Most people know Grand Marais as a tourist town with a sheltered harbor guarded by a small lighthouse and iconic bars and restaurants with names like the Angry Trout, Crooked Spoon Café, and Sven and Ole’s Pizza. It also hosts a vibrant and renowned art colony that attracts visitors from around the US and Canada. Yet it has a residential and community life as well. There are grocery stores, pharmacies, hospital and clinics, several churches, a high school with the nickname Vikings, a weekly newspaper, a public library, a bookstore, a playhouse, a historical society, a county courthouse, a sheriff’s department with a dozen active deputies, volunteer firefighters and first responders, a dog pound, a nine-hole golf course, and a municipal liquor store.
The traffic was heavy driving Highway 61 into town at 1:00 P.M., which didn’t surprise me a bit. In autumn, tourists mob the North Shore of Lake Superior in search of spectacular colors. Yet I was surprised when I couldn’t find an empty parking space in front of the Wykoff Art Academy. Instead, the spots were filled with various vehicles including a white van that was not the same as the white van I had seen the day before. Its doors were open and after I parked down the street and walked back I could see lights, grip stands, small sandbags to keep the stands from falling over, tripods, rags and frames, reflectors, generators, electric cords, microphones, and a lot of other equipment I couldn’t identify both inside the van and lining the boulevard between the street and the sidewalk. My first thought, TV news. Only there were no garish call letters painted on the van’s sides.
People carried equipment in and out of the converted church. I dodged a couple of them until I reached the entrance. I peeked inside. Louise Wykoff was dressed in a long dark blue skirt and light blue sweater. She was sitting on the same stool as the day before, directly across from a man who sat in a canvas chair. Lights and a handful of cameras were pointed at Louise from a variety of angles, yet none were filming him. Another man, about twenty-five and in good shape, held a boom mic above Louise’s head.
She said, “Often he would have me paint the same scene as he was painting and critique it. I thought I understood composition, perspective, how to lead the viewer’s eye, color, the value of light and dark. I knew nothing. I didn’t even know how to hold a brush properly until he taught me. Four years I studied art at UMD. Randolph taught me twice as much in four months. He paid me while he did it, too. I almost felt guilty taking the money. Only then he would have one of his tantrums and I’d think I’m not getting enough for this.”
“These tantrums,” the man said. “Were they about his work?”
“Almost never. At least not about the Scenes. Instead, they were nearly always about the life he was living outside of Duluth, about the images the public, the critics, and his wife expected him to churn out on a regular basis.”
Someone pulled my arm, a young woman. If she had told me she was selling Girl Scout cookies I might have believed her except for the tattoo of flower petals that seemed to reach out from beneath the collar of her shirt and grasp her throat.
“Mister, you can’t be here,” she said.
“Why not?”
I let her take my arm and lead me down the steps away from the church entrance to the sidewalk.
“Why not?” I repeated.
“We’re filming.”
“Filming what?”
“A documentary.”
“On Louise?”
“On the Scenes from an Inland Sea. Do you know what that is?”
“I’m familiar.”
“It’s the thirty-fifth anniversary.”
“Of the paintings or Randolph McInnis’s death?”
She didn’t answer.
I offered my hand.
“My name is McKenzie. I’m an acquaintance of Louise. In fact, I have an appointment to see her.”
“I’m Jennica. I’m an assistant to Mr. Mehren.”
“Jennica?”
“My parents couldn’t decide between Jennifer and Jessica, so they compromised. Someone told me once that it was a real name, that it meant ‘white wave,” but I didn’t believe him. I’m sorry about your appointment. Ms. Wykoff knew we would be filming most of the day. I don’t know why she didn’t tell you.”
“Artists, am I right?”
“Huh? Yeah, artists.”
“Mind if I hang around? I promise I won’t get in your way, I won’t make a sound.”
“I guess it’ll be okay. Just don’t let Dad see you.”
“Dad?”
“Mr. Mehren.”
“I’ll keep out of his line of sight.”
“He won an Oscar, you know. For We Gotta Get Out of This Place about the Vietnam War.”
“I seem to remember that. When was it? Ten years ago?”
“Nearly twenty. I was an infant at the time. I didn’t even know about it until years later so I’m never surprised when other people don’t know about it. My mom said the awards ceremony was very la-di-da. She met Clint Eastwood and Steven Spielberg.”
“Cool.”
