by P. B. Ryan
Kitty came over early to help with the investigation. With the narrowing focus on Barb and Bill, I gave her a list of phone calls to make and places to visit, and expected it would keep her busy all day.
I wrote my word for the day on a scrap of paper and wondered how I was going to incorporate this one into a normal conversation.
“What are you doing?” Kitty said, eyeing the dictionary.
“Nothing.” I balled the paper in my hand.
“We’ll make the phone calls later,” Cora Mae said to Kitty. “Let’s go.”
Kitty, reluctant to leave me alone, refused to leave until I reminded her that she had backup. “Little Donny is on his way over. He’ll protect me today.”
At eight-thirty A.M. Little Donny appeared at the door, a grumpy look on his face. “How am I going to get any hunting done if I have to follow you around all day?”
I glanced at my watch. “You could have had two hours of hunting in before you came over here. You’re going to have to reset your internal clock.”
“I have to go home tomorrow. Mom called last night to tell me I had a response on one of my job applications. First thing Monday morning, I have an interview.” Little Donny didn’t appear to be jumping with joy.
“Come on. I’ll buy you breakfast.” I didn’t want to think about him leaving.
We drove over to the Deer Horn Café, Stonely’s one and only restaurant. The local boys like to hang out there every morning, and I decided to see what the current scuttlebutt might be.
As we drove up, I noticed the train had stopped on the tracks across from the restaurant with its headlight still on. That meant Otis Knutson was paying a visit. He passed by every week, driving his train to Lower Michigan and always ground her to a halt at the Deer Horn to say howdy.
George sat at a table with Carl Anderson and Otis.
“If you don’t ask to borrow my car no more,” Carl said to Little Donny, “you two can sit with us.”
Everybody thought that was funny. It doesn’t take much to get Finns and Swedes going. Their favorite game is mine’s-bigger-than-yours. In the spring when the trout are running in the Escanaba River, it’s my trout is bigger than yours. In the summer, it’s my tomatoes are bigger than yours, and of course, in the late fall during hunting season, it’s my buck is bigger than yours. It’s the same old story, year in, year out, and it seems that everyone is in on the competition.
Carl won the my-tomato-is-bigger-than-yours last year, but he’s still trying to live down the practical joke he fell for. George drove into Escanaba and picked out a big store-bought watermelon and tucked it into Carl’s watermelon patch. Carl came flying into the restaurant all out of breath and bragging about the size of his watermelon. Only a fool would believe a watermelon could be full-grown ripe by the first of July, especially in Upper Michigan. They had a good time with that one.
“Who’s got the biggest buck so far?” Otis asked.
“I got one has sixteen points and weighs a good two hundred pounds,” Carl said.
“In your dreams, you B.S.’er.” George joined in, rocking back on his chair and hooting.
“Big Buck’s still running loose,” Carl said, digging a toothpick in his teeth. “Eighteen points. Someone saw him yesterday, but he stayed on the edge of the woods. Wouldn’t come in close enough for a shot. He didn’t grow to get a rack like that by being stupid, ya know.”
I ordered eggs over easy, bacon, and American fries. Little Donny wanted the same.
“I’m heading home tomorrow,” Little Donny said to George. “I thought I might help you finish the hole in Granny’s barn first.”
“Sure,” George said. “I’ll stop home and get my tools. We can work on it right after I fix Cora Mae’s fence.”
I made a mental note to help Cora Mae break her fence right away. In all the excitement last night, she probably forgot. “She’s out running errands with Kitty,” I said.
“That’s all right,” George assured me. “She doesn’t need to be home for me to fix it.”
“Cora Mae doesn’t like it when people come around when she’s not there,” I punted. “Better leave it for another day.”
Otis had on his conductor hat with the pinstripes. He was born and raised in Trenary, making him homegrown, like most of the boys in the restaurant. I looked around. Not a woman in the bunch except me, and Ruthie, the owner, slaving in the back over the kitchen stove.
