Witch Cradle (16 page)

“Well,” Falk finally broke the silence, “look what the cat dragged in.”

“Theodore. I just don't know what to say.”

“Maybe you'd like to hear about life in Utopia. You never came to see for yourself, did you?” Falk seemed to hold his breath, then his shoulders sank, and he shook his head. “What the hell, it was a long time ago.”

His introduction to McIntire wiped the discomfited look off Pelto's face and replaced it with a glower. “So you're the one that started all this.”

“I think it started with you, Pa.” Erik Pelto stood close to the bars of his cell.

“Coffee?” Mrs. Koski served the afternoon coffee and cake, charming and chatty as any hostess, while Newman let Pelto into his son's cell. It was quite a gathering, with any attempt at privacy futile. And McIntire made little effort to pretend he was not listening.

Pelto had secured the services of an attorney, a man employed by the Society for the Protection of the Foreign Born. He'd be in Duluth for the hearing. If it didn't go well, he at least hoped to get the federal judge to set bail. “I got a little money,” he told his son. “We should be able to scrape together enough to get you out.”

Erik responded only with, “Have you seen Delilah and the kids?”

“They'll be fine. I'll stay with them until you're out.”

McIntire and Falk looked at each other in some embarrassment. Noises rumbled from the lump on the cot.

McIntire asked, “How could Eban have found out that Rose was dead?”

“He must have gone to the house and found her. Sometimes he came over to help with the chores when I was away. But the stock was already sold, there wasn't really anything to do.”

“She was leaving,” McIntire said. “He might have wanted to say goodbye, and he might have wanted to do it when you weren't at home, after the fight you had. Did he know you'd be gone? Or would he have come to your house expecting you to be there? To make it up, maybe?”

“Like to apologize you mean? Eban?”

McIntire agreed that didn't sound like Vogel.

“He probably knew I'd be away,” Falk said. “I'd have mentioned about going to ship the stuff.”

“Somebody also blew the man's head off and put their bodies in the well,” McIntire reminded him. “That doesn't sound like Eban either.”

Falk nodded. “He was fond of Rosie, but not so fond that he'd kill over her sleeping with another man.” He smiled. “After all, I'm still alive.”

“Congratulations on that. I imagine it might have been a bit of a challenge now and then.” McIntire said it in Russian.

“You speak it like a native.”

“Unfortunately.” Was he condemned to spend his life dealing with the consequences of that proficiency? No, he had gotten off easy. It was those around him who suffered, and were continuing to suffer, from his mistakes.

Newman rattled his keys and Falk stood up. “It's good to be back,” he said in English.

Chapter Thirty

If speaking like she was shouting through a bullhorn and punctuating every utterance with a mirthless chuckle were indications of lunacy, Nelda Stewart was indeed as crazy as a bedbug. Her eyes protruded amphibian-like—no, more reptilian, they held a feral glint you didn't see in a frog. But for a third bulge, an abdomen like she'd swallowed a watermelon seed, she was so gaunt she barely made a shadow. Or, to carry the biological analogies one last step, thin as a water reed.

She stirred boiling water into Instant Postum and handed it to McIntire in a cup wreathed with cat hair. At least McIntire assumed the fuzz came from something feline. It covered every possible surface, but McIntire saw no evidence of a full-fledged, or full-furred, cat. No surprise; if the amount of hair floating around was any indication, the poor thing had probably frozen to death, but not before permeating the air with an odor so strong he could taste it.

There were limits to McIntire's gallantry, and he didn't even make a pretense of drinking the rancid-smelling brew. Nelda seemed to relish her own. A tiny wisp of fur trembled on her upper lip.

McIntire rubbed his nose. “I spoke to my mother the other day,” he said. “She asked after you, and I promised I'd visit to see how you're doing.”

“Really? That's very nice of her. How does she like California?” Her fixed stare demanded an answer.

“Florida. She likes it a lot. Sunshine twenty-four hours a day, to hear her tell it.”

Nelda brushed at her lip. “I like a change of seasons, myself.” The self-deprecating chortle, combined with the unblinking gaze of those distended eyes, made McIntire want to bolt for the door.

“I wouldn't mind a change of seasons right now,” he said. “Ma asked after your children. Two of them, is it?”

She laughed again and raised her cup. Her hands were long and bony. The nails were chewed to slivers and flecks of blood showed at the knuckles. “A boy and a girl, all grown up and flown the nest.”

So something was fully-fledged. “It must be lonely for you.”

