in the area without any cabin homes already on the shoreline. Last spring, he’d begun construction of a luxury resort, but building had been halted in midsummer. Jubal Little was a large part of the reason.
Lester had built himself an ostentatious house on North Point Road, just outside the town limits. If there hadn’t already been a number of outrageously ostentatious places on the point, his would have stood out magnificently. As it was, it became just another in a line of homes that, in Cork’s opinion, had no place in what should have been the natural and simple beauty of the shoreline of Iron Lake.
He pulled into the drive, a ribbon of blacktop that curved through a lot of lawn and landscaped garden and stopped at the portico in front. Noon wasn’t far off. The sky was clear blue, and the sun was bright, and the grass sparkled with the wetness of the last few days. Cork got out and was about to ring the bell when the door opened suddenly. Lester Bigby’s wife, Emily, stood there, clearly startled to find Cork blocking her way.
“Oh!” she said and took a step back.
“Sorry, Emily,” Cork said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just about to punch the doorbell.”
She put a hand to her breast, as if stilling a wildly beating heart. “It’s all right,” she said. “I just… It’s all right.”
Like her husband, she was small, in her late thirties or early forties, attractive, with dark brown hair, long and nicely styled. She dressed well, expensively but not showy, and because Jo, who’d served with her for several years on the library board, had spoken well of her, Cork was inclined to like her.
“I’m looking for Lester. I tried his office in town, but he’s not there. I was just wondering if he might be home.”
“No, he’s not,” she said, still a little breathy from the fright.
“Know where I might find him?”
She glanced at her watch. “Have you tried the Broiler? He likes to lunch there.”
The garage door opened, and a black Mercedes backed out. Cork saw the Bigbys’ son, Lance, at the wheel of the sedan. He was Stephen’s age, a big kid who reminded Cork uncomfortably of Donner. The genetic linkage to his dead uncle was clear in the massive build of his upper body, and whenever Cork looked at the kid’s face, he saw the face of another kid, dead for more than thirty years. But Lance’s resemblance to Donner ended there. He wasn’t an athlete; he was a musician. Violin. And Stephen liked him. That said a lot.
“I read in the Sentinel that Lance played with All-State Orchestra in the Twin Cities last Saturday,” Cork said casually. “How’d it go?”
“Fine,” she said. “They were wonderful.”
“So, you were there?”
“Of course.”
“Was Lester with you?”
“No.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“He told me he wanted to spend the day with his father.” She’d answered immediately and without guile, but her face suddenly clouded. “Why do you ask?”
Instead of answering, Cork glanced at the Mercedes. “I’m keeping you.”
“I really do have to go,” she said. “Lance has a doctor’s appointment.”
Cork smiled in parting. “I’ll pull out so I’m not blocking your way.”
He stopped at Johnny’s Pinewood Broiler. Lester Bigby wasn’t there, and so far, Johnny Papp hadn’t seen him that day. But it was still early, so maybe Cork wanted to wait? Cork thanked Johnny and said he might be back.
His next stop was The Greenbrier, an assisted-living facility in a newer section on the north side of town. It was a two-story redbrick building of recent construction, with nicely landscaped grounds full of squat evergreens and some young willows. There was also a little man-made pond, the kind that in summer might hold goldfish. In anticipation of winter, the pond had been drained, and the bottom was lined with the dark residue of rotting leaves. Because it was a secure building, Cork had to buzz for the door to be opened to him.
The Greenbrier was warm and quiet inside. Just beyond the front door was a large open area, carpeted, where four ladies, grown thin and fragile with age but dressed almost formally, sat facing one another in the armchairs that had been placed about. Cork couldn’t tell if they’d been talking and had stopped to observe him when he came in or if they’d simply been sitting in silence for a while, waiting for something-anything-to happen. Above cheeks rosy with rouge and softened with powder, their eyes followed him keenly. The attendant at the front desk was young, maybe twenty, fresh-faced, and pretty. Her face lost some of its freshness as soon as Cork inquired after Clarence Bigby.
“Buzz? You’ll find him in the community room. He’s always there after lunch.”
“Is he alone?”
“Whenever Mr. Bigby’s in the community room, he has it to himself.”
Cork got her meaning. Some people mellowed with age. Not Buzz Bigby.
Cork was about to walk away when the attendant said, “You’ll need to sign in.”
She nodded toward a register book at one end of the desk. It was open, and a pen was attached by a thin chain. Cork signed and jotted down the time, noting that there hadn’t been many visitors before him that day. But it was Monday. Weekends were probably more likely times for families to come calling.
The big flat-panel television was on, tuned to ESPN, the volume turned up loud. Bigby sat slouched in an easy chair, facing the screen but not really looking at it. His eyes seemed to be focused on something well above the television. Next to Bigby’s easy chair sat a small oxygen tank on rollers, feeding him through a tube that hung over his ears and plugged into his nose. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and wrinkled khakis, and wore slippers on his feet. His white hair was wild, as if windblown, though there wasn’t even a whisper of a breeze in the room. When Cork was a kid, Bigby had been a great pillar of muscle and bone. Now he seemed only a huddle of wrinkled flesh.
“Buzz?”
Bigby’s eyes moved but not his head, as if Cork wasn’t worth the effort of his full attention. “What do you want?” He spoke in a wheeze.
“To talk.”
“I got nothing to say to you.”
The remote control for the television was on a coffee table within reach of Bigby. Cork walked to the table, picked up the remote, and hit the Mute button. The room dropped into quiet. Cork grabbed an empty armchair and positioned it so that he sat between Bigby and the television. “You were always a son of a bitch, Buzz, and pretty proud of it.”
“So?”
“You carry a grudge better than any man I ever knew. And one thing I know about you absolutely is that you hated Jubal Little.”
Bigby made a sound that might have been meant as a laugh but came out like air from a punctured tire. “I feel that way about a lot of people, you included.”
“Never pull any punches, do you? Tell me, Buzz, does Lester visit you here very often?”
“That boy don’t come to see me like he should. Ungrateful little bastard.”
“Did he visit you last Saturday?”
“Hell, no.” Bigby’s steel blue eyes suddenly went wary, and he said, “What’s it to you?”
“Did you hear what happened to Jubal Little?”
“Dead. Dumb-ass hunting accident.”
“I was with him. Some folks think I might have had a hand in his death.”
“You were the dumb-ass that shot him?” A vicious little smile crept across his lips. “There’s a God in heaven.”
An old woman came into the room, using a walker. Her face held a look of happy anticipation, but when she saw Buzz Bigby in the easy chair, she stopped abruptly, and the happy look died. She carefully maneuvered her walker in a U-turn and left.
“You were the one who taught Lester to bow-hunt, right?” Cork asked.
“Tried. Christ, he couldn’t draw a bowstring to save his soul. Spindly little arms of his.”
