Bear Bones

by Charles Cutter

  “You must be Mrs. MacDonald.”

  “None other,” said an equally seventyish woman. “Did that old goat get you with Jerry about to bite your head off?”

  Burr nodded.

  “That’s going to backfire on him one of these days.”

  “No harm done. Mrs. MacDonald…”

  “Call me, Ruth.”

  Ruth it is.

  Burr told her who he was and why he was there.

  Mrs. MacDonald leaned on the Jeep. “Tommy loved Helen like, like I don’t know what. He loved her. He followed her around like a puppy dog. He’d no sooner kill her than he’d chop his hand off, which is what that old coot of mine did. Hasn’t been the same since.”

  I can believe that.

  “Now let me tell you about them Sisters of Outrage.”

  “Sisters of Outrage?”

  “Helen and her sisters.”

  Ruth may be loonier that her husband.

  “Them three girls are as different as night and day, but they all got one thing in common.”

  Burr stuck his elbow out of the window to rest his arm on the door.

  “They all want what they want, and they all go about gettin’ it in their own way.”

  “Mrs. MacDonald…”

  “Ruth.” She patted Burr’s elbow. “Don’t let that Karen fool you with her quiet ways. She’s got an iron will, that one. They kick and they scream, and they just stay at it. You oughta hear Lauren lay into the cable company.”

  Sisters of Outrage. That’s a new one.

  Burr smiled at Old MacDonald’s wife. “Ruth, do you have any idea who might have killed Helen?”

  “And one more thing. They might act all lovey-dovey about each other, but they’re sisters just the same.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “It’s called pecking order. And not all of the hens like it.” She turned to go, then turned back to Burr. “Me and Hal had all the reason in the world to get rid of Helen. This farm wasn’t worth much before the government wanted to make a park out of it. Then it was. Now it’s not. We can’t do a thing with it until this mess with Helen and Tommy is settled. Who’d buy it?” She clapped her hands together. Burr jumped. “Sorry. We had all the reason in the world to kill her.”

  “Where were you when Helen went to South Manitou?” Burr said, hoping against hope.

  “With Hal.”

  “He said…”

  “He said three barn cats and Jerry.”

  * * *

  Burr got back on M-22 and turned south. Ten miles down the road, M-22 ran downhill to Lake Michigan. He turned toward the lake and into Glen Haven. He passed five or six buildings, then the road ended at the lake. “Zeke, I could have driven right in.” He turned around and pulled into Land’s End Cabins. Six peeling white cabins with a fresh coat of blue trim. A matching house with a sign that said Office stood at the east end of the cabins. “They look like a hen and her chicks.” Zeke looked longingly out at the lake, hoping that another game of fetch was next. Burr climbed out of the Jeep and walked into the office.

  A woman with henna colored hair and glasses that hung on a chain around her neck stood behind the check-in counter. She picked up a nearly finished cigarette from an ashtray and took a long drag. Her lips puckered around the cigarette. She blew the smoke out of her nose and stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. A haze hung over the office like fog hanging over a lake.

  If this place had a smoke detector, it would have gone off by now.

  “Need a room?” the woman said, hopefully. “Only one left.”

  “Just a few questions.”

  “Questions are for Al.” She lit another cigarette.

  “Al?”

  “I told him not to buy this place. He quit a great job in Warren for this dump. Tool and die. Sold our house, took our savings and bought this place. Said it would be a goldmine as soon as he fixed it up. It’s OK in the summer, but in February … well, February … the only one ever shows up is the snowplow. Al don’t get around like he used to, but he drives in to Traverse and works at a hardware. Me, I’m a cashier at the Frankfort IGA. Some retirement.”

  “I suppose you want to sell to the Park Service.”

  “Are you kidding? I begged that stuffed shirt Dale Sleeper.” She took another long drag, then blew it out.

  “Why haven’t they bought it?”

