H.J. Gaudreau - Jim Crenshaw 02 - The Collingwood Legacy (10 page)

Chapter 24

Dinner at the orchard consisted of leftovers, beer, and chips. The barn, the boat, and the whiskey were the sole topics of conversation. Gerry and Sherrie couldn’t decide if they were suddenly the proud owners of an antique treasure or in need of a dump truck and several cans of termite spray. Jim and Eve were excited for them and curious about the boat.

“We’ve got a mystery here,” Jim said, sipping a bottle of beer from one of the local microbreweries.

Gerry nodded his head. “That’s for sure. I’d sure like to know more about that building. I don’t know anything about the property other than what the attorney said about it not being on the tax records.

And the boat! That is one cool boat. We should probably find out where the boat came from…and do Sherrie and I own the boat since it came with the building? I think we do but don’t really know the law.”

Sherrie handed him a cantaloupe and a large knife.

“I can’t imagine you don’t,” Eve offered. “But I think you have two big issues. First, ownership of the boat. It seems logical that you own the boat, you own the land, and it was part of the deal, wasn’t it? It should be yours.

Second, and I think your bigger issue, is the whiskey. It must be illegal to have all that booze? There aren’t any stamps on the bottles. I’m betting it’s moonshine.”

“I think you’re right hon, the boat is probably theirs. You guys better check with a lawyer though, which of course will cost you an arm and a leg. But still better safe than sorry. You’d hate to spend money fixing the thing up, getting it to the water and then have someone come along and claim it’s theirs. And, you’d really be in it if you sold the damn thing, then someone could come after you,” Jim said.

“Ahhh…I hate lawyers, they charge so much for everything and act like they’re doing you a favor! The regular guy can’t afford a lawyer anymore,” Gerry moaned.

“Suck it up buddy. It’s the way of the world,” Jim grinned. Turning to Eve he said, “Bet that isn’t moonshine. Those labels all look professionally printed. All the bottles are the same, all have the same logos in raised glass. I’m going to guess that those are legit Canadian Whiskey bottles, but they were smuggled in from Canada. No U.S. taxes were paid on those bottles.”

“Prohibition era booze?” Sherrie asked. “Woo…we’ve got Al Capone stuff here!”

“Sure, why not?” Jim replied. “Hidden booze, no tax stamps, the boat is from the right era, you’ve got to admit it all fits. It could be the real deal.”

Sherrie glanced at Eve, “You think he’s serious?”

“He thinks he’s Sam Spade but I must admit, he’s more often right than wrong,” Eve laughed.

Jim thought a moment then said. “Sherrie I never saw anyone over there when Dad and I hunted that side of the farm. Did you ever see anyone there?”

Sherrie traced her fingertip around the lip of her

wine glass. “No I didn’t. And I spent a lot of summer afternoons on that side of the orchard. We picked berries there and I played over there with my friends.”

“I’ll bet that boat has been there all these years,” Jim said.

“I wonder who we contact about illegal booze?” Gerry said.

“Gotta be the FBI,” Eve replied. “Prohibition was a national thing, it was in the Constitution, and the tax thing has to be the federal government. Is there an FBI office in Traverse City?”

Gerry shrugged. “I don’t know, probably not. Might be one in Lansing or Detroit, but I can’t imagine one in TC. I’ll go into town tomorrow and find out. I’ll stop by the police station and talk it over with them. Should be interesting, I’ll bet they’ve never handled bootlegger booze before!”

Conversation lagged as everyone tried to imagine the story behind the Chris-Craft in the barn. Finally Jim said, “It’s probably putting the cart before the horse, but I’d like to get a professional to look at the boat. It would be nice if it could be repaired. Maybe the engine can be started. But we may have to overhaul it. That cruiser would make a nice summer toy on the bay. The sooner we get a handle on the damages and the worth the sooner I can fix it up for you.”

“For us buddy, we’re going to run that boat together,” Gerry laughed. “I’ll check with the lawyer I had working on the land title about boat ownership on Monday. And, I’ll see if the state guy has any more information on the property, the barn and the boat.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jim said. “Know anyone that really knows boats?”

