Dead Lock (10 page)

“No, I never got a look at whoever killed Shirley,” she was saying. “Like I told the deputies, I walked out the door for a cigarette and saw . . . saw Shirley lying there on the ground.” She dropped her face into her hands and began sobbing softly.

“I’m sorry to be asking you these questions, Ellen,” I said. “But Shirley was a good friend of mine, too. And I think I owe it to her to help the authorities find her killer.”

Ellen stopped crying and looked up at me. “What about that colored soldier?”

“Corporal Cummins? He didn’t do it.”

“But the sheriff . . .”

“Cummins was picked up walking blocks away. If he were the killer he’d have had blood all over him. But he was clean.”

“Then why . . .?”

“He’s the only suspect they could find.”

Ellen covered her face again with her hands. I realized my time with her was going to run out soon.

“Ellen, did you notice any suspicious-looking characters in the tavern last night?”

She shook her head without looking up. “Just the usual crowd. You know: locals and soldiers. I knew most of them; by sight, at least.”

Ellen uncovered her face and looked up at me again. “I don’t understand. You say that soldier didn’t kill Shirley.”

“That’s right.”

“Then, who did?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

38

Wednesday, June 24

“Your story’s not running, and that’s final.” Jack Crawford slammed the desk with his fist.

“What do you mean it’s not running?” I stood in front of that desk, shouting just as loudly. I couldn’t believe it. A first-rate story about the mayor running illegal booze across the border during Prohibition had to be the Scoop of the Century in this little burg. And the managing editor was apparently too cautious to run it.

“You won’t let me write a legitimate story about a murder or riot. Then, instead of writing some mundane pap about flowers, I bring you a story with some substance and you don’t know what to do with it.”

“Oh, I know what to do with it,” Crawford said. “I’m tossing it in the wastebasket.”

“What’s the matter? Too controversial?”

“No . . .”

“Isn’t controversy what news is all about?”

“News is all about what’s happening.”

“Sure. And up here that means garden club meetings, ship passages and who’s engaged to whom.”

“If that’s what’s happening, that’s what we write. We report the news, we don’t manufacture it.”

“And you think I manufactured this story? Maybe G.P. will see things differently.”

“I doubt it.”

“Well let’s see about that.” I started for the door that separated his office from Crawford’s. It was closed but I didn’t let that bother me, flinging it open without knocking, a big mistake. G.P. had just hung up the phone. He stood as I approached his desk, and I could tell by the look on his face he wasn’t used to reporters barging into his office.

“Yes, Kate, what is it?”

I took that as an invitation to lay out the whole story, rehashing the argument Crawford and I had just been through. I could hear Crawford’s footsteps as he entered the office and I could feel him stop just behind me. When I finished, G.P. just stood there shaking his head.

“So you really want me to run this story?” G.P. asked.

“Damn right I do.”

“And which sources have you contacted to verify the facts? I mean, other than Mrs. Brinkwater.”

“I tried Mayor Swenson, but he wouldn’t talk to me.”

“That was him on the phone just now.”

“Trying to spike the story, I suppose.”

“Yes, he was. But not for reasons you’re thinking.”

I decided to keep my mouth shut and let G.P. explain. It turned out to be one of the smartest things I’ve ever done.

“Viola Brinkwater is known for her green thumb,” G.P. said. “But her touch on reality leaves something to be desired.”

“You’re saying her husband Michael didn’t run illegal whiskey across the border with Roland Swenson during Prohibition?”

“Not exactly. Michael ran illegal whiskey across the border with Roland Swenson, Sr.; everyone knew that. Hell, illegal booze helped get Swenson elected.

“But Roland Swenson, Jr., our current mayor, wasn’t even in town back then.”

“You mean . . .?”

“Our current mayor is the son of the man who ran whiskey. He was away at college and serving in the military during most of Prohibition.”

So the old bat
was
nutty. I stood there, my mouth open, as G.P. went on. “Viola Brinkwater’s husband back then, during Prohibition, was Alden Mathews, her second.”

G.P. sat down behind his desk. “I’ve known Viola Brinkwater for years, Kate. She never could keep her husbands straight.”

Damn!

39

“Kate, I need you back in Detroit.”

It was Wells Mayburn’s voice. His call reached me at my desk where I was still stinging from my conversations with G.P. and Crawford.

“It’s the third day of rioting in the city, and things seem to have quieted down somewhat,” Wells said. “But what happens next is anybody’s guess. You could cut the tension in the air with a knife. So far more than 700 people have been injured. A lot of them badly enough that they’re still in the hospital.”

Despite my run-in with Crawford, and the temptation to tell him to go to hell and take my job with him, I had to stay. Shirley Benoit was dead, and the authorities had the wrong man in jail.

“I can’t leave the Soo, Wells. My best friend has been murdered, and I can’t go anywhere without knowing who killed her.”

“I heard about a murder up there, Kate, but I didn’t know the victim was a friend. I’m sorry. But they’ve made an arrest.”

“Yeah, a false arrest. I’m certain the man they’ve locked up didn’t do it.”

“I’ve never doubted your instincts, Kate. But are you sure you won’t reconsider?”

“Sorry, Wells.”

“At least tell me you’ll think about it, Kate. We’re undermanned here. We could really use you.”

I couldn’t let him get away with that. “Just because you’re undermanned, huh?”

“You know what I mean, Kate. You’re my best investigative reporter. I want to get to the bottom of these riots. Find out how they started.”

“And I need to find out who killed my friend. Sorry, Wells, I’d like to help.”

Of all the times for Wells to call, this had to be the absolute worst. Two days ago I would have given my eyeteeth to be back in Detroit, reporting the story of the decade, if not the century. But I couldn’t go.

