by Ann Yost
“You mean this is a funeral for a dog?”
“If you don’t believe me, check the casket.”
Helena Tallmaster gave me a genuine smile for the first time all week. She was obviously sympathetic about the loss of a pet. It made me like her. It also made me realize I’d misjudged her and maybe Harry had, too. She was a total romantic at heart.
Arvo caught my eye and I felt a spring of tears. Holding a funeral for a beloved dog was exactly the kind of thing he would do and I was suddenly flooded with affection for the folks of my hometown.
When I got home, Harry asked about the service and I tried to explain. When I’d finished, both men had held onto their cards but their jaws had dropped.
“Small towns,” Harry said. “They always surprise you.”
“Speaking of surprises,” Jace said, “in light of everything that’s happened and out of an abundance of caution, we’re going to double up. Dent will sleep in your folks’s room with Serena and you and I will share Sofi’s old bedroom. Your own room, you’ll recall is now a crime scene and I don’t want you in the attic.”
He didn’t say where he did want me, I mean, not explicitly, but a secret smile from Harry made me blush.
As it turned out, we could hear Harry moving around in the room next door and Jace flopped on his back and went to sleep. It felt like déjà vu to turn my head to the right and see his chest rising and falling steadily. It felt safe. Good. Right.
I cushioned my head with my hands, stared at the ceiling and thought back over the evening. I’d been struck by how hard it had been to tell Arvo and Vincent apart in the faint light of the chapel.
I must have dozed off because I awoke with a start and an image and an epiphany. The picture, in my mind’s eye, was of two men bent over a coffin and from where I stood, I could not tell which was blond, middle-aged Arvo and which was the much younger man. A phrase from Moomins in Midwinter floated in front of me. It was from the wise woman, Too-Ticky, and I couldn’t remember the context in the children’s book but I knew why it had occurred to me now.
“What’s up?”
I jumped. I’d forgotten that Jace can wake up as quickly and completely as he can fall asleep. It almost seems like magic.
“All cats are gray in the dark.”
“Profound.”
“Sofi stood across the clearing from the cabin on New Year’s Eve. She was twenty feet away from the SUV when it pulled up to the cabin. She watched a man get out and help Cricket up to the house. There were no lights and it was snowing so hard she wouldn’t have been able to see the color of the vehicle. The man would have worn a parka so his hair wouldn’t show. What if the man with Cricket wasn’t Lars? What if he was someone else?”
“What time did Sofi see him?”
I thought back to the timeline.
“She said she left Red Jacket around eleven so it would have been eleven twenty or so.”
“Then it wasn’t Lars. Lars. He told me he’d pulled into the Gas-and-Go to take a twenty-minute power nap. He couldn’t have gotten to the cabin until after eleven thirty. I doubt there was a witness. The Mursos close at ten in the summer, eight in the winter, whether it’s a holiday or not.”
“It doesn’t matter. Now that we know it wasn’t Lars we can focus on who it was who brought Cricket out to the cabin.”
“Prince Charming?”
“Aka the murderer.” I said.
Chapter 31
The inspiration in the night gave way to another. It felt like the logjam in my brain had broken free. It was exhilarating. I couldn’t wait to tell Jace all about it, but when I turned to wake him, he wasn’t there.
So what else was new?
I nipped that thought in the bud. Or, tried to. My priority was to follow the leads that Providence had granted me during the night. We all needed to get to the truth about the two murders and I could not afford to let my personal issues get in the way.
As I dressed in an outfit from my mother’s closet (a gray tunic featuring a pair of kittens playing with a ball of yarn and black tights), I cast my mind back to Cricket’s room on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve. Clothing was draped on every surface, jewelry, too, and shoes. She’d spent considerable time choosing just the right outfit for her big date. Wouldn’t it make sense that she’d have spent an inordinate amount of time on her make-up and her crowning glory? What was the likelihood she’d visited Copper Harbor’s one and only beautician that day?
And, if Cricket had had her hair cut, colored and styled, what was the likelihood she’d have shared her evening plans with the stylist?
