“Oh, that’s right. Jimmy is, was, in his own way, brilliant. We were about the same age, but he worked for me. I taught him all he knew about screw machines. Then he left to start his own shop. While he was working for me, he had come up with a wonderful new idea for mounting the work on the machine. He took the idea to his new company.”
“That’s a motive.”
“Nonsense, the litigation is still pending. You know better than I do that everyone sues everyone. It was nothing personal.”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
Burr lost four more games. So far, he was down 537 points, which was 537 dollars. Now he didn’t have enough for the elevator.
“Murdo, you have to take this seriously. At the very least Karpinen is going to introduce evidence that Anne and Jimmy were having an affair, and whether it’s true or not, it’s going to make Anne’s alibi less believable.”
Murdo rearranged his cards.
“Jane told me that you killed Jimmy because he was having an affair with Anne,” Burr said, lying.
Murdo looked at him out of the corner of his eyes. “She did, did she?” He drank from the Dewar’s with a twist. “I’m sure they weren’t. And even if they were, I certainly wouldn’t kill him over it.”
“She said she was divorcing him,” Burr said, lying again.
“I hardly think so,” Murdo said.
“Why not?”
“He was worth more to her dead than alive.”
“How so?” Burr said.
“Life insurance. If anyone killed Jimmy, I’d say it was Jane.” Murdo finished his drink, then looked up at Burr. “Please don’t misunderstand me. There is nothing worse than what is happening to me. To us. To Anne and me. The only reason I wanted to meet here was to keep all this away from her. And the only reason I wanted to play gin was to keep from being even more worried.” Murdo picked a card from the deck. “Here’s another gin.” He spread out his hand, two through four of spades, three sevens, and four aces.
* * *
On the way back from the Grand, Burr stopped at Doud’s to pick up dinner. When it was safely in the refrigerator, he and Zeke lit the fire in the cherry red Weber just off the deck in the backyard.
For all of the million-dollar view from the porch, Windward backed up to the forest that covered most of the island with an eight-foot cedar hedge on each side.
Burr looked in the grill. The flames had died down and the charcoal pyramid glowed orange from the bottom up. In another ten minutes it would be time to spread out the coals.
Eve joined him in the backyard. “Now what are you up to?”
“Everyone has to eat. And drink. Speaking of that, stay right here. I’ll be right back.” Burr opened the screen door and darted into the kitchen. He filled two highball glasses with ice and, feeling completely recovered, poured two shots of Myers’s dark rum into each of the glasses, then bitter lemon.
Schweppes is the only bitter lemon worth drinking.
Then another dollop of Myers’s. He sliced a lime into four wedges and squeezed two in each glass. Back on the deck, he handed Eve the glass with the rum and bitter lemon. Burr raised his glass. “To Murdo. And to justice.”
“I hope they’re not mutually exclusive.” Eve clinked Burr’s glass and studied hers. “This is a very brown drink.”
“There’s no good reason to waste perfectly good Schweppes.”
Eve ignored him. “What if justice means guilty?’
“That would be unfortunate,” Burr said.
“How did your meeting go?”
“We played gin.”
“How much did you lose?”
“I am skilled at gin.”
“How much did you lose?”
“About nine hundred.”
“Dollars?”
“Three hours of billable time.”
“You haven’t gotten that much an hour since Fisher and Allen.” She looked at her drink again, then at Burr. “Do you think he did it?”
“Possibly.”
She stuck her index finger in her drink and stirred. “I wish you hadn’t made this so strong.” She sipped again. “You’ll never let Murdo testify, but what about Anne?”
“Possibly.”
Is she believable?”
“Very, but I’m not sure that I believe her.”
“Why not?”
Burr stepped into the woods at the edge of the backyard. He searched and searched. He picked up a four-foot stick, broke off the twigs and about a foot at the skinny end. “Perfect.” Back on the grill, he spread the coals.
“You simply can’t grill without a proper grilling stick,” Eve said.
