Dead Lock (9 page)

“Anyone with you?”

“I was by myself.”

“Anyone see you?”

“No, ma’am. No one I knew.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“That’s all I can tell you, ma’am. It’s what happened.”

It was clear he wasn’t going to say anything further. But there was one more thing I needed to check out.

“Before I go,” I said, handing him the pad and pencil, “I need you to sign these notes to verify that the facts are correct.” He looked at me as if he recognized the lie, then skimmed through the words and signed
with his left hand.

I was convinced the sheriff was holding the wrong man for murder.

But I was equally sure that Corporal Roy Cummins was holding something back.

33

The time I’d spent with Corporal Cummins had left me confused.

I doubted he was guilty of murder, but there seemed something beneath the surface, something he held close to himself.

As I walked back through the lobby, I found Carol Olson standing at the deputy’s desk.

“Hi, Kate, just getting released? Must have been a whopper of a night.”

I didn’t find the remark humorous. “Just doing a little research,” I said. “Talking with Corporal Cummins.”

“Why, that’s funny,” Olson said. “I hope you don’t plan on writing anything. I’m covering last night’s murder. Crawford gave me the assignment and I’m here to interview Sheriff Valenti.”

The words stung, but I tried not to show it. “Great,” I said, “I’ll be interested to read your story.”

When I got to the newsroom, I set my purse on my desk and sat down. I wanted to cool off before confronting Crawford.

I found Viola Brinkwater’s telephone number in my notepad and dialed her number. After some preliminary niceties, we agreed on meeting at her home at 10:30.

I looked at the clock. I had just enough time to talk with Crawford before leaving the office for Mrs. Brinkwater and her damned gardenias.

I found him at his desk, reading.

“Why did you assign Carol Olson to the story of Shirley Benoit’s murder?” I asked.

Crawford looked up from the papers he was perusing. He obviously wasn’t accustomed to having his assignments questioned and looked a bit surprised. “She’s one of our best reporters,” he said. “Besides you’ve got another story today.”

“Yeah. Viola Brinkwater and her gardenias.”

“There are a couple of weddings and a funeral we need written up for tomorrow’s edition, too. And don’t forget the list of ship passages through the locks.”

“Gardenias, weddings, funerals and ships going through the damn locks. A cub reporter could handle those assignments.”

That got Crawford’s attention. He reared back in his chair. “Look. You can’t walk in here off the street and expect to get preferential treatment. Even if you did work at a big Detroit daily.”

“The woman who was murdered, Shirley Benoit? She and I were best friends.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Crawford paused for a moment; then came back at it. “But, that’s even more reason
not
to assign you to the story. Being that close to the victim can sway your judgment.”

“My judgment is just fine. Apparently much better than yours.”

“Prove it by bringing in a good story on Mrs. Brinkwater’s gardenias.”

Great
. The news story of the century was blazing away overseas, the news story of the year was tearing apart my hometown, and I was in Sault Ste. Marie writing about Viola Brinkwater’s fragrant gardenias.

That stunk.

34

I sat upright and much straighter than I wanted to, in a hard wooden chair in the sunroom of Mrs. Viola Brinkwater’s brown and white ranch home on Superior Street.

All of eighty years old, Mrs. Brinkwater’s pinched face gave her the appearance of one of those people who are most comfortable being uncomfortable. She wore a plain white dress, a perfect match for the gardenias that filled the myriad of planters arranged about the sunroom. Their sweet, distinctive aroma permeated the moist air.

“Thank you for seeing me this morning, Mrs. Brinkwater.”

“My pleasure, dearie.” Mrs. Brinkwater’s mouth cracked into a smile.

“Your gardenias are beautiful.”

“Gardenia jasminoides. Thank you.”

“You certainly know your gardenias, Mrs. Brinkwater.”

“Why, ask anyone in Sault Ste. Marie. They’ll tell you no one knows gardenias like I do.”

“I’m sure they would.”

“Gardenias were discovered in China in the Eighteenth Century.”

“And, how long have you been growing them?”
Probably since they were discovered in China.

“I started as a teenager, actually.”

I looked down at my notes. “Tell me, Mrs. Brinkwater, what’s the secret of growing beautiful gardenias like these?”

“Coin.”

“Coin?”

“C-O-I-N. It’s a way of remembering my system. C is for cool nights. Gardenias like fifty to fifty-five degrees. No more. No less.”

“I see.” I scribbled in the notepad on my lap.

“O is for oxygen. Important to their photosynthesis. The letter I stands for indirect light. You notice my windows are all shaded by an overhanging roof.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And n... that’s for nitrogen in the soil. Put ‘em all together and they spell ‘coin’.”

“Very clever.”

Mrs. Brinkwater looked pleased. “Why, it’s known as a mnemonic device, a way of jogging the memory. Daniel taught me to use memory joggers. He was my first husband. Daniel played the piano.”

“The piano?”

“Face. F-A-C-E. It’s the way students learn the notes between the lines of a musical score.”

“And Daniel taught you that?”

“Daniel fingered those keys like a pro. So did my...” she paused momentarily, “... my uh, second husband Alden. There were four, you know. It’s difficult sometimes to keep their order straight.”

With the interview going nowhere fast, I had just put my pencil in a pocket when Mrs. Brinkwater let go with a sharp epithet that nearly brought me out of the chair.

“Damn!”

“I beg your pardon? Did you say damn?” The old lady must have been losing her marbles.

“No, damm. D-A-M-M. It’s the way I remember my husbands.” She
was
losing her marbles.

“And how does that work, Mrs. Brinkwater.”

“D-A-M-M. It’s another mnemonic device, dearie.”

I simply nodded.

“The first letter, d, is for Daniel. He was my first husband. Alden was my second. Those are the first two letters of damm.”

