Deadline for Lenny Stern: A Michael Russo Mystery

by Peter Marabell

  I eased my way to the bar, jammed three-deep its entire length to the back wall. Hard to order a beer, even harder to be spotted by somebody who wasn’t looking for a tail anyway.

  Henri came through the door and stood next to an older couple, scanning the room until he saw me.

  “Can you find them?” he said.

  “Look for yourself,” I said, nodding toward the fireplace. “Recognize anyone?”

  Henri picked them up quickly. At a four-top on the far side of the room were the two men I followed inside. But the other two men?

  “Well, well,” Henri said. “If it isn’t the two bad boys we chased in Harbor Springs.”

  “We got lucky again, Henri. All because Jimmy Erwin tipped us off.”

  “How do you want to play this?” Henri said. “They just ordered food.”

  “How about a beer while we wait?”

  We signaled a bartender, got a couple of beers and settled in with the noisy crowd around the bar.

  “They’re not watching for us or anyone else,” I said.

  “One guy,” Henri said, “buzz cut and black T.”

  “What about him?”

  “Pretty sure he was the dude in the Side Door parking lot, the one with the tattoo.”

  “The gang’s all here,” I said.

  We finished our beer, paid the tab, and retreated to Henri’s SUV. Henri moved to another spot to get a better view of the door. We didn’t have too wait long. Our teenage diners did not savor a leisurely meal, though they had consumed their share of adult beverages.

  They burst out the front door, laughing, shoving, with all the sloppy exuberance of four teens who’d been drinking after the big game. They stopped at the green truck, where the Carp Lake duo climbed in, then drove from the parking lot, scattering dirt and stones behind them.

  “Hard to imagine one of them is a killer.”

  “Not the first time we’ve said that, Henri.”

  “Shall we chase down the green truck, or follow these other two?”

  “We know how to find the Carp Lake truck,” I said.

  Henri started the SUV as the other two left the lot in a Chevy truck, a dark blue Colorado, headed toward US 31. They drove past the Pellston airport and went west on Riggsville Road toward I-75.

  “Fleener told me the two who work at Cavendish Company live together in Gaylord. Downtown.”

  The truck took I-75 south, and we settled in for an easy tail.

  “I suppose we could get lucky, if they stop at a bar on the way home.”

  I laughed. “A little sarcasm, Henri?”

  Forty minutes later, we exited at M-32, Gaylord. We hid in traffic on Main Street until the Chevy truck went past the Otsego County buildings, heading north on Center towards the hospital.

  “Maybe they’re sick,” Henri said.

  “You’re full of one-liners today,” I said. “I settle for wherever home is and call it a day.”

  “Got a hot date tonight, Russo?”

  I let that pass.

  After a moment, “You ignoring me, Russo?”

  I was ignoring him. I knew where this was going, and I wasn’t interested.

  “You can’t duck the question,” Henri said. “Not for very long.”

  “We’re here to do our job, Henri, leave it alone.”

  Even I didn’t like the sound of that. I doubt that Henri did.

  Timing is everything.

  The truck turned off Center just short of Otsego Memorial Hospital, then into the parking lot of an apartment building. It was a three-floor faded red brick structure, of which the basement was no doubt referred to as the “garden level.”

  Henri pulled into an empty spot, left the motor running, and got out.

  “Back in a minute.”

  Henri moved slowly, approaching the entrance shortly after they went inside. One minute later, he returned to the SUV.

  “Didn’t you tell me the Cavendish workers were Dexter and …”

  “And Jarvis,” I said. “According to Fleener.”

  “Apartment 310.”

  I looked over the apartment building where the pair of teenage tough guys lived, rubbing at my jaw.

  “First question,” Henri said over the hum of the A/C. “You want to roust Dexter and Jarvis here and now, see what they know?”

  “Tempting,” I said. “But not now. Let’s go.”

