H.J. Gaudreau - Jim Crenshaw 02 - The Collingwood Legacy (16 page)

Chapter 40

Jim and Eve were back at the museum as the doors were unlocked and the building opened for the day. They checked in with Mike Meier and presented him with a dozen paczkis.

“Wow! Where did you get punch-keys this time of year?” Mike exclaimed, putting the full Michigan accent on the Polish word. Unless they were of Polish decent most people only associated the heavy donuts with Fat Tuesday. This was a real treat.

‘Well Mike, ya gotta do the reconnaissance if you intend to hit your target,” Jim grinned. ‘Dutch Girl Donuts makes ‘em year round. Rough neighborhood, but all right.”

Eve grinned, “Its just a little weird seeing the cashier behind a thick bullet proof glass!”

“You can bet I’ll take advantage of this little tidbit of knowledge in the future,” Mike said as he lifted one of the treasures from the box. Jim and Eve took one, cut it in half and carried the paczki and two cups of coffee to their new “office.” Soon they were deeply buried in their research.

Eve poured over the museum’s electronic files while Jim researched Coast Guard records from the early thirties. Just before lunch, Jim’s efforts paid off.

“I’ve got something.” Eve could hear Jim’s excitement.

“Look at this! In August 1931 the Coast Guard intercepted and boarded our boat.” Jim was reading an official looking report with a scrawling, looping handwriting filling in several blanks on the preprinted form.

“The boat’s owner is listed as Ray Bernstein. They thought the boat was running booze. Bernstein was a suspected bootlegger.” Jim’s finger traced down the form. “This says the boat was searched and nothing found. What’s interesting is that the boat they stopped was, ‘…the famous racer Volstead Act.’ How cool is that!”

Eve sat back in her chair and stretched. “Yeah, that’s cool, but also a little weird.”

“What? Why? It’s a smuggler’s boat, you’d sort of expect it to be stopped every once in a while. I’m sure even the boats that weren’t smuggling were stopped all the time.”

“Well, I’m sure a lot of boats were stopped. But why would they call this boat famous?”

“What?”

“You said the article called the boat famous. That’s weird. Why call it famous?”

“You’re right! That is odd.” Jim thought for a moment. “But…I’ve got an idea of how we can find out. Let’s go.” Jim stood up and began searching for his keys.

“Go? Go where?” Eve was surprised by the sudden action. Jim was already opening the door to the little of office.

“First to the copy machine, then I think we need to review some newspapers.”

They made a copy of the report, returned the original to its binder and were soon crossing the parking lot to their Jeep.

“So where are we going to review newspapers from the 1930s?” Eve asked as she buckled her seat belt.

“To the public library, of course. They have copies of all the newspapers from the 1930s on microfiche. We need to know more about the “Volstead Act”.

They crossed Douglas MacArthur Bridge and turned left on East Jefferson. Jim, as usual bemoaned the fact that people drove too slow, wouldn’t move to the right for faster traffic or were busy texting while driving. It was the same speech Eve heard every time they drove through any village, town or city; and after many years of marriage she’d learned to tune it out.

“Jim, the library has a copy of every newspaper right?” Eve asked.

“Yeah, the Detroit Times, the Free Press, the Detroit News and a couple of others that I’ve never heard of.”

“Okay, so we’re supposed to read every paper printed for the years we think the boat was in business?”

Eve was beginning to see a long day ahead of them.

“That’s about it. A microfiche isn’t a digital record. The only way to search it is by date, then read that day’s paper,” Jim answered.

“Are you nuts? That’s going to take forever!” Eve thought about the prospects of sitting on a wooden library chair for the next several hours.

“Well, I guess we can hope they’ve digitized many of the past newspapers, but I’m thinking that’s a long shot.”

“C’mon now hon, don’t you want to know the history of our boat?” Jim asked.

“All I wanted was the plans so you could get this little project done and out of my barn. I’m putting two stalls right where that boat is sitting. I’ve already got names picked out for the horses,” Eve said.

“Yeah but Eve, this could increase the value of the boat, and I’m sure this won’t take too long.” Jim was scrambling.

She studied him for a moment then smiled, “Alright, but at six-thirty we’re heading out for dinner.”

Jim looked sideways at her and grinned.

“I’m just sayin’,” Eve announced and folded her hands in her lap.

They exited the Chrysler Freeway and in a few moments were nearing the public library. A few minutes later they were climbing the stairs of the ornate Italian Renaissance building.

