Dead Man's Mistress

by David Housewright

  “You’re not interested in her yourself, are you, McKenzie?” Mitchell said.

  I gave him a look—the one I reserve for people I’m thinking of shooting in the head. His smile faded quickly.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  Mitchell waved his hand in front of himself like he was waxing a car. “I didn’t say anything.” He repeated the gesture. “These are not the droids you’re looking for.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  SEVENTEEN

  I woke up angry.

  Partly it was because it was still dark outside when my eyes snapped open as if I were awakened by a bad dream that I couldn’t recall. Mostly, though, my mood was soured by a combination of bad memories, a sense of anxiety, and some seriously negative feelings. It didn’t happen to me very often, waking up like that. Yet I’ve noticed it was happening more and more. My psychologist friend, Jillian DeMarais, once told me I was displaying symptoms of PTSD and that I should see someone, only I never did.

  Yeah, okay, some guy shot at you yesterday, I told myself. Big deal. It wasn’t like you were in combat or raped or saw your family killed in a tornado, so suck it up.

  I lay in bed, knowing I wouldn’t be falling asleep again anytime soon, decided “to hell with it,” and flung the covers away. I made two cups of coffee, shaved, showered, dressed, slipped on a light jacket, and took the coffee to the chair in the center of the motel’s horseshoe. The sun rose across the great lake, tentatively at first and then with its full glory as if it intended to make the most of the day. I had to shield my eyes against the light.

  I slowly drained the coffee; the second cup was cool by the time I finished. I wasn’t in a hurry. I knew the first thing I was going to do and I was both sad and infuriated about it at the same time. Finally, like the sun, I decided it was best to get on with it.

  * * *

  I drove to the Cook County Law Enforcement Center. Eileen buzzed me inside. She looked as though she hadn’t slept well, either.

  “I heard what happened in Canada,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Why should you say anything?”

  She didn’t have an answer for that.

  “Is the boss in?” I asked.

  “He’s…”

  “He’s what?”

  “Upset.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  I heard Sheriff Bowland’s voice growling from his office. “McKenzie, is that you?”

  “Yeah.”

  I started toward the open doorway even before the sheriff said, “Come here.”

  I didn’t bother to knock, but slid inside the office, stopping in front of the sheriff’s desk. Unlike Eileen, he did look like he had slept—in his clothes, in his chair. His face was unshaven and his hair was tousled; his eyes were filled with regret. He looked like he was a thousand years old.

  “Sit,” he said.

  I sat.

  “You want anything? Coffee?”

  “No.”

  The sheriff took a sip from his mug and I wondered briefly if there was another substance mixed in with the black liquid besides caffeine.

  “I screwed up and I feel sick about it,” he said.

  I heard what sounded like a shoe scraping across the floor just outside the sheriff’s door, yet didn’t turn my head to look.

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “I screwed up.”

  “You said that.”

  “I thought it was far more complicated working with Canada than it is. I had my staff look into it a couple years ago for something that had nothing to do with the burglaries and I was told that it required untangling a giant ball of red tape and since we couldn’t prosecute Americans for crimes committed in Canada and they couldn’t prosecute Canadians for crimes committed here it wasn’t worth the aggravation.”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “It sounds implausible.”

  “It’s true, though,” a female’s voice said.

  I turned in my seat to look at the woman standing in the doorway.

  “Eileen,” the sheriff said.

  “It was me,” she said. “I thought he was talking about extradition, which is really, really complicated and I gave him the wrong information. It was never corrected because we never had any dealings with Canada since then.”

  “Eileen,” the sheriff repeated.

  “It’s true. Bill, tell him.”

  Bill? my inner voice said.

  “Eileen,” Bowland said yet again. “This is a private conversation.”

  “Tell him.”

  “I’m the sheriff. It’s my responsibility.”

  I turned back in my seat to face the sheriff.

  “She’s loyal,” I said.

  “Yes. A good woman.”

  “Still sounds implausible.”

  “McKenzie,” Eileen said, “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wrong. McKenzie, you are so wrong.”

  I spoke without looking at her. “What am I thinking?”

  “That Bill was somehow involved with Eddie Curtis and the others. He wasn’t. He’s a good man.”

  A good man and a good woman—no doubt about it.

  “No, that’s not what I was thinking,” I said aloud. I continued to stare at Sheriff Bowland. “I was angry earlier because I thought that only two people knew I was traveling to Canada and why, both of them cops. I was angry because I decided one of them must have given me up to Eddie and his pals. A cop going bad—maybe it’s because I was a cop once that along with angry I also felt nauseous. Seeing you this morning, though, reminded me—there was a third.”

  I turned in my seat again to face Eileen. There were tears in her eyes and she was gripping the door frame as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.

  “Tell me about this,” Bowland said.

  “Eddie…”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s not coming back, is he?”

