The Sleuth Sisters (4 page)

Chapter Three

Barb

While Faye visited what she called the “cop shop,” I tracked down Byron Sparks, the state police detective who handled the Wozniak case. When I reached him and gave a brief overview, there was a pause before he spoke. “You’re hired to prove Brown’s innocence?”

“To find him. The client expressed hope that he’ll be proven innocent, but I made it clear we couldn’t guarantee that.”

Sparks snorted. “That’s good, since he’s guilty.”

“You have no doubt of that?”

I pictured Sparks’ lips tightening at the audacity of my question, and there was irritation in his voice. “There was a fight. He killed the wife and brother with what was probably a softball bat. Brown’s DNA was all over, his blood was on the brother’s shorts. The place was a mess. No way the guy’s innocent.”

I kept at it, looking for a crack that might let out a little hope. “Could there be extenuating circumstances? Maybe Carson and Neil argued, and Carina got hurt by accident.”

“The two men hardly knew each other. The Wozniak kid went to some fancy school in California and ended up living out there.” He paused, apparently letting the details come back to him. “Brown was separated from his wife, but she called him that day and asked him to stop by.”

“Why?”

“Her father said it was because she’d decided to file for divorce.” His tone had grown more irritated, and I decided not to interrupt again. “However it started, things got violent. The father came along in time to see Brown leaving the house. He saw him, and he went inside to find his son dead and his daughter dying.”

I heard little thumps and imagined Sparks punctuating his points on the desktop with his index finger. “Neil had a temper. He was there. His softball bat wasn’t anywhere to be found. We searched the apartment, his truck, and the place he was renting.” Sparks spoke confidently. “The guy had motive, means, and opportunity. He did it.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. It sounded bad for Neil Brown, and for Meredith.

“If you find him, that’ll be great,” Sparks said, “but don’t expect a happy reunion between Brown and his family. It isn’t going to happen.”

He was more correct than he knew. Even if Brown were innocent as a lamb, Meredith’s illness would be devastating if he turned out to be the person his sister thought he was.

Did Neil Brown want to know he had a six-year-old daughter? Faye hoped he did. She also hoped he had an explanation for what happened. Had Carina fallen during an argument? If she had, why hadn’t he called for help? Why had he attacked her brother, beating him bloody and crushing his skull? I wanted to pose those questions and more to Neil, wherever he might be.

I suddenly remembered I hadn’t asked Sparks about Stan Wozniak, whose dislike of his son-in-law might have colored his story. As an outsider, Sparks was the best person to judge how truthful the old man had been.
Old man?
He was probably my age.
Father
, I corrected.

I hit Redial and got the switchboard operator again. “It’s Barb Evans again. I just spoke with Detective Sparks, but I’d like to ask him one more question.”

“One moment.” As I waited, I walked around the desk and studied the map of Michigan Faye had attached to a bulletin board. When the woman came back on the line, there was a false note to her voice. “I’m sorry, but Detective Sparks is gone. He’ll be out for the rest of the day.”

I thanked her and hung up, guessing Sparks considered more contact with me a waste of his time. I’d have to go at things from another direction, and sadly, that direction had to be north.

Faye was excited about driving to the U.P., and before I knew it, she’d mapped our route and made a list of what to pack. “I don’t want to sleep at a place called Buck Anything,” I groused. “Nor do I want to hobnob with deer-killers.”

“It’s May,” she reminded me. “We won’t run into any hunters.”

“Good.” I didn’t even try to curtail my grouchiness. “They spend one day hunting and the other fourteen playing cards, drinking, and walking around town in orange camo.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re bad people,” Faye scolded.

“They take over and treat the town like their personal back yard. People who don’t shave, bathe, or brush their teeth should stay away from those of us who do.”

“Do you go with me, or do I go alone?”

“I can’t let you go into the wilderness by yourself, but I won’t like it. And there’s the bridge, too.” I hoped that would give her second thoughts. Faye’s greatest fear is being anywhere there’s air beneath her: bridges, elevators, and airplanes.

Faye sighed. “The Mackinac Bridge has stood since nineteen-fifty-something. I suppose it’ll bear the weight of two middle-aged women.”

“But what about the half-dozen semis, assorted campers, and fully-laden passenger cars bound to be on it at the same time?” I was teasing now, and she knew it.

“Fine, don’t go.”

“I’m going,” I said. “I’m just not happy about it.”

Dale came into the room at that point, moving deliberately, touching furniture for stability as he passed. A head injury several years back had left him unsteady on his feet and unable to work a normal job. He got vertigo from standing or moving too suddenly. Light bothered him so much he wore dark glasses inside and out, and anything above conversation-level noise was torture. Luckily, his mishap had not destroyed his sense of humor, and he said, “I’m told that tomorrow morning I become the Smart Detective Agency’s Man Friday.”

