by Pill, Maggie
He watched my face to see if I understood the reference to the Ontario Provincial Police, and I did, having once observed Barb in a spirited discussion with a member of that organization over her possession of a radar detector. She’d contended since it was unplugged he couldn’t confiscate it. My sister the lawyer lost that roadside case.
I offered a plate of fresh oatmeal cookies. No harm in minor bribery, and a few more couldn’t make much difference to Tom’s waistline. “Why were you so sure he went south?”
Tom took a cookie, bit off half of it, and talked around the mouthful. “Found his truck in Port Huron, near the train station. After that he just disappeared.” Tom sounded half-admiring, half-rueful. The fact that Brown had eluded all cops, not just those in Allport, Michigan, had probably made losing the prime suspect of their biggest felony case a little more palatable.
I’d made a list of questions, and Tom and I covered all of them. Neil had no prior record, his friends and family had been questioned and re-questioned about possible hideouts, and none of them appeared to be holding anything back.
“Mostly what we got was shock.” Leaning forward, Tom clasped beefy hands on the desktop. “No one wants to think somebody they like is capable of murder. His people said Neil wouldn’t hurt anyone. The sister especially.” He paused. “She the one that hired you?”
“I can’t say.” Even a novice crime fighter knows clients’ names shouldn’t be revealed.
His round face showed amusement. “You don’t have to. Meredith Brown had a big case of hero-worship for her brother, which means you can’t take her word for anything.” He took on a manner that no doubt worked well on teenagers caught with a trunk full of beer. “I’m helping you out, here, Faye. You’re wasting your time and her money.”
Not being a juvenile delinquent, I wasn’t required to sit through the whole lecture. “It’s up to us how we spend our time and up to the client how she spends her money.” I rose and gathered my things. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”
“You do that.” Taking a second cookie, he leaned back in the chair again, signaling he wouldn’t hold his breath until we broke the case.
As I left, I pictured Tom telling his coworkers about the two women on Bentley Street who were playing detective. I could even imagine the chuckles that followed.
Chapter Three
Barb
While Faye visited what she called the “cop shop,” I tracked down Byron Sparks, the state police detective who handled the Wozniak case. When I reached him and gave a brief overview, there was a pause before he spoke. “You’re hired to prove Brown’s innocence?”
“To find him. The client expressed hope that he’ll be proven innocent, but I made it clear we couldn’t guarantee that.”
Sparks snorted. “That’s good, since he’s guilty.”
“You have no doubt of that?”
I pictured Sparks’ lips tightening at the audacity of my question, and there was irritation in his voice. “There was a fight. He killed the wife and brother with what was probably a softball bat. Brown’s DNA was all over, his blood was on the brother’s shorts. The place was a mess. No way the guy’s innocent.”
I kept at it, looking for a crack that might let out a little hope. “Could there be extenuating circumstances? Maybe Carson and Neil argued, and Carina got hurt by accident.”
“The two men hardly knew each other. The Wozniak kid went to some fancy school in California and ended up living out there.” He paused, apparently letting the details come back to him. “Brown was separated from his wife, but she called him that day and asked him to stop by.”
“Why?”
“Her father said it was because she’d decided to file for divorce.” His tone had grown more irritated, and I decided not to interrupt again. “However it started, things got violent. The father came along in time to see Brown leaving the house. He saw him, and he went inside to find his son dead and his daughter dying.”
I heard little thumps and imagined Sparks punctuating his points on the desktop with his index finger. “Neil had a temper. He was there. His softball bat wasn’t anywhere to be found. We searched the apartment, his truck, and the place he was renting.” Sparks spoke confidently. “The guy had motive, means, and opportunity. He did it.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. It sounded bad for Neil Brown, and for Meredith.
“If you find him, that’ll be great,” Sparks said, “but don’t expect a happy reunion between Brown and his family. It isn’t going to happen.”
