Witch Cradle (3 page)

Chapter Five

Mia closed the door on McIntire's retreating back and returned to the kitchen. She avoided meeting her husband's gaze as she gathered the cups.

“What was that all about?” She might have known he wouldn't let her off that easy.

“What?” She tried to sound mystified.

“You know that money didn't belong to your father. He'd never have hidden it from us like that.”

“Who else would be burying money in our yard?”

“I'm not saying Eban didn't
bury
it.”

“What are you saying? That Papa was stashing away money that wasn't his? That he stole it, maybe?”

“I don't know where he got it, or how, and neither do you. But I'd bet dollars to doughnuts that the money Teddy Falk needed to leave the country is right here in my hand. Teddy went away, and, so far as we know, he hasn't resurfaced.”

“Nick! You make it sound like Papa stuck Teddy Falk in the ground out there, too.”

Mia felt her stomach clench as she uttered the words, both at her own ever-raw memories and at the pain in Nick's eyes.

“Meggie, sit down. I've been thinking about this. Do you remember when Falk said he was going to Russia? Your father didn't take it so well.”

“Of course he didn't. He thought it was unpatriotic. Well, you could hardly be less patriotic! Papa also thought he was an absolute nincompoop to do it. He was right.”

“He was furious.”

Furious didn't begin to describe Eban Vogel's reaction when he heard the Falks were joining the emigration. “Teddy was a good friend,” Mia said, “an old friend. Papa didn't have many friends. He didn't want to see them go.”

“They didn't act like good friends as I recollect it. Don't tell me you've forgotten about the fight they had, in this very room.”

Mia wasn't likely to ever forget that night. It had been beastly. The two of them shouting, swearing in their respective languages, the sounds of stamping feet and fists slamming on the table until she thought she'd die of fright and embarrassment. She'd begged Nick to go down and put an end to it. He managed to effect a truce and had made it almost to the top of the stairs before bedlam broke out again. The battle had ended with a crash and a blessed, if unnatural, silence. In the morning the kitchen was bathed in the Christmassy scents of cinnamon and ginger, and the cherrywood spice cabinet, a gift from her father to his bride, showed a four-inch gash on one of its lovingly carved corners.

“What is it you're trying to say?” Mia asked.

Nick closed his eyes and pressed his temples with the thumb and fingers of one hand. “I'm just trying to remember.”

Mia was trying not to remember. “It doesn't matter now.”

“So far as we know, your father never heard from Teddy after he left, and neither did anybody else. I don't recall that Eban ever mentioned being surprised about that.”

“Why would he? As you just said, they had a terrible argument before Teddy went away.”

“Your old man had seven hundred dollars and the claim for the stuff Falk shipped over. If Teddy didn't go, your father damn well knew it.”

“Nick—”

“What if the fight got out of hand? What if Teddy hit his head or something, a heart attack, maybe, and died?”

“I don't want to hear any more of that.”

“We can't just ignore it.”

“I can ignore it. I know my father, and I know that he wasn't a thief, and he was certainly not a murderer!”

“I'm not saying he was. I knew your father, too, almost as long as you did…and maybe better.”

What did that mean? “There was a Mrs. Teddy,” Mia reminded him. “You figure she was in on it, too? Maybe Papa and Rosie had a thing going?”

Nick shook his head. “I know, the whole thing is damn strange.”

“Papa made money. Even during the Depression he had more money than most people around. It wasn't something he wanted everybody to know about.”

“Your father was generous with what he had. He wouldn't have hidden it.”

It was true. Mia's father had taken perverse pleasure in helping out the same people who had treated his family with such meanness during the First War.

She took the bills from his hand and patted them into a neat stack. “Nick, we can use this.”

“We've done without indoor plumbing so far.”

“You won't be able to work much longer.” And he wouldn't be able to use the outdoor plumbing much longer.

“So that's what this is all about.”

“It's true. We have to face up to it.” She leaned toward him with her hands on the table. “You could see a doctor. One that might know something. Go to the Mayo Clinic, maybe.”

