See Also Murder (6 page)

My head swam with the myths of the Old World, and that confused me even more. In all the years that I had known the Knudsens, not once did they ever express a belief in the ways of their ancestors. Just the opposite. Erik had always his faith as a Christian man, a devout believer, who had attended church every Sunday.

My eyes began to burn, and I looked at my watch. Time had slipped away, and if I didn't leave right away I'd be late for my appointment with Raymond. He hated tardiness more than I did.

My reflexes told me to stand up, tell Calla good-bye, and exit the library as quickly as I could, but another sense told me to stay seated.

I felt a set of eyes staring at me, on the back of my neck, and I caught sight of the shadow of a man standing in wait as I arranged my things to leave.

I took a deep breath and looked over my shoulder. Herbert Frakes was staring at me from an odd vantage point, stuffed in an alcove like he had been sent there as a punishment.

I jumped with a start.

When I made eye contact with him, his left shoulder twitched and he looked to the floor, just like he always did. But the glance downward didn't last. Herbert stepped toward me, his arms to his side, his eyes—almost black in the shadows—focused straight on me.

Out of instinct, I stood and grabbed up my purse. The look in Herbert's eyes concerned me. My purse was the only weapon I had if I needed to defend myself. I had never felt threatened by the janitor's presence, but I did now.

“You startled me, Herbert,” I said, in a little louder voice than normal, in hopes that Calla was within hearing range.

He stopped about four feet from me, lowered his head, and looked away. The twitch had stopped. “Sorry, Miss Marjorie, I didn't mean to scare you.”

“It's okay.” I relaxed a little bit and thought for a second that I might have been overreacting—but I still held a tight grip on my purse. I was on edge. Had been ever since Hilo had come to give me the bad news and left me with the amulet.

Herbert Frakes was a gentle soul shattered by the war. I felt a little ashamed of myself for thinking he might hurt me in the one place I was sure that we both felt safe.

“She had a cousin like me, you know?” Herbert said.

“Who had a cousin?”

“The dead one.”

I was uncomfortable all over again. His tone was odd. I looked past Herbert, hoping to catch a glimpse of Calla, but I saw nothing but an empty desk at the front of the library. “Lida Knudsen?” I asked.

Herbert nodded his head yes.

“I didn't know that,” I said. Which was true. Lida had never had reason to mention some errant cousin. We'd never talked much about our distant families.

“Was in my unit,” Herbert said. “Hurt the same day as me. D-Day. We was green as a bushel of spring apples.”

I nodded again. “You think he had something to do with what you read in the paper?” It was an assumption on my part. Truth was, I didn't know if Herbert could even read. I tried to think if I had ever seen him with a book, and I couldn't remember a time when I had. I was tempted to show Herbert the amulet, but I restrained myself. Hilo'd told me not to.

Herbert shrugged. “Don't know. He moved to St. Paul after we came back. Never seen or heard from him since.” He never looked up from the floor. “Just thought you should know since you was looking for answers.” He turned and started to walk away.

“Herbert?”

He stopped. “Yes, Miss Marjorie?”

“You should tell Hilo about him if you think it's important.”

“Sheriff knows. They was best friends when they were boys,” Herbert said, then looked up at me like he wanted to say something else but couldn't find the words.

Instead, he hurried off, leaving me standing there alone in a tomb of books with a bit of information that I didn't quite know how to organize.

CHAPTER 7

I left the library drained. I sat in the Studebaker and tried to gather my thoughts for a long minute; a minute that I didn't have to spare.

The sounds of Dickinson surrounded me, but the hustle and bustle of a city, even a small one, with a city bus stopping and going, car horns blaring, people walking by on the sidewalk engaged in conversations, could not drown out the pounding in my head. Black cars, white cars, old and new, big finned spaceship-inspired convertibles mixed in a blur, along with a mix of farm trucks on duty to serve up a chore. None of the vehicles mattered to me. In town, on a busy day in the grim daylight, I was invisible—not a lone human standing out in a field, feeling like I was the only person in the world with pain and more to do than I could handle.

I felt a heave in my chest, and before I knew it I was crying. Crying deeply for the second time since Hilo gave me the news about Erik and Lida's fate. My emotions were usually in check and held firm, but the murders seemed to be too much to bear. I hadn't cried this much in years. Not even when Hank had had his accident. There were things to do and no time to worry about what couldn't be done.

The murder of my friends was just too much to consider. How could anyone kill such sweet, gentle people in such a vicious way? No one deserved to die like that. No one. I couldn't conceive of such pure evil, of hate and rage so strong that it would lead someone to climb through an open bedroom window in the middle of the night and slash a sleeping person's throat.

I allowed myself another good cry. Maybe I would get it out of my system. Maybe it was more than the murders. I didn't know for sure. I just knew there was a feeling in the pit of my stomach that wouldn't go away but felt a little better every time I cried.

Caring for Hank on a daily basis had taken its toll, too. So had managing the intense deadlines that came along with indexing books, and the constant demand to juggle my literary duties with those of the farm. I was constantly battling between the authors and publishers I was contracted to please and deliver for, and the bank that held the mortgage on the farm and the note on the combine, on Hank's dream. At that moment, it was all just too much. I felt selfish. I didn't know what I was going to do if I lost Peter and Jaeger's help—a thought that had been at the very edge of acknowledgement. I had grown dependent on the help of the two Knudsen boys, but now they had their own worries, their own matters to be overwhelmed by. I sucked in a deep breath of air at the thought.