  Henri made his way down Center Avenue to Main Street, then headed west through the thick traffic of downtown. Once past the end of the retail congestion at the Meijer store, Henri took the Alba Road shortcut to Traverse City, and we were on our way home.

  “Whatever we do next,” I said, “will alert the Cavendish clan that we’re on to them.”

  “Don’t you think they’re suspicious already?” Henri said. “You just happened to show up at the company offices asking questions.”

  “About a crime scene.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Probably not,” I said.

  Henri motored along the two-lane, passing the occasional gawker mixed with locals, all heading somewhere.

  “What’s next?” Henri said. “Since you don’t want to push those guys for some answers.”

  “I’m not against it, just not yet, not now.”

  “Now we got time,” Henri said. “Lenny’ll be in Chicago for a couple more days wrapping up the book tour. I’m not babysitting.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “How about the Cavendish brothers, then? We’re stalled right now.”

  “I got your point.”

  Henri slowed for the blinker light, turned north on US 131, and we joined the parade of vehicles on their way to Petoskey.

  “It’s obvious the brothers know something, or they wouldn’t have clammed up and escorted you out the office door.”

  “They might just be protecting dear old Mom. Think she knows more than her sons?”

  “Hell if I know,” Henri said. “But Fleener’s got her connected to at least two of the guys who’ve been after Lenny.”

  “Time to see what Sylvia knows.”

  42

  “You’re in early this morning,” Sandy said when she arrived at the office at her usual time.

  I was at my desk, chair turned, feet up on the window ledge. I drank coffee and watched the sun dancing on the light chop on Little Traverse Bay.

  “Restless night,” I said.

  Sandy put down her bag, poured a mug of coffee, and took her usual chair against the sidewall in my office.

  “Did you run this morning, boss?”

  “Didn’t have the energy,” I said, moving my chair back to the desk.

  Sandy put down her mug. She hesitated for a moment.

  “Did you talk to AJ last night?”

  “Sandy.”

  “I’ll take that as a no,” she said. “You want to tell me what happened when you and Henri dropped by the Carp Lake house?”

  I did.

  “Well, I think you have it right,” she said. “Sylvia’s all that’s left. There doesn’t seem to be any point talking to the Cavendish brothers again. And they might not even know what mama is up to. You’ve ruled out, shall we say, encouraging the teenage bad boys to talk. So, Sylvia.” Sandy picked up her mug and drank some coffee. “If it were up to me, I’d rough up the bad boys first.”

  “You and Henri,” I said. “Were you a juvenile delinquent in another life?”

  Sandy smiled. “I wanted to be, but Catholic girls start much too late.”

  “You doing Billy Joel, now?”

  “Don’t knock the oldies-but-goodies, boss. Where would we be without them?”

  “Listening to Jay-Z, Billy Eilish, and Hamilton.”

  “I think I need more coffee,” she said, faking a g
rimace.

  “While you’re up,” I said.

  “You want coffee?”

  I shook my head. “No, thanks. Can you find Sylvia Cavendish?”

  “Sure. It’s with the Cavendish info I pulled up the other day.”

  I returned to my view of the bay. A small sailing skiff glided around the breakwater and picked up speed with fresh wind.

  “I ought to get a sailing skiff, a high performance one,” I said when Sandy walked in.

  “Stick to high performance cars,” she said. “At least you know what you’re doing.”

  “Everyone’s a critic,” I said as Sandy handed me notepaper.

  “Sylvia Cavendish lives just outside Gaylord. Use the nav system. The address is in the system, I checked.”

  I folded the paper and shoved it in a pocket.

  “You want me to call her first?”

  I shook my head. “Better if I just show up, see if she’ll talk to me.” I looked at my watch. “Think I’ll stop at Diana’s first, have some breakfast.”

  Diana’s Delight was a mom-and-pop eatery in downtown Gaylord known for breakfast, although lunch wasn’t bad either.