  “Says he’s not ready. They’re going to make this a historical place, fishing village and lifesaving station, like it used to be.” She tapped her ash. “A lifesaving station, can you believe it? Course the damn road ends right down there.” She nodded with her head. “You could drive right in the damn lake. In the winter, you could drive the ice all the way to Milwaukee. As far as I’m concerned, this is the end of the world.” Then she jerked a thumb toward Point Oneida Road. “He says they got to finish up the road.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They got to buy that big orchard first. Just why do you want to know?”

  “I represent Tommy Lockwood.”

  “You just tell Mr. Tommy Lockwood and his beautiful wife to come down here and see Barb and Al Wyzinski. They can buy this place and I’ll be on my way back to Warren.”

  “Helen Lockwood is dead.”

  “Oh.” Barb Wyzinski stubbed out her cigarette and lit another one.

  I may be ill.

  The reluctant cabin keeper turned around and opened a door behind her. Burr heard Ernie Harwell say something to George Kell. “Al, come on out here a minute.”

  “Trammel’s batting.”

  “Damn him and those Tigers. Can’t win a game this year.”

  A half cigarette later, Al Wyzinski shuffled out with his cane.

  * * *

  Burr retreated to Zeke and the Jeep. He drove to the end of the road, which really did end at the lake, and let Zeke out. Burr took off his shoes and walked to the beach. Zeke showed up with a piece of driftwood the size of a baseball bat. “Zeke, old pal, go find something smaller.” Burr took the stick and sent Zeke off. He took Sleeper’s list out of his pocket and studied it. “I wonder if Sleeper made up this list out of thin air. He must think I’m a fool. Maybe I am.”

  Zeke came back, this time with a baton-size stick. Burr threw it in the water and looked out at the lake, waves running onto the shore, cheerful little waves, one after the other, all in a row. He looked down the beach to the south, to miles and miles of beach, dunes, woods. The same to the north. Lake Michigan, as far as he could see, the lighthouse at Manitou Shoals, South Manitou and North Manitou. He threw the stick for Zeke again. And again. And again. “It’s all out there. Whatever happened, it happened out there.” Burr threw the stick one last time. “It’s so beautiful, but was it worth killing for?” Burr scrunched his toes in the sand. “Somebody thought it was.”

  * * *

  Burr retrieved Zeke from retrieving, and the two pals set off, back the way they came. A mile past Port Oneida Orchards, Burr turned toward the lake again. They passed fruit trees, row after row, then vines wrapped around wire fences. Burr turned in at the sign marked Sleeping Bear Vineyards.

  “Zeke, I may at least get a glass of wine out of this.”

  Burr parked in front of a low-slung, planked building that said “Tasting Room.” He got out of the car. “Here goes nothing.”

  Burr walked into the Sleeping Bear Winery tasting room, a long bar at the back of the room. Half a dozen high-top tables. Windows, opened up to the day, all around. Burr sat at the bar and a sunburned forty-something man with thinning blond hair appeared from the back. “A tasting?” Burr bit his cheek.

  “Of course.”

  The sunburned man reached down below the bar, then raised his arms with two bottles of wine in each hand. He put four wine glasses in front of Burr and poured two fingers of white wine in one of them. />
  “Try this.”

  Burr stuck his hand out. “Burr Lafayette.”

  The man grabbed Burr’s hand. “Joey Maguire. It’s a medium Riesling. Try it.”

  Burr swirled his glass, then sipped. It was sweet. Sickeningly so.

  This is quite possibly the worst wine I’ve ever had.

  Burr swirled his glass again and took another sip. “Very nice. Hints of apricot.”

  “Try this.” Joey poured another white. “It’s a Sauvignon Blanc.”

  Burr tipped his glass.

  This tastes like a wet tennis shoe.

  Another swirl. Another sip. “Grapefruit.”

  “You have a sophisticated palate.”

  “Joey…”

  “This is my estate Chardonnay.” He poured three fingers in Burr’s glass.

  “That’s a generous pour.”

  “Wednesdays are slow, even in August.”

