Deadly Secrets on Mackinac Island

by Cara Putman

  “That’s right. Old brain is fuddled at the moment.” He chuckled weakly as he grabbed the right kind. He pulled out a bag but seemed to take extra time before he handed it over. He ran her debit card through the machine that looked oddly out of place next to the giant cash register. His movements jerked abnormally as he slid the receipt to her. “Have a good evening.”

  “You, too, Mr. Hoffmeister.” Alanna left the store then turned to watch him from the window. He shuffled across the floor as if he carried the weight of a hundred problems then locked the door and flipped the sign. She waved, and he lifted a hand.

  The street was quiet as she shoved off and pedaled home. The white bag glowed like a flag in her bike’s basket, waving a surrender to all who passed her. When she got home, she opened the bag. A small piece of paper, like it had been torn from the cash-register tape, fluttered to the table. Mr. Hoffmeister’s scrawl had her squinting as she tried to decipher it.

  Alanna, come by my house tomorrow night. I’ll explain then. If I don’t answer, you’ll find the key by the German shepherd. She guards the house for me.

  She stared at the slip. When had he found time to write it? She’d been there the whole time. And why not just tell her when she was in the shop? Why all the secrecy?

  The questions bothered her as she tried to go to sleep and woke her during the night.

  The next morning Alanna got a late start after her restless sleep. She slipped a headband on to hold back damp hair as she hurried to the studio. She slowed when she approached I’m Not Sharing. Police crime-scene tape fluttered around the outside. Dread sank like a weight through her at the image. What happened after she left? A few of the island police officers stood around the perimeter of the tape, their expressions hard and unwelcoming.

  She eased to a stop.

  “Keep moving, miss.” A uniformed officer still wearing his bike helmet gestured her on.

  “What happened?”

  “Can’t say.” He waved his arm. “Please keep moving.”

  She eased back into the bike traffic. After she opened the Painted Stone, she’d call the island grapevine to find out what happened. Until then she had a couple of job interviews to conduct. At the pace her investigation wasn’t moving, she needed to leave the island as soon as possible. In fact, yesterday sounded better all the time.

  With a last glance at the yellow tape flapping across the shop’s door, Alanna finished biking to work, her thoughts shadowed by the unknown. She focused on the interviews, which passed smoothly enough, with only one of the candidates showing enough interest to invite for an in-person interview. It helped that the college student lived in St. Ignace during the summer. After arranging the interview for the following morning, Alanna helped several people who wandered into the store. She sold paintings with mixed emotions.

  She vowed to unravel the twisted mire around the art as soon as humanly possible. She munched a sandwich at the counter, counting down until she could take a legitimate lunch break again. Peanut butter and jelly had never been her favorite sandwich, and right now she’d give anything for a pot roast sandwich at the Yankee Rebel. She tried to imagine the nutty aroma of her sandwich was the meaty one the Yankee Rebel served instead, but her imagination couldn’t quite make the transition.

  She finished the sandwich then placed a want ad in another paper. Eventually one would work. It had to.

  Early that afternoon she looked up from the web page she’d opened. Jonathan stormed into the studio, a frown creasing the bridge of his nose.

  “Jonathan, what’s wrong?”

  “Didn’t you hear?”

  She shook her head. “Hear what?”

  “Mr. Hoffmeister was murdered last night.”

  The blood drained from her face, and she felt an accompanying dizziness. “The tape. . .”

  “The state police detective and crime scene unit have been at I’m Not Sharing since one of the employees discovered him this morning.” Jonathan leaned against the counter. “I can’t imagine who would kill him.”

  Alanna sagged against the wall. A weight plunged her stomach to her toes while spots danced in her vision. “He seemed all right.” Just distracted. Her thoughts spiraled as she considered what could have happened.

  “He seemed all right?”

  “Last night. I stopped to get some fudge on the way home.” Jonathan didn’t need to know what they discussed. Or about Mr. H.’s odd actions when he came to the studio. “That poor man.”

