The Pink Pony

by Charles Cutter

  The Hunt Club had slipped his mind until he stopped by the widow Jane’s house and the maid had told him she was riding. The clubbiness of Grosse Pointe annoyed him, but then again, he’d been a dues-paying member of the yacht club at one time.

  Jane rode by, her ponytail bouncing as she trotted the chestnut gelding.

  He was afraid his silly fingerprint plan wasn’t going to work. For that matter, he had no idea if any of his would-be suspects would actually have fingerprints on the lights or what it would mean if they did. But he still wanted the widow Lyons’ fingerprints and the fingerprints of that pompous ass, Lionel Worthy, who was many things but stupid wasn’t one of them.

  To the business at hand. Jane dismounted and led her horse back to the stables right past Burr, standing on the other side of the fence.

  “Jane,” he said.

  The blonde in the jodhpurs and riding helmet, carrying gloves and a riding crop, kept walking, leading her 1,200-pound charge to the barn.

  “Jane,” he said again. “May I speak with you?”

  She looked right through him.

  “It’s Burr. Burr Lafayette.”

  She looked at him but kept walking. “I know who you are, and I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  “Do you want to know who killed your husband?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Burr admired the curves her riding habit couldn’t hide. And her face. No makeup except her ruby red lips. “Who is Ronnie Cross?”

  Jane stopped, turned around and looked at him, then started walking again. “No idea.”

  “He was part of Jimmy’s crew.”

  “If you say so.” She didn’t look like a bereaved widow to him, and she certainly didn’t look broke.

  Burr hopped the fence and scooted up beside her.

  “You’re trespassing.”

  “I was trespassing before. I’m just closer now.”

  “Lionel told me not to talk to you.”

  “I thought he was your husband’s lawyer.”

  “He’s the family lawyer and I’m what’s left of the family.”

  “If Mr. Worthy represents New Method Screw Machines, your husband’s estate, and you, all at the same time, there may well be a conflict.”

  “I don’t care about the fine points, Mr. Lafayette. I’m a widow.”

  “From what I hear, your husband was broke. He owed everybody in town.”

  “This conversation is over.”

  She was about twenty feet from the stable, and Burr thought the conversation, such as it was, was about to be over anyway.

  How the devil am I going to get her fingerprints?

  He had a not too happy Jacob standing by with Zeke in the Jeep, but he couldn’t see any way he could get her helmet, and Jacob would never go near a horse. Maybe he could sneak in and try the saddle.

  “About the life insurance.”

  “The what?”

  “I’m told you came into some money. Life insurance, I think.”

  “How dare you,” she said, turning red her over her tan.

  “You don’t seem like you’re in mourning.”

  Jane dropped the reins and slapped him.

  Burr’s cheek stung but he didn’t flinch. “In fact, you seem to be living rather well. Now that you’re a widow.” This absolutely enraged her. She raised the crop and swung it at him. He grabbed it by the end before she could strike him. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” Her gelded horse had had enough of the drama and started for the barn on his own.

  She tried to jerk the end of the crop out of Burr’s hand, but he hung on.

  “Let go.”

  “I think Sea Biscuit is hungry.” She looked at her horse, then Burr. The two of them had a tug of war with the riding crop. After about seven or eight tugs, Jane let go of the crop and ran after her horse.

  Back at the Jeep, Burr handed the crop to Jacob, now an expert, who said that fingerprints would be difficult to lift from the handle of the riding crop, but he was sure he could do it.

  * * *

  Burr drove back downtown and rode the rickety transfer elevator to the top of the Penobscot Building.

  This one will be interesting.

  The receptionist led Burr to Worthy’s office. The flowing-maned counselor sat behind his desk in a cloud of smoke. Burr sat down across from him.

  “Glad you’re here, Lafayette. Saves me the trouble.”

  Burr nodded, as if he knew what Worthy meant, which he didn’t.

  “Stay away from my client,” Worthy said, sucking on his cigarette.

