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  “It’s possible the watch was more important to Wellington than you realized,” Larson said. “Maybe he sent Morrissey after it.”

  “And killing the old man was the way?”

  “That could have been Morrissey’s idea,” Dross said. “Where were you exactly when you handed the watch back to Meloux?”

  “Sitting right here at this table.”

  Dross walked over and looked through the window toward the rocks where Meloux had been attacked.

  “Morrissey had field glasses,” she said. “He could easily have observed the exchange of the watch and known it was in Meloux’s possession.”

  “Okay,” Larson said, moving us along, “the watch is a possible motive. What else?”

  “Have you got an idea, Ed?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact. How about rage?”

  Ed Larson was the brightest officer in the department, always had been. When I was first elected sheriff many years ago, I’d sent Ed to Quantico to learn from the FBI. He’d gone back periodically for training in profiling and other areas related to law enforcement. He didn’t just look at the known facts of a crime. More often than not, he had a pretty good speculation about the psychology behind the crime. This time, however, I wasn’t so sure.

  “Rage?” I said.

  “Directed at the father who wasn’t there his whole life, then suddenly shows up out of the blue. You said Wellington’s mental state was precarious.”

  “I said he wasn’t hitting on all cylinders, but I didn’t say I thought he was capable of murder. Especially the murder of his father.”

  “You didn’t say it,” Dross threw in, “but what do you think?”

  “I spoke with the man for ten minutes. I honestly couldn’t say.” Dross nodded, returned to the wall, crossed her arms, and leaned back. “Clearly we need to interview him.”

  Larson stood up. “I’ll call the provincial authorities as soon as I get back to the office, start setting things up.”

  Dross said, “It’s incredible that an old man like Meloux got the drop on somebody like this Morrissey.”

  “Incredible?” I shook my head. “There’s almost nothing about Henry Meloux that would surprise me anymore.”

  We were the last to leave the scene. Larson and Dross walked ahead of me on the trail through the meadow and into the trees, which was the only way to get from Meloux’s back to the road. Those who came to see Meloux came on foot. I walked more slowly than the other two, keeping company with Walleye, who was limping. I considered carrying him, but it wouldn’t have been comfortable for either of us. We just took our time.

  When we reached my Bronco, the road was empty, though a cloud of yellow dust kicked up by the sheriff’s vehicle still hung over it. Morrissey’s SUV had been impounded, would be gone over for evidence. I helped Walleye up onto the seat, then set out for the Kricks’ resort, where Stevie was waiting for me.

  Melissa pointed me to the dock. I found Stevie sitting with his feet dangling in the water. From there, Crow Point, where Meloux’s cabin stood, was a small sliver of dark land far in the distance. He was looking in that direction when I came up beside him.

  “It’s all over,” I said quietly.

  He jumped up and hugged me.

  I bent and kissed the top of his head. “Melissa said she told you Henry was okay.”

  He turned his face up toward mine, and I saw the ghost of worry still there. “I was still kind of scared.”

  “She say anything else about what happened at Meloux’s?”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you come on home with me and I’ll tell you everything. Walleye’s waiting for us. He’s hurting a little. He could use some good attention.”

  “Oh boy.” He grabbed his sneakers and socks and ran ahead, toward the cabins.

  First stop was Hakala’s Animal Clinic. We were walk-ins and had to wait a bit. I dialed the number for Jo’s cell phone. She told me that she and Meloux had finished at the sheriff’s department and were at the house. She said the girls were at Sam’s Place and had everything there under control.

  Stevie went into the exam room with me when Leslie Hakala, who was in practice with her father, Einer, called us in. She took a look at the wound. Walleye patiently suffered the probing of her fingers around the area.

  “Bullet, you say?” She looked up at me. “Careless hunter?”

  “A bad guy,” Stevie said. “He tried to kill Henry Meloux, but missed and got Walleye instead.”

  The vet’s eyebrows lifted noticeably. “That so?” She glanced at me. “The old Indian who lives up north?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill him?”