“If you don’t mind,” I replied. “It’s just overnight, but you’ll be in charge.”

“Okay, but no brawling with the Yoopers.”

“Maybe we could Skype the owner of the lodge.”

“Go pack a bag,” Faye prodded. “One night of misery and you can return to the civilized side of the Bridge.” As I left the room she added, “And bring lots of tissues. It’s spring, so your allergies will really kick in up there.”

Chapter Four

Faye

If you haven’t seen the Mackinac Bridge, you should. Laid across the Strait of Mackinac, a full five miles of suspension bridge hangs from lofty towers footed deep in the waters where two Great Lakes, Michigan and Huron, meet at the tip of the mitt. Despite admiring its engineering, I hate the damned thing.

US 23 took us to Mackinaw City, a pleasant drive that often skirted the shore of Lake Huron, providing great views. We got admiring looks as we passed through towns along the way, not for ourselves, but for the car. Barb drives a’57 Chevy, Matador Red with white side panels. It might sound odd for a person who can afford all the modern bells and whistles, but as a kid she was obsessed with Uncle Carl’s car. Having no children of his own, he left the car to Barb when he died. All the years she lived on the Pacific Coast it was stored in a barn, on blocks and drained of fluids. When she returned to Allport, she spent a sizeable chunk of money to have it refurbished and modernized to meet present laws. The surprisingly comfortable bench seat and flat dashboard left lots of room for two mature women. At my age I appreciated things like that.

As we approached the bridge, I got antsy. A feeling of dread always hit me as the land receded. Images of the car lunging over the side or the bridge collapsing under me came to mind. I could almost feel the car plummet into space and after a few terror-filled seconds, plunge into the icy water. I heard the bubbling as we sank beneath the surface, unable to escape as pressure increased and light faded. If I dwelled on it, I became unable to function. Aware of this, Barb maintained a conversation, no matter how inane it became.

“How long do you think it’ll take to get there?” I sounded just like my kids used to. Are we there yet? I tried to keep my voice steady, but the choppy water far below moved like a living thing, waiting like a terrible fish to swallow us alive.

“Frau GPS says we’ll arrive at 3:55.” According to Barb, the GPS voice sounds like a Nazi housewife. She described the route we’d take in detail to keep me from focusing on my fear. “We’ll take US 2 for a couple of hours then head north on a paved road that turns to dirt. After that it’s a bunch of twists and turns. I hope the Frau knows what she’s doing.”

At the northern end of the bridge, we stopped at the tollbooth, paid the friendly attendant, and exited the “Mighty Mac.” Thrilled to be back on dry land, I tried to paint a rosy picture of our destination. “The guy at the Chamber of Commerce didn’t know a lot about Buck Lake Resort, but he’s driven by it lots of times. He says it doesn’t look bad.”

Barb raised that brow. “He’s a Yooper. What does he know?”

“It might be nice.”

“Hampton Inn is nice. Buck Lake Resort is mice, I guarantee it.”

We left I-75 and turned west, stopping for drinks at the last McDonalds we’d see until the return trip. The U.P. of Michigan was beautiful but a little desolate. US 2 crossed it and continued all the way to the Pacific if a person wanted to go that far. The towns along the way were small, the permanent homes mostly modest, with signs proclaiming businesses from computer repair to pasties, the delicious meat pies whose invention is claimed by both Brits and Finns. Peeps of the big lake provided beautiful views, but mostly there were trees. Lots of trees.

Just before the town of Manistique the Frau ordered a right turn, and we headed north on a county road that quickly turned from pavement to gravel. As the Chevy chattered over washboard bumps, Barb grumbled about the dirt she’d have to wash off her baby. Now the forest closed in on us from both sides, opening infrequently to reveal no-frills houses with multiple sheds, trailers, and vehicles huddled around them as if for company. Some were hunting camps, introduced with signboards over the drive with fanciful names like “Deer Jane” or “Hunters’ Home.” Many had a padlocked gate, though I never saw one that looked worth breaking into.

At each turn the GPS called for, the road got narrower. “What are those?” Barb asked, indicating tall willow sticks stuck into the shoulder of the road at irregular intervals.

“Snow sticks,” I answered. “Without them, plow trucks might go off the road in the winter when all the drivers can see is white.”

Barb snorted. “The best thing about this trip is it didn’t happen in February.” No argument there. Spring comes late to the U.P., but there aren’t a lot of blizzards in May.

My companion’s griping aside, the drive was beautiful. We passed a dozen small lakes, some still hung with fog left over from the cool morning. The Chevy climbed small hills and wound frequent curves, and more than once we surprised animals—a waddling porcupine, two deer, and a shy, side-stepping coyote.

