A Superior Death by Nevada Barr Read Free Book Online Page A

hair rinses and facials, decoctions for colds, that sort of thing. Then nothing. Not a word. Not a note. Then we . . .” She looked to her husband for assistance, clearly coming now to what she considered shaky ground.
    “We conducted the surveillance warranted by the seriousness of the situation,” he said firmly. In his airy voice the statement reminded Anna of the sweet but implacable “Because I said so” that Sister Judette had used to such effect on the class of ’69.
    “You watched the house,” Anna said, careful not to sound judgmental. “And?”
    “Nothing,” Damien echoed his wife. “Neither days nor nights. We never saw Donna.”
    A moment’s silence was slowly filled with suspense, yet Anna did not doubt their sincerity.
    “Then this,” Tinker said gravely. She turned to a brick-and-board bookcase filled with field guides to birds, bats, edible plants, herbs, and mammals of Isle Royale, bits of rock, bones, dried plants, and melted candle stubs. From beneath the bookcase she took a small glass container so clean it looked polished. She set it on her palm and offered it up to Anna.
    Anna reached for it, then stopped. “May I?” she said, adopting the ceremony that seemed so natural to these two.
    “Yes,” Damien replied formally. “We would not have come to you had we not found proof Scotty devoured his wife. It is a serious charge.”
    Anna lifted the jar carefully from Tinker’s hand and turned it in the flickering light. It was several inches high, wider at the bottom than the top, and had ridges at the mouth where a screw cap had once fitted. If there had been a label it had been scrubbed off completely.
    “A jar,” Anna said blankly.
    “A pickle relish jar . . .” Damien encouraged her.
    Anna began to feel her brain had fogged up somehow. Could there have been something in the tea? Was Tinker a self-styled witch? Damien a warlock hopeful? Or were they merely a couple of eccentrics, the kind-hearted flakes she’d thought them to be? One thing was certain: Anna was not making sense of much of what they were saying. If they did have a puzzle, the pieces they offered didn’t seem to fit any picture she could come up with.
    “A pickle relish jar,” she repeated.
    “Heinz,” Tinker added.
    “That”—Damien pointed to the little bottle as if it were something unclean—“is not an isolated incident. The last food order Scotty Butkus sent to Bob’s Foods included an order for an entire case of pickle relish.”
    ISRO employees ordered their food for a week at a time, sending lists to several markets in Houghton. Every Tuesday the food was shipped back on the Ranger III.
    “That’s a lot of relish,” Anna said, wondering what it was she was agreeing with. “I take it you saw his order form?”
    “It was in the trash,” Tinker explained.
    From beyond the screened-in window, Anna could hear muted laughter, the dull-edged variety brought on by vodka. Trail crew must have made a late appearance at the party and were now staggering back to their boats for the short ride home to their bunkhouse on Mott.
    Suddenly voices were raised in anger: a brawl, quickly hushed. On Mott they were allowed more freedom; here in the lap of the tourist trade the hard-drinking crew were kept in line.
    Another burst of noise, invective. “Rock Harlem” seemed terribly apt at the moment. Anna had a dizzying sense of having been transported to a basement apartment in a bad section of New York City.
    “You went through his trash.” This time Anna didn’t bother to school her voice. Her nerves were becoming frayed. With an effort, she focused on Tinker. She looked hurt. Even her hair seemed to droop. A flower blasted by the cold. Anna felt a stab of remorse. She ignored it.
    “We were seeking recyclable materials,” Damien said stiffly. “The Butkuses’ trash customarily provides seven to ten pounds of recyclable glass and aluminum.” He pronounced the word “al-yew-min-ee-um.”
    “I’ll