See Also Murder (2 page)

“You sure you want to hear this?” Hilo asked. He peered inside the open door, hoping, I suppose, to catch a glimpse of Hank sleeping.

“I'll hear it sooner or later. I'd rather hear it from you so the facts'll be straight.”

I gripped the arm of the settee, fending off the urge to run and put a chicken in the oven. Then I chastised myself for running through a list of ingredients, for making sure I had enough of everything in my cupboard to deliver the comfort of a daily meal. I'd always made lists. They helped me stay organized, focused in chaos. I supposed that was one of the reasons I took to writing indexes as easily as I had. Lists came to me as naturally as breathing.

I searched for a way to relieve my own fear and discomfort. I was as human as everyone else was, and I wasn't sure how I felt about Hilo's revelation at that moment.

“All right,” he said. “They had their throats slit while they were asleep in bed. No sign of a struggle. Probably didn't know what happened. They had the window open, so we figure whoever did it slipped in and out unseen.”

“Peter and Jaeger?”

“Asleep in their own beds. Didn't hear a thing. Thought it was odd when their mother wasn't up cooking breakfast, so they went in and checked on them.”

“And they found them.” I closed my eyes. The chicken didn't seem to matter any longer.

Every memory I held dear of the Knudsens flooded my mind, and overflowed silently out of my eyes. I wiped away my tears as Hilo nodded and looked away, out over the empty paddock that reached toward the Knudsens' farm. Purple Martins dived and careened over it, feeding on mosquitoes and other insects.

Shep looked up, finished with the treat, content to lie on the ground and watch over the farm. There was concern in the dog's amber colored eyes. Usually those eyes were focused, certain of their task, but now, the dog looked like he understood every word Hilo was saying. That didn't surprise me a bit. I'd seen that look in Shep's eyes before.

“They called me right away,” Hilo continued. “I guess those boys are orphans now.” He looked down sadly and kicked an imaginary bit of dust off the porch.

Hilo Jenkins knew more about injustice and the meanness human beings could inflict on one another than I ever would, but it was easy to see that he was shaken to the bone by what he'd found on his plate of duties this morning. I knew him well enough to know that sooner or later he was going to get angry—mad as hell—that there was a murderer wandering around loose in his county.

Someone had set an edge of uncertainty on every human being within a hundred-mile radius, had taken peace and comfort away with an act that destroyed, and had brought terror to Stark County under Hilo Jenkins' watch. He took things like that personal.

We were simple, hardworking people. Not murderers—killers who used sharp knives and evil ways to resolve their problems. At least that was the way it had been before the Knudsens met a death that no one could have ever imagined.

CHAPTER 2

Tragedy and neighbors came in all forms on the plains, and on the day Hank had his accident I had been blessed and cursed in one fell swoop.

It had seemed like the whole town had showed up to pitch in or take a closer look for themselves at our place, at our troubles. But it was the Knudsens who took charge of the farm. They had volunteered to plant the wheat crop in the spring—which they did—then tended to the pigs that would provide meat through the winter and chopped what firewood remained, all the jobs Hank was set to do but couldn't because he was laid up in the hospital in Dickinson.

Erik had supervised and Peter and Jaeger, two eager boys barely past their teenage years, had done most of the chores on our place after they finished work on their own farm. Lida had brought dinner for months after the accident became old news and everyone else had gotten on with their lives.

Peter and Jaeger became like sons to me. At first, I took little joy in watching them work the farm and keep it alive as if it were their own, but after a while, as I secured my routine of tending to Hank after he came home and writing indexes late into the night to keep some money coming in the door, I had found comfort in their continual presence. The boys were ghosts of Hank's youth and vigor that I could touch and smell. Wheat sprang up in the steps they left behind, shocks promising to pile high at harvest, like golden mounds offered to the deaf God who supposedly resided in the wide, blue sky above.

Now it was my turn to attend to
their
loss, to ease Peter and Jaeger's pain and offer whatever comfort I could. I could barely speak or look into Hilo's drooping eyes as the news reverberated inside my chest, rattling my heart in a way that made it difficult to breathe.

