Harbor Nights

by Rick Polad

  “If you have a few minutes, I have some questions about the paintings.”

  “Sure. Would you like to sit?”

  We sat on a padded bench in the middle of the gallery.

  “I’m trying to understand what happened with the paintings. This green blue, blue green thing is confusing.”

  She took a deep breath. “I agree. I told her so when she named the second one, but she thought it would be cute.”

  “Which one was second?”

  “Oh, Green and Blue. She had painted Blue and Green years ago. It was her favorite.”

  “I heard she refused to sell it—turned down thousands of dollars.”

  “That’s true.” She turned toward the door when a couple walked in and told them to ask if they had any questions. “It didn’t make any sense to me, Spencer, but that was Kathleen.”

  “Was Blue and Green exceptional somehow?”

  She bit her lip. “Between you and me, I didn’t think so.” She hesitated. “But she had some personal connection to it.”

  I sighed. “Yes, hard to figure her out sometimes. I’m wondering how Blue and Green got sent to Chicago. Mr. Gunderson said he asked Cletis, who said he was confused by the names.”

  “As I already said, I’m not surprised by the confusion. Cletis is a nice kid, but not the brightest.”

  “Was Blue and Green here?”

  She shook her head. “No, she kept it at her studio—said it gave her inspiration.”

  “So how could the kid take a painting from the studio?”

  “That didn’t help with the confusion. Four of the paintings were already sold. They were here. The rest were at the studio. So we decided to bring the four from here over to the studio so they would all be together and Cletis wouldn’t have to make two stops. I wish I had been there—I would have made sure he took the right ones. Adam didn’t know.”

  “The paintings here are all framed. Were the nine at the studio also framed?”

  “No, just the four. And those were actually re-framed before they were sent to Chicago.”

  I turned and straddled the bench. “Why?”

  “Whoever bought them ordered custom frames from Mr. Gunderson.”

  “And had the people who bought them seen them here in the gallery?”

  “Oh, no. They bought them from photos that Mr. Gunderson took.”

  “Isn’t that strange?”

  Inga shrugged. “Maybe. But he has connections in Chicago and has sold many of her paintings. Can’t turn down business. Miss Johnson has sold more paintings down at the Simmons Gallery than she has sold here. So she follows Mr. Gunderson’s directions.”

  “Seems like a strange setup.”

  She cocked her head and sighed with resignation. “Yes, but it pays the bills, and there was never any problem, so I just accepted it.”

  I nodded. “Do you know who the buyers are?”

  “No. As far as we’re concerned, the purchase is by Framed. The check comes from there, also.”

  “Did Kathleen come here often?”

  “Three or four mornings a week. She’d have tea with me and chat with customers. She’d leave before noon. She liked to paint in the afternoon when the light was good.”

  The woman who had come in asked for help.

  “I’ll be right with you, ma’am. Will you excuse me, Spencer?”

  “Just one more question. Was Green and Blue here or at the studio?”

  “It was here.”

  “So it was one of the paintings to be re-framed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Blue and Green was at the studio?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, thanks, Inga. You’ve been a big help.” I gave her a card and repeated the instructions.

  ***

  I drove back to the cottage and called Stosh. He answered with his usual lack of enthusiasm.

  “You must be behaving yourself. I haven’t had any calls from Wisconsin.”

  “So far I don’t know enough to piss off anybody.”

  “Try and keep it that way. Why am I blessed with this call?”

  “Wondering where Rosie is. Have you heard from her?”

  “She and Steele are on their way back.”

  “Not looking for Kathleen?”

  “That’s up to the sheriff. When he finds her we’ll bring her back here.”

  “When? I’m betting on if.”

  “No one can hide forever.”

  “That’s part of the problem, Stosh. There’s no reason she should be hiding. It was her painting. And even if she took the one that was sold, she just needed to bring it back. We must be missing something.”

  “We are. Your girlfriend.”