“It is. But it makes me feel better knowing they're both doing so well. Alexander is…oh, something or other in science, and Katrina is going to school to be a doctor. She's the only girl in her class. Their father would have been very proud.”

Was that really true, or a further indication of Nelda's nuttiness? McIntire didn't want to prolong the discussion any more than necessary. He braced his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his ear in the palm of his hand. “I was sorry to hear about your husband. I never knew him, of course, but I believe he was a good friend of my dad's.”

“Lost in the Massey-Davis mine disaster.” His ear-blocking ploy did nothing to muffle Nelda's braying.

“And his body never found. That must have been hard to bear.”

“Losing my husband was hard to bear.”

“Ma says the company put up a fuss about paying compensation.”

For the first time, both the voice and the eyelids lowered. “Is this about Rose Makinen?”

Mrs. Stewart might be crazy but she wasn't stupid. McIntire surrendered. “It looks like she died the same day as the cave-in. There was a man with her.”

“It wasn't my Jack. Jack was killed in the mine.”

“Mrs. Stewart, did your husband have all his teeth?”

“Was Rosie's man missing his?” The old, bellowing Nelda was back.

“I don't know.”

“Why not? Did the skeleton have teeth or didn't it?”

“It was hard to say.” McIntire was blunt. “He was shot in the head.”

“Jack wasn't shot in the head, he drowned in that mine. You must have heard about it.” She bit savagely at the base of her thumb.

“The company was pretty sure your husband wasn't in the mine when it flooded,” McIntire persisted.

Nelda swept the crusted cuff of her cardigan across her lip and succeeded in depositing a few more hairs. “I didn't know anything about the cave-in until Jack didn't make it home on Sunday. He stayed at the location weeknights. Nobody came to tell me he was dead. I had to go to the mine office and ask what happened.” Her voice took on an hysterical edge. “There was an inspector for the company there the day the mine flooded. He claimed Jack came out ahead of the others, that he wasn't in the shaft when the water came in. He wasn't here either, so where could he be if he wasn't dead? Nobody said they saw him after the accident. Massey-Davis finally had to admit that inspector didn't know what he was talking about. Jack was in the mine with the rest of them, and they all drowned.”

McIntire didn't know what was making him pursue it. Why didn't he just ask if Jack Stewart had false teeth and get the hell out? He struggled to remind himself that this woman was a widow learning that her husband might have died in another woman's bed. It didn't help. She was sick, he knew that. He should be able to feel some empathy, at least pretend to it, but it was impossible. If he let himself feel anything, it would be terror.

He asked, “Did your husband know Rose Falk?”

“Rose Makinen was always after the men, mostly to embarrass them, I figure. Jack no more than anybody else. Rosie wasn't nothing to fret over. Could they make me give it back?”

“What?”

“The widow's pension. Could they make me give it back?” The eyes opened so wide McIntire half expected them to fall into her lap. “I can't pay it. Do you think they might put me in jail?”

McIntire felt a glimmer of sympathy. “How could they? It would be an honest mistake. You had no way of knowing.”

“Please!” The bark turned shrill. “You have to tell that sheriff that Jack died in the mine. I don't want to go to jail!”

“But, Mrs. Stewart, surely you'd want to know if it was your husband in that well.”

“Why?”

McIntire couldn't answer that.

“Please.” This time it was barely a whisper. McIntire froze as her cracked and bleeding hand touched his knee. “You tell them Jack died in that mine.”

McIntire felt himself drenched in sweat. He couldn't spend another minute with this woman, breathing her stale furry air, waiting for her eyeballs to pop out of her head. It wasn't her fault, he knew. Not her fault that she was crazy and lonely and frightened. Not her fault that she evoked in McIntire fears that had nothing to do with her. He got to his feet.

Maybe Leonie could be convinced to pay a call.

***

He was home, scrubbing his skin raw in the shower, before he could concentrate on what he'd learned. Which was absolutely nothing.

It would be an ironic twist. If Jack Stewart had used a narrow escape from death in a hole in the ground as an opportunity to disappear, stopping off to pay Rose Falk a fond farewell that led to his death in a hole in the ground…. Maybe Nelda could identify the shoes or the suspenders, if she was of a mind to, which would be doubtful. She might be crazy, but she was right; why would she want to know, or let anyone else know?

If Stewart had simply seen his chance and taken it, not bothering with that visit to Rose, he was probably still out there somewhere and might come forward if he heard that exaggerated reports of his death were being circulated. It couldn't matter much now, unless he had a new wife and kiddies.

