Dead Lock (17 page)

“I see you’re keeping your fishing expertise to yourself,” he said with a smile. “Not everyone is that modest.” He motioned to a crowd down the bar where two women had joined the men in an animated conversation that obviously had something to do with fishing. One of the women was making exaggerated motions of reeling in what had to be a gigantic trout.

“You might be surprised,” I said. “In fact, I’ve got a whale of a fishing story for you.” I told Scotty about the trip to Negaunee I planned to make over the next few days. I told him what I had found out concerning Shirley and I included what little I knew about the mystery of the Stop Inn and its equally mysterious proprietor.

“Be careful, Kate,” he said when I’d finished. “There’s something that doesn’t sound right about all this.”

I started to agree, but my thoughts were interrupted when I heard Abe Lieberman, standing in the crowd beside us, mention a stranger he had seen hanging around the downtown area near Ashmun Street. I had noticed the same stranger, and maybe it was paranoia, but he seemed to be watching me. The guy had been dressed in an expensive suit and tie, definitely not your average Sault Ste. Marie native. In fact, he stood out like a clown at a funeral.

“I’ve seen him, too,” said Westendorf. “A fellow like him is hard to miss in this town. Drives a black Studebaker. Sharp dresser, too. He sure didn’t buy those clothes here.” He glanced sheepishly at Lieberman. “Sorry, Abe.”

Westendorf turned to my uncle. “Do you know anything about him, G.P.? I hear he’s been asking questions about the Soo Morning News.”

“Don’t know a thing,” said G.P. “In fact I don’t recall seeing anyone like that.”

“I have,” I said, and suddenly it seemed all eyes had turned my way. I felt the need to elaborate. “When I was downstate I ran into some trouble with the mob. I can spot their type, and that guy fits the mold.”

“I heard he’s staying in one of Jack Palazzolo’s cabins,” Rich Fabbiano said. “Been up here a day or so.”

I was glad when the conversation shifted to other topics and felt foolish for even mentioning my run-in with the mob. I downplayed the subject when Crawford brought it up later. But I couldn’t help mentioning it as Scotty and I were leaving the bar. He had walked me to my car, and we were talking and sharing a goodnight kiss or two to make up for my being away for the next couple of days.

“I think you’re making too much of the guy,” Scotty said. “I’ll bet he’s gone in a day or two and we forget all about him.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said.

But I feared he was wrong.

72

Tuesday, July 6

Next morning Mick and I were on our way to Negaunee in my thirty-seven Ford. I confess I exceeded the 35 mph speed limit whenever I could. Sorry Mr. President.

I’ve heard plenty of people from other places brag about their state’s beauty, but to me there’s nothing quite like Michigan; especially the Upper Peninsula. It possesses an unspoiled splendor you won’t find anywhere else. Gently rolling hills, Tahquamenon Falls, the Pictured Rocks where you look down on a dazzling blue Lake Superior from cliffs a hundred feet high.

I had chosen a more direct route along Highway 28, miles south of the lake, and found myself in those gently rolling hills surrounded by green - oaks, maples, birch and lots of northern pine. My car windows were down and I could smell the sweetness of the forest as I drove. Mick had his head out the back window and I could just imagine the cacophony of aromas his sensitive nose was taking in.

We stopped for gas at a Cities Service station in McMillan and I fed Mick and let him out for some exercise. Thankfully, Jack Crawford had provided me with a few gasoline stamps from the newspaper’s supply. A small restaurant sat next door to the service station and I had a bite to eat. We were on our way again a half hour later.

We arrived in Negaunee around suppertime and I decided to drop into the Stop Inn restaurant to eat. But when I found the address that had been given on Shirley’s resume, it wasn’t a restaurant at all; it was a brown two-story home. I knocked and received the surprise of my life when a woman appeared at the door.

It was the woman I had seen at Shirley’s funeral.

73

The woman stood about five foot three and wore her hair tucked in a bun on the back of her head. I had to talk to her through a screen door.

“Mrs. Wilson?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you,” she said just before she slammed the front door in my face.

I knocked again, with no result. I walked around the corner of the house, hoping to catch someone’s attention through one of the windows. Mrs. Wilson had anticipated me, though, and all the shades were drawn. Reaching the backyard, I climbed the short steps to the back door and knocked there with the same negative result.

I felt famished, and I knew Mick had to be just as hungry. I decided to regroup: we’d find a place to stay for the night, have a bite to eat and then I’d come back here with hopes of finding out why Mrs. Wilson insisted on being so inhospitable.

I retraced the route back toward town and found a collection of tourist cabins on a small lake just outside of town. Luckily they welcomed pets. I took Mick for a walk in the tall weeds beside the cabin we’d rented and then left him inside with water and a large ceramic bowl filled with dry dog food.

I ordered fish and chips in a small restaurant on Iron Street across from the Vista Theater and I chewed over my current situation while I ate. Obviously there was no Stop Inn; at least not in Negaunee. But just as big a mystery was Mrs. Wilson’s reaction. Why had she acted so rudely?

After driving the better part of a day to get to Negaunee, I wasn’t going to meekly turn tail and retreat back to the Soo. There was still enough daylight left to allow another try at Mrs. Wilson after supper.

74

When I got to the Wilson’s home again, I parked my car in the drive, walked to the door and knocked.

No reply. I knocked again, and then decided to try the back door. As I rounded the house I noticed the door of the garage standing behind the house was open and the building was empty.

I mounted the few steps to the back door and knocked. Again I was greeted by silence.

I was getting mad. In desperation, I tried the door handle and found it unlocked. The door swung open slightly, and I called inside.

“Mrs. Wilson?”

