Trickster's Point (16 page)

T
hey avoided the house on Gooseberry Lane and went straight to Sam’s Place. Because it was Sunday and the weather was gray and the season was late, the parking lot was almost empty. Jenny’s Subaru was parked beside Judy Madsen’s Focus. The only other vehicle was a silver Escalade with tinted windows. A couple of kids in hooded sweatshirts were at one of the serving windows, but the coast looked clear of reporters. Stephen parked, and they got out and started toward the Quonset hut.

The door of the Escalade opened, and a tall, well-dressed black man built like a wedge of granite stepped out and moved to cut them off.

“Mr. O’Connor,” he called in a deep, melodious voice.

Even if the guy turned out to be a reporter—though Cork had never seen reporters dressed so well or so well muscled or driving such an expensive set of wheels—Cork decided that, because there was only one, he’d talk to him, if only to say “No comment.”

“Kenny Yates,” the man said as he approached.

Which was a name Cork knew.

Yates offered a hand that greatly dwarfed Cork’s. Although the grip was restrained, Cork sensed the immense power behind it.

“My son, Stephen,” Cork said.

“How do you do?” Yates shook Stephen’s hand politely, then
said to Cork, “Mrs. Little would like to see you. Her brothers are with her.”

“At the lake house?”

“Yes.”

“Give me a few minutes inside.”

“Fine, I’ll wait.”

“No need. I know the way.”

“I’ve been instructed to run interference for you, if necessary.”

“The media?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Hungry?”

The tall man studied the wooden placard on the side of Sam’s Place that displayed the offerings. “Is the Sam’s Super any good?”

“The best burger in the North Country,” Stephen replied.

“I’ll take two. And a chocolate shake.”

Yates reached to the inside of his black leather jacket, probably for his wallet, and Cork said, “It’s on me.”

“Thanks.” Yates’s enormous hand dropped back to his side. “I’ll wait here.”

As they continued to the door, Stephen leaned to his father and whispered, “That guy looks like a football player.”

“Used to be,” Cork said. “Hit some hard times, I heard, and Jubal hired him for the personal security of his family a few years ago. This is the first I’ve ever met him in person.”

Inside, they found everything quiet. Judy was playing with Waaboo, rolling a big plastic ball to him, which he rolled back with great delight. Madsen was a widow in her early sixties, a retired school administrator whom Cork had hired a couple of years earlier to help manage Sam’s Place. She was smart and plain and good-natured, and did a fine job supervising the teenagers Cork employed every season. She opened Sam’s Place every day except for weekends, but she almost never closed. She didn’t like to be out late at night, so closing fell to Cork or Jenny or, in a pinch, to Stephen.

As soon as they walked in, Jenny came through the door from the serving area, and her worry was obvious on her face.

“We heard,” she said. “Another body.”

“Yeah.” Although it was his daughter to whom he replied, it was his grandson who had Cork’s eye.

“Hey, big man,” Cork said and opened his arms.

“Baa-baa,” Waaboo cried and ran to him.

Cork swept up the little body and nuzzled Waaboo’s neck so that his grandson giggled wildly.

“Who was it?” Jenny asked.

“They’re not sure yet,” Stephen replied. “But we think he was partnered up with Mr. Little’s killer.”

“Partnered up?” Cork said.

“Well, you know what I mean.”

Jenny looked at her father. “They don’t think you did it, right?”

“I’m still the only game in town,” Cork said.

“And the agent in charge of the BCA team is on the ambitious side. Before this whole thing is finished, he may end up blaming me for the Lindbergh kidnapping, too.”

“Dad, it’s not funny.”

“I know,” he said. “Don’t worry. At least for the moment.”

Jenny gave her brother a motherly look of concern. “And you’re okay?”

“It all feels pretty weird, but, yeah, I’m okay.”

“Any trouble here?” Cork asked.

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Judy replied. With some effort, she pulled herself up from the floor, where she’d been sitting, and tucked the plastic ball under her arm. “A couple of persistent reporters. I told them to go screw themselves.”

