Ray Elkins mystery - 02 - Color Tour

COLOR TOUR

COLOR TOUR

AARON STANDER

Writers & Editors

Interlochen, Michigan

© 2006 by Aaron Stander

For Beachwalker, who helps this all happen.
1
Prince Hal, an impeccably groomed Welsh terrier, led the way to the beach, barking and running in circles, allowing Nora to catch up, and then racing ahead through the dune grass.

When he got to the water he poked at the waves for a few moments and then scampered back and forth along the shore, waiting for her arrival. Nora ambled along with Falstaff, her graying chocolate Labrador, who was content to walk by her side, a slimy tennis ball in his mouth.

Nora stopped, stood in the shallow water, and looked out across Lake Michigan, where the colors of the setting sun mirrored on the gently rolling surface. She knew that a storm had been predicted for later in the evening, but as her eyes ran along the gentle curve of the horizon, she couldn’t see a hint of the approaching clouds—just the golds, reds, and darkening blues as the sun started to slip into the water.

She thought about how much she loved this beach, especially in the fall after the summer people left, when it was hers again. She turned and looked back at the ridgeline glowing in twilight—the radiant maples, golden poplars, gently browning oaks, and verdant conifers.

Nora was pulled back to the moment by Falstaff’s sharp bark. He looked up at her hopefully, nudging her leg with his soft coat, his tennis ball laying at her feet. She threw the ball as far as she could—a girl-style throw, that’s what Hugh, her late husband, used to call it. Without hesitation Falstaff splashed into cool water and was soon back, dropping the soggy ball at her feet and waiting for another throw.

Hal’s participation in the game was limited to running back and forth and barking. Occasionally he would approach the water’s edge, tentatively probe the gentle swell, poke at it with his right paw, and then jump back quickly. This getting wet in the pursuit of sport, he would have none of it.

Nora peered along the beach in both directions, shed her terry robe, and entered the cold lake. She moved quickly to the deeper water beyond the band of stones near the beach and then slid below the silver plane—thighs, sex, breasts—stopping with her arms floating on the surface. She shivered violently several times and then kicked off the bottom and started swimming toward the setting sun. When she reached the first sandbar she stood and panted until she caught her breath. She heard the rhythm of Falstaff’s paddle and caught him as he nudged past her, pulling him close, feeling his warmth against her naked body. She shivered again and turned toward shore. Hal stood on the beach barking, a note of distress in his tone.

Nora released Falstaff and started for the shore, freestyle at first and then flipping over and doing a long, elegant backstroke until she felt her hands starting to hit the bottom. As she carefully hobbled over the rough stones to get to the sand, her eyes caught movement. Two figures were approaching. She thought about retreating back into the water, but it was too late.
Let them see an old woman naked,
she thought as she marched forward. She retrieved her robe and then started rubbing her hair with a towel.

Hal barked and greeted.

“Lovely evening,” said the young woman, “hard to believe it’s October.” She dropped the blanket she was carrying and knelt down to pet Hal. The lanky, bearded young man at her side stood holding a grocery bag with both hands. Nora could see part of a baguette above the top of the bag.

“Warmest I can remember,” Nora responded, retrieving her glasses from the pocket of her robe. She pulled the couple into a sharper focus. “Guess the weatherman is making up for the cold July and August.” Nora considered making a joke about nuclear testing and the weather, but knew her audience was too young to get the humor.

Falstaff trudged onshore. Starting with his nose and moving to the end of his tail, he shook the water from his heavy coat, repeated the process a second time, and nuzzled his nose under the woman’s arm. Nora watched as the woman playfully rubbed the head and ears of the soggy dog, getting several wet kisses in return.

“Come up to see the color?” Nora asked.

“I live here.”

“In town?”

“No, I’m a teacher at Leiston School.”

“You’re so young,” laughed Nora. “Hard to imagine you’re through college. You a teacher too?” she asked, addressing the young man.

“No, just visiting for the weekend. You live here?”

“Yes,” she responded, pointing to her home at the top of the bluff. “Summered here for years. Moved up permanently when we retired.” She motioned toward the setting sun, “You kids better get on with your picnic. Not much light left.”

“You have a good evening,” said the girl, giving each dog a final rub.

Nora stood and watched them recede into soft twilight glow. She felt a pang of jealousy. They had their whole lives before them, all the joys and sorrows that would come with thousands of days.

She slowly climbed the path up to her cottage, Hal in the lead, Falstaff trudging behind with his ball. Her home had once been part of a row of cottages on the shoreline south of the dunes, now only a few remained. And with her death it would disappear, too, all part of the mandate of the National Park Service to return the area to its natural state.

Once inside, the dogs lined up by the microwave as Nora heated two bags of the special food—brown rice and chopped organic chicken—she made for them; she didn’t trust commercial dog food.