I figured the odds at somewhere near a hundred to one.
* * *
I headed down to the kitchen, fed Larry and made a pot of coffee. If I’d hoped to run into Jace (I had) I was disappointed. Harry Dent, though wandered in, his thick hair ruffled, his tee shirt and sweatpants adorably rumbled. He grinned at me through the engaging stubble on his chin.
“Morning, Cupcake,” he surveyed me with sleep-heavy eyes. “That what passes for couture on the Keweenaw?”
“It’s what passes for clothing when there’s yellow tape sealing off your own closet.”
“Oh. Right. Where is, uh, everybody?”
Since he’d just left the room he shared with Serena Waterfall I figured he was talking about Jace. I shrugged.
“He went out early.” I told him my idea about the hair stylist.
“Smart,” he said, admiringly. “You’re turning into a real detective. Mind if I tag along?” He lowered his voice. “Just between you, me and the lamp post, I could use a change of scenery.”
There was no reason to refuse and Harry was always good company. Anyway, two heads were better than one, like Pops always said.
Ollie was out with the snow scoop attached to the front of his pickup and Tamarack Street, the main road between Calumet Street and the interstate, was already cleared. At Harry’s request I turned down Third Street and took it to Main to stop at the Gas-and-Go. He had returned to the car and handed me a big box of assorted doughnuts and a cup of to-go coffee when my cell phone rang.
“Hei Henrikki,” said Doc Lahtimaki. “I just got back from the Lunch Box. Vesta tells me your brother-in-law is free. It seems your husband talked to Sheriff Clump.”
So that’s where Jace had disappeared to this morning. I was amazed he’d been able to convince the stubborn sheriff to let Lars out of jail.
Harry taking the box of doughnuts out of my hand, lifted his eyebrows questioningly. I mouthed the word Doc.
“I thought you would want to know that. And there’s another thing. You know the letter, yah? I was studying it when Eeva came into the office to let me lick the batter bowl on her shortbread. She reads her Bible in Finnish, you know. When she looked at letter she noticed a phrase olla koira haudattuna. Literally translated it means, I think there is a dog buried in there.”
“I remember you mentioned a dog,” I said, although I couldn’t imagine how a canine dead for three-quarters of a century could figure into what we needed to know.
“Joo,” he said, using the Finnish word for yes. “In this case it does not refer to a real dog. It’s a figure of speech which means that something is hidden.”
My heartbeat kicked into a higher gear.
“Do you think it refers to the stolen painting?”
“That I do not know. He talks about a gift for Bengta and another for the bride and groom.”
“Doc, does the letter tell the names of the young couple?”
“Ei.” This time he used the Finnish word for no. “Just their initials. R.R.”
There it was again. The elusive initials. It seemed that, despite the idiom about the dog, they did not refer to a hiding place but to two individuals. R. and R. A couple.
My initial excitement morphed into frustration. I felt like the answer was right there in front of me, handed on a silver plate. All I had to do was figure it out.
More coffee. Harry kept up a stream o
f small talk as I drove up the two-lane highway to Copper Harbor on autopilot. Names and phrases that began with R. unraveled before me like words on a ticker tape. Rolls Royce. Reading Railroad. Round-Robin. Rural route. Rough-riders.
“Do you want the last pink-frosted doughnut?”
I realized, belatedly, he’d asked a question.
“I’m sorry, what?” Harry grinned at me.
“I was pretty sure you weren’t listening to me. It’s not like you to ignore an invitation for food.”
“Maybe later.” Teddy Roosevelt. Respiratory response. Rapid response. Rest and Relaxation. Raunchy rhinos?
“What are you hoping to learn from the hairdresser?”
Dang. Another question. I forced myself to listen.
“Her name’s Pat, right?”
“How do you know that?”
“Man, you sound so suspicious! I googled it while waiting for the doughnut order. There’s only one hairdresser in Copper Harbor. Pat’s Hair. Very utilitarian name.”
“Yoopers are practical,” I said.