The reference librarian did not fit the image. Jim expected an older woman with gray hair in a bun, a high collar and shoes that resembled clogs. Instead, a young man wearing a dark blue tie introduced himself as the assistant head reference librarian. Mark Lewis listened to their story, asked several questions, and then showed Jim and Eve to two small cubicles, each with a microfiche reader. Satisfied they knew how to operate the machines Mark glanced at his notes, then to Jim’s horror disappeared.

“Now what?” Jim whispered to Eve.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say anything. Where are the rolls of film? How do we check them out?” Eve asked, not expecting an answer from her equally confused husband.

Their confusion didn’t last long. Less than two minutes later Mark appeared carrying a small wooden box. “Here are the Detroit Times microfiche rolls. I pulled all the copies from 1928 through 1935. Each roll is labeled with the month and year. I’ve got one other item for you. I’ll be right back.”

Jim opened the box to find several rows of what looked like old, large metal Kodak film containers. Selecting January 1931 he handed the case to Eve who immediately began loading it into her microfiche reader. Then he removed the February 1931 can and began loading the film into his own.

As Jim began to scan the first image Mark reappeared and laid a large book on a table. “I happened across this book a few weeks ago. While pulling the microfiche I remembered it. Hope this helps.”

Jim picked up the book. He studied the faded pressed words on the cover, gave up and opened to the title page, “A History of Detroit’s Notorious Rum Runners.”

The book was an exploration of the bootlegging trade during the Prohibition Years and it focused on the river traffic between Windsor Canada and Detroit.

“Mark, you are an amazing man!” Jim exclaimed.

Mark grinned. “Thought you might like that.”

Several hours later Jim, hunched over the book, decided to take a break. He stood and rolled his shoulders then glanced at Eve. She sat slumped in her chair, slowly her head slipped off her hand causing Eve to snap her head up with a cry. Confused, she stared wide-eyed around the room.

“You fell asleep babe,” Jim said. Eve looked at her palm, noticed it was wet with drool and searched for a tissue. Not finding one she wiped her hand on her knee.

Jim started to laugh. “I saw that.”

“Ohhhh…you weren’t supposed to be looking.” Eve stretched then checked her watch. “How long did I sleep?”

“About twenty minutes. I think I’ve found something pretty interesting. The boat showed up a lot in 1931. Check this out.” Jim flipped the book open to a page he had marked with a yellow sticky note. “Look at this.”

He pushed the book across the table to Eve. “It seems the River Club used to hold boat races on Sunday afternoons. They broke the boats into divisions based on length, age, horsepower and stock or modified. One division included the large cruisers. A boat known as the “Volstead Act” was the fastest cruiser on the river. But in August and September of ‘31 it lost the race on the second Sunday in each month to a boat it had beaten several times previously.” Jim leaned over and placed his finger on the page. She read the rest of the article.

“Sort of explains the restrictor plate that the boat guy found doesn’t it,” Eve observed.

“Yeah it does. But it gets better. People used to bet on the races. Big money bets. Check out this article.” Jim swiveled the monitor of his microfilm reader toward Eve.

“It seems a couple of guys bet on the “Volstead Act” and lost.”

“All that’s interesting but Jim, really, we’re just trying to fix up a boat. We can do all this research next winter when we’ve got the time.” Eve was thoroughly bored with the library.

“I know, I know. But, take a look at this next article.” Jim pushed a button. The film sped through the machine until he lifted his finger. A few taps of the button later he pointed. “This! Take a look at this.” He was pointing at an article entitled ‘Collingwood Murder Trial Begins.’ “Eve, this was a big deal and sort of the end of the Purple Gang in Detroit.”

“The Purple Gang?” Eve glanced up at Jim.

“Yeah, you know, Jailhouse Rock, “The whole rhythm section was the Purple Gang. Lets rock, everybody, lets rock,” Jim sang in his best Elvis imitation.

“Oh brother! American Idol is safe.” Eve laughed.

“Anyway, the Purple Gang was the Al Capones of Detroit during Prohibition.  Mean, nasty guys that weren’t afraid to gun down their enemies.”

“Okay, got it.” Eve read the next article for several minutes. “So these guys were murdered because of a pair of rigged boat races?”

“No, they were murdered because they were stupid. The races were just the start of their troubles, the newspapers claimed they were running booze for the Purple Gang and keeping some of each shipment for themselves. Double crossing the Purples was bad business.”

“Sucked to be them wouldn’t you say?” Eve grinned.

“Now go to the next sticky.” Jim returned to the book and flipped to an excerpt from the Detroit Times newspaper article detailing the trial of Bernstein, Milberg and Keywell.

Eve read for a moment then said, “Jim, who’s this guy?” She pointed to a picture of Sol Levine as he prepared to testify against members of the Purple Gang.

