A Cold Day in Paradise

by Steve Hamilton

  “That would work just fine,” he said. He picked up a copy of the Sault Star, the daily Soo Canada paper, from his desk. “Have you seen this yet? We made the front page over in Canada.”

  “I haven’t read it yet.”

  “‘Local Man Slaughtered In Soo Michigan Motel Room.’ Now that’s a headline for you. Notice how they make sure to say it happened on this side of the river. Did you know that it took two of my men five hours to clean that room up? Have you ever cleaned that much blood up before?”

  “Can’t say as I have.”

  “By the time we had gone over the room and then finally gotten the body out of there, most of the blood had hardened. Of course, as soon as you put water on it, it sort of comes back to life and starts spreading again. You try to wipe it up, it’s like paint. You’re painting the whole room red. One of my officers, he’s been out sick ever since. I think he’s reevaluating his career plans.”

  I fought down the lump in my stomach.

  “Anyway, here’s the deal. I’ve already talked to Mr. Fulton. So I’m just wondering if you might have any other information for me. Did you know the deceased?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You never met him? You never placed bets with him?”

  “I don’t gamble.”

  “Have you ever heard Mr. Fulton speak of him prior to that night?”

  “I knew that he was probably putting bets down somewhere,” I said, “but he never mentioned anyone by name.”

  “When did you last see him before he called you Saturday night?”

  “I saw him briefly at the Glasgow Inn. He stopped in with his wife. Then later, he stopped in on his own.”

  “How did he seem that evening? Did he say anything unusual?”

  “I didn’t talk to him,” I said.

  “You didn’t talk to him? He says you two are best buddies.”

  “I was playing poker.”

  “I thought you said you don’t gamble.”

  “It’s not gambling,” I said. “It’s nickels and dimes.”

  He nodded. “All right,” he said. He closed my folder and put it in a drawer. “That’ll do for now.”

  I thought about leaving right then. The hell with this guy, I didn’t feel like telling him about the phone call. But I knew that if I didn’t tell him, it would be just the kind of thing that could come back and haunt me.

  “Actually, Chief Maven, I’ve been enjoying our time here so much, I just don’t think I can leave yet.”

  For one split second, he lost that little hard-ass smirk.

  “I’ll take a cup of coffee with one sugar,” I said. “And then I’ll tell you about a little conversation I had last night with the murderer.”

  It was worth telling him the story, just to see him choke on his tough-guy routine, if only for a minute. I told him all about the phone call while he wrote down every word. But I never did get that coffee.

  I GRABBED A quick lunch at the Glasgow, and finally had a good look at that newspaper. There was a picture of the motel on page one. You could see the police barricades set up around the place, and a few officers carrying out what looked like a big sack of laundry. I’m sure Mr. Bing was quite a load, even with all thirteen or fourteen pints of blood drained from his body.

  There were a couple paragraphs about Edwin, “heir to the Fulton fortune,” being the first man on the scene. I was not mentioned.

  When I had finished reading about it, I drove up to the Fulton place. It was not far from Paradise, just straight up Sheephead Road, past the Shipwreck Museum, all the way up to the old lighthouse on Whitefish Point. I turned off on the road leading west along the shore, coming onto the Fulton property that took up a full three-hundred-acre corner of Chippewa County.

  About a mile from the house, I saw someone walking on the road. When I saw who it was, I considered turning around and leaving. Instead, I pulled up next to her and rolled down my window. “Nice day for a walk,” I said.

  Sylvia kept walking without looking at me. “If you like cold and gray,” she said.

  “I’m on my way to see your mother-in-law.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Is Edwin around today?”

  “He’s at the office.”

  “What does he do at the office?” I asked. “Why does he even need an office?”

  “He counts his money,” she said. “He calls it up on the phone and talks to it.”

  “Can’t he do that from home?”

  She finally looked at me for the first time. Those green eyes went right through me. “He prefers to have his time away from the house,” she said.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “What?” she said. I stopped the truck as she turned to me and put her forearms on my door. “What don’t you get?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Just the fact that he doesn’t spend more time with you.”

  She shook her head and looked up at the sky. “You gotta hell of a nerve saying something like that.”

  “Sylvia, is this the way it’s going to be from now on? Are you always going to act like this?”

  “Yes, Alex.” She pushed away from the truck. “So you better get used to it.”

  “You know, I think I’ve got you figured out,” I said.

  “Oh, do you. Do you really.”

  “For the first time in your life, you didn’t get something you wanted. That’s the whole problem right there. You just hate the fact that I was the one who ended it.”

  “Alex, there are only two things in this world that I hate. I hate living on this godforsaken frozen cliff on the end of the world. And I hate the fact that I was ever stupid enough to get involved with you. I mean, look at you. Look at this … thing you drive around in.”

  “Sylvia, don’t.”

  “You look like, what, like a lumberjack or something.”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “No, not even a lumberjack. He’s the guy who cuts down the trees, right? That takes some guts at least. You look like___You look like the guy who delivers the firewood, stacks it up next to the house. That’s what you look like.”

