The Sleuth Sisters

by Pill, Maggie

  “Mr. Makala, I’m from a detective agency in Michigan.”

  “I don’t fish anymore,” he hollered. “Too shaky to bait the hook.”

  “Michigan.” Faye raised her voice slightly. “I’m calling from Michigan.”

  “Oh, Michigan, ya.”

  “Mr. Makala, I’m a detective.”

  There was a pause. “Did you say detective?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You sound like a woman.”

  Faye grinned at me. “That’s correct.”

  “And you’re a detective, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” The music of the Upper Peninsula’s Finlanders’ speech rang in every phrase. “What does a lady detective want with an old coot like me?”

  “I bet the ladies out there in Arizona like having an old coot like you around.” Faye’s tone conveyed warmth and gentle flirtation, which was why she was better with certain people than I. Faye took her time, while I tended to accost unsuspecting individuals, demanding information without benefit of social pleasantries. I’d been told it was unnerving, but I couldn’t help it if I prefered to skip the verbal silliness that passes for conversation. Faye said I was born impatient.

  Faye let Mr. Makala flirt with her for a while, which was interesting, to say the least. There were misunderstandings and repetitions, but she spoke slowly and clearly, exaggerating her enunciation slightly. Finally she brought the conversation around to her purpose, explaining that we were hoping he would remember a certain guest. “But it was a long time ago.”

  The old man chuckled. “I remember them all, eh? Every one had something made him different. One guy came every year with his cats. Can you imagine? Two cats, he’d bring to hunting camp. Another one used to bring his girlfriend for a week of fishing in the spring. Then in the fall, he brought his wife for deer season. Did that for ten years or more.”

  Faye leaned her elbows on the desk as she asked the important question. “We’re interested in a man who came in 2008. He’d have been unprepared for hunting, maybe didn’t even have a vehicle.” We’d theorized that Neil might have hitchhiked across the U.P.

  There was a pause, and when the old man spoke, his tone had cooled. “I don’t recall anyone like that. People come to a hunting lodge, they come ready to hunt.”

  “You don’t remember one guy with no gear and no buddies?”

  “Nope. Nobody like that.”

  “That’s what Mr. Kimball said, but we thought your memory might be better than his, since you’d have registered the guy.”

  “How’s Roger doing?”

  Faye shrugged helplessly at me, brows raised. A man with one eye, one arm, and a hermit’s disposition? How would he be doing? “I guess he’s all right.”

  “Roger’s a good fella.” Haike had a coughing fit that sounded awful, and I grimaced as we waited for him to speak again. “I never had nobody like what you said, and Roger wasn’t around then. He came down from Ishpeming the next spring.”

  I frowned. Kimball had said he was working at Buck Lake that November. It was possible Haike’s memory was bad, but he seemed to have all his mental faculties. Why did they disagree on when Roger came to the lodge?

  On impulse, I wrote Faye a quick note. “Mr. Makala,” she said after a quizzical glance at me, “how did Mr. Kimball lose the use of his arm?”

  Another pause. “Some kind of accident. I don’t remember.”

  Faye chatted for a while, thanked the old guy, and ended the call. “What was that about?”

  “Just a thought.” I added stars to notes I’d been making. “If your nephew had an accident that left him severely disabled, you’d recall what happened, don’t you think?”

  “It’s not something a person would forget.”

  “And do you remember the paper Kimball used for tinder to build our fire?”

  Frowning over the memory, Faye shrugged. “I remember there was paper.”

  Tapping out a little fanfare with my pen, I said, “It was a guitar catalog.”

  Faye still looked lost. “So?”

  “Last time I knew, it took two hands to play.”

  Finally her face showed understanding. “You’re saying Kimball is a fake.”

  “Think about it. Brown somehow makes it to Buck Lake Resort and rents a cabin. He gets to know Makala, and they realize they can help each other out.” I spoke faster as things fell into place in my mind. “Makala wants to get away from the cold winters of the U.P. Brown has a wad of cash but nowhere to go. They work out a deal, and Brown becomes Haike’s nephew from Munising. The old guy gets to go to Arizona, and Neil gets a permanent place to hide.”

  Faye twirled the pencil between her fingers. “Right. Neil starts the story from the time he arrived, but in Haike’s mind, it started later, when the character of Roger Kimball came to life.”

  “They’d have had all winter to figure out how to make it work.”

  “Brown changes his hair, gets a milky-looking contact lens, grows that awful beard, and fakes a crippled arm. It not only disguises him, but it keeps people at a distance, too.”

  “But when no one’s around, he uses the arm. It’s just too inconvenient not to.”

  Grinning widely, Faye leaned back in her chair. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “It means, Miss Smarty Pants, that we’re heading north again. Back to God’s country.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Faye

  After lunch, Barb went out to do some errands, so I was alone when the phone rang. The readout said unknown, so I used my business voice. “Smart Detective Agency. How can I help you?”

  “My name is Martin Arnold,” said a raspy voice. “I want you to find my wife.”

  “She’s missing?”

