by Ann Yost
I wondered whether it had occurred to Betty Ann that she was pretty much issuing an invitation for any Tom, Dick and Eino to break into our attics. I wondered, too, how Harry would react to the publicity. He had downplayed the possible find from the first and I figured it was because of his professional reputation. Chances were slim the painting was on the Keweenaw and Harry Dent didn’t need his name associated with a fictitious report.
I rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans, a pale green turtleneck that I’d outgrown in high school and slipped on a white sweatshirt imprinted with the number 906 which is supposed to look intriguing to those who do not know it is the area code for the entire UP.
Betty Ann continued to talk about Finnish history, including the success enjoyed by the Finnish soldiers on skis as they faced off against the Russians in the Winter War. It was a story our community never tired of hearing. Or talking about. And I wondered why none of us had thought to try to deflect Vincent’s Panzer initiative with that.
Both of the guestroom doors were closed and the corridor was silent as I slipped downstairs in my stocking feet to put on my boots, parka and gloves and to accompany Larry as he dolphin-ed through the drifts between our house and the Leaping Deer. The snow was falling softly now but those of us who grow up on the Keweenaw learn to read the sky and I knew it would get worse as the day went on. No matter. I was going to L’Anse today come hell or a foot of snow. And whether or not I had to go alone.
Harry still hadn’t joined me when I’d finished a meal of Elli’s hearty breakfast buns, the ones she made with molasses, currents and graham flour, and my second cup of coffee. I was reluctant to leave without Harry but, unless I wanted to get caught up in the day’s drama or stuck on the road, that was the best move. I ambled toward the back door and felt a surge of relief when someone came through it.
The relief was short-lived. The newcomer was Eudora Paikkonen. She had on the same black dress as the day before and both it and her shapeless wool coat that hung loosely on her on her gaunt frame and she looked, if anything, more unwell than she had the previous night. Great, dark circles underscored her eyes and her cheeks were as hollow as a death’s head. My response was involuntary.
“Mrs. Pike! You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“I have seen a ghost.” Her voice trembled. “Listen to me, Henrikki. You have to get these television people out of town. They are stirring up all kinds of trouble in Tuonela.” Tuonela is the Land of the Dead.
“What do you mean?”
“The spirits are restless. It is all this talk of the Nazis and the dead boy and his aunt. First Maud left the mirror at the opera house. Now this other is haunting the funeral home. It is the girl who died on New Year’s Eve.”
My mouth went dry.
“Cricket? You believe Cricket Koski is haunting the mortuary? Why would she?”
“I don’t think, Henrikki. I know. There is proof, physical proof. A message. And an ear witness, eh? I heard the footsteps last night. I climbed to the attic and found the message!”
Let me just say here that I don’t believe in Tuonela or ghosts. Not officially, anyway. But it is hard to live in a small, ethnically-centered town without absorbing a lot of traditions and myths and my lack of belief in ghosts is not strong enough to propel me up to a dark attic alone in the middle of the night. I felt a rush of admiration for Mrs. Pike’s courage.
“I think it’s unlikely that spectral figures make footsteps. You probably heard Vincent and/or Helena Tallmaster prowling around the attic searching for the painting.”
She didn’t answer immediately and I was afraid I had offended her.
“No, Henrikki. I checked in their room. She was asleep in the bed. He was on the sofa. There was no one else alive in the house. But up in the attic, carved into one of the two-by-fours under the eaves there was a karsikko sign.”
In Finnish mythology, a karsikko is carved into the trunk of a tree located between the home of the recently deceased and the burial ground. The sign, often a cross above the dead person’s initials, is intended to remind the absentminded departing spirit not to return to its earthly home but to finish its journey to the Land of the Dead. Pops says the custom has its practical aspects since having a lot of confused spirits sucking up all the air isn’t really good for business or anything else in a community.
“The sign was an X made out of knitting needles,” she said. “And the initials underneath were C.K.”
I frowned at her. “Anybody could have carved a sign there at any time. And, anyway, Cricket can’t be her real name. Why would a self-respecting spirit use a nickname in an official communication?”
The pale old eyes narrowed on me and I felt like a pupil who had gotten something wrong and disappointed her teacher.
“Use your head, Henrikki,” she said. “Maybe her Christian name is Catherine or Christina.”
I felt a mixture of sympathy and irritation. Mrs. Paikkonen was clearly upset by the sign which almost certainly was a hoax. Or, maybe not. I felt fairly certain it hadn’t been left by a spirit but if it was a joke it wasn’t very funny.
In any case, I was impatient to get on with my investigation. And that, ultimately, was my excuse for what happened next. I dismissed Mrs. Pike’s concern.
And I was rude.
“If a spirit had decided to visit the mortuary and leave a message, why would she leave a picture of the weapon? We already know what killed her. That so-called sign could have been made at any time and most likely has nothing at all to do with any of this.”
I was aghast as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I could only imagine what my mother would have thought. We are strictly brought up to respect the elderly. I stood very still and waited for Mrs. Paikkonen to give me a (well-deserved) piece of her mind. It didn’t happen. Instead, the elderly lady spoke with a stiff dignity.
