Page 6 of The River We Remember

“Mom says you can have fried chicken or a hot roast pork sandwich.”

“Nobody makes fried chicken like Angie,” Felix said. “And maybe a little of her apple pie?”

“Yes, sir.” Scott studied Felix for a long moment. “Are you okay, Mr. Klein?”

“Not so much, son. Spent much of the afternoon in the company of a dead man. Takes the wind out of your sails.”

“Really? Who?”

“That’s enough, Felix,” Brody said. “Let’s go, Scott.”

“Don’t forget the apple pie,” Felix said.

In the office, as the kid prepared to leave, he pressed Brody, “Who was the dead man?”

“I can’t tell you that, Scott. His name won’t be public for a while.”

“How’d he die?”

“I can’t tell you that either.” He could see Scott was disappointed. “I’m sure you’ll know soon enough. The whole town will.”

“Oh,” Scott said as if he’d just remembered. “Mom wanted to know if you might like some supper, too.”

Brody smiled. “Thank her for me but tell her I’m going to eat with my brother’s family. Picnic in the park. Decoration Day, you know.”

After Scott had gone, Sam Wicklow said, “I should get myself arrested. Free meals from Angie Madison—that would take the sting out of lockup.”

“I’m going out to Quinn’s place and talk to Marta,” Brody said to Asa. “I want you to cover here. I’m leaving Hector.”

“And if anybody asks about you?” his deputy said.

“Until you hear from me that I’ve informed his family, don’t say anything to anyone about Quinn. Am I clear?”

“As a bell, Brody.”

“You, too, Sam.”

Wicklow nodded. He accompanied Brody outside, where he stood a moment, writing on the little notepad he was never without. “So, Marta next?”

“Yeah.” Brody had informed families of death before, but this one was different, and he was feeling the heavy weight of the duty that rested on his shoulders.

“Don’t suppose I could go along.”

“You want to talk to her, Sam, you can do it later, if she’ll let you. I’ll need those photos you shot.”

“I’ll develop them while you’re at the Quinn place. They’ll be at the Clarion office when you get back.” Wicklow closed his notepad.

“Done with covering the Decoration Day celebration, Sam?”

“There’ll be another next year. But Jimmy Quinn and the catfish?” Wicklow shook his head. “Once in a lifetime.”

CHAPTER FIVE

ON HIS FATHER’S death, James Patrick Quinn had inherited a thousand acres, and in his time, he had added twice as much again. He was the largest landowner in the county, his holdings spread far and wide and managed by a slew of tenants, all of whom feared the wrath of Quinn. As a result, the farming of his land was like clockwork, the tilling, planting, harvesting all begun and completed in the best time frame that weather and the elements would allow. He saw to it that his own outbuildings and those of his tenants were in good repair and wore a clean coat of paint. His equipment was up to date, the most modern available. Jimmy Quinn was proud of what he’d accomplished. And he was always the first to tell you so.

The large acreage that he farmed himself required help, and for this Quinn relied heavily, as most farmers do, on family. Quinn had been married twice. Gudrun, his first wife, had died in her early forties, but she’d given him two children. With his second wife, Marta, he’d fathered three more. The two older children had grown up and gone on to lives of their own. Terence, the oldest, had bought land in Faribault County, a good distance east, and farmed there. The daughter, Fiona, had married her high school history teacher. It was a scandal because she’d only just graduated and less than six months after the wedding gave birth to their first child. Shortly thereafter, she and her new little family left Jewel for good.

The children from his first marriage were of no help to Quinn. They’d deserted him, or that’s how he was prone to characterize it. So he demanded much from his second brood, especially the eldest, James Patrick Quinn, Jr., eighteen years old in that summer of 1958.