Samuel Gray, a farmer from Carlsville, was their last interview and their most creative suspect of the day. He had taken the opportunity to type a statement about his whereabouts on May 27. He had taken it to his church service that morning and passed it around to his parishioners asking them to sign it if they remembered him in church the Sunday Larsen was killed and were willing to provide him with an alibi under oath. Thirty-two parishioners had signed their names. Twenty-eight of them had provided their addresses and phone numbers.
Sunday Evening
June 3—White Gull Inn, Fish Creek, Wisconsin
They pulled up at the White Gull Inn a little after five.
Lark leaned back against his headrest. “If I didn’t drink, I’d sure think about starting after today.”
“If my head didn’t feel like it was already in a vise, I’d beat it against the wall.” Lacey’s eyes were bleary. “Where the hell is that damn Bang Head Here sign when you need it.”
Lark rubbed his eyes. “All the suspect interviews are done and we’re nowhere with the burglaries, nowhere with Paul’s murder, and we have no idea who attacked you or Daisy.”
“We can’t even solve the case of the missing barrel of carnival glass. Nancy Drew would have us beat all to hell on that one.”
“Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, Miss Marple, hell, probably even the Bobbsey Twins would be out ahead of us on that one.” Lark turned his head to look at Lacey. Sometime during the day her bruise had turned a reddish yellow.
“We are screwed. We are way, way screwed,” Lacey said, and began to giggle.
Lark sat up, alarmed by her laughter.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said as she rocked back and forth with laughter. “This isn’t funny but I can’t stop laughing.” She took a couple of deep breaths and tried to get herself under control. “Okay, okay.” She chopped the air with her hands. “I am now under control.” She looked over at Lark and her lower lip quivered. She burst out laughing again. She leaned her head back against the seat and took some more deep breaths and finally calmed herself. “Joel would probably fire me if he saw me like this.”
“Believe me, he’s had his moments of black humor on cases that were going nowhere,” Lark said. “Both of us have.”
“This is so unprofessional.” Lacey finally had control of her voice.
“It beats the hell out of getting depressed about it. Come on. Let’s go inside and decide what we’re going to do tonight. I’ve had enough work for one day.”
The message light was blinking when Lacey and Lark walked into her cottage. The first message was from Joel asking how their interviews went. He wanted to be called back as soon as they got in. The second message was from Russ, reminding her of their dinner date that night and asking her where she wanted to go. She swore to herself. How whacked-out could she be to have forgotten the date she had made with him before she’d gotten hit in the head. Now she had two dates at the same time. She hadn’t done anything like this since she was teenager.
While Lark called Joel to give him an update, Lacey debated about what to do with Lark and Russ. There was no question she’d rather go out with Lark. She decided to call Russ and tell him she was too tired to go out. Of course, since Russ was also staying at the White Gull Inn, he wouldn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that she wasn’t home. She was thinking about telling him that she and Lark had to work when someone knocked on her door. She was speechless when she turned around and saw Russ standing there. He walked in just as Lark got off the phone.
“Just the people I wanted to see. I’ve got a hot line on our burglar.” Russ sat down at the table and Lark and Lacey joined him. “I got two e-mails this morning that started the ball rolling.” Russ flipped through his notes and Lacey realized he was really excited about what he’d found. “Cristofle’s Auction House in Los Angeles had a big sale the end of April. They sold all seventy-two pieces of Flow Blue from our list. All the Bizarre Ware.” He looked up from his notes. “Lacey, do you have the reference material Ann gave you? I’m not familiar with that stuff, but it sure sells well. They cleared over twenty thousand on that alone.”
Lacey got up to get her references.
“They also sold one hundred and twenty of the twenty-dollar gold pieces, all the gold pocket watches, and the Loetz and Dedham pottery pieces. Items right off the list all in one auction.” He slapped his notes. “I can’t believe it. These guys are in a hurry and they are getting careless. They made $315,700 on this haul. That’s over a million from four auction houses. Same MO as the other three auctions. A woman selling items from a relative’s estate. Her ID and her bank account checked out. They’ll fax me her ID photo first thing in the morning.”
