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  I kissed Hank’s forehead, then wiped away my tears with my apron. “I need to get you some dinner.”

  “Hopefully, you’ll have better luck with that than you did with the pies.”

  I almost smiled, happy to see a flicker of his impish wit. Instead, I pulled myself out of the bed and stood there as Hank drifted off and returned to his dream world, where I’m sure he lived, farmed, walked, and hunted to his heart’s content.

  CHAPTER 4

  Luckily, I didn’t burn the pies. They came out perfect. I just hoped they tasted as good as they looked. Still in a daze, I puttered about the kitchen looking for a way to make a quick supper. I decided on salt pork sandwiches, beans, and a bit of wilted lettuce from the garden.

  I grabbed a jar of beans from out of the cupboard, then stopped cold as the memory of my mother rushed at me with a force that almost knocked me off my feet. Unexpected tragedies do that to you, I think. Bring the past boiling to the top of the heap, a reminder of how to deal with loss and pain.

  I had learned the alphabet, and then to read, under my mother’s watchful eye as I arranged the spices in the cabinet next to the stove as a child: allspice, basil, cinnamon, followed by dill, and so on. I was four, maybe five, and my mother was the rightful queen of our kitchen, the kitchen I stood in now. They had left me the house after their deaths, and Hank and I had made it our home.

  My mother was always glad to have me at her side, joyfully and subtly instilling her sense of order and love for good food in me with every move she made. She made lists, too, and would have scoffed at the idea of making side-money from such a skill.

  Momma was a tall, stout woman, forever in a pure white apron with daisy appliques lined perfectly across the waist—the same one I wore every time I cooked. She’d been more than a capable cook, no matter the ingredients that were on hand.

  In the lengthening days of March, when the wind still howled across the rolling plains, and the duck ponds were still frozen, she could conjure sugar cream pies and produce suppers that looked like feasts when there was just a dab of flour, cream, corn, and brisket stored in the larder.

  “Now, Marjorie,” my mother had said over and over again, “you have to plan for days when things are slim. You can’t eat everything up at once. The larder might look endless in November, but when March comes along you’re going to be mighty hungry if you’ve shown no amount of restraint.” There was always a dose of Norwegian on the tip of her tongue. She had gone through Ellis Island with her sister and parents when she was four.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll remember that.”

  Farming in North Dakota had never been an easy way of life, and restraint was a necessary quality no matter the season. The winters were hard. The wind was so fierce at times you felt like it was going to tear your eyes out. A relentless scream of air raced forever across the flatlands, entered your head like a tapeworm, burrowing deep into your mind, allowing no silence, no peace, unless you knew how to make it for yourself.

  To my father’s pleasure, I’d found my peace in books, in worn library copies of Cather, Chekov, Dreiser, and whoever else I could grab from the mostly bare shelves. But I had wanted to be just like Momma, too, from the moment I could remember. I hadn’t known then that dreams, no matter how simple, could vanish in the flick of an eye, or at the barrel-end of an old shotgun.

  I took a deep breath and pushed the memory of my mother away. Even years later, I couldn’t decide which was worse—losing my mother or losing my father.

  They had both died of age-related illnesses: a heart attack and a stroke. We’d said our good-byes with tears even though we had watched and waited for death to arrive, had expected it like a cruel tax man’s visit. There was no one to blame. It was just life running its normal course. Peter and Jaeger Knudsen had a different row to hoe.

  The next morning, I slipped away from bed before the sun broke the horizon and made my way into the kitchen with memories of life and death still churning in my heart. I needed Hank more now than ever, and it was the two-legged, bright-eyed man who was my husband that I longed for the most—but could not have or rely on to protect me. I still couldn’t comprehend that Erik and Lida Knudsen were dead. Murdered. Their throats slit. No matter what I did, the horrible images in my imagination would not go away.

  I shook my head, trying to free my sorrowful thoughts. I managed to make myself a cup of coffee, then called Shep to the kitchen door for his breakfast. He came running like a train on schedule, wagging his tail and anxious for the day to start. “I wish I shared your enthusiasm,” I said, as I sat his bowl on the stoop and then headed for my desk.

