Summer People (20 page)

“Not always,” Lisa quipped. Marc groaned.

“Since you have been hanging around with that guy,” Ray motioned toward Marc, “you’ve developed a strange sense of humor. Getting back to Bussey, his ex-wife told me his approach to business made him unpopular with a large number of people. She said few would be saddened by his death. And she is obviously not sad that he’s dead.”

“It’s too bad he wasn’t murdered; we would have a variety of motives and probably some very interesting suspects,” joked Lisa.

Marc added, “It’s important to have interesting suspects, nothing worse than tedious ones.”

“How can I go on if all you two are going to do is make jokes?” Ray tried to affect an irritated look.

“No more jokes,” promised Lisa. “We’re all ears.”

“And third,” Ray continued, “we have the accidental death of Roger Grimstock. The victim was an alcoholic, and he was legally drunk at the time of his death. In most ways it looks like an accident that could…” he paused.

“What bothers you?” inquired Marc.

“I don’t know. I’ve checked the wreckage very carefully and can’t find any paint or damage to suggest that he was forced off the road.” Ray paused. “I guess two things bother me: he was on that road, and he had received a phone call before he left the bar.”

“I know it may look peculiar,” suggested Marc, “but those probably are only chance events that seem important because of what has happened. If it weren’t for the accident, the phone call would have been forgotten. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I think that you should be careful not to attribute too much importance to these things.”

Lisa kidded, “You can hear the cautious stock analyst suggesting that you take care not to attribute undo importance to random events. Marc would prefer that you be bullish only on long-term patterns.”

“Back off, you two. I know that these could be of no significance. But it certainly is a very unusual coincidence. And I also have this feeling, this sense that something is wrong. There’s one more thing I didn’t mention, the truck. An old truck with a snowplow on the front was borrowed sometime in the last week, and only about four miles from where the accident took place. The blade of the plow has several deep gouges in it, new gouges.”

“And you think…”

“I don’t think anything. And other than gouges, there’s nothing to suggest that there’s any connection, no matching paint, nothing like that. It’s just one more interesting coincidence.”

Ray continued. “Let me go on to Arden. Here again, on the surface anyway, it looks like an accidental drowning. But it’s strange as hell. He was out on the lake in the middle of the night in impossible conditions.”

“But no evidence of foul play?” probed Marc.

“None.”

“So, where are we?” asked Ray.

“It’s interesting that three of the four went to law school.”

“Any currently practicing?” asked Lisa.

“No, in fact I think Holden was the only one who ever practiced. And he hasn’t done that in a number of years, which leads us to your category of vocation or profession. Holden was selling securities and was active in the Mercantile Exchange. Bussey, according to his ex, worked in real estate development and had some involvement in several savings and loans. Grimstock, I don’t know. Arden was some kind of troubleshooter who worked for the President. His wife said that since graduating from law school he either worked for the Republican Party, or the administration. Military service,” Ray paused. “I don’t think that was ever mentioned. I’ll have to check on that.” He made a note in his book. “Holden and Bussey lived in suburban Chicago; Grimstock was from around Grand Rapids, and Arden was from D.C. Moving on to ‘marital status,’ Holden was recently married….”

“And,” Lisa interrupted, “his sister indicated it wasn’t his first.”

“Let me summarize,” said Marc. “As far as you know, there are no business or current social connections between these individuals. And you only know for sure that Bussey and Arden were once acquainted. But they all are about the same age, and they did spend time up here when they were kids.”

Ray nodded.

“What if,” speculated Lisa, “they did something years ago, when they were in high school or college, and someone is trying to get even?”

“Look, they’re all about the same age. Their cottages had to be in a radius of five or ten miles. What would you say, Ray?”

“The three came from families whose cottages were less than ten miles apart, different lakes, but close together. There’s a good chance they knew each other.”

“But that probably doesn’t matter,” said Lisa with increasing enthusiasm for her developing thesis, “let’s say each of them crossed someone years ago and the injured party has been waiting all this time to get revenge.”

“Interesting idea. So finish your thought,” said Ray nodding to Lisa.

