He picked up a pamphlet called: “Fishing in Lake Erie.” As he put it down, he saw a leather-bound notebook. Paul picked up the book and fingered the ribbed dark-chocolate leather. He knew that the note would never be stored in such a place but, nonetheless, opened the book to the first page. On the top left-hand corner was scrawled ‘September 1941.’ Under the date, there were a bunch of figures and calculations. Paul’s breath caught in his throat as he realized that it was Mr. Brunner’s ledger book. This was where he kept the records of finances for his business.
Paul flipped through the book, seeing the 1940s swirl into present-day 1950. He noticed the meticulous way in which the man recorded his finances. One page was allotted for each month, and within that, he had made entries on specific days. Paul assumed that these were the days where he had gotten paid. May turned into June and June into July, where Paul stopped. In the left-hand corner again, Bud Brunner had written the month: “July 1950.”
Below this, the page was divided into three columns, by two ruler-straight lines. In the first column, Mr. Brunner had written ‘Fish’ while in the second he had written ‘CC-DET’ and in the third column ‘CC-DK.’ In the left margin, he had written in specific dates and, along the same line, he had put in figures under each column. Paul knew that the first column was likely what he had made selling his fish, but he stared at the last two columns, trying to make sense of them. What could it mean? CC-DET. CC-DK.
Paul had always been strong in math. He picked up a pencil that lay on the table to add up the columns. He put the leather-bound notebook down and hunched over the side of the table, running his finger along the numbers and adding in his head. The fish came to a grand total of $3,500, CC-DET had a final amount of $15,750 and CC-DK finished with $10, 400. Paul stared at the pencil markings that he had made at the bottom of the page. CC-DET and CC-DK couldn’t be expenses, Paul reasoned, otherwise he would have long since gone bankrupt. That meant that they had to be other forms of income. And substantial ones at that, since they created more than seven times the amount of income compared to the fishing.
Paul remembered Tom’s concerns about the minimal fishing Bud Brunner seemed to do. Maybe this was why. Maybe their neighbour was getting money from somewhere else.
But where? And why would he be fishing at all if he could get so much more money from another source?
Paul ran his thumb over a metal paper clip that was attached to the right hand corner of the ledger book. He quickly looked out the window. Then, he turned the page, finding a folded piece of paper being held in place by the clip. He detached the paper and unfolded it, flattening crisp creases. The lined sheet of paper featured a long list of names and beside them, addresses. Paul recognized many of the street names. In the margin, next to a few names, it was written: “COP.” The letters appeared nearly 20 times.
Paul bolted upright, hearing a hollow crash, then a thud. He dropped the ledger book onto the table and covered it with the fishing pamphlet. The noise had come from one of the back rooms.
Abby!
He hurried out of the kitchen and down the hallway, hoping that Bud hadn’t been in his house all along. He looked into the first room, a small, empty study. His pulse quickening, Paul walked down the hallway and looked into the next room. It was Mr. Brunner’s bed-room.
“Pauuul!” Abby waved from the closet. “You won’t believe what I found.”
“Shhh. Did you hear that noise?” Paul whispered, getting closer to the closet door.
“Oh no,” Abby said. “That was me. I knocked something over when I was looking in here.”
Paul sighed. His breathing returned to a more normal pattern. “What did you find? The note?”
“Something much, much bigger,” she said, pulling out an old, faded pair of Mr. Brunner’s jeans.
“Bigger in size you mean?” Paul looked at Abby in confusion.
Abby took a step closer to Paul, her expression serious, and held out the knee of the jeans. There was a huge gaping hole. Looking closer, Paul also noted that the jeans were splattered with blood. The flakes had dried a dark red.
“The Inspector,” Paul said. “What the Inspector said.”
“I know,” Abby’s finger hovered over the open hole in the jeans. “He said that a piece of denim was found at the scene of the crime. And these jeans were front and center in the closet, like he had just worn them.”
“Like he had worn them last night.” This time it
was Paul’s turn to look at Abby, his face serious. “Abby, do you think that Mr. Brunner murdered Owen Rich-ardson?”
Abby hesitated. “I know it’s a stretch. Lots of people have holes in their jeans. But there is blood on them.”
“When my dad and I went to talk with Mr. Brunner about Tom, he seemed so nervous about telling us where he had been the night before. I thought that it had to do with Tom, but maybe it was because he was trying to cover up that he had been at Owen Richardson’s bar?”
“I just can’t believe this,” Abby exclaimed. “Did you find the note?”
“No, I’m almost finished looking through the stuff on the kitchen table. Do you want to help me? And then we should get out of here,” Paul said, realizing that they had been in Mr. Brunner’s house for too long. A shiver went down his spine. They might be in the house of a murderer.
“Okay, I’ve looked everywhere in his study and his bedroom. No note.” Abby walked out of the room with Paul right behind her.
“I’ve already done this part,” Paul said, gesturing to three-quarters of the papers that he already sorted through. Together, Paul and Abby started sifting through the remaining papers, scanning all of the handwriting for any mention of Tom’s name.