“So, just—okay … If I get a chance I’ll tell Ms. Wykoff that you’re here. McKenzie, right?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Jennica scrambled up the steps to the church and cautiously peered inside before entering. I moved to a tree on the boulevard and leaned against it while I accessed my smartphone. Coverage in Cook County was iffy at best. Stay within Grand Marais and you were fine. Drive five minutes in any direction and suddenly you were cut off from the rest of the world. There was a time when that wouldn’t have bothered me. Like most people I would have preferred it. Now we’re so thoroughly connected that when we lose connection even temporarily we feel anxious. Go figure.
I Googled Mehren. There were a couple hundred thousand results including a Wikipedia page:
Jeffery James Mehren is an American director, producer, screenwriter, and editor. He is best known for directing documentary films. He received an Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature for directing We Gotta Get Out of This Place (If It’s the Last Thing We Ever Do) (1999). He has also received numerous awards from film festivals, including the Sundance Film Festival and Los Angeles Film Festival.
It turned out Mehren had shot a couple of dozen documentaries since We Gotta Get Out of This Place, named for the 1965 song by the Animals that was featured throughout. Yet none of them had achieved the status of his award-winner, although the films he made immediately afterward were well received. Much of his later work was poorly reviewed, however, with at least one critic lambasting him for his self-indulgence while another lamented that he had squandered his gifts as a filmmaker. His most recent documentary was called The Poison in Our Water and dealt with the poisoning of groundwater due to fracking. Someone had written that “Mehren’s tedious pacing made the audience yearn to drink the water.”
“I need this,” I said aloud. “I really do.”
At the same time my inner voice asked, Why didn’t Louise tell you that a documentary filmmaker was lurking about? What’s next? Reporters from The Washington Post?
I had been hanging around for nearly a half hour when another white van approached, moving slowly. A garage door opened across the street from where I was standing. The van slid inside the garage and the door closed behind it. Less than five minutes later, a woman left the house. She moved easily as she walked toward me like someone who got plenty of exercise. She wore tight shorts and a tight T-shirt and I thought it was a pretty skimpy outfit given the temperature.
On the other hand, my inner voice said. If you lived in a place that averaged 39.8 degrees Fahrenheit, 64 might feel downright balmy.
“I take it you’re not with the film crew,” she said.
“Just a curious onlooker. How ’bout yourself?”
“I live over there.” She pointed at her house. “I saw you here yesterday.”
“You did?”
“It’s a small town. You tend to notice strangers.”
“Grand Marais is a tourist town. It’s loaded with strangers.”
“Very few of them wander away from the lake and almost none this deep into the residential areas.”
“Okay.”
“I know what you’re thinking. I’m either a conscientious community watcher or a notorious busybody. You can take your pick.”
“Since I’m not from around here, I’ll let you decide.”
“I’m Peg Younghans.”
“McKenzie.”
I shook her hand. Her grip was firm. I guessed she was fifteen years older than me which made her about sixty, Louise Wykoff’s age.
“Younghans,” I said. “There’s a St. Paul boy named Tom Younghans who played pro hockey for the Minnesota North Stars back in the day.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Okay.” I gestured at the church. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“These people?” She made it sound as if they were rowdy fans of a visiting sports franchise. “They rolled in at about seven o’clock this morning. Loudly. I don’t know what you’re used to but seven o’clock in Grand Marais is supposed to be quiet. The little girl you were talking to before, when I came out to complain she told me they were filming a documentary about the paintings that guy did of Louise years ago. Other than that…”
“I take it Louise didn’t tell you they were coming, either.”
“She’s very secretive that one. I don’t blame her. Back when the paintings were done the media hounded her relentlessly. It was one of the reasons she escaped to Grand Marais, I guess. Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is. Nude paintings. I have some nude photographs I could show you that are a lot more enticing.”
I couldn’t tell you why I thought that was funny, yet I laughed anyway.
“Maybe later,” I said. “Tell me—have you seen any other strangers lurking about besides me?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“Someone broke into the art academy and stole a few things.”
“When?”
“Louise isn’t sure.”
Peg stared at me for a few beats.
“Kids,” she said.
“What makes you say that?”
“If you were a teenager growing up in Grand Marais wouldn’t you want something that belonged to That Wykoff Woman? Her panties, maybe.”
Oh my God.
“They stole a couple of her paintings,” I said aloud.
“Oh. Never mind, then.”
Geez, lady, my inner voice added. Get out much?
“Why would someone steal her paintings?” Peg asked. “What could they be worth?”
“Depends on who you talk to. Louise thinks they’re worth a lot.”
“She would, wouldn’t she?”
“Don’t you work for an art gallery that sells her paintings?”
“You’d be amazed what tourists buy while on vacation that they would never buy when they’re at home. Are you a policeman?”
“I used to be back when I was young and impressionable.”
“What are you now?”
“A friend of a friend.”
