Saving Farley's Bog (4 page)

CHAPTER 5

Tracking Maxwell

Stitch entered the US at Sault Ste. Marie. An old steel town, the Sault wasn't much to look at anymore. He drove across the short bridge that led to the US side. He passed under the Welcome to the United States sign and headed toward the immigration booths. He sighed. There seemed to be only three or four booths open. Each had about 30 or 40 cars lined up behind it. He scanned the row of stalls. Six were closed. What's with that? he thought. Michigan has the worst unemployment numbers in the country. And they can only hire four guys at a major border crossing?

Stitch made sure he had his passport on the passenger seat. He listened to Led Zeppelin as he inched forward. After more than an hour, he finally pulled up to the booth. He took off his sunglasses and put them on the dashboard. If there was anything that set off border guards it was wearing dark glasses.

A burly man in a blue immigration suit sat on a stool in front of a computer screen. He eyed Stitch suspiciously. Stitch thought about someone he'd heard on CBC one time. “I always get nervous when I cross into the States,” the person had said. “Even though I haven't done anything. I call it ‘borderline paranoia.'”

“Where do you live?” the agent barked.

Stitch was careful to make eye contact with the guard. But not too much. Too much, Stitch thought, and they're like dogs. They feel challenged. Too little and they think you're afraid too look them in the eye. Hiding something.

“Toronto,” Stich said. The guy didn't look too bright. “Ontario,” he added.

“Purpose of visit.”

“I'm visiting a friend.” Keep it simple.

“And where would that friend live?”

“Lansing, Michigan.” Big city. But not Detroit. Too general.

The guard looked doubtful. “Let me see your passport.”

Stitch handed his blue Canadian passport to the guard through the window. The guard flipped through the pages. He studied each one carefully.

Finally he looked down at Stitch. He leaned forward, his eyes searching the inside of the car. “Looks like you've travelled a lot overseas.”

“Overseas?” Stitch asked in surprise. What the heck was this guy talking about? “I've never been off the continent,”

The guard opened Stitch's passport and pointed to the many stamps he'd accumulated travelling to the Bahamas. “Yeah? Then what are these, then?”

Stitch looked at the guard. He couldn't help but shake his head just a tiny bit. This guy was a border guard? “Those are from the Bahamas. I go there regularly.” He paused. “The Bahamas are in North America. Just a few hundred miles off the Florida coast.”

The guard grunted, unconvinced. “So what were you doing down there?”

Stitch knew he should say vacationing. But the guy was bugging him. “Solving murders.”

The guard's eyes opened wide. He sat back in his chair. Then he leaned forward again. “Are you jacking me around?” he asked dangerously.

Stitch leaned over toward the glove box. He noticed the guard tense and drop his hand to the gun strapped on his belt. Stitch quickly sat back. Boy, he thought. How dumb can you be?

The guard's face was flushed. His hand rested on his gun butt.

“Sorry, Officer.” They always liked to be called Officer. “I wanted to show you some papers. They're in the glove box. Can I get them for you?”

The guard eyed Stitch uneasily. He gave a curt nod. Stitch leaned over again. He pulled the glove box door open and searched through some envelopes and papers. He made sure the guard could see what he was doing.

Stitch found the brown envelope he was looking for. He sat back and opened it. He pulled out a newspaper article. It was a front page story from
The Nassau Guardian
. There was a large picture of Stitch. The headline read, “Canadian Sleuth Commended for Solving Grimm's Island Murder.” He handed it to the guard. The guard scanned the article. Stitch could see him begin to relax. He turned back to Stitch, pointing at the picture. “That you?”

God, Stitch thought. Who else could it be? “Yes sir.”

The guard nodded. “And what's a ‘sleuth'?”

“It's a detective.”

The guard nodded. “Kind of like a cop.”

“Kind of,” Stitch agreed.

“Can't have too many cops,” the guard commented. Stitch chose to keep his mouth shut.

The guard leaned forward and handed Stitch his passport through the open window. His eyes had cleared. Now he looked at Stitch with interest. “You're after someone.”

Stitch eyed the guard cautiously. He wasn't smart enough to be trying to trap him. So maybe play along. Maybe he could get something out of the guy. “Could be.”

The guard's face lit up with excitement. Just like a little kid, Stitch thought. “Can I help?” the guard asked eagerly. His eyes narrowed and darted around like he was afraid someone might be watching. “I always wanted to be a detective. Not just a dumb border guard.” The guard looked up at the line of traffic behind Stitch. “Hour after hour: ‘What's your name? Where you from?” He looked back at Stitch. “Gets boring, you know?”

