It didn’t occur to me that I hadn’t had anything to eat since eleven that morning until about eleven that night. I had expected the BCA to be all over me by then, only no one came to the door, no one bothered to check on me, no one asked if I was hungry.
Just think, my inner voice said, instead of languishing in a holding cell, you could be at Nina’s jazz joint, sitting at a table in the big room, drinking free liquor, and listening to Sophia Shorai singing the blues.
“Don’t remind me,” I said aloud.
Funny, though, how things turned out.
Yeah, I told myself. If Louise was correct about the last time she had seen the paintings, Montgomery could have and probably would have unloaded the merchandise he’d stolen anytime during the past week, only he hadn’t. Instead, he waited until this morning, one day after I had complained to Perrin Stewart that I didn’t have a clue to go by.
Still, I didn’t mention my confusion to the BCA when its agents dragged me out of the holding cell bright and early the next morning. Possibly it had something to do with the way the agent woke me from a fitful sleep by shouting, “Hey, you,” and half dragged, half pulled me to a conference room.
I was seated at one end of a long table. There was an audio-recording device with a microphone set up in front of me and a video camera set on a tripod pointed at my face. One of the agents started both the recorder and camera before joining his partner and Sheriff Bowland at the other end of the table. The BCA agents looked as if they had pulled an all-nighter. The sheriff, on the other hand, looked refreshed, if not invigorated. The creases on his trousers and shirt were sharp enough to cut butter.
“State your name and address,” an agent said.
I remained silent. That seemed to confuse him.
“I said…”
“Good manners is how we show respect for one another,” I said.
“Are you trying to be funny?”
Apparently, Bowland thought so because he chuckled.
“McKenzie,” he said. “This is Agent Larry Plakcy and Agent Patrick Krause from the Duluth field office of the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
“Which is which?”
“I’m Plakcy,” an agent said.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I don’t suppose any of you know where a guy can get a cup of coffee. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink in almost twenty hours.”
“I apologize for that,” Bowland said. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black.”
The sheriff left the conference room. I stared at the BCA agents.
“So, guys,” I said. “Have you been to Grand Marais before?”
Neither of them responded.
“Beautiful this time of year, don’t you think?”
They had no answer for that, either.
“Everyone says you should try the Angry Trout if you’re hungry for fish but I recommend Dockside Fish Market right next door. Best fish and chips I’ve ever had outside of England. And Boston. And Clearwater Beach in Florida. It’s really good.”
Silence.
Sheriff Bowland returned to the room followed by Eileen, still wearing her khakis and black fleece jacket. Her clear eyes, coiffed hair, and ready smile suggested that, unlike me, she had slept in her own bed. She set a white mug in front of me.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?”
A couple thoughts sprang to mind, but I said, “No, thank you,” just the same.
“Eileen,” the sheriff said.
Eileen smiled at me and turned to leave. I took a sip of the coffee. I was surprised how good it tasted and said so as she headed for the door. Eileen stopped.
“I’m glad you like it,” Eileen said. “What I do—”
“Eileen,” Bowland repeated.
Eileen shrugged and left the room, carefully closing the door behind her.
“Are we ready now?” Plakcy asked. “State your name and—”
“Am I under arrest?” I asked.
“What? No.”
“It feels like I’m under arrest. If I am, you should read me my rights.”
Krause turned to look at the sheriff. Bowland spread his hands wide and said, “I told you.”
“No, Mr. McKenzie, you are not under arrest,” Plakcy said.
“So, I’m not legally obligated to answer your questions. I am in fact free to go if I wish.”
“Theoretically,” Krause said. His voice was low and menacing, the team’s bad cop.
“Then say please.”
Krause gave me one of those smiles that were meant to scare the bejesus out of a guy.
“McKenzie, you know how it works,” he said. “Quit fucking around.”
Sound advice, my inner voice said. All things considered …
I took another sip of coffee before speaking. “What do you want to know?”
“Start with your movements yesterday.”
“I left Minneapolis at about eight thirty A.M. I arrived in Duluth at approximately ten thirty where I gassed up my car and had a Yukon Scramble at the Amazing Grace Bakery and Café—do you know it?”
“I know it,” Plakcy said.
“I didn’t keep my receipts but I paid with a credit card and you have my permission to check my account. I left at about eleven and drove straight to Grand Marais, without stopping, arriving at around one P.M.”
I explained about encountering Jennica Mehren and the documentary film crew, meeting Peg Younghans at approximately one thirty, and chatting with Louise Wykoff before leaving on my journey along the North Shore at just before two, arriving at Second Hand Treasures in Two Harbors at five thirty and leaving there at six.
