This Little Piggy Went to Murder (4 page)

“Oh, come on. After all, you just compared me to Peter Pan.”

Bram tried to hide his amused smile with little success. The dining room was growing more congested with each passing minute. Sophie spied Luther standing alone near the bar entrance. In the dim, smoky light, his face looked haggard, his eyes hooded and dark. As she watched him, she noticed something in his manner that seemed strangely aloof. It was almost as if he exuded a palpable distaste for the mass of bodies pressed together around him. “Can you amuse yourself for a few minutes while I talk to Luther?”

“I may take another stroll over by the buffet table.” Sophie squeezed his hand. “Save me a meatball.” She got up and began to weave through the crowd. Pushing through a wall of people near the front of the room, she emerged a few feet from the bar.

“You look like you need a friend,” she called to Luther.

He motioned her over. “It’s like an ant farm. I shouldn’t have come.” He shivered, reaching inside his dinner jacket for a cigarette. His black hair and beard, generally impeccably clipped, looked almost ragged this evening. Yet, interestingly, his mussed hair made his face all the more appealing. There was a certain vulnerability — almost a sweetness — in the way it curled around his ears. “Oh no!” he whispered, moving closer to Sophie. “Why do
I
have all the luck. Here comes Duluth’s answer to Susan B. Anthony. I suppose it’s too late to find a hole and crawl in.”

A woman Sophie had never seen before walked up and stood next to them, acknowledging Luther by touching bim lightly on his arm.

“Claire.” He forced his thin lips into a smile. “How nice to see you this evening. Allow me to introduce you two. Claire Van Dorn, this is my dear old friend, Sophie Greenway.”

Claire extended a heavily ringed hand. “Of course. You’re Amanda’s friend from Minneapolis. The editor of that arts magazine. And you do something else, don’t you? Something sort of outrageous.”

Sophie pulled absently at the short wisps of hair around her neck. Sourly, she thought of Peter Pan. “I write an occasional restaurant review for the
Minneapolis Times Register
”

“That’s it. And you dress up. Lots of disguises. I remember now.”

“Claire is headmistress at the Tate Academy,” continued Luther. “It’s an all girls’ school near Two Harbors. She and Amanda have recently become very good friends.”

Sophie knew Luther sufficiently to sense that he had uttered the last word with distaste. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Amanda and I met last year at a meeting of the North Shore Feminist Association. I’m the current president.”

“Ah,” said Sophie. “I’ve heard of your group. You’re very active in the community here.”

“We are.”

“Amanda found Claire quite useful when she started the renovation,” added Luther. “She often says she couldn’t have made it through the last few months without her assistance.”

Claire accepted the compliment gracefully. “My doctorate is in European art history, with an emphasis on the architecture and painting of the Twenties and Thirties. It’s a fascinating period. More recently, I’ve indulged in another one of my interests. I’ve just published a book of children’s verses.”

Luther’s nod telegraphed his boredom. “A local celebrity.” He smiled.

“Much to my delight, I found that Amanda and I both love children’s poetry. It’s so rich. Children have such unspoiled, unrepentant imaginations. It doesn’t matter one bit if something falls within the realm of the possible. I admire that, don’t you?”

Luther nodded. “Deeply.”

As Claire and Luther continued their conversational parry and thrust, Sophie took a moment to study Amanda’s new friend. Claire Van Dorn’s taste in clothing seemed to run from stylishly tailored to slightly arty. Her thick salt and pepper hair was worn fashionably short, emphasizing her high cheekbones and finely proportioned, although somewhat large nose. Indeed, there was something quite pleasing about the broad, open Germanic face. It looked comfortable, lived in. And there was a distinct gentleness about the large, gray eyes. Sophie wondered why Luther so disliked this woman.

“Are we keeping you from something?” asked Luther, leaning over and grabbing an ashtray off one of the side tables.

“What?” Claire appeared startled by the question.

“You keep looking at your watch.”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose l do. Well, the truth is I must leave for a few minutes. I have to run some food over to a sick friend.”