“Exactly,” Burr said.
“Are you aware that someone has actually invented grilling tools?”
Burr ignored her. “As you know, I make it a point never to believe what my clients say.” Burr poked at the coals again. They glowed a soft orange. “And the higher the stakes, the more they lie.” The end of Burr’s grilling stick caught fire. “This always happens.” He stuck the burning end in the ground.
“Funny how wood always seems to burn.”
“Jimmy’s widow came to see me yesterday.”
“And?”
“And she’s convinced Murdo killed her husband.”
“And?” Eve stirred her drink with her finger again.
“She said that Jimmy had no enemies. Except Murdo.”
“Do you believe her?”
“Of course not, but today I told Murdo that Jane said Anne and Jimmy were having an affair.”
“Did she say that?”
“No.” He poked at the fire with the fresh end of the grilling stick.
“Do you think Anne and Jimmy were an item?”
“I have no idea,” Burr said.
“What did Murdo say?”
“He denied it.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Of course not.” Burr found the grate which Zeke cleaned off with his tongue.
“That’s disgusting.”
“I was hoping you didn’t see that.” Burr arranged the grate in the grill, then disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with a cookie sheet with three oversized fish filets each in their own aluminum foil boat. “I think we may actually have to find out who did kill Jimmy.”
“How are you going to do that?”
Burr noted that Eve had changed we to you. Not a good sign. He slid the foil boats onto the grill.
“At least there’s something between Zeke’s tongue and the fish,” Eve said.
“Fresh Lake Superior walleye. These poor devils were swimming this morning, just like the whitefish.” Burr drank more of his Myers’s and bitter lemon.
“What’s that on the fish?”
“Almond slices soaked in Maker’s Mark. Walleye is a mild fish and needs a little something. Although I hate to waste perfectly good whiskey on a marinade.” He put the top on the grill. “We don’t actually have to figure out who did kill Jimmy. We only need to put some doubt in the jury’s mind. A reasonable doubt.” He opened the vents and smoke poured out. He looked at his watch. “Seventeen minutes. Where’s Jacob?”
“Tying flies. You did say you’d take him fishing.”
Burr looked at his watch again.
“What’s next?” Eve said.
“Grilled asparagus, new potatoes, salad, peach pie. Fresh peaches from St. Joe and a subtle Pinot Noir.”
“About your case?”
“I’ll know right where to start as soon as I get the list,” Burr said.
“The list?”
“I’m going to open the wine. It needs to loosen up a bit.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
CHAPTER NINE
It was raining when Burr woke, not a downpour but a steady, patient rai
n.
“An all-day rain,” he said to Zeke lying at the foot of the bed.
After breakfast, Burr put on his foul weather gear and set off for the marina to get the list he needed. Zeke trotted beside the bike, enjoying the rain.
The slips were full. Powerboats, cruising sailboats and a few of the racers that had laid over after the race. Burr turned onto a finger dock and stopped alongside the companionway of Elysia, a fifty-foot Chris Craft, vintage 1951. A sedan with a covered cockpit. Shiny, white wooden topsides. Oiled teak decks. Varnished Honduran mahogany cabin sides with six coats of Feldspar refreshed twice a year. Rain beaded up on the varnish and ran off like water off the proverbial duck’s back.
“Zeke, there’s nothing like bright work well-done.” He rapped on the cabin side. “Permission to come aboard?”
No answer. Burr rapped on the cabin side again. “I know the old goat’s aboard. He never gets up before noon.” Burr admired the gangway, teak planks with waist-high mahogany handrails that matched the rest of Elysia. “There’s not many gangways around here.” Burr walked the gangway to the boat. Zeke tagged along behind. Burr, now aboard, admired the aft deck. White canvas with clear plastic zipped in the entire aft deck, keeping out the rain, rattan deck furniture with navy cushions. “Not exactly slumming.”
“Who goes there?” A gravelly voice from below decks.
