Death in a Summer Colony (4 page)

8

“I
f he would move over a little, we could get out of here,” said Sue as they followed Richard Grubbs in his golf cart two-track.

“You’re showing remarkable patience,” observed Ray. “A few years ago you would have been laying on the horn.”

“Yup. Yoga. Deep breathing. I keep telling you to show up. The women would like you. And you’d like the view, fit women in Spandex. And there’s never a man there. You would be a cherished minority.”

As they got close to the colony office, Grubbs waved them over. “Would you come in for a couple of minutes, I have a few more things to tell you? Bring the dog.”

Sue looked over at Ray and smiled. “Deep breathing, Ray. Pretend that you’re listening as you focus on your mantra slowly running through your brain. Nod occasionally, like you’re attending to his every word.”

“I don’t have a mantra.”

“Then think about lunch, have food fantasies.”

They followed Grubbs into his office, settling into chairs, Simone in Ray’s lap.

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Sheriff. But I thought that Verity would be more helpful, especially after Malcolm told her to let it go. She usually does the opposite of what he tells her. You see they were once married.”

“Yes, you’ve told me about that.”

Grubbs cocked his head and looked at Ray. “I guess I did, didn’t I. Sorry, I’m afraid I’m starting to do that. Where was I?”

“You were saying that Verity usually does the opposite of Malcolm Wudbine….”

“Yes, of course. So the fact that she mentioned him is a surprise. They don’t talk much, not since their son grew up. I mean, occasionally they’re in the same place at a colony gathering, but she seems to keep her distance from him as much as possible.”

“So there are no grandchildren?” asked Sue.

“None from that marriage. And I know Verity remains close to her son and tries to protect him from Malcolm. Wudbine is extremely hard on Elliott. He’s got him running the business, but he micromanages the hell out of him. Elliott is the COO of Wudbine Financial, Malcom continues on as the CEO. Around here people make a comparison to old Henry Ford and his alleged mistreatment of his son, Edsel.

“You said you had a few more things to tell us,” said Ray, trying to get the conversation back on track.

“Yes, this burglary. It’s not the first. There were a few last winter. And it’s not every cottage that’s getting hit.”

“So what are you telling us?” probed Sue.

“Well, as I think about this. Let’s say teenagers from around here, some of the locals, were looking for booze in the winter when the colony is unoccupied. They’d probably just go down the line, wouldn’t they? That’s not what’s happening here. It’s only selected cottages, places with lots of alcohol, that are getting hit. Whoever is behind this is one of ours. They know where to find the booze.”

“And in Verity’s case, it didn’t happen in the dead of winter,” added Sue.

“Exactly. When it happened before in the past, I was thinking, you know, January or February, something like that.”

“But no one has ever contacted us before? What’s going on?” asked Ray.

“People are very protective of this place. They don’t want outsiders in here doing an investigation, and they certainly don’t want to read in the local paper about break-ins and the theft of alcohol. I can imagine we would be the butt of lots of jokes in the greater community. And we all live with the memory of the last time we had something like this happen. It just pulled this place apart.”

“What was that?”

“Arson. As I remember it, two cottages the first year, three the next, and then it stopped.”

“When was…?”

“Oh, let me think, late 70s, no, it was the 80s. It was the time of, what did they call that? You know, the big ugly piercings, nails through noses and ears, people dressing in black.”

“Punk?” offered Sue.

“Yes, that might have been it. Well, our young people, they follow the fashions or movements, whatever those things are. We had a few kids, maybe a dozen, who, for a number of summers, just dressed like bums. First, there were stories about the kids, like they were into devil worship. Then the fires started. Vacant buildings, no one ever hurt. The township fire chief said the fires were of suspicious origin, all of them. But if there was an arson, well.”

“Well, what?”

“There was never an investigation or anything, but kids, the punk ones, they were the prime suspects. And it was like a Hawthorne story. There were secret meetings, vigilante patrols, rumors, anger, and weird prejudices. An unusual number of cottages went on the market. But by the third summer nothing happened. Some of the kids were still around, most had moved on or grown out of that mode of dress. And I don’t think anyone quite noticed them anymore. People just wanted to get things back to what they had been before. And that sort of happened.

