For several weeks, beginning with the homecoming dance in early November when they were first seen together as a couple, until around Christmas, when word filtered through town that it was all over, they were a hot gossip item. She, the shy beauty; he, the bad boy off the rez. She, the kindling; he, the fire. At nineteen, Solemn had a reputation not just for his impulsive behavior but also for his conquests. His hair was panther black, and he wore it long, so that it hung down his back like a moon-lit river. He was lean, good-looking, with a brooding Brandoesque quality to his face. As far as Cork knew, Dot had never said a word about Solemn’s father, but it was clear that something more than Indian blood ran through his veins. Solemn used all of this, the good looks, the mystery, the lure of being part of a culture that to whites was mythic and forbidden, to hook and reel in the attractive bored tourist women deserted by their husbands who spent whole days away fishing Iron Lake. No complaints had ever been lodged against Solemn, but the town knew him as a kind of Ojibwe Romeo, and a lot of folks were disappointed when a girl as polite and sensible as Charlotte fell for the Indian’s line. If there were any evidence concerning her death that pointed at Solemn Winter Moon, Cork feared many in the town would render a verdict of guilty long before a trial ever took place.
When he arrived at the sheriff’s department, he found Deputy Duane Pender on desk duty. Pender told him that Arne Soderberg had been in earlier but wasn’t anymore. That was all Pender would tell him.
“Do you expect him back?”
“Can’t tell you that.”
“You don’t know?”
Pender didn’t reply, just gazed at Cork with a face stolid as a guard at Buckingham Palace.
“All right. Then how about telling me why Arne had people out at Dorothy Winter Moon’s place at sunup looking for Solemn.”
“You’d have to talk to the sheriff about that.”
“And he’s not in.”
“Now you’re getting the picture.”
Behind Pender, Randy Gooding came into view. He was carrying a stack of papers, and when he saw Cork he stopped and listened to the exchange. Cork figured it probably wouldn’t have made a big difference if Gooding had been on duty at the desk. Probably, they were all under instructions to keep quiet. The difference would have been that Gooding wouldn’t have played it like a game.
“Any way I might be able to get word to the sheriff that I’d like to talk to him?”
“Can’t think of one.”
Cork glanced at his watch. “Any possibility he’d be at home?”
“I can’t help you there.”
Cork saw Randy Gooding offer the ghost of a nod.
“Thanks, Duane,” Cork said. “You’ve been more of a help than you know.”
Pender’s face took on a slightly troubled look as he considered how this could possibly be.
The Soderbergs lived behind a red brick wall. The wall stood only waist high, but it made a statement. Every year, once the earth warmed enough to welcome new roots, the yard behind the wall became a showcase of annuals that were ordered by Arne’s wife, Lyla, and delivered by the truckload. Lyla always did something different-new flowers, new arrangements, complex and beautiful patterns. The grounds around the Soderbergs’ big, brick Tudor were so perfect by summer that even the birds knew better than to crap on Lyla’s lawn.
Cork paused at the iron gate and looked toward the end of North Point Road where Fletcher Kane’s house was barely visible behind the cedars of the old estate. He hadn’t seen Kane since they’d spoken at Valhalla, and he wondered how the man was holding up.
As he walked the flagstone path to the front door, Cork heard voices raised inside the house. It was a warm April afternoon, a few windows were open, and the harsh tones of the exchange carried easily out to the yard. The words weren’t clear, but the two sides involved in the argument were. Arne and Lyla. Everyone in town knew that the Soderbergs’ marriage was hanging by a thread, held together for the sake of Arne’s political ambitions and Lyla’s concern over what people would think.
Cork stepped onto the porch. As he reached toward the doorbell, the front door whipped open, and Tiffany Soderberg flew outside. She ran headlong into Cork, who stood with his arm outstretched. She uttered a little cry of surprise and stumbled back a step.
He barely knew Tiffany, although he’d often seen her around Aurora over the years. She was Jenny’s age, but Jenny seldom mentioned her. She was a honey-haired young woman, pretty. She dressed well, dressed like money, as did her mother. When she got over looking startled, she looked irritated.
“Yes?”
“Sorry, Tiffany. Didn’t mean to scare you. I came to talk to your father.”
She glanced back into the house. “He’s… um… busy.”
“This won’t take long.”
“Who is it?” Lyla spoke from somewhere near the front door but out of sight.
Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Mr. O’Connor. He wants to talk to Dad.”
The door opened wider, and Lyla loomed behind her daughter.
Lyla had once represented Minnesota in the Miss America pageant. She had long, blonde hair, long legs that were tanned even in winter, and long, beautifully manicured nails. She had a notoriously short temper, however. She was wearing a sunflower yellow sweater and Guess jeans, both of which hugged nicely the body that had been a substantial part of her ticket to Atlantic City.
“What can I do for you?” she asked. It was clear that what she really wanted to do for Cork was shove him back out the front gate.
“I’d just like a few minutes of Arne’s time.”
“Friendly or official?”
“I’d say it leans more toward official.”
“My husband’s done for the day.”
Cork wanted to advise her that for the sheriff there was never an end to a day.
Arne stepped into view behind Lyla. “I’m here.”
Soderberg wore khaki slacks and a dark blue polo shirt. He was dressed for relaxing, although his face looked as if he’d been doing anything but.
“I’m gone,” Tiffany said. She slipped past Cork and hurried to the driveway where Lyla’s custom gold PT Cruiser was parked. The vehicle was a beauty, the only one like it in the county, and Lyla drove it everywhere.
“Dinner at six-thirty,” Lyla called. “And don’t you dare put a ding in my car, young lady.”
“Whatever,” Tiffany said with a flutter of her hand. She started the Cruiser, backed onto the street, and was gone.
Lyla gave Cork a cold look. Before it melted, she saved a little of the chill for her husband. Then she vanished back inside the house.
Arne came onto the porch and closed the door. “What is it, O’Connor?”
“I talked with Dorothy Winter Moon a little while ago. She said your people showed up at her place first thing this morning looking for Solemn. I’m wondering what you want him for.”
“We’d like to talk with him, that’s all.”
“What about?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“I was just down at your office. Lid’s tight on everything there. Feels like something big. I’m wondering if you’ve got evidence you believe ties Solemn to Charlotte Kane’s death. Something from the autopsy?”
Soderberg crossed his arms and leaned back against his door. He looked like he’d just dropped a million dollars into the bank. “You’ll find out when everyone else does. You have no special status here, O’Connor.”
“It was just a friendly inquiry, Arne.”
Soderberg straightened and reached for the door. “I’ve got a lot to do. I’ve given you all the time I’m going to.”
“Do you think it was murder, Arne? And do you think it was Solemn Winter Moon?”
Soderberg let go of the knob and swung back toward Cork. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think I’m going to be able to close the book on Charlotte Kane’s death very soon. And I don’t need your help, and I don’t want your interference.”
