Mark’s Wheel-Inn catered to the people who actually lived in Grand Marais. You could tell because its prices were reasonable and because it was located up the hill several blocks from the harbor, which meant it might as well be on the moon as far as most tourists were concerned. What’s more, it stayed open year-round instead of closing in late October and reopening again in early April like most of its competitors. Nina and I had discovered it the last time we were on the North Shore.
I was surprised by how many cars were in the parking lot until I realized that it was Saturday afternoon during college football season with happy hour prices for beer, wine, rail drinks, chicken wings, and nachos. I stepped inside. The TVs were tuned to the Minnesota Gophers-Wisconsin Badgers football game, although no one seemed to be paying much attention to it. I made my way to the bar. Some of the locals glanced my way but didn’t say anything. A moment later they glanced at Jennica Mehren, who had followed me. This time several comments were made, only I didn’t hear what was said.
The bartender closed in on my position. He set a coaster down and nodded for me to speak.
“You could get in trouble serving underage drinkers even way up here, right?” I said.
He stared for a few beats as if he was trying to translate what I had told him. His eyes found Jennica who was now positioned a couple of steps off my shoulder.
“Miss,” the bartender said, “do you have some ID?”
“What?”
“The drinking age in Minnesota is twenty-one.”
Jennica glared at me.
“It’s the same in California,” she said.
“Do you have an ID?” The bartender repeated.
Jennica’s answer was to spin on her heels and stomp out of the bar.
There were a couple of locals sitting at a table within earshot.
“Hey, man,” the short one said. “Whaddaya doin’ runnin’ girls off like that? They could become scarce someday.”
“What are you talking about, scarce?” the tall one said. “We’re the endangered species ’round here, us men. My wife told me just last night that if we couldn’t shovel snow or open jars there’d be a bounty on us.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the bartender said. “The way things are goin’ lately, I’m surprised women don’t chase us down with torches and pitchforks like in them old-time monster movies.”
“It’s not like we ain’t got it comin’,” the short man said. “All them stories about sexual harassment and rape and shit—I had no idea. Bill Cosby, really? I grew up watchin’ Bill Cosby. America’s Dad. Hell, I liked ’im better than my dad. Geezus. And how many since him? I can’t even count.”
“That guy, that doctor what abused all them gymnasts for like years and years,” the taller man said.
“I’ve never done any of that,” the bartender said. “I don’t know anyone who has.”
“Wasn’t it you who was complaining when they started lettin’ women announce football and baseball games?”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Yeah, it is. Well, it ain’t rape, but it is discrimination. Don’t you think?”
The shorter man was looking at me when he asked the question, so I provided an answer I hoped wouldn’t annoy anyone. After all I was there to make friends.
“It’s a new world,” I said. “We best get used to it.”
The bartender nodded as if he agreed with me.
The taller man raised his glass.
“A toast,” he said. “May we all get what we want, but not what we deserve.”
“Here, here.”
“Gentlemen,” I said, “let me buy you a beer.”
The bartender served the beers and returned to his place behind the stick. I remained leaning against the bar; my two new friends stayed at their table. We started chatting. No one seemed to mind at all that I was from somewhere else, not even when I said, “I hear there’s some excitement in town.”
“You talking about the killing?” short man said.
“Dave Montgomery, talk about your sexual harassment,” the taller man said.
“He never harassed anyone I ever heard of.”
“Not harassed, but he got around.”
“That’s not the same thing, is it?”
“Have they even decided if it was murder or suicide?” the bartender asked. “I haven’t heard.”
“I’ve known Montgomery for a long time,” the tall man said. “He wasn’t someone who’d shoot himself.”
“That’s what they say about everyone until they do it,” the short man said.
“What is Sheriff Bowland doin’ about it is what I want to know,” the bartender said.
“That doddering old man?”
“Doddering?” I asked.
“Man’s been sheriff since the eighties, but what’s he ever done ’cept hassle the high school kids he catches drinkin’ in the woods?”
“I heard he brought in the BCA t’ take the pressure off hisself,” the bartender said.
“Let them take the blame if it all goes to shit,” the taller man said. “He’s a politician after all.”
“I know a little something about how this works,” I said. “The first thing they’ll do, the sheriff or the BCA, is talk to Montgomery’s wife. And then his girlfriends. And then the boyfriends of his girlfriends.”
“Good luck with that,” the tall man said.
“What do you mean?”
“Like I said—Montgomery got around. I bet he banged half the single women in Cook County.”
“Just single women?”
“Well, he wasn’t an idiot. There are things you can get away with in the big city that you can’t up here. Everyone’s got a gun up here.”
“You make it sound like Texas or somethin’, guys carrying their AR-15s into the local Walmart,” the shorter man said. He was looking at me when he added, “It ain’t Texas.”
“Fuck Texas,” the bartender said.
“Have you ever been?”
“Well, no.”
