Текст книги "Death in a Summer Colony"

Автор книги: Aaron Stander

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

4

“Was this your first introduction to Malcolm Wudbine?” asked Grubbs, refilling Ray’s coffee mug, then his own.

“In the formal sense, yes. But I have seen him before. It took me a moment to make the connection. I was seated near him in a restaurant sometime last summer.”

“And he was part of a large group?”

“Yes, that’s my memory.”

“Let me guess, he was louder than anyone else, not only in his party, but in the whole place, making decrees rather than conversation and being surly to the wait staff at every opportunity?”

“Exactly,” said Ray. “At the time I wondered if the man had a hearing problem.”

Grubbs chuckled at Ray’s response. “No hearing problem, at least none that I know of. Although at his age it’s possible, but the loud voice and dominating presence is not new. It has been his modus operandi for as long as I’ve known him.”

“You said the board presidency was an elected position. If he is as disliked as you suggested, how does he…?”

“It’s quite simple,” explained Grubbs. “He continues to rescue Mission Point Summer Colony financially. When our recreation building burned down, he paid for the rebuilding. Not only did he rebuild it, but he made sure that the job was done on a timely basis. The fire was in late February. The new building was ready for use in early June. And that’s just one example. When our sewage system was starting to fail and the health department was barking at our heels, his foundation spent millions building a new system. At the same time he had a modern water system installed, complete with high-pressure hydrant lines for firefighting. We’ve all learned to put up with Malcolm because this place would fall apart without his money.”

“The building that Zwilling was firing at, I assume that was Wudbine’s cottage?”

“It’s one of Malcolm’s many properties in the colony. He purchased one for his son and daughter-in-law. Dune Side Cottage is for his aircrew. And he owns several more that are used by guests or other employees.”

“So he doesn’t live in the colony.”

“Correct. His cottage is just north of our property. And it is not a cottage. It’s a mansion on more than a thousand feet of lakefront,” Grubbs looked over at Ray and chuckled. “I see I’m completely confusing you. All of us locals, and I mean locals in the sense of long-term summer colony residents—not to be confused with real locals like you—all of us locals know the backstory.”

“Which is?” ask Ray.

“Malcolm was first married to Verity Wudbine-Merone. Her maiden name was Behrens, German stock who settled in Illinois in the 1850s. She was a descendant of several of the earliest members of the colony. Her family was from a farming community west of Chicago, her father was a local banker. She met Malcolm in college, Champaign, I think, or perhaps Northwestern. The father took him into the business after Malcolm and Verity were married. It’s the old story; a lad from a modest background is brought into the family business and later walks with a fortune. When his marriage to Verity was coming apart, he sold his interest in the family bank and bought a seat on the Chicago Mercantile exchange.”

“How do you know all of this?” asked Ray.

“Verity is my age. I was quite taken with her when we were 15, or 16, or 17. Summer romance and all that.” He paused for a moment, looked away and then back at Ray. “That’s not quite true,” he said, repeatedly tapping two fingers on the table. “It was a teenage boy’s silent infatuation. I’m not sure she ever knew, but I was a great admirer. And over the years she told me bits and pieces of her story. I think that’s one of the things we do here, especially when we get old. We tell our stories. Let’s see, where was I?”

“The Chicago Mercantile Exchange.”

“Yes. Verity told me he made a fortune in pickles futures. I don’t know if there’s such a thing. She’s very sarcastic and quite bitter. From pickles or whatever it was, he moved onto gold, at first losing most of his fortune, but then learning how the market worked. He was already enormously successful when he moved into stocks and bonds. But, by all accounts that wealth pales when compared to what he’s done in the last decade or so. Reports are that he’s made billions in things like derivatives and currency trading. I don’t understand any of that. Not part of my world.”

“You said his property is outside of the colony.”

“Let me explain,” said Grubbs. “When they were divorced there was a major fight over the family cottage. Verity prevailed. So then he buys this big place just on the beach. And he does it in such a way that she can’t look north from her place without seeing his. I’m sure he did it out of spite. And then he started buying up cottages in the colony.”

“Does Mr. Wudbine participate in your activities?”