Lark whistled.
“So far we’ve tracked about fifty percent of what was stolen. Here’s the best part.” Russ flipped to another page in his notebook. “I got an e-mail from the Robicheaus in New Orleans. They own Robicheau Antiques and Auction House. They’re having an auction on Tuesday and several things on our list are in it.”
“You’re kidding,” Lacey said.
“Not on your life.” Russ read from his list. “Four Civil War swords that sound exactly like ours, nine pieces of very rare Newcomb pottery, each valued in the eight-to-ten-thousand-dollar range. Newcomb was made in New Orleans at Newcomb College, so that’s a great place to get top dollar for the pieces. Someone really knows what they’re doing. There’s also a primitive Noah’s Ark with seventy-four pairs of animals.”
“No shit,” Lark said. He smiled at Lacey. “Just when you think the sky is at its darkest, a cloud parts.”
Lacey nodded.
“The Ark, several Morgan silver dollars, and twenty-four majolica plates were added to this auction in the last week. This sale was originally set for early May, but one of the Robicheaus became ill and it was postponed. Our seller, an Aimee Longet, has been very antsy to get the sale over with so she can close her relative’s estate. In fact, she’s threatened to pull her stuff.”
“Are you going down for the sale?” Lacey asked.
“You bet your sweet ass I am.” Russ grinned at her. “Wanna come?”
“I think I need to. Someone on this investigation needs to be there. I’ll call Joel back about tickets.” Lacey got up to get the phone.
“I caught Joel just before he left to take his family out to dinner,” Lark said. “Call him on his cell.”
Lacey sat back down at the table. “Damn, I can’t believe this.” She shook her fists in the air. “I can’t wait to get this bastard.”
“I don’t want to burst your bubble,” Lark said, “but don’t get too excited until you clear your travel through Gene.”
“Screw Gene.” Lacey glared at Lark. “I’m fine and I’m going.”
“Joel has the final say on that, and he won’t authorize your travel unless Gene clears you.” Lark glared back.
Lark was saved from a response by a knock at the door. They turned around to see Ann and John standing there.
Russ slapped his head. “Lacey, I hope you’re okay with this. I called Ann and John looking for you today and they reminded me about how good the fish boil is here at the White Gull. I invited them up to eat with us tonight. I made reservations for six people. I forgot that Joel wasn’t going to be back tonight.”
Sunday Evening
June 3—White Gull Inn Restaurant,
Fish Creek, Wisconsin
The group left for the restaurant. The waitress showed them to their table and told them they could stay inside and she’d bring their drinks immediately, or they could go outside and watch the fish boil. They gave their drink orders and went outside.
The evening was what people in Wisconsin lived for. The sky was blue and studded with fluffy, white cumulous clouds. Streaks of gold were beginning to glisten on the water as the sun moved toward it. The air was drier than expected, and hint of a breeze required all but the most stouthearted to pull on a sweater or light jacket to fee
l cozy. The gnats and mosquitoes seemed to have taken a vacation for the evening. Most of the people from the restaurant had come out to the patio to watch the fish boilers make their dinner.
A large black pot full of boiling water sat over a blazing fire. The boiler put a strainer full of potatoes and onions down into the pot and then threw in an enormous amount of salt. He explained that one cup of salt was used for each gallon of water. He told the crowd that it didn’t make the fish and potatoes salty. It was there to raise the specific gravity of the water, causing the unsavory ingredients such as fish oil to come to the top of the kettle. The objective was to get the less edible stuff to the top so it would eventually be boiled off. The master fish boiler studied his watch as he talked to the crowd, and about twenty minutes after the potatoes had gone in, he added a strainer full of whitefish fillets and more salt. He explained the history of the fish boil in Door County as he and his assistant stirred and skimmed the pot.
