“FBI? BCA?”
“Take your pick.”
Cork sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. “I worked with some pretty decent agents back in the day.”
“These guys are barely old enough to shave. And, God help us, they think they know it all.”
“Don’t play well with others?”
“BCA has officially told us to stand down from the Olivia Hamilton investigation. It’s out of our hands.”
“BCA usually just assists.”
“The governor’s people have decided otherwise. Olivia Hamilton’s family’s influence, I’m sure. From the get-go, they didn’t trust our competence.”
“What about the body they exhumed?”
“Pretty clear it’s Native. And that grave in the blueberry patch was the final straw, I guess. Blamed me for taking precious time and resources away from finding the Hamilton girl.”
“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.
