The Pink Pony

by Charles Cutter

  It might be a bit thinner.

  He looked up at where the pink pony had hung just last night and how many martinis ago, the chains hanging from the ceiling.

  “Damn it,” the chief said as Zeke stood on three legs, his fourth above the rear tire of the chief’s bike. “Make him stop that.”

  “I think he’s just about done.”

  “Jesus, Mary, Joseph. When I’m done with you, I’m gonna arrest him, too.” Brandstatter looked Burr square in the eyes. “Now where is it?’

  “Where’s what?”

  Chief Brandstatter pointed up at the empty chains.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Like hell you don’t.”

  Burr looked back up at the dangling chains, then at Brandstatter. “Chief, I have no idea where it is.”

  Burr had stolen it last night and hoisted it up the flagpole at the marina, but he had no idea where it was now.

  “You’d better have an idea, or you and that damned yellow dog can sit in my jail until you come up with one.”

  “Chief, I really don’t what you’re talking about.”

  “Why don’t we just go inside and straighten this out?”

  He pulled on the door to the bar. “How can the Pony be locked at noon? That’s a fire hazard.” Brandstatter pulled on the door again, harder this time. “We’ll just see about this,” he said. “You come with me.”

  The chief rumbled up the sidewalk and into the lobby, Burr and Zeke followed him in. Burr slipped out of his flip-flops and wiggled his toes in the flowery carpet. His broken toe throbbed so he stopped wiggling that foot.

  “Excuse me, sir, there are no dogs allowed in the hotel.” Burr looked past the guests at a twentyish, strawberry blonde standing at the check counter, behind her, old-fashioned shelves with cubbyholes, some of which had keys in them.

  “Zeke, sit.” The aging lab sat at Burr’s left. Burr had a pretty good idea that a sitting dog wouldn’t trump the Chippewa’s no-dog policy, but he thought it was worth a try.

  “Excuse me, sir. Sitting dogs aren’t allowed either. There are no dogs allowed in the hotel. And shoes are required.”

  “I have shoes. I’m just not wearing them.”

  “Please, sir, your dog must go, and you must put your shoes on.”

  Burr looked over at Brandstatter, who was pulling on the door to the bar.

  “I’m here on police business,” Burr said.

  “Really. I didn’t know that khaki shorts and a polo shirt was the uniform of the day.”

  “I’m undercover.”

  Brandstatter walked up to the desk clerk. “Why are the doors locked?”

  “It’s closed right now.”

  “Why is it closed? It’s lunch time.”

  “You’ll have to ask Miss Hennessey,” the desk clerk said.

  “And where might she be?”

  “I think she’s looking for you.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Because The Pink Pony is locked.”

  “Look here. I’m here on police business. Unlock the door to the bar.”

  “That’s why Miss Hennessey is looking for you.”

  Brandstatter pointed at her, then at the door. She bit her cheek, ducked under the counter and came up with a ring full of keys. Brandstatter followed and motioned for Burr to join them.

  She unlocked the door, then turned to Burr. “I had no idea he was a police dog,” she said, smiling.

  Brandstatter opened the door and waved Burr and Zeke in. “Sit down right here,” he said, pointing at a table. Burr sat. Sunlight poured in through the windows, lighting the larger than life pink pony painted on the wall behind the bar.

  I can’t get away from that stupid hobby horse.

  He thought there was nothing more depressing than sitting in an empty bar. It had been cleaned, but it still smelled like flat beer and ashtrays.

  I may be ill.

  The chief sat down across from Burr. “We’re going to sit here until you tell me where that damned horse is.”

  Burr and Brandstatter sat. Neither one of them said a word. Burr’s head throbbed and his toe hurt. Just when the silence was getting to Brandstatter, the lobby door opened. In walked a woman with perhaps the most beautiful auburn ponytail Burr had ever seen, auburn with blond highlights. She had a longish nose, brown eyes and a few freckles. Jeans, a black tank top and tennis shoes. Maybe five-five. Curvy. All of thirty-five. Burr was pretty sure he’d seen her here last night.

  She walked over to their table. “Art, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “You know what happened?”

  “Carole,” Brandstatter said, “why else would I be here?” He hitched up his pants. “I’m about to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Already?”

  “No time like the present. How come the Pony’s not open?”

  She looked out the window, then back at Brandstatter. “Have you called St. Ignace yet?”

  “I can handle the annual theft of the pink pony without the county mounties.”

  Carole walked over to the bar. “Come over here.”

  Brandstatter trundled over and looked behind the bar. “Jesus, Mary, Joseph. That changes the water on the minnies.”

  Burr looked over at the bar. There was the poor excuse for a Christmas tree hanging over the edge, lingerie still hanging from its limbs. He’d forgotten all about the tree.

  Burr stood.

  “Stop right there. Not one more step,” Brandstatter said.

  This has gotten out of hand.

  “I’m sure we can straighten this out,” Burr said.

  “I wish we could. I surely wish we could.” The chief hitched up his equipment belt, loaded with every tool in the arsenal of law enforcement, except a gun.

  That thing must weigh thirty pounds.