  “I thought your client was dead.”

  “I have a new client.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “You know who it is.”

  Burr waved the smoke away from his face.

  “It’s Jane, and I don’t want you anywhere near her.”

  “The beautiful widow Lyons is a suspect.” Burr’s eyes started to water.

  “That’s ridiculous. She’s grieving.”

  “She’s so distraught she went riding at the Hunt Club this morning.”

  “We all grieve differently. Be a good boy and leave her alone.”

  Be a good boy.

  “Lionel, about the life insurance.”

  “Life insurance?”

  “Whatever Jimmy’s money troubles were, Jane seems to be pretty well fixed for blades. And you seem to have enough money to pay Jimmy’s importer, clothier and haberdasher.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Worthy dropped his cigarette in the ashtray and lit another. The cigarette in the ashtray kept on burning.

  I may have to call the fire department.

  “So, Lionel, who was the beneficiary on the policy? If it’s New Method or Lyons, the creditors will have something to say about it. Which means that the executor, who I assume is you, could have some liability. On the other hand, if Jane is the beneficiary, then she got the money.” Burr coughed. “If she knew Jimmy was going to file for divorce, she had all the more reason to kill him. As broke he was, he was worth more to her dead than alive.” He coughed again. “Which makes her a suspect.” He waved the cigarette smoke out of his face. “The way I see it, you could have three clients. New Method Screw Machine, the estate of James Lyons, or Jane Lyons. Which one is it?”

  “This is none of your business.”

  “And possibly a fourth. Just who is Ronnie Cross?”

  “Who?”

  Burr couldn’t tell if Worthy was surprised or just pretended to be. “You know who. Ronnie Cross. He was part of the crew.” Burr was convinced that Worthy was lying, but for the life of him, he had no idea why.

  Worthy dropped the second lit cigarette into the ashtray. He picked up the pack of Pall Malls, stuck his fingers in it, then looked inside it. He crumpled the pack and dropped it in the ashtray.

  We’re going to have a fire.

  Worthy opened his desk drawers, one by one, and rummaged through them. “Damn it.” He pushed a buzzer. The receptionist opened the door and handed Worthy another pack of cigarettes. “There are to be cigarettes in my desk at all times.”

  “Yes, Mr. Worthy.” She opened a desk drawer and took out another ashtray. She headed toward the door with the smoking ashtray, waving at the smoke on her way out. “You’re going to start a fire.”

  Worthy opened a pack of Pall Malls and lit another cigarette.

  “Did Jimmy keep you paid up so you could fend off all the creditors? And of all the creditors, why did you pay Benny Fishman? Or did you kill Jimmy because he didn’t pay you?” Burr threw his hands up in the air. “The possibilities are endless.”

  “None of this is any of your concern,” Worthy said, puffing.

  Burr was a bit surprised the lion hadn’t roared at him
yet. He coughed.

  This has to stop.

  He walked to the window behind Worthy and opened it. Fresh air rushed in. He took a deep breath.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  Burr ignored the smoking chimney and sat down. “You were both at The Pink Pony that night. Unless you tell me different, Jane has a motive and so do you.”

  “Counselor, discovery is limited in criminal cases. You must know that.” He tapped his cigarette in the ashtray. Most of the ash ended up on his desk. “So, whatever you want to find out, you’ll have to find out at trial. I understand you couldn’t get a subpoena for fingerprints. Jane can’t be forced to incriminate herself, and I have attorney-client privilege.” Worthy pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped down his desk. He buzzed again. The receptionist reappeared. “See to it that Mr. Lafayette is not left alone in my office, and that he doesn’t touch anything.” Worthy stood up, put on his jacket. On his way out, he reached into his side pocket and put on a pair of black goatskin gloves.

  * * *

  Burr counted to ten and then left. As soon as he reached the sidewalk, he flagged down Jacob who had been hovering nearby in the Jeep. Jacob slid over next to Zeke who had been riding shotgun. Burr hopped in the driver’s seat.