She brought our orders and refilled everyone’s coffee cups. Wisps of hair had escaped from her bun and stuck to the sweat on her face. Seeing her reminded me of something.
“Ruthie,” I said, squirting ketchup on my American fries, “remember last spring, those Lower Michigan fellows were in here trying to buy up land?”
“Ya, Gert, and nobody gave them the time of day.”
Otis adjusted his conductor hat. “I was in here, too,” he said. “Bunch a scary-looking characters.”
“Have any of them been hanging around lately?” I asked, not addressing anyone in particular.
Carl shook his head. “Don’t want no goof-ball survivalists movin’ in here,” he said. Carl owns more weapons than anyone around, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has some of them buried to keep them safe from theft and the federal government. I wondered what his definition of “survivalist” was.
“Walt Laakso was friendly with them,” George said, “until everyone ganged up and talked some sense into him.”
Checking his watch, Otis jumped up. “Holy cow, look at the time. I gotta run.”
We heard a long steady toot on the train horn as the boxcars rattled into motion and chugged away.
I glanced up and saw George studying me. He always looked like he could see right into my brain and figure out what I was up to.
“What?” I asked him when he kept staring at me.
“You sure are a pretty sight today.”
“Oh, stuff it, George.” But I couldn’t help blushing.
George grinned and slowly shook his head back and forth.
I walked out to the porch with him while Little Donny finished up another order of bacon and eggs. Since George was about the only person I could trust with a secret, I told him about Chester owning the piece of land next to Onni and about the mineral rights, which I now owned. He listened carefully until I finished.
“That’s pretty much the way I heard it from Kitty,” George said.
I couldn’t believe it. Did the whole town know? Once she wound up there was no stopping her. I heard about an operation you could give your dog if it yapped too much. De-barking, it’s called. Maybe we could have that done to Kitty.
“The land must have something to do with Chester’s murder.”
“Kitty thinks someone’s after gold.”
“Gold,” I scoffed. “The only gold involved in this case is packed in Kitty’s molars.”
George burst out laughing. I told him about the Ropes Gold Mine and Kitty’s theory. It sounded pretty farfetched when I said it out loud.
“Just be careful, Gertie.”
George had parked in the back of the restaurant next to an LP tank. We walked in that direction, dodging puddles where the snow melted.
“Maybe Chester was murdered by those fellows from Lower Michigan,” I said, thinking out loud as we strolled back to his truck. “Maybe they were in cahoots with Barb.”
“Sounds like a tall tale to me,” George said, but he wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he stood with the truck door open, hands on his hips.
“Damn,” he said, “I thought I locked up.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“My rifle’s gone.”
o0o
No one at the Deer Horn Restaurant had seen anyone hanging around back by George’s truck. His rifle, which he’d laid on the floor tucked in under the seat, had walked away.
“Maybe chthonics took it,” I said, not really sure I’d used my word right.
“Hunh?” George said, distractedly.
“Better call Blaze,” Ruthie said to George.
That was my cue to hit the road. I didn’t want anything to do with the traitorous Blaze Johnson.
o0o
Walter Laakso was considered a hermit, even for these parts. The ruts in his private dirt road were so deep you’d think an earthquake had passed through. My truck bounced and bobbed so violently I thought we might have to get out and walk the rest of the way. I was grateful that Little Donny was driving instead of me.
“What kind of job interview?” I asked Little Donny, clutching the dash as we hit the ruts.
“An office job at an investment firm in downtown Milwaukee. I applied right before I came up here. I’d rather stay.”
“You can’t pass up the opportunity to make money.” I said, disappointed. Little Donny didn’t have his buck yet, and I hadn’t spent nearly enough time with him.
We pulled up to the house and got out.
Walter met us in the dirt next to his house with a sawed-off shotgun in his hand. He raised it and beaded in on us. Little Donny hit the ground.
