The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies (12 page)

Chapter Twenty

Exhausted as McIntire was, his brain refused to turn off. Someone had sneaked up behind Reuben Hofer—not difficult to do with the noise of the tractor—and let him have it. Someone had ransacked his house. Not necessarily the same person, but there was a relatively good chance that it was. There was an even better chance that the culprit was not a brand new enemy. It was absolutely not credible that Reuben could have incited homicide so quickly. Members of his family had all been spoken for when the place was searched, and wouldn't have had to break in and rip the house apart anyway. Two people had turned up who'd known Hofer from his not-so-good old days. Three, counting Gary Cooper, and there was sure to be plenty more; according to Nickerson, there'd been upwards of a hundred men in that camp. Reuben had gotten around some on his “days off,” as evidenced by his friendship—if that's what it was—with Wanda Greely.

How difficult would it be to get hold of people who knew Reuben from the camp and ask what they were doing after dinner last night? Easy enough to find out who, among those who'd worked at the camp as cooks or supervisors or guards, were still around. A damn sight trickier to track down former inmates and people Hofer had met in town, but worth a shot. McIntire would suggest it to Pete Koski.

The intruder was taking a definite risk that he might be seen; the Black Creek schoolhouse was less than twenty yards off the road. Not a very busy road, to be sure, but there was a damn sight more activity on it now than there had been before the murder. And no one would be passing by without giving the place a thorough looking over. Even parked alongside the house, the car would have been partially visible from the road, and the obvious attempt to conceal it might arouse suspicion. Unless it was someone whose presence wouldn't be considered odd. A neighbor bringing condolences and a casserole, or a regular visitor? The Hofers had no social life so far as McIntire knew, and Mary Frances had said as much. Outside of the priest and possibly Mark Guibard, no one went to their house.

The storm had dropped the temperature in McIntire's kitchen by about thirty-five degrees, but the second floor still felt like a potter's kiln. He opened every window that wasn't stuck tight with paint or humidity and went back downstairs to move the bubbling pot of coffee off the burner. He'd already had way too much coffee at Mia's, but nothing was going to keep him awake for long.

He took Leonie's letter from under the butter dish and flipped open the tablet of writing paper next to it. He'd never written to Leonie before this summer. Since they met, this was their first time apart. He'd use the fountain pen.

He'd never written any sort of romantic letter before. Neither had Leonie, at least not to him. Her letter began “Dear John,” which gave a brief twinge, and ended with all her love. In between, she asked after the horses and her garden, and said she missed him, but only indulged in passionate detail when discussing her grandchildren, of which there appeared to be a fourth whose entry into the world had escaped McIntire's notice.

Leonie had gone away with a pile of unanswered questions hanging over their heads, and the fear that she might not come back lurked in the back of McIntire's mind. Maybe he had no need to worry; besides himself, she'd left behind a new car and those two beloved quarter-horses.

If he searched deep, he'd have to admit that a small part of him had looked forward to being on his own again. Not that he was given to looking back on his nearly half century of bachelorhood with fondness, but the prospect of a few weeks having to answer to no one couldn't be all bad. As it turned out, while not exactly bad, there hadn't been much good about it, so far. Leaving the dishes in the sink only meant there was an ugly mess to look at, and they were that much harder to get clean when he finally got to it. At least she'd left in the middle of a heat wave; he didn't need her to keep him warm at night. Maybe that had been in her mind. She'd said she planned the trip for the summer because she'd have more reason to return, or less reason not to.

The biggest disappointment was the realization that it was Leonie who made them a part of life in this community—
his
home. Without her, the phone didn't ring, invitations didn't come, and no one dropped by, except, of course, to let him know about the latest murder.

He'd have to tell her about Reuben Hofer, if someone else hadn't already done it. He was not her only correspondent in St. Adele.

McIntire pulled the paper closer and nibbled the end of the pen.

He would be the last person to say that murder didn't happen in places like St. Adele. Murder happened everywhere, and there had always been sufficient crime in this idyllic hamlet to satisfy the sheriff and the state police. But burglary, now that was one thing that
didn't
happen in places like this. People here didn't enter other people's houses and tear them apart, looking for something or not. Pete Koski had said he'd never heard of a burglary in St. Adele.

On reflection, the mess in Hofer's house didn't appear to be the work of someone only searching. There was malice in the ruined foods and slashed upholstery. A floor fouled with syrup and rice wasn't the work of some opportunist burglar looking for whatever he could find. Whoever had ransacked Reuben Hofer's house must have been acquainted with him or some member of his family and hated him enough to want to cause his family pain, maybe enough to kill Reuben himself. If Reuben was murdered by someone who despised him, simply because they despised him, ripping up his home afterwards must have been anti-climactic, not to mention carrying an incredible risk of calling attention to himself. Was it some lunatic who had it in for the whole family?