“And excellent at snow removal. Just look at this highway. It’s a clean as a baby’s butt.”
I laughed at the lame joke and calmed down, which was, I suspected his intention.
“About Pat,” he reminded me. “Want me to sit in on the interview?”
“Let’s place it by ear.”
Chapter 32
Pat, like Nestor Hyppa, is one of the handful of tradespeople who stay open all winter. Everyone needs peanut butter and milk and most folks, occasionally, need a haircut.
The cross streets are extremely short in Copper Harbor. Pat’s Hair, the only structure on Fifth Street, is tucked between the Pit Stop, a convenience store/gas station/post office outlet that faces U.S.-41 and a bicycle rental shop that faces Bernard, an east-west residential street. I had no problem parallel parking in front of the tired-looking, two-story shingled, World War II vintage house, as there were no other vehicles on the street.
Did I mention that Copper Harbor all but closes down during the winter?
“There’s no sign to tell you it’s Pat’s or whether it’s open or closed.”
“You don’t need a sign. Everybody knows what it is and either they’ll answer the door or they won’t.”
He cocked an eyebrow at me.
“You know, Cupcake, I’m starting to understand you. You’re a real Yooper.”
The observation pleased me.
“A Yooper for life. Come in with me. It’s too cold to stay in the Jeep.”
My knock was answered, after a short delay, by a heavyset young woman in jeans and a sweatshirt. She wore her lank, dirty blond hair down around her shoulders and a sullen expression on her face. The sound of children squabbling in the background reminded me of our visit to Cloud down in L’Anse. On the surface, both young mothers were the same but poverty and relentless childcare hadn’t made the Indian woman discontented, while Pat (or more likely Pat’s daughter, I guessed) looked to be enduring a life of quiet desperation. Or, maybe she just hadn’t had her coffee yet. In any case, she didn’t smile.
“Whatever you’re selling,” she said, “I don’t want any.”
“I’m buying,” I said, acting on an inspiration I would regret. “I’m here for a haircut.”
Apparently she found that believable. She stepped aside and pointed the two fingers holding her cigarette toward a door.
“Just go on down.”
I wanted to make friends first.
“I’m Hatti Lehtinen. Are you Pat’s daughter?”
“Wanda.”
The undercurrent of quarreling got louder and two high piping voices shouted, “I hate you,” and “I hate you more.” Wanda closed her eyes.
“You know, Wanda,” I said, “my friend here, Harry, is an expert at card tricks. Think your kids would like to see some?”
“Okay.” She led the way into a shabby living room. A pair of four-year-olds seemed to be rolling around on the floor, attached to one another like a circus tumbling act.
“How did you know I could do card tricks,” Harry whispered, as Wanda pulled a battered-looking deck off the top of the television. I grinned at him.
“I think I’m getting to understand you, too.”
I left him there and headed down the steep, narrow stairs that led to the cellar which, like most of those in Northern Michigan, ran the length and width of the house. It was dank, composed of stone walls and a concrete floor. The half of the room that contained the washer and dryer, furnace and fruit cellar was separated from the business section by a quilt flung over a clothesline.
The hair salon consisted of a wash bowl and chair, another chair with an egg-shaped hairdryer attached and a plastic chest of drawers in between. Both chairs were occupied, one by a lean, woman with a year-round tan and deep wrinkles and a cap of short salt-and-pepper hair. The legs, in their brown polyester slacks were crossed and she wore a peach-colored sweatshirt that had seen better days. Apparently, she’d seen better days, too, because the shirt proclaimed: I’d rather be bowling.
Next to her, a large, smooth-skinned, pink and white woman sat under the hairdryer, which wasn’t turned on. Her hair color was indistinguishable because of the army of pink plastic rollers that marched across her skull. Her sweatshirt was pink, too, with a pink, rhinestone cat and the words, Pussy Galore. It was she who spoke.
“Good morning. I’m Ronnie Kikut. Kikut’s Real Estate,” she said. She pointed to her companion. “And this is the lady of the hour.” The hairdresser studied me with a critical expression on her face. She did not speak or stand or stub out her cigarette.