  He could bait me with that girlfriend crap as much as he wanted. I wasn’t biting—this time. “Have you found the other missing painting?”

  “If you mean Harbor Nights, no. Which brings up a question.” He paused. “Steele ain’t an artist, but he tells me your girlfriend’s paintings weren’t very good. How do you think she got into a fancy gallery like Simmons?”

  “I’ve wondered that myself. I wouldn’t have bought one. She was nowhere near as talented as her dad.”

  “So, back to my question,” he said, impatiently.

  “No idea. Lots of things don’t make any sense. Have you asked at Simmons?”

  “That’s on Rosie’s agenda for Monday.”

  “Okay. Would you have her call me tonight? I’ll be at the cottage.”

  “I’ll pass on the request, but you’re not real high on her list these days.”

  “Don’t see why not—I didn’t lose Kathleen.”

  “If she calls, I suggest you don’t remind her of that.”

  “Right.”

  “When are you coming back?”

  “Probably tomorrow. I have some questions for the people at Simmons.”

  “Sure you do. If you get back before the end of the Cubs' game, stop by.”

  ***

  My next stop was Kathleen’s studio, next to her house on Kangaroo Lake, and it was lunchtime. So I decided to stop for lunch at the Coyote Roadhouse on the west side of the lake. Best burgers in the county. And, as I remembered, Kathleen’s favorite spot for lunch. She could walk from her house. I wondered if Paula was still the hostess.

  Chapter 10

  The Coyote Roadhouse was crowded. Most of the tourists never ventured to the interior of the peninsula. They stayed on Highway 42 along Green Bay where most of the shops and attractions were. The locals avoided the crowds and had their favorite restaurants off the beaten path. One of those was the Coyote Roadhouse. It had been there as long as I could remember.

  I stood inside the front door and looked around. I hadn’t been there in five years, but not much had changed—booths along the walls, tables on the floor, a small bandstand in the far corner, all decorated with a fishing and lighthouse motif. Paula was in the back by the bandstand wiping down a table. I leaned against the counter by the cash register and waited. When she saw me, her face lit up with a smile. She made her way between the tables and back to the register.

  “Spencer Manning. What a surprise. I thought you forgot about your old friends.”

  “Not forgotten, Paula, just too darned busy. How the heck are ya?”

  “Not too bad for an old broad.” She still had the smile.

  “Not that old, and not too bad for any broad, Paula.”

  “Still a charmer, eh?” And then she lost the smile and frowned. “I’m guessing you’re not here to eat. Kathleen has kept us up on your career. Pretty exciting.”

  “Sometimes it is exciting. And yes, I’d like a few minutes of your time, but I am hungry and hoping you’re still serving burgers.”

  She smiled again with bright lively eyes. “Of course! Why don’t you take one of the booths by the window and by the time you’re done eating I should be able to spare a few minutes.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Paula dropped off a Schlitz and fifteen
minutes later a waitress I didn’t recognize brought a mushroom cheddar burger and fries. I ate slowly and savored each juicy bite as I watched the crowd.

  Paula appeared as I finished the last bite. The Coyote was a local favorite because of her. She ran it like the captain of a ship, but with a velvet touch rather than an iron fist. Her commanding presence kept everything running smoothly with a kind word and an encouraging smile. She relaxed as she slid into the booth opposite me.

  “I’m assuming you’re here about Kathleen. Gretchen is covering the door for me, but I’ll have to go if there’s a rush.”

  “No problem. What have you heard?”

  She leaned toward me and spoke quietly. “News gets around pretty fast up here. I heard last night that she was arrested and cops from Chicago were taking her back to Chicago when she escaped. I don’t know exactly what it’s all about—something about stolen paintings.”

  I laughed and emptied the bottle of Schlitz. “That’s some grapevine you’ve got. That’s about it.”

  Her brow furrowed and she looked puzzled. “But it doesn’t make sense. Weren’t they her paintings?”

