TWENTY-TWO

“Is Swenson going up to his office just to meet us? How come he wouldn’t see us in his home?” asked Orly Peterson the next morning as they drove the short distance to the Kaddatz building in downtown Fergus Falls.

“According to him,” replied Palmer Knutson, with obvious distaste, “it is because he would be close to his computer in case he needed to refer to it. I can’t think of one thing that a computer could do to help us in this case. By the way, what do you think of that information we got from Iowa?”

“Laura Meland, you mean? I might point out, by the way, that they probably got most of the information that they sent on her from computerized files,” Orly answered, and as the sheriff looked up sourly, added, “uh, no offense. Anyway, we’ve been looking for a Laura Epperly. Maybe we should run Laura Meland by everyone again.”

“I already did that. I stopped by to see Mrs. Hofstead last night. I’ve solved the riddle of Laura Epperly.”

“Perhaps you would be so kind as to share it with me,” Orly said, testily.

“Yah, it’s an interesting story. It seems John Hofstead went down to the University of Iowa back in 1970 for some kind of actuarial conference. Well, you know how things were then—actually, you don’t, because you’re so disgustingly young—but anyhow, there was a lot of student radicalism. That was about the time that a group called ‘The Weathermen’ had everybody shaking in their boots. So Hofstead has been pretty well insulated from that sort of stuff and it’s all a big shock to him. One night he goes down to the library at the university and this guy runs into him. They both go sprawling and as Hofstead is doing his best to apologize, there is a big explosion in the library and the guy streaks off. It turns out that somebody set off a bomb in the library and a librarian was killed. John didn’t know this at the time, of course, but the next day he reads about the death and how everybody is looking for a man last seen running from the library. Hofstead immediately thinks he has seen the murderer. He goes down to the police to describe him. According to Martha, Hofstead described him as having long hair and a beard. That description covered about seventy percent of the male population of Iowa City in 1970, and they never found the guy. Well, John is remorseful. He figures he had the murderer on the ground and he let him get away. Then he reads about the victim. She had a little girl, the father had died in Vietnam—sad story. Hofstead feels somehow responsible and, since he is in the insurance business, he buys a small life insurance policy for the girl.”

Knutson parked on the street and shut off the engine. He nodded his head in the direction of the late insurance man’s building and said, “All in all, a classy thing for him to do. He never even met the girl. You could see how proud of him Martha was while she was telling the story.” The sheriff paused and whispered, almost to himself, “I want to get the murderer, Orly, and the sooner the better. Let’s see what Swenson can tell us.”

Borghild was still seated at her secretary’s desk. She looked like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary as she said over the intercom, “The sheriff and his deputy are here to see you, Gary. Shall I send them in?” Knutson and Peterson, who knew her secret and knew that she was relishing her last day as a secretary, smiled conspiratorially.

Young Gary was effervescent. “Come in, come in. Hey, Borghild, is there any coffee for these guys? Sit down, sheriff and, uh …”

“Orly Peterson.”

“Yes, Orly,” resumed Swenson in his best informal and ingratiating manner. “Now, it’s about John, isn’t it? Such a tragedy. It’s my fault, you know. I blame myself. I really do. I should have stayed with him. But how was I supposed to know he would go out again?”

Knutson, who was certain that Swenson did not really blame himself, was content to mumble, “Of course, who knew? That was a surprise, then? I mean, that he went out a second time?”

“Oh, yes. I thought we were all done for the night. When we got back to the resort, Faye Janice and I just said good night and went straight to our room.”

“Let’s go back to earlier in the evening,” Knutson began.

“Why?” Swenson interrupted. “You’re just investigating the accident, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes,” the sheriff continued evasively, “but we want to understand not only how it happened, but why.”

“I see,” said Swenson, who didn’t.

“Now, when did you first see Mr. Hofstead that night?”

“Actually, we arrived at the resort together, or, I should say, at the same time.”

“And did you notice anything at all different about him? That is, did he seem moody or depressed?”

