by Ann Yost
I paused and he said, “in other words, he’d make a good con man.”
I glared back at him over my shoulder. “Why would you say that? Con men are sleazy. Harry’s genuinely nice.”
“You would have no way of knowing this, Squirt, but all the best shysters, drug dealers and swindlers are charming. The butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-your-mouth types. That’s how they pull their victims in. Not that Dent is necessarily a con man or a killer but look at the facts. He’s a sophisticated guy, the guy who knows the most about valuable art. He’s the one who’d have been in a position to know there was a war-looted painting on the Keweenaw.”
“I take your point,” I said, trying to be fair, “but I don’t see how he could have done the murders without involving Serena.”
“She’s the ex who is still in love with him, right? Don’t you think he could have gotten around her scruples?”
Was that possible? I didn’t know.
“Maybe. But, in my experience, people who work with fabric and wool tend to be practical and straightforward, you know?”
“I think you’re right, in general. There are always exceptions. It would be interesting to see an academic study on the profiles of murderers. You know, find out what their hobbies are. I imagine few are weavers or knitters.” He paused. “And yet, someone plunged knitting needles into Cricket Koski and Mrs. Paikkonen. Go figure.”
“Lars, what about Vincent Tallmaster?”
“What makes you think it was him?”
“I don’t. But talking about Harry committing murder with help from Serena made me think about Helena Tallmaster. I’m not sure she’d shy away from murder if it could help her get what she wants.”
“Which is?”
“Out of her marriage. Maybe she agreed to help Vincent recover the painting for a percentage of the take when it was sold. Seth told me Vincent’s the one with the money and Helena signed a pre-nup when they married.”
We had pulled up on the street behind the sheriff’s office.
“It’s something to think about,” Lars said as he let himself out the back of the van. I knew he could have pointed out that Seth was our number one suspect and if he’d killed two women, he wouldn’t have balked at lying about Helena Tallmaster’s alleged pre-nup. “Thanks for everything, Squirt. I want you to go carefully now. We’re dealing with a cold-blooded murderer here.”
I was touched by the warning.
“And one other thing. You might try to find out what Vincent Tallmaster and Harry Dent were doing that summer, ten years ago. There’s got to be a tie-in to Camp Kaleva.”
After Lars disappeared through the back door of the morgue, I sat still for a few minutes just to clear my head. So I was still in Frog Creek when Doc Laitimaki called on my cell and asked to see me.
“Perfect timing,” I said. “I’m only about a block away.”
Doc’s office is in his house on Frog Creek’s Main Street, three blocks down from the sheriff’s office, jail and morgue
The place is a quaint cottage, tiny and picturesque, a fairy’s dwelling, an enticement to his young patients, of which I was one. The front windows were arched with red shutters that matched the front door. Doc’s wife had always served as the receptionist and she always met us with fresh cookies unless we were there because of the stomach flu.
The house seemed to have been created for Mrs. Doc, who measured under five feet tall but Doc himself was built like Pops, a Paul Bunyan of a man whose shoulders were permanently stooped from living and working in the cottage.
As usual, Mrs. Doc opened the door, gave me a hug and a cookie and ushered me into Doc’s postage-stamp sized office.
“You’re looking well,” he said, deliberately (or so I thought) ignoring my hair.
“So are you,” I replied, although Doc always looked the same to me. “How was Lake Worth?”
“Great, eh? Warm weather. Nice people. A perfect spot for a vacation. We took the grandchildren, you know.”
“I’ll bet you were sorry to leave.”
He grinned at me. “Did you hear what I said, Henrikki? We were sharing the house with four children under five. Believe you me, I was ready to get back home. Your folks looked good. I think they are considering a permanent move.”
I nodded. “It would make sense. There’s no reason to stay here anymore now that Pops is retired.”
“Eh. They will miss their grandchildren.”
I thought about that.
“Charlie’s down there now, as you no doubt noticed. Sofi will make sure she visits often.”
“And what about your children?”
It’s not like I hadn’t thought about children. Stressed about it. Still, Doc’s easy assumption that now that I was married children would naturally follow hit me hard and he could tell.
“I’m sorry, Henrikki. I don’t mean to interfere.”
“It’s all right. It’s complicated,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “Have you done the autopsy on Mrs. Pike?”
“Joo. I have, then. That is why I called. The needle in her chest pierced her lower left ventricle which stopped her heart. It seems especially cruel because the killer must have been looking into her face just before the attack.”
I flinched. “I believe she knew it was coming even before then. She was alone in the house, heard the killer arrive and knew he or she was stalking her.”
“There were no defensive wounds. Why didn’t she try to stop him?”
“She did what she could.” I felt tears gather in a lump in my throat. “She knew she had no chance in a confrontation, no chance to hide the letter the killer wanted. She ran up to the attic and left me a sign on one of the struts. I believe the sign is meant to tell us where the letter is hidden but I haven’t yet figured it out.”
He put his big hand on my shoulder.