  “Eventually,” I said. “In about a decade or so.”

  Eileen lurched forward; she used the back of my chair to keep from hitting the floor. I got out of the chair and helped her into it.

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “I honestly didn’t know. About the burglaries. About anything. I thought he liked me.”

  Geezus, my inner voice said. What is it about Grand Marais women sleeping with younger guys? Is there something in the water? They should bottle it.

  “I want to know,” the sheriff said, although he sounded like he really didn’t. “Eileen, tell me.”

  “We would talk. He would tell me about the reservation and funny things that came out of the casino. I would tell him about—about the office. What we were—what you were doing about the burglaries and things. It seemed … harmless. Two people talking about their jobs. The other night, though, I told him about McKenzie and Canada. I saw how upset it made him. I knew, well, I didn’t know, but I should have. I should have known. I should have—I should have told someone, told you, I should have … I was afraid. I was stupid. I was … When I heard what happened … I’m sorry, Bill. I am so, so sorry.”

  She broke down. I watched her do it. So did the sheriff. Neither of us did or said anything to help her.

  Bowland drank more of his coffee. Minutes passed. He said “Eileen, shh.”

  I surprised myself when I rested my hands on her shuddering shoulders and leaned in so that I was speaking softly into her ear.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. Eddie has nothing to gain by offering to testify against his co-conspirators, by providing evidence in exchange for a plea deal. An American prosecutor might cut him some slack, but the crown counselor in Canada; he couldn’t care less about that, about anything that might have occurred on the wrong side of the border.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Legally, you have nothing to worry about.”

  I gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. That didn’
t stop Eileen’s tears, though. I stood away from her and addressed the sheriff.

  “Nobody died,” I said.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Your burglary ring is broken.”

  He had nothing to say to that, either.

  “There’s a chance that Montgomery hid the paintings somewhere other than his house and garage,” I said. “Or passed them off to a friend. It’s possible that he might have hid them with a friend without the friend even knowing. I want your permission to keep looking for them.”

  Bowland kept watching Eileen while sipping his coffee.

  “Sheriff,” I said.

  He nodded.

  I left.

  * * *

  I was surprised that the Blue Water Cafe was packed at seven thirty on a Friday morning; the hostess at the door told me there would be at least a twenty-minute wait. I don’t know why that made me so angry, yet it did. I was about to leave when I saw Jennica Mehren sitting alone at a table for two, playing with her phone, the remnants of a breakfast in front of her. I pointed and told the hostess, “My friend.”

  I went to the table. Jennica looked up from her cell. “Sweetie,” she said.

  Her smile made me smile.

  “May I join you?” I asked.

  “Please.”

  I sat. A waitress appeared with a menu. I ordered something called the Campfire Scrambler and coffee. The coffee wasn’t nearly as good as Eileen’s.

  “You’re up bright and early,” I said.

  “This isn’t early. At home I’d be getting ready for school. What hours do you keep?”

  “Late to bed, late to rise. Where are the boys?”

  Jennica set her phone aside.

  “Not my turn to watch them,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “They both invited me to breakfast, but I thought it would be nice to be without their company for a while. All that testosterone.”

  “They’re trying to impress you.”

  “I know.”

  “You could tell them to stop.”

  “This doesn’t happen to me so often that I’m sure I want them to stop. In fact, it’s never happened, two guys chasing me like this. It’s because I’m the only girl they know in Grand Marais, I get that. If we were in California or the Twin Cities, both of them would probably ignore me. I saw this movie once where they said that a woman who’s a six or seven in real life will be a ten in a war zone.”

  “Sweetie, you’d be a ten in any zone—eastern, central, mountain, twilight.”

  Jennica smiled brightly. It was enough to lighten my dour mood.

  “See,” she said. “Lines like that are the reason twenty-year-old girls sleep with fifty-year-old men.”

  “You think I’m fifty? You’re killing me, Jen.”

  “It’s okay, McKenzie. I’m sure you have a few good years left.”

  “Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.”

  “Where were you yesterday? I looked all over for you.”

  “I was in Canada.”

  “Because of the paintings?’

  “Yep.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Not on camera.”

  “Please, McKenzie.”

  “Nothing to tell, anyway. It’s what they call a dead end.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Do you want to go to Duluth with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “If you’re going…”

  “I want to talk to David Montgomery’s ex-wife.”

  “All right.”

  “Understand, you’re not going to film her. You are not going to talk to her. In fact, you’re not going to be there when I talk to her. I just thought you might enjoy the drive. Get out of Grand Marais for a while.”

  “We’re leaving Michael and Mitchell here, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Jennica smiled some more.

  “You know what they say,” she said. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “I’m sure they’ll miss you more than you’ll miss them.”