Gerry thought a minute, “Well, yeah, I do. I met a guy at a Chamber meeting awhile ago. He repaired boats or sold boats, something like that. From what we talked about the guy is really into antique boats. I’ve got his card someplace. I’ll find it, then let’s give him a call.”

Chapter 25

Cole sat alone in his study. On the walls were pictures of Michigan lighthouses, a picture of the Edmond Fitzgerald plowing through rough waters, its destiny not yet decided, and a marine chart of Lake Michigan. All were illuminated by subtle wrought iron picture lights. It was a beautiful room. Cole didn’t see any of it. He focused on the two bottles of scotch sitting in the middle of his desk.

It hadn’t gone like he’d expected; not even close. Wisecup had taken his seat, skipped any pretense of friendliness, opened a briefcase and began unloading a stack of papers. When the stack reached four inches he began reading parts of each document to Cole.

He spent several minuets on each and every one. He pointed to every place Cole had signed his own name, he pointed to dates, he highlighted past due payments, amortization schedules, current cash flow sheets, business expenditures and current billings. Then he went back to the sheet with payment dates, but no payment. After each and every paper the bastard would look Cole square in the eye and ask him if he understood what he’d just been told. Of course he understood, he wasn’t stupid, but where was the money going to come from? No one was buying boats; the whole damn state was laid off or about to be laid off or had been laid off. They’d been out of work for so long they’d forgotten what a boat even was.

Wisecup then opened a laptop and showed Cole pictures of similar buildings and what they were selling for. He could sell this building for X. He could sell that building for Y and the boats for Z. But X plus Y plus Z wasn’t enough.

Cole pushed for an extension on the loan, but Wisecup wouldn’t talk about that. Cole tried to refinance the entire load for a higher interest rate. Wisecup refused that. He kept putting that damned spreadsheet under Cole’s nose. He kept telling Cole that the small amount of cash the business generated from boat repair, storage and commission sales wouldn’t cover the current note. It barely covered the payroll and his house payment. There was no way it could cover a new note.

Cole argued. It did no good. He cursed. It did no good. He tried to reason. It seemed as if Wisecup enjoyed his pain. Finally, when there were no new forms, no spreadsheets showing the same debt in some different way, when all the contracts and papers had been examined, each and every one presented with just the right twist to pull the maximum humiliation from Cole’s gut, only then did Wisecup stop. He told Cole that unless a substantial payment was made and soon it would all come crashing down, he’d lose the company, the house, the boats, everything.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Cole reached out for the scotch. Gradually the two bottles in front of him merged into one. He fastened both hands around the bottle, found his glass and recharged. Raising his glass Cole muttered, “To renting God-damned runabouts again.” He slammed the scotch back in one quick, sloppy, shirt soaking gulp.

Chapter 26

In any war sacrifices are made for the greater good. At least that’s what Elaine told herself as she inserted the key into a heavily tarnished brass lock face. Information, especially important, sensitive information, didn’t come cheap. Margaretha Zelle, better known as Mata Hari, learned that. Still, Margaretha had been on to something, there were ways to learn things that didn’t cost money.

The lock secured the entrance door to room number six of the Torch Lake Waterfront Motel. The motel, built sometime in the early 1960s, had been family owned for three generations.

Elaine entered the room, pulled open the window and, had her purpose here not been so utterly boring, would have enjoyed the beachfront view. Turning back to the room she dismissed the starving artist painting over the bed. Elaine studied the room with a practiced eye. It was apparent this generation of hotel ownership didn’t believe in fresh paint or, for that matter, carpet. The floor was dark linoleum. Probably installed by the original builder so that housekeeping could easily sweep up the beach sand tracked in by waves of vacationers.

