Death at the Door

by K. C. Greenlief

  “Why the hell don’t people answer their damn phones anymore?” she muttered. Bea called the sheriff’s office. The dispatcher told her the sheriff wasn’t there. She took her name and told Bea that she would find him. Frustrated at being put off, Bea decided to go back to her bedroom and unpacked her suitcases. As she put her clothes away, she found herself watching the telephone, willing it to ring. She picked it up ten minutes later, on the first ring, just as she was putting the last of her things in her dresser.

  “Mrs. Whitlock, would you mind if I dropped by your house with a state police investigator to ask you some questions?”

  Bea sat down on her bed in surprise. “What’s this about? Have I done something wrong? Do I need to call my son to drive up from Green Bay?”

  “Mrs. Whitlock, as far as we know, you’ve done nothing wrong. We just want to ask you some questions about the murder at the golf course on Sunday.”

  “Murder at the golf course. Oh my goodness, I’m going to call my son.”

  “Who is your son?” Skewski asked, wondering why she kept dragging him into the conversation.

  “Richard Morrison,” she said, her voice full of pride.

  The sheriff instantly understood her son’s place in the conversation. Richard “Dickey” Morrison was notorious throughout Door County. He was the attorney to call if you were arrested for drunk driving or shoplifting or were bankrupt. You knew he was the guy to call because he was constantly in everyone’s face with his obnoxious advertising on TV, radio, and in the newspaper. The sheriff didn’t even want to think about his full-page, full-color ad in the telephone book.

  “I’m sure you know my son, Sheriff, everyone does. They just don’t make the connection between Dickey and I because our last names are different. Dickey’s dad died several years ago. I remarried Mr. Whitlock. He died two years ago, rest his soul. I’ll call Dickey and let him know you want to question me. I’m sure he’ll want to be here when I’m interrogated. We can come to your office as soon as he gets here. Shall I call you and let you know when we can be there?”

  “Call the department, the number you used earlier, and they’ll let me know what time to expect you.” Skewski sighed and shook his head in disgust. The last thing he wanted was a dose of Dickey Morrison on a busy Saturday afternoon. He called Joel Grenfurth’s cell phone and told him the news. Morrison’s reputation stretched beyond Door County; he was familiar to Joel as well. Joel told the sheriff that he would drive down for the interview.

  Bea Whitlock and her son walked into the interview room at 2:30 P.M. Dickey was dressed in golf clothes and looked flushed from too much sun, too much alcohol, or both. He was obviously unhappy at having been dragged away from his golf game and up to Sturgeon Bay by his mother. She seemed completely unaware of his frustration.

  Dickey nodded at Joel and Sheriff Skewski and slammed his briefcase down on the table. “Okay, Skewski, what’s so damn important that it couldn’t wait?”

  “Have you read anything about the murder of Paul Larsen and the assault on Daisy DuBois?”

  “Yeah, what about it?” Dickey pulled his yellow legal pad out of his briefcase and began lining it out.

  “We found the abandoned golf cart that Paul Larsen had signed out at the golf course across the street from your mother’s house. We want to ask her some questions about it.”

  “That’s all?” Morrison looked at his mother and rolled his eyes. “Ma, you dragged me off the golf course for this?”

  “Do I have to remind you about how many things you’ve dragged me out of over the years?” Mrs. Whitlock gave her son a sweet smile, but her voice said it all. It was time for a little payback.

  “Okay, okay.” Morrison threw up his hands and rolled his eyes at Joel and the sheriff. He settled into his chair to take notes.

  “Mrs. Whitlock, if it’s okay with you, we’d like to tape this interview so we can have it transcribed and signed. Are you all right with that?” Joel placed his tape recorder in the center of the table.

  Bea glanced over at her son, who nodded.

  “Were you home on Sunday morning, May twenty-seventh?”

  “Yes. Dickey was supposed to drive me down to Madison to spend the week with my daughter and my grandchildren on Saturday, but he had an important business meeting so he wasn’t able to take me until Sunday afternoon.” She was facing Joel and the sheriff but she reached out to pat Dickey’s arm, almost as if she could see the frustration on his face.