  I stared at the pile of manuscript pages and avoided the temptation to start reading. Once I began to write an index, hours could slip away, and I knew I needed to get on with the task Hilo Jenkins had set upon me.

  I put on my reading glasses, opened the top desk drawer, and pulled out the amulet.

  I had long since given up the notion that objects could contain magic—Excalibur was just a sword and Arthur was just a man who would be king. But I couldn’t help but feel the coldness of the amulet and wonder how it came to be in Erik Knudsen’s dead hand. If it was delivered by magic, then it was a dark magic, an evil energy that I did not want seeping into my skin, into my own body.

  I dropped the amulet on the floor and wished I had never allowed Hilo to leave it in my house. There was enough darkness there already.

  I picked the amulet up, wrapped it in a piece of white linen, and put it in my purse along with my glasses. I hated to be without the glasses, but I could survive just fine; they just helped me see things up close, like words on an index card that sat in a typewriter.

  Like it or not, I had given the sheriff my word, and I owed him what little I thought I could offer. I would, at the very least, find out as much about the amulet as I could, though I couldn’t imagine that anything I found out would help bring the murderer to justice.

  Hank coughed weakly. I couldn’t ignore his discomfort, so I set about our normal routine. A quick bit of exercise—moving his legs and arms, circulating his blood—then some breakfast—oatmeal and coffee—and a quick sponge bath. Hank was quiet the whole time.

  A soft breeze blew through the window, fluttering the curtains I’d made and hung when life seemed easier, full of possibilities. They were faded and fraying at the edges now.

  I barely noticed breezes these days; they weren’t much of a relief from the constant wind, but the smell of coming rain seeped into the bedroom along with the comforting trill of our resident meadowlarks. Evil had not crawled through my window during the night, and for that I was glad. I had relied on Shep to keep away any intruders or alert me if the need arose. A .22 rifle sat behind the bedroom door, and Hank’s grouse shotgun was stuffed in the corner of the wardrobe in my office. I couldn’t bear to see it on a daily basis, but it was there if I needed it.

  I hadn’t asked the dog to guard the house, to watch over Hank, but there was no need to. Many a morning, before the sun had broken the eastern horizon, the grass was smashed down under the bedroom window from where Shep had slept. He was already on his tasks, checking on the pigs and chickens. He’d quit trying to herd the biggest of the pigs, a productive sow who was nearly as smart as he was and had little tolerance of the dog’s pushy ways. I wouldn’t bet against Shep, but I thought he was on thin ice with that pig.

  A coming storm didn’t raise my spirits, and it didn’t give me hope. I was fresh out of that, and I wasn’t sure if I would really ever get it back. Not true hope. Not happy-ending kind of hope. Not in this lifetime anyway.

  “You’re leaving soon.” Hank forced a smile.

  “Yes,” I said, putting the wash bowl away in the closet. “I won’t be gone long.”

  “It will do you good.”

  “Maybe under better circumstances.”

  “We need the rain. Just like you need to be free of this house. You’re at your best when you’re helping someone else, Marjorie. You a
lways were the strong one.”

  I leaned down and kissed his forehead as I heard Ardith Jenkins pull into the drive. Shep didn’t bark at her car either.

  “Be careful of the wind,” Hank whispered.

  His quick change of heart about me leaving was worrisome. Melancholy was more difficult to fight than bed sores, and I knew there was nothing that galled Hank Trumaine more than being one hundred percent dependent on me. Sometimes, I thought he wished I’d run off with another man so he would never have to hear the strain in my voice again.

  I shook that thought out of my head and loaded up the two cherry pies in the old Studebaker pickup, forgoing the baked chicken because of the itinerary I had planned, then headed back to the porch to give Ardith a list of last minute instructions.