I nodded again.

“Michael was my third. He’s the first m.”

“Uh-huh. And the second m?”

“That would be Matthew. Or was it Matthew first and then Michael? They’re all gone now, of course. Poor dears.”

I sat there dumbly, not believing my ears.

“Now you string those names together ... and it comes out d-a-m-m, damm. It’s the way I keep them all in order.”

I closed my notebook. The paper would have to survive without its article on Mrs. Brinkwater’s gardenias this year.

“Judas Priest, girl. You’re impatient. You remind me of my husband Michael. Never could sit still.”

“I’m afraid that’s me.” I stood.

Mrs. Brinkwater went on. “Why, instead of relaxing in the evenings like most sensible men, he’d run whiskey across the border with Roland Swenson. That was a while ago, during Prohibition. Roland’s our mayor, you know.”

That bit of news got me to sit back down. Rafe Johnson had been mayor when I was in the Soo for my senior year in high school, but I recalled hearing Swenson’s name as the mayor before Olson. He must have decided to run again.

“Are you telling me, Mrs. Brinkwater, that the mayor of Sault Ste. Marie once ran illegal whiskey across the Canadian/United States border?”

“With Michael, yes. It’s a long story.”

“Believe me, Mrs. Brinkwater, I have plenty of time.” I cracked open my notebook.

35

I got back to the newsroom anxious to write the article about our mayor and his history of running booze across the border in violation of Prohibition laws, but was interrupted by a phone call.

A man identifying himself as Mr. Rodgers from the L. Rodgers Funeral Home asked if I could provide him with a dress that could be placed on Shirley’s body for the funeral service. I agreed to meet him at Shirley’s home on Amanda Street during the noon hour.

I had dreaded the thought of going through Shirley’s personal effects, but now with no other choice, I met Mr. Rodgers in front of the home a little after twelve.

I let Mick out for a run in the backyard then invited Mr. Rodgers to have a seat in the front room while I went into Shirley’s bedroom for the first time since her death.

Shirley’s closet was filled with clothes, but most appeared to be too casual. Shirley was a sharp dresser, preferring bright colors to earth tones. The latest garments were made of rayon and some of the other newer artificial fabrics; wools and cottons were hard to come by since they had been restricted for use in military uniforms.

Sadly, it reminded me of all the times as teenagers that Shirley and I would go through each other’s closets looking for something to wear to a party or dance. Our sizes were interchangeable and we often borrowed each other’s clothes.

Now I was looking for something for my best friend to wear at her own funeral.

After some searching, I found a powder blue wool dress that Shirley must have had for some time. It was ankle length, tied at the waist and featured a collar that could be turned up to hide any wounds on her neck. I pulled it from the closet and carried it out to the living room to show Mr. Rodgers.

“Hmm . . .” he said, running his hands over the garment and turning up the collar, “this will do nicely.”

Mr. Rodgers’ visit had heightened my feelings of sorrow over Shirley’s passing and quelled any appetite I might have had for lunch. I simply returned to the office and wrote the story.

36

“That’s me cross-checking Johnny Gottselis in the third game of the ’32 Stanley Cup finals.”

Blades Larue had noticed me studying one of the black and white photos on the wall behind where he stood wiping glasses. I was sitting at the bar nursing a Budweiser. I had written the story about Mrs. Drinkwater’s husband and left the office early. I wanted to ask Blades a few questions about the tragedy of the last evening before the after-work rush hour started.

He was more interested in talking hockey. “The Black Hawks beat us in seven games, but we got back at them in ’36. That’s when we took the Cup for the first time.

“I retired right after the season and moved up here.”

“My father covered the Wings for the Times.”

“He did?”

“He probably interviewed you. Buck Brennan?”

“Sure. Buck Brennan was your father? What’s your name?”

“I’m Kate Brennan, Blades. We’ve never met formally, but I’ve been in here for lunch and supper with my uncle. I used to come up here for a week or two almost every summer.”

Blades stopped wiping the glass he was holding. “Kate Brennan. Kate Brennan. Yeah, you’re G.P. Brennan’s niece. Now I remember.” He smiled and resumed wiping. His sleeves were rolled up and his meaty forearms bulged with every move. It was easy to see how a flick of those wrists could send a puck rocketing past a surprised goalie.

“Shirley Benoit and I were best friends.”

Blades stopped wiping again. “Shirley was our best waitress. Smartest, too.” He shook his head. “It was a crying shame what happened to her.”

“Tell me about that night.”

Blades put the clean glass down and picked up another from the sink. “Shirley finished her shift at one and left. Ellen Popowitz was closing. A minute or so later, Ellen made sure her tables were happy and walked out there for a cigarette.” Blades motioned toward the back door with his head. “That’s when she found . . . you know.”

“Will Ellen be in later?”

Blades shook his head. “I gave her a couple days off. She’s still pretty shook up.”

“Did you see anyone in the restaurant that night who might have looked suspicious?”

“In here? Nah. Just the usual amount of locals; and soldiers of course. They’re great drinkers, but lousy tippers. I thought they caught the guy who killed her. That Army corporal.”

“He’s in jail,” I said. “But some people think he may not have done it.” I didn’t elaborate.

Blades set the glass down. “Too bad we don’t have the death penalty here in Michigan,” he said. “Prison’s too good for the son-of-a-bitch who killed Shirley. I wish I could help you find him.”

Unfortunately, Blades couldn’t. But maybe Ellen Popowitz could.

37

I found Ellen at home in the upstairs flat she rented on Maple Street. She had answered the door and now sat facing me across a coffee table. She was a small woman, slight of build, who looked even smaller huddled in the chair with her legs and arms crossed. It was clear from the redness around her eyes that she had been crying.