  Burr took as big a swallow as he dared.

  This is the best one so far. Wet grass clippings.

  “Look, Joey, I don’t want to take advantage of your hospitality, but I’m really here on a most urgent matter.”

  Maguire reached under the bar. Burr looked at his shiny, red, bald pate. He popped up with a bottle of red and another glass. He uncorked the bottle and poured Burr a much too generous pour. “What could possibly be so urgent?”

  “I’m here about Helen Lockwood’s murder.”

  “Terrible business.” The winemaker pushed Burr’s glass closer to him. “Drink up.”

  Burr took a swallow.

  This is the worst yet. Sour grape juice with hints of rancid cranberry.

  Burr set his glass down. “Traditional hints of cherry and vanilla with a hint of coffee.”

  “You’re too kind.” Maguire filled Burr’s glass.

  “Joey, my dog is outside in my Jeep, and it’s getting hot. Would you mind if I brought him in?”

  “Bring him in.”

  Burr quite liked the balding winemaker’s style but not his wine. Zeke, delighted to be invited anywhere, curled up under Burr’s bar stool.

  “Where were we?” Maguire said.

  “Helen Lockwood’s murder.”

  “And?”

  “Well.” Burr said, “I was wondering if you killed her.”

  Joey rubbed an eyebrow. “Actually, yes. I did kill her. Again and again. A gun was too good for her. I stabbed her with a stiletto. Then I strangled her with a garotte. Just to make sure she was really dead, I caved her head in with a hammer. Just to make sure.”

  Burr looked down at Zeke, who was looking at Joey, then he looked back at Joey. “I beg your pardon?”

  Maguire poured the rest of Burr’s wine down the sink “We both know this is possibly the most awful wine anyone ever made.” He smiled a forlorn smile at Burr. “This is the 45th parallel, and the temperature is right, but the soil is too fertile and there’s too much rain. It’s just damn hard to make a decent red wine here.” Maguire reached under the bar and brought up two more glasses and another bottle of red, which he uncorked. “Let’s let this breathe for a minute or two.”

  I can’t possibly drink any more of his wine.

  “I’m a dentist. Was a dentist. From Grand Rapids. My only chance is to sell this disaster of a winery to another sucker or have the Park Service buy it.” Joey walked over to the west side of the building and looked out the window. “What a view.” He came back and poured them two big glasses of a garnet-colored wine.

  Burr gritted his teeth.

  “Don’t worry. This is a Russian River Cab. From Sonoma.”

  Burr drank up. It wasn’t open yet, but it actually tasted like wine.

  Joey swirled the wine in his glass and took a sip. “Not quite open but so much better than the grass clippings I make.” The frank winemaker swirled and drank. “This place does OK when I get people in here who don’t know anything about wine. Which is most of them.”

  Burr knew that whatever questioning skills he had, had fallen by the wayside three fingers ago. “So, you didn’t murder Helen Lockwood.”

  “I don’t have the nerve.”

  Maguire wouldn’t let him leave until they walked his vineyard, twenty acres under vine and forty acres of hardwood. Burr then bid his host adieu, fairly certain Maguire wasn’t a murderer and absolutely convinced he was a terrible winemaker.

  * * *

  Burr and Zeke drove back to the marina in Northport. Once aboard Spindrift, Burr pried up one of the floorboards and took out a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir. While it aired, he lit the midships alcohol stove and dumped in a can of Bush’s Original Baked Beans. He sliced two Koegel’s Ballpark Franks into the beans, and sliced two more into Zeke’s dry food. He poured himself a glass of the Pinot and dished himself a generous helping of beans and franks. “Zeke, anyone who says he doesn’t like baked beans is lying.” He drank the Pinot. “As far as that goes, they’re all lying around here. Every single one of them.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Burr sat across from Tommy at the kitchen table at Morningside. He unfolded the list Sleeper had given him and handed it to Tommy. The cherry farmer looked at it, crumpled it up and threw it in the wastebasket.

