Murder Grins and Bears It

by Deb Baker

  “I’m leaving my dog out in the car. If he howls will you check on him?”

  “Sure,” Ruthie said behind me, sounding puzzled.

  By the time the driver returned to the truck and started off, I was lying in the back of the van where he wouldn’t find me unless he threw open the back and dug around.

  I couldn’t believe I had the bravery, or stupidity, to pull off this stunt, but here I was, wedged between stacks of crates.

  There wasn’t a bird or an egg or a feather anywhere in the moving van. Granted, it was dark inside and I couldn’t see very well, but I also couldn’t smell anything, hear anything, or sense anything moving. Therefore, no birds.

  I was disappointed.

  The only explanation I could come up with was that they had two trucks that looked alike and they used the other one to transport the birds. I’d bummed a ride on the wrong van.

  By the time I realized my mistake, we were gathering speed and leaving Stonely far behind us. But my eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and I peered at my surroundings.

  All around me were piles of boxes. Long, wooden, coffin-like boxes stacked one on top of the other.

  The van’s shocks needed replacing. I felt every bump in the road. Whatever was inside the boxes rattled continuously. If I didn’t go right to jail for this caper, I’d complain to the highway department about the condition of its roads.

  I could see part of the back of the driver’s head up front as he ate his sandwich and sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

  I really should find a way to inspect the boxes. A private investigator doesn’t overlook any opportunity to check things out, even if they don’t seem to pertain to the business at hand. But how was I going to open the boxes without the driver noticing? Better yet, how was I going to get back to the Deer Horn Restaurant to pick up Fred and Kitty’s car?

  What if our destination was Chicago or Detroit? I didn’t have time for an extended vacation until after Little Donny was cleared of all charges and the real murderer was put away.

  Easing the stun gun out of my purse, I crept along the top of the boxes until I was right behind the driver but still protected from view by a partition. I waited for my chance.

  Ideally, I didn’t want to zap him while he was barreling along at sixty-five miles an hour. No way could I wrestle for control of the wheel at a high speed. I really didn’t have a death wish in spite of some of the situations I get myself into.

  Although I knew this area of the country like the back of my liver-spotted hand, I’d said the same thing about the woods, and ended up walking in circles. This time I was sure of where we were. I’d traveled this stretch of road thousands of times on my way into Escanaba.

  The van driver would soon come to a stop sign and make a right turn. That could be my last chance to take over until we arrived in the city, where we’d run into traffic and pedestrians and cops in squad cars. A little voice inside advised me against waiting too long.

  I saw my opening looming ahead. Time slowed to a crawl as the moving van approached the stop sign. It took the driver forever to slow and finally stop.

  His right turning signal clicked on.

  Head check both ways just like in the instruction booklet.

  In one fast motion, I turned on the stun gun and touched it to the back of his neck.

  His body began to twitch and his hands flew from the steering wheel. His foot must have left the brake because the van started moving forward, edging through the stop.

  I jumped through the opening into the front seat on top of him and grabbed the wheel, steering toward the side of the road while my foot floundered for the brake.

  It was some task with his body in the way.

  He reached out for my arm and I zapped him again as my foot found the brake and the van jerked to a halt a few yards off the road. I threw the gearshift into park.

  Now what?

  I couldn’t drive with him hogging the driver’s seat and me practically in the passenger seat. And he was far too heavy to move. I zapped him again for good measure and did the only thing I could do.

  I reached across his limp body, opened the driver’s door, and pushed him out. He rolled out face first and fell like a sack of Michigan potatoes.

  There wasn’t a car in sight when I pulled away and made a U-turn back toward Stonely. I looked in the side mirror and saw him stagger to his feet.

  After a while when I had some distance between us, I turned onto a side road and parked on a soft shoulder along a line of tamaracks.

  The boxes in the van were loosely sealed with a few nails. One of the wooden tops came away easily to expose a sheet of packing paper.

  I grew nervous and stopped for a moment to consider the consequences of what I was about to do. There was no turning back now that I’d thrown the driver out and stolen his van.

  If what was under the paper were blankets for the homeless shelter or teddy bears for a children’s hospital, I’d have to start running for cover and stay there for the rest of my life. Blaze would jail me for sure.

  I leaned back on my heels and took a big breath. Slowly I peeled away the layer of paper and peered inside.

  Living in the U.P. makes you an expert on subjects that city folks don’t even think about. For example, we know which tree leaves make the best toilet paper. We can tell the difference between a chipmunk and a squirrel, and we know that deer ticks are smaller than regular wood ticks. We also know our weapons. We know the difference between a gun and a rifle.

  So I knew what I was looking at even though I’d only seen pictures.

  Right before my eyes, shining in a brand-spanking-new sort of way, were cases and cases of Uzi-like machine guns.

  Not toy guns like little tykes play shoot-‘em-up with.

  These were the real McCoy.

  My best guess was that they were not registered and certainly illegal.

  I thought about dumping the van in the woods and running for the hills, just as I knew I’d have to if the boxes had contained toys. If my grandson hadn’t been in the middle of this mess, I might have done exactly that.

