He was around the desk in an instant to envelop me in his arms but I stood rigid with frustration. I didn’t stop to think I was being unreasonable, that I, myself, had broken off our engagement before any of this came about and here I was accusing him of discarding me.
I pushed him away violently. “Leave me alone! I don’t need your sympathy.” I raised my chin and took a shaky breath, feeling no pity for him despite his dejected, helpless expression. “I want a canoe for tomorrow. Jenny Hampton and I are doing the lower reach.”
He hesitated, confused, then atypically chose to ignore the problem. He retrieved an appointment book from somewhere under the counter and flipped the pages, scribbling an entry.
“Okay,” he said, “you’re all set. I’ll have Mike arrange to have the cushions and paddles at the landing with the canoe, unless you want to take them with you now.”
“Mike?”
“He’s helping out around here. Probably still worried about his job. Anyway, we can use him since Jim left to go back to school last week.”
“Never mind. I’ll take the stuff with me now.”
He nodded. “Come on, then. I’ll load them in your trunk.”
Minutes later, I was back on the road. Despite my anger, I knew David was right. I needed to discuss the particulars of this “partnership”, as he put it, with Grant. The sooner we got it over with, the sooner the year would be up and I could put the whole sordid affair behind me.
Chapter Six
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Thomas Stearns Eliot, The Waste Land. Pt. 1, The Burial Of The Dead
I stopped on impulse at a small flower stall on my way through town, choosing a large bouquet of burgundy and orange chrysanthemums sprigged with daisies and baby’s breath to place on Leo’s grave and a second arrangement of delicate pink and white rosebuds to place on my mother’s.
I parked the car in its usual place in front of the garage. I was in no mood to talk to anyone, so I slipped around the side and followed the path across the rear garden flanked by its high hedgerow. It was a beautiful day. Except for the soft earth and thick, rain-soaked smell that steamed up from the ground, one wouldn’t have guessed a storm had raged most of the night.
Following the tangle of lilacs that crowded behind the swimming pool, I rounded a bend and was brought up short. Poised in the center of the gravel, Kong gazed at me with feline nonchalance. I smiled.
“Hey, Kong. Nice kitty.”
He responded with a low chirrup, rubbing himself against my ankles, his purr vibrating against my skin. I bent to caress his head and ears, surprised by his sudden amenity.
“Good boy,” I crooned. “What a good boy.”
He didn’t put up with my fondling for long but padded off to the side of the path with an inviting glance over his shoulder. I watched, bemused, as he disappeared into the dense bushes. I was about to go on when his plaintive yowl piqued my curiosity. I got down on my hands and knees to peer into the darkness after him.
The shrubbery was heavier than I’d imagined, at least three feet thick and snarled in twisting profusion close to the ground. I struggled to push aside the curling branches, cursing as my arms and face were scratched. Finally, by lying flat on my stomach, I was able to tunnel far enough in to distinguish Kong’s yellow eyes gazing fixedly back. He too, was crouched low against the ground. His ears were laid back and his mouth opened again and again in a grating cry.
“What is it, kitty?” I wheedled, reaching out a tentative hand. He backed away, swishing his tail and yowling louder. Puzzled, I noticed a long cylindrical shape lying on the ground where he’d been. It gave off a metallic glint. I reached out and pulled it to me. Glancing about, I realized Kong had disappeared, so I began my slow retreat, wriggling back out the way I’d come.
Once more on the path, I stood up, brushed at the dirt and wet leaves stuck to me, then bent and retrieved the implement I’d rescued. It was a fireplace poker. I turned it over in my hands curiously. How did it come to be out here in the bushes? By the look of it, it hadn’t been here long. The handle was still shiny and the other end…
I gasped and dropped it as though it were red-hot. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I backed away. The essence of my nightmares stared back at me and my mind whirled in confused spirals. There was blood on the poker. I was certain it was blood despite the faded brown color. Clinging to the blood was gray hair—my father’s hair.