If it wasn't a random burglar or a frenzied psychotic, had the intruder been a crafty thief looking for something specific? Who knew the Hofers well enough to know, or think, that they had something of value hidden away? Who knew them well enough to want to make a rubbish heap of their house? Outside of Reuben's own family—and that was out—the most likely candidates were those he might possibly have offended when he was in Gibb's Bay. The COs wouldn't have been the most popular folks around. Surely Reuben wouldn't have been welcomed at Karvonen's Store if they'd been aware of his background. There could be any number of people who
were
aware. So far they knew of two. Add—according to Claire—those driving dark colored cars. Not much to go on.

The paper was still blank. This letter might be best composed by a brain that was awake. Maybe the bedroom had cooled down. McIntire staggered from the chair to the bottom of the stairs. Mount Everest. The living room sofa beckoned.

Chapter Twenty-one

The ride in Pete Koski's Power Wagon was undoubtedly the most excitement that Joey Hofer had ever experienced. His eyes glowed like Christmas bulbs over flushed cheeks as he gripped the edge of the seat with both hands and gazed alternately out the window and down at the German shepherd under his feet.

His sister didn't show quite the same reaction. Claire's face—her entire body—was a mixture of fear, sadness, and resolution, overlaid with resentment over the presence of that massive dog, which necessitated the leaving of her pup in the dubious care of Nick.

A state police car was waiting in the drive, and a uniformed officer sat on the front steps. His ears stuck out at least two inches beyond his hat. He nodded when Pete Koski asked him if he'd finished taking prints and gave a huff when the sheriff said he could leave, but didn't protest.

They started in the kitchen. It was far worse than Mia had anticipated. John figured that the burglar might have been looking for something in particular. In a bag of flour? A bottle of syrup? It looked more like meanness, pure and simple. But then who knew where the Hofers might have hidden the family heirlooms, if they had any?

Mia sat near the table with Joey standing between her knees. Pete Koski leaned against the door jamb, arms folded across his ample chest, while Claire sifted through the room with a thoroughness that would have put Sherlock Holmes to shame. She picked up knives, forks, and egg beaters and returned each one to its proper spot. She scrutinized every re-filled drawer and cabinet. After each, she shook her head and spoke brightly, “Nope, everything is here.”

Koski shifted from one foot to the other, and from one side of the door to the other, but didn't interfere. Why didn't he stop her? Tell her to get a move on? It was hardly likely that the burglar had been on the hunt for a second-hand can opener. They could put the stuff away later.

Joey snatched a cereal box from the table and gave it a triumphant shake. “Somebody ate all the Cheerios!”

“It was me.” Clair squatted and began plucking toothpicks from the linoleum.

Koski coughed. “Do your parents keep money anywhere in the house?”

“In my mother's purse. She's got it with her.” She popped the toothpicks one at a time into a jelly glass.

Koski touched her shoulder. “You can leave that for now. Let's have a look at the rest of the house.”

The child paled, and Mia stood up.

“Maybe you can stay here with the young man.”

Mia nodded. It was not as if he was giving her a real choice.

Claire disappeared into the living room. Koski's broad figure blocked Mia's view through the doorway.

“Have a seat.” Mia pulled out a chair, onto which Joey obediently hoisted his thin backside. “Who made this mess?” he asked.

“We don't know.” There was no way to protect the boy. After having his father murdered, burglary was small potatoes, anyway. “Somebody came in last night.”

“Who?”

“We don't know.”

“Did they steal things?” He rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hand.

“We don't know that either. That's why Sheriff Koski wants your sister to look around. So she can try to see if there's anything that used to be here but is gone now.”

“Ma's gonna be mad.”

“We can get it cleaned up before she comes home.” The fuzzy head bobbed, and Mia went on, “So how do you like living here?” It was an inane question, but beat, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

His inquisitive demeanor faded to guarded, and he gave the usual child's non-commital, “It's okay.”

“There's nobody around for you to play with.”

He nodded again.

“School will start before you know it. Then you'll have some playmates.”

“I hate school.” That was unequivocal.

Mia had hated school, too. She admitted as much.

Recovering from his initial astonishment, he asked tentatively, “What part did you hate the most?”

It didn't take any thought at all. “Having to go whether I wanted to or not and having to stay indoors.”

“I hate being the littlest.”

“I hated being the biggest,” Mia remembered. She still hated it sometimes.

“Did the other kids like you?”

