The Sleuth Sisters (5 page)

“Your uncle.”

“He needed help putting boats and the dock in, dressing deer, like that. I’m pretty strong.” Almost defiantly he glanced at the arm, lifeless as an ax handle.

“So how did you come to own the place?”

Kimball spoke in the peculiar sing-song quality of Yooper speech, a leftover from the area’s Scandinavian settlers. “Haike went to live in Arizona. Drier climate.” He dragged out the “o” in the state’s name and seemed to think of it as a foreign land. To him it probably was.

He went on, his voice betraying fondness for the old man. “He sold it to me cheap, wanted somebody that would live here, not some club that leaves it empty most times.” The odd face changed subtly. “I like it, away from people.”

It was easy to understand the choice to avoid the curious stares and pitying comments he’d probably dealt with daily. Here Kimball could forget his physical problems, adapting to his disabilities until he didn’t have to think about them much. His uncle had done him a real favor.

“In November six years ago,” Barb prompted, “a man might have come here from the Lower Peninsula who wasn’t equipped very well for hunting. His wife and her brother were murdered, and the police think he did it.”

Kimball bit a rather grubby fingernail, looked at it, and rubbed it on his flannel shirt. “November’s busy. Lotsa guys come.”

“This one was new, hadn’t been here before.”

“Why would he come here?”

I pulled a copy of the newspaper ad and a picture of Neil Brown from my jacket pocket and passed them to him. “His sister found your ad in a book. The police thought he went south at the time, but we think he might have had this place in mind.”

Kimball looked at the picture for some time. “I don’t know that guy.”

I stuffed the papers into my jacket again and sighed. “A long trip for nothing, I guess.”

“Is there anyone else around here we might speak with?” Kimball shot Barb a look and she added hastily, “I’m not saying we don’t believe you, Mr. Kimball, but he would have interacted with as few people as possible. Kept to himself, you know?”

“Yeah.” Kimball thought about it. I got the sense he thought things over carefully before saying them, a luxury afforded to those who deal mostly with deer and squirrels. “Most people been here all their lives. Ask anyone.”

Barb seemed disappointed at the generality of the suggestion. “Okay, thanks.”

Kimball rose to go. “Anything else you need?”

“No, we’ll be fine, thanks,” I answered, not allowing Barb the chance to suggest a better mattress, a microwave, and water that didn’t require physical effort with a hand pump.

Kimball emptied the remains of the cocoa equally into our two cups and replaced the stopper and cover. He seemed to sense that leave-taking pleasantries were required but couldn’t quite get the phrasing. “Fire’s good for the night.” With that he left, pulling the slightly warped door closed behind him with a scrape.

We sat silent until we heard the door of the main house close a few seconds later. Barb raised her cup in salute. “Our gracious host!”

“He isn’t so bad,” I countered. “Just not used to being in the company of ladies.”

“Being in company, period. The guy can barely put a sentence together.”

“Can you blame him? People treat him like he’s a freak, so he avoids them. He was actually quite concerned for our comfort.”

She glanced around. “This won’t rank with a stay on the Riviera, I can tell you that.”

“The only Riviera you even got close to is the hotel in Vegas,” I countered.

“True.” Draining her cup, she set it down. “We’ll stop on the way home tomorrow and show the picture around. Maybe someone at a gas station or a party store will remember Brown.”

“Okay, but the person most likely to remember him was Kimball. During hunting season, he could have stayed here for weeks without raising suspicion.”

Barb looked around at the shadowed knotty pine and shivered at the thought. “I suppose you’re right. This was the perfect place to plan his next move.”

“We can’t be sure he came here.”

“But I think he did.”

“His truck was a couple hundred miles south of here, in Port Huron.”

“Up here, no one questions strangers during hunting season. Who’d know where he came from or where he went when he left?”

“How’d he get the truck down there?”

“Drove it there and backtracked, maybe. Or he paid someone else to do it.”

“Who?”

