by Ann Yost
Across the street is Mrs. Moilanen’s mid-sized colonial, Mrs. Paikkonen’s tall, narrow home and the cheerful duplex that is the home of Aunt Ianthe, Miss Irene, Sofi and Charlie.
We split up the attic-searching duties. Mrs. Paikkonen and the Tallmasters headed for the funeral home while Serena accompanied the elderly ladies to their duplex. Seth stayed at the B and B to help Elli. Somehow I wound up at the Queen Anne with only Harry Dent for company. As soon as we were alone, I felt butterflies in my stomach, a sensation that annoyed me and brought me to my senses. He wouldn’t make a move on me while we were searching for treasure, surely, and if he did, I could handle it. I was pretty sure I could handle it.
“Cupcake,” he said, when we were standing in my mom’s kitchen, both of us wet and chilled from the storm outside, “I am perfectly willing to search your attic but at the moment I feel like the abominable snowman.” His grin was friendly but his shiver was real. “I’d like to suggest that first we take a sauna. No shenanigans, I promise.”
The butterflies threatened to return but it was a legitimate request and he did look cold. I was cold, too.
“Only if you pronounce it correctly. It’s sow-na. We Finns articulate all the vowels.”
“Agreed. And while we’re sweating it out, maybe you can fill me in on the other arcane elements of Finnish culture.”
“And you can tell me about your art collection.”
“Done.” He started to take off his clothes and I panicked.
“What? What is it?”
“Just that you need to wear a bathing suit.”
“To take a bath?”
“It’s more than a bath. It’s a ritual. Really, almost a religion. When men and women bathe together we always wear a bathing suit.”
He quirked an eyebrow at me.
“Even if you’re married?”
It was just a casual comment but it slingshotted me back to an afternoon a week ago in which Jace and I had shared a sauna without benefit of beachwear.
A few minutes later, respectably clad, we entered the sauna attached to the kitchen. He sat on the lower bench or lavat, while I turned on the electric heating element and filled up a bucket of water to throw on the stones to create the steam.
“Nice threads,” he said, eyeing the tank suit I’d worn during my only season of competitive swimming in junior high. It was navy blue with a faded logo that spelled out the team’s name Hancock Hematites.
“Thanks. I like your boxers.” He grinned at me and I had to admit, if only to myself, he looked good. Stripping his clothes had not diminished his sex appeal. Not a bit.
The steam rose to engulf us and I took a seat next to Harry. It felt good and warm and, more than that, it felt familiar. I ladled more water onto the heated stones and watched the steam sizzle up into the air.
“It’s called loyly,” I said, apropos of nothing. “The bursts of steam, I mean.”
He pronounced the word.
“I thought sow-na involved slapping silly yourself with birch twigs.”
I giggled. “They’re called vihta and intended to increase circulation. They are also strictly optional.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I think I’m suffering enough with this heat.”
“You said you were cold.”
“I was cold but I could also breathe.”
I chuckled again. I knew it wasn’t uncommon for newbies to panic in the steam room.
“You get used to it with practice,” I assured him.
“Tell me something. Why is the sow-na the exclusive property of the Finns?”
“I guess we’re just smarter than everybody else. Actually, American Indians have a similar ritual with their sweat lodges and I believe that, at one time, many European cultures used something similar. I read that a sixteenth century syphilis epidemic gave communal bathing a bad name. Finland may have been exempt from that because of its low population and isolation. It’s kind of off by itself.”
“Except for its proximity to Russia,” Harry pointed out. “Don’t forget about the wars.”
I decided to let that pass.
“When the Finns came to America the first thing they’d build on their land was a sauna where the family would live until a cottage could be constructed. The sauna was warm and hygienic and it was often used for giving birth. Nowadays, in Finland, anyway, businessmen conduct meetings in the sauna.”
“Businessmen and women,” Harry said. “Catch up with the times, Cupcake.”
“Right.” I smiled. “Families use it for bonding. There can be a spiritual aspect to it. It’s said that more Finns and Finnish-Americans spend time each week in the sauna than they do in church.”
He inched closer to me and our shoulders touched. His voice was low, unthreatening but intimate.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
I appreciated the warning but I didn’t pull away and the kiss was nice. I mean, it was really expert and I felt an inner tingle but it was very mild. When he’d finished he searched my face.
“Nothing, huh?”
He sounded so abashed I had to smile.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
He shook his head. “But the earth didn’t move for you.”
“No,” I admitted. “Thank goodness. My life is complicated enough at the moment.” He gazed at me for a few more seconds and then he chuckled.
“Mine, too,” he said.
“Harry,” I said, relieved to have the whole attraction thing put to bed, so to speak, “what’s going to happen with this television pilot?”
“The truth? I doubt whether it will ever see the light of day. Vincent’s talents don’t lie in crossing the finish line. I doubt whether this will go anywhere at all.”
“Helena could do it,” I pointed out.
“She could but if I’m any judge of character she’s not interested in show business. She’s just looking for an escape clause that won’t leave her destitute. Her marriage is a classic case of marry in haste, repent forever.”
I eyed him curiously.