Mia shook her head. “No. Not really. Mostly only one other kid liked me.” She stopped herself on the brink of saying she was sure they'd like Joey. With a murdered father and a mother the sort people buy tickets to see, she was positive that, if his family stayed in St. Adele, school for Joey Hofer would be hell.

“Father Doucet likes me. He's going to teach me how to play the fiddle.”

“That should be fun. Does he come to see you often?”

“Every Thursday to teach me my catechism. About God and praying and sin and that stuff.”

“Sin?”

“That's for when I'm more grown up. Sometimes he comes on other days, too, because Ma can't go to church, so us kids don't go either.” Once he got going, Joey could be a chatty little guy. “We used to go. When we were in Iowa, Grandpa took us. Jake could take us now if Pa'd…. Maybe we'll have to go now.”

Until that “have to” Mia was beginning to wonder if Joey Hofer might be a forty year old religious fanatic midget. “Father Doucet comes to see Nick, now and then, too,” she told him. She didn't add that Father didn't exactly get a rousing welcome from her husband.

“Can't Nick go to church?”

“No.” Not that he'd gone when he was healthy. “Nick is sick. You probably saw that he can't always walk very well, and sometimes he shakes. He has what's called Parkinson's Disease.”

“Ma's sick, too. She's got
compelcations
.”

Where on earth had he gotten that word? An apt one. Mrs. Hofer had a serious case of compelcations if anybody did.

Mia wasn't sure if she should say anything to Joey about his father. How did one express condolences to an eight year old? “It's very sad about your father,” was the best she could do.

His ears reddened and he studied the empty cereal box. A shadow crossed over his face as the sheriff blocked the light from the tall schoolroom windows.

“That's it then,” he was saying. “Thank you very much, Miss Hofer. Your carriage awaits.”

“It's okay,” Mia told him. “We can walk back.” Joey looked like a hand had wiped down his face, pulling his features with it. She relented. “You two go ahead.
I'll
walk back.”

“I think this should be straightened up before my mother gets home.” Claire's soft words were timid, but the hands on hips stance was adamant.

Mia looked to the sheriff.

“Go ahead. There's nothing more we can do with it.”

Chapter Twenty-two

The thunderous pounding ceased, and McIntire let his head sink back into the cushion. Too soon. The kitchen door creaked open, and footsteps that could only belong to Sheriff Pete Koski clomped across the floor.

“Mac! You still alive?”

“No.”

The scrape of chair feet on the floor was followed by the thud of Koski's bottom hitting the seat. McIntire opened one eye enough to make out the sheriff's splayed knees. He rolled onto his back. “Go away.”

“The kid didn't figure anything was missing.”

McIntire heard himself say, “If it was something small and possibly valuable, like, for instance, money, she might not have known about it.” He wasn't sure if he was awake or just an exceptionally lucid sleep-talker.

“Maybe not.” The chair groaned, a lighter zipped, and the air was filled with a waft of cigarette smoke. “We found the bullet.”

McIntire opened both eyes and fumbled for his glasses.

“A slug from a twenty gauge.”

“Where?”

“In the field. Right about in the middle.”

“You sure it's the one?” There was that deer stand, and a shotgun slug would lay there for a long time.

“It's the one went through Reuben Hofer's brain. No doubt about that.”

Not a rifle, but a smallish shotgun. “Close range then?”

“Most likely. Well, put it this way, if it was an accident, it could have come from a ways away, and it would still have had enough power to kill him. But the accuracy over any distance at all wouldn't be shit. So if Reuben was deliberately shot, the killer would have had to be pretty close to be reasonably sure of hitting him where it would do the most good, or bad. We haven't found any shell casings, but that ain't surprising. They'd be taken away.”

“Or tossed in the river.”

“Speaking of which,” Koski's eyes bored into McIntire's, “we also found a fish trap.”

“Don't look at me!”

“No, I didn't figure you'd turned to a life of crime the minute your wife turns her back, but somebody has, so keep your eyes peeled.”

McIntire assured the sheriff that he'd do just that. He leaned back against the sofa's arm. “Well, you've narrowed things down at least a little.”

“Damn little.”

“Can't you sometimes tell if a bullet came from a specific gun?”

The sheriff's characteristic response to McIntire's naivete was a disparaging humph. This time he laughed out loud. “You been reading again, haven't you? Listening to those radio detectives? What we found is a lump of lead that came from a smooth barreled shotgun and got severely squashed up on a trip through Reuben Hofer's skull. We're reasonably sure of its size and that's it. Twenty gauge shotguns are a dime a dozen. Anybody who didn't have his own wouldn't have had much trouble getting hold of one for an hour or so.”

