The Hallelujah Chorus swelled out of the speakers on Duluth Public Radio, making the seasonal argument that humans were the musical instruments of God. Right now, the exuber-ant choral voices reminded Broker he hadn’t bought a Christmas tree, and time was getting short.
He’d looked at trees in town but didn’t like the pickings.
So he’d brought a Jeepful of poinsettias back from the flower shop. He arranged them along the fireplace mantel and hearth. His dragon now seemed to be rising out of a sea of fire-a sight some ninth- and tenth-century Christians might have seen before.
Broker was deep in a binge of housecleaning. Nina was due home in two days. Kit sensed something imminent. She took shelter from the fumes of Comet and Spic and Span under the kitchen table. For company, she had a wedge of toast heaped with peanut butter and jelly. In trying to lick off the jelly, she managed to plaster the bread flat against her face. Wads of her curly hair stuck to it. Broker picked her up, carried her to the sink, turned on the tap, grabbed a washcloth, and started scrubbing off the jelly.
Toast in one hand, a mangle of paper in the other, she tried to ward him off.
Hey. Wait. Aw God. Patience. Patience. He took a deep breath and stripped, first the toast and then the mashed sheet of paper, from her determined grip. He toed the trip lever on the trash can, raised the top and threw the toast and paper inside.
The paper caught his eye. Columns of type and numbers.
Jogged his memory. He plucked it up and smoothed it out on the counter with one hand as he tried to steady Kit with the other. It was the US West printout Keith had brought with him-to accuse Broker of having a phone conversation with Caren. Where in the hell did the perfect little female human find that?
Carefully, he wiped most of the jelly from the paper and stuck it with a pushpin, beyond Kit’s grasp, on the corkboard over the phone. He was staring right at the phone when it jangled.
“Hello there,” said Nina Pryce.
“Hey. Where are you?” Broker’s voice surfed between the Hallelujah tsunami and Kit’s wailing.
“I’ll never tell, but it’s a big building with more than four corners. Is that Kit? Making that squealing sound?”
“Yep, with her hair full of strawberry jam.”
“You sound good, considering,” said Nina, with heavy emphasis on the last word.
“What?”
“Caren’s death,” said Nina.
Broker took a deep breath. “How?”
“Someone sent me an anonymous letter. It’s pretty tabloid.
According to it, you were fooling around with Caren behind my back. Her husband found out, killed her and was arrested.
They included a press clipping from the St. Paul paper for verification. The news story describes a more sinister version of events, involving the FBI and organized crime. But there’s enough overlap with the letter to prompt a reasonable person to ask certain questions.”
“It’s true, she was on her way up to see me when she died.”
“Keith Angland really pushed her into that waterfall?”
Broker ignored the question. “Was the letter printed?” he asked. “With a funny address that was also printed, cut out and pasted on?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Do you have it with you?”
“Not right now. It’s in my quarters.”
“Take good care of it. Bring it home.”
“What’s up, Broker?”
“I got a letter, too. Sounds like from the same person.”
“Is this some kind of revenge-taking by someone you rubbed the wrong way when you were a cop?”
“I don’t think so.” Broker weighed his next words. “The person who wrote that letter didn’t know me.”
Nina’s voice brightened. “Well put. You’re a die-hard analog cave fish, but not a cheater. I recall I had to hit you between the eyes with a two-by-four to get your attention.
So what’s it all mean?”
“My analog cave fish deduction is-it’s mixed up with Caren’s death.”
“Hmmm.”
“Come home and we’ll talk about it.”
“Okay. But can we have Christmas first?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. How many teeth does Kit have now?”
“We refer to them as ‘teef.’ Two on top, three bottom, two in back each side, top and bottom.”
Nina gave him her flight information and said goodbye.
Broker rubbed his hands together. Determined not to have Christmas ruined, he looked around the house and announced in a loud thespian voice, “Kit. Where’s the tree?”
She squinted at him. Tasted a strawberry finger. Darted her eyes.
“We have to get the tree. Mommy’s coming home.”
“Tee,” she chirped.
“That’s right. C’mon, we’re going to sneak into the woods and poach a tee.”
After giving her face and hands a quick cat wash, he stuffed her into boots and a snowsuit. “Lots of mysterious goings-on around here lately, Kit. Sudden death. Sick letters. The first, last, best line of defense against the big black questions posed by sudden death is the make-work of ritual.”
He swung her under his arm and went out the door. “And getting the Christmas tree is way up there on the ritual list.”
Instead of strapping her in the car seat, he stood her on the passenger side floor. The top of her cap did not quite reach the dashboard. “Keep a sharp eye out for cops.” Outlaws, they hit the road.
Devil’s Rock was hardly there if you drove fast. It had a post office and a volunteer fire department. But no place that sold Christmas trees. And anyway, buying a tree up here was like buying lake water to fish in.
He drove south, parked off a hardpack gravel road that skirted Magney State Park, and slipped into the forest with Kit under one arm and a bow saw in his other hand. Deep in a thicket of tall spruce, Broker listened for a moment, then, reassured they were alone, felled an eight footer. He dragged it out, threw it on top of the Jeep and bungeed it down.
When they got it home, and had the tree inside, he built up a fire in the Franklin stove and put a Christmas CD on moderately loud.
Once the tree was fixed in the stand, boxes of decorations and lights were opened. Slowly the tree assumed the fantasy sparkle of Christmas. Broker rummaged among the bulbs and candy canes and removed a small, worn, handmade wooden loon. The paint was wearing thin. A frayed ribbon draped the neck.
“Loon,” he explained.
“Lew,” Kit pronounced in a burst of breath.
He’d made the set of decorations for Caren, kept this one for himself. Patiently, he put it in Kit’s hands and assisted her in hanging it from a branch.