I had my second cup of morning coffee in the same resort chair positioned in the center of the horseshoe as the day before.
In Minnesota during that brief passage of time when summer gives way to fall, there are days of pure grace with the sun, clouds, wind, and temperature reaching a golden balance. On days like that you don’t want to do much of anything except sit back and enjoy, yet instead I was studying the traffic on Highway 61 as it passed between the Frontier Motel and the great lake beyond. I did not see the same vehicle more than once, nor was anyone parked along the shoulder in either direction that I could glimpse from my perch. I was a little disappointed. I was sure that Jennica Mehren would be watching and waiting for me to make a move.
Finally, I did. After returning the now empty coffee cup to the room, I climbed into my Mustang. Less than a minute later I was on Highway 61, only I was driving northeast toward Canada and not southwest toward Grand Marais.
Seven miles from the border I found Grand Portage, an unorganized territory, whatever that meant. It contained not only the community of Grand Portage, but also the Grand Portage Indian Reservation, called Gichi-onigamiing in the Ojibwa language. The Grand Portage Lodge and Casino was located on the reservation near the lake. Next to it, and also operated by the Ojibwa, was the Grand Portage Trading Post where you could buy everything from groceries and gas to fishing rods and grass seed. Between them was the Grand Portage Art Gallery.
I parked near the front entrance of the gallery. The trading post was open from six A.M. to eleven P.M. on the weekends and, of course, the casino never closed. I doubt its front door even had locks. The art gallery, however, opened at ten A.M. and if you couldn’t find anything you liked by five thirty, you were out of luck.
I had arrived nearly a half hour early and decided to take a walk and enjoy the day. Soon I found myself on Casino Road where it met Marina Road that led to the Grand Portage Marina, which was also owned by the Ojibwa. I was wondering how much the tribal members each earned from all of this entrepreneurship when I noticed the distinctive black-and-white Cook County Sheriff’s SUV parked on the shoulder about a hundred yards down the road. It was behind a tan-colored two-door. It could have been a Toyota; it could have been a Honda. It was hard to tell from that distance. My first thought, Traffic stop.
Deputy Wurzer got out of the black-and-white and moved toward the two-door. He did it sloppily, approaching on the driver’s side instead of the passenger side, swinging his arms like he was marching in a parade, walking away from the vehicle instead of hugging the body so he could watch the driver through the side view mirror.
“Don’t you get it?” I heard myself saying aloud. “Traffic stops are among the most dangerous things you can do. Read the damn statistics.”
Only it became apparent that Wurzer knew exactly what he was doing and to whom. He yanked open the driver’s side door and pulled at the driver. The driver was taller than Wurzer with a full body and long black hair. He came out of the vehicle and shoved the deputy. Wurzer shoved back. The Ojibwa—I assumed he was Ojibwa—looked like he was going to take it up a notch when Wurzer stepped back and rested his hand on his service weapon. The Ojibwa gave him the finger. Wurzer waved his own finger at the Ojibwa, but did not take his other hand from the butt of his gun. The Ojibwa threw his hands in the air in exasperation, but not surrender. More words were exchanged. The situation de-escalated. Wurzer removed his hand from his weapon. The Ojibwa folded his arms across this chest.
Maybe they’re discussing the weather, my inner voice said.
Eventually, the Ojibwa made a yeah-I-get-it gesture with his hands. Wurzer spread his own hands wide. The Ojibwa gestured some more, turned, and slid back into his vehicle, shutting the door behind him. Wurzer leaned on the door, hanging his ass out into the traffic, if there had been traffic. More words were exchanged through the open window. Finally, the deputy pushed himself upward and stepped away from the two-door. The Ojibwa drove off. Wurzer watched him go. When the two-door was far down the road, the deputy turned and walked back to his own vehicle. He looked up when he reached the bumper and saw me.
And froze.
I was too far away to read his expression, yet I was fluent enough in body language to know that he was not pleased that I had witnessed the traffic stop. He climbed into the SUV. I turned and walked back toward my own car. I walked quickly. Still, if Deputy Wurzer had wanted to overtake me, he could have. He didn’t.