  “And?” Burr said.

  “There’s no one on that list that would’ve killed Helen.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know everyone on that list, and none of them are capable of murder.”

  “You might be surprised what people will do for money.” Burr fished Sleeper’s list out of the trash. I saw the MacDonalds, the Wyszinskis and Joey Maguire yesterday.

  “Did he make you taste his wine?”

  Burr nodded.

  “He should have left that ground in cherries.”

  Burr nodded again.

  Tommy stood up and walked over to the window, still framed by Helen’s string of Christmas lights. “If there’s anyone around here that could have killed Helen, it’s Sleeper.”

  “Sleeper?”

  “That damned park is all he cares about.”

  “He’s a civil servant.”

  Burr walked over to the window and stood next to Tommy. The orchardist pointed to a cherry tree at the edge of the orchard. “Look over there. Those are palm warblers. They’re down from Canada already. They’re here for the bugs. The farm will be full of all kinds of warblers in a month. Then they’ll head south. All the way to South America.” Tommy looked at Burr. “Helen loved it when the warblers came through.”

  If he did kill her, he’s putting on a good show.

  Burr walked back to the kitchen table and looked at his list from the trash. This list might not be any good, but it’s all I’ve got.

  “How could it have gotten this far?” Tommy said, still looking out the window.

  “It happened because Helen was shot with your pistol. You were seen on the ferry, and you talked to Sleeper about selling him the farm. Brooks is alleging that you wanted her declared dead so you could sell the farm.”

  Tommy looked at Burr. “That’s not how it was.”

  “Do you want to sell the farm?”

  “It’s not the same without Helen.”

  “I know it’s not. I’m sorry, but it looks bad. Calling Sleeper. It would have been better if you’d called me instead. I could have handled it.”

  Tommy turned around and looked at Burr with his big brown eyes. “I probably should have. I didn’t think about it at the time. I just wanted out.”

  “And there’s no one who can say they saw you fishing.”

  Tommy shook his head. His black hair flopped back and forth. “Please help me. I didn’t kill Helen. I loved her.”

  “I’m trying to help, but you have to tell me the truth.”

  “I am. I swear I am.”

  That’s
what they all say.

  * * *

  The next morning Burr and Zeke drove back to Leland. He thought he’d try to find out how much Brooks’ witnesses really remembered about seeing Tommy on the ferry. They parked next to where the ferry docked. Except the ferry wasn’t there. Maybe I should get a schedule. They waited and waited. And waited. Zeke napped. “This is a fine mess.” Zeke looked up from his nap. “If I can bill Tommy by the hour, we can sit here all day. Of course, it doesn’t matter how much I bill him if he doesn’t pay me. And if I get fired again, none of this matters.” Zeke put his head back down and resumed his nap. Burr waited.

  At last, the ferry cruised up the river. Burr got out of the Jeep and walked over to the dock. He looked down at the water, drifting slowly to the big lake, in no hurry to get anywhere. He smelled the diesel from the ferry mixed in with the smell of the fish house. He waited until the passengers disembarked and their gear was offloaded. Then he walked up to the captain.

  “Captain Sutherland, Burr Lafayette. We met on the island about a month ago.” Burr stuck his hand out, but the ferry captain didn’t shake it.

  “I remember you.”

  Burr took a picture of Tommy out of his pocket and showed it to Sutherland. “Is this him?”

  “I know who Tommy Lockwood is.”

  “Captain, do you remember Tommy Lockwood riding over on the ferry a little over a year ago?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you remember about when last year?”

  The ferry captain took off his hat and rubbed his forehead. “Nope.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I make two runs a day, seven days a week. Except for time off. There’s no way I could remember when.”

  That’s something. Not much, but something.

  “Captain Sutherland, may I ask where you live in the winter?”

  “Not here. It’s too damn cold. I run a dive boat in Key West.”

  “That’s a long way from here.”

  “You can’t hardly get there from here.” The captain put his hat back on and climbed back aboard.