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  Hilo stood stiff, silently refusing to take the amulet. “You don’t know what it means? What it says?”

  “It looks like something from Norse mythology, which wouldn’t be surprising coming from around here. I don’t know the language. My Aunt Gilda, my father’s sister, had some old jewelry that had been passed down through the years that kind of looked like this. She traveled the world with her professor husband and collected some great trinkets, things related to our heritage.”

  The sheriff shifted his weight and looked down the lane that led out to the road. “Do you think you could figure out what it says? What it is? I don’t mix well with those college-types in Dickinson, and I figured you’d be the best person to come to. You’re the . . .”

  I nodded, anticipating what Hilo was going to say.

  “. . . smartest person I know.”

  At that moment, my love for books seemed like a curse more than a blessing. Not long after we got Shep, about five years ago, we hit a rough patch on the farm. A drought hit the spring wheat, dropping the yield to an all-time low. The price per bushel was already down because of the bad economy of the late ’50s, during the waning Eisenhower years, and it was forced even lower by the weather.

  A confluence of events struck us hard. Hank had bought a new combine the year before, straining our budget even in the best of times. Knowing our situation was dire, the previous county extension agent, Lloyd Gustaffson, had brought me a packet of paperwork from the United States Department of Agriculture. Inside was a list of courses designed for farmers’ wives to make extra money during the long winters. I was immediately fascinated by the idea of writing indexes.

  It was a job that could be done from anywhere but took attention to detail, tenacity, an ability to meet deadlines, and a love of books and words—all of which I felt I wholly possessed. I was a compulsive list maker, punctual—I couldn’t remember the last time I was late for anything—and a neat and tidy housekeeper by nature. If something was out of place, I noticed. I’d read compulsively since I was a little girl.

  I took the correspondence course, learned how to pick out keywords and concepts from the densest text, how to format and type up an acceptable index, and how to solicit work from publishers far away in the dreamland of New York City.

  Indexes, I learned from the course, were a garden of words neatly tended—weedy modifiers pulled and discarded—only the most important ideas left to grow in unknown minds. The index, my work, would provide sustenance to the world in a tiny, tiny way, but a helpful, meaningful way, nonetheless. The work made me feel useful, like I was helping make the world outside my own front door better. I had desperately needed to feel hopeful, especially in those early days after the accident when things went from bad to worse.

  Never believing that I could actually make money from reading books and writing indexes, I mailed fifty letters of inquiry after successfully completing the USDA course, expecting nothing in return. To my surprise, I was hired almost immediately by a well-established publisher, H.P. Howard and Sons. Two weeks later I was winding my way through the tedious process of writing my very first index.

  The extra money saw us through the drought and helped us get ahead on the payments for the combine—until Hank went hunting and came back on a stretcher.

  Each book since had been a new adventure, and not only had I indexed books about Africa, but New Zealand, Russia, and nearly every European country. The topics ranged from history to religion, and included of course, headhunters. I knew I’d never go to any of those places, or ever use the information in casual conversation, but the world was larger for me because of my endeavor of writing indexes; a savior of my heart and sanity.

  I’d always had the reputation of being “smart,” of talking above peoples’ heads. I knew my place and had long since tried to acquire the skill of restraining the exposure of my intelligence, even with Hilo. Most days, my secret garden of words was enough for me, but the sadness of it all was that I would’ve never had the opportunity to learn any of these things if it weren’t for a turn in the weather and my husband’s bad luck.

  “I thought you might have some books around . . .” Hilo had stopped mid-sentence to reconsider his words. “I know you have a full plate with Hank and the farm to look after, Marjorie,” he said. “And I hate to ask you such a thing, but I think it’s important. That thing there is the only real clue I have. It might be nothing. Peter and Jaeger had never seen it before, but that don’t mean it wasn’t something that belonged to Erik or Lida. I just don’t know why he was holding it, why the killer didn’t take it, just left it there. Helps rule out burglary at the very least, I suppose, if there’s any value to it.”