How long I stood staring at the implement, I don’t remember but it was some time before I was able to calm myself enough to think rationally. I must take it to the police at once before anyone else saw it. I picked it up gingerly and, with a shiver of revulsion, hurried back along the path toward my car, ignoring the bright bouquets that now lay discarded on the path. The word I’d been avoiding flashed like neon in my mind—murder!
I was so set on getting the thing to the police that by the time I paused in my headlong flight to look up, it was too late. I pulled up as I rounded the corner of the garage. Grant was getting out of his car, raising a hand in greeting.
“Suzanna, how are you? Lottie said you were up with the birds, so I assume you’ve recovered from…” He didn’t finish the sentence. The pallor of my face and stricken expression must have spoken volumes.
“What is it?” he asked, concerned. He approached me slowly, one hand extended, as though I were a cornered wild animal.
I did feel trapped and drew back instinctively, my mind searching frantically for some means of logical escape. I clutched the poker behind my back, knowing I mustn’t allow him to see it. I was all too conscious the strong hand he held out toward me could easily have been the one that had gripped this very poker and brought it smashing down upon my father’s head.
I spun to flee but it was too late. With a bound, he was upon me, his hands like steel bands around my upper arms.
“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “What have you got there?”
I was near panic now. I struggled helplessly, even as he reached behind my back and jerked the poker from my grasp. I made a frantic grab for it, trying to keep him from inspecting it, yet fearing he already knew what I’d just discovered. His eyes narrowed as he looked at it. Was it recognition I saw flit briefly across his face? I stood before him like a despondent child, rubbing my wrist where he’d twisted it during the struggle. His face was hard as he looked at me.
“Where did you get this?”
When I didn’t answer immediately, he gave me a sharp shake. “Where did you get it?”
Just as a defenseless animal draws on its final resources and turns to face the attacker, I grew suddenly very calm and an icy numbness took control.
“Let go of me.” My voice held no compromise and probably from sheer surprise, he complied, dropping my arm but not retreating. His frame blocked any hope of escape. I was trembling but whether from fear or rage I couldn’t tell.
“I found it in the bushes,” I said with amazing composure. I knew there was no point lying. If he was the one who had used the poker to kill Leo, he’d know of its whereabouts. And if he wasn’t, what difference did it make?
He was studying it closely now. “In the bushes?” He seemed surprised.
As his eyes lit on the hooked, charred end, I wondered if indeed there was anything there, or if my too-vivid imagination had once again been playing tricks. His expression remained neutral and he lowered the rod to his side. I tensed inwardly, half-expecting him to raise it and bring it crashing down on my skull. But he seemed more quizzical than enraged and my heart slowed its beat. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed.
“Where were you going with this thing?”
My mind reeled. “I…I don’t know,” I hedged. “I guess I was just going to put it back.”
“Don’t lie to me, Suzanna.” He spoke calmly but it was obvious he was holding a tight rein on himself. I saw a muscle bulge in his jaw and his free hand was clench
ed at his side. “Where were you going? To the police?”
This is it! Now he knows I’ve seen the evidence and he’ll have to kill me too.
“Yes,” I retorted boldly. “I was going to the police.”
Unexpectedly, he smiled. “Good. At least you’ve got a bit of common sense! How long have you suspected?”
“What?” I was confused.
“Oh, come on, Suzie, don’t play games! How long have you suspected Leo was murdered?”
I hugged my arms around me and stared at him dumbfounded. “I…I guess since… I really don’t know.”
He nodded. “Don’t move.” He strode to his car, opening the rear door and depositing the poker carefully on the seat. He shut and locked the door and returned, taking me around the corner and into the shadows at the side of the garage. When we were well out of range of prying eyes, he faced me, both hands hard on my shoulders, his dark face only inches from my own.