“That’s all I have. Just the idea that they did something awful and someone is trying to get back at them.”

“That’s possible,” said Ray, “but what? What could they have done then that was so bad that all these years later they’re being killed for it?”

“Hard to imagine,” said Marc. “They did grow up to be less than honorable, but what could they have done that was bad enough that they are now paying for it with their lives? Remember, that was a fairly innocent time.”

“Perhaps they didn’t do anything that bad,” suggested Lisa. “Perhaps they did something minor to a crazy who now wants to get even. Maybe they all dated local girls and some guy is still pissed about it.”

Lisa turned to Ray, “Is there any way that you could look at old police records and see if there is anything that might tie the three together?”

“Records! You should have seen the sheriff at that time. There wasn’t much record-keeping going on, and most of the records that were kept were inaccurate as hell. Besides, if it was something that happened that long ago, they would have been juveniles. And you know the old county building burned years back and most of the records were lost. Law enforcement was a lot more casual then— record keeping was haphazard at best. Remember the sheriff back then?” he asked Marc.

“Horrible Orville. Never forget him, a wild old man. He pulled me over once for speeding. Came to the side of the car carrying a pump shotgun.”

“Yeah, you got him. He didn’t keep records. He had been the sheriff since the thirties and was getting senile near the end. And he didn’t like downstaters or their kids very much. I think that insured his re-election.”

“What happened to him?” ask Marc.

“He ran off the road and hit a tree on the way to an accident scene. I think the postmortem showed he had a stroke. It was damn lucky he never killed anyone. He loved to carry that shotgun.”

Lisa pursued, “Well, is there anyone from the department who might…”

“He had the strangest collection of deputies, his cronies. Let’s see,” Ray paused a moment, “there’s one still around from that time, Floyd Durfee. Least I think he’s still around. He was in a nursing home near the county line. Let me check on that. If he’s still there, I could see if he might remember something.”

“Anyone else?” asked Marc.

“Not that I can think of.”

The hostess appeared at their table. She gave them a bright smile and admonished them, “It’s a good thing I came to look for you. I paged you several times. I almost gave your table away again. Follow me please.” She marched into the restaurant.

“It’s part of the act here,” said Ray as she moved out of earshot. “Summer people like to be abused before they eat. It makes them feel at home.”

Ray turned off 31 and headed west on the county road. A hundred years ago the area had been covered by magnificent jack pine forests. Around the turn of the century all the pine was cut and the forests burned so the massive logs could more easily be removed by the horse drawn skids. Later, settlers came, cleared the charred stumps and built farms. But the topsoil was too thin and fragile; within a few years most of it blew away, leaving little more than sand. The fields now supported only a thin covering of wild grasses, thistle, and occasional patches of ferns.

The rest home stood in a large open area. Fields, long abandoned, stretched to the sides and back of the house. The dominant structure was a large, two-story, frame farmhouse dating back to early days of the century. In the sixties, a long, narrow wing of ‘ranch design’ was added to one side of the original structure, a grafting of discordant styles. The wood siding of the farmhouse was weathered, gray, and showed only the barest remnants of white paint. The aluminum siding on the addition was faded aqua, almost shiny in places.

In the field behind the house stood the skeleton of a barn, oak beams, post and lintel, still in place. But the siding and roof boards had fallen away years ago. A half-dozen derelict cars were scattered near the barn. A new pole barn stood nearer to the house. At its side, a rusting Chevy rested on cement blocks. A grimecovered engine dangled at the end of a corroded chain above the open engine bay—the chain supported by four long poles, lashed at the top teepee style.

Off to the right of the house were the remains of an old orchard: twenty odd trees, four to a row; many only skeletons; gnarled apple-wood, bleached white; some branches broken to earth, others reaching toward the sky. The remainder, larger, had scattered fruit showing through blighted leaves. A quarter-mile back from the house the forest started again. Scrub oak and poplar formed a tight border on the thickly-wooded slopes.