“If you knew that about Vincent, why did you join up with him?”
“I told you, Cupcake. It was Serena’s idea. She wanted an adventure, with me. And if you’re asking why I’d go along with my ex-wife, all I can say is I was bored.”
“Maybe you felt you owed her something.”
“Maybe I did,” he said, with a sigh. “I just wasn’t good husband material and it made her unhappy.” He picked up my hand and lightly kissed the fingertips. “Look. Stop worrying about Vincent’s folly. I’m offering you my well-honed detection skills to solve the murder of the unfortunately named Cricket. What do you say?”
I couldn’t think of a good reason to say no. What possible motive could he have for helping with Cricket’s murder other than to be helpful? And, anyway, I needed his help. My investigation had gone nowhere so far. I told him about Cloud and the Christmas card and my plan to head down to L’Anse first thing in the morning.
“May I come with?” I giggled. He sounded like a teenager willing to do anything in the world in place of visiting Aunt Agnes. I nodded.
“And now,” he said, “much as I hate to break up this tete-a-tete, I’ve got to get out of here and cool off.”
“Your wish is my command.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him off the bench, through the back door and into a snowbank. Harry yelled a curse.
“You Finns are crazy!”
“That’s what they say.”
Chapter 14
The attic of the Queen Anne held good memories for me as Elli and I had used it as a hideout or clubhouse during our formative years. The scent of sawdust from the bare rafters transported me to the rainy and snowy afternoons when we had raided the kitchen then brought our ill-gotten snacks up to the cozy spot under the eaves. There was a twin-sized bed against the wall under a window and I had sometimes crept up here to sleep, like when baby Charlie cried all night with an earache and later, when Sofi and Lars had begun to argue.
The attic stairs were behind a door on the second floor hallway so the stairwell was narrow. I balanced two full mugs of coffee on a tray with prune tarts left over from Christmas. I hadn’t hurried and wasn’t surprised to find Harry was there ahead of me. He was standing by the bed, gazing out at the falling snow and he turned as I emerged into view.
“That staircase is like a magician’s trick,” he said. “You look like you’re coming up out of the ground. By the way,” he held up a porcelain pot, “this was under the bed. Is it what I think it is?”
“Hey, it’s a steep climb down to the bathroom in the dark. Geez, I haven’t been up here in years. The junk looks as if it has multiplied. What if we really found a treasure?”
“Unlikely.”
“Maybe not. I forgot to tell you. Seth did some online research and discovered that a couple of professors in Finland have made a connection between that country and art that was looted by the Nazis.”
“Nazi loot! I hadn’t heard about Finland’s involvement but it isn’t surprising. Ever since the fall of the Soviet Empire there’s been a push to locate stolen paintings in museums and private collections all over the world. It’s hard to see how the loot could have gotten to Finland.”
“But, remember, there were some Finnish diplomats and soldiers in Germany during the war years. Maybe some of them acquired stolen artwork.”
He gaped at me.
“Do you think that’s what Ernst Hautamaki did?”
“It’s possible. When I skimmed that letter I thought I saw the word for package. Later I looked it up and discovered I was right. I think Ernst was telling his aunt he was sending her a package and it seems like it must have been something significant. We’ll find out when Mrs. Pike reports tonight.”
Harry appeared to think about that as he drank his coffee.
“Is there any chance that Aunt Bengta stayed in this house?”
“Sure. As you’ve heard, we’re mostly all related, although I don’t know where the Hautamakis come in. Anyway, a lady visiting for a whole summer would likely have been rotated from house to house to give each family the benefit of her company. But if Bengta did receive a package from Ernst, surely she’d have taken it with her when she returned to Finland.”
“Maybe not. It was 1942. The world was still at war. Ernst may have asked her to leave it in Michigan for safekeeping.”
“But he’d have come to get it after the war, though.”
“True enough. It probably isn’t here.” His eyes ranged over the stacked boxes, barrels and trunks, and the sleds and skis standing on end. He looked at the pieces of furniture that had been retired, like the crib and dresser my mother had used for Sofi and me and that Sofi had used for Charlie. I wondered if the crib met modern day safety standards and figured it did not. The old dollhouse would be useable, though, and the tricycle. I felt a surge of excitement about the coming child and just hoped he or she would be welcomed by both parents.
Harry pointed to a bookcase filled with children’s volumes, board games and puzzles. Next to it was a basket that contained several dozen partial rolls of wrapping paper.
“I see your family comes from the never-get-rid-of-anything-school of thought,” Harry said, gazing around.
“We’re not much on change. Not even the pets. When my maternal grandfather died and his house on Second Street was sold, my parents brought his cat here but Snoopy kept returning to the Second Street house. Finally, the new owners agreed to keep her. Of course, they were distant relatives, too.”
“It takes a village,” he said, looking at one wall. “Why are you keeping the antlers and the beer mirror?”
“Are you kidding? Those are classic Yooper items. I know of one house in Red Jacket where the guy turned his antlers into a chandelier.”
“You know why people hang onto stuff, Cupcake? Psychologically, I mean. It’s because they think it makes them immortal. If you are still collecting things, you can’t die.”