“John? Of course not. John was never depressed. To tell you the truth, though, when we met in the lobby of the resort, he seemed, well, not glad to see me. I guess I was expecting him to be a little more enthusiastic about the weekend.”

“Would you say he seemed ‘distracted’?” Orly ventured.

“‘Distracted?’ Yeah, that’s it. He seemed sort of distracted. I suppose you know why we had all gone there. John was going to pick one of us to be the new president of the company. Funny, now that I think of it. I remember saying to Faye Janice that John looked a little uncomfortable, and I commented something about how he looked like he was going to give me the bad news. Later, though, after dinner, he seemed cheery enough. We all had a fine time snowmobiling. I’m sure he was cheery then. Say, you’re not suggesting that he drove that sled into the loon on purpose are you? I don’t believe it. John was not the sort to commit suicide. On the other hand, he was making a profound change in his life, and I’m sure it wouldn’t be easy to give up what you had spent your life doing and …”

Palmer let him ramble on about a man’s work defining him before he interrupted with, “So the company was in good shape, then?”

This was a question Swenson had been waiting for. “Just look!” He leaned forward and typed various commands on his computer. In seconds the sheriff was treated to an awesome display of actuarial science, combined with Swenson’s vision for the company. It was with difficulty that Knutson asked, “Did you get an indication of who Hofstead would ask to head the company?”

Swenson paused for a while before saying, “Not actually, no. I did get the feeling that night, however, that it wasn’t going to be me. I felt that he was being extra kind and friendly on that snowmobiling ride because he was going to tell me he had picked Clarence to head the company.”

“Would you have stayed with Clarence as president?”

“Probably. He isn’t so bad, I guess, and the main thing is that he is pretty long in the tooth himself. But I would have looked around, all the same.”

“What about if Mr. Pekanen were chosen?”

“Not likely, but if that were the case, then I definitely would leave. Don’t get me wrong, he knows the business. He once told me that he even used to go down to the University of Iowa every summer for their actuarial seminars. He claims to be only a few credits short of a master’s degree and that the only reason he doesn’t have it is because of the wife and kids. I mean, you’d hardly think it from talking to him, but he was sort of a hippy once. Actually, I think the real reason was because he didn’t like to wear shoes. But really, you know, I don’t think I would like working for him.”

“So now that Mrs. Hofstead has to take charge,” Orly asked, “who do you think will be the new president?”

“I’m sure I can’t say,” Swenson said, beaming with confidence. “I did take some time to prepare a memo on the direction of the company, however, and hope that she has a chance to read it by the time we meet tomorrow.”

“If I could just clear up a couple of points regarding that late-night snowmobile ride,” said Palmer, trying to get the interview back on course. “Did you all go off in one party?”

“Yes, I’m sure we did.”

“And then what happened?”

“I did want to get a moment with John, just to say a few things about the company, so I stuck with him almost all of the time. I noticed that one of the sleds returned rather soon. That may have been Clarence, because I didn’t see him much at all. Then I noticed we were down to four, and when that Hoffman guy told us he was returning to the resort it was just John, Faye Janice, and myself. As I said, we returned together and separated and that was the last time I saw him alive.”

“What did he say as you left him?”

“Near as I can remember, he said ‘good night.’ ”

“And in the morning?” the sheriff prompted.

“We didn’t see anybody. Faye Janice and I went cross-country skiing in the woods before breakfast. It’s beautiful at that time of day, you know, even if it is beastly cold. Anyway, we didn’t hear about John until we came in for breakfast.”

“Yes, well, John Hofstead will be missed, that’s for sure,” Palmer added, as a way of noting that there was little more to be said about it. “By the way, since your wife was also out there, we’d like to ask her if she noticed anything. When would be the best time to talk to her?”

“She has a couple of phy ed classes up at the university this morning, but she’s done by ten thirty and then she has office hours until noon. Maybe you would like to talk to her over there.”

