Thunder Bay co-7

by William Kent Krueger

  He came into the bathroom holding a white robe, the kind Wellington had been wearing when I saw him.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “In the closet. Along with this.” He held up a pair of black silk pajamas on a wooden hanger. “About as night and day as you can get.” He looked around the bathroom. “Very nice. Anything interesting?”

  “Check out the vanity.”

  “Whoa,” Schanno said.

  He was probably responding to the wig of long white hair draped over a wooden head-shaped stand on the vanity. I checked the drawers. Makeup, but not the kind most women wore. Theatrical stuff. Gum spirit, liquid latex, foundation, a creme color wheel, a contact lens case with brown-tinted lenses inside.

  “Wellington’s, you think?” Schanno asked.

  “If it is, he’s even stranger than I figured.”

  Meloux stood in the bathroom doorway, looking lost. “What does it mean?”

  “I’m not entirely sure, Henry. Let’s check the bedroom carefully.”

  In the closet hung several of the white robes, but also dress shirts, a couple of Hawaiian numbers, and slacks. In a shoe rack were casual shoes, deck shoes, and three pairs of New Balance athletic shoes. The dresser held briefs, undershirts, socks, sweaters, sweat suits. In the drawer of the nightstand were a couple of paperback mystery novels and a wire-bound notebook. The notebook contained dialogue sketches, exchanges like those between characters in a play.

  Edwina: You can’t mean that.

  Gladstone: If you’d been paying attention, you’d have seen this coming.

  (Edwina crumples in a faint.)

  Gladstone: Your dramatics will do you no good, my dear.

  I read a couple of pages; it didn’t get any better. Behind the last page of the notebook was a flyer, folded in half. I opened it and discovered an advertisement for a production at the Loghouse Theatre, a melodrama titled The Nightcap, written and directed by Preston Ellsworth and starring the same. The production ran from June 1 until August 31, at eight P.M. every night except Monday.

  Henry breathed deeply, almost a sigh of relief, I thought. “It was not my son you saw here.”

  “That’s a good guess, Henry.”

  “But why this pretending?”

  “The question of the day.”

  “What now?” Schanno asked.

  I looked at my watch. A few minutes before nine.

  “How long does a play last?” I asked. “Couple of hours?”

  “About that.”

  “Takes the actors a while to change, get their makeup off?”

  “I’d guess.”

  “So if we hurry, we might have a shot at catching Ellsworth before he leaves the Loghouse Theatre.”

  “A shot,” Schanno agreed. “A long one.” He glanced at Meloux. “Unless we get lucky.”

  FORTY-ONE

  By the time we piled into the dinghy and began to row back to Trinky Pollard’s sailboat, the wind and rain had let up a bit. While Schanno and I pulled on the oars, Meloux used the flashlight to signal. Pollard was waiting for us as we drew alongside. When we were aboard, she tied the dinghy to a stanchion at the stern.

  “So?” She turned to us expectantly.

  “How quickly can you get us back to Thunder Bay?”

  “Is someone after you?”

  “Other way around, Trinky. There’s a man we need to get to. We know where he might be, but unless we get there fast, we could lose him.”

  “Then let’s pull that anchor up and get under way.”

  She used the engine to take us back. It was faster, she explained, than lifting the sails and tacking against the wind. The dinghy trailed behind at the end of its line. As we rode the black swells of the bay, I filled her in on what we’d discovered on Manitou Island.

  “A stand-in? Why? And why so eccentric?”

  “If Ellsworth really is our man and we can get to him, maybe we’ll have the answers.”

  “In the meantime,” Pollard said, “why don’t you three go below and get out of the rain. I don’t have dry clothes to offer, but I’ve got a bottle of Glenlivet in the cupboard. It’ll brace you some, warm your innards anyway. I’ll let you know when we’re inside the marina breakwater. You can give me a hand docking.”

  Schanno shook his big, wet head. “It doesn’t sit right with me, you up here alone.”

  “I’m alone at this wheel most of the time,” she told him. “There’s nothing for you to do.”

  “Keep you company at least.”

  She seemed pleased. “If that’s what you want. But you two”-she nodded at Meloux and me-“no reason both of you need to stay out in the weather.”

  I went below with the old Mide. I found the Scotch and offered it to Meloux, who declined. I decided against it, too. The water was rough, and although I hadn’t experienced any seasickness on the way over, I didn’t want to take any chances. We still had a lot ahead of us on the far side of the bay.

  The swells knocked us about. Outside I couldn’t see anything but the black night and black rain and the white spray that hit the window. Meloux seemed oblivious to the pounding the sailboat was taking. Silent and as near to brooding as I’d ever seen him, he stared at his hands, folded in his lap.

  Even though Wellington’s absence from Manitou Island was not my fault, I still felt as if I’d let Henry down. I’d given him false hope, led him to believe we’d find his son there. What we found were simply more questions. There might have been something hopeful in the fact that the madman I’d seen earlier probably wasn’t Henry Wellington but someone pretending to be him. But what did that say about the real Wellington, that he was willing to allow such an unattractive portrayal? He probably was nuts, though not necessarily in the way people believed.

  Schanno opened the cabin door and stepped in. “We’re rounding the breakwater.”

  “You were good company for Trinky?” I asked.

  “Remarkable woman,” he said. “She’s thinking of sailing down the Saint Lawrence and the East Coast to the Caribbean next year.”

