EIGHT

I found Jennica resting against the Mustang. She glanced at her watch as I approached like she was annoyed that I had kept her waiting, yet didn’t want to say so out loud.

“I’ve been wandering all over town trying to find you,” she said.

“I hope you’re a better filmmaker than you are a stalker.”

“Time will tell.”

I glanced at my own watch.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“I could eat.”

“C’mon, sweetie. I’ll buy you some fish and chips.”

“Are you deliberately trying to be sexist when you call me sweetie?”

“No offense. As I grow older I find that more and more I call the women I like sweetie.”

“You like me?”

“I gave you my licorice, didn’t I?”

I led Jennica to the Gitchi-Gami State Trail, which was a fancy name for the sidewalk that meandered alongside the lakeshore, and we started following it to the Dockside Fish Market. The sun was setting fast and for a few minutes Superior held a warm orange glow that forced us to stop and look until it was slowly absorbed by the dark water.

“Pretty,” I said.

“Reminds me of home, the way the sun sets on the ocean.”

“Home is California?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“I’m supposed to be. I was all set to start my junior year at the School of Theater, Film and Television at UCLA and then this project came along. It was unexpected and a lot of my father’s usual crew was committed to other projects so I asked him, begged him, actually, to let me step in. ‘There are a lot of baristas with film degrees,’ I told him, which is something he told me a thousand times growing up. That and how he learned everything he needed to know working for Roger Corman on low-budget indies. Finally, he gave in, which made my mom even more angry than she was when I got my tattoo.”

“This is your first time working on a documentary?”

“Dad let me work with him in the past but I was mostly a gofer, you know, go-for this, go-for that, help out here, help out there. This is the first time I’ve been allowed to make decisions. I can always go back to school starting in the winter term, no big deal.”

“Roger Corman, huh?”

“I met him, talked to him. He is the nicest man.”

We got lucky at the Dockside. There was one small unoccupied table remaining on its veranda and Jennica took charge of it while I ordered our dinners off the blackboard behind the counter. Dusk became hard night while we ate and talked. I liked that she so obviously loved her family. I got the impression that she would set a fire for her father, but she’d walk through it for her mom. I called her sweetie again and then apologized, but she said not to. Sweetie was fine.

We were the last to leave; the Dockside staff had locked the doors and was in the process of cleaning up when we finally returned to the sidewalk and started following it back toward downtown.

“You said before that this project was unexpected,” I said.

“Mr. Flonta called my father like two weeks ago.”

“Two weeks?”

“He said he wanted to do something for the thirty-fifth anniversary of Scenes from an Inland Sea. He said there was no time to lose. Let me tell you, McKenzie, to put all this together in that short of time is almost a miracle, if I do say so myself.”

The way she was smiling made me think that Jennica considered herself one of the miracle workers.

“Why the thirty-fifth anniversary?” I asked. “Why not the thirtieth? Why not the twenty-fifth? Why is there no time to lose?”

“Something I learned a long time ago living in Hollywood, people with money want what they want when they want it and people like my father and me, too, if you want to know, are happy to give it to them—if they pay us enough.”

“How much is enough?”

“A realistic budget for a feature-length documentary, if you go by the industry’s standard rates, you’re talking a low of $300,000 to more than a million. You can do it for much less. Heck, you could make a doc for $20,000, a two-person filmmaking team, few interviews, fewer locations, no third-party material like music or film footage. Technology has made it possible to do more with less. Only then we’re talking about a labor of love and not business. What I was taught, $3,000 to $4,000 per finished minute of film is the minimum starting point.”

“What is the budget for this film?”

“I doubt Dad would want me to tell you. Let’s just say it’s at the high end and let it go with that.”

“So, two weeks ago Flonta called your old man and offered to give him a budget of a million bucks or more to make an art film about the Scenes from an Inland Sea with the understanding that he starts the project immediately. After traveling all the way from California, you arrive in Grand Marais just in time to be told, on film mind you, that not only had Randolph McInnis painted three additional canvases that no one has ever seen, but they’ve gone missing, which could very well transform your simple commercial documentary into a rip-roaring action-adventure mystery destined for a national release. Some people have all the luck.”

