The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies (21 page)

Mia handled her adversities well. McIntire wasn't sure how she'd deal with good fortune, if it ever came her way. Would she recognize it if she saw it?

“Well, if you can direct me to him, I'll get Nick out of your hair for a while right now.”

“He's inside, working on the radio.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“There wasn't a darn thing wrong with it, until Nick decided it needed fixing. Now I imagine it's a lost cause.”

Nick was at the table in the seldom-used dining room, his nose about six inches from a line-up of tubes and screws. His hand shook as he attempted to poke a wire through something in the guts of the radio. “I think the damn thing's shot.”

The damn thing was almost certainly shot. “Good excuse to get a new one.” McIntire took a chair. “I'd help you out if I could.”

Nick put his hands in his lap. “What's new?”

“Not a hell of a lot, unfortunately. Maybe
you
can help me out.”

“Long as your radio don't need fixing.”

“Who's lived in the old schoolhouse before Hofers? I know he bought it from Maki, but I don't suppose he and Grace ever lived there.”

McIntire leaned forward to catch Nick's words as they bubbled out, soft, rapid, monotone.

“Matter of fact, they did, for a while. Mike bought the school and the land it stood on when he wasn't much more than a kid. It was only a couple of acres, but it was joined up to his old man's farm. He built that midget barn, and the hen house, too, I suppose. When he got married, him and Grace lived there for a few years until Sumo died, then they moved back to the old place with Mike's Ma and rented the school out.”

“To who? Whom?”

Nick ran his fingers through his enviably thick hair. “There was a young couple with a baby. Some kinda Bohunk name, I forget. He worked for the REA when they put the highline in. They pulled out when it was done. It was for a couple years, and then Hector Monson moved in.”

“The old trapper?”

“Trapping, ya. And trying to learn taxidermy. He was taking a correspondence course. But he wasn't old. I don't think he was forty yet.”

“I thought he died?”

“Electrocuted. Looked like he was trying to stick a mousetrap in the attic wall and touched the wrong wires. Threw a scare into Mike. He figured if Hector'd had any relatives, he'd have got the shit sued out of him. So he decided to retire from the landlord business. Got the wiring fixed and sold the place, along with about twenty acres.”

“That's all Hofer had? Twenty?”

“He was farming the rest on shares. Mike's had to cut back. He ain't been the same since he took that nose-dive off the roof, and with Ross in Korea….”

So that's where the badger had come from. “You say Monson didn't have any relatives?”

“None they could locate.”

“So his personal stuff, was it just left in the house?” His personal shotguns, for instance?

“Some of it. He owed money here and there. His car, traps, anything worth selling, the county auctioned.”

“That would include guns, I take it?”

“I see what you're getting at. It would include guns. But Koski knows that. It was only a couple of years ago. He'd have handled the auction.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

“What did Wicked Wanda have to say?” If Koski had made the trip all the way to McIntire's house just to find that out, he was going to be disappointed.

“She said it looked like a curtain weight.”

“I rest my case. Nickerson's full of shit. Did she mention how she knew Hofer died with a beard on?”

“I didn't bother to ask.” Truth be known, he hadn't thought to ask, but Koski was right, anyway. She'd just say she'd learned about it through beauty shop gossip. “What about you?” McIntire asked. “Heard anything about the hand yet?”

“Not a peep. And they're taking their damn sweet time with it. Last I heard they sent it off to the university.”

Carlson had seemed to think that dating the bones wouldn't be much of a trick, and what more could they do? Bring in a clairvoyant to conjure up their owner? McIntire said, “I can see Bruno and Wanda in cahoots with Hofer on making off with some valuable souvenirs, but I can't see them chopping somebody's hand off.”

“Or shooting their partner in the head?”

“Especially if he's the only one knows where the loot is stashed.”

“They're just ain't anybody else.” Koski said. He plucked a soiled dishtowel off a chair and sat down.

“There are two young men who hated his guts.”

“Shit.”

“For Christ's sake, Pete, get your head out of the sand! They had motive, they had opportunity, and they might damn well have had the means. There was a trail straight through that oat field. They were less than a half mile from where Papa ended up dead, but they still claimed not to have heard a shot.” That was curious. Even if they'd done it, they'd have no reason to lie about hearing the gunshot. Better to lie about
when
they heard, if that would give them an alibi. Of course Sam had made that vague statement about a car backfiring.

“They killed him just because he made them work hard? With him gone, they'd have twice as much work piled on them. What good would it do?”