  “Back seat,” Burr said. Zeke wasn’t happy about losing shotgun, but he jumped into the backseat.

  “He went into that ramp,” Jacob said, pointing. “But he hasn’t come out yet.” A few minutes later, Worthy roared out of the ramp in a black, late model BMW sedan.

  “Why doesn’t anyone drive an American car,” Burr said, not asking.

  “Because they’re lemons,” Jacob said, picking an invisible blond dog hair off his summer-weight khaki suit.

  “It wasn’t a question.”

  Burr followed the BMW up Jefferson toward Grosse Pointe. Worthy turned left on Moross. He followed Worthy into the Country Club of Detroit. “Here we go again.”

  The Little Club is about the only place I haven’t been.

  Worthy parked and went inside. “At least he isn’t using valet parking, and he’s not wearing gloves.” Burr cruised up next to the BMW. Jacob lifted the fingerprints from the door and off they went.

  * * *

  Burr drove Jacob to his car and the two of them split up. Jacob took the fingerprint collection to Stanley Mueller at Fish Point.

  Burr took I-75 north and got off at Big Beaver in Troy. He headed west. Just before Somerset Mall, he turned left into a parking lot that surrounded two identical twenty-story office buildings standing side by side. Black steel with tinted windows. He parked in the shade of the north building and cracked the windows. “Zeke, I won’t be long.”

  Burr rode the elevator to the top floor.

  At least it isn’t rickety.

  The elevator opened to a sleek, silver nameplate that read Roney and Company. The receptionist showed him to the owner of the red boat, James M. Buehler. The stockbroker stood at a stand-up workstation facing the window. He had on a headset and his office reeked of cigar smoke.

  Here we go again.

  Buehler shouted into his headset. Then he threw it on the table and turned to Burr. A nouveau stockbroker if Burr had ever seen one. Fortyish. Tan. Short, not quite stocky. A fifty-dollar haircut and black, bushy eyebrows that the barber had missed. A jaw that looked like it was looking for a fight and a nose that had found one. He had a midnight-blue suit that made Jacob’s look like it was from Goodwill.

  Buehler sat down at a desk that matched the workstation.

  A fat cigar stuck out of Buehler’s teeth, right in the middle of his mouth. The cigar bounced up and down when he spoke. “You here about the race?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Burr coughed, the cigar smoke already getting to him. He looked over Buehler’s shoulder at the windows.

  At least Worthy’s window opened.

  “It’s about time. That son of a bitch Lyons fouled me. He tried to push Sea Wolf on the reef.”

  “Fujimo was on starboard tack,” Burr said.

  “He still can’t force me on an obstacle.”

  “How close were you?”

  Buehler ignored him. “But for that damn Lyons, I’d have won. I didn’t spend five hundred grand to finish second.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  “And the ringers. I paid them, too.” He bit off the end of his cigar and spit it in the wastebasket. He stuck what was left in the corner of his mouth and chewed on it. “So, it’s about time you idiots at Bayview made it right.”

  “Actually, Mr. Buehler, I’m here about the murder of Jimmy Lyons.”

  Buehler stopped chewing his cigar. He took it out of his mouth and looked at it. He crushed it in the ashtray and threw it into the wastebasket. Buehler pulled his cuffs down. Pearl cufflinks.

  I’m sure they’re not mother-of-pearl.

  Buehler stood. “I have to go. And so do you.” He hurried out the door. His assistant came in and ushered Burr out.

  * * *

  Burr hardened up at the turning mark, hoisted the light one and dropped the chute in the shadow of the main. He kept Scaramouche on port tack and took her up as far he could. If the wind held from the southwest, he thought he could make the island on this tack, but he thought the wind would keep clocking.

  He waited until the pole had been secured to the deck, the chute had been repacked in the turtle and the sheets had been coiled and stowed. Then he tacked over onto starboard. It was a risk, but if the wind kept clocking, he wanted to sail toward the shift.