“Absolutely. He thinks of himself as quite the thespian. Malcolm always has a part in the annual summer play. And he always participates in the fathers and sons baseball game—I think he played college ball. After the baseball game, we all wander down the beach to his manse for a New England lobster boil and clambake with several kegs of beer. We have a no-alcohol clause in the colony covenant. Somehow it’s okay if we’re on his land. I wonder what our founder would think of this.”

“He preached abstinence?” asked Ray.

“Yes, but I think Mather’s avoidance of alcohol was driven by his concern for native people. He saw traders cheat them with cheap whiskey and politicians manipulate them with free drinks on election day. And I suspect this place was pretty much alcohol-free in the early years, but who knows what happened behind closed doors. After the war, I’m talking about WWII and my parents’ generation, the cocktail hour became the norm. But again, it was never done in public places.

“But to go back to Malcolm,” Grubbs continued, “even though I am the executive director of the summer colony, when he’s in residence he’s always about telling people what to do. Like I said, we’ve all learned to put up with Malcolm. His money has kept us going at critical times. And we all pray that the good Lord will accept him with open arms, the sooner better than later. That said, it would be good of him to leave the colony a generous legacy.”

Ray closed the top of his laptop and pushed himself from his chair.

“Is there anything else, Sheriff?”

“No, I think that’s about it. Here’s my card if anything occurs to you that you think I should know.”

“You’ll let me know when we can begin the cleanup?”

“Absolutely.”

“There’s one more thing,” said Grubbs.

“Yes?”

“Well, it can wait a few days. Please keep me informed about Garr Zwilling’s condition. In spite of the unfortunate events, he’s part of our family, part of our history.”

5

The next morning Ray Elkins was up, dressed, and out of the house before 6:00 A.M. Gale force winds had been advised the evening before, and he wanted to walk the beach early and watch the pounding surf. He did a couple of miles on an out-and-back hike, stopping occasionally to watch the waves and listen to the howling wind. Ray needed time to absorb the beauty and power of this special landscape.

By the time he arrived at his office a little after 8:00, Detective Sergeant Sue Lawrence, in her usual highly organized manner, had laid out two piles of documents on the conference table in Ray’s office and was working on her laptop as she waited for him. Simone, a cairn terrier Sue and Ray co-parented since rescuing her from a crime scene in the late winter, was curled up in an overstuffed chair in the corner of the office. Ray sat on the edge of the chair and scratched Simone’s ears for a few moments before joining Sue at the table.

“How was your walk on the beach?” she asked.

“It was great. Some big wave sets, huge breaking surf. It almost looked like November.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go paddling.”

“Not this morning. Not today. The winds were too high. It would be impossible to launch without getting broached. Some days you just have to walk on the beach.” Sliding into his chair, he said, “Looks like you’ve been busy. What’s happening with Zwilling? Any news?”

“I talked to one of the doctors at the burn center in Ann Arbor before I went home last night.”

“What time was that? I think our no extraordinary hours we’ve got to have a life pledge is starting to break down.”

“It was okay, Ray. Simone was with me.”

“And?”

“The doctor, I didn’t get her name, said the first 72 hours are the most critical. She also indicated that the prognosis was rather bleak. In addition to the extensive burns, they suspect lung damage, but have not been able to assess how extensive. About all I came away with was that he was lucky to be alive, and it’s extremely difficult to estimate the viability of a patient with his injuries.”

Sue gave Ray a few moments to absorb the information before bringing his attention to the material on the table. “On the top sheet,” she motioned with an index finger, “is a list of everything contained in that pile. The first item under that sheet is a summary of my conversation with Mike Ogden.”

“I thought he was tied up…?”

“He was, a suspicious warehouse fire in Gaylord. He arrived about four. We still had plenty of light to pick through the ruins. Before we started I showed him the video of the explosion—we’ve got it from two directions. His immediate response was that it looked like natural gas, the way the building came apart, the appearance of the flames. Mike did take samples for analysis, but he was pretty certain that Zwilling had turned on all the burners on the stove or opened a gas line. The remains of the water heater and stove were down in what was once the crawlspace. There’s a connection from the gas line to the water heater, he had a name for it.”