“I can relieve you about one thing. Mrs. Paikkonen was able to hide the letter.” He chuckled. “A very resourceful woman, that one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I found it. Inside her corset.” He walked over to a cabinet by the window and indicated a piece of paper drying there. “It was soaked in blood and some of the words blotted. I translated what I could.”
“Geez Louise,” I said, breathless with excitement. “What did it say? Did it tell you the hiding place of the painting?”
Doc shook his head.
“The young man told his aunt he was sending her a gift and inside that gift was another gift. He asked her to take care of both until he was able to get to America.”
So. Not much more than we already knew.
“It turns out he never got here,” I said, with a sudden rush of sadness. “He died in Germany. Bengta died that summer, too. She may not have even received the gift. And now it seems like we will never find the stolen painting.”
“I am sorry, Henrikki.”
I nodded. I looked at the letter he’d found.
“Were you able to decipher any of the writing under the blood stains?”
“Only ordinary words here and there. They did not mean much, eh? War and summer and wedding gift. There was something about a dead dog. It did not make sense to me but my Finnish is not too good anymore.”
I nodded.
“Doc, do you think both women were killed with the same kind of weapon?”
“You mean a knitting needle? There’s no way to tell about Ms. Koski. It could have been a skewer or anything long, thin and pointed. It could have been a needle.”
“Do you think they were killed by the same person?”
The old man nodded.
“The wounds were almost exactly the same depth, in the same position under the breast and at the same angle. The killer was either very strong, strong enough to force the victims into the desired position or clever enough to convince the victims to do as he said.”
“He? You think it was a man?”
Doc nodded. “I think so. Whoever it was had to move the bodies, eh?” His kindly blue eyes
reflected concern for me. “You must be very careful, Henrikki. This killer is not just strong and clever. He – or she – is ruthless, too, eh? And may not be finished.”
“You think someone else is at risk?”
“He will not like to get caught. You and your sister and Elli must be very careful.” He paused then spoke again. It was as if he’d read my mind. “And there could be an accomplice, willing or unwilling. That person may be at risk, too.”
I thanked him and left with a new sense of resolution. I could no longer afford to treat Seth or anybody else with special consideration. It was time to finish this up.
It was time to talk to Seth Virtunan.
Chapter 27
I found Seth at the opera house with the cameramen and technicians. As soon as he spotted me he hurried down the carpeted aisle and took my hand.
“I’m so sorry about Mrs. Paikkonen, Hatti. So damned sorry. This television show thing has turned out to be disastrous for the Keweenaw.”
I was touched by his concern even though (some people believed) he was turning into the leading candidate for both murders.
“Thanks,” I murmured. “Seth, do you think these deaths are connected to What’s in Your Attic?”
He shook his head but in that I-don’t-know-what to think manner. “One way or another. The search for treasure has stirred everything up. I can’t help but feel it’s time for us to get out of Dodge, you know? We need to let the community here mourn in peace.” I couldn’t help but wonder if he was laying the groundwork for a quick exit. Had he found the painting? Was it, even now, hidden in his room at Aunt Ianthe’s?
I gazed at the stage. My rug was hanging from a clothesline that had been run from one wing of the stage to the other and Sofi’s Nazi-flower arrangements decorated nearly every surface.
“It looks like you’re getting ready to do more shooting.”
“Yeah.” He laughed, humorlessly. “Vincent’s orders, of course.”
“You think he’s being insensitive not to just cancel the whole project?” Seth sighed.
“I think he’s just being Vincent. He brought us up here to make this pilot and by the great horn spoon, he’s going to make it.”
This time my laugh was genuine.
“I haven’t heard that expression since my papa died.”
He grinned at me. “It’s an oldie but a goodie.”
I realized we’d gotten sidetracked and I needed some answers. I asked him to come with me into the green room for a minute where we sat together on the ancient, comfortable sofa. I studied his face. The blue eyes, flushed complexion and blond hair were so familiar. He looked like a male version of myself.
“You implied these deaths had something to do with the television show,” I said, carefully. “Do you think someone in the cast is responsible?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he put an arm up on the back of the sofa and dropped his head as if he were thinking. After a few seconds he looked at me.
“It seems impossible, doesn’t it? I mean, I know these people. Vincent is vain and a little stupid. Helena is vain and very smart, smart enough to know she married the wrong guy. Serena’s a talented artist with a soft heart and no real sense of self preservation when it comes to her ex. And Harry, well, he’s a law unto himself.”
I looked at him sharply.
“You think Harry did this?”
“There’s no evidence to prove he did, but there wouldn’t be, would there? I mean, Harry Dent is a risk taker. He’s an adventurer. If you ask me, there’s nothing he wouldn’t attempt and there’s probably not much he hasn’t done in his life. And art theft, well, it’s not a well-regulated field. When a rich man or a museum loses a picture, who cares? Think of the movies that have been made about it, The Thomas Crown Affair, How to Steal a Million, The Grand Budapest Hotel, Ocean’s Eleven. They all sound like lighthearted romps. Even the real-life thefts in 1990 from Boston’s Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum that included a Rembrandt and a Vermeer didn’t result in anyone’s death. The guards were just tied up. Except that this time someone did die. Two someones.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot.”
