Dead Man's Mistress

by David Housewright

  “Well, put it away.”

  She said she would, and then laughed when I made her do it in front of me.

  “Wow,” she said. “You’d think you didn’t trust me all of a sudden.”

  “Would it help if I bought you pie?”

  Jennica said it would, so we stopped at Betty’s Pies. She had French silk and I had apple crunch. We remained on good terms during the drive back to Grand Marias. That changed at about twelve thirty when I tossed her out of the Mustang in front of the Northern Lights Art Gallery.

  “What are you doing?” Jennica wanted to know.

  “Did you think I adopted you?”

  I circled the car and opened her door.

  “C’mon, McKenzie.”

  “Out.”

  Jennica slid out of the car, but she wasn’t happy about it. I grabbed her backpack from behind the seat and set it on the sidewalk next to her. Peg Younghans slipped out of the door of the art gallery just as Jennica picked it up and slung it over her shoulder.

  “Let me go with you,” she said.

  “Nope.”

  “McKenzie, you are such an asshole.”

  “Hey, hey, hey, young lady—language.”

  I recircled my car and opened the driver’s side door.

  “What did he do?” Peg asked.

  “Nothing,” Jennica said. “Not a damn thing.”

  I slipped inside the Mustang and drove off. Jennica stomped off in the opposite direction. Peg didn’t know which one of us to watch.

  * * *

  Ardina Curtis was not happy. Before the door to the Grand Portage Art Gallery even closed behind me she sprung to her feet from the swivel chair behind her desk and shouted, “What do you want?”

  “I want to ask you about—”

  “Get out.”

  “About David Montgomery.”

  “He was part of it, wasn’t he? He was a part of what Eddie and his friends were doing.”

  “A small part.”

  “Now he’s dead and Eddie needs money for an attorney. What were they thinking?”

  “Did Montgomery give you—”

  “Nothing. He didn’t give me a damn thing that I couldn’t live without.”

  “Did he have access to a shed or a garage—”

  “Get out of here, McKenzie.”

  “Ardina, I’m sorry, but—”

  “You don’t care about David. You don’t care about Eddie. Or me. Or anybody. All you care about is those damn paintings. If I had them, I sure as hell wouldn’t give them to you. I’d give them to—to—I’d give them to Louise.”

  “There’s a reward…”

  “Everything that’s happened—it’s your fault. This is all your fault, McKenzie.”

  “Ardina—”

  “Get out, get out, get out…”

  Ardina sat down, a fighter collapsing in her corner. I left her there.

  * * *

  I leaned against the reference desk of the Grand Marais Public Library like it was a bar, wishing it were a bar and I was drinking bourbon. Doris Greyson was working with a patron. When she finished she sighed like having to talk to me was a huge imposition. The boys at Mark’s Wheel-Inn an hour earlier had displayed pretty much the same attitude. They had nothing more to say to me than Ardina Curtis had.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. McKenzie?” Greyson asked.

  “I have more questions about David Montgomery.”

  “Like what?”

  “The Tuesday evening you last saw him, did he give you something to hold for him? A package?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a garage or a shed, something he might have used without your knowledge?”

  “No. McKenzie, does this have anything to do with Eddie Curtis and his friends? The whole town is abuzz with what happened to them in Canada.”

  “What happened to them in Canada?”

  “Sheriff Bowland found out they were behind the burglary ring that the News-Herald reported on and that they were selling stolen goods in Thunder Bay. He told the Mounties or somebody and they arrested them. Apparently, shots were fired so now Eddie and the others are in even bigger trouble than just selling stolen property.”

  “Who told you that?” I asked.

  “I heard it from the woman who just left who heard it from a man who was speaking this morning with a deputy. Peter Wurzer, is that his name?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Did David have anything to do with that?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “It was a big deal about the McInnis paintings; Grand Marais received so much publicity. Now this. You have to wonder what the place is coming to.”

  * * *

  “You’ve made quite an impression on Peg Younghans,” Leah Huddleston said.

  We were standing in the center of Northern Lights in front of a wall where she had hung two new Louise Wykoff paintings to replace those she had already sold.

  “How so?” I asked.

  “She said she saw you dump a young woman on the street…”

  “I didn’t dump her. I would have dropped Jennica off at her motel except for the traffic.”

  “Anyway, Peg said she thought you were a nice guy and now she thinks you’re like every man she’s ever met.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re a jerk.”

  “It’s been that sort of day.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I came to offer you a quarter of a million dollars for the safe return of the McInnis paintings, no questions asked.”

  “You are a jerk, aren’t you?”

  “Seems to be the majority opinion.”

  “Besides, I heard the reward was now half a million.”

  “The man who’s offering it isn’t necessarily trustworthy. Leah, I mean no disrespect. I just want you to know that if you hear anything…”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Although, I’ve been thinking about it ever since we spoke last Sunday. Getting my hands on those paintings—it would be like winning the lottery, wouldn’t it?”

  “I read somewhere that most people who win the lottery come to regret it.”

  “Yet we keep buying tickets, don’t we?”

