* * *
After dinner, they walked hand-in-hand toward the big lake. They stopped on the M-22 bridge at the three-foot dam below them, which kept the water level in Lake Leelanau just so and kept the cottagers’ cottages and their beaches just so and oh, so pricy. Burr looked down the river at Fishtown and Lake Michigan, the sun just above the horizon casting an orange glow on the blue water. What was left of the dying wind brushed against their faces.
How could there possibly have been a murder here?
They crossed the bridge, walked into the hotel and took the stairs to their second-floor room at Falling Waters, Leland’s tony hotel. Burr preferred the Riverside Inn, but bathrooms down the hall would never do tonight.
Burr joined Maggie on the balcony of their room. She leaned over the railing and looked at the river, not quite so lazy as it poured over the dam. She had on a short, sleeveless sapphire dress, tucked at the waist, strappy wedge sandals and dangly silver earrings. Burr put his hands around her waist. She turned and looked at him with her sky-blue eyes. Eyes the same color as his. She kissed him full on the lips, then turned back to the river and leaned over the balcony again.
“This is so lovely.”
It is as long as the Lafayette and Wertheim credit card holds out.
“I love the sound of the water.”
“I do, too.” Burr thought it sounded like a ringing in his ears.
Maggie leaned farther over the railing. “Burr…”
“Yes.”
“Let’s do it here.”
“Do what?”
“Make love.”
He took her by the hand.
“No. Here.”
“Here? Someone will see us.”
“I hope so.”
“I can’t do it here.”
She turned around and put her hand on him. She unzipped his pants and got down on her knees.
“Maggie.”
“It’s almost dark,” she said, mumbling. Burr put his hands on her shoulders, doing his best to give them as much privacy as he could, which wasn’t much. She stood and bent over the railing again. She lifted up the back of her dress and pulled her black satin panties to the side. “Now. Right now.” She backed up against him.
* * *
Burr rode shotgun in Maggie’s black Ford Explorer. He had the window down, and the wind in his face, just like Zeke does, but Zeke was in the care of the dock boy at the marina along with Finn, Maggie’s English Setter.
After breakfast at the Early Bird, an omelet with toast from homemade bread sliced as thick as a filet mignon, she drove south on M-22, what other road would she take, then left on M-109 toward the lake. He had no idea where they were going.
She turned on a freshly paved blacktop, stopped at a booth next to a toll gate and paid the ranger on duty. He opened the gate and in they went.
“Do you know where we are?”
“No.”
“My point exactly.”
Burr cocked his head, just like Zeke.
Maggie drove through a hardwood forest, the woods so thick the canopy covered the road. They drove through a covered bridge.
“Beautiful, isn’t it.”
Burr nodded.
“Do you know where we are now?” She looked at him with her sky-blue eyes, full of daggers.
Burr had a sinking feeling.
“You’re fighting to keep Helen’s farm out of the park, but you don’t even know what the park is.”
“That’s not true.”
She drove up a steep hill and pulled off the road where it overlooked Glen Lake, woods on one side of them, scrub and sand plains below them. She drove on, muttering. They stopped at another turnout. Maggie walked out on a wooden platform built on twenty-foot pilings hanging over the dunes, Lake Michigan hundreds of feet below them. The wind blew from the southwest, a soft summer breeze that made catspaws on the lake. Burr followed her.
“There’s the Manitous,” she said, pointing to the two low-slung islands rising out of the lake off to the north. That’s Sleeping Bear Bay and there’s Pyramid Point, where Port Oneida Trail ends.” She looked at Burr. “Now do you know where we are?”
Burr nodded.
“This is probably the most beautiful place in the whole state.”
She started back to the Explorer. Burr watched her ponytail swing back and forth in time with her hips. He admired her long, lanky legs disappearing into her thigh-length blue jean skirt. He followed her back, dutifully.
Off they went, slowly, through the maple and beech trees, the meadows, marsh and dunes. She looked over at him. “It’s so beautiful here, and you’re fighting over it.”
“I’m not fighting this.”
“It’s all part of the park.” She drove a little further, pulled over again and walked out on another dune platform, this one almost five hundred feet above Lake Michigan. Burr followed again, like a puppy. He stood behind Maggie. She leaned over the railing.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said.
At least we’re not having the “our relationship” talk.
Maggie pointed off to the north. “There’s Sleeping Bear dune. Where the mother bear is sleeping. The wind and water have eroded her away, but if you use your imagination, you can still see her.” She looked at Burr. “I’m sure you knew that.”
“This is beautiful.”
“Then why are you fighting so hard?”
“Because the government is heavy-handed.”
“Is that it?”
“Every client deserves representation.”
“It’s the money, isn’t it?”
There is that.
“And you like to fight.”
That, too.
“This is Pierce Stocking Trail. You must know that by now. It was named after the logger who built the road. He thought it was so beautiful, it needed to be protected.”
Burr put his hands in his pockets. “Actually, he charged his own toll and fought with the government over buying it.”