  “Come over here. And don’t touch a thing. Not one thing. And leave that poor excuse for a Labrador retriever right where he is.”

  The chief stood at the bar, next to the tree. “Stand right next to me and don’t touch a thing.”

  Burr walked over to the bar. “We didn’t have to come all this way for the pink pony.”

  “Apparently, we didn’t.” Brandstatter pointed behind the bar. “Look down there.”

  Burr bent over the bar and jumped, not quite out of his skin. The dead man sat on a chair, eyes wide open, smiling like he’d just heard a funny story. He had a necklace of Christmas lights wound five or six times around his neck and plugged in behind the bar. The lights were a nice touch, Burr thought, but they’d been wound a little too tight. The dead man’s tongue hung out the side of his mouth and the joke was clearly on him.

  Burr turned away from the dead man. The color ran out of his face. He was sure he was going to be ill.

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine,” Burr said, who wasn’t.

  “You look kinda green to me.” He reached over the bar and grabbed a bottle of Fleischmann’s gin. “How about a little hair of the dog?”

  “I wouldn’t drink Fleischmann’s on a bet.” Burr started for the door. “I think it’s time for me to go.”

  “Not so fast. We have important police business.”

  “I don’t,” Burr said.

  “You do unless you want to spend the rest of the summer in the hoosegow.”

  Burr kept walking.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “I did, and I’ve decided that I prefer jail. Zeke, come.”

  “How about you turn around and maybe I’ll forget about that missing pony?”

  Burr stopped.

  “That’s more like it.”

  Burr walked back to the bar.

  “What we have here is a dea
d man,” the police chief said.

  That demonstrates a remarkable grasp of the obvious.

  Brandstatter turned to Carole. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

  “That’s why I’ve been trying to find you.”

  “What in the name of mercy happened?”

  “I came in to open up. Both doors were locked just like they’re supposed to be. This is what I found when I got here.”

  “Who closed last night?”

  “Karen Vander Voort.”

  Brandstatter nodded. “Why don’t you just leave us be while we get this sorted out. I’ll take them keys.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?”

  “I am the police.”

  Heaven help us.

  Carole handed Brandstatter the keys and left through the lobby door.

  The chief reached for a glass, poured two fingers of the Fleischmann’s and handed it to Burr. “This will help.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since now.”

  The chief looked at Burr, then the two fingers of gin, then back at Burr. “Suit yourself,” He set the glass on the bar. “I hear you do criminal work.”

  “I’m not a criminal lawyer,” Burr said. “I’m a civil litigator. My practice is limited to appellate work.” He looked at the two fingers of Fleischmann’s. The thought of gin, even Bombay, sickened him.

  Maybe a Red Eye will help.

  Burr slid behind the bar. He found a towel and picked up a glass with it. He slunk past the dead man to the Labatt tap. One end of the lights was wrapped around the tap.

  “Damn it all.”

  Carefully, very carefully he pushed the tap with the towel and poured himself half a glass.

  “Cut that out,” Brandstatter said. “You’re corrupting state’s evidence.”

  Burr held up the towel. He opened the refrigerator underneath the bar, took out a plastic jug of tomato juice and filled the rest of the glass with it.

  “What in God’s name is that?” the chief said.

  “A Red Eye.” Burr stirred the drink with one finger, then took a big swallow.

  “Waste of good beer and tomato juice if you ask me.” The chief squeezed behind the bar and looked over the dead man. “Any idea who he is?”

  “He’s got a yacht club name tag on. It says ‘Murdo’.” Burr studied the dead man. “What kind of name is that?”

  “What kind of name is Burr?”

  “Touché.” Burr took another big swallow. His head was beginning to clear.

  “Walk me through this,” the chief said.

  “I have no idea what to do,” Burr said.

  “Sure you do.”

  Burr finished his Red Eye.

  That tastes like another.

  “Chief Brandstatter, how long have you been in law enforcement?”

  The chief puffed himself up, like a rooster in a barnyard. “Thirty years.”

  “You’ve got thirty years on me,” Burr said. “And how many murders have you investigated? Assuming this is a murder.”

  “This would be my first.”

  Burr grimaced. “I may have you there.” He made himself another Red Eye, then disappeared under the bar.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Here it is,” Burr said.

  “Here’s what?”

  “Just what I was looking for.” Burr held up a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. “Lea and Perrins. The only one worth using.” He shook a quarter-of-an-inch into the new and improved Red Eye, stirred it with a finger and took a big swallow. “Much better.”

  “That’s evidence,” the chief said.

  “What we have here,” Burr said, feeling better yet, “are two absolute beginners. We need to get out of here and call someone who knows what they’re doing.”

  “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  Burr took a long pull on the Red Eye.

  This has remarkable restorative powers.

  His ability to think clearly had returned, and he was sure the two of them had better get out of there before they really ruined something. On top of that, Eve and Jacob were due at the ferry docks any time now, and there would be hell to pay if he managed to get involved in another murder.

  “You don’t even know who the dead man is.”

  “His name is Murdo.”

  “How do you know that’s his name tag?”

  Now the chief looked like the chicken on the chopping block. “Lafayette, I can’t have a murder on Mackinac Island. Not on my watch.”

