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I CAME HOME FROM RUNNING errands to find Faye and Retta eager to share Willy Gunther’s account of Steve Deline’s “joke.” The story revealed a dark side to the murder victim, and I asked myself if the incident was a youthful anomaly or a sign that Deline was a sociopath. In my years with the District Attorney’s office I’d met people, often attractive and self-confident types, who honestly believed they were somehow outside social mores. Too often they got away with cruel acts because their charm played well to juries. “I was drunk and didn’t realize what I was doing,” or “I’m really, really sorry, but she pushed my buttons,” were excuses delivered with practiced expressions of sorrow. If that didn’t work and they got a judgment of “Guilty,” they always seemed surprised. After all, they’d insist, they hadn’t set out to hurt anyone.
That thought might have crossed Steven Deline’s mind on Monday night, if he’d had a half-second to realize he was about to die.
“Rory talked to Milo Habedank,” I said. “He insists the remark about Deline being a crook just meant he stole coffee every morning.”
“But Willy’s story shows Steve was thoughtless, even cruel, to others,” Faye said.
Retta returned to her favorite theme. “What if Deline embarrassed Frannie like he did Willy Gunther? She’d have killed him in revenge.”
“Or Milo might have done it if he found out,” Faye put in. “Parents are protective when a child is humiliated.”
I reined in the unfounded speculation. “Their engagement post is still up on Facebook. There’s a hall booked for their wedding reception in May. If he’d done something that upset Frannie, I’d bet she’d have let the world know about it.”
“Maybe she kept it quiet so she could kill him and then claim she had no idea what the motive might be.” Every time Retta said Frannie’s name, a sour-lemon expression formed. Our client was definitely on Retta’s bad side.
I turned to Faye. “Even if Milo didn’t like Deline, there’s no evidence it was more than mild dislike. And he has an alibi.”
She nodded. “Okay, what about the brother? He was probably the target of Steve’s so-called jokes.”
“He lives in Wisconsin.” Retta spoke as if that absolved Martin from any crumb of suspicion.
Faye seemed to accept that, but in my mind it didn’t absolve him. Family ties are often like shackles, and if Martin had built up a lifetime of resentment, who knew what he might have done?
“What about Willy Gunther?”
“You think the guy waited ten years, followed Deline here, and bashed in his skull for revenge?”
“I guess not. It does prove he was a jerk though.”
“As a teenager, Retta. He might have grown up since then.”
“Some people never do.” Her lips twisted. “Look at Frannie, still batting her eyes at the boys like it’s ninth grade.” Her face brightened as a new possibility came to her. “Maybe she was flirting with some guy and Steve got jealous. They had a fight and she slugged him with the first thing she could lay hands on.”
I glanced at Faye, whose brow twitched, acknowledging Retta’s obsession with Frannie Habedank’s guilt. The comment revealed what was going on in Retta’s head. Frannie was pretty, spoiled, and almost three decades younger. My sister was jealous, or to put it more kindly, Retta was facing the facts of life. Growing old is the only alternative to death, no matter how unpleasant one finds it.
“Maybe we should speak to Lila Beale,” Faye said. “If she and Deline were friends at one time, the friendship ended badly.”
“Let me ask Rory what he knows about her.” After a brief phone call, I reported, “They knew about the PPO. Mabin and Zinke interviewed Beale. She claims she hadn’t seen Deline since he left Ward River, and she was there with a half-dozen friends from around eleven Monday night until late Tuesday morning.”
Faye frowned. “No alibi for the actual murder then.”
“But she couldn’t have dumped the body downtown at midnight.”
“Did Rory say what brought about the PPO?”
“Deline played one of his jokes on Beale. She admits she made life difficult for him because she was embarrassed.”
“What did he do?”
“Some kind of prank she held a grudge about.”
“Enough of a grudge to get the courts involved?” Retta asked.
“Someone in Ward River told the police Lila sneaked into Deline’s house and stuffed shrimp down every curtain rod in the place.”
Faye tilted her head, confused. “Why would she do that?”
“It smells awful, but the resident usually can’t find the source.”
Retta grinned. “I’ve heard of lots better revenge tricks than that.”
“It’s pure childishness,” I said. Retta pulled her lips in to hide the smile as I finished, “Speculation Rory picked up is that Deline left town to get away from Beale. He didn’t tell anyone where he’d gone.”
Faye was still stuck on the shrimp-in-the-curtain-rod thing. “You’d never get that smell out,” she said disapprovingly.
“So Deline was hiding,” Retta said, “which explains why he liked the idea of Milo’s in-house apartment. No record of his renting or buying, no credit check, no way for anyone to trace him.”