“I’m just theorizing,” she said impatiently. “Meredith might have a guess. Let’s see if anyone remembers Brown being up here. That would help.”

After a not-too-uncomfortable night we left Buck Lake and started for home. On the way we stopped at several businesses, but everywhere we showed the picture we got shrugs and negatives. Barb was clearly disgusted, whether because she’d really thought we’d find Neil or because she’d driven to the U.P. for nothing.

Something odd happened that had nothing to do with Mr. Brown. We entered a party store/gas station with our photo and our questions, and as we went in, I elbowed Barb and snickered at a sign taped to the counter.
Puppy’s free to good home
. I’m not the world’s best speller, but I caught that one.

We showed the photo to the girl behind the counter, got nowhere, and turned to leave. “Go ahead,” Barb said. “I’m going to get a water.”

“You’ve got one already.”

“It’s warm.”

At the car I remembered I was almost out of cigarettes. I went back inside, got a pack, and went to the counter to pay. The sign now read,
Puppies free to good home
. Heavy black letters had been written over the incorrect ones with a marker.

“Did you point out the spelling error?” I asked Barb as we left the store.

“I never correct people.” She uncapped the water bottle. “She must’ve caught it herself.”

We continued our quest, stopping periodically to show Neil Brown’s picture. Nothing. I stared out the window at Lake Michigan’s beautiful, rocky shore. “It was a faint hope, I guess.”

Barb concentrated on navigating the always-tricky traffic. Despite plentiful passing lanes, there’s a constant game of Involuntary Chicken on US2, initiated by idiots too impatient to wait for the next one. At the same time, a second game called Pass-Then-Slow-Down is played. Drivers pass via the extra lane then slow to fifty miles per hour when it disappears. Barb made some decidedly un-lawyerly comments about being an unwilling participant in both games.

“We’ll go home and start again,” she said as she passed an ancient Ford pickup for the second time. “We’ll find something the police missed.”

“Neil must have had someone he could ask for help.”

She pulled in just as the passing lane came to an end, and I tried not to cringe. “What if Neil traded cars with someone and had him leave the truck where the police would find it?”

“But then he’d have the other person’s vehicle.”

“The guy picks it up later.”

“Then that person would know where Neil went.”

“Initially, but Neil severs contact, maybe takes a bus from wherever he leaves the car.”

“Could it have been Meredith?”

“I doubt it. It sounds like Brown didn’t want his baby sister involved in his troubles. Besides, she’d have told us. If she wants to find him, she has to be completely honest.”

“So we find out who his friends were.”

“Right. Especially his best friend. That’s who he might have turned to.”

Chapter Five

Barb

Back in Allport, a call to Meredith gave us three names. “Neil called them his Musketeers,” she told me. “Amos, Portly, and Hairless.” She chuckled, explaining. “Amos is Amos Carroll, who worked with Neil in construction. Portly is John Mason, who is a little . . .”

“Portly?”

“Yes. The last guy, who is of course bald, is Rick Waller, who’s in real estate. They played ball in school and stayed connected like guys do: softball, poker, and golf foursomes.”

“Who would Neil call if he needed someone he could trust to keep his mouth shut?”

Meredith considered it for only a second. “John is a guy who’d take your secret to the grave. But the police really put him through the ringer, and they got nothing.”

“I’ll start with him. Are they all in the book?”

“Yes, but there are a dozen John Masons. Neil’s friend owns the Party Stop on Main.”

I called the number listed for the Party Stop and got John. When I explained my purpose, the voice changed from cordial to distant. “I’ve got nothing to say about Neil.”

“Mr. Mason, Meredith hired us to find her brother and try to prove he’s innocent of killing his wife and brother-in-law.”

“Shouldn’t be hard, because he is innocent. I told the police that at the time.”

“They didn’t believe you?”

“They weren’t looking for the truth. They swallowed everything old man Wozniak said.”

“What might the truth be?”