  They sailed through Sunday night. By dawn on Monday, the wind had gone all the way to the west and kicked up to fifteen. They were at the edge for the light one, but they moved the cars aft on the track and flattened the sail.

  At 7:30 he flopped over to port tack. An hour later, Scaramouche was east of Spectacle Reef, just behind the big boats. He’d guessed right again.

  Ahead of Scaramouche and just north of the reef, two one-tonners were in a tacking duel. He thought there was a lot of race left to be doing that. One white hull. One red. Burr couldn’t make out the names.

  Off the shore of the northern Lower Peninsula and well into Lake Huron, Spectacle Reef rose from the bottom of the lake. From two-hundred feet to six feet. Just below the water, boulders everywhere.

  If they get too close to the reef, they’ll rip a hole in their hulls.

  The two one-tonners tacked on each other. Again and again, the white boat pushing the red boat closer and closer to the reef. Tack after tack. Burr turned the helm over to one of his crew and watched through the binoculars. The white boat pressed and pressed. Then, all at once, the red boat dipped the stern of the white boat and sailed off to the north on a reach. Once she had cleared the bad air of the white boat, she hardened up and hoisted her red protest flag.

  Scaramouche, with no one around her, tacked onto port and cleared the reef. Burr didn’t know how close the one-tonners had gotten to Spectacle Reef, but he knew they had been close. He stayed on port tack until the wind dropped again. The wind backed a little more. Burr tacked back and forth on the rhumb line and crossed the finish line between the committee boat and the red can off Mission Point. Just after eight on Monday night.

  “Elysia, Elysia, Elysia. This is Scaramouche, sail number US 23866, crossing at 8:11 p.m. No sail ahead. No sail behind.”

  Stubby came on. “You won your class.” Elysia fired the finishing gun.

  Burr found a berth at the state docks. As they soon as they tied up, Burr and his crew headed to The Pink Pony.

  * * *

  Burr left Buehler’s office without the stockbroker’s fingerprints.

  Now what am I going to do?

  He took I-75 north, then on to East Lansing via I-69. As soon as the city inspector approved the repairs to the elevator, it was back to hi
s island paradise to wait for the story of the fingerprints. He hoped he liked the ending.

  Buying the Masonic Temple, circa 1927, had seemed like a good idea at the time. It wasn’t big, even by East Lansing standards. Six stories and narrow, very narrow. A burnt-red brick building. He’d taken the top floor for himself. Half for his office, the other half, his living quarters. The renovations, especially the elevator, had nearly broken him.

  Burr sat in Michelangelo’s and twirled the angel hair around his fork. As much as he loved pasta, he could never eat enough to cover the rent that Scooter, the restaurateur, owed him. Zeke sucked in a No. 12 angel hair noodle and smacked his lips. Burr swirled the Chianti that Scooter stocked just for him.

  Scooter, pasty complexion and all, appeared at Burr’s table. “How is it, Mr. Lafayette?”

  “Fine, Scooter. It’s fine.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lafayette. Dogs aren’t allowed.”

  They started their ritual. “He’s a seeing eye dog, Scooter.”

  “He may be, but you’re not blind.”

  “I’m also not six months behind in the rent. That’s nine grand.”

  Scooter left.

  He’s not much of a tenant, but I’m probably not much of a landlord.

  After lunch, Burr and Zeke started up the stairs to the roof. He was slightly winded by the time he reached the third floor, but he was damned if he would take the elevator, fixed or not. By the time he reached the top floor, he was out of breath.

  Burr wandered through his office and his apartment. He quite liked them both, but he quite disliked being cash flow negative. Having caught his breath, he and Zeke climbed the last flight of stairs and stepped out on the flat, gravel-covered, tarred roof. Michigan State University a block south, the city of East Lansing to the north, east, and west. He gave a quick look at the elevator room that topped the building and was the source of his troubles. It was hot on the roof, and he hoped this wouldn’t take too long.