La Donna Detroit

by Jon A. Jackson

  Mulheisen stared out through rain-blurred windows, pondering. It all seemed so speculative. Why bother with the boat at all? It just led the investigators on, provided them with another track. Very likely, it was a false trail. DiEbola was an intelligent man, a truly devious man. He had almost miraculously avoided arrest for decades. He probably could have simply packed his bags and taken a plane to anywhere in the world. Such a course would inevitably have been discovered, and pursuit would continue. Mulheisen, for instance, had been prepared to make an arrest on the basis of evidence he had discovered in the Hoffa investigation. Possibly, the FBI and other agencies were similarly poised to act.

  DiEbola must have known that his long performance was about to end. He’d seen his fellow mobsters falling left and right, lately, to FBI investigations. Mulheisen couldn’t help feeling that DiEbola had known that he, Mulheisen, was very close. No flight was likely to take him beyond the reach of the investigators, Mulheisen included.

  It made sense to stage the death scene, if that is what had happened. Mulheisen now believed it. If that performance played as planned it could well have convinced everyone that DiEbola was dead. He couldn’t help thinking about the farce that Cadillac had staged for Le Pesant. End of case. And here it had almost succeeded. But why the boat? Could this be one of those unconscious blunders that even the brilliant criminal makes? But where did it lead?

  It led to Canada. That was a very large place, the second-largest nation in the world, geographically speaking. Not many people, however. It wasn’t hopeless. He did have another, nebulous, lead to Canada.

  What the heck, he thought. He called Peterborough and got through to the school system. Ivy White had graduated from school there. Her records had been sent on to McGill. The university in Montreal, in turn, said that Ivy White had graduated in 1958, in a premed program. Her records had been forwarded to the University of Michigan, in Ann Arbor. She had graduated from there with a medical degree in four years. She had interned at Henry Ford Hospital, in Detroit.

  She had spent the early 1960s as a staff surgeon at Henry Ford. Having just looked at DiEbola’s medical records, Mulheisen did not recall any instance of him ever being hospitalized, though it may have simply escaped his notice. But it was quite possible that someone DiEbola knew had been a patient there, very likely, in fact. He could have bumped into Ivy White there while visiting someone. Mulheisen was encouraged.

  The physician’s placement service gave him a link to Ontario, to an indigenous peoples community in the far north, up beyond Sioux Lookout. He groaned. This was getting pretty far afield. As long as Ivy White was in Detroit, he had nourished hopes for this line of investigation. But, what the heck, it had taken him only an hour or two to find out this much: there was a telephone up there, wasn’t there?

  There was. And for the first time he talked to someone who had actually known Ivy White. Dr. Ivy White, the beloved doctor who had delivered a couple of generations of babies, taken out appendixes, and “cured more ills than a whole tribe of stinkin’ med’cine men,” according to a garrulous gentleman named Ronnie Heavy Man, who’d answered the phone. This amiable fellow who said scathing things in a laughing voice was willing to inform any and all that “Indi’n med’cines no damn good. ’N’ this new quack, Weatherby, or whatever he calls hisself, why he don’t know pus from snot. If you could only send Doc White back, why …”

  Mulheisen finally got from him the immensely gratifying news that Doc White had relocated, “down below.” She had returned to southern Ontario to care for her aged mother, who was dying of cancer. It was hoped that once the old lady kicked off, Doc White would come back to Little Loon River Camp, and “The sooner the better—not to wish the old bag an early death, but.”

  The place Ivy White had gone to was an island in Lake Huron, off the Bruce Peninsula. Mulheisen looked it up on his map. He estimated it was a good day’s drive from Detroit. Up to Port Huron, over toward Owen Sound and hang a left. Drive clear out to Tobermory and get a boat out to Shitepoke Island.

  He looked in his agency manual. There was an office of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police on the peninsula. A Sergeant McPherson answered. He was happy to hear from Sergeant Mulheisen of the Detroit Police. Yes, indeed, he knew Dr. White. A very nice lady, eh? She lived on “Shypoke” Island. Her mother had died several weeks back. Well, by golly, it was Boxing Day, or thereabouts, now he thought of it. More like half a year, eh? Time flies.

  Mulheisen mentally supplied the “Eh?”

