Summer People (21 page)

“Don’t remember them, can’t say I ever heard of them. But you remember how old Orville operated—that old bugger. He was pretty good at keeping us in the dark. Sometimes we’d bring in some of those kids—catch them doing something red-handed— and before you know it, they’d be free, no charges. I know damn well he was shaking down some of those parents.”

“But you don’t remember a case that was especially serious?” Ray asked hopefully.

“Can’t say I do. Most of it was drunk driving, maybe joy riding in a car or boat. Stuff like that. When you talking about?”

“Hard to say, probably early to middle sixties. Try to remember, it could have been two or three boys, summer kids.”

Floyd looked off in the distance. “Hot this year. Can’t remember when it’s been so hot. Wish she’d let me sleep out here. Says I can’t cause of mosquitoes. Hell, too damn dry for many mosquitoes. Woman doesn’t know shit. You should throw her ass in jail for running an unlicensed hell-hole.”

“Floyd, try to remember, early sixties, two or three city kids, something bad or unusual.

“Unlicensed hell-hole,” Floyd repeated with a chuckle. “Unlicensed hell-hole, have to tell her that one.” He faded off again.

Ray sat waiting for several minutes and then stood up.

“Might have been those boys that fucked that Indian girl,” said Floyd.

“What boys, what Indian girl?” said Ray sitting down again.

“Don’t remember no names. Friend of the girl, teacher at the high school came to Orville with the story. He had to run the boys in, what could he do?”

“Was she raped? Were the boys charged with rape?”

“Don’t remember there were any charges. Never knew an Indian girl that had to be raped to be fucked. Orville just brought the parents in with the kids and scared the hell out of them. That was the end of it.”

Ray prompted, “Can you remember anything else?”

“Orville, he was a real bugger. He cut a deal with the parents not to turn the kids over for prosecution.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Can’t say. All I know is that girl’s daddy had booze money from that day on. Go down to the bank every day, get a five-dollar bill and then get himself a bottle. That little girl made her daddy a happy man.”

“But you don’t remember any of the boys’ names?” Ray pressed. “Not Holden, or Grimstock, or Arden?”

“Don’t remember no names, sides there were four boys. Pretty sure there were four boys.”

“How about the girl?” Ray asked. “Do you remember who the girl was?”

Floyd looked blank. “Don’t remember, don’t think I ever know’d her name. But her daddy was that Indian fishing guide that lived in the shack south of town by the river. You know’d the one I mean.”

Ray nodded his head; he knew. “And the teacher, Floyd. Do you remember the teacher’s name?”

“What was her name; my boys had her. I think it was Vandyke or Vanderdyke—some kind of Dutch name. I remember she got killed when a snowplow hit her car. I remember that. Took about an hour to cut her out, but she was deader than hell right from the beginning.”

“You’ve helped me a lot Floyd. Thanks, I appreciate it.” Ray stood.

“You know what, Sheriff?”

“What Floyd?”

“If I still had my gun I’d shoot that bitch.” He motioned toward the house. “I’d rather be in Jackson than here.”

“I know,” said Ray. “I know. I would, too.”

As soon as Ray got back to the village, he stopped off at the local branch of Pine Bay National Bank and Trust. The bank, housed in a modern building of gray brick and aluminum, had only two teller windows, one drive-up window, a small reception area with two chairs, and an office area for the local manager.

As Ray entered, the women tellers waved. The manager was with a customer so Ray settled into a chair in the waiting area. He looked at the two neatly stacked piles of magazines on the end table at his side, Modern Banking and Banker’s Age. They were exactly the publications most customers would want to read while waiting, he thought sarcastically. By the time he had gotten to the third advertisement for drive-up teller windows, the customer left, and the manager escorted him into his office.

A Madras jacket did little to offset the officiousness of the manager, a young man in his first administrative position. The top of his desk was bare except for a black and white sign that, instead of showing his name, simply proclaimed Branch Manager.

“Yes, Sheriff, is your visit of an official nature, or are you seeking our financial counsel?” he hissed.