  “Did you notice the golf cart across the street?”

  “Oh, yes, Sheriff, I saw him drive up and leave it there. I thought it was a funny place to leave a golf cart.” She looked at her son. “Remember, Dickey, it was still sitting over there when you picked me up?”

  “I don’t remember it.”

  “Sure you do, honey. I pointed it out to you when you were putting my suitcases in the trunk.”

  “You said a lot of things to me when I picked you up. I don’t remember any golf cart.” Dickey shook his head.

  “I just don’t know how you missed it, dear. It was right there, almost in Juanita’s yard. You really didn’t see it?” She looked at her son in disbelief.

  “Ma, if I saw it I would say I saw it.” Dickey’s voice rose in frustration. “Let’s get on with this so we can get the hell out of here.”

  “Dickey, there’s no need for you to treat these officers this way. They’re just doing their job. If you can’t be nice, you can just leave.” She folded her arms across her chest and settled back in her chair.

  “I wish,” Dickey grumbled. “Let’s get on with this.”

  “Mrs. Whitlock, did you see who was in the golf cart?”

  “Sheriff, please call me Bea.” She smiled at him and Joel saw the charmer she must have been in her younger years. “Even after all these years, when people call me Mrs. Whitlock, it makes me think they are looking for my mother-in-law, God rest her soul.”

  “Bea, did you see who was in the golf cart?”

  “I sure did.”

  All three men leaned toward her, waiting for her to go on. She said nothing.

  “Jesus Christ, Ma, who the hell was it?”

  “Dickey, how many times have I told you not to take the Lord’s name in vain in front of me?”

  “Cut the crap, Ma. Who was it?”

  “It was a man.”

  “Who?” Joel asked.

  “I wasn’t able to tell exactly who it was.” She tapped her forehead. “My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be and I didn’t have my binoculars.”

  “What did he look like?” Joel asked.

  “He was tall. He had on a light-colored shirt and a pair of tan pants. He had a baseball cap on his head.”

  “Can you remember anything else about him that might help us identify him?”

  “He was carrying a set of golf clubs over his shoulder.”

  “Did he look old or young, fat or thin? Did he walk with a limp?”

  “I couldn’t see him that well,” Bea said, shaking her head.

  “Where did he go?” Joel asked.

  “He got in a car and they left.”

  “They,” all three men said in unison.

  “The person who was driving the car.”

  Joel and the sheriff stared at each other in dismay. Another person was involved in this.

  “She had on a baseball cap and a light-colored shirt and sunglasses. That’s all I could see.”

  “How did you know it was a woman?” Joel asked.

  Bea didn’t answer at first. “I really couldn’t tell for sure that it was a woman. It was just a sense I got. I guess it could have been a man.”

  “What kind of a car were they in?”

  “One of those Jeep cars like you have.” She looked over at Dickey for help.

  “I drive a Lexus SUV. Is that what they were in?”

  “I don’t know. It was just one of those kind of cars?”

  “An SUV?” Joel asked.

  “Yes.” Bea po
inted her finger at him. “It was one of those SUVs. A dark-colored one.”

  Joel’s mind raced. Door County was polluted with dark-colored SUVs. Dark vehicles stood out best against the Wisconsin snow. A man and a woman in a dark-colored SUV. They could find a needle in a haystack faster than they could find the murderer from this ID.

  Joel leaned over toward her. “Bea, this is very important. Do you remember anything about the SUV that might help us figure out what kind it was? Any detail, even the color, no matter how trivial, might be helpful. Did you see the license plates? Could you tell what state the car was from?”

  Bea thought for a few seconds and shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I can’t remember anything else. I’ve never been good with the names of cars, and now, since I can’t see very well, it was kind of a blur, just a dark-colored SUV like Dickey’s. If I’d known it was going to be this important, I would have run and gotten my binoculars.”

