, they destroyed works by Matisse, Monet, Picasso and Klimt and the others. Maybe Ernst Hautamaki witnessed a bonfire. Just his account would be historically interesting.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, laughing, “you’ve sold me. We’ll just have to wait for Mrs. Pike to translate the letter to see if there’s anything there.”

  “You know what would be really cool? If Ernst managed to get a hold of a painting and shipped it to the Keweenaw.”

  “That would have been hard to do when Germany and the U.S. were at war.”

  Seth appeared to think about that.

  “But Germany and Finland were on the same side. The Axis. What if Ernst salvaged a painting and sent it to relatives in Finland with instructions to ship it to the U.S. for safekeeping?”

  I grinned. “I guess he’d be a real Finnish hero. It would be interesting to see what he did after the war, wouldn’t it? I wonder if he ever visited the Keweenaw. Maybe he came to collect his Monet?”

  I’d spoken teasingly but Seth stared at me.

  “Monet? Why did you choose that particular artist?”

  “No reason. Why? Is it significant?”

  “No. No, it’s not significant, exactly. Just coincidental. Harry started collecting art when he was working for the FBI. I believe he has several impressionist masterpieces. At least one is a Monet.”

  “Holy wha,” I said.

  Chapter 10

  I was glad to get in under the wheel of the Jeep and head up U.S.-41 to Copper Harbor. I needed to make some progress on the Cricket Koski murder investigation and I wanted to get away from town and the craziness of the newcomers. Also, I needed time to myself. Time to figure out what I should do about Jace. What I should do about Max. And why, with those two studs in my mirror, I found myself fantasizing about Harry Dent. My nerves were spinning out and forty minutes of gazing at the cloud-filled sky, the empty road, the leafless trees and the mounds of unbroken snow in the fields to the east and west, soothed me. Sort of.