by Ann Yost
A third of the way into the thirty-mile trip, the sun behind the tree-line rimmed the clouds with a kind of rose gold color that was breathtaking. I glanced at my sidekick posed on the passenger’s seat with his nose out the half-opened window.
“See the sun over there? I think it’s a sign. We’re gonna have a breakthrough on this case.”
Instead of turning his head when I spoke, Larry angled his neck a little. His ears fell back and he stared up at the ceiling of the car. The move reminded me of the awkward way Sheriff Clump holds his head. The lawman’s resemblance to Humpty Dumpty is partly because of his exceptionally expansive circumference but also because the skin between his ears and shoulders does not constitute a neck in the traditional sense. His head moves forwards and backwards but not left and right. Anyway, Larry reminded me of the sheriff which reminded me that Sofi had found Cricket’s phone number in Lars’s jeans which reminded me that Lars had lied to Sofi and to me. My quick flare of anger probably had as much to do with my own faltering marriage as with hers but, if I was going to defend the man, I needed to know the truth. The trouble was time. I made a mental note to stop in at the jail in Frog Creek as soon as possible but first I’d see what I could find out about Cricket.
Copper Harbor is built on a grid–well, a mini grid. It consists of the interstate which turns into Gratiot Street for two blocks before morphing back into the tag end of the 2,000-mile highway that starts in Miami and a parallel block north of that and then there’s a kind of road that hugs the shoreline of the lake. In between are short cross streets, most of them consist of one establishment on either side of the road. The surrounding area includes a snowmobile trail, campsites and Lake Fanny Hooe, which legend has it was named for the sister-in-law of a young officer, a woman who disappeared while picking berries and was believed to have been eaten by a bear. The town developed around the shipment of copper in the mid-1800s which resources were exhausted well before the turn of the twentieth century. Nowadays it serves as a port for the ferry that carries visitors to Isle Royale, a national park that is also the largest island in Lake Superior.
The small shops in Copper Harbor are located in old houses with few exceptions. Most are gift shops which are closed during the winter. A few businesses stay open all year for the convenience of the hundred full-time residents. One of those is the Gulp ’n Go on the corner of U.S.-Route-41 and Walnut Street. I drove past a small art gallery, Ole’s Gift Shop, the Whitefish Bar and Saampi’s Ice Cream Parlor then turned down Pine Street where I parallel-parked on the street in front of a worn-looking, gray, wooden house with the standard A-frame roof that allows snow to tumble off. There was no sign to indicate the nature of the business but a card in a lighted window proclaimed it open.
I felt a jolt of déjà vu as Larry and I made our way up the short, shoveled walk. Even though I hadn’t been there in several years, it looked and smelled the same as the days when I’d come up here with Pops to visit his friend. For a moment, I felt the warmth of my stepdad’s presence as strongly as if he were there and, when I got inside, I found myself glancing at the low freezer by the door, the one that had always been stocked with the much-coveted blueberry popsicles.
An old man stocking the shelves with cans of food turned to greet me and I was shocked to see that he wasn’t nearly the physical giant I’d remembered. His abundant white hair still connected with his moustache and beard outlining rosy cheeks and twinkling blue eyes, though. We exchanged wide, delighted smiles.
“Hatti-girl! Such a long time! And, Larry. Come here boy. I have meaty bone for you, yah?”
A moment later Larry was lying on the wooden floor, gnawing on his gift in front of the pot-bellied stove while Nestor Hyppaa and I sat nearby with mugs of coffee.
“You have been out in the world spreading your wings, then? I keep track of you from your isä,” he said, using the Finnish word for father. “He says you go away to college, eh? And get married? So where is he, this husband?”
“In Washington, D.C.,” I said, opting for the simplest response. “Things between us are complicated.” Nestor nodded and didn’t pry.
“You are glad to be back home?”
“I am glad,” I said, meaning it. “It’s comforting to know that some things don’t change.”
“Voi, Hatti-girl. Life is change and all of it is good, even the bad parts.” We both laughed at the apparent contradiction. “There is change here, you know.” It occurred to me, belatedly, that Mrs. Nestor was nowhere to be seen. Since Nestor, his wife and three children had lived in the top floor of the old house, she had always been around when I’d come up here with Pops and I was stricken by the possibility that something had happened to her.
“Where is Hulta?”
He chuckled. “That’s the change. We don’t live above the shop anymore, Hatti-girl. We got a little place in Eagle Harbor.”
That was news. “You drive in every day to work then?”
“Hulta wanted to live near Rini and her children. We live next door to them.” He pulled out a cellphone and showed me photos of his grandchildren. Frankly, I was impressed with his mastery of the technology. Pops would have nothing to do with a cellphone or computer and we still handled all transactions at the bait shop with an old-fashioned cash register.
“So tell me,” he said, snapping off the phone, “why you come up here today? Snow is going come, you know.”
I grinned at him. “That’s something that doesn’t change. Snow is always going to come. I was hoping you could tell me something about a young woman named Cricket Koski. She used to work at the Black Fly in Chassell but moved to Copper Harbor a few months ago. Have you heard of her?”
