“Do we know where the church is?” Tina said, changing the subject.
“About a half mile short of the light at US 27,” Henri said, pointing at the nav screen.
“Didn’t you tell me you’d met Kate’s sister?” I asked Tina.
“Once. Lois joined Kate and me for breakfast in Brutus.”
“The Camp Deli,” Henri said, phrased in a way that suggested a favorable critique. “Gone but not forgotten.”
“She’s quieter than Kate, shy maybe. They were really quite fond of each other, comfortable together. That was obvious when you were with them.”
“How’d she end up in Indian River?” I said. “Weren’t they from Indiana?”
“Evansville,” Tina said. “Lois won a scholarship to Northwestern, the year before Kate took off for Champaign-Urbana. Lois met a messed-up guy, from what Kate said. From Indian River. He dropped out, Lois followed him. He dumped her.”
“Familiar story,” Henri said.
“Uh-huh,” Tina said. “Kate and I hit it off. We were both rookies at Gloucester. She was eager to learn, be a professional on the way up. Living in downtown Chicago was a world away from southern Indiana. We learned the business together.” Tina let out a small laugh. “We learned about life in Chicago, too. I liked her. So sad.” Tina put the tissue to her eyes, holding it there.
Our ride across M-68 was happily uneventful. Around the south end of Burt Lake we passed driveway after driveway that disappeared into the woods, leading to lakefront houses. It was a familiar northern Michigan saga. Many of the original clapboard-sided summer cottages had been replaced over the years by more expansive and expensive year-round houses. The quaint charm of another small summer community had vanished.
“On the right,” Henri said. “The church.”
I looked up as Henri slowed, turned off the highway, and followed the curvy drive up into the woods. Three cars were parked away from the walkway that led to the traditional red doors of an Episcopal church. Several more cars and trucks dotted the lot.
A black Chevy Tahoe with heavily tinted windows sat by itself in the last row, shadowed by overhanging trees.
“We’ve got company,” Henri said.
30
“What’s the matter? What do you mean?” Tina said, startled by Henri’s comment.
We had arrived at Transfiguration Episcopal Church twenty minutes before Kate Hubbell’s memorial service. By church standards, Transfiguration was a new parish, founded in the 1950s. It was not until the late 1960s that services were held in the new, contemporary building tucked in the woods near Burt Lake State Park. With tall, peaked roof lines, slender windows, and a bell tower above a covered walkway, it blended comfortably with its surroundings.
“The black SUV, by the trees,” Henri said. “Little obvious just sitting there.”
“It’s Jimmy Erwin,” I said.
“Who’s Jimmy Erwin?” Tina said.
I recounted my time with Erwin at Palette Bistro.
“Is that right?” Henri said. “And that’s why we have Joey DeMio’s gunman here this morning?”
“Don Joey’s worried about being blamed for a crime?” Lenny said. “That’s one for the books. You think it’s bullshit?”
“Can’t be sure,” I said, “but I’ll cut Joey some slack on this one. If he has no stake in Lenny’s saga of corruption, he has every reason to not want Kate’s murder tied to him.”
“So Erwin’s going to be with us for a while then,” Henri said.
“Seems that way,” I said.
“I have to find the priest before the service starts,” Lenny said, opening the rear door. “Meet you inside.”
We exited Henri’s SUV as a white Chrysler 300 pulled in behind us. The doors opened and out stepped Maury Weston and Kate’s boss, Charles Bigelow from Chicago.
We said our hellos as Bigelow greeted Tina with a comforting hug. She cried softly into his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she said to no one in particular, and he patted her back.
“When did you get in?” Lenny asked Bigelow.
“Flew up this morning. Maury filled me in over breakfast.”
“I asked Charles if he thought the book tour should continue,” Weston said.
Lenny stared at Weston, then Bigelow. “Seriously? You might cancel?”
Bigelow put his hands out in a gesture implying things ought to be taken easily. He’d come a long way from the arrogant, insufferable man I first met in Weston’s office. The pain of death, the fear of attack, has a way of changing people.
“We’re just talking about it,” Bigelow said. “Nothing’s been decided, but we need to discuss it.”
“I’m against it,” Lenny said. “Lunch at the Iroquois … it’s the last stop.”
“Except the wrap-up in Chicago,” Bigelow said.
“You’ve got your own security people in Chicago. That one’s all VIPs, Charles. You don’t want to quit on them, do you?”
“I don’t want to quit the Iroquois either, Lenny, but we’re still going to discuss it after the funeral.”
“Well, you goddamn better make up your mind, Charles. Mackinac’s on for tomorrow, I plan to go.”
Lenny spun around. “Have to find the priest,” he said, and walked quickly away from us.
“He’s right, Charles,” Tina said. “We can’t quit on Mackinac Island, or Chicago. The book’s still going to come out, isn’t it?”
Bigelow nodded. “Of course.”
The parking lot was more than half full of cars, trucks, and SUVs. Some people were dressed in business wear, others in clothes more suited to a day off, but variety of attire was the norm for northern Michigan gatherings.