He was more correct than he knew. Even if Brown were innocent as a lamb, Meredith’s illness would be devastating if he turned out to be the person his sister thought he was.
Did Neil Brown want to know he had a six-year-old daughter? Faye hoped he did. She also hoped he had an explanation for what happened. Had Carina fallen during an argument? If she had, why hadn’t he called for help? Why had he attacked her brother, beating him bloody and crushing his skull? I wanted to pose those questions and more to Neil, wherever he might be.
I suddenly remembered I hadn’t asked Sparks about Stan Wozniak, whose dislike of his son-in-law might have colored his story. As an outsider, Sparks was the best person to judge how truthful the old man had been. Old man? He was probably my age. Father, I corrected.
I hit Redial and got the switchboard operator again. “It’s Barb Evans again. I just spoke with Detective Sparks, but I’d like to ask him one more question.”
“One moment.” As I waited, I walked around the desk and studied the map of Michigan Faye had attached to a bulletin board. When the woman came back on the line, there was a false note to her voice. “I’m sorry, but Detective Sparks is gone. He’ll be out for the rest of the day.”
I thanked her and hung up, guessing Sparks considered more contact with me a waste of his time. I’d have to go at things from another direction, and sadly, that direction had to be north.
Faye was excited about driving to the U.P., and before I knew it, she’d mapped our route and made a list of what to pack. “I don’t want to sleep at a place called Buck Anything,” I groused. “Nor do I want to hobnob with deer-killers.”
“It’s May,” she reminded me. “We won’t run into any hunters.”
“Good.” I didn’t even try to curtail my grouchiness. “They spend one day hunting and the other fourteen playing cards, drinking, and walking around town in orange camo.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re bad people,” Faye scolded.
“They take over and treat the town like their personal back yard. People who don’t shave, bathe, or brush their teeth should stay away from those of us who do.”
“Do you go with me, or do I go alone?”
“I can’t let you go into the wilderness by yourself, but I won’t like it. And there’s the bridge, too.” I hoped that would give her second thoughts. Faye’s greatest fear is being anywhere there’s air beneath her: bridges, elevators, and airplanes.
Faye sighed. “The Mackinac Bridge has stood since nineteen-fifty-something. I suppose it’ll bear the weight of two middle-aged women.”
“But what about the half-dozen semis, assorted campers, and fully-laden passenger cars bound to be on it at the same time?” I was teasing now, and she knew it.
“Fine, don’t go.”
“I’m going,” I said. “I’m just not happy about it.”
Dale came into the room at that point, moving deliberately, touching furniture for stability as he passed. A head injury several years back had left him unsteady on his feet and unable to work a normal job. He got vertigo from standing or moving too suddenly. Light bothered him so much he wore dark glasses inside and out, and anything above conversation-level noise was torture. Luckily, his mishap had not destroyed his sense of humor, and he said, “I’m told that tomorrow morn
ing I become the Smart Detective Agency’s Man Friday.”
“If you don’t mind,” I replied. “It’s just overnight, but you’ll be in charge.”
“Okay, but no brawling with the Yoopers.”
“Maybe we could Skype the owner of the lodge.”
“Go pack a bag,” Faye prodded. “One night of misery and you can return to the civilized side of the Bridge.” As I left the room she added, “And bring lots of tissues. It’s spring, so your allergies will really kick in up there.”
Chapter Four
Faye
If you haven’t seen the Mackinac Bridge, you should. Laid across the Strait of Mackinac, a full five miles of suspension bridge hangs from lofty towers footed deep in the waters where two Great Lakes, Michigan and Huron, meet at the tip of the mitt. Despite admiring its engineering, I hate the damned thing.
