The Pink Pony

by Charles Cutter

  Zeke-the-boy climbed off his bike and let it fall. “I can’t go any farther.”

  Just as Burr was about to talk to Zeke about the virtue of persistence, a carriage from the Grand stopped next to them. The passenger door swung open.

  “You look like you could use a ride,” said Anne with an e Halverson.

  “We’re just taking a little break,” Burr said.

  “A ride would be great,” Zeke-the-boy said.

  “We’re almost home.”

  “Climb in. You must be hungry,” Anne said.

  The driver hoisted the bike onto the luggage rack. Zeke-the-boy climbed in. The carriage set off, Burr and Zeke-the-dog following. Anne took them to the Village Inn, just off Main Street. The owner was a Harvard lawyer. Burr didn’t hold that against him because he let Zeke-the-dog lay under the table.

  “Burr, you simply must help us. Murdo’s lawyer doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t do criminal work.”

  “He won’t let me testify at the preliminary exam.”

  “I wouldn’t either.”

  The waitress arrived. “I’ll have a hamburger, fries and a chocolate shake,” Zeke said.

  The waitress turned to Anne. “Ma’am?”

  Zeke leaned over to Burr. “She’s going to order food that tastes like dirt.”

  “What was that?” Anne said.

  “Nothing,” Burr said.

  “Spinach salad. And iced tea,” she said.

  “Told you,” Zeke said.

  “And you, sir?”

  “Same as him. And a Labatt.”

  “And he’s going to cancel the preliminary exam.” Anne placed her napkin on her lap, but neither Lafayette followed suit.

  “Murdo is going to be tried for murder, with or without a preliminary exam,” Burr said.

  “It’s so unfair. We’re trying to get pregnant, and then this happens.”

  I’m not sure I needed to know that.

  “You could help us. You just don’t want to.”

  The food arrived. Burr passed a french fry to Zeke-the-dog.

  * * *

  Burr and the two Zekes spent the better part of the next week exploring the island, in Burr’s case re-exploring. They toured both forts, the battlefield, Skull Cave, the haunted museum. They made the rounds of every store that stocked treasures to catch the eye of a nine-year-old. They took the ferry from the island to Mackinaw City and St. Ignace just for fun. Mackinac Island was famous for its homemade fudge, and Zeke-the-boy was infamous for his sweet tooth. They spent so much time at Ryba’s Fudge that Burr swore off fudge for the rest of his life.

  Not a word from the Halversons and not a thought from Burr.

  A week later, Burr turned his sole heir over to the beautiful Grace, Burr and the two Zekes exhausted.

  * * *

  Burr rocked gently on the porch swing. He pushed off with his broken toe, almost better except for the nail now black as night.

  Two weeks into the longest vacation he’d had since college, Burr wasn’t sure if Jacob could last. He wasn’t sure Eve would ever leave.

  Burr thought he had just enough credit to make it two more weeks, maybe Labor Day if he was lucky. He was going to swing on the porch swing and watch the freighters pass through the straits, upbound and downbound, empty or full. He didn’t care which.

  He drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  “Mr. Lafayette. Mr. Lafayette.” Burr ignored the voice until a finger poked him. “Wake up, Mr. Lafayette.” Burr opened his eyes. Scooter. It was Scooter.

  Scooter rented the first floor of Burr’s building in downtown East Lansing. Burr had bought the six-story former Masonic Temple when he’d moved to East Lansing from Detroit. He had the building redone when he was still flush with cash. He put his office and living quarters on the top floor. The bottom floors were to be a restaurant and shops, offices above, but it hadn’t quite worked out that way. Scooter rented the first floor for Michelangelo’s, a quite good northern Italian bistro, even though he was a skinny WASP with a pasty complexion. Unfortunately, Scooter was just about it for the rent roll, and he was chronically late with the rent, which meant that Burr ate more than his fill of “free” Italian food.

