Showdown at Border Town

by Caroline Woodward

  Paul steadied the fishing boat with his hand and slid over the side, landing on the open deck. Abby did the same, getting down on her hands and knees until she was hidden by the edge of the boat. They searched the deck, finding a folded fishing net, a bailer and a fish box.

  “What’s this?” Abby said, pointing to a wheel near the back of the boat.

  Paul crawled over and examined it. “It reels in the net, right? Nothing out here looks suspicious.”

  “Let’s look in there.” Abby pointed to the covered part of the boat and they slid over, standing up once they were hidden.

  Paul ran his fingers over flicks and switches, leaning in to read labels to identify their function. His jaw clenched as he thought about Bud Brunner seeing them from his bungalow.

  To his right, Abby felt around the steering wheel, looking for any clues as to how Mr. Brunner could be using the boat to make money in Detroit. Then, she noticed a glint of metal underneath the control area and, looking closer, realized that it was a handle. Abby pulled on it and a hollowed wooden box – a drawer – jerked out, tipping heavily to one side.

  “Paul,” she called, carefully picking out a folded piece of stiff paper. It was weathered. It was darker in some spots and wrinkled all over. Abby held her breath, carefully prying the paper apart to examine the faded writing. “It’s just a fishing permit. He even has a fishing permit,” she said sadly, slumping against the steering wheel and dropping the paper back into the drawer.

  “It’s like all the other commercial fishing boats,” Paul said. There was a small port in Colchester – as well as many other substantial docking areas in neighbouring towns – so Paul and Abby had both seen a lot of fishing boats up close.

  “The problem is that we don’t know what we’re looking for.” Abby picked up an old baseball cap near the steering wheel. “For all we know, this could be evidence.” She waved the cap at Paul and stuffed it back in its place.

  “Well, we know that in his ledger book, Mr. Brunner used the abbreviation DET for Detroit. What could CC mean, though? It said CC-DET.”

  “It could mean so many different things.” Abby sighed. “Paul, I’m getting even more worried about Tom. I sort of half expected him to show up and say that he just needed some time to himself. But it’s been a full day now.”

  “I know. We have to think about what to do next but we should go home I guess. I’m sorry for dragging you out here. I just thought that it made sense to look, but obviously there’s nothing strange around here. If we get back soon, our parents probably won’t even notice that we were gone.”

  “Hope Mr. Brunner won’t notice, either,” she said.

  Abby shoved the drawer shut and turned away from the control area. She took a step but her foot got caught, tripping her and sending her flying toward the entrance.

  “You okay?” Paul asked as she regained her footing.

  “Yeah,” she said. “That was weird. My foot just got stuck on something.”

  “Stuck?” Paul knelt down at the place where Abby had tripped and felt along the floor. He gasped. “Abby, the flooring isn’t even. There’s a board sticking out here!”

  Abby knelt down beside him, staring at the floorboard. Sure enough, it was slightly raised.

  Paul edged his finger underneath the floorboard, feeling the wood rough against his skin. “There’s a space,” he said, wiggling his finger around.

  Abby smiled. “This is exactly what we’re looking for...”

  Paul pushed upwards on the creaky floorboard and it opened, revealing a series of other boards with it. He urged the trapdoor all the way open, holding it perpendicular to the ground.

  They peered down into a deep, dark cellar.

  Chapter 19

  Found

  Paul stuck his foot into the hole and saw it disappear into pure blackness. He felt the temperature drop on his leg that hung down as he flicked on the flashlight that he had been carrying. The beam brightened a circle of wood on the floor a couple of feet away from his dangling legs.

  “Not too much of a drop,” Paul said, clicking off the Eveready flashlight. “We should probably only turn this on once we’re down there.”

  He slid off, plummeting the short distance in darkness. Paul landed with a thud on the second tier of floor.

  “Okay,” he called up to Abby, moving away from the place where he had landed. As he moved sideways Paul felt the outline of a ladder. “Abby, you don’t even need to jump. Feel for a ladder on the side. Just make sure you close the trapdoor once you start climbing down.”