Stitch nodded sympathetically. “Bet it does.”

The guard's face lit up again. “So what did he do?”

“Who?”

“The guy you're after! What did he do?”

“Oh, the guy I
might
be after.”

The guard half winked. He nodded his head to show he got it.

“Name is Robert Maxwell. Robert George Maxwell. From Mapleton, Ontario.” Stitch looked at the man's round, eager face. What would get this guy onside? “Left his wife for another woman. She thinks he's in a biker gang. Might be running cocaine into Canada from the US.” Stitch lowered his voice. “Nothing solid. Yet. That's why I'm on the case.”

The guard nodded knowingly. “OK, I think I might be able to help you out there, partner.” The guard turned to his computer monitor and began typing on the keyboard.

Stitch looked in his rear view mirror. Now there were at least 60 cars behind him. “Listen,” he said uncertainly. “Shouldn't we, uh, go to your office or something? Look at all the cars behind us.”

The guard didn't look up. “Screw ‘em. We've got important work to do.”

Stitch sighed and settled back into the Rav's leather seats.

“What date you figure he crossed into the US?” the guard asked.

“About a week ago. Either the night of the 26th or morning of the 27th. Somewhere around there.”

“Bingo!” the guard called out happily. “Mr. Robert George Maxwell. Crossed into the US at this station at 11:47 p.m. April 26.”

April 26, Stitch thought. Same day he left. Didn't waste any time. He's got nearly a week's lead on me. “Anything else on the file?”

The guard studied the screen. “Said he was on a vacation. Headed for Parsons, Michigan.”

Parsons, Michigan. Stitch reached over to the Garmin GPS system mounted on his dash. He pushed the voice activation button. “Parsons, Michigan,” he said.

“Beginning navigation,” the GPS replied. Almost immediately the screen lit up with the route to Parsons. Damn, he liked voice recognition. He never could figure out all those keys.

Parsons was highlighted 174 miles south of him. 1,242 people lived in Parsons, the machine told him. A few miles off I-75. Near the Granville River. So he's not in the Upper Peninsula after all, Stitch thought. So much for that lead. Unless he's trying to throw me off.

“One more thing,” the guard added. “He had a companion.”

Stitch grabbed the notepad out of his shirt pocket. “Shoot.”

“Ms. Didi Anderson. Secretary.”

Stitch scribbled the information and returned the book to his pocket. He looked up at the guard. “Officer, if there weren't a hundred cars behind us, I'd get out and give you a hug. But it might not look good.”

The man grunted good-naturedly. “If you got out and gave me a hug I'd knock you unconscious with my billy club. I don't much like gays.”

Surprise, surprise, Stitch thought. “Well, in that case I'll just thank you profusely.”

The border guard took a business card and handed it to Stitch. “If there's anything I can do, let me know.”

“Thanks, Officer.” Stitch slipped a US$50 dollar bill into his passport. He pushed it through the car window again. “Just have another look. To make sure everything is in order.”

The man opened the book and slid out the bill. He handed the passport back, grinning. “Looks good to me.”

Stitch took the passport and set it on the passenger seat. He nodded to the guard and drove on, looking for the sign pointing to I-75.

CHAPTER 6

Parsons

Just before entering the interstate, Stitch pulled off onto the shoulder. He studied the GPS map. Pretty much a straight run down 75. Maybe three hours. Stitch pushed the Bluetooth button on the steering wheel. A beep came out of the speaker mounted on the roof. “Say a name,” a vaguely feminine voice ordered.

“Office,” Stitch said loudly.

“Oliver Barker,” the voice said. “Dialing.”

“No, you twit,” Stitch yelled as he stabbed the call button again. “Office!”

“Sorry,” the voice went on calmly. “Did you say Oscar Pizzeria?”

“No, I did not!” Stitch yelled again. He took a deep breath and sat back. What the hell was he doing? Yelling at a machine?

He pushed the button again. After the beep, he tried again. He made sure his voice was clear but not screaming. “My office.”

“My office,” the voice repeated. “Dialing,”

The phone rang twice before Erin picked it up. “Robinson Investigations.”

“Erin, it's Stitch.”

Erin's voice brightened. “Oh, hi, Stitch,” she said cheerily. Always in a good mood. Cute too. Too bad she was half his age. And married. “Where are you?”

“Just crossed the border. Erin, I need you to check out a name for me. Didi Anderson. I don't know much more about her. Says she's a secretary. She's probably the woman the bartender saw Maxwell with before he disappeared. If so, she's built like a model with a boob job. Bleached blond hair. About 5'7”.

“Any place you want me to start?” Erin asked.