“We had to question both of them, you understand,” Hilo said in a sheriff's tone. “Rule them out as suspects.”

I had not even considered that Peter or Jaeger could be killers.

“But,” Hilo continued, picking up the fleck of paint off the porch floor, then stuffing it into his pants pocket, “I'm pretty certain that they didn't have anything to do with it.”

I sighed. Relieved.

“Certain, but not one hundred percent positive, you understand,” he added.

Hilo reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small object, a piece of jewelry, and handed it to me. “This was in Erik's right hand. I was hoping you could tell me what it means.”

Shep's curiosity was piqued, anticipating another treat. But this was no reward. I subtlety shook my head no with a quick glance to the object, and Shep looked away, back to the horizon, searching for coyotes—or whatever else lurked out there.

The sheriff placed the odd-looking medallion gently in my hand. The center was made of copper and was clean, not tarnished with ancient green flecks at all, so I was immediately curious about its age. In the shade of the bright afternoon sun, I could see an outline of a lightning bolt in the medallion, though it looked like it had been rubbed down by human touch over the years, telling me the amulet was old but cared for. Three runes rimmed the copper; each one had a main character—a wolf, a serpent, and the face of a harried and evil-looking woman. Squiggles of ancient writing circled the smooth edge.

“It's an amulet of some kind,” I finally said, holding it out to Hilo. I felt hollow inside, knowing the amulet had been found in Erik Knudsen's cold, dead hand.

Hilo stood stiff, silently refusing to take the amulet. “You don't know what it means? What it says?”

“It looks like something from Norse mythology, which wouldn't be surprising coming from around here. I don't know the language. My Aunt Gilda, my father's sister, had some old jewelry that had been passed down through the years that kind of looked like this. She traveled the world with her professor husband and collected some great trinkets, things related to our heritage.”

The sheriff shifted his weight and looked down the lane that led out to the road. “Do you think you could figure out what it says? What it is? I don't mix well with those college-types in Dickinson, and I figured you'd be the best person to come to. You're the . . .”

I nodded, anticipating what Hilo was going to say.

“. . . smartest person I know.”

At that moment, my love for books seemed like a curse more than a blessing. Not long after we got Shep, about five years ago, we hit a rough patch on the farm. A drought hit the spring wheat, dropping the yield to an all-time low. The price per bushel was already down because of the bad economy of the late '50s, during the waning Eisenhower years, and it was forced even lower by the weather.

A confluence of events struck us hard. Hank had bought a new combine the year before, straining our budget even in the best of times. Knowing our situation was dire, the previous county extension agent, Lloyd Gustaffson, had brought me a packet of paperwork from the United States Department of Agriculture. Inside was a list of courses designed for farmers' wives to make extra money during the long winters. I was immediately fascinated by the idea of writing indexes.

It was a job that could be done from anywhere but took attention to detail, tenacity, an ability to meet deadlines, and a love of books and words—all of which I felt I wholly possessed. I was a compulsive list maker, punctual—I couldn't remember the last time I was late for
anything
—and a neat and tidy housekeeper by nature. If something was out of place, I noticed. I'd read compulsively since I was a little girl.

I took the correspondence course, learned how to pick out keywords and concepts from the densest text, how to format and type up an acceptable index, and how to solicit work from publishers far away in the dreamland of New York City.

Indexes, I learned from the course, were a garden of words neatly tended—weedy modifiers pulled and discarded—only the most important ideas left to grow in unknown minds. The index, my work, would provide sustenance to the world in a tiny, tiny way, but a helpful, meaningful way, nonetheless. The work made me feel useful, like I was helping make the world outside my own front door better. I had desperately needed to feel hopeful, especially in those early days after the accident when things went from bad to worse.