The anticipated cozy gossip session faded from my imagination. I was going to have to get a haircut. I said as much.
“Piece of advice,” Ronnie said, gaily, “don’t go for the wet cut. Pat’s dryer is on the blink. Your hair’ll turn into icicles.”
“Dry cut is fine,” I said and then told them my name and where I was from while Pat pushed herself up out of her chair and brandished a very worn-looking cape with a Hello Kitty logo.
“Whatcha doin’ way up here, hon?” Ronnie asked. “And why does your name sound familiar? Oh, wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute. I know who you are! You’re the gal that solved that St Lucy murder, aren’t you?” She squinted at me. “You here about the dead barmaid?”
There was no reason not to admit it. I nodded.
“I know Cricket had a big date on New Year’s Eve and I thought she might have come by to have her hair done. I thought she might have talked to you,” I looked at Pat, “about her plans for that night.”
Pat’s response wasn’t very encouraging.
“Nope,” she said. “You still wanna haircut?”
“Sure.”
I watched in the mirror as Pat attacked my hair. Within seconds she had it standing on end. I looked like the 1950s sunburst clock that Elli’s mom had had in her living room. Pat’s scissors snipped with quick efficiency.
“I heard that girl was kilt with a knittin’ needle,” Ronnie said, with unseemly enthusiasm. “And then somebody turned around and did the same to an old lady from Red Jacket. Betty Ann Pritula talked about it on the radio. I heard the killer was some guy from Red Jacket. Lars something.”
I knew I should keep my mouth shut but I couldn’t.
“Lars Teljo. He’s my brother-in-law and he didn’t kill Cricket or anybody else.”
“Cheated with her though, didn’t he?” Pat’s contribution to the conversation made me want to leap out of the chair and run out of the room.
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Ronnie said. “They found the girl at his cabin, didn’t they?”
I held onto my temper.
“He was set up.”
“Folks are sayin’ there was a secret baby,” Ronnie continued, “and that’s why he killed her.”
“Coulda been somebody else was the daddy,” Pat said.
“Was the weapon really a knitting needle,” Ron
nie asked. “Seems like you folks down in Red Jacket get all the excitement.”
It occurred to me that I could have stirred their interest even more with an account of Mrs. Paikkonen’s knitting needle death but I decided not to. They weren’t really ghouls. Murder was exciting when it had nothing to do with you or your loved ones.
A brush was raked through my hair and something highly aromatic sprayed on it. Pat whipped off the cape and handed me a small, oval face mirror. She’d managed to cut it evenly and I now looked kind of fuzzy, like the last stages of an expiring dandelion.
“Thanks,” I said, pulling my wallet out of a backpack. “What do I owe you?”
“Twelve bucks,” Ronnie said. I handed Pat a twenty.
“Keep the change.”
“I seen some gray hairs in there,” she said, as her fingers closed around the bill.
“Happy New Year, hon,” Ronnie said as I waved and headed for the stairs.
The main floor of the house was disturbingly quiet. I tiptoed into the kitchen where I found Wanda seated at a rickety kitchen table. She was having a cigarette and a cup of coffee.
“Where is everybody?”
“The baby’s down for a nap,” she said, taking my question literally. I hadn’t realized there was a baby. “Harry took the boys down to the market for Twizzlers. He’s awesome. Is he married?” I eyed her. I was pretty sure Wanda was younger than I.
“No. Not at the moment. He’s with a company of television folks shooting a pilot down in Red Jacket.”
She expelled a stream of smoke.
“I’m not surprised. He seems like somebody famous.” She squinted at me. “I see mom gave you a scalping.”
“It’ll grow back. Listen, do you know who Cricket Koski is?”
Wanda nodded.
“You ever talk to her?”
She shook her head. “I seen her around town a few times. Saw her get into a SUV once.”
My heart seemed to stop. Lars has a black SUV.
“Did you notice the color?”
Wanda shrugged. “Something dark. There was snow on it.”