by Ann Yost
“No one else can die before the thaw.”
Harry Dent, arriving late, had taken a vacant seat next to me.
“Do you know what they’re talking about, Cupcake?”
I swallowed what was in my mouth – I think it was whitefish – before I answered.
“No one can be buried when the ground is frozen. So there’s a brick vault out at the cemetery.”
“Like a holding pen?”
“Except they aren’t animals. And they aren’t alive.”
“So more like a body depot.”
I knew he was teasing but it felt a little like ridicule. I didn’t answer.
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” Miss Irene said, predictably quoting the Book of Job.
Aunt Ianthe shook her head.
“You know, Eudora was younger than Irene and I.” She sighed. “At least she got to enjoy one last Christmas.”
It was a common sentiment expressed after a death near the holiday. I tried and failed to get an image of Mrs. Paikkonen enjoying Christmas.
After she’d eaten, Miss Irene sat down at Elli’s old upright piano and softly played Sibelius’s funeral air Be Still My Soul. Aunt Ianthe asked me whether Sofi would have enough yellow and white flowers for the service and Mrs. Moilanen asked what about Cricket Koski since she apparently had no family. I reminded her that Arvo had been kind enough to handle the arrangements for the victims of our previous murder.
“Of course there was a family connection in that case,” Diane Hakala said.
No one pointed out that the connection had been to the murderer.
At the end of the meal, after the coffee and bars were served, the Reverend Sorensen stood. Although he’d offered a fairly lengthy blessing before we’d broken bread, he apparently felt called upon to do more, he said, in honor of the late Eudora Paikkonen, a pillar of the community and, more importantly, of God’s church. He recited, in a slow, sonorous voice, the entire Twenty-Third Psalm.
When he finished Vincent Tallmaster spoke.
“Are you finished?” When the reverend nodded, Tallmaster got to his feet and pinged his water glass.
“On behalf of Helena and myself, Serena, Harry and Seth, I would like to extend our condolences to the family and friends of the late Mrs. Paikkonen. Her passing was a sad thing.”
“Sad, criminal, whatever.” I hadn’t realized I’d said the words aloud until Harry sent me an amused glance.
“Mrs. Pike, as she liked to be called, was a stalwart member of this community and one of its greatest cheerleaders. She was the first person we met upon arriving in Red Jacket and I think it is safe to say she was one of the strongest supporters of What’s in Your Attic? Who will forget that she offered, no, insisted, upon translating the letter from Nazi Germany?”
“I shouldn’t think anyone would forget that,” Harry whispered for my ears only, “since that is apparently why she was killed.”
“I believe we can honor Eudora best by carrying on, by making the best pilot in television history and by dedicating it to her memory. The show,” he said, with a dramatic pause, “must go on!”
The words fell into a deafening silence. Finally, Seth spoke.
“I don’t mean to rain on your parade but the two recent deaths are linked directly with our program. I’m not sure it would be respectful or honorable or in good taste to continue with this project.”
Harry cleared his throat.
“It seems to me the troubles have been linked to the theme we’ve chosen, specifically the hunt for the Nazi-looted painting. Perhaps we could substitute Finnish-Americans or focus on the beauty of the Keweenaw Peninsula.”
“I know!” Aunt Ianthe got to her feet. “You’ve already shot some footage of our knitting circle at Hatti’s shop. Why not make that the theme for the pilot? Knitting circles have been around a long time. They have warmed hearts, and fingers and toes, through lots of cold winters. We could talk about patterns and how they’ve evolved.”
Vincent’s eye twitched and his lips twisted.
“What about the Nazi-themed flowers? I just paid for them.”
“If we take off the swastikas they can do double duty,” Helena said, drily. “After we’ve videotaped the pilot they can be used at the funerals.”
“Voi kahua!” Mrs. Moilanen uttered the mild expletive on behalf of everyone at the table. Red and black flowers would never be used at a Finnish-American funeral.
