Death in a Summer Colony (2 page)

“Did you see a weapon?”

“No.”

“Was that the end of your conversation?”

“Yes. That was it. I didn’t want to waste time talking to that idiot. I’m not surprised an hour or so later he went totally postal. Apparently my cottage was the target of much of Zwilling’s rage. Guess I was lucky to be out of the area when the shooting started.”

“And you’re pretty sure of the time,” said Ray.

“Sheriff, that’s my best guess, but don’t involve me in your investigation.”

“Mr. Wudbine, I’m trying to piece together what happened. Zwilling committed multiple felonies. Anyone who was a witness or has information about this incident is of interest to me.”

“Whatever. So back to my initial question, when can we get that mess cleaned up, and when can I have my people assess the damage and get started on repairs?”

Ray took his time answering. “It all depends when the state police arson investigator completes his work. We need to know if this was a natural gas explosion, or something else. We also need to make sure that no explosive materials are in the wreckage. Then the utilities have to sign off that the gas and electricity have been turned off. We don’t want anyone hurt in the process of clearing this site.”

“Specifically, what does that mean, Sheriff?”

“It means a day or two more, whatever it takes to do a thorough job. I will inform Mr. Grubbs when we are done with our investigation. I suggest you contact him in a few days.”

Wudbine directed his attention to Grubbs, “As soon as they are done let me know. We’ll get this mess cleaned up.” Then he spun on the heels of his spit polished boots. The screen door on the old colony office building slammed hard after he departed.

Grubbs looked over at Ray, a faint smile played across his face. “If you ever get a phone call from the Mission Point Summer Colony saying that there’s been a murder, I’d be willing to bet Malcolm Wudbine will be the victim. And you will have great difficulty finding the murderer.”

“Why’s that?” asked Ray.

“There would be so many suspects, so many people with a motive. Almost everyone here has been abused by that odious man over the last 40 or so years.”

“Didn’t you say he was president of your board? It is an elected position?”

“It’s an interesting story, Sheriff. Can I get you another cup of coffee?”

4

“W
as this your first introduction to Malcolm Wudbine?” asked Grubbs, refilling Ray’s coffee mug, then his own.

“In the formal sense, yes. But I have seen him before. It took me a moment to make the connection. I was seated near him in a restaurant sometime last summer.”

“And he was part of a large group?”

“Yes, that’s my memory.”

“Let me guess, he was louder than anyone else, not only in his party, but in the whole place, making decrees rather than conversation and being surly to the wait staff at every opportunity?”

“Exactly,” said Ray. “At the time I wondered if the man had a hearing problem.”

Grubbs chuckled at Ray’s response. “No hearing problem, at least none that I know of. Although at his age it’s possible, but the loud voice and dominating presence is not new. It has been his modus operandi for as long as I’ve known him.”

“You said the board presidency was an elected position. If he is as disliked as you suggested, how does he…?”

“It’s quite simple,” explained Grubbs. “He continues to rescue Mission Point Summer Colony financially. When our recreation building burned down, he paid for the rebuilding. Not only did he rebuild it, but he made sure that the job was done on a timely basis. The fire was in late February. The new building was ready for use in early June. And that’s just one example. When our sewage system was starting to fail and the health department was barking at our heels, his foundation spent millions building a new system. At the same time he had a modern water system installed, complete with high-pressure hydrant lines for firefighting. We’ve all learned to put up with Malcolm because this place would fall apart without his money.”

“The building that Zwilling was firing at, I assume that was Wudbine’s cottage?”

“It’s one of Malcolm’s many properties in the colony. He purchased one for his son and daughter-in-law. Dune Side Cottage is for his aircrew. And he owns several more that are used by guests or other employees.”

“So he doesn’t live in the colony.”

“Correct. His cottage is just north of our property. And it is not a cottage. It’s a mansion on more than a thousand feet of lakefront,” Grubbs looked over at Ray and chuckled. “I see I’m completely confusing you. All of us locals, and I mean locals in the sense of long-term summer colony residents—not to be confused with real locals like you—all of us locals know the backstory.”

“Which is?” ask Ray.

“Malcolm was first married to Verity Wudbine-Merone. Her maiden name was Behrens, German stock who settled in Illinois in the 1850s. She was a descendant of several of the earliest members of the colony. Her family was from a farming community west of Chicago, her father was a local banker. She met Malcolm in college, Champaign, I think, or perhaps Northwestern. The father took him into the business after Malcolm and Verity were married. It’s the old story; a lad from a modest background is brought into the family business and later walks with a fortune. When his marriage to Verity was coming apart, he sold his interest in the family bank and bought a seat on the Chicago Mercantile exchange.”