  * * *

  Once again I had parked near the Dairy Queen. I retrieved my Mustang and turned onto Highway 61. I drove about three hundred yards before I was stopped by the Cook County Sheriff’s Department. I watched Deputy Wurzer in my rearview as he carelessly approached my vehicle. I rolled down the window.

  “License and proof of insurance,” he said.

  “Ah, c’mon.”

  “Don’t worry, McKenzie. I’m just messing with you.”

  “Why? Are you bored?”

  “I just left the Law Enforcement Center. Sheriff Bowland seems awfully depressed for a local hero.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Haven’t you heard? He single-handedly smashed a major crime spree. Not only that, he managed it in such a way that all of the suspects were arrested in Canada so we don’t have to foot the bill for a long trial and imprisonment. The county commissioners are ready to declare Sheriff Bowland Day.”

  “What I heard, there’s a deputy running around spreading the good news, trying to make the sheriff look like a star.”

  “You have a problem with that, McKenzie?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “This thing about the sheriff being depressed, though. It could be because he found out that the woman he’s been sleeping with was sleeping with someone else.”

  “Ah, dammit Eileen.”

  “I wouldn’t want that to get around, though. A relationship between employer and employee and such, citizens might get the wrong idea, think it was nonconsensual or something. Once they started looking into it, who knows what other crap might come out.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Whaddaya know? We’re actually
on the same page for a change.”

  “Who woulda thunk it?”

  “Because you’re being so cooperative, I thought I’d tell you—your close friends with the BCA? I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they decided that Montgomery killed himself after all, ruled his death was a suicide.”

  “Sure they did. What do you think?”

  “I think you have no more reason to hang around, do you, McKenzie?”

  “Are you telling me to get out of town, Deputy?”

  “I don’t have the authority. Besides, that would be a badge-heavy thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

  “It’s possible I might have misjudged you, Peter.”

  “Go fuck yourself, McKenzie.”

  * * *

  I briefed Louise Wykoff about my day, ending with “I don’t know what else to do.”

  She spoke adamantly. “Search the woods around his house,” she said. “He could have hidden the paintings in the woods.”

  “Louise…”

  “He could have put them in a box or wrapped them in a waterproof tarp or something.”

  “That’s really unlikely.”

  “He could have.”

  “I guess.”

  I would’ve said more except my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number. Normally, that was reason enough to swipe left. The call had a 612 area code, though—Minneapolis—so I excused myself, turned my back on Louise, and swiped right.

  “This is McKenzie,” I said.

  “McKenzie. This is Dave Wicker.”

  “El Cid. What is it?”

  “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, McKenzie, because mostly I hate your guts and threatening me like you did pisses me off more than I can say, but maybe I owe that dumb cop something, so…”

  “What are you telling me?”

  “It’s about the McInnis paintings. I heard murmurs. Well, more than murmurs.”

  “What murmurs?”

  “There’s going to be an auction.”

  “Someone’s going to auction off the missing Scenes from an Inland Sea?”

  Louise heard me and moved quickly to my side.

  “Yes,” Cid said.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t have a name. If I did, I wouldn’t give it to you. There are rules.”

  “Fair enough. When? When is the auction?”

  “A couple of days. I don’t think they’ve set an exact time yet. I can find out if you’re interested.”

  “I’m very interested.”

  “Is this going to square us, McKenzie? You gonna get off my case?”

  “This will square us.”

  “I’ll do what I can for you, then—this one and only time. Understood?”

  “Understood. Cid, do you know where the auction is going to be held?”

  “Canada.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “Quebec City,” I said.

  “Are you sure your information is good?” Mary Ann McInnis asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not,” Louise said. “It can’t be.”

  We were in Mary Ann’s house on Sunday afternoon. I was seated at the bar and sipping a Summit EPA. Mary Ann was behind the bar and drinking the same, except that the label on her bottle had been shredded. Louise was seated in a stuffed mohair chair with hand-carved maple arms. She had declined all offers of refreshment, even tea. Mitchell McInnis hovered near her side and attempted to make small talk, only Louise had nothing to say to him.

  “You’re basing this assertion on what exactly?” Mary Ann asked.

  “This claim that they’re going to auction off the paintings,” Louise said. “It’s no different than what those people who keep calling McKenzie’s burn phone are saying. Give us the money and we’ll give you the paintings. It’s a lie.”

  “That sounds like wishful thinking to me.”

  “It’s a lie.”

  “She might be right,” I said.

  “Unfortunately, the only way to know for sure is to go up there and look,” Mary Ann said.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Fine, you fly to Quebec,” Louise said. “But I’m not going with.”

  “Who asked you to?” Mary Ann said. “I don’t even know why you’re here. Why is she here, McKenzie?”

  “Because they’re my paintings,” Louise said.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Randolph gave them to me.”

  “And you lost them.”

  “I didn’t lose them. They were stolen.”

  “That’s the only thing about this sorry affair that makes me smile.”

  “You’re just angry because Randolph loved me and not you.”