  “Goodbye, Sylvia,” I said. “It’s been nice talking to you, as always.” I watched her grow smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror as I drove away.

  It didn’t take long to get to the Fulton place. It had been built by Edwin’s grandfather back in the 1920s, and had been improved on several times by his father. The Fultons were old automotive money, and were fixtures in Grosse Pointe, a ritzy little suburb on the Detroit River. They kept this place way up here in the Upper Peninsula just as a summer cottage. Although to the Fultons, a “cottage” was a five-thousand-square-foot fortress of stone and glass and huge wooden beams cut from the original forest. Now that he was living up here year-round, I couldn’t imagine how much money Edwin must have spent keeping the road plowed during the winter.

  Theodora Fulton was alone in the house. She seemed glad to see me after she wrestled open the huge oak front door. “You must be Mr. McKnight,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  I knew she was well into her sixties, but there was a clarity in her eyes and a surprising strength to her as she shook my hand. Although she had her hair pinned up, I could see that she had less gray hair than I did. “Please come in,” she said. “Can I offer you some coffee? I just made some.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’d love some.”

  She led me into the main living room. The ceiling was a good twenty feet high, and dominated by the massive round beams that were left unfinished. The windows looked out over Lake Superior in all its glory. “Have you been to this house before?” she asked. “It’s rather charming, isn’t it?”

  It was charming, all right. If I saved every penny I ever earned and did most of the work myself for about ten years, I’d have a cabin about a third as charming as this place. “I’ve been here once or twice,” I said.

  “Make yourself at h
ome. I’ll get you a cup.”

  I sat down on one of the three couches. When she left, the room was silent except for the ticking of a clock and the faint sound of the wind off the lake.

  “Here we are,” she said as she rejoined me. I took my cup from the tray and dropped in one sugar with the little silver tongs.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said.

  “Please call me Theodora,” she said. “Or Teddy. My friends all call me Teddy.”

  “How about Mrs. Fulton?”

  “As you wish.” She drew out a pair of glasses and put them on. I couldn’t help noticing that they looked exactly like the pair of reading glasses that Chief Maven had put on in his office. “You do cut an imposing figure, don’t you, Mr. McKnight. But you have a kind face.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Edwin speaks very highly of you. He tells me that you have a bullet next to your heart.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.” I wondered if there was anyone left in the state of Michigan who didn’t know this by now.

  “Did you know that Andrew Jackson had a bullet next to his heart for the entire time he was president?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “He was in a duel. The other man shot him in the chest, but Jackson didn’t go down. He had his one shot left, so he calmly took aim and shot the other man dead. What would you have done, Mr. McKnight?”

  “You mean if I was in a duel?”

  “Yes, if you were in a duel and the other man shot you first but you were still standing.”

  “I guess I’d have to shoot him. I imagine I’d have a good reason to. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be in a duel in the first place.”

  “I suppose so,” she said. “Anyway, they were never able to take the bullet out of Jackson’s chest. He just had to live with it for the rest of his life. Apparently, it gave him a lot of trouble. Does your bullet trouble you?”

  “No, not really,” I said.

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “Mrs. Fulton,” I said, “how can I help you?”

  She looked down at her coffee. “I’m sorry. I seem to be doing my best to avoid that topic. I take it that Mr. Uttley told you of my conversation with him?”

  “He didn’t go into much detail.”

  She nodded. “Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, I am very concerned about my son Edwin. His father passed on many years ago, and I think that’s been very hard on him. He hasn’t had anyone to look up to. That’s why I’m so glad that you’re his friend, Mr. McKnight.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mrs. Fulton. I mean, I haven’t spent that much time with him lately.” His wife, that was a different story.

  “Yes, but even so, I think you’re the best friend he has right now.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Some best friend I was.

  “Mr. McKnight,” she said, “I’m not naive about my son’s … problems. I know that he has a particular attraction to gambling. Why else would he live way up here all year long? At first, I thought he was just trying to get away from me. I suppose that’s a typical mother’s reaction. Or that he was tired of all the social obligations in the city. Or that he just liked roughing it up here in the woods without any servants. That sounds silly, I realize. Of course, I know it’s the Indian casinos that keep him up here. If they closed them, he’d be gone the next day. Although that reminds me of a question I wanted to ask you. If the casinos are legal up here, why was he betting with a bookmaker?”

  “These casinos only have table games and slot machines. There’s no sports betting. For that, you have to deal with a bookmaker.”

  “I understand now,” she said. “See, already I’m glad you came out to visit me. Edwin refuses to talk about these things with me.”

