“Where are we going?”
“Home. I need to clean up. I have a date.” I smiled at myself in the rearview mirror.
“What? With Katie? When did this happen?”
“You were asleep when I called her. Which is what I want you doing tonight, by the way. I don’t need you chatting in my head while I’m trying to have a conversation with my girlfriend.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“She’s my fiancée,” I retorted, hoping that was still true.
When I arrived home I put on a new shirt and a pair of pants that I’d sent to the cleaners. I shaved and made sure my hair was as under control as I could make it. I didn’t have any warm coats beside the one that I wore to repo cars, but I put on a sports jacket underneath it.
“How is it you can get your dirty socks on top of the hamper, but not in the hamper?” Alan complained.
“It’s just one of my many talents.”
“I can promise you Katie doesn’t want to be with someone who can’t even manage his own socks,” he huffed.
“She wanted a guy. I’m a guy.”
“You’re a slob.”
“Same thing.” I put my socks in the hamper, though.
Kermit dropped off my dog as I was getting ready to leave—Jake took one look at me and rolled his eyes, going to his blanket on the floor, weary from a day of sitting in his chair. “Tough day at the office?” I asked him. I knew that the second I left the house, he would promote himself to the pillow on what I still considered to be Katie’s side of the bed, feeling he deserved a little self-pampering after being at work all day.
I debated what to drive to pick up my date. The repo truck was much newer and nicer on the inside than my old pickup. It also had two winches and a giant mechanical arm capable of lifting a car, which she might consider overkill.
Regardless, I decided the nicer interior was the better choice. Katie wore a new red coat I’d never seen before, very striking on her—but it made me uneasy, somehow, that she was buying beautiful clothing while we were on our break. She wore her work grown-up clothes under it, and I caught her eyebrows rising when I shrugged off my coat and she saw the jacket and the new shirt. What that expression meant, though, I had no idea.
I faltered when I saw that her finger was bare of the engagement ring I’d given her. Could she have forgotten it? The stone had come from my mother’s small jewelry collection, a lucid, flashing diamond.
I knew that if we were permanently unengaged, she would give the ring back. If she didn’t, maybe it meant what she’d been saying. We were on a break. Dating. Having fun.
The Weathervane is a beautiful hotel-restaurant built of gigantic rocks mined from the local hills and waters, including a ten-ton monster shaped like the state of Michigan. The place used to be a grist mill in the 1800s, and hugs the north side of the Pine River—a steel-lined stream, dredged deep, that cuts Charlevoix in two. A drawbridge over the Pine is the only connection between the two halves of town. From our table we could see the bridge and the river, jammed full of broken ice that rolled like the spiked back of a giant dragon. I had no idea why the river didn’t freeze solid like all the other self-respecting water in the area.
My last-minute instructions from Jimmy the Wise One were to keep the conversation light and fun. Don’t press her. When in doubt, apologize. Even if you’re not in doubt, apologize. Apparently, women really like apologies.
Our waiter brought bread and butter. The butter was extremely cold, as tough to cut as the tension at the table. Here we were, engaged, on a break, on a date. What do you even talk about, under such circumstances? I asked Katie if she had ever seen the Emerald Isle coming or going to Beaver Island, which was far offshore, only visible on clear days.
“Just once. It barely fits in the canal!”
“The Pine is a river, actually. It was here before the white man showed up and lined it with steel plates. It’s the only river in the United States to flow in two directions simultaneously.”
“Right. Correct her,” Alan groused. “Lecture her with useless facts. Make her feel like an idiot.”
“Sorry. I could be wrong,” I told her. I gratefully held out my glass when the waiter brought the wine. “Sorry. Did you hear about the woman who fell off the Emerald Isle that one time a few years ago?”
“Yes! I was friends with a guy who knew her. Nita?”
“Nina Otis.”
“And now we’re talking about murder. On a date,” Alan scolded.
“We don’t know that she was murdered,” I said peevishly.
Katie gave me a puzzled look. “What do you mean? You think she was murdered?”
“No, sorry. It was just … I was reading about it somewhere one time, and I wondered why the captain paged her.”
“He did that?”
“Yeah, it was in the paper. At some point, they called for Nina Otis over the ship’s loudspeaker.”
“Oh. Well, maybe by then she had fallen overboard.”
“Sure.” I waited for her to get it. Didn’t take her long.
“Oh, but that doesn’t make sense. How would they know who she was? And if she had fallen, they would have done more than just page her. Like, what was she supposed to do, say, Oh, I fell off the boat, and the only reason I need to get back on is because I’m being paged?”
We laughed together at that one, a simple, just-like-it-always-was type of laugh that reminded me how easily I could talk to her. I had to resist reaching for her hand. Her blue eyes had a lovely light in them.
I put that light out around the time we finished our salads. “So … how much longer do you think you’ll need, to, you know? Think things through. About us.”
“Ruddy,” Alan moaned.
Katie set her fork down stiffly, her posture straightening and her mouth settling into a line. I wanted to shout at her to wait, Don’t say what you’re about to say!
I got a stay of execution. “Couldn’t we just enjoy dinner?” she asked softly.