We covered a lot of sidewalk before Jennica said, “Stranger things have happened.”

“You’re going to stop following me now,” I said. “For one thing, I’m going into a lot of bars that I’ll have you thrown out of, which will be embarrassing for both of us. For another, I’ll become annoyed enough to call you something besides sweetie.”

“What exactly are you doing, anyway?”

“I’m trying to find out about David Montgomery.”

“Find out what?”

“I’ll know it when I hear it.”

“I’ll promise to stop following you if you make me a promise in return.”

“What he asked reluctantly.”

“That you let me interview you on film.”

“You interview me, not your old man?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m sure he’ll like that.”

“He won’t, but Mom will. She’s always saying I should assert myself more.”

“Does that include tattoos?”

“Maybe not that much.”

If I find the paintings, I’ll ask my client for permission. If she says yes, then I’ll give you the interview.” Although I’m pretty sure she’ll say no, my inner voice added. In fact, I guarantee it. “That’s the only promise I’ll make.”

“Louise Wykoff is your client, am I right?”

I shrugged. Jennica grinned and held out her hand. I shook it.

“Done,” she said.

“You drive a hard bargain, sweetie.”

“I’m liking more and more that you call me that.”


It was Saturday night in Grand Marais and the Gunflint Tavern was hopping. Gillian Davis was far too busy to talk to me when I arrived, but she promised that she would when she went on her break.

The Gunflint was divided into three levels. The first had a bar and TVs tuned to whatever sporting event was popular at the moment. The second featured a much larger bar and tables galore for diners. The third was an outside terrace with a live band. Perhaps “band” was being too generous. It was just two guys playing guitars and singing Gordon Lightfoot songs. They were pretty good, though, the craft beer was great, and the view of the harbor was spectacular, so I settled on a stool next to the railing and waited.

The duo finished its set with “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” a prerequisite, I suppose, if you’re going to play a gig on the North Shore of Lake Superior. They did a nice job of it. When they sang the final line, “Superior, they said, never gives up her dead when the gales of November come early,” I found myself looking up at the clear, warm September night sky. I shivered just the same.

Gillian appeared at the top of the wooden staircase. She glanced around until she saw my wave and came toward me. That’s when I noticed for the first time the tall and short men I met at Mark’s Wheel-Inn earlier. They were sitting at a table with two other men on the far side of the terrace and watching me. They looked like they hadn’t stopped drinking since I left them.

“McKenzie?” she said. “Did I get that right?”

“Yes.”

Gillian climbed onto the stool next to mine.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long,” she said.

“Not at all. I appreciate you sparing time to see me.”

“It’s all right now. Before—we’re always pretty busy until nine. Afterward, business will start tapering off. It’s not like the Cities where the band doesn’t even start playing until nine. What do you think of the music?”

“Much better than I expected.”

“I’m seeing one of the singers.”

“They’re quite good. Can I get you anything?”

“Thank you, no. McKenzie, you said you wanted to talk about David Montgomery.”

“I was under the impression that you were seeing him.”

“That’s old news.”

“How old?”

“Four months.”

“So, May?”

“Started in April; ended in May. I work here April through October. Gunflint is one of the few businesses that stays open all year-round, but they don’t need as much help in the winter so I go down to the Cities. My parents are in the Cities. As bad as winter is down there—actually it’s worse in Minneapolis than it is up here in GM. I looked it up once. The average temperatures are nearly the same, but Grand Marais gets forty-three inches of snow and Minneapolis gets fifty-five. It’s because GM is located right on the lake and the lake is warm, I mean comparatively. The town of Finland, I have a friend who lives in Finland; it’s only six miles from the lake and they average ninety inches of snow. The thing is, though, winter in the Cities lasts about a hundred days. Here it seems to go on forever. There is absolutely nothing to do. Probably why David shot himself, looking at another endless winter.”

“If he shot himself.”

“I know of at least a half-dozen people who have killed themselves up here or tried to in just the past few years. No one has been murdered since, like, forever.”

“Have you spoken to Montgomery recently?”