“That’s Sol Levine. He double crossed the Purples somehow. I’ve got to read more about it, but anyway he received state protection when the gang members threatened, in court, to kill him.”

“Threatened him in court? Pretty stupid thing to do,” Eve said.

“It was, but apparently the guy doing the threatening thought Levine took four hundred thousand dollars from him or the gang, I’m not sure.”

“Well this is all interesting, but why do we really care?” Eve asked.

“Because….” Jim flipped a page and jabbed his finger at the page. “Levine and the gang members had been rounded up at a boathouse. Look at this picture of the boat house. See the name on the boat?”

“Jim, it’s The Volstead Act!” Eve exclaimed.

“Now check this out.” Jim flipped to a third yellow sticky. “The police didn’t clue into the money until after the trial. They were too busy handling a murder case. Anyway, when someone read the transcripts and thought about the threat on Levine they decided to go search the boathouse. That didn’t happen until….umm. Wait a minute….” Jim searched the page, “Look, the murders were in October and they didn’t search the boathouse until May, see here….” Jim pointed further down the page.

Eve eyed a picture of trucks and men in front of the boathouse.

“They never found the money, and the boat was gone.” Jim sat back in his chair with a satisfied look.

“So, what difference does all that make?” Eve asked.

“Well, maybe the money…” Eve’s eye’s lit up, she turned to Jim and exclaimed, “You think the money was on our boat?”

“Yeah, only makes sense right? Someone made off with all that cash and used our boat to do it, pretty cool huh?”

“Well, we’ve got a good story to tell boat guests that’s for sure.” Eve smiled, then added, “Okay Mr. Detective, good work, I’m impressed, but now let’s get out of here.”

Jim stood up, leaned across the table and took the heavy volume from Eve. “I’ll make copies of these pages, and we’ll be gone in a minute.”

“Sounds like a deal.” Eve began putting the various films and books they had been studying back in their appropriate spaces.

Several minutes later Eve grabbed Jim’s arm, “By the way Jim…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m thinking Sweet Lorraine’s in Southfield for dinner. Just so you know.”

“You’re really making me pay for this boat aren’t you!” Jim laughed as they walked down the steps toward their Jeep.

Chapter 41

The voice was soft. Almost a woman’s but not. It was something like, he couldn’t put his finger on it, it was like nothing he’d ever heard. Maybe like a white-tailed deer would sound like if a deer could talk. He couldn’t make out the words. It was more of a whisper.

Cole whirled around in the seat; he was alone in the van. He eyed the orchard, searching for the amorphous voice. Seeing nothing and no one he shifted his gaze to the van’s mirrors; no one crouched next to the vehicle. Outside the van’s windows the world looked the same, but he knew.

He knew exactly what had happened. The cherry trees stood still, no bird flew, no grass waved. Not even a bee buzzed. The world had stopped.

Cole tried to slow the piston chugging in his chest. He tilted his head and listened. Now he was sure, it wasn’t a whisper. More of a feeling. It was as if someone had spoken to him but directly to his brain, bypassing his ears. It was half way between words and thought. Certain that he was alone Cole forced his shoulders to drop, the muscles to sag. Slowly his back conformed to the seat. He wasn’t relaxed, he was, well, he was just not tense.

It was gone, not exactly gone, not gone totally, it was in the background. He tried to stop his breathing; tried to stop the blood pounding in his ears. Then, like an explosion inside his head he heard the words: “They know where the boat is, make them tell you.”

Cole studied the inside of the van. It was moving. He didn’t know how or when it started, but he recognized the direction. He was holding the .32 and he was sure it had just told him that Gerry and Sherrie had taken his money.

“Kill them.” The pistol seemed to be talking. He held the pistol in his lap; it was warm, it vibrated and pulsed.

Cole’s van passed the orchard sign and continued another hundred yards to a tractor access that crossed over a drainage ditch fronting the orchard. He turned off the road, ghosted twenty or thirty yards into the orchard and parked.

Without knowing how or when it had happened Cole found himself out of the vehicle and walking through Gerry and Sherrie’s orchard. As he approached the back of their cherry processing shed his hand went into his pocket. It was still there. The gun seemed to have a mind of its own. It wasn’t saying a word, it didn’t have to. Cole had his instructions, he knew what had to be done.

He withdrew the pistol from his pocket and pushed it under his belt. It was bigger now and it certainly wasn’t comfortable stuffed in the top of his jeans like that but, that’s how people did it in the movies. The pistol was warm.