“Get up,” I said. “Don’t let Walter make a fool of you.” Then to Walter, “Put that thing away. Have you gone blind? It’s Gertie Johnson, and that’s my grandson, Little Donny, wallowing in the mud.”
Walter lowered the shotgun and squinted. “Sorry. Eyes aren’t what they used to be. Come on in. Want some coffee?” Walter grinned and I could see his front teeth were missing.
“Sure.”
We sat at the kitchen table while Walter made coffee in a pot on the stove. I sat on a chair with a wobbly leg, hoping it didn’t give out till I was up and gone. The sink brimmed with dirty dishes and a layer of dust and food grime covered the table instead of a tablecloth. I was afraid to look down at the chair I sat on. Walter didn’t look any too clean himself.
He poured a cup all around, then poured a juice glass full of brandy from an oversized bottle on the counter. I glanced at my watch. It was just past ten o’clock in the morning.
Walter sat down and poured some brandy into his coffee cup, then passed the brandy glass to Little Donny. I took a sip of my coffee and thought it was perfect. The old timers don’t need fancy percolators or coffee machines to make a decent cup of coffee. They boil some water, throw in a handful of ground coffee, and let it boil away for a while—five or ten minutes, depending on how strong they like it. If the pot sits a few minutes before it’s poured, the grounds settle on the bottom of the pot, making for clean, rich coffee.
“Sorry for scarin’ you like that, kid.”
“That’s okay.” Little Donny had mud all over the front of his coat. He took a gulp of the brandy and I noticed a twitch in the hand holding the juice glass.
“Walter, I’m investigating Chester’s murder, and I need to ask you some questions.”
“Didn’t know he was murdered. Talk is he took a stray.”
“We need to rule out murder, is all,” I said, remembering that I knew things others didn’t. “Those guys from down south last spring were trying to buy up land. They tried to buy from you, didn’t they?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you catch their names?”
“Naw, didn’t pay attention to that.”
“Too bad,” I said, taking another sip of coffee.
“But they ended up buying property up by St. Ignace.”
“How do you know that?”
“They’re friends of my brother. He keeps in touch, writes me letters once in a while.”
I mentally crossed the Detroit boys off my list of suspects. An amateur investigator might be disappointed when faced with a dead-end, but for me it simply eliminated possibilities—tightening the noose, closing in.
“Chester wouldn’t sell to my brother’s friends, but then he turned right around and started negotiating to sell to someone else.”
I slid forward. “Who else?”
“Don’t know, but he said his property was as good as sold last time I talked to him. Right before he died.”
“Right before he died?”
“Yup.”
“Better do some work on your road,” I told Walter. “My eyeballs nearly popped out of my head getting in here, and Little Donny’s brains are scrambled for sure.”
o0o
Little Donny was still driving when we passed Chester’s house on the way back from Walter’s, and I noticed the Lampi’s foreign car in the driveway.
“Whoa,” I called out. “Back up. We’re paying a visit.”
Little Donny swung around, turned in, and parked. Bill Lampi came to the door and watched us walk up to the house. I stepped over the broken boards on the porch. Bill opened the door and we wiped our wet boots on a worn rug.
“Thought we’d stop and see how you’ve been doing,” I said. Bill wore a blue sweater pulled over an oxford shirt, and he wiped his hands on a dishtowel.
“I’m fine.” He peered at us through his thick glasses. “I’m going through some of Dad’s things, trying to put the place back together. Who would do something like this?” He gestured at the mess.
Everything Chester owned had been dumped on the floor. Bill had brought a stack of empty cardboard boxes, which he’d piled by the door, and by the looks of things, he had just started to clean up.
“I tell you what,” I offered. “Why don’t I stay and help for awhile. I’ll clean up the kitchen.”
I took the dishtowel from him and started for the kitchen. What an opportunity. And no sign of Barb. She probably didn’t want to mess up her manicure by working here.
“I couldn’t ask you to do this,” Bill called after me.