Never believing that I could actually make money from reading books and writing indexes, I mailed fifty letters of inquiry after successfully completing the USDA course, expecting nothing in return. To my surprise, I was hired almost immediately by a well-established publisher, H.P. Howard and Sons. Two weeks later I was winding my way through the tedious process of writing my very first index.

The extra money saw us through the drought and helped us get ahead on the payments for the combine—until Hank went hunting and came back on a stretcher.

Each book since had been a new adventure, and not only had I indexed books about Africa, but New Zealand, Russia, and nearly every European country. The topics ranged from history to religion, and included of course, headhunters. I knew I'd never go to any of those places, or ever use the information in casual conversation, but the world was larger for me because of my endeavor of writing indexes; a savior of my heart and sanity.

I'd always had the reputation of being “smart,” of talking above peoples' heads. I knew my place and had long since tried to acquire the skill of restraining the exposure of my intelligence, even with Hilo. Most days, my secret garden of words was enough for me, but the sadness of it all was that I would've never had the opportunity to learn any of these things if it weren't for a turn in the weather and my husband's bad luck.

“I thought you might have some books around . . .” Hilo had stopped mid-sentence to reconsider his words. “I know you have a full plate with Hank
and
the farm to look after, Marjorie,” he said. “And I hate to ask you such a thing, but I think it's important. That thing there is the only real clue I have. It might be nothing. Peter and Jaeger had never seen it before, but that don't mean it wasn't something that belonged to Erik or Lida. I just don't know why he was holding it, why the killer didn't take it, just left it there. Helps rule out burglary at the very least, I suppose, if there's any value to it.”

“Hard to say,” I said, studying it.

“Kind of ugly, ain't it?”

I nodded yes, then hesitated and listened for a stir of noise coming from Hank's room. Silence. “If you think it'll help you find out who killed Erik and Lida, I suppose I can look in to it.”

“I think it might.”

“I'll have to go into town, check some books at the library.” I sighed inwardly. It meant that I would have to go see if my cousin, Raymond Hurtibese, still had my Aunt Gilda's jewelry. He might know something about this kind of thing or be able to send me to talk to the right person at the college, but that didn't mean I was happy about the idea. “I don't have anything around here that I think would be of any help,” I offered to Hilo.

Hilo nodded, relaxed. “I'll send Ardith out to look after Hank while you're gone. You keep the amulet. I won't tell anybody you have it, and it's probably best if no one knows that I asked for your help. I won't be hard to find if you need me,” he said.

Hilo edged away from the door, toward the steps. Shep stood up and wagged his tail. Hilo ignored the dog. “I appreciate this, Marjorie, I really do. This is the first murder around here in twenty-five years, and the last one was pretty easy to figure out.”

“I remember.” Benefield Frankels had shot his wife square in the forehead at a roadside motel for stepping out with another man. Hilo had secured his position as sheriff for as long as he wanted after he solved that crime. “I'll stop by and see Peter and Jaeger while I'm out,” I said.

“I'm sure they'd like that.” He was as fond of the Knudsens as I was. “But don't mention that you have the amulet.”

I agreed silently with another slight nod.

Hilo pushed past Shep and slouched to the truck, his shoulders heavy, his steps less calculated and more unsure than I could ever remember. Shep made his way up onto the porch, and we stood there and watched Hilo drive away.

The dust plume lingered just like it had when Hilo had driven up, and the amulet felt cold in my hand. I tucked it into the front pocket of my housedress as quickly as I could, all the time visualizing Erik and Lida Knudsen, lying in a pool of blood in their marriage bed.

At least they went together
, I heard a chorus of voices whisper inside my head. The vision was clear; a gathering of church women, hands clasped tightly together, shaking their heads over a pair of walnut caskets.

“That would be the only blessing,” I said out loud to the wind, to the sky, and to the meadowlark that was standing sentinel on the fence post at the end of the lane.

CHAPTER 3

I went about my business in the kitchen, resisting the atrophy of grief. My heart ached and my muscles were full of tension as I imagined two wounded angels ascending to heaven much sooner than they, or anyone else, had anticipated.