The boiler, his face red from being so close to the fire, told the crowd that fish boils were started by the peninsula’s commercial fishermen, who wanted a quick and easy meal after a hard day’s work. They had an abundance of fish and access to locally grown potatoes and onions, so that’s what went in the pot. Door County churches picked up the idea and began holding fish boils to make extra money. They attracted locals as well as tourists in the summer. This didn’t go unnoticed by the area restaurants, so they borrowed the tradition and perfected the art. He described the traditional fish boil menu of whitefish, onions, potatoes, coleslaw, bread and butter, and a slice of local cherry pie.
With one last glance at his watch he picked up a coffee can and told the crowd they might want to move back to avoid the flame-up when he poured on the kerosene. One wag asked if the boiler was going to put the kerosene in the pot. He smiled and explained that the kerosene went on the fire to cause a flare-up. The sudden heat caused the water in the upper part of the kettle to boil over, carrying with it the fish oils that the salt had sent to the top of the pot.
He poured the kerosene on the fire and flames shot into the air, eclipsing the fish pot. The crowd heard a hissing sound as water rushed over the side of the pot and doused the fire. The boiler and his assistant put a pole through the handle of the strainer holding the fish and pulled it out of the kettle. Water from the strainer dripped down into the fire, causing the last embers to pop and hiss. They carried the strainer in to the servers and came back out and did the same thing with the pot full of potatoes and onions. The crowd herded into their seats in the restaurant to await their food.
When the group got back to their table, they found baskets filled with slices of lemon, blueberry, and Swedish limpa bread. Bowls of butter and lemon wedges sat in the middle of the table, and small bowls of coleslaw sat at each place setting. A stream of wait staff carrying heaping plates of steaming whitefish, potatoes, and onions moved back and forth through the doors of the kitchen. Once their food was delivered, the group dug into the succulent fish and potatoes slathered with hot melted butter. There was minimal conversation about anything other than the delicious food.
Lark had nearly completed his meal when his cell phone rang. He was surprised to hear Sheriff Skewski on the line.
“Mrs. Whitlock called the office and requested to see Joel and I as soon as possible. I called Joel and he asked me to call you and see if you’d meet with her in his place. Bea assured me that it isn’t a personal emergency, she just remembered something about Paul Larsen’s murder that she needs to tell us.”
“Can’t she tell you over the phone?” Lark wiped his lip and tucked his napkin under his plate as he watched the waitresses moving through the crowd with trays of cherry pie. “I’m in the middle of dinner.”
“I know what you mean. I just walked in and sat down at the table and the dispatcher called me. Bea refused to talk with anyone but Joel and me. She’s insisting that it has to be immediately. I think the old bat thinks she’s Miss Marple or that Angela Lansbury character on that TV show where the writer used to poke her nose into everything.”
“You mean Murder, She Wrote?” Lark mumbled as he stood up from the table. “I’m at the fish boil at the White Gull Inn. Why don’t I meet you at the entrance to Gibraltar State Park. Then I can follow you to her house.”
Lark made his excuses and, against his better judgment, told Lacey she was not needed for the interview. Clearly she wasn’t happy with his decision but he didn’t have time to stick around and fix things with her. He told her to call Joel and voice her objections and left the table.
The sun appeared to be sitting on top of the water as he drove out of Fish Creek. Purple, lavender, and orange streaks filled the sky. It was one of those rare times when Lark truly resented the intrusion of work into his minuscule personal life. He thought about how he had let work screw up his vacation and vowed not to take on another assignment for the state in his spare time. He tried not to think about how he’d left Lacey in Russ’s slippery hands.
His put his thoughts about his personal life aside when he came over the hill and saw Sheriff Skewski’s patrol car pulled off at the park entrance. He made a U-turn and followed Skewski back up the hill and into the cul-de-sac where they both pulled into Mrs. Whitlock’s driveway. She must have been watching for them. Before they got out of their cars she ran out of the front door, frantically motioning them into the house.
“You sure there’s nothing going on in there?” Skewski yelled as he got out of his cruiser. Lark noticed that he had his hand resting on top of his gun.
