The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies (3 page)

In the stillness, the approach of Sheriff Pete Koski's Power Wagon could be heard a mile away.

Father Doucet stood up, brushed ineffectually at his knees, and turned to McIntire. “We'd better go inform the widow.” He pulled the cigarette pack from his pocket.

“Shouldn't we wait a while longer? We don't want her to insist on coming out here.”

“She won't.”

Chapter Three

The hay rake in the road, left there under Pete Koski's orders, prevented them from driving closer to Hofer's homestead, something for which McIntire was grateful, and not only because it kept him out of Father Hot Rod's car. The walk across the fields would give him time to think, to calm the beating of his heart and the pounding in his head. At the current temperatures his profuse sweating would go unnoticed, but the catch in his voice was there when he asked, “He had three kids?”

“Four. The youngest is only eight.”

“Guibard says the wife is not in good health.”

Doucet nodded.

“They can't be making much of a living on this place, and with her husband dead….”

“God will provide.”

God wasn't likely to finish putting up that hay, but McIntire didn't pursue it.

They set off through into the sun, the priest puffing his Viceroy and apparently having no trouble matching McIntire's stride. He was slender and supple, almost girlish, the sort who might be called “wiry.” Despite being dressed in black everywhere below the Roman collar, he showed not one drop of perspiration.

“Shouldn't we have Guibard with us?” McIntire asked. “Regardless of their financial condition, this is going to be a terrible shock, and if she's already not well….”

“It'll be all right.”

Was the father expressing faith in God again, or in himself? McIntire persisted. “The little girl was here earlier, bringing her father's dinner pail, I think. When she saw me, she took off like a scalded dog. She was too far away to have seen anything, but she's probably already told her mother that something was going on.”

Doucet only nodded. His complacency, rather than being reassuring, was building up to aggravation. McIntire half expected to be patted on his shoulder—if the priest could reach it—and addressed as “my son.”

Outside of being non-Irish, chain smoking, driving like a bat out of hell, and looking like a member of
Ballet Russe
, Adrien Doucet was all priest: A selfless caring facade masking a man judgmental, dogmatic, and exasperatingly sure of his own righteousness. That was only McIntire's opinion, of course—an opinion admittedly based more on prejudice than direct observation.

McIntire was still enough of his father's guilt-driven son to give the man a wide berth when they happened to be in the same room, which wasn't often. Right now he felt a prick of envy for the priest's faith. Doucet vaulted over the barbed wire fence and struck out across the pasture on the other side, pausing now and then for scrutiny of some feathered creature, a portrait of serenity. His face would not have told if he was the bearer of bad news, good news, or a dozen eggs.

They opened the barnyard gate and walked toward the building in which McIntire had made his first acquaintance with the tortures of formal education. That had been back in the days when St. Adele township had been an up and coming settlement of half its present area with three time its present population. The heyday ended when the last white pine was cut, and two schools soon became an expensive luxury. This one had long since been converted into a home, but still looked like a schoolhouse from the outside—white and square, a pump in the front yard and two privies in the back.

The yard was rigidly tidy, with nothing to indicate that four children lived here. No bikes, no tree forts, no swings tied to the maple limbs. But the Hofers hadn't been here long.

In the distance, beyond the barn, McIntire spotted what he took to be the older boys, plying hoes in a garden plot. Two stocky silhouettes bent to their work with concentration. They gave no sign that they noticed their visitors.

The little girl and the youngest child—and the dog—he didn't see.

At McIntire's knock the blaring of the radio abruptly ceased, followed by a low “come on in,” and they entered a cramped landing with stairs descending into a pit that McIntire recalled as being full of coal, and three steps up to what had been the cloakroom. But for the washing machine and the waiting pile of dirty laundry, it was little changed; jackets hung on hooks, milk buckets and rubber boots cluttered the benches that ran around three walls. Cardboard boxes were stacked high under the smudged window. The neatness of the yard and farm buildings had stopped at the door. They passed through into the kitchen.

Mrs. Hofer sat next to a heavy wooden table heaped with the peas she was shelling into an enamel basin that rested on a chair beside her. McIntire hoped that the humming of the electric fan in the window disguised his gasp.

She was a lady of freak-show proportions. Larger than McIntire would have supposed a woman could grow without bursting the translucent ivory skin. Only the wisps of lank sooty hair lessened her resemblance to a giant albino toad. Somewhere under that pile of flesh there had to be a chair, but how could it support such weight? How had she folded herself to sit down? Could she stand up? Could she walk? Only her hands, extending from doughnuts of fat at the wrists as from a heavy overcoat, looked human. Delicate nimble fingers didn't stop in stripping the peas from their pods, even as she nodded to the two men.

Despite the open window and the fan, the cluttered room was stifling, humid, and redolent with a medley of odors McIntire didn't want to know the source of.

Father Doucet stepped forward. “Hello, Mary Frances. How are you feeling today?”

