He heard the machinery in the elevator room clanking. “Zeke, old pal, it sounds like it’s working. A few minutes later, the door to the roof opened and out popped the city building inspector, followed by one of East Lansing’s finest, sidearm in its holster, unlike the flashlight-armed Chief Brandstatter.
Why in the world do we need a cop to certify this God-forsaken elevator?
“Good afternoon, Mr. Otis,” Burr said.
“Don’t press your luck, Lafayette,” the inspector said, a gangly man with glasses that dug into the bridge of his nose. With all the ups and downs he’d had with the damned elevator, Burr thought pressing his luck was just the thing to do. The inspector walked over to the elevator room and unlocked the door. He disappeared inside. The policeman, a Hardy to the inspector’s Laurel, glared at Burr, hands on his hips. Burr decided not to wonder why he was here. More clanking from inside the room. At last, the inspector came out. Burr was sweating from the heat on the roof.
The inspector took off his glasses. “Mr. Lafayette, I’m afraid I have no choice but to certify this elevator. Extraordinary.”
“Thank you. Now I really must be off.”
The cop stepped forward. “Not just yet, Mr. Lafayette.” He took off his hat, his creamy skin remarkably similar to Oliver Hardy’s.
“Officer Friendly. I have an appointment.”
“Step over here, Mr. Lafayette.” The cop walked around to the east side of the elevator room, out of sight. Burr followed him around the corner.
“What are these?” said the officer, not so friendly.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Burr said, who did.
There before him in five-gallon ceramic pots, a half-dozen cannabis plants. About seven feet tall, healthy looking and well-tended.
“I’m sure you know that these are marijuana plants,” the cop said. “And while possession of less than an ounce of marijuana is a misdemeanor in East Lansing, growing this much dope is a felony.”
“I am aware of that,” Burr said, not liking at all where this was headed.
“Are these your plants?”
“No.”
“Do you know whose they are?”
Burr wiped the sweat off his brow. “No, I don’t,” he said, but did.
“Since you’re the owner of this building, I have no choice but to arrest you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Officer Friendly took the handcuffs from his belt.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Burr woke up with a terrible kink in his back. He sat up, swung his legs off the bunk and stood up, or tried to. He fell back on the bunk. He tried to stand up again and fell back again. Maybe standing up isn’t a such a good idea.
Burr had done all he could to convince Officer Friendly that the handcuffs weren’t necessary. Actually, he had begged. Officer Friendly, whose given name was Majeski, said he always cuffed felons. It didn’t matter to Majeski that Burr wasn’t a felon until he was convicted or that Burr said they weren’t his plants, and calling him Officer Friendly probably hadn’t helped. The cop led him through the lobby of his building, where Burr left Zeke in Scooter’s care. The cop drove him the two blocks to the jail on Abbott Road, in the basement of the City of East Lansing offices, one floor below 54-B District Court, where Burr was charged with possession of marijuana in excess of one ounce. The judge, a pudgy man in his fifties, set bail at one-hundred-thousand dollars. Ten-thousand would have freed Burr, but the judge – wisely, Burr thought – wouldn’t take a personal check.
So, here he was in the drunk tank, sober as a judge, with a kink in his back and waiting to be rescued.
Eve arrived at noon. The jailer unlocked his cell.
“Sleep well?” she said.
“Like a baby.” Burr managed to stand this time, but he was bent over at the waist and the neck.
“You look like a pretzel,” Eve said.
“What took you so long?”
“It’s three and a half hours after you get off the island.”
“What about yesterday?”
“I had to deadhead the zinnias yesterday.”
“Of course.”
“About the bail,” she said.
Burr shuffled past her. “What about the bail?”
“A cashier’s check. From my personal account. How are you going to pay me back?”
Burr handed her the check he had just gotten from Martha Halverson and headed to the stairs.
“This is just peachy. We’re right back where we started.”
Burr tried the stairs. His right leg seemed to work just fine, but he couldn’t quite get his left leg going. Finally, he lifted it with both hands.
Eve passed him on the way up. At the top of the stairs, she turned back to him. “Just how are you going to pay me back?”
Eve waited for him at the top of the stairs.
“I enjoy a regular paycheck. At least I used to.” She stormed out.
Burr limped after her. He retrieved Zeke from Scooter, his dog, unlike Burr, no worse for wear, the pasta diet apparently agreeing with him. Burr ripped up the parking ticket off the Jeep and drove off.
By late afternoon, Burr had reached the sanctuary of Windward’s porch swing. Jacob sat next to him.
“I’ll be shocked if Mueller can make any sense out of any of those fingerprints,” Jacob said. “And if he does, Karpinen will roast him. He’s blind as a bat.”
Burr scowled at Jacob, who smiled back at him.
“Back a little stiff?” Jacob said.
“Just a bit.”
“Sleep in the wrong position?”
“I spent last night in the East Lansing jail. In the drunk tank. On a steel bunk. Which is why my back is like a two-by-four. I’ve been charged with felony possession of a controlled substance. It took the ten thousand-dollar advance to post bail.”
Jacob mumbled something.