“You’re hopeless.” She marched back to her Explorer, her tennis shoes slapping on the wood.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Maggie dropped Burr off at his floating headquarters, picked up Finn and left in a bit of a huff. Burr had done his best to make things right, but he thought he was doing the right thing. And he needed the money.
Burr started south on M-22, along Grand Traverse Bay to Traverse City, where the fabled road ended. An hour later, he walked up the sidewalk to what had to be the ugliest building he had ever seen. A four-story, perfectly square, dirty red block building. It had room-size windows that looked like so many peering eyes and an oversized cupola that looked like the head of the beast. Burr thought it an archetype of a building from the Grotesque Revival period. It was the Grand Traverse County Courthouse, which also served as the circuit courts for Leelanau and Antrim counties, which were too small to have their own circuit courts.
Burr found the stairs and climbed to the third floor. The receptionist ushered him into the judge’s chambers. There was an oriental area rug on the hardwood floor, floor-to-ceiling curtains, and overstuffed furniture. Floor and table lamps instead of the fluorescent overhead lights, which were turned off. A single rose in a bud vase perched on the corner of the judge’s desk.
Peter Brooks was sitting across from Judge Mary Fisher, laughing at something she said. The judge looked down at her watch, then up at Burr. “So nice to see you.”
Burr sat down next to Brooks.
Judge Mary Fisher, daughter of Jack Fisher, the namesake at Burr’s former law firm, had been a circuit judge for Grand Traverse, Leelanau, and Antrim counties for fifteen years. She was three years younger than Burr and had never quite forgiven him for not marrying her. Neither had her father.
She’d never have let me name
a son after my dog, and she’d have killed me over Suzanne, if her father didn’t kill me first.
“Burr, are you with us?” the judge said.
“Quite,” Burr said, who wasn’t.
Judge Fisher opened the file in front of her. She brushed a stray blond hair out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. She had a long, thin face, a tan from the Grand Traverse Bay summer, hair pulled back with a clip, and pearl earrings against a black A-line dress and crimson jacket. A pretty woman. Judge-like enough, but barely.
Judge Fisher studied the file. “I see you’ve decided to waive the preliminary exam.”
“That’s right, Mary.”
She looked up at him.
“Judge,” he said. Burr shifted in his chair.
“Why would you do that?”
“I can’t possibly see how my client won’t be formally charged with murder.”
“That’s right, Your Honor,” Brooks said. He ran his hands through his slicked back hair.
“I’d like to hear it from Burr,” the judge said.
“Your Honor, the prosecutor says he has the murder weapon, which he says belongs to my client. He says he has witnesses who saw him board the ferry on the day Helen went missing. And he says my client killed his wife because he wanted to sell Port Oneida Orchards and she didn’t. Respectfully, Your Honor, would you dismiss the charges based on all that?”
“Lafayette really isn’t a criminal lawyer,” Brooks said. “The prosecution will allow him to withdraw his motion.”
Burr ran his thumb and forefinger along the crease in his slacks, just like Jacob – except it was a bit difficult to find the crease in his slacks after they had been in a duffel bag on a boat. “My motion stands.”
Judge Fisher put her lips together like she was smoothing out her lipstick. Burr couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked at him and smiled. “Suit yourself.” She closed the folder.
“There is one other thing, Your Honor,” Brooks said.
“Yes?”
“There is a criminal complaint sworn out against Mr. Lafayette. I hardly think it appropriate that he serve as an officer of this court with that pending.”
“Really?” Judge Fisher said.
“Nonsense, “ Burr said.
“The prosecution asks that counsel for the defense be disqualified pending resolution of the criminal proceeding.”
Burr put his hands on his knees and turned to Brooks. “Alimony isn’t a criminal matter,” Burr said.
“It’s child support,” Brooks said.
Burr stood and looked down at Brooks. “I’ve never been a day late on child support.”
Brooks stood, eye to eye with Burr. “That’s not what your wife’s lawyer says.”
“He’s just stirring things up.”
“Have you posted bond?” Brooks said.
“Boys,” the judge said, “that’s quite enough testosterone. Peter, please leave us. Burr and I are going to have a little talk.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Brooks said. “Lafayette, I’ll file a motion to get you thrown out if I have to.”
“You do that,” Burr said.
“Stop it, both of you. Mr. Brooks, you are excused.” Brooks nodded and left.
“Burr, please sit down.”
Burr sat. He looked at his slacks and searched for a crease on the other leg.
“I think you had that suit when you were at Fisher and Allen.”
“I don’t remember,” Burr said, who did.
This suit is just about as worn out as I am.
“What have you gotten yourself into this time?”
Burr looked up at her. “Which time?”
She laughed. “With Grace.”
“Maury is trying to get more money out of me.”
“Maury Litzenburger.” She nodded. “Are you behind?”
“Not on my child support.”
“Alimony.”
“That’s a civil matter.”
“How far behind?”
Burr counted on the fingers of his left hand. Then he started on his right.
“Never mind,” the judge said. “Please take care of it so I don’t have to deal with Petey.”