“Much better, thank you.” McIntire somehow expected the words, squeezed out through the bulk as they were, to be a thin, reedy croak. In fact, the voice was gentle and low pitched. “You're late.” Her gaze dropped to their trouser legs. “Is wallowing in the mud as a good way to cool off as it's advertized?”

The priest smiled and introduced McIntire. “I'm afraid we've come with bad news.”

McIntire could have sworn that the tears that sprang into the raisins-in-dough eyes when Mrs. Hofer learned of her husband's death were those of relief, if not joy. She looked down at the peas and murmured something that sounded like, “God's will.”

God was definitely having his way with them today, but wasn't he supposed to be four-square against murder?

The resident authority seemed to back him up on that. “It might not have been an accident, Mary Frances.” Doucet transferred the basin from the chair to the flamboyant oilcloth of the table and sat with his bony knees aimed toward her considerably more imposing ones. “There'll be an investigation. You and your children may be in for an unpleasant time.”

It was an odd way of addressing the situation. Losing their husband and father would presumably override any accompanying unpleasantness.

Mrs. Hofer let a half opened peapod drop onto her stomach and watched it slide to the floor. She wiped her fingertips on her striped apron. “When did this happen?”

“Sometime before noon. I was on my way here when I found him.”

The chins bobbled as she made an audible gulp. “Claire went with his dinner.”

“She only got as far as the edge of the field before she spotted me and took off.” McIntire reassured her. “She didn't see anything. The sheriff is there now.” He added, “They'll take your husband's body to Chandler. You can see him there.”

Would they let her? Would she want to view her husband's mutilated body. Someone would have to make a formal identification.

“I can bring my car around and take you into town, if you wish.” Doucet was hesitant in his offer.

The widow was confident in her refusal. “I don't think I'm well enough for that. My husband's sister will come to take care of things. Maybe you would contact her for me? A telegram. And would you be so good as to tell my sons to come inside? They're in the potato field.”

It was a dismissal. She hadn't asked any questions, not even how her husband had died. She might not be thinking clearly, and was probably in shock. Doucet was already standing up to leave. He didn't seem worried about leaving her, and the sheriff should be there in a few minutes. But it wouldn't hurt for McIntire to stick around.

Mary Frances exhaled with a grunt as she shifted enough to reach a writing tablet resting on the window sill. For a time there was no sound but the scratching of pen on paper.

She finished writing her message and the particulars of reaching her sister-in-law and handed the note to Father Doucet. Only her trembling hands betrayed any emotion.

McIntire stayed in his chair. Through the window he could see the priest stride off past the barn, presumably headed for the potato patch and the sons.

“Mrs. Hofer, do you have any idea who might have wanted to harm your husband?” It was blunt, but there was no glossing over what had happened.

“No, of course not.” Amazingly, her denial was punctuated by a low, dry, chuckle. “People here have not been terribly outgoing, but no one has….” She paused for a moment, and her hand flitted to her throat. “I don't suppose it was done on purpose. We don't even know anybody around here. Surely this was an accident?”

The arrival of Pete Koski saved McIntire from the necessity of responding. The astonishment on the sheriff's face at meeting Mrs. Hofer might have been construed as distress over the purpose of his visit, but McIntire didn't think the lady was fooled. She was probably used to it.

Koski took the priest's vacated chair. “We won't stay long. I know this has been a terrible blow, and the worst of it hasn't hit yet. That's why I'd like to ask you a few questions right now, if I may. Before shock sets in and your brain starts shutting things out. Forgetting.”

Her chins wobbled in a nod.

“Do you know of anybody who'd want to harm your husband?”

“No. I told…this gentleman. We only just moved in and don't really know anybody here. We've got no enemies…or friends.”

“Has anything else happened recently? Anything out of the ordinary? Dealings with the neighbors that seemed odd?”

She shook her head and stated again, “Outside of the people we bought this place from, we don't know the neighbors.”

“Maki?”

She nodded.

Koski half pulled the cigarette pack from his shirt pocket, then shoved it back. “I'd like you to just give me a quick rundown on the day. What time did your husband get up this morning, go out to the field, that sort of thing.”

She reclaimed the ball point pen and began running it between her fingers. “He was up just about sunrise, as usual. He had breakfast. He talked some about waiting until later in the day before raking the hay, to make sure it was dry. But he said there wasn't any dew to speak of last night, so he'd go out to take a look and maybe could get at it in the morning.”

“So he went out right away?”

The pen stayed poised over the paper for a long moment. “No, first he went to get some gas for the tractor.”

“To Karvonen's?”

“I couldn't say.”

“What time did he get back?”

“I'm not exactly sure. He went for the gas, and was outside a while—I wouldn't know what he was doing—then came in for coffee, I'd say a few minutes after nine. He'd gone to the hayfield by the time Arthur Godfrey came on at half past.”

