by Ann Yost
It occurred to me that, despite my plans, I never had talked to Mrs. Paikkonen. I’d make it up to her this afternoon. Mrs. Pike loved to knit and she loved to pontificate. I’d position her in a central location for the videotaping and be sure she got air time to talk about her craft.
“I hope she has a way to get down to the shop.”
Serena nodded. “Don’t worry. Elli asked Harry to bring all the old ladies down here. Ooh, I love the Rya Rug. It’s a real work of art. Beautiful! But it isn’t going to work to interview you about that now. Too much commotion in here. Can I have somebody take it over to the theater later on? It’ll make a great backdrop for the show.”
Vincent, Helena and Harry, along with a gaggle of old ladies arrived just after the camera crew and the little shop was suddenly Grand Central Station. I was in the midst of trying to answer questions from half a dozen people when Vincent sidled over to me.
“Get me a bottle of Artesian mineral water out of that cooler, will you?”
I hid a smile.
“We don’t stock much in there at this time of year. Just waxworms and maggots. Sometimes, honey worms, but we’re out of those at the moment.”
He shuddered but, somewhat to my surprise, he recovered quickly enough.
“Oh. Bait. Anyway, I was researching on Wikipedia last night and discovered that Hitler was an avid fisherman. Let’s find a way to work that into the narrative. Have you got any antique fishing rods?”
I was spared from answering by the ringtone of my cellphone. It was my cousin.
“Hey, Hatti. I have to stay at the inn and do laundry. Any chance you can send somebody up here to pick up Mrs. Paikkonen? She was lying down when Harry collected the other ladies and I wouldn’t want her to miss the afternoon’s excitement.”
Before I could answer, Aunt Ianthe and Miss Irene, followed by Harry Dent, arrived at the door. I waylaid him, asked if he could go back and pick up Mrs. Pike, and then the other knitters arrived and it was time to organize the circle. Normally we started with a blessing from Miss Irene or Mrs. Sorensen and then we discussed something new in the world of knitting while we worked on our individual projects.
Today, though, it was hard to get in a word edgewise. The ladies chattered as Pops would say, nineteen to the dozen and it took quite a while to bring the group to order.
“Hatti!” It was Vincent and he sounded exasperated. “Sit down, will you? We’re ready to begin. Say something to the camera about the town or the knitting circle or something.”
I felt like an idiot. Luckily bits of a speech I’d heard somewhere popped into my head.
“One of the things that is important to a small town like Red Jacket,” I said, “is tradition. We have traditions for everything, from coffee for visitors to cake after church to knitting. The knitting circle goes back in time to the old country. It is one of the practices that helps us keep our balance up here in the north. Because of our traditions, everyone knows who she is and what God expects her to do.”
“Cut!” Vincent shrieked at the cameraman then glared at me.
“What?”
“You are quoting from Fiddler on the Roof,” Vincent said. “Start over,” Vincent commanded. “And for God’s sake, talk about the war.” When he nodded at me, I started again.
“The gathering in this room today might have taken place ten years ago or twenty or even seventy years ago. Finnish-Americans in Michigan spent many hours making stockings, hats, mittens and sweaters for the refugees created when Russia attacked Karelia during the Winter War.”
“Not that war,” Vincent hissed. “Hitler.”
I looked around the circle and help came from an unexpected source.
“In those days,” Mrs. Sorensen said, “the ladies would have met in the church social hall or, more likely, in someone’s home. Fuel was rationed, you know, and shops were not open at night or on the weekends.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they met in the biggest sauna in town,” Mrs. Moilanen said. “That would be warm enough.”
“Someone would have provided refreshments,” Diane Hakala said.
“More than likely it would have been the kitchen committee of the Ladies Aid,” Mrs. Moilanen said, with the confidence that came from her position as head of the St. Heikki’s Finnish Lutheran Church Ladies Aid, the most powerful position in town. “They would have provided Joullutortu at this time of year and cloudberry meringue in the summer.”
