Death in a Summer Colony (12 page)

24

R
ay held Elliott Wudbine in his gaze. “I’m sorry for your loss and this intrusion on your time. I’m sure you understand that the investigation has to go forward as quickly as possible.”

“Sheriff, I can’t imagine what I might know that will be of any use. My father was a good man. I don’t know why anyone would want him dead.”

“When was the last time you saw your father alive?” Ray took in Elliott’s perfectly ironed, button-down shirt, the smell of tobacco, and the bulge in his shirt pocket. Elliott was lean, looked worn beyond his years, his brown hair thinning at the temples.

“He came with Ms. Mickels to pick me up from the airport in Traverse City. It was a magical flight back, the brilliant sunshine, the lakes and forests. However, we could see a mass of dark clouds coming across the lake from the west. After what’s happened, they were an ominous warning—if you believe in that sort of thing.”

“So you arrived back at….”

“I think it was after 6:00. The helipad is on the back of the property. Mickels drove us up to the house in a golf cart. Father and I went into his library for a few moments to talk. We have a couple of acquisitions that we’re negotiating, and I wanted to fill him in on the details. We had a drink, and then I excused myself. I wanted to see Jill before she left for the theater. I got to our cottage just in time. She was heading out as I arrived. Then I found something to eat and wandered down to the theater in time for the opening curtain.”

“Where were you seated?”

“In the back row. The annual summer play is always a sellout. There was some kind of screw-up. I’m not used to sitting in the back.”

“Were you alone?”

“No, Alyson Mickels was already there. She had the seat next to mine. The curtain went up. Jill made it through her first scene. I know she was quite nervous, but you couldn’t tell watching her. The scene came to an end, and by then the rain had started. After the curtain was down, I was on my feet. My back was killing me. Alyson excused herself, she was worried about the cart.”

“So what did you do at this point?”

“I did these back exercises I can do standing in one place. Then I settled back into my seat and started looking at my e-mail. The lights went out. I sat there in the dark and continued to read my e-mail. Eventually the lights came back on. Then Richard Grubbs came out, and I couldn’t quite catch what he was saying, but everyone was leaving. I walked off to have a cigarette and eventually got a call from Jill. I went in and got her, and Alyson drove us and Pepper up to Gull House to absorb what had happened and to try to figure out how to tell my stepmother. And not too long after that you appeared with Grubbs.”

“He’s your father-in-law, isn’t he?”

“After a fashion. Jill had a falling out with him years ago. They don’t talk. I bear him no rancor, I just never see him.”

“Ms. Mickels has told me that one of her jobs was working as a liaison to the firm that provides security to your corporation.”

“That’s correct,” he responded, pulling out a cigarette pack, looking at it briefly, then returning it to his pocket.

“Had your father been subject to any threats?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Why the need for…?”

“It’s part of the business of doing business. There are threats out there, especially against the financial industry. You know, the growing class warfare and all. You’ve got to be proactive. Everyone is doing it: key cards, fingerprint locks, cameras, photo IDs. With the right planning and equipment, you minimize possible risks.”

“But there was a problem, wasn’t there. Your father was murdered. Can you think of anyone who might have a motive to kill him? There might be some history connected, someone holding a grudge for an actual or perceived wrong ten, fifteen, twenty years ago.”

“I don’t think so. I certainly knew my father quite well, better than most sons. That said, who of us knows everything about anyone else. We all manage to irritate people along the way. I’m sure he did that a lot. He was demanding, wanted everything done yesterday, and he wanted everything done his way. He was very direct, didn’t beat around the bush. But I don’t think his aggressive manner would be a motivation for murder. He just wanted the people around him to perform at the same level he demanded of himself.”

“How about on the business side?”

“My father was hardly involved anymore in the day-to-day operations. He was chairman of the board. I run the business.”

“Any pending litigation against your firm?”

“No, nothing.”

“Any disgruntled employees or former employees?”

“Not in recent years. No one that I can think of.”

“How about investors?” asked Ray. “I understand some of the colony residents once had investment accounts with your firm.”

“That is true. In the 90s we had a division that did portfolio management for small investors. Our opening threshold was a million dollars. A few colony residents had accounts with us. They raved about their investment returns, and a number of other people approached my father asking if they could open accounts with us. Not one of them met our threshold, not even close, but Father created a special category for these people with a minimum investment of a hundred thousand. Back then you couldn’t miss in this business, the market was exploding. All of our clients did well, much better than the Dow. And then the dotcom bubble burst. Everyone took a beating, our clients included. People of means tend to take the long view. They know markets are variable and will come back with time. It was the small investors that came unglued, in our case the very people that my father reached out to help. At that point my father decided that these small accounts produced more aggravation than profit. We guided these customers to other firms, or returned their money if they so directed.”