“What do you think this means for Tom – if Mr. Brunner murdered Owen Richardson?” Paul asked, looking up from the papers.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, do you think it makes it more or less likely that Tom went back to the reserve?”
“I guess I’m not sure.” Her eyes were wide. “He wouldn’t have killed Tom, too. He couldn’t have.”
“I don’t know, Abby. You never know what people will do to protect themselves.” Paul looked over the final piece of paper and put it back down on the table. “Maybe Tom found out about the murder.”
Just then a fist pounded on the front door. Paul pulled aside a chair and he and Abby scrambled underneath the table, covering their heads with their arms. Since the window was right above the table, they were hidden from view. Paul thought he could hear Abby’s heart beating as well as his own as they listened.
“Bud? It’s me. You there?”
Paul couldn’t place the gravelly voice. He looked at Abby but she shook her head.
The voice was lower now – like an urgent whisper. “Bud? It’s Officer Nash.”
Paul and Abby stared at each other.
Another police visit?
“Bud? You said you’d be here, so I’m coming in.”
Chapter 16
Desperate Measures
He moved quietly along the sidewalk of Wyandotte Street, a silent ghost in a city of noise. It was a city he no longer knew. Inspector Doug Ward took in Windsor’s downtown at twilight. He watched men huddle in small groups in front of lamp posts, thick cigarette smoke dissipating in half-formed rings around their heads. Their ocean flora shirts looked gaudy and out of place to him – more suited to Florida then an industrial Canadian city. He hated the new fashions.
Past Lee’s Dress Shop, Inspector Ward took in the garish lights of the Tivoli cinema. There, a long line-up of young couples held hands under the marquee sign’s neon bulbs. He looked up and read the movie title.
In a Lonely Place
Starring Humphrey Bogart
You know it, Humphrey. Lonely indeed.
He slowed and turned left on Lincoln Road. A small bar with a cursive sign in the window read ‘Jake’s.’
Here it is. Doesn’t look like much.
Inspector Ward paused for a moment and then entered. The tavern wasn’t even half full. It was obvious that it wasn’t one of the preferred drinking
establishments in town. But according to his sources, the owner was someone who knew a little bit about everything that went on in Windsor.
“Help ya?” said the bartender. He was in his late fifties but had a younger man’s hair, dark and parted neatly to the left.
“I think so,” said Inspector Ward. “This your place – Jake?”
He nodded.
“I’m looking for information,” said the inspector.
The bartender wiped the bar in small circles. “You lost?”
“In manner of speaking. I know where I want to be but I’m having trouble getting by all the roadblocks.”
“You a cop?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
“Yeah – you do.”
Inspector Ward pulled his badge out of his pocket and laid it on the bar. “You’re right. Very astute of you.”
He motioned the tavern owner closer, getting him to bend down toward the bar.
“Listen to me, Jake, because I’ll just say this once. I need answers to a few questions. I can make life very difficult for you and your filthy, half-empty bar until you’re completely out of business...”
“Or?” Jake said softly, swallowing.
“Or...you can choose to answer my questions and you’ll never see me again. Do I make myself clear?”
***
Paul held his breath as he heard the officer turn the doorknob.
Of course it was locked, just as they had found it. But did he have a key?
The police officer made a growling noise and then they heard footsteps moving away from the house.
“That was close,” Paul said. “Let’s get out of here, as soon as we see his car drive off.”
“Do you think we should take the jeans with us?” asked Abby. “I think it might make Mr. Brunner suspicious, if he sees they’re gone. We really don’t want him to know that someone’s been here.”
“Agreed,” said Paul. “Let’s leave them.”
“We have to go to the police,” Abby said, getting up from under the table. “We have to tell them about Tom’s disappearance and about the jeans.”
“But we can’t tell our parents. You heard how serious my dad was about giving Tom time.”
“Deal. They’d be furious knowing we had broken into someone’s house.”
Paul stood up, remembering to avoid hitting his head against the table. Abby went back to Mr. Brunner’s bedroom to make sure she had hung up the incriminating jeans just as they had been before. Paul looked out the front window and, not seeing anyone, opened the door once Abby had returned. He re-locked it as they closed it behind them.
They sprinted all the way back from Bud Brunner’s property, with Paul explaining his findings concerning the ledger book between gasps to Abby.
“I don’t know what that could mean either,” Abby said, as they passed the rose garden. “It must be a code for something.”
“Some other form of income,” Paul said. “That’s what it has to be.”
“And then the list…I wonder who those people are.”
As soon as Paul and Abby walked into the cottage, Nell Martin came rushing out of the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon in her hand.
“There you are,” she said. “It’s time for a quick lunch and then I’m going in to Windsor to do some errands. Abby, you’re of course welcome to join us for sandwiches.” She turned back towards the kitchen. “Mary Anne, lunch is ready! Now, come on, you two. Bring the dishes out to the table.”
Paul looked at Abby and tried to act casual. “Mom, could Abby and I go to Windsor with you?”