  Abby felt for the ladder. Once she secured herself on it she pulled the trapdoor over her head and climbed down beside Paul. Now, with the door fully closed, it was impossibly dark. Paul clicked on the flashlight, scanning it around the room like radar.

  “Wow,” Abby said. “It’s big down here. You would’ve never known from the outside.”

  The light uncovered stacks of cardboard boxes, piled to the ceiling and cramping the cellar.

  “This doesn’t seem like fishing equipment,” Paul whispered, his pulse quickening. He grabbed the nearest box from a stack, stretching to reach it, and placed it at their feet. Abby leaned down with shaky fingers and snapped the flaps of cardboard backwards. They fell against the sides.

  Paul directed the light towards the inside of the box and Abby stuck her hand in. They both gasped. The light ran along the tops of rows of bottles, while her fingers felt the curve of caps melding into glass. Abby pulled out a clear bottle, containing a golden liquid. In curled cursive along the label was written: ‘Canadian Club.’ Further down it read: ‘Canadian whisky.’

  “Whisky!” Abby held the bottle up to the light. “That’s what’s in all of these boxes.”

  Paul examined the label more closely and then it clicked. “Abby! Canadian Club. CC. From the ledger book, CC must mean Canadian Club.”

  “You mean...”

  “Yes! Mr. Brunner is selling whisky over in Detroit. CC-DET. Canadian Club to Detroit. The whole time, he’s pretending to be a normal fisherman. That’s why he’s keeping up his fishing business even though he makes way more money selling whisky.”

  “It’s all a cover-up then,” said Abby. “The fishing is a cover-up so that he can cross Lake Erie without suspicion.”

  “That’s why he didn’t want Tom to use up all his time fishing. Because with fishing alone he would never have made enough money to buy a Cadillac.”

  “Exactly, Paul. We’re figuring this out,” Abby said, grabbing the flashlight and rushing over to open up other boxes, finding the same rows of bottles.

  Paul stood in the same place, thinking back to the ledger book. “That’s not all,” he said. “CC-DK. Now that I’m thinking about this stuff as a whole theme I get it – DK must be Dirty Kate’s!”

  “You’re right!”

  “Mr. Brunner is selling this whisky illegally at the blind pig, Dirty Kate’s. He was selling it to Owen Richardson.”

  Abby turned to face him. “Remember what Inspector Ward said about Owen Richardson having maybe gone back on an agreement with his killer? Maybe Mr. Brunner and Owen Richardson had settled on something, but last night it fell apart.”

  “And Mr. Brunner killed Owen Richardson over this disagreement. More proof that he’s the murderer.”

  Paul bent over and looked more closely at the cardboard boxes. Many of them were labeled with ‘DK’ or ‘DET.’ While on others, names and addresses were written. He thought back to the sheet of names in the ledger book – obviously this liquor was being delivered to them. Paul gasped, seeing a flash of yellow, crooked teeth and the letters COP written out by Mr. Brunner.

  “Abby, Inspector Ward isn’t just here to reorganize the police force,” he said slowly. “He’s here to investigate it.”
/>   “What?”

  A muffled noise from behind the boxes interrupted her. Paul’s arms broke out in goose bumps, as he tapped Abby’s shoulder and pointed over in the direction of the sound. Paul took the flashlight and, shining it at the pile of cardboard, creeped closer. The noise got louder. He pushed the boxes on an angle, retracting his arm quickly. He peered around the corner.

  Slumped against the wall with hands tied and mouth gagged, was Tom.

  “Tom!” Paul rushed over and untied the rope that held the gag in his mouth and Abby ran over to join him. She pried at the ropes tying his legs together and the one pinning his arms behind his back.

  “Paul. Abby,” Tom said, once he could speak. “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re proving that Mr. Brunner murdered a man and is trafficking illegal whisky to Detroit.” He helped Tom up and gave him a lopsided hug. Tom swayed on his feet and Abby hurried over to support his other arm.