It was five minutes to ten when I returned to the art gallery. I tried the door anyway and was surprised when it opened. It was pleasantly warm inside, yet not nearly as pleasant or warm as the voice of the woman behind the counter.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said.
“Take your time.”
I spent the next few minutes drifting through the gallery until I stopped at a glass case which contained a lot of beadwork. The artist was identified as Marcie McIntire. Above the case were several prints of landscape paintings by a man called George Morrison, whose Ojibwa name was Wah Wah Teh Go Nay Ga Bo, which meant Standing in the Northern Lights. The woman stepped next to me.
“George was from here,” she said. “He was born on the rez in 1919.”
The woman was tall with lustrous straight black hair and eyes that reminded me of Belgian chocolate.
“He graduated from Grand Marais High School in 1938 and the Minnesota School of Art, what is now the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, in ’43. He won the Van Derlip Traveling Scholarship, studied at the Art Students League in New York and, after receiving a Fulbright scholarship, studied in Paris and at the University of Aix-Marseilles. He was awarded a John Hay Whitney Fellowship in 1953.”
“I have no idea what any of that means. The way you say it, though, makes me think Mr. Morrison was quite an artist.”
The woman thought that was funny. She offered her hand.
“Ardina Curtis,” she said.
I shook her hand.
“What does that mean in Ojibwa?” I asked.
“Ardina Curtis. Actually, Ardina is from the Latin. It means ardent, eager.”
“McKenzie,” I said.
“What can I help you with?”
I gestured at the beadwork.
“Is Ms. McIntire also from the reservation?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
I expected more, but didn’t get it.
“I take it you’re not as impressed with her,” I said.
“Is beadwork a true art form or simply a craft or folk art?”
“I’m the last person you should ask that question. I suppose like most things it’s in the eye of the beholder. I, for example, insist that a chili cheese dog with chopped onions is real food.”
“There’s no accounting for taste.”
“Exactly my point.”
“What can I show you, Mr. McKenzie?”
“McKenzie is fine. Do you have any Louise Wykoff?”
“Now there’s an artist. Right this way.”
We didn’t travel far, only to the other side of the gallery. Ardina had three of Louise’s paintings hanging on the wall, all of them featuring Ojibwa models.
“Louise is originally from Duluth, if I’m not mistaken,” she said. “She’s lived in Grand Marais for decades though, so we claim her as one of our own. I like her very much. She has a quality about her that I find fascinating. Not aloof so much as…”
“Distant?”
“No, more like—detached. Like she’s not connected to the world the way the rest of us are. She floats above it. Yet her paintings are very grounded. In many ways, her work is reminiscent of Eastman Johnson.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard his name. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about him.”
Ardina looked at me as if she was concerned about the quality of the schools I attended.
“Among other things, Johnson was one of the cofounders of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York,” she said. “In his day he was known as the American Rembrandt.”
“So he was a big deal?”
“Oh, my God.”
“How is he like Louise Wykoff? Or vice versa?”
“In the mid-1850s, Johnson spent time in Superior, Wisconsin, what is now on the other side of the bridge from Duluth. I guess he had people living there. While he was in Superior, he spent a lot of time with a man named Stephen Bonga who was married to an Ojibwa woman and had an Ojibwa family. Through Bonga, Johnson was able to convince a great many Ojibwa to sit for him and he painted them as he saw them. As people. There were no war bonnets, no loincloths, no half-naked maidens; none of the noble savage stereotypes that existed at the time and for God knows how long afterward. Maybe that’s why he didn’t sell the paintings during his lifetime, because they ran counter to the prevailing attitude people had of Native Americans. They’re now owned by the St. Louis County Historical Society and are on display in Duluth. Louise has been doing much the same kind of work for the past few years, often creating these very intimate portraits of everyday Ojibwa living their lives.
“She’s really come into her own as a painter. Every artist has an individual style, a technique; a way of putting themselves on canvas. It isn’t necessarily something they think about as much as it’s something they develop over time. It took years for Louise to reach that point. Before it was all Randolph McInnis. Do you know McInnis?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must know about Louise’s relationship with him and the Scenes from an Inland Sea.”
“I do.”
