NINETEEN

“You know, we could just as well have walked. We probably won’t find a parking place much closer,” said Orly Peterson, as he and the sheriff headed toward the old Kaddatz Hotel building. Knutson grunted and parked his Acura Integra immediately in front of the building.

“What was that again?”

“Never mind.”

“You gotta learn to plan ahead, Orly. What if we want to go someplace from here? We would have to walk all the way back to the office just to get the car, and who wants to walk around in this wind?”

That was no small consideration. The wind caught Knutson’s door and whipped it open wide into the street. A van, with a windshield almost totally frosted over, nearly tore it off the hinges. The cold air almost took the sheriff’s breath away. “Besides,” he gasped, “remember my rule of longevity. ‘Never walk if you can ride, never stand if you can sit.’”

“And never sit when if you can lie down,” completed the deputy. “Are you going to mention to anyone that we are now investigating a murder?”

“Nah, not directly at least. Let them figure it out. It’s generally a good rule of thumb in an investigation not to tell people any more than they need to know.”

When Knutson had returned to the office that afternoon, the autopsy had been completed. Stripped of its technical terms, a process in which Jimmy Clark excelled, the report stated that John Hofstead had been wounded by a blow to the back of the head by an unknown instrument, but that he had, in fact, frozen to death. As the medical examiner had pointed out, this was totally inconsistent with a head injury that would have been sustained by an accidental collision with the loon. In such a case, it would have been virtually impossible for the victim to be injured in such a way unless he had been riding at high speed while looking backward. Once that had been rather easily determined, the medical examiner decided that the wound was consistent with a blow from a narrow, heavy object, such as a tire iron or a wrench. The time of death was, at this late date, impossible to determine, but the medical examiner estimated that the blow would have been sufficient to render the victim unconscious. It was his opinion that the victim would not have regained consciousness before he was brought out to the loon. Of course, there was no way of knowing that for sure.

The BCA agents had also stopped in shortly before Knutson and Peterson left the office. They were on their way to view the scene where the body had been found and promised a full written report on the next day. Meanwhile, there was little to report concerning evidence from the snowmobile. They had found three sets of fingerprints on the machine, one of which matched those of the victim. They had also examined the helmet and a large, flat plastic zipper pull from the victim’s snowmobile suit. The victim’s fingerprints were found on both items, and in the case of the helmet, the other two sets of prints were also found. On the plastic zipper pull, a novelty item that contained a small outdoor thermometer, fragments of a fingerprint, identical to one found on both the snowmobile and the helmet, partially covered those of the victim. It would seem that someone other than the victim had been the last one to zip up the suit.

The sheriff could think of no good reason for delaying his inquiries, so in spite of the lateness of the afternoon and the nasty wind, he collected his deputy and decided to begin his interviews with the surviving personnel of Hofstead Hail. The entry into what had been one of the grandest hotel lobbies in the state was made with a minimum of heat loss, but in its state of partial preservation the building was still cold. They wasted little time in climbing the stairs to the third floor.

Unlike the chilly hallway, the offices of Hofstead Hail enveloped them in the warm, moist coziness of steam heat. Behind her desk, Borghild Kvamme sat, stoically going through the personal files of her erstwhile boss. She looked up as she saw them enter, and indicated no surprise that the sheriff should visit her. After all, sheriffs need insurance, too, and the agency did quite a lot of business with the county. “Good afternoon, Sheriff. What can I do for you today?”

Knutson removed his black furry Russian hat and said, “Hello, Mrs. Kvamme. Have you met Orly Peterson, one of my deputies?”

“Yes, we met briefly last Saturday morning out at the resort. How are you, Mr. Peterson?”

Orly self-consciously whipped off his woolen Norwegian ski cap, a hand-knitted Christmas present from his girlfriend Allysha, and mutely nodded his greetings.

Knutson continued, “We’re, uh, just looking into a few things concerning Mr. Hofstead’s death—terrible thing, wasn’t it?—and we want to talk to everybody who was out at the resort that night. I understand the whole company was there?”