  “Go on,” Ardith said. She was a plump woman with perfect white hair and a happy face, remarkably free of wrinkles. Most women her age looked windblown, their skin eroded with deep crevices of grief or laughter. “I’ve watched after Hank Trumaine since he was knee-high to a grasshopper; I think I can handle him now. If I need something before you get back, I’ll call Hilo.”

  “He’s got his hands full right now.”

  “That he does, but he told me it was important for you to be able to take as much time as you need, and I’m in no mood to set my husband off on a tirade. He’s usually not one to bring his work home, but these murders have got him on a sharp edge. I’ve never seen Hilo so moody in all my life.”

  “Me, either.”

  “Well, go on then. Don’t worry about Hank. I don’t need no list,” she said, staring at the paper in my trembling hand.

  “That’s all I ever do is worry.”

  Ardith nodded, smiled a knowing smile, and waved me off. “Go.”

  I drove away, my eyes glued to the rearview mirror until the house was out of sight.

  It was a thirty-minute drive to Dickinson, to the library, and I had already called my cousin Raymond at the university, to make sure he would be home for lunch.

  Unfortunately, I had never written an index that dealt with Norse orthography, so I had no foundation of knowledge to draw off of when it came to the amulet. Raymond Hurtibese was one of my only hopes.

  I had the windows down, the radio off, enjoying the breeze and the soft rain that was falling from the gray sky.

  Perfect days in North Dakota were like finding a nugget of gold in the Missouri River; rare, uncommon, almost unbelievable. It had been so long since I had witnessed a calm day that stretched out into a week; I wasn’t sure if I could enjoy myself if a day like that did dawn across the farm. Yesterday’s news certainly darkened what could have been the start of such a stretch.

  A few miles from town I saw a coyote wandering along the tree line. I took little notice of it, other than that the coyote had stopped and watched me pass by. Coyotes were commonplace on the plains, feared and hated by most people because of their sly nature. The Indians were convinced that they were shape-shifters, evil tricksters hiding under a coat of fur. I was convinced that they were nothing more than small canines—scavengers, always hungry, always on the search for food. I put little credence in the lore of the coyote.

  I had enough real evil to consider on the road that lay ahead of me without allowing the supernatural or old folk tales to enter into the equation.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dickinson was the Stark County seat, home to about ten thousand people, and its largest employer was a small university founded in 1918. My cousin Raymond was an assistant professor of paleontology, and I was hoping he could direct me to a source that would help me decipher the writing on the amulet. Not that I thought it would solve the murders, but I was curious now, unable to think of much of anything else.

  I passed the hospital where I’d spent hundreds of hours with Hank and McClandon’s Funeral Home, a bright yellow Queen Anne mansion, where I was sure I would be visiting in the next day or two. The sight of both places only served to darken my mood and egg on my worry about Hank.

  The Carnegie Library was off the main square, a block south of the courthouse. It was a two-story, yellow-brick building with a pair of limestone lions guarding the entrance. It looked like most of the libraries built with the philanthropist’s money in the mid-1920s. My mother had first brought me to the library when I was six. I had gotten my very own library card when I was ten. Fierce, unrelenting winters were made bearable by the large stacks of books we carted home once a month.

  I loved the smell of libraries, of books. It awakened the memory of all my senses and emotions. As I entered through the double doors, I tried to leave my emotions behind, to push away the visions of my childhood visits, the joys and sorrows of being by my mother’s side, and then later, on my own, as I fought off the loneliness of sleeping next to Hank’s motionless body.

  I headed straight for the librarian’s desk. I’d known Calla Eltmore, a tiny spindle of a woman with a brain like an encyclopedia, most all of my adult life. I had used her as a resource on countless indexing projects, and we had struck up a friendship that I valued more than I could ever say, based on our love of books and shared curiosities.

  There have been times when I needed a synonym, an access point into the text that just didn’t exist within the pages of the title I was working on—or that I could pull out of the air. I provided a sorely needed challenge for the woman on a regular basis, and her eyes lit up when she saw me walk through the doors. I usually called on the phone. My queries and our chats could last an hour or more, depending on my schedule and the subject I was interested in. Some days, she said, I was the only person she talked to other than Herbert Frakes, the janitor and all-around maintenance man who lurked around the library twenty-four hours a day.