“Her early work resembled his later work, the work he displayed in the Scenes. Style—technique—is what distinguishes you from other artists, and what keeps your work looking professional, cohesive, and focused. The greatest artists throughout history had styles that were incredibly distinctive and unique. Take someone like Van Gogh as an obvious example. If you’ve seen one Van Gogh painting, you can spot another from a mile away. If you looked at Wykoff’s earlier work, though, all you saw was McInnis. Over time, Louise was able to break away from that and find her own voice. ’Course, once you find a style that works for you, that doesn’t mean you stop. The creative process doesn’t end. At least it shouldn’t.”
“What about Louise? Do you think she’s a one-trick pony?”
“No. Well, we’ll see. Historically, the most compelling artists have been the ones who are constantly reinventing and transforming themselves. Monet. Degas. Diebenkorn. I’m anxious to see what she does next. Am I boring you?”
“Not at all.”
“I’ve been told I have a tendency to lecture people, especially when it comes to art.”
“Lecture away.”
“I think I’ve gotten it out of my system for a while. Did you want to buy a painting?”
“I’m afraid this is where I confess that I’m here under false pretenses.”
“Oh?”
“I know Louise personally,” I said. “She asked me to help find some paintings that have gone missing from her studio.”
“She was robbed? That’s crazy.”
“It gets worse.”
“How?”
“I’m told you were involved with David Montgomery.”
I couldn’t have hurt her more if I had slapped her. Ardina abruptly turned away, showing her back to me and hiding her face. Her shoulders heaved and I thought I heard a whimper.
“Ms. Curtis?”
She held a hand up, asking for silence. I gave it to her. She reminded me of an athlete who took a hard hit yet didn’t want you to know how much he felt it.
“David was my friend,” she said, her back still to me.
“More than a friend?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She held her hand up again.
I waited.
“I keep thinking of his daughter, Jamie; what she must be feeling,” Ardina said. “Jodine, too.”
That has to be your next stop, my inner voice said. Talk to Jodine Montgomery in Duluth.
“Did you know David?” Ardina asked.
“No, ma’am. We never met.”
“You would have liked him. He was … charming.”
“Yes, ma’am. So I’ve been told.”
“Why are you asking about him?”
“I’m afraid to hurt you again.”
“McKenzie…”
“He was the one who stole the paintings.”
“No.”
“We’re pretty sure.”
“Why? Why, McKenzie? Why would he do that? It’s not like jewelry. A TV. It’s not like he could sell the damn things out of the trunk of his car.”
“Ma’am…”
“Don’t call me ma’am!” Ardina was shouting now. “I’m twenty-eight years old. Do I look like a ma’am to you?”
“No, ma … No.”
“I don’t believe it, McKenzie. I don’t.”
“How well did you know him?”
“I … I cared about him a great deal.”
“Yes, but how well did you know him?”
“We met years ago. He was a friend of my brother’s. They started hanging out after David’s divorce. David and I became involved in June.”
After Leah Huddleston and Gillian Davis, but while he was still seeing Doris Greyson. Do the woman a favor and keep your mouth shut about it.
“McKenzie, does this have anything to do with his death?” Ardina asked.
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe he killed himself.”
“Neither do I.”
Ardina closed her eyes. Her lashes knocked the tears free. They trailed down her cheeks.
So far she’s the only one who’s shown genuine sorrow at Montgomery’s passing.
The door to the art gallery was pulled open and the Ojibwa I had seen earlier with Deputy Wurzer hurried across the threshold.
“Hey, sis?” he said.
I was surprised by the greeting. It’s the kind of thing you hear in movies but I’ve never heard someone say the word in real life before.
The Ojibwa was surprised to see his sister weeping. He crossed the gallery in a hurry and put his arm around her shoulder.
“Sis?” he said.
His eyes fell on me and I knew what he was thinking, which is why I brought my hands up and took several steps backward.
“What did you do?” he asked.
He released Ardina and moved toward me.
“Did you hurt my sister?”
Ardina grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him back.
“No, Eddie,” she said. “It’s not like that. He—we were talking about David.”
Eddie Curtis, my inner voice said.
