“You’d be doing me a favor, Lee. I bought the tickets because the Holland Theater Guild was selling them as a fund-raiser. I thought I’d go, but it’s the same night I agreed to work at the Kiwanis pancake supper.”
“You can trade shifts with some other Kiwanian, Rollie. I know those tickets weren’t cheap. You should use them yourself.”
He and I argued back and forth for a few minutes. No, Rollie couldn’t trade them back to the Holland Theater Guild; he was booked all five of the nights the show was going to play Grand Rapids. One night was city council, one was his Scout troop, one was the Kiwanis supper, the fourth was the Habitat for Humanity board meeting, and every Sunday afternoon he ran the bingo at a Dorinda senior citizen’s residence. He swore he couldn’t fail to appear for any of the activities.
We were still arguing when Joe came up. I explained what was going on.
Rollie smiled at Joe. “It ought to be a good show. And, honest, I can’t use the tickets.”
Joe offered to buy them, but Rollie again refused.
“You could scalp them,” Joe said.
“How? The best place for that would be outside the theater, and I can’t go that night.”
“Okay, Rollie. Let’s make a deal. We’ll take the tickets, and in May I’ll help you put your boat in the water.”
“Done!” Rollie turned to me. “See, Lee. It’s a winwin deal. You and Joe get the tickets, and I get professional help with my boat.”
Rollie did have two extravagances—a snazzy powerboat and European travel.
We were all happy. Rollie handed over the tickets, and we talked about what a great show
The Music Man
is and how Joe and I would have to eat lunch instead of dinner at the Kiwanis event—we assured Rollie that we didn’t want to miss those yummy pancakes.
Everything was absolutely rosy until Chuck O’Riley came by. He’d been talking to the city clerk, apparently checking out something about the council meeting, and he came bouncing down the center aisle, beaming.
“Hey!” he said. “I found out about that old sheriff you were looking for, Lee. The old codger may still be alive.”
Chapter 8
C
huck had blurted out the news of my search for information about the former sheriff at the top of his voice, right in the middle of the Warner Pier City Council chambers. All the city council members, the city clerk, the police chief, three retirees who had nothing to do but hang around City Hall—they’d all heard him. So had Joe, and I hadn’t told Joe I was trying to find out what had happened to Sheriff Carl Van Hoosier.
I could have strangled Chuck. Instead, I nearly strangled myself, choking on my own tongue. “Oh! Chuck! Oh! Goshdarn! I didn’t want you to go to a lot of trumpets over my idiotic curfew.”
Chuck blinked, looking amazed, and I quickly tried to repair the damage. “I mean, I didn’t want you to go to a lot of trouble over my idle curiosity!”
But before I could finish saying the last word, Chuck was talking again, still at the top of his voice. “I really feel stupid about this, Lee. Finding him was the easiest thing in the world. Why I didn’t think of it right away, I’ll never know.”
I was speechless by then, but Joe gave Chuck the cue he was angling for. “How did you find him, Chuck?”
“In the phone book! Can you believe it? Lee struggled through that microfilm for two hours, and she’d barely walked out when I thought of the phone book. And there he was, at Eighteen-hundred West Michigan Avenue, Dorinda. And that’s an address everybody knows!”
I didn’t know it, and my face must have shown my ignorance.
Chuck bounced with delight. “It’s the retirement center!” he said. “The old guy must be in the nursing home. Pleasant Creek Senior Apartments and Nursing Center!”
“Oh,” I said. “I know where that is, of course, on the west side of Dorinda. But I didn’t know the street address.”
Rollie entered the conversation at that point. “Are you talking about Carl Van Hoosier? The former sheriff?”
Chuck nodded, still grinning proudly.
“Carl is one of my regulars for bingo,” Rollie said. “He had a stroke a year ago. He has trouble walking, uses a wheelchair. But he handles three bingo cards pretty easily.”
Rollie turned to me then, and he asked the question I didn’t want to answer. “Why are you looking for him, Lee?”
I didn’t want to answer, but the whole situation was going to deteriorate even more if I didn’t. “Oh, I was just looking up maternal—I mean, material!—material on the mystery—I mean, history! I was getting material on the history of Warner County.”