“There were six of the healthiest marijuana plants I have ever seen growing on my roof. Behind the elevator room. You need to write me a check.”
Jacob took off his glasses and looked at Burr. “How tall were they?”
“At least seven feet.”
Jacob beamed.
“We have no money and there will be hell to pay if Karpinen finds out about the drug charge.”
“It will never stand.”
“How did those plants get so big? With you here on Mackinac Island.”
“Scooter watered them.”
“Why in God’s name did you put those plants behind the elevator building?”
“That’s where the best sun is.”
* * *
Burr pedaled down British Landing Road to the lake, past the fort, the cemetery, the airport, the golf course, which had been the battlefield. Ten minutes later, Carole opened the door. She wore a sleeveless peach dress with little yellow flowers. It was nicely above her knees, nicely below her neck, and it showed off all her curves. Her dress went with her hair, and her white sandals showed off her tan. She kissed him on the cheek and invited him in.
It was a small, two-story white frame house, kitchen and living room with an island in between and a half bath on the first floor. Two bedrooms upstairs. She left him in front of a window that filled most of one wall and returned with a drink in each hand.
“Bombay. Very dry, very dirty.”
“How did you know?”
“I was at the Pony that night, too.” She took him to a glass door at the far-right side of the room. “If I stand on my tiptoes and look way over there, I can see the lake through the trees. The view’s better when the leaves are gone, but by then it’s too cold out here.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s not exactly beautiful, but it’s mine.” She opened the door and they went out to the deck. “How a
bout if you light the grill while I go make the salads.”
Two martinis later, they’d finished the chicken and the salads. Carole put the dishes in the sink. “Come with me.” She took him outside, a blanket in one arm. She handed him a bottle of wine and two glasses.
They took a path through the woods, across the road and through a break in the cedars to the beach. They walked across the rocks to a patch of sand. Carole spread out the blanket. Burr opened the wine and poured them each a glass.
Kim Crawford. How did she know?
Lake Huron in front of them. Cedars behind.
Carole sat down next to him. She pulled her dress down. “I’m not really dressed for this.”
“What a view,” Burr said.
They finished the bottle. Carole scrunched up next to Burr. He kissed her on the lips. She kissed him back. He put his hand on her knee, then slid his hand under the hem of her dress. He stroked the inside of her thigh. Carole sighed. Burr reached further up her leg and felt her silky panties. Carole’s breathing sped up. Burr brushed his fingers across her panties.
Then she pushed him away.
Now what do I do.
Carole reached under her dress and wiggled out of her panties.
* * *
“Another twenty-five yards and we’re free and clear,” Stanley Mueller said.
Another twenty-five yards and they’ll haul me out of here in a pine box. Which is all I can afford.
“You all right?”
“Fine,” Burr said.
“We’re hard aground. Put your shoulder into it.”
Burr pushed the boat again.
“We’re moving”
A foot. Maybe.
Sweat ran down Burr’s forehead and down his back. He was cooking in his waders.
Mueller had called and said he’d matched some of the prints. Burr had asked him to bring the prints to the island, but Mueller said he didn’t drive much anymore. Burr asked Mueller to mail the prints, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
So here they were, a quarter mile out in Saginaw Bay. Hard aground in ankle deep water courtesy of a southeast wind and the heaviest duck boat Burr ever had the misfortune to push. The boat was magnificent, even if it weighed as much as an elephant. An eighteen-footer with a V-hull and a blind brushed with fresh cut cedar. A work of art. Plus, hand-carved Canada goose decoys. Cedar with lead keels. Hand painted in black and white.
The only reason I’m here is so he has someone to hunt with.
Another shove and the boat floated. Zeke showed up from somewhere with a stick in his mouth and jumped in the boat. Mueller pulled the starter cord and they were off. Ten more minutes and Mueller cut the engine. Burr dropped the anchor in two feet of water. It dug into the sand and the bow swung into what little wind there was. Burr set the goose decoys upwind from the boat. Mueller passed more hand-carved decoys, mallards and teal.
These belong in a museum, not in Saginaw Bay.
Burr climbed in and sat on the bench. Zeke looked out the dog door. Burr lit the first cigarette of the season. The smoke burned his throat.
“That’ll kill you,” Mueller said.
My guess is something else will kill me first.
Five minutes later there were ducks everywhere but not a goose in sight. “Stanley, about the fingerprints.”
“Quiet. You’ll spook the geese.”
“There’s not a goose within a mile of us.”
“Right there.” Mueller nodded to the south. “He’s coming in.”
“That’s a crow.”
“It’s not shooting hours anyway.”
“About the fingerprints.”
“There’s time for that later.” Mueller said.
“What did you find?”
Mueller dug through his bag and found his calls. He untangled the lanyards and strung them around his neck.
“Whoever lifted those prints did a piss poor job. Piss poor. As long as you’ve got ’em, pass me a cigarette.” Burr handed Mueller a cigarette and flipped open his lighter, a gold Zippo from better days.
Mueller puffed on the cigarette, like it was a pipe. “It was a piss poor job of lifting prints. Some of those smudges aren’t Murphy’s.”
“Murdo’s.”