  About now, I’d settle for a truck full of birds. Better yet, a nice game of four-cornered bingo with the seniors at the community center. Blaze’s rage when he found out about the hijacked van seemed like a piece of rhubarb pie compared to what the owner of this shipment would feel when he found out his van was missing, along with all his machine guns. Ted Latvala and his band of thugs would be on my trail like a disturbed hive of angry bees on a dog’s back.

  No wonder the warden had been killed. He’d discovered the machine guns. And Little Donny had to be eliminated, too. He knew who did it.

  Fingers of fear gripped my chest and squeezed until I reminded myself that Little Donny needed me to be strong. It was my most obvious and glaring characteristic, one some people have criticized me for. Tough as wood screws. Strong as plastic wrap. Or as Blaze likes to say, as unrelenting as mosquitoes at a picnic.

  Calm down, I said to myself, encouragingly. This isn’t so bad.

  With any luck, the driver wouldn’t remember what hit him or who threw him out of his truck. I tried to recall if I’d seen recognition in his eyes while we were going through the whole zapping thing, but I’d been busy steering and figuring out how to take his truck away.

  Okay, here’s my new revised plan, simple and guaranteed to work.

  I’d drive back to the restaurant and pick up Fred. Then I’d turn the van over to Blaze and explain everything. Even if he didn’t believe me he’d have to acknowledge a truck full of guns. Ted Latvala wouldn’t have time for retribution. He wouldn’t know what was coming his way until it was too late.

  I was in the driver’s seat again in more ways than one.

  If this all worked out, along with giving up sugar doughnuts, I promised I’d also change my ways.

  I’d take the driving test and start observing the law like everybody else.

  I’d figure out a way to get along wit
h Blaze and I’d spend more time in the kitchen working on recipes for my future cookbook.

  If this all worked out, I’d stay out of trouble.

  I promised.

  chapter 20

  Fred was helping Ruthie in the kitchen when I rushed in. He was checking the floor for cleanliness and lapping up any stray tidbits before they went to waste in Ruthie’s dustpan.

  “I thought he’d rather stay in here,” she said. “He didn’t like the car.”

  “The health inspector will close you down if he sees Fred in your kitchen,” I warned.

  “No one’s around right now. Mondays are always slow. Besides, the howling going on outside would have drawn the fire department if all the volunteers weren’t at the funeral. Fred sounds just like the siren they use to call in help when a fire breaks out.”

  I shook my head. “Anyone who has a house fire during hunting season or during a wedding or funeral is out of luck,” I said. “Can I use your phone?”

  “Help yourself.”

  While I dialed Blaze’s office, Fred stuck his head in the garbage to make sure Ruthie wasn’t frivolously throwing away perfectly good food. He came up with several questionable items and gave them the taste test.

  “Thanks for watching him. I owe you one,” I said, when no one answered. I hustled Fred out to the van. He hopped into the passenger seat, his red eyes staring straight ahead in anticipation of our next journey. He thought this was all great fun.

  Car rides, free food, new tires to explore. What could be better?

  I started the motor but before I could pull out of the parking lot, a cell phone on the dashboard rang. Because I’m not one of those people who can drive and talk on a phone at the same time, I braked, picked it up, and read the incoming number illuminated on a tiny screen.

  I didn’t recognize the number.

  It rang eight times. Then it stopped. I stared at it. Then it began to ring again.

  If the driver didn’t answer, would Latvala know something was wrong? Did they have a prearranged signal to warn them of trouble?

  I studied the phone’s keypad and wondered which button would turn the phone on. Heather and Star had cell phones but I never felt I needed one, so my knowledge was limited.

  On the sixth ring, I figured it out and answered in the gruffest, lowest voice I could manage. “Yah,” I said, briskly, holding the miniature phone to my ear.

  “You’ve made a deadly mistake,” a man said on the other end, slowly accentuating each syllable so I couldn’t possibly misunderstand him.

  I didn’t know what to say, just continued to hold the phone to my ear. That turned out okay because he didn’t care about a titillating two-way conversation.

  “One word of this to anyone,” he said. “And you can start planning a funeral for a loved one,” he said.

  Continuing my best male imitation I said, “Are you threatening me?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m suggesting a trade. The van and all its contents for a life.”

  Trade? Who was he talking about? Cora Mae and Kitty were at the funeral. Little Donny and Blaze were killing time at the jail. If he had Grandma Johnson he would have let her go the minute she opened her mouth and started crabbing. Or he would have shot her on the spot.

  He was bluffing.

  “You’re bluffing,” I said.

  “This is between me and you and no one else. Here’s what you’re going to do…”

  I frowned in frustration because this wasn’t working out exactly as planned. I had to maintain control. Who did he think he was, anyway? I had the power seat and I wasn’t giving it up to some two-bit weapons dealer.

  “You’re all done dancing,” I said, interrupting him, taking my stance. “You better turn yourself in. I’m taking the truck to the sheriff as we speak.”

  He laughed. “That’s a good idea. I’ll call you back.” And he hung up.

  Not only did I have the truck filled with machine guns as proof of an illegal gun ring, but I also knew the identity of the caller.

