Bear Bones

by Charles Cutter

  They turned in the circle drive in front of the farmhouse. The driveway ran on past the house to the outbuildings, a white barn and sheds all with red trim. Just like the farmhouse, which didn’t look like any farmhouse Burr had ever seen. Two stories with three gables, the center the largest, with white siding, cherry shutters and leaded windows. A stone fireplace at each end of the house. “Zeke,” he said to his aging yellow lab, “there’s money in cherries.” Burr had been here before and had said this before, but there was nothing quite like Morningside.

  They parked in the circle drive, and Tommy led them up the walk past an army of annuals: petunias, marigolds, impatiens and snapdragons lined up in rows and columns like soldiers at attention. They were a riot of color, but the orderliness of it all made Burr nervous.

  They sat in the breakfast room at a maple table with spindle legs and matching chairs. The room faced east and looked out onto a lawn with forty-foot sugar maples. The window was framed with Christmas lights, C-9s, the big old-fashioned kind that didn’t blink. Red, orange, blue, green and yellow.

  Tommy plugged in the lights.

  “No, Tommy. They remind me of Helen,” Karen said.

  “That’s why I plugged them in.”

  A pair of cardinals picked at sunflower seeds from a platform feeder. Three chicks, just fledged, sat on the top of the feeder demanding to be fed.

  “I don’t like coming here,” Karen said, “now that Helen’s not here.”

  “Isn’t it time to get the cherries in?” Lauren said. “Before they get blown off.”

  “They’re almost ready,” Tommy said. “Consuela, would you please bring in lunch?” She brought in ham and cheese sandwiches on white with the crusts cut off.

  Thank God. I’m about to expire.

  “The cherries won’t do us any good if they’re on the ground,” Lauren said.

  “We’re getting the shakers out this afternoon.” Tommy started in on his sandwich. Cherry shakers, a contraption that clamped on the trunk of a tree and came within an inch of shaking the tree to death, had changed fruit farming. Two men and a shaker could do in a day what a dozen pickers could do in a week. And a shaker didn’t need room and board. The migrant cabins behind the barns had been empty for fifteen years, but Tommy kept them nicely painted.

  “If we’re going to sell the orchards, it doesn’t matter when they come off,” Karen said.

  “We’re not selling the orchards,” Lauren said. “And we need to get the cherries in.”

  At least she knows her own mind.

  “Unfortunately, we need to talk about getting on with the lawsuit,” Burr said. He took a bite of his sandwich. Swiss cheese and a coarse, sweet mustard.

  This would be even better with a Labatt.

  “I don’t want Helen to be dead,” Karen said.

  Burr put his sandwich down. “I’m sorry, but if we’re going to stay in this lawsuit, we have to have a death certificate.”

  Consuela brought in a pie.

  Cherry, of course.

  “I thought the cherries weren’t ready,” Lauren said.

  Tommy smiled at Lauren again. “I hand-picked these.”

  “I don’t want Helen to be dead,” Karen said again.

  “She must have drowned. What else could have happened?” Tommy said.

  We already plowed this ground.

  “We don’t know that she is dead,” Burr said. “I hope she isn’t. All we know is that she’s missing.” Consuela served him a slice of pie. He looked at it longingly, picked up his fork but paused to speak. “Just because we get a death certificate doesn’t mean Helen is dead. It just means we have a death certificate.”

  Burr couldn’t wait any longer. He took a forkful of pie. The filling oozed around the cherries and dripped off his fork. The crust was light brown. He chewed it slowly.

  “I think it’s bad luck to get a death certificate,” Karen said.

  “It is,” Lauren said.

  “The death certificate is a legal fiction,” Burr said.

  “A what?” Lauren said.

  “A fiction. It doesn’t mean Helen is really dead. It just means that as far as the law is concerned, she is.”

  “Let’s not talk about her being dead,” Karen said.

  “Karen, this is the worst thing that could have ever happened. None of us want this, but the judge in the federal court told Burr that we had to have a death certificate,” Tommy said.

  He has the patience of a saint.

  “I don’t want her to be dead,” Karen said. Again.

  “For God’s sake, Karen, you’ve said that three times,” Lauren said.

  * * *

  A week later, Burr sat at the walnut desk in his office and tap, tap, tapped his Number 2 yellow pencil. Jacob Wertheim, the Wertheim in Lafayette and Wertheim, sat across from Burr in a navy-blue leather wingback chair that matched the chair next to him, the blue leather matching the leather of Burr’s desk chair, which also matched the leather on the couch across the room. On the couch where Zeke was napping.

  “Burr,” Jacob said, “as I have been telling you for the past week, the judge does not have to grant your motion.”

  “Jacob…”

  “It is discretionary.”

  “Helen Lockwood has been missing for over a year. Her boat was found floating off Sleeping Bear. She wasn’t in it.”

  “Just because you want the judge to grant your motion doesn’t mean he has to.”

  Jacob tightened the knot on his tie, a striped tie with peach, mint and baby blue stripes. He had on a starched white shirt and a tan summer-weight linen suit. Jacob was natty. Jacob did the research and the writing for their esoteric appellate practice. He abhorred conflict and public speaking, the two most important qualities a litigator could have, so that’s what Burr did. Jacob spent almost all his time in their law library. Burr thought Jacob could wear his pajamas to work and no one would notice.