“Now, listen to me, Suzie…um…Suzanna. It’s important you tell no one about this. Do you understand?” His voice was low and urgent. At my look of mixed fear and obstinacy, he sighed. “I know what you’re thinking but it’s not true. You can trust me. I can’t tell you everything, only that we’ve suspected foul play all along and there’s a very large investigation going on.”
I continued to stare at him, disbelieving.
“For your own safety, Suzanna, you have to stay out of it. Do you understand?”
The intensity of his voice frightened me. If he was telling the truth, I would go along with him and even if he wasn’t, I couldn’t risk angering him. If he thought I trusted him, he might leave me alone until I could expose him. I nodded and he looked relieved.
“What about…that?” I asked, inclining my head in the direction of the car.
“I’ll take care of it.”
I clamped my lips together to stifle a retort.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get it to the proper authorities. We’ve been looking for something concrete and it looks as though you’ve given us just what we need.” He smiled. “You’ve saved us a lot of work.”
“May I ask who ‘we’ refers to, Grant?” He couldn’t know I’d been to see the police and they’d told me they weren’t conducting any investigation.
He looked across the unused paddock, with its jumble of weeds and grasses only partially mown, to the stables where Rudy Coleman was undoubtedly tinkering with the tractor that broke down before completing the job. When he turned back to me, I knew he was going to tell me a lie but I kept my face under rigid control as perspiration soaked my armpits and palms.
“The police, of course,” he said. “I’m working with the police.”
* * * * *
The Pere Marquette River was named after Father Jacques Marquette, the French missionary and explorer who founded missions at Sault Sainte Marie and Saint Ignace. The river lies like a flattened spring between Ludington and Baldwin, flowing in loops, twists and back flips that fill miles of square acres. It isn’t a wild river like the Pine, located a little further north but not as placid as the Manistee, also north, so is a favorite among amateur canoeists who want an exciting but less treacherous challenge. During the summer holidays, the Pere Marquette swarms with people. Now, with the peak season finished, there were only a few remaining tourists, so Jenny and I could enjoy our outing without the clamor of crowds.
It’s exhilarating to spend a day navigating the labyrinth of low-hanging boughs, shallow shoals, felled logs and rocky protrusions reaching out from the steep banks. At times, it’s all you can do to cling to the sides of the craft as it bumps over rushing rapids or twirls helplessly in deep, slow eddies. I was looking forward to the afternoon, if only to ease my mind of the overwhelming sense of dread that haunted me.
Thankfully, I hadn’t seen Grant since our meeting in the driveway. I needed time to think and put things in perspective. Maybe I was jumping to conclusions too quickly. It was easy to read answers into unrelated expressions or gestures and I couldn’t afford to jeopardize my credibility any further. It was imperative that I gather evidence methodically. There was no point in running off to the police again, spouting theories of murder and bloodstained weapons.
Grant would probably only deny the whole affair and with the entire community already thinking me unstable, who’d believe me? I’d bide my time and watch until Grant made the inevitable mistake that would substantiate my suspicions.
But there again, the argument returned. Who was to say for certain that Grant killed Leo? He certainly had a lot to gain—a vast inheritance of wealth as well as power. He’d shown himself since childhood to be unscrupulous and was no slouch when it came to putting on a believable charade. I half-suspected Grant may have even convinced Leo to rewrite his will so he’d have free rein over the estate and business. But the only way he could do it, I thought ruefully, was by manipulating me once we were married. He obviously considered me very pliable!
Still, there was something intrinsically trusting in me that continued to jump to Grant’s defense. I simply couldn’t imagine the man who dragged me from the pool, worked frantically to revive me, then watched over me with concern could be the same man who had brutally struck Leo and left him, dying, in that same pool.
Perhaps it was a burglar? Had anyone checked to see if there was anything missing from the house? I remembered the figure standing in the road and the other by the trees near Leo’s grave. Perhaps this person killed Leo and returned to search for the murder weapon, afraid he might be traced by his fingerprints on the handle? I shook my head. It was no use. Anyone could have committed the crime. For now, I would put the puzzle aside and try to relax. I suspected my stamina would be sorely tested over the next few weeks.