“Let’s face it, Vincent,” Harry said. “If these deaths are connected in any way to the pilot, the best thing we can do for this community is get out of town. Let’s shoot a little more footage today then do the editing in Detroit. I’m sure a proper theme will emerge.”
“I agree,” Seth added. “It’s time to throw in the towel to make sure no one else is hurt. The prospect of Nazi loot was enticing but we’re no closer to finding it and two people are dead.”
I felt a combination of relief and regret. If the television people left now we might never catch the murderer but the trouble on the Keweenaw might cease.
“Oh my land! I have it!”
I groaned. Aunt Ianthe was always full of ideas. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.”
“You have it?” Vincent’s face lit up. “You know where the painting is hidden?”
“Well, not yet,” Aunt Ianthe admitted. “But I know how to find out. We can consult the Ouija Board!”
“Good Lord,” Harry whispered. “We’re back to the spirit world.”
“And he made his son pass through the fire, and observed times, and used enchantments, and dealt with familiar spirits and wizards.” Miss Irene said. “Second Kings and also Second Chronicles.”
“But, dear,” Aunt Ianthe said, “you know there is more to the verse. Those enchantments were meant to provoke the Lord to anger.”
“I did a little editing,” Miss Irene said. “It seemed a pity to add fuel to the fire.”
“All right,” Vincent said. “I bow to the pressure. Gather up the folks with the antler lamps and beer signs, the broken toboggans and old bathtubs and meet down at the theater. This will be the final curtain call!”
Chapter 28
Like all the best laid plans, Vincent’s were dashed when a sudden eruption of thundersnow hit Red Jacket. The white-out storm caused by our proximity to Lake Superior and accompanied by thunder, lightning and hailstones, meant everyone had to stay indoors. There would be no trek down to the opera house.
“This seems like one more excellent reason to never again set foot in this godforsaken place,” Helena Tallmaster muttered to Serena Waterfall.
Not everyone viewed the storm as a calamity.
“Such a silver lining,” Aunt Ianthe said, clapping her hands. “Now we can spend the afternoon consulting the Ouija Board.”
“I don’t know,” Vincent said, clearly conflicted. “It might be more useful to go through the inn’s attic again. Or, maybe the cellar. On the other hand, if the spirits are willing to reveal the painting’s hiding place, that would be even better. I really think this storm is an omen. We are meant to find the painting. Serena, you have an excellent rapport with the netherworld. You take charge of the séance.”
There was a short silence in which, I suspected, Aunt Ianthe struggled with her pride. The Ouija Board had been her idea. I could see the uncertainty on her face and I knew the moment when she became reconciled to letting Serena Waterfall take the lead.
Serena seemed oblivious to the struggle. In fact, she didn’t seem herself. She was wearing a multi-hued caftan and her hair danced around her face but the wrinkles in that face were more defined and there were small, grim lines near her mouth. Finding Mrs. Paikkonen’s body in the window seat had clearly traumatized her. I felt a pang of compassion.
Nevertheless, she made the effort. She directed Jace and Seth to move the farm table back against the wall in the dining room and to set a round table in the center of the floor, along with two chairs, one on either side of it.<
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At Serena’s request, Elli produced a white table cloth, a candle and the game-set and I lowered the blinds in the dining room to block the light from the snowstorm.
“First,” Serena said, “I want you to stand in a circle and hold hands. Then I’ll go over the rules.”
I felt my hand scooped up in a bigger, warmer hand and then I heard Harry Dent’s voice in my ear.
“Who came up with the rules? Hasbro?”
I shushed him but Serena answered as if it had been a serious question.
“The spirit board dates back to twelfth century China. It only became a parlor game in 1890. The scientific community explained the planchette’s responses as a result of unconscious muscle movement on the part of the participants. So it is very important that the participants are without an agenda.”
She looked at the man on my other side, the one who was glowering at Harry.
“Jace Night Wind,” she said, “I would like you to be my partner, to sit opposite me at the table. The rest of you tighten your grip on the hands you are holding and build energy and tension. Miss Irene?” She nodded at the old lady. “Will you read the letters from the board?” I was surprised she hadn’t picked Harry as her partner, especially because it would have necessitated his letting go of my hand. A moment later I understood.