“And coffee, Edna,” Aunt Ianthe said. “Don’t forget that.”
“Women aren’t supposed to make coffee,” Miss Irene said. “The Bible says He-brews.”
“Cut!” While Vincent fumed the rest of us went off into peals of laughter.
“You are supposed to be talking about the connection between the Finns and the Germans.” He motioned for the camera but before I could get my thoughts together, Aunt Ianthe spoke.
“There are some misconceptions to clear up. When World War II started, Finland was at war with Russia and since the Soviet Union was a member of the Allied Powers, Finland could get no assistance from England or America. As a result, the Finns became co-aggressors with Germany but there was never any allegiance to Hitler or any of the Nazi precepts.” She looked around. “And Finland paid its war debt.”
“Today,” I said, responding to a frown from Vincent, “I thought we would talk about a knitting technique that is very popular in Finland. It is called Entrelac.” My pause for breath was a mistake.
Astrid Laplander, a younger version of her mother right up to and including the scowl on her face, hunched her shoulders and shot a dagger look at her mother.
“You told me there wouldn’t be any French.”
An ugly flush appeared on Ronja Laplander’s face and her dark eyebrows met in an expression that mirrored that of her daughter. I hastened into the breach with a huge smile.
“Astrid is absolutely right. Entrelac is French and it means interlaced. It is a knitting technique that has become very popular in Norway, Sweden and, especially, Finland where it is called konttineule which means a backpack woven out of a sturdy material.” Luckily, I had a pair of socks with the basket-weave pattern in green and orange and I held them up for the knitters.
Both Aunt Ianthe and Miss Irene (bless them) ooh-ed and aah-ed as if they’d never seen anything so miraculous, so delightful, so unique. I was well aware it was a put-up job since the sample socks had been knitted by Miss Irene but I dismissed the irony. This was, after all, a television show, right? They were acting.
I invited Miss Irene to explain the technique that involves starting with base triangles then working short rows and turning. A couple of the ladies (Diane Hakala, usually a good sport, and Mrs. Sorensen, always the same) pulled needles and fresh yarn out of their knitting bags and followed Miss Irene’s precise instructions which was more challenging than it needed to be because they were interlaced with Bible verses from Colossians 2 and Psalm 139, respectively.
“That their hearts may be comforted, they being knit together in love,” and “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.”
The second offering was too much for Mrs. Moilanen. She drew herself up with all the majesty of her high office in the Ladies Aid, looked over the tops of her granny glasses and said, with spoke with some asperity.
“Good gracious, Irene, however did you find Biblical references to knitting?”
Aunt Ianthe grinned. “She is a wonder, isn’t she?”
And then three things happened simultaneously. Well, four.
Vincent yelled, “Cut!”
Harry Dent lounging against Einar’s counter lifted his hands in the universal gesture of helplessness signaling that he hadn’t been able to find Mrs. Pike.
Astrid, heading out the door, hissed at me, “You do know you can buy socks at the mall, right, Hatti?”
But it was the fourth thing that took away my breath.
The front door slammed open hard enough for the little be
ll to become unmoored and bounce across the room. Arvo Maki, big and barrel-chested with a thick carpet of white-blond hair burst into the room. His patented smile was gone and he glared at the group like a hibernating bear who’d been poked.
“Henrikki! Another murder? And what is this I am hearing about Nazis and hidden treasure?”
Even though the words were addressed to me, I wasn’t listening. All my thoughts, all my focus, was on the second man who entered the shop.
Jace looked good enough to stop my heart even though his handsome face was screwed into a scowl aimed at me. Not that there was anything new in that.
He crossed the crowded room with the skill of a tracker. I felt his strong fingers around my wrist then heard the low growl of his voice.
“Hello, wife. Got a minute? I’d like a word.”
Chapter 21
I was so happy to see him and so irritated with myself for feeling that way that it never occurred to me to resist. I let him pull me outside into the falling snow.