  Burr stopped tapping. “I want a death certificate from Judge Weeks.”

  Jacob ran his thumb and forefinger along the knife-sharp crease in his slacks. “I know. We all want something.”

  Burr stood up, walked around his desk and sat down next to Jacob in the twin of his chair.

  “It is so patronizing when you do that,” Jacob said. Mid-forties, shortish but not short, medium build, prominent nose, olive complexion and hair like steel wool with a touch of gray. Jacob twirled his finger through his hair.

  “You always do that when you’re nervous,” Burr said.

  “Do what?”

  “Your hair.”

  Jacob stopped twirling. “I’m not nervous. I just know you’re about to ask me to do something that can’t be done.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “We can’t force Judge Weeks to issue us a death certificate.”

  Burr drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. This somehow woke Zeke, who jumped off the couch. He came over and sat between Burr and Jacob. He licked Jacob’s hand. “Get that cur away from me.”

  “I love that word,” Burr said.

  Jacob took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped off his hand. “He sheds all year round.” Jacob picked an imaginary dog hair off his slacks. “How is that possible?”

  Burr scratched Zeke’s ear. Jacob studied his handkerchief. He started to put it in his pocket, thought better of it, and dropped it in the wastebasket next to Burr’s desk. Zeke trotted back to the couch and resumed his nap.

  “You hurt his feelings,” Burr said.

  “If only I could.”

  At that moment, Eve McGinty, Burr’s longtime, long-suffering legal assistant, walked in from the reception area.

  She was five-five, thin, with chin-length brown hair. She was a year older than Burr, which he never let her forget. She had a hint of crow’s feet, which s
he didn’t like. Burr thought she was pretty for fifty, pretty for any age. She had snow-white teeth and a smile that made Burr melt. She also had ice in her veins.

  “What do you want from poor Jacob this time?”

  “Just a death certificate.”

  She’s twice as smart as I am and three times as sarcastic.

  “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” she said.

  “You see, Jacob,” Burr said, “there is always a way.”

  Eve tugged at her gold hoop earring.

  She only does that when something is wrong.

  “What is it, Eve?”

  She tugged at it again.

  What could possibly be wrong?

  “Has Helen been found?”

  Eve nodded.

  “Where exactly is she?” Burr said.

  “She’s on South Manitou Island.”

  Burr stood. “What’s she doing there?”

  Eve started to reach for her earring. Burr walked over to her and touched her wrist. She pushed his hand away. “I will play with my earring if I want to.”

  “Eve, please. Why is Helen on South Manitou Island?”

  “She’s been there for about a year.”

  It was Jacob’s turn to stand. “What’s she been doing all this time?”

  “She’s been lying in a grave.”

  Eve started out of Burr’s office.

  “Must you be so mysterious?” Jacob said.

  “How do you know all this?” Burr said.

  She stopped and looked back at him. “Her sisters are in the lobby.”

  “Bring them in,” Burr said.

  “I’ll bring them as soon as they catch their breath.” She walked to the door and looked back at him. “The elevator is broken again.”

  Burr walked behind his desk and ran his hands through his hair, front to back. He looked out the window, then sat. “Damn it all.”

  “How can you possibly be surprised? They just had to walk up six flights of stairs.” Jacob said. He ran a thumb and forefinger along one crease in his slacks.

  Burr had bought the rundown Masonic Temple building, circa 1937, when he moved to East Lansing. It was a six-story, skinny, burnt-red brick building right in the middle of downtown East Lansing, with no parking. The realtor had told him it had “great bones”. It just needed a little fixing up, and it would be a great investment. It wasn’t.

  There was a restaurant on the first floor, a few shops on the mezzanine. His offices and living quarters were on the top floor. Everything in-between was empty. The restaurant, Michelangelo’s, was northern Italian and quite good, but the restaurateur was chronically behind on the rent.

  “That elevator has nearly broken me,” Burr said, still looking out the window.

  “It has never worked right.”

  “We don’t need the damn thing.” Burr said. “It’s just us up here.”

  “And your out-of-breath clients.”

  “The building inspector has no sense of fairness.” Burr looked west down Albert Street, Michigan State University campus to his left, fraternities, sororities, and student housing to his right. “It’s a great location,” he said out loud but to himself.

  Eve walked back in. “It’s too bad there’s no parking.”

  Burr turned away from the window. He scowled at Eve.

  “Karen and Lauren have recovered.”

  “Show them in,” Burr said.

  “I don’t think the Leaning Tower of Lafayette has made much of an impression.” Eve disappeared into the reception area, then stood in the doorway and ushered in the sisters Erickson. Karen had on blue jeans, a red top and tennis shoes. Her hair was pulled back. No makeup. Lauren had on a nurse’s uniform white dress, just-above-the-knees, white nylons and shoes that squeaked when she walked.