Carefully he peered around the corner of the building. Gerry had gone back inside. Leaving the shed, Cole hurried across the shaded backyard to the rear corner of the house. He stood next to the wall and watched a crow fly over the orchard. It circled and landed on the cross tee of a power pole. The crow turned and stared at him. He thought about the bird for a moment. It seemed free and easy. He wondered what it would be like to be a crow, no worries about someone stealing your home. The crow shook its head. “Just worry about your money,” the bird said. Cole nodded to the bird then forced his mind back to the task at hand.

Carefully he crept up the five steps to the backdoor. It was open and only a light screen door stood between him and enough money to solve his problems. Stepping around the corner he silently peered through the open door. Gerry stood next to the sink pulling dishes from the dishwasher and putting them in their appropriate places. Sherrie called a question to her husband. Cole couldn’t hear what she asked. It sounded like she was in a distant room in the house.

Gerry’s shouted answer exploded in Cole’s ears. The voice grew angry. Cole stood there unable to move. Nothing moved. The crow watched. He watched himself; he was stuck there motionless. The voice demanded he move.

Straining against the glue that kept his legs from moving Cole suddenly burst free, crashed against the door and simultaneously yanked the pistol from his belt, scraping his ‘muffin top’ belly and stumbled into the kitchen. “Hands up!” he yelled and then thought how stupid that sounded.

Sherrie had just entered the room. She spotted the gun even before Cole’s primordial yell reached her and immediately screamed. Cole was so shocked at the reaction he didn’t pay any attention to Gerry who immediately palmed a carving knife from the open dishwasher. No one moved. A silent, gray cloud settled over the room. Doubt, fear, and anger flavored the cloud.

They stared at each other. No one knew what to do next. Gerry was first. “Cole what the hell are you doing? Put that gun down.”

Like glass shattering, Cole’s mind and will returned in an explosion. “I need the money. Give it to me now.” He was into it now. He was in deep and this had better work.

“Cole, I already paid your bill,” Gerry assured the crazed man in his kitchen.

“No, not that. I want the money you found in the boat. I need it now.” Cole was breathing harder now.

“Cole, what are you talking about? I didn’t find any money in the boat.” Gerry was genuinely confused.

“Give me that money now or I’ll kill both of you.” Cole’s throat was tightening, sweat beaded on his forehead. “Go on, get it. I found it first and I need it. G-E-T  I-T N-O-W!!”

Gerry tried to be as calming as he could. “We didn’t find any money in that boat Cole. I can’t get you anything.”

The voice came back. It shouted, “He’s a liar!” Cole was amazed they couldn’t hear it. “You’re lying, where is it?” he screamed. Cole was becoming hysterical. He started to wave the gun around like a fire hose.

“Okay…Okay, look Cole, here’s what we’ll do…” Gerry began. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, not you!” Cole was screaming now. “SIT DOWN,” he yelled and pointed at the kitchen table. He started to laugh. “I need that money and you’re going to give it to me.”

“Cole, I’m not sure what money you’re talking about. I paid your bill. We don’t keep cash here.” Gerry was doing his best to reason with their intruder.

Cole locked eyes with Gerry. “The money in the boat, give it to me. Give it to me or…” Cole looked around the room, finally his eyes settled on Sherrie. “…or, or she gets shot.”

Sherrie let out a gasp. “Mister, we don’t have any money. There wasn’t any money in that boat.”

“You’re lying! You took it out. Now give it to me,” Cole cried.

Silence filled the kitchen. Finally Gerry said, “We can give you the money, just let us go.”

“The money is in the cherry shed,” Sherrie announced. “I’ll go get it.”

“DO YOU THINK I’M STUPID?” Cole shouted. “GET UP! Both of you get up.” His wild eyes swept the room.

They did as they were told. Gerry quickly slipped the knife under his shirt. Cole marched his hostages out of the house, across the yard and to the cherry shed. Gerry glanced over his shoulder and saw the pistol shaking violently.

Sherrie entered the building first. Next Gerry climbed the two steps and pushed through the door. Thinking this was his chance Gerry began to remove the knife from under his shirt. Cole caught the odd movement and immediately pistol whipped Gerry on top of his head.

The blow sounded loud in the morning air. Sherrie screamed. Gerry’s hand let go of the knife as his body fell to its knees, his vision swirled and circled. Blood flowed from a cut under his thick hair.

The suddenness of the action surprised Cole. He hadn’t meant for this to turn violent. This was wrong, it was going wrong. He was losing control; he was becoming someone else. “It’s alright,” the voice said, “he deserved it.”

Cole picked up the knife and put it against Gerry’s nose. “I should kill you for screwing with me.” Then Cole began to laugh. “A knife? Are you kidding me? A knife! You brought a knife to a gunfight? You idiot. You complete idiot.” He couldn’t stop laughing.