“No, no, Sheriff, I’m just excited that I figured out something that will help you crack the case.” She darted back in the door as both men approached her front porch.
“Hang on to your hat,” the sheriff mumbled. “Next stop Crazy Town.”
“Who are you?” Bea asked Lark as soon as he got inside where she could get a good look at him.
Lark held out his hand and turned on his smile. “I’m Lark Swenson. I’m the sheriff of Big Oak County, Wisconsin. I’m on special assignment with the Wisconsin State Police. Detective Grenfurth asked me to give you his apologies for not being able to be here tonight. He’s on his way to Chicago to attend Paul Larsen’s funeral tomorrow morning.”
She stepped back and looked Lark up and down. “I learned a long time ago not to trust a man prettier than I am. You remind me of my first husband. You missed your calling. You should be modeling in one those men’s fashion magazines my son Dickey is always reading.”
She turned on her heel and walked away. Not knowing what else to do, the two men followed her. As they walked down the brightly lit center hall to the back of the house, Lark glanced into the dining room and the living room. He figured that Mrs. Whitlock had turned on every light on the first floor to show off her vast collections. Knickknacks and animal figurines covered every flat surface and wall shelf in both rooms. No one could have eaten at her dining room table unless she cleared off her collection of porcelain dogs.
When they got into the breakfast room just off the kitchen, they saw another handsome, elderly woman sitting at the oak dinette table. A hutch matching the dinette was crammed full of glass and pottery chickens. A collection of larger wood and glass farm animals marched around the top of the cabinets.
“I’m so glad the burglars didn’t break in here and steal my things,” Bea said, glancing around her kitchen. “I’ve spent the last ten years collecting these animals. Some of them are very valuable.”
The woman sitting at the table tipped her ice tea glass at them and smiled. She seemed as calm as Bea was excited.
Bea pointed at the woman. “This is my neighbor Juanita Tyson. Juanita you know Sheriff Skewski. This young man is Mark Swenson; he’s a county sheriff from somewhere up north. He’s down here on special assignment with the Wisconsin State Police. He’s helping them investigate the murder and the robberies.”
Lark didn’t dare correct her regarding his first name for fear of what might come out of her
mouth next.
“Come on in and have a seat.” Bea ushered them to the table. “Sit down and have some tea and cake. My coffee cake has won ribbons at the Door County fair for years. You won’t be disappointed.” She poured them tall glasses of tea and put two large slabs of fluffy yellow cake covered with a cinnamon-and-brown-sugar topping down in front of them. She shoved the sugar bowl and a small plate of lemon wedges toward them so they could help themselves.
“Juanita and I will tell you all about what we found out as soon as you get done eating your cake.” Bea waved her hands at them, encouraging them to hurry up. “You can’t take good notes with a fork in your hand, can you?” Both men dived into their coffee cake. It turned out to be delicious.
“I called Dickey before I called you, but he couldn’t come up.” That caused both men’s heads to bob up from their plates. “That snotty little secretary of his answered the phone. She sounded like she had just run the hundred-yard dash. She told me that Dickey was in the middle of a deposition and couldn’t be bothered.” Bea rolled her eyes at Juanita. “Who does a deposition on a Sunday evening? Honest to God. I’ve heard it called a lot of things, but never a deposition.”
Lark had just taken a big bit of coffee cake and thought he was going to choke on it.
“Bea, for goodness’ sakes,” Juanita said.
“Juanita, these young people think they invented sex. You and I were doing the dirty deed long before they were even a gleam in their parents’ eyes.” Bea glared at Sheriff Skewski. “Don’t you think I know that Dickey is just like his daddy? Mr. Morrison would whip out his tallywacker if he even thought there was a chance a woman might be interested in it. Not that it wasn’t a sight to behold. I remember when I went to the bathroom at the country club in Green Bay one Saturday when he was supposed to be working. As I recall, he was supposed to be at the office doing a deposition that time too.” She shook her head. “Anyway, imagine my surprise when that bastard walked out of the women’s room with—”
Death at the Door Page 21