“Coupling?”

“That sounds right. How do you know that?”

“Remember, my father was a jack-of-all trades, and I spent much of my childhood and teenage years following him around as his assistant.”

“Okay,” she continued, “it appeared that the coupling had been disconnected. He suggested that Zwilling was doing his best to blow the place up.”

“Anything else?”

“You were worried about a large stash of ammo. It wasn’t there. Zwilling must have run through most of it before the explosion.”

“And the weapon?”

“It turned up in the bottom of the debris. It was pretty grimy. Ogden said it looked like a Chinese knockoff of an AR 15, something about the machining being crude and the serial number looked like it had been done by junior high shop kids. He’s going to run it through the ATF tracking system, but didn’t think they’d get a hit.”

“Probably a gun show special,” said Ray.

“His words, exactly. We also had a run-in with a citizen.”

“What was that all about?”

“This obnoxious ass comes marching right into the site, tells us he’s the president of the place, and demands to know when we’re going to be finished. Ogden explains to him that this is a crime scene and politely asks him to leave. The guy just continues ranting at us. Ogden asks him to leave a second time. This time he’s much more direct. The man’s unfazed. So Ogden tells him if he doesn’t leave immediately, he’s going to be arrested and put in jail. Just about that time Richard Grubbs shows up in a golf cart and hustles the man away.”

Ray chuckled, “You met Malcolm Wudbine. He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”

“I can think of a few other ways of describing him. Not long after that Grubbs came back. We were just finishing up about that time. He said he thought he found the car.”

“Zwilling’s?”

“You got it. It’s an older Chrysler 300 with Arizona tags. It had been tucked behind one of the cottages close to the highway. I ran the plates. It was registered to a Garrick Zwilling in Tucson. I made a call to their PD, ended up getting a chatty detective on the line. Mr. Zwilling is known to the department, lots of problems with alcohol, lots of mental health issues. He’s one of those guys who goes out of control, gets taken to the hospital, three days later he’s back on the street. Occasionally he ends up in front of a judge, promises to stay on his meds, and in a few weeks or months, the whole cycle starts again.”

“It’s a familiar pattern. You got all that accomplished before the end of the workday?”

“No, I did that in the evening before going home.”

“I thought as part of our plan to have lives outside of work we….”

“That was a good thought. But neither one of us is going to be able to do that. It was okay, Ray. I went to dinner with Mike Ogden. I always thought he was very married, turns out he’s not anymore. I guess he wanted me to know. It was a little bit awkward. It’s not like he asked me out or anything, or even asked if I was involved with anyone. But it was clumsy.” She paused for a few moments. “I’ve got one more thing. You sent me an e-mail with the out-of-date contact info on the owner of the cottage, Regina Zwilling-Glidden.”

“Yes,”

“I ran that by the detective in Tucson. Seems she’s well known to the PD, also.”

“How so?”

“I guess she’s been an assistant prosecutor there for years. She was incapacitated by a stroke sometime in the recent past. I explained to him the reason for my call, and he said he would check on her and get back to me.”

“Sometimes life is a train wreck,” said Ray.

“So the rest of the materials there are first drafts of evidence to take to the prosecutor. I’ve also asked for a search warrant of Zwilling’s car. If he survives there will be a whole list of charges.”

“And,” said Ray, “the issue of whether or not he is competent to stand trial.”

6

After Ray delivered his line on Zwilling’s competence to stand trial, they sat in silence, each reflecting on the horror of the scene.

“Is there anything else?” asked Ray.

“Simone, she has a vet appointment late this afternoon. She needs a heartworm check and a Lyme disease vaccination. And Ray,” she gave him her wry smile, “we don’t have an arrangement in our joint custody agreement for Simone’s veterinary bills, but if you would cover this I’d really appreciate it. I’m sort of short this month.”

“No problem. And I apologize for not having thought about that earlier. In fact, from this point forward I’ll look after the vet bills, you do more than your share with her other expenses.”

“And after the vet, would you take her for the evening. I’m going to dinner and a movie in town with the girls. I’d like to not be in a rush to get home.”

“No problem,” said Ray. “She’s always good company.”

