H.J. Gaudreau - Jim Crenshaw 02 - The Collingwood Legacy (14 page)

Eve stopped thumbing through the box of documents. “Claudia, we really owe you on this, thank you so much.”

“Maybe we can take you out to dinner tonight?” Jim asked. A few minutes later arrangements had been made and all three were back to their research.

Chapter 36

Cole Prestcott rolled to his left, let his body weight and momentum carry him off the bunk and landed on his feet. Turning, he examined the naked body of his secretary.

Donna was fairly worthless in the office, but she was something in the sack. He reached out and stroked her right breast, eliciting a moan. Without opening her eyes Donna said, “Come back to bed baby.”

Cole smiled, “Wish I could, but I’ve got to get home tonight.” Donna rolled on her back. “No you don’t. You don’t ever have to go home.”

“Honey I can only play for so long, then I’ve got to get back to the ball and chain. If she finds out about us the divorce will be held up. You know I want it clean and fast.”

“Oh Cole, I wish you could do it now. Why do we have to wait?” Donna whined.

Cole smiled. She still had hopes. How could any woman be this stupid? He wasn’t going to divorce Elaine. She was class and he needed class on his arm. Besides, some bastard judge would make him pay alimony for the rest of his life, and it would be a shit load.

“Get movin’ honey.” He ignored her question. Cole searched the cabin, spotted his pants and shirt in two separate corners, and quickly retrieved them. He finished pulling his shirt over his head then climbed the steps to the cockpit of his 33 foot Morgan sailboat. The boat was anchored just outside the Boyne City Marina’s designated anchorage. The city didn’t allow anchoring here, but no one had motored out to bust his chops so screw ‘em, he wasn’t paying their fees to anchor two hundred yards closer to town.

Cole made sure the transmission was in neutral. He gave the key a quick turn and ignited the small Yanmar motor. A glance at the oil pressure, temperature and voltage meters told him all was well. Confident the boat wasn’t going to move he climbed out of the cockpit and moved forward. He found the foot control for the powered windlass, pressed his toes onto the switch and watched the anchor rode as it slowly was eaten by the machine. After a minute or two the rope transitioned to anchor chain, then the anchor itself appeared. He lifted his foot, stopped the windlass then hosed mud and weeds off the chain, then the anchor. Soon the anchor was stowed and the bow squared away.

Returning to the cockpit he checked the engine temperature. Satisfied the engine oil was warm he pushed the transmission lever to “F” and the boat began to move forward, gradually picking up speed. Cole spun the wheel and the bow slowly turned to the west. He let the Morgan grow used to the gentle up and down motion over the small waves then dashed down the steps to the cabin.

Donna hadn’t moved. He snatched her bikini top from the floor and threw it at her. “C’mon, we’ve got to get back.” She threw the top back at him, rolled out of the bunk and began to put her swimming suit back on. Cole watched her slide on the bottom of her suit, then position her top and tie the straps. Satisfied she wasn’t going to be naked when they arrived at the dock he returned to the ship’s wheel. In forty minutes they were back at the Charlevoix marina. Donna was offloaded with the usual drama and thirty minutes later he was securing the sailboat to the dock next to his boathouse.

It was dark as Cole walked up the dock and crossed the short yellow sand filled space to the backyard gate. The gate was open. This was unusual since Elaine’s stupid dog wouldn’t stay anywhere near the house if given half a chance. In fact, many times Cole had thought about leaving the gate wide open. But, it was an innocent dog and he wasn’t that cruel.

He closed the gate and began walking to the house. The curtains were open in every room. That was odd too. All the lights were on, but something…something wasn’t right.

“What the hell!” Cole exploded. In the glare of the porch lights and the fading daylight he could see large truck tire marks pressed into the grass. Cole dashed up the steps of his full length porch and attempted to open the back door. It was locked. It was never locked. He didn’t even carry a back door key. Cole swore then ran to the front of the house. Something was very wrong here.

An official looking notice was taped to the front door. At the top, in bold red letters were the words “Notice of Eviction” and “County Sheriff.”

Cole was stunned. “What the hell is this?” he shouted and ripped the paper from the door. No one had ever said anything about the house before. He thought he would have time. They didn’t just throw a man out of his house with no warning. There had been no warnings, no letters from that damned bank, nothing.

He unlocked the front door. The floor was bare. A large oval rug was supposed to be right here. He walked from room to room. The house was empty. No furniture, no wife, nothing. The only things remaining were the dust balls.

Slowly the enormity of what had happened overwhelmed him. “No, no, no…awwwww shit.” Cole slowly sat on the cold hallway floor.

