by Maggie Pill
Since Barb wasn’t around, I said, “Tell me about Love-Able Ladies. I’ve heard it mentioned, but I don’t know a lot.”
She’d done her homework. “Love-Able Ladies was started by a woman named Angel Sonoma—and if you believe that’s her real name, I’ll sell you my shares in the Mackinac Bridge.” She stopped abruptly and shook her empty smoothie cup. “I don’t suppose you have any iced tea.”
It was a joke, because I always have iced tea. Without a word I rose and led the way to the kitchen, where she sat down at our three-person table and I headed for the fridge. “Angel Sonoma claims women were happier when they accepted their roles as wives and mothers and tried to be good examples of virtue and respectability.”
“I guess that’s okay for people who don’t have to earn a living.”
She took a sip of the tea I set before her. “Here’s what Barbara hates. According to their philosophy, women should try to be appealing to men and never, ever compete with them. Societies are stronger when males take the lead and females content themselves with hearth, home, and being beautiful.”
“Like when we used to get traded for cattle.” While I wasn’t as upset by the whole anti-feminist thing as Barb was, I recognized the unfairness of letting one sex judge the other’s value.
“It boils down to self-confidence,” Retta argued. “If men respond positively to a woman, her ego gets a little boost, and maybe she’s worth a few more cows.”
I shook my head. “And to make them respond positively, we have to dress in uncomfortable clothes, hide our faces with makeup, and pretend we don’t understand compound interest?”
Her tone turned irritated. “I’m not arguing their case, Faye. You asked what Loveable Ladies is about. It’s a lot about women wanting to be women.”
Though Barb would have had a dozen counterarguments, I’m not a fan of philosophical debate. I sat down with my own refilled glass of tea and listened as Retta went on about “our” weekend plan.
As she spoke, I began having doubts about three days of elbow-rubbing with a hundred Love-Able Ladies. I wouldn’t fit in, and besides, I’m uncomfortable in large groups of strangers. While I agreed that Barb’s contempt, which she couldn’t and wouldn’t hide, would stand in the way of our goal, the thought of going without her made me nervous. Retta rattled on though, and I knew my discomfort wasn’t going to change anything. Despite my misgivings, two sister detectives would soon visit the Leelanau Peninsula.
Chapter Three
Barb
Retta thought she’d been clever about convincing me to opt out of the retreat, but I’d known her far too long to be taken in. She wanted this case for her own, and she was taking Faye along because she can boss her around. As the baby of the family, Retta’s used to getting her way, but at times I step in, purely for her own good. Nobody should get what she wants with just a smile and a few bats of her glued-on eyelashes.
I’ve read the theories about family placement and personality, and they’re as true as a lot of other memes out there. Retta is the classic youngest child, a charming entertainer. Being oldest, I like things done correctly, and Faye is a typical middler, with a relaxed view of life (other than a fear of bridges and formal gatherings) and a weak view of her own importance.
Retta was our parents’ changeling, too cosmopolitan for a farm couple from the rural environs of a small town. From early on she was too smooth for two people who never imagined they’d create something so beautiful and sparkly. Though Mom and Dad tried, Retta was always a law unto herself. When Faye and I started our detective agency, we’d meant to leave her out, but it was like trying to keep a puppy out of your living room. If you’re there, that’s where the puppy wants to be.
Remaining in Allport didn’t mean I was staying out of the new case. I’d noted the name of the agent who contacted Retta, and after I delivered a final report to our latest client, I called the Detroit FBI office and asked to speak with Agent Chester Auburn.
He was cautious until I explained who I was and gave him time to confirm it. I told him a little about my background as an assistant district attorney in Seattle and my concern that my sisters might be unwittingly putting themselves into danger by agreeing to help with his case. Once he was convinced I wasn’t simply being nosy, Auburn took my request for information seriously.
“I worked in Albuquerque until recently,” he told me. “I knew Lars Johannsen had female friends in northern Michigan who were P.I.s, so with the short timeline I’ve got on this project, I thought I’d see if you were interested.”
“You’re after Roger Engel.”
He paused, apparently considering how honest to be. “When I transferred to Detroit a few months back, one of my first tasks was questioning him about a woman who was murdered just after she called us and said she wanted to talk.”
“About Engel?”
“That’s what we think, but we never heard what she had to say. She was killed in an apparent drive-by shooting that same night. Now there are enough of those that it might have been a coincidence, but it happens a lot.”
“When Engel’s organization is threatened, people die.” I’d seen enough of that in Washington to know that life is cheap for the worst of society’s criminals.
“The guy’s arrogant but he’s good, and his people jump when he says jump.”
“So you need a way to get to him.”
“Right. When I read about Detroit Chic in the paper, I started thinking maybe the daughter would help. He’s not much of a father and never has been, though she never wanted for anything money can buy.”
“Where does it come from?”
“Mostly drugs, but as a former ADA you know there are plenty of other crimes that go along with that. His legitimate business—if you want to call it that—is running several ‘gentlemen’s clubs.’ On the illegitimate side, he’s probably Michigan’s biggest importer of opium.”
