Killer Smile Read online

  “Thanks.” Mary flipped through to a page in the middle, which read: P. 2001.048.223 — Photograph, Internees, Italian — Woods camp; P. 2001.048.224 — Photograph, Internees, Italians — Woods camp. Next to each catalog number was a description of the internees engaged in all sorts of activities: “doing forest work,” “bathing at camp,” “firing the furnace,” “working in laundry,” “raising chickens,” “feeding cats,” and “meeting with priest.” The index would save Mary tons of time. “Thanks so much, and God bless the Dales of the world.”

  “I agree.” The cashier headed for the door with a little wave. “Good luck,” she said, and Mary got busy.

  An hour later, the door reopened, and the cashier stood in the threshold, bearing a light jacket and her handbag, but it was an excited Mary who greeted her.

  “Look what I found!” she said, putting the last of the accordions away. In her hand were two photos.

  “Let’s see. I have a minute.”

  “Great.” Mary set the two photos down on the top of the nearest box, and the cashier bent over them with her. They were two cracked group photos taken at different times; one was in the beet field on a sunny day, with eight Italian internees posed like a graduating class, four in front and four in back. Amadeo stood on the far right of the front row, recognizable from the alien registration photo. Mary pointed at him, delighted. “That’s the man I’ve been looking for!”

  “Mr. Brandolini.” The cashier grinned. “Good for you! I guess these photos weren’t displayed downstairs because of the cracking.”

  “I guess so.” Mary set out the next photo proudly, as if it were a trump card. It was another group photo, but of only five internees including Amadeo standing in a loose ring, leaning on hoes in the beet field. “Look at the first photo and the second. Notice anything similar about them, even though they were taken at different places and times?”

  “Yes.” The cashier pointed. “Your man, Brandolini, always stands in the front row, far right. He was short.”

  “True. That’s half of it.” Mary moved her fingernail past Amadeo’s head and one up, to the top row, where a tall man wearing a cap stood. “Also, in both photos, the man in the cap stands behind him.”

  “He’s tall.”

  Ouch. “Okay, but he also has his hands on Amadeo’s shoulders in both photos.”

  “Interesting.” The cashier looked over, intrigued behind her glasses. “And?”

  “It suggests they were friends, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m wondering if this is the friend who was with Amadeo in the beet field, the day he died. Do you know how I can find out who this man is? Are there any camp records here? Any list of internees?”

  “No records other than these.” The cashier gestured at the boxes, but Mary had looked through everything and still had finished before menopause.

  “Would Mr. Milton know?”

  “Probably not. He worked in the motor pool.”

  Mary remembered. She’d double-check later. “Anyone else alive? Any of the other internees?”

  “No. Some of the internees settled here, but they’re gone now.” The cashier shook her head, deep in thought. “There is the one internee, Bert, everyone knows him, but he’s out of the country now.”

  Mary remembered that Mr. Milton had mentioned him. “What about any of the Japanese or German internees?”

  “They didn’t mix, from what I understand.”

  Mary had read as much. “What about anyone else from the camp staff? Mr. Milton can’t be the only one alive. Is there a listing of the staff, a directory I can use to track them down?”

  “Hold on.” The cashier cocked her head, her steely hair catching the overhead light. “There was someone, the camp adjutant actually, who lives in Butte. He worked closely with the men, I understand. Maybe he would know.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Aaron Nyquist.”

  “Is Butte far?”

  “Just down the road,” the cashier said, and Mary translated. In Montanaspeak, that meant two hours.

  But the evening was young.

  Nineteen

  The Montana sky deepened from cobalt blue to a rich, grapey purple, until blackness fell like a bolt of felt in a photographer’s darkroom. Mary drove a very flat two hours into the pitch dark, leaving behind all the colors. A moonless nightfall obliterated the horizon and obscured even the peaks of Bitterroots. The only illumination on the empty highway was two jittery cones of light from her headlights, faint owing to the underpowered rental, and she flicked on the high beams for company. She thought she saw a herd of bighorn sheep running alongside the highway, but it could just as easily have been a group of Hell’s Angels in weird helmets. She hit the accelerator.

