Madeline Mann

by Julia Buckley

  I stopped at the Webley White Hen to pick up some beverages for the evening, still fuming. Of course, I can't go into any store and restrict myself to buying only one thing, so I was clutching a liter of Diet Coke and a six-pack of beer and staring down at a box of frosted doughnuts when I heard a voice that sounded familiar. A woman was talking to the checkout boy as he rang up her order. The clerk was not my friend Sunil, but the other voice was the one that had caught my attention. I grabbed the doughnuts and headed to the front of the store.

  The woman was Detective Perez, from Saugatuck. She had exchanged greetings with the guy at the counter, retrieved her plastic bag, and was heading to the door.

  “Detective Perez!” I yelled.

  Surprised, she turned and, flatteringly, recognized me instantly. “Miss Mann, right?”

  “Madeline.”

  “Madeline,” she corrected with a smile. “Our paths cross again.”

  “Do you have a minute?” I asked, pointing at my groceries.

  “Sure,” she replied. “I'll be outside.”

  I found her leaning against her car and drinking a carton of chocolate milk. Her dark hair was hanging loose to her shoulders, and she had apparently found some moisture cream since last I'd seen her. She looked great.

  “Krosky's still in Saugatuck,” she said before I could ask, providing yet another reason why she might look ten years younger. “I'm just here to investigate a few things. Funny thing is,” she went on, staring over my shoulder at a Trans Am that was leaving the parking lot at an excessive speed, “I spoke with him just a while ago, and he says he received a call from the mayor of Webley and that your name was mentioned in the conversation.”

  “I can't believe Don Paul called you,” I said. “But that's great. Let him implicate himself. I didn't know this when I spoke to you before, but I've run across some things that make me think the mayor's office was harassing Logan Lanford, maybe because Logan had incriminating information about the mayor. Is that what you're here to look into?” I asked hopefully.

  “No.” Detective Perez could play the taciturn game as well as any cop. She smiled, though, which made it less annoying.

  She held up a finger and then walked over to a Dumpster at the edge of the parking lot, where she threw away the milk carton. She wore authority well; I tried to picture myself as a cop, intimidating people with my presence. I failed. She returned with the same measured pace and went back to leaning on her car, an unmarked Nissan.

  “So,” I asked her, trying not to sound like an intrusive reporter or, worse yet, a nosy citizen, “if you're not here to investigate the mayor, then…” I thought of Pamela's comment about Linus Lanford. “Is it Logan's brother?”

  Detective Perez's eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, but she continued to regard me silently, and I shivered. It was another cold day, but the sun was out, and someone's barbecue smelled like a wonderful campfire. Finally she said, “Let's just say we have to pursue some leads, based on some information we got from family and friends in Saugatuck.”

  “You may as well say nothing at all.” I realized I sounded a bit like a petulant child. I don't know why I expected Detective Perez to cozy up to me, woman to woman, and share all that she knew. I guess because I thought we had some sort of implicit bond. Plus there was always a certain amusement in her eyes when she spoke to me.

  “Do I take it you've begun your own investigation into this case?” she asked.

  “Well, yes. My newspaper, that is. But it's my story, and I've found out enough to know that something was rotten in the state of Webley, and that Logan was onto it, and later Logan was dead.”

  “But he was killed a couple months after being fired from the mayor's office, isn't that right?” she queried.

  She had done some homework, I was glad to note. “Yes, that's right. But that doesn't mean that something didn't happen, something perhaps that he discussed with them the night he left town, when he was seen talking to Lyle from the mayor's office.”

  “Is that so?” she asked.

  “Well, I didn't know it was Lyle when I talked to you. I found out today. But Logan had been here at the White Hen, and the manager saw him talking to some people in a black car. That was Lyle and the mayor. I went to talk to them, and the mayor got so agitated when I spoke with Lyle privately that he all but kicked me out of city hall. There's something going on there; I really wish you'd check it out.”

  “I'll do that.” Detective Perez made a little note in a notebook, as if she were writing, “Buy cat food.” It was infuriating how calm cops could be when you were telling them to get excited. I suppose that's what we pay them for.