  “Are you okay, Tom?” she asked, her green eyes glinting with tears. “What happened?”

  “My head…”

  Abby felt the back of his head gently.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry – oh my God, there’s a huge lump.”

  “I’m okay, I think,” he answered, his eyes squinting. “I came over here last night to do some work. No one was here. So, I started unloading some fish and I found a trapdoor.”

  “Then what happened?” Paul asked.

  “Mr. Brunner and Jerry came back. It was really weird. They were doing a delivery in the truck at night. It was past ten o’clock. The last thing I remember is being hit on the back of the head. I must have gone

  unconscious.”

  Tom pushed aside some of his black hair and felt the tightness of the harsh lump that had developed on the back of his head.

  “I woke up and I was here, all tied up. Where are we?”

  “We’re under the boat,” Paul said. “This is where the trapdoor leads to.”

  Abby looked urgently between her two friends. “We’ve got to get help quickly. Mr. Brunner might flee – even to the United States – when he finds out that Tom is missing.”

  “It has to be the Inspector,” Paul said, his blue eyes determined.

  Abby raised her eyebrow.

  “Trust me on this.”

  Abby nodded and Tom added, “Let’s get out of here right away.”

  The three walked past boxes of alcohol bound for Detroit, Paul seizing one bottle of golden whisky. Tom placed the ladder upright and held it sturdy for Abby, who swiftly climbed the wooden rungs. Paul brightened the path with his flashlight.

  “Ready?” Abby whispered. As she spoke, metal hinges screeched. The trapdoor opened. Cool moonlight merged with Paul’s flashlight.

  “None of you are going anywhere,” Bud Brunner growled. A gun was shoved toward Abby’s face. The barrel glinted in the moonlight. She hurried back down the ladder and Mr. Brunner followed her, keeping his gun pointed.

  “Thought you’d help your friend?” The three backed up, pressing against smooth cardboard boxes. “Too bad he found out too much.”

  “I just came over to help,” said Tom. “You know I was turning out to be a pretty good fisherman – not that it mattered to you.” Tom’s arms trembled. “You never cared about the fishing.”

  “You’re right, I didn’t. And here’s where we have a problem.” Mr. Brunner stepped towards Paul and Abby. He slowly tapped the box of whisky closest to him. Paul’s hands pooled with cool sweat. “All of you know about our little secret.”

  “And you’re not getting away with it,” Paul said.

  Bud Brunner grabbed the flashlight out of Paul’s hands, his thick arms bulging. “Let’s see about that. We’re going to go on a little trip.”

  “You can’t do that!” Abby yelled.

  Mr. Brunner pointed the gun at Abby, Paul and then Tom, so they would understand. “You’ll stay down here if you know what’s good for you.”

  Mr. Brunner climbed the ladder and slammed the trapdoor shut. The ship’s hold returned to pure darkness.

  Chapter 20

  Showdown

  Inspector Ward pressed on the brake. His sedan responded, slowing along Colchester’s shoreline. He watched waves hitting the shore and felt a surge of optimism. He finally had a lead, thanks to Jake, the bar owner over on Lincoln Drive. Who knew it would bring him back to Colchester? Nothing concrete, but it had to be checked out.

  One of the Windsor officers – Nash – was heard to be in the area frequently. Only thing was, the informant couldn’t be sure of his destination each time.

  But I need evidence.

  The foliage thickened but Inspector Ward was still able to keep sight of Lake Erie. He had decided to investigate as much of the border between Windsor and Detroit as he could. He knew that corruption moved between the two sides but he didn’t know from where. Before this new lead, he had sat for hours near the Ambassador Bridge to watch cars travel from country to country. There were no revelations there. Only the ghosts of another time that still haunted.

  The trees thinned again and Inspector Ward cut the engine at a perfect look-out of Lake Erie. He sighed and tilted his fedora. As he did so, he noticed a pale blue motorboat start to move away from the shore. Inspector Ward pulled a pair of binoculars out of his glove compartment and saw the distinct gill-net fishing equipment.

