See Also Murder (30 page)

The parking lot at McClandon's Funeral Home was already full by the time we arrived. Betty Walsh had been right. It looked like the whole town had shown up to see Erik and Lida Knudsen. I barely had enough room to pull the Studebaker up to the canopy that led to the front doors. Luckily, Duke Parsons was there to direct traffic, recognized our truck, and waved me through the throng of onlookers standing about next to their vehicles in small crowds, waiting for something to happen.

“You won't be able to handle the farm, Marjorie,” Hank finally said, breaking his vow of silence as I pulled the emergency brake into place. “We are done.”

I sighed heavily, looked over at him, at his profile. I barely recognized him. The Hank I knew seemed to be withering away.
Really? Now?
I thought but didn't say. “That's not the point, Hank. You didn't include me in that decision. I have a say. I have a right to be angry about that.”

Hank tried to turn his head my way, but the belt across his forehead refused the effort. “It was inevitable. Can't you see that?”

I shook my head no. “It's my house, too, Hank. It will always be my house. I'm not leaving until I have to. You understand that. I know you do.” I kept myself from saying anything further, from escalating our disagreement.

A lone raindrop fell on the windshield, and as I looked outward a sea of black umbrellas began to open up; black flowers blooming in unison, like they were celebrating the coming rain instead of warding it off.

“Are you ready for this?” I asked.

“As ready as I'll ever be,” Hank said.

McClandon's Funeral Home was an elegant Queen Anne-style house, painted bright yellow and trimmed with pure white shutters. Even in the darkness of night, in the gloom of a storm, or deep in winter, the house glowed with a confident cheerfulness. I'm sure the color choice was made with the full intention to combat the fear and dreariness that existed under the perfectly shingled black roof. No one that I knew of ever looked forward to a visitation or funeral, no matter how beautiful the house was. It held memories of past visits and services, as well as the inevitable that we all had to face. Every mourner from Dickinson shared in the knowledge that they would all end up at McClandon's sooner or later.

I pushed Hank inside, trying my best to adjust to the overwhelming fragrance of a hundred different types of flowers. My mind immediately started organizing lilies, roses, and violets, even though I tried not to. I had never seen so many flowers in my life. Chalices, pots, and vases were stacked full of a myriad of colorful blooms, neatly arranged, organized from floor to ceiling, from the entry way all the way into the main parlor. I had to stop and catch my breath.

“Are you all right?” I leaned down and asked Hank.

“No.”

“We can leave,” I whispered.

“No,” he said again, only firmer, more insistent.

I stood up, and realized that everyone between us and the two oak caskets—parked head to head and thankfully closed—had parted to allow us through.

There had been a murmur on our arrival, and then all of the voices fell silent. The crowd mirrored the flowers; there were too many of them to fit comfortably inside. All I could hear was distant organ music, piped overhead, playing a hymn I knew I should have recognized but didn't.

I looked behind me for Jaeger but didn't see him. He had got lost in the crowd somewhere along the way. I looked ahead of me, back to the caskets, expecting to see Peter standing sentry there, next to them, but he wasn't there either. The two caskets sat there alone, like they were blocking an exit that no one wanted to venture through.

CHAPTER 34

I couldn't remember what Lida Knudsen had been wearing on the last day that I saw her alive, and I was already having trouble hearing her voice inside my head. Three inches of highly polished oak stood between us, preventing me from what I wanted to do most: Give Lida a hug, tell her everything was going to be all right . . . even though I wasn't so sure that it would be.

I knew right then, at that very moment, that I would never see Lida again, and it was all I could do not to break down and howl with grief, scream in pain like I had fallen through black ice—but I held fast and steeled myself with my mother's voice to be strong.

Hank seemed to be unfazed by all of the attention that came his way. We had put a pair of sunglasses on him so folks wouldn't have to see the unsettling gaze that had settled permanently in his eyes. He could nod and talk but kept that to a minimum. Some people touched his shoulder, talked louder to him like he was deaf and perhaps dumb. They all seemed relieved not to be able to look into Hank's eyes. Just like the two caskets, Hank's presence was a not-so-subtle reminder that disabling accidents could happen to anyone, or that death could come calling at any time. Good people were not immune to bad things.

We both put on as comfortable a face as we could as we greeted those who came up to us, but there was a mile between Hank and I, a road that had lost its bridge. I just hoped no one noticed that we needed to take a detour just to touch.

Time slipped away stuffed inside the bowels of the bright yellow Queen Anne house. The weather outside was no longer a worry. But I continually searched the crowd for one face, and I had yet to find it. Peter Knudsen was noticeably absent from the visitation. I had not seen hide nor hair of him since we'd arrived, and I was deeply worried about him.

Hank started to get restless about an hour into the event—that's what it felt like, a grand parade, a showing off of humanity and humility that had no end. I sat next to him, not far from the caskets, just beyond Jaeger, who greeted everyone that came in. The line of mourners snaked out of sight, out of the room, down the hall, and I assumed outside. Some people wore raindrops on their shoulders.

Jaeger noticed Hank's discomfort about the same time that I did. He broke away from the line and made his way to Hank's side. “I need a little break myself, Hank. You need me to take you with me to the men's room?” Jaeger said, quietly.