  “Mr. Uttley mentioned a dream that you had…”

  “Yes,” she said. “The dream. I hope you won’t find this too terribly absurd when I tell you.”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Saturday night,” she said. She looked out the window as she began to relate her dream in her slow, steady voice. “It was the night that he found that man, as it turned out, although I certainly didn’t know that at the time. In the dream, I saw blood. I saw a great deal of blood. I was absolutely terrified, because I have to tell you, I have this thing about blood. Just the sight of it, even my own blood if I prick my finger in the garden, I just can’t bear it. In the dream, there was so much of it. It seemed to be more blood than one single body could hold. I was floating over it, you know how it is in a dream. And then suddenly, I flew away from the blood and I was in a forest. I was moving down a road with trees on each side. Or rather, I was watching as something else was moving down the road. It was a car, rolling slowly down the road. It was the most vivid thing I have ever seen in a dream. That car just rolling smoothly down the road. But it was dark. The car didn’t have its lights on. It was traveling down the road with just the faintest moonlight to show the way. I tried to look into the windshield to see who was driving that car. But I couldn’t see. It was too dark. And then I realized that I had been on that road before. It was the road that leads to this house.”

  She stopped and looked at me. “Mr. McKnight,” she said. “When Edwin called me and told me what had happened, I begged him to leave this house. But he wouldn’t. He said I was being foolish. So I did the only other thing I could do. I drove all the way up here myself. Can you believe that? My driver had the day off, so I got the car out and came all the way up here. I haven’t driven a car in ten years. I don’t even have a license anymore. But I knew that I had to come up here and try to get Edwin and Sylvia out of this house.”

  “They wouldn’t leave, I take it.” I could see Edwin staying, but why would Sylvia want to stay here? God knows she hated this place.

  “No, they didn’t believe me,” she said. “I guess I can’t blame them. But then, last night…”

  “Last night? What happened last night?”

  “I was staying in one of the guest rooms, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept walking around down here, looking out the windows. I think I finally fell asleep on the couch here for a while, but then a little while later I woke up again. I thought I had heard something outside. So I went to the back door, where you can see the road. And, I don’t know, I thought I might have seen something. A car.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t tell. I’m not even sure it was there. I might have just imagined it.”

  “Mrs. Fulton, what time did this happen?”

  “It was just after two o’clock.”

  The phone call came at three, I thought. And the man did say that he had been watching Edwin. “Did you do anything?” I asked. “Did you call the police?”

  “No, I didn’t,” she said. “When I looked again, it was gone. I mean, if it had even been there in the first place.”

  “Did you tell Edwin about it?”

  “Yes. He said that if you look out into the darkness long enough, you’ll start to see whatever it is that you’re afraid that you’ll see.”

  “So what would you like me to do?”

  “I want you to stay here tonight,” she said. “Maybe for a couple nights, if that’s what it takes.”

  “Mrs. Fulton—”

  “I’m begging you, Mr. McKnight. I’ll pay you anything you want.”

  “Mrs. Fulton, I’m sure the sheriff could keep a man out here for a few nights …”

  “No,” she said. Her voice changed into that of a woman who was accustomed to having things her own way, especially when she was willing to pay for it. “That will not do. The sheriff is not going to send a man out here all night just because an old woman has a dream, and thinks she sees things in the darkness. I just want someone to stay here for a night or two. To make me feel better. I want you, Mr. McKnight. I’ve already said that you’ll be well compensated.”

  I couldn’t bear the thought of staying in this place, but Mrs. Fulton kept working me over like an old pro until
I finally agreed. There’s something faintly annoying about rich people, I’ve noticed. They don’t even wait to see if you’ll do something for them out of the goodness of your own heart. They go right to the money. They wave it in front of you like a candy cane in front of a child.

  Sylvia was still on the road when I left the place. “You’ve been out here all this time?” I asked when I stopped next to her. “You just had to get one more shot in, eh?”

  “I was not about to go into that house when you were in there,” she said. Her cheeks were bright red from standing out in the wind.

  “It’s a big house,” I said. “You wouldn’t have even had to see me.”

  “I would have known,” she said. “I would have felt you there.”

  “Yeah, well then you’ll be feeling me quite a bit tonight,” I said. “What’s for dinner, anyway?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I want to make sure I bring the right wine.”

  “If you’re trying to make a joke, it’s not funny.”

  “It’s no joke, Sylvia. Your mother-in-law just hired me to spend the night. Now, are you going to tell me what’s for dinner or aren’t you? If I bring red wine and you’re serving fish, I swear to God, you’ll be one sorry woman.”

  I DROVE BACK down to my cabin, figuring I’d just pack an overnight bag, make sure everything was okay around the place. I had a friend up the road named Vinnie LeBlanc who could keep an eye on things for a couple days. He was a Chippewa Indian, a member of the Bay Mills tribe. Like most of the Chippewas around here, he had a little French in him, a little Italian, a little God knows what else. He worked as a blackjack dealer at the Bay Mills Casino, and during the hunting season he’d sometimes act as a guide for some of the men who rented my cabins. He knew how to play up the Indian thing when he was leading a bunch of downstaters through the woods. And of course he went by his Ojibwa nickname, Red Sky, because as he himself had said many times, who’s going to hire an Indian guide named Vinnie?

  I pulled in next to my cabin and got out of the truck.

  When I went to the door, I saw something on the step.

  It was a rose. A single blood red rose.