“And then,” Jenny said, smiling, “she convinced them to buy burger baskets before they left. They didn’t get any interviews, but they didn’t go away hungry.”

“I’ll give Leon Papakee a call,” Cork said to Jenny. “Ask him to run interference for us with the media. Any questions you get or any more persistent reporters, just direct them to Leon. If you’d like, I’ll see if he can hang out with you today.”

“No,” Jenny said. “We’ll be fine.”

“I have to leave again.” He kissed his grandson’s cheek and handed him over to his mother. “I’m going to see Camilla Little.”

“I wondered when she’d show up,” Jenny said. “So you’ll be a while?”

“Probably.”

“Have you eaten lately?” Judy asked.

“Not since breakfast.”

“How about a patty melt and some onion rings before you go?”

“Thanks. And we’ve got a customer out there needs a couple Sam’s Supers and a chocolate shake.”

“I’m on it.” She turned to head to the grill.

“I’d kill for a cheeseburger,” Stephen said. He suddenly looked stricken. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s still okay to have a sense of humor, buddy.” Cork turned toward the door. “I’m going out to keep our guest company. Don’t wait up for me.”

*   *   *

Although he never stayed long when he came, Jubal Little still listed Tamarack County as his official place of residence. He had a home on Iron Lake. It stood on the shore of a small cove just north of Aurora, and had once been a nice log lodge and restaurant called The Wander Inn, where his mother had been employed when Jubal was a kid. In the long economic downturn that had beset the Iron Range as the mines closed, the place had struggled and finally closed, and the structure had become a derelict. Twenty years ago, Jubal had bought it and had it completely renovated and expanded into a log mansion, gorgeous but huge beyond any sensibility. In front was a circular drive paved with crushed limestone. When Cork pulled up, the drive was nearly full of vehicles. Cork parked in back of the last in line. Yates’s Escalade drew up behind him, and Yates got out.

“Wake?” Cork asked, nodding toward the cars.

Yates shook his head. “Jubal’s media people and campaign folks. They’re all scrambling.”

“Give me a minute,” Cork said.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. The Jaegers will want to speak with you alone anyway. I’ll let them know you’re here.” Yates went ahead into the house.

Though it was not quite evening, the overcast had brought on an early, oppressive dark. Instead of going inside the huge home, Cork walked around to the back and down a long flagstone path across the lawn to the dock. The air was breathless, and the surface of the lake lay absolutely still and flat. The water was a deep gray stretching toward a dark horizon, and the effect of all this made Cork think of the lake as if it had somehow been set afire and had burned and all that was left was a great basin full of ash.

“Remembering all the times you spent with him here?”

Cork turned and watched Camilla Little cross the last of the flagstones and step onto the dock. She stood next to him, smelling of a subtle, expensive cologne and looking where he’d been looking. She was in her early forties, almost as tall as Jubal had been, a statuesque beauty with long blond hair, eyes the color of fresh mint leaves, and a flawless complexion. At the moment, however, her whole aspect was drawn and gray, her lovely face hollowed from grieving.

“I’m sorry about Jubal, Camilla.”

“Really? I heard it was you who killed him.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No,” she said. “Like everyone else, you loved him too much.”

He couldn’t tell if she was offering him sincerity or sarcasm.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Cork said, trying his best for honesty.

“Loss? The truth, and we both know it, is that he was never really mine.”

“I’m sorry, Camilla.” He sounded like a pathetic, broken record, but he was sorry, sorry for the whole damn mess.

“We’d have done a lot of good,” she said.

We,
Cork thought and knew this was the key to understanding the marriage of a woman whose husband was never really hers. In her way, she was as politically ambitious as Jubal. They’d met while he was still quarterbacking, met at a celebrity fund-raiser for cancer research. It was common knowledge that Camilla couldn’t have children; ovarian cancer in her twenties had ensured that. She’d become an outspoken advocate for cancer research and prevention, only two of the many causes she championed. For a couple of years, she was Jubal’s most frequent and visible escort at social affairs. Jubal was nearly forty when he ended his football career. Within a year, he went from the playing field to the marriage altar and finally to the political arena. Camilla, beautiful, intelligent, and when the occasion required, eloquent, was at his side in all his political appearances. She stated often and publicly that both her life and her marriage were dedicated to public service and to the greater good. In all this, she proved a perfect mate for him.

