Dead Man's Mistress

by David Housewright

  I waited.

  “I keep thinking of his daughter, Jamie; what she must be feeling,” Ardina said. “Jodine, too.”

  That has to be your next stop, my inner voice said. Talk to Jodine Montgomery in Duluth.

  “Did you know David?” Ardina asked.

  “No, ma’am. We never met.”

  “You would have liked him. He was … charming.”

  “Yes, ma’am. So I’ve been told.”

  “Why are you asking about him?”

  “I’m afraid to hurt you again.”

  “McKenzie…”

  “He was the one who stole the paintings.”

  “No.”

  “We’re pretty sure.”

  “Why? Why, McKenzie? Why would he do that? It’s not like jewelry. A TV. It’s not like he could sell the damn things out of the trunk of his car.”

  “Ma’am…”

  “Don’t call me ma’am!” Ardina was shouting now. “I’m twenty-eight years old. Do I look like a ma’am to you?”

  “No, ma … No.”

  “I don’t believe it, McKenzie. I don’t.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “I … I cared about him a great deal.”

  “Yes, but how well did you know him?”

  “We met years ago. He was a friend of my brother’s. They started hanging out after David’s divorce. David and I became involved in June.”

  After Leah Huddleston and Gillian Davis, but while he was still seeing Doris Greyson. Do the woman a favor and keep your mouth shut about it.

  “McKenzie, does this have anything to do with his death?” Ardina asked.

  “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “I don’t believe he killed himself.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Ardina closed her eyes. Her lashes knocked the tears free. They trailed down her cheeks.

  So far she’s the only one who’s shown genuine sorrow at Montgomery’s passing.

  The door to the art gallery was pulled open and the Ojibwa I had seen earlier with Deputy Wurzer hurried across the threshold.

  “Hey, sis?” he said.

  I was surprised by the greeting. It’s the kind of thing you hear in movies but I’ve never heard someone say the word in real life before.

  The Ojibwa was surprised to see his sister weeping. He crossed the gallery in a hurry and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Sis?” he said.

  His eyes fell on me and I knew what he was thinking, which is why I brought my hands up and took several steps backward.

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  He released Ardina and moved toward me.

  “Did you hurt my sister?”

  Ardina grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him back.

  “No, Eddie,” she said. “It’s not like that. He—we were talking about David.”

  Eddie Curtis, my inner voice said.

  “Oh,” Curtis said. “Oh.” He wrapped Ardina in his arms. “I’m sorry. It’ll be all right. Everything’s going to be fine. Don’t worry.”

  Which was exactly the kind of harmless and wholly inadequate nonsense I would have mumbled if I were him. Experience had taught me, though, that it didn’t really matter what you said. Being there is what’s important. After a few moments, Ardina regained her balance and dried her tears.

  “Okay?” Curtis asked.

  Ardina nodded.

  “I’m sorry, McKenzie,” she said.

  “Please don’t be. I’m the one who should apologize.”

  “Apologize for what?” Curtis asked.

  “He said that they think David stole some paintings from Louise Wykoff,” Ardina said.

  “Why would he do that?” Curtis pointed at me. “Why would he do that?”

  “You were his friend?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was he having any financial difficulties?”

  “You mean besides paying his ex her damn alimony?”

  “No,” Ardina said. “David wasn’t paying alimony. Jodine didn’t want any. He was paying child support and he was happy to do it. He loved his daughter. That’s what he told me.”

  “That’s not what David told me.”

  “What did he tell you?” I asked.

  “None of your damn business.”

  “We’re pretty sure Montgomery stole from Louise. Did he take from anyone else?”

  “You know what? It’s time for you to get out of here.”

  “Eddie,” Ardina said.

  “No, sis. He barges in here, throwing insults around about David. You, get out.”

  I reached into my pocket for my notebook and pen and started writing.

  Hey, it worked before.

  “What are you doing?” Curtis asked.

