by P. B. Ryan
I grinned.
Glancing down, I saw flecks of yellow paint on the ground circling my feet.
Mary sat closest to me and I could see the look of surprise on her face when she spotted the paint can. Blaze jumped out and, following the paint splotches, ran to the barn door. He was that same overripe tomato color I worried about. He didn’t say anything, just turned and walked quickly to the house, his fist clutching his chest.
“I can explain this,” I said to Mary when she got out of the car.
“Whatever possessed you to spray paint Blaze’s truck?” Mary asked, peering into the barn.
“I’m trying to get on Blaze’s good side,” I said. “I’m tired of squabbling with him and thought fixing his truck might help. It didn’t turn out quite like I expected, though.”
Mary covered her mouth with her hand, and I could see the beginning of a smile under it.
“That’s so nice of you,” Mary said. She walked around the truck with me, checking out my work. “I’d invite you in for coffee,” she said, “but let’s give Blaze some time to adjust to the change.”
“That’s okay. We all know he’s high-strung. I’ll take a rain check.”
I practically flew out of there even without wings.
o0o
While I was pulling off my boots on the hall rug, the telephone rang. It rang four times before I got the boots off and could pick up the receiver.
“Better keep your nose in your own backyard,” a voice said. “Unless you’re looking to have it cut off.”
“Who is this?”
I had to wait for an answer because the caller went into a coughing jag—dry, racking coughs only smoking several tons of cigarettes can produce.
“Better pay attention,” he hacked. “You ain’t getting another chance. Next time, you’ll be swimming with the fishes.”
“You must have the wrong number,” I said, and hung up the phone with a shaking hand.
o0o
I went over the conversation in my head about a million times before I called Cora Mae.
“Settle down,” she said. “It was only a crank call.”
“The mobs after me.”
“The mob?”
“Who else would threaten to throw me to the fishes. Only gangsters talk like that.”
“Someone’s acting tough. There aren’t any gangs in the U.P. This isn’t Detroit.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “My nerves aren’t as good as they used to be.”
My understatement for the day.
o0o
I’m convinced the section of the Escanaba River that flows near Perkins is the most beautiful spot in the world. It’s hidden from the road so finding it isn’t easy if you don’t know where to look. I parked the truck by the side of the guardrail, walked over to the top of the path, and peered down. What a sight to behold!
From my position high above the riverbed, angular rocks sprouted up in the river, waterfalls cascaded down steep banks on both sides, and as far as I looked in every direction, there wasn’t a human being to be seen.
I crawled down a steep embankment, clutching small tree branches and brush to slow my descent. Soon I was standing next to the rushing water of the great trout river.
Barney fished for trout with a simple rod and reel and a spinner; he didn’t need a fancy fly outfit. We pan-fried rainbows and brown trout several times each week from the time the kids were little until Barney passed on last year. Trout fishing was his favorite thing to do.
The Escanaba River appears to be shallow. I’ve walked out to the middle in spots, sometimes even crossed over to the other side, being very careful. But the rocks are slippery, the current is fast, and the drop-offs are invisible.
Barney wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last to make a false step and pay the price to the Escanaba River.
I hadn’t been back to this spot for years, but in my younger days he and I stood together in waders knee-high in the cold water with the current sweeping past our legs, casting high and wide, the lines glistening in the rising sun, and there wasn’t anything better in the whole wide world.
Sitting on a flat rock on the side of the river, I talked to Barney. All the while, I had the feeling that he was watching me, looking down from above. I searched the sky. Nothing but clouds.
I explained to Barney that it was taking me a great deal of time to adjust to the idea that he was gone, and now with this phone conversation, things weren’t going so well, and he should give me a sign that things would be okay. Any sign would do.
I sat waiting a long time, but no sign came, although I still felt a watchful gaze upon me.
As I struggled up the steep slope, I heard a car door slam, and as I crested the hill, I spotted the backend of a magenta-colored sedan round the bend and disappear.
o0o
When I returned home, Carl and Little Donny had finished hunting for the day and invited me for a quick one. We piled into what was left of Carl’s station wagon and headed over to Herb’s Bar. By this time I needed a quick one the size of a gallon pitcher.
I glanced around the interior of Carl’s car. It needed work after the deer attack, but Little Donny had agreed to pay for the damage without involving the insurance company. That way Carl’s insurance premiums wouldn’t go up and it kept Carl happy.
Herb’s Bar is the only bar within twenty square miles and is owned by Star’s twins, Ed and Red. I can’t say why the bar was ever called Herb’s because, thinking back, no one with the name of Herb ever owned it, at least not in my time.
When Little Donny opened the door, the whole place quieted down. You could have heard a nickel drop behind the bar. That’s small town life in the U.P. Everyone stopped talking and turned to see who was coming in. Nobody called out a greeting until they looked past Little Donny and saw Carl and me. By the time Carl shut the door, everybody was back to his own business.
The place sure was hopping. Carl found one bar stool at the far end of the bar and helped me onto it. We had to wait a few minutes until Red worked his way down to us. Little Donny and Carl ordered tap beer. I settled for a soda pop.
