Page 71 of Head Room

I briefly recapped my conversations with Hannah, Miles Stevens, Ned Irvin, Connie, and Poppinger.

Then I tossed in, “There was a suggestion that burning the cabin down might have been for the value of the nails.”

She pursed her mouth.

Before I could backtrack from the danger zone of that pursing, she was answering.

“I fear, Elizabeth, that you have been led astray in that matter.The burning of structures to access the nails is believed to have applied to the period of earliest European settlement in this country, when nails were manufactured in Europe and imported.With blacksmiths established on this continent, they were hand-wrought individually.

“However, by the end of the 1700s, the use of cut nails was established and a century later, when such construction began in this region, wire nails were in common use, though wood pegs were also used at times.Currently nails are quite economical.There has rarely, if ever, been cause to burn structures in our region to collect nails.”

Led astray, all right.

Paycik would pay for that.

“Beyond your unproductive, though educational, foray into the history of nails, what conclusions do you draw from the collection of information you have acquired?”

“Conclusions?None.I know, I know.Don’t say it.That’s how it is with each of these investigations.I’ve heard that from Tom.And, yes, we need to keep moving ahead, accumulating pieces and eventually it will all make sense.I’ve heard that, too.

“But this time, I have a boatload of relatives arriving in days, starting with my parents — by which I mean my wedding-crazed mother and my generally laid-back father — and, shortly after that, a wedding, no, two weddings, a cookout, and a reception.With the threat that all of that will be held during a blizzard.”

“Elizabeth, you are a reasonable person and recognize that such an approach is unproductive.”

I could justifiably argue back that productivity was completely out of sight.

I wouldn’t win the argument.

“Do you know Colonel Crawford, Mrs.Parens?”

“I do not know him directly, however, I do know of him through his and his wife’s established connection to Frank and Irene Jardos and their high regard for the Crawfords, as well as a reciprocal regard from the Crawfords.”

“He says Jardos didn’t kill himself.Absolutely.Not possible.He’s also not convinced that the body found at the cabin is the sergeant.Sure, you can say we’ll know after the medical examiner is done, but how long will that take?”

I didn’t give her an opportunity to answer.Which wasn’t rude, because she showed no sign of wanting to speak.

“Too long is the short answer, especially in my mother’s point of view.Or would be, if she knew about this, but I’m sure not telling her we’re looking into a death this close to the wedding.In the meantime, we’re trying to keep our minds and our inquiries open to both possibilities — the dead man is Frank Jardos or isn’t Frank Jardos.

“If it is Frank Jardos, we’ve found no immediate reason for him to have shot himself in the head and burned his cabin.The timing itself — the shooting, the burning.That’s tricky.As towhy, yes, he’s grieving for his wife, but he hasn’t struck anyone as suicidal, cut himself off from people, dropped recent activities, or expressed suicidal thoughts that anyone’s shared.

“If it’s not Frank Jardos—” I raised my hands, stopping short of anything that could be described as tossing them up in disgust.“—who the heck is it?There are a whole lot of men in the world who match that general size and shape and the only ones we can eliminate for sure are the ones we’ve seen alive since the cabin fire.Plus, if it’s not Jardos, where is he?And why would he disappear?And why would some other man be at the cabin wearing Jardos’ boots or their twins?Who shot him?Who set fire to the cabin?

“What makes the most sense is that Jardos shot the man and set the fire.Unless he’s the one who’s dead and someone else set the fire...And —bam— we’re back to where we started.”

Mrs.P sipped tea in response to my river of words.

Rather disappointing.

All that deserved at least a gasp from an ordinary listener.Not that I’d expect one from Mrs.P.

“Sit down, Elizabeth, and may I recommend that you drink your tea.”

Not a recommendation.

I sat.I drank tea.

“Is that the entirety?”she asked with uncharacteristic brevity and directness.

“Yes— No, not quite, though it doesn’t help.I’ve been reading Irene’s manuscript — a historical romance set during the Civil War — as if that’s going to give me the answer.”