Bear Bones

by Charles Cutter

  The cashier punched at the keys again. The drawer opened again. She slammed it again. It dinged twice. Again. “Don’t that beat all,” she said again. She slapped the machine. She looked up at Burr. “There’s no dogs in here.” She had gray hair underneath a hairnet, glasses pushed in through the hairnet and just about the deepest tan Burr had ever seen.

  “Do you have any whitefish?”

  The woman laughed. “All right, he can stay.” She tucked a strand of hair back under the hairnet. “Until somebody else comes in.”

  Burr stuck his hand out. “Burr Lafayette.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I guess that means you’re not going to buy anything.”

  “Actually, I’d like a pound of smoked whitefish and some of those crackers.”

  “That’s best with a cold beer,” she said.

  “Beer makes just about everything better,” Burr said.

  “Don’t I know it.” She reached into one of the glass-fronted coolers and took out three pieces of the smoked whitefish. The smoker had turned the skin a shiny acorn brown. She wrapped it up and weighed it. “Twelve dollars and forty-six cents. Let’s make it twelve even.”

  Burr handed her a twenty.

  “You got the right change?”

  Burr shook his head.

  She handed him the fish. “Just take it. We got more where this came from.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss...”

  “It’s Mrs.” She paused. “Mrs. Larson.”

  “You’re the Larson in ‘Larson’s’?”

  “One of ’em.”

  “Actually, I’m looking for Steve Larson.”

  “You mean Sven?”

  “I thought it was Steve.”

  “I ought to know my own son’s name.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Larson. I understand that your son found Helen Lockwood’s boat out in the lake.”

  “What do you want him for?”

  “I’m Tommy Lockwood’s lawyer.”

  “That whole family thinks they’re special because they figured out how to grow cherries.” The older woman started to punch the keys on the cash register again. She thought better of it and looked back at Burr. “He’s on the Emma B II. He was just tied up here, but he moved. The customers don’t like the smell much.”

  Burr couldn’t imagine how anything could smell stronger than what he was smelling. “How can I find him?”

  “Just look for the seagulls.”

  “Did you know Helen Lockwood?”

  “Everybody knew Helen.”

  “And you liked her?”

  “She was the most pigheaded woman I ever met. Ran that family like she was the Queen of Sheba.”

  I’ve heard that once or twice.

  “What’s the best way to get to the Emma B II?”

  “Go up to the bridge, then walk down the other side. Unless you can walk on water. Which my late husband thought he could do.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “He drowned out there. The first Emma B caught fire out in the lake thirty years ago November. She burned to the water line. He drowned in two hundred feet of water. Thirty mile an hour wind, forty-degree water. A man can’t last long in that. I hate that lake and all this damn whitefish. But a body has to make a living, and Sven won’t do nothing else.”

  Burr reached his hand out again. “I’m so sorry.”

  This time she took it. “Emma Larson,” she said. “Emma B. Larson.”

  Burr, Zeke and the smoked whitefish made their way past more reclaimed shanties, a kite shop, a bookstore, another T-shirt shop. They crossed the river at M-22, just above the three-foot dam that made Lake Leelanau what it was today. They skirted the Falling Waters, a pricey hotel and restaurant, then cut back to the dock on the south side of the river. There were no shops on this side. They passed a thirty-five-foot Sea Ray with a fly bridge, a forty-foot Egg Harbor Sedan, a vintage Christ Craft runabout with a third seat. Then a flock of seagulls swarming over what Burr thought must be the Emma B II. Not that she looked anything like new. She was about thirty feet long, with a fat bow and a broad stern. Her cabin covered the entire hull but was cut away for about six feet on the port side, two-thirds of the way from bow so the nets could be run in and out of the boat. The cabin jogged up about ten feet from the bow. There were windows at that point so the captain could see what he was doing.

  The gulls screeched at Burr and Zeke when they reached the Emma B. “Zeke, sit.” The dog sat. His head followed the gulls as they swarmed above the boat. Up and down, side to side. Back and forth.