“Yah, sounds good,” said the sheriff, as he stood up and began to put on his coat. “And Borghild,” he added with a wink as they made their way out. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Faye Janice Nelson had her office in the newly renamed Gherkin Memorial Field House. Her eight-thirty class, “Aerobics for Life,” was a popular choice among the sorority set, and her nine-thirty class, “Aerobics for Life II,” was a natural sequel. Basically, the upper division class used a different tape—Faye Janice did not like to burden herself with class preparations. Nonetheless, she did keep her office hours, on the off chance that one of her students would care to stop in and discuss the classes. It was a good time to catch up on her reading.

Palmer Knutson and Orly Peterson were both graduates of Fergus Falls State University. Palmer, of course, had been there as a member of a different generation than Orly. As they walked through the halls of the field house, Palmer reminded his younger colleague of college life of earlier days. “None of this stuff was here, then, you know. I mean, we had the old gym and everybody thought that was fine. Of course, there wasn’t anything too special about being an athlete then. They got a little special treatment, in that they were given cushy jobs officiating intramural games and things like that, but nothing like this. Look here—weight room! When I went here there were a couple of barbells and some dumbbells in the corner of the locker room. Look at that stuff—machines to remake the human body. Why don’t they just do push-ups?”

Orly, who regularly worked out on a Nautilus, said nothing.

“And look at this,” Knutson continued. “‘Football video room!’—gimme a break. Now I grant you that Francis Olson is a pretty good coach, but this is ridiculous. Those pampered guys even have their own training table. And these offices! When you think of what those poor saps who teach English and history have to put up with, it makes you sick. Well, maybe the new president can ‘reprioritize,’ as they say in the ed-biz.”

They passed the offices toward the rear of the building, which were arranged in a descending order of importance and a corresponding descent in size. At the very end were the offices of part-time instructors. Here Faye Janice Nelson had left her door invitingly open. Knutson stuck his head in the doorway and Faye Janice peered at him over the top of her Danielle Steele. “May I help you?” she asked politely.

“Good morning, Ms. Nelson. I’m Palmer Knutson? Otter Tail County Sheriff?” he began, in that annoying way of ending each sentence with a question mark, a habit he had been trying unsuccessfully to get his son to break. “This is my deputy, Orly Peterson.”

“Oh, of course, Sheriff. I, er, won’t you come in? Is there something the matter?”

“No, nothing to worry about. We were just talking to your husband and …”

“What’s wrong with Gary?” she gasped anxiously.

“Nothing is wrong with him,” Palmer hastily assured her. “We just wanted to talk to him about what he remembered about last weekend at that resort where John Hofstead died. You know, just some general follow-up questions. And he told us what he could recall about the evening and we just thought since you were there as well, you might be able to add something.”

“Oh, I see,” said Faye Janice, now too relieved to question the motives behind this kind of investigation into a routine accident. “Well, what do you want to know? I’m sorry I have such a small office, there’s hardly enough room for the couch, but please, make yourselves comfortable.”

Knutson lowered himself down on the new modern sofa and remembered the cramped room with broken furniture that served as the office for FFSU’s most famous scholar, history professor Harold Winston. As he sat down, he felt a ballpoint pen that he had carelessly left in his pocket poke a hole in the fabric. This gave him a perverse pleasure. “As I understand it, you were all going there as sort of last attempt to influence Hofstead as to whom he should pick as the new president.”

“Who told you that?” Faye Janice indignantly replied. “It was a retreat. Other companies do that sort of thing all the time. Mr. Hofstead just wanted everybody to get to know one another better. I’m sure that he would have made his choice based on what was good for the company and on no other basis.”

“And do you think that would have been your husband?” Orly asked.

“Of course. But I hardly think that is any of your business.”

“Just asking,” Orly meekly responded.

“So you all get together at the Otter Slide,” continued Knutson, “—and I’m asking you this because as an outsider you could perhaps observe things better than one who worked in the company—did anything strike you as unusual? Was Mr. Hofstead all right? Did he seem his usual self? Was he preoccupied with something?”

