You ever think of running for sheriff, Jerry? You have the name recognition.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Griffin.”
“Hey Jerry,” Harry called to him as he was getting into his Blazer.
“Who’s Miss Loretta?”
“That’d be Loretta Emery.” Jerry pointed to the Historical Society next to the church. “She’s in there. If you’re planning on bothering her, you’re on your own, brother.”
“Like in Sheriff Emery?”
“Everybody’s got a mother, Griffin.”
Jerry stood by his Blazer and watched Harry go to the Jeep, remove the carton of cigarettes, and wander out along the jetty, scuffing his boots against the snow-packed red shingle.
HUNTER’S MOON / 251
He kicked at some gravel a plow had dredged up in frozen clumps like fat liver pills. He stooped, poked, looking for flat ones. When he found one he skipped it into the restless harbor. Looked over his shoulder at the Historical Society. Christ. She was Chris’s grandmother.
A hollow knock sounded behind him. Turning, he saw a shadowy figure hover in the bay windows of the old building, tap again on the glass, wave, and then draw an arm in a summoning gesture.
Harry mounted the granite stairs and crossed the porch. The striking woman who met him at the door was in her sixties and had deep Native-dark eyes and a remarkable trim figure in snug jeans.
A black leotard top pressed her still-full breasts flat against her chest and delineated the firm line of her rib cage. Her vigor brought the notion of yoga to mind.
Her face was smooth and doeskin soft, except for little gathers at the corners of her eyes, and where the curve of her jaw anchored to her ears. A hefty silver and turquoise barrette fastened the knot of her ponytail. She held a Phillips head screwdriver in her hand.
“Hello there,” she said. Her smile revealed even, slightly nicotine-stained teeth and drew faint stress lines, fine as thread across her cheeks.
Harry was at a loss what to say.
Swiftly, she rescued him. “I saw you throwing rocks. I’ve been watching boys throw rocks into the lake for…well, all my life. Would you give me a hand for a minute?”
Nervously, he handed her the cigarettes. She took them without comment. “Are you the…custodian?” He balked.
“Live-in caretaker. And you’re Bud Maston’s…house-guest. You’re the one who shot Chris.”
Harry lowered his eyes.
“Don’t look at the ground. Chris was trying to be strong. You were stronger and now you should know why. Come in. I’ve been expecting you.” She smiled warmly.
Nuts.
Reluctant now, Harry went in. The rooms were heaped with 252 / CHUCK LOGAN
antique junk like a circa 1900 garage sale. Storyboard pictures papered the wall. Men driving horses, pulling timber. Miners. Rafts of pulpwood behind tugboats. Stacks of musty newspapers, books, and magazines blocked a spiral staircase to the second story. A veil of dust covered everything. Motes sailed in the air. Harry spotted four cats in the first ten seconds.
A tall stepladder sat among the clutter. Above it, a new light fixture hung at a sprung angle at the terminus of exposed wires.
She set the carton of smokes aside on a table and asked, “Could you steady this ladder for a minute…” Harry gripped the ladder and she nimbly went up the steps. A spray of plaster dust sprinkled down as she attached the fixture with her screwdriver. “Ladder’s a little tippy,” she muttered from the corner of her mouth. “There. Go over and hit that light switch by the door.”
Harry flipped the switch and the light came on. Miss Loretta descended the ladder, brushed dust off her hands, and looked around.
“I used to keep it clean, but I just gave up,” she said. “Would you sign the ledger?” A book was open on a table next to a rolltop desk.
A hand of solitaire was laid out on the desk. Harry took the pen and signed. The last entry was a month before.
She studied his handwriting. “Slopes to the left. An introvert,” she said. “Griffin,” she mulled the phonetics. “That’s Irish, but you don’t look Irish.” She placed her fingers on his cheek. He drew back.
“Easy,” she said softly, exploring his face. She withdrew her hand.
“Hard to read the aura, could be classic Slav or…you could even be one of us.” She rubbed her fingertips together. “Suffering. Burns a little.”
She pointed to a table next to the bay windows. A carafe sat with two coffee cups, an ashtray, and a pack of Pall Mall straights. Harry sat down. She poured two cups of coffee. Then she held up the cigarettes.
Harry declined. “Too strong for me.”
She smiled merrily. “We invented tobacco to give you cancer.”
HUNTER’S MOON / 253
“You’re Indian?”
“Enough so I don’t try to pass for white, like some people I know.”
“What tribe?”
“Hard to pick one.” She blew a stream of blue smoke. “My family got around a lot.”
Harry took a sip of strong chicory coffee. “Miss Loretta. This morning I was up on Nanabozho Point with your son—”
She made a distasteful grunt in her throat. “That boy and I haven’t been talking. I give up on him five years ago when he came back from Duluth with his dirty money and built the house for Jesse.”
“Becky Deucette was up there.”
“Ah, Becky,” she brightened. “Is she well?”
“Hardly. Your son—” She glowered at him. He rephrased. “The sheriff is trying to find her and question her. She’s off running through the woods like a—”
“Buck-ass wild Indian,” Miss Loretta said happily. “Good. I told her to stay clear of it. Silly damn business that’s been going on forever.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “Ever since eighteen-forty when the first Hakalas and Mastons shot it out over a trapline.
All in there on the wall, you care to read it. They’ve been fighting back and forth more than a hundred years. When the Mastons found the iron, the Hakalas brought up the Reds to organize the union to strike the mine. My late husband arrived from Tennessee in the latter stages of that invasion. Latest round is Bud Maston closing the mill.
Doesn’t surprise