“Oh, yeah. Like I said, we started seeing each other in April right after I came back up, but I knew it wasn’t going anywhere right away. David wasn’t looking for a serious relationship. Neither, was I, truthfully, but I sure wanted more than ‘meet me at the Frontier Motel in an hour.’ I mean, c’mon. I have no complaints, though. It was fun while it lasted. We stayed friends, just without benefits. Besides, there are only so many places where you can get a drink, you know? So many places you can hang out.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Oh wow, that would have to be—Tuesday? Yeah, Tuesday night around ten o’clock or so.”

The night Louise Wykoff discovered her paintings were missing. It was also just after he spent time with Ms. Greyson.

“I remember the way he was grinning like he just got away with something,” Gillian added. “I asked what. He said a gentleman never tells, which made me think he just got laid. I think he wanted me to ask who, but I didn’t. I mean, why would I care? Anyway, David was in a chatty mood so in between serving my other customers we talked. It was cold and raining so it was a slow night and I had plenty of time. I asked if he had been working. Handyman work is pretty spotty, I guess. Anyway, he said that just that day he had replaced Louise Wykoff’s water heater and I’m like—what?”

What? my inner voice echoed. Funny she didn’t mention that to you.

“I asked—were you with That Wykoff Woman?” Leah said. “And he was like, ‘No. God no. I wish.’”

“Did you believe him?”

“I did cuz even if David wouldn’t come right out and say it, he’d want you to know if he had done Louise. He’d want to brag about it. Heck, if I did her, I’d want to brag about it, too. I always figured the reason she stays pretty much to herself is because she doesn’t want people talking about her, so … It’s not like we’re BBFs, though, and tell each other our deepest, darkest secrets. I mean, Louise might be a real party girl when there’s no one around to see.”

“You said that handyman work was spotty up here.”

“Well, to hear David talk about it…”

“Do you know if he was having financial problems?”

“Nope. At least it wasn’t something he ever talked about. He had an ex and a daughter and I think he sent them money, I don’t really know for sure, though. You should ask Jodine. She’d know.”

I flashed on something Louise had told me when we first met—the local newspaper, the News-Herald I think she called it, had reported that burglaries in Cook County had doubled in the past few years.

“I was just wondering if he might have taken things from the homes his job put him in.”

“You mean steal?”

Gillian looked as if I had just called her friend an obscenity and she wasn’t happy about it.

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t believe that. I don’t believe David would do that. Besides, from a practical standpoint, you work in people’s homes and things start going missing, even if you didn’t take them that would probably kill your business, wouldn’t you think? It wouldn’t matter if you were guilty or not. People would start talking … Well, wait. I wonder. If people were talking … David killing himself, maybe … I don’t know. I heard somewhere that most suicides are spontaneous. That people decide to kill themselves and then they do it within like an hour of making the decision but if they would only wait another hour, they’d probably talk themselves out of it. What I mean—what if something happened that David decided he couldn’t live with even though, if he took the time to think about it, maybe he could?”

“The question is, what thing?” I said.

“Yeah, that’s a question. Listen. I need to get back to work.”

“All right, thank you. Thank you for your time.”

“No problem.”

My eyes followed Gillian as she crossed the terrace toward the staircase. The table where my pals from Mark’s Wheel-Inn was empty now. I wasn’t paying much attention to that, though. Instead, I noticed that Gillian gave a wave to the two guitar players as she passed the small stage. They both smiled broadly and waved back and I wondered, She’s seeing only one of them, right?


I hate to leave in the middle of a set; it seems so disrespectful to the musicians. Except I had been working on only a few hours of sleep and it was catching up to me. I made a production out of dropping a twenty in the tip jar as I crossed the terrace, though, hoping that would make up for my rude behavior. I descended the long wooden staircase to the sidewalk, paused to take one last look at the harbor, and started moving toward the parking lot next to the Dairy Queen.

I didn’t make it.

“There you are,” a voice said from the shadows.

I kept walking without altering my speed half a step.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Both the short man and the taller man that I had met earlier emerged from the shadows followed by their two friends.

“Hey, guys.” I kept walking. All four of them were behind me now. “What’s going on?”

“Where do you think you’re going?” the taller man asked.

I hung a right without answering and kept moving down the block.

“Running around town asking questions about Dave Montgomery, who are you?” the shorter man said. “Dammit, stop walking.”

