Authors: Aaron Stander
Lisa assembled her pack rod and pulled on her waders. She folded the nylon pack and zipped it into the back of her vest. She stood and watched the stream. She could see a few small trout feeding on some tiny, gray mayflies. Damselflies, electrical blue, hovered over the water. She opened her fly box and pulled a Hairwing Coachman from the foam backing; she remembered it was her grandfather’s favorite when there was not an active hatch.
Lisa entered the river carefully, trying to avoid the soft mud at the edge of the stream. Once she had her footing on the sand, she started to wade downstream, casting in front of her. Several times her fly caught an overhanging tree on her back cast, but each time she was able to pull it from the tree without breaking the leader. Her progress down the stream was very slow. She moved forward with great care. She didn’t like the heavy shade of the swamp. She couldn’t see the holes in the dark water. She didn’t like wading in deep, fast water.
The fish came out of the water as it took the fly. It ran for a few moments, then the line went slack. She thought she had lost it, but as she started to reel in she realized that she still had it. The brookie was just legal, the size she usually threw back, but she decided to keep it—a stage prop appropriate to her role. She worked the same area of the stream, a cut in front of a mostlysubmerged cedar, part of its trunk and roots still on the shore. In a few minutes she took three more trout and then started wading down the stream again.
The stream narrowed and deepened, cedar from both shores arched, tent-like, above. Lisa worked her way forward in the fast current, carefully checking her footing as she moved. Finally, the stream opened and there was a small clearing to the left. She could just see the cabin. She moved to get a better view. She felt it suddenly start to get deeper. She tried to move back, but the current pushed her forward. The water surged over the top of her waders. A tightly cinched belt at the waist on the outside of the waders kept them from filling, but she could feel a trickle of cold water runningdown the narrow of her back. She took several more steps trying to get out of the hole, but each time only managed to get in deeper. Finally, she let the waders with their trapped pockets of air float, and she paddled to the far shore on her back.
Lisa climbed the bank and found the remnants of an old deck-like structure. She pulled the suspenders off her shoulders and slipped out of the wet boots. She secured the waders upside down on a tree with a belt and laid out her shirt and socks on the decking to dry.
Lisa sat facing the stream. The sun was hot on her back, but she felt uncomfortable in her wet clothes. She was actually startled when she heard someone approaching behind her. She turned to see a woman looking down at her.
“Hi,” Lisa offered meekly. “I’ve had a bit of an accident. I hope I’m not trespassing.”
At first the woman looked frightened. Then she gave Lisa a thin smile. “You gave me a bit of a start, I’m not used to finding anyone here. Are you cold, do you need dry clothes?”
“I’m not cold, but these are uncomfortable,” Lisa responded.
“Come on up to the cabin, I’m sure some of my things will fit you.”
As Lisa followed, she asked, “Do you live here?”
“Live here, no. I inherited the place this spring, and I thought I would come back and spend part of the summer here. I grew up around here, but I haven’t been back for years. I live in Arizona. I’m Prudence,” she said stopping and looking back.
Lisa offered her hand, “Lisa Alworth,” she responded.
The cabin, a small building of cedar logs, sat on some high ground just off of the stream. Lisa followed Prudence. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the dark interior, illuminated only by the light coming in through small windows. The interior consisted of one sparsely furnished room. An old wood stove and a sink stood along one wall. A small pump was mounted at the side of the sink, standing on a long pipe that disappeared through the floor. Near the opposite wall were a bed and an old dresser. A large backpack hung on a peg near the bed. A round table with three chairs stood in the middle of the room, a kerosene lamp at its center. Lisa noted the wild flowers laid out on the table and the copy of
Field Guide to Michigan Plants and Flowers
.
“How about a sweat shirt and dry shorts?” Prudence offered as she opened the dresser.
“That would be wonderful,” Lisa responded. She stripped off her wet clothes and put on the dry ones.
“Thank you, that feels a lot better. I haven’t gone over the top of my waders in years. I just started to slip into a hole, and I couldn’t get back; the current was too strong. Are you here alone?” Lisa asked.