“Did Hofer have his own?”

“What are you thinking? The little woman concealed herself behind a popple tree and let him have it with both barrels? Nah, Hofer didn't have any guns. He was dead set against violence.”

“He wasn't always such a stickler,” McIntire told him, “even in the cause of peace.”

“So I've heard.”

“Might not hurt to round up some of his compadres from the bad old days.”

“Question is, where do you start. You can't just go knocking on doors.”

McIntire swung his feet to the floor and sat up. “Sure you can. It would only take a few doors. Reuben is a celebrity now. Once the word gets out that you're looking, anybody who knew him when he was a good-for-nothing Conchie will be falling all over himself to brag about it.”

“Unless they killed him.”

“Maybe. But those who admit to knowing him might also have an idea of who else he hung around with.”

“Could be. You might wanna give it a try.”

“Not me. This is your job.”

“I need to get over to the hospital to see the widow. You could at least go talk to the lovely Wanda. Find out how she got acquainted with Hofer and who else was in that bunch.”

Did Koski know something McIntire didn't? He asked, “What bunch would that be?”

The sheriff shrugged. “There was some talk that Wanda had a small side business going.”

“A ‘bunch' side business?”

“No, not that! Get your mind out of the gutter. It was cards. Poker in the back room, or upstairs, maybe.”

“And you didn't put a stop to it?”

He shrugged again. “I didn't get no complaints. It was probably just gossip. But you could go see her.”

McIntire said, “I'll think about it.” To be perverse, he didn't mention that, according to Gary Cooper, Reuben had the reputation of being something of a card shark.

He was glad he hadn't when Koski responded, “What the hell else you got to do?”

McIntire would have liked to ask if the sheriff thought he just sat on his ass all day, but knew what the answer to that would be. He stood up quickly. Too quickly, all his blood was obviously in his feet. He gripped the back of the davenport.

Koski remained sitting. “What do you know about that priest?”

What did anybody ever know about a priest? “Not a hell of a lot. Why?”

“You sure he really
is
one?”

“Oh, I'd say so. It doesn't seem to be the sort of life anybody would choose to live under false pretenses.”

“He doesn't act very priestish.”

“That's only on the outside,” McIntire said. “He just wants to lure you into thinking he's a regular guy. Then when you least expect it, wham! He's got you by the…soul.”

“I don't think he wants me.”

“He wants me.”

“Ain't you the lucky one?” The sheriff stared up into his smoke rings. “He seems to have got pretty chummy with Mrs. Hofer in the short time they've been here.”

“He has to. Visiting the sick, comforting the poor…” or was it vice versa? “It's his job.”

“I guess it is.” Koski stretched his legs and drummed his fingers on his thighs. “She might have told him things that we ought to know.”

“And you think he'd pass it on to you? Good lord, Pete, sometimes you are every damn bit as dumb as you look!”

The sheriff was unperturbed. “I don't mean things he heard in confession or anything like that. Just normal, everyday stuff. We got a dead guy here, after all.”

“Go ahead and ask him. I don't think you'll get very far.”

“I plan to.” He stood up with a grunt. “I'll be on my way and let you get over to Benton.”

“I didn't say I was going.”

Koski didn't seem bothered by that, either. After asking, “Got a pan I can run a little water for the dog in?” he walked off, taking with him his aggravating assumption that his orders would be followed.

McIntire might go to Benton eventually, if he happened to feel up to it; the card playing factor sounded promising. But right now he had other plans.

There was something about Hofer—or Hofer as reported—that McIntire didn't quite believe. Reuben had been raised in a strict religious farming community; left as a young man; got involved with a Catholic girl to the point of marriage and pregnancy—probably not in that order; turned into a hell-raiser for a cause he believed in; spent time incarcerated; got out and went back to his roots. That all sounded perfectly reasonable, even predictable. But the man who ruled his family with that proverbial iron fist, and presented that accusing face to the world, was impossible to reconcile with the one who spent his Sunday evenings boozing it up and playing cards, maybe in the back room of Wanda's Cut ‘n Curl. Although looking into those icicle eyes over a poker hand might well have inspired retreat in the most confident of opponents.

Reuben Hofer had been killed by someone who hated his guts. McIntire could see it no other way. That sort of loathing didn't come about overnight. It didn't come about in two months. The person who'd sent a shotgun slug into Hofer's head must have known him for a long time, and that narrowed things down a whole hell of a lot. One person had already admitted to hating the son-of-a-bitch. It was a horrifying thought, but wouldn't be the first case of patricide the world had seen.