“And you have no other plans? I guess I should have asked that first.”

“No. She will be the center of my universe.”

“That’s true. Whether you want her to be or not.” Sue retrieved a brown paper bag and set it on the table. “Here’s Simone’s overnight bag. There’s a can of her special food, her favorite tennis ball, and some treats, to be doled out judiciously when she sits to have her leash taken off.”

Many hours later, after the trip to the veterinary hospital, Ray took Simone home. As he started supper for himself, he opened her bag of supplies and pulled out the can of food. He eyed the label carefully and looked over at Simone. “Do you know what’s in here? Let me give you the highlights. Pork by-products. Simone, I can’t imagine what that would be. The stuff they can’t put in hotdogs because it’s too disgusting. How about powdered cellulose? That’s sawdust, kid. Then there’s marigold extract.” He paused and returned her intense look. “No, I’m not making this up. But wait, there’s more. Dried beet pulp, and guar gum—always one of my favorites. Then there’s a whole list of multisyllabic, chemical sounding stuff with the monos and tris, the sulfates and phosphates. Do you really want to eat this?” He held out the can, turning the ingredients list in her direction.

Simone, looking up at Ray, continued to hang on every word.

“How about a couple of lamb chops? You can have them with rice or whole wheat couscous.”

Simone woofed, a command bark.

“Okay, I take that to mean the whole wheat couscous. And we have to do something with this first.” Ray carried the offending can to the garbage. He dropped it in and then pulled paper over the top of it. “Simone, this is called destruction of evidence. In certain circumstances, this is a felony. However, extreme times require extreme measures. So don’t rat us out.”

After dinner and a long walk, Ray and Simone settled in for a quiet evening—Ray in his favorite chair reading the New Yorker, Simone straddling the top of a couch near a window guarding against marauding squirrels and killer rabbits. She soon nodded off.

Eventually, Ray moved to the bedroom and went through his journal writing ritual, filling a favorite fountain pen and reading over his most recent entries. Then over the next several pages, brown ink on ivory paper, he reviewed the tragic encounter with Garr Zwilling. He speculated on other ways he might have handled the confrontation, concluding that there were few alternatives. At the end he gave Malcolm Wudbine a few paragraphs, trying to capture his mannerisms and the way he treated Richard Grubbs. He wondered if he’d ever encounter Wudbine again.

Ray’s journal entry was cut short by a command bark. Simone was at the door awaiting a second evening walk.

7

Ray sat in the passenger seat of Sue’s Jeep, Simone standing in his lap looking out of the windshield. A golf cart piloted by Richard Grubbs led the way along the narrow, curvy main road of the Mission Point Summer Colony.

“So what’s this all about?” asked Sue.

“Grubbs wouldn’t tell me on the phone. Weeks ago, after the Zwilling incident, he said there was something he needed to talk to me about. Then he just dropped it. Late yesterday afternoon he called me and said there’s this police matter he needs help with. Would I please come by and could I bring an evidence technician. When I pushed him as to what was going on, he said he couldn’t talk about it on the phone; it had to be face-to-face. It’s all very mysterious.”

Grubbs slowed and pulled off the road. Sue parked behind him. They followed him to the bluff overlooking what had once been the site of Ravenswood Cottage. Several pickup trucks were clustered around a new building that closely resembled the original.

“A lot can happen in a short time,” said Grubbs.

Ray and Sue stood in silence taking in the scene.

“How many weeks has it been since the fire?” asked Ray.

Grubbs looked thoughtful. “I think four. This is the start of the fifth week.”

“How did this happen so quickly?” asked Ray.

“Well, even before that unfortunate incident, there were a lot of things going on. Mr. Wudbine, in his role as president of the board, is always doing his best to micromanage both me and everything that happens in this organization. On the other hand, he’s not very good at communicating what he’s up to. Anyway, Malcolm had been negotiating for the purchase of Ravenswood Cottage, something he never mentioned to me until after that whole unfortunate affair.

“As you will remember, the owner of the cottage was Regina Zwilling-Glidden, Garr’s aunt. When her nephew found out about the sale, he came up here to see if he could disrupt things. Apparently he has a long history of mental illness.”

