by Pill, Maggie
Guillen’s tone spoke volumes about how guys like Ralph Torey treated him as opposed to people like Neil Brown, to whom he was a person, not just another unwelcome foreigner.
Allport is a lake-side city, which means it’s T-shaped. Lake Huron forms its eastern boundary, and two highways cross at city center. US 23 runs north and south, skirting the lakeshore. M-9 serves as Main Street until it ends at 23, just a few hundred yards from the lake. Along M-9 are most of the businesses of Allport: restaurants, gas stations, and a just-barely-thriving mall.
A few stores occupy the west side of US 23 as well, but the east side is residential with a capital R. Timber barons, shipping magnates, and other men of wealth built houses along the lakeshore, flaunting wealth that had now pretty much deserted the area. The houses were unique, barn-sized, and romantic. Some had turrets, others Victorian gingerbread, and still others cutting edge architecture of former times. These days they were often second homes, maintained by people who visited northern Michigan a few times a year to escape the city heat or to enjoy the snow for a weekend. I loved driving along the stretch and imagining the original owners’ lives. I hoped they’d appreciated living in houses that didn’t look exactly like the one down the block.
About a half mile from town, US 23 was forced inward as the land rose steeply. There, between the lake and the highway, a huge deposit of limestone had been quarried for decades, accessible raw material easily loaded onto freighters and taken anywhere on the Great Lakes.
The mining operation was simply called the Pit. A huge, ugly hole in the earth, it was impressive for its sheer size and its evidence of how Man shifts Nature around to suit his desires.
Because the Pit interested tourists, a viewing point had been constructed, complete with cyclone fencing to keep the overly curious from falling a hundred or so feet to the quarry floor. One day Faye had taken me to see how the Pit had grown in my absence. It had expanded along the shoreline like a monstrous horse nibbling its way across a grassy field, and I’d gone onto the platform to stand in the lake breezes and enjoy the panoramic view. Of course Faye remained in the car the whole time. No way she’d go near that edge.
WOZ Industries headquarters was a half mile or so past the turnout for the Pit, about four miles out of town. Due to its presence, the secondary road was wider and better-maintained than most in the area. I followed the signs to the main building and hurried through the front doors.
Because of Guillen’s call, I’d almost forgotten the meeting I’d talked so glibly to arrange. I had to hurry to get to WOZ on time, but my haste was for nothing, since DuBois was later than I was. Perhaps by way of an apology, he came out himself to the reception area where I sat pretending to be interested in Software Horizons. (It was that or Industrial Business.) I looked up at the sound of a pleasing baritone voice. “Ms. Evans? I’m Eric DuBois.” He pronounced it doo-boys, and I guessed it was impossible to teach most Americans to say doo BWA, as in Blanche.
I rose and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. DuBois.”
“Eric, please. This town’s not big enough for formalities.” He frowned at me briefly. “Aren’t you the one I see running every morning when I am on my way to work?”
I grinned. “That’s me, but I don’t run. I walk fast.”
“Still, it’s a good habit, and you seem pretty faithful about it. Wish I were more active.” He looked fine to me, but then, couch-potato, computer-squash behavior often doesn’t catch up with a person until later in life.
DuBois led me to an elevator and from there to a well-appointed office on the second floor. Inviting me to sit he asked, “Would you like something to drink?”
I chose coffee, using the time it took him to arrange it to get an impression of the man. He was good-looking in a Tom Cruise kind of way: direct gaze and confident manner. I guessed his age at forty, but he could have been five years older.
The door opened and coffee entered, not just coffee, but choices. A woman pushed a cart toward us that held three thermal bottles, the kind with pumps on top. There were also little cups of extras to add in: whipped cream, raspberry cordial, even chips of chocolate. Despite my years near the crazy-coffee capital of the world, I stuck with a basic brew, two sugars. I sipped cautiously. It was just the right temperature, and delicious.
“I understand you’re trying to find Neil Brown.”
It was a little surprising that word had gotten around so quickly, but Allport isn’t that big a town. “Yes. We’ve been hired to try, anyway.”
His expression indicated concern, but I thought I detected a smirk behind it. Was it female detectives he found laughable or the idea of us finding a man who’d remained hidden for years? His next words belied my impression. “I always liked Neil. I’ll certainly do what I can to help.” I decided I was probably a little defensive, imagining criticism where there was none.
“How well did you know Brown?”
DuBois sat back in his chair and ran both hands through perfectly barbered hair. “Not well, actually. Of course I knew Carina, since I’ve worked for the family my whole adult life.”
“How did that come about?”
He grinned. “Luck, but hopefully skill as well. I started as an intern while I was still at Eastern Michigan. When I graduated, Stan offered me a job, and we’ve worked together ever since.” Something buzzed discreetly on the desk. DuBois didn’t even look at it, which scored points with me. A face-to-face visitor should come before cyber-sounds.
“What is it that you do?”