  “Hard to say,” I said, studying it.

  “Kind of ugly, ain’t it?”

  I nodded yes, then hesitated and listened for a stir of noise coming from Hank’s room. Silence. “If you think it’ll help you find out who killed Erik and Lida, I suppose I can look in to it.”

  “I think it might.”

  “I’ll have to go into town, check some books at the library.” I sighed inwardly. It meant that I would have to go see if my cousin, Raymond Hurtibese, still had my Aunt Gilda’s jewelry. He might know something about this kind of thing or be able to send me to talk to the right person at the college, but that didn’t mean I was happy about the idea. “I don’t have anything around here that I think would be of any help,” I offered to Hilo.

  Hilo nodded, relaxed. “I’ll send Ardith out to look after Hank while you’re gone. You keep the amulet. I won’t tell anybody you have it, and it’s probably best if no one knows that I asked for your help. I won’t be hard to find if you need me,” he said.

  Hilo edged away from the door, toward the steps. Shep stood up and wagged his tail. Hilo ignored the dog. “I appreciate this, Marjorie, I really do. This is the first murder around here in twenty-five years, and the last one was pretty easy to figure out.”

  “I remember.” Benefield Frankels had shot his wife square in the forehead at a roadside motel for stepping out with another man. Hilo had secured his position as sheriff for as long as he wanted after he solved that crime. “I’ll stop by and see Peter and Jaeger while I’m out,” I said.

  “I’m sure they’d like that.” He was as fond of the Knudsens as I was. “But don’t mention that you have the amulet.”

  I agreed silently with another slight nod.

  Hilo pushed past Shep and slouched to the truck, his shoulders heavy, his steps less calculated and more unsure than I could ever remember. Shep made his way up onto the porch, and we stood there and watched Hilo drive away.

  The dust plume lingered just like it had when Hilo had driven up, and the amulet felt cold in my hand. I tucked it into the front pocket of my housedress as quickly as I could, all the time visualizing Erik and Lida Knudsen, lying in a pool of blood in their marriage bed.

  At least they went together, I heard a chorus of voices whisper inside my head. The vision was clear; a gathering of church women, hands clasped tightly together, shaking their heads over a pair of walnut caskets.

  “That would be the only blessing,” I said out loud to the wind, to the sky, and to the meadowlark that was standing sentinel on the fence post at the end of the lane.

  CHAPTER 3

  I went about my business in the kitchen, resisting the atrophy of grief. My heart ached and my muscles were full of tension as I imagined two wounded angels ascending to heaven much sooner than they, or anyone else, had anticipated.

  I’d never been one to keep an eye out for a pervasive dark cloud of tragedy on the horizon, even when it lived and breathed in my own bed, but for the life of me, I couldn’t believe that Erik and Lida Knudsen had left the world. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t find the recipe for tears. Not now, anyway. I was still embarrassed that I had let Hilo see tears roll down my cheeks.

  The pile of manuscript pages on my desk called to me as I rolled out the pie dough, banging the table with excessive f
orce each time I made a pass to smooth the glob of flour and water. Indexing would have to wait. There was no way I could concentrate on headhunters. No way I could face death of any kind, no matter how far away, with the news that Hilo had brought me.

  I couldn’t escape the present crisis in my own world at the moment, and I thought even Sir Nigel would have understood that—though I wasn’t sure my editor, Richard Rothstein, would.

  Deadlines for writing indexes for books were rigid, mostly unchangeable. The publishing date and manuscript due date to the printer were appointed months in advance. Writing the index was one of the last tasks in the book-publishing process, since the pagination had to be set in stone. I’d never missed a deadline—most times I was early—and that effort had provided me with a steady stream of indexing work since I had started with H.P. Howard and Sons.

  I was three-quarters of the way through Sir Nigel’s four-hundred-page book, and the index had to be in the mail to New York in two weeks.