The church bell echoed in the woods. “It’s almost time,” Tina said. We joined the other mourners and entered the church. People ambled down the red carpet on the center aisle and fanned out into dark wooden pews. Charles led our little group into a pew a few rows back from the altar. Lenny rejoined us and took the outside seat. Henri remained near the door, off to one side.
Piano music, hymns probably, softly filled the air. A small table sat in the middle of the aisle, in front of the altar. On it was a sky-blue ceramic jar. Kate Hubbell’s ashes.
Tina leaned in close to my ear. “The first row, other side on the end. That’s Kate’s sister.” I only glimpsed Lois Hubbell’s curly black hair through several rows of mourners.
I turned toward the back of the church. The pews were about half full. Alone, in the last row, sat Jimmy Erwin, looking somber, arms folded across his chest.
A door opened to one side of the altar as I turned around. The music faded away. The priest, who I assumed to be the rector of Transfiguration, walked slowly forward and welcomed everyone to the service.
He opened a prayer book. “I am the resurrection and I am life …”
The quiet in the church was interrupted only by the occasional sniffle or cough, and people shifting around in their seats.
“Comfort us in our sorrows at the death of our sister …”
It was clear that the priest hadn’t known Kate, but he cared enough to personalize his remarks.
Lois Hubbell walked slowly to the front. She spoke of growing up with her sister in Indiana, of leaving home for different colleges, of Kate’s love of writing.
After Lois sat down, Lenny Stern left the pew and went to the altar. He pulled a few sheets of notepaper from his inside jacket pocket and flattened them on the lectern. Lenny looked out over the pews and ran a hand over his hairless head. The mourners watched him and waited, but they were restless, out of sadness or, perhaps, needing to return to work.
Lenny cleared his throat.
“Kate was too young to die.”
He began as he began his columns: sharp, precise, direct. He had our attention now. He grabbed us by
the neck and didn’t let go for fifteen minutes as he talked about Kate — the woman, the friend, the professional.
“I’ll miss her. We’ll all miss her.” Lenny rolled up his notes and returned to his seat.
Following the post-communion prayer, the pianist played soft, peaceful music that filled the church.
“Let us go forth …” the priest said, and the service was over.
By the time I stood, neither Henri nor Jimmy Erwin was anywhere in sight. We joined the other folks and moved out of the church. Some people gathered in groups of three or four under the shade of the trees, talking, sometimes laughing. A few lit cigarettes.
Henri had created his own group of two, with Jimmy Erwin, near Jimmy’s SUV. They might have been two old friends of the deceased renewing an acquaintance. I knew better.
31
The solemn music faded as we left the church. Tina Lawson took hold of Lenny’s arm as we approached Henri’s SUV. She smiled, gently kissed Lenny on the cheek, and turned to watch the mourners return to their vehicles.
“That was some eulogy, Lenny,” Charles Bigelow said, as he and Maury Weston walked up. “A little strong for rural America, don’t you think?”
“Don’t sell the folks up here short, Charles,” Lenny said. “They don’t dress like urban types, sometimes don’t sound like them either, but they’ve got heart and passion, and they care about each other. As much as I love cities, the energy, the life, living up north is special. I can get a city fix when I need one, a few days here, a week there, but I thrive on living here.”
Leonard Stern never ceased to amaze me. Lenny the man, the tough crime reporter who cut his journalistic teeth on the streets of Detroit and Chicago, felt more at home on Little Traverse Bay or Pennsylvania Park in northern Michigan. I knew too many people who tried to make that work but missed the mark. Lenny never tried. It was who he was, what he thought, and how he felt about the places he called home.
“Hard to argue with that, Charles,” Maury said.
Bigelow put his hands out. “All right, all right. I didn’t mean … Lenny just sounded, I don’t know, a bit too harsh for a memorial service.”
“We appreciate candor and honesty,” Maury said, “even at a church service.”
“Well, I liked it,” Tina said. “You captured the Kate I knew.”
“I know a lot of people in the business,” Lenny said. “But I really liked Kate. We spent a lot of time getting the book ready … getting to know each other.” Lenny paused and looked out toward the woods. “I never had a daughter, but if …”
“You were wonderful.”
Lenny put his arm around Tina’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Michael, who’s Henri talking to?” Maury said, gesturing toward the other side of the parking lot.
“His name’s Jimmy Erwin,” I said. “Gunman for Joey DeMio.”
“Ah, the DeMio clan,” Bigelow said. “Father and son. Chicago gangland at its finest.”
“That’s them,” I said.
“Do you think he came here for Kate?” Tina said.
“He’s working,” I said. “Joey ordered it. To keep an eye on all of us.”
Before Bigelow could ask, I explained that we doubted DeMio was behind the threats to Lenny Stern, and that Joey didn’t want to be blamed for Kate’s murder.
“But you still don’t know who murdered Kate?”
I shook my head. “But we’ve got a few leads.”
“Anything Lenny can write about?” Maury said, smelling a story.
“Give us a few days,” I said. “That okay with you, Lenny?”
“My instinct is to write …” he shook his head. “But I don’t want anyone else hurt. Do what you have to to find these guys. Okay with you, Maury, we hold off?”
