Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
They finished up around six. I was starving and cursing the fact that the nearest McDonald’s was forty minutes away. Logically, I should go home and eat there, but at that particular moment Nana Cole’s house was about as appealing as a nuclear test site.
Also, Opal had left two messages before my phone died.
Begrudgingly, I drove out to Queens Way Mobile Home Park in Coldwater.
I parked across the street from the park since it was barely plowed.
Not that it was easier to park on Turtle Highway, I was just less likely to get stuck—though, more likely to have my car totaled by a semi.
Promising myself I’d be quick, I jumped out of my car and ran across the two narrow lanes of Turtle Highway. Honestly, most places in the country would be embarrassed to call it a highway. I could name wider residential streets in LA, but there you go.
When I knocked on Ronnie Sheck’s door, I noticed my hands were getting red and chapped from never wearing gloves. Maybe I needed to pay more attention. No. I reminded myself I wouldn’t be here much longer. Worrying about whether I had gloves to wear implied a permanence I couldn’t deal with.
Ronnie opened the door, and said, “Oh, you…” He stuck his head out and looked in each direction, didn’t see anything, and pulled me inside.
The same two stoned minions who were always there sat zoned out on the rancid looking sofa. Before I could ask another question, he unzipped my puffer coat and stuck his hand up under my sweater.
“Hey, that tickles.”
After withdrawing his hand, he said, “Sorry. We’ve been watching The Wire on HBO. It’s got me a little freaked out, you know?”
I didn’t, so I said, “Whatever.”
“I don’t have any benzos right now. I do have a big bag of thirties.”
Thirties meant Oxy, and despite every bone in my body screaming, “YES! I’LL TAKE THE WHOLE BAG!” I shook my head no.
“You sure? I’ve got a new source. This guy in Florida, he’s got ten or fifteen seniors on payroll. They go from doctor to doctor complaining about arthritis. It’s like a freaking faucet.”
Apparently, he thought I’d stopped Oxy due to low supply. I said, “Listen, I’m looking for a guy named Denny who works at the barbershop in Masons Bay. He likes to PNP.”
“Yeah, so… Why do you care?”
“I don’t really. Do you know Opal who works at Pastiche?”
“Dyke.”
“Yeah, uh… technically, I think she’s bi. Anyway, she’s got this thing for Carl Burke, who’s also bi, and he has a thing for Denny. And now Denny is missing, which upsets Carl, which upsets Opal, and now it’s upsetting me.”
“Well, I’m not upset. I don’t give a shit where he is.”
“He’s been gone a couple of days, probably having sex somewhere. I wondered if you might have some idea where that might be?”
“Yeah, you know, my clients expect a certain amount of confidence, or whatever, so how about you fuck off. If you’re not buying, you’re leaving.”
Okay, well, that was useless. I was about to go when I thought of something. “You showed me that shoebox of random drugs you have. Are there any heart medications in there?”
“I’m not a pharmacist…” he said, then he thought about it, and said, “I mean, amateur, sure, but… Hold on.”
Apparently, I’d sparked his curiosity. He walked out of the room, leaving me with his minions who looked like they might chop me up into bits just to break the monotony. Before they could decide about that, Ronnie was back with the shoebox. He picked through it as he walked.
“Crestor? Is that for the heart?”
I had no idea. “Is there anything in there that says Russell Belcher?”
He pushed the bottles around for a moment then said, “Oh yeah. Nitroglycerin?”
One of the minions said, “Boom.” He was right. It was the main ingredient in dynamite. But I was pretty sure it was also used to prevent a heart attack. I wasn’t sure why I knew that, but…
“Did you get that from Bobbie LaCross?”
“Probably, yeah. I mean she brought in the shoebox, and it was full of meds. Nothing good. I didn’t give her much for it. There was an inhaler in there and I sold that for twice what I paid for the box, so it was worth it.”
The whole thing was starting to come into focus.
Bobbie had stolen the box of medications, presumably to get her hands on the Oxy.