“You didn’t mention that.” Chuck looked incredulous. As well he might, since I’d just created my interest in local history on the spot. “Are you doing a club program or something?”
A club program? He’d given me an out. I nearly snatched at the ready-made excuse, but I thought better of it. I was in enough trouble without lying any more.
“No, Chuck,” I said. “Actually, the item about Van Hoosier in your twenty-five years ago column simply made me curious. I wondered what kind of crime a Warner County sheriff would have to be accused of before he was forced to perspire. I mean, retire!”
Chuck looked disappointed, and Rollie gave a smile so happy his eyes all but disappeared. “Whatever Carl Van Hoosier did twenty-five years ago,” he said, “he’s just a harmless old coot now.”
Joe earned my undying gratitude by taking my arm and turning me toward the door. “How about a pizza?” he said. “I never got any dinner.”
“I grabbed a sandwich,” I said, “but I could probably manage a couple of slices of pizza.” We said good-bye to Rollie and Chuck, then walked out of the council chambers and down the stairs. We were both silent until we got in my van and I had started the motor.
“I assume you want to go to the Dock Street,” I said, naming Warner Pier’s pizza place.
“Sure,” Joe said. “And on the way you can tell me what you were really doing looking at microfilm about Sheriff Carl Van Hoosier.”
I sighed as I put the van in gear and pulled out from the curb. “I told Rollie the absolute truth,” I said. “I saw the item in the newspaper, and I got curious. You understand why I got curious, I’m sure, since you know what my mom said. So I went over to the
Gazette
to look up the original article. It didn’t tell me much, so I went to the library to look at more microfilm.”
“What did you find out?”
“Not a darn thing about Van Hoosier! The good ol’ boys of twenty-five years ago were just as adept at cover-ups as the good ol’ boys of today are. The commissioners must have had the goods on Van Hoosier, because he did resign, but nothing was made public.”
“Who was on the commission in those days?”
“I’d have to look at the few notes I made. I didn’t recognize any of the names.”
Joe was silent, apparently thinking, until I parked in front of the Dock Street Pizza Place, Warner Pier’s social center. As soon as I turned off the motor, he turned to me. “Listen, Lee,” he said, “if you really want to know what the in-crowd thought about Van Hoosier, you need to talk to one of the good ol’ boys from twenty-five years ago.”
“I can see that, Joe. But are any of them still alive?”
“Sure. I can think of one right now.”
“Who?”
“Mac McKay. He was county attorney for years. You remember, I did an internship with him.” Joe opened his door and swung his feet out. “We’re still friends. In fact, I should have taken you over to meet him before this. I’ll give him a call.”
That remark called for action, and I took it. I grabbed a fistful of the sleeve of Joe’s down jacket and pulled him toward me. “Just come back in this van and close that door,” I said.
He obeyed, looking slightly puzzled. “Just what did I say?”
“Exactly the right thing, you big lunk.” I planted my best kiss on him, right on the mouth.
About three minutes later, Joe spoke. “Maybe I don’t need a pizza, after all.”
I sat back. “Oh, yes, you do. I want you in top form, at full strength. You can’t do your best work on an empty stomach.”
“Are you going to tell me what inspired this desire for my ‘best work’ right at this moment?”
“Because you reminded me of one of the reasons I love you. You’re just as nosy as I am! You want to know why my mom ran away from Warner Pier, too.”
Joe laughed. “You can’t blame me for wanting to know if the runaway-bride gene is implanted in your DNA.”
“It’s not. You’re not getting rid of me, no matter what. But we can plan the rest of the night later. Right now let’s go in and order a pizza, and I’ll tell you what I found out at the library.”
“I thought you didn’t find out anything.”
“I didn’t find out anything about Sheriff Van Hoosier. I found out a few other things.”
Twenty minutes later we were eating a pepperoni pizza with mushrooms and drinking Labatt Blue. Luckily, the Dock Street Pizza Place is quiet, at least in the winter, and I’d been able to talk without yelling as I told Joe the scraps of information I’d found out, including the names of the bearers at Bill Dykstra’s funeral. He’d agreed that we had several new leads for information.
“I’m uneasy about approaching Rollie,” I said. “I just don’t know him that well.”
“I can talk to Rollie,” Joe said. “And I’ll call Mac McKay. Mac’s been around Warner County forever. Knows where all the bodies are buried.”