  Just a fishing boat.

  ***

  “We need a plan,” Paul whispered, balancing himself against a stack of boxes. The engine had started and the boat was taking them out into open water. The floor tilted.

  “I don’t want to find out where he’s taking us,” Abby agreed.

  “We aren’t far from shore yet. We can still swim back at this point – or at least I hope we can. Can you swim, Tom?” Paul asked, squaring his shoulders.

  “Yes – thanks to Billy. He taught me when I was younger. But how can we get out of the hold without him noticing, though?” Tom asked.

  “I remember that there’s no lock on that trapdoor – he’s just expected us to stay down here and be scared – so let’s surprise him,” said Paul. He fumbled to open boxes, looking for anything of use. “Anyone got a flashlight?”

  “I think I’ve got a match.” Tom took a rumpled paper box out of his back pocket. He slid a match out and struck the red and white head against its box. He sheltered the teardrop flame. Tom reached over a box to hand Paul the match. The boat’s floor tilted from the waves. He slipped forward and felt the match escape from his fingers. It gave a warning hiss and within seconds the dry box was on fire.

  “Move! Move! Move!” Tom called, pushing Paul and Abby to the ladder. “The boxes are made from dry wood – and sealed alcohol could blow up!”

  The flame shriveled one lip of the box, creeping closer to the flammable whisky. The three scrambled up the ladder.

  “Hurry!” Paul yelled to Abby who opened the trapdoor first with Paul following, then Tom. Just as Tom drew his second leg up from the hold there was a small explosion of shattered glass. Tom slammed his palm against the trapdoor. More bottles screamed and blew their contents below.

  “What have you done!” Bud Brunner shouted. His thin brown hair was askew. He looked wild-eyed at the three friends for a moment then jumped over the side of the boat.

  Another explosion. The boat shook.

  “Jump!” yelled Paul.

  The three jumped simultaneously from the boat as flames exploded from the hold. As they swam hard for shore in the darkness, their path was lit by the destruction behind them. Paul felt his lungs burn. He looked back and saw thick smoke and fire dancing on the water.

  ***

  Inspector Ward looked again with his binoculars. The light blue fishing boat
was now in flames.

  Had people just jumped from the ship?

  He tossed his binoculars on the passenger seat, turned his key in the ignition and took off. There was only one more cottage on the road.

  Once he arrived at the laneway, he stopped the car and lurched out to open a metal gate. He pulled in and cut the engine in front of a small bungalow where it wouldn’t be seen and stepped out of the car. The inspector watched the scene unfolding on the shore and tightened his grey fedora on his head. Instinctively, he placed his hand on his .38 calibre Colt.

  ***

  “You kids are going to pay for this.”

  Bud Brunner, who had swum to land first, blocked their path. Paul, Abby and Tom had tried to flee, but had gotten cornered along the fence. Paul’s breath came in gasps as he stood in soaked sneakers. He looked at Abby and Tom who were also rooted to the spot. Mr. Brunner raised his gun and pointed it at them.

  ***

  Inspector Ward took long strides down the slight slope toward the cottage and placed himself directly beside a large elm tree.

  A man with a gun, the Martin kid – and another boy and girl around the same age.

  He watched the man raise a gun and point it toward them.

  No time to waste.

  “Police! Put your gun down!” Inspector Ward emerged from behind the tree, aiming his .38 Special and flashing his badge at the same time.

  At the last second the inspector saw a sneer as the man jerked his gun toward him. He slipped behind the tree again just as a bullet whizzed by.

  Inspector Ward took a firmer grip on his gun. At the same time, he watched the man grab the closest kid to him, a boy the inspector didn’t recognize.

  ***

  “Let him go!” Paul shouted. “Inspector, help!”

  Bud Brunner ignored Paul and tightened his grip on Tom from behind his neck while he held the boy in front of himself like a shield. He shouted toward the