“Sure.” He leaned toward me, lowered his voice a little and surprised me. “I knew Cricket Koski, you know. A long time ago.”
“At Camp Kaleva?”
His pale eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“You know about that?”
I nodded. “I talked with Cricket’s childhood friend. She told me about camp and the relationships she made there.”
“I didn’t mention it,” he said, stating the obvious. “To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten all about it. Ten years is a long time. It wasn’t until we got up here and someone mentioned the name of the victim. Even that just rang a tiny bell. But it was the same girl, I’m sure of it.”
“You were friends?”
“Yup. At first, anyway. She got involved with someone else after awhile and I didn’t see her so much.”
I sucked in a breath.
“Seth, does the name Prince Charming mean anything to you?”
“You mean the one from Cinderella? I always thought he was kinda of stupid. I mean, what if some other maiden in the kingdom wore the same size as Cinderella and the glass shoe fit her? He could’ve married the wrong chick.”
I laughed.
“I meant in connection with camp. Cricket’s friend said she came back with stories of someone called Prince Charming. Someone who was a bit older but who promised to come back for her when she’d grown up.”
It occurred to me that I’d revealed the few cards I had in my hand. Seth would either implicate himself (unlikely) or someone else. Or, he’d claim ignorance of the whole thing.
“I don’t know who it was,” he said, disappointing me, “but I was pretty sure she was shacking up with someone. One of the counselors, maybe, or one of the guests. They used to bring people in to talk to us about possible careers. Most of them were Finnish,” he added, answering my unasked question, “but not all.”
Now for the sixty-million-dollar question.
“Could it have been anyone associated with What’s in Your Attic?”
“You mean Vincent or Harry?” I didn’t reply and he continued his thought. “It seems unlikely. Vincent’s the right age but I can’t imagine him concocting such a daring plot. Harry is nearly fifty. He’s too old.”
I nodded, accepting his answer, but I wondered.
Greed can make even a plodder daring. And charm, as I was well aware, was ageless.
“Frankly, I think Harry is too smart to involve someone as flighty as Cricket in any kind of a plan,” Seth said. I just looked at him.
“Even if he knew he was going to kill her?”
Helena Tallmaster opened the green room door bringing our conversation to an immediate halt.
* * *
“Seth. There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. Vincent wants to start taping. Ollie Rahkunen, the guy who shot the proscenium the other day? He’s got an antique rifle with a swastika scratched into the stock. Oh, and he asks that his reindeer be included in the segment.”
Seth stood and held out his hand to help me up.
“We’ll talk later,” he said before he left. I thought Helena would follow him out the door but she surprised me by lingering. She surprised me even more with her observation.
“For what it’s worth, I think we should shut this operation down and leave and not just because this place gives me the creeps.”
“Why then?”
She shrugged her graceful shoulders.
“Respect.” I nodded.
“Helena, do you have any idea who killed Cricket Koski and Mrs. Paikkonen?”
“Certainly not. They have nothing to do with me.”
“Their deaths seem to be linked to the presence of the television company in Red Jacket. And to the search for the painting.”
“The mythical painting?” Her disbelief was palpable.
&nbs
p; “Do you really think two women would have been killed for something that never existed? I think that, if nothing else, those murders are proof there’s something up here worth killing for.”
Her face was as pale as the white wool sweater she was wearing.
“Let me ask you another question. Did you know about the rumored painting before you chose the Keweenaw for your pilot?” She shook her head. “Did Vincent know?”
“It’s unlikely. Vincent doesn’t know much.” She turned to leave as I asked what I really wanted to know.
“How long have you been married?”
“To Vincent? For three years.” So they hadn’t been married ten years ago. But something about her answer made me probe further.
“What about before that?”
“I was married to someone else.” Her tone was light. She headed for the door. When she got there she turned around and answered the question I hadn’t asked.
“Harry Dent. For about two minutes. The two most exciting and terrifying minutes of my life.”
Geez Louise. I headed back up to the Leaping Deer to help with lunch, unable to process what Helena had just said. I wasn’t sure I believed her, for one thing. Or it might have been a joke. But what if it was true? What was going on with this television company? Musical marriages? I tried to think through the implications as I arranged sliced beets, pickles and cole slaw on a plate, carried it out to the dining room to add to the smorgasbord of a hotdish of creamed whitefish, mashed potatoes and turnips and several plates of bars.
Even though we’d just had our second murder this week, I knew everyone would show up to eat. If there’s one thing we are known for it is practicality. No matter what happened, life went on and three meals a day were served.
I did notice a plate of egg salad sandwiches and another of Cheez Whiz on rye, both of them staples of the funeral spread.
The conversation at the table was gloomy.
“You know the timing on this is really unfortunate,” Aunt Ianthe said, between bites of Mrs. Sorensen’s mustard ring salad. “What with the two events last month and Eudora and the Cricket girl, the vault is nearly filled up.”
Mrs. Moilanen nodded.