“We forgot your coat,” he said, surprising me. I didn’t even feel the cold. “But Arvo’s got an industrial-strength heater in here. You’ll be fine.” He opened the passenger door on the vehicle parked along the curb. “This baby’s got amazing traction.”
“Why are you driving the hearse?”
He dangled something in front of me.
“Daddy gave me the keys.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. He’d said it with a hint of mockery but still, it was a sign that Jace had begun to accept the man who really was his natural father, Arvo Maki.
“Have the two of you been spending time together?”
Jace nodded. “He came to D.C. to visit. We talked some. When we got back to the Leaping Deer Elli told us about Lars’s incarceration and about the television people and the existence of Nazi Loot on the Keweenaw. You know Arvo. Any publicity is good publicity as long as it doesn’t link us with the world’s most evil empire. So what’s really up with that? Is there really a priceless Monet hidden in one of our attics?”
I wanted to kick up my heels at his use of the plural pronoun. At the same time, I wanted to scream in frustration. Was he all-in or no? I wanted an end to this emotional no-woman’s land. But talk of our future would have to wait. I gave him a thumbnail sketch of what had been happening for the last few days, including the discovery of that Pandora’s Box, Ernst Hautamaki’s letter.
“So this is a sixty-million-dollar fantasy based on a seventy-five-year-old letter.”
“Yes. And no. It turns out there have been academics studying the contact between Finland and Nazi loot. Harry Dent, who worked as an art theft expert on an FBI squad, says there’s been no chatter about a painting hidden on the UP but maybe the scholarship just hasn’t caught up with it. The possibility we’re looking at is that Ernst rescued a piece of art, sent it home to Finland with instructions to send it on to Red Jacket.”
He looked unconvinced.
“It could have happened. Ernst was stationed in Munich where the stolen art was kept. He told his aunt he was sending her a special birthday present and to watch out for it.”
“That’s it? This soon-to-be-televised treasure hunt is based on that?”
“The letter was sent in the summer of 1942. Both Ernst and his Aunt Bengta died that same summer. If he sent the package it would still be here.”
“Or, someone would have opened it seventy five years ago and noticed then that it was a stolen masterpiece.”
“That’s possible, of course.” I shivered. “I’m not sure I want to find it, to tell you the truth.” I told him about Cricket Koski’s Prince Charming and her murder. I told him about finding Seth Virtunan in the ten-year-old camp picture with Cricket and I told him about Harry’s refusal to believe Seth was involved in the murder. I started to tell him about Lars but he stopped me.
“That can wait. Tell me more about this so-called art expert.” I looked up into the gray eyes and caught a glimpse of something. Jealousy? My heart leapt and I was immediately filled with self-disgust. What kind of a marriage runs on the fuel of jealousy?
“Harry knows a lot about art,” I said, lamely.
“Is that why he came up here? To look for the painting?”
“No. I told you. He says there are no rumors about it. He decided to do the television pilot because his ex-wife asked him to do it.”
“Sure.”
I eyed him, unsure of how to take that.
“We’ve all been searching the attics for any treasures at all, and, specifically for the missing Monet.”
“How do you know it’s a Monet?”
“I don’t. I was using the artists name in the generic sense. Harry has another version of the waterlilies in his home in the Hudson Valley.”
“I’ll bet he does.” This time the sarcasm was unmistakable. “I imagine it hasn’t escaped your notice that these television folks showed up within hours of the murder, right?”
“It does seem like a pretty big coincidence,” I admitted.
“You can’t trust them, Umlaut. You have to walk away from this.”
“I can’t do that. The body turned up in Lars’s bed. He’s in jail. Sofi was out there at the lake right around the time it happened. My family is implicated, Jace.”
He cursed, noticed my shiver, then cursed again, unbuttoned his jacket and put it around my shoulders.
“Thanks.”
“All right. Tell me what you know about the dead girl.”