  The Nyquist home was a small farmhouse of white clapboard with sharply peaked gables, typical of the Victorian houses Mary had seen out here. She pulled up in front and cut the ignition, looking over. Adrenaline had powered her drive, but it was ebbing away at the sight of the dark house. All the windows on the front floor were black, and the only light shone through the curtains on a second-floor window. The FOR SALE sign on the lawn told her she was just in time, but the lights upstairs told her that it was past Mr. Nyquist’s bedtime. She sat in the car, wrestling with her conscience. Was she really going to wake up the whole family, just to get the answers she wanted?

  Go, girl. If it was Amadeo talking, he was cranky from the drive. And his English was better than everybody thought.

  Mary got out of the car into the darkness, but the lamp from the second-floor window cast almost enough light to illuminate the front walk. She headed up the walk, her gaze on the window, and the crunching underfoot told her it was made of pebbles, an oddly suburban touch. The house was silent, and she slowed her step. Maybe she should come back in the morning. She was about to turn around when she spotted it. A light, around the back of the house, shining down the gravel driveway. She walked toward the light and saw the outline of a small barn behind the house, on the right. It had a three-peaked roof, like the cut-off top of a star, which was barely visible against the night sky. Its bay doors hung open, and light poured from within. There were no animals inside; it was a barn converted to a garage, and under a bright panel of fluorescent lights sat a vintage pickup truck.

  Mary walked toward it and got a closer look. The bed of the truck had shiny sides of varnished wood, and its green back door read HARVESTER in gleaming yellow paint. A large blue machine sat next to the truck, which looked like a compressor or something equally foreign, and the walls of the tiny garage were blanketed with white Peg-Board, displaying tools hung in graduated order. Mary reached the doorway and stood there a minute, not seeing anyone around the truck.

  “Hello? Mr. Nyquist?” she called out, but there was no answer. She stepped inside the garage, which smelled of grease but was cleaner than her apartment. Plywood workbenches built into both walls on either side of the garage looked like they’d been wiped down, and even the cloth rags hanging on the handles of the homemade base cabinets underneath were white and fluffy. “Mr. Nyquist?” she said, louder.

  “Wha?” came a voice from underneath the truck, and Mary peered around the front. A pair of wrinkled jeans stuck out from under the chassis, ending in a scuffed pair of Nikes. The Nikes walked themselves out on their thick rubbery heels, and the bottom half of a man in jeans was lying on his back on a dolly. The face hadn’t emerged, but a voice from underneath said, “Grandma?”

  Mr. Nyquist’s grandson. He’d be about the right age. “No, I’m Mary DiNunzio,” she called back, leaning over.

  “Who?” The man rolled himself out from under the truck, and from the bottom up appeared a gray T-shirt too faded to read, a handsome, if grease-streaked face, brown eyes that wore a puzzled expression, topped by a green baseball cap that read AGRO. The young man did a sit-up with ease, boosted himself off the dolly, and rose, wiping his hand on his jeans before he extended it. “I’m Will Nyqui
st. What did you say your name was?”

  Mary reintroduced herself. “Nice to meet you, and sorry to bother you so late. I was looking for Aaron Nyquist. I was told he lives here.”

  “That would be my grandfather.”

  “Great! I was hoping it wasn’t too late at night to see him.”

  “I’m sorry, he passed away about six months ago,” the young man answered, without evident emotion, and Mary’s heart sank. She was too late.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks, but it was a blessing, for him. For my grandma, too. He’d been sick a long time. Why’d you want to see him?”

  “I had some questions, about Fort Missoula. He was on the officers’ staff there, wasn’t he, during the war?”

  “World War II?” Will flashed Mary a familiar ancient-history look. “I don’t know, he worked for the government during the war, I think. He didn’t like to talk about it a lot.” Will glanced toward the house. “Grandma would know. I’ll take you in, and you can ask her. She reads upstairs until late. Says she’s more comfy, readin’ in bed.”

  Mary felt a guilty twinge. “But I don’t need to bother her. It was him, really, who would know.”