“I was in San Antonio once,” I said. “Great barbecue. Can’t say I saw anyone walking around with an AR.”
“Just telling you what I heard.”
“So, Montgomery was only involved with single women?”
“Far as I know,” the tall man said. “You got the librarian…”
“Miss Greyson?” the short man said.
“Yep.”
“No kidding?”
“You got Gillian Davis over at the Gunflint Tavern.”
“I knew about her.”
“Leah Huddleston at the art gallery…”
“Which gallery?” I asked.
“Up on Highway 61 near the Dairy Queen. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“What about Ardina Curtis over at the casino?” the bartender asked.
“Montgomery was seeing an Ojibwa chick?” the short man asked.
“Yeah, and from what I heard, the brother was not happy about it.”
“I’m the BCA and I think Montgomery was killed, the brother is the first guy I talk to,” the tall man said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Man has a temper and those Ojibwa, they think you’ve been trifling with their woman, they take that seriously.”
“You think it’s a racial thing?”
“Don’t know ’bout that. More like a family honor thing.”
“What about Louise Wykoff and Peg Younghans?”
“What about ’em?”
“Could Montgomery have been involved with either of them?”
“Nah,” the shorter man said.
“I don’t know,” the bartender said. “Montgomery didn’t mind ’em being older, the women he fucked.”
“Yeah, okay, but the Wykoff woman? I just can’t see it.”
“Me, neither,” said the taller man. “She’s always been so damn proper. Is that the right word, ‘proper’?”
“Good as any,” I said.
“As for Peggy,
she talks a good game yet mostly it’s just a tease.”
“Remember the reception the Art Colony held back in July right before the art festival began?” the bartender said. “Peg was flirting up a storm; maybe she had too much to drink, I don’t know. Anyway, I started flirting back. Woman suffered a full-blown anxiety attack. I’m not exaggerating.”
“Sure it wasn’t just you comin’ on to her?” the short man said. “Fuckin’ stop my heart.”
“Hardy har har. You”—the bartender was speaking to me—“why you asking about Younghans and Wykoff?”
“Cuz they’re the only women in Grand Marais that I’ve met. How ’bout another beer? Can you guys stand another round?”
“If you’re buyin’ we’re drinkin,” the short man said.
While the bartender took care of us, I said, “After the BCA talks to his girlfriends, they’ll talk to his boys. Who’d Montgomery hang out with?”
“I don’t know he was tight with anyone since Wayne,” the short man said.
“What happened with Wayne?”
“Wayne was Montgomery’s best friend going back to grade school…”
Not unlike you and Bobby Dunston, my inner voice reminded me.
“Until he caught him in bed with his wife.”
Not like you and Bobby Dunston.
“Montgomery screwing everything in sight is not a new phenomenon,” the taller man said. “He’s been rovin’ since God knows when. Jodine put up with it how many years? Then she decided what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, am I right?”
“Yeah, but Wayne?” the short man said. “That was pretty rough.”
“I think it was meant to be.”
“Where’s Jodine now?” I asked. “Is she still in town?”
“Nah. Moved to Duluth with the daughter. I heard she’s working for the Duluth Art Institute.”
“Is that right,” the bartender said. “Good for her. She was always one of those artsy types.”
“Place is crawlin’ with artsy types,” the tall man said.
“Only during the summer. Come winter, most are gone, gone, gone.”
“Except for Louise Wykoff.”
“Except for her.”
“What about Wayne?” I asked.
“You mean after he got out of the hospital?” the bartender said.
“He was in the hospital?”
“What can I say?” the taller man said. “Montgomery was a hot-headed fellow.”
“Last I heard Wayne moved to Eveleth,” the shorter man said.
“What’s he doin’ in Eveleth?”
“Got a job workin’ in the new mine they opened near there. We’ll see how long that lasts.” The shorter man was looking at me again when he said, “Mining iron ore has always been an up-and-down thing.”
“Still,” I said, “he sounds like a suspect to me.”
“Whaddya know about it?” the bartender asked.
“Like I said, the cops start looking for suspects close to home and then slowly spread out. Think of it like ripples on a pond. This Wayne, you say Montgomery put him in the hospital?”
“That was over four years ago,” the taller man said. “Four years since the divorce.”
“Some people have been known to hold a grudge.”
“That would bother me, if Wayne killed Montgomery, friends the way they were.”
“Did Montgomery have any other enemies?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“You’re asking a lot of questions about people you’ve never met,” the bartender said. “What’s that about?”
“Yeah,” said the taller man. “You a cop?”
“God no, but let’s say that I’ve had dealings with the police in the past and let it go at that.”
“Hell no, I ain’t gonna let it go,” said the bartender. “Who are you?”
“Just a tourist killing time while my Golden Gophers”—I glanced up at the TV screen—“lose to Wisconsin.”
The taller man’s head jerked up at the screen.
