“Salve,” she says. “For her lips, she said.”
“Were they chapped?”
Nancy shakes her head.
Scraps of leather, any size. When we were diapering Abby, we used fabric scraps for extra padding. That could suggest Ellen was caring for the baby herself, but she hadn’t requested anything she’d need to feed Abby. The mention of salve, however, reminds me of a colleague joking about his wife putting lip balm on her nipples during nursing. That would suggest Ellen wasn’t caring for the baby herself; she was helping Abby’s parents get supplies they needed.
“A
bout that caribou,” Dalton says. “Did she usually bring in game that large?”
“She said she got lucky,” Tomas explains. “We didn’t question.”
“How did she usually hunt? With a gun?”
“Oh, no,” Nancy says. “The wild people don’t have guns. They’re like us. And we allowed her to hunt on our territory, which means she isn’t allowed to use guns. She wouldn’t anyway. She only traps and fishes.” She hesitates, as if seeing the problem with that, given that Ellen brought in a caribou.
“Had the caribou been shot?” I ask, trying not to glance at where Nancy tucked away the pellet.
“She brought it partly slaughtered,” Tomas says. “She kept the head. She said she wanted the antlers, but I suppose, if someone gave her the animal, it could have been shot in the head. That’s what I figured. That someone traded the caribou to her, and she was trading it to us, which wouldn’t break our laws. I hadn’t thought of it being shot, but I suspect that’s the caribou they used for the stew today.”
The stew with shotgun pellets.
We run out of questions shortly after that. We know Ellen had made an unscheduled stop in the Second Settlement, trading for unusual items and using unusual payment. That supported the idea she’d been helping Abby’s mother. That might also suggest Abby’s parents were responsible for the caribou Ellen brought in.
They’d shot it and removed the head, so it wouldn’t be obvious that someone else killed the beast. From what Tomas said, though, it wasn’t the first time they discovered pellets in their meat, and that’s been more common lately. Had Ellen been working with Abby’s parents for a while? If so, wouldn’t someone have realized the pellet-shot meat all came from her?
I might get more answers by tracking the source of the stew meat, confirming it came from that caribou. But when I ask if I can personally thank the cooks for the meal, Nancy shuts me down. Oh, she’s polite about it, saying she’ll pass on my appreciation, but I know when I’m being blocked. She doesn’t want me speaking to them. Just like she didn’t want me having that pellet. I get the latter, though—I surreptitiously scoop it up while the children bring Storm to show their mother.
We wait outside as the children say their goodbyes to the dog. While they do that, I pull the pellet from my pocket for a discreet closer look.
It’s a buckshot pellet—the same kind that killed Ellen.
THIRTY-TWO
Tomas takes us to a place where we can camp for the night. As expected, there’s no invitation to stay in the settlement, but we wouldn’t have accepted one anyway. We do take the food they offer, along with Tomas’s help locating a well-situated campsite.
The site has obviously been used before and recently, with only the lightest layer of snow over a campfire circle, log seats, and a spot cleared for tents. Tomas says it’s for the teens and unmarried adults who need an escape from the close quarters of the longhouses.
As I watch Tomas leave, Dalton says, “You want to go after him,” before I can ask.
“Something’s up,” I say, “and it’s not just that shotgun pellet. I think Tomas had an affair with Ellen.”
Dalton’s brows shoot up. Then his face falls with, “The bracelet. Fuck.” He mutters a few more curses, and I understand his disappointment. Nancy and Tomas seem like a deeply committed, loving couple, and no one wants to think a guy who has that at home will betray his wife. But I suspected it from the moment his eyes lit on that bracelet, the flash of grief as he realized who’d died. Asking us not to mention the bracelet cemented my suspicions—this isn’t a polyamorous relationship, where Nancy knows what he’s doing and approves.
“I’d just like to follow him,” I say. “See if he takes a moment to find his game face before he heads back to his wife. You and Storm can come along, but I’d appreciate it if you hang back.”
He nods, and we set out. I leave the snowshoes. The forest here is dense enough that I can jog through the light snow.
Soon I see Tomas trudging along ahead. I slow to keep out of sight and follow him for about a hundred feet. After a glance, he makes a left off the trodden path. I slip after him, tracking his jacket in the fast-falling twilight. Finally, he comes to a clearing, where he sits on a fallen tree.
Tomas pulls the bracelet from his pocket and runs his fingers over the leather. Then he clears the snow, digs a shallow hole, and lays the bracelet in it. His hand touches the discarded dirt, ready to refill the hole. After a pause he takes the bracelet out and runs his thumb over it. His head drops and his shoulders shake, racked with silent sobs.
I glance over my shoulder but see no sign of Dalton and Storm. They’re there—just giving me room. I look at Tomas again. As a person, I want to leave him to his grief. As a detective, I cannot. I have a murdered woman, and now I’m looking at her secret lover … whose wife tried to hide a shotgun pellet that may have come from the murder weapon.
I step from the trees and say, “I’m going to need that bracelet back.”
Tomas jumps. I have my gun lowered, but his gaze still goes to it and his eyes widen.