Death in a Summer Colony (14 page)

28

R
ay could see the tall figure of Ron Waltham waiting for him in the small clearing near the front of the library. Ron greeted him warmly, extending a hand, his smile exuding goodwill and bonhomie. After exchanging pleasantries, they settled into chairs on opposite sides of the table at which Ray had been conducting interviews.

“How did you end up with the role of vicar,” Ray asked. “Did you read for that part or was it something that Sterling Shevlin assigned?”

“Sterling told me he had just the part for me the first time I ran into him this summer. In fact, he greeted me that first time as Vicar,” answered Waltham, with an amiable smile, his blue eyes contrasting with his steel gray hair and rich tan. “You have to understand there’s a bit of a joke going on. Usually he greets me as ‘padre.’ I’m an ordained minister and serve in that role here at the colony. I left the ministry years ago, so it’s just sort of a summer thing I’ve been, well, I don’t want to say stuck with. But it’s something that’s sort of expected of me, especially since no one else wants the job.”

“So does Mr. Shevlin assign most of the parts in this manner?”

“You never know about old Sterling. Did I get the role because I was the right age and look like an English country vicar, or was he thinking about my role here at the colony? Sterling seems to operate on four or five levels at all times. I think he’s making connections and finding meaning. Not that he shares any of this with us, not often anyway. He’s an incredibly interesting man. You should get to know him if you have the opportunity.”

“You were saying that you were an ordained minister.”

“Yes. I was a philosophy major in college with an interest in comparative religions. By the time I was graduating, I didn’t know exactly what to do with that. So I did a master’s degree in theology, thinking perhaps that the ministry was my calling. I ended up as the youth minister in a suburban Detroit church. I could tell that that wasn’t a good fit, although I tried to make it work for about two years. Then I had an opportunity to become a chaplain in a large community hospital. That was a better fit. But it was also one of those experiences that change you a lot. Families in crisis, that’s what I was dealing with on a daily basis. Grief, sickness, or end of life situations are extremely stressful. As I was learning how to help families, I was slowly beginning to understand the complexities of these relationships. I started taking graduate courses related to family therapy, eventually ended up with a PhD in the area and then transitioned over to my own private practice. And that’s what I’ve been doing for almost 20 years. Except, of course, when I’m up here for two months, where I’m back doing a bit of what I did at the beginning of my career.”

“So what are your pastoral duties here?”

“Pretty limited, and that’s the way I’ve tried to keep it. At the beginning of the season we always have a memorial service, out on the beach, for the members of the colony who’ve died during the winter. We give family members and friends an opportunity to share memories and then we join hands, and I give a brief prayer. Sunday mornings we have a service with music and different kinds of performances and presentations. It’s all done by colony members, people of all ages. It’s not a religious service, it’s more of a spiritual nature. My job is to get this organized and make sure everyone is lined up and ready. Then we have a wedding or two or three, an occasional death or baptism. I probably average half a day a week, and that’s all I want.”

“How are you connected with the colony?”

“I’m not a direct descendant. I got here via marriage. My wife’s family goes right back to the beginning, right back to the strong Christian abolitionist roots of this organization. We’ve had our own cottage here for about 20 years. Jeanine’s brother, he’s older by five years, ended up with the family cottage. We’re close enough to see one another on a daily basis, and far enough apart not to intrude on one another’s lives.”

“Given your expertise in family therapy, are you called upon to…?”

“All the time. Everyone with kids, especially teenagers, is trying to get through some problem. I do my best not to get too involved. This is my vacation. This is my respite from the demands of therapy. If there is a real crisis, I’m happy to help. But I do my best to keep a low profile, if you know what I mean.”

“How about the colony as a family?” asked Ray.

“Funny you should mention that. I’ve always sort of thought about it in that way. It’s a large extended family, composed of individual families, some of whom have histories going back generations. There are very complex relationships here. Fortunately, most of the time this is an enormously successful cooperative community.”

“How did Malcolm Wudbine fit into this family?”

“There was an interesting dynamic. We have Malcolm and Verity and their history. Then there’s Malcolm and his relationship with his son and daughter-in-law. And last the rather strange relationship with Malcolm and the colony. He’s been very good to this place, but at times he’s been a brute and a dictator. Along the way he created a dependency relationship. We all became conditioned to look to Malcolm for his money and his skill at fixing things. It was sort of father and child relationship.”

