The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies (19 page)

“Forty-five. I already told that to….” He inclined his head toward McIntire.

“Well, you know how it is, I like to make sure of things. Check for myself.” Koski gave a conspiratorial lift of his eyebrows. How could he be expected to entrust such things to a moronic township constable?

“Well, I said it before, and nothing's changed.”

The sheriff nodded and picked up a pencil, running it between his fingers, tapping its eraser on the desk. “I stopped in Thursday after supper, but you weren't here.”

“I only work until five.”

“That's good. Good to be home with the wife and kiddies.”

Nickerson shifted on the chair. The casual pose was possibly not so comfortable as he hoped it looked. “I guess. Sometimes I drop in at Ole's for a game of cribbage.”

“But not on Thursday.”

“Maybe not.” He squinted and rubbed at his chin. “No, nope, I don't remember.”

“It was the day your brother showed up. Your wife was looking for you, too.”

“That's right!” Nickerson slapped his thigh. “Can you believe it? Haven't seen the guy in about eight years, and he turns up—unannounced. Just passing through, he says. Can you believe it?”

“Belinda didn't seem to know where you were either. She sort of expected you to be at the pool hall.”

He winked. “Wives don't need to know everything.”

“I do.” Duty had apparently trumped filial sensibilities.

“Do what?”

“Need to know where you were Thursday night.” He dropped both the pencil and the amiable pretense.

“Okay. You caught me,” Nickerson admitted with a perfect self-effacing grin. “To tell the truth, I was hiding out.”

“From your brother.”

“You got it.” He shook his head. “Never could stand the guy. I saw his car heading my way when I was driving to Ole's, and I just kept right on going.”

“After eight years, you know what he drives?” McIntire butted in.

“It's a Jaguar. He sent pictures.” He shook his head again. “Snapshots. Of his
car
. Can you believe it?”

McIntire was having a hard time believing much of anything these days.

“So where were you? When you were hiding out?”

He looked for a moment like responding to McIntire's questions was beneath him, but then shrugged. “I just drove around. Here and there. Mostly there.”

“Where?”

“Far as I could get from Wally.”

Koski reached into his pocket and pulled out his paper wrapped stone. He placed it on the desk and slowly unfolded the paper. Nickerson showed no particular reaction that McIntire could detect. No unease, but also no overt curiosity to accompany his, “Whatcha got there?”

“You have any idea?”

“Not the foggiest. Should I?”

Koski left it on the desk. “You know anybody that only got one hand?”

That did get a small spate of blinking. “I don't think….Well, ya, there was Wylie Petworth, the poor shit. We used to have to special order for him.”

McIntire hadn't even thought about Wylie in connection with the hand. It wasn't his, of course; Wylie's arm had been removed in a hospital in Houghton almost forty years past. But it was only a year now—almost exactly—since he'd last seen Wylie, and it was odd that he hadn't come to mind. Of course, McIntire generally put a fair amount of effort into keeping thoughts of his old friend from coming to mind.

The door popped open and Sid Koski stuck his head in. “You done in here yet? We got customers to take care of sometime before the year's out.”

“We're done.” The sheriff nodded to Nickerson. “Sorry to take your time.”

Nickerson smiled his guilty little-boy grin. “S'all right. I never complain about getting a break.”

He closed the door behind him when he left, and Koski leaned back again, swivelling the chair, this time in a more convincing attitude. “That sonofabitch is lying through his teeth.”

“That sonofabitch had me fooled.”

Pete tossed the earspool in his hand. “He's seen it before.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Everybody I've shown it to has had the same idea of what it could be.”

Even head-in-the-clouds McIntire would have figured that it was some kind of weight. Only Bruno Nickerson claimed to be totally befuddled.

“Sitting there with that shit-eating grin! That guy's seen fish nets all his life. If he didn't think it was a weight, it's because he knows Goddamned well what it is.”

***

When he turned into the driveway, McIntire saw that the big maroon priest-mobile had usurped his parking spot in the shade. The good father himself sat on the steps, wreathed in delicate wisps of smoke. How did he manage to do that? Koski always resembled a puffing stream engine. It was Doucet's second visit in little more than a week. He didn't look as though someone had died this time.

He'd also usurped McIntire's dog. Kelpie, draped across his narrow thighs, barely looked in McIntire's direction. So much for man's best friend.

“Anything new?” he asked.

McIntire supposed Doucet referred to news on the murder front. Weren't priests supposed to be above snooping into the sordid side of life? Maybe not. In a way, it was their bread and butter. He supposed that in Doucet's case the interest transcended common gossip. “Nothing you don't already know,” he told him. “Matter of fact, you probably know more than any of us.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You're a priest. People confide in you. Confess to you even.” McIntire couldn't believe he had said it. Pete Koski would be so proud.