Before the drugs could be replaced, Russell had a heart attack and, without his nitroglycerin, died.
Patty knew about this and blamed Bobbie, believing she’d killed Russell.
Which is why she told me Bobbie had killed a man.
All of that happened about a year ago. The anniversary of Russell’s death triggered… Patty to kill Bobbie? No, that didn’t make sense. She’d have said why in the confession. The only reason to hide that was… Brian. Brian was the one who’d killed Bobbie. Patty confessed to protect him.
It was a leap, I know, but a good one. I looked closely at Ronnie, and said, “The police will be coming out here sometime soon.”
“How do you know that?”
“Patty Gauthier confessed to killing Bobbie, but I don’t think she did it. Brian Belcher did. I’m going to go into the sheriff’s office and tell them that tomorrow.”
Ronnie offered me the shoebox. “Take this and give it to them.”
“They’re still going to come out here.”
“Don’t mention my name.”
“I think they know your name.”
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
“When they come out, give them the box. Tell them you collect unused meds and give them to your neighbors—who I’m guessing don’t have health insurance. Tell them you traded Bobbie for some high-end allergy meds.”
“They’re not going to believe that.”
“No, they won’t. But they won’t be able to do anything about it since you’ll get everything out of here first.”
He thought about it for a long moment, then looked at his minions and motioned for them to start. Turning to me he said, “How about a couple Oxy on the house?”
I couldn’t bring myself to say no outright, so I said, “I’ll take a raincheck.”
Then he said, “Okay. There’s a house. It’s kind of up behind Masons Bay. On a cul-de-sac. There are like five houses, all snowbirds, sitting empty. People have been partying in there. You might want to check for Denny there.”
“Thanks.”
When I got out to Turtle Highway my car had not been destroyed by a semi, which was a relief.
I climbed in, pulled a U-turn, and headed back at low speed to Masons Bay.
I drove directly to Benson’s Country Store hoping to buy a sandwich, but unfortunately it was well after seven so they were closed.
I sat in their dark empty parking lot thinking about what to do next.
I wanted to call Opal and tell her where Denny might be. She’d have a better idea of where a hillside cul-de-sac of snowbirds might be, but my phone was completely out of juice and wouldn’t even come on.
I could just go home and call Opal from the landline while the damn mobile phone charged. But I just wasn’t up to running the gauntlet of my grandmother’s kitchen. There was a fifty-fifty chance she was furious with me. Well, sixty-forty. Okay, fine, seventy-thirty.
I toyed with the idea of going to Main Street Café and having dinner on my grandmother’s credit card but thought about what Ronnie had told me.
Behind Masons Bay. Main Street ran parallel to Lake Michigan.
There was a marina and a row of condos and a small beach.
There was also an arm-shaped peninsula that curled around enough to justify the Bay part of the village’s name.
Behind Masons Bay had to mean inland. There were several blocks ‘behind’ the village slowly rising uphill with the topmost streets having a lake view. The value of houses rose with each view and put the homes out of reach for locals. The cul-de-sac of snowbirds was likely up there.
It wouldn’t take too long. I’d just drive around up there and see what I could see. Then I’d either go home and have some dinner while Nana Cole plotted my demise, or I’d go ahead and pop into Main Street Café and have a burger.
I’d been up that way before. I’d gone to a book club meeting on Meadowlark Lane—and gotten stabbed—just a few months ago.
I didn’t recall any cul-de-sacs, but then I wasn’t looking for one.
I drove back and forth on Meadowlark Lane until I noticed a road that went further up the hill—I missed it the first time I passed.
The streets behind Masons Bay did have streetlights but not many, and the road that went further up the hill had none. Nor a street sign. I turned onto it and drove upward. Slowly—my car didn’t do hills well. Or snow. Or snowy hills.
I came across a street on the right and turned into it, and found myself in a cul-de-sac. Well that was easy, I thought, before I realized that two of the houses had well-plowed driveways and all their lights were on. People were at home. In the winter. This was not what Ronnie had described.