“You didn’t ask. I offered.” I turned to Little Donny. “You go on. I’ll call you when I’m done and you can pick me up.”
Little Donny nodded and tore out of there, grateful that he wasn’t being asked to help.
Chester had the smallest kitchen I’d ever seen. There was barely room to maneuver between the table and the sink. Garbage and broken dishes covered the floor. I took a garbage bag and picked up as much from the floor as I could, then ran water in the sink and started on the unwashed dishes. I had two thoughts as I worked. The first was that whoever searched the house didn’t care about covering up his tracks. The second thought was that Walter Laakso would be right at home in this mess.
I noticed someone had replaced the broken glass in the back door. Bill, probably. I thought I should talk to him about the broken porch boards before I left. Those needed attention, too, before someone broke a leg.
Bill worked in the bedroom for a while, then came to check on me.
“You don’t know how much I appreciate your help,” he said. I could hear the relief in his voice as he saw the kitchen shaping up. He leaned on the edge of the counter, took his glasses off, laid them down, and rubbed his face with both hands. “It’s a lot all at once—cleaning up, sorting through Dad’s boxes, trying to make sense out of something so senseless. You were right. He was murdered. The sheriff told me.”
“I heard about that. What’ll happen to the house now?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. Barb’s family likes to hunt. They might come up once in a while and use it as a hunting cabin.”
“Don’t you hunt?” I asked.
“No, I was never interested in it, which I know is strange for around here.” Bill picked up his glasses and put them on.
“To each his own,” I said. “Your pa owned land over by Onni, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but Pa kept quiet about that. I’m surprised you know.”
“Nothing’s a secret in Stonely,” I said. “Has anyone been asking about Chester’s land?”
“What do you mean?” Bill picked up a towel and began to wipe dishes and put them in the cupboard.
“Has anyone shown an interest in buying the land?” I asked.
“Why, yes. An outfit out of Chicago wanted to buy it and make it into a corporate retreat. Dad asked me to look over th
e contract before he signed it, but he died before he finished the deal.”
Hiding my excitement I asked, “What’s going to happen now?”
“Barb and I talked it over and decided to keep the land.”
“Land’s like gold to you?” I asked, watching his face carefully. He didn’t miss a blink, not a facial muscle, not any sign of significance.
“I wanted to sell but Barb was emphatic. We’ll keep it.”
Barb was worth another seriously long look.
I meant that figuratively, but glancing out the kitchen window, I saw her climbing out of a black sedan. My time was almost up.
Bill dropped the towel and headed for the bedroom. I heard him call, “Hi, Barb,” as he went. “We have help. Mrs. Johnson is cleaning the kitchen.”
So much for sneaking out the back.
I heard another car pull in, and watched Cora Mae and Kitty trot toward the house. Correction—Cora Mae trotted. Kitty lumbered.
Everyone met in the middle of the living room.
“What are you doing here?” Barb hissed at me, her eyes narrow slits.
“I’m helping out.”
“Little Donny told us you were here,” Cora Mae said to me. “We came to help, too.” Cora Mae unbuttoned her coat and began to take it off.
Barb glanced at Cora Mae, did a double take, then turned for a face-off.
“That looks like a dress I’m missing,” Barb said to Cora Mae. Barb stood with her long legs spread wide and her knees slightly bent in attack mode.
I couldn’t help noticing that she was right. Sure enough, Cora Mae wore the sheath dress she had admired when we’d broken into Barb’s house. Cora Mae was turning out to be more of a liability than an asset.
“And just what are you implying?” Cora Mae planted herself, deciding on the denial route of defense. She wasn’t going to back down.
“I’m calling the sheriff.” Barb picked up the phone on Chester’s end table.
I slipped on my boots without lacing them, grabbed my purse and coat, and used my body to force Cora Mae out the door. Kitty, obviously quicker in an emergency than I anticipated, had already slipped into her white rusted-out Lincoln and had turned it around when we reached it.
