“What about the threatening notes Max Cavanaugh and the others have received?”
“She says she doesn’t know anything about those. And she finally refused to answer any more questions without an attorney.”
“Has she retained one?”
“She called Oliver Bledsoe’s office.”
Bledsoe ran the Office of Legal Affairs for the Iron Lake Ojibwe.
“The counselor was down in Duluth for a hearing, but he’s on his way back,” Dross continued. “Should be here in an hour or so.”
“Did she say when the killing took place?”
“A week ago Sunday.”
“That’s right in keeping with the M.E.’s assessment,” Cork agreed. “Did she give you a time?”
“Apparently there was some kind of meeting at the center that night. Hattie says she waited outside until it was over and Lauren Cavanaugh went to the boathouse, where she confronted and shot her.”
“Mind if I talk to Hattie?”
“I guess not. Provided she’s willing. Okay with you, Simon?”
“Sure,” Rutledge said in a distracted way.
“I’ll have her brought to the interview room,” Dross offered.
“Thanks.”
Rutledge held up the Rubik’s Cube, solved. “I hear you’ve got yourself quite a headache, Cork.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Around. What happened?”
“My best guess is that someone on the rez isn’t particularly happy with my investigation.”
“Any idea who?”
“Still working that one out, Simon.”
“And you’ll be sure to let us know when you do?”
“Absolutely.”
Rutledge gave Cork a Mona Lisa smile and started undoing the puzzle he’d just solved.
Hattie Stillday sat with her old hands folded on the tabletop in the interview room.
“This is serious, Hattie,” Cork said from across the table.
“I know that, Corkie.”
“Have you ever been in jail before?”
“Hell, yes. In Youngstown, Ohio, back in ’fifty-two when I was shooting photos of the steelworkers’ strike. And again in Pittsburgh a few days later. Now that was a fine time in labor history. And two years ago during the vigil at Fort Benning. I’ve always been rather proud of my incarcerations.”
“That’s good, Hattie, because if your confession stands up, you’ll very likely finish your life in prison.”
“I didn’t mean to kill that woman, Corkie.”
“But kill her you did.”
“Intent matters,” she said, as if she knew the law. “And what do you mean if my confession stands up?”
“There are things about this killing that you don’t know.”
“I know everything about this killing. I was there.”
“How many shots were fired from your gun, Hattie?”
“I don’t remember exactly.”
“You just told me you knew everything.”
“This old brain of mine doesn’t always remember all that it should. And it wasn’t exactly like I was playing mah-jongg.”
“You told the sheriff you killed Lauren Cavanaugh over money. Is that true?”
“I said it, didn’t I? That woman was a cheat.”
“You killed her because she was a cheat? We have courts to help people get what’s rightfully theirs, Hattie.”
“You think a court is going to side with an old Shinnob woman over a rich white woman like Lauren Cavanaugh?” She laughed, as if the idea was absurd.
“So you killed her?”
“You keep coming back to that. Yes, I killed her. I’d kill her again.”
“You said it was an accident.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m unhappy with the outcome.”
“Do yourself a favor, Hattie. Don’t say that to anyone. By the way, where did you get the gun you used?”
“Oh, I’ve had that for years.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“I don’t remember exactly. A cousin or something.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Threw it into the lake.”
“But you don’t remember where?”
She tapped her head. “Like I said, rusty thinking sometimes.”
“You waited outside the Northern Lights Center until the meeting was over and everyone had left, then you followed Lauren Cavanaugh to the boathouse. Is that how it happened?”
“No. That’s just how I got to the boathouse. How it happened involved pulling a trigger, Corkie. I’m tired. I think I’m all done talking for now.” She moved her chair back and made ready to stand.
“Does Ophelia know you’re here?”
“I don’t think so,” Hattie said.
“Would you like me to tell her?”
“Would you?”
“Sure.” He stood, crossed to the button near the door that would call for the jailer, but hesitated before pressing it. “Hattie, is this why you were with Henry Meloux last night? Was this what you were planning?”
“You’ve always been a curious person,” Hattie replied. “Like your father. Always asking questions. I hope the answers, if you find them, make you happier than they made him.”
Cork buzzed, and a moment later Dross opened the door, accompanied by a matron who took Hattie Stillday away.
“Did she tell you anything more?” the sheriff asked.
“Nothing you didn’t already know.”
Dross nodded and said, “Ed Larson just called. He found Lauren Cavanaugh’s car exactly where Hattie Stillday said it would be.”
THIRTY-TWO
Ophelia Stillday bent toward the camera mounted on a tripod on the back lawn of the old Parrant estate. Even though it was called the Northern Lights Center for the Arts, Cork never thought of it that way. “The old Parrant estate” inevitably came to mind, a name that called up all the darkness of that diseased place.
Ophelia was intent on her photography, a shoot that, as nearly as Cork could tell, was focused on Iron Lake. It was late afternoon, and the sunlight was the soft color of goldenrod. The lake was beautiful, but he’d seen so many photographs of it over the years that even to his pedestrian eye the subject seemed a little tired.
He coughed as he approached, a subtle announcement of his presence. Ophelia straightened up and turned to greet him.
“