“What kind of name is that anyway?”
“It’s short for Murdoch.”
Mueller puffed on the cigarette again. “I wish I had one of my glaucoma cigarettes.”
“You mean a joint?”
“Joints are for dopers. Mine are medicinal.” He flicked the cigarette over the side. “There were other prints on them lights.”
Maybe this wasn’t a waste of time. “Did you match them to any of the ones we gave you?”
“Hard to know for sure, but I’d say so.”
“Who matched?”
“I don’t remember.”
* * *
A week later, Burr made his last trip south before the trial. School was about to start, and Burr had promised Zeke-the-boy he’d sign him up for football. Grace was dead set against it, but if Zeke-the-boy’s pain threshold was anything like his own, his sole heir’s football career wouldn’t last long.
They took in a Tigers game on Saturday. Gibson homered. Trammel and Whittaker turned three double plays, Petry pitched a complete game, and the Tigers beat the Yankees 5-1. Burr made sure Zeke ate too much unhealthy food. He and the two Zekes had their own sleepover at the Edge Motel. Breakfast at the Big Boy at Vernier and Mack, where the chief attraction was hot chocolate with whipped cream thick enough to make a snowball.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Burr tap, tap, tapped his brand-new Number Two yellow pencil. He looked up and to his left at the window. There was a little green left on the sugar maple, but most of the leaves had turned orange and yellow. It was still September, but fall always had a head start in St. Ignace.
Murdo sat to his left in what his client had said was his shabbiest suit, not shabby by Burr’s new standards, but it would have to do. Jacob sat next to Murdo. Behind them Eve, Anne next to her, demure in a stodgy brown dress that did nothing for her. She’d also followed directions. Martha, who did and wore what she damn well pleased, sat next to Anne.
I hope I don’t need her for anything.
Aunt Kitty sat next to the matriarch.
Burr looked across the aisle at the prosecutor with the gimpy knee, smiling to himself.
We haven’t even started yet.
Past Karpinen, the jury box. It was empty for now, and that’s why they were here today.
Burr thought Karpinen might well have reason to smile. For all the sleuthing he and Jacob had done, all they had were a few smudges and a nearsighted fingerprint expert. He had a few suspects, but Murdo probably had more reason to murder Jimmy than any of the others. At least no one had seen him do it.
Here he was on the opening day of the trial, and the best he could do for a defense was reasonable doubt. He had nothing else to show for all he’d done.
“All rise,” Henry Crow said.
They all stood. Chairs scraped on the floor. Clothing rustled. Assorted noises from the gallery, packed to the gills, the murder still front-page news, especially since The St. Ignace News was a weekly.
The Honorable Judge Arvid Lindstrom entered from the back of the courtroom, flowing to the podium in his black robes. He smiled at the court reporter, a young blonde with a small nose and big ears, who sat just below him and to his right. Lindstrom sat.
“Be seated,” Henry Crow said.
Lindstrom cracked his gavel. “We are here for the trial of Murdoch O. Halverson, who is accused of murdering James Lyons during the early morning hours of July 18th at The Pink Pony on Mackinac Island. Gentlemen, we’ll begin with jury selection. Bailiff, call the first person from the jury pool.”
“Eugenie Gu
nthorpe,” the bailiff said. From somewhere in the back of the courtroom, a massive woman in her fifties struggled to her feet and started down the aisle.
Lindstrom looked down at a file on his desk, “Just a minute. Stay right there, Ms. Gunthorpe.”
“It’s Missus,” said the missus.
Lindstrom ignored her, but Burr thought the judge probably hadn’t heard her.
“Mr. Lafayette, Mr. Karpinen, please approach the bench.” Burr walked and Karpinen limped up to the judge. He picked up the file in front of him and looked down at Burr. “Is it true that you’ve been charged with felony possession of marijuana?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Don’t lie to me counsel.” Lindstrom put the file down and tapped it with his glasses. “According to this, which Mr. Karpinen was good enough to provide me, you have been charged with growing marijuana on the roof of your building in East Lansing.”
Damn it all.
“I will not have a lawyer accused of a felony in my courtroom.”
“Your Honor, I haven’t been charged with a crime.”
“Have you been arraigned?”
“Yes, Your Honor, but . . .”
“No buts. Get out.” Lindstrom pointed his gavel at the door in the rear of the courtroom. “I will not have accused felons practicing in my courtroom.”
Burr looked out the window. A fiery orange maple leaf fell from the tree. He looked back to Lindstrom. “Your Honor, there’s nothing in the court rules that permits a sitting judge to do this.”
Lindstrom gave him a deadly look. “Mr. Lafayette, I am an unimportant man in an unimportant place. A circuit judge in a backwoods county. But,” he said, brightening, “within these four walls, I am God.” Lindstrom paused. “God,” he said again. “And if I say get out and don’t come back until you have dealt with your felonious behavior, then that is what you shall do.”
“Your Honor,” Burr said. “I object.”
“Good for you. Make sure you write that down, Billie,” he said to the court reporter who rather seemed to be enjoying the drama. “This godforsaken trial will surely be over by the time your appeal is heard. Now, get out.”
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