“How do you know all of this?” asked Ray.

“Verity is my age. I was quite taken with her when we were 15, or 16, or 17. Summer romance and all that.” He paused for a moment, looked away and then back at Ray. “That’s not quite true,” he said, repeatedly tapping two fingers on the table. “It was a teenage boy’s silent infatuation. I’m not sure she ever knew, but I was a great admirer. And over the years she told me bits and pieces of her story. I think that’s one of the things we do here, especially when we get old. We tell our stories. Let’s see, where was I?”

“The Chicago Mercantile Exchange.”

“Yes. Verity told me he made a fortune in pickles futures. I don’t know if there’s such a thing. She’s very sarcastic and quite bitter. From pickles or whatever it was, he moved onto gold, at first losing most of his fortune, but then learning how the market worked. He was already enormously successful when he moved into stocks and bonds. But, by all accounts that wealth pales when compared to what he’s done in the last decade or so. Reports are that he’s made billions in things like derivatives and currency trading. I don’t understand any of that. Not part of my world.”

“You said his property is outside of the colony.”

“Let me explain,” said Grubbs. “When they were divorced there was a major fight over the family cottage. Verity prevailed. So then he buys this big place just on the beach. And he does it in such a way that she can’t look north from her place without seeing his. I’m sure he did it out of spite. And then he started buying up cottages in the colony.”

“Does Mr. Wudbine participate in your activities?”

“Absolutely. He thinks of himself as quite the thespian. Malcolm always has a part in the annual summer play. And he always participates in the fathers and sons baseball game—I think he played college ball. After the baseball game, we all wander down the beach to his manse for a New England lobster boil and clambake with several kegs of beer. We have a no-alcohol clause in the colony covenant. Somehow it’s okay if we’re on his land. I wonder what our founder would think of this.”

“He preached abstinence?” asked Ray.

“Yes, but I think Mather’s avoidance of alcohol was driven by his concern for native people. He saw traders cheat them with cheap whiskey and politicians manipulate them with free drinks on election day. And I suspect this place was pretty much alcohol-
free in the early years, but who knows what happened behind closed doors. After the war, I’m talking about WWII and my parents’ generation, the cocktail hour became the norm. But again, it was never done in public places.

“But to go back to Malcolm,” Grubbs continued, “even though I am the executive director of the summer colony, when he’s in residence he’s always about telling people what to do. Like I said, we’ve all learned to put up with Malcolm. His money has kept us going at critical times. And we all pray that the good Lord will accept him with open arms, the sooner better than later. That said, it would be good of him to leave the colony a generous legacy.”

Ray closed the top of his laptop and pushed himself from his chair.

“Is there anything else, Sheriff?”

“No, I think that’s about it. Here’s my card if anything occurs to you that you think I should know.”

“You’ll let me know when we can begin the cleanup?”

“Absolutely.”

“There’s one more thing,” said Grubbs.

“Yes?”

“Well, it can wait a few days. Please keep me informed about Garr Zwilling’s condition. In spite of the unfortunate events, he’s part of our family, part of our history.”

5

T
he next morning Ray Elkins was up, dressed, and out of the house before 6:00 A.M. Gale force winds had been advised the evening before, and he wanted to walk the beach early and watch the pounding surf. He did a couple of miles on an out-and-back hike, stopping occasionally to watch the waves and listen to the howling wind. Ray needed time to absorb the beauty and power of this special landscape.

By the time he arrived at his office a little after 8:00, Detective Sergeant Sue Lawrence, in her usual highly organized manner, had laid out two piles of documents on the conference table in Ray’s office and was working on her laptop as she waited for him. Simone, a cairn terrier Sue and Ray co-parented since rescuing her from a crime scene in the late winter, was curled up in an overstuffed chair in the corner of the office. Ray sat on the edge of the chair and scratched Simone’s ears for a few moments before joining Sue at the table.

“How was your walk on the beach?” she asked.

“It was great. Some big wave sets, huge breaking surf. It almost looked like November.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go paddling.”

“Not this morning. Not today. The winds were too high. It would be impossible to launch without getting broached. Some days you just have to walk on the beach.” Sliding into his chair, he said, “Looks like you’ve been busy. What’s happening with Zwilling? Any news?”

“I talked to one of the doctors at the burn center in Ann Arbor before I went home last night.”

“What time was that? I think our no extraordinary hours we’ve got to have a life pledge is starting to break down.”

