by Pill, Maggie
“When did you last see Neil?”
“He came over that week for Monday night football. Amos was here too.”
“And the other guy? The one Neil called Hairless?”
“Rick’s wife was pregnant. She had the kid that Friday, the day Carina died.”
A guy whose wife was in labor was unlikely to help with an escape. “Where was Amos?”
“Home alone. Amos is divorced, at least he was then. He’s had a wife and a half since.”
“Meaning?”
“A two-year marriage and a bride-to-be in the wings.” He grimaced. “When Amos gets the urge, he should just find a woman he doesn’t like and buy her a house.”
“Amos was a good friend to Neil, though?”
Mason saw where I was heading. “Amos would be the last person to call if you need someone to keep his mouth shut. The guy couldn’t keep a secret if you put it in a vault for him.”
“But you could if it was important to Neil, right?”
He looked me straight in the eye. “I could, but I didn’t.”
“Have you ever heard of the Buck Lake Resort?”
I watched as he considered it. “I don’t think so. There’s something called Buck Lodge down by Pinconning, I think.”
Sensing no falsity, I moved to the next question. “Are you married, Mr. Mason?”
“Yeah. My wife works at Emergency Services. Lousy pay, but she gets benefits.”
“Important,” I allowed. “Was she with you that Friday?”
His expression turned irritated. “She got home around seven fifteen and found me minding the store. Does that satisfy you?”
“Yes, thanks.” I bought a soda and a can of Pringles as a conciliatory gesture. Mason rang it up and handed over my change without further comment. I left feeling he was angry about losing a friend, about being questioned and re-questioned on the subject, and maybe about being left out of Neil Brown’s life for the last six years.
As long as I was out, I decided to locate Amos Carroll. Even if he hadn’t gotten a call from Neil that night, I wanted to see what I could learn from a guy who didn’t understand the concept of secrets. I planned to leave a message, but Amos answered my call. When I asked if he was busy, he laughed. “Nobody in the construction business is busy these days. We ain’t building nothing but birdhouses.”
Putting the address he gave me into my GPS, I drove out of the city until ordered to turn right. The house, situated at an angle to the road, was obviously a labor of love. Carroll saw me coming and stepped onto the porch wearing jeans, a faded Michigan sweatshirt with the sleeves and neckband cut off, and grungy white socks. He was under average height but stocky, and I could imagine him easily hefting a bundle of shingles onto a roof. His hand was scratchy with calluses, and his grin furrowed deep lines in his face. Lots of hours in the sun, lots of smiles.
Carroll seemed okay with being questioned, even happy that someone wanted to listen to him. “Neil,” he said, wagging his head sadly when I told him my purpose. “Neil was the best.”
“You don’t think he killed his wife?”
Amos shook his head as if I’d said something silly. “Neil loved that girl. And to tell you the truth, none of us could see why. I mean, yeah, she was pretty, but it ain’t worth it, y’know? Puttin’ up with all that sh—uh, stuff.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I s’pose some drifter noticed her, y’know?” He flushed. “Like I said, she was pretty.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, her brother probably tried to help her and got killed.”
“But Neil’s skin was under her fingernails.”
“I figure he came in and tried to help Carina. She was hurt, and she scratched him.”
“Then why did he run?”
“Her old man hated Neil. If Wozniak wanted him arrested, it woulda happened.”
I tried to put myself in Neil Brown’s place. His wife was dead; at least he thought she was. Her brother too. His father-in-law was on the way. If I were innocent of the crimes, would I stay and try to prove it or run, as he had?
The thought was still with me that night when I left the house in my black running suit. Since coming to Allport I’d come to understand the desire to hide one’s activities—one’s crimes—and the panic that rises at the thought of apprehension. Fear makes one do odd things.
Of course, I wasn’t murdering anyone. My crimes stemmed from a need for correctness and other people’s lack of caring about it. For years, sloppiness in English language usage had bugged me, and of late it had taken me over the line. I knew my forays into vandalism were illegal. Despite the fact that I acted for a good cause, I was breaking the law when, late that night, I crept up to Allport’s Medicine House Pharmacy and went to work on their sign.
My work took longer than planned. First, cars kept going by and I had to retreat into the shadows until they disappeared. Second, I had to fix three errors, turning “magizines” into magazines, “greeting card’s” into greeting cards, and “candys” into candies. The last one took some doing, since I had to squeeze in the correct letters. It felt really good when I finished, and I stood back to take a look at the sign, which was now, if not perfect, at least correct.
I screwed the lids on the paint jars, sealed my brushes in plastic bags, stowed it all in my backpack, climbed from the porch roof to the shed to a trash barrel to the ground, and started for my car. I was more than surprised when I collided with another person at the corner of the building. What the heck was he doing here at this time of night?
“What are you doing here at this time of night?” The man, who had grabbed me to prevent us both from falling, released my arms and stepped back.
“Walking.” I’d thought about this moment, about the possibility of getting caught at my little game, and decided that an old excuse was the best one. “I couldn’t sleep.”