It was the kind of gesture that I would have expected from the gentler, more attentive, Peter, and as much as it made me proud of Jaeger, it reminded me that something, someone, was missing.

Hank nodded yes.

“You don't mind do you, Miss Marjorie?” Jaeger asked.

“No,” I said, “not if Hank doesn't. I could use a bit of fresh air myself.”

“If you catch sight of that lughead brother of mine, send him my way, would ya?” Jaeger said to me.

I stood up as he stepped around behind the wheelchair. “I'll do that. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“I have no idea,” Jaeger said, as he started to push Hank toward the hall, “But you can bet on one thing. The next time I see him, he's gonna get the what fors and a foot to his behind for leavin' me here all alone.”

As I came out of the women's room, a hand reached out for me and looped inside my arm. The act startled me, but didn't surprise me, considering the circumstances. But I
was
a little surprised when I realized that the hand belonged to Calla Eltmore. Her fingers felt like printed pages against my skin. It was the first bit of comfort I'd had since I'd arrived at McClandon's.

“You look like you need to step outside,” she said. Her face was void of any emotion, and her voice was a blank slate. I didn't know if it was an invitation to share a familiar moment, a secret cigarette, or not. I hoped so.

“That would be nice,” I said.

“Good,” Calla said, pulling me away from the parlor that held the two caskets.

Even more vases of flowers lined the hallway that led to the back door. I was desperate to escape the thick fragrance—it was worse than being in a room full of women wearing Chanel No. 5, but I was worried about Hank. He'd never been alone in Jaeger's care before.

We exited the back door of the funeral home, and I found myself fully protected from a steady downpour of rain by a canopy similar to the one out front. It was like standing under a giant white umbrella that smelled faintly of bleach and flowers. The aroma of blooms seemed to seep through to the exterior of the building.

Two men were standing up against the wall of the house, both smoking cigarettes. One I recognized, was glad to see—Herbert Frakes—but the other, I had never seen before, even though he looked distantly familiar. As glad as I was to be free of the inside of the funeral home, I suddenly had the feeling that I'd been hornswoggled.

I cast a questioning glance to Calla. She sighed. “This is Roy Agard. Lida's cousin. I thought you should meet in private the first time.”

I looked back to the unknown man, took him in as completely as I could before I said a word. A rare moment of reflection before my mouth got ahead of me. The surroundings had subdued my mood. All that I knew about Roy was what I had heard, and I was prone to believe that he was a lowlife thief.

Roy Agard kind of looked like Lida, in an odd, sepia-toned picture kind of way. His face was off center, a little like Jaeger's, and he had a similar dark look about him. He was dressed in decent beige slacks and a clean and ironed white Oxford shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, without a tie. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing a faded blue tattoo of a ship's anchor on his right forearm. He didn't look like a thief to me. But what did I know? I couldn't ever recall meeting one before.

I instinctively stuck out my hand to shake, and Roy Agard seemed surprised by the gesture but returned it in kind. He had a gentle, confident handshake, and a surprised look on his face that I'd seen before when offering a firm, nice-to-meet-you, grip.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I said to Roy as sincerely as I could. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Calla dig into her purse for her cigarettes.

“Thank you,” he said, staring me in the eye. “I've heard a lot about you.”

“Really?” I said. Calla offered me a Salem, and I took it without hesitation.

Roy Agard nodded. “I have to say, I've never met an indexer before.”

I flashed a smile as he dug into his pocket, produced a matchbook, struck a match, and offered me a light, all in a practiced, gentlemanly motion. I liked him, even though my sensibility flickered deep in my bones and told me not to.
If Lida didn't trust him, I shouldn't either.

“I don't imagine you have,” I said, after I exhaled the first draw on the cigarette. “Indexers are a rare breed, especially in North Dakota. We winter here.”

“It's always winter here,” Roy said.

“Which is why I never leave. I like the quiet.” I was trying to relax, but it was difficult. Herbert Frakes stood back against the wall silent, staying dry. He never took his eyes off me.

Herbert had on a suit that looked like it had just come off the Salvation Army rack, but it may have been the only one he owned, never having much cause for wearing it.

“Lida's maiden name was Agard?” I asked.

Roy shook his head no. “My mother was her mother's sister.”

“Oh,” I said, and just stared at the man. Calla had edged over by Herbert, and the two stood there like an old married couple, watching Roy and I like they expected something to happen, fertilizing my initial feeling of being dragged outside for a
reason
. But the mechanics of my mind overtook that feeling and quickly pushed it away. Curiosity veered toward the familiar, a recognition of similarity and patterns. Agard was precariously close to Asgard. Odin and Frigg were rulers of Asgard. Loki hated the gods of Asgard. Hated them enough to kill Balder. It was an intriguing coincidence. One that was hard to overlook.

A little knowledge was a dangerous thing. I had dipped into several pericopes of Norse mythology—not nearly enough to see a complete picture, but I had enough extracts to digest a bit of foundational knowledge. Agard and Asgard were too close not to ring a bell.

I sighed loudly as I realized that Roy Agard was staring at me anxiously. He suddenly seemed nervous or frustrated, and I matched him in that regard. I had to push away my suspicions of the myth being connected to the murders. It was entirely possible that I was confusing one story with another and they had absolutely nothing to do with each other. Or they had everything to do with each other . . .