by Jim Harrison
When Sunderson came to bed Monica was wide awake and talked at him evidently in a confession of murder. “I helped him, I helped Lemuel, and now everyone’s dead,” she wept. However, he was too bleary to really listen. He finally said, “I don’t really care who killed those assholes, but think about what you’re saying. Do you want to have your baby in prison?” He was thinking that right and wrong and ethics get so murky out in real life compared to the ironclad principles of criminology and state police ethics. Besides, he knew that Lemuel was behind the whole thing with his wretched novel idea. If your brothers get in your way, kill them. That put him in mind of his own intent to write the eighth deadly sin. He wasn’t a writer and he knew there couldn’t be anything harder than writing well. People spend their whole lives on it and fail. They used to say write about what you know, which meant he should write A History of Naps or All About Rain. He was a virtual technician of naps, preferring the wholehearted nap suggested by Henry Miller with all the clothes off and under the sheets. Don’t hold back! And for God’s sake don’t try to sleep with your socks on. His father’s Sunday midafternoon nap required him pulling off his socks. Live and learn. Only think about sex vaguely or you’ll agitate yourself. Thinking about nature and fishing or birds works very well. Above all don’t count sheep unless you know them personally. He recalled bottle feeding one of his grandpa’s infant lambs that had been ignored by the mother who had borne triplets. He was startled by how fast the little creature could down a bottle. It began to follow him around whenever possible. It was a girl and he named it Julia.
Why had Monica chosen this odd moment to confess what he already knew in his heart? He got in bed and still heard the lovely de Falla in his head now that there was silence out the window. It was one of those rare times that travel achieved the magic it is reputed to own. Why should he stop? He still had some of the blackmail money left plus his ample retirement. Next stop Paris and Seville. He would take along his unread Poems of Jesus Christ and maybe one skin magazine to remind him of earth though in recent years they did nothing to arouse him. In the dim light he could see Monica’s eyes glistening with tears. He said jokingly, “Good night, cyanide.” She stiffened so he embraced her long and hard. He was now sure Lemuel had approved of her going off to Marquette to try to divert him from the truth. He would call Smolens from an airport on the way home to avoid ruining their vacation any more than it already was. He would say he had grilled Monica exhaustively and try to pin all the blame on Lemuel who could write his novel in a lifetime of prison. His possible first child wouldn’t be born in a hospital ward in a prison.
The fishing village of Alvarado he would always think of as his escape hatch on earth. It was on the mouth of a huge estuary and there were many colorful houses, docks for the fishermen, and relatively small fishing boats. They caught a number of fish and shrimp but they were basically after róbalo (snook) which was a favored fish for restaurants. Sunderson ate it roasted for lunch with some wild shrimp which were wonderfully better than any cultivated variety. From his vantage point at lunch he could see across the estuary to the great swamp where an archaeologist had discovered the Olmec heads. He was troubled when reading about the matter that it took many months of brutal peasant labor to dig out the big stone heads and transport them to solid land, then ship them north to the museum in Xalapa. He tried to imagine the laborious process but fell short. Was it worth it? Probably. It reminded him of the forgotten men who had built the pyramids, and the peasants who built the vast cathedrals of Europe or the Borgia palaces for that matter. He had worked as a laborer in the summer in Munising and recalled what it was like to be utterly fatigued and drenched with sweat ten hours a day. His mother would pack him three two-sliced sandwiches for his lunch and that barely covered it. He was a shovel man for a construction company, digging forms, well pits, mixing cement. He made a good wage and gave his parents twenty bucks a week for his keep which only seemed fair. Even early on he lacked a trace of venality.
He found out that Alvarado was named after one of Cortés’s men. He tried to imagine Mexico without the invasion of Cortés but couldn’t do it. He sat there on a bench on the dock dreamily while Monica strolled around town. He thought over and over “I have found my favorite place.” They went back to Veracruz late in the afternoon. He had talked to a real estate agent about a cottage for sale for three thousand dollars. He took his card thinking it was certainly not beyond the realm of possibility. A winter fishing place, he thought, where you didn’t have to pretend you liked ice fishing and freezing your ass. Sunderson ignored the real estate agent who said the cottage might be too small for an American. Sunderson thought it was just right though the bathroom could use a little work, easy enough to arrange if you paid a fair wage.
Back in Veracruz he drank a little much on the balcony watching freighters. He and Monica ate a last roasted fish. He speculated he could cook a Lake Superior whitefish the same way. Start very hot rubbed with olive oil then turn down when it begins to brown. Butter would brown better. He would experiment, maybe cook it for Diane. He caught himself doubting that she would come over to his old house, so junky compared to her present one. He had been more than a bit irascible questioning Monica in the car as if he were a detective at work. “I need to know with absolute accuracy what you did to help Lemuel.” He felt sure Lemuel was the mastermind and intended to separate her activity from his. He could see it wouldn’t be easy as her story emerged. She had plainly enough served the victims cyanide-laced food, but she seemed unaware what it would do to them. Sara in the burn unit was a big problem. He would visit her. Likely Smolens had said he would prosecute her for child endangerment unless she told everything she had noticed. Sunderson would visit and snoop around in a friendly manner. Right now he had no idea what Smolens really knew. Monica kept saying, “I should have known,” but insisting she didn’t, and he couldn’t get any sense out of her after that.