  Jonathan nodded. “I can’t imagine anyone killing him. It must have been a botched robbery. The island’s been so quiet, I can’t imagine whoever did this got away with much money.”

  “I hope you’re right.” The idea that a murderer could be a neighbor chilled her.

  “How did he seem when you saw him?”

  “Okay. Distracted.” What more could she say? She hadn’t been Mr. Hoffmeister’s closest friend, but she’d always liked the man. He’d been like the uncle you loved to be annoyed at. Soft and gushy sometimes and mildly odd the rest. She hadn’t spent enough time with him since returning though. Whatever he might have known about Grady’s death had died with him.

  Alanna tried to rein in her thoughts, but they returned to what he might have known.

  “I hope the police close this soon.” Jonathan rubbed his face as if trying to wipe away his grief. “I always liked him. Nobody deserves to die like that.”

  “How. . .how was he killed?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody knew at lunch.” His face clouded as if listening again.

  “I got here and forgot. I assumed it was a robbery.” She shivered as a deep chill settled over her and the words of his note waved through her mind. He’d known. Somehow he’d known. “How horrible.”

  Jonathan nodded. After a minute, he pushed back from the counter. “Be careful. We don’t know who did this.”

  “You, too.”

  “Promise you’ll wait for me to ride home. Your parents won’t want you out alone.”

  Alanna considered protesting but realized he was right. The thought that someone would murder anyone. . .on Mackinac? It didn’t compute. She couldn’t think of a time someone had been killed. Maybe the island had changed in ways too terrible to contemplate.

  The rest of the afternoon evaporated as Alanna searched the online news services for information. As she scanned for anything, she wondered if she should give the note to the police. The lack of details had her nerves bunched. Was it important? As she considered its cryptic message, she decided to wait until she had time to collect what she knew in an organized manner for the police. As the stream of customers continued, she knew she’d have to wait until she reached the sanctuary of her home.

  The shadows had started to lengthen by the time Jonathan returned. She hurried out to meet him, locking the door behind her. The cleaning and prep for tomorrow would wait. Right now she wanted to feel safe within the four walls of her house.

  The silent ride up the hills felt rushed. Like they both fled to a place of peace, but Jonathan wouldn’t do that. Usually she wouldn’t either. What if she’d been the last person other than the killer to see Mr. Hofffmeister alive? After she got home, she’d write down everything she could remember from his rush into the studio to their short conversation and his halting actions at the shop. Then she’d talk to the police. If only she’d caught a glimpse of whoever had been there when she’d arrived.

  Her sigh must have reached Jonathan as he pumped up the hill in front of her.

  He turned in his seat and glanced at her. “You okay?”

  She swallowed. How to answer that? She hadn’t been great friends with Mr. Hoffmeister, yet she felt his death.

  They reached her driveway and turned down it. Once she parked her bike, he followed her to the door and then walked through the house with her.

  “This is silly.” A giggle ended the sentence, one she’d love to swallow back. “It’s not like whoever did this would come here. Mr. Hoffmeister lived on the op
posite side of the island.”

  Jonathan continued his search, opening the pantry door. “Better safe. . .”

  Alanna didn’t say anything else until he’d looked in each of the upstairs rooms. “Would you like to stay for supper?”

  “The last time I did that, your mom left.”

  “Tonight will be different.” As she studied his serious eyes, she wished she could form the words. Please stay. Don’t leave me alone. Instead, she prayed he could read it in her gaze. What happened to the independent woman from Grand Rapids?

  Murders normally didn’t affect her.

  Usually she didn’t know the victim.

  24

  Alanna moved around the kitchen, her movements stilted and jerky. She must look like Mr. Hoffmeister had the night before—a tad off. Jonathan sat at the island, awkward and out of place like he didn’t know how to help and wondered if he should stay. She needed him here. While her mind knew whoever killed Mr. Hoffmeister had no reason to venture this far into the island, she couldn’t relax and feel safe.