“Nothing doing.” Nick's words conveyed what his spiritless voice could not. “There's nothing anybody can do. That's what we have to face up to. I'm not going to waste what time I have left—or what money we find buried in the yard—on some wild goose chase, so forget it.”

“Papa left everything he had to me. That includes canning jars and whatever is in them.” She reclaimed the stack of bills and slapped it on the tabletop. “
This is
mine
.”

Chapter Six

The empty feeling in the house hit McIntire as soon as he opened the door. A bleakness that couldn't be explained by the lack of light and heat alone. The light he could do little about, but before he went in search of his wife, McIntire filled both the furnace and the teakettle.

He found Leonie huddled in bed with only her blond curls showing above the quilt. He hadn't really expected her to take that nap. She was a notoriously late sleeper, but once she was up, she generally stayed that way. He touched her shoulder. “Leonie, what's wrong? Are you sick?” He fervently hoped not. They'd raise hell getting Guibard out today.

She shook her head and spoke into the pillow. “I was feeling chilly.”

“Why didn't you put some wood on the fire? It was almost out.”

He bent to hear the muffled words. “I just didn't feel like it.” After a few seconds she added, “It's pitch black down there.”

He'd never known Leonie to be afraid of the dark or much of anything else. “Well, I've stoked the fire and put the kettle on. Come on and have a cup.” Her cheek felt cold under his touch. “Or should I bring it here?”

The threat of being treated as an invalid seemed to bring Leonie around. She rolled onto her back and pushed aside the covers. She was fully dressed right down to her shoes. “No. I was just about to get up. It must be nearly dinner time.” Her smile brought back the woman he knew. “I guess I was pretty tired. I didn't get an awful lot of sleep last night.”

“No, I don't suppose either of us did.”

She bounced up smartly and seated herself at the dressing table, frowning at her rumpled skirt. “Where have you been?”

“Thorsens'.” He told her about the trees. “One was uprooted, and when it fell it hit the other one and broke it off about thirty feet above the ground. I don't know how Nick'll handle clearing it up. He can't even manage to shovel the front steps. There was something a little strange—”

“Where else?”

“Where what?”

“Where else did you go?” She picked up her brush and turned away from him to lean toward the mirror. “You were going to check out the neighborhood.”

“That was as far as I got. It'll be a while before this mess is cleaned up. I'll try to get over to Sulo's after we eat.”

“I imagine Sulo can take care of himself.”

The sharpness was unlike Leonie, and gave McIntire the feeling that there was something he'd missed in their short conversation.

“There are other reasons I want to see Sulo. Come on. I'll tell you about it downstairs.” He pulled her to her feet. “If you'd rather I didn't go….”

“Don't be silly,” she said. “Sulo is only a hop, skip, and a jump away.” She chucked him under the chin. “I'm sure you'll be fine.”

***

McIntire wasn't surprised at Mia's insistence on keeping the money, but it was strange that she was either unconcerned about its implications, or was pretending to be. She wasn't so naive that she didn't know that if Teddy Falk and his family—did he and Rose have children?—had disappeared, and the money to finance their new life had wound up buried in her yard, questions would have to be asked.

It was a puzzle, but one that would have to wait for the snowplow, unless Sulo Touminen could enlighten him. Sulo might know if the Falks ever got to Karelia. He might at least have some idea of what their plans had been. Or should have had at the time; whether he'd remember now was another question. McIntire reckoned his own mother would be a better source of information, and there was no question about her memory. Sophie McIntire had yet to admit to forgetting anything. But his mother was in Florida, and, as Leonie had pointed out, Sulo was just down the road.

Now Leonie stood staring out the window over the kitchen sink, waiting for the kettle heating on the gas burner. She'd been preoccupied over their noon-time meal of pork chops and green beans, but then, so had he. He carried his plate to her.

“I'll be right back.”

“Do you think the power will be off overnight?”

“Yes.” If the power was restored by Easter, he'd be surprised. He kissed her cheek. “I'll be home long before dark.”

He made it almost to Touminens' before finding the road blocked by a horizontal maple. Now what? Should he try to move the thing? It was that or reverse close to a half mile to turn around in Thorsens' driveway. McIntire turned off the engine and got out of the car.