Not now.

40

The evening sun was sinking slowly into Lake Superior’s Whitefish Bay, its light glittering out over the waters, turning their dark blue color to a brilliant, blinding white.

I had driven to a spot outside of town where you can watch the sun descend into those icy blue waters and listen to the surf pound onto the beach. I left my car and walked to a spot where I sat cross-legged on a patch of grass near the edge of the sand. With a clump of trees and ferns behind me I felt totally isolated.

I had found solace in this place many times as a high school student after I had done poorly on an exam or broken up with a boy friend. As a group, we girls had our “Toad Hall.” But this is where I came when I wanted to be totally alone.

And right now, this is where I had to be, even though it meant a twenty-mile drive that burned a few gallons of precious gasoline.

I had screwed up; done something a cub reporter wouldn’t do. I had felt so damn sure of myself, so certain of showing up the locals that I had disregarded the number one rule of journalism: I hadn’t checked my sources.

More than that, though, I had forgotten the respect for small town people I had gained during my time in Sault Ste. Marie as a teenager. People in small towns are no dumber or smarter than those of us who happen to live in big cities. They’re simply people who have chosen to live their lives away from the noise, traffic and pressure of big city living.

Maybe they’re smarter than city dwellers, after all.

At any rate, I knew what I should have done. I should have insisted on talking to the mayor. I should have searched the archives at the library to verify names and dates. I should have done a dozen things that I simply didn’t do. Instead I rushed the story through my typewriter and took it to Jack Crawford, giving him the perfect opportunity to show up the big city reporter.

The jerk. And to think I had found the man attractive when we first met. How could I have thought that? Even marginally? I despised the smug way he handled the whole affair. He could have told me the current mayor wasn’t Viola Brinkwater’s husband’s friend during Prohibition. You can bet your rear end he knew that. But he let me barge into G.P.’s office and make a fool of myself.

He could go to hell for all I cared. I’d sit here as long as I felt like it, taking in a breathtaking view of one of God’s most beautiful creations. Alone.

Just as I began to enjoy the solitude, I heard the crackle of leaves and twigs breaking underfoot and turned to see a tall, blonde-haired man making his way through the copse of trees behind me.

It was Scotty Banyon, the man I had met at the locks.

41

I had wanted to see Scotty Banyon again, even if I hadn’t been able to totally admit it to myself. But I wasn’t eager to see anyone while I was wallowing in self-pity. I tried my best to smile as he approached.

“I thought that was your car parked back out on the road,” he said. “I was driving home from the mine when I spotted it. I wanted to be sure you were okay.”

“I’m just taking in the beauty of the sand and water,” I said.

“I thought you said you were new in town. How’d you know about this place?”

“I spent my senior year of high school in Sault Ste. Marie,” I said. “I used to come here quite fre . . . ah, once in a while.” Truth is, this was also known as the lovers’ lane for kids when I was in high school. I’d been out here my share of times that way, too. But Scotty didn’t need to know that.

“Mind if I sit down?”

“Sure, why not.” The way I said it, it came out more like a statement than a question. He sat down beside me, leaning back on one hand and brushing a lock of golden hair from his eyes with the other. His eyes were blue, dark blue. Blue like the water in the bay.

“What brings you to the Soo?” Scotty asked. He was dressed in a short-sleeved blue shirt and even in the dim light I couldn’t help noticing some pretty fair triceps definition.

“I’m up here on sort of a sabbatical, I guess you could say. I’m a reporter for the Detroit Times downstate. I decided it was time for a break.” I certainly didn’t want to go into the whole story. “You from the Soo?”

Scotty shook his head. “I’m originally from the Upper Peninsula,” he said. “But farther west, toward Wisconsin. Actually, I live out in Arizona now. I have a home near Phoenix. But when I was young my family lived over in Copper Harbor.”

“Arizona, huh? You’re a long way from home.”

“I’ve been in the Soo for a few months . . . doing some exploratory mining near here.”

“Mining? For what, gold?”

“No.” A smile creased his face. “Copper.” He pointed west. “The western part of the Upper Peninsula used to be full of it.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.” Copper mining had been a huge part of the U.P. until the first part of the Twentieth Century. “I also heard the mines dried up. What makes you think you’ll find more copper now?”

“There’s always been copper here, it just got too expensive to mine. The war has changed everything. Now the government needs the metal, and they’re willing to pay more for it. Suddenly, mining is profitable again. You just have to go deeper. And find new veins.”

“You found one?”

“About twenty miles west of town. We’ve been blasting out the side of a mountain, and the results look promising.”

“How come you know so much about it?”

“My family owned one of the largest mines in Michigan,” Banyon said. “When the vein they mined began to run out, my dad decided to close up shop. We moved to Arizona.”

“Lucky he saw the proverbial ‘hand writing on the wall.’ I hear a lot of companies went bust in the Twenties.”

Banyon nodded in agreement. He suddenly seemed distracted by his thoughts, looking out over the bay where the sun had now dipped below the horizon, leaving a hint of fire red in the dark sky.

It was time to leave. Scotty stood and offered a hand to help me up. I ignored it and got up by myself. He took a flashlight from somewhere in his jeans and we followed its yellow path through the trees. We crossed the grassy meadow and I could hear crickets chirping everywhere as we approached the road where a gorgeous black Packard dwarfed my Ford.

He seemed reluctant to go, standing in front of his car and running his hand through his hair. “Well, I’ll see you around town, I’m sure.”

I told him we probably would see each other and we both got into our cars. His lights followed mine for ten miles or so and then turned off on a narrow dirt road.

I didn’t realize just how much of Scotty Banyon I’d be seeing.