No answer. I’m not a thief, but after driving all the way from the Soo, I was not about to go home without solving the mystery of the non-existent Stop Inn and its rude proprietor. I opened the door all the way and stepped through into a small kitchen. A refrigerator and gas stove stood on my right, a sink to my left. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry filled the room. I walked to the oven and opened it, feeling the handle warm. Sure enough, inside was a pie; still warm. The Wilson’s hadn’t been gone long.

The shades were drawn on the window above the sink and the house was dim, but not dark. The summer sun still bore in through the shaded windows.

I walked past the kitchen into a small dining area, again calling for anyone who might be home. I passed a closed door on my right and walked to an open doorway just ahead. Peering inside the room, I found a double bed and dresser set that obviously belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.

Feeling like Goldilocks invading the home of the three bears, I turned back and walked to the door I had just passed. I tried the handle and found it open. It appeared to be the bedroom of a teen-aged girl. There were three teddy bears on the carefully made bed and the wallpaper was covered with flowery prints. On top of the plain wood dresser was a photograph. The three smiling faces were Shirley and the two people I had seen at her funeral. The woman was the Mrs. Wilson who had slammed the door in my face.

When I saw them at the Soo, I thought they had been Shirley’s aunt and uncle. But Shirley had spoken about her mother’s sister and her husband often and I was sure their name was Bergman, not Wilson.

I picked up the photograph and looked at my old friend; then I gazed around the room. The papers were neatly placed on the small desk next to the bed, and there were a few knickknacks on the dresser and windowsill. A University of Michigan pennant adorned the wall over the bed. Shirley had clearly lived here in this room at one time and it looked as if she were expected to return any minute.

I couldn’t help noticing what looked like a thick scrapbook setting on the desk. I picked it up and began thumbing through. Page after page of the book was filled with yellowed clippings of newspaper articles featuring a U.S. Congressman Neil Roberts of Ann Arbor.

Some of the stories had photos of the congressman and his constituents. There were quite a few of him cutting ribbons at the opening of local businesses or shaking hands with a mayor or some other politician. I turned another page and there was a clipping with a photo of the congressman with Shirley. The caption identified Shirley as the congressman’s “personal assistant.”

That explained Shirley’s life immediately after college. But the dates on the clippings that started in September of 1932, ended abruptly in 1937. What happened after that remained a mystery. There was nothing here that hinted at what she became involved in afterwards.

And it raised some nagging questions: why did Shirley make up a story about flunking out of school? Why didn’t she mention Congressman Neil Roberts? Why did she falsify her resume to show she had been employed at a non-existent restaurant?

And what had brought her back to the Soo as a waitress?

Those thoughts were on my mind when the world suddenly went dark.

75

In what I now realize was a dream, Shirley was alive and we were both back in high school English class. The teacher, who looked exactly like Mrs. Wilson, stood in front of the class with the same stern look she had worn when she answered her front door.

Mrs. Wilson had caught Shirley and me whispering to each other during her lecture and she grabbed Shirley gruffly by the arm and pulled her toward the door. Shirley tried desperately to hold onto her desk, but her hands slipped and the teacher dragged her off into the hall.

As the classroom door slammed shut, someone was coughing violently nearby; then I heard voices I didn’t recognize. Real voices.

“Those cigarettes are gonna kill you.”

“I know.”

“You ought to quit.”

“I’ve tried. It’s tough.”

My nose was taking in the distinct aroma of alcohol that reminded me of a dentist’s office. I opened my eyes and saw two faces staring down at me. As the scene came into focus, I realized the face just above me belonged to a man in his fifties who wore a white doctor’s smock. He had a wreath of white hair around an otherwise shiny head and wore a white mustache. Standing beside him was another man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He wore a brown shirt with a bronze badge pinned to it and had the dark hair and complexion of an American Indian.

I tried to sit up but my body weighed a ton. I flopped backwards onto the bed. I tried to talk but words came as gibberish.

“Just relax, Miss Brennan. I’m Doctor Reynolds. This is Deputy Hightower. You’re in the county hospital.”

I rubbed my forehead with my left hand. “How did I get here?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Bergman phoned our office,” said the deputy. “They found you passed out in their home.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Bergman?” So that
was
the home of Shirley’s uncle and aunt.

“We picked you up by ambulance and brought you here,” the deputy said.

I tried to remember what had happened. The last thing I could picture was a scrapbook with newspaper clippings of the congressman and Shirley. Then. . .? Nothing.

“What happened to me?”

“You were unconscious,” said the doctor. “Most likely you were drugged. There was a slight odor of chloroform in the room.”

“Who would have done that?”

The deputy shook his head. “We were hoping you could tell us. There was no one else in the house when the Bergmans got home.”

My head was beginning to clear and I tried to sit up again.

“Easy,” said the doctor. He put his hand around my back and helped me sit upright.

As I shook the cobwebs out of my brain, reality slowly came back into focus. I thought of Mick cooped up back at the cabin by the lake. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

“You’ll have to stay, ma’am. You’re under arrest.”

“Arrest? For what?”

“Breaking into the Bergman’s home.”

“I didn’t break in. The door was unlocked.”

“Just the same,” he said, “you entered without permission.”

“But I was a close friend of their niece’s.” Despite the doubt on the faces of both men, I went on. “Shirley Benoit, the Bergman’s niece and my best friend, was murdered a week ago in Sault Ste. Marie. I was looking for some sort of clue that might tell who did it.”

The deputy still looked doubtful. “You think her uncle or aunt killed her?”

“Of course not. I didn’t even realize the house belonged to the Bergmans. I was just looking into her background to see if there was a clue to someone who might want her dead. For some reason or another.

“Will you please call them for me? Tell them who I am?”

“I’ll try.” The deputy started to leave.

“Wait. Before you go, you don’t happen to have a cigarette I could borrow, do you?”

The deputy shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t smoke.”