Having worked on the Pacific coast, I knew a little about smuggling. “How does he bring it in?”
Fabric rustled, and I imagined Auburn shrugging. “The methods change. We stop a pipeline; he builds another one. We’ve seen the stuff come in by water, air, even by train from Canada.”
“I’ve seen how creative they can be: South American drugs hidden in sacks of coffee, Asian drugs inside toys and soldiers’ keepsakes.”
“Creative, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “That’s why it would be great to enlist the help of someone inside Engel’s organization. If we had prior information, we might catch him with the goods.”
“And you think that someone could be the daughter.”
“She’s been in the background her whole life. Now she’s spreading her wings, as they say.”
“But Daddy’s helping her.” I tried to imagine Engels’ motivation. Was he trying to win his daughter’s love at this late date? Was he an aging criminal who regretted his sins? Taking a different tack, I wondered if he was a savvy businessman who planned to use his daughter’s new enterprise to launder dirty money.
I’d sort through that later. “If Dina is starting a business with her father’s money, why would she help the Bureau take him down?”
“Engel’s no philanthropist. Word is he gave Dina a strict budget and two years to make the business a success. But if he went to jail—” He left the rest to my imagination.
“She’d get his money, at least some of it.”
“Right. Whatever the government lets her keep as a reward for her help.” Auburn cleared his throat. “Honestly, Ms. Evans, we don’t know enough about Dina Engel to say what she might be willing to do. There’s a good chance she dislikes her father.”
“And you’re hoping she’s reached a break-away point.”
He made a sound that indicated hopefulness. “Lots of people hit an age where they want a chance at the life they never got.”
“Like starting a detective agency at fifty-something?”
Auburn chuckled. “I guess.” He made his own confession. “Last
year at forty-five, I parachuted out of a plane, I think to prove to myself I could still do what I did back in jump school.”
“Your choice was far more logical than mine.” I shifted in my chair. “Agent Auburn, my sisters don’t think I’d do well with the Love-Able Ladies, and I have to agree with them. They’re going without me.”
“I take it you aren’t the type to jump when a man says jump.”
“Not now, not ever. Still, I need to know my sisters aren’t taking on something that could land them in trouble.”
He did me the courtesy of thinking about it. “I can’t see any way this could endanger them. We just want their impression of Ms. Engel.”
“Her daddy isn’t going to show up to look over her shoulder?”
“He seems to be hands off on the fashion thing. He gave her the start she wanted. If Dina fails, he let her try. If she succeeds, he looks like the good guy. What’s he got to lose?”
“That’s true.”
Auburn gave me his cell phone number so I could reach him directly, and I added it to my contacts list. “I’ll be up there on Friday, so I can help if your sisters need anything,” he assured. “All they have to do is eat nice food, drink good wine, listen politely, and smile a lot.”
“Faye is a really good listener,” I replied, “and the other one can smile her way out of just about anything. I guess you’re good to go.”
Chapter Four
Retta
Once we’d taken the case, I had to make sure Faye didn’t embarrass herself with her clothing choices. My sister is the sweetest, kindest person you’ll ever meet, but looks simply don’t matter to her. Though she seemed a little annoyed when I made her show me what she planned to take along, it was a good thing I did.
“Faye, the flowers on that shirt are the size of volleyballs.”
“It’s summertime,” she replied. “People wear flowery stuff.”
“Skinny Hawaiian people, maybe. You want solid-colored shirts with big jewelry.”
“Do I?” Her tone was a warning.
“Faye, I’m just trying to help.” I peered into her closet. “Maybe we could look online.”
She frowned. “I hate online shopping. Nothing ever fits, and I have to send it back.”
I glanced at the calendar. “We don’t have a lot of time, either. Tomorrow we’ll see what they have at Marian’s.”
“She charges an arm and a leg for everything,” Faye objected. “I’ll look at—”
“Don’t say it!” I warned. “You are not buying clothing for this weekend at a store where you also buy your groceries.”
Her expression turned what Mom would have called bull-headed. “I do it all the time.”
Barbara leaned against the door frame, smirking. There was no sense appealing to her for help, because A) she isn’t great at fashion herself, and B) she thinks anything Faye does is all right. Happily, she got bored after a few minutes and went back to her precious computer.
Ignoring Faye’s “But it’s comfortable” excuses, I kept sliding hangers down the closet rod. In the end I found a couple of decent tops, one I’d bought her for her birthday (probably never worn) and one with a decent cut and a designer name (no doubt from a resale shop). At the back of the closet I found the dress she’d bought for my daughter’s wedding ten years ago. Cut in a timeless style that draped nicely and emphasized Faye’s height rather than her girth, I decided with updated accessories it would work for the formal dinner on Saturday evening.
“You need one more outfit,” I told her. “Tomorrow we’ll see what Marian has on clearance.” I glanced at the small box on her dresser. “I have enough jewelry for both of us.”
“You have enough jewelry for a revival of Hello, Dolly,” Faye said, but her comment seemed more resigned than angry. After a moment she said, “Maybe you should take Barb with you.”