  “Writing that you refused to be interviewed. In case I’m called to testify.”

  “So people will think I have something to hide?”

  “Do you have something to hide?”

  “I have an idea. Shove that little notebook up your ass.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later I was driving south on Highway 61 past the Judge C. R. Magney State Park when I spied the approach of a Cook County Sheriff Department vehicle in my rearview. I glanced down at my speedometer. I was surprised that I had been actually driving the speed limit for a change. The driver of the SUV didn’t seem to care. He came up so fast and so close that it frightened me. His push bumper brushed the rear of the Mustang and I wondered, Is he trying to force me off the road?

  The SUV backed off quickly though, if you count one car length as backing off. The overhead was turned on and he hit the siren.

  The siren is unnecessary, my inner voice said. He’s just trying to mess with you.

  I angled the Mustang onto the shoulder and slowed to a stop. I turned off the engine and rested my hands on top of the steering wheel. Using the side view mirror, I watched Deputy Wurzer exit the SUV.

  Kinda knew it was him, didn’t you?

  Wurzer moved toward the driver’s side door. Once again the word “sloppy” came to mind.

  When he reached my open window I said “Good morning, Deputy. Is there something wrong?”

  “Speeding,” he said. “Careless driving. Failure to stop. I don’t see a seat belt.”

  I pulled the strap off my chest a few inches and let it slide back into place.

  “Yeah, okay,” I said. “I get it.”

  Wurzer sniffed the air.

  “Is that marijuana I smell?” he asked. “If I search your car will I find two ounces of the bad thing in your trunk? Two ounces is felony weight. Five years, $10,000 fine.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “I could bust your ass for whatever the fuck I want and make it stick.”

  “I said I get it.”

  There weren’t many vehicles on the highway, but they came steadily, each slowing as they approached the SUV with its flashing overhead light. I smiled at the drivers, giving a wave to a few. Wurzer couldn’t help but notice.

  “Trying to make friends, McKenzie?” he asked.

  “As many as possible.”

  “Think they’ll do you any good?”

  “You can never tell. Someone might pull out a phone hoping to get a video of police corruption they can upload.”

  “You oughta know all about that.”

  “I oughta?”

  “Think I don’t know you, McKenzie? Back when I was with Minneapolis we used to talk about you all the time. You’re the SPPD who recovered all that cash some jack-off embezzler siphoned, returned it to the insurance company for fifty cents on the dollar. How much was that, anyway? I heard $10 million.”

  “That’s a huge exaggeration.”

  “How much did you get?”

  “Only three million and change.”

  “Only three million dollars and change. Half the guys thought you won the lottery, lucky fucking you. The other half thinking you sold your shield. A three-striper I know called you a m
utt. Whaddya think of that?”

  “I’ve been called worse. Why aren’t you still with the MPD?”

  “I like it up here. The air is clean and you can see the stars at night.”

  “Both big pluses. If you knew I was on the job, why did you try to jam me up for Montgomery’s death? ‘Give me twenty minutes alone with the sonuvabitch,’ you said.”

  “Think because you once carried a badge that should give you special privileges?”

  “Perish the thought.”

  “I don’t like it when some fucking buff interferes in police work; I don’t give a damn how long you’ve been on the job.”

  “Tell it to Sheriff Bowland.”

  “That clown? He was smart enough to hire me. Other than that … He got old in a hurry; you know what I mean? Took like a year. He’s past it now, man.”

  “Maybe so, but if you have a problem, tell him.”

  “I’m telling you.”

  “The sheriff wants to find out who killed Montgomery. He thinks I can help.”

  “Is that why you were talking with Ardina Curtis?”

  “She knew Montgomery. Her brother knew Montgomery. Did you know Montgomery?”

  “Yeah, I knew him.”

  “Yet, when I went to the Law Enforcement Center Friday night to report that he had been killed, you said, ‘Who?’”

  “You got something to say, McKenzie, or do you just like the sound of your own voice?”