Borghild nodded and gestured to a pair of chairs. “Please, sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee? Of course you would, coming in on a day like this.” Knowing better than to ask if anyone in Fergus Falls, Minnesota, would want cream or sugar, she poured coffee into two Hofstead Hail mugs. Extending the coffee cups to two rather eager hands, she responded, “Yah, we were all there. We even had all of the wives along, and I brought Harry along.”

“Was this the first time you had ever done anything like this as a company?” Knutson asked.

“Of course, but then, this was something special, wasn’t it? I mean, John had told everyone that he was going to retire and that he had decided to hire a new president among the current personnel. Everybody saw it as a chance to convince the boss that he was the man for the job.”

“What about you, Mrs. Kvamme? Did you go out there with the idea of ‘campaigning for the presidency’ as it were?”

“Ha! That was the last thing on my mind. Although, I was telling Harry that John could do worse than to pick me. But really, you know, I sort of felt that I was asked along as a courtesy, you know, the old secretary can’t be left out. But I told Harry, I told him, ‘What the heck? How many chances do we get to go off on a retreat with all the meals paid?’ We aren’t exactly busy in January. Who is? But I could sure tell that Clarence and Pek and Young Gary were campaigning! And their wives! They were even worse.”

“When did you first get an inkling that Mr. Hofstead meant to appoint you as president?”

“Inkling? I never had the slightest inkling. I went to visit Martha to see how she was doing and she told me. In fact, I wasn’t so sure I believed her then. I thought that maybe she didn’t want anybody else to take over and so she just made up the idea that John had picked me. I agreed to do it at the time because I didn’t want to upset her more, but I figured that after the funeral, when things had time to settle down, she would change her mind and decide to leave it to Clarence or somebody. Well, anyway, that’s how I felt until today. I thought I’d better go through all these papers to see what we should keep and what we should clean out, and I came across John’s version of a real flow chart. If you knew John, you would know that things like that were extremely out of character, but I think he had got all wrapped up in this idea of being a CEO.So anyway, I came across this chart that he had drawn up with me as the president and those three guys all working under me. I thought, ‘Hey, if John had that kind of confidence in me, why not?’ You have just witnessed one of the most rapid rises in business history—from secretary to president in one fell swoop!”

“I guess congratulations are in order,” Knutson smiled. “Tell me, do any of the others know that you are to be the new president?”

“Not unless Martha has told them, and she said she wouldn’t until our meeting on Friday. I’ve hardly seen anybody myself, what with the funeral and the fact that business is slow in January anyway.”

“Would you mind running through the events of that weekend with us?”

“Of course not, but why, what’s the matter?”

Knutson assured her that they were just making routine inquiries, but the overly dismissive “tut-tut-tutting” of Orly Peterson made the new insurance executive suspicious. Her eyes narrowed and she nodded in comprehension. “Very well, I’ll tell you what I can remember.”

“How long ago was this retreat planned?” the sheriff asked.

“Only about two weeks in advance. John just decided one day to retire. He didn’t talk it over with Martha or anything. Apparently the moment he decided to retire he called up the Otter Slide and booked the weekend. As soon as he got off the phone to them, he called us in and told us his plans.”

“Were you surprised?”

Borghild considered the question briefly before responding. “We all were. Not only because John had decided to retire, but because of the speed in which he acted. John just didn’t do things that way. He was a very deliberate person. It wasn’t that he was so conservative—in many ways he was fairly liberal in his thinking—but he never did anything rash.”

“Was this weekend greeted with enthusiasm?” the sheriff asked. “Did you and the other people want to go?”

“Enthusiasm? Well, maybe not by everyone. In fact, the only one who seemed really enthusiastic about it was Gary Swenson. But then, he’s enthusiastic about everything. Still, nobody was against it either. None of us had ever done anything like that before. I didn’t think I could talk Harry into going along with me, but he surprised me by being quite willing to go.”