I did when I reached a streetlight. I turned to face the four men. We were now standing directly in front of the Dairy Queen, one of the few places in Grand Marais that was still open at a quarter to ten.

“You guys want to talk?” I said. “Why don’t we step inside? I’ll buy the Dilly Bars.”

“Not here,” said one of the men I didn’t know. He was wearing a Twins baseball cap, which should have made us allies but didn’t.

“Where else can you get a Dilly Bar?” I asked.

He didn’t reply.

“Seriously,” I said. “Why are you guys following me?”

“We want to talk to you,” said the taller man.

“You could have talked to me at the Gunflint.”

“In private.”

The man in the baseball cap started circling like he wanted to get behind me. I brought my hand up as if I was drawing a gun and pointed at him.

“You’re making me nervous,” I said. “Who knows what mischief might ensue if I become nervous?”

I don’t know if it was because of my message or the convoluted way I stated it, yet he stopped moving.

“You’ve been asking questions all over town about Montgomery,” the shorter man said.

“I’m trying to find out if he killed himself or if he was murdered. You have a problem with that?”

“Yes,” said the man in the ball cap.

“Why? Are you involved?”

“No.”

“What’s your name?”

He didn’t answer.

I pulled the notebook and pen from my pocket.

“Name?” I repeated.

The notebook seemed to frighten him.

“What do you want to know that for?” he asked.

“I want to know all of your names in case I’m called to testify.”

“What are you talking about?” the shorter man asked.

“The Bureau of Criminal Apprehension will want to know who’s interfering in this investigation. They’ll want to know why.”

The fourth man, who had remained silent all this time, turned and started walking away.

Okay, now it’s three to one, my inner voice said.

“You don’t scare me,” said the ball cap.

“You scare me. Tell me why? Why do you want to keep me from finding out if Montgomery was murdered?”

“No one said that,” the taller man told me. He took a few steps backward and my inner voice asked, Two to one?

“Going around town accusing people,” said the shorter man. “This is our town.”

“Are you afraid I’ll accuse you?”

The man wearing the baseball cap balled his fists and raised them chest high. He started moving toward me.

“Asshole,” he said.

Here we go.

I dropped the notebook and pen and moved into an American stance, deliberately facing ball cap sideways, my feet at forty-five degree angles about a shoulder’s width apart, knees bent, my left hand up around my chin, the right poised along my ribs. If my posture told ball cap that I knew some karate, it sure didn’t frighten him any. Or the shorter man, who brought his hands up like he knew how to fight, too.

A bright light flicked on, capturing all of us. I brought my hand up to keep it out of my eyes. The others squinted at it, too. At first I thought it was flashlight. As it began to circle us, I realized it was a light mounted on a digital camera.

“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Jennica said. “Don’t mind me.”

We all stopped and watched her while at the same time trying to protect our eyes.

“Pretend I’m not here,” she added.

“Who are you?” ball cap wanted to know.

“I’m Jennica Mehren. I’m with the documentary crew that’s filming here in Grand Marais.”

“There’s a documentary?” the shorter man said.

“Didn’t you know?” I asked.

“Let’s get out of here,” said the taller man.

“No, please,” Jennica said. “Go ’head and beat up on McKenzie. This is great stuff.”

The man in the ball cap shoved my shoulder hard as if he meant to comply with the woman’s request and then stepped backward.

“Another time, asshole.” He pointed at Jennica. “You put me on film and I’ll sue.”

“Everyone says that yet no one ever does,” Jennica said.

The men all started moving back toward the harbor. I heard some muttering yet couldn’t make out what was said. I retrieved my notebook and pen. Jennica turned off her light and lowered her camera.

“Hello, Jen,” I said.

“McKenzie, hi. What was all that about?”

“Alcohol-infused paranoia, I think. They wanted to know what’s happening in their town and I pushed back too hard. If they had asked while we were at the Gunflint I might have told them. Accosting me on the street, though … Don’t think I haven’t noticed—you said you would stop following me. You lied.”

“Yeah, and you were going to grant me an on-camera interview after telling my father never, ever. I’m pretty, McKenzie. I’m not dumb.”

“No, you’re not. Dumb, I mean.”