“And everyone was happy with this arrangement?”

“When people lose money, even if it’s money they made in the run-up, not funds they actually invested in the first place, they’re unhappy. For the born bitchers in the group, providing logical explanations is a waste of time. What you need to know, Sheriff, is my father was no Madoff. The only losses our customers ever experienced were due to normal market fluctuations.”

“Is your company currently experiencing any financial problems?”

“Absolutely not. One thing about my father, Sheriff, was his remarkable sense of timing. While he may have been out of the day-to-day operations, he still provided strategic direction to our investment strategy. We were out of stocks before this last market collapse, and we came back in about the time things bottomed out. So we’ve done extremely well. I’ve been in the business for about twenty years, and we’ve never made this kind of money before. My father poured much of his profits into his foundation. He was committed to doing good works the last part of his life.”

“Is there anyone who would profit by your father’s death?”

“No, well, I would. And I guess my stepmother would.” His face reddened, Ray interpreted this as a flash of anger, but Elliot’s tone was unchanged. “We’re hardly starving. Our lives will not be altered by the inheritance. In point of fact, I could retire now and live comfortably for the rest of my life.”

“How about his personal life? Any romantic relationships that might have soured?”

“Sir, my father has had a long, and by all appearances, successful second marriage.”

Ray noted a second flash of anger. He wondered what was motivating it.

Elliott pulled out his cigarette pack again and fumbled with it. “When will we have my father’s body? We want to start organi
zing the memorial service.”

“Later in the week. I’ll be able to tell you tomorrow. What are your plans?”

“Jill and I are working on that. We’ll probably do something in Chicago. It’s just too difficult to get flights into Traverse City before Labor Day if you have to come commercial. However, Father would have probably liked something up here. He looked on Gull House as the major accomplishment of his life. His will stipulates that his ashes be spread on the shore.” He paused, withdrawing a cigarette from the pack. “Now, Sheriff, if there is nothing else….”

“I will need to talk to you again in the course of the investigation. Oh, and there is one more thing. Could I get a list of the people who are or were once customers of your firm?”

Elliott’s response was slow in coming. “I don’t know what to tell you, Sheriff. I’ll need to ask our legal people, see if we would be violating any securities or privacy laws. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

Ray watched him go, Elliott stopping briefly and lighting a cigarette as soon as he dropped off the porch onto the sand trail that led away from the building.

25

H
anna Jeffers was waiting for Ray when he returned home in the late afternoon. His boat was already secured to the roof of her Subaru. “I’ve got all you stuff packed.”

Twenty minutes later they were carrying their boats and gear from a parking lot to the Lake Michigan shore. Ray launched first, Hanna Jeffers following him. Once he got beyond the pilings, the remains of a dock left from the lumbering days, he stopped and waited. As she approached he capsized, hanging upside down in the cool water, looking at the sand bottom, the kayak rocking in the gentle chop. Then he moved to the right side of his boat, pushed the paddle out of the water, swept the blade from the bow toward the stern, and gracefully rolled up. After a few breaths, he capsized again, slowly performing the same maneuver.

Hanna glided next to him, rafting her boat against his, bow to stern, leaning on his deck. “Good hang time. I was wondering if I needed to give you the hand of God.”

“Silence, I wanted complete silence.”

“What’s going on?”

“Too many voices. I’m trying to get through the static.”

“If you want to talk about it, I’m happy to listen.”

“Let’s paddle. I need to burn off some energy. That seems to work better than anything.”

“Where to?”

Ray looked out to the Manitous, and then glanced at his watch.

“I’m willing if you are,” said Hanna, observing his actions.

“We have about three hours of light and maybe an hour of afterglow. We would have to haul ass the whole way.”

“So let’s do a gear check. Radios, navigation lights, tow packs, food, and water.”

“All of the above,” answered Ray. “Tell me about the food.”

“You will approve, but we will have to gobble it down. You checked the weather?”

“It is what you see. A modest chop left over from yesterday. The wind will drop away around sunset. We should be coming back on glass. You lead, you set a faster pace than I do.”