“You aren’t staying for the festivities?’“ He made a pretend pout.

Claire seemed unaware of the insincerity. “Oh, I’ll be back,” she assured him. “Amanda knows I’m going.”

“I’m sure she does. Don’t let us detain you.”

With a brisk snap, Claire let go of her long, pearl necklace and turned to Sophie. “l hope we have a chance to talk more sometime soon. How long will you be staying?”

“I’m not sure. A few days. Perhaps longer.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing you again.”

Luther put a finger to his lips as she walked away. “Come on,” he whispered. “I need some air.”

Arm in arm, they left the restaurant and strolled down through the parking lot to the edge of the vast lake. Sophie found that she, too, was glad for the respite from the noisy crowd. She had no doubt that Bram was deeply engaged in some intense political or philosophical discussion. He loved to talk. It was one of the qualities she liked most about him.

Outside, it was a lovely evening with a gentle breeze drifting off the water.

“I can feel autumn in the air,” said Luther, sitting down on a weathered wooden bench. He draped both arms casually across the back.

Sophie stood for a moment, watching the smooth, dark water lap lazily against the tiny red and gray rocks embedded in the sand. The sky was a cloudless canvas of pinks and grays.

He sighed. “I can hardly believe Labor Day is this Monday. How can the summer be over?”

The dejection in his voice made her turn around. “What is it, Luther? What’s going on? Something’s wrong.”

He shook his head. Stretching his long legs, he pulled off his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. “This party. That’s what’s wrong. I can’t stand these freak shows any more. I feel like I’m being strangled.”

Sophie could tell this wasn’t the entirety of the matter. She sat down next to him. “What about Claire? She seems nice enough. Why don’t you like her?”

He brushed the question away. “Claire is an annoying gnat who buzzes incessantly around Amanda.”

“That’s it? You don’t like her because she reminds you of an insect?”

Luther began to laugh. “I forget how literal you can be sometimes. You know, I’ve missed you. No one else around here asks so many damnably prying questions.” He tipped his head up and took in the full immensity of the evening sky. “What I mean is, she isn’t important. She’s simply a pest.”

A car roared into the parking lot, screeching to a halt directly behind them.

“Ah, the missing Nora,” said Luther, turning to watch.

A tall, redheaded woman emerged from a dark Chrysler New Yorker and flew up the broad steps toward the entrance, her green satin evening dress clinging tightly to her slender body as she ran.

“I need to get out of here,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We can talk later. Listen, will you do me a big favor? Tell Amanda I wasn’t feeling well and decided to leave. She’ll understand.”

“And will that be the truth?” Sophie wanted to ask about his loss of weight, the hollowness in his cheeks, but she remembered Amanda’s warning. Besides, she felt a certain righteous indignation at his comment about her penchant for prying questions. She was not someone who pried. Well, not much at least.

“Amanda’s probably told you about the medication I’m on. It affects my nerves. And I get tired very easily. I’m afraid I’m no longer the suave, dashing, hopelessly sexy man you used to know. Well, maybe I should take that last part back.”

“Don’t be a ninny. And don’t worry. I’ll give her your message. Are you driving directly back to Brule House?”

“Probably. Really, I’ll be fine.” He got up and reached for her hand. “You stay and have a great time for both of us. You can regale me with the highlights tomorrow.”

Sophie stood and, putting her arm around his waist, walked him to his car. As he drove away, she favored him with one of her most obnoxious prom-queen waves. Even though she’d never actually been a prom queen, she had the moves down pat. The vapidity of it drove Bram nuts. She hoped it would have the same effect on Luther.

Standing alone now in the growing dusk, she listened to the buzz of traffic along London Road. One thing was certain. No matter how much Luther tried to suggest otherwise, he wasn’t leveling with her. Sophie prided herself on her intuition. She listened carefully to the stillness around people, letting the quiet collect so that she could observe the tiny, almost imperceptible characteristics that could so easily be overlooked.