I explained what I had been doing for Louise and why in detail—never lie to the authorities my lawyer keeps telling me. ’Course, I neglected to mention that the paintings I was looking for were actually painted by Randolph McInnis and not That Wykoff Woman. Why complicate matters needlessly?
“I have the photographs Ms. Wykoff gave me in my jacket pocket and the tea set and candlesticks behind the front seat of my car.”
“We’ll want both,” Krause said.
“Did you contact Ms. Wykoff and tell her what you had learned?” Plakcy asked.
“I haven’t had the opportunity.”
“She has no idea that it was Montgomery who burgled her residence, then?”
“As far as I know.”
“When did you arrive at Montgomery’s home?”
“It was about seven thirty, seven forty-five.”
“Did you touch anything?” Krause asked.
“Front doorknob going in and out. Nothing else.”
“We’ll want to take your fingerprints anyway.”
“They’re already on file.”
“That’s right.” Plakcy glanced at Sheriff Bowland when he added, “You were with the St. Paul Police Department.”
I was glad the sheriff had told him so I didn’t have to.
“I have a question,” I said.
“What?”
“Did the county coroner rule that Montgomery’s death was a homicide?”
“She has yet to make an official determination.”
“What’s keeping her?”
“The BCA does not rush to judgment. An exacting postmortem examination will be conducted, under our supervision mind you.”
I bet the coroner will love that, my inner voice said.
“As well as a thorough review of the crime scene before we make an announcement.”
“Do you at least have a time of death?”
The two agents glanced at each other before Krause answered “We’ve been informed that the coroner had established a preliminary postmortem interval of between ten A.M. and two P.M., although that has yet to be confirmed officially.”
“So, that pretty much lets me off the hook, doesn’t it?”
“Theoretically.” Apparently, Krause liked saying that word.
“Montgomery was in Two Harbors selling his swag at ten A.M.,” I said. “That took a half hour. It’s a ninety-minute drive from there to Grand Marais at the posted speed limits. Add a few more minutes to his house. What are we talking about? Noon plus ten? That should narrow the window somewhat.”
“Are you telling us how to do our jobs?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I took a big sip of coffee, rested my elbow on the table, and propped my chin in my hand before sighing, “Hmm.”
“What does ‘hmm’ mean?”
“Yes, McKenzie,” Plakcy said. “Do you have something more to say or are you just making noise?”
“I was wondering—why were all of Montgomery’s lights on?”
The agents gave it a few beats before they announced, “We will, of course, investigate your movements to make sure you’re telling us the truth. In the meantime, McKenzie, you’re free to go.”
“I suppose you’re going to run to see Ms. Wykoff now,” Krause said.
“I think she’d like to know what’s going on.”
“Fine, you do that—after we talk to her.”
“Should we make a race of it, see who gets there first?”
“Should we lock you in the holding cell for another twenty-four hours?” Plakcy asked.
“Or we could arrest you for obstruction of an ongoing criminal investigation,” Krause said.
“That would never hold up,” I said.
“I don’t care.” Krause turned toward Plakcy. “Do you care?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“What’s it going to be, McKenzie?” Krause asked.
“Say please.”
I traded Louise’s stolen property and her photographs for my belongings and a receipt from Eileen. Her cheerful “Have a pleasant morning, Mr. McKenzie” was a nice bonus. It occurred to me as I headed for the door that she smiled more than anyone I had ever seen who worked inside a police department.
Don’t ever change, Eileen, my inner voice said.
Sheriff Bowland decided to walk me to my car. As we were leaving, we bumped into Deputy Wurzer.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked. “You’re not letting him go?”
“No reason to hold him,” Bowland said.
“I don’t believe this. Give me twenty minutes alone with the sonuvabitch, Sheriff. I’ll give you plenty of reason.”
Bowland stared at the man for a few beats, not out of anger but surprise, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“I don’t much like that kind of talk, Peter,” he said.
“This asshole probably zeroed Montgomery.”
“There’s no evidence to support that allegation.”
The deputy shook his head like a poor teacher who was unable to get through to a dull child, although in this case the student—it was difficult to determine the sheriff’s exact age. Studying his face in the bright morning sun made me wonder if Cook County had a mandatory retirement age.
“We did things differently where I came from,” the deputy said before throwing up his hands in disgust and walking into the Law Enforcement Center.
“Where did he come from?” I asked.
“Minneapolis.”
“That hellhole?”
“It’s a long story.
“I bet.”
“The BCA and Wurzer—my advice, McKenzie, is to stay away from them both. Stay away from Ms. Wykoff, too, at least until the BCA and I have a chance to interview her.”
“Why? Do you think the boys would make good on their threat?”