Hanna headed into open water and pointed her bow toward the south end of the island. Ray fell in behind, later moving just off her port side. There was little conversation, just the rhythm of body, blade, boat, and waves. Once they neared the shore of the island, they paddled north until they found a sand beach for landing.

Ray sat on the bluff above the beach and looked across the Manitou Passage in softening light. From Sleeping Bear Point the massive dunes stretched south toward Empire, rising again and slowly leveling as they neared Platte Point. The passage was almost devoid of boat traffic, and the wave height had dropped to less than a foot.

“How about some smoked salmon?”

“Sounds promising.”

“On a dark rye with cream cheese and capers.”

“Now you are talking,” said Ray, dropping at her side and accepting the sandwich.

“I know we should be sipping vodka, or at least white wine, but how about some seltzer with a twist of lime.”

“Perfect.”

They ate in silence for many minutes. Finally, Hanna said, “We take this all too much for granted. This view, this amazing water, this tranquility. I have to keep reminding myself of my good fortune in being here rather than at the edge of some killing zone.” She looked over at Ray. “How goes the investigation or are we banning all work-related conversations?”

Ray’s answer was a long time in coming. “”It’s so complicated. Twenty or more possible suspects just in our initial review. The victim has had decades-long relationships with most of these people. It’s hard to know where to begin. I spent the day listening to different versions of the same story, most of them coming through a filter that would put the speaker in the best light. Most of the colony residents expressed a dislike for the victim. And yet they seemed to tolerate him because he had the money and competence to keep things going.”

Ray looked out at the water and checked his watch. “We should be back on the water. I want to get across the shipping channel before dark. Let’s have the navigation lights in place and switched on before we launch.”

Ray pushed Hanna’s kayak away from the beach, and then launched his own. As they paddled away from shore, Hanna asked, “Should we put out a radio call that we’re crossing the passage?”

“I don’t see any traffic, but it’s probably a good thing to do.” He stopped paddling and waited as she transmitted “Sécurité, sécurité, sécurité, kayaks crossing Manitou Passage west to east from South Manitou to Sleeping Bear Point.” She repeated her message, her voice echoing through Ray’s VFR radio.

“How was that,” she asked.

“Perfect. We’ve made a cautionary call, the lights are in place, and there are no other boats in sight. Let’s boogie while we’ve still got lots of light.”

Ray turned his bow in the direction of the headland and settled into a fast cadence, Hanna in a parallel course at his side. As Ray focused on his destination, he slowly ran the memory of each of the interviews of the cast, crew, family, and employees from Verity Wudbine-Merone to her son Elliott. He tried to remember the details of each encounter. What had he missed? While it was too early to dismiss the possibility that the murderer was from outside this group, Ray was quite certain he had talked to the killer or killers in the course of the day. The careful, split-second timing necessary to successfully carry out the attack showed extremely careful planning. Was the perpetrator motivated by some recent events or by some smoldering resentment?

“Ray,” Hanna’s voice had a sense of urgency. “There’s a boat closing fast. I can’t tell if they have seen us.”

“Do another sécurité call.”

They paused briefly as Hanna made her call.

“I don’t see any response. They’re coming straight toward us.”

“They are at least a mile out. Let’s get out of their way.”

As they picked up their pace, Ray watched the lights on the approaching craft. He could hear the rumble of the engines, and then the music, a techno beat. As hard as they paddled, the yacht continued to close, as if it was being steered in their direction. Sudden
ly it veered off to the west, missing their boats by less than forty or fifty yards, the kayaks surfing on its wake. Then it slowly disappeared into the dusk, the engine noise blending with a heavy bass beat.

“Did you get a name?” asked Ray.

“No,” said Hanna, still breathing hard, her arms and legs burning from the extended sprint. “I don’t think they ever saw us. Was anyone on the bridge?”

“Auto pilot,” said Ray. “The guy at the controls was talking, or texting, or watching TV or in the head. They had their VHS turned off or down so as not to be disturbed by the routine chatter.”

“What can we do?”

“Be angry at them, and thankful that they missed us. That was a good-sized yacht. They probably wouldn’t have noticed running over us.”

On the beach in the dull light of the afterglow, as they packed their gear, Hanna asked, “Did you figure out who the killer was?”

“No, I was distracted. For a little while it became quite unimportant.”

“Near-death experiences seem to put everything else in perspective,” she said sliding into his arms. “This was a lot more interesting than dinner and a movie.”