“Official. I’m interested in getting some information on a trust that was administered by your bank.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” intoned the manager superciliously. “Information concerning any of our trusts is confidential. I would not be able to provide you with any information without authorization from our legal department.” He paused. “If you could supply me with a letter that specifies the official nature and parameters of the information you are seeking, I will forward it to the main office for their consideration.”

Ray got up from his chair. “You’ve been most helpful; I’ll go directly to the main branch.”

The young man extended his hand across the desk. As Ray shook his hand, he noted that it was dead-fish limp and cold.

“Glad to help Sheriff, glad to help. We at Pine Bay National want to be your ‘good citizen bank,’” he proclaimed in a sing-song voice.

The main office of Pine Bay National Bank and Trust had been in the same location on Front Street for over a hundred and thirty years. In that time there had been two major changes. The first took place in 1903; a fire started in one of the mills on the river just north of the bank. Before the fire burned itself out, most of the business district, including the bank, was destroyed. The original two-story timber building was replaced by a five-story building. The first story was clad in dark granite ashlar, the remainder of the building faced in brick, with lintels and sills of red sandstone.

The other major change took place in the fifties when, in an attempt to give the bank a more contemporary image, the name was shortened from Pine Bay National Merchants and Lumbermen’s Bank to the more modern Pine Bay National. At the time a large illuminated sign was added over the entrance with Pine Bay National in red block letters on a white field. In the eighties the sign was enlarged and enhanced, digital displays flashed the time and temperature in a cool green. The original sign, a small brass plaque that had once been attached to the original building and survived the fire, remained fixed to granite near the entrance.

Through its entire history the bank had continued under the control of one family, the Cloptons. Their banking philosophy and methods had changed little over the years and had helped the bank survive the various financial panics that ravaged their competitors.

Ray walked through the main floor to the elevator that stood at the back wall. With the exception of fluorescent lights added in the fifties, the bank’s interior had changed very little in ninety years; gray granite floors, money-green marble counters, brass tellers’ cages, and walnut paneling running up eight feet to white-plastered walls with elaborate cove work at the ceiling. On the south wall, evenly spaced near the tall ceiling, were four small windows. On bright days long beams of light tracked across the tenebrous interior.

Ray pushed the top button; the doors closed with a heavy mechanical sound, and the elevator slowly rose to the top floor. He stopped at the secretary’s desk and asked to see Mr. Clopton. She motioned him toward the closed door. “Go right in, Sheriff, Mr. Clopton is expecting you.” Ray knocked and enteredthe office.

“Ray, good to see you. You know,” Clopton observed leaning back in his chair, “now that you’re a bit older, you’ve become the spitting image of your great-granddaddy.”

Hugh Clopton stood and walked around his desk offering his hand. He shook Ray’s hand warmly, grabbing his elbow with his other hand. Although Ray knew Clopton had to be in his nineties, he looked like a vigorous sixty-year old.

“Well, Mr. Clopton….”

“Don’t be formal Ray, call me Hugh.”

“Hugh,” Ray offered timorously, feeling a bit uncomfortable using his first name, “you’re looking especially fit.”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain. Course, if you get to be my age, you shouldn’t complain, should you? Sit, sit,” he motioned to the chair in front of the desk and settled into his chair.

“Want a cigar? Havana.” He opened a wooden box and pushed it toward Ray. “We can get them again—damn politicians. Never should allow politics to get in the way of a decent smoke.” “No, thank you,” said Ray. “I gave up smoking.”

“I don’t know about your generation,” Clopton kidded. “Giving up smoking, giving up whiskey. What are you going to do when you find that jogging and yogurt are dangerous?”

Ray looked at his surroundings; he hadn’t been in this office for years, but everything seemed to be the same. The office was decorated with fly-fishing paraphernalia. Old cane rods, reels, and a wicker creel hung on the walls. There were also several framed collections of dry flies, carefully arranged on velvet backing. Behind the desk was a large oil painting. Ray pointed to the oil. “Is that your father or grandfather?”

“That’s my grandfather, Rupert Clopton. Came here from England, Rupert did. Born in Kinver, a little village in the Midlands—same place as Dick Whittington.”

