William Krueger - Trickster's Point

“Used to be,” Cork said. “Hit some hard times, I heard, and Jubal hired him for the personal security of his family a few years ago. This is the first I’ve ever met him in person.”

Inside, they found everything quiet. Judy was playing with Waaboo, rolling a big plastic ball to him, which he rolled back with great delight. Madsen was a widow in her early sixties, a retired school administrator whom Cork had hired a couple of years earlier to help manage Sam’s Place. She was smart and plain and good-natured, and did a fine job supervising the teenagers Cork employed every season. She opened Sam’s Place every day except for weekends, but she almost never closed. She didn’t like to be out late at night, so closing fell to Cork or Jenny or, in a pinch, to Stephen.

As soon as they walked in, Jenny came through the door from the serving area, and her worry was obvious on her face.

“We heard,” she said. “Another body.”

“Yeah.” Although it was his daughter to whom he replied, it was his grandson who had Cork’s eye.

“Hey, big man,” Cork said and opened his arms.

“Baa-baa,” Waaboo cried and ran to him.

Cork swept up the little body and nuzzled Waaboo’s neck so that his grandson giggled wildly.

“Who was it?” Jenny asked.

“They’re not sure yet,” Stephen replied. “But we think he was partnered up with Mr. Little’s killer.”

“Partnered up?” Cork said.

“Well, you know what I mean.”

Jenny looked at her father. “They don’t think you did it, right?”

“I’m still the only game in town,” Cork said.

“And the agent in charge of the BCA team is on the ambitious side. Before this whole thing is finished, he may end up blaming me for the Lindbergh kidnapping, too.”

“Dad, it’s not funny.”

“I know,” he said. “Don’t worry. At least for the moment.”

Jenny gave her brother a motherly look of concern. “And you’re okay?”

“It all feels pretty weird, but, yeah, I’m okay.”

“Any trouble here?” Cork asked.

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Judy replied. With some effort, she pulled herself up from the floor, where she’d been sitting, and tucked the plastic ball under her arm. “A couple of persistent reporters. I told them to go screw themselves.”

“And then,” Jenny said, smiling, “she convinced them to buy burger baskets before they left. They didn’t get any interviews, but they didn’t go away hungry.”

“I’ll give Leon Papakee a call,” Cork said to Jenny. “Ask him to run interference for us with the media. Any questions you get or any more persistent reporters, just direct them to Leon. If you’d like, I’ll see if he can hang out with you today.”

“No,” Jenny said. “We’ll be fine.”

“I have to leave again.” He kissed his grandson’s cheek and handed him over to his mother. “I’m going to see Camilla Little.”

“I wondered when she’d show up,” Jenny said. “So you’ll be a while?”

“Probably.”

“Have you eaten lately?” Judy asked.

“Not since breakfast.”

“How about a patty melt and some onion rings before you go?”

“Thanks. And we’ve got a customer out there needs a couple Sam’s Supers and a chocolate shake.”

“I’m on it.” She turned to head to the grill.

“I’d kill for a cheeseburger,” Stephen said. He suddenly looked stricken. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s still okay to have a sense of humor, buddy.” Cork turned toward the door. “I’m going out to keep our guest company. Don’t wait up for me.”

Although he never stayed long when he came, Jubal Little still listed Tamarack County as his official place of residence. He had a home on Iron Lake. It stood on the shore of a small cove just north of Aurora, and had once been a nice log lodge and restaurant called The Wander Inn, where his mother had been employed when Jubal was a kid. In the long economic downturn that had beset the Iron Range as the mines closed, the place had struggled and finally closed, and the structure had become a derelict. Twenty years ago, Jubal had bought it and had it completely renovated and expanded into a log mansion, gorgeous but huge beyond any sensibility. In front was a circular drive paved with crushed limestone. When Cork pulled up, the drive was nearly full of vehicles. Cork parked in back of the last in line. Yates’s Escalade drew up behind him, and Yates got out.

“Wake?” Cork asked, nodding toward the cars.

Yates shook his head. “Jubal’s media people and campaign folks. They’re all scrambling.”

“Give me a minute,” Cork said.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. The Jaegers will want to speak with you alone anyway. I’ll let them know you’re here.” Yates went ahead into the house.

Though it was not quite evening, the overcast had brought on an early, oppressive dark. Instead of going inside the huge home, Cork walked around to the back and down a long flagstone path across the lawn to the dock. The air was breathless, and the surface of the lake lay absolutely still and flat. The water was a deep gray stretching toward a dark horizon, and the effect of all this made Cork think of the lake as if it had somehow been set afire and had burned and all that was left was a great basin full of ash.

“Remembering all the times you spent with him here?”

Cork turned and watched Camilla Little cross the last of the flagstones and step onto the dock. She stood next to him, smelling of a subtle, expensive cologne and looking where he’d been looking. She was in her early forties, almost as tall as Jubal had been, a statuesque beauty with long blond hair, eyes the color of fresh mint leaves, and a flawless complexion. At the moment, however, her whole aspect was drawn and gray, her lovely face hollowed from grieving.

“I’m sorry about Jubal, Camilla.”

“Really? I heard it was you who killed him.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No,” she said. “Like everyone else, you loved him too much.”

He couldn’t tell if she was offering him sincerity or sarcasm.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Cork said, trying his best for honesty.

“Loss? The truth, and we both know it, is that he was never really mine.”

“I’m sorry, Camilla.” He sounded like a pathetic, broken record, but he was sorry, sorry for the whole damn mess.

“We’d have done a lot of good,” she said.

We, Cork thought and knew this was the key to understanding the marriage of a woman whose husband was never really hers. In her way, she was as politically ambitious as Jubal. They’d met while he was still quarterbacking, met at a celebrity fund-raiser for cancer research. It was common knowledge that Camilla couldn’t have children; ovarian cancer in her twenties had ensured that. She’d become an outspoken advocate for cancer research and prevention, only two of the many causes she championed. For a couple of years, she was Jubal’s most frequent and visible escort at social affairs. Jubal was nearly forty when he ended his football career. Within a year, he went from the playing field to the marriage altar and finally to the political arena. Camilla, beautiful, intelligent, and when the occasion required, eloquent, was at his side in all his political appearances. She stated often and publicly that both her life and her marriage were dedicated to public service and to the greater good. In all this, she proved a perfect mate for him.

“A lot of good,” she reiterated. “Even for the Ojibwe. But now they’ve killed him.”

“Why do you think it was my people?”

“Why do you do that?” she said, suddenly irritated.

“What?”

“Identify yourself as Ojibwe. You’re only a small part Ojibwe. Less than Jubal was Blackfeet, and he only called himself Indian when it was to his political advantage.”