The warm grin faded on his kindly face.
“I know she is dead, then. The police came to tell me.”
That startled me. “Why you?”
“Because my address was in her purse. She lived here, Hatti. Upstairs in our old home.”
I just stared at him, shocked at my good fortune but sobered by the note of sorrow in his voice.
“She came in November when everything is closed. She asked if I had a job for her or lodging cheap. It was cold outside, eh? I felt sorry. She was all alone and not too bright. I don’t mean stupid, you understand, just a little simple.”
“Naïve?”
“Joo. Yes, that’s it. She did some chores for me, straightening up, sweeping the floor, that sort of thing. It seemed to me good to have someone in the house at night, you know?”
“It sounds as if you liked her company.”
“She reminded me of Rini when she was a child. Everything romantic. Magical. Cricket was waiting for her Prince Charming.”
I stared at him. “She told you that?” He nodded.
“Many times. Prince Charming and her ship coming in. These were favorite subjects.”
Was Prince Charming Cricket’s killer? Had she gone somewhere to meet him thinking he was offering happily ever after?
“Did she tell you his name?”
He shook his head but not before I’d seen something flash in his kindly blue eyes.
“What, Nestor? What is it?”
“Henrikki, it could be Lars.”
“No, no. There’s no way.” I refuse to hear that theory, not even from an old family friend. “There’s something else, isn’t there? You know something about this guy.”
He shook his head again.
“Cricket had no family, no friends. She said she had the big date, though, for New Year’s.”
“The big date? That must be the guy. This so-called prince. And he must be the killer, too. But who is he?”
Nestor shook his head and a tremor of fear rippled down my spine. I shook it off. Prince Charming wasn’t Lars. It couldn’t be.
“Why would anyone want to kill Cricket Koski? It’s not like she had any money.”
“Not yet. Remember the ship coming in.”
“You think she was mixed up in something dangerous? Smuggling? Drugs?” He s
hrugged.
“She was excited for the money but more excited for the man.”
After an uncomfortable moment, I got to my feet and asked if I could see Cricket’s room. Nestor nodded and pointed to the narrow staircase behind the counter. As soon as I reached the landing, it was obvious which room had belonged to the barmaid. It was full of pink and purple items, feather boas, glittering plastic crowns and necklaces of sparkling beads. Ruffled tops and slinky tops, leather slacks and pairs of tights, half a dozen pairs of four-inch heels were strewn on every surface as if someone had opened a closet and dumped it all out. The scent of hairspray mixed with a strong perfume and the small dresser top was littered with makeup brushes and containers of powder and blush and eye shadow and an array of lipsticks. A bottle of purple opalescent nail polish had been left open and there was a (luckily unplugged) curling iron on a chair. The barmaid must have spent most of her income on her back.
Cricket Koski had been twenty-eight, my age, but her room was that of a teenager preparing for the senior prom. And her date? Had he been her killer? Another shiver rippled up my spine and made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I perched on the edge of her bed and tried to think. What was the ship she was waiting for? What had Prince Charming promised her? Was it something illegal? Was that why he’d killed her? But why tell her about it in the first place? Of what possible use had an immature millennial been to a criminal? And why her?
That last was easy enough to explain. Cricket Koski had been alone in the world, with no one to care whether she lived or died except Nestor.
I closed my eyes and tried a technique that a yoga teacher had taught me. I breathed in through my left nostril and out through my right, concentrating on the breath, concentrating on staying in the moment. It was a form of meditation that could be calming. It could also, I’d discovered, allow new ideas to penetrate the general haze of anxiety in my conscious mind. I found my mind jumping back to my pre-teen, princess worshipping years. I’d kept a flashlight in my bedside table and, after lights out, I’d use it under the covers to write in the diary I kept under my pillow. With my eyes still shut, I slid a hand under the pillow, hoping that Cricket, had confided her hopes and dreams (and the names of possible murderers) in written form.
There was no diary there.
But there was an envelope. The slit at the top was neat and precise. It had been opened initially with some care and, judging by the slight fraying near the cut, it had been opened several times. It was important then. Or, it had been to Cricket.
I recognized the Christmas card as one of those from the ninety-nine-cent rack at Shopko. The cover consisted of a picture of Rudolph the Red-nosed reindeer, a wreath around his neck, and a toothy smile on his face. Inside the printed message read: Merry Christmas, deer!
The sender had repeated the greeting in a childish hand, accompanied by a signature.
“Merry Christmas, from Cloud.”
For some reason, tears stung the back of my eyes. It was such a simple card to be so cherished. Cricket had not been just a cardboard princess-wannabe. She’d been a person with real emotions and, at least, one connection. A connection so important that she’d kept the card under her pillow where she could look at it every night.
So who was Cloud?
There was no return address on the envelope but, as with the letter from Munich, the postmark provided important information.
The card had been mailed from L’Anse, a settlement near the Keweenaw Bay that was home to an Ojibwe Reservation.
Cloud. Cloud must be an Indian.