Cole shoved Gerry the rest of the way into the building then stumbled in after him. A large room with processing tables and shelves of equipment greeted them.

Pointing to a spool of heavy gauge bailing twine used to bind up tree limbs Cole ordered Sherrie to tie Gerry’s hands behind his back and then tie his feet together.

Sherrie finished the knots and began to stand up. Cole reached out, grabbed her arm and flung her toward a tool bench. Sherrie’s hip hit the bench with a loud ‘thunk’ and she cried out, more in surprise than pain. “You son-of-a…”

Cole didn’t let her finish the curse. “HEY lady, shut up and turn around.” Cole put the gun on the bench and picked up a baggie with long cable wraps visible inside. “Perfect,” he said. Working quickly Cole soon had her hands and feet bound.

Finished with his chore Cole leaned his face close to Sherrie’s. With a sick, sour breath, Cole hissed, “Now tell me where the money is.” Sherrie noted the new hardness creeping into his otherwise singsong voice.

Gerry shook his head and sat back on his haunches. “Let us go and I’ll…I’ll get the money for you.” Gerry’s voice was weak. Cole pushed Sherrie to the floor and immediately smashed the pistol down on Gerry’s head.

Gerry’s body sagged and Cole laughed as Gerry collapsed, rolled to his side and threw up. Sherrie screamed, “We don’t have it. We never found anything.”

“You lied to me!”

“Yes, yes, we did. Look we don’t have any money.” Sherrie was begging now.

“Then where’s the boat?” Cole screamed.

Sherrie rolled to Gerry’s side. He was breathing but not moving. She sobbed uncontrollably. “It’s gone, they took it yesterday. I don’t remember the address.” Sherrie was in a panic now. This insane man was going to kill her, Gerry, Eve and her brother if she told him where the boat went.

“You’re lying, he told me this morning.” Cole pushed Gerry with the toe of his boot then went to the office door and found it locked. “Where’s the key?” he demanded.

Sherrie shook her head, she couldn’t remember right now.

“I need the key or this time I blow his head off.”

“All right, all right…it’s in the house, in the kitchen I think.” Sherrie screamed, she was nearing total panic collapse now.

“In the kitchen. Are you screwing with me lady! Do you expect me to go back there and leave you here?” Cole only spoke in shouts now.

“No, no, please…look there’s a spare. There’s a spare key in here.” Sherrie stammered.

“WHERE? WHERE’S THE DAMN KEY?” Cole was hysterical now.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t use it.” Her throat tightened and her body succumbed to a pair of deep sobs.

“BULLSHIT!” Cole shouted, “You know where the key is, it’s your damned business!” He fought to regain control of himself.

“Behind the calendar I think, I don’t remember.” Sherrie’s sobs continued and her voice cracked, she could barely speak.

“Think Sherrie, think damn-it,” she told herself. She wanted to find a weakness, a way to escape. She needed to stay calm, it wasn’t working, but slowly she was stopping the panic.

Cole walked to the calendar and ripped it from the wall. A key hung on the nail. He unlocked the office door and went to the desk inside. Don Harris’ invoice and shipping papers lay on the desk pad, exactly where Sherrie had put them. It took only a moment before Cole had what he wanted.

Sherrie was on her knees, hands tied behind her back, her head next to Gerry’s. Her tears running over his cheek. “Gerry, I love you Gerry,” she whispered as she gasped for air.

Cole came out of the office carrying the papers. He was laughing. A high pitched child’s laugh. He continued to laugh for several minutes, then sat down on a stool.

Carefully, thoughtfully, Cole examined the calendar on the floor. Then he stopped laughing. After a few moments of silence his attention wandered to the pistol. Slowly he began turning it over and over in his hands. Once, twice, five, six times. Finally he said, “That bitch thinks I’m going to lose my house.” He fell silent.

Cole spun the cylinder, saw that only five bullets were loaded and laughed. “Safety first!” he shouted, then spun the cylinder and placed the barrel against his temple.

He stared at the calendar for a moment. Only the sound of the birds outside could be heard. Cole grinned, pulled the pistol down and placed the hammer on the empty cylinder.

Sherrie watched the madman’s dance. God help her, but she was hoping he’d pull the trigger. Cole’s stare met hers. It seemed to unnerve him. Cole looked down at the pistol, then up at Sherrie. He examined his two victims as if he’d never seen them before. He began to twirl the pistol on his finger, a revolution later it fell to the floor.

Cole’s gaze shifted to the pistol. His laugh turned to a snicker.