Knutson gave kind of a boyish shrug and said, “I suppose you think I’m really nosy about that weekend, but nobody can figure just what John was doing out there by the loon. I think it would ease Martha’s mind a little bit if we could find out, don’t you? And I’m just wondering if anything happened that night that could have caused him to go off like that. Now, you say everybody but you was sort of figuring up their odds of being picked to be the new president. Who did you think Hofstead would pick?”

Borghild held out both of her hands with the palms turned up. “I thought it would be either Clarence or Gary; I think everybody did. Pek is a nice guy, and everybody likes him, but nobody likes him really well. Know what I mean? It’s kind of hard to explain. He does good business for the company and he could probably be successful as a president. In fact I’m sure he could. But no one would ever really think of him. Clarence, on the other hand, seemed in a position to inherit the job. He certainly thought he would be named. You could just see the dislike he had for Gary, and he slyly kept referring to Pek’s boozing. Listen, Pek might like a nip now and then, but he has never let it interfere with his work and I’m going to make sure he stays with us. Gary, too, annoying as he can be sometimes. Clarence never bothered to think of me as presidential timber. Gary either, for that matter. Gary probably fed all the data into his computer and it came out ‘Gary.’ I might add that I think it was some pretty carefully selected data. I think if Clarence were going to be the president, I’d have stayed on a couple of years to help him out, but if Gary were going to run the company, I’d have retired. I’m sure that would have pleased Gary, too. Now, ironically, the one I’m most worried about is Clarence. Can he accept a woman as his boss?”

Knutson deftly avoided the question and asked one of his own. “Could you feel any tension as this weekend approached?”

“Oh, yah. I think so. Everybody seemed to feel a little funny on Friday night. We were the last to get there, and the rest had all gone to their rooms by the time we came. I think a few of them managed to get to the bar before supper, but we barely had time to check out our room and get ready to eat, so we really didn’t talk to anyone privately. We ate a little after six thirty, I guess, and that was nice enough. I did notice one thing, though. I had gotten the impression that John was really looking forward to the weekend, sort of a grand finale to his career, so to speak. But at the table, when others were loosening up and having a good time, John, who is usually the life of the party, sat rather quietly. He looked preoccupied throughout the whole meal.”

“Was he that way the last time you saw him?”

“You know, I think he was. After the dinner he got up and said a few words and then seemed to put on this hearty ‘let’s go have some fun’ attitude. But it didn’t seem real.”

“And you didn’t go out for a snowmobile ride?”

“Don’t be silly. Riding around on a cold lake in the middle of the night? My generation does everything we can to avoid that!”

“John Hofstead was your generation.”

“Ha!” Borghild retorted. “Sometimes I wondered! Still, I suppose that was one of the things I really liked about the man.”

“Haven’t you ever been on a snowmobile?”

“Of course I have. Harry, you know, was quite an enthusiast for a while about fifteen years ago. Then he just got tired of it. It’s been years now since either of us has driven one. In our time, though, we enjoyed it. We used to go around Maplewood State Park all the time.”

“So you and Harry didn’t go out, and the only others who didn’t go were Mrs. Hofstead and Iris Pekanen, is that right?”

“I suppose so, although Harry and I just went back to our room and went to bed. I didn’t see either Iris or Martha.”

“Could you hear the snowmobiles coming and going?”

“Lord! Who couldn’t? It didn’t bother Harry. He was soon snoring away. I laid awake for quite a while, and I heard at least one of them come back. I fell asleep shortly after that, but I woke up about one o’clock when I heard another machine. I remember that because I looked at the clock radio and thought how silly it was to be out at that time. And I remember thinking, ‘that thing seems to be going back out on the lake again.’ Do you suppose that was John? Or, I mean, that John was on that sled?”

“Yah, from what we can guess, it probably was. What did you think on Saturday morning when he was nowhere to be found?”