Mrs. Martin eyed her son. “What for? I’m just going to meet up with your grandmother and then go and do some errands like I usually do. Wouldn’t you rather stay around here and amuse yourselves?”
Paul considered what to say, knowing that it would look odd for him to show any interest in accompanying his mother on everyday errands. “There’s a park around Grandma’s house and we could just go and play there. It would be fun.”
“Yeah, it would,” Abby added. “I haven’t been in the city since the beginning of the summer.”
“Well, all right,” Mrs. Martin said. “You’ll be on your own, though. I’d like to get my errands done quickly.”
“That’s not fair,” Mary Anne piped up. “I don’t get to go to Windsor.”
“Mary Anne, you’re going to have fun playing over at Vincie’s,” Mrs. Martin explained. “There isn’t too much for you to do in Windsor.”
Mary Anne seemed satisfied and they quickly finished up their lunch, before Mrs. Martin walked Mary Anne over to Vincie’s house. Paul and Abby then piled into the car with her, heading to Windsor.
Throughout the trip, Paul thought out ways in which he and Abby could explain their findings to the police. When they pulled up at Paul’s grandmother’s white stucco house, he hadn’t quite polished his plans.
The Martins sometimes came to visit Paul’s grandmother, but her trips to Colchester were much more common occurrences.
Mrs. Martin knocked on the door and a white-haired woman pulled it open.
“Hello, Nell,” she said. “And, Paul,” she reached out and hugged her grandson. “What are you doing here?”
“My friend, Abby and I are just going to play at the park.”
Paul’s grandmother smiled and nodded at Abby. She picked up her purse and closed the door behind her. “Well, I’ve left the back door unlocked. So make yourselves at home.”
“Thanks, Grandma,” Paul said, as his mother and grandmother got into the car.
“We’ll be back in an hour,” Mrs. Martin called out of the window, waving.
As the car drove off, Paul turned to Abby. “This is so lucky. We’re actually alone in Windsor.” They started walking down the driveway and onto the sidewalk. “Where’s the police station again?”
Paul had lived in Windsor for the first eight years of his life, before Mr. Martin had become the minister of national health and welfare and the family had moved to Ottawa. Now, the city of Windsor wasn’t as familiar to Paul as it used to be.
“It’s in the City Hall Square, off Riverside Drive, Abby said.”
They walked along Moy Street, passing brick homes encircled with white porches, like boxes tied with ribbon. Small front lawns adorned with neat gardens were intersected by sidewalks. Kids of varying ages played in the street. There was an intense – and fun-looking – game of street hockey going on in one driveway as they passed.
As they reached the end of the street, the Detroit River came fully into view. The water rushed against the shore, dark and cold. The Detroit skyline – more built up than Windsor’s – could clearly be seen on the other side of the water. Tall buildings and smoke stacks pressed compactly against the shore. Detroit was really that close.
“It’s weird that that’s another country,” Paul said.
“Yeah, I know. My mom actually works in Detroit as a nurse, remember? She crosses the river – and goes to another country – every day.”
“Which way should we go?” Paul asked, looking to his right at a grand stone building and, farther in the distance, a large factory.
“Left.”
They turned onto Sandwich Street, a road that followed the docking area along the river.
“That,” Paul turned and pointed back in the other
direction, “was the Hiram Walker Distillery,
right?”
“Yup,” Abby said. “Remember learning about him in school?”
Hiram Walker was extremely well-known in the Windsor area, since he had essentially built the town of Walkerville. He had set up a distillery to make whisky, using grain that he had grown in the area. His brand, Canadian Club, became popular around the world. Later, the communities of Walkerville and Sandwich became a part of Windsor.
“And there’s the Ambassador Bridge,” Paul said, pointing ahead of them. Paul and Abby looked down the river and saw the massive suspension bridge stretching from Windsor to Detroit. Spans of metal curved together, forming two columns, while the base arched over the water. The bridge was adorned with red, flickering lights that could be made out even in the day. Rows of cars drove over the metal arch, moving between the border cities.
“So, what are we going to tell the police when we get there?” asked Abby.
“I was thinking about that too,” Paul said. “We should probably just tell them that we have some information about the Owen Richardson murder. And then, tell them about Tom’s disappearance. We have to make sure that they’ll help find him.”
“Right. But about the murder. We don’t want them to know that we were listening in on the Inspector’s conversation.”
“Yeah. Let’s just talk like it’s natural for us to know about the piece of denim found at the scene of the crime.”
“That sounds good. We are helping them out after all.”
They continued walking along Sandwich Street, looking out at the Detroit River, until Abby said, “here it is.” She steered them off into the square and pointed at a red brick building. “This is the police headquarters.”
They walked up the steps and hesitated at the door. Neither of them had ever been in a police station.
“Just like we rehearsed, right? They’re bound to believe us.”
“Right.” Abby pulled open the door and they walked in. Chairs were arranged around the room for waiting and a desk area was in the middle. It didn’t look too
intimidating.
“Hello,” a man in uniform behind the desk said. “Can I help you?”
Showdown at Border Town Page 10