This Little Piggy Went to Murder (6 page)

“Where is Amanda now?” asked Sophie. She reached for a slice of poppy seed bread from a plateful of pastries.

“Up in her room. She wanted to be alone.” He leaned back in his chair and looked glum. “I don’t know why I feel like this. I didn’t even like the old guy. As a matter of fact, I loathed him.”

“He wasn’t one of my favorite people either,” admitted Sophie, “but I wouldn’t wish that kind of death on anyone.”

Sophie had been awakened shortly after eight A.M. by the sound of loud sobbing. Slipping on her robe, she’d discovered Amanda and Jack in the second floor library, Jack with his arm around his sister, holding her tightly as she wept uncontrollably.

“I’m almost too stunned to speak,” she admitted.

“Just drink your tea.”

Sophie picked up the cup, her eyes taking in the familiar surroundings of the home’s dark, Dickensian interior. For some unknown reason, Amanda had decided to furnish the dank stone structure with furniture befitting a small, turn-of-the-centurycottage. It was totally out of character at Brule House. More than out of character, really. The frail, delicate antique furnishings seemed the wrong scale for the rooms. The sensation was like sitting amidst doll house furniture scattered inside a cave. A shame, too. The antiques were lovely, elegant and beautifully cared for. They were simply all wrong.

Brule House had been built to withstand the harsh winter weather along the North Shore. The original architect, Ezra Holtman Brule, had been a man obsessed with ships. He’d built the stone sanctuary near the sight of an old boat landing as a retreat for himself and his wife in 1903. It was nestled on a bluff, less than a quarter mile from the famous lighthouse that eventually took his name. Over the years, the historic Brule’s Landing lighthouse had fallen into complete disrepair. On a whim, Luther and Amanda had purchased it from the county four years before. Since it bordered their property, officials were only too happy to get rid of what they considered a white elephant.

A stout, white-haired woman appeared under the rounded living room archway, wiping her hands on a blue gingham apron. “Mr. Jorensen? There’s another call for your wife. One of the women from the feminist association wanting to express her sympathy.”

Luther set his cup down with a crack. “Tell them she’s indisposed. She can’t come to the phone. Oh, and Alice, if they want to talk to me, say I’m taking a bubble bath.”

“Mr. Jorensen!”

“All right. Say I’m lying prone on the floor, kicking my feet and shrieking. Anything you want. Only I don’t want to talk to anybody, okay?”

Alice shuffled away shaking her head.

“Luther, for pete’s sake,” said Sophie, reaching for another slice of bread.

“Well, what am I supposed to do? If it weren’t for Amanda, I’d break out the champagne. I mean really! You’re the last person for whom I should have to feign sorrow. You know how I despised that old goat.”

“Luther!”

“All right. I’ll stop.” He studied her for a moment.’’Not to change the subject too abruptly, but that’s an unusual sweater.”

“Do you think so?” Sophie looked down at her orange-and-black rag wool cardigan. It was her favorite. “Bram picked it out.”

“His tastes do turn to the bizarre.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sometimes I wonder where you found him.”

“I hardly think a national radio personality was ever lost.”

“You know what I mean. Even you have to admit he’s a little eccentric. How long have you two been married now?”

“Five years in November.”

“Indeed.” He grunted.

Sophie decided to change the subject. “I guess Jack and Nora didn’t stay for breakfast.”

“Nora never came.”

“Oh. I assumed she had.”

“Jack gave Amanda the news and then left immediately. He had an early meeting with several of his political advisers to discuss the possible negative fallout.”

Sophie felt a shiver of disgust. “He’s not even allowed to mourn like a normal human being.” She nibbled on her bread. “Aren’t you eating anything?”

“Not right now.”

“What time do you have to be at the university?”

Luther seemed puzzled by the question. “Didn’t Amanda tell you ? I’m sorry, Sophie, I thought she had. I’m on a leave of absence right now. Have been since midsummer; It’s truly amazing how the philosophy department trudges along without me.”

Was that a hint of anger in his voice? Sophie wondered why Amanda hadn’t mentioned it. “Is it because of your health?”

The question seemed to make Luther uncomfortable. Setting down his cup, he turned to fluff the pillow behind him. “Oh, I suppose. It’s all become so tedious.” He punched the lumpy annoyance into place. “The truth is, I was getting stale. Each new group of students was beginning to feel like just one more tired horror. Part of my problem stems from the fact that I’m not much of a fan of youth — an unfortunate malady for a teacher. I find that the young romanticize everything. It’s a posture I’ve grown to abominate. I think, as a teacher, I’m pretty much a failure. Students today want a mirror. All I could offer was a window.”

The brass knocker on the front door sounded, echoing through, the chilly stone interior like a shot.

“I’ll get it,” he said, rising lethargically. He crossed into the foyer and opened the front door.

“Mr. Jorensen?”

“Yes?” Luther blinked at the strange man standing before him.

“I’m Detective John Wardlaw with the Duluth Police Department. May I come in?”

“I wondered when the police would arrive.” He held the door open for him. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have someone call my wife.” He disappeared into the dining room and reappeared a moment later. “She’ll be down in a minute. Please. Why don’t you have a seat in here?” He led the way into the living room.

“John Wardlaw,” said the detective, introducing himself to Sophie.

“This is Sophie Greenway,” said Luther. “She and her husband are visiting from Minneapolis. Old friends.”

Wardlaw nodded pleasantly.