A while later, he wasn’t sure how much of a while later, Cole found himself in the kitchen. On the counter was a wicker basket. Mail spilled off the top and onto the counter. Cole pinched off a stack of a dozen or so letters and began examining them. They were from the bank, collection agencies and the mortgage company. Some of the letters were over a year old.

He grabbed an official looking letter from the top of the pile and tore it open. It was a notice of non-payment of mortgage. The letter was dated two months ago and signed by Alan Wisecup. Cole picked another letter off the pile and tore it open. It was another notice of non-payment, only this one was four months old. This letter was also signed by Alan Wisecup.

He was doing it. The little sonofabitch was doing it, he was taking his house and his furniture and…everything!

Cole began to picture Elaine. She would scream and throw her little rich side of Grand Rapids high and mighty temper tantrum. She would make a scene that Hollywood would be proud of.

He focused on the first letter. This didn’t make sense. They had been making the house payments. How could these letters be so old? Why hadn’t he seen them? Cole slammed a fist down on the counter top. Then he noticed a handwritten note which had fallen off the pile and lay next to the basket. He picked it up; it was in the ornate scroll of Elaine.

Slumped against the counter Cole read, “Here’s your mail. I picked it up while you were out with your little girlfriends. Seems like I forgot to give it to you for the past couple of months. Screw you.”

Stunned, he reread the note. Disbelief then anger swept over him. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball and threw it against the wall. The bitch! She’d kept all the notices secret. She’d never said a word. She’d just kept being her up-town-tight-ass-self and never said a word!

And Wisecup. It was Wisecup that had corrupted his wife. He could see Wisecup now, plotting with her, scheming to take everything from him.

Cole walked through the house again. Nothing.

This was Wisecup’s fault. The little bastard had done it. He’d gotten everything! His business, his house, even his wife. The man was a thief, a cheat and a liar. He leaned the back of his head against the kitchen wall and slid to the floor. His chin sank to his chest. Anger washed over him. Then sorrow, desperation and finally an overwhelming sense of failure. Not about his marriage. “Screw her!” No, Cole was going to be exposed for the failure he was. His biggest fear was being found out to be a fake. Now, it was laid out for all to see. He’d lost everything. Cole looked around the empty kitchen and began to sob.

Slowly, painfully, Cole forced himself to stop. He crawled up the wall to his feet. Cole studied the kitchen for a moment, the cabinets, the refrigerator, and lastly the pile of letters on the counter. He walked through the downstairs, each room as empty as it had been thirty minutes ago. Cole walked out of the front door, leaving it open, the house lights blazing. He stood on the porch, examining the door lights, then the railing.

Finally, Cole crossed the front yard to the street. He carefully selected a stone from the shoulder of the road, turned and was about to hurl it through the front window when headlights appeared in the distance.

Cole stopped and examined the lights. Probably the cops, how would he explain breaking his own window? He studied the big picture window again. This was stupid, why hurl a stone at his own house? It was his, not the banks, he would get it back. And, he knew just the man who could fix all this.

Chapter 37

The flight back to Detroit gave Jim and Eve time to review the treasure trove of documents they had purchased from the museum. Shortly after takeoff Jim pulled his backpack from under the seat. He fished through the bundle of drawings, eventually selecting one and removed the document. Jim then unfolded the 30 x 42 inch Chris-Craft blue print. The document expanded and consumed the fold down tray in front of Jim’s seat, then flowed over into Eve’s seat. A quick elbow to his side convinced him that his wife wasn’t THAT understanding.

Jim refolded the blueprint to a 12 x 12 square and began to study. After a moment he realized it was pointless, he couldn’t tell what he was looking at. There was no perspective in such a small view. With a heavy, staged, sigh Jim refolded the blueprint and shoved it back in his backpack. He turned to look out the window. The airplane was in a cloud. Giving in to boredom he turned to Eve.

“So what are you looking at?” he whispered.

“Well, I was trying to read the “hull card.” Then some goof put a big sheet of paper under my nose so I couldn’t see. When the big oaf finally moved the sheet out of the way he started talking to me while I was trying to read,” Eve whispered.

“The nerve of some people.” Jim leaned in to examine the hull card in Eve’s hand.

“This is pretty interesting,” she said to Jim in a low voice. “It contains a list of all the equipment installed on the boat.”

“You’re kidding! That’s great! Does it give a brand name or manufacturer? We can use that information to find duplicates or reproductions.”

“For some of the stuff. There’s the name of the boat dealer. And the original name of the boat.” Eve pointed at the dealer’s instructions. “Did you know the boat was originally called “Volstead Act”. That’s not the name on the back of it now is it?”

Jim’s eyebrows went up. “No. Now its got some funny name like Burgoo King.” He thought a moment. “Volstead Act, that phrase is familiar, I just can’t remember. Sounds like the name of a play or something.”