“Oh,” Curtis said. “Oh.” He wrapped Ardina in his arms. “I’m sorry. It’ll be all right. Everything’s going to be fine. Don’t worry.”
Which was exactly the kind of harmless and wholly inadequate nonsense I would have mumbled if I were him. Experience had taught me, though, that it didn’t really matter what you said. Being there is what’s important. After a few moments, Ardina regained her balance and dried her tears.
“Okay?” Curtis asked.
Ardina nodded.
“I’m sorry, McKenzie,” she said.
“Please don’t be. I’m the one who should apologize.”
“Apologize for what?” Curtis asked.
“He said that they think David stole some paintings from Louise Wykoff,” Ardina said.
“Why would he do that?” Curtis pointed at me. “Why would he do that?”
“You were his friend?”
“That’s right.”
“Was he having any financial difficulties?”
“You mean besides paying his ex her damn alimony?”
“No,” Ardina said. “David wasn’t paying alimony. Jodine didn’t want any. He was paying child support and he was happy to do it. He loved his daughter. That’s what he told me.”
“That’s not what David told me.”
“What did he tell you?” I asked.
“None of your damn business.”
“We’re pretty sure Montgomery stole from Louise. Did he take from anyone else?”
“You know what? It’s time for you to get out of here.”
“Eddie,” Ardina said.
“No, sis. He barges in here, throwing insults around about David. You, get out.”
I reached into my pocket for my notebook and pen and started writing.
Hey, it worked before.
“What are you doing?” Curtis asked.
“Writing that you refused to be interviewed. In case I’m called to testify.”
“So people will think I have something to hide?”
“Do you have something to hide?”
“I have an idea. Shove that little notebook up your ass.”
A few minutes later I was driving south on Highway 61 past the Judge C. R. Magney State Park when I spied the approach of a Cook County Sheriff Department vehicle in my rearview. I glanced down at my speedometer. I was surprised that I had been actually driving the speed limit for a change. The driver of the SUV didn’t seem to care. He came up so fast and so close that it frightened me. His push bumper brushed the rear of the Mustang and I wondered, Is he trying to force me off the road?
The SUV backed off quickly though, if you count one car length as backing off. The overhead was turned on and he hit the siren.
The siren is unnecessary, my inner voice said. He’s just trying to mess with you.
I angled the Mustang onto the shoulder and slowed to a stop. I turned off the engine and rested my hands on top of the steering wheel. Using the side view mirror, I watched Deputy Wurzer exit the SUV.
Kinda knew it was him, didn’t you?
Wurzer moved toward the driver’s side door. Once again the word “sloppy” came to mind.
When he reached my open window I said “Good morning, Deputy. Is there something wrong?”
“Speeding,” he said. “Careless driving. Failure to stop. I don’t see a seat belt.”
I pulled the strap off my chest a few inches and let it slide back into place.
“Yeah, okay,” I said. “I get it.”
Wurzer sniffed the air.
“Is that marijuana I smell?” he asked. “If I search your car will I find two ounces of the bad thing in your trunk? Two ounces is felony weight. Five years, $10,000 fine.”
“I’m aware.”
“I could bust your ass for whatever the fuck I want and make it stick.”
“I said I get it.”
There weren’t many vehicles on the highway, but they came steadily, each slowing as they approached the SUV with its flashing overhead light. I smiled at the drivers, giving a wave to a few. Wurzer couldn’t help but notice.
“Trying to make friends, McKenzie?” he asked.
“As many as possible.”
“Think they’ll do you any good?”
“You can never tell. Someone might pull out a phone hoping to get a video of police corruption they can upload.”
“You oughta know all about that.”
“I oughta?”
“Think I don’t know you, McKenzie? Back when I was with Minneapolis we used to talk about you all the time. You’re the SPPD who recovered all that cash some jack-off embezzler siphoned, returned it to the insurance company for fifty cents on the dollar. How much was that, anyway? I heard $10 million.”
“That’s a huge exaggeration.”
“How much did you get?”
“Only three million and change.”
“Only three million dollars and change. Half the guys thought you won the lottery, lucky fucking you. The other half thinking you sold your shield. A three-striper I know called you a mutt. Whaddya think of that?”