  What could Sergeant McPherson say about Dr. White? She was about fifty years old, but if Sergeant Mulheisen thought it was more like sixty, he supposed it was possible. Damned fine-looking woman for sixty, he’d say. She had spent many years among the people, up in the blackfly country. Helluva woman. He heard she was going back. He hoped not. She did some work locally and it was a damned good thing for the islanders to have a doctor.

  There were probably a couple hundred people out there. Most of ’em old-timers. You know how it is, eh? Kids go off to “Taronna, Monreyall.” But now there was an influx of yuppie-types, from “Taronna,” even New York. They come in the summer, first, eh? Then they find they can manage their stocks and whatnot on-line, so why live in the city? But it creates problems, eh? The yuppies have money, fancy goods, and they want special things like good coffee, good bread, better groceries, eh? It creates a theft situation, some resentment, tax problems. Gotta build a better dock, better roads for their Jeep Cherokees, more ferry service, whatnot. And they want environmental regulations tightened, more enforcement. No off-season shooting of ducks and geese and whatnot. Eh?

  Mulheisen considered calling Ivy White, but then, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. A personal interview would be much better. He went home to pack. Becky was not in a good mood. Nothing serious, just a little grouchy. She asked where he was off to, but he didn’t have time to fill her in. He was eager to get going. When would he be back? He didn’t know. She seemed annoyed by his incommunicativeness.

  He left feeling a little uneasy about her, about the arrangement. But he couldn’t think about it. It was still raining. And when he crossed the Peace Bridge, at Port Huron, into Ontario, the rain seemed to get harder. He got as far as Kincardine, on the Lake Huron shore. It was wonderful country, what he could see of it—a dark, wet, north country. He’d always liked that.

  It was still raining in the morning. He’d slept in a decent motor inn at the harbor. He enjoyed the sense of being in a foreign country that was, after all, not very foreign. Just different enough to make him aware that he wasn’t in Michigan. The country was much like the Michigan lake country, but more sparsely populated, it seemed. Small houses, different signs for things, but still some familiar American-style signs for food and gas. The people seemed vaguely British, what he saw of them while buying gas or eating in the restaurant. It was not quite as modern, somehow, as America, not so corporate-captive. He liked that.

  The peninsula became more wooded the farther north he drove. It was a tourist destination, but it was early in the season and there was little traffic. Also, the rain had obviously depressed the trade. He saw a few disconsolate families, cars filled with outdoor gear and children staring mournfully out of streaky windows. Others seemed underdressed, in shorts, with wet jackets, waiting under storefront canopies. But the locals didn’t seem upset by what now appeared to Mulheisen like quite a lot of incessant rain. They were in sweaters and rain gear, rubber Wellington boots, talking in normal, more or less cheerful voices.

  He had arranged to meet Sergeant McPherson in a roadside cafe, along Highway 6. It was steamy inside. McPherson was chatting to the locals. He was a pleasant man with sandy hair and a mustache. He wore rain gear like the rest of them.

  “Dr. White’s still up there, all right,” he told Mulheisen. “I didn’t contact her, as you requested. No word of anyone unusual on the island. You’ll want to stay at the inn, it’s an old hotel. They have vacancies, though, I checked. They’re used to a ce
rtain amount of tourist traffic, mostly bird-watchers and the like, eh? There’s a ferry service from Tobermory, goes twice a day, six and six, on the hour. It’s about ten miles offshore, so it takes, oh, a half hour or more, depending on the weather and the sea. They’ll carry your car, but the island’s only three miles long, so you wouldn’t need it. Dr. White’s place is only a short walk from the harbor. You got any boots, or a hat?”

  Mulheisen’s hat was a soft, cotton one. It was soaked just running from the car to the cafe, five steps. McPherson said he could get some gear at a store in Tobermory. He advised him to buy rain pants as well.

  “There’s a ferry to Manitoulin Island,” McPherson said, “don’t take that one. Take the little ferry.”

  “Bird-watchers, eh?” Mulheisen said. “My mother has probably been here. What do they have?”

  “Shitepokes, I guess,” McPherson said. “That’s a kind of heron, a green one. Or is it a cormorant? And gulls, of course. Oh, and orchids. There are supposed to be a lot of orchids. About forty different kinds, eh?”