“Yes, I had only planned on being here a few weeks, but it took a bit longer than I expected to settle the estate. I didn’t think I would like being here, but I have really enjoyed it.”
“I see you’re collecting flowers,” said Lisa.
“My mother used to collect wild flowers. She knew all the names, both common and scientific. She died when I was in my early teens. Somehow collecting and identifying these flowers has put me in contact with her. You know what I mean?”
Lisa nodded.
Darkness was slow in coming. And although northern Michigan is hardly the land of the midnight sun, it was well after ten before the last traces of daylight disappeared below the western horizon. Marc and Ray had been waiting for Lisa’s return for more than four hours. At first, comments and concerns about her late return were mixed in with other conversation, but as the evening progressed, what wasn’t said carried more meaning then what was. Finally, they heard what they hoped was Lisa’s car coming down the two-track.
Lisa opened the trunk, “Help me with the groceries, and I’ll tell you about it.”
They each carried a bag into the kitchen.
“Why didn’t you call? I was worried as hell. I thought you’d be back from town by late afternoon.”
“I didn’t go to town. I went fishing.”
“And where did you go fishing,” asked Ray with a knowing tone. “Let me guess, you went fishing on the Otter?”
“You’re so clever, Ray. And you’re also right about Prudence being there. Sorry I’m late, but I spent more time with her than I thought I would. She’s a very interesting woman. I liked her a lot.” “So what happened?” asked Marc.
“It took me a long time to get there. It’s a hard river to wade, narrow, fast and full of deep holes. I had just spotted the cabin when I slipped into a hole. I had to lay back and let my waders float. I got drenched to the skin. I was trying to dry off when she found me. I think I scared her.” Lisa paused, “I’d really like a glass of wine.”
“Then what happened?” pressed Ray. Marc poured a glass of wine.
“She invited me in, gave me some dry clothes, and helped me hang mine in the sun. Then we made lunch.” Lisa sounded very relaxed and casual.
“Lunch,” said Ray with skepticism in his voice.
“Lunch,” she repeated. “I had caught four little rainbows. She fried them in corn meal with some wild mushrooms and leeks. We went out and picked the mushrooms and leeks. She knows a lot about wild plants. And we had some wild raspberries for dessert. That and a bottle of Margeaux.”
“Margeaux!” exclaimed Ray.
“Margeaux. She apologized that that was the only bottle she had, and she hoped it wouldn’t overpower the trout. After lunch we sat in the sun near the stream and talked.”
“You made lunch, drank wine, and talked?” asked Ray.
“Essentially, she said that she had come back to settle her father’s estate. Then she showed me the wild flowers she had been collecting and told me about her mother. Her mother died when she was in her early teens, I think thirteen or fourteen. Prudence said she used to collect the wild flowers with her mother, but hadn’t done so since her mother died.
“She said that initially she had only planned to stay a few weeks, but collecting the flowers and living in the cabin brought back a lot of good memories, memories of her mother and memories of good times she had forgotten about. Then she told me about the recent loss of her daughter and how she fell apart after. She didn’t elaborate too much, but said she had some abuse problems she had to overcome. She said she felt living in the woods had helped her to regain her equilibrium.”
“Did she tell you how her daughter died?” asked Ray.
“No, just that she had died. I asked her if she was afraid, living in such an isolated place. She said that she lived there as a child and was never afraid. I asked her if she had a gun or anything to defend herself with. She said she hated guns and wouldn’t have one.”
“Then what happened?” queried Marc.
“We washed the dishes, we walked through the swamp, she identified plants and mushrooms for me, and we sat in the sun and talked some more. She is very solid. I liked her a lot. Then she asked me if there was a decent beauty shop around.”
“Beauty shop?”
“Beauty shop. She had been camping out for five or six weeks and was desperately in need of a haircut…”
“And,” said Ray motioning for her to complete her story.
“She hiked out with me, and I drove her to the Third Wave. Fortunately, they were able to squeeze us in. I got a shampoo, too. I had that damn river water in my hair. From there we went over to the laundromat, and she did her washing. Then I took her to the airport.”