  “Just connecting the dots. Tell me about Eddie Curtis.”

  “What about him?”

  “Are you friends?”

  “Deputies aren’t supposed to have friends?”

  “All that pushing and shoving you guys were doing. It looked to me like you were getting ready to pull on him.”

  Wurzer’s hand slid to his firearm.

  “Like now,” I said.

  I smiled at another driver and gave her the thumbs-up as she rolled slowly past us.

  “Step out of the vehicle,” Wurzer said.

  “No.”

  “What did you say?”

  I threw a thumb at the SUV behind me.

  “I notice that you have a camera mounted on your rearview mirror,” I said.

  “You know what? I think it’s malfunctioning.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Call for backup. I’ll get out of the car when your backup gets here.”

  “You’ll do what I tell you.”

  Wurzer reached for the door handle and pulled up, only it was locked.

  “Why?” I asked. “So you can tune me up? Maybe give me a wood shampoo.”

  “You know all the slang.”

  “I invented the fucking slang, asshole.” Probably I shouldn’t have shouted, but the deputy was starting to annoy me. “You want to hang paper on me, go right ahead. You want to put the arm on me, we can do that, too. Once your backup gets here with a camera that’s working.”

  “I should pull you in for violating the jackass ordinance if nothing else.”

  “It didn’t need to go down this way, Deputy. You could’ve just come up to me and talked like a man. But no, you had to get all large and emphatic. You had to get badge-heavy. Is that why you’re not in Minneapolis anymore? You kept stopping, arresting, or threatening everyone in sight?”

  He stared at me as if he was reviewing his options. There must have been a lot of them because it was a full thirty seconds before he said, “Move it down the road, mutt.”

  “You first.”

  Wurzer smirked because he knew what I was thinking, that he’d give me a head start and then run me into a ditch.

  “Don’t worry about it, McKenzie. The next time you see me, you’ll see me.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. Wurzer seemed satisfied that it was a good exit line, though. He moved back to his vehicle, silenced the light bar, and pulled onto Highway 61. He spun his tires as if he wanted to spray the Mustang with gravel, but all he churned up was dust. I gave him a full five minutes before I followed.

  * * *

  Jodine Montgomery was sitting behind a small desk in the same room that hosted the Eastman Johnson collection. She did not look up when I entered, even though it seemed as if we were the only two people in that wing of the Duluth Art Institute. Possibly she was too absorbed by her work to notice me. Or it could have been that the classical music they pumped into the exhibit hall masked what little noise I made. I listened hard, yet could not identify the work.

  Still, my inner voice said. Music. In an art museum. Take that, Perrin Stewart.

  I approached the desk and said, “Excuse me.”

  The woman glanced up and smiled.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Jodine Montgomery?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name’s McKenzie.”

  “Let me guess. You want to talk about my ex-husband.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “I’m very uncomfortable with this. Whatever my personal feelings toward David … Look, I’ve already spoken with agents from the BCA.”

  My hand slipped into my jacket pocket and fingered the notebook and pen I had there. I decided, though, she deserved better than that tired gag.

  “I apologize.” I reverted to my most relaxed and reassuring voice, the one I honed through countless interviews conducted during my illustrious career as a police officer—okay, maybe not illustrious. “I’m deeply sorry for intruding on you during your grief. Unfortunately, things have changed since you were interviewed by the police.”

  “In what way?”

  I surprised myself by telling her the truth, explained about the missing Scenes from an Inland Sea. Jodine stood up.

  “That’s impossible,” she said.

  She began pacing the room. I had the impression that, like me, she preferred to think on her feet. As she paced I noticed Eastman Johnson’s oil paintings and sketches hanging on the walls. I discovered a charcoal and crayon sketch titled Objibway Girl that was particularly striking.

  How is it you’ve never heard of this guy?

  “The authorities believe that David stole Scenes from an Inland Sea?” Jodine asked.

  “They do.”

  “That’s—that’s insane.”