  “Long story,” I said. “And the details are still sketchy. What about Walleye here?”

  “Well, I think we’ll deaden the area and clean it good, put a few stitches in, and that should be fine. You’ll have to watch him closely for a while though, make sure no infection sets in.”

  “We will,” Stevie assured her. He petted the dog earnestly.

  She tried to get more information from me as she worked, but I held back on the harsher details. In a town like Aurora, she’d hear them soon enough.

  We left the clinic and made a quick stop at Sam’s Place. Just as Jo had said, Jenny and Annie had things well under control. They’d called in their friends and were busy with the lunch rush. They knew, more or less, what had happened and were full of questions, but I didn’t want to talk about it between customers. I told them I’d be back later and we’d discuss it then.

  Jenny avoided looking at me directly. That was fine. It wasn’t the right time or place for us to deal with her situation. I thanked them all and returned to the Bronco, where Stevie and Walleye patiently waited.

  It was going on two o’clock when I pulled into the drive on Gooseberry Lane. We’d been gone six hours, but it felt like days. A lot had happened since Stevie and I sat at the kitchen table munching our raisin bran. I realized, as we stepped into the cool of the house, that I was hungry. I smelled something cooking and, following my nose, I found Jo and Meloux in the kitchen eating fried bologna sandwiches—the Ojibwe often call bologna “Indian steak”—leftover Jell-O salad, and chips. They both were drinking a diet Pepsi.

  “You guys okay?” I asked.

  “Good,” Meloux answered. “We are good. And Walleye?”

  “He’s with Stevie in the backyard. The vet stitched him up and gave me some antibiotic pills he’ll need to take for a while to fight infection.”

  “Hungry?” Jo asked, and began to get up.

  I waved her back down. “Relax. I’ll fix it.”

  I started a flame under the skillet that still sat on a burner of the stove and took the bologna from the refrigerator.

  “Henry and I have been trying to figure out why this Morrissey tried to kill him,” Jo said.

  “Marcia, Ed, and I have been doing the same. You guys come up with anything?”

  Jo sipped her Pepsi. “I think it was the watch. Henry showed it to me. It’s gold, quite original, and could be valuable.”

  “What do you think, Henry?”

  “Just an old watch,” Meloux replied with a shrug. “Important to me, but who am I?”

  I slapped two slices of bologna in the skillet, one for me, one for Stevie.

  “Henry, it may be that Morrissey was sent to get the watch.”

  Meloux fixed his dark, unwavering eyes on me. “I do not believe my son would ask that man to kill me.”

  “Maybe the killing wasn’t part of his instructions. Morrissey may have come up with that on his own.”

  Stevie stepped into the kitchen.

  I nodded toward the skillet. “I’ve got a fried bologna sandwich coming up in a minute, buddy. Hungry?”

  “Can I eat outside?” he asked.

  “Sure. Milk and chips with that?”

  “Thanks.”

  Jo left the table and hugged Stevie. “That was very important, what you did
this morning.”

  “What did I do?” Stevie said.

  “Getting the Kricks to call the sheriff.”

  “That was easy.” Stevie looked down. “I should have been with Dad and Henry and Walleye.”

  “Your mom’s right, guy,” I said. “What you did was exactly what you needed to do. We’re very proud of you.”

  Stevie didn’t look convinced. He squirmed out of Jo’s arms and said to Meloux, “Walleye’s okay, Henry.”

  “I have been told. Stephen, I would like to ask a big favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “I will be gone for a while. Will you take care of my friend for me?”

  “Will I!” he said eagerly.

  “Gone?” I turned from the stove.

  “Tomorrow we will go to see my son.”

  I shook my head. “Things have changed, Henry. A man’s dead. There’s a police investigation in progress. Until they’ve had a chance to interview Henry Wellington, we need to keep out of this. Besides, I’d say it’s doubtful at best that Wellington would agree to see you.”

  “I will offer the watch.”