“Hatti, you write down everything Miss Irene says.”
“Sure,” I murmured, frankly glad to break the contact. I wondered what was wrong with me as I took up a pad and pencil and prepared to record.
“There are a few rules. Never taunt or goad the board. Only one person can ask the questions. Me. If you want me to know something, you can whisper it in my ear. Remember, be respectful. Spirits are notoriously thin-skinned and they have it in their power to lie. One last thing. Never ask the board when someone is going to die.”
A chill ran down my spine at those words and, from the murmur that whispered through the group, I figured others had had the same response.
Serena and Jace took their places at the table. He followed her lead in placing fingertips on the plastic planchette and closing his eyes.
“We are creating this circle of acceptance,” she said, after a moment. “All who are present are seekers. We seek the wisdom that only the incorporeal beings can give us. We welcome any astral presence who wishes to come among us.” She paused, then, “we await a sign of your presence.”
The silence in the room seemed to be magnified as outside the window, the frantic wind died down. It was quiet enough in Elli’s dining room to hear a pin drop. The sudden, loud clang of Straight to Hell, made us all jump.
“Sorry,” Elli murmured, reaching into her pocket to turn off her cellphone. “Charlie programmed the ringtone. I’m sorry.”
Only Serena and Jace seemed unaffected by the interruption. They continued to sit at the table, their fingertips in place.
“We wish,” Serena said, in a high, floaty voice, “to invite the spirit of Ms. Eudora Paikkonen who has recently crossed over. Will you speak to us?”
The planchette trembled, moved a centimeter to the right and another to the left and then shot up to the top of the board and landed on the word yes.
There was an audible gasp from Aunt Ianthe.
“Thank you, Eudora,” Serena said. “First, how are you? Have you had a peaceful crossing?”
The planchette trembled and spun and wound up in the space between the yes and the no.
“So-so,” Serena interpreted. “We have come to you,” she continued, “because we need an answer. We believe you know the location of the stolen painting, Monet’s Waterlilies. Will you tell us?”
Nothing happened. Not even a wiggle. Maybe Mrs. Paikkonen didn’t know where the painting was hidden. I found myself thinking that if I were controlling the planchette, I’d ask for the identity of the murderer.
The stillness on the board continued for a long time.
Finally the plastic pointer with the viewfinder at its center, began to slip and slide. It swooped and soared like a skater on an ice rink and both Serena and Jace had to concentrate hard not to lose contact with it.
After what seemed like a long time, the planchette stopped. Miss Irene peered at the board through her reading glasses and pronounced the letter R.
An instant later the planchette began to rocket back and forth. Finally it stopped abruptly. It occurred to me that the spirit of Mrs. Paikkonen was enjoying the limelight and didn’t intend to give it up in a hurry.
“It’s R,” Miss Irene said. “Another R.”
“My stars,” Aunt Ianthe said, catching the significance before I did. “R.R. The initials from the karsikko sign.”
Geez Louise.
“Ask her to spell it out,” I muttered.
“It doesn’t work like that,” Serena said, quietly. “It’s like twenty questions. One question, one answer.”
“Ask her,” Harry said, urgently, “about the Hautamaki letter. Where is that?”
It was an excellent question and a good strategy for getting around the one-answer dictate. Serena posed the question and, once again, the planchette began to move. It slowed over four letters. Miss Irene called them out and I wrote them down.
“What is it, Hatti,” Aunt Ianthe asked.
“SAEF.”
“That’s not a word,” Mrs. Moilanen pointed out.
“She meant SAFE,” Serena clarified. “Spirits are notoriously bad spellers.”
“She’s telling us the letter is safe,” I said. And it was true. The letter, though covered with blood, was safe in Doc Laitimaki’s office.
Suddenly Serena lifted her hands off the planchette and slumped in her chair. Jace removed the plastic pointer from the board.