“I’ve been called worse. Why aren’t you still with the MPD?”
“I like it up here. The air is clean and you can see the stars at night.”
“Both big pluses. If you knew I was on the job, why did you try to jam me up for Montgomery’s death? ‘Give me twenty minutes alone with the sonuvabitch,’ you said.”
“Think because you once carried a badge that should give you special privileges?”
“Perish the thought.”
“I don’t like it when some fucking buff interferes in police work; I don’t give a damn how long you’ve been on the job.”
“Tell it to Sheriff Bowland.”
“That clown? He was smart enough to hire me. Other than that … He got old in a hurry; you know what I mean? Took like a year. He’s past it now, man.”
“Maybe so, but if you have a problem, tell him.”
“I’m telling you.”
“The sheriff wants to find out who killed Montgomery. He thinks I can help.”
“Is that why you were talking with Ardina Curtis?”
“She knew Montgomery. Her brother knew Montgomery. Did you know Montgomery?”
“Yeah, I knew him.”
“Yet, when I went to the Law Enforcement Center Friday night to report that he had been killed, you said, ‘Who?’”
“You got something to say, McKenzie, or do you just like the sound of your own voice?”
“Just connecting the dots. Tell me about Eddie Curtis.”
“What about him?”
“Are you friends?”
“Deputies aren’t supposed to have friends?”
“All that pushing and shoving you guys were doing. It looked to me like you were getting ready to pull on him.”
Wurzer’s hand slid to his firearm.
“Like now,” I said.
I smiled at another driver and gave her the thumbs-up as she rolled slowly past us.
“Step out of the vehicle,” Wurzer said.
“No.”
“What did you say?”
I threw a thumb at the SUV behind me.
“I notice that you have a camera mounted on your rearview mirror,” I said.
“You know what? I think it’s malfunctioning.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Call for backup. I’ll get out of the car when your backup gets here.”
“You’ll do what I tell you.”
Wurzer reached for the door handle and pulled up, only it was locked.
“Why?” I asked. “So you can tune me up? Maybe give me a wood shampoo.”
“You know all the slang.”
“I invented the fucking slang, asshole.” Probably I shouldn’t have shouted, but the deputy was starting to annoy me. “You want to hang paper on me, go right ahead. You want to put the arm on me, we can do that, too. Once your backup gets here with a camera that’s working.”
“I should pull you in for violating the jackass ordinance if nothing else.”
“It didn’t need to go down this way, Deputy. You could’ve just come up to me and talked like a man. But no, you had to get all large and emphatic. You had to get badge-heavy. Is that why you’re not in Minneapolis anymore? You kept stopping, arresting, or threatening everyone in sight?”
He stared at me as if he was reviewing his options. There must have been a lot of them because it was a full thirty seconds before he said, “Move it down the road, mutt.”
“You first.”
Wurzer smirked because he knew what I was thinking, that he’d give me a head start and then run me into a ditch.
“Don’t worry about it, McKenzie. The next time you see me, you’ll see me.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. Wurzer seemed satisfied that it was a good exit line, though. He moved back to his vehicle, silenced the light bar, and pulled onto Highway 61. He spun his tires as if he wanted to spray the Mustang with gravel, but all he churned up was dust. I gave him a full five minutes before I followed.
Jodine Montgomery was sitting behind a small desk in the same room that hosted the Eastman Johnson collection. She did not look up when I entered, even though it seemed as if we were the only two people in that wing of the Duluth Art Institute. Possibly she was too absorbed by her work to notice me. Or it could have been that the classical music they pumped into the exhibit hall masked what little noise I made. I listened hard, yet could not identify the work.
Still, my inner voice said. Music. In an art museum. Take that, Perrin Stewart.
I approached the desk and said, “Excuse me.”
The woman glanced up and smiled.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Jodine Montgomery?”
“Yes?”
“My name’s McKenzie.”
“Let me guess. You want to talk about my ex-husband.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“I’m very uncomfortable with this. Whatever my personal feelings toward David … Look, I’ve already spoken with agents from the BCA.”