I glanced at the empty doorway. “You know she’d be a disaster.”
“Okay, then I could go but stay in the room, in case you need me.”
Faye was starting to feel antsy, as she does when she has to meet more than one stranger at a time. “We’re both going to this retreat, and we’re going to have a ball,” I told her. “I’ll be with you all the time, and you’re going to feel like a fairy tale princess.”
Looking up from where she’d knelt to dig her “good” underwear out of a bottom drawer, she grinned. “Does that mean I have to sleep for a hundred years or be shut up in a castle guarded by a dragon?”
“Neither,” I responded. “We’re the kind of princesses who solve our own problems, with or without dragons.”
Chapter Five
Faye
When I told Dale about the case and the Love-Able Ladies Retreat, he expressed surprise that I’d attend a “girly” event. He grinned when he said it, but I couldn’t smile back. I was having major second thoughts.
“I won’t fit in.” I set a grilled cheese sandwich in front of him, perfectly done if I do say it myself. “You know I’m not good in groups.”
Dale’s eyes met mine. “How many groups have you been part of in the last decade?”
“Church is about it,” I confessed. Moving to the sink, I set a colander of vegetables I’d brought home from our sons’ farm on the edge to drain. Sitting, I took a bite of my own sandwich.
“Don’t decide how it’s going to be beforehand,” Dale advised. “It might be fun.”
“Hanging with a bunch of women who are all about looks and acting lady-like?”
“You look good, and you’re some lady in my book.”
I felt my eyes widen, but he dipped his sandwich in his tomato soup and took another bite, as if he’d said something totally normal. When I kept staring, he shrugged. “What?”
“Dale, I’m thirty pounds overweight. I have wrinkles around my mouth from years of smoking. My hair is graying fast, and I battle constantly to keep my two eyebrows from becoming one.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
I shook my head. “Do you call that looking good?”
He smiled. “I do.”
“Then you’re seeing me through the eyes of love.”
Dale raised his hands, palms up. “Is there another way to see your wife of thirty-odd years?”
After I’d hugged my husband of thirty-four years (He can never remember the exact number) and sent him back outside, Buddy and I went for a walk. My dog needed the exercise and so did I, but I also had to talk myself back into attending the retreat. I couldn’t let Retta go alone, and Barb simply didn’t have the self-restraint to be her backup. She’d be arguing women’s rights with some Love-Able Lady within fifteen minutes of arrival.
You can do this, I told myself. All you have to do is follow Retta around and smile a lot.
But they would all be judging me. I’ve never liked being held to strangers’ unknown—but somehow discernable—standards.
Buddy growled, and I looked up to see a couple of teenagers approaching. Abused before we met, my dog doesn’t like strangers much—or people in general, for that matter. “Behave, Bud,” I told him, and he let them pass without further comment. While he feels compelled to show his tough side, Buddy trusts me to make the judgment calls.
One hundred fashion-centered, appearance-obsessed women. Women who’d ask each other why I let myself go—why I didn’t do something with my hair and how I missed the memo on tooth-whitening gels. They’d look at Retta and wonder how she ended up with a sister like me.
Let me spend my time with animals or one-on-one with people who already like me. Then I’m okay, even pretty good lots of times.
As Buddy watered Mr.Winans’ lilac bush, I told myself to stop being a baby. We had a case that required schmoozing, and I’d cope somehow. Still, I vowed to stick close to Retta the whole time on this one. I didn’t want to have to cope alone.
Chapter Six
Barb
With nothing pressing at the agency, I spent the afternoon researching Roger Engel. There was a lot
of innuendo and not much substance in news reports. Engel was infamous, as Auburn had indicated, but nobody seemed able to give specifics. He ran a string of night clubs, some respectable, most not. When he appeared in public he was always surrounded with guys who looked like extras from a Coppola film.
An anonymous blogger gave what claimed to be an unofficial biography, calling Engel one of Detroit’s most successful career criminals.
Roger Engel was born on August 12, 1955, the son of Norwegian immigrants living in Clinton Township, Michigan. His father left soon after, abandoning his wife and four children. Engel grew up a charming but out-of-control child. Teachers and neighbors liked him, but he was often in trouble, first at school and later with local police. When his petty crimes turned to more serious ones, he went to prison in 1974.
Upon his release, Engel claimed he’d learned his lesson, but if he did, it wasn’t the lesson the system intended. Over the next ten years he built a criminal empire in Detroit and surrounding areas, dabbling in several enterprises before reputedly settling on the drug trade.
Several paragraphs followed on the history of police attempts to document Engel’s drug empire, but I skimmed them and focused again when family came up.
Roger married Denise Bishop in 1977. Their relationship lasted almost four decades, though Roger never hid his frequent affairs, mostly with dancers at his clubs. The couple had one child, Dina, born in 1978. In 2008 Dina married Charles Magnum, who she met when he became one of her father’s many attorneys. Charles died in a fiery car crash in 2010. They had no children.
I suppressed a desire to comment on the writer’s grammar. It should have been “whom she met,” but I try not to mix detective business with my efforts to encourage better writing.
There was a recent addendum to the entry.
