Cruelest Month

by Aaron Stander

  It took Sue less than twenty-five minutes to reach Sandville. She parked briefly on Main Street and looked around, comparing the data of the GPS with the current reality of the place. Her computer screen displayed a six-by-six grid of streets, the county line running down the center of six blocks of a paved two-lane road, also known as Main Street. From her parking spot, it appeared that the only houses remaining were in the most central area of the town. The largest structure was a vacant, two-story cinderblock building. Two display windows, one of which had duct tape running along the lines of a bad fracture, faced the deserted street. The window in the entrance was boarded over with a piece of plywood, the blackening top layers delaminating at the edges. Across the street was another cement building, low and square, its windows and doors also boarded over. A faded sign over the entrance read, “Groceries and Hardware.”

  Sue put the Jeep in gear and followed the onscreen directions until she reached 411 North Second Street. Much of the lot was still covered with snow, with some grey weeds and grass becoming visible along the margins. All that remained was an enormous, gnarled oak. Getting out of her vehicle , she carefully walked around the area, finding the crumbling remnants of a sidewalk and the home’s foundation. There were several remaining houses on the block—mostly abandoned and badly sagging, their naked dark siding without a hint of paint. Based on the size of the foundation and the fact that the surviving homes were all two-story, this had been a substantial structure in its day. Sue paced off the foundation and estimated that each floor probably was about 1,000 square feet. When she returned to her Jeep, Simone had moved to her side of the car and attempted to scramble out as she opened the door. After attaching a leash, she walked the perimeter of the block with Simone before lifting the dog back into the car.

  Ray followed Joan Barton out to her father’s home where he did a quick walk-through of the premises, taking care not to disturb anything in the small building’s interior. Then, accompanied by Barton, he checked the shed-like garage and walked around the yard. Although nothing seemed particularly out of place, Ray planned to have Sue Lawrence carefully go through the scene the next morning.

  As Ray began to say his goodbyes, Barton asked him to accompany her to a small lake about a mile up the road. She explained that her father’s greatest passion was fishing. Because of its proximity, this lake was a place he visited almost every day, either riding his bike or walking, depending on the conditions. Barton led the way. They parked on the shoulder of the road and Ray followed her down a narrow trail that ended at the shore. Open water extended from the shoreline for several yards to join a thin layer of opaque white ice.

  “Dad comes here all year long. He’s on the ice in the winter, and he uses that dinghy the rest of the time.” Barton pointed toward a small, overturned aluminum boat a few yards off the trail, most of it still buried in the snow.

  “It’s between seasons,” Ray observed.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. But what if he had a small stroke, or something, and gets a bit dotty? I was just thinking about things that he might do if his rationality was slipping away.” She shivered and pulled at the collar of her coat. “This is one of his favorite places. I thought it might be a place that he would wander off to. I didn’t want to come here alone.”

  Ray remained with Barton a full ten minutes, silently gazing out at the frozen lake.

  After picking up some groceries, Ray stopped at the local bookseller, a cozy place managed and owned by a British ex-pat. The building, originally a pharmacy, dated from the 1880s or 1890s, and was one of the last original structures in the two-block long commercial district in Cedar Bay. The interior had not been changed much over the years. The maple flooring showed wear from generations of shoppers who had pushed through the heavy front door with its thick, plate glass window. Above, the tin ceiling was mostly intact, only slightly damaged by some less than skillful modifications when electric lights were added in the 20s. Books were displayed on tables appropriate in age and design to the building’s interior and on shelving that covered the walls.

  “Nice tan, that,” said Phillip Noble, getting up from his hidey-hole behind an antique display case and counter. “I’ve got the volume of Robinson Jeffers you wanted. I didn’t know anything about him, and your request got me started on some background reading. Interesting man. The things I read off the web suggest that he fell out of favor for his politics. You Yanks don’t seem to like pacifists much.”

  “Especially during the run-up to war,” said Ray. “But they probably weren’t too popular in the UK either when the Luftwaffe was making daily visits.”

  “Right, but pacifists were tolerated. We’re a small, densely populated island with vastly different political and social views and a whole lot of eccentrics. We probably were forced into tolerance so we could all occupy the same space. In point of fact, I was reading a letter to the editor today in The Record-Eagle. The author, a woman who I would guess to be rather elderly, suggested that people who did not share her views were not real Americans, whatever that is, and she went on to intimate that they were deserving of some major violence. Quite frightening, actually.”

  Ray nodded his head. “I worry about another homegrown Tim McVeigh, who might decide to take out the local police agency because in his fantasy world we’re conspiring with the UN and God knows who else to take over the country. There’s a lot of lunacy out there on the Internet and talk radio. But getting back to Robinson Jeffers.”

  “Yes, he’s quite good, actually,” said Phillip. “I certainly knew the name, but I have to admit that I was unfamiliar with his work. I started thumbing through your book after it arrived—hope you don’t mind, white gloves on, of course—and it is sort of the prerogative of Ye Old Book Shoppe to understand the literary tastes of our customers. To better serve you, I actually read most of the book. I hope you want me to continue to look for more of his work. I’ve become quite a fan.”