  “We came to see you as soon as we heard about Helen,” Lauren said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Burr said. He pulled an unhappy Zeke off the couch. “Please sit down,” he said to the sisters. Burr and Jacob pulled their side chairs to the coffee table. “This must be a terrible shock.”

  “Tommy called me and I drove down to the hospital and picked up Lauren.”

  “I’m so glad you came,” Burr said, “but you needn’t have come all this way. I could easily have driven up there.”

  “We didn’t know what else to do,” Karen said.

  “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea?” Burr said.

  “Tea, please,” Karen said.

  “Could I have a glass of water, please?” Lauren smoothed her dress. “You might want to get the elevator fixed.”

  “Eve called about it yesterday, but so far no one has shown up.”

  Eve shot a look at Burr, then left.

  “This must be a terrible shock,” Burr said again. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I can only tell you what Tommy told me,” Karen said.

  “I thought Tommy would be the one to be here,” Burr said.

  “He had to go to the island,” Karen said.

  “To identify the body,” Burr said.

  Both sisters nodded. Lauren started to cry.

  Jacob reached into his left pants pocket for his handkerchief. Then his right.

  Burr leaned over to him and whispered, “You threw it away.”

  “Damn that dog,” Jacob said under his breath.

  “What’s that?” Karen said.

  “Let me get you a Kleenex.” Jacob got up and walked out.

  Eve came back with Karen’s tea and Lauren’s water.

  “I don’t want anything,” Burr said.

  “I didn’t think so.” Eve sat on the edge of the coffee table. “I’m so sorry.”

  Jacob came back with a box of Kleenex and set it on the coffee table in front of Lauren. Her mascara had run down her cheeks. She took a Kleenex and wiped her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Jacob said.

  As soon as we’re all done being sorry, maybe someone will tell me what happened.

  “What do you think happened?” Burr cleared his throat. “This is a terrible tragedy. Do you think you could tell us what happened?”

  Neither sister said anything. Karen handed another Kleenex to Lauren. “Your mascara ran.”

  Burr thought Lauren looked like she had raccoon eyes. She took the Kleenex and wiped her eyes. Burr thought she looked worse than before.

  “Let me help.” Eve took another Kleenex and wiped at the streaks of mascara.

  “A box of Kleenex always comes in handy,” Jacob said.

  Can we please get on with this?

  “Where were we?” Burr said.

  Eve gave Burr a nasty look.

  Karen started again. “The sheriff called Tommy this morning. He said a body had been found on South Manitou Island.”

  “Oh my God,” Jacob said.

  “Where?” Burr said.

  “On the beach,” Karen said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Eve said again.

  “It might not be Helen,” Jacob said.

  “The sheriff asked Tommy to go to the island to see if he could identify the body,” Karen said. She looked at Burr. “We’d like you to go with him.”

  “Me?” Burr said.

  “We don’t want him to be alone,” Lauren said.

  “Of course not,” Eve said.

  “That’s right,” Jacob said.

  “If you leave right now, you can make the afternoon ferry,” Lauren said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Burr and Zeke led Lauren and Karen down the stairs.

  At least they won’t get winded.

  He followed them to their car, then found his Grand Wagoneer a block up on MAC, across the street from St. John’s Catholic Church. He let Zeke in the passenge
r side, then pulled the parking ticket off his windshield and threw it in a trash bin. He started up the Jeep, did a U-turn, turned right on Grand River and headed toward US-127. He had almost a tank full of gas, but he’d have to stop to fill up before Leland. He loved his Grand Wagoneer with the fake wood sides, but when he drove over 45 mph, all four barrels of the carburetor opened up and he could watch the gas gauge fall. Then there was the back window, which never did work right, not to mention the rear wiper, which he broke off before it could break on its own.

  He hoped the body on South Manitou wasn’t Helen’s, but he was afraid it probably was. He looked over at Zeke. “Who else could it be? If it is Helen, at least we can get a death certificate.”

  Just north of Clare, Burr turned onto M-115. The farmland of central Michigan gave way to the woods and swamps of northern Michigan. At Cadillac, he stopped for gas, then took M-37 north. Just before Traverse City, he turned onto the back roads until he got to M-22.

  Burr drove into Leland and parked at the marina, the Leland River to his left, Lake Michigan in front of him. A breakwater protected the small manmade harbor filled with slips. The ferry to the Manitous was tied up on the Leland River. Burr took his foul weather jacket from the Jeep. Zeke, afraid of being left behind, jumped out. “I don’t know if dogs are allowed, old friend, but we’ll give it a try.”

  They walked across the parking lot to the Northern Lights, the fifty-foot ferry with a steel hull painted blue. The ferry had a cabin with a steering station, seats for the passengers and an aft deck open to the weather. Life jackets were strapped to the cabin sides and on the orange life raft on top of the cabin. He heard the diesel pounding and smelled the exhaust over the smell of the fish shanties just upstream.

  One of the deckhands, a young woman in a forest green Park Service uniform and tennis shoes, cast off the bow line. Burr ran over to the boat. “You need a ticket,” said the other deckhand, a young man in need of a shave who was taking tickets at the stern. Burr started to climb aboard. “You need a ticket,” he said again. “The deckhand pointed at a small building on the dock. “Over there.”