  Herbert lived in the basement, in a small room next to the boiler room. He’d been wounded on Omaha Beach and came back from the Big War a little shell-shocked. He hardly ever spoke to anyone other than Calla, but when he did it was always with a hard, blinkless stare to the floor and a twitch of the left shoulder.

  There was no sign of Herbert when I walked in, but that wasn’t unusual. No one else was in the library that I could see, and Calla was at her normal post, standing guard over her domain at the front desk.

  “Well, Marjorie Trumaine, you’re the last person I expected to see walk in here today,” Calla said, pushing her glasses off her nose. They fell to a dangle, held by a gold chain that I was certain was permanently attached to the woman’s wrinkled, craned neck.

  I sighed and saw the front page of the Dickinson Press lying open next to the black rotary phone on the desk. The headline was simple: MURDER in big, bold, black letters. The story took up the entire front page, along with a family picture of the Knudsens and a bleak black-and-white picture of their simple wood frame house.

  “You heard,” I said.

  Calla nodded. Her glasses chain jangled, echoing up to the ceiling over our heads. It sounded like a twinkling of crystals; an ethereal sound edged with normality. “Café was at full tilt with the news this morning. You look pale, honey; you all right?”

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Don’t imagine you did with such madness going on a farm over.” Calla looked around, then looked me up and down, assessing my state of being in a way that was completely normal and acceptable. I was usually the caregiver. “Why don’t you and me step out back and get us a bit of fresh air. Herb’ll come get me if I’m needed here.”

  The library was quiet as a church the day after Christmas. The only noise I heard was a distant fan circulating air, and the only smell the comforting aroma of a thousand books or more. I shrugged my shoulders; I knew why Calla wanted to go outside. “Sure, why not,” I said.

  A sly smile flittered across Calla’s face as she grabbed up her purse, a small black leather clutch that looked like it was as old and battered as Calla herself. She spun around, then stalked to the back door without looking to see if I was following.

  I knew the way and trailed after
the librarian dutifully. We had stood in the same spot, “grabbing a bit of air,” more than once since I had started indexing books.

  By the time I was out the door, Calla was digging in her clutch for a pack of Salems and her trusty Zippo lighter; she was standing under a little overhang, protected from the rain. It was nothing but a drizzle now, but the grayness hung overhead like a dirty sheet that wouldn’t come clean.

  Nothing held up in the North Dakota wind like a sturdy silver Zippo. Matches were a mere annoyance, especially when time was of the essence.

  She looked up and offered me the green pack. It had been recently opened, the paper torn off neatly, like one would expect from Calla. There were only two cigarettes missing. I was sure they’d all be gone by the end of the day—Calla liked her fresh air.

  I took a cigarette out of the pack and put the all-white stick of tobacco to my lips. Salems didn’t have the tan filter like some cigarettes did. My dim red lipstick immediately marred the filter.

  Calla produced the silver metal lighter, popped the lid, ignited a flame on the wick with a swipe of the thumb, then cupped it to keep the fire alive as she pushed the lighter toward the tip of my quivering cigarette.

  I inhaled and felt the rush of menthol explode inside my lungs. It was a relief, and the familiar ritual with Calla helped to calm my nerves. I exhaled as she followed the same routine. Our smoke mixed against the gray sky, then dissipated like it had never existed.

  “What did we ever do before we had cigarettes?” Calla said.

  “Drank whiskey,” I answered. It was a lie, the farthest thing from the truth. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a drink of alcohol. Neither Hank nor I had ever imbibed on a regular basis, and I wasn’t a regular cigarette smoker, either. Not like Calla. The tips of her fingers were yellowed with the stain of nicotine. I could take or leave cigarettes, walk away and not have one for a month. But I had to say they came in handy some days when I needed to take the edge off. Today was one of those times, but I hadn’t had the chance, or thought, to stop and buy a pack.