  That will keep him busy.

  Burr stuck his head inside the cutaway section. The stench of fish overpowered him. He staggered back onto the dock. Burr was sure he was going to be ill. He started breathing through his mouth.

  A man in his forties stuck his head out. He had short blond hair and a sunburned head that looked like a pincushion. Bright blue eyes squinted in the sun.

  “Sven?” Burr said.

  “Steve.”

  Burr decided that was a question for another day. “My name is Burr Lafayette. I represent Tommy Lockwood.”

  Sven, or was it Steve, nodded at him.

  “I understand you were the one who towed Helen Lockwood’s boat in.”

  “Yeah.”

  The fisherman climbed onto the dock. He had on a black rubber apron that ran up to his neck and yellow boots that came up to his knees. Burr thought he looked like Daffy Duck except that he had forearms the size of Popeye’s and a Paul Bunyan-size chest. He looked Burr up and down with his piercing blue eyes. He gave Burr a smile full of white teeth and stuck his hand out. “Steve Larson. My mother calls me Sven because it’s on my birth certificate. I don’t like it much.”

  Burr shook a giant hand covered in fish slime. He coughed.

  “You got a cold?” Steve said.

  “No,” Burr said.

  “You get used to the smell,” Steve said.

  Burr desperately wanted to wipe his hand on his khakis, but then he’d have to live with the smell the rest of the day. He started to put his hand in his pocket but thought better of it. He had no idea what to do with his hand. Finally, he dropped it to his side, careful not to let it touch his pants.

  “You’re the one who towed Helen Lockwood’s boat in,” Burr said again.

  “Yeah.” Steve wiped his hands on his apron. Burr wished he had done that before they had shaken hands.

  “I saw that boat out in the lake the day before, but I didn’t think much of it. It was out in the lake all the time. The next day, I started paying attention. It was broadside to the waves, rolling in the swells. Drifting. The wind was light. I didn’t think much about it.” Steve scratched at his nose. Burr had an itch himself. He scratched with his right hand and immediately wished he’d used his left.

  “Something wrong?” Steve said.

  Burr shook his head.

  “Anyway, I had nets to pull in, so I didn’t think about it much. Good catch that day. I got ’em on ice and started in, but then I see her boat’s drifting off the dunes. My curiosity gets the best of me, so I go over there. She’s drifting all right. I hail three or four times. No answer. I start to get a little worried so I run up alongside and tie onto her. I go onboard and look around. Key in the ignition in the on position. Not a soul aboard. I go back to the steering station and turn the key. She started right up. Damned if I knew what happened.”

  “Did you see anything wrong?”

  “Wrong? I don’t know. There was a half empty bottle of gin rolling around, a glass with lipstick on it. Cigarette butts in the ashtray.”

  Burr nodded. “Any signs of foul play?”

  “Foul play?”

  “Any signs of violence.” Burr paused. “Or anything that was missing. Something that should have been there that w
asn’t.”

  Sven shook his head no. He scratched his nose again. Burr was tempted to scratch his own nose.

  I wish he wouldn’t do that.

  “Was her purse on the boat?”

  The fisherman nodded.

  “Did you look in it?”

  “Yeah. Seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “Was there anything missing?”

  “Not that I could tell.”

  “Cash, credit cards?”

  “Full of credit cards. A little cash. Driver’s license.”

  “So, nothing out of the ordinary?”

  Sven looked at Burr like he was crazy. “Not unless you think finding a boat drifting in Lake Michigan with no one on board is out of the ordinary.”

  Touché.

  Burr bit his lip. “Anything else?”

  Steve wiped his hands on his rubber apron again. “I’m not sure I was the first one there.”

  Burr cocked his head. “Did you see another boat?”

  “Lots of boats out there.”

  “Did you see any?”

  “It’ll Do was close by.”

  “It’ll Do?”