“I’m telling you this because I think that’s what may be going on here. No one wants to talk about this. If anyone would have been willing to file a police report, it was Verity. And Malcolm turned her. So, as the chief administrator of the area, I’ve got this problem. I’ve had a string of robberies, and people, especially our board president, want to keep it quiet. What is your counsel?”

Ray passed Simone to Sue and took a while to consider his response. “If no one is willing to document the fact that a crime has taken place, our hands are tied. If what you say is true, clearly there is criminal activity taking place here. So far it’s just about theft, no one has been harmed. That could change. Keep us in the loop. Our job is protecting and serving you and your community.”

Ray stood, setting his card on the desk facing Grubbs. “Please don’t hesitate to call.”

Back in the Jeep, just before starting the engine, Sue said, “A tradition of temperance, and a tradition of summer cocktail parties. What am I missing?”

Ray laughed, “Traditions are sort of funny that way. They are hard to understand unless you’re a member of the group. You’ve got to be part of the system, native to the culture. Outsiders always find them silly, even branding long-
held traditions as little more than superstitions.”

“Well, Margaret Mead, where do you want to go for lunch, the Tiki Café? You can get the vegetarian Samoan Samosa.”

“I think you’re mixing cultures and cuisines.”

“It’s all about fusion, Ray. The wave of the future.”

9

O
ver two months passed before Ray returned to Mission Point Summer Colony. In the intervening time there had been no further calls from Richard Grubbs about break-ins, missing cases of liquor, or anything else. And with the coming of warm weather and the influx of tourists and summer residents—doubling the area’s population—the day-to-day demands on the Cedar County Sheriff Department had doubled as well. Ray had only thought about the Colony as he occasionally rolled past the front entrance—two tall, widely spaced telephone poles with a sign reading Mission Point suspended by ropes high above an open gate—when he was in the area on some other business.

In mid-July an invitation, the address hand-written by a skilled calligrapher and sealed with wax, beckoned Ray back to the colony for a gala cocktail party and buffet, performance of the annual summer play, and an afterglow the first week of August. Richard Grubbs, who signed the invitation, added that he hoped Detective Sergeant Lawrence would come also. The R.S.V.P. card had Ray and Sue’s names already penned in. There were two blanks for the names of their guests. When Ray first floated the invitation past Sue there was a lack of enthusiasm on her part, but a few days later she asked if he had sent back the response card. Ray shifted through the pile of mail in the wire bin on his desk and handed her the envelope.

“What’s this about a play?” she asked, toying with the invitation.

“Every summer they do a play. It’s one of their annual activities. They have sporting events, concerts, lectures, and all sorts of classes and special celebrations.”

“And the play, Murder at the Vicarage? What’s that about? Am I going to be bored to tears?”

“It’s based on Agatha Christie’s book by the same name. I read it years ago when I was working my way through Christie. It’s an engaging story. I suspect it’s great fun to act and to watch.”

“I’ve never read Christie,” said Sue. “Is she as good as Sara Paretsky or Dennis Lehane?”

“Not as edgy. It was a different time. She challenges you to figure out who did it before the end. And there’s usually this wonderful concluding scene where all the suspects are gathered in the drawing room, and Miss Marple or Hercule Piorot goes through them one at a time, finally naming the killer. The suspense goes to the last page, or in this case, the final curtain.”

“Real life isn’t quite like that, is it. But I guess the play could be fun.” She looked at the invitation again. “Are you going?”

“Is this a double dare?” asked Ray.

“Yes, I’ll go if you go.”

“You’re on.”

“I’ll get this in the mail,” she said. “Harry will be here that weekend. Actually he will be around for the rest of the week. I’ll be able to show him a little local color.”

A few weeks later, standing at the far end of Verity Wudbine-Merone’s deck, Ray looked at the crowd.

“We’re bringing down the average age by twenty or thirty years,” observed Hanna Jeffers, the woman he had been seeing for a number of months, someone who shared his passion for kayaking and big, empty spaces. She pointed toward the beach and Lake Michigan stretching out at the base of the bluff. “I think I’d rather be out there.”