  “Louise, dear, do you want to have that conversation now? Is that what you’re asking?”

  Louise didn’t reply.

  Mary Ann finished her beer and set the bottle none-too-gently on the bar.

  Mitchell McInnis held up his smartphone for everyone to see.

  “He’s late,” he said.

  “I know he’s late,” Mary Ann said. “Did you honestly think that Flonta was going to be on time? Assholes like him always keep you waiting at least twenty minutes. It’s how they prove they’re important. Do you want another beer, McKenzie?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Louise? No, of course not. What was I thinking?”

  “I’d like a beer,” Mitchell said.

  “Suddenly I’m your maid? Get it yourself.”

  Mary Ann set another Summit in front of me. She found one for herself, too. Her fingernail began jabbing at the label. She stopped and looked at her hand as if it were the first time she’d seen it.

  “What the hell am I doing?” she asked no one in particular.

  Minutes passed. I flinched when four bells began chiming the Westminster Quarters. Mitchell went to the front entrance as if he was expecting an important package. The door was opened and Bruce Flonta stepped inside along with Michael Alden, who supported the old man’s arm, plus Jeffery and Jennica Mehren.

  Mary Ann spoke quietly so that only Louise and I could hear. “Jesus Christ, the man travels with an entourage.” More loudly she said, “Did you get lost, Bruce?”

  Flonta and his followers moved closer to the bar. He leaned on his cane and smiled.

  “Did I keep you waiting?” he asked.

  “Not at all. It gave us time to talk about you behind your back. The consensus is that you’re a devious prick.”

  “It’s good to meet you again, M. A., after all these years. Ms. Wykoff, I am pleased to see that age has done you no harm whatsoever.”

  Louise acted as if she hadn’t heard the compliment and instead watched nervously as if a group of rowdy strangers had unexpectedly walked into the room where she was sitting.

  “May I introduce my associates?” Flonta said. “My personal assistant, Mr. Alden.”

  Alden moved forward and offered Mary Ann his hand. She looked him up and down like he was contagious. He stepped back.

  “You know Mr. Mehren, of course,” Flonta said.

  Mehren bowed his head. “M. A.,” he said. “Ms. Wykoff. It’s always a pleasure.”

  “What?” Mary Ann said. “No cameras?”

  “Mr. Flonta prefers that this meeting remain unfilmed,” Mehren said.

  “We always do what Mr. Flonta prefers, don’t we?”

  “This handsome young lady is Jennica Mehren,” Flonta said.

  “Mitchell was right; you are a nice piece of ass.”

  “M. A.,” Mitchell said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Mary Ann said. “Did I misquote you?”

  Jennica’s slight smile and gentle shrug told me two things. One, that she had enormous self-control. Two, Mitchell was dead to her now and forever.

  He seemed to know it, too.

  “Jennica,” he told her. “I never said that. You have to believe me.”

  Only Jennica wasn’t listening to him. Instead, she gave all of her attention to Mary Ann, who beckoned for the young wo
man to move closer. When she did, Mary Ann leaned over the bar and whispered into Jennica’s ear. She spoke for a good thirty seconds. Whatever was said seemed to confuse the young woman. It was as if Jennica was receiving important information, yet had no idea what to do with it.

  Mary Ann stepped back and patted Jennica’s arm.

  “May I offer you something?” Mary Ann said. “Beer? I have wine.”

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  “You are very pretty.”

  Jennica smiled slightly again and tilted her head as she stared at Mitchell. He appeared uncomfortable beneath her gaze.

  Mehren was also unsettled, yet like his daughter was able to rein in his emotions. He was angry over what M. A. had said to Jennica, yet seemed to understand that there was something more to it. Instead of reacting, he did what I was doing—waited for the next shoe to drop.

  Jennica pointed her jaw at me.

  “Hello, sweetie,” she said.

  “Jen.”

  I tapped the center of my chest as unobtrusively as possible. She smiled some more and vibrated her head slightly side to side. I don’t know why I was sure that meant she wasn’t filming us, yet I was.

  “You”—Mary Ann waved her beer bottle at the men in the room—“may all fend for yourselves.”

  “Still as charming as ever, M. A.,” Flonta said. “Now stop wasting my time and explain why you brought me here.”

  “McKenzie, you have the floor.”

  I revealed the content of my phone calls with El Cid and what I proposed doing about it. I finished by saying, “Understand, we are engaging in a criminal conspiracy. We are planning to travel to a foreign country, acquire stolen property, and return it to the United States. I have no idea how many felonies that amounts to. I’m guessing it’s a lot.”

  “You mean we could all go to jail?” Alden said.

  “At my age it’s fun to try new things,” Mary Ann said.

  “But they’re my paintings,” Louise Wykoff said.

  “No,” Flonta said. “They belong to the highest bidder, which raises the question—exactly what return am I supposed to realize for supplying half the money for the auction? One—count ’em—one canvas? Plus, I won’t be allowed to choose which canvas? No, no, no. That is unacceptable. Give me one reason, M. A., why I shouldn’t just buy them all myself?”