At the side of the road were a powder-blue mailbox and a crudely lettered sign that read LAY-Z-REST HOME. The post supporting box and sign leaned away from the road. A few yards behind, a flagpole rose from an irregular ring of wilted petunias. At its top dangled a tattered banner, faded almost gray. An old picnic table and lawn mower, deserted after its last use, stood in the shady refuge provided by the one tree in the front—a large, densely-foliaged oak.

Ray parked in the yard. There were two front doors; he chose the one at the near-end of the long addition. He opened a screen door and entered. He had to take off his sunglasses to see in the dark interior. A counter, lit by a fluorescent light on the ceiling and covered with charts and sundry medical paraphernalia, gave the appearance of a primitive nursing station. A box fan near a rear door circulated the sweltering, fetid air that reeked of disinfectant and urine. A woman looked up from the desk where she appeared to be writing, got up, and came around the counter to greet Ray.

She was a tall, bony woman in her middle fifties. A cotton dress, faded by years of washing, was stretched over her frame. Deep furrows extended from her long, thin nose to the margins of her narrow lips and across her forehead. Her hair, coarse, mixed brown and gray, was pulled tight into a bun at the back of her head.

She extended a large, powerful hand. Ray noted the man-like strength as she squeezed his hand. “I expect you’re Sheriff Elkins. I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Norma Bert.”

Ray acknowledged the greeting.

“I’m glad you called, Sheriff. We sometimes have trouble making Floyd get dressed. But when I told him you were coming to see him, he was cooperative for the first time in weeks.”

“What seems to be the problem, Ma’am?” Ray inquired.

“Floyd is just giving us more trouble all the time. We’ve had to isolate him because of the way he’s been acting. Maybe you can talk to him about it.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“I can’t get him to eat. Took him to the clinic twice in the last month. Doctor says nothing is wrong—just a waste of good money. And we can’t let him watch TV with the other residents because he gets up in the middle of a program and urinates in the corner of the room. Then, like nothing happened, he’ll sit down and start watching again. He also started peeking on some of the ladies taking showers. I can’t have that here; I just can’t have that. I only have two men, and both are problems. If I could get hold of Floyd’s son, I’d try to get him out of here. So anything you could say to him about how he should behave would be appreciated.” She motioned toward the back, “I’ve got him out here waiting for you.” She led Ray past the fan and out through the screen door at the rear. She pointed in the direction of the only tree in the back yard.

“Is he still alert?” Ray asked.

“Well I wouldn’t say he was sharp as a nail, but most days he knows what’s going on. But he’s better on what happened thirty years ago than he is on what happened yesterday.”

Ray nodded. He was relieved to be outside again. He walked out to where Floyd was sitting. Floyd, without rising, offered Ray his hand. Ray shook his hand and sat near him on a metal lawn chair.

“You’re looking good, Floyd,” Ray offered with forced enthusiasm. He was startled by Floyd’s appearance. He remembered Floyd as a tall, robust man. Now there was only a hint of what he had been. He was very thin; the frame that once carried over two hundreds pounds of firm flesh looked like it now supported little more than a hundred. A beak-like nose jutted out from a cadaverous skull, covered with fragile, transparent skin. His eyes were recessed and dull.

“Thanks, Sheriff. Surprised to see ya.”

“Well, Floyd, I’ve got a case that’s troubling me. It might be tied to things that happened years ago when you were still a deputy.”

“What kind of case, Sheriff?”

“The current case has to do with a murder investigation. But I’m wondering about something that happened years ago. It would have involved several boys, teenagers, summer kids.”

“Got a cigarette, Sheriff? Bitch won’t let me smoke.”

“Sorry, Floyd, I quit.”

“Damn. We ran in lots of kids over the years—drinking, speeding, raising hell. They’d come up in the summer and think they could do whatever they wanted. Don’t remember no names, though. What did these ones do?

“I’m not sure, Floyd. But it would have been pretty bad. I can’t find any records involving the boys. It might have been something like a bad fight, or a robbery, something like that.”

“Can you give me some names, that might help?”

Ray paused. He was not ready to give out names in an informal investigation that was only based on a hunch. But, he thought, what did it matter, who was the old man going to talk to? “Names are Randy Holden, Roger Grimstock, and Robert Arden.”