“Yeah, right, sorry, of course. I’m sorry. Sorry.”
By the time we’d finished the whitefish we’d both ordered, I’d managed to make her laugh by relating the story of how Mark Stevens and Kenny MacDonell came to rob the Black Bear with shotguns that were not loaded because they couldn’t afford shells.
“And now these guys are your friends?” she asked, grinning.
“Well, yeah. At least until I repo Mark’s truck,” I told her.
Her bemused look could have been, What am I doing out with a big dumb repo man? Or it could have been, This man has an open heart and a really nice tow truck.
Now that I had a working radio, I listened to NPR while I drove, which was ten times more pleasant than listening to Alan Lottner. This made me something of a man of the world, and I chatted knowledgably about the euro, the inflation rate, the Federal Reserve, and other things that were apparently all connected together. At least seven times during dinner Alan said, “Let her talk” and as much as he irritated me, I did just that.
“A buyer this time a year is great, because you know if they’re out looking at houses in this weather, they’re serious. But if you get a seller who wants top dollar, you’re going to work really hard and then get fired before the snow melts for not getting any offers,” she told me.
“And why do you want to be in this business?” I replied.
Her laughter was rueful. “So much better to be in the business of throwing people off their roofs,” Alan remarked acerbically. I wanted to throw him off the roof.
I drove her home, putting on a new CD playing her favorite singer, Michelle Featherstone. We drove down M-66, and my mood darkened only briefly as we passed the turnoff down to the ferry landing. My eyes found the spot in the frozen lake where I figured my car went in. Despite Amy Jo’s information and despite Alan’s serial killer fantasies, seeing that place still made me slightly ill.
Katie reached a hand out and touched me, her face wistful and sympathetic. Instantly, I
felt better.
I was in love with Katie Lottner. I couldn’t really be losing her, could I?
“So things might not be what they seem,” I said after a moment. “I found that woman from the festival. The one who said Lisa Marie Walker was not in the car when it sank? Her name is Amy Jo Stefonick. I spoke to her.”
“And?”
I glanced over—Katie was regarding me intently.
“And what she had to say makes some sense. She says she saw me pull into the 7-Eleven that night. And while I was inside, she saw Lisa Marie open the back door of my car and get out.”
“Let’s not tell her about the other part, the man who helped her. I don’t want to scare her,” Alan cautioned.
I bit off my irritation. Katie was watching me with round eyes. “Then what could have happened?”
There, see, Alan? The story made no sense without the rest of it. I told her about what else Amy Jo had seen, and she put a hand to her mouth. “This … My God, Ruddy, I don’t know what to say,” she commented when I was finished. “It changes everything.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Are you okay? This is huge.” Her gaze searched my face.
“I’m okay. I’m still processing it. And trying to see if I can figure out, if she wasn’t in the car, what really happened.”
She squeezed my hand. “That’s so you, Ruddy. Even though you didn’t do anything wrong, you still feel responsible.”
I pulled into the driveway and stopped, and we sat and looked at each other. She slid across the seat and kissed me, softly and gently, on the cheek and then quickly on the lips, and then she pulled back and gazed at me, passion and speculation in her eyes. This part of our relationship had always worked.
“Ruddy! Stop!” Alan yelled desperately.
I straightened abruptly. If I took things where I wanted them to go, it would be with her father right there, not just watching, but participating. There was no way I could subject him to something like that.
Why the hell wasn’t he asleep?
“Is everything okay?” Katie asked me, a bit puzzled.
“Yeah, of course. I just … need to get home to the dog,” I told her, loathing myself.
She smelled the lie and a coolness came into her eyes. At that moment I hated Alan Lottner.
“This was nice, Ruddy,” she whispered after a moment. She slid away from me, and I controlled the impulse to go after her. “But…”
“No, please don’t say but. There doesn’t have to be any but, does there?” I pleaded.
She gave me an unreadable look. She seemed angry, somehow, or sad. “I just don’t think you’re the sort of man my father would have liked,” she whispered. “It’s like I can feel him disapproving or something. He always told me I could be anything I wanted to be, and now here I am.” She gestured around the inside of the repo truck and shrugged.
“You can be whatever you want to be,” I told her fiercely. “Look, you decided you wanted to sell real estate, so you studied and took the test and that’s what you’re going to do next. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you,” she responded tersely.
“I mean it,” I proclaimed desperately. I’d made her angry, somehow, and could feel the whole wonderful evening going down the drain.
“I know. I should go.”
I walked her to her door but didn’t try to kiss her again, and not just because of Alan. Something told me she wouldn’t have accepted my affections at that moment. She slid inside her house, giving me a small wave, and I crunched down the snowy driveway to my truck. Alan was mercifully silent.
He and I didn’t say a word to each other as I drove through town and turned onto M-66. I was focused on my driving and didn’t even notice the sheriff’s vehicle until it flipped its lights on behind me.
15
You’re Going to Be Mad
I was unsurprised to see Deputy Timms struggle out of the front seat of his patrol car, his belly pinning him under the steering wheel for a delicious moment. There was no sign of Sheriff Porterfield.