  “Listen, there's something else,” I said.

  “Really,” she answered.

  “I went to Quinn Paley's house before I left Saugatuck. Logan's son thought he would go there. He implied that Logan was in trouble and that Quinn would help him out. Well, I guess he didn't know he implied that,” I said, confusing her. “Anyway. When I went there, I saw this plant—it was a marijuana plant. And he has these two vicious, slavering guard dogs, and I asked him what for, and he got angry. And I'm wondering if—”

  “If he's running a little business?” Perez asked.

  “Yeah.” She didn't look surprised, damn her. “And maybe Logan occasionally helped with that business, I don't know. Or maybe he just asked for loans. Paley's doing well; he's got a brand new car—a nice car—and he said he was ‘between jobs.’ I'm thinking he might be more important than I originally thought.”

  She nodded. “It's definitely worth following up on. Thanks, Madeline.”

  I stood there, frustrated. I wanted her to rush to her car and drive away in a cloud of dust to confront Quinn Paley. She just didn't project enough urgency for my taste. She seemed to sense my disappointment, because she said, “Paley's been in our sights for a while, Madeline.”

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “He's under surveillance, and I shouldn't be telling you that much. So it's not likely he slipped away to kill Logan without someone noticing.”

  “So…I should cross him off my list?” I asked.

  “For the time being,” she told me.

  I would hate to be a cop, I decided suddenly—always having questions and rarely finding answers. Every lead in the Logan case seemed to drive up to a dead end. “He could have been killed for a couple of dollars. Sometimes that happens, if a person is strung out or something,” I said.

  “That's true.” Detective Perez took her keys out of her pocket and stared at them reflectively.

  “But we're not dealing with drug addicts or gangsters here, are we?” I asked, still thinking aloud.

  “No.” She gave me a significant glance, and I saw that her eyes were very green, with a dark black outline around the irises. “I don't think we are.”

  We looked at each other for a while, thinking our own thoughts. “Do you have any other information you'd like to share with me?” she asked finally.

  “Well, the Webley police have me pegged as the murderer,” I said. I watched for a reaction and, of course, got none. Just a green stare. “I don't suppose you tried to talk them out of that ridiculous hypothesis?”

  “I wouldn't worry about it,” she said.

  “I do worry. Kubik practically accused me of murder because Logan had written my name in a notebook. Maybe I should get a lawyer. Or maybe I should work harder, since Kubik's obviously not looking for a killer. Are you?” I asked. “I mean, do you really have leads, or are you just looking at me?”

  She selected her car key from about ten others and pinched it between two fingers. “I'll tell you this. We have no reason to believe that Mr. Logan Lanford was killed for his money. And if I were you, I'd watch your back.”

  “That's not very comforting,” I said, surprised.

  “You're looking for a murderer,” she said. “I hope I find him first, but if you do…just make sure you have a backup plan.”

  “Yeah. Okay,” I said. “Oh,
and I have the tape for you. Remember, the one I called about?”

  Perez nodded, and I jogged to my car to retrieve the cassette. She stayed where she was. “Like I said,” I said, running back to her with my evidence, “my brother taped over anything useful, but at least it establishes that Logan wanted me as sort of a protection plan. Kind of a sophomoric one.”

  “Right,” she said, looking at the tape.

  “And you can hear Logan's voice,” I added. I wasn't sure why I'd said that, but it earned an interesting expression from Perez. She lifted her head and looked surprised, as if she heard distant music. Then the cop look came back.

  She told me that she'd be in town a few more days and that she'd be at the funeral on Thursday. In the meantime, she said, I should hold on to her card, which had her cell phone number on it.

  I waved as she drove away. I got into my own car and opened up the doughnuts. I remembered Perez's warning. If one's days are numbered, one should appreciate life's little joys.