“Yeah, check court records. I got a hunch Didi is no secretary. Also, give Carl a call at the RCMP. See what you can get out of him. He owes me one.”

“OK, Stitch. Will do. I'll get back to you with what I have in an hour or two.”

“Thanks, Erin. Talk to you soon.”

“Oh, Stitch!” Erin said hurriedly. “Daffy called. All hell's breaking loose at Farley's Bog. A group is blockading the road to the construction site. Set up tents and everything. Two guys are in canoes on the water. They have a huge banner spread between them that says, ‘Stop Venam from Destroying Our Wetlands!' Cops are there. It's quite a scene.”

Stitch sighed. “And I suppose Daffy is defending everyone in sight that's been arrested. Pro bono.”

“Not only that,” Erin said. “He's been arrested himself. Chained himself to a D-9 Cat!”

“Aw, jeez,” Stitch groaned. “Well, that's my Daffy. What's he want with me?”

“Not sure. He said he's got some information for you. Has to do with the Maxwell case. Didn't want to give it to me over the phone. He said he'd send it to your Blackberry as soon as he gets out of jail.”

“Thanks again, Erin. I'm off to Parsons, Michigan. That's between you and me.”

“Yes, sir!” Erin said jokingly. “It'll take torture to get that out of me.” She laughed her cute little laugh. “Course that might just mean withholding chocolate for a few hours.”

Stitch chuckled. “Thanks for your total commitment. Talk to you later.” Stitch pushed the button on the steering wheel to hang up. Led Zeplin blasted through the speakers again. He pulled back onto the highway. He headed for the I-75 South on-ramp.

Stitch drove down Michigan's Upper Peninsula. The UP locals called it. After about an hour he reached St. Ignace. He stared out over the churning grey waters of the Mackinac Straits. Interstate 75 runs from Sault Ste. Marie in the north to Tampa, Florida. Over that span of more than 2,000 kilometres, the highway crosses dozens of rivers and inlets. But no crossing is more spectacular than the Mackinac Bridge, which connects Michigan's Upper Peninsula with the lower part of the state. The bridge is more than five miles long. When it opened in 1957, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world. No matter how many times Stitch drove over the bridge, it never failed to give him goose bumps.

This time was no different. The gigantic bridge stretched dramatically across the straits far, far below him. The sheer magnificence of the structure awed him. He turned down the CD and drove across the bridge in silence. It was an engineering marvel when it opened. And it still was. He looked down at the slate grey waters and thought about the five men who had fallen to their death building the bridge.

On his left he could see Lake Huron curving away into the distance. On his right, Lake Michigan extended south, all the way to Chicago. Stitch wondered about the Chippewa, who had lived there for thousands of years before Europeans arrived. They were almost gone now. Pushed onto a few tiny reservations. Didn't seem fair.

Stitch saw the first signs for the Parsons exit about an hour later. He turned to the GPS and spoke carefully, “Businesses, Parsons, Michigan.” A list of categories appeared on the screen. He glanced at it while trying not to run off the road. “Bowling alleys,” the voice intoned. “Gas stations, pharmacies, realtors.” That's what he wanted. “Realtors,” he ordered.

Three names appeared with their location on the map. The first one was Ace Realtors. He never trusted anyone -- or any business -- that called himself Ace. Gordon Realty was next. Had a nice, solid ring to it.

“Gordon Realty,” he said aloud.

“8001 River Road. Would you like routing?”

“Sure,” Stitch said, negotiating the off ramp.

“Pardon?”

“Right, yes, OK!” Stitch snapped.

“Drive 200 yards to Hansen Road. Turn right.”

Parsons must have once been a charming little town. Beautiful Victorian houses stood on the outskirts. Probably built with lumber money when the area was logged in the late 1800s, Stitch figured. More modest houses lined old streets shaded by huge maples. The yards were small but well maintained. Churches and schools circled the downtown.

Or what must have been the downtown. Now the four commercial blocks along Main Street were mostly empty. The windows of some stores were covered with plywood. An insurance company still seemed to be open. And Stitch noticed a tattoo parlour in what had apparently been a drug store. Who the heck would get a tattoo in Parsons? Stitch wondered idly. A handsome red brick building covered almost the entire side of one whole block. A cement sign near the roof line read, Parsons Mercantile, 1923. The store's six large display windows were empty. One had been broken. Shards of glass glittered on the floor inside.

“Turn left in 100 yards,” the GPS voice advised. Stitch did as he was told. He was now on River Road. “Arriving at destination on right.”

Stitch looked up. A sign hung from an old wood building on his right. “Gordon Realty,” it read. “Helping Sell Parsons Since 1937.”