“Stubby, is that you?”
Shuffling feet, then the door to the main cabin burst open. “Stay where you are.” A double-barreled shotgun pointed at Burr’s chest.
“For God’s sake, Stubby, it’s me.”
“What the hell are you doing here at this hour?” The safety clicked on.
“What are you doing with that thing?”
“You can’t be too careful,” Stubby said.
“Mackinac Island is a very dangerous place, with the fudgies, the boaters, and the Boy Scouts.”
Stubby scowled at him but leaned the gun against the rail.
Stubby Goodspeed. Five-foot-five, maybe. A barrel for a trunk and the shortest legs Burr had ever seen. Sandy hair, freckles and brown eyes all on a head shaped like a shoebox. He had on the nastiest bathrobe Burr had ever seen, frayed at the cuffs, at the collar, and the hem. His bare, stubby legs stuck out from his bathrobe. Burr hoped he had on more than the bathrobe, navy blue with white piping. At least he matched the furniture.
Stubby spied Zeke. “Dogs are not allowed aboard.”
“Come on, Stubby. It’s raining.”
“He’s a Lab. Either he doesn’t know the difference or he doesn’t care.”
“Who fetches your ducks?”
“A Lab in a duck blind is a horse of a different color.”
“That would be Zeke,” Burr said.
“All right. Just this once.” Stubby more or less collapsed into one of the rattan chairs. “What the hell do you want this time of the day?”
“It’s 10:30.”
“That’s what I said. And don’t call me Stubby.” Stubby hated being called Stubby. Only his friends and enemies called him Stubby. “How about a mimosa?”
“It’s only 10:30.”
“You said that. I’ve never known you to turn down a drink.” Stubby staggered to the bar, opened the waist-high refrigerator, teak door and all, and mixed the drinks. Burr listened to the rain tap, tap, tapping above him. He felt a drop drip onto his head and slid his chair a foot to the left, relieved that even a boat like Elysia had a leak or two. He took in the smells of a wet boat. The teak, canvas, and mildew, and all was right with the world.
“Stubby, I’m here to see you in your official capacity as Commodore of the Bayview Yacht Club.”
“The most thankless job in the whole damn country. And I don’t get paid.”
Not that Stubby needed money. The aging scion of yet another Detroit metal manufacturing family, Stubby was pretty well fixed for blades. He lumbered back from the bar, handed Burr a mimosa and plopped back down in his chair. Stubby took a swallow of the orange juice and champagne. Burr didn’t.
He knew Stubby loved flying the commodore’s flag next to the Bayview burgee, a triangular pennant in navy and red.
Bayview Yacht Club had sponsored the Port Huron-Mackinac since 1927, one of the biggest, best and most prestigious races anywhere. The members of the Bayview Yacht Club surely thought so.
“If it’s about your flag, you can’t have it until you pay your dues.”
“It wasn’t my boat. I was just the skipper.”
“I don’t give a shit. And I don’t care if you finished first. Pay your goddamn dues.” Stubby finished half the mimosa. “And you better get that pink pony back. That makes us all look bad.” Stubby snickered.
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Well, then, what the hell do you want?”
“I’d like to see the crew list of Jimmy Lyons’ boat.”
“He’s dead.” Stubby finished his drink.
“That’s why I want to see the crew list.”
“Why?”
“I represent Murdo Halverson.”
“That son of a bitch. I hope he fries.”
“You know as well as I do there’s no death penalty in Michigan.”
“There ought to be. How about another?” Stubby stood up. “You haven’t touched yours.”
“I’m cutting back.”
“You must be hung over.”
Stubby, back at the bar, his ample backside once again facing Burr, said, “You should never have left Fisher and Allen. Or Grace. Who was that tart anyway?”
“Suzanne. And she wasn’t a tart.”
“And you’re not a criminal lawyer.”
“My elevator is broken.” He decided he’d try the mimosa.
“What’s that?” Stubby mixed.