  She opened the refrigerator, scrambling for what to offer as a meal. “Sandwiches okay? It’s not glamorous. . .”

  “I’m a bachelor.” Jonathan cut off her excuses. “Any meal I don’t prepare is a good one.”

  She grabbed meat and cheese. Jonathan stood and selected glasses from the cabinet. “What would you like?”

  Alanna pulled back from the fridge, her hands filled with ranch dressing and other condiments she set on the counter next to the ham and Swiss. “Water’s fine.”

  He turned on the faucet and watched the water fill first one glass and then the other. The silence felt awkward yet necessary. Jonathan seemed lost in his thoughts, and she didn’t rush to fill the dead air as she sliced a tomato and some lettuce before arranging them in salad bowls. She didn’t blame him. Something like this didn’t happen on Mackinac.

  She bet if she asked the police chief, the man would affirm her gut that no one had been murdered since before she was born. Still, in the age of the Internet, the outside world intruded on Mackinac. In a minute, she had sandwiches prepared and a simple salad for each of them.

  “Mind if I grab some chips from the pantry? Your mom always keeps a stash.”

  “No, but that’s Dad’s stash.” He’d always had a weakness for chips, especially Cheetos. The more fake cheese colored his fingers, the better.

  Jonathan pulled back the door and tugged a tube of Pringles from the bottom shelf. “These work?”

  “Sure.”

  They sat at the table, and Jonathan said a quick grace.

  “I talked to Rachelle yesterday.”

  Her gaze collided with Jonathan’s. “And?”

  “I asked her about commissioning a piece.”

  “I bet that went well.”

  He shrugged and shoved another Pringle in his mouth. “Not as bad as I expected. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no either. I insisted she had to paint, not Trevor, since that’s what the client wants.”

  “She admitted the paintings aren’t hers?”

  “Not in so many words, but I connected her with the Morrises. We’ll see what happens.”

  Much would be resolved if Mom started painting again. Then Alanna wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with new paintings. Mom probably wouldn’t deliver any again.

  As she took the last bite of her sandwich, someone knocked. She looked at Jonathan, and he shrugged.

  “Expecting anyone?”

  “No.” Who would it be? People hadn’t exactly lined up since she’d returned.

  Jonathan followed her to the door and peeked out the window before she opened the door.

  Police Chief Ryan stood there with a man in a bedraggled suit that identified him as an underpaid detective. They were here? With a murder to investigate? She straightened and quirked an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

  “Alanna, this is Detective Brian Bull from the state police. Do you have a few minutes?”

  Jonathan started to push past her, but she shook her head. He frowned but planted himself at her side. “What’s this about?”

  “Don’t get worked up, Covington. This doesn’t concern you.”

  By the way Jonathan’s chin hardened, the chief’s words were the wrong ones.

  Alanna sucked in a breath. There weren’t any attorneys to call on the island, so she’d handle this on her own for the moment. Shouldn’t be too hard, even if the old saw stated only a fool had himself for an attorney.

  “Alanna.” Chief Ryan frowned at her, his bushy gray eyebrows meeting in the middle of his face. “Shouldn’t take long, assuming you don’t have anything to hide.”

  “I’d like to know the subject matter.” She studied him as carefully as he did her, not missing the challenge in his expression.

  “Hoffmeister.”

  Jonathan gaped at the police chief. “You think Alanna knows something?”

  “Pretty certain.” The police chief studied Alanna coldly. Yet the detective was the one that worried Alanna. He had a slouched appearance, but his eyes moved constantly, taking in everything. What did the man expect to find here of all places?

  Alanna sighed as she caught Jonathan’s shocked expression. Maybe she should have emphasized her visit. No, she didn’t know it would add anything to the investigation, and her plan to contact the police in the morning was sound. He’d have to understand when she explained later.