  I'd wanted to go to Saugatuck to scope out Quinn Paley's cabin and to grab a sample of the pretty leaf I'd seen growing there. But now Perez had suggested that it was under control, that he was being watched. Maybe the police had their own little sting operation. I certainly didn't want to mess up a drug bust. Had they been there the night Jack and I were there? Had they taken our license plate number? Had I looked like a customer, creeping up to the door in the darkness? Oh God.

  I sat in the car, munching a doughnut and trying to decide what to do. A Corvette drove by. I sat up, tossed my doughnut into the box, and started my engine. It had been a black Corvette in Quinn Paley's driveway, new and shiny like the one that had just slid past on Longcommon Road. I pulled out of the parking lot. It couldn't be the same car; it was most likely just a coincidence. Yet the vibes I'd felt were so strong I had to pursue them.

  I caught up with the car at a red light near Main Street. It wasn't Paley behind the wheel; the driver was too short. I followed it another few blocks, until I found myself back in front of city hall. Weird, I thought. Then the driver emerged, proving to be none other than Fawn Paley, dressed in jeans, a SpongeBob sweatshirt, and cross-trainers. She parked in the last legal spot in front of the building, then hopped out and climbed the stairs.

  If I'd been a daring detective, I would have double-parked and followed her. As it was, I went around back and found a spot in the parking lot. I dashed into the building and went from floor to floor, scanning. I didn't find her.

  I saw my mother on the stairs. “Mom,” I whispered, “did you see a girl, a teenage girl with jeans and a SpongeBob sweatshirt, come in here? Thin, pretty? Maybe talking to—” I stopped. To whom might she have been talking? I had no idea.

  My mother sighed. “Madeline, you are here too often. I thought you were going to pursue other things? And no, I didn't see this girl. Let me get back to work. Mayor Paul is not in a good mood.” She gave me a significant look that meant, And it's your fault, and walked on, tapping away up the stairs on her sensible black heels.

  After a continued search, I went back to the front door to see if Fawn's car was still there. It was. I sighed. The best thing, I supposed, was to wait until she came out again, then follow her until I could determine what she was up to.

  I returned to the lot in the back; to my surprise, Fawn was there, leaning uncertainly on a blue Taurus. “Hi, Fawn,” I said. “I don't know if you remember me—”

  “Madeline,” she said. “And I saw you following me.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I was just surprised to see you in Webley. And I'm surprised to see you here.”

  She shrugged. “There were some things I needed to do. I like to come here sometimes. We visited Logan here once or twice, and I like the town. I'm thinking of going to St. Fred's. I sent them an application.”

  “Well, that's great. I went there too,” I said brightly. “Majored in English.”

  Fawn had nothing to say about this. She was looking past me at the back entrance to city hall and biting at nails that didn't have much more to give.

  “So what brings you to this building?” I asked casually.

  She shrugged again, removing her savaged nails from her mouth. “I know some people here. From knowing Logan. I was just saying hi.”

  “You didn't have school today?”

  She gave me a look that effectively ended that line of questioning.

  “So how long will you be in town?”

  “Don't know.” I was guessing she wasn't going to major in communications at St. Fred's.

  “It was nice of Quinn to let you use the car,” I said.

  She looked nervous. “He sort of doesn't know. I'll probably have it back in time.”

  I nodded. “Well, I guess I'll see you around, Fawn.”

  She called after me. “You shouldn't think my brother had anything to do with Logan. I mean Logan dying.”

  I turned back to her. She looked pale, as usual, but perhaps a bit sick as well.

  “Why do you think I suspect your brother?”

  “You've got a real expressive face,” she said.

  Damn my expressive face, I thought disgustedly.

  “You don't have to be mad,” Fawn said. “Your boyfriend looked suspicious too. But Quinn isn't the lowlife people think he is.”

  Interesting. My antennae came up. “Who thinks he's a lowlife?”

  “You do. My brother's a good person.”

  “I'm sure he is,” I lied.

  “I'll prove it to you,” she said. “I'll prove it to all of you.”

  I sat in my car and waited, the heater blasting and the radio on. Soon enough a car pulled out of the lot. Don Paul was at the wheel, and Fawn was in the passenger seat. “Hel—lo!” I said, sliding into traffic behind them.