  Mulheisen found the ferry. He had plenty of time to buy a waterproof rain hat, a very nice green jacket that shed water like a mallard, the much-recommended rain pants, and some green rubber boots. It was pretty pricey, considering that he’d probably never wear this gear again. Fancy, breathable, high-tech fabric. He decided not to take the car. The boat ride was brisk, the lake being more than a little choppy, despite what the laughing, fresh-faced ferry girls claimed. He found it necessary to hang on to something when he ventured from his seat in the little cabin where they served coffee.

  The boat could carry several vehicles, Mulheisen saw. He talked to the captain, a big fellow with a once-handsome face, now ruined by hard living. He was no doubt competent and friendly enough, but conversation had that tentative feel. He was looking forward to the tavern at “Shypoke,” but determined to be the sober captain until he was safely at the dock. Mulheisen didn’t want to reveal his purpose, but he wanted to know if anyone who looked like DiEbola had come across in the past couple of weeks. No one of that description. They talked boats a bit, engines, especially Gray-Marines, which led to Detroit, where they were made. A little chat about the recent Stanley Cup playoffs and the Red Wings’ shocking failure.

  No, Captain Grosvenor hadn’t seen a fellow of about sixty, dark hair. He would have seen him, all right, if he’d gone out to “Shypoke,” because this was the only way to get there. He’d seen one car with Michigan plates last week, but it was a pickup truck, a carpenter who was doing some work for one of the new people. He’d finished putting in some cabinets and had left already.

  It was only a hundred yards or so up the sand-gritted concrete road from the dock to the Shypoke Inn. It was pouring rain, still, and fairly dark. Mulheisen lugged his bag, appreciating the waterproof gear. The inn was a white clapboard affair, vaguely summery looking, despite the rain. Lots of flowering pots dangled from the ceiling of the covered porch that ran the length of the front. It appeared to have, perhaps, a dozen rooms. Only half were occupied.

  The proprietress was an affable middle-aged woman who wore a sweater against the chill and jeans tucked into rubber boots, like everyone else. She said her name was Jean. She had the fresh, hearty face of nearly everyone he’d seen. McPherson had warned him that islanders were a little odd—“They refer to the rest of the world as off-islanders, eh?”—but Jean seemed like any innkeeper. Busy, but friendly. She wasn’t interested in his business at all. Probably she thought he had no business, had just come out here to soak up the, well, the fresh rain. Evidently, the whole off-island world coveted the delights of “Shypoke” Island.

  “Dinner will be up in about twenty minutes,” she told him, “but we serve till nine. It’s very good. My sister, Janice, is the cook. Tonight we have her planked whitefish. You’ll like it.” This was said with genial authority.

  Four of the other guests were huddled in the parlor, around the fireplace, nursing hot drinks that surely contained alcohol. Mulheisen’s room was upstairs, overlooking the harbor. A large white gull was sitting on the porch roof, just outside his window. It didn’t mind the rain. The room had a full-sized bed that sat up high on a brass frame. It seemed a little soft, but comfortable enough. It featured a patchwork quilt and plenty of extra blankets. There was that familiar musty odor of the seashore. A shelf with a good stock of mystery novels. A good reading lamp. A small bath with a tub on legs and a curtain that could be pulled so that the shower, which rose up in a neat plumbing arrangement from the faucet, didn’t spray all over everything.

  Mulheisen had time for a cigar, if he could manage it in the rain. He took his .38 Airweight with him, if only because the door had only an unsecure-seeming skeleton-key lock. He’d bought his rain hat with an eye toward its broad brim shielding a cigar from the rain. He was gratified that it worked. He smoked a LaDonna as he trudged up the street. There was sand on all surfaces, a slightly disagreeable sensation underfoot. But shortly he came to the end of the finished surfaces anyway and walked on sandy paths through very wet and dense underbrush that by itself would have soaked him to his hips, even if it wasn’t pouring buckets, except that he was completely sheathed in rain gear. He was grateful for the breathable fabric, and the pants were indispensable.

