Dead Lock

by B. David Warner

  “Welcome to the Caiman’s main salon,” said Scotty. I know my mouth must have been hanging open.

  The floor was highly polished teak and the couches and chairs mirrored each other in the same brownish red shade of soft, rich leather. A fireplace graced one end of the cabin, a gleaming mahogany bar the other. There were windows all around, affording passengers a spectacular view of the river.

  “Just a little touch of home,” Scotty grinned.

  “Wow!” I finally managed to say. “Some home!”

  “C’mon, let me show you around.” We paused at the bar toward the back of the salon, where Scotty poured a Scotch and water for me and a bourbon and water for himself. Then, glass in hand he led the way down a narrow staircase positioned just beside the bar.

  Once below, we walked along a narrow hallway with staterooms on each side. We ended up at the open doorway to what was obviously the yacht’s master stateroom. I leaned in and took in the view: a large double bed, covered with a rich, light blue comforter, polished wooden cabinets and a shining wood floor covered by a colorful oriental rug.

  Was it my imagination or did Scotty hover there behind me a second too long? “Let’s take a look at that back porch upstairs,” I said quickly.

  “Sure,” Scotty said. “But if you’re going to be a boater, you’ll have to learn the terminology. It’s not a back porch, it’s the fantail.”

  We went up the stairs again to the main salon where Scotty opened the door to the fantail and we walked out onto it. The area resembled a large, covered porch, and ran some 25 feet from the rear of the main salon to the boat’s stern. The deck was the same polished teak; the furniture, wicker couches and chairs, were covered with matching thick, blue patterned cushions.

  In the center of it all was a white cloth-covered table set for two diners. Standing next to it was a smiling chef, holding a bottle of red wine.

  It turned out to be just the beginning of the surprises in store this evening.

  47

  “I’ve imported Chef Joseph from the Park Place Hotel downstate in Traverse City,” Scotty said. “He’s going to chef a party I’m having aboard in two weeks. He’s here today and tomorrow making preparations, so I talked him into creating a special meal just for us.”

  Scotty held my chair as I sat down. Chef Joseph poured a sample of wine into Scotty’s glass, which he swirled around and then tasted.

  “Cheval Blanc, 1934. Excellent choice, Joseph.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Pour a glass for Miss Brennan.”

  “Yes, Sir. I had the Cheval Blanc decanted on-shore for two hours to let it breathe. I did the same with the bottle of Croft Vintage Port, 1927, you’ll enjoy after dinner along with a delicious cheese from Traverse City.”

  I couldn’t help looking around as Chef Joseph poured the wine, taking in the fantail area. Except for six posts that ran from the three-foot railing to the ceiling, the fantail was open all around. The result was a great view of the St. Marys River where two giant freighters sounded their foghorns as they passed, traveling in opposite directions.

  Chef Joseph made a big production of preparing our entire meal at the tableside. He began with a Caesar salad, grinding anchovies in the bottom of a large dish, and adding the other ingredients with a flourish. He was equally flamboyant with the main course, filet mignon. He began with crushed peppercorns, added a dash or two of wine to the pan and fried them tableside. He completed his performance with a desert of Bananas Foster and a snack of imported French cheese.

  We chatted as we ate. “When you told me you owned a boat, I had no idea it would be anything like this,” I said. “It was a real surprise.”

  Scotty took a sip of his Cheval Blanc. “I have another surprise. The Caiman is going to be the first boat through the new MacArthur Lock on the day of its dedication.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Nope. I volunteered the Caiman and the governor took me up on it. In fact, Governor Kelly himself will be aboard for the dedication, along with some Army brass, the Mayor and a bunch of state senators and other officials.”

  “Sounds like a big deal.”

  “I’m having a party on board two weeks from tomorrow night to celebrate. You’re invited, along with everyone on the Morning News staff. I hope you’ll plan to be here.”

  Scotty went on to describe how, during the dedication ceremony, the officials would make their speeches from the bow of the Caiman. And how afterward it would sail out of the MacArthur Lock into the St. Marys River, Whitefish Bay and then on into Lake Superior.

  Darkness was setting in as we finished the meal. The fantail lights were low, providing a romantic atmosphere. Freighters slid by out on the River, their lights dancing in the darkness. A cool breeze cut through the warm summer air, and all seemed right with the world. It was a truly magical evening.

  Chef Joseph had left us alone and we moved to a wicker couch next to the railing. We sat sipping from our wine glasses, looking out over the water. The trees, a mile or so across the river, were dark shapes. Sea gulls slipped through the evening air above us. I felt Scotty slip his arm around behind me. Maybe it was the wine, maybe the company, but it all felt very comfortable. I leaned back against Scotty’s arm, looked up into his eyes and we kissed. It started off innocently enough, but became very sensual.

  It was time to slow things down.

  “Tell me about this shindig you’re planning,” I said.

  Scotty pulled back a little as he answered. “Are you coming?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Swell. The governor and mayor will be here, along with some state senators, the sheriff and most of the brass from the Army Corps of Engineers.”