  “Henry, I know how important this is to you, but you need to be patient. Let the police do their work first.”

  “I know about patience,” the old man said testily. I couldn’t remember Meloux ever getting upset with me, but it was clear he was headed in that direction. “This is something else, and it must be done quickly.”

  “Like the vet sewing up Walleye?” Stevie offered.

  “Yes, Stephen,” Meloux said. “My son is not well. He needs me to heal him.”

  Jo pointed toward the stove. “Cork, your bologna’s burning.” The doorbell rang. Jo brought back Meloux’s nephew, Ernie Champoux, who’d come for the old man. Until this business was concluded, Ernie intended to have his great-uncle stay with him. He’d taken a couple of days off from work for that reason.

  “Sunrise tomorrow, I will be ready,” Meloux said as he went out the front door.

  “Henry, I won’t be there,” I called after him. I didn’t like being brusque, but I wasn’t going to back down. Seeing his son at this juncture was a bad idea on so many levels.

  Meloux stopped, turned, and his eyes hit me like a couple of rocks.

  “Give the authorities a little time, Henry,” I tried, “then we’ll see.”

  He didn’t reply. I watched, feeling like a lousy son of a bitch, as he walked to Ernie’s truck, which was parked at the curb. Ernie pulled away with Meloux beside him, sitting stiff as iron and staring straight ahead.

  Jo took my arm. “Do you really think it would be so bad for Henry to see his son?”

  “A man tried to kill him—we have no idea why—and that man’s dead. Rushing ahead is a terrible idea. Hell, Meloux’s waited seventy years to see his son. Will a couple more days make much difference?”

  I went back to the kitchen. My burned fried bologna was cold. I looked out the window. Stevie was feeding his burned bologna to Walleye.

  SEVENTEEN

  Later that afternoon I returned to Sam’s Place. The rush was over, and the girls were listening to the radio. Jenny wasn’t there.

  “Sean picked her up a little while ago,” Anne said. “We’re doing fine without her. So how’s Henry?”

  Kate Buker and Jodi Bollendorf, the two girls helping out that day, leaned against the serving counter and listened as eagerly as Anne.

  “Confused,” I said.

  “We heard the dead guy’s from Canada,” Kate said.

  “Yes.”

  “He, like, followed you back, right?” Anne said.

  “That’s how it looks.”

  She scrunched her freckled face in bewilderment. “Dad, why would anyone try to kill a nice old guy like Henry?”

  The question of the day. I told them the police on both sides of the border were working on that one.

  “What about you, Mr. O’Connor?” Jodi asked. “Anne said you’ve got a license to be a private investigator. Like that old Rockford Files show, right? This is your kind of thing.”

  “And Henry’s your friend,” Anne added.

  “Customers,” I said, pointing toward the people spilling from a blue van in the parking lot.

  The rest of the afternoon turned out to be full of folks who were as interested in what happened out at Meloux’s cabin as in ordering food. I deflected their questions as best I could, but it amazed me how much information was already abroad in Aurora.

  Around five thirty, Wally Schanno pulled up in his red Ford pickup. He stepped out, holding a leash. A little black-and-white puppy leaped down from the seat after him and immediately peed on the truck’s front tire. Schanno waited patiently. The little dog finished and began sniffing its way across the lot toward the Quonset hut. It caught the scent of the Dumpster and tried to pull Schanno that way, but Wally held back. Eventually they both made it to the serving window.

  Annie leaned out and cooed, “What a cute puppy. Is it yours, Mr. Schanno?”

  “Yeah,” Schanno said. He didn’t sound ecstatic. “Her name’s Trixie.”

  “What is she?”

  “A mutt. Part border collie, part greyhound, part God knows what. I got her from Sally Fellows. She’s a handful, all right. Say, Cork,” he called past Anne. “Talk to you a minute?”

  “Meet you round back,” I said.

  When I stepped outside, Trixie was all over me. She barely reached my knees, but she kept trying to jump higher.