“The one with the cat?” Ray asked.

“The same. He was still running the bank when I started. My father succeeded him just after the crash. When I started, I worked in commercial loans and your great-grand-daddy was one of my first customers—’spose he died before you were born.” Ray nodded affirmatively. “He still had the general store over in Sherman. I guess it had been a thriving business during lumbering days, but they were over by then. He’d come to town every Monday to do his banking. I also went out and called on him once or twice a year. Rupert liked that. He liked me to visit our commercial customers. He wanted them to know we were interested enough in them to come calling. So as a young man I got to drive around the county a day or two a week in the bank’s Model T and visit. I remember your great-grand mother; she was a wonderful woman. She was dead long before you were born.”

“I’ve seen a few pictures and heard stories,” Ray responded.

“There was a fine woman. When I first met her she was no spring chicken, but she was still strikingly beautiful. She was pure Chippewa, wasn’t she?”

“Ojibwa,” Ray corrected. “She was pure Ojibwa.”

“Folks said she was some sort of princess.”

“I’ve been told that she was the daughter of a chief,” said Ray.

“She looked like a princess, very tall, straight, regal-like if you know what I mean. She died in the spring of 1931, I think of pneumonia. Same week my Fannie died, died in childbirth. They’re buried in the same cemetery. Maybe that’s why your greatgranddaddy and I seemed to have a special understanding, sharing a loss at the same time. Don’t think he ever really recovered from her death. And it was the start of the Depression. He went through some bad times before he died; but he was always a man of great courage and dignity. You come from good stock.”

Ray, feeling embarrassed, tried to redirect the conversation. “You never remarried?”

“Never found anyone I felt the same about. In later years I’ve wondered if I had been foolish, if I had idealized Fannie to the point that no woman could ever measure up, but you live your life. I’m just sorry the bank will pass out of our hands. But you didn’t come in to talk about the past. What’s on your mind? I imagine some sort of official business.”

“Official business, yes. I’m trying to get information on something that happened a long time ago. Part of it might have to do with a trust. I stopped at your branch in the village, but I quickly realized the manager wouldn’t be able to help much….”

“What do you think of the kid we got out there?” Clopton interrupted.

Ray tried to be diplomatic. “He seems inexperienced.”

“He’s my niece’s boy. I guess I shouldn’t inflict him on the people in the next county, but I can’t stand having the little bastard around here. My niece wants him to be part of the family business, but I think he’s destined to sell used cars. I’ve had several complaints from the girls out there about what a pompous little ass he is. It’s hard to find some place to put him where he doesn’t do damage. I’ve been thinking of sending him off to get his MBA. That will get him out of here for a couple of years, and he’ll think it’s a perk.”

“Well,” continued Ray, “I could tell that he couldn’t give me the help I needed. What I want assistance with, Mr. Clopton— Hugh—is getting some information on a trust. I think it is a trust anyway. The recipient of the trust would have been Joe Reed.”

“That’s not very hard. Let me think for a moment. We had two trust accounts for Joe Reed—sort of unusual. But I would think you knew about those,” he said looking at Ray. “I would have thought there would be a lot of rumors about Joe’s money over the years.”

“I heard some of the gossip over the years, but I suspect most of that is more legend than truth.”

“Suppose that’s true,” said Compton leaning back in his chair. “Let me go through what I remember for you. If you need more specific details I can have Meg pull the records. We had two trusts we administered that benefited Joe Reed. I don’t know how much you know about Joe.”

“Not much, I guess. I knew his kids, graduated from high school with his sons. But mostly I remember a solitary figure staggering down the road with a brown bag.”

“Unfortunately, that was the way he spent his last thirty or so years, although the tendencies were always there. But, in his prime, he was the best trout guide in this part of the state. Best fly tyer, too. The first trust we administered had to do with the upkeep of a tract of land, a trout stream, and a small house. They had belonged to the professional golfer, Buster Kagan, one of the better-known golfers in the 20s and 30s. You know the place I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“I know the area you’re talking about; the cabin is almost inaccessible,” said Ray.