  “Yup. And I’m just as confused as you. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Are you looking for her?”

  “Poking my nose around, but she’ll be pretty hard to find if she wanted to disappear. I’m also trying to follow the painting trail. It’s pretty confusing. When was the last time you saw her?”

  She sighed and squinted. “That would have been a week ago, Friday.”

  “How often does she come in?”

  “Three or four times a week. And always on Wednesday for the meatloaf special. I was surprised when she didn’t show.”

  I remembered the meatloaf—worth a trip. “Did she seem normal that Friday?”

  “Yes, same old chitchat. I remember her saying that the light would be great with the clear sky.”

  “And you haven’t heard anything from her?”

  She shook her head with obvious concern.

  Gretchen called her and I saw a line of customers at the counter.

  “Gotta go, Spencer.”

  I gave her my card and told her to call the pager if she heard anything.

  “Nice to see you, Spencer.”

  “You also, Paula. Take care.”

  She winked.

  I paid and headed south on Kangaroo Lake Road. Kathleen’s studio was only a half mile down the road, just past the faded-red barn where we used to hide from her cousins. She had little patience with most people, even as a kid, but for some reason she had put up with me.

  Chapter 11

  Kathleen’s studio was just south of her ranch house and set on the back of the lot. I pulled the Mustang into the gravel drive and parked next to the house. Kangaroo Lake was a few hundred feet to the east. A wooden dock with a canoe tied to it jutted out from the bank. The lake was long and skinny. I could see across to the east side. A wooden deck with lawn chairs and a hammock was inviting me to spend a few hours. The warm sun and a light breeze would have made for a nice nap. Maybe I would head down there after checking out the studio. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I wanted a look around.

  As I approached the front door, I hesitated. It was ajar. I looked in through the windows to make sure I wasn’t surprising anyone. The only one surprised was me as I pushed the door open and walked into a mess. Paintings and supplies were scattered around, drawers were pulled out and dumped on the floor, and papers were strewn all over. Someone was obviously looking for something and I guessed they hadn’t found it.

  Not wanting to touch the phone, I drove back to Coyote and called the Ephraim police from Paula’s office. I got a woman who said her name was Barb and said she would get ahold of Chief Iverson.

  I hung up and called Adam. His secretary answered.

  “Hello, I need to talk to Adam Johnson, please.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s out on the course. We’re in the middle of a tournament.”

  “I know. But I really need to talk with him. It’s about his sister.”

  I explained who I was and she said she would send someone to get him.

  I waited five minutes.

  “Hello, Spencer. You’ve got something?” He still sounded worried.

  “Well, yes. I stopped at the studio. Someone broke in and trashed the place.”

  Silence. “What the hell, Spencer? That makes no sense.”

  I took a deep breath. “Well, no and yes. Someone was looking for something.”

  “The paintings?”

  I sat in Paula’s desk chair. “I don’t think so. This has to be about something else.”

  “What?” he asked in a shaky voice.

  “No idea. But this might explain why Kathleen disappeared. The police were looking for her and then she discovered that someone had broken into her studio. She suddenly felt threatened and went someplace she’d feel safe. Any ideas?”

  “That could be a number of places. There are a lot of people who would hide her.”

  “Yup. And that’s good. I’m betting she’s okay.” I tried to sound reassuring, but after finding the mess I wasn’t so sure.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Me too. When was the last time you were at the studio?”

  “Friday, late afternoon, when I went to look for the painting.”

  I stood up and sat on the desk. “So this happened Friday night or early this morning.”

  “Yeah. Do you want me to come over? I’m pretty busy here.”

  “I don’t think so. If the police want you, they’ll call. But the door lock is broken. See if you can get someone to get that fixed.”

  “I’ll get my secretary on it. Let me know if you find anything, Spencer.”

  “Will do, Adam.”