Mason paused. “I don’t know. But Neil wouldn’t kill anyone, especially Carina.”

“He still loved her?”

Mason seemed uncomfortable with analyzing emotions. “He’d never hurt her.”

“Do you mind if I stop by, so we can talk in person?” I wanted to see Mason’s face when I mentioned Buck Lake, wanted to watch his expressions as he talked about Neil.

“There’s nothing I can tell you.”

“Probably not, but I have to do what I can for my client.” I figured he couldn’t refuse to help Neil’s little sister, and I was right. He gave me directions to his store.

Fifteen minutes later I pulled up alongside the Party Stop, a cement-block building with products listed on every conceivable surface: the windows, the roof, the side wall, and even a movable posting board out front. It was the usual mix of goods: beer, fishing licenses, hot pretzels, ice, and, of course in a town on a large lake, bait. I noted with approval that everything was spelled correctly. No midnight visit from the Grammar Police needed here.

The store was claustrophobia inducing, with shelves along every wall and even overhead, like looming eavesdroppers. The aisles were filled with objects, some of them dusty from long occupancy. Coolers lined one whole wall, giving off an eerie, bluish light. The sales counter was at the back, a mistake in my opinion, but I soon saw the reason. In a room behind it, a television flickered. Mason probably spent a lot of time there between customers. At least he’d had the sense to install convex mirrors in the corners and two strategically placed surveillance cameras.

“I always work Friday nights,” Mason told me. The guy had probably once been athletic, but all the muscle had melted into his middle and he looked soft. His dark hair was already speckled with gray and his mouth turned downward, either from genetic predisposition or life’s accumulating disappointments. “I didn’t hear about the whole mess until the next day.”

“When did you last see Neil?”

“He came over that week for Monday night football. Amos was here too.”

“And the other guy? The one Neil called Hairless?”

“Rick’s wife was pregnant. She had the kid that Friday, the day Carina died.”

A guy whose wife was in labor was unlikely to help with an escape. “Where was Amos?”

“Home alone. Amos is divorced, at least he was then. He’s had a wife and a half since.”

“Meaning?”

“A two-year marriage and a bride-to-be in the wings.” He grimaced. “When Amos gets the urge, he should just find a woman he doesn’t like and buy her a house.”

“Amos was a good friend to Neil, though?”

Mason saw where I was heading. “Amos would be the last person to call if you need someone to keep his mouth shut. The guy couldn’t keep a secret if you put it in a vault for him.”

“But you could if it was important to Neil, right?”

He looked me straight in the eye. “I could, but I didn’t.”

“Have you ever heard of the Buck Lake Resort?”

I watched as he considered it. “I don’t think so. There’s something called Buck Lodge down by Pinconning, I think.”

Sensing no falsity, I moved to the next question. “Are you married, Mr. Mason?”

“Yeah. My wife works at Emergency Services. Lousy pay, but she gets benefits.”

“Important,” I allowed. “Was she with you that Friday?”

His expression turned irritated. “She got home around seven fifteen and found me minding the store. Does that satisfy you?”

“Yes, thanks.” I bought a soda and a can of Pringles as a conciliatory gesture. Mason rang it up and handed over my change without further comment. I left feeling he was angry about losing a friend, about being questioned and re-questioned on the subject, and maybe about being left out of Neil Brown’s life for the last six years.

As long as I was out, I decided to locate Amos Carroll. Even if he hadn’t gotten a call from Neil that night, I wanted to see what I could learn from a guy who didn’t understand the concept of secrets. I planned to leave a message, but Amos answered my call. When I asked if he was busy, he laughed. “Nobody in the construction business is busy these days. We ain’t building nothing but birdhouses.”

Putting the address he gave me into my GPS, I drove out of the city until ordered to turn right. The house, situated at an angle to the road, was obviously a labor of love. Carroll saw me coming and stepped onto the porch wearing jeans, a faded Michigan sweatshirt with the sleeves and neckband cut off, and grungy white socks. He was under average height but stocky, and I could imagine him easily hefting a bundle of shingles onto a roof. His hand was scratchy with calluses, and his grin furrowed deep lines in his face. Lots of hours in the sun, lots of smiles.