Of course if the body in the well proved to be that of Jack Stewart, Nutty Nelda would bound past the wronged husband to become suspect number one.

The upper plate could be the key. In his rush to get away from Nelda, McIntire hadn't found out the state of Jack Stewart's teeth. But Stewart was a young man, and if he did wear dentures there would be plenty of people around who'd know it. If the teeth didn't belong to the victim, that left Rose's father. There should also be people around who'd know if Jarvi Makinen had false teeth. Not that they would probably be able to identify a specific upper plate. If Jarvi had worn dentures, would they have to dig him up to see if he was buried with them? McIntire was getting a headache.

Chapter Thirty-One

A swirl of snow swept in through the open door. Nick followed, kicked the door closed behind him, and placed the acid-encrusted battery on the kitchen floor.

“I'll let it warm up while I finish shoveling. If she still won't start, I'll call up Sulo to give me a jump.”

It was twenty degrees below. The panel truck wouldn't start even if it hadn't been frozen solid since November. It was going to take more than a warm battery and a jump from Sulo to get it going, but Mia didn't utter a discouraging word. They'd have to get it running some way.

“We're almost out of coffee.”

Nick examined his mittens, inspecting them for signs of battery acid.

“We
are
out of yeast.”

“I'll get into town today one way or the other.” He threw the mitts on a chair and held his hands over the heater.

Mia felt a pang of remorse at her meanness. It wasn't Nick's fault that he was sick, any more than she had deliberately broken her ankle. There was a difference; even when she regained two good legs, Mia would still be completely dependent on her husband. And that
was
nobody's fault but her own.

She carried the pan to the table and ladled Malt O Meal into the bowls, keeping the rubber tip of her crutch out of the puddles of melting snow. She lowered herself into her chair and spooned brown sugar onto the cereal.

“No milk?”

“You can have canned.” She took a brave mouthful.

“That's okay.” Nick opened the butter dish and sliced off a chunk. It melted into the cereal.

Mia sprinkled on a bit more sugar.

Nick swirled the butter in a golden figure eight. “Inge Lindstrom came by.”

Mia had seen Inge's car idling at the end of the driveway while Nick leaned on his shovel.

“She said John McIntire's Studebaker was at Nelda's yesterday when she went to the store.” He dipped his spoon into the cereal. “It was still there when she came back.”

“Was Nelda having some sort of trouble? Not one of the kids?”

“I'd guess that Super Detective was asking about the dear departed Jack.”

Of course! Why hadn't they thought of him first thing? The rumors surrounding the death of Jack Stewart had flown thick and fast. Someone whose name no one seemed to remember had hinted that he'd seen Jack after the accident, pushing a “borrowed” railroad handcar. That was all it took to get people talking. He'd taken off for California; he'd been done in by his lunatic wife; he'd been killed by co-workers in revenge for his past strike-breaking.

“He disappeared about the same time as Rose,” Mia said. “Some people say he wasn't in the mine. It makes perfect sense, and we should have thought of it right away.”

“Maybe.”

Despite the talk, most people believed Stewart had drowned in the mine along with the rest of his crew, but, Mia knew, Nick was among those that had doubts. Every Christmas he delivered a card addressed to Nelda and her children. It was always postmarked from a different place, but the handwriting was the same.

“Jack might have made it out of that mine,” Nick said. “And if he did, I'm betting he didn't die later the same day.”

Mia brought the spoon to her lips and put it down again. She had no wish for extended conversation with her husband, but it was that or eat the icky stuff. “Inge have any other news?”

“Only that Teddy Falk and John McIntire seem to be old acquaintances and Johnny's spent hours visiting him in jail, chatting in what sounds like Russian. She heard that they met ‘right in our very home' and was wondering what language they talked in.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I said I didn't know. I couldn't understand a damn word they said.”

Mia nodded.

“A few days ago that would have gotten at least a little smile out of you.”

“Things have changed.”

Nick spoke softly without looking up. “I'm sorry, Mia. I didn't do it on purpose. Your father packed everything away, all her clothes, all…. I wanted to put it out of my mind. I didn't want to think about it again.”

“You knew what it was the second you saw it.”

“I'm sorry. What more can I say?”

“Not a thing.”

Nick bundled himself back into his coat. His wool pants hung wet around his ankles. “Do you need anything before I go out?”

She shook her head and turned to the window. The wind had already redeposited most of the snow back into the driveway. He'd be starting over again.