“Nothing. Stubby, I need to see the crew list.”
“For Fujimo?” Stubby said.
“Fujimo?”
“Lyons’ boat,” Stubby said.
“That’s kind of a Zen name.”
“If you say so,” Stubby said.
“I need a few suspects, and Fujimo’s crew list is as good a place to start as any.”
“What in God’s name for?”
“Because whoever killed Jimmy had to be on the island that night.”
Stubby waddled back to his chair and sat, drink in hand. “Can’t do it.”
“You’re the commodore. You can do anything you want.”
“The last thing the Bayview Yacht Club needs is another scandal. There’s way too much sleeping around as it is.”
“I can subpoena it.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” Burr drank a little more of his mimosa.
“It’s just me and Elliot on the boat, and I don’t know where a damn thing is.”
“Elliot?”
“He’s a mouser. And a damn good one.”
“Where’s your bride?”
“She hates boats. They all do, once you marry them.”
Burr nodded.
“Look, if you have to talk to someone, the guy you want to talk to is Buehler. Jim Buehler. He and Lyons had a terrible row. Claimed Lyons fouled him. Big protest hearing, but there were no other boats around. His crew against theirs.”
“One-tonners? One white hull? One red?”
“How’d you know?”
“I was behind them. They had a tacking duel at Spectacle Reef. I saw the red boat raise the protest flag.”
“For God’s sake man, why didn’t you come forward?”
Burr thought this was a good time to drink a little more of his mimosa. “I was too far behind to see what happened.”
“You were way ahead of the rest of your class.” Elliot the mouser appeared, like all cats, from out of nowhere. He jumped up on Stub
by’s lap. Stubby scratched him behind the ears.
“It’s just a sailboat race.”
“Not to Buehler. He said Lyons forced him onto the reef and he had to tack away. Said it cost him the race. And he’s a hothead. A nouveau riche stockbroker from Troy. He could have done it. Hell, any of you guys could have done it.” Elliot jumped down from Stubby’s lap. This got Zeke’s attention, but he didn’t go after the cat, who disappeared below.
“I still need the crew list,” Burr said.
Elliot reappeared with a quite dead mouse and dropped it at Stubby’s bare feet.
“Sue me.”
* * *
Burr and Zeke headed farther out on the main dock. They stopped at Scaramouche, the Peterson 34 that Burr had chartered for the race. A fast boat, that’s what she was. The transport crew would set off tomorrow, and this would be the last he’d see of her.
Scaramouche could point, especially with her new sails. That’s why he’d won his class. That, and the way he had sailed the course. But all that came later. On Saturday morning, July 15th, they had motored out to the starting line, just north of the Blue Water Bridge at the southern end of Lake Huron.
The wind blew about ten from the southeast. They put up the main and rigged the ½ ounce chute. They got a fair start, not a great start, but it was a long race and Burr wanted to stay clear of a foul. He took the first watch, steering by compass and Loran, staggering the eight-man crew. Four hours on, four off with a crew change every two hours.
He sailed the rhumb line up the lake, a straight line to the big black can, the turning mark off Cove Island that marked the entrance to Georgian Bay. Scaramouche glided up the lake, quartering before a following sea, nothing more than one-footers. Puffy cumulus clouds dotted the sky. They lost sight of land about six hours out of Port Huron.
They had sandwiches for dinner, roast beef and Swiss on rye. Burr turned the running lights on at nine that night, but they didn’t really need them until almost ten. The new moon set at eleven, and then the sky lit up with the summer constellations – Pegasus, Scorpio and Sagittarius. They lost sight of the boats but could see running lights all around them.
The sky turned around the North Star through the night. Fog blew in about three in the morning and they lost sight of the fleet. Burr sent a watchman to the bow with a horn. The sun burned off the fog by nine, and they found themselves in the middle of the fleet. So far, Burr had run an average race, but that was about to change.
The Pink Pony Page 9