Carroll seemed okay with being questioned, even happy that someone wanted to listen to him. “Neil,” he said, wagging his head sadly when I told him my purpose. “Neil was the best.”

“You don’t think he killed his wife?”

Amos shook his head as if I’d said something silly. “Neil loved that girl. And to tell you the truth, none of us could see why. I mean, yeah, she was pretty, but it ain’t worth it, y’know? Puttin’ up with all that sh—uh, stuff.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I s’pose some drifter noticed her, y’know?” He flushed. “Like I said, she was pretty.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, her brother probably tried to help her and got killed.”

“But Neil’s skin was under her fingernails.”

“I figure he came in and tried to help Carina. She was hurt, and she scratched him.”

“Then why did he run?”

“Her old man hated Neil. If Wozniak wanted him arrested, it woulda happened.”

I tried to put myself in Neil Brown’s place. His wife was dead; at least he thought she was. Her brother too. His father-in-law was on the way. If I were innocent of the crimes, would I stay and try to prove it or run, as he had?

The thought was still with me that night when I left the house in my black running suit. Since coming to Allport I’d come to understand the desire to hide one’s activities—one’s crimes—and the panic that rises at the thought of apprehension. Fear makes one do odd things.

Of course, I wasn’t murdering anyone. My crimes stemmed from a need for correctness and other people’s lack of caring about it. For years, sloppiness in English language usage had bugged me, and of late it had taken me over the line. I knew my forays into vandalism were illegal. Despite the fact that I acted for a good cause, I was breaking the law when, late that night, I crept up to Allport’s Medicine House Pharmacy and went to work on their sign.

My work took longer than planned. First, cars kept going by and I had to retreat into the shadows until they disappeared. Second, I had to fix three errors, turning “magizines” into
magazines
, “greeting card’s” into
greeting cards
, and “candys” into
candies
. The last one took some doing, since I had to squeeze in the correct letters. It felt really good when I finished, and I stood back to take a look at the sign, which was now, if not perfect, at least correct.

I screwed the lids on the paint jars, sealed my brushes in plastic bags, stowed it all in my backpack, climbed from the porch roof to the shed to a trash barrel to the ground, and started for my car. I was more than surprised when I collided with another person at the corner of the building. What the heck was he doing here at this time of night?

“What are you doing here at this time of night?” The man, who had grabbed me to prevent us both from falling, released my arms and stepped back.

“Walking.” I’d thought about this moment, about the possibility of getting caught at my little game, and decided that an old excuse was the best one. “I couldn’t sleep.”

His answering grunt indicated neither belief nor disbelief. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

A car passed, illuminating us in its headlights. He was about my age, tall, dark hair sprinkled with silver, and crow’s feet around dark eyes. Native American ancestry, maybe. Other than a slightly thick waist, he looked fit. What conclusions was he was drawing about me?

I got no indication from his next comment. “It’s probably not safe to be walking the streets alone at this hour.”

“I’m on my way home now.” My voice sounded false, but the guy had nothing to compare it to, so how would he know? I thought about saying he wasn’t safe either, but I sensed he’d laugh at that. His manner indicated certainty of his ability to handle just about anything. Muttering an apology, I continued on my way.

He watched me go, which meant I had to go all the way around the block to reach my car. A woman out for a walk has to walk. I was thankful the guy hadn’t come along a few minutes sooner and caught me with paint and brushes in hand. How would I have explained that?

My crusade was a little crazy and I knew it, but somehow I couldn’t stop myself. My life as an attorney had brought some successes, a lot of failures. In my night-time ventures, I always won, even if I was the only one who noticed. The Grammar Guru, the Spelling Star, the Punctuation Perfecter. That was me.