The sky had cleared to a hard sapphire blue. A tinkle of fairy bells filled the air as millions of ice slivers loosened their hold on wires and twigs and fell to the crusted snow.

The song was drowned by the chug of a diesel engine. McIntire squinted into the sun. The brilliant yellow-orange of an Allis-Chalmers crested the hill beyond the fallen tree. Sulo Touminen bounced on its metal seat, hatless. He spent some minutes turning the tractor in the narrow road, leaped down, and attached a chain to the tree. He grunted, resumed his seat, and coaxed the machine into action, pulling the tree a few yards back the way he had come. Only then did he alight once more and stroll to McIntire, leaving the tractor grumbling in the road.

“Quite a storm, eh? Lose anything?” Sulo was not only hatless, but gloveless and with no outerwear other than a heavy flannel shirt. He spit a yellow-brown blot onto the pristine whiteness at his feet.

“Just a night's sleep,” McIntire said. “You?”

“A few shingles. You out on official business?”

If it was sarcasm, McIntire chose to ignore it. “I hope not,” he said, “but if you've got some time you might be able to help me out.”

“Out of what? I'm getting the goldamn tree off the road.”

“I mean you might be able to give me some information,” McIntire tried again. “If you've got some time.”

“I got nothing but time. Follow me.”

Sulo remounted his tractor and amply demonstrated his surfeit of time, inching along the road, plowing an icy furrow with his tree, while McIntire crept behind in first gear.

Sulo's imperviousness to freezing temperatures appeared to end at the front door of his narrow two-storied house. Their entry was greeted with a blast of heat that might soon have McIntire stripping to his skivvies. His host loosed the buckles to let the bib of his overalls fall around his waist, but went no further in disrobing. Something for which—at a glimpse of the grayed and tattered necklines of what appeared to be two layers of longjohns under the flannel—McIntire was truly grateful.

Happily, Touminen's home was at odds with his scruffy appearance. Paper in a pleasing print covered the kitchen walls, and the room was bright and tidy, if a bit overstocked with knick-knacks. The ceiling was a shock, enameled a glossy cherry-red. It was all the influence, no doubt, of Sulo's resident sister, Irene. The whirr of a sewing machine treadle sounding from the living room indicated that Irene was at home. Under the circumstances, she could hardly have been anywhere else.

At the sound of Sulo's “Grab a chair” the machine stopped and his sister appeared, her broad shoulders nearly filling the narrow doorway.

With her ball-shaped clefted chin, pointy turned-up nose, and prominent apple cheeks set in a thin porcelain face, Irene Touminen was an unusual-looking woman, bringing to mind a wooden marionette, a female Pinocchio who'd told only one or two harmless fibs. Even her hair looked as though it might have been lacquered on, straight and shiny black, cut to just below her ears with bangs in a ruler-straight line over brilliant sparks of eyes.

She'd had nurse's training, and worked for a time in Lansing before souring on the high life of the big city and leaving it behind to move in with Sulo. Not the smartest move, from McIntire's point of view. He didn't know Irene well, but she seemed friendly and capable, if a little shy. She wasn't all that old, and, as McIntire knew from experience, middle age didn't preclude one's finding a mate. Well, Irene wasn't likely to meet her Prince Charming if she didn't get out of St. Adele more than the weekends she worked as a cook in Chandler's old folks' home.

She smiled gently in McIntire's direction, made a few obligatory comments about the storm and the gumption Leonie exhibited in coping with the Michigan winter, and occupied herself brewing coffee and slicing a loaf of banana bread. When she placed it on the table, McIntire noticed for the first time how tiny her hands were. In contrast to her rangy build, they were as doll-like as her face. She nodded at McIntire's thanks and took herself back to her sewing machine, leaving her brother to handle the pouring.

McIntire's queries were postponed by Touminen's “You mind?” He lifted the sugar bowl and produced a folded letter. McIntire took a ballpoint pen from his pocket and performed the familiar task of transcribing into English still another rambling epistle from one of Sulo's covey of Finnish cousins. Unlike his local cousin, Silent-in-Two-Languages Uno, Sulo was limited to English.