My hand slipped into my jacket pocket and fingered the notebook and pen I had there. I decided, though, she deserved better than that tired gag.
“I apologize.” I reverted to my most relaxed and reassuring voice, the one I honed through countless interviews conducted during my illustrious career as a police officer—okay, maybe not illustrious. “I’m deeply sorry for intruding on you during your grief. Unfortunately, things have changed since you were interviewed by the police.”
“In what way?”
I surprised myself by telling her the truth, explained about the missing Scenes from an Inland Sea. Jodine stood up.
“That’s impossible,” she said.
She began pacing the room. I had the impression that, like me, she preferred to think on her feet. As she paced I noticed Eastman Johnson’s oil paintings and sketches hanging on the walls. I discovered a charcoal and crayon sketch titled Objibway Girl that was particularly striking.
How is it you’ve never heard of this guy?
“The authorities believe that David stole Scenes from an Inland Sea?” Jodine asked.
“They do.”
“That’s—that’s insane.”
“Do you know Louise Wykoff?”
“Yes. Not well. I doubt anyone in GM knows her well. She stays pretty much to herself. We’ve spoken a few times over the years, though. We have a couple of her paintings right there.” Jodine gestured to a spot on the wall near the door. “Her work blends in nicely with Johnson’s. Some people can’t even tell them apart. Anyway, she seemed very nice. I can’t believe it. Do you know what those paintings must be worth? Randolph McInnis? But no. No. I don’t believe it. David was a cheat. He wasn’t a thief.”
“Do you think your ex-husband knew Louise?”
“I know what you’re asking, McKenzie. I want to say no. On the other hand, David had cheated on me with so many women over the years, why not her, too?”
“How long have you and David been divorced?”
“Just over four years now. McKenzie, David was not a bad guy. Yes, he cheated on me. It was like he couldn’t help himself. He never hit me, though. He never abused me. He wasn’t a drunk or a druggie or a compulsive gambler or whatever. He treated our daughter like a royal princess. Once the divorce was final and I stopped wondering where he was putting his dick, we got along fine. He never missed a child support payment. He was always there when it was his turn to take Jamie for the weekend.”
“It must have been hard on him, though.”
“It was hard on me, too.”
“When was the last time you two spoke?”
“Friday morning.”
“Last Friday morning?”
“Wild, isn’t it? He called early, right after Jamie left for school. He wanted to know if it was all right with me if he took her to Kakabeka Falls in Canada during his next weekend. It’s about ninety minutes from GM, a nice day-trip. He’s not allowed to take Jamie out of the state much less out of the country without my permission and he wanted to know if I objected before he mentioned anything to Jamie about it. Like I said, not a bad guy.”
Wait a sec, my inner voice said. Leah Huddleston told you that if she had the paintings, she would take them to Canada, crossing the Pigeon River at the Grand Portage Port of Entry. If you were CBP or the Canadian Border Services Agency and you had a car passing through with a pretty little girl in the passenger seat and her proud daddy behind the wheel, would you bother to check the trunk of their car?
“Did you agree to let them go?” I asked aloud.
“Yes. Why not? Then Saturday morning they told me that he was dead. Apparent suicide. I still haven’t been able to explain it to Jamie. That’s one of the reasons I’m working today, so I don’t have to explain it. How do you explain it to a child? She keeps asking, ‘Why? Why?’ David … he seemed fine when I spoke to him. Happy even. He said all the crap he pulled when we were married, he was going to make it up to me. He said the same thing when we were married so I didn’t actually believe him. Yet he sounded—McKenzie, he sounded sincere. I don’t know what to tell Jamie. My biggest fear is that she’ll blame herself because that’s what people do, don’t they? They blame themselves when someone commits suicide. Why didn’t I see it coming? Why couldn’t I help? My second greatest fear is that she’ll blame me, that she’ll decide that her father killed himself because I left him.”
I came thisclose to telling Jodine that her ex-husband might have been murdered instead, yet decided against it. Would that have made the conversations with her daughter easier or harder? Especially since I had nothing to offer in the way of proof, except for my own suspicions.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.
“Unfortunately, it’s not just my loss. It’s also my daughter’s. David—how could he do this to her?”