US 23 took us to Mackinaw City, a pleasant drive that often skirted the shore of Lake Huron, providing great views. We got admiring looks as we passed through towns along the way, not for ourselves, but for the car. Barb drives a’57 Chevy, Matador Red with white side panels. It might sound odd for a person who can afford all the modern bells and whistles, but as a kid she was obsessed with Uncle Carl’s car. Having no children of his own, he left the car to Barb when he died. All the years she lived on the Pacific Coast it was stored in a barn, on blocks and drained of fluids. When she returned to Allport, she spent a sizeable chunk of money to have it refurbished and modernized to meet present laws. The surprisingly comfortable bench seat and flat dashboard left lots of room for two mature women. At my age I appreciated things like that.
As we approached the bridge, I got antsy. A feeling of dread always hit me as the land receded. Images of the car lunging over the side or the bridge collapsing under me came to mind. I could almost feel the car plummet into space and after a few terror-filled seconds, plunge into the icy water. I heard the bubbling as we sank beneath the surface, unable to escape as pressure increased and light faded. If I dwelled on it, I became unable to function. Aware of this, Barb maintained a conversation, no matter how inane it became.
“How long do you think it’ll take to get there?” I sounded just like my kids used to. Are we there yet? I tried to keep my voice steady, but the choppy water far below moved like a living thing, waiting like a terrible fish to swallow us alive.
“Frau GPS says we’ll arrive at 3:55.” According to Barb, the GPS voice sounds like a Nazi housewife. She described the route we’d take in detail to keep me from focusing on my fear. “We’ll take US 2 for a couple of hours then head north on a paved road that turns to dirt. After that it’s a bunch of twists and turns. I hope the Frau knows what she’s doing.”
At the northern end of the bridge, we stopped at the tollbooth, paid the friendly attendant, and exited the “Mighty Mac.” Thrilled to be back on dry land, I tried to paint a rosy picture of our destination. “The guy at the Chamber of Commerce didn’t know a lot about Buck Lake Resort, but he’s driven by it lots of times. He says it doesn’t look bad.”
Barb raised that brow. “He’s a Yooper. What does he know?”
“It might be nice.”
“Hampton Inn is nice. Buck Lake Resort is mice, I guarantee it.”
We left I-75 and turned west, stopping for drinks at the last McDonalds we’d see until the return trip. The U.P. of Michigan was beautiful but a little desolate. US 2 crossed it and continued all the way to the Pacific if a person wanted to go that far. The towns along the way were small, the permanent homes mostly modest, with signs proclaiming businesses from computer repair to pasties, the delicious meat pies whose invention is claimed by both Brits and Finns. Peeps of the big lake provided beautiful views, but mostly there were trees. Lots of trees.
Just before the town of Manistique the Frau ordered a right turn, and we headed north on a county road that quickly turned from pavement to gravel. As the Chevy chattered over washboard bumps, Barb grumbled about the dirt she’d have to wash off her baby. Now the forest closed in on us from both sides, opening infrequently to reveal no-frills houses with multiple sheds, trailers, and vehicles huddled around them as if for company. Some were hunting camps, introduced with signboards over the drive with fanciful names like “Deer Jane” or “Hunters’ Home.” Many had a padlocked gate, though I never saw one that looked worth breaking into.
At each turn the GPS called for, the road got narrower. “What are those?” Barb asked, indicating tall willow sticks stuck into the shoulder of the road at irregular intervals.
“Snow sticks,” I answered. “Without them, plow trucks might go off the road in the winter when all the drivers can see is white.”
Barb snorted. “The best thing about this trip is it didn’t happen in February.” No argument there. Spring comes late to the U.P., but there aren’t a lot of blizzards in May.
My companion’s griping aside, the drive was beautiful. We passed a dozen small lakes, some still hung with fog left over from the cool morning. The Chevy climbed small hills and wound frequent curves, and more than once we surprised animals—a waddling porcupine, two deer, and a shy, side-stepping coyote.
It seemed to take forever, but finally we turned west again, onto the road given as Buck Lake’s address. It was a hard-packed, arrow-straight path over-arched with trees whose tops were just turning green. In a month it would be a leafy tunnel, and in the fall, a kaleidoscope of color. Barb slowed even more, both to look for the resort and because the ruts had gotten even worse. At one point the GPS told us we had reached our destination, but since there were only trees and more trees, we kept going.