The twins looked exactly alike from the day they were born, and still do. The only thing that saves me from total confusion is their hair. Once the baby hair fell out, Ed’s came in chestnut-colored like the horse I had my eye on long ago. Red’s came in the color of fresh-pulled carrots. His birth name was Ned, but we just naturally started calling him Red, and the name stuck. A lot of discussion ensued about where that red hair came from, but if I recall right, my own German Nana had fiery red hair.
The twins are in their early twenties, slender like marsh reeds, and are handsome pups. They share a two-bedroom apartment above the bar, and I hear they’re hot with the local girls. They’re hard workers though—have to give them credit where credit’s due. Finns and Swedes admire hard workers.
“Sorry we had to miss dinner the other night,” Red shouted over the noise, “but since hunting season started, we’ve been working ‘round the clock.”
“You missed Chester’s funeral yesterday,” I shouted back. “I’m investigating his death, you know.”
Before Red could reply an out-of-town hunter stomped his empty glass on the counter and Red hurried away.
Carl, Little Donny, and I toasted to Little Donny’s future hunting success, which I was losing faith in, and we downed our drinks.
I’d never seen Herb’s Bar so busy. Every hunter from across the county must be pounding them back tonight. My eyes swept up and down the bar. I turned to the tables and studied each of the hunters sitting down.
Then I remembered the threatening phone call and the smoker’s cough. Was he in here right this minute—and which one would he be? Was Chester’s killer sitting right next to me while I sipped my pop?
I lifted my glass to my lips and locked eyes with a grubby-looking guy at the other end of the bar, which wasn’t anything unusual. Most of the hunters in Herb’s are grubby. Part of t
he attraction of hunting for the men is the length of time they get to go between showers and shaves. Being a dirtball is expected and welcome behavior.
Only this guy was different. He looked like he should be on the Most Wanted list at the post office. In some ways he looked pretty much like everyone else in the bar—scruffy, several days’ growth on his face, greasy unwashed hair poking out of a dirty gray ball cap. The difference was in his eyes. They radiated pure evil, cold and hateful, and they were glaring right at me.
I looked away first and shivered. Suddenly, I felt cold.
“Who’s that guy at the end of the bar?” I said to Ed when I was sure he wasn’t watching.
Ed shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Is he from around here?”
“Don’t think so. I’ve only seen him this week.”
I glanced across the bar and watched him paying up with Red. He looked back at me one last time before leaving. A cigarette dangled from his lips.
o0o
Cora Mae opened her front door after I crawled out of my truck. She had a cup of coffee in her hand.
“You won’t sleep tonight,” I warned, refusing a cup.
“What brings you by so late?”
I told my best friend about the car following me at the river and about the sinister man at the bar. “He stared me down.”
“You mean he won.”
“I had to look away. He gave me the creeps.” I shivered, thinking about it.
“Did you recognize the car?”
“No. Who around here owns a purple car?”
“Nobody that I know.” Cora Mae sipped her coffee. “We’ll keep a lookout. By the way, Kitty stopped by earlier. She brought over an application.”
“An application for what?”
“She’s applying for a job with us as an investigator.”
“This is a nonpaying job. Does she know that?”
“I told her we couldn’t pay her, and she said that’s okay. Her unemployment will start up in a little while and she’s getting ready for her rummage sale. She says this job has future monetary possibilities like one of those new stock market companies. An IOP.”
“It’s IPO, Cora Mae—initial public offering.”
I picked up Kitty’s résumé, which was lying on the table. It was neatly typed but the ink was faded and the corners were crumpled.
“She said it needs updating,” Cora Mae explained.
“I’ll say.” I noted her height at five-foot-four and her weight at one hundred and thirty-two pounds. “First off, no one puts their height and weight on a job application, and second off, Kitty hasn’t weighed one hundred and thirty-two pounds since she was four years old. What do you think about working with her?”
“Doesn’t matter to me. The business was your idea and you can run it any way you want. There’s something about her that bothers me, though, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“She stands too close when she’s talking to you?” I guessed.
“That’s it! That’s exactly it.”
Kitty hovers about a foot closer to your face than you really feel comfortable with, and backing up doesn’t do a bit of good; she follows right over. Her comfort zone is way different than the rest of the world’s.
Cora Mae shrugged. “She says she’d be an asset.”
“I don’t like the idea at all,” I said.
“Well, she said think about it.”
I thought about it for two seconds. Life was complicated enough without Kitty in the mix. I had my hands full with my own family, especially Blaze and Grandma Johnson.
And with whoever was following and threatening me.
Chapter 6
Word For The Day
MALAISE (ma LAYZ) n.
A vague feeling of physical discomfort
or uneasiness.
MOST OF THE SNOW had melted on Saturday, but by Sunday morning a cold snap settled in and the remaining snow turned to ice. I wrapped a scarf around my face and started the truck. The ice on the windshield peeled off in sheets under the blade of my scraper.
I hustled inside and while the truck warmed up, I called Blaze.
“I want you to stop this court thing right now,” I said without bothering with any small talk first. “I’m a busy woman. I don’t have time for this.”