  “Do you know Louise Wykoff?”

  “Yes. Not well. I doubt anyone in GM knows her well. She stays pretty much to herself. We’ve spoken a few times over the years, though. We have a couple of her paintings right there.” Jodine gestured to a spot on the wall near the door. “Her work blends in nicely with Johnson’s. Some people can’t even tell them apart. Anyway, she seemed very nice. I can’t believe it. Do you know what those paintings must be worth? Randolph McInnis? But no. No. I don’t believe it. David was a cheat. He wasn’t a thief.”

  “Do you think your ex-husband knew Louise?”

  “I know what you’re asking, McKenzie. I want to say no. On the other hand, David had cheated on me with so many women over the years, why not her, too?”

  “How long have you and David been divorced?”

  “Just over four years now. McKenzie, David was not a bad guy. Yes, he cheated on me. It was like he couldn’t help himself. He never hit me, though. He never abused me. He wasn’t a drunk or a druggie or a compulsive gambler or whatever. He treated our daughter like a royal princess. Once the divorce was final and I stopped wondering where he was putting his dick, we got along fine. He never missed a child support payment. He was always there when it was his turn to take Jamie for the weekend.”

  “It must have been hard on him, though.”

  “It was hard on me, too.”

  “When was the last time you two spoke?”

  “Friday morning.”

  “Last Friday morning?”

  “Wild, isn’t it? He called early, right after Jamie left for school. He wanted to know if it was all right with me if he took her to Kakabeka Falls in Canada during his next weekend. It’s about ninety minutes from GM, a nice day-trip. He’s not a
llowed to take Jamie out of the state much less out of the country without my permission and he wanted to know if I objected before he mentioned anything to Jamie about it. Like I said, not a bad guy.”

  Wait a sec, my inner voice said. Leah Huddleston told you that if she had the paintings, she would take them to Canada, crossing the Pigeon River at the Grand Portage Port of Entry. If you were CBP or the Canadian Border Services Agency and you had a car passing through with a pretty little girl in the passenger seat and her proud daddy behind the wheel, would you bother to check the trunk of their car?

  “Did you agree to let them go?” I asked aloud.

  “Yes. Why not? Then Saturday morning they told me that he was dead. Apparent suicide. I still haven’t been able to explain it to Jamie. That’s one of the reasons I’m working today, so I don’t have to explain it. How do you explain it to a child? She keeps asking, ‘Why? Why?’ David … he seemed fine when I spoke to him. Happy even. He said all the crap he pulled when we were married, he was going to make it up to me. He said the same thing when we were married so I didn’t actually believe him. Yet he sounded—McKenzie, he sounded sincere. I don’t know what to tell Jamie. My biggest fear is that she’ll blame herself because that’s what people do, don’t they? They blame themselves when someone commits suicide. Why didn’t I see it coming? Why couldn’t I help? My second greatest fear is that she’ll blame me, that she’ll decide that her father killed himself because I left him.”

  I came thisclose to telling Jodine that her ex-husband might have been murdered instead, yet decided against it. Would that have made the conversations with her daughter easier or harder? Especially since I had nothing to offer in the way of proof, except for my own suspicions.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Unfortunately, it’s not just my loss. It’s also my daughter’s. David—how could he do this to her?”

  TEN

  It was a two-hour drive from Duluth to Grand Marais. During the trip, I used the Mustang’s SYNC System to make a hands-free phone call. It took a couple of tries before I was able to reach Sheriff Bowland. He told me he and the agents from the BCA were gathering at the Blue Water Cafe. He said to meet them there. I said I would.

  * * *

  Parking in Grand Marais on a glorious Sunday afternoon was about what you’d expect. I ended up in a space near Drury Lane, an independent bookstore that was painted to resemble a child’s dollhouse, and walked the block and a half to the café. I intercepted the sheriff, who had parked even farther away than me. Once again, I was impressed by how impeccably he dressed and how old he appeared.