Jenny was waiting for me at the appointed time of nine o’clock. She’d left her car at the completion point and begged a ride back with one of the rival canoe-rental trucks making its early morning deliveries and pickups. These trucks held up to twenty canoes on their racks and the boats, despite their unwieldiness, were lifted and stacked expertly by finely muscled young men whose job it was to match client with canoe at the start and finish of each leg of the journey.
Having grown up in the area, we both knew many of the men working the river. Despite the fact Colin and David were in competition with many of them, they were all friendly enough and happy to help out where needed. For most, this was a summer job, meant to supplement them until school recommenced in the autumn.
“Hi,” Jenny called cheerily. She was dressed in a flattering pink swimsuit cut high at the thighs and topped by a T-shirt that said “New York” over a picture of the Statue of Liberty. Her feet were encased in beat-up old tennis shoes, toes peeping out through twin holes. Despite being unfashionable, they were necessary for walking safely along the rock-strewn river bottom. On the ground beside her lay a waterproof bag containing jacket, towel, sunblock, insect repellent—all the things that might be needed during the six-hour journey.
I returned her greeting and lifted the lid of the trunk to retrieve my own supplies and the necessary cushions and paddles.
“Lottie’s packed us a feast, I think,” I said as she helped haul out the cooler. We struggled to carry it down to the waiting canoe, loading it in and securing it to the center strut with a bungee cord so the lid wouldn’t come off should the canoe overturn. Next, the bags and equipment were fastened on board and Jenny climbed in. I pushed off, catching my breath as the icy water rushed around my ankles.
The current was swift and caught us as though we were flotsam. Having mastered the art of teamwork in earlier years, we straightened the craft expertly. I was at the stern using my paddle as a rudder to steer around small obstacles, while Jenny was in front, poised to help turn the bow should any major barrier arise.
It was another beautiful day. The air was moist with the scents of moldering leaves, moss and river mud. The sun glittered down through a spackling of overhanging foliage and lay in twitching fingers across the gentle
brown of the water. The breeze was deceptively warm. The rush and gurgle of the river lent a peaceful, soothing tempo to the rustle of leaves overhead, the creak and groan of swaying branches and the incessant chirp of crickets.
Now and then, a frog let out a throaty croak while sparrows and wrens chittered from thickets and a jay squawked his displeasure over having his territory invaded. The only sound that seemed out of place was the sharp echoing clank of wood on metal when a paddle accidentally clipped the side of the canoe or a tree limb slapped the bow.
There wasn’t much time for idling. The river gripped and carried us rapidly, unconcerned that the fallen trees, shallow stones or sharp bends might impede our rigid nine-foot craft. We were kept busy weaving in and out of the endless bombardment of obstructions. We kept our conversation, of necessity, to a minimum. Before long, however, the river widened to form a deep, indolent pool and we pulled over onto a sandy bank. It was ten o’clock and time for a rest and a snack.
“I can’t believe you brought all this food,” Jenny exclaimed, examining the contents of the cooler. There were ham sandwiches, chocolate cupcakes, sliced avocado, a medley of salad vegetables and fruit. “Who did you tell Lottie you were going with? Bigfoot?”
I laughed. “What did I tell you? And the worst part is that she’ll be hurt if it’s not all gone when we get back.”
She groaned. “Well, we can always feed the fish.”
We each selected a piece of fruit and a can of soda and sat down on the warm sand to eat and gaze languidly at the movement of the river.
“Any new leads in your mystery?”
I didn’t answer immediately. Finding the bloodstained poker had changed that simple mystery into something imminently more threatening. There was a real danger now and I didn’t want Jenny involved.
“Nothing really,” I hedged.
She studied her feet. She’d removed her shoes and was wiggling her toes, distorted by the shallow ripples lapping over them. The water was always frigid in these swift-flowing estuaries but it felt good in contrast to the sun’s intense rays.
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