  “Um, yeah. She disappeared a couple of weeks ago.”

  “When?”

  “Last Thursday. She went to Miami on business, but she didn’t come back.”

  I checked the desk calendar. “That would be the twelfth?”

  “Right.” He cleared his throat. “The cops say she took off, but she wouldn’t leave me.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I think someone kidnapped her.” His voice got louder. “You need to find her.”

  “Have you been contacted with ransom information?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Then why do you think she was kidnapped?”

  “I told you, she wouldn’t leave me. She loves me.”

  The guy’s manner seemed off somehow, like he was making up the answers to my questions. Still, I pulled a notepad from my organizer, selected one of my very pointed pencils and asked, “Have you contacted the police in Florida to see if there’s been an accident?”

  “She isn’t dead. I’d know.”

  I began a litany of questions we’d devised to get the idea of what a case would involve. At his hesitant replies, doubts as to Arnold’s honesty crept into my mind. Still, I was reluctant to reject a potential customer since we weren’t exactly charging Meredith Brown by the hour.

  Despite my patience, the interview went from bad to worse. Arnold’s answers became more and more vague, and I sensed no emotion behind them. “She was supposed to come back Wednesday night,” he said, “but sometimes she stays to take ’em out on the town.”

  “She didn’t call to let you know when that happened?”

  “Uh, no. We aren’t like that. When she comes back, she’s back, you know?”

  Peering at the chair opposite me, I tried to imagine the guy sitting there. No picture came to mind. “When did you realize she wasn’t coming home?”

  “Um, I guess on Friday. That’s when I called the police down there a
nd told them.”

  “Who took the information?”

  “I don’t know, some guy that wasn’t very helpful.”

  “Was it a desk officer, or did they refer you to an investigator?”

  “I guess it was the desk. I only talked to one person.”

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “He said he’d look into it. He called the next day to say my wife never used her return ticket. She checked out of her hotel, got into a cab, and disappeared. We’re in debt, so they decided she left me. The cop said there wasn’t any more they could do.”

  “It’s hard to believe the Miami police would ignore something like this.”

  He made an impatient noise. “They didn’t ignore me. They just didn’t sound concerned.”

  Either worry was causing the guy to act weird, or this was some kind of scam. When I didn’t respond, the man’s tone turned irritated. “I’m worried, and I want you to go there and look for her. Tell me what you charge and I’ll send you the money right now.”

  “I’ll have to consult my partner. We might not be able to take on another case right now.”

  “But aren’t there two of you? One could go and the other could stay here.”

  Now he was managing the agency for us! “I’ll let you know by the end of today.”

  “You aren’t going to get many chances like this.” He tried once more. “I really need your help.” His jump from threat to pleading wasn’t convincing.

  When Barb came back I told her about the call, ending with, “I got the feeling he was making it up as he went. Not many details, and he kept calling her ‘my wife.’ No name.”

  “Somebody’s playing games with us.”

  “Who would do that? And why?”

  She blew a gust of air upward, her usual response to a hot flash. “Someone wants to make monkeys out of the ‘lady detectives’ maybe.” Her tone put quotation marks around the term.

  “But he offered to pay.”

  “Offered.” She mopped her forehead with a tissue. “The other possibility that occurs to me is someone wants to distract us.”

  “Yeah!” That hit home. “Split our resources and keep us from proving Neil’s innocent.”

  “Or guilty.” I hoped she was simply trying to remain neutral. Wanting Neil to be innocent, I wanted Barb to want it, too.

  I called Mr. Arnold back and told him we couldn’t take his case. When I recommended a firm he might contact in Miami, he said he was writing the name down, but I doubted it. He hung up quickly in what seemed to me more a snit than real distress.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Barb

  I have never minded eating alone. I don’t look around at couples dining together and wish my life were different. Used to the pitying looks a lone woman gets from the hostess, I ignore the just in the question, “Just one this evening?” Upon returning to Allport, I’d insisted my sister had no obligation to feed me, and she’d insisted it was no trouble at all. We eventually came to a compromise. I have dinner with her and Dale once a week and breakfast on Sundays. Who knows what Faye would do if she couldn’t cook for people.

  Caroline’s Cafe is a trendy little restaurant in the old section of Allport. The lighting is dim but not cave-like, and the waitresses are personally friendly, not professionally so. I have yet to hear one of them say, “My name is Allison and I’ll be your server.” They apparently understand that I don’t need to know their name to ask for more butter.

  It was Friday and the place was crowded. Something about the layout keeps it fairly quiet, however, so it doesn’t feel like one is eating in a mess hall. I was awaiting an example of Caroline’s excellent panini when I looked up and saw a man enter. I’d only seen him in car headlights before, but he was the man I’d met after my Correction Episode at the drugstore.

  His gaze swept the room as he waited for the hostess and stopped when it came to me. His eyes lit with recognition and what might have been humor, but he merely nodded. The uniform he wore identified him as our new chief of police, which explained why Mr. Midnight had been on the street so late. He’d been checking out night-time activities, possibly suspicious ones, in his territory. And what had he found? Me.