His answering grunt indicated neither belief nor disbelief. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
A car passed, illuminating us in its headlights. He was about my age, tall, dark hair sprinkled with silver, and crow’s feet around dark eyes. Native American ancestry, maybe. Other than a slightly thick waist, he looked fit. What conclusions was he was drawing about me?
I got no indication from his next comment. “It’s probably not safe to be walking the streets alone at this hour.”
“I’m on my way home now.” My voice sounded false, but the guy had nothing to compare it to, so how would he know? I thought about saying he wasn’t safe either, but I sensed he’d laugh at that. His manner indicated certainty of his ability to handle just about anything. Muttering an apology, I continued on my way.
He watched me go, which meant I had to go all the way around the block to reach my car. A woman out for a walk has to walk. I was thankful the guy hadn’t come along a few minutes sooner and caught me with paint and brushes in hand. How would I have explained that?
My crusade was a little crazy and I knew it, but somehow I couldn’t stop myself. My life as an attorney had brought some successes, a lot of failures. In my night-time ventures, I always won, even if I was the only one who noticed. The Grammar Guru, the Spelling Star, the Punctuation Perfecter. That was me.
Chapter Six
Margaretta
I’m used to being left out of my sisters’ plans. They got stuck in the older sibling thing and never learned to see me as an adult. Honestly, Barbara Ann is the smartest woman I know, but like a lot of smart people, she’s kind of cold. Faye says it just seems that way, but what seems to be is usually what is, in my opinion. As a lawyer Barbara did well, but in life, not so much: no marriage, no family, not even a long-term commitment. I’ll tell you right now, she’s no lesbian. Just really, really reserved in the emotional department.
&
nbsp; Faye is the classic well-intentioned woman who, with all her street smarts, never figured out how to use the brains God gave her to help herself. It’s great to serve your fellow man, but Faye takes it to the point where she’s left with just enough to get by. That’s just crazy.
When I came along, some weird bonding thing had already happened with my sisters. They think each other’s thoughts and finish each other’s sentences. Still, I was surprised to hear they’d started a business together. A detective agency, no less.
It’s wrong from so many angles, even dangerous. Two fifty-something women taking on wife beaters and bail-jumpers! It’s not something a small town will take to, either, women doing the work police forces are created to do. Those forces are going to dismiss their efforts as a joke.
Add to that the fact that Faye and Barbara haven’t spent significant time together for decades. I don’t wish them ill, but it will be interesting to see how they fare in a business relationship. With all that going against them, if they were going to have any chance of making it work, they needed me. They just hadn’t realized it yet.
Let me say right now that I do not interfere in the lives of others. It never works, and furthermore, it makes people dislike you. However, once I heard about the private detective thing, I knew I had to help. In the first place, I had the exact qualities and experiences they needed to succeed.
When I dropped by Barb’s house on my return from Florida, a sign on a post out front said Smart Detective Agency. Their so-called office was deathly quiet, and Faye was playing Skip-Bo at her desk. It was obvious nothing was going on, but there was no way either of them would ask for their baby sister’s help. I either had to make an offer or wait around until it was too late to save their little enterprise.
Setting up shop in Barbara Ann’s house was a good move financially, but the location was wrong for a business like theirs. Too residential, too wimpy. I envisioned a more modern office, maybe in the new building the bank planned to build this summer, but of course that would be once I got them moving in the right direction so they could afford the rent.
On Faye’s desk were business cards that said Smart Detective Agency. Who’d patronize a business with a name like that? It brings to mind all sorts of bad connotations: smart aleck, smart ass, smarty pants. I’d have to be subtle, of course, but I’d come up with something better.
The decor was tasteful and professional: cream walls with walnut-toned furniture and polished oak floors warmed by Persian rugs. The windows were corniced, the wood the same tone as the floor, and jade-green sheers filtered light from the spring sun. Near the windows were two chairs upholstered in green and cream stripes, and centrally located was Faye’s desk, which contained, besides the basket of business cards, a phone, a computer, and a stack of books, on top her dog-eared copy of The Poor Speller’s Dictionary.
As I closed the door behind me, Faye’s eyes widened. “Retta! What are you doing here?” The game slid into a drawer with a discreet clunk.
“I came to see you,” I told her, raising my arms for a hug. Faye rose and embraced me, and I noticed it was harder than it had been last time to reach around her. “And Barbara Ann too, of course.” I looked around. “Where is she?”
“She’s…out.” Could they actually be working on a case?
I pointed at the desk. “What’s this? I go away for a while and you two start a business?”
“We put a lot of thought into it, Retta. We made a business plan and did the research.”
“You thought about it.”
Faye blushed, realizing she’d admitted they left me out of their plans on purpose. “It’s an income for me and a way for Barb to use her expertise. And we both can use our brains.”
“I have a brain, too.” I get exasperated with them sometimes. As a kid I was “too little” to be in on their exploits. As an adult I wasn’t neglected; birthday cards, recipes, family holidays, all the required sister stuff was there. When Don was killed, they were supportive, helping me through it and almost as sad to be unable to relieve my grief as I was bereft at the loss.