  “Sure. Find out what’s out there. Most will be in the used book market. Get some prices and we’ll talk. Right now I need to know about something else, a book by a local author, self published.”

  “And the title is?”

  “Al Capone’s Michigan: The Secret Lost Treasure by Vinnie Fox.”

  “It should be right here with the locals.” Phillip came around the counter to a bookcase in the front corner of the store. “That is, it should be right here if it hasn’t been nicked yet.”

  “Nicked?” ask Ray.

  “Strangest thing, actually. I seldom lose anything. It’s a small store, and I can see what’s going on. Although, I did have a problem with audio books a few years ago. Far too many left the store without going through the cash register. As soon as I stopped carrying them, the problem went away. But this Capone book is becoming a real nuisance.”

  “Tell me about the author, Fox,” said Ray.

  “Vinnie comes in every few days, especially during good weather. I don’t see him quite as much in the winter. He is a reader, and he has money to buy books. A very good thing, especially when the tourists aren’t around.”

  “And his literary tastes?”

  “Quite astounding, actually. He likes action-adventure, the kind of books that usually appeal to adolescent boys—Ivanhoe, Captains Courageous, Two Years Before the Mast. Old stuff, the classics of the genre. He’s also big on Native American history. Deems himself quite an expert on the topic, although I’ve never been able to figure out exactly what his heritage is. A bit vague there.”

  “What about his book?”

  “Yes, the book. Vinnie came in sometime last fall, asked me if I would stock it.” Phillip paused and made a little pout. “This happens about once a month, sometimes more, and it often involves a regular customer. People who like books seem to want to write at least one during their lifetime.” He sighed. “Puts me in a bit of a tight place, actually. This is a tiny shop. To stay alive I’ve got to be exceedingly careful about what I stock. That said, I don’t want to antag
onize valued customers. But most of the self-published stuff doesn’t sell. Some of it’s not that terrible, but there just isn’t a market. I told Vinnie I’d keep two copies on consignment and see if they sold. Much to my surprise they went, so I got two more. Within a fortnight, those were gone, also. Heading into the Christmas season I stocked four copies. Two went through the till, the other two were nicked. Must’ve happened when I had unusually large crowds in the store. I couldn’t believe it. And then Penny from the library comes in—she’s good enough to order most of her books from us—and she told me she’d experienced the same problem. Vinnie gave the library two copies, and they both disappeared.” Phillip pulled a book from a shelf and handed it to Ray.

  “Is this the only copy you have?”

  “One more behind the counter. Vinnie dropped them off a week ago. I put one out and kept the other back there.”

  “Phillip, Vinnie Fox is missing. It’ll be on the eleven o’clock news.”

  Phillip’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t think it’s connected to this?”

  “I don’t know what to think. We are just beginning to investigate. His daughter told me about the book, and I thought I should look at it. Any idea who might have stolen the books?”

  “I have two different sorts of customers,” he sniffed, “the locals who I know by name and see on a regular basis—that includes summer people who return year after year—and the holidaymakers, the tourist trade. Among the locals I know who’s a bit dodgy and needs watching, the others…well.” Phillip turned to gaze out of the front window toward the harbor, then swung back to Ray. “If they had only charged their stolen books with a credit card, I could get their names for you.” He chuckled at his joke.

  “How about Vinnie’s book?” asked Ray. “Have you read it?”

  “Yes. Not a bad read—needs some editing and proofing. It’s quite remarkable, actually, given his age, and this is the first time he’s ever done anything like it.”

  “And the contents?”

  “He says it’s all true, but I think other than the landscape, it’s all fantasy. He’d have you believe that he was Al Capone’s driver. Old as Vinnie is, he isn’t old enough. He was still in nappies when most of this went down. But it’s a great story about Big Al being under pressure from the FBI—Elliot Ness and his mates—and how Al works to insure his retirement by burying bags of gold coins along the shore and out on the islands. Everything always happened on moonless nights under great secrecy. He just followed directions, never really knew where he was—the maps were kept by the bosses. According to his story, at the end of the day no one who knew about the treasure was left. Capone’s brain was destroyed by syphilis and his lieutenants were killed in gangland wars or died in prison.”

  Ray handed a credit card to Phillip.

  “I hope Vinnie’s story has a happy ending,” said Phillip as he processed the sale.

  “I do too,” said Ray, picking up his book.

  “Would you like that copy of Vinnie’s book, my compliments?”

  “Sure,” said Ray. “I’ll read it tonight.”

  6

  Ray had uncorked a bottle of Beaujolais and was scanning the opening chapter of Fox’s book when someone knocked loudly at the front door. Before he could get up, Hannah Jeffers, a local cardiologist he’d met during a case the last winter, pushed her way into the kitchen.

  “How is it that you just arrive like that?” asked Ray, putting down the book.