Ray smiled and nodded in agreement.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen so many women in dresses and men in sport coats and ties. I didn’t know seersucker and madras were still in. Hawaiian shirts, too. Looks to me like most of these folks have been wearing the same party clothes for quite a number of decades.”

“Maybe generations,” retorted Ray.

Richard Grubbs came to Ray’s side carrying two glasses of sparkling wine. “There wasn’t any chardonnay, but I thought this Mawby….”

“Perfect,” said Ray.

“We don’t get much call for wine,” explained Grubbs. “This is a martini and Manhattan crowd.” He moved closer to Hanna, tipping his head in her direction. “I’m sorry I didn’t quite get your name, Miss, when you came in. I have trouble hearing when there’s a lot of background noise.”

“Hanna Jeffers,” she responded.

“And what do you do?”

“I’m a cardiologist.”

“Well, welcome. It’s good to have a doctor in the house, or on the deck in this case. Especially given the age of this crowd. Maybe you can tell me what’s current medical theory,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Most of us here believe that having a few drinks before dinner is enormously heart healthy.”

Hanna considered his statement and caught herself just before she launched into a discussion of diet and exercise, her usual mantra with heart patients.

“I think we’re pretty health-conscious as a group,” said Grubbs. He turned his attention to Ray, “That young assistant of yours, what’s her name again?”

“Sue Lawrence. She’s going to be here before the curtain goes up.”

“I’ll entrust the tickets to you, then,” said Grubbs, fishing them out of an inside pocket. “They’re center seats ten rows back from the front.” Grubbs’ final words were almost drowned out by a helicopter coming straight in from the lake, slowing and banking in the direction of the cottage, and then disappearing over a neighboring dune.

Grubbs, his eyes turned toward the craft, mouthed what appeared to be a short string of obscenities, his words drowned out by the scream of the jet engine and low, percussive pounding of the whirling blades.

“Malcolm always makes a dramatic entrance, doesn’t he,” said a short, portly man coming to Grubbs’ side, “even if he’s not invited. What do you think, Grubby, was he really coming this direction or did he have his pilot do a flyover to remind us of his importance.”

“Well, at least you know your leading man has returned to the area in time for the performance.” He gestured toward Ray and Hanna. “I’d like to introduce our local Sheriff, Ray Elkins and his guest, Dr. Hanna Jeffers. And this is Sterling Shevlin, who has directed our annual summer colony play for what…?”

“This is my thirty-third year,” answered Shevlin. “My grandparents had a place in the colony, and my first stage experience was here in the children’s drama program. I made a trip back here in my thirties as a one-summer replacement for the long-time director, and the rest is…”

“And a very good history it has been,” interrupted Grubbs. “You see, Sheriff, and Dr. Hanna, the summer play pulls together so many talents from our group. Costumes get made, sets get built—and then we have actors, light people, properties—the whole community gets involved, more so than anything else. And then we have this cocktail party and dinner, followed by the grand performance.”

“How do you decide what play to produce?” Ray asked Shevlin.

“I look for something that’s fairly light. I want a play with lots of parts, both genders, and a big age span. In this one we’ve got a range
from teenagers to people in their eighties. Fifteen years ago we did a Christie play, and it was hugely popular. People have been pestering me to do another. So I looked at her other plays and selected Murder at the Vicarage.”

“He’s just wicked,” said Grubbs. “He’s got Malcolm Wudbine cast as Colonel Protheroe, a man loathed by everyone in St. Mary Mead.”

“Wicked, no,” said Shevlin. “He told me he had to have a part, but he didn’t want to learn any lines this year. So I accommodated him, like we always accommodate Malcolm. He gets to wear a period costume, and all he has to do is slump over a desk and try not to move too much for a few minutes. It’s just a perfect part for him. And a great plot. Everyone in the village wanted old Protheroe dead, and the audience gets to try to solve that mystery before dear Miss Marple sorts it all out just before the final curtain.” Shevlin made a modest bow to Ray and Hanna. “Nice meeting you both. I must run. The director can’t get smashed before the show. Hopefully, I’ll see you at the afterglow. We’ll have a big bonfire on the beach.”

“Since you’re our special guests, I want to get you two in the front of the buffet line,” said Grubbs, as he led Ray and Hanna through the crowd.