  “She’d enjoy the company. She’s been so bummed since Gramps died.” Will took off his baseball cap, revealing a thick mess of brown hair and a severe case of hat head. He slapped the cap against his jeans and dust flew out. “I’ll take you in to meet her. It’ll make her night to have a guest. And she’s got some wicked pie, made fresh tonight.”

  “Pie?” Mary asked, hiding her interest.

  Mary had barely introduced herself when she was shown to a cushioned seat at a kitchen table of knotty pine. Mrs. Nyquist was about five four, still trim, and she wore a gray sweatsuit outfit and bifocals in no-nonsense plastic frames. Her pale blonde hair had been clipped into a practical, short cut, gone gray at the temples, and deep wrinkles creased the corners of her blue eyes and her mouth. Her nose was tiny and her smile sweet. She was probably in her early eighties, and her manner was warm, friendly, and fragile with fresh grief. Mary wanted to grab and cuddle her, but Mrs. Nyquist was fortunately oblivious to her secret love attack.

  “You’ve never had huckleberry pie?” Mrs. Nyquist asked, incredulous. She set in front of Mary a large wedge of pie, its golden crust dusted with grainy sugar. Thick purple goop oozed from the side, encroaching on the plate like lava. If lava contained fructose.

  “No, I’ve never even seen a huckleberry. What’s a huckleberry? I thought it was a book by Mark Twain.”

  Mrs. Nyquist smiled, which made Mary happy. She was enjoying going around Montana, making old people happy. She was a roving ambassador of codependency.

  Mrs. Nyquist said, “Huckleberry, especially wild huckleberry, tastes a lot like gooseberry.”

  “I never tasted a gooseberry, either. I’ve tasted gnocchi, and that’s all that grows in Philadelphia.”

  “That where you’re from? I was wondering with your accent, and you talk so fast.”

  Accent? “Yes.” Mary tried to talk slower. Ye-es.

  “Would you like some tea with your pie, dear?”

  “Only if you’re making it already.”

  “I am. We’re not much for coffee in this house. My husband can’t — couldn’t — tolerate it. His stomach.”

  “Tea’s great, thanks. May I help you?”

  “No, thanks. It’s good for me to move around. This is exercise, for me.”

  “Thanks, then.” Mary couldn’t remember the last time she’d drunk tea, but she wasn’t about to put Mrs. Nyquist to further trouble. The older woman was placing a white teapot on a burner at the stove and she could have been Mary’s mother, except for her perfect command of English and nonviolent nature in general.

  “My goodness, I sit all day nowadays, except when I’m cleaning.” Mrs. Nyquist bustled around the gleaming kitchen, an Early American type with red-and-white cushions tied to the backs of the wood chairs. The counters and appliances were a spotless white, and the air smelled vaguely of orange-scented Fantastik. On a side table next to some old photos stood a grouping of brownish figurines, which Mary thought might be Hummels, but wasn’t sure. In South Philly, statuary was restricted to a dashboard St. Christopher or a bobblehead Donovan McNabb.

  Mrs. Nyquist was shaking her head. “I even cleaned the garage last week, it gave me something to do. Aaron was so disabled by his stroke in those last years, and taking care of him was a full-time job. Now I have all this free time.” She waved her hand in the air, as if shooing away a bumblebee. “Please, taste your pie.”

  “Wow, this is great!” Mary said, scooping a forkful. It tasted like blueberry pie, only sweeter. She took another bite and hadn’t realized how hungry she was. “It’s so nice of you, to feed me so late.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” Mrs. Nyquist bowed her head graciously. “Will’s right about one thing, I do like the company. He’s worried about me, thinks I’m getting blue. He even wants to set me up with a man from church, on a date!”

  “You, too?” Mary laughed, and so did Mrs. Nyquist. “What is it with the blind dates? I’d rather watch TV.”

  “Me, too.” Mrs. Nyquist returned to the table and set a steaming mug in front of Mary, with a fragrant triangle of a Lipton tea bag inside. “How do you take your tea?”

  “How should I take my tea?”

  “I take it plain.”

