“Did you ask about the name difference on her marriage license?”
“She was surprised. But she told me she and her husband were big drinkers back then, drunk when they got married, so that might have explained it. She stopped drinking. He didn’t. One of the reasons they divorced.”
“Did you find out anything else?”
“That was pretty much it.” Cork had the sense that Dross was disappointed in his inquiry. “No reason to go any deeper then.”
“We’ll go deeper now,” Dross said.
Irene Boyle had a small, neat-looking rambler on the outskirts of Cloquet. It sat on a plot of land that sloped toward the Saint Louis River, which was visible beyond a line of trees. A new housing development was going up a couple of hundred yards to the east, and a few other homes were within hailing distance, but Irene Boyle’s little rambler was a bit isolated. Dross pulled into the driveway and parked next to a red Camry. It was Saturday, and when they stepped from the cruiser, Cork heard the drone of a power mower at a house down the road. The sidewalk from the drive to the front door of Irene Boyle’s home was lined with bright marigolds. On the porch were two tall terra-cotta planters, each holding an eruption of red geraniums.
Dross pressed the doorbell. The woman who opened the door was in her midthirties, with blond hair that she wore in a ponytail. She was dressed in black yoga pants and a loose yellow T-shirt. Her feet were bare. The crimson polish on her toes matched the polish on her fingernails.
“Yes?” She gave them a wary smile. A sheen of glistening sweat lay across her forehead.
“Ms. Boyle?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Sheriff Dross. This is Cork O’Connor.”
The woman eyed Cork as if trying to place him.
“Your uncle hired me to locate you and your brother,” Cork reminded her.
The light came into her eyes. “Oh, sure, I remember.”
“Could we talk to you?” Dross said.
“What’s this about?”
“This should take only a few minutes,” Dross said. “May we come in?”
The woman stepped aside and let them enter.
Cork found the house in the same shape as when he’d interviewed the woman a few years earlier. It was clean, well kept, the carpeting and furniture all in white hues. It smelled of patchouli now, something he didn’t remember from his first visit. A blue mat lay in the middle of the living room. Flute music that sounded to Cork as if it might be R. Carlos Nakai played quietly from an Amazon Echo on the mantel.
“I was just doing some yoga,” Irene said. “It helps me relax. Won’t you have a seat?” She indicated the sofa and took a matching white wing chair. “Now, what’s this about? Something to do with my uncle? He’s long dead.”
“Not exactly,” Dross said. “We found a body buried on the land that used to belong to your uncle.”
“Oh.” The woman, who’d been leaning casually forward, sat back. She looked pained. “Well, that’s… that’s… upsetting.”
“The body was in your uncle’s blueberry patch.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Now she looked truly stricken.
“Did you know about the blueberry patch?”
“Sure. The way was guarded by gnomes my uncle had carved and painted. Before my mother and he had a falling-out, we used to visit and pick blueberries in the summer. But I haven’t been there in twenty years.”
“A falling-out?”
“Uncle Erno was an unusual man. Eccentric would be a kind characterization. He insisted on living like a throwback to another century. No electricity or running water. An outhouse for doing his business. He had all kinds of odd ideas about the world, pretty Old Testament views about God. Thought the world was going to come to an end soon and we should be prepared. Mom finally said enough and just cut off all contact with him. I hadn’t really thought much about him until Mr. O’Connor knocked on my door a while back.”
“Did you get in touch with your uncle then?”
“No. But when he died, I received notice that I’d inherited his property. Well, my brother and I had inherited his property jointly.”
“What did you do?”
Irene Boyle lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “Nothing. At some point, I thought we’d see if we could sell the land, but I haven’t been in any hurry. It’s not particularly valuable. No lakeshore, no paved access. There’s really nothing attractive about it. Taxes are next to nothing.”
“You didn’t go to view the property?”
“I didn’t see any reason to. I was given a thorough description, and things didn’t seem to have changed much in twenty years. Still no improvements on the property.”
“What about your brother?”
“If he’s checked it out, he hasn’t said anything to me.”
“Where is your brother?”
“Matt’s a welder, works construction. For the past couple of years, he’s been working on the Stockbridge pipeline.”
“Do you have any idea who else might have known about the blueberry patch?”
She thought for a brief moment, then shook her head. “There’s no one else in our family. And like I said, we lost touch with Uncle Erno a couple of decades ago.”
