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IT’S KIND OF SATISFYING when Barbara has to ask me to do something she’d never be able to accomplish in a million years. A femme fatale she’s not, but charming men is my specialty. When she called I was on my way home from Ward River, and once she told me what was needed, it was just a matter of checking my hair and eyelashes. I was off to the Habedank Marina to meet Skip, Milo Habedank’s hull scraper, boat painter, and general helper.
I sat in a parking lot down the street for a few minutes, watching the comings and goings. Despite living on the shores of Lake Huron all our lives, we were farm girls and not much into boats. I’d driven by the building all my life, but now I studied it as an investigator would. Along the lakeshore were boat slips, maybe three dozen of them, empty now that it was winter. Between the building and the water was the boatyard, where a few specimens rested on whatever they call those wooden props that hold boats upright on shore. Judging by the peeling paint, some had been there a long time. Stretched along a full block of Lake Street was a building with several different roof levels. The center was high, with three bay doors interspersed with regular ones. Inside that section, boats were repaired or reconditioned during non-boating months. On either end of the building were one-story structures, meant for people.
The new boat store was at the north end, and it looked good. Deline had finished the outside work over the summer, and large, gleaming windows lined the street where there had once been small, grit-covered ones. The rough-hewn siding had been stained a chestnut brown, and boat-themed decorations dressed it up: a wheel, some netting, an anchor, and an array of fake fish. Inside the store, Milo Habedank was talking with a couple in their sixties. The woman had a list in hand, and she pointed at various items as they moved around the space. Milo was short and burly, of middle-European stock. We’d met a few times at our local Business After Hours, and he’d seemed interested in me. Since I hadn’t exactly been swept off my feet by talk of spinnakers and mast settings, no relationship had formed.
December customers were a lucky break for both of us. For Milo they meant business in his slow season, and for me they provided a chance to get Skip Smith alone. Milo’s man-of-all-boat-work was a talker if the subject was right, which meant either boats or scuba diving. He was also completely loyal to his boss, which Rory thought had led to Skip stonewalling the police investigation. My job was to get him to open up about the Habedanks without realizing he was doing it.
Bypassing the store, I walked along the wall of bay doors on the lake side, listening until I heard sounds inside. Approaching the nearest people-sized door, I knocked, waited, and knocked again. When it finally opened a crack, the face that appeared looked like something out of Dickens: sharp-nosed, petulant, and distrustful.
“Mr. H is up front.” The nasal voice went perfectly with the rabbit-like face.
I had already put on my “I really need your help” smile. “He’s busy, and anyway, I’m looking for you. Everyone says you know tons about Lake Huron.”
People love hearing that someone has said good things about them. The face relaxed a little and the door opened, revealing a frame that seemed stretched out of proportion, like a Gumby doll. “What you want to know?”
I shivered dramatically. “Is it warmer in there than it is out here?”
“I guess.” He stepped back to let me in. We stood facing each other for a moment, Skip looking way down and me way up. I shivered, another unspoken hint, and he led me to a space heater that fought bravely against the cold in the barn-like structure.
Skip looked like an alien since he’d been sanding a boat hull. He was dusted with blue from head to foot except where his respirator mask had covered. Blue dust blanketed the floor and hung in the air too. Since the color of my coat was ‘Vanilla Ice Cream,’ I didn’t get close enough to shake hands.
“My name is Margaret Sims, and my husband and I recently bought a cottage near here. We know there are shipwrecks in Lake Huron divers can visit, so we’re thinking of buying equipment and doing a little exploring next summer. I wondered what advice you have for us about getting the equipment we’d need.”
This was the most dangerous part, and I held my breath. Would Skip accept my claim I wasn’t a local? It’s hard to believe a life-long resident of Allport wouldn’t recognize me, but I hoped a man who spent his days either at work or underwater might not know about Margaretta Stilson, community organizer, local detective, and semi-famous widow. My hope became truth, and Skip started right in on the topic of diving.
I’d resigned myself to a lot of listening, and he didn’t disappoint. As he spoke of the finer points of rebreathers, I focused on looking interested. I’d done a quick Google search, so I was able to ask a question whenever he slowed down. Skip suggested renting equipment until we decided if we wanted to invest in our own and confided that most wrecks close to shore were of mild interest at best. Thrilled to have an audience, he went on for some time, telling me more about Lake Huron than I ever wanted to know.
“I told my husband you’d be helpful,” I said when he finally ran out of steam. “He said we should go to the dive shop, but they’d just want to make a sale. I wanted the truth about what’s out there.”
His chest expanded a little. “Yeah, they make exploring Lake Huron sound like you’re visiting the Titanic.” Rubbing his face with one hand, he smeared blue dust under his nose. “Like I said, what’s around here is pretty disintegrated, and it’s mostly boats that got scuttled on purpose.”