  Sandy put her hands on her hips and glared at me.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t run, you didn’t talk to AJ last night, and no breakfast? Not even a banana? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

  “You playing my mother now?”

  “You don’t need another of those, but listen to yourself if you won’t listen to me. Pay attention.”

  I pushed my chair back and stood. “Look, I know you mean well, Henri, too, but I’m tired of you jabbing me about this.”

  “Well, good luck,” Sandy said. “Whatever’s going on with you and AJ’s eating at you, boss. It’s always in your head. It’s time to figure it out.”

  I went to the outer office, grabbed a lightweight blazer from the hall tree.

  “I’m going to Gaylord.”

  I cut through Roast & Toast to the parking lot. I stopped in the middle of a row of cars, looking around: nothing. I beeped the door locks. I drove the back way, close to the North Central Michigan College campus, over to US 131.

  The clouds, so welcome yesterday, had disappeared. The sun had returned undisguised high in the sky, alongside the humidity.

  I shouldn’t have barked at Sandy. I had been short on patience with both of them lately, her and Henri. They were trying to help, but bringing up AJ over and over again wasn’t helpful. It hurt.

  I was suddenly aware I was on the outskirts of Gaylord, about to join the congestion of downtown; I remembered little of the drive. Too preoccupied with AJ and me. More troublesome, I hadn’t once thought of Sylvia Cavendish on the trip over either.

  I stopped at Diana’s downtown. I had no idea what Sylvia Cavendish would have to say, if she talked to me at all. But I decided to lead with the well-traveled story that a company employee had witnessed a crime. I finished some eggs and toast, took a coffee to go, and found my car in the lot.

  O’Rourke Lake was a ten-minute ride east and a little south of downtown. I glanced at the nav screen. Off Kassuba Road, I turned on Lake Club Drive, a narrow stretch of tarmac that cut through the trees. Mailboxes were stuck at the side of the road. I watched for one marked “Cavendish.”

  I counted only four driveways in a half-mile from the main road. Folks out here in the toniest area of Gaylord didn’t like to live too close to one another. Nor did they like to live where the common folk could see how they lived. It was the perfect refuge for the well-heeled from Bloomfield Hills, Evanston, or Shaker Heights.

  I spotted the mailbox and turned in. At the end of the long drive, the trees broke into a large expanse of manicured lawn, elaborate flower beds and, in the center of it all, a huge cement statuary of a woman with water spouting out of wings on her back. At the far end of the lawn sat a two-story cedar-sided house at lakeside. A long porch stretched across the front. I counted six pairs of sash windows across the second floor.

  I parked the car on the curved drive, walked up the stairs to the double front doors and punched the button. A familiar tune chimed my arrival. I knew it, but couldn’t place it. It felt wrong here.

  The door opened slowly.

  “Mrs. Cavendish? Sylvia Cavendish?” I said. The woman was probably in her sixties, but looked older and harder. Her salt-and-pepper hair was more salt than anything else. It framed a triangle-shaped face with wide-spread oval eyes. Her clothes were straight out of Ann Taylor: tapered black slacks, a white linen V-neck shirt, and no jewelry.

  “Yes?” she said, her mouth barely moving.

  “Ma’am, hello. I’m Michael Russo. I’m a private investigator looking into a crime committed recently in Harbor Springs.”

  “No, you’re not,” she said.

  I expected the door in my face. Instead, Sylvia opened the door wide, moved forward, and stood on the threshold.

  “I know who you are. I don’t understand … why are you here? What do you want with us?”

  I caught the “us.”

  “My sons may have indulged you, Mr. Russo, but I have no interest in doing so.”

  She took two steps back and slammed the door.

  I’ve had interviews like that before, so brief as to be non-existent and annoying. I didn’t always learn anything helpful. I certainly didn’t with Sylvia, but if there was a chance … .