I filled him in on every last detail I could remember having to do with the murder. Jace has an orderly, logical mind with flashes of brilliance and I knew that if anybody could make sense of this whole thing, he was the best bet.
“Why did Sofi go out to the cabin that night? Jealousy?”
“She said it was to confront him about the paper she found with Cricket’s phone number but I think she wanted to tell him about the baby.”
“What baby?”
“Sofi’s pregnant.” And then, to my total shock, I burst into tears. Jace lifted me across the bench seat and onto his lap. He tucked my head under his chin and rocked me while I sobbed.
“That’s not exactly bad news, is it,” he asked, finally. I shook my head.
“It’s good news. It’s just that they’re in so much trouble.”
The tears continued to come but Jace Night Wind is a good man in an emergency. He produced a handkerchief with which he dried my cheeks and let me blow my nose and when I’d finished, he pulled me even closer and kissed me.
The kiss lasted a long time.
* * *
We decided to skip the smorgasbord at the B and B.
I made a fresh pot of coffee then found sliced ham and a loaf of pulla, a kind of bread, in the freezer. I dug out some Provolone, too, and made grilled ham-and-cheese sandwiches. They went well with another frozen offering, a container of roasted tomato soup.
“Comfort food,” Jace said. “Tastes like heaven.”
“Tastes like home,” I agreed. He shook his head.
“Tastes like heaven.”
* * *
While we ate Jace told me about a case he was working on for a tribe in the southwest, one of the many that had tried to improve its financial standing with the construction of a casino only to find itself enmeshed with organized crime. I listened to his animated voice and stared at the clear gray eyes between the long, dark lashes and thought about how committed he was to his work, how much I admired him because of it and how little chance there was that he would ever want to settle down in Red Jacket.
When he’d finished talking he just looked at me for a long minute and my heart jumped around inside me like popcorn in a microwave. Here it comes, I thought. Time for a follow-up kiss. This is where he tells me (I thought, against all logic) that he’s made up his mind to become a small-town lawyer, to commit himself to our marriage and potential family. And also that he’s sorry he didn’t call me on New Year’s Eve. I was so enmeshed in my fantasy that
his words caught me flatfooted.
“You don’t want it to be Seth, do you?”
“What?”
“You don’t want it to be Harry Dent or Lars or Sofi or anyone else you know and care about. You felt the same way during the St. Lucy murder investigation. You couldn’t bear to think the killer was someone you knew.”
“I hope I have an open mind,” I said, somewhat stiffly. “But you have to admit there’s a big difference between normal people and a person who has crossed the line. A murderer is a monster.”
“Murderers are just men. Or women. We are what we are. Remember the words of Hercule Poirot: The sun shines, the sky is blue. But you forget mon ami, everywhere there is evil under the sun.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
There was no segue. There was no context. It certainly wasn’t what I’d meant to say but I decided I wasn’t sorry.
He looked at me.
“On New Year’s Eve? Why didn’t you call to say Happy New Year?”
The gray eyes were clear and intense.
“I thought we were past that kind of game-playing.”
The back door opened and I jerked my hand away.
“Oh, sorry, Cupcake,” Harry said, entering the room and stomping his snowy boots. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” Jace replied. “But we can bookmark our place.” He stood and offered his hand. “I’m Jace Night Wind, Hatti’s husband. And you must be the art theft detective.”
Harry grinned, shook his hand and apologized again. Then he took a seat at the table, pulled a flask out of his inside coat pocket and poured it into the cup of coffee I’d put in front of him. Wordlessly, he offered the flask to Jace who slid his own mug close enough for Harry to pour.
“The videotaping down at your shop ended in a shambles,” Harry said to me. “We decided to disband for the evening and the rest of them are over at the inn stuffing their faces with some kind of fish stew. I told you this project is doomed.”
I supplied Harry with a ham sandwich and listened as Jace asked him a series of questions about What’s in Your Attic? And Harry’s own thoughts about the missing Monet.