Sunderson fell asleep a tad drunk on the balcony and Monica helped him to bed at 2:00 a.m. They had a ghastly flight day ahead. Veracruz, Cancún, Houston, Chicago, Marquette by midnight. Trying to fall asleep he was haunted by the worst mental image stored in his head, his brother Bobby’s leg in the dirt near the railroad track at the paper mill where it had been cut off nearly fifty years before. What could be worse for a young person short of getting your head cut off? It was tragic but not surprising he had problems with heroin later on. When Bobby died he had been doing well as a soundman. Sunderson drove to Detroit to claim his body and his friends told him that Bobby had been drinking a great deal to avoid heroin. So drinking has some use, he thought, even if it was ultimately unsuccessful.
On the way home he called Smolens from both Houston and Chicago later in the evening after Smolens had visited Sara in the burn unit at the hospital again where she seemed to be failing. She had told Smolens that Lemuel had said he hated his family and that none of them deserved to live except a few of the female children. The boys also deserved to die. Smolens had talked to the prosecutor who refused to start work on what he called hearsay evidence using the famous Shakespeare quote he always trotted out to make himself feel important: “You have but a woman’s reason. You think it so because you think it so.”
Smolens added that there was no one left who could have done it except Lemuel and Monica.
Sunderson said in reply, “You should make that just Lemuel. I questioned Monica exhaustively under the most relaxed circumstances on our vacation. I had found a pamphlet on poisons in her room at my house.”
“You should have told me, for God’s sake,” Smolens nearly shouted.
“She had a perfect explanation. She’s been doing Internet research for Lemuel for his detective novel.”
“Anyone can get cyanide in a day,” Smolens said. “It must be hard to think about your girlfriend in prison for life.”
“Don’t talk like that! I may be retired but I’m a cop at heart,” Sunderson said sternly, t
hough if he was honest he was less so than before.
“Sorry. Anyway, the prosecutor won’t move until we get some hard evidence. He’s ambitious politically and has no reason to move on something everyone thinks is obvious. And all the locals in the county feel that we’re well rid of the murder victims. Myself I can’t bear the idea that anyone should get away with serial murder. Another problem is that Lemuel has retained this hot defense lawyer from Lansing. I wonder where he got the money.”
“He likely embezzled it from his father. He kept the books and there’s no other source. I know he had a trust officer, Bissell in Escanaba. I’d guess he has a pile and he’s sitting pretty with the only house left. The rest of the family is camped at that trashy old house in town where they started. Lemuel won’t let any of them in his place. They’re living on welfare. And Lemuel told me he bought the seized land back cheap at an auction in Chicago.”
Smolens whistled saying, “A smart cookie.”
“Dumb financial people. Burn sites aren’t popular with big city buyers. They should have had the land auction in Escanaba. It’s a moneymaker, especially if you put cattle on it.”
“Cattle aren’t fast enough for people making money. Most people can’t think of future burgers. My cousin is in the business in Indiana. Prices are up.”
“Yes, wheat is easier and more profitable. Or so I read,” Sunderson said, bored with the conversation.
“Sara said Levi was sure Lemuel would try to kill him. He was real scared for a drunk. Forensic evidence said that there was cyanide in the sausage patties John and Paul ate. That points to Monica.”
“Anyone could poke a hole in a sausage patty and put a pinch of cyanide while she was serving someone else. The kitchen is largely invisible to the dining room where they ate but a swinging door is all that separates them.” Sunderson felt a little sweaty.
“Are you fighting for your girlfriend?” Smolens was in a huff.
“Cut the shit. You remember all of those death row prisoners in Illinois who shouldn’t have been there? That’s a rush to judgment.”
“That’s not fair. I admit we need hard evidence. I’m just speculating, so stop changing the subject. Sara saw Monica drop a vial of white powder in the kitchen.”
“Probably cocaine,” Sunderson said knowing it was unlikely that Monica had ever been close to the stuff. “We have to look for hard evidence. I’ll call from Chicago.”
“Okay, but you better play it straight with me. Call my cell. We’re going out for a picnic on a sailboat. It’s a hot one here.”
Sunderson brooded from Houston to Chicago. The flight was two hours late and they missed the Marquette connection. They rebooked on a morning flight and he thought of a downtown hotel but was too tired. The desk agent made him a reservation at the airport Hilton across the courtyard.