Finally, I pointed left. “There!”
Barb pulled into a circle drive running past a cedar-shake building. Over the door a hand-painted sign said, Office, and on the door itself another sign said, Come in. “Exactly as expected,” she said. “Hardly palatial.”
It was, I had to admit, the most rustic of rustic structures. There were antlers mounted on either side of the door. At one side of the building was a buck pole, thankfully empty.
“I can just picture that thing hung with gutted deer carcasses.” Barb’s grumpy mood was rapidly getting worse. You’d think someone who grew up in northern Michigan would accept the whole hunting mind-set, but she’d lived too long in the big city.
“Don’t start,” I told her sharply. “It’s one night.” We’d agreed (one of us reluctantly) we should stay at the resort in order to speak to anyone who might recall a guest from years ago.
We got out of the car, greeted by the piney scent no commercial cleaner can truly re-create. Barb went inside while I waited in the drive, smoking and surveying the place. There were five rustic cabins behind the main building, each with a metal number tacked to the door. Each was about ten by twenty feet, and I shuddered to see a small outhouse behind the last of them. Trees circled the resort, making it seem crowded against nature rather than nestled into it.
In a few minutes Barb returned with a key and a bemused expression. “The owner isn’t here right now. There’s a note that says to check yourself in, take a key, and make yourself at home. He’ll be around in the morning.”
“This isn’t the peak time of year for U.P. vacationing,” I responded. “The guy didn’t expect company, so he went off to do whatever men like him do in the off-season.”
Barb shook her head in disbelief. “Trust lives in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.”
“I kind of like it.”
She gave me a look then headed for the first cabin, remarking, “I figured we might as well be Number One.”
The cabin was neat, though sparsely furnished. It smelled a little musty, and I saw Barb’s nose twitch with distaste. In one corner was an icebox that would have brought a nice price from any antique dealer in Saugatuck. Next to it was a hand pump. On another wall a lumpy-looking couch sat under a window with glass so o
ld it made the trees outside look wavy. In the center of the room sat a table and four rickety chairs. To my great joy, there was a bathroom with the required amenities, though they were jammed into a space hardly large enough for Barb, much less a woman of my size. The toilet apparently flushed by gravity, and I explained the buckets lined up against the wall. “You pour water from the pail into the bowl, and whatever’s in there goes away.” The look she gave me spoke volumes.
I opened a door opposite the bathroom to find a small bedroom with two bunks along one wall and a folded cot against another. There were gas lights, and we read the instructions while daylight made that possible. I suggested we light the one in the main room and leave it burning, first to make sure we knew how, and second so we could see to light the others when it got dark. It wasn’t as scary as I’d imagined, and the friendly glow of the mantle was comforting. When that was done, there seemed to be nothing else to do but haul in our stuff.
I’d brought along two sleeping bags, and we’d stopped at a grocery and bought enough deli food for several meals. In fact, we’d over-bought, the way people tend to do when they know they’ll be unable to shop for a while. You think you might need everything in the store.
Oh, yes, the mice. There were none visible, but there was plenty of evidence. You couldn’t really blame the owner. Mice can get in almost anywhere, and they abound in woodsy areas. The fact there were no tiny skeletal forms lying around indicated effort, but I was sure we’d hear the skitter of little feet in the night. I was pretty sure Barb wouldn’t sleep a wink.
Once we unloaded the car, we explored the property. A pathway behind the cabins had an arrow-shaped wooden sign that said simply, Lake, so we went there first. The path slanted gently downward, and about a hundred feet into the trees we found it, not a large body of water but certainly scenic. It was almost perfectly round, and there were only a few other buildings along its murky edge, all of them far removed from us. At our feet were two aluminum rowboats, overturned and pulled back from the shore, and a primitive launch site, gravel dumped into a rectangular frame and edged on one side by a wooden dock.