“Messages from the afterlife come in mysterious ways, Henrikki,” she said. “This is something you would know that if you studied your Bible. I will not stay in the funeral home for another night and I thought it right to come tell you so you can make other arrangements to host the Tallmasters.” She did not point out that, unlike me, she always remembered her manners. But then, she didn’t need to.
“All right,” I said, feeling penitent. “I’ll switch places with you. You can stay at my house tonight and I’ll stay at Maki’s. Take the bed in my room. It’s the first one at the top of the stairs. And, Mrs. Paikkonen, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry is as sorry does. Remember, things are not always what they seem.” And then she stalked out of the kitchen door that leads to the dining room. I grabbed my coat and headed out the back door. I welcomed the cold snow on my burning cheeks and offered a prayer of thanks that Harry had not gotten up to join me. I needed some time alone.
I let the Jeep warm up for a few minutes. Just as I started to crank it into gear there was a sharp knock on the driver’s side window.
Harry Dent bent over to mouth some words at me. Geez Louise. I’d almost forgotten about him. Ungraciously I rolled down the window.
“What?”
“I brought you coffee.” He handed over a traveling cup. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket and some kind of aftershave or cologne. He smelled clean, spicy, expensive. I’ll admit my spirits lifted.
“You seemed preoccupied a minute ago, Cupcake,” he said, after he’d slipped into the passenger seat and I’d turned the Jeep onto Tamarack. “Anything I can do to help?”
I shook my head but, after a few sips of coffee, I found I wanted to talk about Mrs. Pike.
“I’d like someone to explain to me how seemingly intelligent people can believe in the stories of God and Jesus from the Bible and pagan myths at the same time.”
He sighed. “For one thing, they are both attempts to explain the inexplicable. How did we get here and why? Is there a higher power or are we just a product of evolution? Do we have an imperative other than the continuation of the species or not? When y
ou think about it, Hatti, religion and mythology are pretty much the same thing.”
I was aware that my mother and all the rest of the members of St. Heikki’s Finnish Lutheran would consider those words blasphemous but I could see his point.
“Okay, I’ll be more specific. This is about Mrs. Paikkonen.”
“The elderly lady who looks like an aging Morticia Addams? The one who is staying at the funeral home with the Tallmasters?” I nodded.
“She heard footsteps in the attic last night. She went to investigate and found a karsikko sign drawn onto one of the struts under the roof.”
“A karsikko sign?”
I explained the pagan belief.
“Somebody could have doodled it any time in the last one hundred years but Mrs. Pike is convinced it was left by the ghostly spirit of the young woman who was murdered on New Year’s Eve outside Red Jacket.”
“The one with the insect nickname?”
“Yep.”
“What makes her think so?”
“Instead of a Christian cross there’s a pair of crossed knitting needles.” This required more explanation, of course. “I made the mistake of claiming the fatal wound had been made by a knitting needle.”
“Why?”
“Good question. I don’t know. It was a round hole with no real tearing of the skin around it. It just looked neat and tidy and, I guess, since I now sell knitting supplies, I was thinking along those lines. Anyway, Mrs. Paikkonen believes Cricket left the sign and she’s afraid to stay at the funeral home tonight.”
“A ghost,” he said, lightly, “with a sense of humor.” I frowned. “Look, Cupcake,” he said. “Pagan myths aside, the real question here is who did make that drawing in the attic? It sounds to me as if somebody, some flesh and blood person, wanted to scare the old lady.”
Of course. He was right. The issue that was bothering me wasn’t Mrs. Paikkonen’s superstitious beliefs. It was the actual fact of the sign. It seemed so threatening.
“Anyway, Mrs. Pike refuses to stay at the funeral home tonight, so she and I are switching places.”
“You aren’t worried about the sign-making spirit?” I shook my head.
“I don’t believe in them.” Mostly.
We drove in silence while I thought about that. He finished his coffee and turned sideways.
“Has it occurred to you,” he asked, his voice more serious than I’d ever heard it, “that the murder of this Cricket occurred hours before the Attic people turned up on your doorstep?”
My fingers slipped on the steering wheel and, for a few harrowing moments, I veered onto the shoulder of the road. When I had the Jeep under control, I glanced at him.
“You’re trying to say that one of your colleagues killed Cricket Koski? But why? None of you except Seth has ever been in the UP and I’m ninety-nine percent sure Cricket never left the Keweenaw in her twenty-eight years. How would any of you even know about her or Lars’s cabin? Besides, you didn’t arrive until Sunday morning. I saw you arrive.”
Harry shrugged. “Point taken.”
“But why would you even raise the question, Harry?”
“One of the things I learned as a professional investigator is that, when it comes to major crimes, there are very few coincidences.”
“Now you sound like Sherlock Holmes.” I shook my head. “I can’t see any possible connection between this blighted television show and a dead barmaid.” I waited. “Can you?”
“Well, no. Not immediately. But, don’t forget, things aren’t always what they seem.”
His use of the same phrase I’d just heard from Mrs. Paikkonen shook me. And yet, there was such a thing as coincidence. Just not in a crime novel.