My mother, if she were still alive, would chastise me. Tell me to keep a stiff upper lip, a woman's work was never done . . . all of the clichés she constantly wore on her sleeve to help get her through the day. I had abided by them for a long time, but my restraint was weak, overrun by my fears, my weaknesses, and my own grief.

After a few minutes of sitting in the library parking lot blubbering like an unwound idiot, I took another deep breath. “You have to get through this,” I said to myself out loud, then looked in the rearview mirror, wiped my eyes, straightened up my face and hair in the mirror, and put the truck in reverse.

When I pulled away, I noticed a green Chevy sedan sitting across the parking lot with the window down. I couldn't see the driver. His or her face was hidden behind a newspaper. It was odd, but not unheard of. A lot of people came and went from the library. It was most likely someone taking a break from work and seeking refuge in the shade of the towering oaks.

I looked away from the Chevy and headed toward my cousin's house with a gnawing feeling that I couldn't quite get a hold of—or let go of. It was one of those feelings like something was wrong. Of course, my mind turned toward home, to Hank. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to him and I wasn't there.

I stopped a short way down the street at the first telephone booth I came to.

It sat on the corner, just outside the Rexall Drugstore. I was going to be late to Raymond's the way it was, and a few extra seconds wasn't going to make any difference in my timing, or my cousin's mood, which I predicted was going to be foul and snarly even if I were on time.

A quick wind greeted me as I stepped out of the truck. I glanced upward, at the sky, to see the gray rain clouds finally trailing away. Clear blue sky was behind it, pushing the storm away with the force of a thousand bulldozers. If I had to bet, the roads would be dry by the time I got home, and any evidence of the morning rain would be gone.

I dropped a dime into a slot at the top of the payphone, a tall black rotary dial phone that'd had a heart engraved in it a long time ago. Rust had set in. I ignored the etching and dialed my home phone number.

Ardith picked up on the fourth ring. The phone was on a party line, and our ring was two longs followed by two shorts. “Hello,” she said, “Trumaine residence.”

“It's me, Ardith,” I said.

“Marjorie, I didn't expect to hear from you till you got home. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Of course. I just wanted to check on Hank.”

“He's fine, Marjorie.”

“You're sure?”

“Well,” Ardith said, “he wanted to play hide and seek, but I told him that was entirely out of the question.” There was a chuckle at the end of her words, and that made me smile briefly.

“All right, then,” I said. “I was just worried.”

“He won't let me close the window,” Ardith answered. “Wind's fierce right now, but it doesn't seem to matter to him.”

I sighed. “Leave it open,” I said. “Shep'll look after him if the need comes—if you're worried about something more than dirt coming in.”

“How'd you know?”

“We all are, Ardith. We all are.” Silence fell between us, and the telephone line hissed and echoed as the wind jostled the lines between the phone booth and the farm. “You tell Hank I'll be home shortly,” I finally said.

“Did you find out anything, Marjorie?”

“Not yet. I'm on my way to my cousin Raymond's house. I hope he'll have something to tell me.” I glanced up and saw the taillights of a car blink red, slow down, then speed up and turn the corner, disappearing from my view. It was another green Chevy or the same one at the library, I wasn't sure.

“All right, you be careful then.”

I didn't answer right away and stared after the car. It was probably just a coincidence, but I rarely saw green Chevy sedans, and I had already seen two of them—or one twice—in a short time.

My mind was trained to see patterns of information, but it was also trained to discard pieces of data that were irrelevant. Not everything in a text made its way into an index, nor did silly details belong in my consciousness at the moment.

“Are you still there, aye?” Ardith asked.

“Yes, yes,” I said, focusing on the telephone. “I'll be careful.” I hesitated before hanging up the line. I wished the receiver at home had a long cord on it so I could hear Hank breathing, talk to him for just a second, but that was an impossibility.

I made my way to the truck, taking notice of the wind as I did. It didn't seem any different than normal, but then again I was in town, and that always made a difference. There was more to deflect it here than there was out in the country.

Raymond Hurtibese lived on the Dickinson University campus in a small bungalow just across the street from the Student Union building, a huge limestone building that looked more like a giant mausoleum than a meeting place.

I hesitated on the walk up to the door of the well-kept cottage. Raymond and I weren't close; we only saw each other on festive occasions and at funerals. Our relationship was similar to that of my father and his sister's—distant at best and bound only by blood. We saw each other out of necessity rather than pleasure.

My father had had a great intellect but chose to live his life as a farmer, destined to wager his fortunes against the forces of nature rather than climb the academic ladder to tenure. His anger about his career choice was rarely visible, but it usually showed itself in the form of disappointment—aimed directly at me.

I'd indexed a book once that chronicled several Jewish families from Eastern Europe. The book was a marker of success since the immigrants, who had not been allowed to own farmland in their home countries, brought their garment-making skills with them to the new world. There was a market in New York City for high-quality clothing. But that wasn't the point. The next generation, the immigrants' children, were almost all doctors or lawyers, highly skilled professionals. They hadn't disappointed their parents like I had disappointed my father by marrying Hank.

Anyway, Raymond's mother, my Aunt Gilda, was a smart woman in her own right. She'd married well and seemed to make all of the right choices—a fact she never let my father forget. Raymond's father, my uncle, Walter Hurtibese, had been the Dean at Dickinson University until a few years before his death, and Aunt Gilda was the “good woman” behind her man, taking to the social aspects of university life like a hummingbird to a patch of red, nectar-heavy flowers. She'd pushed Raymond down the same path before she passed on herself, a few years after Raymond attained the position of assistant professor.