“Are you trying to get them back, the paintings? Is that why you’re hanging around?”
“Something like that.”
“Makes sense then, you being here. I was wondering before. Louise doesn’t get many visitors, you see, at least not male visitors. For a while I thought she might be gay only she doesn’t have many female visitors, either.”
“Who does visit her?”
“Wannabe painters I guess.”
“Is she a good teacher?”
“I’ve never taken a class so I couldn’t say. The courses she teaches—she conducts daylong, weekend-long, and even full weeklong seminars and they always seem to fill up. She gets students from all over, too. Even Duluth and Thunder Bay up in Canada. If someone broke into Louise’s place, why didn’t she call the sheriff’s department?”
“My understanding is that she’s afraid of bad publicity. ’Course, now that you know…”
“I’m not a gossip, McKenzie. I can keep a secret.”
I bet.
“Does Louise have any enemies?” I asked aloud.
“None that I’m aware of.”
“Anyone who might be jealous of her celebrity?”
“McKenzie, in a small town like this, you’re a celebrity for about a month. After that you’re just a woman who teaches art classes in an old church.”
A flurry of activity near the entrance of the church attracted our attention. Jeffery Mehren had emerged along with Jennica and a couple other minions. Words were spoken, gestures were made, and the minions disappeared back into the church while Mehren moved to a parked SUV, climbed inside, and did nothing that I could see. A few moments later, the minions started carrying equipment out of the church. Most of it was returned to the van while the rest was moved to the intersection in front of the SUV. Jennica supervised set up while Mehren watched.
“I wonder what they’re doing,” Peg said.
“Getting ready to film a walk and talk, I’m guessing.”
“Walk and talk?”
“You know, where characters in a movie or TV show have a conversation while walking somewhere.”
“There’s a name for that?”
A moment later, Louise appeared. She had changed her clothes, exchanging her skirt and sweater for jeans and a button-down shirt designed to accentuate her breasts.
“McKenzie,” she said. “They told me you were here. Margaret.”
“Hello, Louise,” Peg said.
Louise handed me a white number ten envelope.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“Yes, we do.”
“I don’t have much time. They’ll want to start filming soon. Excuse us, Margaret.”
Peg didn’t budge, so Louise took my arm and led me away from her and the camera crew. Peg called to me.
“Don’t forget those photographs,” she said. “I’d be happy to arrange a private showing.”
“I’ll consider it,” I said, but I didn’t mean it.
When we were well out of earshot, Louise said, “What were you talking to Margaret about?”
“She told me her name was Peg.”
“That’s what her friends call her, I suppose.”
Okay, not a friend, my inner voice said.
“I think your neighbor is a pervert,” I said aloud.
“Well, the winters are pretty long up here. The envelope, McKenzie, it contains the list of students and other people who have been in my house that you asked for. It also—McKenzie, I started thinking after you left. I never actually looked to see if anything else was taken once I realized that the paintings were missing, that was so traumatizing to me. Besides, my computer, my TV, the little jewelry I have, the obvious stuff was still there. After you left, though, I searched more carefully and I discovered that the silver tea set my mother left me was also gone and so were two antique brass candlesticks that my family had brought over from the Netherlands in the 1880s. I have no idea what they’re worth. I kept them in a drawer so I didn’t realize that they were missing until I actually looked.”
“Do you have photographs of them?”
“No, but I have photographs of paintings of them. In the envelope.”
I looked.
“I use them sometimes in a class I teach about still life techniques,” Louise said.
I studied the photos and announced “Good enough.”
“This is great news, isn’t it?”
“It gives us something to work with that we didn’t have yesterday.”
“No, what I mean—doesn’t this confirm that the thief might not have known the paintings were there? That he just came into my house to steal whatever?”
“Possibly. We’ll see.”
Louise glanced over my shoulder. I followed her eyes. Jennica was waving at her. Apparently, they were ready to resume filming.
“You’ve kept such a low profile about your involvement in the Scenes from an Inland Sea, why agree to do this now?” I asked.
“Mary Ann McInnis asked me to. She and a man named Bruce Flonta had agreed to do the documentary, they might even be financing it, I don’t know. They both called and asked me to participate. I told them that if I did I would tell the truth. Mary Ann told me to say whatever I wanted. ‘The truth can’t hurt me any more than it already has,’ she said. McKenzie, these people can’t know about the paintings.”
“They won’t hear about them from me. Louise, I wish you would have said something.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t have agreed to help me if I had.”
“Okay.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
“Probably not.”
“Perrin Stewart was right. You are a knight in shining armor.”
“Stop it. You’re embarrassing me.”
Still, I was smiling when I said it, so …