I rolled down my window. “Evening, Deputy. Where’s your sheriff daddy tonight?”
Timms turned his flashlight up into my eyes, the beam so bright, I could feel heat. I clamped my eyelids down and waited patiently. Finally it dropped away. “License and registration, please.”
I handed over the documents, and he yanked them out of my hand. Every single motion he made was an aggressive act—he marched his way back to his vehicle, stomping on chunks of ice with real force. The whole ritual of running my license was theater—he knew who I was, knew there were no outstanding warrants.
“What a dick,” Alan said.
I grinned. “He’s the guy your daughter was going to marry before I came along,” I reminded him. Alan didn’t have anything to say to that.
Timms returned and handed me back my papers. “You know why I pulled you over?”
“Because you saw me out with my fiancée?” I responded. Even in the desaturating light from his flashlight, I could see his face redden. This was apparently news to him.
“Careful,” Alan warned softly. Timms’s grip on his flashlight was tightening, and I could picture him hitting me with it and then me taking it from him and hitting him back.
“You crossed the center line back there,” Deputy Dumbell finally told me.
“That’s bullshit.”
“I’m citing you. These moving violations, they’re expensive.”
“Let me know if you have trouble spelling any words.”
He sneered at me. “I guess you don’t get it. My job is to make sure that every time you hit the road, you get a traffic ticket. One of these days, you and your Arab boss are going to get the message—no repos in Sheriff Porterfield’s territory.”
“Arab? Oh my God, you think Kramer is an Arab name?” I hooted.
He scowled. “I don’t give a damn what kind of name it is. I’m just telling you what’s what. I see you breaking the law, I give you a ticket and that’s that.”
“So wait, is it what’s what, or that’s that? They seem like two different things.”
Alan laughed.
Timms handed me my traffic ticket. “Drive carefully and obey the speed limit,” he mocked.
I waited until he was long out of sight before I scrupulously signaled and pulled onto the road, my speedometer a good five under the limit.
“No idea what Katie ever saw in that guy,” Alan groused.
“Yeah? Well, what about me?”
“Sorry?”
“Katie feels like you’ve been sending her messages that I’m not the man for her. Have you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t? Haven’t you been saying I’m not good enough for your daughter? Well, take a look at the alternatives, Alan. How long will it be before her landlord figures out a way to get her back? You heard her: She’s vulnerable. She needs to figure things out. And she’s getting subconscious messages from you to dump Ruddy McCann and get back together with Deputy Dumbbell!”
“You don’t have to shout. I can hear you just fine.”
“Deflection!” I accused. “You’re deflecting because you don’t like the question. Let me ask you something, Alan. Have you noticed anything different about me and Kermit?”
“What?” he responded, truly puzzled by my shift in subject.
“Kermit Kramer. My sister’s husband. Remember when I first met him? I despised the guy. And you kept saying that my sister loved him. And you were right. But I couldn’t see it because you know what? Nobody was good enough for Becky. If it were up to me, she’d never get married. Just like nobody is good enough for your daughter. But she’s going to wind up with somebody someday. And when I got to know Kermit, I realized, he’s not that bad. That’s what you’ve missed, these eighteen months. I looked for Kermit’s qualities and then realized the most important one was that he loved Becky. The same way I love your daughter! So if you want to se
nd her messages, tell her that.”
* * *
I woke up early the next morning because my dog was snoring. I rolled over and gave him a gentle shove. “Jake. You’re snoring.”
He eyed me blearily, clearly not believing me.
My imaginary friend was asleep. “Okay, now you sleep, Alan. Now,” I chided him, thinking how much more convenient it would have been for him to wink out last night at Katie’s. I would not even have minded if he’d snored.
I dressed and went into the kitchen. The folder with the printouts from the library was sitting on the table, though I didn’t remember putting it there. I opened it and flipped idly through the pictures—Alan’s lineup of supposed murder victims. I stopped dead when I came across a news clipping I’d not seen before—basically a recounting of the sad fate of Nina Otis, who had fallen off the car ferry and drowned. This one had a photograph of Nina on the boat itself, taken, the caption read, most likely just a few moments before she fell unseen into the cold waters of Lake Michigan.
The picture wasn’t a very good one—Nina wasn’t even the intended subject. Three young women were posing and smiling, and Nina, on the left, was both blurry and cut off by the frame. It looked as if she had been trying to get out of the way of the photographer when the picture was snapped.
I was troubled by two things. First, how could anyone identify the blurry woman when less than half her body was caught by the camera? And second, how the hell did the printout get into the folder? I knew I didn’t put it there.
Alan.
* * *
As if sensing I needed to have a stern conversation with him, Alan slept through two repossessions that day, and was still asleep when I showed up at the Black Bear to see how my career as a bouncer was progressing. It was a lively night for early February—meaning, almost no one was there. Jimmy was at the bar, watching one of Becky’s home improvement channels. It looked to me as if people were turning their garage into a rec room, which to me meant they would be parking their vehicles outside where they would be easier to repo.
I sat down with the Wolfingers, who were discussing the best time to take their Hawaii trip.
“Why wait until March?” Wilma pouted. “I want to go now.”
Repo Madness Page 14