“You’ve been a great help.” I got my gloves out and began putting them on. “I see you’re doing some remodeling here. Business must be good.” I purposely made it sound like I believed he was more than a hired hand. People who’ve worked at the same place for years feel proprietary, even if they’re not the proprietor.
Skip’s shoulders straightened. “Customers like a nice showroom.”
“Are you doing the work yourselves?”
He huffed a laugh, hinting they were much too busy for that. “Mr. H hired a guy.”
“Is he any good? We need work done on our cabin.”
“He was.” Skip loomed closer, eager to share the bad news. “He got murdered.”
I gasped in apparent shock. “Did they catch who did it?”
“Not yet.” In the “Don’t worry your pretty little head” tone some men use he added, “They don’t think there’s any danger to the general public. The chief told me the guy probably brought it on himself.”
Rory Neuencamp would never have said anything remotely like that, and certainly not to a private citizen. Skip was attributing his own beliefs to someone with more authority than he had. “Was the guy who got killed hard to get along with?”
Skip shrugged lightly, the first bit of resistance I’d encountered.
“I suppose you didn’t know him that well.” The slightest hint a person isn’t informed enough on a topic to comment on it is almost sure to elicit said comment.
“I knew him well enough. He was living here while he did the work, so we talked sometimes.” He pointed vaguely to his right. “We got a little apartment down there with a kitchenette and all that.”
I made my eyes wide. “The murder victim actually lived here?”
“Yeah. He did the noisy stuff after hours so he didn’t bother the customers.” Skip leaned toward me, and I realized under all that blue paint beat the heart of a gossip. “Turned out he was working on the boss’ daughter and the cabinets.”
I drew back in fake surprise. “Was Mr. Habedank mad about that?”
Skip considered. “Irritated, maybe, but Frannie told him her and Deline were gonna get married.”
“I can’t believe you knew someone who was murdered,” I said, making my voice breathy. “What was he like?”
“Steve?” Skip shrugged. “He liked to joke around a lot.” His forehead creased. “Called me Stretch, but he wasn’t the first to do that.”
“Being a joker doesn’t usually get a person murdered.”
Skip shrugged. “He pushed it, you know? His jokes were funny for a while, but they got irritating. He’d hide my tools, and once he glued my lunchbox shut with superglue.” His mouth twisted. “Ruined it.”
“Did he do that kind of thing to Mr. Habedank, or to Frannie?”
“Heck no. Guys like Steve know who they can mess with.”
Echoes of Willy Gunther. Skip was low man on the totem pole, fair game for the likes of Steve Deline.
“But he and Mr. Habedank got along okay?”
“I don’t know.” I’d have seen the lie even if I hadn’t known of undercurrents at the marina. “He did good work.” Skip rubbed a hand along his face, smirking a little. “Of course, to hear him tell it he was a regular Mike d’Angelo.” When I frowned in confusion he explained, “Remember that movie, how the Pope was always mad because of how slow he painted the chapel? It was kinda like that around here.”
“They argued sometimes.”
Skip retreated. “It wasn’t nothing important.”
Choosing my words carefully I said, “I might have been able to help Mr. Habedank. An attorney can sometimes speed up a contractor.”
“You’re a lawyer?” It interested Skip more than it should have, but that’s exactly what I’d hoped. If there was something he should have told Rory and didn’t, he’d see my visit as a chance for free legal advice. Friends in the legal profession say that desire is almost universal.
“The law is a very satisfying career.” Again, careful wording left it possible but unconfirmed that I myself was a lawyer.
As I’d hoped, Skip’s fears came to the surface. “Tell me this: If a guy—I mean, I got this friend who knows something the police probably should hear, but he doesn’t want to get anybody in trouble. This friend needs to know if he has to tell if it ain’t like, real important. I mean, it could be, but he doesn’t think it is. Important.” After a second he added, “What would a lawyer say about that?”
I pretended to consider. “I guess it would depend on what the information was.” He scowled, unwilling to be more specific, but his feet shifted in a nervous pattern. “Does it have to do with the murder?”
“Um, no. It’s not that.”
“Because if it does, your friend has to tell the police what he knows.”
His jaw set, and I used a trick I’d seen on TV. “Give me a dollar.” When he looked at me in confusion I explained, “If you pay a lawyer, that person can’t tell anyone what you say, right?”
Skip’s whole body relaxed. Whatever he knew was worrying him a lot, and I’d given him a way to seek advice and remain safe. Okay, I wasn’t a lawyer, but I planned to give him the same advice a real attorney would: tell the police what he knew.
Taking out a wallet that looked like it had been handed down for generations, Skip handed me a single. I stuck it in my pocket and said, “All right. Now tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Milo found something bad on his credit card bill. Something to do with Steve.”
I tried to remain casual, but this was what I’d come for. “Mr. Habedank talked to him about it?”