“I tried to talk to you, but talking to you is like talking to a cement truck.”
“If you ever had anything interesting to say, I might listen.”
Blaze dropped his voice to a soothing level like he was talking to a child or to someone who is deranged. He sounded patronizing and false. “You haven’t been yourself since Pa died. I’m worried about you and just want to help.”
“So you want a court to say I’m incompetent to manage my own affairs and that I’m a danger to society. That’s how you want to help?”
“Be reasonable,” he said. “You run around thinking everyone’s been murdered, you spray painted my truck yellow, and—and this is the best one—the bank says you took all the money you and pa saved out of the bank in a paper bag. Where’s all the money, ma?”
“None of your business.”
“If you tell me where the money is and let me help you manage it, I’ll drop the hearing.”
“See you in court,” I said before slamming down the receiver.
o0o
Cora Mae came out to the truck when I pulled up. She had on a black pillbox hat and dangly black earrings. She was wrapped in black fake fur.
I looked her over. I wore snow bibs under my hunting jacket, Blue Blockers to cut the glare of winter sun on snow, my hunting cap with the flaps down, and snowmobile mittens.
“This isn’t church we’re going to,” I said. “You never know where an investigator’s work will take her. We might have to track someone through the woods where a near-sighted hunter is going to think you’re a bear. That’ll be the end of you.”
“I always dress up to go calling.” Cora Mae looked me over. “And it wouldn’t hurt you once in a while. We talked about the way you dress yesterday. If you want to make a good impression in court, you better change your attire soon.”
I decided not to tell her about my conversation with Blaze. My best friend might agree with him.
We drove over to the far side of Stonely without incident, unless you count the dip into the ditch when I over-steered and lost control pulling onto Crevit Road.
I backed easily, if not exactly straight, out of the ditch and glanced at Cora Mae. She straightened her pillbox hat and cleared her throat. “That was a tricky corner,” she said.
We pulled up in front of a house shingled with asphalt roofing tiles that were peeling loose. A Toyota sat in the driveway, which I figured must belong to Barb, since no one from around here would ever buy a foreign car. Detroit’s reputation as the capital of car country has nothing to do with it. It’s leftover bad feelings from World War II. Stonely folks drive Fords, sometimes GMs, but never a Japanese car or a German car. Grandma Johnson says, “Remember Pearl Harbor?” She checks labels and tags before buying clothes so she doesn’t accidentally buy something made in Japan. “Remember Hitler? No one in this family better ever buy a Kraut car,” she says.
She always looks me straight in the eye when she talks about Hitler, like he was my fault. At least she hasn’t called me a Kraut right to my face. Although she serves me sauerkraut ever chance she gets.
Barb answered the door in a pink robe, her hair uncombed and make-up smeared around the bottom of her eyes. She woke up fast when she recognized me.
“Yes?” Her tone sounded suspicious, her speech thick and slow in that Southern manner.
“We came to pay our respects,” I said, waving to include Cora Mae.
Barb eyed Cora Mae up and down, and Cora Mae eyed her back, and I could feel the sparks boomeranging and whizzing overhead.
“Well, you’ve paid them,” she said and began to close the door.
I stuck my boot in the doorjamb and said, “Wait a
minute, there. We need to ask Bill a few questions.”
Barb leaned on the door, trying to close it. “Like what kind of questions?”
“I’m investigating his father’s murder. I need his help.”
Barb opened the door, and caught off-guard, I almost fell in. She wrapped her fist around my arm and squeezed, and I could feel the muscle in her grip, her surprising strength.
“Listen, you busybody,” she said. “Get off my porch and don’t come back.”
“Or what?” I asked. It appeared to me that I was being threatened, a daily occurrence lately. Barb’s throaty voice reminded me of a smoker. I sniffed her robe and thought I detected stale smoke.
“Or I’ll call Sheriff Johnson to come and get you.” Barb still had a grip on my arm. She twisted it, forcing me to step back out on the porch. I hoped I wouldn’t embarrass myself by dropping to my knees in submission.
“What’s the trouble?” I heard from inside the house.
“Nothing at all. Just a saleswoman and she’s leaving.” Barb released my arm.
“Bill,” I called out. “I’d like to have a word with you.”
“I’m calling the sheriff.” And Barb shut the door.
“Did you see that?” I said to Cora Mae when we were back in the truck. “She assaulted me. And where were you when I needed help?”
“You looked like you were handling things just fine.”
“You’re kidding right? She almost broke my arm while you stood there watching.”
“I can’t believe you stuck your foot in the door like that,” Cora Mae said. “That was aggressive behavior, exactly what you’re supposed to be working on controlling. I’m just pointing it out to you.”
“Cora Mae, an investigator has to do what needs to be done.”
“Just pointing it out.”
o0o
We had time to kill, since our visit with the Lampis was cut short. Cora Mae wanted to go to the cemetery to check on the graves of her three dead husbands, all buried in a family plot Cora Mae bought right before husband number one hit the dirt. She bought four plots, thinking maybe they would have children and eventually might like to be buried together. One big happy family.
