“It could be Crystal Two Knives, although when Daniel showed a photograph of Crystal to Waaboo last night, he said it wasn’t her.”
“I’m reserving judgment on the supposed vision of a seven-year-old boy, but I’ve asked Theresa Lee to be there when the ME does the postmortem. She might be able to help with identification.”
Theresa Lee taught forensic anthropology and archaeology at Tamarack Community College. She was of mixed heritage, a licensed professional archaeologist, and one of only two licensed forensic anthropologists in the entire state. She’d been in charge of a number of high-profile excavations of archaeological sites across Minnesota and the upper Midwest, as well as exhumations of graves when it was thought that they might be Native.
“When will that be?” Cork asked.
“Not for a couple of days at least.”
“So, in the meantime, you’re just going to sit there and fume?”
“Back off,” Dross warned him.
“Here’s something you might want to chew on. Last night, Waaboo said that the spirit of the woman in the grave told him there was another lost soul out there somewhere.”
“Cork, I’ve got to tell you, I’m taking all this Waaboo business with even less than a grain of salt. I didn’t tell the other investigators about your grandson’s talk with a dead woman. You can understand why.”
“Just bear with me for a minute. Suppose what Waaboo says is true, just suppose. Could it be Olivia Hamilton?”
Everything about Dross’s demeanor began to change. She slowly sat up. Her look of skepticism was gradually replaced with one of piqued interest.
“Have you told anybody else?” she asked.
“Two agents interviewed us last night. But it was before Waaboo told us about the other spirit.”
“BCA or FBI?”
“One from each.”
“A little odd.”
Cork nodded. “But I suppose in a case like this they want to make sure nothing’s miscommunicated. They were a bit of a mismatched team, though, and didn’t spend much time. To them, we’re just the folks who happened to stumble onto the grave. I told them about the work I’d done for Paavola and that he’d paid me with blueberries. They thought that was hilarious. They asked if he’d told me where the patch was. I said no. They asked how did I find it then? I told them it’s what I’m good at, finding things. I said if they wanted my help finding Olivia Hamilton, I’d be happy to give it. Their response was basically ‘The last thing we need, Mr. O’Connor, is some meddling bumpkin who gets paid in blueberries.’ But there’s one thing they didn’t ask about.”
“What?”
“Who else might know about that blueberry patch.”
A fire came into Dross’s eyes. “Paavola’s niece and nephew, the people he hired you to find.”
“Exactly. And now that they know the woman in that grave was Native, the Feds and BCA probably don’t care.”
Dross swiveled in her chair and stared at her office wall. Her eyes seemed focused on a personally inscribed photograph of Ann Bancroft, a Minnesotan who was one of the world’s premier polar explorers and who’d accomplished many firsts for a woman in the polar regions.
“What would be the connection between the body in the grave and Olivia Hamilton’s disappearance?”
“Maybe there isn’t one. But I’ve always believed that if you pull one thread, it sometimes loosens others,” Cork said. “You told me that you were a bit like Olivia Hamilton when you were a teenager. On the rebellious side. And I know that you would like very much to find her alive, if that’s still possible. Maybe you can. But if she isn’t alive, maybe you can find out what happened to her. I don’t know that the grave in the blueberry patch is relevant, but what if it is?”
Dross gave a slow nod, her eyes still on the image of the explorer. “We’d have to tread carefully.”
“We?”
Dross swung her chair back around to face Cork. “We.”
Cork couldn’t help smiling. “Count me in.”
Ever since he’d taken off the sheriff’s badge, Cork’s primary source of income had been Sam’s Place, the old Quonset hut on the shore of Iron Lake, where burgers, shakes, hot dogs, and fries were served through two take-out windows. When they were growing up, every O’Connor child had been required to work at Sam’s Place and, when old enough, to take the reins of management. But Annie had been gone forever. Stephen had left two years ago to complete his college work in the Twin Cities. Jenny still sometimes helped out, but she was busy raising Waaboo. She was also gaining a reputation as a novelist, and her research and speaking engagements often kept her unavailable.
Cork had considered selling Sam’s Place. He’d had lots of offers over the years. But in the end, his heart was bound too firmly to the business that his good friend Sam Winter Moon had bequeathed him. Instead, he’d hired and trained good managers, often kids from the Iron Lake Reservation. For many, it was their first employment. Cork did his best to guide them with a firm but gentle hand.
After he left Marsha Dross, he dropped by Sam’s Place to check on things. That was one reason. The other was that he still conducted his private investigation business out of his office in the rear of the Quonset hut. That morning, he wanted to look at the file he’d created in his work for Erno Paavola.
Cork arrived at ten. Sam’s Place opened at eleven. Sylvia Villebrun was in charge that day and was busy getting things organized.
“Boozhoo, Sylvia,” Cork greeted her when he stepped into the serving area. “Beautiful day today. Going to be busy. Who’s on the schedule?”
Sylvia glanced up from where she was filling the deep-fry well with oil. She was nineteen, tall and willowy. Her long black hair was done in a braid that she’d curled under the net on her head. She’d worked for Cork every summer in high school. After graduation, she’d headed to the University of Minnesota, Duluth, with the intention of becoming a speech therapist. She’d returned at the beginning of the summer and was working for Cork again, putting away college money.
“Cass and Augie until three. Megan and Erica from three until closing.” She didn’t look up from her work. “Augie was supposed to help me set up. Running late. Again.”
“Want me to have a word with him?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Sylvia set down the big jug of fry oil and looked at Cork. Her eyes were the color of polished maple wood. “I heard about the grave in the blueberry patch.”
“Yeah,” Cork said.
“Do they know anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Was it Olivia Hamilton?”
“It was a Native woman.”
“Crystal?”
“It’ll be a while before anyone knows for sure.”
Sylvia shook her head. “Two girls missing; it makes you wonder if any of us are safe.”
The summer before, Crystal Two Knives was one of the kids Cork had hired for Sam’s Place. She hadn’t come with high recommendations. In fact, Crystal’s caseworker warned Cork that the girl was trouble and would probably not be his best choice. Cork knew she’d been involved in an abusive relationship with an older man, a Shinnob named Red LaGrange, a punk Cork knew well and disliked immensely. But Crystal swore to him she was done with LaGrange. She wanted a different life for herself. So he’d given her a chance.
It was true that Crystal wasn’t particularly customer friendly. When she worked a serving window, she could be curt if faced with someone who grilled her about every menu item or hemmed and hawed in their choices. Mostly Cork had her working in back, preparing the food, which she turned out to be very good at. She knew her job well, didn’t waste a lot of time, and the orders were filled quickly. Cork often complimented her on the quality of her work, which, he had a sense, was more meaningful to her than the money she earned, though the money was important. She’d bought herself a car. A junker, it was true. But it was hers, and she was proud of herself for having accomplished that. Even when high school started again in the fall, she’d worked late afternoons or evenings until Cork had closed up Sam’s Place at the end of the season, earning, she said, gas money to last her the winter. Three months later, she’d gone missing.
Cork left Sylvia to her work and went to the file cabinets in his office area. He pulled out the file he’d kept during his investigation for Erno Paavola and wrote down the address he’d finally found for the man’s niece. It was in Cloquet, an hour and a half south of Aurora, near Duluth. He’d driven down to confirm his finding, had spoken briefly with the niece, and discovered that her brother was a welder and working a construction job somewhere on the North Shore. The niece hadn’t seemed much interested in her uncle, but Cork didn’t dig any deeper. His job was simply to locate them. He’d passed along the information to Paavola.
He said goodbye to Sylvia, but when he opened the door to leave, he was nearly bowled over as Augie Treuer rushed in.