  “Wake up, Mr. Lafayette.” Scooter poked him again.

  Burr shooed Scooter’s hand off his shoulder. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Scooter handed Burr a certified letter, return receipt requested. Burr studied the envelope, then set it next to him on the porch swing.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Scooter said.

  Burr scratched Zeke behind his left ear, the dog’s favorite place. “In the entire history of the universe, I have never received a certified letter that brought me one iota of good news. They’re always bad. Dunning letters, defaults, tax liens. Regular mail isn’t any good, either, except for the occasional check.”

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Scooter said again. He started wringing his hands.

  “No, Scooter. I don’t think I will.”

  “But I signed for it.” Scooter added pacing to the hand wringing.

  “I wish you wouldn’t have.”

  “Don’t you want to know what’s inside?”

  “It can’t be good.” Burr scratched Zeke’s left ear again.

  If dogs could purr, Zeke would.

  “It’s from the City of East Lansing. The city shut down your building, Mr. Lafayette.”

  “Did you open the letter?”

  “I would never do that, but the elevator doesn’t work right. It’s never worked right. In fact, the inspector got stuck in it.”

  “Which floor?”

  “Between four and five.”

  “That’s where it sticks,” Burr said.

  “You knew that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. There’s no tenants above the second floor,” Burr said.

  “Your office and apartment are on the top floor.”

  “I take the stairs,” Burr said, who didn’t trust elevators. “Scooter, stop wringing your hands and sit down.”

  “The fire department had to come.”

  Burr grinned.

  “The city closed the building.

  “They can’t do that.”

  “Which means my restaurant is closed.”

  “Your restaurant is on the first floor.”

  “I can’t pay the rent if Michelangelo’s is closed.”

  “You don’t pay the rent when it’s open.”

  Scooter tore open the letter, handed it to Burr and left.

  * * *

  Burr, his nap ruined, stewed for the better part of an hour. Then he changed into khaki slacks with a crease like the blade of a knife and a button-down, pinpoint oxford shirt with enough starch to pass for a two-by-four. He bicycled on Anne’s Tablet Trail, the semi-secret path through the woods to the fort, then he took Frog Alley across the island to the West Bluff. Lake Huron washed against the beach a hundred feet below.

  Burr parked his bike in front of the cottage Aunt Kitty had pointed out from the ferry.

  Martha answered. “Why, Mr. Lafayette. What can I do for you?”

  “I wonder if we might speak a moment,” he said, ready to eat crow. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course. Well, no, I think not. It’s so pleasant today … let’s sit on the porch.” She walked past him to a corner of the porch with a set of white wicker furniture.

  The two of them sat in silence. Burr looked down at the lake, the bridge and Lake Michigan beyond. For once in his life, he didn’t know what to say. Martha finally broke the silence. “What is it that you want, Mr. Lafayette?”

  “It’s about the case.”

  “Yes?”

  “There may be more to
it than you might think.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s a peculiar way of life here on the island, and especially in the U.P. I think you’d be well advised to have a lawyer who is familiar with the people and the way things are done here.”

  “You said that when we had lunch.”

  Anne came out to the porch. “Burr Lafayette, I thought I heard your voice.” Anne sat down with them.

  “Burr thinks we should hire local counsel, Anne dear. I was about to tell him that we hired the family’s lawyers.”

  “They haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.”

  “Where is Murdo?”

  “Detroit. He’s fiddling with his silly screw machines. That’s all he thinks about,” Anne said.

  “Murdo should never, ever have done business with that awful Jimmy Lyons,” Martha said. She turned to Burr. “Mr. Lafayette, you said yourself you aren’t a criminal lawyer.”

  “That’s true, but I know the island and I know the U.P.”

  “I’m sure our lawyers can handle this,” Martha said.

  “I tried to hire Mr. Lafayette, but he turned me down,” Anne said.

  That was before Scooter and the elevator.

