watching the fire. When he was satisfied it would live, he closed the door, secured it with the coiled metal handle, and turned down the draft.
“Roger Kimball,” he announced, turning to us. “I own the place.”
Barb offered her left hand. “Barbara Evans, and this is my sister, Faye Burner.” I shook left-handed too, a little self-consciously.
Kimball regarded us with his good eye narrowed. “What you looking for up here?”
Barb offered a professional smile, perfected over years of difficult interviews. “You, Mr. Kimball.” When his dark eyebrows rose she explained, “We’re hoping you can help us with a case we’re working on.”
“Have you owned this place for long?” I asked.
Kimball’s lips moved slightly before he was able to form a reply. I guessed he didn’t have many conversations with women, maybe with anyone. “Four, almost five years.”
Disappointment showed on Barb’s face as she wrapped both hands around the warm cup. “I guess you won’t be able to help us.”
“Before I bought it, I worked here.”
“You worked for the person who owned the lodge before?”
“Haike Makala, my uncle. I came over from Munising when he got crippled up with arthritis.” Kimball nodded to himself, pleased to have formed such a long string of words.
“Your uncle.”
“He needed help putting boats and the dock in, dressing deer, like that. I’m pretty strong.” Almost defiantly he glanced at the arm, lifeless as an ax handle.
“So how did you come to own the place?”
Kimball spoke in the peculiar sing-song quality of Yooper speech, a leftover from the area’s Scandinavian settlers. “Haike went to live in Arizona. Drier climate.” He dragged out the “o” in the state’s name and seemed to think of it as a foreign land. To him it probably was.
He went on, his voice betraying fondness for the old man. “He sold it to me cheap, wanted somebody that would live here, not some club that leaves it empty most times.” The odd face changed subtly. “I like it, away from people.”
It was easy to understand the choice to avoid the curious stares and pitying comments he’d probably dealt with daily. Here Kimball could forget his physical problems, adapting to his disabilities until he didn’t have to think about them much. His uncle had done him a real favor.
“In November six years ago,” Barb prompted, “a man might have come here from the Lower Peninsula who wasn’t equipped very well for hunting. His wife and her brother were murdered, and the police think he did it.”
Kimball bit a rather grubby fingernail, looked at it, and rubbed it on his flannel shirt. “November’s busy. Lotsa guys come.”
“This one was new, hadn’t been here before.”
“Why would he come here?”
I pulled a copy of the newspaper ad and a picture of Neil Brown from my jacket pocket and passed them to him. “His sister found your ad in a book. The police thought he went south at the time, but we think he might have had this place in mind.”
Kimball looked at the picture for some time. “I don’t know that guy.”
I stuffed the papers into my jacket again and sighed. “A long trip for nothing, I guess.”
“Is there anyone else around here we might speak with?” Kimball shot Barb a look and she added hastily, “I’m not saying we don’t believe you, Mr. Kimball, but he would have interacted with as few people as possible. Kept to himself, you know?”
“Yeah.” Kimball thought about it. I got the sense he thought things over carefully before saying them, a luxury afforded to those who deal mostly with deer and squirrels. “Most people been here all their lives. Ask anyone.”
Barb seemed disappointed at the generality of the suggestion. “Okay, thanks.”
Kimball rose to go. “Anything else you need?”
“No, we’ll be fine, thanks,” I answered, not allowing Barb the chance to suggest a better mattress, a microwave, and water that didn’t require physical effort with
“Roger Kimball,” he announced, turning to us. “I own the place.”
Barb offered her left hand. “Barbara Evans, and this is my sister, Faye Burner.” I shook left-handed too, a little self-consciously.
Kimball regarded us with his good eye narrowed. “What you looking for up here?”
Barb offered a professional smile, perfected over years of difficult interviews. “You, Mr. Kimball.” When his dark eyebrows rose she explained, “We’re hoping you can help us with a case we’re working on.”
“Have you owned this place for long?” I asked.
Kimball’s lips moved slightly before he was able to form a reply. I guessed he didn’t have many conversations with women, maybe with anyone. “Four, almost five years.”
Disappointment showed on Barb’s face as she wrapped both hands around the warm cup. “I guess you won’t be able to help us.”
“Before I bought it, I worked here.”
“You worked for the person who owned the lodge before?”
“Haike Makala, my uncle. I came over from Munising when he got crippled up with arthritis.” Kimball nodded to himself, pleased to have formed such a long string of words.
“Your uncle.”
“He needed help putting boats and the dock in, dressing deer, like that. I’m pretty strong.” Almost defiantly he glanced at the arm, lifeless as an ax handle.
“So how did you come to own the place?”
Kimball spoke in the peculiar sing-song quality of Yooper speech, a leftover from the area’s Scandinavian settlers. “Haike went to live in Arizona. Drier climate.” He dragged out the “o” in the state’s name and seemed to think of it as a foreign land. To him it probably was.
He went on, his voice betraying fondness for the old man. “He sold it to me cheap, wanted somebody that would live here, not some club that leaves it empty most times.” The odd face changed subtly. “I like it, away from people.”
It was easy to understand the choice to avoid the curious stares and pitying comments he’d probably dealt with daily. Here Kimball could forget his physical problems, adapting to his disabilities until he didn’t have to think about them much. His uncle had done him a real favor.
“In November six years ago,” Barb prompted, “a man might have come here from the Lower Peninsula who wasn’t equipped very well for hunting. His wife and her brother were murdered, and the police think he did it.”
Kimball bit a rather grubby fingernail, looked at it, and rubbed it on his flannel shirt. “November’s busy. Lotsa guys come.”
“This one was new, hadn’t been here before.”
“Why would he come here?”
I pulled a copy of the newspaper ad and a picture of Neil Brown from my jacket pocket and passed them to him. “His sister found your ad in a book. The police thought he went south at the time, but we think he might have had this place in mind.”
Kimball looked at the picture for some time. “I don’t know that guy.”
I stuffed the papers into my jacket again and sighed. “A long trip for nothing, I guess.”
“Is there anyone else around here we might speak with?” Kimball shot Barb a look and she added hastily, “I’m not saying we don’t believe you, Mr. Kimball, but he would have interacted with as few people as possible. Kept to himself, you know?”
“Yeah.” Kimball thought about it. I got the sense he thought things over carefully before saying them, a luxury afforded to those who deal mostly with deer and squirrels. “Most people been here all their lives. Ask anyone.”
Barb seemed disappointed at the generality of the suggestion. “Okay, thanks.”
Kimball rose to go. “Anything else you need?”
“No, we’ll be fine, thanks,” I answered, not allowing Barb the chance to suggest a better mattress, a microwave, and water that didn’t require physical effort with
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