“This the way to L’Anse?” He asked the question as I turned off the two-lane road that leads to Frog Creek.
I explained that I wanted to check in with Lars at the county jail and he was obliging enough to offer to pick up some breakfast for us. I suggested stopping at the Lunch Box Café and did not point out the fact that I’d already eaten.
“By the way, I checked with one of my old sources in the world of stolen art. He said there’s been no chatter about a piece of Nazi loot hidden on the Keweenaw.”
I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or disappointed to hear that.
“So this is a bunch of malarkey?”
“It’s wishful thinking based on desperation. Think about it. There’s no real indication that Hautamaki was even talking about art. He probably sent his aunt a handkerchief of German lace or a brooch or something that got lost years ago. The leap from the letter from Munich, to the recovery of a stolen Monet, is like trying to jump the Grand Canyon. Vincent will have to be happy with the other Nazi artifacts we turned up. To tell you the truth I was surprised to find as much as we did.” I shrugged.
“I thought you said this pilot would never get on the air. Have you changed your tune?”
He grinned. “No. Tune is the same. But I’ll admit I never thought we’d come up with so much Nazi stuff.”
“Harry,” I said, as a thought occurred, “if this is a pilot, where are you planning to videotape the next show in the series?”
“Hibbing, Minnesota, birthplace of Bob Dylan.”
“You know that’s right in the heart of Iron Range.”
“What does that mean?”
I glanced at him. “It means that community is Finnish-American. Maybe Vincent can find more Nazi treasure there.” He groaned.
“Bite your tongue.”
I parked in front of the one-story, cinderblock building that is our sheriff’s department, jail and morgue.
“The Lunch Box is down there. Do yourself a favor and ask Vesta for Trenary toast.”
* * *
Waino met me at the front door.
“You can’t come in, Hatti. Sheriff says for you to keep your nose out of the murder, eh?”
“He makes me sound like a Labrador retriever.”
“He’s still ticked off about those last murders. And because your sister won’t talk to him.”
“Okay. I don’t want to get you in trouble,” I said, in my most persuasive voice, “I just need five minutes with Lars.”
Waino shook his massive head. “No can do.”
“Look, Waino, you owe me,” I said, desperate to get past his guard. “What about the cloak closet? What about Spin-the-Bottle?”
The blue eyes focused on me.
“I’ve paid you back a million times for that,” he said. And, of course, he was right. Anyway, I’d been at least as interested in the kissing experiment as he.
“Okay, okay, but this important, Waino. I’ve got news for Lars. Important news.” I’d made up my mind to tell Lars about Sofi even though I knew it was totally not my business. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Lars was sitting in jail and Sofi was holed up in her bedroom. Their hands were tied until they talked to each other. Each needed reassurance that the other had not killed Cricket Koski.
“Tell me. I can tell him.”
I studied the sea-blue eyes for a minute. Waino wasn’t heartless, just clueless. I moved close to him.
“All right, Waino. Here’s the deal. Sofi’s pregnant.”
I may have lived a sheltered life on the Keweenaw but I’d seen plenty of male reaction to that kind of news. It was invariably somewhere on the scale of uncomfortable to panic and I figured Waino would be no exception. I was right.
“Geez zow!” He jumped out of my way. “Five minutes, Hatti. Sheriff could be here any time, eh?” He melted out of my way like a popsicle on the summer pavement.
I found Lars slumped in the same position where I’d left him the day before but he looked even worse. He was still wearing the same clothes. A dark beard had sprouted on his cheeks and chin and sleeplessness had left dark circles under his eyes that made him look like a raccoon. His dark skin was stretched tight across his high cheekbones and the green eyes held no expression at all.
“I should have
brought you some fresh clothes,” I murmured. “Are you at least eating?”
He sat up straighter but ignored what I’d asked and he began to pepper me with questions of his own.
“Why are you here? Is Sofi all right? Charlie?”
“Charlie’s still in Florida with my folks. Sofi’s been laid up with the flu. The sheriff’s chomping at the bit to see her though and he’s got some damning evidence.”
Alarm flared in Lars’s eyes. He jumped to his feet, jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and paced as well as he could in the tiny cell.
“What evidence?”
“He’s got a ladies size-six boot print from the snow under the pines out at the cabin. Some of the confetti from our celebration at the Leaping Deer is frozen into the prints. He figures that’s proof that Sofi was out at the cabin that night. I think he’s just trying to make up his mind whether she killed Cricket or you killed Cricket or whether you guys did it together.”
“Sofi wasn’t out there.”
Under the burgeoning facial hair, his face was chalk white.
“You mean you didn’t see her. I think she was there, Lars. I think she drove out there to talk to you and she saw something that scared her so much that she hightailed it back to Red Jacket and hid under the covers.”
He shook his head.
“Why would she have driven out there at that hour? She could’ve called me.”
“She needed to talk to you in person.”
He must have heard the urgency in my voice because he stopped pacing and stared at me.
“About what?”
I knew I didn’t have much time but I needed to light a fire under my ex-brother-in-law and I needed some answers.