  “I’ll answer your questions here on the porch, but first I need to grab something.” Alanna slipped inside and grabbed the folder she’d slid Mr. Hoffmeister’s note into last night. She also grabbed a pad of paper and pen before returning to the porch and sitting on the nearest white rocking chair. She placed the items in her lap and folded her hands across them. In a moment, her knuckles turned white from her laced fingers, and she tried to relax. She needed to remember all the advice she’d ever given clients when preparing for interviews or depositions. It had seemed easy then. Now she could barely pull the first word into her mind.

  Jonathan stood in the doorway, the stiffness in his posture telegraphing he would stick close until she asked him to leave. Right now, that was the last thing she planned. She needed someone with her. A witness who could vouch for her in case things didn’t go well.

  Detective Bull pulled a slim notepad from his inside breast pocket and flipped it open. He poised a pen over the paper. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Hoffmeister?”

  “Yesterday.” No reason to hide that piece of information.

  He jotted a note. “Where did you see him?”

  “First at the studio. Later at the shop.”

  Jonathan frowned at her. She ignored him. Her focus had to stay locked on the police chief and detective. She only hoped she could remember everything after they left. It seemed like her vision narrowed with gray areas on the outskirts. She wanted to shake it off, but would that look somehow guilty? She should have paid more attention in her criminal law continuing education classes.

  “When you say, ‘the studio,’ where is that?”

  “The Painted Stone, the studio my parents own.”

  “Are they in town?”

  “No, my father has a health issue, which is why I’m here.” She bit her lower lip to stop elaborating. Stick to the question asked. How many times had she instructed clients that way? But she’d also tell them never to talk to police without an attorney present.

  Detective Bull studied her, and she relaxed her posture. He glanced at Chief Ryan, who nodded. “How long have you been on Mackinac?”

  “Since the week before Memorial Day.”

  “Have you spent much time with Mr. Hoffmeister?”

  “We’ve talked a couple times.”

  “Prior to yesterday?”

  “Yes.” A trickle of sweat slid down her shoulder blade.

  “What were those conversations about?”

  Why wasn’t he asking her more about yesterday? “Different things. An accident from eleven years
ago.”

  “The one where the teenager died?” the detective asked.

  Chief Ryan shook his head. “I warned you to leave it alone.”

  At his words, Alanna wished she had her digital recorder out and on. He wouldn’t have inserted himself like that with a recorder capturing every word.

  Detective Bull frowned at the chief then turned back at Alanna. “Why did you see Mr. Hoffmeister yesterday?”

  “He came to the studio to tell me to quit looking into that death. It was unusual for him, especially since I haven’t done much other than talk to him once. He’d been pretty open then.”

  “And last night?”

  “I stopped by the fudge shop to see if he was all right.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “I don’t know. He seemed out of character at the studio. I needed to know he was okay.”

  Chief Ryan snorted. “Meaning you needed to harass him and the librarian last night.”

  He knew she’d stopped at the library? She turned toward him.

  “I flipped through an old yearbook. Nothing more. I need to piece together what happened. Since Mr. Hoffmeister lived near the accident location, he suggested he knew something.”

  Jonathan placed a restraining hand on her arm. Alanna sucked in a breath and vowed not to say another word to the chief. Let him egg her on all he wanted; he wouldn’t get another word from her. Not now.

  The chief crossed his arms and stared at her. Fine. She’d ignore him. She had bigger concerns with the detective leaning against the porch railing. Her eye was drawn to the peeling paint that had started to flake from the railing. Her dad always kept the house meticulously maintained. How many summers had he made Trevor and her scrape and paint? What had distracted him from the appearance of perfection?

  “And last night?”

  “I stopped at the shop on my way home. When I entered, nobody was out front. I waited a minute then heard voices in the back. After a minute, I rang the bell, a door closed, and Mr. Hoffmeister came out. He seemed agitated, but I bought a slice of fudge and left.”

  “Did you see anyone around?”