Burr nodded at her. He stood to go. She pointed at his chair. Burr sat back down.
“I hope you know what you’re doing. Peter Brooks is a smart man.”
“Judge?”
“Mary.” She pushed the same stray hair behind her ear again. “It’s possible that Petey won’t be able to get all his witnesses here for the trial, especially if it’s in the winter. Then you might just have him.”
“That’s not it.”
“Of course that’s it. And he knows it.”
“There’s nothing to be gained by having a preliminary exam, and I don’t want bad press to spoil the jury pool.”
“Peter’s right, you know. You’ve won a few, but you’re really not a criminal lawyer.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Mary Fisher shook her head. “Burr, Burr, Burr. Things could have been so different.”
Burr didn’t say anything.
“But really … things wouldn’t have been any different. You’re still who you are.”
* * *
Back at the Jeep, Zeke was not happy to see Burr, for about ten seconds. Then all was forgiven. Burr thought better of changing out of his suit and tie in the parking lot of the courthouse and headed around the bay to the state park. He changed his clothes in the community bathhouse and took Zeke to the beach. The aging lab found a stick right away. Burr threw it in the lake for him so many times he thought his arm was going to fall off. “Zeke, if only the affairs of man, including my own, could be so straightforward.”
Zeke sprawled in the back seat all the way back to Northport, snoring softly. Burr rolled down the window and smelled the crisp lake breeze, sand, and wet dog all the way there.
* * *
Burr dodged potholes on the gravel driveway, past picked cherry trees on each side, and two more orchards toward the lake from Port Oneida Orchards. About halfway up the driveway, an old red tractor came at him full tilt. Burr slammed on the brakes. Zeke flew off the seat beside him and landed on the floor. The tractor skidded to a stop just before it crashed into him. The driver waved his arms from side to side at Burr. He had on a baseball hat that might have once been orange. Burr thought he was in his seventies and hadn‘t shaved in at least a week.
“Zeke, it looks like there really is an Old MacDonald, and I don’t think he’s too happy that we’re at his farm.” Zeke climbed back on the seat and barked at the farmer with the flailing arms. Burr got out of the Jeep and walked up to the tractor.
“You get out of here. This is private property.”
“Of course it is, Mr. MacDonald. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.”
“No. Get out.”
If this is what all of the people on Dale Sleeper’s list are like, I’m really in for it.
Burr kicked at the dirt with his shoe. “Mr. MacDonald, my name is Burr Lafayette. I represent…”
MacDonald cut him off. “I know who you are and what you’re doing.”
“Mr. MacDonald…”
The cherry farmer climbed down from the trailer and stood eye-to-eye with Burr. He put his hands on his hips or, rather, his left hand and his right wrist. His right hand was missing.
“Sliced clean off by the belt drive on the shaker.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. MacDonald.”
“Don’t matter. I got another one.” He pointed back down the driveway with his good hand.
“I’m trying to find out who might have wanted Helen Lockwood dead.”
MacDonald took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his stub wrist. “Me and just about ever
ybody else on the border of this damned park.”
“Where were you when Helen was killed?”
“You think I did it? I would’ve but I hate boats.”
“Were you with anyone when she was killed?”
“Three barn cats and …” a German shepherd came running, full speed. “…and Jerry here.” The dog ran right at Burr. Zeke barked from the Jeep.
“Jerry, no.” The dog stopped about a foot from Burr and sat. Old MacDonald looked at Burr. “You’re OK. He don’t bite.” MacDonald smiled at Burr. “Unless I tell him to.”
“That’s comforting.”
“I like a dog that minds,” MacDonald said. “Tommy Lockwood farms circles around me. So did Helen’s father and her grandfather. Their dirt’s better. My best chance is to sell out to the government. Just like everybody else, except some of them damn cottagers have more money than brains. I might have killed her if I had the chance, but not on a boat. I’d a used a rifle in deer season.”
“Was anyone here with you?”
“Nope.” MacDonald looked down at Jerry. “Jerry’s a good dog, but I’m not sure how much longer he can sit still.” MacDonald scratched the German shepherd behind his ear.
“It would be easier if you had an alibi,” Burr said.
“It would be a helluva lot easier if you got the hell out of here, but I’ll tell you who to look at.” He pointed toward Port Oneida Orchards. “Tommy’s the one. You need to look at that.”
“Mr. MacDonald…”
“That’s it.”
“Why would…”
“I said that’s it.” MacDonald climbed back on his tractor. Burr reached up to stop him.
“Jerry, go.”
The dog jumped to his feet and charged Burr. The dog was up to him before he could get away. He put his snout on Burr’s hand – and licked it. MacDonald started up the tractor, turned around and headed back up the driveway.
“That dog never bit no one. Come on, Jerry, let’s go.” The dog trotted after the tractor.
Burr had no sooner gotten into the Jeep when a blue Impala about the same vintage as the tractor bounced and bumped up the driveway, skidding to a stop a foot from his trailer hitch. An older woman hustled out and trotted up to the Jeep. Burr rolled down his window.
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