This type of appeal to the vanity of a witness was seldom without fruit. Faye Janice considered the question, pouting out her little mouth and passing a finger through her short hair. “Of course, I didn’t know Mr. Hofstead as well as some of the others. But when we got there I noticed Gary trying to put on the old super salesman charm act. It always works, I might add. But this time Hofstead seemed oblivious to it. I was wondering if this was a bad sign. We just sort of stood around in that lobby waiting for our keys and I thought it got uncomfortable. Other than that, he seemed to be all right, I guess. I don’t know. What did Gary say?”

“Do you like your job?” Knutson abruptly avoided the question and changed the topic.

“Do I like my job? Sure, I suppose. It doesn’t pay all that much, but it keeps me in shape. Why?”

“Did Gary like his job?”

“I suppose so. At least, he thought it was a good place to start.”

“But both of you were really looking forward to this presidency thing, weren’t you? Sort of the next step up on the ladder of success? It was quite an opportunity for him, wasn’t it?”

Unaware that the interview had drifted into a much more personal area, Faye Janice looked away and nodded. “Yes, Gary would have done anything to have gotten that position. Now, I don’t know. Mrs. Hofstead will probably have that dreadful Sandberg take it over. Funny, but I was even dreaming about quitting this and opening my own little exercise and tanning studio. Now? Who knows?”

“Did you ever get a chance to talk to Mr. Hofstead that night?”

“Not really. I exchanged a few pleasant words with him at dinner that evening. Gary always talked about how Hofstead was such a life of the party. ‘He fills the room with a pink glow’ was how he put it. I sure didn’t see much of that. I thought he was kind of boring.”

“What about that evening, when you went snowmobiling?”

“Ah, he seemed to change. You know, I really respect a man, especially one his age, who is willing to go out in the cold and do what he did. I could tell, for instance, that the last place Clarence wanted to be was out on a snowmobile. But Mr. Hofstead really seemed to be enjoying himself. That guy who ran the place—Hoffman, wasn’t it?—thought that he had to show everybody what to do. But Mr. Hofstead just sort of took charge and determined what to do and where to go. It was fun just trying to keep up with him.”

“What happened when you came back to the resort that night?”

“Actually, there were only the three of us—Gary, Mr. Hofstead, and myself—left out on the lake. Nothing much happened when we returned. Gary and I were together the whole time. We parked our sleds together and went to our room together and got up together. I’m sure I can’t add anything to what Gary has told you.”

“Did you hear anything later in the night?”

“Such as?”

“Another snowmobile starting up?”

“Gary and I are both sound sleepers.”

“What about in the morning?”

“Again, what can I add?” she said, a note of exasperation coming into her voice. “We went for a walk before breakfast together and when we came in to eat everybody was wondering what had happened to Mr. Hofstead.”

The sheriff started to stand as he said, “I don’t think we have any more questions, Mrs. Swenson—I mean, Ms. Nelson. We’ve taken up enough of your time. Besides, I think you have a student waiting for you out in the hall.”

“I do?” she responded in a shocked voice.

As Knutson and Peterson walked down the hall, a student leaned into Ms. Nelson’s office and said, “I want to sign up for field hockey in the spring. Are you Mrs. Ryan?”

It was lunchtime. “You want to eat lunch on campus?” Orly asked.

To Palmer, who recalled what lunch was like on campus in 1968, the offer was less than enticing. “Are you kidding?”

“No. You can get anything you want, from sandwiches to tacos or pizza. They even got a Subway franchise. It’s a great place to eat.”

Tacos and pizza at the college cafeteria? It was too much! “Yah, okay, why not? I’ll just call the office to tell them where we are.”

Knutson, who had, as usual, left his cell phone at a place indeterminate, and rejecting as a matter of principle the pay phone in the hall, ducked into the luxurious office of the football coach. Flashing his badge, he said, “Can I use your phone?” That request had never been refused. Orly watched his face from the other side of the glass windows that sealed the football suite off from the rest of the field house. He noticed a sudden change of expression and a rapid turn of the head.

When the sheriff came back he said, “Change of plans. We’re going right back to the office. The Bureau of Criminal Apprehension just called. They have a make on those fingerprints. It appears the case has been solved for us.”