  “Charter boat out of Frankfort.”

  “Did you see her tied up to Achilles?”

  “She was close by. Could have been before I got there.”

  “Is there something I should know about It’ll Do?”

  “Captain’s a crook is all.”

  “Really? What’s his name?”

  “Danny, Donny, Drury. No, it’s Dilly. That’s what it is.”

  Steve scratched his nose.

  The smell doesn’t bother him at all.

  “But there was nothing missing.”

  “Nothing that I noticed, but I don’t know nothing about what was on that boat.”

  Tommy didn’t say anything about anything missing, but if Tommy killed Helen, he wouldn’t.

  “What do you think happened to Helen Lockwood? And her boat?” Burr said.

  “I think the plan was to set that boat off across the lake. It’s eighty miles to Wisconsin. Good plan. Except the engine stalled out, and there wasn’t much wind, so she drifted around until I brought her in.” Steve, nee Sven, looked down at his calloused hands. “I think whoever killed her tried to make it look like she fell overboard and drowned. But that’s not what happened, is it,” Larson said, not asking.

  “No, it’s not.” Burr’s itch had come back. He used all his willpower not to scratch it.

  “Drowning is what happens out there. All the time.” Larson looked back at his boat, then at Burr. “That’s what happened to my dad. Damn boat caught fire. There’s nothing you can do when the water’s forty degrees. You got twenty minutes with a life jacket to get rescued. You can’t make any money unless you fish alone. Can’t afford a mate. Didn’t matter, though. That would have been two dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” Burr said.

  “My mother wants me to give it up. She’s sure the lake’s gonna get me, too.” Steve climbed back on board his boat. He turned and looked at Burr. “I don’t like ‘Sven.’ That was my father’s name. I figure I got a better chance with Steve.” He disappeared inside.

  Zeke, still mesmerized by swooping and diving gulls, was in no hurry to leave the dock. Burr, for his part, couldn’t get away from the stench quickly enough. Halfway up the dock, Burr blew the air out of his lungs and started breathing through his nose again. “Thank God for fresh air.” By the time they crossed the river, Burr’s appetite had returned. It was well past lunchtime and he was famished. He opened the bag with the whitefish. The smell of smoked fish drifted out of the bag, but the stench from the fish shop and the Emma B II drifted up with the smoked fish. Burr was sure he was going to be ill. He closed the bag and folded it over itself six times. He threw it in the trash and walked into the sandwich shop on the corner of M-22 and the bridge. He ordered roast beef on rye with horseradish, a pickle and a six-pack of Labatt.

  The two of them ate the roast beef sandwich at a picnic table on the lawn by the marina. Burr drank three of the Labatts. He considered a fourth but he didn’t want to dull his senses.

  After lunch he took his car phone out of the Jeep. Back at the picnic table he unzipped the bag, fussed with the antenna, and turned it on. It lit up and beeped a most competent beep.

  “Zeke, this is going to change our lives.” He dialed his office.

  Eve answered on the third ring.

  “Lafayette and Wertheim.”

  “Eve, it’s me. How are you on this fine day?”

  “What?”

  “It’s me, Burr. Seventy-five and sunny. Not a cloud in the sky.”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Burr.”

  “All I hear is static.” She hung up.

  Burr looked at the phone, then dialed again.

  “Lafayette and Wertheim.”

  “Eve, it’s me. Burr.”

  “Who?”

  “Burr. You know, Burr.”

  “Oh. Hello, Burr. You sound like you’re calling from a tornado.”

  “It’s my new car phone. They call this one a bag phone because it’s in a bag and I can take it anywhere. Isn’t it grand?”

  “Grand what?”

  “No, it’s grand. The phone.”

  “I can’t hear you. Now you sound like you’re in a tunnel.”

  “Look, I need you to find out who owns a boat in Frankfort. It’s called It’ll Do.”

  “The what?”

  “The It’ll Do.”

  “It’ll do what?”

  “That’s the name of the boat.”