  Sheriff Skewski thanked Dickey and his mother for coming in and told her one of his officers would bring her statement over for her to sign at her convenience. After hearing from her son that it was okay to sign it, she told them to bring the statement by anytime.

  “Man oh man,” Skewski said after they walked out the door. “It’s no wonder that Morrison drives everyone nuts. He had one hell of a role model.”

  Saturday Afternoon

  June 2—White Gull Inn, Fish Creek, Wisconsin

  Lacey lay down to take a nap right after she ate some soup the White Gull Inn staff had delivered. Ann had planned on spending the afternoon with her and didn’t want to leave her alone while she slept. Ann connected her laptop to the Internet and answered several e-mails from work. She then settled in to read but could not concentrate on the mystery she had brought with her. The copies of the old letters that Joel had dropped off were calling to her like a siren. She had been intrigued by them the minute Joel had mentioned them. She gave in to temptation and sat down at Lacey’s table to read and organize them.

  John and Lark came in after their golf game and found Ann deep in her review. They were hot, hungry, and tired from playing eighteen holes and wanted to go get some lunch. Ann waved them away. They knew there was something up when she told them to go have a leisurely lunch at the bar and maybe spend some time watching a golf tournament on TV. John tried to find out what she was up to, but she told him to go away. She insisted on filling him in when Joel and Lacey could hear it as well so she’d only have to go over it once.

  Saturday Afternoon

  June 2—White Gull Inn, Fish Creek, Wisconsin

  Lacey’s cottage seemed small with Lark, Joel, Russ, Ann, and John crammed into it with her. She had gotten up from her nap with a splitting headache just before Lark and John showed up with two sacks full of pop, beer, and munchies. The sight of all that junk food made her sick to her stomach and as bitchy as Joel had ever seen her. Everyone offered to leave, but the last thing Lacey wanted was to be alone. She asked them to stay and ordered a pitcher of lemonade from room service. She washed down a pain pill with a tall, frosty glass of it as soon as it was delivered.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I went through the stacks of old letters Joel left for you and got them organized,” Ann said to Lacey once everyone had settled into the living room. “I wrote down some notes that we can turn into a summary.”

  “Fine by me,” Lacey said. “The way I feel right now I would probably never have gotten it done.” Despite the heat, she was curled up in an armchair wearing sweats with a blanket wrapped around her. Her hair was frizzed out around her head and her face was free of makeup. Her naturally pale complexion was even more washed-out, accentuating the dark blue shadows under her eyes and the purple bruise on the left side of her forehead.

  Ann was concerned about her but decided not to say anything for fear her mood would get worse. She forced herself to focus on her notes. “There were twenty-one letters from Joshua Williams to Minevra Larsen. They spanned a period of three years between 1938 and 1941. Minevra also saved four letters that she had written to Joshua during the same time period.” Ann looked at John. “If my memory serves me right, Joshua Williams was Rose Gradoute’s grandfather.”

  John nodded.

  Ann looked at Joel. “Minevra Larsen is Paul Larsen’s grandmother?”

  Joel nodded.

  “All the letters from Joshua were mailed from the same Chicago address. They were only sent during the winter months. None were postmarked during June, July, or August, which makes me wonder if Joshua spent summers up here with his family and commuted back and forth to Chicago for work the rest of the year.”

  “That wouldn’t have been unusual for a businessman as rich as Williams was,” Joel said.

  “It is clear from both sets of letters that Joshua and Minevra were having an affair. In fact, she became pregnant and had their child in 1939. Their child was named Robert Larsen. I’m assuming he was the father of the deceased Paul Larsen.”

  “The sheriff and I concluded the same thing,” Joel said.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” John said. “I never had a clue.”

  “Having a mistress on the side and getting her pregnant probably wouldn’t have been unusual for a guy like Williams back then,” Russ said.

  “It wouldn’t be that unusual today,” Lacey quipped.