“Of course they would.”
“What about you?”
“Despite what they say in the movies and on TV, a sheriff doesn’t have the legal authority to tell someone not to leave town, but McKenzie—don’t leave town. Not just yet, anyway.”
“I don’t know, Sheriff. I think I’ve already outstayed my welcome.”
“I’m relying heavily on the BCA, but it’s still my investigation. I’ll be asking a lot of questions on my own, including a few more of you.”
“Such as?”
“Why were Montgomery’s lights on?”
“Grand Marais is crawling with tourists. I doubt I can find a room.”
“There’s a motel out on the highway called the Frontier. I’ll give them a call. They should be able to help you out.”
“The BCA won’t like it, me hanging around.”
“Do you care?”
“Not particularly. You should know, though, if I stay, I’m likely to make a nuisance of myself. It’s in my nature.”
“I’m kinda counting on it.”
The owners of the Frontier Motel across the highway from Lake Superior were waiting for me when I arrived. They said they were happy to help a friend of the sheriff. It made me wonder what rowdiness had occurred in their place that Bowland had helped them with.
The motel was shaped like a horseshoe with all of the rooms facing the great lake. Mine was right of center and small, with hardwood floors, walls, and ceiling. I tossed my bag on top of a queen-size bed that took up more than half the space. The remainder was occupied by a small table with two chairs in front of the lone window and an even smaller bureau with a sixteen-inch flat-screen analog TV that picked up five channels. The room was clearly designed for hunters, cross-country skiers, and hikers, people who had no intention of spending a lot of time inside.
There was a two-cup coffeemaker on a small shelf built into the corner. I set it to brew before using the tiny bathroom to shave and shower. I poured one of the cups and drank it while I dressed. The second cup I took with me to the resort chairs arranged in a semicircle in the center of the horseshoe. I sat there and gazed out at the lake.
I decided I liked the bare-bones charm of the motel very much. ’Course, before I met Nina I ate most of my meals off paper plates. I checked my cell phone and was astonished to find that I had bars—Good for the Frontier, my inner voice said. I called Nina hoping to catch her at home before she went to Rickie’s.
“Hey, you,” she said. “I was starting to worry. I thought I’d hear from you last night.”
“Things got a little complicated. I’d explain, but you know how much I hate to bore you.”
“In other words something nefarious is going on and you don’t want to worry me.”
“There’s nothing to worry about, seriously. I just hate to start telling a story without knowing how it ends. Maybe by tonight I’ll have it figured out. How was Sophia Shorai?”
“She was very, very good. She did a cover of ‘One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)’, but she didn’t sing it the way everyone else does, making it a requiem to lost love. She wasn’t sad that she lost the boy, she was angry.”
“I’m sorry I missed it.”
“I’m going to bring her back the first chance I get. Which raises the question—when are you coming back?”
“I don’t know. The sheriff told me not to leave town.”
“Can he do that?”
“Technically no, but he was so nice about it. Listen, I’ve been living on coffee for the past twenty-four hours, so…”
“Call me tonight?”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
Twenty minutes later I was ordering fresh herring, hash browns, eggs, and toast at the South of the Border Cafe. Twenty minutes after that I drove to Louise Wykoff’s art academy. If that wasn’t enough of a head start for the BCA then too damn bad. Once again I had to park up the street because the academy was surrounded by vehicles including the documentary company’s white van.
Before I got halfway to the church, Peg Younghans rushed out of her own house as if she had been waiting for me. She crossed the street and intercepted me on the sidewalk. This time she was wearing a dress, sweater, and heels that made her appear very proper indeed.
“Going to church?” I asked.
“To work in a few minutes. Must look nice for the tourists. McKenzie, did you hear what happened?”
“No, what happened?”
“David Montgomery was killed last night.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
You are the best liar, my inner voice said.
“The sheriff was here this morning,” Peg said. “Agents from the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, too. They think Louise killed him.”
“How do you know all this?”
“They have to eat, don’t they? At the Blue Water Cafe. They were overheard talking while eating breakfast.”
“Who heard them?”
“You don’t think I have friends? You don’t think they talk to me?”
“What did they say?”
“My friends?”
“The BCA.”
“Someone found David’s body in his house last night. It looked like he committed suicide, but the agents don’t think so. They think he was murdered and the killer tried to make it look like he committed suicide.”
“What does that have to do with Louise?”
“I don’t know, but they were over here talking to her bright and early, so—something.”
She doesn’t know that you’re involved and she has no pertinent details. Good.
“Just because they spoke to her, that doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “This guy…”
“Dave Montgomery.”
“Were he and Louise friends?”