Monica was absurdly impressed by the Hilton. He had a whiskey from the room bar and a short nap. She stretched out checking all the TV stations with the sound off. On waking he recalled that his friend Marion had told him from his travels with his busy wife that there was a first-class steak house in the Hilton with the unlikely name the Gaslight Club where the waitresses wear garters. Sunderson thought that might attract horny travelers though the average man might never have seen a garter except at a wedding. He called for a reservation. They were booked except for early. Sunderson accepted a 6:00 p.m. reservation. It was nearly 5:00 o’clock now and he was already famished. He regretted the first-class ticket because the plane lunch was a chicken pastrami sandwich. He took umbrage knowing from his trip to New York City that true pastrami is not made from chicken. He was, after all, a veteran of the famous Katz’s Deli. He was still in a minor snit about this food setback. It was therefore quite a solace to have a big, fatty rib eye steak and a bottle of old Barolo, a wine he remembered from his ill-fated retirement party. He certainly had never ordered a sixty-dollar wine before in his life but then the dinner was the swan song of their vacation and Monica loved it, studying the label as a mystery. Back in the room they made love briefly. Monica teased that the scantily clad waitress had inspired him which, of course, was true. He finished half a pint of tequila while staring out at the night.
Morning came abruptly early. Monica had luckily preordered breakfast at 6:30 a.m. from room service. Who wants to look presentable at dawn? Women learn that early. At the gate there were a lot of people he recognized bound for Marquette. Many seemed to be staring at him and Monica. He introduced her as a niece to a sort of friend art dealer who had a twinkle in his eye. Sunderson slept all the way to Marquette. What put him to sleep was overhearing two people talk about the big Russian plane that had landed at the Marquette airport, a former SAC base, at the end of the Cold War. About half a dozen passengers and crew ran for the woods, which were vast. It was obviously a well-planned migration. He had been sent to look for them with the rest of the police but all of them had gotten lost without compasses and the local search and rescue squad had to be sent out to find them. None of the Russians was ever found and their plane is still at the airport, the Russian government not wanting to admit that such a thing was possible.
Chapter 21
He slept on their arrival until late afternoon when Diane called. She wanted to hear about the vacation about which she was jealous. They had never traveled anywhere until their forty-year marriage was nearly over. He was too busy, as they say. He read history books, watched sports on TV, and drank too much. Now he had the itch. They arranged to have a light supper at the Landmark Inn where Monica worked. Diane wanted to meet her.
He only had one drink before he left thinking Diane’s alcohol antennae would be sharp as usual but when they met she untypically ordered a martini and he said, “Make that two.” Perhaps she was loosening up her rules after her husband’s death. She finally got the husband she wanted and he disappeared within a year after they were married.
Sunderson had met the man several times, a retired surgeon. His ex-wife couldn’t bear Marquette winters and had moved back to New York City, where she was from in the first place, with their daughter. Sunderson admired the man but he couldn’t help the absurd fantasy that now that he was gone maybe he and Diane could travel someplace, Paris and Barcelona, separate rooms of course. If you push a fantasy too hard it will self-destruct of its own weight.
She was pleased to hear about Mérida as she had always wanted to go there and it was high on the list of destinations she kept and checked off, a list that began in her girlhood so that when her parents took her to New York City for her twelfth birthday it had enormous meaning. The jump from Ludington, Michigan, to New York City is immeasurable to a girl, or boy, of twelve. You are finally out in the world after the semi-suffocation of home. When she finally walked into the Metropolitan Museum she broke into tears. She wanted to stay so long she wore out her father who walked back to their hotel, the Carlyle, for a nap. Her mother absorbed her daughter’s enthusiasm and hung in there. One of Diane’s few regrets was that after five years of trying she had no talent as a painter, a dream that trip to New York had inspired. Her friend had the talent but didn’t particularly care about art. It seemed so unjust because it was. All Diane could do was stare at art books with love and envy. The envy part embarrassed her but she had no power over it. Eventually she learned to find pleasure in it.
Monica came out and sat with them during her break. Sunderson could tell immediately that they liked each other. You either like someone or you don’t. At first Diane acted a little motherly knowing that Monica was pregnant. She and Sunderson had tried unsuccessfully to have a child, then she chose a career over adoption. In any event she would love a child in the family or whatever it was, somehow still a family. Monica was voluble about Mexico and talked as if she were the first person ever to go there. She told the funny story of Sunderson using their pocket Spanish dictionary to try to get another pillow over the phone at the hotel. A room service waiter had brought an o
melet and a glass of wine which were good. He showed the waiter the pillow from the bed and the waiter brought five of them, all blue and green.
When Monica went back to work Sunderson confessed to Diane his secret project, writing about violence as the eighth deadly sin. His problem was getting started. She approved and told him he must buy a journal and write anything about the matter that came into his head. It would take shape later. “In short, writing causes writing. Thinking causes more thinking and is not necessarily helpful. Just write an hour or so each day.”
They ended the evening on a woozy note having added a bottle of wine to their martinis. It was almost romantic with glances that said “we blew it.” When they got in their separate cars tears of frustration formed in his eyes. Life was so unforgivable. She recalled that in his last days her husband could only eat soup, peas, beans, or barley. Otherwise he couldn’t keep down his myriad of pills. He was miserable and considered euthanasia at one point. She ate sparingly herself but loved to cook. Even when she and Sunderson were still married she was always looking for an occasion to cook a French or Italian meal. She never watched television unless a chef was on. She loved a big round red-haired guy from New York. She had all his books. Sunderson never read the recipes but liked looking at the food photos. His favorite was called osso bucco. After the divorce he quickly lost thirty pounds. He struggled to cook well and nothing was as tasty as when Diane would cook.