She knew there were, more than a few demons inside Luther Jorensen which were far from being exorcised. His relationship with Amanda had never been easy. For nearly twenty-three years, she’d watched the two of them dance jigs around each other. They were obviously attached, yet she was confident that attachment didn’t exclude a certain kind of hate. Strange that she should be so close to both husband and wife, and yet they were so different.

Realizing she wasn’t going to solve anything by remaining outside and allowing the mosquitoes to eat her alive, Sophie decided to return to the party and find her husband. As she was about to start up the steps, she noticed a piece of paper sticking out from under the windshield wiper of their car. At first she thought it was an advertising flier, but all the other windshields were empty. Walking closer, she saw that it was an envelope. That was odd. If someone wanted to get in touch with her or Bram, why didn’t they just come inside? Quickly, she pulled the envelope free and opened it. Inside was a sheet of paper on which someone had typed the words:

If you want to help those you love, ask the woman
with the poodle at the Mudlark Bar what she saw
on Thursday night.

Sophie looked up at the huge, two-sided neon sign that sat high atop the restaurant, boldly blinking the words
GASTHAUS RETHENAU
to cars on London Road. Thursday night, last night — that was when Lars Olson had been murdered. Was there a connection? If so, what possible business could that be of hers?

She read the note again.

The Mudlark Bar. Sure. She’d been there many times. It was midway between Brule’s Landing and the outskirts of Duluth. Probably five miles or so from Amanda and Luther’s home. But come on. A woman with a poodle? This had to be a joke. Yet she knew she couldn’t ignore the possible implications. The first part of the sentence was what stuck in her throat.
If you want to help those you love
… Of course she did! What a question.

Sophie looked around, wondering if she was being watched. This was too strange. Slipping the note into her evening bag, she crossed quickly to the steps. Perhaps someone was trying to confide in her. That was possible. There was, however, one simple way to confront this intrigue. Tomorrow she would take a little drive. It would sure beat playing four-handed bridge with a computer.

Herman Grendel sat at a computer terminal in the study of his home on London Road. For the last thirty years, Friday evenings had been spent going over the weekly averages on the various worldwide exchanges. Taking periodic stock of his investments had always been part of his overall plan. At first, his assets hadn’t amounted to much. Yet, as the years passed and Duluth became a major inland port for the shipping of ore and grain, Herman saw his fortunes begin to grow. He had somehow stumbled onto the kind of success he’d once considered beyond his reach. It had been a roller-coaster ride; his blood pressure was living proof.

Herman’s scowl deepened as the screen registered an unexpected three point drop in one of his most reliable investments. Damn. Why hadn’t his broker let him know? You couldn’t trust anyone these days.

As he switched the computer’s library screen over to commodity futures, the sound of the front doorbell broke his concentration. Annoyed at the interruption, he yelled for Carla to answer the goddamn door. The bell continued to chime. Of course, thought Herman. What was he thinking? It was after seven. Carla had left hours ago. She wanted to attend the reopening of the restaurant tonight just like everyone else, and she needed extra time to get ready.

When he worked at his computer, time often escaped him. After the stroke he’d suffered, Carla, his personal secretary for over twenty years, had turned one of the downstairs rooms into an office. It was the first new furniture he’d bought in many years. Herman hated wasting money on interior furnishings. He’d changed virtually nothing in the house since his wife’s death thirteen years earlier. Carla now split her time between the corporate offices downtown and Herman’s residence.

Occasionally, real estate agents would knock on his door to ask if he was interested in selling the place. They promised ridiculously high profits. It wasn’t that the house was so magnificent; it was simply that along with the property came several hundred feet of Superior lakeshore. To live that close to the water was an expensive proposition in Duluth. People paid dearly for the privilege. Herman laughed to himself. They were fools. He’d bought the house in 1947 for next to nothing. The place was cold and drafty, with a roof that leaked no matter what he did to prevent it. To be honest, he would have been just as happy to live in one of those modern condos like his granddaughter, Chelsea. But this had been home too long.