“Where?”
“I want another look at the angel of the roses.”
Gus Finlayson was preparing to lock the gate when Cork arrived at the cemetery.
“Hold on dere, Cork,” the old Finn shouted, waving the Bronco down.
“Five minutes, Gus, that’s all I need.”
Gus leaned in the window and shook his head. “Been a hell of a long day, that’s for sure, and it ain’t gonna get any longer if I got anything to say about it.”
“Everybody cleared out?”
“ ’Cept the sheriff. He’s still out dere.”
“At Charlotte’s grave?”
“Yah.”
“If you lock the gate, how’s he going to get out?”
“He’s got a key. The department copy.”
Cork had forgotten. Not surprising. He couldn’t remember ever having cause to use it himself when he’d been sheriff.
The cemetery was going dark at Finlayson’s back. The rows of stone markers, rigid and charcoal colored, reminded Cork of a military brigade standing watch over the dead.
“How about letting me in and I’ll come out with him?”
Finlayson puffed out his cheeks but gave in easily. “I’d argue, but I’m too pooped. Pull on in. Sheriff’s somewhere over to the other side of the cemetery.”
“Thanks, Gus.”
As he approached Charlotte’s grave the smell of the rose petals was astonishing, the fragrance both pleasing and overpowering. Mal Thorne had asked him earlier, didn’t he feel it? Didn’t he feel that something remarkable had occurred? He wasn’t entirely sure what he felt, but what he thought was that the hands that had created this event were made of flesh and blood, and sooner or later the mind behind it, and the motive, would reveal itself.
Soderberg’s BMW sat under a linden tree. The sheriff was nowhere in sight. Cork parked in the middle of the lane, blocking traffic if there’d been any. He got out and stood awhile, taking in the hillside and Iron Lake in the distance. The sky was the color of an old nickel, and everything under it lay in a dim light that was not day nor yet night. Everything around Cork was absolutely still. He had the feeling he was looking at an underexposed black-and-white photograph, one that didn’t give away what the photographer had intended to capture.
Then he saw the flare of a match reflected off the shiny marble pillar thirty yards down the hill.
Soderberg drew meditatively on his cigarette and didn’t turn at Cork’s approach. When Cork spoke his name, the sheriff jumped, a cloud of smoke shot from his mouth, and he dropped his cigarette. The ember exploded in a small burst of sparks in the grass at his feet.
“Jesus Christ, O’Connor.”
“Sorry, Arne.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Same as you, I imagine. Trying to understand the angel of the roses. Thought you were in Hibbing.”
“I was until I heard about this.” Soderberg picked up his cigarette. There was still enough glow to the ember to salvage a smoke if he’d wanted. Apparently he didn’t. He just held the cigarette in his fingers. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out,” he said.
“You have a theory?”
Soderberg looked the graves over and nodded to himself. “The Ojibwe.”
Cork almost laughed. “What are you talking about?”
“Winter Moon claims he talked with Jesus. He gets his Indian friends to do this. Big miracle.” Soderberg waved his hands in a gesture of magic. “Poof, everyone believes he’s pure and blessed and how could they ever convict him of murder? You realize what all the roses for these petals must have cost? The casino brings in that kind of money. Hell, it’s pocket change to those people.”
“Show me the receipt, Arne,” Cork said. Although he had to admit it might be a plausible theory, if you thought the Iron Lake Ojibwe gave a hoot and a holler about Solemn Winter Moon.
Soderberg lifted his foot and snuffed out the cigarette against his sole. Rather than toss the butt out among the petals, he put it in his pocket and turned uphill toward his car.
“I need to follow you out, Arne.”
“Hurry up then.” Soderberg started walking.
Cork took a last look at the scene around him. The light was almost gone, but there was enough left so that he could clearly see the eyes of the angel. For a moment, he could have sworn that the angel looked right back at him.
20
A strong north wind came up in the night, bending the trees and causing the houses of Aurora to creak. Near dawn, a brief summer rain fell. The wind had died, and the sky was clear the next morning when a news van from KBJR in Duluth parked outside Lakeview Cemetery waiting for Gus Finlayson to open the gate. Behind it, a line of cars backed up along the road, mostly the curious from outside town who hadn’t heard of the angel of the roses in time to make the trip on Memorial Day. Gus was late, and the news van began honking its horn. It wasn’t long before all the horns were honking. The caretaker finally pulled up in his old Volvo and got out looking groggy, stuffing his shirttail into his pants. He fumbled with the lock and swung the gate wide.
Cork was in line with the others, but he knew long before he reached Charlotte’s grave that something wasn’t right. The incredible fragrance, beautiful and overpowering the day before, was missing.
What greeted the visitors that morning disappointed everyone. The powerful night wind had swept the cemetery clean of rose petals, and the rain had washed the tears from the angel’s eyes.
From the cemetery, Cork headed to the Pinewood Broiler to get himself some breakfast. When he stepped inside that morning, he found the talk to be all about the roses. He shot the bull a few minutes with a table full of retired iron miners, then he noticed Randy Gooding sitting at the counter by himself.
Gooding lived alone in the upper of a duplex on Ironwood Street, a block from St. Agnes. Cork often encountered him having breakfast at the Broiler, which was also near the church.
“How’s it hanging, Randy?”
Gooding looked up from his plate that held the last of a Denver omelet, and he smiled. “Morning, Cork.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Cork took the stool next to the deputy. “Eggs over easy, Sara,” he said to the waitress. “Hash browns, toast-”
“Burned, right?” Sara said.
“Charred. And coffee. Oh, and his breakfast’s on me.” He jabbed a thumb toward Gooding.
“Trying to bribe an officer of the law?” Gooding said.
Gooding wasn’t wearing his uniform. He was dressed in a dark blue polo shirt and white Dockers. Next to his plate was a small notepad with a pen lying beside it. From the furious scribble across the pad, Cork guessed that Gooding had been hard at work on something. The occasional doodles were roses, lovely roses.
“You on duty?”
“Day off.” Gooding finished the last bite of his omelet and carefully wiped his mouth with his paper napkin.
Cork tapped the notepad. “Working on the angel of the roses?”
“Yeah. Nothing criminal about what’s happened, and the sheriff made it clear that he doesn’t want any official time put in on it. But it’s got me intrigued.”
“Have you been up there this morning?”
Gooding nodded. “I used the department’s key and let myself in at first light. Gone, blown away in the night, all the petals, that wonderful fragrance. And the tears gone, too.” He shook his head sadly.
Sara set a cup in front of Cork and poured his coffee.
“Thanks,” he said. Then to Gooding, “What do you make of it?”
“Let me show you something.” Gooding shoved his plate, coffee cup, and notebook to the side. He reached down to a small, white paper bag on the floor by his stool and took out a single long-stemmed red rose. “I just came from talking with Ray Lyons.”
Lyons owned North Star Nursery and supplied a good deal of the stock that went into the gardens of Tamarack County.
Gooding broke the rose and scattered the petals over the counter. “There are enough here to cover a couple of square inches one layer deep.”