  Anne put her hand on her mother-in-law’s arm. “Let’s hire him.”

  Martha looked at Anne’s hand on her arm, then at Burr. “How much do you need, Mr. Lafayette?”

  “Ten thousand,” he said. “To start.”

  * * *

  On his way back to Windward, Burr stopped at the Iroquois, a four-story, white frame hotel on the beach. He knew the chef, and he left with three fresh whitefish filets. Just as he was about to climb back on his bike, a very old man on a very old bike pulled up alongside him.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Lafayette.”

  “Willard, you’re just the man I was looking for.” Burr didn’t know Willard’s last name. In fact, he wasn’t sure that Willard had a last name. Willard was the Windermere’s dock porter and unquestionably the oldest dock porter on the island. He was at least eighty, skinny, with wispy, white hair. He still carried suitcases in the basket of his bicycle.

  Right across the street from the Iroquois, the Windermere, a three-story yellow house that had been converted to a bed and breakfast long ago and the place where he had courted Grace.

  “Willard, you’re just the man I was looking for,” he said again.

  “Whatcha need, Mr. Lafayette?”

  “Do you still have that typewriter?”

  “Yep.”

  “I wonder if I might borrow it.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m working on a case.”

  “It wouldn’t be that murder at the Pony, would it?”

  Everyone here knows everything about everybody.

  “Nasty business,” Willard said.

  “I guess so.”

  “Let me get you that typewriter. Then I’ve got to go.” He disappeared inside the big yellow house, then reappeared with a Remington, the old-fashioned kind with inky letters on metal rods that struck the paper.

  Eve isn’t going to like this.

  Willard set the typewriter next to the whitefish in Burr’s basket. “I got to get going. Guests coming in over at Shepler’s.” The old dock porter got on his bike and wobbled off.

  * * *

  “This is some of the most delicious fish I’ve ever eaten,” Jacob said.

  “It’s whitefish. A very large minnow,” Eve said.

  The three of them were sitting at one end of the massive oak table in Windward’s dining room. A soft summer breeze drifted in along with the fading summer sun. Zeke, ever on the lookout for a handout, camped at Burr’s feet.

  Jacob chewed slowly. “It’s so moist.”

  “What’s gone wrong?” Eve said.

  Burr ignored her, but he thought she looked radiant in a yellow sleeveless dress, even if she did have a bit of a farmer’s tan on her upper arms.

  Gardening will do that.

  “The dutchess potatoes are a fine pairing with the whitefish,” Jacob said.

  “It must be a big problem,” Eve said.

  “Stop it, Eve. Burr has the makings of a fine chef.” Jacob had his napkin stuck in his pink silk Hawaiian shirt with palm trees. “I think I may be actually beginning to like it here.”

  “Burr?”

  “Yes, Eve.”

  “The whitefish is exquisite, but what’s gone wrong?”

  “Actually, there is one thing.”

  Jacob chewed ever so slowly on a green bean. “I love french-cut green beans. What did you season them with?”

  “Dill,” Burr said.

  “It’s the elevator, isn’t it,” Eve said, not asking.

  How does she know?

  “The city closed the Leaning Tower of Lafayette, didn’t they?”

  Burr nodded. He’d named it Lafayette Towers, but the Leaning Tower of Lafayette had stuck.

  Eve finished her wine and poured herself another glass.

  “I’ll get it fixed,” Burr said.

  “With what?”

  Burr squirmed in his seat. He felt like a fifth-grader caught chewing gum in class. “We have a new case.”

  “We?” Eve drank her wine, not sipping. “How much to fix the elevator?”

  “About ten,” Burr said.

  “Ten what?”

  “Ten large.”

  “Ten thousand dollars?”

  “It’s an advance.”

  “It must be some case.”

  Burr poured himself another glass of wine.

  “Did you put olive oil on the beans?” Jacob said.

  “Extra virgin.”

  “I thought so.”