Sophie offered him the plate of pastries and waited while he selected a piece of pear bread. Where were they finding policemen these days? This man looked like he should be reading nursery rhymes to his grandchildren. Or puttering in the garden. She knew the police would no doubt be investigating Herman Grendel’s death; it simply hadn’t occurred to her they would show up quite so quickly. She wondered if Bram would want to be alerted to their presence, but decided to let him keep working. He’d been up since the crack of dawn. She could fill him in on everything later. As she chewed on her own slice of fruit bread, she wondered about the matter of the note she’d found on their car. Should she say something to the police? This would be the perfect opportunity. Her gut reaction told her to keep it to herself — at least for now.

Wardlaw bit into the bread, smiling amiably. “Very good.” He nodded. “Homemade. I can always tell.”

Amanda appeared in the archway looking composed but puffy, as if through sheer strength of will she had stopped crying. As she entered the room, she dabbed lightly at her nose with a tissue. Unsteadily, she perched on the edge of a wing chair next to Luther.

Sophie’s heart went out to her old friend. Yet, wasn’t it just like Amanda that even in this damaged state, her fragile beauty seemed completely untouched. For a fleeting second, Sophie felt the same jealousy she had so often felt in the presence of Amanda and Jack Grendel. Even as children, their handsomeness had been completely effortless. Painfully, she recalled her own childhood image. A frecklefaced, insecure little tomboy, with hopelessly unruly hair and overly large, waiflike eyes. Only in the last few years had she ceased looking like an orphan from a Victorian novel.

“This is Detective Wardlaw,” said Luther, gently placing his hand on Amanda’s shoulder.

Instantly, Amanda started to shred the tissue in her lap.

“I don’t know what I can say to help you. Jack seems to think you feel one of us —” She bit her lower lip and looked down.

Wardlaw gave her a moment to compose herself. He too seemed touched by her presence. “Please understand, Mrs. Jorensen, we have to start somewhere. Families are often involved in matters like this. Or sometimes they know something they don’t realize is important.”

She shook her head. “No one in my family had anything to do with my father’s death. I can’t imagine who might want to hurt him.”

Wardlaw glanced at Luther. “Perhaps we should begin with you, Mr. Jorensen.” He patted his coat pockets, feeling for a notebook. “Can you tell me where you were between six and eight-fifteen last evening?”

Nervously, Luther cleared his throat. “Well, let’s see. I guess I arrived at the Gasthaus about five forty-five. I thought I might be able to help my wife with last-minute details. I left around seven-thirty.”

“But you went directly home,” said Sophie, coming to his defense.

“No, actually I didn’t. I went for a drive along the shore. I doubt I got home much before ten. You can ask Alice. She’s our cook and part-time housekeeper. She’d probably know the exact moment I walked in the door. Very little that happens in this house gets past her.”

“Did you stop anywhere?” asked Wardlaw. “Did anyone see you?”

Luther shook his head. “No one. I suppose that means I don’t have much of an alibi.”

“This is ridiculous,” protested Amanda. A raw color appeared on her cheeks.

Wardlaw turned to her. “Mrs. Jorensen, I understand your restaurant reopened last night after a lengthy renovation. Did you leave the premises at any point during the evening?”

“Of course not!”

“What time did you arrive there?”

“Around five. Luther and I each have our own car. And I didn’t leave until well after midnight. I’m sure I can find a great many people to verify that fact.”

“I’m sure you can.” Wardlaw’s voice was soothing. “Do either of you own a firearm? We’re looking for a .45 caliber handgun.”

Luther raised a finger. “I believe I own one like that. All our guns are kept in my study.”

“I wonder if you’d mind if I had a Iook.”

“Please,” said Luther. He touched Amanda’s hand and gave Sophie a nod as he stood, leading the detective out of the living room and into a dark, rear hallway which ran the length of the first floor. At the second to the last door, he stopped, knocking softly.

“Go away!” came a deep, brusque voice. “The muse is upon me.”

Pushing it open, Luther allowed Wardlaw to enter first. Bram was sitting with his feet propped up on a large intricately carved mahogany desk, about to launch a paper airplane into the stratosphere.

Luther breezed past the detective, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder. “Sorry, Bram old boy, but you’re going to have to leave. Can’t be helped.”

Bram yanked a Popsicle out of his mouth. “Yeah? And who might you be?” He glared at Wardlaw.

“The coppers,” said Luther, grabbing his arm. “Come on now, be a good boy and go play by the shore for a few minutes.”

Bram whipped a paper out of the typewriter. “He’s no policeman. My agent sent him to make sure I was
working
”

“That’s a good fellow,” Luther cooed, dragging him to the door. “Catch you later. Well now,” he said, turning to the detective. “There it is.” He pointed to a cabinet against the side wall.

As Wardlaw opened the case and began his search, Luther stood in front of a mullioned window and watched the gulls swoop near the water. The lighthouse was visible out on the point. He’d picked this room for his study because of the view, and also because it was the only room on the first floor — other than the living room — with a working fireplace. Patiently, he waited as the detective took a pen and lifted a handgun from the bottom shelf.

“This looks like a government issue,” he said, sniffing the barrel. He dropped it into a small plastic bag. “It’s been fired recently.”

Luther sat down on the edge of the couch, feeling the back of his neck prickle with a cold anticipation.

“When was the last time you remember using it?”

“A few days ago. I often take one with me when I go for a walk. It’s the rabbits. They’re all anarchists around here. They have no sense of property rights. Also, both my wife and I use the Knife River Shooting Range on occasion. As a matter of fact, we were there yesterday morning. And, of course, the rifles I use for hunting. At least I used to.” He slipped his hand under his corduroy jacket, feeling the thinness around his ribs. “A few of the pistols are from Vietnam. One or two might even belong to Jack. I’d have to check. We were in the same company during the war, excuse me, I mean the
conflict
. That’s how we met and became friends.”

“You’ve known Jack Grendel for a long time then?”

Luther nodded.

“And his wife?”

“Jack married Nora about three years ago. It’s his first marriage, her third.”