  “You must carry a lot of weight to pull people like that into your party,” I said.

  “Frankly, it’s not me so much as the fact that if I find that vein of copper where I think it is, the Soo economy will boom. That always makes politicians look good. We’re blasting every day. And every day we get a little closer to the mother lode.”

  Scotty leaned closer and again we kissed. Again it got more passionate. I broke off the kiss; there was something I needed to know before this relationship went any further.

  “Scotty?”

  “Yes, Kate?”

  “Did you ever date Shirley Benoit?”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  “Shirley and I were having a girl-to-girl chat the evening before she . . . she was killed. She warned me to keep away from you. Why would she do that?”

  Scotty looked relieved. “Oh, that,” he said. “Yeah, Shirley and I went out a couple of times. We hit it off pretty well, but I’m afraid Shirley was getting too serious, too fast.”

  “So you . . .”

  “I decided to call it off. I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. And I’m afraid . . . well, Shirley never forgave me.”

  “I see.”

  “I was sorry to hurt her. I hoped someday she’d forgive me. As it turned out . . . well, that’s impossible. It was a shame she was murdered like that.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think they hold grudges where Shirley is now,” I said.

  It was getting late. My watch showed it was nearly ten o’clock and I had to be at work the next morning. I stood up.

  “It’s been a lovely evening, Scotty. Thanks so much.”

  “I’m staying aboard the Caiman tonight,” he said. “But I’ll walk you to your car.”

  We kissed again in the parking lot before I started home.

  48

  Mick was waiting for me when I got home, patiently as usual. I let him out into the backyard, then sat down at the kitchen table and poured a glass of milk.

  I was still reeling from the evening’s events. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I had let a man into my life. I hoped the decision wasn’t one I’d regret. Scotty had been the perfect host from the beginning of the evening to the end, walking me to my car. />
  What would come next?

  And what about beyond that? I was, after all, still a reporter for the Detroit Times. I looked forward to the time I could return and finish what I’d begun: the series on organized crime and their production of gasoline ration stamps in the Detroit area.

  Suddenly I relaxed, realizing I was taking this all too seriously. I had gone from not wanting another man in my life under any circumstances to considering my plans for the future.

  All in one short evening.

  But what an evening! Scotty’s Caiman was one fantastic yacht. It was so spectacular, in fact, that it was to be the first to sail through the new McArthur Lock.

  Then it dawned on me: the reports of the threat of a German attack on the day of the dedication. Had Scotty been warned of it? The threat was supposedly top secret, but Scotty was obviously well connected. He might have been notified even before I found out.

  I had been sworn to secrecy, but that was before tonight. I had to at least tell Scotty about the possibility of an attack, without revealing the source.

  I’d tell him tomorrow. It was time now for some sleep.

  Mick apparently agreed; he was scratching at the back door.

  49

  Friday, June 25

  Olson’s report seemed so one-sided I felt confident that Crawford would let me write the story of my interview with the Corporal.

  So I decided to write it without asking.

  I vowed to be as objective as I could, given that I was convinced of Cummins’ innocence. I even called Sheriff Valenti to get his reaction to what I was writing.

  “Cummins is the only suspect we have in custody at this time,” was the best the sheriff could do. He gave no reaction at all to the coroner’s view that the killer had to be right-handed. “Cummins is the only suspect we have in custody,” he repeated.

  I called the coroner and elicited a quote from him, underlining his right-handed killer theory.

  Then I wrote the story.

  It was minutes from deadline when I dropped the typewritten pages on Crawford’s desk. He looked at the papers, looked up at me, and then back to the papers and began to read.

  He looked up again when he finished. “You interviewed Cummins?”

  “I did. He had been accused of killing my best friend,” I said. “I had to find out, for Shirley’s sake, if he did it.”

  “And you’re convinced the sheriff has the wrong man?”

  “The coroner says the killer was right-handed. Cummins writes with his left hand. Besides, I’ve interviewed more real killers than I care to admit. And Cummins just isn’t the type.”

  “If we run your story, won’t it appear that we’re contradicting ourselves?”

  “Look, Mr. Crawford …”

  “Call me Jack.”

  “Jack. Suppose Cummins is innocent. Suppose Sheriff Valenti catches the real killer. How will the newspaper look if we’ve only run Olson’s story? A story that practically condemns Cummins without a trial.”

  Crawford mulled that over. “Alright,” he said finally. “But I want you to strike one sentence.”

  “What sentence is that?” As if I didn’t know.

  “The sentence about Sheriff Valenti not knowing his right hand from his left.”

  “You got it, Jack!”

  50

  Mick was excited to see me when I got home that evening.

  He stood on his one hind leg, his paws on top of the fence gate, wagging his tail and barking madly.

  I patted his head, then went through the gate and around to the back door of the house with Mick following, still barking.

  It seemed as if he were trying to tell me something.