He put up a hand in comic pantomime of a stop sign. “We’ve just met, and I don’t want to bore you this early on.” Gesturing at a stack of files on his desk, he went on. “If Mr. Wozniak wants to buy a company, I do the initial research. If he wants to go fishing somewhere in South America, I arrange it. And if he needs someone to act as proxy or agent or scout, I do that too.”
“Jack of all trades?”
“In this day and age, you’d better be if you want to keep a job.” He shrugged. “I’m not complaining, not even a little bit. I’m very well paid for what I do.”
Looking at the suit, I guessed he wasn’t fibbing. “So you knew Carina?”
DuBois’ face revealed a brief conflict. “She stopped in a couple of times a week.”
“What was she like?” The conflict deepened, and I leaned toward him. “Look, Mr. DuBois, I’m not here to smear anyone’s memory of her. I’m trying to understand the players so I can get a fair idea of Neil Brown’s situation at the time of the murder.”
DuBois fingered a Petoskey stone paperweight before letting out a huff of decision. “Carina was all about Carina. I think she cared for Neil, but she wanted to control him, too.”
“How did he react to that?”
“Neil didn’t come around here much, so I hardly knew him. Carina came by fairly often, mostly when he was at work. I guessed it was easier if he didn’t know how often she visited.”
“She came to see her father?”
He shrugged. “She liked the business, liked seeing how it worked. She’d ask me questions, and she’d pick out of Stan what he had planned for his next project.” Eric chuckled dryly. “Looking at her, you’d never have guessed she had anything going on in that pretty little head, but she understood a lot more about finance than she let on.”
“Why do you think she was like that?”
“Well, Stan likes his women beautiful and not too liberated, and I guess she went along.” DuBois glanced away. “She was an attractive woman, and she liked men to notice.”
“And did you notice?”
He grinned. “Sure. I was single. But once she met Neil, she didn’t want anybody else.”
I left the subject of Carina. “What can you tell me about the day of the murders?”
His expression turned serious. “Stan and I were out
most of the morning, working on a proposal. When we got back, the secretary said Carina had stopped in. She wanted her father to come to her place as soon as he could because she had something important to discuss with him.”
“What time was that?”
“Around eleven.”
“He didn’t go right over? The paper said he arrived just after one.”
DuBois looked slightly embarrassed. “Carina was into drama.” He stared at the corner of his desk. “I guess Stan thought what she had to say could wait.”
I wondered how many times in the last six years Stan Wozniak had regretted that decision. “He told you he wasn’t going there until later?”
Raised brows and a shrug excused the decision to put family after business. “He had a lunch date with the mayor and some council members. He said he’d stop at Carina’s after that.”
“And what did he find when he got there?”
DuBois clasped his hands and set them on the desk before him. “All I know is what he told me, and what I read in the papers.” His chair let out a discreet whoosh of air as he settled back, letting himself remember. “Stan said he pulled up outside Carina’s apartment around twelve forty. As he got out of his car, he saw Neil hurrying away from the building. Neil didn’t see him, but he seemed agitated. He wore a hooded jacket, one of those sweatshirt type things. It had stains the boss swears were blood.”
“How could he tell from a distance?”
A single vertical line appeared between his brows. He’d asked himself that same question. “He was pretty adamant about it, but we know what he found when he went inside.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, the door was open. He called out to Carina, but no one answered. He went inside and saw Carson, sprawled in front of the couch, face down, with the back of his head caved in. Carina was under him, lying on her back. She’d been struck on the side of the head, and a ball bat that had been sitting beside the door was missing.”
“Terrible.” The scene would have been difficult for anyone, but for a father? I understood Wozniak’s anger at Neil Brown, even as I hoped it was misplaced.
“When Stan called for help, he thought they were dead. The EMTs saw she was still alive and went to work—”
“What’s going on, Eric?” We both jumped at the voice from the doorway.
“Mr. Wozniak.” DuBois seemed to grow smaller, paler, and tighter before my eyes. He rose, sending his chair backward, where it hit the wall with a soft thud. “This is Ms.—”
“I know who she is. What I want to know is what she’s doing here.”
I rose and stepped toward the man in the doorway, though it was rather like moving toward a growling Doberman. “Mr. Wozniak, I was interviewing Mr. DuBois about—”
Wozniak’s malevolent glance stopped me cold. “Didn’t my secretary tell you I would not be interviewed about your so-called case?”
I made myself answer calmly. “No one said I couldn’t speak to the others involved.”
“Eric wasn’t involved. And we have more important things to do than chat with a nosy female who’s been scammed by the Brown family.” Wozniak was tall, with deep-set eyes, a large Adam’s apple, and working man’s hands, even after decades of financial success. I decided he wasn’t equally successful as a human being.
“I am trying to get at the truth of your daughter’s death, Mr. Wozniak.”
“The truth is that her husband killed her. But that wasn’t enough for him. He took my only son, too.” His voice rose. “Go ahead and find Neil Brown, lady. I’ll see he never takes another breath outside a prison.” He took a step toward me, and I had to force myself not to retreat in the face of anger that pulsed like a force field around him. “Now leave this property before I have you arrested for trespassing. Eric, see Ms. Evans to her car.” His tone hinted that if I didn’t have an escort, they’d be less a ficus or two.