“It is this time,” Maury said. He glanced at his watch. “Time to get you to the airport, Charles.”
With that, Bigelow and Weston said their good-byes.
As they drove away from the church, Henri came over. A few moments later, Jimmy Erwin drove out of the parking lot.
“Nice service,” Henri said. “You ready to go?”
“Just waiting for you,” I said. “Everything all right with Jimmy?”
Henri nodded. “He’s okay.”
“I thought you said he worked for the Mafia guy,” Tina said.
“He does,” Henri said. “But Jimmy sticks to his word.”
“You trust him?” I said.
Henri thought for a minute. “This time, yeah. Jimmy says he owes us for getting him out of that mess with Conrad North.”
“If he thinks so,” I said, and shrugged.
“Lois,” Tina said, and waved at Lois Hubbell who walked with two women toward the cars. “Michael, come with me.”
Lois walked toward us.
“Lois, this Michael Russo. The man I told you about.”
“Thank you for coming today,” she said, reaching out her hand.
We shook hands.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “I wish we could’ve met under better circumstances.”
“Me, too, Mr. Russo,” Lois said. “I hope you find out who did this to Kate.”
“We’ll do our best,” I said.
“I know,” she said, offering a soft smile. Lois gave Tina a brief hug, thanked us again from attending the service, and walked away.
“All right,” I said to Tina. “Back to Petoskey.”
We rejoined the others, climbed into Henri’s SUV and left Transfiguration Episcopal Church behind us. Traffic was light along the south end of Burt Lake all the way to Alanson. Not so on US 31. Henri merged into a long line of cars and trucks headed south, and we patiently listened to Interlochen classical music.
“I suppose you two have a plan for Mackinac tomorrow,” Lenny said.
“Of course, we do,” Henri said without further comment.
After a moment, Lenny said, “You want to let us in on your plan?”
Silence.
“You want to tell them, Russo?”
“Tell them what?”
“About tomorrow,” Lenny said. “Our plans for the island and the Iroquois Hotel?”
“Sorry,” I said, “I was reading a text from Marty Fleener.” I closed the screen. “Okay, tomorrow. Henri and I will pick you up, both of you.”
“The luncheon starts at noon,” Lenny said. “They want me there a half hour ahead.”
“We’ll leave in time to catch the ten-thirty Shepler’s ferry,” I said. “You’ll have an hour.”
“That’ll work,” Lenny said.
“The text from Fleener,” Henri said. “What’d he want?”
“He talked to his guy in Lansing,” I said.
“The gang expert?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anything helpful?” Henri said.
“He said we’d talk later.”
“You mean like street gangs?” Lenny said, before I could answer. “This have to do with Kate?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Remember the Side Door, Lenny? In the parking lot? When the two guys tried to scare us off?”
“I certainly do,” Lenny said.
“One had a tattoo,” I said.
“Sure, a ‘44’ on his arm.”
“Well, a ‘44’ showed up on a vanity plate. ‘RC 44.’”
I reminded Lenny and Tina of the guys we chased away from the author event in Harbor Springs, of their rusty old Ford truck and license plate.
“The plate was registered to a business in Gaylord, the Cavendish Company. They make …”
“What’d the plate say?” Lenny said, grabbing the front seat back. “The vanity plate, what was it again?”
“‘RC 44,’” I said.
“The vanity plate, ‘RC 44?’”
&nbs
p; “Yeah.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Tina said.
“What are you two talking about?” I asked.
“I put it in the book,” Lenny said, clearly agitated. “Either of you half-assed detectives even read the damn thing?”
“What’re you talking about?” I said, ducking an embarrassing question.
“The Chicago prosecutor,” Tina said, not quite laughing. “The pivotal man in Lenny’s book. His name was Ramsey Cavendish, you know, like RC on the plate?”
I turned sideways, toward the back seat.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said. “We’re talking Gaylord, not Chicago.”
“Cavendish’s widow moved to Gaylord after Ramsey died in prison,” Lenny said. “Faded out of sight.”
“What’s the widow’s name?” I had an empty feeling I already knew the answer after Fleener ran the company through DMV.
“Sylvia.”
“DMV lists three names for Cavendish Company vehicles,” I said. “Sylvia, Daniel, and Walter.”
“You guys should’ve read my book. Daniel and Walter? They’re Sylvia’s sons.”
32
Our obedient line of cars snaked its way past the always-crowded boat ramps at Crooked Lake, but I hardly noticed. On this bright July day the lake was clogged with sailboats, jet-skis, and power boats. But I hardly noticed them either.
I sometimes missed important details because they moved too quickly or they were a jumble of ragged pieces. No excuses, no one to blame but me this time. And we had a copy of Lenny Stern’s book.
Once back into town, we swung by the Post Dispatch building to drop off Tina and Lenny to the safety of their offices.
“You know, Russo,” Lenny said as he climbed out of the rear seat. “Stop thinking like a detective for a minute. Don’t analyze so much. The goddamn pieces, they’re telling you what to do next.”
“Enlighten me,” I said.
“That would be Cavendish Company. I made the connection between events and the Cavendish family years ago. You just figured it out,” Lenny said, and slammed the car door.
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