“Junk food. And the autopsy showed that none of it was in her stomach, right?”
“That’s right. There was a beer bottle, too.”
“A Corona.”
“I don’t know. But Solemn’s fingerprints were all over it.”
“Damn.”
“Once they had that, they went out to Valhalla and did a thorough search. In the wood box of the guesthouse, they found a big, open-end wrench with dried blood on it. S.W.M. was etched on the shaft. Guess whose fingerprints were all over that.”
“And the blood was Charlotte’s?”
“Bingo. So they already had motive and a physical connection. All they needed to establish was opportunity. After we’d given them that in spades, they brought out the evidence box and sprung the trap.”
“A lot of drama, but what the hell was Arne thinking?” Cork said. “He gave you information he should never have let you have at this point.”
Jo shook her head. “I think he really believed he could get a spontaneous confession out of Solemn, a la Perry Mason.”
“No wonder Solemn took off.” Cork stood up and walked to the window. There was a playground in the park between the sheriff’s department and the Lutheran church. A wind had risen, and in the light from streetlamps, Cork could just make out the swings moving slowly back and forth, as if the ghosts of children were at play. “How did Solemn react?”
“You saw for yourself.”
“I mean before he split.”
Jo thought a moment. “Surprised.”
“Surprised by the evidence or surprised that they had it?”
“I wish I could say.”
Soderberg came in, looking grim and determined. “We just impounded his truck from in front of your place. Wherever he’s going, he’s going on foot.”
“You need us for anything, Sheriff?”
“Go on home.” He turned and left.
Jo got up from her chair. “I guess it’s time I called Dot.”
They didn’t say much as they drove home. It was late, and many of the houses on the streets were already dark. Aurora was usually a quiet place, something Cork valued, and at night especially, the silence could be deep as death itself. Jo stared out her window. As they passed under streetlights, her white-blonde hair flashed with a startling, neon brilliance. Her face, in profile, appeared troubled. Finally she said, “Pretty damning.”
“Also pretty convenient,” Cork said. “Everything laid out for Arne. A-B-C.”
“How many times have you told me that people who commit crimes, especially crimes of passion, don’t think very clearly. It’s entirely possible that Solemn left all that evidence behind.”
“You sound like the prosecutor. You think he did it?”
“He ran.”
“He’s scared.”
“He has reason to be. They’ve already got a lot against him.” She repositioned herself so that she faced Cork more directly. She put a hand lightly on his leg. “I know that Solemn is important to you because of Sam Winter Moon. But we both know he’s impulsive, sometimes violently so.”
“He’s been in his share of fights, but he’s never come close to killing anyone.”
“Cork, he never told us he didn’t kill her.”
“We never asked.” Cork laid his hand over hers. “Will you defend him?”
She laughed with surprise and drew away. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is going to be a murder charge. I’ve never defended someone accused of murder.”
Cork slowed a moment and looked steadily at her. Even in the dark, he could see how ice blue her eyes were, and how intense. “He trusts you.”
“There’s a lot more to winning in a courtroom than trust.” She looked away. “The best person in Tamarack County for something like this is Oliver Bledsoe.”
They turned onto Gooseberry Lane and Cork saw immediately that Solemn’s truck was gone. When they got inside the house, Jenny and Annie both greeted them with anxious faces.
Before either of his daughters could say a word, Cork asked, “Stevie?”
“We put him to bed hours ago,” Annie said. “He’s sound asleep. Randy Gooding was here. He was looking for Solemn Winter Moon. He said there’s a warrant for his arrest.”
“Because they think he killed Charlotte Kane,” Jenny jumped in.
“And then a tow truck came and took his truck away,” Annie added, a bit breathlessly.
“Did he kill Charlotte?” Jenny asked. There was disbelief, and maybe a little fear, in her voice.
Jo took off her jacket, opened the entryway closet, and reached for a hanger. “The sheriff has evidence that points in that direction.”
Jenny leaned back against the wall and stared down at the rug. “When they first started going out, it seemed like it was Solemn just playing her. By the end, I remember wondering who was playing who.” She shook her head. “But, Jesus, killing her?”
“He’s innocent until proven guilty, Jen,” Cork said.
She looked at him with those crystal blue eyes that were her mother’s. “Not Solemn Winter Moon, Dad. Not in this town.”
11
Sam Winter Moon used to say white people were just like puppies. If one peed on a tree, all the others had to pee on it, too. The morning after Solemn vanished into the night, Cork found out just how true Sam’s words were.
Jo had a court case first thing, and she left in the gray light before sunrise to prepare. Cork made sure the kids got up, had breakfast, and were off to school on time. They drank Minute Maid orange juice, ate Cocoa Puffs and Kix, and complained because Rose always had a hot breakfast for them. When they were finally out the door and on their way, Cork thought a hot breakfast did sound like a good idea, and he hopped in his Bronco and headed for the Broiler.
Johnny Papp’s Pinewood Broiler was an institution in Aurora, a gathering place for locals as far back as Cork could remember. His father, during his tenure as sheriff, often started his day there, rubbing elbows with the loggers and construction crews and merchants and resort owners of Tamarack County. Most of them were descended from the early Voyageurs and the immigrants-Finns, Germans, Slavs, Irish, and a dozen other nationalities who’d come in the old days, lured by the promise of a good life built on the wealth of the great white pines and the rich iron ore deposits of the Mesabi and Vermilion Ranges. Only a very few ended up rich, but most immigrants were able to build good lives, create homes, and establish history. The problem was that as they moved in, they shoved aside an entire group of people who had occupied that land for generations. The white men called them the Chippewa, which was a bastardization of one of the names by which they were known, Ojibwe. They were part of the Anishinaabe Nation whose territory, by the time the white settlers arrived, stretched from the eastern shores of the Great Lakes to the middle of the Great Plains. The Anishinaabeg saw themselves as stewards of the land with no more right or need to possess the earth than the hawks did the air currents that held them aloft. Land ownership was a white man’s concept, and it was accomplished through a series of treaties and underhanded business dealings that robbed the Anishinaabeg blind.
But all this was a long time ago, long before the Broiler regulars were born, and to them it was ancient history and of no relevance to their lives. Unless the uppity members of one of the tribal bands decided to push the issue. Which happened on occasion. Usually with an outcome that pleased no one.
When Cork stepped into the Broiler that morning, the talk was of Solemn Winter Moon. Everyone seemed to know about the accusations and about Solemn’s flight. Cork bellied up to the counter, called to Sara, a young waitress with tanning-booth brown skin and dyed blonde hair, for a cup of coffee and a stack of buckwheat cakes, then he turned to listen to what was being said at the nearest table.