“You can still call me sweetie, though.”

“Sweetie, I have a room at the Frontier Motel. I’m going there now.”

“Should I follow you?”

“Absolutely not.”

Jennica thought that was awfully funny.

“Are you sure?” she said.

Yeah, like she can’t think of a better way to spend the evening than with a man who was literally old enough to be her father.

“Pretty sure,” I said.

“Good night, McKenzie. See you in the morning.”


The parking lot at the Frontier Motel was two more or less straight lines behind the rooms. I found a slot directly in front of mine. There was a soft light above the door that allowed me to see the number and little else. I went to unlock the door. When I did, I heard the sound of a car door opening behind me. My first thought—ball cap.

I spun to face the noise. The car door was shut and with it the vehicle’s overhead light. A shadow moved toward me. I recognized her voice before I saw her face.

“Took you long enough,” Peg Younghans said.

“Geezus, you scared the hell out of me.”

“Scared?”

“Startled. What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you. I thought you might want to discuss those photographs I told you about. I would have called your cell, except I didn’t have the number.”

“How did you find me?”

“There’s only about two dozen places where a visitor can stay in GM. The Frontier was number thirteen on the list that I called.”

“How resourceful of you.”

If she can find you, anyone can, my inner voice said.

Peg stepped within the small circle of light. She was wearing a trench coat, which I thought was appropriate, all things considered. If she was wearing anything beneath the trench coat, though, I couldn’t say.

“About those photographs…” she said.

I tried to keep it friendly.

“You tempt me,” I said. “Only I never mix business with pleasure.”

Peg pulled at my jacket like a tailor trying to see if it fit properly.

“Are you sure?” she asked, only not the way Jennica had. Peg was dead serious.

“This is the part of the program where I should tell you that I’m in a committed relationship.”

“Boy or girl?”

No one had ever asked me that question before and it kind of threw me. Again, Peg was serious. She didn’t so much as grin.

“Girl,” I said.

“Girlfriend, but not wife?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Tell me—you bonded yourself to someone else. Does it give you stability? Does that make you stronger?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Most people feel more secure when they’re in a pair. It’s like they’re afraid to stand alone.”

“It’s not something I’ve given much thought.”

Not something you want to discuss with her, either.

“Should we talk business, then?” Peg asked.

“Please.”

“Are you going to let me in?”

“No.”

“Chicken?”

“Let’s just say it’s a small room with a big bed and I make no claims to virtue. Besides, you make me feel outnumbered.”

“That might be the best brush-off I’ve ever heard.”

“Brush-off?”

“Let’s not forget how old I am.”

“If I thought you were old we wouldn’t be standing out here.”

“Telling a girl no while making her feel good about it, that takes some skill, McKenzie. I think you and David would have gotten along very well.”

“You said before that you didn’t know Montgomery.”

“I knew his reputation. I doubt I ever spoke more than a dozen words to him. I know that Leah Huddleston spent some time with him. She claimed she was not enriched by the experience.”

“I got that impression, too. Ever hire Montgomery to fix something around the house?”

“My house? There was never a need.”

“Do you still insist that Montgomery and Louise were intimate?”

“Weren’t they?”

“Louise says no.”

“I saw his car parked at her place many times. What does that tell you?”

Peg wanted me to call Louise a liar. Instead, I said, “It tells me that Montgomery’s car was parked near her place many times.”

“In a murder investigation, don’t the police check the GPS on the victim’s phone to determine everywhere he’s been?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then that will show that he parked on the street where Louise lived, won’t it?”

“It should, yes.”

“Then we’ll see, won’t we?”

“You’re pretty determined to prove that Louise was involved with Montgomery, aren’t you? Why?”

“Somebody killed him.”

“It wasn’t Louise. She was surrounded by a half-dozen documentary filmmakers when Montgomery was shot.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. McKenzie, since you’re not going to let me in—”

“No.”

“I should be going.”

“Okay.”

“It’s too bad. I wore my sexiest nightie. It’s lavender. Do you want to see?”

“Better not.”

“Then I’ll say good night.”

“Drive carefully.”

“Not me, McKenzie. My motto—drive fast, take chances.”