  To my distress, the hostess led him to the only remaining table, which was directly behind mine. As if aware of my discomfort, he sat down with his back to me. I decided ignoring him was best, though our chairs were practically touching. We’d have to meet someday, perhaps even work together, if the Smart Agency was to succeed. But not now, I told myself. A visit to his office and a formal introduction would be better.

  It was awkward, though. I heard everything the waitress said to him and everything he said back. He ordered the fish, and I wondered if he was fighting that thickening waist, at least until he selected fried rather than broiled. He looked good, though. I tried to remember what I’d read in the paper. Retired from the Chicago Police Department, Chief Something-unpronounceable had returned to northern Michigan, the land of his childhood. His coming was hailed as a new day in law enforcement, when Millden County would be dragged into the twenty-first century. I doubted one man could do it.

  “Have you got some sugar over there?” His voice, coming over my shoulder, startled me.

  “What?” Great, I berated myself. Now you appear to be deaf as well as creepy.

  “Sugar. She brought me coffee but nothing to put in it.”

  Careful to avoid body contact, I handed over the little ceramic box of sugar packets. “Thanks.” Now I was sure there was humor in his voice. “Crowded in here tonight.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would it start a rumor if we shared a table and let that couple sit down?” He indicated the doorway, where a nervous-looking young man and his date stood waiting for a place to sit.

  “Yes.”

  There was a challenge in his voice. “Can you handle it?”

  I had to smile. “Rumors have never bothered me.”

  “Good.” Picking up his place-setting and coffee cup, he moved opposite me, signaling to the hostess that his table was free. “Ruairidh Clellan Neuencamp. They call me Rory.”

  “I’m Barbara Evans, mostly known as Barb.”

  “Nice to meet you, Barb. Will sharing a table really cause a flap?”

  “You’re the new man in town. Everything you do will be evaluated over the next few months. And I’m a spinster. Anything I do with a member of the male sex will cause comment.”

  He passed on the spinster epithet. “I vote we resolve not to notice.” How easy it was for a man to say “to hell with gossip”! After decades of trying, I was still aware of the effort it took.

  “All right.” I put out a hand. “Rory, you said?”

  His palm was slightly rough as we shook hands. “One parent Ojibway, the other Irish through and through. Ruairidh is a proud old Celtic name, but Rory doesn’t require glottals.”

  Our meals arrived almost simultaneously, which kept us busy for a while. Wishing I’d ordered something less messy, I cut the panini into bits rather than biting off chunks and ending up with cheese dripping down my chin. Rory talked easily, telling me why he’d returned to the area and what he hoped the next ten years would be like.

  “Big city cops either get old or get out. I decided from the first to put in my thirty and then find a quieter place to finish.” He lowered his eyes. “Twenty was too much for my wife.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “I was too, for a while.” His tone was light, but a shade across his eyes let me know her desertion had hurt. “Anyway, last year I put in my papers and started looking for a place up here that needed an officer. I found Allport or they found me, I don’t know which.”

  Thirty years on the force put him at somewhere between fifty-two and fifty-five, I guessed. The job had age
d him, but not in a bad way. He looked like a man who’d seen it all and decided to grin it down, like Davy Crockett with a bear. “You’re willing to keep at it?”

  “Yeah. I’m hoping this town will be just what I need, stimulating but not overwhelming.”

  “That sounds like my home town,” I said. “Definitely not overwhelming.”

  “You’ve always lived here?”

  “No. I came back after almost thirty years in Washington state.”

  “Doing what?”

  Although I usually tell people I retired from the practice of law, somehow I didn’t mind giving Rory a more accurate picture. “Assistant D.A.”

  He set his cup in its saucer with a clink. “You’ve had adventures of your own, then.”

  “Like you said, you get out or you get old.”

  His eyes met mine. “You’re one of those people who’ll never look old. High cheekbones, beautiful skin, the gifts of good genes.” He grinned, adding, “And clean living, I’m sure.”

  How long had it been since a man told me I was attractive? I couldn’t remember. My face warmed, and I took a sip of water to keep from looking too grateful. “Of course.”

  Through the rest of the meal, I waited for the question he had to want to ask. What had I been doing alone on the streets at midnight with a lumpy backpack? He didn’t ask, and instead of relaxing in his easy company, I became more agitated. Rory was attractive, but there was a question between us. A truthful answer would bring surprise, maybe disdain. A lie would ruin any chance we had of being friends. I had to pretend there was no question, but it left an empty space between us we’d have to step around each time we met.

  Oh, god. We’d meet again, and each time I’d wonder what he was thinking about the night when I’d obviously been up to something. I’d wonder what he thought that had been.

  I wanted to get away from Rory Neuencamp, but I couldn’t simply leave in the middle of dinner. Then he’d really wonder what I was hiding. I imagined the question lingering in his mind, moving toward the front, receding as I asked about his experiences, then resurfacing: What was she doing, all in black and out at midnight? I felt like the man in the Poe story, waiting for the cop to notice the beating heart under the floor.