“How did you learn this?”

“Well, once you sent me word that we could go forward with the site cleanup, Wudbine wanted to have his own people do the work. When I challenged him on the legality of that, he told me he’d purchased the property. Then he told me he wanted to get started on the new building as quickly as possible. We have this process here and a whole series of guidelines that any remodels or new buildings have to conform to. We’re trying to preserve the character of the place. He told me to make sure that process happened instantly, his favorite phrase ‘chop-chop.’

“Like I said, we have this process here. We have a committee. We ask for architectural drawings. Our goal is not speed. Our goal is continuity. Malcolm doesn’t think any of that applies to him. And he pushed his contractor the same way he pushed us. The contractor pulled a building permit, and the first time the inspector showed up, he put a cease-and-desist order on the job because walls were going up before the footings had been checked. I was impressed by that guy, whoever he is. He refused to be cowed. Malcolm was yelling and screaming at him, and he was totally unmoved. Luckily for Malcolm, the contractor was able to smooth things over with the inspector and a day or two later they were back at work.”

“So how about this building, does it conform with your colony standards?” ask Ray.

“Absolutely. As you can see, it’s a beautifully built replica of what was originally there. But the point is that we have this process, and Malcolm goes out of his way not to cooperate.” Grubbs looked over at Ray and Sue. “So a lot happened in a few weeks. We had a very dangerous confrontation. A man has died from horrific burns. It was a death of his own making, but still he’s gone and with him a hundred-year-old building with all of its memories and all of its history. The debris has been carefully removed from the site, the earth sanitized, and a new structure erected. That’s a lot of change in a place where change takes place very slowly. It’s something this old historian is having difficulty comprehending. But that’s not why I called you here. There’s another matter that needs attending to. Malcolm said I shouldn’t involve the police, but I think it’s something that should be investigated.”

“What’s going on?”

“We had a robbery of sorts. Actually, I think we’ve had many of them. I can only verify one, and I think that’s a good starting place. This whole thing is rather embarrassing, and I hope we can handle this discreetly.”

“What do you mean?” said Ray.

“We have our traditions. I wouldn’t want to read about this problem in the local paper. Follow me down to Verity Wudbine-Merone’s cottage, and I’ll explain the whole thing.”

“Sounds like trouble in paradise,” said Sue as she followed the slow-moving golf cart past the dozens of cottages that lined the sandy trail, some clinging to hillsides, some—like Ravenswood Cottage—clustered in two or three building cul-de-sacs.

“Yes,” agreed Ray.

Grubbs parked behind one of about a dozen cottages that were built on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan.

Ray and Sue joined him, leaving Simone in the Jeep. The door of the cottage opened as they approached the building. A small, wiry woman came out to greet them. Ray guessed her to be in her late 60s or early 70s.

“This is Verity Wudbine-Merone,” said Grubbs, “her ancestors were among the first families to build in the Colony. Sheriff Elkins, Detective Sergeant Lawrence.”

“Come in, please,” she said, after shaking each of their hands.

“I’ve made some coffee, I hope you will have some.” She quickly filled a cup, placed it on a saucer, and handed one to Sue before any of them could respond. “Please, sit.” She directed them toward a table at the front of the cottage. “There’s sugar and cream, please help yourself to the cookies.”

A series of casement windows, each with a latticework of framing holding small panes, provided a panoramic view of the lake.

Once they were seated, Ray asked, “What seems to be the problem?”

“What have you told them?” Verity looked at Grubbs.

“Nothing, Verity.”

Ray and Sue sat and waited, finally Verity said, “I’ve been robbed.”

“What was taken and when did this happen?” asked Sue.

“I can’t say for sure when it happened. I was here in late April just to drop off some supplies and then came back a week ago and noticed things were missing.”

“What kinds of things?” asked Ray.

A long silence followed, Grubbs and Verity looked at each other. Finally Grubbs said, “A large quantity of alcohol.”

“Could you be more specific, please?”

“Well, I always restock the cottage in the spring. On my first trip up here I stop in Chicago and buy enough liquor to last the summer. We have cocktail parties every evening, us old timers. I sort of know what everyone drinks, that’s what I stock up on.”