  He found Dr. White’s house without difficulty, after about ten minutes of hiking. McPherson had said it was easy to walk to, and it was. It stood off the sandy road, on a bluff facing out toward the lake, perhaps fifty feet above the shore. It was just a cottage, like all the others he’d seen. Apparently, from conversation he’d overheard, the new people had built some modern extravagances, but he hadn’t seen them. This was white clapboard, with a broad overhanging roof that was shingled with mossy cedar shakes. Windows with little panes. Cottagey. Overgrown, of course, with lilacs, roses, and other shrubs that thrived in great profusion here. Doubtless, the famous orchids hid in the damp understory.

  The sign was not a faded wooden one, such as he’d seen on others—declaring ROSE HAVEN and DEW REST. But there was an arrow, pointing to a side entry, that said SURGERY. There were lights shining through the curtains, but he could not see any sign of life. Smoke rose from the chimney and was baffled about by the shore breeze. Fog was moving in. He puffed his cigar and returned to the excellent planked whitefish, served with a buttery wine sauce. The same four people he’d seen earlier cheered up with dinner and tried to converse, saying they were from “Taronna,” but he wasn’t having any of that. He went to bed and slept. It rained and pounded deliciously outside the window, and he slept like the Old Man.

  In the morning, the rain had tapered off to something more like a heavy mist. It was still solidly overcast, but the hotel people seemed to regard it as a nice day. After eating half of a breakfast that, if entirely ingested, would have disabled him for the day, he set off for the beach. It was cool, but perfectly walkable. He smoked a LaDonna as he strolled. There were several old rusting turtleback fish tugs, anchored, and numerous souvenirs of the now vanished fishing life, net floats and marine gear, lying about.

  The lake was a metallic gray and tumbling. Large ships could be seen at a distance, tankers and ore boats. Gulls wheeled about, crying. Small groups of ducks were driving along at a distance. He didn’t see anything that looked like a shitepoke, but there were small shorebirds that scurried ahead of him, peeping plaintively, fluttering onward when he got too close. He walked along the hard-packed sand, well past the bluffs on which the doctor’s cottage perched. There was a track of sorts up to the cottage, mostly sand, but here and there reinforced with cedar steps. He decided to finish his cigar before attempting it. His walk took him around a long curve where great black and gray boulders stood offshore in the gravelly, stony lake bed. When he turned about and headed back he realized he’d walked farther than he’d thought. In the distance, he could see a dark, burly figure slowly climbing up the path. By the time he was halfway closer, the figure had disappeared over the top.

  It
took his breath climbing up the path, the sand shifting underfoot, except where there was a step or two. At last he stood at the top. He had to stand and catch his breath. The cottage was just a few feet beyond the breast of the bluff, too close for his taste. It had a glassed-in porch, decorated with marine bric-a-brac, nets, floats, wooden decoys, pieces of driftwood and weathered glass.

  He went around to the surgery door and pulled a bell chain. He could hear the bell tinkle inside. After a brief wait, the door opened. A pleasant, weathered-looking lady of fifty-five-plus stood there. She had short, gray hair, a little mussed. She looked at him through glasses with large lenses in modern, sporty-looking frames. She wore wool Royal Stewart plaid slacks and a matching red sweater set. Over this, a white lab coat, unbuttoned.

  “Dr. White?” he said, and when she nodded, he introduced himself. “Detective Sergeant Mulheisen, Detroit police force.”

  She looked wary. “What’s the problem?”

  He said he wanted to talk to her. “You’re not ill?” she said. When he shook his head, she said, “I’m sorry, I’m busy just now. You’ll have to come back later.”

  “Oh. You have a patient?”

  She hesitated, then said, firmly, “Yes, I do. What is it about?”

  “It’s kind of complicated,” he said. He realized now that to someone unacquainted with the details of the case, his story and questions would seem, well, far-fetched. But he had not wanted to risk contacting her in advance. “It’s about a man named Humphrey DiEbola. You knew him as Umberto Gagliano, a long time ago, when you were children.”

  “I see,” she said. She stood very stiffly, the door only partly opened. He could not be sure, but he felt that she was not quite open with him. She was a woman of considerable poise, however. He could not determine just how reserved she was, or what might be the cause. She didn’t seem afraid, exactly, but she was very intent. “I knew him,” she said.