  “He hasn’t heard a word you’ve said.” Eve took a big swallow of wine. “What kind of case is it?”

  “Murder,” Burr said, “more or less.”

  Jacob finally caught up with them. He stuttered. His hands shook, spilling the beans on the floor. Zeke, no fan of vegetables, ignored them.

  “You know nothing about criminal law,” Jacob said.

  “I didn’t last time, either.”

  “I should have gotten back on the ferry before I got involved in the garden,” Eve said, mostly to herself.

  Burr retreated to the kitchen. He came back holding pie. “Cherry,” he said. “Fresh cherries from the Leelanau Peninsula.” He set the pie on the table and cut Jacob a healthy slice.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “All rise,” Henry Crow said.

  They all stood.

  “The court of the Honorable Takala Maki is now in session.”

  Judge Maki made his entrance.

  “You may be seated,” Henry said.

  They all sat, Karpinen at the prosecutor’s table. Burr, Murdo, and Jacob at the defense table. Martha Halverson, Anne, and Eve behind them. The gallery was overflowing, but then a murder in Mackinac County was big news, probably the only news.

  Judge Maki looked over the courtroom. “We are here today for the preliminary examination of Murdoch O. Halverson in order to determine if there is sufficient evidence to bind him over for trial for the murder of James P. Lyons.”

  The judge motioned at Burr to come forward. Burr stood in front of the judge. “Mr. Lafayette, are you wearing socks?” he said under his breath.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You may be seated.”

  We’re off to a good start.

  The judge looked at the prosecutor. “Mr. Karpinen, you may proceed.”

  The Mackinac County prosecutor stood. He had on a tan suit with a white shirt and solid blue tie.

  A bit pedestrian.

  “Your Honor,” Karpinen said, “in the early morning hours of Tuesday, July 18th, Mr. James P. Lyons of 5 Kingswood C
ircle, Birmingham, Michigan, was murdered in The Pink Pony.”

  “The Pink Pony,” the judge said, as if he hadn’t heard it at the arraignment.

  “Your Honor, The Pink Pony is a bar inside the Chippewa Hotel on Mackinac Island.”

  “I know where it is.”

  The gallery snickered. There wasn’t a soul within a hundred miles who didn’t know where The Pink Pony was.

  Judge Maki rapped his gavel. “Quiet.” Back to the prosecutor, “You may continue.”

  “Subsequently, Murdoch O. Halverson, of 539 Windmill Pointe Drive, Grosse Pointe Park, Michigan, was arraigned on an open murder charge. We are here today to show that sufficient evidence exists to charge Mr. Halverson with open murder.”

  There’s a clicking sound when Karpinen speaks.

  “Your Honor…” Another click.

  The judge cut him off. “What is that sound?”

  “Nothing, Your Honor.”

  “Stop the nothing sounds.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” More clicking.

  “Come up here,” the judge said.

  Karpinen limped up to the judge. “Yes, Your Honor?”

  “Open your mouth. Open your mouth and look at me.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Open your mouth.” Karpinen opened his mouth. The judge leaned forward and looked in.

  What’s going on?

  Judge Maki sat back in his chair. “Gus, where’s your bridge?”

  “My bridge?”

  The judge wagged his gavel at Karpinen’s mouth.

  “My bridge,” Karpinen said. “It’s in my pocket.”

  “Put the damn thing in your mouth. That clicking is driving me crazy.”

  The prosecutor fished around his shirt pocket, took out a three-tooth bridge and put in his mouth.

  “The prosecution calls Police Chief Arthur Brandstatter.”

  The clicking’s gone.

  Karpinen limped to the right of the witness stand.

  He still can’t bend his left leg.

  The chief waddled to the witness stand and the bailiff swore him in. Brandstatter beamed. Karpinen turned to Brandstatter, but his head didn’t move quite right. It looked like he couldn’t turn his head unless he turned his whole body with it.