“Sell Parsons is right,” Stitch muttered. “Looks like you pretty well sold it out.”

Stitch parked the dark blue Rav in front of the building. There were only three other cars parked along the curb. The whole town seemed deserted. Stitch walked to the office. There were a dozen real estate notices in the two windows on each side of the door. Most seemed to be of cottages on the Granville River. The few houses advertised in town seemed ridiculously cheap. And most of the ads were dusty and yellowing. Real estate did not seem to be booming in Parsons.

Inside a black plastic counter ran almost the length of the office. A swinging door led into a couple of offices in the back. A silver bell was on the counter. A handwritten sign was taped next to it: “Please ring for service.” Also not a good sign, Stitch thought. He tapped the button on the top of the bell.

Stitch saw someone stir in the office on his left. Pretty soon an obese man waddled out of the office door. He was wearing gigantic pants held up by red and white polka dot suspenders. Several double chins hung over the collar of his white shirt. His blue tie fell only halfway over his enormous belly.

“Can I help you?” the man asked as he approached the counter.

“Hope so,” Stitch said. “I'm a writer. Looking for a quiet place to rent for a while. But if it works out, I might want to buy.”

The man held out his pudgy hand. “Saul Brown,” he said. “Good to meet you.” Stitch shook his hand. It felt like a big marshmallow. Up close Stitch realized the man wasn't as old as he'd thought. Probably not much older than he was.

“So, you want a place on the river?”

“Probably,” Stitch said. “Doesn't have to be big. Just comfortable, quiet and secluded.”

“Hmm.” The man stared thoughtfully out the front window. “We don't rent a lot. Mainly sales, you know. But we do have a few things occasionally. Nothing I can think of right now.”

Stitch nodded. “Just to see what's out there, I was wondering if you had a list of recently rented properties. Thought I could get an idea for next year.”

“Yep,” the realtor said. He reached under the counter and pulled out a single photocopied sheet. “Here's our list of properties.” He pushed it across the counter. Stitch studied it briefly. There were about 10 cottages listed. Small pictures with each listing gave an idea of what the places looked like.

The man leaned over and pointed to a place about halfway down the list. “Now this would have been perfect. Beautiful place. Build back in the ‘40s. Well kept up. Porch looks right over the river. I don't write, but I imagine it would be a great place to do it. And way back in the bush. Miles of old logging roads until you get to it.”

“Boy, that is too bad. Sounds ideal. Is it rented all year?”

“No, that's the unfortunate part. I just rented it out last week. Nice couple. Though I couldn't figure out what the girl was doing with the guy. Man, she was a knockout. He must have been 10, 15 years older than she was.” He shrugged. “No accounting for taste, I guess.”

Stitch smiled in agreement. “How long did they rent it for?”

“They're paying by the month. Said they weren't sure how long they were staying.”

Stitch looked thoughtfully at the paper. “Gosh! It's just what I was looking for. I wonder if they would mind if I stopped out and had a look. I could ask them if they had decided how long they were staying.”

The man shrugged. “Can't do any harm.”

“Would you mind giving me their names?” Stitch chuckled. “People aren't so suspicious when you call them Bill and Susan.”

The man smiled. “Actually, these two are Bob and Didi. Bob and Didi Pearce.”

Bingo, Stitch thought. First try. Funny how people who don't want to be found change their last name but keep their first. “Thanks. Can you give me directions?”

The realtor brought out a map and traced a route that wound along the river. Some of the roads were just tracks. Even with his GPS, he'd probably never have found it on his own. Stitch folded up the map and information sheet. He smiled. “Hey, I really appreciate it. I'll get back to you on this.” He turned toward the door.

“No problem,” the realtor said. “Glad I could help. If that doesn't work out, we do have a few places in town.”

Stitch turned back to the man. “Or what's left of it. What happened to the downtown?”

The man heaved a huge sigh. “Sad, isn't it? About 20 years ago, I guess. Developer came in. Wanted to build a big shopping centre outside of town. We all thought this was great. We'd made the big time.” He shook his head. “They built it. All the big boxes came in. And one by one, the downtown stores closed. Couldn't compete.” The realtor gave a short, bitter laugh. “And now a lot of the mall is closed. We just didn't see it coming.”

“Huh.” Stitch shook his head in sympathy. “Too bad. Seems to be happening all over. Same deal everywhere.”

“Deal?”

“Yeah. We'll give you cheap stuff. All you have to do is give up your community.”

The man nodded. “We didn't know then what the cost of all that cheap stuff was going to be. Now it's too late.”