“Does that apply to art?” He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Do you collect paintings because it makes you immortal?”
He chuckled. “I collect it because it makes me rich. Art is an investment.”
“I hear you have a Monet.”
“One of his waterlily paintings. He painted something like two hundred and fifty views of his water garden trying to capture the light at various times of the day and year. Not all of them survive.”
“What happened to them?” Harry shrugged.
“Monet was a perfectionist. When he wasn’t happy with his work, he destroyed it.”
“What about thefts? Are any of the survivors known to be stolen?”
“Yes. One very famous view taken from a Paris art dealer before the war.” His words sent a tingling sensation up my spine.
“Harry! Wouldn’t it be something if Ernst Hautamaki found the Monet? It would have been one of those modern paintings, right? An impressionist painting. Hitler and his henchmen wouldn’t have valued it. Ernst might have saved it from being destroyed. Or he might have bought it cheap. “What if we could find it?”
He chuckled. “It would. But, remember, whatever Ernst found and sent to the Keweenaw, he has had seventy-five years to retrieve it. If your speculation is true, that painting is somewhere in Finland, or, more likely, it has been returned to the heirs of the original owner.”
“What would something like that be worth? Any idea?”
“Upwards of sixty million.”
I choked. “That’s our local economy for about a century.”
“Well, don’t get your hopes up. Even if, by some miracle, we found it, the town wouldn’t get to keep it. It would have to be returned.”
“Yup. I know. Even so, it would be pretty cool to find it, though. And it would definitely put Red Jacket on the map.”
“Meanwhile,” he said, pulling a framed canvas out from behind a dresser, “we have here a lovely painting of Elvis on velvet. Think we should paint a swastika on it and tell Harry we think it’s Hitler’s work?”
That was as close as we got to anything German. I found a box of straw Finnish Christmas ornaments and plenty of books written in Finnish.
“This is hopeless,” I said, finally, stretching my back. “I say we report our failure and take our lumps.”
“Hold on,” he said, calmly, “you’re giving up too easily. Check this out.” He crossed the creaking floorboards and showed me what he’d found. It was a little wooden box in the shape of a house with a peaked roofline. It had a flat metal catch at the top and stickers that said Flor Fina and Fabrica de Tobaccos on the sides. Etched across the slanted roofline was the mysterious phrase, “House of Idlers.”
“An old cigar box?”
“Yes, but it’s what’s inside the old cigar box that is interesting. Go ahead. Look.”
I opened the latch, peeked inside and lifted out a fairly hefty metal object that I could hold in my hand.
“A compass.”
“Yes, my dear Cupcake, but look at it closely.”
I held it up to the light and was able to read the letters engraved on the front.
“Marsch Kompass.” I looked at him. Attic grime had seeped into the laugh wrinkles near his eyes and the vertical dimples on his lean cheeks. He looked weary but triumphant. “German. You think this compass ties the Finns to the Axis powers?”
“Of course not,” he said. “It could be here for any reason, none of them having to do with World War II. The point is, it will make Vincent Tallmaster happy.”
“And that’s your life’s goal?”
He paused for an instant and then hooted.
“I told you before. I think there’s zero chance of any of this actually getting on the air but this little nugget will make Vincent think he’s on the right track. And before you know it, we’ll be out of your hair.”
“But I don’t want you out of my hair,” I said. “I need you to help solve Cricket Koski’s murder.”
“And I,” he said, with a mock b
ow, “am happy to serve.”
Chapter 15
Elli had made her pumpkin-nut loaves and pickled whitefish for supper and Ronja Laplander, who owned the Copper Kettle Gift Shop, had whipped up a kettle of hearty potato-and-leek soup. Mrs. Sorensen’s macaroni-and-cheese with the secret ingredient made a hit as did the raspberry applesauce I’d pilfered from my mom’s pantry. And, somehow, Aunt Ianthe had found time to make a scratch apple pie.
It was a feast of comfort food and it worked for me. I experienced the first sense of wellbeing I’d felt since I’d gotten word of the murder and Lars’s incarceration. I wasn’t sure whether the warm glow was due to the flaky crust of the pie or the occasional glance I intercepted from Harry Dent. It felt good to have a partner-in-crime-solving. Good and supportive. And he was not just anybody, either. The man had worked for the FBI. We’d figure this out, come hell or high water. Together, we would defend the innocent and identify the guilty.
The pie was delicious.
When Vincent had finished eating, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, flung it on his plate and stood at his place to announce an all-hands-on-deck-emergency meeting in the parlor where the finds of the day would be reported. His smile reminded me of a cat that had successfully cornered a mouse. He was pleased about something and I wondered if Harry had already told him about the compass.
The group, in general, was jolly with lots of chattering and laughter. Everyone, I thought, except Mrs. Paikkonen whose long, narrow face was pale and tinged with green and whose lips twisted with tension. Was her obvious distress a result of translating the Hautamaki letter? But how was that possible. Both writer and sender must have died long ago.
Mrs. Paikkonen’s gaze shifted to me and I read a question in her pale eyes. Whatever it was, it would have to wait.