She walked to the bathroom, ran the shower, the water was hot; flushed the toilet, it didn’t back up, then returned to the main room. The TV worked; sixty-five channels including the Adult Network. Turning to the bed, Elaine lifted the bedspread and stripped the sheets back to reveal the mattress. Then she inspected the mattress, sheets and pillows for bedbugs. Satisfied she remade the bed, picked up the ice bucket and went to the ice machine. Five minutes later she sat in the room’s one chair watching “Ellen,” a bottle of Southern Comfort soaking in the ice and a six pack of Coke waiting.

Thirty minutes later, and fifteen minutes early, a gentle rap sounded from the door. Elaine took a large gulp of her second drink, steeled herself and opened the door. Alan Wisecup immediately pushed into the room, and, without closing the door wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her fully, his tongue exploring her mouth, his hand pulling her skirt up at the same time.

“Close the damned door first you idiot,” Elaine hissed, pushing him away. The door slammed shut. Wisecup’s shoulders slumped. “I’m just glad to see you,” he whispered.

Elaine let disgust and triumph and pity wash over her for a moment then forced a smile. “I know, baby,” she cooed. “We just can’t let people see us and the door was open. Where did you park?”

“At the Quick Mart like you told me,” Alan said.

Elaine turned and walked to the ice bucket. The idiot walked a mile to get here she thought and smiled. It was a her own little game. “Would you like a drink?” she asked. She poured two fingers into a glass, mixed in the Coke, deliberately skipped the ice and handed the tumbler to Alan. Then she refilled her own. She didn’t make any move in his direction. “Why don’t you take a shower baby, you’re all sweaty.”

Alan smiled and kicked off his shoes. He pulled his tie off then stripped his shirt and tee shirt off. Elaine sat and watched this strip tease and smiled. Alan began to dance; slow, jerky, uncoordinated and smiled back.

“You’re an idiot,” she said and grinned. Alan took it as an expression of endearment. Elaine meant it for what it was.

He stripped off his pants and jockey shorts then headed to the shower, still wearing his black socks. Elaine watched him walk away. Alan was pale, almost white. His shoulders weren’t girlish, but no one would call him broad chested or big shouldered. He was thin, Alan liked to run 10K races in the summer. He was in reasonably good shape, though not muscular. But most of all Alan was a nerd.

Ten minutes later Elaine sat on the edge of the bed and watched Alan towel himself off. “How are things at the bank?” she asked.

“Oh, you know, nothing much. Mark is still a jerk. The guy thinks he’s God’s gift ya know. Yesterday Debbie brought in donuts. I was out front for ten minutes. When I came back he’d eaten three. I didn’t even get one.”

She didn’t care. “You met with Cole?”

“Yeah. Same old stuff.” He said as he hung his towel on the rack.

Elaine unbuttoned her blouse, hung it up then slipped her skirt off.

“How does it look?” she asked.

“I really shouldn’t talk about it. But I’ll tell you this, you might want to get separate bank accounts.”

“Could he really be this stupid?” she thought. “So it’s that bad huh?” she said.

“Oh yeah, it’s bad.” Alan returned to the bed and began to stroke her hair.

Still in her thong and bra she kissed Alan. “I’ll pour us another drink.” Elaine picked up his glass and crossed the room. She poured more Southern Comfort into Alan’s glass, then slipped a little blue pill from between her breasts and dropped it into the drink. “Might as well enjoy the evening,” she thought. She picked up the TV remote, turned on the Adult Network and handed the drink to Alan.

She took off her bra and pushed the glass to his lips. “Drink up baby.”

Alan did as he was told, his eyes darting between the TV screen and Elaine as she slowly pulled off her thong. He drained his glass in one big gulp and laid back on the bed. “C’mer honey,” he coughed.

Elaine straddled his ankles, took him in her hand and bent forward. Then, her hair brushing Alan’s thigh she said “Tell me more about your meeting with Cole.”

Chapter 27

On Saturday, Sherrie and Eve headed to the farmers market. Jim took the ATV out to the new barn to examine the boat. Gerry went to his office in the cherry shed and began searching his collection of business cards. If his memory was correct, he had met the owner of a marina or boat restoration something company at a Chamber of Commerce meeting some months ago.

