“Nice,” he said. He put a hand on the sporty little car.
She beamed. “My graduation present.”
“Congratulations,” Jo said.
“Thanks.”
“Is your mom home?”
“No.”
“Any idea where we might find her?”
“She went to the gallery.” Her eyes drifted lovingly back to her Miata.
“It’s Wednesday,” Cork said. “The gallery’s closed.”
“I’m just telling you what she told me.”
“Thanks.” Cork started away, then turned back and asked casually, “Have you seen your father lately?”
“No. He’s probably at work.”
“Sure.”
After they got back into the Bronco, Jo took a long look at the young woman. “God, I feel so bad for her. She has no idea.”
“I don’t know,” Cork said. “It could be that when the shit hits the fan, she won’t be much surprised.”
At the West Wind Gallery, Lyla’s car was parked next to Marion Griswold’s mud-spattered Jeep Wagoneer. Cork eased his Bronco beside the other two vehicles. Jo tried the gallery door and found it locked. They walked to the house and stepped onto the porch. Cork knocked at the front door, waited, knocked again.
Then the scream came.
It came from the south, from beyond a thick stand of red pine. Cork leaped from the porch and began to run in that direction with Jo at his heels. He could see a narrow, well-worn path through the trees and he made for it. He hit the stand of pine just as another scream cracked the morning air.
Where the path ended a hundred yards through the pines, Cork could see a sparkle of blue he knew to be Little Otter Lake. It was a small body of water, but Griswold owned the land all around it and had the lake to herself. He ran hard, not knowing what he was heading into, feeling the rush of adrenaline. He wished he were carrying his revolver and wished, too, that he’d warned Jo to stay back. God only knew what awaited them.
He pulled up quickly before he broke from the cover of the trees. He could see an old wooden dock thrust out from the shoreline into the lake. At the end of the dock stood a naked woman, beautiful and slender and so deeply tanned her skin was the color of deer hide.
There was splashing in the lake, a froth of white water a few yards away from the dock. In a moment, a head bobbed to the surface, and from the mouth of that head a little stream of water shot into the air.
Jo stood next to Cork, and they both watched as Lyla Soderberg climbed onto the dock, naked and laughing. She embraced Marion Griswold and they kissed. But only briefly before Lyla shoved Marion off the dock. As the woman hit the water with a big splash, Lyla let out a scream of delight.
Cork and Jo walked back to the house. They stood on the porch where the geraniums hung in pots, and for a while they didn’t say anything.
“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard Lyla laugh,” Cork finally said.
“It’s the first time I can remember her looking happy.” Jo tapped a geranium pot and it swung idly, casting a shadow that cut back and forth across her own.
“Do you want to leave?” Cork asked.
“No.”
In a little less than half an hour, the two women came walking up the path through the pines. They were fully dressed, but hadn’t dried themselves completely so there were places where Lyla’s white silk blouse clung to her, showing pink skin beneath.
Lyla hesitated when she saw Cork and Jo, but Marion came ahead smiling.
“Been here long?” she asked.
“A while,” Jo said. “How was the water?”
“Purely refreshing.” Marion arched a dark eyebrow. “Maybe you should take the plunge sometime.”
Lyla stopped at the bottom of the porch stairs and looked up. All the laughter was gone from her. “What do you want?”
“Just to ask a couple of questions,” Jo said.
“I’m not in the mood to answer.”
“New Year’s Eve,” Jo said. “When you and Marion left the Lipinskis’ party together, where did you go?”
Marion said, “I already told Cork. She came here.”
Jo said, “Is that right, Lyla?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you prove it? Either of you?”
“Now, why would we have to prove anything?” Marion asked.
“Lyla’s name has been mentioned in connection with Charlotte Kane’s murder,” Jo said.
“My name? That’s ridiculous. Why?”
Jo glanced at Cork. He nodded.
“Because your husband was having an affair with her,” Jo said.
“That… that girl? I don’t believe it.”
“He pretty much admitted it,” Cork said.
Marion gave a wicked little laugh. “She really was quite a lovely young thing. Bully for him.”
“So you see, it’s not so ridiculous,” Jo said. “Killing your husband’s lover, that’s a pretty sound motive.”
“Only if you love your husband,” Marion said. “Lyla, tell these folks how you feel about old Arne. And maybe, while you’re at it, how you feel about me.”
Lyla shot her a look of horror.
“Relax, sweetheart. These people are not stupid.” Marion mounted the stairs and sat in one of the wood rockers in the porch shade. “Like I already told you, Cork, we were here. A private New Year’s Eve celebration. Just the two of us.”
“You told me you took Lyla home a little after midnight.”
Marion gave Cork a smile that was all innocence. “I’m afraid I told you a little white lie. Didn’t want to raise any eyebrows. It was really three A.M. And I’ll swear to that in court.”
“Is that true, Lyla?” Jo said.
Lyla’s gaze drifted from Marion to Jo. She gave a silent nod.
Jo said, “All right.”
Lyla’s legs seemed to go weak, and she sat down suddenly on the steps. She looked away from them all, looked past the hanging geraniums, looked toward the pines that hid the little lake where she’d been laughing.
“Charlotte Kane and Arne,” she said to herself.
She wasn’t laughing anymore.
28
Near closing time at Sam’s Place that evening, Cork got a call from Jo. Oliver Bledsoe had just stopped by to inform her that the Iron Lake Ojibwe had decided to bail Solemn out of jail.
A few minutes later, Bledsoe himself drove up in his gray Pathfinder, got out, and leaned through the serving window. “Got a minute, Cork?”
Annie was cleaning up, and she told her dad to go ahead. Cork stepped outside and walked with Bledsoe to the edge of the lake. The water and the sky were twins, both of them black in the east but silver along the western edge where there was still the faint ghost of daylight. The air was breathless, the water dead calm.
Bledsoe wore black Dockers, a white, short-sleeved shirt, and a string tie with a turquoise slide. His hair, like the night, was a mix of black and silver. He put his hands in his pockets and looked out at the water. “I’ve been authorized to arrange bail for Solemn.”
“I know. Jo called me. When will you spring him?”
“We’ll have the money tomorrow.”
Casino money, Cork knew. He wondered if word of Soderberg had got out, and was that the reason for the change of heart.
“Why?” he asked.
“A lot of support for Solemn on the rez, what with these miracles and all.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I knew his uncle. About as good a man as I’ve ever known. Solemn, I don’t know except by reputation, which, quite frankly, isn’t good.” Bledsoe shrugged. “Maybe all those years I spent on Franklin Avenue listening to the stories of drunks, Shinnobs and otherwise, have made me a poor audience for this kind of thing. I can’t help thinking that Solemn’s worked a sleight of hand somehow.” He glanced at Cork. “But you know him better. What do you think?”
“He’s never claimed to be a part of the miracles. He just claims he talked with Jesus.”