As I slipped the card back in the envelope, I noticed something I’d missed before. A phone number! My heart started to pound. I could call Cloud! Or, better yet, I could use the number to get her address. I could be down in L’Anse in an hour.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and started to copy in the number. A heady feeling swept over me. I might not be Jessica Fletcher but I was getting the knack of this detective business. Suddenly I couldn’t wait. I hit the call button prepared to introduce myself and ask Cloud if I could come visit her. The phone rang a few times, six, I think, and then it was answered by a machine.
“This is Lars. Leave a number and I’ll call you back.”
Chapter 11
I was thunderstruck, not to mention sick to my stomach. He’d lied to me. Lars had lied to me. And what was worse, he’d lied to Sofi. He must have been in contact with Cricket Koski, why else would she have his number? And it was a new number. During the past three years we’d changed cellphone services in the UP and this was not the number Lars had been using three years ago.
A jury would believe they’d been in touch either to resume their long-ago, one-night-stand affair or because he intended to kill her. Or maybe both. In any case, it wasn’t good.
And he’d had her number, too. I could think of no good reason why Lars should have risked his reconciliation in this way. The phone numbers, it seemed to me, were as damning as the fact that Cricket had been found in Lars’s bed.
Poor Sofi! Her happy ending seemed to be drifting farther and farther out of reach.
She needed help. And pronto, as Pops would say.
The morning sun had disappeared behind the clouds and a rising wind caught the snow on top of the drifts and streaked it across the road in front of me. I knew I had to control or, at least, compartmentalize the hysteria so I forced myself to review Lars’s story about New Year’s Eve.
He’d spent the day with Charlie down at the Frostbite Mall and he’d driven her to the regional airport near Hancock that evening to catch a puddle-jumper down to Detroit Metro. It had been snowing, though, and I made a mental note to check whether there was a flight available. After that, he’d returned to Calumet Street sometime before eleven p.m. with the intention of meeting Sofi.
Lars said he’d been too tired to wait for Sofi to come home, that he’d headed straight for Dollar Lake and his bed where he’d fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. So he was in bed before eleven-thirty. Had Cricket already been there? Had he been too tired to notice her? Or, equally as improbable, had someone broken into his cabin and planted her body in his bed without waking him?
In any case (according to him), he’d awakened sometime after one a.m. when Waino pounded on his door. At virtually the same time, if he was to be believed, he’d become aware of the corpse next to him. I groaned. None of it seemed possible.
And then there was the bit about Waino getting an anonymous phone tip. Why would Lars have called in if he’d been the murderer? Why would someone else? That part was easy. It was to set him up. Law enforcement on the Keweenaw was neither high tech nor sophisticated and finding a body in someone’s bed was pretty much of a slam dunk for that someone getting arrested. By two thirty or three a.m. on New Year’s morning, Lars Teljo was locked up in the Keweenaw County Jail. Had that been the killer’s goal? Why?
Was the barmaid merely the vehicle? Had she been killed just to frame Lars? I still couldn’t come up with a good reason for that. As far as I knew, his only enemy was his ex-wife and she couldn’t have killed Cricket Koski.
Could she?
I felt antsy and irritable, a sure prelude to a panic attack. What I needed to do, and ASAP, was to find this Cloud person and learn more about Cricket.
* * *
I’d just passed the exit for Red Jacket when my cellphone chimed. I dug it out of my pocket, knowing it would be a mistake to answer it. I answered it, anyway.
“Hatti, get back here STAT,” Elli said. “World War III has broken out.”
I grimaced. “Is this about the Nazi thing?”
“Let’s just say that Vincent wants to sew black Swastikas on the antique velvet stage curtains. Helena Tallmaster is making fun of the ghost in the mirror which has reduced Serena Waterfall to tears and Mrs. Paikkonen to curses. Oh yeah, and the safety catch was off the antique blunderbuss Ollie Rahkonen brought for the videotaping and he accidentally b
lew a big hole in the proscenium arch.”
“Geez Louise.”
“But wait, there’s more. Lydia Saralampi showed up with her collection of chicken-themed cookie jars and she fell off the stage into the orchestra pit and claims to have a concussion.”
“Let me guess. She was flirting with Harry Dent.”
Lydia, who was in Elli’s and my high school class, was constitutionally incapable of passing up an attractive man. She was a boundary jumper from way back and both Elli and I had lost boyfriends to her back in the day. Actually, it was a miracle she’d never been physically hurt before.
“So what happened?”
“She was walking too close to the edge,” Elli said, tongue-in-cheek. “She claims Serena Waterfall shoved her. Naturally Serena denies it. Lydia’s threatening to sue. Hatti, it’s Armageddon.”
Dang. My instincts had been right about Harry and the textile artist. The petty part of me was glad Lydia had finally paid a price for her behavior. The other part of me realized I had to postpone my visit to Cloud. Elli definitely needed help.
I swerved into a sharp U-turn, bouncing across the grass median.
“On my way.”
Minutes later I skidded to a stop in front of the opera house, parked the Jeep and, with Larry beside me, hightailed it up to the porte-cochere where Vincent and Helena Tallmaster stood, in their full length coats with fashionable scarves arranged around their necks. Each of them was holding a long, gold cigarette holder in which was inserted an unlit cigarette.