“They'd have done it because they hated him, not because they're a pair of do-gooders. They're kids. They're dumb.”

“What about the weapon?”

“We don't know they didn't have a gun.”

“They all tell the same story, even the girl.”

“Right,” McIntire said. “They sure do, same old song and dance. ‘Pa was a pacifist. Pa didn't believe in guns.' None of them have come right out and said they don't have one.” There was still a member of the family they hadn't asked. “What about the little guy?”

“What about him?”

“Nobody's talked to him,” McIntire pointed out. “He might be too young to lie.”

“I ain't sure they're ever too young. But unless he tells us where it is now, what good would it do? We can't haul him into court to testify against the rest of the family.”

“We could get a warrant, search the place.”

“I went through the place with the girl, remember. There is no gun in that house, unless it's damn well hid.”

“There wouldn't be, would there? They wouldn't keep it around.” They should have had that warrant in their hands the day Reuben Hofer died. McIntire knew that, and Koski surely did, too. But they wouldn't have found anything then, either. “If those boys shot their father, they'd have got rid of the gun. The question is how and where.”

“They were digging in a potato patch at the time.” Koski raised his eyebrows.

“Nothing doing! We can't plow up their potatoes, or their oats, or anything else.”

“Gopher Hansen's got a metal detector. War surplus.”

It sounded like a good idea to McIntire. If the kids had planted a shotgun along with the potatoes, they'd find it without doing too much damage. There was another aspect to things, and he couldn't very well ignore it. “Pete, when Wanda Greely ran those card games which may or may not have been just gossip, was Mr. Greely involved?”

“She might not have been married then.”

“Okay, did the future Mr. Greely take part in the socializing?”

“Beats me. Why?”

“Have you seen Little Greely Junior?”

“Their kid? Not to notice. Should I?”

“You don't need to bother. You just have to take a gander at Little Hofer Junior.”

“What are you trying to say? Is this your evil mind at work again?”

“It doesn't take a mind anywhere near as evil as mine to figure out that Hofer was playing more than five card stud with Wanda.”

“Why the hell didn't you tell me this before? Finally! Somebody with a motive!”

“What motive?”

Koski stared. “Hofer was fiddling with Greely's wife and you ask me what motive?'”

“I thought you said she wasn't married then.”

“I said
maybe
she wasn't. But maybe she was, and I intend to find out. Even if she was single, she sure as hell must have been married by the time the little tyke was born. Greely probably didn't even know the kid wasn't his.” His brows drew together in a cartoon-like parody of shrewdness. “Until maybe he ran into Reuben Hofer and his boys in town.”

“In that case wouldn't he have more of a quibble with the little woman?”

Koski turned to the door. “Maybe she'll be next.”

Chapter Forty

Claire Hofer was stretched on her toes, hanging out washing, and Mia was cheered to be greeted with a spontaneous smile, the first she'd seen the child direct at anybody save the charming Pete Koski. She might as well enjoy it. Once she'd commandeered the earspool she wasn't likely to be so welcomed.

“Can I give you a hand?” Mia asked.

She shook her head. “My aunt is here.” That explained the boxy plaid dress with the hemline six inches too low for a young girl.

“I'll just go in and say hello.” Mia wasn't particularly eager to spend the time of day with Jane Hofer, but curiosity overcame her hesitancy.

The sound of her approach was masked by the thumping washing machine, and Mia had the advantage of getting a good look at the aunt before she knocked. The woman had stayed in the background at Reuben's wake, and Mia hadn't met her, or even seen her, except from the back. Miss Hofer was not the plain, old maid type Mia had anticipated, maybe even hoped. Despite a body that might be called ‘sturdy,' Jane was neither plain nor particularly old. She stood with sleeves rolled past her elbows, feeding towels into the rotating wringer, singing in a clear, strong alto, words Mia couldn't work out over the noise of the machine. Her pale hair was pulled back and covered with a kerchief in a way that would have been dowdy on someone without the peaches and cream complexion and with a less dreamy smile on her face.

The cerebral expression was wiped away by Mia's rap at the door. She looked up with as much annoyance as if Mia had been peeping through her bedroom window.

“Good morning,” she said and switched off the washer. Mia might not have known the smile was a false one if she hadn't just seen the real thing. “You must be Mrs. Thorsen.”

Mia nodded and ducked under the doorjamb, not wondering how she'd guessed. She gave the commonplace “just stopped by” introduction. “How are you all doing?”