  I headed back to the studio. While I was waiting, I walked around the house and checked the doors and windows. There were no signs of forced entry. Ten minutes later Chief Iverson pulled into the drive.

  ***

  Hello, Manning,” he said with no emotion. “Trouble seems to follow you around.”

  “How so, Chief?”

  “I seem to recall a little incident a year ago.”

  “Well, as I recall, the trouble got there before I did.”

  Without replying, he led the way to the studio.

  “What a mess.” He walked through the building. “Any idea what they were looking for?”

  “Nope. But it wasn’t a painting.” Drawers had been pulled out and emptied. “Had to be small enough to fit in a drawer.”

  He glared at me and didn’t respond. I knew I wasn’t going to get any questions answered so I didn’t ask any. But I was willing to bet the sheriff would take over and Iverson wouldn’t be happy about that. Iverson was in a tough position, and I sort of felt sorry for him. But it didn’t last long. He wasn’t the kind of guy who engendered much sympathy, not that he was looking for any.

  He walked back to the door. “Lock’s broken.”

  “Adam is calling someone to come and fix it.”

  He didn’t respond.

  I turned toward the door. “If you don’t need me, I’m heading back to Chicago.” I was sure he didn’t need me and would be glad to see me go.

  With his back to me, he said, “Have a nice trip.”

  Keeping my response to myself, I walked to the car and drove back toward the cottage. On the way, I picked up a steak, a potato, and a six pack. I did plan on heading back to Chicago, but not until Monday morning. I was going to relax and wait for Rosie’s call. I figured she still thought I knew more than I had told her and would still be upset, but I hoped she would want to chat.

  While I’d been brightening the chief’s day, the sky had grown overcast and the humidity had risen. As I drove through Bailey’s Harbor, I heard a rumble of thunder. I made it back to the cottage before it started to rain and stood on the deck as big drops started to plop into the bay.

  Chapter 12

  I sprawled on the c
ouch and watched the storm roll out over Lake Michigan. When the rain stopped, I grilled the steak, added sour cream and butter to the potato, and poured a Schlitz. I ate on the deck and watched two canoes gliding across the bay. It had been a long day and I fell asleep in the deck chair wondering what Kathleen had gotten herself into.

  The ringing phone woke me at ten fifteen.

  “Hello, Spencer, hope it’s not too late.”

  She sounded tired and defeated.

  “No, it’s fine, Rosie. You still mad at me?”

  “Still! I teach a course in being mad at you. I have a waiting list.” She was silent for five seconds. “But I’m more mad at me. I know you wouldn’t help someone escape. She got the best of me. I feel like such a fool.”

  I took the phone to the couch and sat down. “You’re not the first, Rosie. Don’t blame yourself. And if it helps any, I don’t think she did anything wrong.”

  “And what’s that based on? One of your gut feelings?”

  I sighed. “Well, yes, and no. I’ve known her for a long time. She’s smart and she’s pretty screwy, but I’d bet my life on her honesty.”

  “So, what’s the no part?”

  “There’s more to this than just a missing painting.”

  “That sounds like a gut feeling.”

  I laughed. “I guess it is, but there’s more to it. Two missing paintings and confusion about the names. And have you heard about her studio?”

  “No, what about it?”

  “Someone broke in and trashed it.”

  “Looking for something,” she said. “Any idea what it was?”

  “No. But drawers were emptied so it wasn’t a painting.”

  “Interesting. But you said she’s smart. Maybe she staged it all. Maybe this is all about Kathleen.”

  “Could be, but I’d bet not. And there’s another missing person.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Cletis Muddd, with three Ds.”

  “The helper at the frame shop? Three Ds? What are you talking about?”

  “His last name—M U D D D.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Constable Gruber ran a background check before Muddd was hired. Figures it was a mistake by whoever filled out the birth certificate and the parents left it.”

  “Just when you think you’ve heard it all. But why do you think he’s missing?”