  I walked back to my car, leaned on the hood and looked back at the elegant lakefront house. A pleasant place to live. I guess Henri and I worried for nothing about arousing the suspicions of the Cavendish family. It wasn’t that Sylvia was expecting me to show up, but she wasn’t surprised when I did. I heard a vehicle and turned around. A truck — small, white, with “Cavendish” in large letters on the side panels — stopped behind my car.

  The driver’s side door swung open, and out came Walter Cavendish. Three long strides, and he stood in front of me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Funny, your mother just asked me the same question.”

  He shot a brief glance at the house.

  “Who the hell do you think you are … bothering mother like that. You got no business, no business …”

  He took a step forward, opening my car door. “Get in.” Then, almost yelling, “Get the hell out of here, and don’t come back!”

  I pulled away from the house, watching the rearview mirror. Walter had already turned and was marching toward the house.

  43

  AJ didn’t respond to my text. A call went to voicemail. I put my phone on the desk and looked up. Sandy stood at the doorway. She had that look, the one that signaled she knew very well what I was trying to do.

  But when Sandy wanted to be diplomatic, she was good at it.

  “Are you still wondering,” she said, “how Sylvia Cavendish knew it was you?”

  I shrugged. “Probably a waste of time.”

  “If the Cavendish family really is behind the threats to Lenny Stern …”

  “Not to mention killing Kate Hubbell.”

  “And Kate. Don’t you think they would have expected you or Henri to show up sooner or later?”

  “That’s the logical conclusion, sure.”

  “It’s the only conclusion that makes sense,” Sandy said.

  “Where did you say Henri was? I know you told me, but I was distracted, I guess.”

  Sandy chose not to follow up on my comment. More diplomacy.

  “He went to the island for the day. He said he needed to check on repairs. On his house, I think.”

  “Good time to go, since Lenny’s still in Chicago.”

  I glanced at the time on my computer screen. “Aren’t you here late?”

  “I’m leaving in a minute,” Sandy said. “Remember the Simmons file?”

 
“Uh-huh.”

  “Finished up. I’ll drop it at the courthouse in the morning. Besides, Dad’s playing bridge with some of his buddies.”

  “You don’t have to make dinner?”

  “Yeah, but he’ll be late. A couple of beers after cards. He won’t be in a hurry for dinner.”

  She hesitated at the door.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “Call her again, boss. Call no text.”

  I decided quickly to return her courtesy and chose diplomacy. I nodded. Sandy smiled, and returned to her desk.

  I tapped AJ’s number.

  “Hi, Michael,” AJ said. She sounded too formal, but she was at work. At least that was my rationale. I tried not to read any more into it.

  “How’s things?” I said.

  “You know, how about you?”

  Perhaps there was more to it.

  “Okay,” I said, skipping my friendly visit with Sylvia Cavendish. “Thought about making pasta and a salad. Want to join me?

  “Ah … it’s pretty hectic here,” she said.

  “I’m not starving,” I said. “I can wait.”

  “How about a rain check. Is that all right?”

  “Sure. A rain check it is.” It didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.

  “All right,” AJ said. “Got to go. See you.”

  I was uncomfortable the way it ended, not edgy or annoyed, just uncomfortable. We’ve had that same conversation dozens of times over the years. Most of the time we shared dinner somewhere. Occasionally, we did not. Either way was okay. But they used to be easier conversations.

  I no longer felt like putting together dinner. I tapped the keyboard, went to Pallette Bistro’s menu. I tapped out an order for crab cakes and a Caesar salad, and paid for it. I was only going a couple of blocks, of course, but some menu items tasted better than others by the time I got them home. I picked up my brief bag and left the office.

  I tossed my bag in the car, went across the street to pick up dinner, and drove home.

  I always liked dinner at home, on the couch, in old running clothes. By myself was good, being with AJ was better. I walked toward the rear entrance of my building, brief bag over my shoulder. My toughest decision was, wine or scotch. What sounded better with crab cakes?