The door closed behind him. Mia remained at the table. She held a knife blade in her hot coffee and used it to slice off a piece of the hard butter. She plopped it into her remaining cereal. It didn't melt. She chopped it up with her spoon and stirred it in.

She tried to recall her father's attitude toward Jack Stewart both before and after his supposed death. Like everybody else, Eban Vogel had little use for scabs. There were also quite a few who saw the labor agitators as the real problem. The mine workers' strikes of 1914 had been close to civil war for those involved. Here in St. Adele they were only newspaper reports, although the battles took place just a few miles away. Most of the workers lived in the mine locations and company towns. They were in their own world. Later on, there were men like Jack Stewart who had jobs in the mine and lived away, in the towns or on farms.

Eban Vogel had talked about the strikes, read the papers, despised the British strike breakers. Mia didn't remember much of anything else about it.

She did recall that Eban had spoken in favor of Nelda's quest for compensation from the mining company. Whatever had really happened to Jack Stewart, he was most definitely gone, disappeared while working for the mine, leaving a deranged wife and two children. They had to be supported, and the amount of money it would take to do it was peanuts to Massey-Davis.

Finding his wife in bed with a former scab could certainly have brought a murderous rage to a man of Teddy Falk's political convictions. But why would a woman of his wife's political convictions be in bed with that scab? Jack Stewart was no Adonis. Well, then neither was Rosie. Who really knew what people might do?

Mia might have been slow in learning it, but she could see that people might not be at all what they seem. Would the kind of woman who'd desert her husband on the eve of the new life they'd planned together be bothered about social principle? Who could say? Maybe Teddy Falk had lured Jack to his house and killed them both. Maybe John McIntire was a Soviet spy. Maybe Erik Pelto was recruiting an army of Kiddy Communists. Maybe her father was a cold—or hot—blooded killer.

“He is not.”

Mia had felt her mother's presence often but never before heard her voice, and she had to struggle against turning to look. She knew there would be nothing to see, not a confident nod, not a wisp of fog or a spark of light. But the words were strong and certain, and Mia didn't doubt them.

The telephone rang and she hoisted herself to her feet. The crutches bit into the flesh under her arms.

“Hello, Mia. I just called up to see how you're getting along and find out if there's anything I can do.”

Sally Ferguson, who'd no doubt also had a visit from Inge Lindstrom and was interested in getting the real story without Inge's embellishments or misinterpretations.

“Oh, we're doing okay. Thanks for asking.”

“Well, I've been a little worried about you, being mixed up in all that business with the Falks, you know. You sure have enough troubles of your own.”

“We're fine.”

“Is it true that Teddy Falk was actually arrested at your house?”

“No, I'm afraid it was nothing so exciting. Teddy followed Cecil Newman into town and turned himself in.” Mia wished she was a fast enough thinker to come up with better stories.

“Well, it's too bad it took almost twenty years for it to come out, but at least he's behind bars now.”

“Well, Ted's not been convicted yet,” Mia pointed out. “If he knew Rose was dead and he was going to be blamed for it, he probably wouldn't have come back to the country.”

“He didn't come
here
, though, did he? Not until he knew he'd be arrested. If he really didn't know what happened to Rose, and if he cared to find out, he'd have come back to St. Adele first thing.”

Sally had a point there.

“But my question is,” she went on, “who else knew?”

“Knew what?” Mia felt a flush run through her body.

“John McIntire found those bodies. Unless it came to him in a dream, somebody had to have told him. If it wasn't Teddy, then who? How did he find out Rose was dead and where to look for her?”

“I can't imagine.”

“I know your father sort of took Rose and Teddy under his wing.”

“Sally, it's kind of hard for me to stand—”

“Oh, gracious, I'm so thoughtless. I'll get back to why I called. Wouldn't you like to have some company? A few of the ladies were talking about coming to see you. Maybe having a little get-together to cheer you up.”

Mia scanned through her store of polite excuses, then stopped. The ladies were just as interested in what was going on around them in 1934 as they were now. If she wanted to find out what happened then…. She wavered, then heard herself say, “Thank you, Sally. That would be very nice.”

The silence that preceded Sally's response showed that she was just as flabbergasted as Mia was herself. “Should we say Thursday afternoon?”

Thursday was as good as any other day to Mia. She said goodbye quickly, before she could change her mind.

Once again she heard her mother's words, this time only in her mind. “No,” she replied aloud. “Papa's not a murderer, and I'll see to it that everybody knows it.”