  I dug in my weapons purse and pulled out my micro-recorder. After rewinding it, I punched the play button and listened to the tape I’d made the day I went to Marquette.

  He’d tried to disguise his voice by speaking slowly, but I’d picked up on it in spite of his efforts.

  The stutter.

  I only had to listen to the tape for a few seconds to be sure.

  The two voices, the one on my player and the one on the cell phone, were identical.

  No question about it.

  The caller was Warden Burnett.

  I swung out of the parking lot and headed for the local jail, where I hoped to find Blaze.

  Maybe Burnett and Latvala started out trafficking in illegal raptors. Then they moved to something more lucrative. Machine guns. An honest warden had stumbled on the scheme. Burnett tried to dissuade him in what he thought was a reasonable way. We’ll count you in, he’d probably said. But Warden Hendricks took his job seriously. When Burnett realized that his efforts were wasted on Hendricks, he decided to kill him.

  The idea came to him as they argued over Carl’s doughnut heap.

  Burnett saw Little Donny’s rifle leaning against the tree and no one else at the bait pile.

  A perfect opportunity. He didn’t even have to use the gun in his holster.

  What luck.

  Except Little Donny popped out of his slumber chamber after the thunderous explosion, dodged a round of bullets, and escaped into the backwoods with the image of the killer seared in his memory.

  Or so Burnett would have thought.

  Burnett had been wearing coveralls over his uniform. He chased after Little Donny just like my grandson described, taking Carl’s bow and arrows along. But Little Donny had vanished.

  When the Detroit boys encountered him before the shooting, he was dressed in his brown uniform, so he must have changed into the coveralls after he passed their bail pile. His mind really wasn’t on arresting the Smith brothers. He had another more important mission.

  Afterwards, in his rush, he left the ATV on the side of the road rather than take the time to load it on his truck bed. He probably planned to pick it up later. He would have driven north, the direction he had seen Little Donny running.

  And he would have tried to head him off.

  Maybe he waited in the deep woods for a long time before Billy Lundberg stumbled along wearing Little Donny’s ball cap.

  Burnett, relieved that the only witness had been eliminated, didn’t find out until later that he’d murdered the wrong man.

  Either he forgot the ATV or he thought it was risky to go back for it.

  The only unexplained question involved the dead warden, Hendricks. How did he get to the bait pile if he wasn’t with Burnett, and if his car was found in Marquette?

  Everything else fit together perfectly.

  And I had Burnett cold. I could wrap this case up in the next twenty minutes.

  I took my foot off the brake and headed out.

  ****

  At first I thought he was dead.

  But when I rolled him over onto his back, he groaned.

  His pulse was steady and strong but he had a lump on the back of his head the size of an ostrich egg.

  I picked up the phone on the desk and called home. Heather answered.

  “Blaze is hurt,” I said. “Call an ambulance and come over to the jail. Bring Star for support if she’s home.”

  “What’s happened?” she asked.

  “I don’t have time to explain. Go in my closet. There’s a shoebox on the floor. Inside you’ll find Grandma’s .38 revolver. There’s a box of ammunition in my night stand.” I pulled Blaze’s firearm from his holster. “I don’t think he’ll feel like chasing bad guys, but if he comes around and insists, he’ll need a weapon.”

  Blaze’s handgun felt heavy in my fist. It was a Glock. I always wanted one of these. Now I had one.

  I looked at the empty jail cell where Little Donny had sle
pt the night before.

  Fred howled from the van.

  Anyone else coming on this scene would jump to the wrong conclusion. They would think Little Donny had escaped after attacking his own uncle.

  I grabbed the bedsheet from the cell cot and ran for the van.

  “Now do you believe me?” Burnett said when he called back.

  I was already on my way to Latvala’s but I didn’t want him to know that. If I was wrong about their location…well…I couldn’t even imagine it.

  “Where is he?” I demanded, abandoning the husky voice.

  “Safe,” he said. “For now.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Weren’t you listening? I want the van.”

  If he got the van, no way was he going to let Little Donny go free. Or me, for that matter. Little Donny might already be dead.

  “I want to speak with him,” I said in a tone of voice that I hoped commanded attention.

  He hesitated and my heart skipped a beat.

  I heard murmuring in the background, then Little Donny came on the line. I jammed a knuckle in my mouth to keep from crying.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “All he wants is the van and then he’ll let me go.”

  He. He would have said they if more than one person was guarding him at the moment. Little Donny was alone with the warden.

  “Where are you?”

  But he was gone from the phone.

  “You have twenty minutes to meet me,” Burnett said. “And come alone. If I see anyone else, he dies.”

  “Where?”

  He gave me directions to an isolated stretch of gravel road between Stonely and Marquette. I had to have more time.

  “I need an hour.”

  “No way.”

  “I need to stop for gas and-”

  “Thirty minutes.” He hung up.

  I had a slight advantage because I knew who he was. He wouldn’t count on that.

  What was Burnett doing to Little Donny right now? If I was a black-hearted killer what would my next move be?

  I’d finish off Little Donny now that his grandmother knew he was alive, and I’d ambush the van in a desolate area where no one would stumble along and witness my next move — which would be to kill its driver.