Faye chewed at her bottom lip. “Lila sounds like someone who might come looking for a guy she was mad at.”
“She never tried to hurt him,” I objected. “She just made him sorry for whatever he did to her.”
“And she was at a party with other people?”
“At the home of Andrew Yates, more than an hour from Allport.”
“I bet Yates could tell us some interesting things about Deline,” Retta said. “We should talk to him.”
“What are we going to learn that two Michigan State Police Officers didn’t?”
She shrugged. “Little things they might not think to ask about. I still consider Frannie our best suspect, but if we find out what Steve was like, we might understand what he did to make her kill him.”
“Retta,” I said sternly, “you can’t investigate a crime objectively if you’ve already decided who’s guilty.”
Faye had been tapping at her computer keyboard. “Andrew Yates owns a diner in Ward River called Morning Delight.” For some reason she supported Retta’s idea of interviewing Yates. When I thought about it I had to admit it would help to have a better picture of what kind of person Deline was.
Retta stood and turned to pick up her coat. “Want to have a late breakfast in Ward River tomorrow, girls?”
“The two of you can go. Mollie and I have a lot to do.”
“Okay,” I said, “but Rory thinks I should talk to Oscar Farwell.”
“Who?”
“He’s a welder who’s had a thing for Frannie since high school,” Faye explained.
“So he improved his chances with Frannie by making her fiancé dead?” Retta fluffed her hair so it laid nicely on her coat collar, and a new idea struck her. “Is he tall? Maybe he helped Frannie kill Steve!”
Faye hid a smile. “Oscar has a solid alibi.”
“He’s pretty shy. Rory thinks he might be more likely to talk to someone who isn’t from the police.”
Retta shrugged as if to say it was okay with her if I wasted my time. “No stone unturned, as they say. I’ll pick you up at nine.”
Faye followed Retta to the front door and grasped her elbow. I pretended not to, but I heard her speak in a voice that sounded like our mother’s. “No more leaving us out of things, Retta. I backed you this once, but remember, we’re a team.”
I was pleased that Faye made her displeasure clear. Not that it would help. Nothing anybody says has ever stopped Baby Sister from doing exactly as she wants.
I hadn’t yet met the new dog, so Faye led me to the dining room, the one place downstairs that Buddy, who is a real Houdini, couldn’t get into. That way she could safely leave the cage, which Faye said depressed her. I wasn’t sure I believed animals can be depressed, but the collie did seem mopey. Lying next to a heat register, she dozed with her head on her paws. The chew toys Faye had provided lay untouched.
“Let her sniff your hand,” Faye said once we’d closed Buddy out of the room.
Mollie responded with a single sniff before setting her head back down on her paws. “This is supposed to be a dangerous animal?”
Faye shrugged. “It had a lot to do with the company she was keeping.”
The dog seemed to have figured out that her life was completely different, but how could she know what that meant? If her natural personality was emerging, she was a completely different animal than the one Retta had seen at Kurst’s house. I hoped that was true.
“Hi, Mollie.” Faye stroked the dog’s silky head. “Unless you need me, I’m going to take her for a walk. Collies need outside time.”
“I’m guessing a leash isn’t something she’s experienced before.”
“Probably not. We’ll find out how much she trusts me.”
The leash wasn’t a problem. Faye walked Mollie around the table a few times, giving her slack. She seemed content to walk at the pace Faye set. Like every dog I’ve ever known, she stopped to sniff spots on the floor where there might once have been food, but when Faye jiggled the leash, she went obediently onward.
“Want to go out, Mollie?” Faye asked. “Out?” The dog sat down on the floor and looked up at her with a bright but uncomprehending gaze.
“She doesn’t seem to understand words.”
“I’ve tried Sit, Stay, In, and Out. She doesn’t know any of them.”
“Maybe Kurst speaks Mandarin Chinese at home,” I joked.
“Oh.” Faye looked thoughtful as she removed the band from the door handles. Calling through the door she ordered, “Buddy, get back!”
Surprisingly he obeyed, but when he realized Mollie was going for a walk and he wasn’t, Buddy howled with anger. Faye’s pleas for silence did nothing, but Dale heard the commotion and came to the rescue. Holding the dog’s collar he said, “Go ahead. We’ll be okay.”
Taking him at his word, Faye left. Mollie followed obediently, though I noticed she made a wide arc around Dale and the unhappy Buddy. When she was gone Dale said, “I’ll take him to the shop and play him a little Pink Floyd.”
“Your dog likes vintage rock and roll?”
Turning in the doorway, he flashed me a grin. “His favorite is ‘Another Brick in the Wall.’”