Once their needs were attended to, she started her evening ritual. She mixed a vodka martini, added a Gorgonzola olive, and splashed in some extra vodka. Settling into a chair on the deck, she sipped the drink and had her second cigarette of the day as she watched the sun slide from view. She had a second martini as the afterglow went from gold to gray.

Mornings and evenings—the edges of the day—were the hard times, the times she felt the most alone, and the saddest. She thought again about the young couple. Were they making love on the beach? If she could only be close to someone again. That’s what she missed. Someone to hold onto in the darkness.

Nora woke once in the night, used the bathroom, and returned to bed. She lay half-awake, knowing that she was angry. But what was she angry about, with whom was she angry? Nora had a psychology degree and she was skilled at analyzing her feelings.
You silly old coot
, she finally said
. You had your youth and now they have theirs
.
You can’t be angry because they’re young and you’re old
. She felt the anger dissolve and soon slid into a deep slumber.

She woke to the sound of wind, thunder, and rain drumming on the roof—crowded in her large bed by Hal and Falstaff, each lying at oblique angles. She got up and started the coffee. The dogs, after stretching and scratching, followed her to the kitchen. She pulled on Hugh’s old wax jacket, many sizes too large for her tiny frame, and headed down to the beach. Some mornings they walked south to the stream and back, others they walked north to the base of the dunes and back. This day they headed north.

Nora pulled the hood of the coat up over her head as she followed the dogs, Falstaff charging in and out of the waves, Hal leading the way and then running back to her, trying to get this forced march over so he could have his breakfast and his morning nap. They were at their turnaround point when Hal’s frantic barking began. He stood on a small rise near the base of the dunes. His tone was one of alarm. Nora called to him but he stood firm and barked. She climbed the shallow embankment and glimpsed at the cause of his frenzy.

After she looked on the scene, Nora grabbed Hal by his collar and pulled him back toward the shore. She fell to the wet beach and cried. She beat the sand with her fists and screamed hysterically. Finally, exhausted, she staggered back to her feet. The dogs moved at her side, protecting her as she struggled to get back to the cottage.

2
Even with the influx of tourists coming in on weekends to see the brilliant display of colors in the hardwood forests, Sunday mornings in the autumn were quiet in Cedar County, a rural stretch of rolling land that reaches out into northern Lake Michigan. The locals took pride in the fact the county had neither a stoplight nor a McDonald’s.

By the end of the Labor Day weekend, the throngs of tourists who crowded the roads, swarmed the beaches, and filled the restaurants and shops were gone. Most of the fudge shops and touristy boutiques were open only on weekends and would close by the end of October.

Sheriff Ray Elkins, determined to get through all the paperwork that had been piling up for weeks, was at his desk before seven o’clockon a Sunday morning. He had just started on the first stack when he was interrupted by a call from central dispatch telling him that a hysterical-sounding woman, Nora Jennings, insisted on talking to him. After accepting the call, it took Ray several minutes to calm her to the point were he could understand what she was saying. Then he put her on hold for a few moments and checked with dispatch to see if there were any units in her area. When he came back on the line he told her to lock her doors, that he would be at her house in less than twenty minutes.

Ray had known Nora and her late husband, Hugh, since he was a teenager. He had done handyman work for them in the summers when he was in high school and college. They had left Grosse Pointe and retired to their summer home on Lake Michigan by the time Ray moved back to the region to look after his mother during her final illness. He and Nora became closer after Hugh’s death. He tried to have dinner with her at least once a month and made every effort to check on her when he was in her part of the county.

Ray carefully navigated through the savage fall storm, the wet pavement strewn with leaves and broken branches, impromptu streams and pools forming at low points along the two-lane highway. The gale-force winds stripped the trees of their leaves—swirls of red, yellow, and brown from the maples, poplars, and oaks. He switched off the siren as he turned onto Burnt Mill Trail, a single rutted road that ended at a small park on Lake Michigan. The first half-mile was flat—running through sandy fallow fields of a longdeserted farm. The road turned west as it entered a dense cedar forest and gradually descended into a rain-swelled swamp. Ray slowed, shifted into four-wheel drive, and carefully maneuvered through the deep, water-filled potholes. Near the shore the trail climbed out of the swamp, pine, and hardwoods lining the road. At the entrance to the park, an access to the beach and trailhead for dune walks, Ray turned onto a sand lane that ran parallel to the shore. He followed the narrow two-track another quarter of a mile, pulling off and parking behind a lakefront home.

He had barely come to a stop at the rear of the cottage when Nora came running from her back door. She clung onto Ray as he emerged from his car. He held her, her delicate frame shaking violently as she sobbed. They stood in the heavy rain for several minutes, Ray waiting until she slowly calmed to a gentle weeping. As they reached the cottage door, a second sheriff’s vehicle arrived.