McIntire handed over the letter. Sulo nodded, refolded it, and slid it back under the sugar bowl.

McIntire asked, “You own the old Makinen place?”

A hint of curiosity gleamed in the round blue eyes. “Ya.”

“Have you had it long?”

“Oh, ya. I took it over from Teddy. Well, from Rose. It was in her name. You looking to buy some land?”

The light faded when McIntire shook his head and asked, “Have you heard from the Falks at all?”

Touminen studied McIntire's face before filling the cups and replying. “Heard from them? No. Why? No reason I should have.”

“Not at all since they left? You didn't need to send payments or anything?”

“Nah, we settled all that before they took off. Well, come to think of it, Teddy'd figured to have a little bit coming from when I sold the potatoes. He wanted it to go to some outfit in New York City. He was supposed to send the address, but I never heard nothing. Potatoes weren't worth the cost to ship them anyway. Maybe he didn't need the money in Paradise, eh?”

Sulo poured coffee from his cup into his saucer and stared into it for a moment. “Anyway, I didn't hear nothing.” He popped a cube of sugar into his mouth and raised the saucer to his lips. Sulo Touminen was not an old man, but he was certainly in training for it.

That took care of question number one. Waiting while Sulo slurped his saucer of coffee through the sugar gave McIntire time to come up with question number two.

“When you bought the place, was the house still on it?”

“Not much of a house, more of a two-room shack. I traded it to Earl Culver for a couple loads of hay. He hauled it away and added it on to his house for bedrooms.” Sulo chuckled. “If Earl spent a little less time in his own bedroom, he might not have needed to go around buying old shanties. Why Sandra Rindahl married an ugly son of a gun like that—he'd have made a better match for Rose—and to have all those kids…. What do you suppose that guy's got that…?” He shook his head.

The source of Earl Culver's persuasive charm was one mystery that McIntire had no wish to pursue. “I suppose the house was pretty much empty when you got it?”

“Well,” Touminen's speech slowed and his eyes showed a definite glimmer of curiosity. “They left some furniture. Whatever wasn't worth either selling or shipping across the ocean. Not much. I let Earl have it along with the house.” He refilled his saucer. “Teddy had some pretty good machinery, a dandy cement mixer, and a sawmill, but he shipped every last nut and bolt to Russia. There was Jarvi's car. Twenty-seven Model A. They took off in it, but I don't know if they took it over with them or not.”

“What about household stuff, blankets, pots and pans, clothing? Was it all gone when you got the house?”

Touminen spread butter on a slice of bread, careful to cover it to the edges. “Well, sure. They took along anything that was worth bringing. There was a buncha junk laying around. I told Earl to take what he wanted and throw out the rest.” He bit off half the slice and held what remained a few inches from his lips, shaking it impatiently while he chewed and swallowed. He stuffed in another bite and spoke around it. “How come you're so interested in Teddy Falk?”

“Oh,” McIntire said, “somebody was asking about him, wanted to look him up.”

“In Russia?”

“Yeah.” McIntire hoped to divert Sulo from asking
who
might be looking to track Teddy down in the Soviet Union and what that had to do with whether he'd remembered to pack his socks and underwear. “It would be interesting to find out what happened to some of those people. The ones that went over. I don't suppose they found that paradise they were looking for.”

“They were a bunch of damn fools.” Touminen slurped up another saucer of coffee. “I told the whole lot of them they were nuts to do it. Got thrown out of your old man's saloon for my trouble.”

“Pa tossed you out?” For speaking out against a communist Utopia? Colin McIntire had been a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist.

“Nah, it was the Saari boys. And I do mean
threw
. They'd of done a whole lot worse, but your old man didn't allow no bloodshed in his establishment, so I got by with a couple sore ribs.” Touminen pulled his suspenders back to his shoulders. “If Teddy Falk wrote to anybody, it woulda been that Kraut, Eban Vogel.”

“I don't think he did,” McIntire said. “But it was a big group that went over, maybe thousands. They'd have left a lot of relatives and friends here. Wouldn't you think there'd have to be people around that have been in contact with some of them? Maybe not since the war, but before then. Somebody must know where they ended up.”