“You’re an interesting woman, Peg Younghans.”

“You have no idea.”


Ten forty-five on a Saturday night and I was alone in a Grand Marais motel room eating what was left of the salty caramel pretzels I bought from the Great! Lakes Candy Kitchen. I had the TV on and was watching halfheartedly while a Duluth sportscaster explained how the Gophers lost to Wisconsin instead of how the Badgers beat them.

I grabbed my smartphone and started surfing the net. I found a couple of websites that listed crime statistics for Cook County. Turned out, it was a great place to be sheriff—no homicides, armed robberies, aggravated assaults, arsons, human trafficking or prostitution beefs reported in the previous calendar year, plus only eight motor vehicle thefts, fifteen DUIs, twenty drug arrests, twenty DCs, and two rapes—and both rapes were cleared. But burglaries? The numbers were all over the place, yet with a little adding and subtracting I decided that the News-Herald was correct; the number of burglaries had doubled in the past four years from an average of about sixteen incidents to thirty-two while the clearance rate declined from thirteen percent, just above the national average, to less than eight.

Not exactly a crime wave, my inner voice said. The number of burglaries—that’s a slow weekend in Minneapolis.

Still, I wondered why there was an uptick and what the ratio was between tourists and residents. Plus, how many crimes were committed in the winter when people left their homes and cabins unattended while they escaped to warmer climes? The News-Herald didn’t say. Neither did anybody else.

Montgomery divorced his wife four years ago, my inner voice reminded me. Gillian Davis says he’s been sending his ex and his daughter money ever since. Is this where he got it?

I had finished the pretzels and started working on the assorted truffles when I logged off the internet and started scrolling through my phone contacts. I tapped the icon for Rickie’s because Nina nearly always left her cell in her office when she was working. A woman’s voice said, “Rickie’s, how may I help you?” I recognized the voice, Jenness Crawford, the weekend manager.

“Jenness,” I said. “This is McKenzie. Is the boss free?”

A minute later, Nina said, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You’re actually calling me when you said you would. When was the last time that happened?”

“C’mon, I’m not as bad as all that.”

There was music in the background.

“Who’s in the big room tonight?” I asked.

“Patty Peterson and the Jazz Women All-Stars.”

“I love those guys.”

“You love everybody who plays jazz.”

“Mary Louise Knutson on piano showing Bill Evans’s ghost how it’s done. What’s not to love?”

“Let me put you on hold for a sec. I want to go to my office.”

When Nina picked up the phone again, I could hear nothing but her voice and that was fine. She asked me about my day and I told her. When I finished, I said, “What do you think?”

“I am so glad that I didn’t go to Grand Marais with you.”

“That boring, huh?”

“I like the girl with the camera, though.”

“Jennica is great. She reminds me a little of Erica without the tats. How is Erica, anyway?”

“Fine as far as I know. She’s like you. She never calls when she’s supposed to. Tell me more about the woman who showed up at your door wearing nothing but a lavender nightie.”

“Peg was wearing a trench coat. I took her word about the nightie.”

“Reminds me of my mother.”

That caused me to sit up in bed. In all the years I’d known her, the only thing Nina had told me about her mother was that she didn’t want to talk about her mother.

“She was the Whore of Babylon, too,” Nina said. “I couldn’t count the number of times she left the house late at night when I was a kid in school. ‘Don’t wait up,’ she’d say. One time she was gone for three days. When she came back she said, ‘Miss me?’ like she had gone off to the corner store for a gallon of milk. You know what’s truly sad, McKenzie? I didn’t miss her. Not at all. I knew how to take care of myself; she had made sure of that. Good for Mom. As for the rest—I sometimes wonder if that’s the reason I married so young, if I was looking for the attention and affection that I didn’t get at home. We both know how that worked out, too, don’t we? Okay. Call me tomorrow. Let me know when you’re coming home.”

“I will.”

“And don’t brood.”

“Brood?”

“Right now you’re wondering about all the things I never told you about myself. Really, McKenzie there aren’t that many and they’re not that interesting. Besides, it’s not like you don’t keep secrets from me.”

“Never. Well, almost never.”

“Good night, McKenzie. I’ll tell Mary Louise you said hi.”