It seemed to take forever, but finally we turned west again, onto the road given as Buck Lake’s address. It was a hard-packed, arrow-straight path over-arched with trees whose tops were just turning green. In a month it would be a leafy tunnel, and in the fall, a kaleidoscope of color. Barb slowed even more, both to look for the resort and because the ruts had gotten even worse. At one point the GPS told us we had reached our destination, but since there were only trees and more trees, we kept going.

Finally, I pointed left. “There!”

Barb pulled into a circle drive running past a cedar-shake building. Over the door a hand-painted sign said,
Office
, and on the door itself another sign said,
Come in
. “Exactly as expected,” she said. “Hardly palatial.”

It was, I had to admit, the most rustic of rustic structures. There were antlers mounted on either side of the door. At one side of the building was a buck pole, thankfully empty.

“I can just picture that thing hung with gutted deer carcasses.” Barb’s grumpy mood was rapidly getting worse. You’d think someone who grew up in northern Michigan would accept the whole hunting mind-set, but she’d lived too long in the big city.

“Don’t start,” I told her sharply. “It’s one night.” We’d agreed (one of us reluctantly) we should stay at the resort in order to speak to anyone who might recall a guest from years ago.

We got out of the car, greeted by the piney scent no commercial cleaner can truly re-create. Barb went inside while I waited in the drive, smoking and surveying the place. There were five rustic cabins behind the main building, each with a metal number tacked to the door. Each was about ten by twenty feet, and I shuddered to see a small outhouse behind the last of them. Trees circled the resort, making it seem crowded against nature rather than nestled into it.

In a few minutes Barb returned with a key and a bemused expression. “The owner isn’t here right now. There’s a note that says to check yourself in, take a key, and make yourself at home. He’ll be around in the morning.”

“This isn’t the peak time of year for U.P. vacationing,” I responded. “The guy didn’t expect company, so he went off to do whatever men like him do in the off-season.”

Barb shook her head in disbelief. “Trust lives in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.”

“I kind of like it.”

She gave me a look then headed for the first cabin, remarking, “I figured we might as well be Number One.”

The cabin was neat, though sparsely furnished. It smelled a little musty, and I saw Barb’s nose twitch with distaste. In one corner was an icebox that would have brought a nice price from any antique dealer in Saugatuck. Next to it was a hand pump. On another wall a lumpy-looking couch sat under a window with glass so old it made the trees outside look wavy. In the center of the room sat a table and four rickety chairs. To my great joy, there was a bathroom with the required amenities, though they were jammed into a space hardly large enough for Barb, much less a woman of my size. The toilet apparently flushed by gravity, and I explained the buckets lined up against the wall. “You pour water from the pail into the bowl, and whatever’s in there goes away.” The look she gave me spoke volumes.

I opened a door opposite the bathroom to find a small bedroom with two bunks along one wall and a folded cot against another. There were gas lights, and we read the instructions while daylight made that possible. I suggested we light the one in the main room and leave it burning, first to make sure we knew how, and second so we could see to light the others when it got dark. It wasn’t as scary as I’d imagined, and the friendly glow of the mantle was comforting. When that was done, there seemed to be nothing else to do but haul in our stuff.

I’d brought along two sleeping bags, and we’d stopped at a grocery and bought enough deli food for several meals. In fact, we’d over-bought, the way people tend to do when they know they’ll be unable to shop for a while. You think you might need everything in the store.

Oh, yes, the mice. There were none visible, but there was plenty of evidence. You couldn’t really blame the owner. Mice can get in almost anywhere, and they abound in woodsy areas. The fact there were no tiny skeletal forms lying around indicated effort, but I was sure we’d hear the skitter of little feet in the night. I was pretty sure Barb wouldn’t sleep a wink.

Once we unloaded the car, we explored the property. A pathway behind the cabins had an arrow-shaped wooden sign that said simply,
Lake
, so we went there first. The path slanted gently downward, and about a hundred feet into the trees we found it, not a large body of water but certainly scenic. It was almost perfectly round, and there were only a few other buildings along its murky edge, all of them far removed from us. At our feet were two aluminum rowboats, overturned and pulled back from the shore, and a primitive launch site, gravel dumped into a rectangular frame and edged on one side by a wooden dock.

The lake was quiet in that way that gets your attention because it’s so deep. An occasional bird-call echoed over the water, but mostly there was only stillness.

“Pretty,” Barb murmured. It seemed wrong to use normal tones.

“Yes,” I agreed, waiting for the
but
that threatened:
but
there are mice,
but
it will be cold tonight,
but
we have no TV, no cell phone reception, etc. She didn’t say it, and I realized she was trying not to be a party pooper.

I lit a cigarette. The great thing about the great outdoors was it provided guilt-free smoking. While I enjoyed my drug of choice, Barb explored the lakeshore. I contended there wasn’t much to see, but she had to look.

