“Amicable is a good beginning.”
“This isn’t a beginning.”
“The last couple of days things have felt nice. Almost normal again.”
“Don’t set yourself up for a fall.” She looked at him with genuine concern. “Don’t fool yourself, Cork. Our marriage is over. It really and truly is.”
Outside town, Cork turned onto the long, wooded drive that led to Sandy Parrant’s place. Parrant lived in a house like none Cork ever would. Surrounded by ten acres of hardwood forest, mostly maple, it stood on a quarter mile of the best shoreline Iron Lake had to offer. It was built on three levels, a little like books stacked slightly askew, and had so much window glass that, were it not for the wall of trees sequestering it, even Sandy Parrant’s pissing might not have been a private act. The long asphalt drive through the woods had been cleanly plowed, but a strong wind was blowing out of the northwest. Loose snow swirled across the road and danced up the banks of plowed snow. High clouds had closed overhead, and dark was coming on quickly in that late December afternoon. The house was already full of lights.
“Did you hear me?” she asked.
“I heard,” he replied. But he stubbornly held to the priest’s advice: Nothing is hopeless.
The inside of Parrant’s house was done in cold white-walls, rug, furniture-as if it were winter inside as well as out. A Christmas tree tastefully decorated with a modest number of white bulbs and red lights stood near the fireplace. Two red stockings hung from the mantel. Sandy Parrant wasn’t married, and Cork wondered who the second stocking was for.
There were hors d’oeuvres and punch and coffee on a long table, and two caterers keeping a close eye. When Cork’s father had died, and again when his mother passed away, neighbors had come with food that filled the house on Gooseberry Lane with the smell of things freshly baked. It hadn’t made the grief go away, but Cork remembered how it made him understand that his parents had been loved by a lot of folks besides him, and it made him feel good for his mother and father and for the lives they led. He didn’t feel that way at the catered gathering for Judge Robert Parrant. There was something calculated and distant about the carefully arranged platters of cold hors d’oeuvres. But he had to admit they were tasty.
Jo left him as soon as they stepped inside. Cork watched her huddle first with Parrant and several state politicos, then with Parrant and a number of local businessmen. She wore a simple black dress and a single strand of pearls. Her blonde hair was short and finely shaped. She looked beautiful. She stood among the men, not just holding her own, but being asked for advice. She was successful and she wore that success well.
As Cork watched, Sandy Parrant touched her shoulder in a familiar way, leaned to her, and whispered. It wasn’t anything, really, but it disturbed him. They looked like a couple, good together.
“How about some fresh air?” Wally Schanno stepped up next to Cork, a cup of coffee in his huge right hand. He was dressed stiffly in a black suit and starched white shirt and dark blue tie. With his tall frame and hollow cheeks and stern gray eyes, he looked like a Bible-thumping minister bent on converting a world of sinners.
Cork asked, “Will Arletta be okay?”
“She’s with friends,” Schanno said.
Outside on the deck of the house, Cork lit up a Lucky Strike. The deck was a two-level affair. The top level was quite large and had boxes along the railings that held flowers in the summer. The lower level was almost entirely taken up by a redwood hot tub. Cork had heard about that particular hot tub. For a bachelor like Parrant, what Cork had heard was understandable.
The backyard terraced down to the lake, where there was a dock, empty now, and a large boathouse. Beyond that the flat white of the frozen Iron Lake stretched toward the evening sky. West beyond the bare trees of the Parrants’ woods, the lights of Aurora sparkled along the shoreline, ending at the tip of North Point. As Cork leaned against the railing of the deck, the wind moved through the bare limbs of the trees with a sound like rushing water. The deck was protected and Cork hardly felt the wind at all.
“I don’t think about dying too much,” Schanno said, looking away from Cork toward the lake. “Not if I can help it. But, you know, all I’ve been thinking today is that when I die, I want someone to feel sad about it.” Schanno sipped his coffee. “Find out anything from Wanda Manydeeds?”
“She knows more than she’s telling. They’re afraid of something, Darla and her. Maybe Joe John and Paul, too, and that’s why they’re hiding.”
Schanno leaned against the railing and shook his head. “I still think it’s a domestic dispute, Cork. They’re Ojibwe. I don’t blame ’em one bit for not wanting the law to get involved.”
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Cork said. “Somebody broke into Sam’s Place.”
Schanno abruptly straightened up. “Burglary?”
“They tore the place up, but nothing seemed to have been taken. Another thing, I think somebody’s been in the house on Gooseberry Lane, too.”
“Maybe I should send a man over to dust for prints.”
“I don’t think dusting would turn up anything useful. And I don’t want to scare my family.”
“What were they after, Cork?”
“If I knew that, I might know who they are.”
Schanno sipped his coffee. Cork smoked his cigarette. The wind shifted a little and began to move snow across the deck. Cork was feeling chilled.
“Maybe there’s something I ought to tell you,” Schanno said.
“I’m listening.”
“I had a visit from the ATF recently. Couple of agents stopped by my office. They’re interested in the Minnesota Civilian Brigade.”
“I covered the same territory with the FBI when I was sheriff. They didn’t seem too concerned.”
“The ATF is. Seems that somebody’s been pumping money into the group. The brigade’s better organized than it was before. The ATF’s afraid they may be arming themselves pretty heavily.”
“Where’s the money coming from?”
“That’s what the agents wanted to know.” Schanno looked at Cork with a curious expression. “You know, Cork, strange things have been going on around here, starting with the judge’s death. You were alone in the judge’s house a long time before me and my men got there.”
“I was there awhile. Why?”
“I’m just wondering if maybe somebody thinks you took something. I’m wondering if they think you’ve got something that belonged to the judge.”
“Are you wondering if I took something, Wally?”
“I didn’t say that. But maybe somebody-maybe the brigade, for example-thinks you did. And if what they think you took has anything to do with the judge being dead-” Schanno turned his hard gray eyes on Cork.
The door onto the deck opened, and Arletta Schanno stepped out.
“How do you do,” she said politely to Cork, as if he were a stranger.
“Arletta.” Cork smiled back.
“Wally, dear, I think we should go home soon. The children.”
“The children are all right,” Schanno said without a hint of annoyance. “They’re not home.”
Arletta gave him a distressed look. “Maybe I should call.”
“No.” Schanno put his arm around her and drew her close to keep her warm. “No, it’s time we left anyway.” He glanced at Cork. “I’m thinking this is a thing you need to stay way clear of. For your family’s sake, you understand? But if you hear anything about Joe John or the boy, you let me know.”
Cork nodded. “You look lovely, Arletta. ’Night.”
He stayed on the deck awhile, finishing his cigarette. He was just about to head back in when Jo came out.
“Cork, Rose is on the telephone for you.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. She wants to talk to you.”
He took the call in the kitchen, where the caterers were working on trays of food.