“Very well, thank you.”

Mia couldn't believe that any of them were doing very well, outside of Jane Hofer herself, perhaps. “They're lucky to have you,” she said, and couldn't help adding, “Will you be staying long?”

“As long as is necessary.”

Which could mean anything from five minutes to five years, “That's good. I'll just go in and say hello to Mary Frances.”

Jane smiled and bowed her head in acquiescence and dismissal. As Mia entered the kitchen, the rhythm of the washer began anew.

The shock at first seeing her never wore off. Did the woman ever move? More than that,
how
did the she ever move any distance? Had her husband helped her in and out of bed? Without him would she have to call upon her sons to do it?

Mrs. Hofer sat wrapped in a bedsheet-sized apron, pallid and damp looking like a colossal infant fresh from the bath.

Her smile, like her daughter's, was welcoming to the point that Mia pulled out a chair and sat, without waiting for an invitation. In response to her “How are you?” Mary Frances spread her ludicrously tiny hands. “Getting back to normal, slow but sure.” Her nervous chuckle fluttered out. “Well, I don't suppose life will ever be completely normal again.”

“No,” Mia agreed. “I don't suppose it will, not for you anyway. Your children seem to be coping.”

”Yes, thank the Lord.”

There was not much more to say about that, and Mia had come on a mission. “Speaking of which, I was hoping you could spare Claire for an hour or two. I promised to help her make something in my studio—my workshop. A toy for Joey.”

Mary Frances' smile was a delight to see. “That's very kind of you. Claire mentioned that you did woodworking. She could certainly use some fun for a change.”

“I think today might not be a good time.” The omnipresent spirit-dampener that was Jane Hofer spoke from beyond the open door.

Mrs. Hofer's lips thinned more than Mia would have supposed possible. “What's the problem?”

“We're planning a sewing lesson for this afternoon.” Jane strode in, oxfords clippity-clopping on the wood floor. “And I've sent her to find some lamb's quarter.“ She swept through to the living room, as though the final word had been spoken. Apparently it had; as her sister-in-law's steps faded up the stairs, Mrs. Hofer rolled her eyes, but sighed, “Maybe some other time.”

“Most any day will be fine.” Mia's irritation was tempered with relief at the reprieve for telling Claire where her charm had come from.

Mary Frances spoke softly. “All of a sudden she's got all-fired up to leave, and she's going tomorrow. I guess it won't hurt to humor her for one more day.”

So that was how long her presence would be necessary. Odd that she'd been so circumspect about her plans when Mia asked. She should tell Mary Frances about Claire having the earspool and its possibly being stolen. It didn't seem right to keep it from her, but once again it didn't seem like her responsibility. Footsteps sounded on the stairs again. She'd leave it for now.

Sister Jane didn't return to the kitchen, and Mia left the house without bidding her goodbye.

Joey was engrossed in his lilliputian agricultural pursuits, directing a silver and grey tractor, pulling a wagon loaded with stones, along his miniature roads. So that was that. When she did get her hands on Claire, they'd have to come up with a different sort of toy. Maybe she'd go all out and build a barn, with real windows and a cupola, paint it red with…. She knelt by his side. “I see you have a new tractor.”

“Sister brought it from the funeral.”

“Your farm is growing. Before you know it, you'll need two tractors, and maybe a few hired hands.”

“It's like Grandpa's. Where we used to live.” Any wistfulness was counteracted by the enthusiastic spark in his eyes.

“Did your Grandpa have a tractor like this?”

“No. His was red, all red.”

“I like this one.”

“Me too. Look out, here it comes!
Kabloomp
!” He dumped the load of stones. “It's a Ford.”

“It would have been nice for her to go.” Their conversation was interrupted by Mary Frances Hofer, clear as if she was hunkered down in the dirt next to them.

“Sewing will be of much greater good to her than playing around in a woodshop.” The words came through the drainpipe in the wall, a direct line to the kitchen.

“I'm still alive, Jane, and they're still my children.” Mrs. Hofer might have been shouting through a megaphone.

The boy began piling peeled twigs into his empty wagon, fuzzy white head bent close to the ground.

“Joey—” Mia intended a reprimand, an injunction against eavesdropping on one's elders, but stopped short at the tear that splashed onto the tractor's thumb-sized seat. She stood and held out her hand. “Come with me,” she commanded. “I'm going to show you how to make a willow whistle.”

He scrambled up. Mia hoped she remembered how to make the whistle.