“They confess to God.” His smile was bemused, not to say condescending. “Nobody's mentioned homicide in my confessional.”

“I wasn't thinking…I only mean that Mary Frances Hofer trusts you. So do her children. You probably know more about that family than anyone.”

“I don't know who killed her husband.”

“Do you have a guess?”

“No.” It was unequivocal, and, cynical as he was, McIntire didn't suppose that priests indulged in outright lies. He commented, “There are those who think his family is better off without him.”

“No doubt there are. I'm not one of them.”

That was a shocker. Father Doucet had seemed almost smug in his
the Lord will provide
attitude on the day Reuben died, assuring him that the widow would be just dandy fine.

The priest flicked his cigarette into the grass. “A few more years with Reuben might be far better than a lifetime with his sister and her clan.”

“So you think she'll take them?”

“She'll try, and who's to stop her? If the kids are under age when their mother passes on, they'll have no choice in the matter, and once she gets her hands on them, they'll never get out.”

“Reuben did.”

“And look how he ended up!” The words were sharp enough to induce Kelpie to momentarily open both eyes; next thing to a shout. “Reuben Hofer was helpless as a newborn lamb when it came to real life. He wasn't ten minutes out of
Stalag
Prairie Oak before he got Mary Frances pregnant and ended up booted out, shunned, by that whole God-fearing bunch.”

“His sister seems capable, and she seems to have the best interests of the children at heart.”

“Jane Hofer seems to be the soul of kindness and self-sacrifice. In reality she's every bit the despot her brother was. It's her own interests she has in mind, and she wants those children.”

The battle lines were being drawn. Mia, Jane, and Adrien Doucet. A three way tug of war for the Hofer youngsters—bodies and souls.

“What did you find out about the…the things that were on the table?” Doucet changed the subject.

“Nothing that would tell us who might have put them there. As we assumed, the stone was an Indian artifact, a couple of thousand years old.”

“Nothing about the…?”

“Not so far, only that it doesn't seem to be that old.”

The hairs on the priest's forearms stood noticeably erect. He seemed overly squeamish for a man who'd probably seen much of life—and death. Maybe too much; his roots were in France, in Oradour-sur-Glane, a village whose inhabitants had died at the hands soldiers of the Waffen-SS.

“Adam Wall mentioned about your family, I'm sorry.” McIntire sat on the steps, just as the priest stood up, like one of those toys where you push down a peg and another pops up somewhere else.

“Thank you.” Doucet pulled out his cigarette pack and turned to go. “There aren't many left of us now, and, given the circumstances, when I'm gone, that will be the end of my family.”

That was true of McIntire, too, but he wasn't so despondent about it as Doucet appeared to be. Of course the McIntires hadn't been massacred by German soldiers.

Chapter Thirty-five

Sister brought them some clothes. She said that Sam and Jake had got new clothes for the funeral, so it was only fair for Claire and Joey to have some, too. Sister could be nice sometimes.

There were pants and shirts for Joey, but Sister didn't believe in girls wearing pants, so she brought Claire material for making dresses and blouses, lavender plaid and plain blue. Maybe when Sister went back home Claire would try to make some shorts. She wouldn't mind a cute dress, though. If she got to pick out the pattern herself it would be okay. If Sister picked, it would be another story.

She also got some underpants and anklets, and Sister said they would go to Chandler and buy shoes for when school started. “We don't want to do it right away,” she said. “It would be too bad if you outgrew them before you got a chance to wear them!” Did that mean she was planning on staying until school started?

Joey held his new jeans in his arms like they were a baby. “I need shoes for when I have my first communion.” Joey was excited about his first communion. He had the white suit from Montgomery Wards. Ma didn't tell Pa about ordering it, but he saw it when it came in the mail and was hopping mad. He carried on for hours about what a waste of money it was, but Ma put her foot down and wouldn't send it back.

Sister patted Joey's head, but she didn't say anything. She wasn't Catholic, and she probably didn't know about communion.

“We'll just make sure they're big enough to let you grow a size,” Ma said. She laughed in her throat. “Maybe that's what I should have done.”

Sometimes Ma's feet swelled up, more than just from being fat. So if she wanted to wear shoes, she couldn't get them on, even with Claire's help. She couldn't ever reach to put her shoes on by herself.

All the time they were talking, Sister was snooping around like she lost something. Peeking into corners, opening up cupboards and shutting them again without taking anything out. Looking for dirt. Well, let her look. She'd be so disappointed!

Sister was bossy and a martyr, but it felt better now that she was there. Safer. Even Sam and Jake weren't such smart alecs when she was around. But then she hardly ever went outside, so they didn't have to put up with her sticking her nose in their business.