  I kept two cars between us, but it was easy enough to keep up with Don Paul's black Caddy. At the Metra tracks, the lights were flashing. Don Paul bolted through just as the gates were coming down.

  “Damn!” I yelled, smacking the steering wheel.

  It was an express train, gone in a flash, but by the time the gates had lifted and traffic began to slug forward, I had lost them.

  fifteen

  Fritz, as usual, was touching everything in my apartment. Since his hands were covered with pizza grease, I was getting a little edgy.

  “Fritz, can I get you a napkin?” I called, watching him paw the glass candleholders that Jack had bought me the previous summer. I held up a finger to indicate that I was only briefly interrupting Gerhard, who had been pontificating about the joys of the laptop, which I had resisted buying up to this very moment.

  “No, that's okay, Madman.” Fritz set down the candleholder. I could see the fingerprint across the room, but I willed myself to be calm. There was always Windex. “Hey, Mom tells me you're stirring up the town, trying to find Logan's murderer.”

  This effectively silenced Gerhard, who had just started another sentence that began with, “If you don't want to be a part of the twenty-first century—”

  Jack, who had been studying the spines of my books in the corner and who had been remarkably quiet during our evening social, was obviously in listening mode.

  I put aside the Cat Fancy magazine I'd been perusing, but I folded down the corner of the page with a picture of a Siamese kitten. “As usual,” I began caustically, “Mom is exaggerating. She's just angry because I embarrassed her precious Don Paul. His simian sidekick said some inappropriate things, and he blames me for it.”

  “But Mom says you're doing all this undercover work, like some kind of spy. Aren't you in a little over your head, Madman?” Fritz asked with his typical lack of tact, smearing grease on a picture frame that surrounded the smiling countenance of Jack.

  “Thanks for your support, Fritz. I've just forgiven you for your last sad failure as a brother, and you manage to come right in and bat another strike. Try silence for a while. Then I can pretend that you have an ounce of respect for me.”

  I sulked as I cle
ared off the table. The three men had done justice to the two large pizzas. I put the two remaining pieces in a plastic bag and dumped the boxes into the garbage.

  “Save the speech, drama queen,” Fritz said, unmoved. “I'm just asking what you're up to. I could even help, if you want. I'm into the whole spy scene. And I knew some stuff about Logan.” He gave me a mysterious glance.

  “What did you know?” asked Gerhard suspiciously, giving voice to the question in the minds of us all.

  “Well, I knew he had some secrets, man. He was a secretive guy. And I didn't always ask him, because I knew it wasn't stuff I'd want to know about. That's the thing about Logan. You liked him but you knew you shouldn't, you know what I mean?”

  “He's right about that,” Gerhard agreed, looking at me. “I was there when they practiced at our apartment. Logan had real charisma, but he seemed to have a dark side.”

  “Did he do drugs?” I asked.

  Fritz shrugged. “He had some weed, but he didn't smoke it much. He said it relaxed him. It's a musician thing,” he said condescendingly.

  “Do you know where he got it? Who his connection was?”

  Fritz shrugged again. “It's not hard to get, Madman, if you want it.”

  “Did he get it locally, or in Michigan?” I asked.

  “I don't know. He might have said something about a friend of his supplying him with it. For free, I think. So I guess he did have some kind of setup. As you know, I don't do drugs, so I didn't ask a million questions.”

  It was true, my brother had never been a druggie, although I was sure he'd tried them a few times. It hadn't impressed him much. Fritz's energy level was such that depressants would merely hold him back, and stimulants were entirely unnecessary.

  “Anyway, that's not the only mysterious thing about Logan,” Gerhard added.

  “Like that girl, right, Gerhard?” Fritz said eagerly.

  Gerhard nodded solemnly. Jack returned from his secluded corner and retrieved the only beer left in my refrigerator. He opened it with a snapping sound. I waited a few more seconds for my brothers to explain and then asked, with what anyone would call the patience of a saint, “What girl?”