Another shrug. “I heard him hollering at somebody on the phone, but I think it was Frannie. He was really mad, and he mentioned ten thousand dollars.”
“When was this?”
He shrugged again, a regular study in monotone body language. “A day or so before the murder.” He frowned as if realizing he might have gone too far. “He was downstate when Steve got killed. Milo couldn’t have done it.”
“What exactly did you hear him say?”
He lowered his head like an unhappy bull. “Soon as I figured out it was about money, I left. Things like that get out of hand fast.”
“I’m sure you’re right about that.”
“Do I have to tell the cops?”
Again I modeled thoughtful consideration. “I’m afraid you do. But I could pass on the information anonymously. That way, if it doesn’t pertain to the investigation, no one will ever know you said anything.” Rory would contact Milo and ask what the angry phone call had been about, but he wouldn’t reveal his source of information.
Skip’s face cleared. “Would you do that?”
I smiled. “Hey, I’ve got the fee you paid in my pocket, haven’t I?”
A look at Deline’s apartment was on my agenda, but I didn’t think asking Skip to show it to me was wise. A person who’d come to ask about shipwrecks couldn’t very well sell the idea she’d suddenly become interested in a guided tour of the marina. Even if he agreed to let me see it, Skip would no doubt stay with me. What I really needed to do was to get in there by myself and see what the state police crime unit might have missed. I decided it was better to sneak in, though I could hear Barbara Ann screaming in my head: Impersonating a lawyer! Lying to a witness! Illegal entry! Our reputation! Woe is me!
Thanking Skip again for his advice on diving, I left by the same door I’d entered. Instead of heading for my car, I began trying doors farther along the building. The first one was locked. So was the last one on the lake side. I moved around to the end wall, which faced the parking lot of the Sea Breeze Motel. A window there had curtains instead of blinds, which meant it was the apartment. That door was also locked. I had to go around to the front of the building, where cars were passing on the street and I’d be in full view. Pulling the hood of my coat up to hide my face and hair, I made my way down the sidewalk, trying doors as if I had every right to do so. Everything I’ve read says that a B&E person who appears confident attracts almost no notice. It’s skulkers who stick in the minds of witnesses.
When I tried a door near the center of the building, the knob turned in my hand. Stepping inside, I paused to listen. A power sander whined somewhere. Skip was back at work.
A short hallway bisected the structure, crossed eight feet down by another that ran the length of it. On my right it led to the showroom, where I heard Milo Habedank still talking with the couple I’d seen earlier. From their enthusiastic description of an upcoming trip around the Gulf of Mexico, I figured I could wander unseen for a while.
Turning left, I went toward the end of the building where I’d seen the curtained window. Doors with glass panels opened onto the boat bays on one side, and I ducked as I passed them in case Skip was there. On the opposite side were rooms filled with parts and supplies and a few offices. At the end was a door with a remnant of crime scene tape still stuck to the jamb. The apartment. When I turned the knob, the door opened. In a second I was closed inside.
Before anything else, I took a minute to text Barbara. MH fought w/SD ovr CC bill. She’d get the information to Rory, and I could fill them both in fully when I saw them again.
Steve Deline’s living style was what I’d call moderate bachelor, not a pigsty by any means but not neat either. Some of the mess was from the search, and fingerprint powder still covered most surfaces. I tried to look past what the police had done and judge the apartment’s now-deceased occupant.
Rejecting a three-legged dresser that had definitely seen better days, he’d stored his belongings in two plastic tubs that sat along the wall, one closed, the other open with half a shirt hanging out. In the bathroom were his razor, toothbrush and paste, blow dryer, and some skin lotion that promised extra moisture. The bed was made haphazardly, and a towel hung crookedly on the rack. My fingers itched to straighten it. I didn’t, but it was hard.
I soon realized I wouldn’t find anything the police had missed, but I could get a sense of Deline as a person. I wandered the room, looking at everything. A sheet of photos stuck in the mirror on the dresser caught my interest. They were 2x3 prints, all the same pose: Deline and Frannie standing on the lakeshore. Steve had gone for the George Michael look, brooding eyes and a three-day beard. He was a little heftier than the Divine GM, but he almost pulled it off.
Beside him, Frannie wore one of those missing-shoulder blouses that tend to make a woman look like a Disney character. They both smiled at the camera, but Steve looked impatient, and I imagined him resenting the time some photographer took lining up the shot.
They were posed to the right of the shot, so the photo was mostly lake, but behind them the branches of a maple tree burned with fall color. Frannie’s left hand rested casually on her upper right arm, and a diamond ring winked from her third finger. Superimposed on the water in black lettering were the words, Steven Deline & Frances Habedank: Engaged-October 7, 2017.
I didn’t recall seeing the photo in the local paper, but I could have missed it.
Suddenly there was a step in the hallway outside the room, and the doorknob turned. I was no longer alone.