  “Does it bother you?”

  “No, I’m just curious.”

  Hannah tore off her coat and flung it toward the sofa. “There’s no one else I can do this to,” she said, getting a glass from the cupboard and helping herself to a Diet Coke from the fridge. “I don’t know a lot of people up here. And I can’t drop in on the other men I know because they’re all married or living with someone. Anyway, I like your company. We do interesting things. Most importantly, you don’t put any demands on me.” She said this without looking at him. “I need a buddy, and that seems to be okay with you. And …” She paused.

  “What?” Ray pursued.

  “I know I can always get a decent meal here. I hate to cook, and I don’t like most restaurant food.”

  Ray laughed. “The menu isn’t too inspired tonight. Most of it will be out of the freezer.”

  “Do you have enough for….”

  “No problem.”

  What can I do?” she asked.

  “Wash and spin the salad. Grate the Parmesan. I’ll do the main course.”

  “Which is?”

  “Ricotta cheese gnocchi in browned butter. I hope you’re not dieting.”

  “The nice thing about being super hyper is I burn it off.” Hannah began to work on a head of romaine. “By the way, weren’t you involved with someone when we first met? I remember a very pretty woman who visited you in the hospital.”

  “Yes.” In fact, Ray had been thinking about Sarah earlier in the day.

  “What happened to her?”

  “Her job up here was going away; she had a terrific offer with a large law firm in Chicago.”

  “Are you two still talking?”

  “Occasional e-mails.”

  “There’s a wistful tone to your voice.”

  “The timing wasn’t right.”

  Hannah put down her knife and cocked her head until he looked at her. “C’mon, Ray.”

  “All right. She is a very pleasant person. I enjoyed spending time with her. Unfortunately, during our brief relationship, I was injured twice. I think she found that quite frightening, perhaps more than she could deal with—even though over the course of my whole career, I’ve only been injured once before. And, then, I was working all the time. That goes with running a small police agency with minimal staffing. And probably it’s a personality thing on my part.”

  Ray turned back to the stove. “Early on I thought she’d come back for weekends, or I’d go down there—I’d like a bit of an inducement to get to the Lyric Opera more often. It never seemed to happen. And then she quickly fell into a relationship, someone in her apartment building. We were in different places.”

  “Yes?”

  “I seem to be working all the time,” Ray said, facing her. “I guess I’m a workaholic. At the end, she was questioning whether I had the capacity to make time for her. Not just time time, but the emotional time.”

  “What do you think?”

  Ray waved his spoon in the air. “I don’t know. I haven’t been in a serious relationship for years. I’m used to being alone. When I’m not working, I’m kayaking, skiing, reading. I fill every moment. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to make time for someone else.” He shrugged.

  “I’m sort of the same way,” Hannah said, picking up her knife and beginning to slice the lettuce leaves from their stem. “When I’m not working, I’m being my hyperactive self. I once told you that I came up here to reconnect with a guy I had a relationship with in medical school. I had a silly idea about finding some kind of normalcy, part of my therapy to get beyond the war experience. I must have missed the fact years ago that he was sort of wacko. That’s the problem with hormonal relationships.” She laughed. “Sometimes you miss the really important stuff about a person, at least for awhile.”

  Ray nodded as he worked on browning butter without burning it, his focus on the contents of a stainless steel pan. Hannah, too, settled into wordless concentration of washing, drying, mixing, arranging.

  “How’s the world of crime?” she asked after they settled at the table and began their meal.

  “Nothing too awful seems to be happening right now, fortunately. It’s funny, but when I started up here there would be long stretches where things would be routine, especially during the fall and winter. But in the last year, it’s been one thing after another.” He considered. “I do have one case that’s concerning me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “An elderly man has gone missing.”

  “From a nursing home?” Hann
ah asked.

  “No, he lives independently. Most of these cases with old people don’t have a happy ending.”

  “I can imagine—heart failure, stroke, hypothermia. Our bodies fall apart, our brains turn to mush. We become increasingly vulnerable. And if you wander away somewhere and don’t get immediate medical attention ….” She paused. “Maybe that’s not so bad, to die quietly. How many times have I watched, sometimes participated in, an attempt to resuscitate an elderly person. Our best efforts to keep someone going can be violent. She looked directly at Ray, holding his eyes in her gaze. “I’ve often thought it would be so much more humane to let them die quietly.” Hannah smiled. “But you usually have the hysterical family there wanting you to do everything for Grandpa.”

  They fell into silence for several moments. “I spent time with his daughter this afternoon,” Ray said. “She told me that her father’s a real character. He’s recently written and published a book on his years as a driver for Al Capone. He says he helped Capone bury his treasure up here.”

  “For real?”

  Ray left the table, retrieved the book off a nearby counter, and passed it to her before settling back into his chair.

  “As you can see, the book is for real, and the author would have his readers believe that it’s all fact, not fiction. According to his daughter, however, Fox has a rich fantasy life.”