McIntire let the coffee stay cold for once and went outdoors. The suffocating heat was gone, and the sky was scattered with puffy clouds that really did look like the stereotypical flocks of sheep. They were mirrored in a drift of white along the garden fence; the rain had tempted Leonie's roses from their buds at last. He'd send her a picture. Maybe it would make her homesick. But this wasn't her home, and homesickness was the reason she'd left. Suddenly he missed her terribly.

***

When he pulled into the Black Creek School drive, he could see that the front door, behind the screen, was open, signaling that the house was not empty. As he left the car, Mia Thorsen stepped out onto the concrete porch. She walked toward him, chary as the child she'd become so enamored of.

“John, what brings you back? It's not Mary Frances—?”

“No. Just making sure everything is okay. I didn't figure you to still be here.”

“We stayed to clean up the worst of the mess.” She brushed at the front of her blouse. “Or transfer most of it to me.”

“Would that all our messes were so easily handled.”

McIntire felt that it was positively profound, but Mia only gasped, “Easy? Put your muscles where your mouth is. I'm sure we can scare up a bucket and a spare mop.”

“Maybe later. How're the kids doing?”

“As well as can be expected, as they say. They still seem to not know what's hit them, which may not be such a bad thing. I expect Mary Frances will be home tomorrow or Sunday.”

“What about the older boys? Any idea when they'll get back?”

She shook her head, and McIntire said, “I'd like to talk to the girl.”

“She's scared stiff of you.”

“I know.” McIntire admitted. “I can't think why.”

“Maybe she's leery of all men, thinks you're all like her father, possibly. Or maybe it's just your standoffish attitude.”

“I suppose I could make an ass of myself buttering her up like Pete Koski. She's not scared of him.”

“That's for sure! I think she has quite the crush on our handsome sheriff.”

“Kind of old for her, ain't he?”

“When everybody's too old for you, it's beside the point. If you can behave yourself, I'll get her to come outside.”

That was a good idea. He might look smaller sitting on the steps, less intimidating.

Obviously he didn't. The girl sidled out the door and stood rigid, clutching the handle, poised to flee. The dog was not in evidence. Mia lingered just inside the door.

“Hello, Claire,” McIntire began. “How's the cleaning going?” What a start. He was just plain boring, that was it. No wonder she preferred Koski.

“Fine.”

“Mrs. Thorsen says your mother might be home tomorrow.”

Claire nodded.

Her hair was braided. He could try saying something about how pretty it was. But there was no getting around that he wasn't Pete Koski, and it didn't look all that pretty. One pigtail was about twice the size of the other. He settled for, “What about your brothers? Will they be home tomorrow, too?”

“I don't know. Could be.”

“That burglar probably thought nobody was home. He wouldn't have broken in if your brothers or your mother were here.”

She stared and rubbed at her breast bone under her dress. There should be some tricky way of extracting information from a kid, but, in addition to flattery, McIntire also wasn't good with either subterfuge or kids. “Claire, if it happened again—” great, throw a good scare into her! He plunged ahead. “In an emergency, would your brothers know how to use a gun?” A sharp intake of breath came from the other side of the screen.

The thin cheeks reddened. “Our father wouldn't let us have a gun.”

McIntire could think of no way to follow that without a further reminder that her father had just been killed by a gun. When he stood up, she shrank back against the door. Was he really that terrifying?

“Thank you for your time,” He said and started to make his escape. Not quick enough. Mia caught him before he'd reached the bottom of the steps. She pulled him to the side.

“What the devil was that all about?” Mia could put a lot of shout into a whisper.

“They might need some protection, and maybe some food this winter. I was just wondering if either of those boys knew anything about handling a rifle.”

“Baloney!” That was definitely no whisper. She lowered her voice again. “Are you actually thinking that one of those boys killed his own father?”

“We have to look at every possibility, and that is possible. They hated him. At least one of them did.”

“You hated your father. Would you ever for a minute have considered shooting him?”

It was an intriguing question. McIntire hadn't thought about it before. He pushed back his hat to scratch his forehead. “I suppose I wouldn't have gone so far as to plot it, but there were definitely times that if I'd had a shotgun in my hands, who knows what I might have done?”

“Well, those boys didn't have a shotgun. And even if they had…. It's simply not possible!”

“I hope you're right,” he said, “but if you're not, those younger kids are going to need some looking after.” When McIntire saw the hunger in her eyes, he'd have given anything to take the words back.

He walked past the barnyard and up toward the field where the boys had been tending their spuds. It was a good sized patch, six or seven acres. Hofer must have intended to sell most of the crop. It was a lot for two boys to take care of by hand, but so far it looked good. The hilling was complete, every plant neatly banked with soil, and not a weed in sight.