  * * *

  Jennica dropped her large and heavy backpack on the floor directly behind the front passenger seat of my Mustang. If she were attending college, I’d ask her what books she was carrying. Knowing her, though, I figured assorted recording equipment, so I didn’t ask.

  We chatted about this and that as we headed down the highway while listening to WTIP-FM, which billed itself as North Shore Community Radio. It had a very eclectic sound; the DJs played whatever interested them, which, apparently, included everyone and everything recorded during my misspent youth—Chaka Khan, B-52s, Marvin Gaye, Eric Clapton, Santana, the Kinks, Taj Mahal, Elvis Costello, Norah Jones. Jennica, of course, had never heard of any of them. Despite my shock and outrage at her lack of musical education, I started feeling like my old self.

  We had just passed Tofte when Jennica said, “We’re being followed.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  She stared at me like she couldn’t believe that I hadn’t seen what she had seen.

  “Blue Ford F-150 pickup truck,” Jennica said before reciting the vehicle’s license plate number. “Eight to ten car lengths back. It never gets closer and it never falls farther behind.”

  “Probably using cruise control, like I am. Jen, it picked us up when we passed through Lutsen, not Grand Marais. When we left GM we were clean.”

  Jennica wrapped her arms around herself, and rested her chin on her chest.

  “I like that you’re paying attention, though,” I said.

  She kept paying attention, too, until the F-150 peeled off the highway in Silver Bay.

  “How do you know this stuff?” Jennica asked.

  “Like anything else—education, experience, time.”

  “You sound like my father. What are you going to talk to Montgomery’s wife about?”

  “I want to ask if he gave her anything before he died. If she received any packages from him after he died.”

  “The paintings?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Think she’ll tell you?”

  “I usually know within thirty seconds how much cooperation I’m going to get. Older people are easier to talk to because they enjoy the attention. Women are the next easiest if you can demonstrate that you have a genuine interest in what they’re telling you. They’re also the most honest. Men will answer questions, but usually after making sure you know that they’re doing you a favor. Immigrants and minorities are the most suspicious because they know that whatever they say can be used against them—my experience anyway.”

  “It must be fun being a private eye.”

  “Sometimes it is. Yesterday sucked and so did this morning. Driving the North Shore with you at my side has made up for it, though.”

  Jennica thought that was awfully funny. She punched my arm.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Midwest charm. Both you and my father are loaded with it. You know what? When the time comes, I’m going to find a guy just like you two, even if I have to move to the Midwest to do it.”

  * * *

  I had called ahead. Jodine Montgomery agreed to meet me in the same room at the Duluth Art Institute where we spoke five days earlier. She was on the phone when I arrived so I spent a few minutes studying Eastman Johnson’s and Louise Wykoff’s sketches and paintings some more. I noticed that not only was the subject matter similar, so were the pencil and brushstrokes.

  “Good morning, Mr. McKenzie,” Jodine said after she hung up the phone. “What can I do for you?”

  I approached her desk at the same time that Jennica entered the exhibit hall. I was furious. I had told her to wait in the Mustang and she said she would. I might have said something to her, but I noticed she wasn’t carrying a camera so I let it slide. I didn’t want to spook Jodine.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you again,” I said.

  “It’s all r
ight.” Jodine shook my hand and seated herself behind her desk. “I’m starting to get past the shock. So is Jamie.”

  “About that—what I came to ask is if Montgomery gave you anything the week before he—before he passed?”

  “No.”

  “If he asked you to hang on to a package; if he stored something in your garage or basement or…”

  “No. You’re asking about the paintings, aren’t you? The ones they’re talking about on cable? No. I hadn’t seen him for at least three weeks before—before everything happened.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Jodine sighed as if she had heard that question before and was tired of it.

  “I’m sure,” she said.

  “You’re aware of the reward?” I asked. “You could get $250,000 to half a million.”

  “I’m aware, McKenzie. Believe me, if David had left those paintings with me, I would have cashed them in yesterday.”

  “That’s what I thought. I had to ask, though.”

  “I understand.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I left the exhibit and went to the elevator. I punched the down button. Jennica arrived before the elevator car.

  “I am so angry right now that I feel like leaving you here,” I said.

  “You won’t, though.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “You know, McKenzie, I have a job to do, too.”

  “Did you hear anything you can use in your film?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. At least you didn’t have a camera.”

  “Of course I did.”

  The elevator arrived, the doors opened and we stepped inside the car. When the doors closed, Jennica opened the top buttons on her shirt to reveal the ring of flower tattoos around her neck, a powder-blue lace bra, and a camera the size of a thumbtack.

  “The quality is amazing,” she said.

  “How often have you used that to film me?”

  “I haven’t yet. No, really, don’t give me that look. I picked it up just before we left the Twin Cities on Wednesday. This is the first chance I’ve had to use it. I just now grabbed it out of my backpack.”