  Normally, that would have been enough time—barely, with everything else I had to do—for me to compile the index, combine all of the letters from my index cards into a typed first draft, then do a final red-letter edit and create a publishable index. But I had agreed to help Hilo, and I didn’t know how much time that was going to take.

  All I knew was that I was going to do everything I could to help find out what had happened to Erik and Lida. Deadlines be damned—even if it meant never writing an index again.

  I spilled some flour on the floor at the thought of losing money and a publisher that I had worked hard to create a reputation with. I got the impression from my editor that once you missed a deadline, you’d never work for them again. I understood that, but I just couldn’t face the pressure at that moment.

  I needed every penny I could get to keep the farm going. Luckily, the weather over the last couple of years had been nearly perfect for growing wheat and silage, our two main crops, but Hank’s doctor bills had started to stack up, offering a new threat to any security or buffer I could hope to create.

  Shep was out doing whatever job he could find to do. The inside of the house was no place for a dog as far as Hank was concerned—with the exception of the depth of winter when Shep was welcome to warm himself in front of the fireplace. The services Shep provided to the farm were far too valuable to just leave him to fend for himself in a freezing, subzero wind.

  Hank and I differed on that point, and on occasion I would let the dog in the house, out of Hank’s line of sight, in the depth of summer or whenever I needed the company of another living, walking creature.

  Ever the border collie, Shep was industrious, always working, always figuring something out. My guess was he was out trying to herd the spring chickens. At the very least, he’d keep the hawks away and be out from under my feet. I was in no mood to be herded.

  To make matters—and my mood—worse, I’d boiled the cherries too long as I stared out the window, contemplating what to do next. I had to start over again, using my last good bunch of fresh fruit. Finally, after an hour, I managed to get two pies in the oven.

  It was getting near dinner time, and it had been a while since I had checked on Hank. Sometimes he was so quiet that I nearly forget he was in the bed, lost in darkness, unable to do anything for himself but wish for his old life back. I imagined him out in the front barn, tearing apart an alternator and putting in a new set of bushings, but he was never there. I only went into that barn when I had to now.

  Hank was staring at the ceiling with blank eyes when I entered the bedroom.

  “Erik and Lida,” he whispered.

  “You heard?” I walked over to the window and started to close it.

  “Don’t.”

  I ignored Hank and closed the window anyway. “Hilo said somebody came in through Erik and Lida’s window.”

  “I heard every word Hilo said. Leave it open.” His voice was raspy and weak, but there was an authority to it that wouldn’t ever disappear—not as long as Hank Trumaine was able to take a breath.

  I froze and realized why Hank wanted the window left open. I knew if he were able he’d take his own life. He’d told me so more than once, begged me to do it for him—and hated and loved me just the same because I wouldn’t. I couldn’t kill a fly without feeling a week’s worth of remorse.

  I slid the window back up, then gently climbed onto the bed and hugged Hank as tears came to my eyes. His muscles had wasted away, and he was a shell of the man he once was. I longed for him to hold me, to make love to me, to protect me from the violence beyond our tiny bedroom. But he couldn’t lift a finger, and at that moment neither could I.

  A rush of tears flooded out. I had not cried so heavily since my mother died.

  “I’m sorry,” I said when I could.

  “Erik and Lida were like family to you,” Hank whispered. “Better than family. That lout of a cousin of yours has only shown his face on this farm once since we’ve been married, and then . . .” He trailed off, refusing to mention the incident that had happened on that visit.

  I nodded, glad that he didn’t continue on, then resisted the urge to tell Hank that I was happy Raymond had never visited us. The company of my cousin had always been contentious. Relieved, I rested my head gently on Hank’s fragile chest, too tired to push away the tears that were determined to fall.

  Hank’s steady breathing was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. His words echoed inside my head, and I remembered, even though I rarely needed reminding, why I fell in love with him in the first place.

