tomato in a store? I exchange mine; barter is the only decent commerce. I swap my tomatoes for sole. My brother fishes from Midlum. We keep our profits here. Gjin sales tax, nit income tax.' He blew a bubble of spittle.
'I really like your language,' said de Gier. 'So you nit like us?'
'Dutchmen have to be about, too,' the lieutenant admitted, 'but not at our cost.'
The sheep that had been running along with them on the other side of the moat had reached a fenced bridge and now pointed their long snouts through its boards. Grijpstra touched one of the woolly faces but pulled his hand back when a coarse tongue licked his fingers. 'Filthy beast.'
'Do they belong to Douwe?' de Gier asked.
'Douwe dealt in sheep,' the lieutenant said. 'He used to export cows, but all cows are registered now by computers. Sheep can't be identified, they look too much alike.'
'Look at that,' Grijpstra said. The mansion was worth admiring. It stared back through large clear window- eyes, gazing over a majestic lawn protected by beeches reaching out their branches. A wide flight of stone stairs flowed easily up to freshly painted, oversized doors. Red bricks framed the large open windows, three on each side, with another row on the first floor, under a thick straw roof. Intricate latticework shielded a veranda that surrounded the house, adding color from blossoming vines. A bent-over old woman was raking the shiny gravel of a path around the lawn. She looked up.
'Good mid dei, Mem' the lieutenant said.
The woman tried to smile. 'You bring bad news, don't you, Sjurd?' Her wooden clogs scratched across the gravel as she moved away from the three men; the rake fell from her hand.
De Gier picked up the rake. Grijpstra introduced himself and the sergeant. Mem didn't see their outstretched hands. She pushed silver hairs away from her forehead as her light brown eyes receded between tightening wrinkles. Her gnarled hands plucked at her coarse skirt. 'Is Douwe deal'
'Perhaps,' Lieutenant Sudema said, but his head nodded.
De Gier produced his handkerchief, but Mrs. Scherjoen didn't cry.
'Colleagues from Amsterdam,' the lieutenant said.
She took them inside and offered them coffee poured from a jug that had been waiting on the stove. The kitchen was spotlessly clean under low, blackened beams. 'Mind your head,' Mem said, but it was too late. De Gier robbed his curls. 'Did you hurt yourself?' Mem asked softly.
'No ma'am. You have children?'
She poured coffee. 'No.'
She lifted the lid of a cookie jar. 'How did it happen?'
'A shot,' Grijpstra said. 'So we think. It didn't show too well.'
Mem didn't understand.
'He was burned too,' Grijpstra said, lowering his voice, smiling his apology sadly. Lieutenant Sudema touched Mrs. Scherjoen's shoulder. 'Mem,' the lieutenant said, 'we're sorry, Mem.'
'The duvel,' Mrs. Scherjoen said, 'he's got him now. Douwe was always frightened of fire. He dreamed about flames that came to take him. I had to wake him up then and make him turn over, but the flames would return and he'd yell and yell. He was afraid of the devil.'
Lieutenant Sudema coughed. 'Yes.'
'Thank you for the coffee,' Grijpstra said from the door. 'We'll come back another time-tomorrow, will that suit you? We have a few questions.'
'Gyske'U be along soon,' the lieutenant said. Mrs. Scherjoen didn't hear him. Sudema got up and walked over to Grijpstra. 'I'd better stay. Could you tell Gyske to hurry over? I'll join you as soon as I can, in the cafe perhaps. My corporal will take you there, you must be hungry.'
Grijpstra and de Gier walked back to the village.
'Even here,' Grijpstra said, waving an arm. 'How can that be? Within the peace of unspoiled nature?'
'Even here, what?'
'The duvel,' Grypstra said. 'And a marriage that was no good. Couldn't Scherjoen be nice to his wife? She's a great person, it seems to me.'
De Gier studied wildflowers growing at the side of the moat.
'I was nice to my wife,' Grijpstra said. 'In many marriages, at least one partner is good. She released me. Douwe could have given Mem her freedom. The bad side lets the good side go.'
De Gier ambled on.
'Hey,' Grijpstra said.
'I'm confused,' de Gier said. 'Your comparison isn't clear. You mean you're a good side?'
'Aren't I?'
'Let's do some work,' de Gier said.
'You work,' Grijpstra said. 'I'll enjoy the walk.'
'I thought I was just going to be company.'
'You're here,' Grijpstra said. 'You can talk to me.'
'Right,' de Gier said. 'Douwe Scherjoen was no good. A selfish grabber. Bought and sold for cash and evaded taxes. Had his good times in Amsterdam while his wife slaved at home. A fortune in his mouth, and his wife is the maid, the gravel raker, the free help in his mansion. Douwe is too much of a skinflint to build a little fence around a glorious oak. But he did know he was bad, for the devil pursued him.'
'He dreamed about pursuing flames,' Grijpstra said. 'My dreams are quite pleasant.'
'Are we discussing you?' de Gier asked. 'Have you been shot and soaked with gasoline and burned and made to float with the garbage? Was it your skull staring at me in the pathologist's cave?'
'Why was so much violence applied?' Grijpstra asked. 'The war is over. You're too young, you don't remember recent history, but Frisians can be quite violent. The resistance was fiercer here than anywhere else in the country. German soldiers were often shot and burned.'
'I remember the way Douwe's skull looked at me,' de Gier said. 'From the hereafter. He begged me for revenge.'
'Leave the hereafter for later. We're looking for the tangible present. What was the motive? What living entity benefits from subject's death? Who had the opportunity to knock him off? No mysticism, Sergeant.'
'The hereafter is now,' de Gier said pleasantly. 'Let me work from my own angle.' He stopped and took a deep breath. 'The air here is clear. But evil is about. The tax detectives are lurking even here, and they know something; maybe they'll tell us. We're out of our depth; if they're Frisian too, maybe they won't tell us. Everything is different here, the locals even think in another language.'
'I'm well within my depth,' Grypstra said, 'and I'll get into this slowly. Life is slower here.' He smiled at a sheep ruminating in high grass. 'I may have some lambchops soon, and Frisian fried potatoes and some of the lieutenant's fresh tomatoes. I'll find suitable quarters while you fetch the commissaris. In order to pursue our investigation properly, we'll need permission from local authority. The commissaris can call on whoever is in charge here, and then he can stay to help. He's Frisian too. Once we're both into this, the job'll be easy.'
'You don't need permission. Scherjoen was killed in Amsterdam, and we're on a warm trail. Our pursuit is proper police procedure.'
'Fetch the commissaris.'
'I'm going back and I won't return,' de Gier said. 'I'm no good to you here. I'm from outside.'
'All right, all right,' Grijpstra said pleasantly. 'You can stay around. It's always nice for somebody like me to have somebody like you around. And you can have a good time. It'll be a holiday for you.'
Evening fell slowly, and thick sunbeams crossed loosening clouds. Beech branches embraced the quiet landscape. A cow lowed sleepily, and a farmer on a slow bicycle lifted a greeting hand. Grijpstra's fingers wobbled in response.
They reached the station. 'Hello,' Grijpstra said. 'Corporal, if you please, would you take Mrs. Sudema to Mrs. Scherjoen and my sergeant to the dike. Our car is out there and he has to return to Amsterdam.'
'Right now?' the corporal asked. 'Don't you two want dinner?'
'The sergeant is pressed for time.'
'Not at all,' de Gier said. 'Tin a tourist here. I would love some dinner.'
'Back in a moment,' the corporal said. 'The cafe is across the street.'
Grijpstra ordered lambchops. 'For two,' de Gier said.
