She smiled pleasantly. “Hello, Mr. O.C.”
“Beautiful day for a shoot.”
“My grandmother says there’s no such thing as a day unsuited to photography. She says the eye of the artist should always be able to discern the opportunity in any circumstance.”
“It’s your grandmother that brings me here,” Cork said. “Did you know she’s in the Tamarack County Jail at the moment?”
“Grandma Hattie? What for?”
“She confessed to killing Lauren Cavanaugh.”
Ophelia looked genuinely stricken. “I don’t believe it.”
“It’s true. She claims the killing was an accident and that it was all about payment for some photographs. Do you know anything about that situation?”
Ophelia didn’t respond. She seemed overwhelmed with trying to wrap her thinking around her grandmother’s situation.
“Ophelia?”
“Yes,” she said in a dazed way. “I knew about it. I told you the center was in financial trouble. But Grandma Hattie would never kill someone over something like that.”
“What would she kill someone over?”
That snapped her awake, and she shot Cork an angry look.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was uncalled for. The truth is I’m having trouble buying her confession, especially considering the motive she’s given. I’ve known your grandmother all my life. She’s never cared anything about money. Whenever she’s had it, she’s given it away. So I’m thinking either she’s not telling the truth about killing Lauren Cavanaugh or she’s being untruthful about her motive.”
“She didn’t kill Lauren Cavanaugh,” Ophelia stated with absolute certainty. “Grandma Hattie couldn’t kill anybody. I need to go to her. Will they let me see her?”
“You can always ask.”
She turned and started away, then spun back. “My cane,” she said.
Cork picked up her cane from where it lay on the lawn near the tripod and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she said and hobbled quickly toward the big house.
When he was alone, Cork headed to the boathouse where Lauren Cavanaugh had probably been killed. The door was barred with crime scene tape. He tried the knob. Locked. He walked the perimeter, peering in at every window, recalling that the boathouse had been remodeled into what was essentially a large boudoir, which made him think about the morning he’d been there with Ophelia and then Derek Huff had walked in.
He recrossed the lawn and came to the tripod and the camera, which Ophelia Stillday in her haste had left behind. It looked like an expensive piece of equipment with a powerful telescopic lens affixed. He thought he’d best take it into the big house, but before he did, he bent and squinted to look at the image she’d been framing for her shot. He almost laughed. Iron Lake hadn’t been the real subject of her interest. Brought marvelously close by the power of the lens was the image of Derek Huff, swimming laps far out in the lake. With every stroke, his great swimmer’s hands flung droplets of water into the air, where they arced, sparkling like diamonds.
Simon Rutledge was sitting in the swing on Cork’s front porch when Cork returned from walking Trixie that evening. Trixie bounded up the steps, jumped on the swing, and greeted the BCA agent with little woofs and a wagging tail. Cork wasn’t as enthusiastic.
“Evening, Simon,” he said.
“Cork,” Rutledge replied.
“Come on, Trixie,” Cork said, calling the dog to his side. “What’s up, Simon?”
Rutledge took a moment, as if composing himself, and began in a tone that was clearly part of an architecture of diplomacy. “We’ve known each other a long time, Cork. We’ve worked a number of difficult cases together. I’ve thought of us as friends as well as colleagues. The thing is, I think I can read you pretty well. And what I’m seeing right now concerns me.”
“What are you seeing?”
“Mist.”
“Mist? Is this a riddle, Simon?”
“Definitely. And the answer to the riddle is whatever is behind the mist, whatever it is that you’re trying to keep us from seeing.”
“You think I haven’t been honest with you?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just that you haven’t been completely honest. I get the feeling that you’re throwing us bones, Cork, and keeping the meat for yourself.”
A fair reading of the situation, Cork decided. In truth, he appreciated that Rutledge was approaching him this way rather than in some kind of confrontation with Sheriff Dross or Captain Ed Larson present.
“What would you like from me, Simon?”
“How about a name?”
“What name?”
“I think you know a lot more than you’re telling about the Vanishings. I think you might even have a suspect in mind.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Ah, you see? You didn’t say I was wrong. Give me a name.”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“I need a little more time.”
“You’re asking a lot.”
“Not really. What went on over forty years ago is ancient history, Simon. For those involved, it’s over.”
“Not quite over. There’s Lauren Cavanaugh.”
“Did you Simonize Hattie yet?”
Rutledge smiled at the reference to his interview technique. “I questioned her. Her attorney was present.”
“What did she tell you?”
“I think that’s something I’ll hold on to.”
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a name if you tell me what Hattie Stillday said when you questioned her.”
Rutledge thought it over for a second. “Deal. You first.”
“Indigo Broom,” Cork said.
“What’s that?”
“The name of a man reviled by the Ojibwe on the Iron Lake Reservation more than forty years ago.”
“Responsible for the Vanishings?”
“I believe so.”
“How do you know this?”
“I’ve asked a lot of questions and put the answers together. That headache you heard about. Someone coldcocked me this morning when I was at the site of Indigo Broom’s cabin.”
“What were you looking for?”
“I didn’t know exactly. I just wanted to see where he lived. The cabin burned to the ground around the time the Vanishings ended, and Broom disappeared the same time. Word on the reservation was that he’d left to visit relatives and never returned. I think that wasn’t true. I think he was burned along with his cabin. And one more thing, Simon. I found manacles in the ruins. My guess is that’s where the victims were killed.”
“Where is this place?”
“A couple of miles north of the entrance Haddad and I found to the Vermilion Drift. I’ll draw you a map. Now, what about Hattie Stillday?”
“One more question first. Do you have any idea who coldcocked you?”
“Not at the moment. Like I told you this afternoon, I’m still working that one out. Honest.”
“All right.” Rutledge got up and stood at the porch railing. He looked across the quiet street, where rooftops half hid the setting sun. “Hattie Stillday definitely had something to do with the murder of Lauren Cavanaugh, but I