“Did you expect him to come back to the house to eat dinner?”

“No. When they're working, we take it out to them.”

“Them? He wasn't alone?”

“He was doing the raking by himself. My two older boys are working in the potato field. Claire fixed dinner and took my husband's out to the hayfield. My youngest son went with Sam and Jake's.”

“What time was that?”

“About a quarter past twelve. The news was just finishing up. My husband liked his dinner at twelve-thirty, sharp.” Did she always keep time by the radio? She rubbed at a smear of ink on the oilcloth and replaced the cap on the pen. “I need to talk to my children now.”

And they weren't likely to come in with the sheriff still there. Koski stood up. “I'll leave you for now and come back this evening. Is there anybody we can call? You don't want to be alone right now.”

“I'm hardly alone, not with four children.” The suppressed laugh came again, almost a giggle. She made as if to stand, then sat back. Her feet were bare, and surprisingly clean, considering that she must not have seen them in years, let alone be able to reach them.

Chapter Four

The third time the rooster crowed, Claire opened her eyes. The sun was coming up, making a pink stripe on the wallpaper. It seemed like she'd been awake for hours, maybe hadn't gone to sleep at all. A mosquito buzzed around her head and she lay quiet, barely breathing, sneaking her hand up to get ready to slap when it landed, a stealthy hunter, lying in wait for her prey. Joey twitched and the mosquito took off. Phooey! It would be back again, and she'd have to start all over.

She stretched her legs and yanked them back quick. Not again! The bottom of her nightgown was warm and soggier than it would be from just sweat. Joey hadn't peed the bed for a long time, not since winter. Not once after they moved into this house. She couldn't bear it if he started again. It was so embarrassing. He smelled like pee at school, and sometimes she did, too.

Joey hated school, and he didn't care if the other kids stayed away from him or teased him. Claire didn't like school either, but she didn't hate it as bad as Joey did, and she hated being teased.

He always looked happy when he was asleep. He shouldn't be sleeping now, and he wouldn't be happy for long; the sun was up, they weren't, and there was going to be trouble. He'd gotten out of bed in the night to go outside again, but being sick wasn't going to help him.

“Joey, wake up!”

He didn't make a move, and she rolled over, careful not to get into the wet spot. He was lying still as a mouse, but his eyes were wide open. That was when she remembered that Pa was dead. Somebody shot him. Ma said it was probably an accident. Somebody shooting at a deer, but they didn't dare say so, because it wasn't deer season.

It had been strange, sitting at the supper table with just Ma and the boys, like after Grandpa died and before Pa came back to live with them. Strange to be able to leave the radio on, and to talk if they wanted to. Mostly Ma and Jake did all the talking, though. About the creamed peas and new potatoes, and getting enough potatoes from only two plants, and what time Sister's train would get there, because Jake would have to pick her up from the depot. Nobody said anything about Pa.

Joey whispered, “Are you sad?”

He was too little to have to lie to. “No,” she told him. “Not very much. Not now, anyway.”

“Is that a sin?”

“I guess so. You don't have to worry about sins.” He was too little for that, too.

“I know. I don't care if he's dead, either.” It sounded louder and braver, but he whispered again when he asked, “Where will we go when Ma dies?”

“We'll be grown up by then.”

“What if we ain't?”

His chin started to quiver, and Claire felt her face get hot with shame. Boys shouldn't cry. “I'll be grown up,” she told him. “I'll take care of us.”

“Maybe we'll go live with Sister.”

“Don't be dumb, Joey. Ma's not going to die.” Where did he get these ideas, anyway?

He turned his back and snuffled into the pillow.

Claire didn't feel like crying, so she supposed she really wasn't sad, like she'd told him. She was sort of scared. Pa was shot when he was raking hay, and when she went over with his dinner pail there was that skinny man walking around in the field. He wasn't carrying a gun, though. Maybe she should have told the sheriff about it when he came after supper, but Ma just had her make the coffee and shooed her outside. The sheriff was kind of cute for an old guy. He was very tall, and wore cowboy boots, and he had a star on his chest, like a sheriff in a movie. There was a big police dog in his car, but Claire couldn't get a close up look, because Spike would have been scared out of his hide.

The sheriff stayed for a long time, talking to Ma and some to Sam and Jake, but he didn't say anything to her and Joey, or ask them anything. After he left, Father Doucet came. Claire didn't know when he went away; he was still there when her and Joey went to bed. Claire was glad, because she could turn out the light and go to sleep. Nothing could hurt her with a priest in the house.

Ma didn't act sad, either, but then she was grown up so she wouldn't cry or anything. She never used to be sad when Pa was gone for a long time, more than a year even, but maybe his being dead and not ever coming back made it different.

Claire thought about how she could get her nightgown off without the peed-on part touching her hair or maybe her face.

She shoved the sheet back and sat up. Her brother raised his head. His eyes were all red and bleary. “Can we go to the lake?”

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