“How did you get along with Malcolm?”

“I did my best to stay out of his way. That’s how I deal with unpleasant people. I am one of the few people living here who never had an acrimonious encounter with him. I don’t know why I was spared. Perhaps my pastoral role afforded me some special protection.”

“Did you ever have any financial dealings with him?”

“No, fortunately, but a lot of people did. I might have, too. But at the time I had no money. There was quite a frenzy back when he invited people to open accounts. There were lots of people hopping on board, everyone hoping to make a fortune. They all wanted a piece of the action and were convinced that Malcolm could deliver for them the same kind of wealth he had acquired for himself. Folks moved their longstanding retirement accounts over to his firm. I also heard that some people took out second mortgages, although I don’t know whether or not that’s true. The market was going up, all the old guidelines and questions didn’t seem to matter anymore. And for a couple of years they did well. That was a regular part of summer gossip. And then the dotcom collapse quickly shattered those dreams. There was a lot of anger directed at Malcolm, and Elliott, too. It clearly wasn’t their fault. I’m not sure they handled it well. I heard they abruptly closed out the smaller accounts, and many of those people had huge losses. Even though it was more than a decade ago, there is still some residual anger.”

“So what about the Wudbine family?”

“I really can’t tell you much. I’m just an outsider. I’m sure that it’s just as functional/dysfunctional as any other family. On a bell-shaped curve, they’re probably around the mean, maybe a standard deviation on the side of strangeness at the most. That’s pure conjecture. Really unfair of me to say that. I just don’t know.”

Saturday night, did you see anything unusual, anything out of place, people around you hadn’t seen before?”

“No, nothing like that. But, Sheriff, my focus was on the play. Sterling had worked us very hard. We had started in chaos about a month ago. By Saturday night it all seemed like a well-oiled machine. I was having a wonderful time. I think the rest of the cast was too. There was so much energy and excitement. Even the lights going out just seemed to add to the total effect of the suspense and mystery. Sheriff, I was in shock. I still am.”

“Where were you when the place went dark?”

“I was sitting in the green room. I was texting with one of my kids out in the audience. We just went on with our conversation until the lights came back on, and I had to get ready to go back onstage.”

“You have any theories about who might have wanted Malcolm Wudbine dead?”

“None at all. The man could be a pain in the ass. But murder, I don’t see it, not here. So many things happen between people. If I’ve learned one thing over the years, especially in my professional life, it’s impossible to imagine the things that happen between people. And to take it one step further, it’s difficult to anticipate how a person might interpret events or see a relationship. So who knows what might have inspired this rage. I’m really interested in knowing more about the killer and what motivated them to do this crime. I hope we can have a conversation about the case after the dust settles.”

“I’d be happy to do that,” said Ray, standing and extending his hand, “after the case is closed and adjudicated.”

“One more thing,” said Waltham, “I assume my son’s on the list. He played my nephew, he’s sixteen.”

“Yes, one of the many people we have to get to.”

“My wife took him downstate this morning. Football practice starts tomorrow. I doubt if he knows anything. He’s been totally in love for at least three weeks and oblivious to everything and everyone else. When you’re sixteen, a summer romance is a big deal.”

Ray walked outside with Waltham and chatted a few more minutes, then returned to the library and keyed some additional notes on his laptop. His concentration was interrupted by the his phone vibrating on the table
top.”

“You better get out here, Ray,” said Sue. “The family chopper just took off with Elliott, Jill, and Alyson Mickels. Brenda Wudbine is in the greenhouse that adjoins the staff quarters, alone and unguarded.”

“I’m on my way.”

29

B
renda Wudbine sat on a stool near a counter at the center of the small greenhouse, a collection of cut flowers spread out before her. Holding a near-empty glass with the remains of a Bloody Mary in her left hand, she eyed Ray and Sue suspiciously.

“We came to offer our condolences,” said Ray, making eye contact with Wudbine, then quickly scanning the area for security cameras. He looked back at her.