  “It gets better,” Ann said. “Joshua wrote three letters in 1939 begging Minevra to have the baby and marry him. He even had a plan worked out. Since Hyacinth loved Door County, he thought they could get a divorce and she could keep the house up here. He decided that he and Minevra could get married and move to Chicago, where it didn’t seem to matter if you were divorced.”

  “What happened?” Lacey asked.

  “She turned him down. Joshua must have given her back some letters that she wrote him. There’s one here that she wrote just after the baby was born. She made it clear that she thought divorce was a sin and could not live with herself if she was the cause of Joshua and Hyacinth breaking up and Camellia going through the humiliation of losing her father.”

  “So it was acceptable to screw around with a married man and have his baby, but it wasn’t okay to get a divorce?” Lacey said.

  Everyone heard the acid tone of her voice and chose not to respond.

  “Why didn’t they just use the telephone instead of writing all these letters?” Russ asked. “It’s awfully hard to deny something happened if you put it on paper.”

  “Party lines,” John said. “I’m sure their telephones were on party lines, so you never knew when someone might be listening in. In fact, Minevra and Hyacinth were probably on the same line.”

  “Makes sense.” Russ nodded.

  “After 1939, Minevra’s letters were full of news about her baby and Camellia. It appeared as if she spent more time taking care of Camellia than she did acting as a maid to Hyacinth. Joshua gave her the gatehouse and set up a trust for her so she’d be taken care of for the rest of her life. In her last letter to Joshua she expressed her gratitude to him for providing for her and the baby.”

  “Do you suppose Rose Gradoute knew that Paul was a relative from the wrong side of the blanket?” Lark asked.

  “Daisy made it very clear that Rose opposed her dating Paul. That’s why she tried to keep her affair with him a secret,” Joel said.

  “My God, if Rose knew about Paul and about Daisy dating him, don’t you think she would have said something?” Lacey asked. “Her sister was dating her own cousin.”

  “We don’t know if Rose or Paul knew they were cousins. I can’t imagine that they’d date each other if they knew they were related. I’m going to ask Paul’s ex-wife about that when I go to the funeral,” Joel said.

  “Do you think Rose would have killed Paul over this?” Ann asked.

  “We know Rose was angry with him for opposing the B-and-B and about the red carnival,” John said.

  “She doesn’t sound like the type who would take the risk of attacking him on the golf course,
” Lark said. “She’d use something a little more subtle. Something guaranteed to get the job done with minimal risk to herself.”

  “She doesn’t have an alibi for Paul’s death,” Joel said.

  Ann glanced back down at her notes. “Before we get off the subject, there’s something else in the letters that is very interesting. Joshua makes four separate references to iridescent glass. That’s one of the names used for carnival glass when it was first made. Each reference seems to be in response to something Minevra asked him. We don’t have access to those letters to see her questions. In one letter he says, ‘I know you feel guilty about that barrel of cheap iridescent glass, but Iris and Hyacinth already have too much of it scattered all over the house.’ In another letter he says, ‘Just keep the glass because Iris and Hyacinth have more than enough of the wretched stuff.’”

  Ann shifted to another page of notes. “In one of her letters Minevra recalls her uncle Ludwig and Thomas Lee rolling a barrel of glass up the stairs to the attic. That barrel of old carnival has to be somewhere in the Gradoute House attic.”

  John shook his head. “The attic was crammed full of old furniture and boxes that Rose and Simon put in storage. Surely they would have found it when they unloaded the attic. It’s down to the original studs and we didn’t find an old barrel up there.”

  “Could there be a false wall or a secret room up there?” Ann asked.

  “Ann, this isn’t one of those mystery novels you like to read. I didn’t find any secret passages or hidden staircases. There weren’t any false walls. Those letters are more than sixty years old. Carnival glass was nearly worthless in the early 1940s. I’m sure someone found the barrel of glass back then and sold it or gave it away.”

  “You’re probably right.” Ann’s face showed the disappointment she felt. She folded her notes together and nodded at Joel. “I’ll type up this summary and get you and Lacey a copy tomorrow. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m beat.”