  I went in through the unlocked back door and walked to the cupboard where I kept Mick’s dry dog food. Maybe he was hungry. I poured a larger than usual helping of dry food into his bowl and set it on the floor next to the refrigerator.

  Mick took a look at the bowl, barked a couple more times and then began to eat. I walked through the kitchen, into the dining room.

  That’s when I noticed the flower vase. There had been a small chip on the lip of the vase and I distinctly remembered turning that side toward the wall so visitors wouldn’t notice it. Now it faced the opposite way, where it could be easily seen from anywhere in the room.

  Was I going nuts? I didn’t think so. I decided to look around.

  Things got a bit unsettling as I began to explore the rest of the first floor. There was a strange feeling that, somehow, drawers and closets had been searched through and then had their items returned – almost to the original places.

  Almost.

  Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but my years as a reporter had trained me to focus on small details. My career depended on it.

  If I believed in poltergeists, I’d figure that Shirley had been here, moving things around just to say hello. I didn’t believe in ghosts, of course, but I still found the placement of the items unsettling.

  Someone had searched Shirley’s house while I was at the office. What had he, she or they been looking for?

  A chill ran through me with my next thought – were they still in the house? I held my breath – listening.

  Hearing nothing, I decided to search further. Mick had finished eating and I took him with me as I went down to the basement. I opened closets and drawers, finding the same conditions as on the first floor. Small details no one else would have seen gave away the fact that the basement had been gone over one end to the other.

  Then I tried the attic. I hit the light switch at the bottom of the stairway and went up, Mick close behind. I reached the top of the stairs and looked around the attic. The unfinished walls were bare two-by-four planks with insulation affixed between them. Light emanated from a lone bulb hanging from the ceiling. My suitcases lay where I had left them, against the wall next to an old set of golf clubs. A cardboard box in the far corner intrigued me and I walked over to it.

  Opening the lid, I could see the box contained notebooks and papers and I slid it out in the open so I could inspect the contents under the light of the single bulb.

  Shirley’s high school yearbook was inside, along with a notebook containing the names and what appeared to be the current addresses of some of our old school friends. There were five diaries in the box, one from each of her four high school years, and one from her freshman year in college.

  I picked up the diary of her senior year in high school and scanned it. Page by page Shirley had kept details of her activities, complete with names and dates. My name appeared often and brought back memories that caused my eyes to tear.

  I replaced the diaries in the box. I hadn’t wanted to invade Shirley’s privacy, but felt it necessary to find what was here. I learned she was very meticulous in her note keeping.

  I walked back downstairs mulling the questions. The fact that the house had been searched made me feel as if I’d been violated. Everything I touched seemed to bear some sort of stigma.

  I made a hasty search of Shirley’s room and then my own. I noticed that a couple of dollar bills and a few coins I had placed on the dresser in my bedroom last evening were still there. The motive for the search had obviously not been robbery.

  As I walked back into the living room, I considered calling the sheriff, then thought better of it. What would I report? That a chip on the lip of a vase had been turned away from the wall? That I suspected someone had gone through the house, but nothing was missing?

  I opened a can of vegetable soup and fixed a salad of lettuce, a couple of carrots and a couple slices of fresh tomato. Bedtime came shortly after nine-thirty. The next day would be an eventful one.

  Tomorrow was Shirley’s funeral.

  51

  Claus Krueger viewed the upcoming operation scheduled for the dedication of the new lock as any good soldier would.

  He felt no animosity toward the American people; on the contrary, his father had instilled a respect for the Americans in him at an early
age. The fact that hundreds of innocent people would die was a necessary adjunct of the war.

  Krueger considered the purpose behind the operation a stroke of genious. The German high command had always suspected that the Americans were soft; the current generation had never felt the pain of war on their native soil as the people of Germany had. More than four hundred thousand German civilians had been killed during the World War of twenty-five years ago.

  The attack on the locks and the resulting slaughter of civilians would finally bring the sting of battle home to U.S. soil. Once Americans realized the true cost – that war was more than marching bands and waving flags - they would have no stomach for it. They would rush to convince their congressmen and even the President himself, to put an end to this “senseless conflict”.

  Roosevelt would be forced to pull American troops out of Europe and the Pacific, leaving the Third Reich free to continue its blitzkrieg across Europe, while the Japanese took the Pacific.

  The operation now lay just days away and he, Claus Krueger, would play a major role. The more Americans that died, the quicker their countrymen would capitulate. And the more impressive his welcome would be upon his return to the Fatherland.

  He wasn’t inhumane. He wasn’t a monster.

  He was simply a good soldier.

  52

  Saturday, June 26

  Shirley’s funeral turned out to be the tearjerker I had anticipated.

  The casket sat in a room just outside the chapel of Rodger’s Funeral Home. A crowd had formed and people talked in hushed tones. Girls who had worked with Shirley at Blades Larue’s stood around crying and hugging.

  There’s nothing like a funeral to remind people of how precious and fragile life is, and how petty their day-to-day disagreements can be. People who may have been involved in vehement arguments the day before now embraced.