“McKay?” I thought a minute. “He’s not related to the McKay clan over here, is he?”
“Maybe a second or third cousin. I think that the rich McKay family did come from Warner County originally. Seems as if that cottage they have is on the family’s original farm. Mac would be a poor relation. He’s just a small-town attorney who’s got no more ambition than I have. Does it matter?”
“Probably not. Some of the McKays buy chocolate from us.”
Joe went on. “If we go over to Dorinda to see Mac, we can stop at the nursing home and take a look at Carl Van Hoosier.”
“But, Joe . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t really want to talk to Van Hoosier. What could I ask him? ‘Did you run my mother out of town?’ That sounds pretty silly.”
“We could ask him if he remembers the Dykstra suicide.”
“I guess so.” I wasn’t convinced. “I guess it won’t hurt to stop at the nursing home. Inez Deacon has an apartment there, and I haven’t been over in ages. And I’ll call Jason first thing tomorrow—or as soon as he’s likely to be up—and ask him how he happened to know Bill Dykstra.”
We had divided the jobs. I was to talk to Jason. Joe was to talk to Rollie and set up an appointment with Mac McKay. On our way back from Dorinda, we’d stop at the nursing home. It was all arranged before we went back to Joe’s apartment and resumed the scene that had begun in the van.
But the plan got all “back-ass-wards,” as my dad would say.
First, when I called Jason’s home around ten a.m. the next day, I got the answering machine. When I called his restaurant, I got a waiter who told me Jason was in Chicago buying equipment and wouldn’t be back until the next day.
And Joe didn’t have a lot more luck than I did. Rollie didn’t answer his phone. Mac McKay said he was glad to hear from Joe, but he had Rotary Club at noon, followed by the library board.
“So he invited us over for dinner,” Joe said. “His house at five o’clock. If we leave about three, we should have time to stop at the retirement center, see Inez for a while, and peek in at Carl Van Hoosier.”
“But we won’t have talked to Mac yet.”
Joe and I discussed whether or not it was important for us to quiz Mac McKay about Van Hoosier before we tackled the former sheriff.
“Listen,” I said finally. “It may be that Carl Van Hoosier isn’t fit to be interviewed. But if I get over toward Dorinda, I need to stop and see Inez, whether I talk to anybody else at Pleasant Creek or not.”
We left it at that. Aunt Nettie made up a gift box of Inez’s favorite chocolates, Dutch caramel bonbons (“creamy European-style caramel in a dark chocolate shell”) and maple cream truffles (“a milk chocolate truffle flavored with sweet maple”). Joe came by at three o’clock, and we headed out on the two-lane blacktop road that connects Warner Pier to the east side of Warner County.
It was a beautiful, crisp day—cold, but sunny. The roads were clear, if you don’t count that slushy mess along the edges, and Joe and I were in high spirits. I think we both felt that we were doing something a bit naughty; we were sticking our noses into a situation that wasn’t really any of our business.
Pleasant Creek Senior Apartments is in a redbrick building with white Georgian pillars. Residents furnish their own apartments—most of them one-room, with an entrance through a hall that has a galley kitchen on one side and the bathroom door on the other. Meals are served in a central dining room, and there are lots of activities—exercise classes, trips, and movies every evening. Inez Deacon seemed to be contented, and I figured that if the notoriously independent Inez could make a home there, the place must be genuinely nice.
Inez Deacon had taught at a Holland high school until her retirement more than twenty years earlier. She’d lived a block or so down Lake Shore Drive from Aunt Nettie for twenty-five or more years. She loved the lake, and every day she’d walk up and down the beach, picking up trash as she checked out the birds, the wind direction, the height of the waves, the rounded stones along the edge of the water. But Inez had had her first heart problems more than fifteen years earlier, and now her “bum pump,” as she always called it, had caught up with her. She was having heart failure. She was growing weaker all the time, and she’d decided it was best to move to a spot where she could get assistance readily.
But her personality was as lively as ever. She was sitting beside her window when Joe and I knocked at the open door of her apartment, then walked through the narrow hallway. She turned to look at us with her finger to her lips. “Shh! There’s a robin outside here. Tiptoe over and don’t make any sudden moves.”