“That’s it, folks,” he said. “The show’s over. Could someone get Serena a drink of water?”
“That was a big nothingburger,” Vincent groused. “Not worth the time.”
“And yet,” his wife said, “better than getting lost in a snowstorm.”
I said nothing but I didn’t agree with Vincent. I thought it had been worth the time. The Ouija Board answer reflected the karsikko sign. Did that mean that one of the participants knew the meaning behind R.R.? It couldn’t be Jace. That meant it was Serena. And, if she knew, it also followed that she had killed Mrs. Paikkonen. No wonder she looked haggard today.
Murder is not a laughing matter.
Chapter 29
Someone turned the lights on. Someone else got Serena a drink of water. She had gotten to her feet and was leaning against her ex-husband. Everyone seemed sort of at a loss. The Ouija had responded but we didn’t know what to do with the answer. And then a loud pounding exploded in the room. My heart jerked, as Elli answered the back door to an angry-faced, very rotund, snow-covered Sheriff Clump and his equally snow-covered deputy.
“Awright now,” Clump barked. “Where in the Sam H-E-double-hockey-sticks-hill are all these damned suspects?”
“Come in,” Elli said, hurrying them inside. “What are you doing out in this blizzard?”
“The law,” Clump said, loftily, “cannot be stopped by wind or rain or sleet or snow.”
“Like the postman,” Waino added. “We were down to the opera house but it was locked up tight. So we hiked up here. Sheriff says if we gotta interview the suspects again we might as well do it with coffee and cake.”
Clump glared at his deputy.
“Haven’t you already talked to everyone, sheriff?” Helena Tallmaster’s voice dripped with disdain.
“Yes, ma’am I have. And I’m damn sure gonna talk to everyone again on account of the autopsy results.”
“There was a surprise?” Harry sounded mildly curious. “I imagine something has changed in the timeline.”
Clump’s beady eyes narrowed on the taller man.
“You got a good imagination,” he said. “Anything else you wanna say?”
“No, no. Forgive me, sheriff.”
“The old lady was killed in the afternoon,�
� Waino said, helpfully. “That means Lars Teljo didn’t do it.”
“Hush up, boy,” Clump growled. “I’ll handle this.” He sniffed the air, for all the world, like a basset hound. Elli responded immediately with offers of fresh coffee and omenakakku or Finnish apple cake made with granny smith apples and slivered almonds.
“You got any manila ice cream,” Clump asked when Miss Irene set his plate before him. While Elli fetched the ice cream, Aunt Ianthe and Miss Irene took seats at the table and, within minutes their double-pointed needles were clicking merrily as they worked on a pair of color-stranded socks for Charlie. Over the years they had cooperated on hundreds of pairs of socks for dozens of people. The socks were always beautifully knit, if slightly mismatched as Aunt Ianthe’s knitting tension was loose and Miss Irene’s was not.
Not that we minded. We all loved them and we loved the socks.
“I volunteer to go first,” Aunt Ianthe said. “Ask away, Horace.”
“Shoot-a-mile,” Clump said and frowned. He probably didn’t like the familiarity but since Ianthe Lehtinen was old enough to be his mother and since he’d been in her third grade class at Red Jacket Elementary, he couldn’t object. “I don’t need to hear from you, Miss Ianthe. I know you were at the knittin’ thing at the bait shop until suppertime. I’m here to question those others.” He glowered at the Tallmasters, Seth, Serena and Harry.
“We are more than happy to cooperate, sheriff,” Vincent said. “We have nothing to hide. Helena and I were at the Bait and Stitch shop shooting footage of the knitters. Our intention is to show how time has stood still up here in Northern Michigan. The same sort of knitting circle was going on seventy-five years ago. I think we captured the essence pretty well although we haven’t yet looked at the daily rushes.”
Clump stared at him for a moment.
“What time did you leave Main Street?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t give you an exact time. I’m not the kind of person who looks at his watch all day. I believe it was dark. And snowing.”
“It’s always snowing,” Helena said.