“What is it?” he asked.
“I just realized something about her credit card and her car. When we looked at those charges, she’d also filled the tank on Tuesday, the day before her visit to the Tomahawk Truckstop. And she bought that gas in Saint Paul.”
Cork said, “It’s a long way to the Twin Cities. Takes a lot of fuel.”
“That’s not the point. When I talked to him, the Judge told me that Evelyn never goes anywhere anymore except into Aurora. He says she won’t even drive to Duluth. She’s not comfortable behind the wheel, doesn’t trust her driving, especially at night. He was surprised that she’d even be out on the Old Babbitt Road.”
“Did you ask him about that gas charge in Saint Paul?”
“No, I hadn’t seen her credit card information then.”
“Interesting. So it appears that she does more driving than her husband is aware of.”
“I wonder what else there is about Evelyn he doesn’t know,” Dross said.
“And I wonder what he knows about Evelyn that he’s not telling you. I think you need to talk to him again.”
Dross stared at the window overlooking the lake, and Cork followed her gaze. The glass showed mostly the reflection of the restaurant dining room and her and Cork together at the table. “I wish Ed hadn’t gone on vacation,” she said.
She was speaking of Captain Ed Larson, who was in charge of major crime investigations for the department.
“How long is he out?”
“Two weeks. San Diego. Christmas with his son’s family.”
“You could call him, ask him to come back.”
She shook her head. “I’ll handle it.”
His beer came, and the waitress asked if Marsha wanted another scotch. Dross slid her glass away and stood up. “No thanks, Julie. I need to run.” She looked across the table at Cork. “A rain check?”
“On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You let me go with you to the Judge’s.”
She thought a second. The line in the center of her brow furrowed deeply, then she said, “Deal, but I ask the questions.”
CHAPTER 8
Stephen borrowed Jenny’s Subaru Forester for the evening. He drove to the reservation of the Iron Lake Ojibwe, where Marlee Daychild lived with her mother in an old prefab home set in a grove of birch trees on the eastern shore of the lake. The gravel lane up to Marlee’s place was marked only by a gap in the snow piled along the shoulder of the plowed road. Stephen turned there and followed wheel ruts that had been left in the new snowfall, ruts made, he knew, by the big all-terrain tires on the Toyota 4Runner that Marlee’s mother drove. She was employed by the Chippewa Grand Casino south of Aurora, working nights tending bar. The 4Runner, though a decade old, provided decent assurance that she could get to the casino even in the bad weather that often characterized winter in the Arrowhead of Minnesota.
A big yard light illuminated the clearing around the home. Stephen parked Jenny’s Forester near the front porch, an add-on built of cedar. He killed the engine, stepped from the car, and followed a shoveled path to the porch. As he climbed the steps, the boards, stiff from the cold, gave aching cries, which were answered from inside by a deep, raucous woofing-Dexter, the big mutt that belonged to Marlee’s uncle and that Marlee cared for these days. Stephen knocked at the door and waited. Dexter was going crazy on the other side, but no one answered, and he knocked again.
“Marlee!” he called toward the nearest window. A Christmas garland hung across the inside of the glass. The shades were drawn, but he knew it was a living room window. “Marlee, it’s me, Stephen!”
The inner door opened suddenly, and Marlee stood behind the storm door, wearing a bathrobe and with a yellow towel wrapped turban-like about her head. She was small, but not delicate, and so very Ojibwe in her genes-high cheeks, dark hair, eyes the color of almonds. Stephen thought she was beautiful, even though at the moment she didn’t look happy to see him. “You’re early.”
“Like five minutes.”
“I’m not ready.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Not out there.” She opened the storm door. “Come in, but quick. We’re letting in the cold.”
Stephen stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Dexter bounded at him gleefully, tail wagging. Stephen had been to Marlee’s several times in the last few weeks, and Dexter knew him, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. The big chocolaty-spotted mutt, a slobbery mix of Newfoundland and Saint Bernard, was as easygoing and friendly a dog as Stephen had ever encountered.
“I’m going to finish getting ready,” Marlee said, heading down the hallway toward her room. “Let Dexter out. He needs to do his business before we leave.”
“Sure.”
Stephen watched her go and wondered if she was as pissed at him as she sounded and was five minutes really so early? He opened the door and said, “Go on, buddy. Do your thing.”
Dexter, whose sheer size and exuberance made the inside of the home feel claustrophobic, bounded out with the eagerness of a child.
Which left Stephen alone in the place. Marlee’s mother was a smoker, and the house reeked of it. She was also, according to her daughter, a lousy housekeeper. Marlee, on the other hand, prided herself on being fastidious and kept everything spotless. A Christmas tree stood in one corner, decorated brightly. It was a live tree, a balsam, and the strong evergreen scent from it battled the residual odor of the cigarette smoke. Stephen pulled off his gloves and stocking cap and put them in the pockets of his parka, then hung the parka on a coat tree near the door.
He spent a few minutes looking at the family photos that hung on the walls. Marlee’s grandparents, Daniel and Amanda Lussier, elders on the rez whom Stephen knew, but not well. Marlee’s older brother, Hector, a Marine serving a second tour of duty in Afghanistan. Stephen had barely known him before he’d joined the military, but Marlee and her mother both spoke of Hector proudly. In the photographs, Marlee’s mother, Stella, was a stunning beauty-dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, slender body, the sense that a smile might appear if you said just the right thing. Marlee was that way, too. And like her mother, she had hair so dark brown that in bad light it appeared to be black. In sunlight, however, Stephen had seen flashes of deep auburn there. In a way, it mirrored Marlee herself. She wasn’t just one thing. She was hard to pin down. Unpredictable. Not always in a good way. Like tonight. Her reaction to him being five minutes early. What was that about?
Still, when he was with her, when she smiled at him, when she turned those deep, almond-colored eyes on him, when she let him kiss her, oh God, she was worth every moment of concern she caused him.
She came out fifteen minutes later looking nothing short of awesome. She’d dried and brushed her hair, and it hung long and loose over her shoulders. Whatever makeup she’d put on her face was subtle, but it did, in Stephen’s opinion, everything that kind of stuff ought to do, and then some. She wore a caramel-colored turtleneck and skintight jeans, and around her neck hung a small gold cross on a delicate gold chain. When she was near enough, he caught the scintillating fragrance of Beyonce Pulse, what she called her signature scent. Inside, Stephen was like one of those windup toys with the spring so taut another twist and he would go sproing!
“You look great,” he said, his mouth a little dry.
“Are you gonna kiss me then or not?”
There was no “or not” about it. He put his arms around her and pressed his body against hers and kissed her lips very hard.
“Oooh,” she said, and drew back a little. “Not so rough.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay. Like this.” And she showed him what she liked. And, Jesus, did he like it, too.
“The show’s in twenty minutes,” Stephen heard himself say, stupidly.