I turned around in a circle and went back to the road I’d come up.
I turned right and continued up the hill.
The next road I came to was on my left. I turned onto that road, only to find that it wasn’t a cul-de-sac.
Or at least it didn’t seem like one at first. It was a straight road, four houses on each side of the road, none of which seemed occupied.
Two of them were still for sale with signs from The Hanson Group.
At the end of the street I was going to turn around, but I noticed another road.
This one was poorly plowed but had several rows of tire tracks through the snow.
I decided it was probably wise to not try driving my car up that way.
I parked and turned out the lights. It got very dark.
Getting out, I zipped up my puffer coat, pulled the hat down tighter onto my head, and crammed the keys into my pocket.
Then I went around to the trunk. Shortly after my mother abandoned us and the snow began to fly, my grandmother told me I couldn’t bring the baby in my car unless I got an emergency kit for my trunk.
So now I drove around with a couple of road flares, reflectors, a tiny tool kit, tweezers, a flashlight, a plastic poncho, jumper cables, a tow rope, a first aid kit, gloves and a folding shovel.
Half of it seemed useless in an emergency, but there you go.
I found the flashlight, useful in this non-emergency, and walked up the hill.
Yes, this was another cul-de-sac. One that seemed particularly unoccupied.
The houses were dark, the driveways unplowed, and there was only one vehicle to be seen.
A red Thunderbird from the late eighties.
Denny’s Thunderbird. I’d seen him in it.
He was very likely in one of the four houses on the cul-de-sac. They were all dark though.
I walked over to the Thunderbird. It had been there a day or two since there was three inches of snow on it.
I pointed the flashlight through the windows to confirm the car was empty.
It was. With my flashlight, I began looking through the snow for footprints.
It made sense to start with the two houses closest to Denny’s car.
I found dimpled footsteps going up the driveway of the furthest house.
It was a recent, two-story house with a giant garage.
I followed the footprints around to the side of the garage where they disappeared in front of a door.
It was standing open, taking the unlocked door thing to a whole new level.
Stepping into the garage, I found that these snowbirds left a Jeep with a canvas top for summer use.
Hanging from the open ceiling was a canoe, against the back wall were four bicycles leaning on one another.
The door from the garage to the house stood open, which couldn’t be good for their heating bill.
Yes, they weren’t here, but you still had to heat the place—I’d learned this from random conversations. Generally, people left their thermostats at fifty when they left for the winter. It saved them money and prevented the pipes from bursting.
The door led directly into the kitchen. I went ahead and turned a light on. I mean, the entire neighborhood was vacated. Yeah, someone might notice the light through the trees, but I doubted they’d call the sheriff even if they did notice it.
The kitchen was a mess: a pizza box, a case worth of empty beer cans, several full ashtrays, a couple of vodka bottles—one of which was half full, a pile of rust-stained paper towels. That was blood. Not a lot. Not a murder amount of blood—I’d seen that before. This was more like nosebleed blood.
It was warm, very warm. Someone had turned the heat up and that wasn’t making the smell any better: cigarette smoke mixed with marijuana smoke, a sewer kind of smell that suggested I was going to find a stopped-up toilet, and something sour I couldn’t quite place.
The living room was in much the same condition as the kitchen: large coffee table held a bong, more beer cans, glasses, plates used as ashtrays, bits of aluminum foil, pipes, razor blades, rolled up dollar bills.
Two expensive sofas sat on either side of the coffee table facing each other.
Their seat cushions were on the floor. I could see that there were cigarette burns in both.
This was going to be an insurance claim.
I went up the stairs, turning lights on as I went.
I went into the first bedroom I came to and there was Denny.
He was lying naked on a stripped bed. He had a look of surprise on his pale, waxy face.
It didn’t take a medical degree to figure out he was dead.
I was standing in the middle of a crime scene.
I really need to stop doing that.