  “I’d say it’s a bit late for that. We need to lock up the bar and get out of here.” Burr looked down and saw the dead man staring at him. He jumped back a step and felt something crack under his flip-flop. He reached down and picked up a pair of tortoise-shell glasses with a dangling bow. He held them between his thumb and forefinger.

  “You’re ruining evidence,” Brandstatter said.

  “My point exactly.”

  The chief bustled over to Burr and yanked the glasses out of Burr’s hand. The bow broke off.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Burr stood in the shade and leaned against the wall of the warehouse on the Arnold Line dock.

  The building housed the ticket office, waiting room, and the freight that had to be shipped over from the mainland, which was virtually everything. The building, white with green trim, had a sagging roof like a horse with a swayback.

  Burr squinted through his sunglasses and could see just enough to know when the ferry pulled in and still keep the glare from splitting his head in two. The Red Eyes had only worked as long as he was drinking them. Zeke lay at his feet, the dog’s eyes locked on a mallard swimming just off the beach of the Chippewa.

  Burr had finally persuaded the good chief to lock up the bar. He’d begged Brandstatter to call the Michigan State Police post in St. Ignace, but the chief insisted that “the situation,” as he called it, should stay local and low key. After all, he‘d said, it could have been an accident. Finally, Brandstatter relented and called the Mackinac County Sheriff’s Department. The Homicide Division, such as it was, arrived by ferry from St. Ignace, the little Upper Peninsula town with the almost perfect harbor just across the Mackinac Bridge.

  At last, the Huron pulled in from Mackinac City, the sixty-foot, twin-hull catamaran with diesels that rumbled like a freight train. Two decks, white with green trim. After the first fifty or so passengers disembarked – tourists of all shapes and sizes, Boy Scouts to serve at the fort, cottagers, islanders, workers – Jacob and Eve walked down the gangway. Burr took off his sunglasses and hugged Eve.

  She stared into his bloodshot eyes. “Was it that demon rum?”

  “Gin.”

  Eve McGinty had been his longtime, long-suffering legal assistant at Fisher and Allen. When he’d resigned, he’d begged her not to quit, but she insisted on following him to East Lansing. She said she wanted a house with full sun so she could have a perennial garden. Burr thought there must be full sun somewhere in the Detroit area.

  She was pretty. Late forties. Short with short brown hair. She favored gold hoop earrings which she tugged when she was nervous. A hint of crow’s feet at the corners of brown eyes. The beginnings of a few wrinkles around the corners of a mouth full of perfect teeth. Burr knew she didn’t like being older than he was, even if it was only a year.

  “Let me get your bags,” Burr said.

  She pointed to a matching pair of Hartmann’s. Eve had divorced well and looked every inch the cottager in a sleeveless yellow top, a blue jean skirt and sandals.

  “Jacob, where’s your luggage?”

  “For all I know it’s at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”

  “This is Lake Huron.”

  “It’s still a wretched lake.”

 
; Jacob, natty as always, wore a button-down, blue and white pinstripe cotton shirt, linen pants, argyle socks, and oxblood Weejuns. He twirled one of the steel-wool curls on the side of his head. Jacob was wiry just like his hair. Short with a prominent nose. Not big, prominent. He had an olive complexion, but at the moment, it looked more like mashed potatoes.

  Jacob Wertheim, the Wertheim in Lafayette and Wertheim, had also been a partner at Fisher and Allen. Despite Burr’s objection, Jacob had insisted on following Burr to East Lansing.

  When it came to legal research and appellate briefs, Jacob was without peer, which was exactly why Burr needed him. But Jacob had two of the worst qualities a litigator could have. He abhorred conflict and was deathly afraid of public speaking.

  “Had I known I would have to take a ferry to get here, I never would have come.”

  “How did you think you’d get here?”

  “I had the distinct impression that the Mackinac Bridge connected this infernal island to the mainland.”

  “The Mackinac Bridge connects the Lower Peninsula to the Upper Peninsula,” Eve said.

  “Most islands have bridges to them. Like Long Island.”

  “Or Belle Isle,” Eve said.

  “Had I known, I would have to take a boat here, I never would have come,” Jacob said again.

  Burr put his sunglasses back on, which helped his headache but didn’t do a thing to get them off the dock and up to the street. “Jacob, where’s your luggage?”

  “I’m too seasick to carry my own luggage.”

  Burr whistled at a dock porter. “Would you please take my friend’s bags to that taxi?” The porter, a college-age young man with a bandito mustache, looked at him like he was crazy. Until Burr palmed him a ten.

  “You two take the carriage. I’ll follow you on my bike.”

  “What is that awful smell?” Jacob said.

  “That’s fudge,” Eve said. “Mackinac Island is famous for its homemade fudge.”

  “And what’s this on my shoe?”

  Burr and Eve knew very well what it was. They looked at Jacob, who had turned a whiter shade of pale. Neither said a word.

  “I know what it is. I know full well what it is.” He lifted afoot and studied the sole of his shoe. “Damn it, Burr. It’s horse manure.” Jacob lost his balance and hopped on one leg.