  He didn’t say another word until I stopped crying. “I don’t want you to leave,” he whispered.

  “Hilo asked. Ardith will be here. She knows how to care for you.” Ardith Jenkins, along with Lida Knudsen, would come over when necessary if I had errands in town to run; doctors’ appointments of my own, that kind of thing.

  Hank was silent for a moment. “I’ve never thought about losing you. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you. You are . . . always, just here. What would I do without you?”

  I understood. I had never thought about losing Hank either. We were both still relatively young, in our midthirties, with most of our lives still ahead of us when the accident had happened.

  Tragedy, in any form, had always happened to other people, and neither of us had ever had to seriously consider our own mortality. How could we have? The farm wasn’t exactly thriving, but we were making a living and were mostly healthy before Hank went hunting. Our only problem was conceiving a child—and we took great pleasure in trying. I loved feeling Hank’s hot, hungry skin on top of mine, but our efforts had been a lost cause. I was barren. The one thing I had looked forward to my entire life—raising a child, boy or girl, it didn’t matter—was not to be.

  I married Hank Trumaine, my high school sweetheart, without a question in my heart. There were only twenty-two of us in the entire school, so the choices I had were few. I swear, though, even if I had lived in a big city instead of North Dakota, amongst a mass of people instead of a smattering, I still would’ve fallen in love with Hank Trumaine. I knew I was going to marry him in the sixth grade, but I didn’t tell him that until our wedding night.

  Hank was a gentle boy who loved the land more than anyone I had ever met. He grew up to be a thoughtful, hardworking man whose passion for farming could barely be contained inside his lanky body. The demand of the land and the hard work invigorated him. He saw hope instead of dread in storm clouds. He watched the ground come alive in the spring as if he were reading a good book, and he could tell you how the growing season was going to go just by the size of the wings on the mayflies.

  The North Dakotan lilt to his voice was like the trill of a meadowlark. Lord, how I longed to hear him excited about something—a bluebell blooming in the back forty, a new litter of piglets—instead of the whispers and gasps that were so hard to understand now.

  I’d been enrolled in my second year of college in Dickinson when Hank had asked me t
o marry him. My father had been none too happy. He’d had dreams for me and wanted me to be something other than a farmer’s wife. He would have been over the moon if I had gone on to be a teacher, which is what I’d planned on becoming.

  My father and I shared an insatiable love of knowledge and books, and as much as my father loved the land, his dream had been to break free of tradition. Instead of following in his own father’s footsteps he had wanted to be an English teacher, more specifically a professor at the local college in Dickinson like his sister’s husband. But he’d been bound to the family legacy as his father’s only son. He was tied to the earth, to the simplicity of working the fields, and expressed deep disappointment when I made the choice to leave college and marry Hank to do the same thing.

  I had never regretted my decision not to become a teacher, never been angry about my life, like my father was. I loved the plains, the beauty of wide open spaces, the constancy of the wind. I could never have left the farm—or North Dakota for that matter.

  I understood the rhythms of the seasons: the ferocity of winter, the nervousness and hope of spring and the growing season, and the relief of the harvest. Books were my transport to the larger world, even though I’d castrated more hogs than I would like to admit, pulled weeds until my hands ached well into winter, and withstood the fickleness of North Dakota weather like every other farmer’s wife I knew. Farm work was in my blood, but books had always been my first true love. They were my magic carpet ride to a normal life; my sanity.

  As long as Hank Trumaine was standing at my side at the end of the day, I was perfectly content.

  “Nothing is going to happen to me,” I finally said to Hank. “I promise. Hilo just wants me to find out as much as I can about an amulet he found at Erik and Lida’s. He thinks it’s important, and I’m the only one that he trusts to make sense of it for him.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to say no to Hilo Jenkins.” Hank’s voice was barely audible, his strength failing, but there was no animosity toward Hilo. Hank loved Hilo; he respected him near as much as he had his own father.