  “She’s got a lot of energy, Wally.” I knelt down to pet her. Her face was a black mask on a white background, with a couple of soft brown eyes staring out. “Did you get her for security or companionship?”

  “Security I can take care of on my own. I figured I was spending too much time by myself in the house. I thought maybe a dog’d help. Hey, Cork, I heard about what went down at Henry Meloux’s place. Is he doing okay?”

  “He’s fine, Wally.”

  We stood in the sun. Trixie nosed at the gravel in the lot. Schanno scratched his neck with his huge hand and squinted. He was getting around to something, taking his time.

  “Sounds like trouble followed you down from Thunder Bay. Going back?” he asked.

  “Meloux’s pushing me to. He wants to go with me.”

  “True he’s got a son up there?”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  He shrugged. He was wearing a short-sleeved khaki shirt, pressed jeans, a belt with a big silver buckle, looking almost natty. It was good to see him taking an interest in his appearance again. And in having company around. I watched Trixie tug at the leash, eager to get at the Dumpster.

  “So, are you going back?” he asked.

  “If Meloux had his way, we’d already be on the road.”

  “But?”

  I looked up at him and said impatiently, “There’s an international investigation under way. Do you think I want to step into the middle of that?”

  “Come on, Cork. Across borders, nothing moves fast.”

  “Including me. Look, I’m guessing you’re here thinking that there’s something major in the works and maybe you can help with it. Well, I’m telling you that’s not the case. I’ve done what I promised for Henry Meloux, and I’m finished. The police will take it from here, and that’s fine with me. All right?”

  He eyed me, surprised. “You’re not even curious?”

  “Of course I’m curious. Hell, I feel responsible. That guy followed me out to Meloux’s. Damn, I should have spotted him.”

  “Give yourself a break,” Schanno suggested. “You had a lot on your mind.”

  “I’m not about to make matters worse by wading in any deeper. I’ve got a business to run. I’ve got a family to think about. We’re not cops anymore, you and me. Let’s let the people who’re wearing the badges do their jobs, okay?”

  A grasshopper banged against the side of the Quonset hut and fell into the gravel at our feet. Trixie tried to attack it and yanked Schanno hard. The grasshopper took an enor
mous hop. Trixie leaped at it, hit the end of the leash, and fell back with a pained yelp.

  “All right, then,” Schanno said curtly. He turned away and walked Trixie back to his truck.

  I watched him go, feeling not at all good about how I’d treated him, but wondering, too, resentfully, why it was that everyone else seemed to have such a clear idea of what I ought to do.

  Sheriff Marcia Dross drove into the parking lot of Sam’s Place in the brittle blue light well after sunset. In town, the streetlamps and the shop lights had come on. I don’t have a big lighted sign for the Quonset hut, just a tall pole with a halogen lamp on top that brightens the area in front of the serving windows. Dross got out of her cruiser, came up to the windows, and asked to see me outside. That’s never a good sign.

  We walked to the picnic table under the big red pine near the shoreline. We were out of the light there. A warm wind blew across Iron Lake and small waves slapped near our feet. The moon wasn’t up yet, and the other side of the lake was sliding into restless black.

  Dross got right to the point.

  “Cork, you said Morrissey worked for Henry Wellington.”

  “That’s right.”

  “According to the Canadian authorities Ed Larson spoke with, Morrissey runs a guide service, takes hunters and fishermen up into the wilderness of northern Ontario.”

  “The only place he guided me was out to Manitou Island.”

  “Where, according to the Ontario police, Henry Wellington is not currently in residence. They say they’re trying to talk to Rupert Wellington, but he’s been unavailable.”

  “Unavailable?”

  “Whatever that means.”

  “He was in Thunder Bay yesterday and quite available. And Henry Wellington was definitely on Manitou Island. Are you getting good information?”

  Even in the dark, I could see the consternation on her face. “It’s all being done by fax and phone. They’re sending an investigator down to talk to us, maybe tomorrow or the next day.”