“So how many bottles were taken?” asked Ray.

Another long silence followed. Then Verity answered, “I’m afraid it was more than bottles. It was cases, five cases. Five cases,” she repeated. “It was all the top notch. All of it. Single malt scotch, Irish whiskey, some bourbon, some very good vodka and gin. I lugged them up here and with Richard’s help got everything discreetly stored away.”

Verity got up from the table and crossed the room and opened the pantry door. “It was all here on the floor. The cases were on their sides so I could get to the bottles without having to do any lifting.”

She returned to the table and looked at Sue and then Ray before continuing. “We do more than just give lip service to the temperance roots of this colony. If you go into the cottages, you won’t see liquor bottles out in the open or any other drink making paraphernalia. And no one consumes alcohol out in the open. With the exception, of course, of Malcolm’s damn clambake, but that’s off the property. Even when I go to someone’s cottage for dinner, I always carry the wine in a basket.”

“What was the value of the stolen property?” asked Sue.

“Well it was a lot, yes indeed. I can’t quite say for sure. You know how it goes, they ring it up and you just give them your card. I’d have to try and find my MasterCard bill. But I’m sure it was $1000 or more. And there was also some wine on that bill, the brands and vintages that are hard to find up here. And the wine is all here. They didn’t touch that. Just the liquor, the hard stuff.”

“And you have no idea when it was stolen?”

“Well, yes. It happened some time during the weeks I wasn’t here.”

Ray looked at Sue, then looked out at the rolling surf.

“How did the thieves gain entrance to your cottage?” asked Sue. “Was there damage to a door or window?”

“No, nothing that I noticed. I’m not even sure the doors were locked. As you can see, there’s nothing really worth stealing here. It’s just old stuff. Old China, old flatware, the furniture is mostly castoffs from other homes. That little flat screen I bring with me at the beginning of the season and take it home in the fall. Electronics don’t make it through the winter here. It’s too moist.

“And the doors and windows hardly fit in the frames anymore. One of my little grandsons takes great delight in the fact that he can jiggle the locks open on either door.” She pointed with her thumbs, one toward the lakeside door, the other toward the inland door.

“So there were no signs of forced entry, but maybe no force would have been necessary, and you can’t pinpoint when the theft may have happened?”

“Correct. That’s why I told Grubby that it wasn’t necessary to call the police.”

“And other than the missing cases of liquor, there is no evidence that a robbery took place,” said Ray.

“True,” she responded.

“We can take a report. It would help if you could get a receipt for the stolen alcohol. I would like to know exactly what was taken by brand and quantity. Also, I’d like to know the exact dollar value of this property. You can probably get all of that information by calling your credit card company. You will need that if you are intending to file a claim with your insurance company.”

“Insurance, I hadn’t thought about that. But I wouldn’t want them to know about this.”

“Like I said, we can take a report, but there’s not much for us to go on. Any chance some of your neighbors might have seen something?”

“No one has said anything, and they certainly would have.”

“Well, we could canvass the neighborhood. Ask if anyone has….”

“I wouldn’t want that. First, almost no one has been around yet. And this would be very upsetting. I don’t want to ruin anyone’s summer.”

Richard Grubbs cut her short. “Sheriff, I asked you to bring your evidence tech because I thought maybe you could find a fingerprint or something.”

“That would be very unlikely given the time that’s passed,” said Sue. “Any chance the thief left something behind like a hat, gloves?”

“Nothing of the sort. And I didn’t even notice that the boxes were gone for several days. Not until Grubby stopped off for a drink, and I went to get a fresh bottle of Scotch.

“I’m really afraid, Sheriff, we’re wasting time,” said Verity. “What’s lost is lost. It’s never happened before, and it will probably never happen again. Let’s just get on with our lives, Grubby. That’s what Malcolm wanted you to do, and it’s probably the first, last, and only time I’ve ever agreed with that SOB.”

Verity stood, “Thank you for coming, Sheriff. And you, also, Detective. I think this matter will take care of itself without any outside help. But, again, my thanks. Would either of you like a cookie for the road?”