The ketchup was almost gone. Claire poured a few drops of water in the bottle and shook it up. She hated watery ketchup, but the boys would eat darn near anything. Then she went to the cellar for the pan of cottage cheese, and they all sat down. They had a big bowl of summer squash, which Claire also hated, and the last of Mia Thorsen's bread. Claire didn't like to admit it, but Mrs. Thorsen's bread was the best she ever tasted. Maybe sometime she would get the chance to watch how she did it.

Claire put a scoop of cottage cheese on her plate and squished it flat with her fork, like it was potatoes. She sprinkled it with salt and a lot of pepper.

Sister took a bite of her squash. Then she put some salt on it, and added another shake to the squash in the bowl. “Is there any news?” she asked.

Claire just kept eating while Ma told about the burglar and all the rest of it. The boys' mouths practically hung open. Jake said, “You hid in the haymow? All night?”

“I had to,” Claire said. “If the burglar found me, he probably would have killed me.”

“Did he steal anything?”

“No.” She did it again. Lied. “He didn't take anything. He just wrecked the place, and kicked Spike and hurt his leg and locked him in the closet.”

“Good lord!” Maybe Mia Thorsen hadn't told Ma about Spike's leg.

Sister made a “tsk” sound, and Jake said, “Now, now, Mater, you shouldn't be taking the Lord's name in vain.”

Ma said. “How do you know I didn't mean Lord Henry Brinthrope?”

They didn't have radios at Prairie Oak, so Sister didn't get the joke.

Sam talked with bread in his mouth. “I wish I'd been here.”

“Why?” It was okay now that it was over, but it wasn't a night Claire'd want to have again.

He stuck out his chin. “I'd have taken care of them.”

Jake choked and milk came out his nose. “You and whose army?”

They were jealous was all.

Jake stood up and gave Sam a poke. “Come on, Superman. We have to go cut the hay.”

They didn't make it to the door before there was a knock on it, and they all went still. Sister tip-toed to the window and peeked out. She shook her head; no car. The knock came again, and then the door into the porch opened. “Anybody home?” It was the sheriff.

Sister opened the door and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Koski. Please come in. We didn't hear you drive up.”

He had to duck to make it through the door. “I walked. Left my car in the field.” He gave his head a twitch toward the place where Pa was killed, like he didn't want to say
which
field out loud.

Ma said hello, and wasn't it a nice day, not so hot as before, thank the Lord for small favors. Then she started picking up the dishes that she could reach, stacking the plates in front of her. Sister went on, “Please sit down. The children were just on their way out.”

“I'd like them to stay for a minute. I've got something I want you all to see.” Sheriff Koski shoved Jake and Sam's plates out of his way, and Sister grabbed them up. Then he took a package of folded-up paper from his pocket. “Have any of you ever seen this before?” He put the package on the table and opened it.

Claire felt her heart jump. “That's mine!” She snatched up the wheel. Her special magic charm with the hole in it. What was he doing with it?

Things were very quiet for a minute, then Ma coughed and leaned toward her. “Come here. Let me see.”

Claire walked around the table and opened her hand.

“Are you sure it's yours? Where did you get it?”

The wheel lay in her hand. Something was wrong; she could feel her own charm rubbing against her chest. “No,” Claire had to say. “It's not mine.” It was different. Almost the same but not quite. This rock was a different color and it had some lines cut in it. “I made a mistake. I used to have a rock like this, but it wasn't this one.”

“You used to? Where is it now?”

“I don't know.” Her heart thumped against the lucky wheel, and her face felt hot. “I haven't seen it for a while. I guess it's lost.”

“Where did you get the one you had?” The sheriff looked hard at her.

Clare tried to stare back. “I found it. Back in Iowa. It wasn't exactly all that much like this one, now that I see it up close.”

Sheriff Koski took the rock from her and put it back on the table. “Have any of you seen anything like this? Any idea of what it might be?”

Sam spoke up. “It's a weight of some sort, like on the fly nets Grandpa used to have for his horses.”

“Have you seen one before?”

“No,” Sam told him. “No, I guess not.”

No one else said a thing, and the sheriff asked, “Do you know anybody who collects Indian things? Did Mr. Hofer have anything like this?”

“Is that what this is?” Ma poked at the stone. “An Indian thing?”

“Ya. From a couple of thousand years ago.”

Did that mean that Claire's charm was an old Indian thing, too? Two thousand years old? That was why Pa said to not lose it. Maybe she
was
kidnapped from a tribe. She scrunched her shoulders in case they saw the lump under her blouse. “It could be it belongs to Mia Thorsen,” she said. She knew it didn't, but it might make them forget about her. And about Pa.

“Why?”

“Mia Thorsen is an Indian, you know.”

The sheriff looked like he thought she was lying again. “I don't think this is hers,” he said. “And it doesn't belong to any of you?” He looked at Sam and Jake.

They shook their heads.

“Okay, you can all run along then. I want to talk to your mother.”

For once Claire was happy to run along.