“Condolences,” she repeated, her voice unsteady, her word suspended
in the moist air, redolent with the smell of earth and blossoms. “Funny, no one has said that. I’m the wife, the supposed widow, and no one has said that. No one has offered condolences. And that’s what people do, isn’t it?” She focused on Ray, her gaze unsteady. “Even my friends back in Chicago who have been calling, they didn’t say it. But then they loathed Malcolm.”

Brenda focused on the flowers for a long moment, then looked up at Ray. “Does Jill know you’re here?”

Before he could answer, she continued. “Of course she doesn’t know. If she did, she’d be hovering right here, making sure I didn’t say anything that would give you or anyone else the wrong impression of our happy little household.”

“Ms. Wudbine, we are investigating your husband’s death, and we’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Call me Brenda,” she said in a gravelly voice, reaching for a cigarette. “I never liked the name Wudbine. It always sounded like part of an animal name, the Wudbine mouse or the Wudbine rat, or the peckerwoods. On our first date he told me he was related to English nobility that could be traced to Wudbine Castle in Northumbria,” she stopped and lit the cigarette. “That was before Google. I would have looked it up and called his sorry lying ass on that lie. When I did look up the name, I didn’t find his spelling. The variant was woodbine. Do you know what I’m talking about? It’s a kind of vine, related to poison ivy. It creeps and climbs and smothers the plants around it. Yes, smothers the plants around it.” She inhaled deeply, exhaled, coughed, and then cleared her throat. “I should have known, but he was rich, charming, and handsome. He showed me a world that I didn’t know existed.”

“When was this?”

“Twenty-some years ago. Chicago. I was working in a flower shop near his office. Malcolm wanted fresh-cut flowers every morning. I took his order over one day when our delivery guy was sick. Malcolm called my boss, insisted that I do the delivery from then on. I was in art school, just getting by. He tipped me generously. Eventually, he started hitting on me, told me to stop by in the late afternoon sometime, and he’d take me out for a drink. He was just some guy. I wasn’t interested. He kept pestering. Eventually I gave in. And then it was a slippery slope, a slippery slope. A drink, then a dinner, then a weekend in New York visiting the Guggenheim and the Met. A month later it was ten days in Paris visiting the Louvre and Musée d’Orsay. Eventually, I moved into his penthouse. I was perfectly happy with that arrangement, but he wanted us married. The early years were good. But you don’t want to hear the story. I should tell it on Oprah.” She looked away, then back at them. “So how exactly did he die? No one gives me the details.”

Ray looked over at Sue.

“He was stabbed,” she said.

“Where?”

“In the back.”

Brenda repeated the phrase, “In the back. And I imagine that you’re talking to me because you think I might be able to lead you to the killer?” She looked up at them and took another long drag on her cigarette before slowly crushing it out in a large crystal ashtray. “Well, you came to the right place. Stabbed in the back, ha. You’re looking for a killer with a sense of irony, someone who sent him to the great beyond believing that he was meant to die as he had lived, a backstabber.”

“Can you lead us to the killer?” asked Sue.

Wudbine was slow in responding. “Malcolm would have loved to get rid of me years ago. I was getting used up. My looks were starting to go. I was no longer the beautiful young woman he could show off. But Mr. Financial Genius screwed up early on. In our prenuptial he specified a percentage of his then net worth rather than a definite amount. He was only a millionaire back then. He could have unloaded me on the cheap in those days, especially during a bear market. Malcolm didn’t foresee how his wealth would explode over the next couple of decades. In the end, he was too greedy to get rid of me. So he marginalized me. He hardly talked to me the last couple of years. I think he was hoping I’d drink myself to death.”

“Why didn’t you seek a divorce?” asked Sue.

Again, the answer was slow in coming. “I tried. Malcolm said no, said he would make sure any action was stalled in the courts forever. He told me to just hang in there. I’d have plenty of money and my freedom when he was gone. And now he is gone, and my stepson and his wife are probably doing their best to try to screw me out of my inheritance.”

“Brenda,” started Ray, “let me ask this question again. Do you know who would have a motive to kill your husband?”

“Me. I had a perfect motive. Battered wife syndrome. Not battered physically, but years of psychological warfare, anger, and verbal abuse. He brings in his new toys, runs them under my nose, calls them employees or interns. But he knows that I know what’s going on.”