The two had, as is custom, exchanged business cards. Unlike ninety-nine percent of all business cards this one was not thrown into the trash. Instead, Gerry had filed it away just in case Sherrie ever agreed to buy a boat. He figured it didn’t hurt to dream. Finding the card he dialed the cell phone number and Cole Prestcott answered.

The ringing of the cell phone blasted through Cole’s dehydrated, alcohol soaked brain. He lay on the floor next to his desk, his head on top of an Air Jordan shoe with his shirt laying over it. The phone rang a second, then a third time and Cole, having become addicted to cell phones couldn’t resist answering the nagging little machine.

“Hello? Have I reached Prestcott Boats?” A voice seemed to shout from the phone.

“Hello…?”  Cole’s years of renting boats to straight laced vacationing parents paid off. It only took him a moment. Cole cleared his throat, then using all his will power commanded his voice to sound steady, serious, the epitome of a respectable business owner. “This is Prestcott Boats, Cole Prestcott speaking.”

“Cole, we met at the Chamber of Commerce meeting a few months ago,” the voice continued. Cole pulled the cell phone from his ear and glanced at the small screen. “Gerry, of course, I remember you. How’s the cherry business?”

Gerry was impressed; the man had remembered his name and business. The fact that Gerry’s name and the words “Cherry Nation Orchard LLC” appeared on the caller I.D. completely slipped his mind.

The two exchanged small talk for a few moments then Gerry came to the point. “Look Cole, the reason I’m calling is a bit odd. Do you think you could come over here and give an assessment of an antique boat? I’m going to need a good idea of the value next week and so, well, if you could come today or tomorrow I’d appreciate it. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Cole’s first instinct was to tell the jerk on the other end of the line to stuff it. “Well, look Gerry, we’re pretty busy and…I’ll have to look at the schedule and get…”

Gerry cut him off. “Cole, I know it’s an imposition. Look, we just we found this old Chris-Craft, it’s a big boat, its in pretty decent shape, and I thought you mentioned something about knowing Chris-Crafts.”

The idea that someone was calling him about a “big” Chris-Craft fired Cole’s alcohol soaked brain. “How big do you think this boat is Gerry?” he asked.

“Geeze, I don’t know for sure, maybe thirty-five feet.” Gerry really was guessing.

A cruiser! It had to be. Cole loved the cruisers. They were the classics of the classics. Today they were few and far between, but oh they were sweet. Besides, going to look at the boat was a good excuse to get out of the house. At least he wouldn’t have to put up with the dragon queen’s nagging about his drinking.

“Sure Gerry, I’ll check with my staff and see if anyone is available. Give me a minute.” Cole put the call on hold, went to the bathroom then the kitchen. Gerry sat at his desk and counted the minutes. Time dripped past. Gerry put the phone down, turned on his computer and fished a box of receipts out of his desk drawer. Phone wedged between his shoulder and ear he tapped at his keyboard and wished he’d called on his cell phone so he could put the call on speaker.

After an overly long number of minutes Cole returned to his desk with a fresh cup of coffee. He sat down, took a sip of the brew, then reached out to the phone and pushed a button, “Gerry, we’re pretty busy so I’ll have to come myself. I can get over there this afternoon. Ahhh, Gerry, I’ll have to charge you a weekend rate, sorry about that.” Cole was pleased with himself; he thought his line about being busy was brilliant.

Gerry glanced at the screen on his computer. The accounting program showed the current checking account balance. He cringed at the weekend rate idea but said, “That’s great. A weekend rate isn’t a problem. Thanks so much. What time should I look for you, its about what, forty-five minutes, maybe an hour and fifteen from Charlevoix? If you go to our web site the orchard’s address and a map are posted there.”

A few moments later, small talk ended Cole had agreed to be at the orchard later that afternoon. Gerry thanked Cole again, put the phone back in its cradle, picked up his keys and started into Traverse City to speak with the police.