  “Then so do I,” Mary said, making Mrs. Nyquist smile again as she went back to the stove and poured herself a mug of tea, then came back to the table with it and sat down. An oversize men’s Timex slipped down from her wrist, undoubtedly her husband’s, and she still wore her wedding band. I’m a widow, too, Mary thought, but for some reason, couldn’t say. She settled for, “You must miss your husband.”

  “Every minute.” Mrs. Nyquist sighed. “You know, they say everything happens for a reason, but I’m not sure I believe that anymore.” Behind her glasses, the older woman’s blue-eyed gaze was direct and even, and it struck Mary that this was going to be a real conversation and not just small talk. It was hard to bullshit an old lady, which was only one of the things she liked about them.

  “Honestly, I never thought that everything happened for a reason. I still don’t. It’s just something we say to each other to get us over it, whatever it is. The hard part.”

  “Maybe. I used to believe that God has a plan for us, each of us. The longer I live, the less sure I am of that, too. What do you think?”

  “I believe in God, but I think he’s a lousy planner.”

  Mrs. Nyquist smiled over her steaming tea. “So is there a plan, at all?”

  “Not unless you have one.”

  “So what’s left then, if there’s no plan?” Mrs. Nyquist set down her mug. “What is it that your generation believes in?”

  Mary smiled. “You’re asking the wrong girl. I can’t speak for my generation. I’m not even sure which generation I’m in, half the time.”

  “So, then, what do you believe in, Mary?” Mrs. Nyquist waited expectantly, and all of a sudden, Mary knew the answer. She had just realized it, sitting in a dark farmhouse, with a very kind stranger, in the middle of Montana.

  “I believe in justice. And in love. And in not getting over it, because that’s too much to ask of a human being.” Mary collected her thoughts. “Getting over it is the wrong thing to want, anyway. You should never expect to get over it, the best you can hope is to live past it. And you go on. Your past becomes a part of you, you just fold it into the gnocchi dough and keep rolling.” Mary was surprised to hear her voice break, so she scooped another forkful of pie, and Mrs. Nyquist seemed to let it register, still listening, until her unlipsticked mouth curved slowly into a smile.

  “You know, you may be right, Mary.”

  “It’s possible. I’m wrong so often, the odds are on my side.”

  Mrs. Nyquist laughed. “No, I can’t believe that. You’re a very thoughtful young girl.”

  “It’s the huc
kleberries. They have superpowers.”

  Mrs. Nyquist laughed and sipped her tea with the tea bag still inside, and so did Mary, because she felt like they were friends now. “But you came to see my husband, and I’ve gone on and on. What was it you wanted to see him about?”

  “I understand from Mr. Milton that your husband was at Fort Missoula, during the war.”

  “He was,” Mrs. Nyquist answered, and her voice suddenly echoed the clipped tones of a military wife. “He couldn’t serve because of his heart, which bothered him so much. He always felt he could have served, he felt quite fit and healthy, and took some pride in it. In fact, the doctor said a less fit man would never have survived his first stroke. It was the second that killed him.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mary had said it before, but this apology was sui generis. The ultimate apology. “I am doing some research and trying to identify an internee I found in some old photos.”

  “Maybe I can help you. I worked at the camp for a time, as a secretary.”

  “You did?” Mary asked, surprised. “The cashier at the museum didn’t mention that.”

  “I doubt they know, at the museum. I was unofficial, you see. They were so short-handed during the war, Aaron had them hire me. For free.”

  “You needed a lawyer.”

  Mrs. Nyquist laughed.

  “Well, if you wouldn’t mind looking at the photos, I brought them with me.” Mary went digging in her bag and pulled out the two photos.

  But she had barely set them on the red-and-white placemat when Mrs. Nyquist emitted a gasp.

  Twenty

  “My goodness!” Mrs. Nyquist said.

  “What? Do you know them?”

  “This does take me back. I’m sorry, it’s just so surprising to see these!” Mrs. Nyquist’s aged hand fluttered to her throat. “I do know that man.”

  Yes! “Which one? It’s win-win, to me. One is named Amadeo, and I don’t know the other, the man in the cap.” Mary pointed at the mystery man, and Mrs. Nyquist met her fingernail to fingernail.