“Airport,” exclaimed Ray.
“Yes, she called from the Third Wave. She was able to get the 9:00 connector to Chicago and a flight to Phoenix. I was really sorry to see her leave. She’s the kind of person I would like to have as a friend. If I’m going to stay up here, I have to find some friends like her.”
Marc got a bottle of Scotch and three glasses from the cupboard. He poured three drinks, setting one in front of Ray.
“You look tired, Ray,” he said.
“I am. Real tired.”
John Tyrrell was pulling on a large cigar when Ray entered John’s office.
“Have a seat, Ray,” offered John, gesturing in the direction of two overstuffed chairs that faced the front of his desk. What do you have for me?”
Ray pulled a plastic envelope out of his shirt pocket, leaned forward, and tossed the envelope on the desk. Tyrrell picked up the envelope and looked at the contents.
“You asked what I had; that’s it.” Ray didn’t say anything more.
“I don’t quite get your meaning.”
“That’s all I’ve got, one 30.06 slug. We know it was fired from a Winchester Model 70. We don’t have the gun.”
“From the Holden murder?” asked Tyrrell, toying with the bullet.
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“In terms of physical evidence, that’s it. I do have a possible motive and an interesting theory.”
“I’m not used to you doing theory, Ray. By the time you bring me a case, there are no loose ends. Your attention to detail has helped me maintain one of the best conviction rates in the state. But give me theory, if you must.”
Ray started, “We have the Holden murder, and then we have three other deaths. Arthur Bussey was killed in that boat fire, Roger Grimstock died when his car went out of control on Ely road, and Robert Arden died after his canoe capsized.”
“And you’re suggesting there’s some connection.”
“I think there could be a connection. I just don’t have much to prove it. The Holden shooting was done with so much finesse that it looked like it probably was a hired killing. The information I’ve gathered since suggests Holden had, for years, been involved in a number of questionable business dealings, and had quite a list of enemies. It’s within reason that someone wanted him dead.”
“But you don’t believe that, anymore.”
“Let’s say there’s another possibility.”
“So give me your theory.”
“Holden, Bussey, Grimstock, and Arden. Four deaths, four white males in their forties. Unusual coincidence or too unusual. It didn’t seem right; it was a statistical anomaly. The last three deaths appear to be accidents. More accurately, the last two. Bussey’s death was more in the ‘accident of nature’ or ‘act of God’ category. Grimstock’s death bothered me….”
“Wasn’t his blood alcohol above….”
“He was legally drunk, but it doesn’t sound like his blood alcohol was ever much below the limit.”
“So what bothers you?”
“He was on the wrong road. Even though he was completely drunk, he knew the way home. And, about the same time, a truck with a snowplow was borrowed from John Lapointe’s farm. The blade of the plow shows evidence that it was used to ram something with a fair amount of force.”
“And you can tie this snowplow to the Grimstock car. You’ve got matching paint or something?”
“No, I can’t. The one thing that might have provided evidence, a rear bumper of Grimstock’s car, is missing. And even if I had it, it probably wouldn’t tell us much.
“The Arden death also seems a bit fishy, no pun intended. Arden’s wife has told us that it was extremely unlikely for her husband to be out in a canoe, especially at that time of night.”
“This is all interesting Ray, but I don’t know where you’re going.”
“Well, what I have are the deaths of these four men. I also have some other bits of information that led me to suspect that there could be a connection. For example, they’re all about the same age, and they all summered here as teenagers. I also have information from Bussey’s former wife and Arden’s wife that the two men were friends. The two couples used to get together in the summers….”
“Recently?”
“No.”
“Anything more?” asked Tyrrell; his voiced showed impatience.
“I thought the connection, if there was one, had to go back to the time when these four were in high school or college. I went and visited Floyd Durfee. He was an under sheriff when Orville Hentzner was the sheriff. He remembered that Orville brought in four boys who had been accused of raping a local girl.”
“Were they prosecuted?”
“No, not as he remembers it, there were no charges. He thought Orville cut some deal with the parents. He also remembered that the girl’s father, after that time, went to the bank every day to get some drinking money.”