“It was okay, Ray. Simone was with me.”

“And?”

“The doctor, I didn’t get her name, said the first 72 hours are the most critical. She also indicated that the prognosis was rather bleak. In addition to the extensive burns, they suspect lung damage, but have not been able to assess how extensive. About all I came away with was that he was lucky to be alive, and it’s extremely difficult to estimate the viability of a patient with his injuries.”

Sue gave Ray a few moments to absorb the information before bringing his attention to the material on the table. “On the top sheet,” she motioned with an index finger, “is a list of everything contained in that pile. The first item under that sheet is a summary of my conversation with Mike Ogden.”

“I thought he was tied up…?”

“He was, a suspicious warehouse fire in Gaylord. He arrived about four. We still had plenty of light to pick through the ruins. Before we started I showed him the video of the explosion—we’ve got it from two directions. His immediate response was that it looked like natural gas, the way the building came apart, the appearance of the flames. Mike did take samples for analysis, but he was pretty certain that Zwilling had turned on all the burners on the stove or opened a gas line. The remains of the water heater and stove were down in what was once the crawlspace. There’s a connection from the gas line to the water heater, he had a name for it.”

“Coupling?”

“That sounds right. How do you know that?”

“Remember, my father was a jack-of-all trades, and I spent much of my childhood and teenage years following him around as his assistant.”

“Okay,” she continued, “it appeared that the coupling had been disconnected. He suggested that Zwilling was doing his best to blow the place up.”

“Anything else?”

“You were worried about a large stash of ammo. It wasn’t there. Zwilling must have run through most of it before the explosion.”

“And the weapon?”

“It turned up in the bottom of the debris. It was pretty grimy. Ogden said it looked like a Chinese knockoff of an AR 15, something about the machining being crude and the serial number looked like it had been done by junior high shop kids. He’s going to run it through the ATF tracking system, but didn’t think they’d get a hit.”

“Probably a gun show special,” said Ray.

“His words, exactly. We also had a run-in with a citizen.”

“What was that all about?”

“This obnoxious ass comes marching right into the site, tells us he’s the president of the place, and demands to know when we’re going to be finished. Ogden explains to him that this is a crime scene and politely asks him to leave. The guy just continues ranting at us. Ogden asks him to leave a second time. This time he’s much more direct. The man’s unfazed. So Ogden tells him if he doesn’t leave immediately, he’s going to be arrested and put in jail. Just about that time Richard Grubbs shows up in a golf cart and hustles the man away.”

Ray chuckled, “You met Malcolm Wudbine. He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”

“I can think of a few other ways of describing him. Not long after that Grubbs came back. We were just finishing up about that time. He said he thought he found the car.”

“Zwilling’s?”

“You got it. It’s an older Chrysler 300 with Arizona tags. It had been tucked behind one of the cottages close to the highway. I ran the plates. It was registered to a Garrick Zwilling in Tucson. I made a call to their PD, ended up getting a chatty detective on the line. Mr. Zwilling is known to the department, lots of problems with alcohol, lots of mental health issues. He’s one of those guys who goes out of control, gets taken to the hospital, three days later he’s back on the street. Occasionally he ends up in front of a judge, promises to stay on his meds, and in a few weeks or months, the whole cycle starts again.”

“It’s a familiar pattern. You got all that accomplished before the end of the workday?”

“No, I did that in the evening before going home.”

“I thought as part of our plan to have lives outside of work we….”

“That was a good thought. But neither one of us is going to be able to do that. It was okay, Ray. I went to dinner with Mike Ogden. I always thought he was very married, turns out he’s not anymore. I guess he wanted me to know. It was a little bit awkward. It’s not like he asked me out or anything, or even asked if I was involved with anyone. But it was clumsy.” She paused for a few moments. “I’ve got one more thing. You sent me an e-mail with the out-of-date contact info on the owner of the cottage, Regina Zwilling-Glidden.”

“Yes,”

“I ran that by the detective in Tucson. Seems she’s well known to the PD, also.”

“How so?”

“I guess she’s been an assistant prosecutor there for years. She was incapacitated by a stroke sometime in the recent past. I explained to him the reason for my call, and he said he would check on her and get back to me.”

“Sometimes life is a train wreck,” said Ray.

“So the rest of the materials there are first drafts of evidence to take to the prosecutor. I’ve also asked for a search warrant of Zwilling’s car. If he survives there will be a whole list of charges.”

“And,” said Ra
y, “the issue of whether or not he is competent to stand trial.”