I was as angry as I’d been in years, but Wozniak held all the cards. Gathering as much dignity as I could muster, I left the room.
As I searched for the stairs, unwilling to wait for the elevator, DuBois caught up with me. Gently, he led me to the elevator and pressed the call button. “He had no right to be rude. I told him I intended to apologize.”
“I’ll bet he was thrilled.” The elevator doors opened with a muted chime and I stepped inside. DuBois followed. Neither of us said anything. He was apologetic; I wasn’t yet ready to accept. We both knew the person who should have offered the olive branch wouldn’t do so.
When the elevator doors opened, I headed for the exit. DuBois stayed beside me, and I had to give him credit for standing up to his boss, at least a little. I slowed my pace in recognition of his attempt at atonement. We left the building, stepping into a breezy but mild afternoon.
As I got out my keys and headed toward my parking space, DuBois whistled. “Nice car!” His tone was so boy-in-love-with-power that I had to smile as he opened the door for me. I answered the obligatory questions: what size the engine was, how much horsepower, how I’d kept it cherry. Once I was inside the car, DuBois bent down so that his face was level with mine. “Stan isn’t a bad guy, Ms. Evans. He’s just touchy on the subject of his children’s murders.”
“I guess a father would be,” I admitted grudgingly.
“I didn’t know he was coming in today or I’d have suggested we meet somewhere else.” He glanced back at the impressive building. “I also didn’t realize he’d get so upset.”
“I’m sorry if I got you in trouble.”
“Don’t worry. Stan’s tough, but he treats me like a—” He stopped, embarrassed. “When he lost Carson and Carina, I was just an office away. We do okay together.”
Probably because DuBois did everything Wozniak told him to. Stan would need a nice guy like Eric to smooth the feathers he ruffled. “Thanks for the information.”
Sweeping his wind-ruffled hair off his forehead, he hurried back into the building. I imagined his boss standing in the window of his office, watching to make certain I left. I imagined it because I refused to give Wozniak the satisfaction of looking up to find out for sure.
Chapter Ten
Retta
It took a while to figure out something else I could do to help Faye and Barbara. The call to the state police was good, but I wanted to show them I could find information as well as open doors. As I thought about the Wozniak case, it occurred to me that what I have and they don’t (well, one of the things) is connections in the community. Barbara was gone for decades and no longer has any idea who anybody is. Faye stuck to family and work her whole life. I know a lot of people, especially those on the higher social levels. Why couldn’t I use that to help them?
Questioning Faye until she used the word badgering, I refreshed my memory of the crimes. Using the file Detective Sparks had sent them at my request, she listed the people who’d been interviewed for background information about Neil and Carina Brown. When she got to John and Susie Mason, I knew I’d hit pay dirt. Susie I knew personally.
John Mason’s wife is a dispatcher for the city’s emergency services. She has been at it for years, and she’s good at her job. At best I thought she might know something that wasn’t public knowledge. At the least she could paint me a picture of what the local police heard, did, and concluded in those first few days. Susie and I were, if not friends, friendly acquaintances, thanks to Kiwanis. The year I’d been president of the club, she’d been secretary, which necessitated a lot of working together. It was time to do lunch, and I knew just where to look for her.
McPub is the trendy eating spot in the tiny old-town section of Allport. It’s one of those dark-paneled eateries with classical music in the background and art posters on the walls. They serve over-priced salads, sweet-potato fries, and twenty different kinds of beer. On any Friday between twelve and one, the local gen
try gather, celebrating the end of the work week. Knowing I’d be welcome, I invited myself along for this Friday’s lunch.
The table was almost full when I got there, and Susie was elbow-to-elbow with two other women. Someone invited me to sit on the opposite end, and I spent a pleasant hour catching up. It was good to see everyone after my winter stay at my condo in Florida, and I love McPub’s food. The noise level was high as one person after another told stories to entertain the group. We all laughed even though we’d heard most of them before.
When lunch was over, I caught up with Susie just outside the place. “Suze, can I walk back to the station with you? I need your help.”
“Sure.” She balanced her take-out carton on her purse for a moment while she dug in her pocket for sunglasses. “I’m starting to get frown lines, so I’m fighting back.”
Checking to see that no one was near us I said, “I understand you knew Neil Brown.”
She turned to look at me for a moment, but the dark glasses kept me from reading her eyes. “We were in school together. It was terrible what happened.”
I didn’t ask if she thought he’d killed his wife. “Were you on duty when the call came?”
Her gaze slid in my direction. “Yeah.” There was a question in it.
“My sisters are trying to help Meredith find him.”
She sighed. “I heard about the brain tumor. Poor kid.”
Faye hadn’t known the specifics of Meredith’s condition. “Brain tumor?”
“Yeah. They say it’s benign, but they have to remove it. The tricky part is getting it all so it can’t grow back.”