“How the hell did that happened?” he asked. “They were leading by two touchdowns!”
* * *
Clearly, I had outstayed my welcome, so I bid a fond farewell to my newfound besties and returned to the Mustang. I pulled a notebook out of the glove compartment and wrote down everything I could remember about our conversation, especially the names. While I wrote, Jennica Mehren rapped a knuckle on the driver’s side window. I rolled it down.
“That was mean,” she said.
“What would have been mean is if you were sitting at the bar nursing a drink when the sheriff walked in. The bar owner could have been in serious trouble.”
“That’s one way of looking at it. McKenzie, I’ve been waiting here for over an hour.”
“So, go home. Who’s stopping you?”
“McKenzie…”
I slipped the notebook and pen into my jacket pocket and started the car. Jennica stepped back.
“Where are you going?”
I smiled in reply and drove out of the parking lot. I lost sight of her before she managed to get to her own car. Which didn’t mean I had lost her. From my condominium in Minneapolis, I could drive sixty miles per hour in a straight line for thirty minutes in any direction and still be in the Twin Cities. I could circle Grand Marais in five minutes, six if I was caught by the town’s lone stoplight. Plus, I was driving a black Mustang, not exactly an inconspicuous vehicle even in the Cities. An industrious young lady like Jennica, I figured it wouldn’t take her long to locate me. So, I hid among the other tourists in the parking lot next to the Dairy Queen, quickly crossed Highway 61 on foot, and walked the block and a half to the public library. It was a pretty building with gray brick and blue siding. The sign painted on the glass door said it closed at 2:00 P.M. on Saturdays. I cupped my hands against the glass to peer inside and saw a woman moving about. I knocked. The woman came to the door and opened it as if she had been expecting me.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The library is closed.”
“I’m looking for Miss Greyson.”
“I’m Ms. Doris Greyson.”
“Ms. Greyson, my name is McKenzie. I’m investigating—Ms. Greyson have you heard what happened to David Montgomery?”
Greyson stared at me while I counted the beats—one, two, three, four …
She answered, “Yes,” in a soft voice and looked away.
Thank God, my inner voice said. One of the things I did not miss about being a police officer was delivering heartbreaking news to people.
“Were you close?” I asked.
“Close enough.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“May I come in?”
She held the door open. I stepped inside the library and she closed and locked the door behind us.
“I heard two versions of the story,” Greyson said. “In one, David committed suicide. In the other, he was murdered. I don’t know which is worse.”
“I’m sure an official determination will be made soon.”
She led me deeper inside the building until we were standing next to the reference desk. There was a sign on top of the desk that read SIGN UP FOR INTERNET HERE. Greyson leaned on the desk as if she needed support.
“Why do you want to talk to me?” she asked.
“Your name was mentioned as someone who might be familiar with Montgomery.”
“Are you asking if I was fucking him?”
Not a word you’d expect a librarian to use, my inner voice said. But okay.
“How well did you know Montgomery?” I asked.
“Besides the fucking part, not well at all. He loved his daughter, doted on her. It was sweet to see them together. All this is going to be very hard on her. Beyond that, though … Who are you? You’re not with the sheriff’s department, I would know.”
“My name is McKenzie. I’m investigating the incident privately.”
�
��Incident?” Ms. Greyson repeated the word as if she didn’t know what it meant. “Who hired you? Jodine?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“It doesn’t matter. There’s not much I can tell you anyway.”
“You could tell me where you were between ten A.M. and two P.M. yesterday.”
“I was here.”
“Witnesses?”
“A lot of people came in and out, plus my co-workers—why are you asking? Am I a suspect?”
“Not anymore.”
Greyson glared as if she wasn’t sure she believed me.
“Do you know if Montgomery had any enemies?” I asked.
“No.”
“No one he might have pissed off? Someone he might have been in business with, perhaps?”
Greyson shook her head. At the same time she said, “David advertised himself as a handyman. He did a lot of home repair and small construction projects—plumbing, electrical, carpentry. He could replace your roof or your furnace or your driveway, which put him in a lot of people’s homes, so I don’t know. We never really spoke about anything like that. His life. My life. David and I never demanded anything more from each other than a few hours of our time.
“You’re probably wondering why a man like him would involve himself with a woman nearly twenty years older than he was. It was a matter of commitment. Or lack thereof. Younger women, women David’s age, spend a lot of time trying to determine what their future should be. They have plans or they’re in the process of making plans: when to get married, when to buy a house and bring two-point-five children into the world, when to put their youth behind them. David wasn’t interested in participating in the process. He liked older women—me—because we already have the future figured out and have determined that a permanent relationship isn’t necessarily part of it. I’ve done marriage and I have no compelling reason to try it again…”
Not unlike Nina.
“Now a temporary relationship with the duration of, say, a Sunday afternoon, that’s an entirely different matter,” Greyson said.
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