“I don’t know if ‘friends’ is the right word.”
“What is the right word?”
“Actually, ‘friends’ might be the right word after all, friends with benefits.”
“You told me yesterday that Louise didn’t have any male visitors.”
“I said she didn’t have many male visitors. She’s not a cloistered nun, for God’s sake.”
“How often did you see him here?”
“I couldn’t say. Once, twice a month.”
“Could he have been one of Louise’s art students?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Still, you don’t know for a fact that he and Louise were intimate.”
“He was a good-looking boy and divorced in a place where there aren’t many good-looking girls who are equally unencumbered. Besides, sometimes I’d get up early in the morning and his car would still be parked in front of her place.”
I remembered the description of Montgomery that the owner of Second Hand Treasures had given me.
“Wasn’t he about thirty years younger than Louise?”
Peg shook her head like I had insulted her. She set her hand on my wrist.
“McKenzie,” she said. “Please.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Not very. Just enough to nod and say hello to. I have the same relationship with just about everyone else in town. At least those that stay here year-round.”
“Do you know who his friends were?”
“No.” Peg had kept her hand on my wrist, but now she moved it to my hand. “You’re not wearing a wedding ring.”
“I’m not married.”
“Interesting.”
I came thisclose to telling her about Nina. I didn’t because I decided Peg might be more talkative if she thought I was available.
“I notice that you’re not wearing a wedding ring, either,” I said.
“I found it cumbersome, even when I was married. You’re what? Forty-five?”
“Somewhere in there. You?”
“Old enough to know better, young enough not to care.”
“A good age to be.”
She let her fingers dance across mine.
Careful, my inner voice said.
“When did the documentary crew get here?” I asked.
“Same time as yesterday.”
“Were they loud?”
“Very. I thought they had finished last night, but—you were right about that walking and talking thing. What they did, the director pretended to surprise Louise at her front door and then they walked down the street toward the lake. They did this a half-dozen times before they called it a day and packed up. That was right before sundown. I thought documentaries were supposed to be like TV news. Spontaneous. Or at least unrehearsed.”
“What happened then?”
“What do you mean?”
“With Louise.”
“I don’t know. Went back into the church, I guess. It’s not like I spy on her, watch her every movement.”
“I need to talk to Louise,” I said.
“Right this minute?”
“Before I forget why I came.”
“Can’t have that.”
I gave her my best I’ll-see-you-soon smile and moved toward the converted church.
“You remember where I live, right?” Peg said.
I spun toward her as I continued to walk away, smiled, and spun back.
You are such a slut, my inner voice said.
Yes, it was me I was talking to.
I slid inside the doorway without knocking and bumped into Jennica Mehren. She turned and glared at me with such fury that I nearly gasped. She quickly pressed her index finger against her lips, the universal signal for “shut the hell up,” and gestured at the interior of the church. There were a half-dozen people inside including her old man, as silent and unmoving as stone even as they directed their cameras, lights, and microphones. Louise Wykoff was sitting on her stool, leaning forward, and gripping the seat with both hands to keep from sliding off. She was wearing a thin black lace dress, bare legs, and no shoes and looked as lovely as she did in one of Randolph McInnis’s paintings of her. She was weeping as she choked out the words.
“He was everything to me,” Louise said. “Every day that he was gone was empty. I would pray, ‘Come back. Please, please come back to me.’ And then he would for a few days, or a week or longer, and I’d be so happy that my heart felt like it would burst until he left again. I knew it wouldn’t last, couldn’t possibly last, yet it did for five wonderful years. Then the accident—a stupid, silly way for a great man to die. I’ve had good days and bad, thirty-five years of them, but I don’t think I’ve ever been truly happy since before that day.
“Now this. The last thing I had of him taken from me. Stolen. I don’t think I’ve gone more than a few weeks at a time without looking at those paintings and remembering. The hole in my heart now is so great it would have been more merciful if the thieves had killed me. No, no, that’s not true. If I was gone, there would be no one left to tell his story, no one who actually knew his story instead of the myth that grew up around Scenes from an Inland Sea. The myth that Mary Ann helped create.”
His voice had such a low sonorous quality that at first I couldn’t tell where it came from. I saw him, finally, standing between two cameras.
“Are you ready to tell the story at last?” Jeffery Mehren asked.
The way I had glanced about must have caught Louise’s attention because she was now staring directly at me when she spoke.
“Yes, at last.”
She slipped off her stool and started toward me.
“Cut,” Mehren said. “Louise, please.”
“I must speak to this man. I must find out about my paintings.”
The entire company turned to look at me, including Jennica. I nearly gasped again.
The BCA isn’t going to like this at all, my inner voice said.