“So did you kill your husband?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you arrange to have your husband killed?”

“Wrong on that one, too, Sheriff. I do admire the way it was done, but I told you that already.”

“Brenda, you are wasting our time. Do you have any idea who might have killed your husband?”

“No, no one in particular. But I’m sure along the way he screwed a lot of people. Malcolm was always looking out for number one, whether we’re talking about his net worth or his bed. You can’t do that for fifty years without pissing off a lot of folks. If you want specifics, Sheriff, I can’t help you out. That’s what you get paid for. My job now is to hang around until we put poor Malcolm in the cold, cold ground.”

“Do you know what the funeral plans are?”

“They don’t talk about those things to me. It’s Elliott and Jill, probably more Jill. She seems to wear the pants. But I did ask Elliott. He said he’d let me know.” Brenda glared at Ray. “It’s like you don’t get it, Sheriff. I’m a zero here, an empty shell. They will let me know. Maybe I’ll get to sit with the family at the funeral. Of course, I’ll have to be sober enough not to make a spectacle of myself. And I’ll have to promise on a stack of WSJs that I won’t be sarcastic or do anything unseemly. I’m sure they’re planning a great show, and I’ll have to promise to stay in character to the end, the bloody end.

“And what if I don’t show,” she continued, looking off into the distance, verbalizing an interior monologue, no longer quite aware of her audience. “How would that look? The happy family, minus the grieving widow. I’m sure they will come up with an almost credible excuse. ‘Too distraught to attend a public event, a victim of uncontrollable grief. She’s under her doctor’s care and resting comfortably.’ Well, I’ve got news for those bastards. I’m going to do my best to get there, but I’m not going to throw myself on my dear husband’s funeral pyre. He can roast in hell on his own.”

Brenda looked up, “I’m getting bored with our conversation, Sheriff. I will leave you to look at the flowers while I wander off to get a fresh drink.”

Ray looked over at Sue. She could feel his frustration.

“Ms. Wudbine, Brenda, we’re trying to find your husband’s killer. And you are not giving us any help. Aren’t you interested in seeing the murderer brought to justice?”

“You just don’t get it, dearie, do you. I don’t care. Bravo to the killer for a job well done. Now listen carefully. Glue your eyes on my mouth. Open your ears. I had nothing to do with it. I have no idea who the killer may be, and I don’t give a damn.” Brenda pulled herself to her feet and gently pushed Ray to the side as she passed, her right hand on his chest. Then she disappeared out the door.

“You really broke that suspect down,” said Sue.

“And your interrogation skills are equal to mine,” said Ray, shaking his head and smirking.

“We may not be able to isolate her again.”

“I know. I’m not sure it matters,” said Ray. “How did it go with the cook and maid?”

“The cook, Grace Rodrigues, I think she was trying to be helpful, but her English is quite limited.”

“I thought you were bilingual,” Ray chided.

“Yeah, sure. Four years of high school Spanish, two more in college, proficient enough to order a meal in a Taco Bell.”

“Citizenship?”

“She has an Illinois operator’s permit. I didn’t push it. She’s a recent hire, and I don’t think she has anything to tell us.”

“How about the housekeeper, what’s her name?”

“Jane Propst, she’s local, lives in town. This is her second season at Gull House. What’s your term, omerta? All she knows is that the Wudbines are a wonder couple. They are the best, most generous people she’s ever worked for. And she just doesn’t know how anyone could hurt Mr. Wudbine. She said, and I’m quoting here, ‘The earth must be spinning off its axles.’”

“Well, if not its axles, at least its rails. So what are you telling me?”

“I don’t think she knows anything. I pushed her hard. Nada, nada, nada. She works 8:00 to 4:00 seven days a week for the twelve-week season. And she comes in during May to open the place and works through September to close things up. During those months she’s on a five-day schedule. The rest of the year she’s on a retainer to be available when they occasionally use the place. And, of course, she’s worried that this arrangement will disappear.”

“How about the handyman?”

“He’s off on weekends, and had today off to see his cardiologist in Traverse City. We’ll have to catch him tomorrow or the next day. What now?”

“We still have the rest of the cast and crew. Grubbs is helping line them up. Maybe after lunch we can split the list and talk to all of them.”