“To tell you the truth, I wasn’t all that worried. Martha claimed his half of the bed hadn’t been slept in and all that, but I just thought that John had gotten up early, tidied up his half, and had gone out snowmobiling again. He had an amazing amount of energy for a man his age. I can’t tell you how much I am going to miss his happy pink face around here. But anyhow, Gary Swenson wasn’t around either and he had seemed to be the most enthusiastic snowmobiler the night before, so I thought that he was off trying to butter up the boss. It was only after he came in with his wife that I started to get uneasy.”

“Yah, it sounds like it was a terrible morning. Well, you’ve given us a real good picture of what happened that night. I think we’ll just ask around among the others to see if they can add anything. Is Harry at the lumberyard this afternoon?”

“I suppose so. They don’t close for another hour or so. Do you want me to call and find out?”

“Nah, that’s okay,” Palmer reassured her. “We were going out that way anyhow. We might stop by for a second if we get a chance. If we don’t, just give him our best and if he thinks of anything have him give us a call. Thanks for your help. We’ll just look into this a couple of days and then let you get your lives back to normal. And Borghild, good luck in the new job.”

“Thanks, Palmer,” she smiled bashfully. “I might need it.”

As they gathered their coats and fumbled with their hats, Orly, who had been silent the entire time, remembered his manners and thanked Borghild for the coffee. When they came outside, they were unprepared for the cold wind, which sucked their breath away. Orly managed to gasp, “So, are we really going to see Harry?”

Knutson jumped into the car, started the engine, and rolled the window down an inch to keep the frost from forming on the inside of the windshield. “Yah, we might as well. I don’t think we’re going to learn much, though.”

There was not a single customer in the Fergus Falls Building Center. As they entered, Harry Kvamme was absently rearranging dowels in a rack at the back of the room. Knutson, although younger than Harry, understood the tact and pace required for a real Norwegian-American conversation. They dissected the weather, and last year’s weather, and the weather in the winter of 1966. Palmer talked about the cold and Orly feigned a genuine interest and added how he once got frostbite himself when he went skiing when he shouldn’t have. That all brought about snowmobiling and the cold night at the Otter Slide Resort. Palmer did not bother to explain why they were looking into those events, and it seemed to Harry that it was just part of the conversation. Harry was unable to give any opinion as to who he thought was going to be the president of Hofstead Hail, “ ’Cept I knew it vasn’t going tew be Borghild! Boy, I sure vas wrong about dat. I yust didn’t tink Hofstead vould let a voman do da yob, but yew know she vas da best von all along.”

“We were talking to Borghild earlier today, about how the snowmobiles were coming and going all night,” Knutson said. Then, to Orly’s surprise, he added, “Yah, but I think Borghild said you got up and went outside that night?”

“She said dat? I tot she vas asleep da whole time. I voke up, musta been after von o’clock, and I could hear her sleeping avay. I laid dere for a while and den I tot, ‘I tink I’ll do a little reading, see if I get sleepy again.’ So I got dressed and vent down tew da lobby and read a vhile.”

“Did you see anybody else?”

“No, I don’t tink so.”

“Did you hear anybody?”

“Not den, but after a vhile I got sleepy, yew know, and I vent back to da room. Yust as I vent back tew bed I tot I heard some-ting in von of dose sheds. I tot, ‘Yimminy dat’s late tew be fooling around on a snowmobile. Dose people should go tew bed.’ ”

Palmer glanced up at Orly and then asked, “Do you have any idea who it was?”

“Nope.”

“Well, it’s been nice talking with you, Harry. We’ll see you around.”

“Yah, Harry,” Orly added, “Keep varm. I mean, warm!”

“Yew bet,” Harry assured him.

As they left the building center, Orly gulped into the wind, “You fibbed to the old codger! You said Borghild told you he got up in the night. You lecture me about integrity and then you lie like a rug!”

Palmer started to open the driver’s side door and spoke to his deputy over the roof of the car. “No, I said ‘I thought’ Borghild said that. I will freely admit that sometimes I think wrong.”

“Ah,” muttered Orly, with reluctant admiration.