  “Are we going to get a bill for this thing?”

  “It will make us money.”

  “I can’t hear a thing you’re saying. Why don’t you call me back from a pay phone.” The line went dead.

  Burr cradled the receiver. He zipped the bag and lovingly put it back in his Jeep. “Zeke, there’s just a few bugs to work out. Then we’ll have a whole new way to live. No more being tied down to an office.” Zeke jumped up on the passenger seat and gave Burr a look that made him wonder if the car phone was such a good idea after all.

  Burr started to the ferry. “Come on, Zeke, we’re not done here yet.” Halfway to the ferry, Burr stopped in his tracks. “Damn it all.” Burr watched the Northern Lights motor down the river and out into the big lake. “That was the other reason we came down here.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Burr decided he’d deal with the car phone later and take matters into his own hands about the whereabouts of the It’ll Do. Twenty minutes later, the Jeep passed Port Oneida Road. For the next twenty miles, Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore lay to his right. The road twisted through the woods, on top of the bluff, opening up on the lake every now and then to spectacular views of Lake Michigan hundreds of feet below – and not a guardrail in sight.

  “Zeke, I suppose the park is a good idea. It’s just that it’s not a good idea to take private property to put it together.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Although I suppose the beach property probably should be in the park. Otherwise, there’s a crazy quilt of what’s in and what’s out. I’ll be damned if I’ll ever admit that to anyone other than you.” Burr looked over at Zeke, who had his head out the window. “You’re not listening again, but the orchard is so far away from the beach that it’s silly to put it in the park. It’s that damned Sleeper. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be in court. But then if we weren’t in court, I wouldn’t have a client.”

  Burr drummed his fingers again. “I suppose all is right with the world.” He looked back at Zeke, who still wasn’t paying attention. “I was doing just fine defending Helen and her sisters’ claims to keeping the farm. We’ve been paid handsomely so far, but now I wonder if I’m defending a
murderer.”

  They left the park and, in another ten miles, drove into Frankfort. They were on the north side of Betsie Lake, near the channel to the big lake about thirty miles north of where M-22 began. Not big enough to have a stoplight but bigger than Leland and big enough to have a movie theater. He parked at the city marina and looked for It’ll Do but couldn’t find her anywhere. Finally, he asked the harbormaster, who pointed across the water. Back in the Jeep, they crossed the bridge over the Betsie and drove down the Elberta side, the poor cousin to Frankfort on the other side of the lake that lay between the river proper and Lake Michigan. They passed the Cabbage Shed, a trendy, two story restaurant that had once been a warehouse and stored cabbage from top to bottom. It hung on to a dock that looked like it might collapse at any moment, then an abandoned car ferry tied to a dock in about the same shape, and then three or four charter boats. As luck would have it, It’ll Do bobbed in the water. Burr parked the Jeep and, as luck would further have it, he saw a man on the dock next to the boat who Burr thought surely must be the captain.

  As luck wouldn’t have it, the captain had on a black rubber apron like Larson’s and was wielding a knife that could have been the blade on a guillotine. He was cleaning a fish. Gulls circled and the stench pushed Burr back a step. “Not again.” He took a deep breath and walked up to the fish cleaner. “Are you the captain?”

  “Sure am.” He stuck his hand out. “Captain Lester Dillworth. Everybody calls me Dilly.” Burr clenched his teeth and shook Dilly’s hand. He didn’t have Sven’s grip, but his hand had the same fishy smell. Burr took his hand back and fought off another almost uncontrollable urge to rub his hand on his khakis.

  “You want to sign up for a charter? The cohos are coming up the lake.” The fisherman nodded to the lake. Burr saw brown eyes flash under his “It’ll Do” baseball hat. His nose stuck out from under the bill and looked like it was on at least its third peel of the summer. Burr thought Dilly must be about fifty. Broad shoulders and chest and a big belly. Dilly pulled a Stroh’s from a cooler at his feet.