They continued pouring over the treasure trove of documents, cards and drawings for the remainder of the flight. The aircraft landed at Detroit’s Metro airport on time and in twenty minutes they had recovered their luggage and found the Jeep.

“Jim, we’re right next to the city. Let’s drive over to the Great Lakes Museum and see if they have anything on the boat.”

“Why would they have anything?” Jim asked.

“Chris-Crafts are, or at least were, Michigan boats, made near Detroit. And, we know this was a smuggler’s boat so put the two together, might be a reference to the boat there someplace.”

“That makes a lot of sense. Good idea hon, we might get lucky,” Jim agreed.

“Good, but first we’ll need to get lunch and we should probably check into a hotel right away.” Eve grinned at Jim.

“I should have seen that coming! How can you stay so slim and eat so much? And who said anything about staying the night?” Jim demanded.

“I’m a high energy kind of gal. Plus, I workout so I can indulge every once in a while.” She smiled. “And, right now I want a good Coney Island. And, let’s stay at that B&B in Grosse Pointe.”

Two hours later, their rooms secured and lunch complete Jim and Eve drove to Belle Isle and the Dossin Great Lakes Museum. Walking past the two cannons mounted in front of the museum door Jim suddenly stopped. “You know, we don’t have an appointment. Who should we ask for?”

“I guess the public relations guy.”

“Okay, sounds good to me. Let’s give it a try. Just be prepared, we might be out of luck.”

After explaining the purpose of their visit to the young man at the front desk Jim and Eve were told they could visit with a Mr. Mike Meier, director of public relations.

Ten minutes later a man with a bushy black beard broken by a large smile and booming voice greeted them from across the lobby. Jim and Eve liked the man instantly. Mike escorted them to his office at the rear of the museum.

“Before we get to business can I offer you anything? We have coffee, tea, water or pop.”

Eve was from Boston and not being a native Michigander always grinned at the word “pop”. In Boston, where she was from, it was called “soda.”

“I’ll take a Pepsi if you have one please.” Eve said.

Mike grabbed a can and glass of ice from the kitchen area across from his office, gave it to Eve, then said; “I understand you have a fascinating story to tell.”

“Well, I don’t know if it’s fascinating, but it is a little odd and we could use your help.” With that, Jim began to tell Mike about the recently discovered boat. After ten minutes Jim concluded by saying, “So, we know the original name of the boat was Volstead Act and we are fairly certain it was a smuggling boat. We’re guessing it was used in the Detroit area because that’s where most of the smuggling was conducted. Now, we are sort of hoping your museum would have more information.”

“Chris-Crafts are a sort of institution around here, but I don’t know that we would have any information on a specific boat. We don’t keep records on every boat used along the Detroit waterfront. That simply would be too many and, really, most were not that remarkable. We have limited space you know. Why do you think we’d have any information on this one?”

“I, well, we, really don’t have any specific reason. Just that this boat was converted to smuggle booze and maybe you would have some police record or Coast Guard record which mentions it,” Jim answered.

“We don’t have any police records, but we do have some Coast Guard records. They aren’t all digitized; some are still on microfilm. It will take several hours to look through everything. Look, it’s pretty slow this week. I wouldn’t normally do this, but I can set you up in a research office. You could use that for a few days if that would be of help.”

Jim was disappointed. He certainly didn’t want to drive from their house in the middle part of the state to Detroit more than he needed to, but this seemed as good an offer as they could hope for. He glanced at Eve, she nodded her head and Jim extended his hand. “Deal,” he said.

Mike walked them through several hallways, then behind and between exhibits until they came to a set of four small offices, each with a plain desk and two chairs. He slid a cardboard card into a nameplate holder on the third door and handed Jim the key. “This is it. Yours for one week.”

Jim and Eve peeked in the office, took in the Spartan walls and total lack of pictures or decorations then glanced at each other. Eve deadpanned, “I don’t know, a little paint, a few flowers, couple of throw pillows…” quoting one of her favorite movies.

Finished inspecting their new office they accompanied Mike to a room with several rows of five drawer file cabinets. There they met Mrs. Irene Bell, a small gray haired woman who Mike introduced as the museum’s librarian. Irene quickly instructed Jim and Eve on the filing system used at the museum and ensured they understood that she and she alone would access and handle documents.

Jim wondered if this arrangement would work, but decided not to say anything, having already received far more cooperation than he expected. Irene then gave Eve a pamphlet which described how to access the museum’s computerized records from the Internet. Irene then assigned a temporary password and user ID for them to use.

Eve quickly reviewed the pamphlet, asked a few questions and pronounced herself ready. By now the museum was approaching its closing time, and they noticed several of the museum employees tidying up their desks and eyeing the clock. Jim and Eve made arrangements to return and exited the building.