“A lot of good,” she reiterated. “Even for the Ojibwe. But now they’ve killed him.”

“Why do you think it was my people?”

“Why do you do that?” she said, suddenly irritated.

“What?”

“Identify yourself as Ojibwe. You’re only a small part Ojibwe. Less than Jubal was Blackfeet, and he only called himself Indian when it was to his political advantage.”

“If I only identified myself as Ojibwe when it was advantageous to do so, I probably never would. And you didn’t answer my question. Why do you think it was a Shinnob?”

She was wearing a knitted shawl whose color, in the faint evening light, was hard to tell exactly. She pulled it more tightly around her.

“Because Jubal had to sacrifice someone for the greater good,” she said, rather coldly, “and it was your people he chose
for that honor. He’s always received threats, but lately they’ve been more vicious and more specific about the casino issue.”

“I’m sorry,” Cork said.

“No reason to be.” She eyed him pointedly. “Unless you made them.”

He decided it was time to cover other territory. “Camilla, before he died, Jubal told me—”

From the great house, someone called, “Camilla?”

“Just a minute, Alex,” she called back, then returned her attention to Cork. “Jubal told you what?”

“Now,” Alex said in a voice that clearly meant business.

Camilla frowned toward the house. “We’d better go. He’s eager to talk to you.”

She turned and began ahead of Cork up the flagstones. He watched her walk away, appreciating the natural grace that had been part of what had caught Jubal’s eye long ago and knowing, at the same time, that all her graces and all her money would never have been enough to make up for the one thing she could not be: an Ojibwe woman named Winona Crane.

F
rom his days as a premier NFL quarterback and the investments he’d made then, Jubal Little had money, but not enough to mount a significant political campaign. He didn’t have that kind of cash until he married Camilla Jaeger, of the meatpacking Jaegers. Great-great-grandfather Jaeger had been a German immigrant from Düsseldorf, an astute and ruthless businessman who’d built an empire slaughtering midwestern hogs. His son had amassed a second fortune as the result of an innovative process for grinding, compressing, and canning all the unsavory animal parts so that they could easily be shipped or stored, creating a product packed in revolting gelatin that he called Pork’m, which was a mash-up of the words
pork
and
ham.
In modern times, the name had become a joke, but the product itself continued to enjoy an inexplicable worldwide popularity.

The family no longer had a stake in the company, which had been sold years before to a faceless conglomerate, and the current generation of Jaegers were free to pursue interests that had nothing to do with slaughtering hogs. Mostly, their interest was politics, where generally the only slaughter involved the truth.

Camilla Jaeger’s father had been a senator and had twice made a pretty good run at his party’s presidential nomination. He was an old-school midwestern progressive, a man of good intentions and powerful ego. At the age of seventy, he’d died as the
result of a stroke suffered on the floor of the U.S. Senate while delivering an impassioned defense of a bill he’d introduced that was intended to create a system of free day care for low-income women who wanted to work. His sacrifice made no difference. The bill was soundly defeated.

Senator Jaeger had three children. In addition to his daughter, Camilla, there were two sons: Alexander and Nicholas. When Cork accompanied Jubal Little’s wife inside, he found the two brothers waiting in the large den. They were alone. The media team and campaign people had made themselves scarce. The room was comfortably furnished in plush brown leather and smelled of the cherrywood burning in the great fieldstone fireplace. Alex Jaeger stood near the bar, with a drink in his hand. Nick Jaeger leaned against the fireplace mantel. He also held a filled liquor glass. Cork had met the brothers before, but only briefly, when as sheriff of Tamarack County, he’d been involved in coordinating security for Jubal’s appearances there. From what Jubal had told him, Cork had gathered that drinking was another major interest the Jaegers had taken up since they left off killing pigs.