She went left until swampy ground cut off her progress, then returned and did the same the other way. Same result. Sadly for her improved mood, she stumbled into a hatch of black flies, which are at their best in the springtime U.P. Bugs don’t like the smell of cigarette smoke any more than other non-smokers, so they circled Barb like a moving halo and left me alone. I tried not to look smug.

We finally retreated to the cabin, bug-free but dark and dampish. Our one gaslight put out heat as well as light, so we lit the others. Following instructions on a hand-lettered sign, I elicited water from the pump, refilling the bucket after we each flushed the toilet. A stove made from an old oil barrel stood in one corner on skinny metal legs. Four uniformly cut logs lay beside it, but there was no kindling, no paper, nothing with which to start a fire. I had my cigarette lighter, but fire-starting doesn’t work without the in-between ingredients. “Maybe the lights will be enough,” I said hopefully. Barb’s silence was eloquent.

North of the 45th parallel, May doesn’t always mean spring, and the sun had sunk below the treeline, leaving behind a definite chill. As we ate coleslaw with cold beans and chicken, the temperature in the cabin dropped, and we both began to shiver. Neither of us had brought enough clothes, and I pictured a miserable night huddled in our sleeping bags, noses red with cold. There wasn’t even room on the bunks to bundle and share body heat like we had when we were kids.

Barb got quiet, and I figured she was kicking herself for coming here. “Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean it’s going to kill me,” she said, rubbing her hands together. Either she was trying to make me feel better or convince herself she’d survive.

“When I said one night, I forgot how long that can be when you’re miserable,” I said.

Just then there was a knock on the door, a hard three-count that meant business. “Yes?” Barb called, shooting me a wary glance.

“You want help building a fire?”

I sprang to the door, muttering, “I wouldn’t need help if I had the materials!” Opening the door brought both relief and shock. A man stood on the pallet porch with an armload of wood that ran the gamut of appropriate sizes, from kindling to all-nighter. From one roomy pocket of his red-and-black plaid jacket a rolled catalog, presumably tinder, protruded. The other pocket bulged in the shape of a thermal bottle, which also boded well for us.

Despite the anticipation of warmer times, I was hesitant. The bearer of these gifts was so scary I had to make an effort not to stare. Tall and muscular, he had flat-brown hair and an untrimmed beard that lay on his chest like a dead animal. His eyes were hazel, or at least one of them was. The other was clouded with a white haze, probably blind and definitely disconcerting. His teeth were crooked and discolored, and his right arm hung limply at his side. It was hard not to register pity at the sight of so many physical deformities visited on a single human being.

“I can have you a fire in a few minutes.”

“That’d be great. Come in,” I invited, trying to look directly at him without flinching.

“Didn’t expect anybody, so I didn’t fill the wood-boxes yet,” he said, entering and setting down the carefully balanced load. It made quite a clatter, since he had no way to control the landing of the various pieces of wood. He set to work nimbly enough, opening the firebox door and piling the makings of a fire inside. Within minutes, the metal of the old stove began to smell hot, which our host assured us was fine. As he encouraged the fire, leaving the round, grated door open a little, he offered gruffly, “There’s cocoa in the bottle. Warm you up some.” The protruding teeth made it hard for him to enunciate clearly, and he spoke with a halting cadence. At times I had to think about what he said for a few seconds before it registered.

Barb accepted his offer without mentioning we’d have drunk hemlock at that point if it was warm. Placing the bottle between his thighs, the man removed the cap and stopper with his good hand. I found two cups (who remembers Melmac!) on a shelf, and he poured, drinking his own portion from the bottle’s cup-top. We sipped surprisingly good cocoa silently, Barb and I avoiding each other’s gaze and our host watching the fire. When he was satisfied it would live, he closed the door, secured it with the coiled metal handle, and turned down the draft.

“Roger Kimball,” he announced, turning to us. “I own the place.”

Barb offered her left hand. “Barbara Evans, and this is my sister, Faye Burner.” I shook left-handed too, a little self-consciously.

Kimball regarded us with his good eye narrowed. “What you looking for up here?”

Barb offered a professional smile, perfected over years of difficult interviews. “You, Mr. Kimball.” When his dark eyebrows rose she explained, “We’re hoping you can help us with a case we’re working on.”

“Have you owned this place for long?” I asked.

Kimball’s lips moved slightly before he was able to form a reply. I guessed he didn’t have many conversations with women, maybe with anyone. “Four, almost five years.”

Disappointment showed on Barb’s face as she wrapped both hands around the warm cup. “I guess you won’t be able to help us.”

“Before I bought it, I worked here.”

“You worked for the person who owned the lodge before?”

“Haike Makala, my uncle. I came over from Munising when he got crippled up with arthritis.” Kimball nodded to himself, pleased to have formed such a long string of words.