But it was only when I needed them that they came around. Otherwise they hung with each other, even when Barbara Ann lived in Washington. I was across town, but Faye called her when she needed someone to talk to. Those two thought they only needed each other.
“Did you ever think your little sister might help steer clients your way? My husband was in law enforcement, and I know most of the cops in northern Michigan.”
Faye was a bit sheepish. “We did think of that, Retta, but it didn’t seem fair to ask you to use your friendships for business purposes.”
“That’s why you won’t succeed at this,” I told her. “Of course you use your family and your friends and your postal worker and your trash collector if they can bring in clients. You use whatever you’ve got, because that’s business. It isn’t about exchanging recipes.”
Faye flinched, but I knew she knew I was right. I pulled a chair up close so we were knee to knee. “Now tell me what you’re working on.”
Her answer was uncharacteristically firm. “I can’t do that, Retta. As you say, it’s a business. We can’t talk about cases.”
“I’m here to help, you goon! How can I do that if I don’t know what you know?”
“I can’t.”
“Barbara doesn’t have to know. You tell her you dug up the information yourself.” I let her think on that. “How much money has Barbara Ann sunk into this private eye thing?”
She bit her lip. “She won’t tell me, but I think it’s a lot.”
“And are you getting the cooperation you need from law enforcement?”
“Well, Tom Stevens was nice but condescending, and Barb ran into a state cop who pretty much told her to play with the other girls and leave the men to do the work.”
I took Faye’s hands and leaned in so she couldn’t turn her eyes away from mine. “So tell me. What are we working on?”
She took a deep breath, as if she were about to jump off a dock into frigid water. “Do you remember the Wozniak case?”
I was a little taken aback. “Of course I do. Murder, escape, old man Wozniak screaming for his son-in-law’s head, it was crazy. Don worked day and night for weeks.”
“Did he ever say the husband might not have done it?”
“Oh, no. His trace evidence was all over the room: blood, fingerprints, skin under both the wife’s fingernails and her brother’s. He was there, and he attacked those people.”
“What was Don’s take on it?”
“It appeared the guy came to see his wife, maybe to try to reconcile, but they got into a fight. The brother must have been in the shower, because he was wearing just boxers. He evidently heard the ruckus and came out to help his sister. They fought, and Brown killed him.”
“Could it have happened another way? The brother attacks Neil and Carina gets in the way and gets knocked down in the struggle?”
I shook my head. “From the way the police recreated the scene, the brother was bending to help his sister when he was struck from behind.”
There was a long silence as Faye took that in. “I hadn’t heard that part.”
“You’ve been hired by the family to prove Brown’s innocence, then?” It was a guess, but not a stab. If someone was reopening the Wozniak murders, it had to be either old man Wozniak, who’d have told them that little detail, or the Browns. “Neil’s dad?”
“He died. It’s the sister.”
A vague image of an earnest teenager formed in my mind, but I couldn’t dredge up any details. “Why does she want to find her brother at this point?”
“She’s sick. She’s hoping to clear Neil so he can take over for her.”
“How awful! That family’s been through a lot, but I wouldn’t count on Brown being able to take care of
his daughter. If you find him, he’s going to prison.”
“Barb told her that finding him and proving his innocence might not go together.”
“Good advice, though she probably made it sound like a threat. So what can I do?”
Faye’s eyes swept the room, trying to decide what to do, but finally she said, “The state cop who was in charge of the case doesn’t seem interested in helping us.”
“Name?”
“Uhhh, Sparks.”
“Oh, yeah. Byron is a bit full of himself. So he stonewalled Barbara Ann?”
“He gave her the basics but implied she should stick to finding runaway teens.”
Faye sighed. “You say there’s no doubt Neil Brown was at the scene. That makes our job harder, since it’s not what the client wants to hear.” She tapped on the desk with a pencil. “The only other thing we can hope for is extenuating circumstances. Maybe one of them attacked Brown. Maybe husband and wife were arguing and the brother joined in. We need to understand the relationships better.” She looked at me speculatively. “I don’t suppose you know Mr. Wozniak?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “As a matter of fact, we serve together on the Tourism Council. Stan isn’t a very active member, but he lends his name to several local organizations as a way to give them legitimacy and state-wide cachet.”
“Then he’d recognize your name if we mentioned you?”
“Better than that. I have a standing dinner invitation I haven’t yet taken advantage of.” I leaned back in the chair, pleased with myself. “If you want me to, I’ll give old Stanley a call.”
Chapter Seven
Barb
I was eager to meet Stanley Wozniak, but my call requesting an interview resulted in a dense-sounding secretary promising only to relay the message. Within ten minutes she called back with a negative. Apparently he wasn’t curious as to why a detective wanted to discuss the case.
Faye had asked around about Wozniak, and despite the fact that some waxed eloquent about his civic contributions and the state-wide prestige he’d brought to Allport, the image I got was of a self-important, stubborn man who got away with being arrogant because everything he touched turned to gold. Without many millionaires in northern Michigan, people tended to be a bit in awe of them, forgiving them their faults in return for a share of the profits.