  “Alone?”

  “That’s what’s been holding her back. She’d like a mate.”

  “Speaking nautically?”

  Schanno gave me a sour look. “Topside now,” he said.

  The breakwater had done its job, and the lake surface was relatively smooth as we entered the marina and docked. We tied up and hauled in the dinghy.

  “I’ll deflate it later,” Pollard said. “Let’s get you to the Loghouse Theatre.”

  “You know where it is?”

  “In Thunder Bay, I know where everything is.”

  “Lucky for us,” Schanno said and gave her a goofy, big-toothed grin.

  We took my Bronco. Pollard sat up front with me and navigated. The Loghouse Theatre was in the old Fort William section of town. It took us fifteen minutes to get there. When we arrived, the parking lot was almost empty.

  “Too late?” Schanno said.

  “Lights are still on in the lobby. Let’s give it a try.”

  The doors were locked, but we could see two kids inside, early twenties. The young man wore an old-fashioned white shirt with a black string tie, and his hair was slicked down and parted in the middle. The young woman wore a calico dress and had long gold curls with bangs. They were straightening up the lobby. I knocked on the glass of the front door.

  The woman turned toward us and I saw her mouth the word closed.

  “Please,” I called. “It’s important.”

  Her chest heaved with a theatrically tired sigh, but she came to the door. The young man went on with his work.

  “I’m sorry, folks,” she said as soon as she unlocked and opened up. “The performance is finished. We’re done for the night.”

  She was pretty and heavily made up. Her golden Shirley Temple curls were a wig, I could see. One of the actors, I guessed.

  “We’ve come a long way,” I told her. “We’d like to see Preston Ellsworth. Please. Even just for a minute.”


  “You’re fans?” She sounded surprised.

  “Yes. Fans. His biggest,” I said. “Even if we’re too late for the performance, could we at least get an autograph?”

  “You want Preston Ellsworth’s autograph?” She glanced at the young man, who studiously avoided looking at her. “Well, okay, I’ll tell him,” she said. “Wait here.”

  The kid with the slicked-down hair grabbed a Bissell sweeper and began to push it back and forth over the carpet with a crisp zip of the brushes inside. I turned away from the door where the young woman had gone. I wanted my back to Ellsworth when he walked in so I could surprise him and see the look on his face when he recognized me.

  “Here we are,” said a cheery voice a minute later. “I understand you’ve come a long way.”

  It didn’t sound like the same man who’d spoken to me at the mansion, but I supposed a good actor ought to be able to disguise his voice. I turned to him.

  He was fiftyish, with a thin handsome face and pleasant gray eyes. He’d thrown on a tan sport coat over his white T-shirt and he wore jeans. His face was still heavily made up for performance. He appeared fit, not at all like the sickly madman in the white robe who’d screamed bloody murder when I’d approached him in the mansion. I’d thought the similarities would be obvious, but he looked so different. If he recognized me, he hid it well.

  “Yes,” I said. “From the States.”

  “Is that so?” He took in our wet clothes. “Did you swim here?” He smiled at his joke, showing beautiful, capped teeth. The teeth of the man on Manitou Island had been like moldy cheese. “Where in the States?”

  “Minnesota,” I said. “But then, you already knew that.”

  He looked puzzled, but still pleasant. “I did?” He shrugged it off. “Gloria said you were fans. Is that right?”

  “Of one performance in particular,” I said. “I think you know which one.”

  The puzzlement morphed into confusion laced with just a hint of annoyance. “I’m afraid I’m not following you at all.”

  “This isn’t a bad performance either, Mr. Wellington.”

  “Look,” he said, with a note of exasperation. “Is this a joke or something?”

  “No joke. Although it might be a little funny if murder weren’t involved.”

  Hands on his hips. Perturbation now. “Who are you and what’s this all about?”

  The kid with the Bissell sweeper kept at his work, but he wasn’t missing a word.

  “Me, you’ve already met,” I said. “We almost did battle over a pocket watch, on Manitou Island. These are my colleagues. Wallace Schanno, former sheriff of Tamarack County, Minnesota. Trinky Pollard, formerly with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. And this is Henry Meloux, the real father of the real Henry Wellington. As for what this is about, Mr. Ellsworth, it’s about the attempt made on Henry’s life the day after I spoke with you in the Wellington mansion on Manitou Island.”

  His brow furrowed. He eyed me in a threatening way. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  Trinky Pollard said, “You can talk to us, or you can talk to one of my friends in the RCMP.”

  He hesitated. “You’re talking about that crazy recluse on the island out there in the bay, right?”

  We stared at him.

  “I have no relationship whatsoever with Henry Wellington. All I know about the man is what I read in the papers. If you want to call your RCMP friend, fine. When he gets here, I’ll ask him to charge you with harassment. Good night.”

  He turned away.

  “Does this mean we don’t get an autograph?” I said.

  He slammed the door behind him.

  “Is it him?” Schanno asked.

  “I don’t know, Wally. I thought if it was, I could bluff it out of him.”

  “He had me convinced,” Schanno said.

  “Either he’s telling the truth or he’s a very good actor.”

  The kid with the Bissell snorted.

  Pollard turned his way. “You know him?”

  The kid looked up at us and feigned surprise. “What?”

  Pollard walked toward him. “Do you know Preston Ellsworth?”

  The kid watched her approach and thought about it. “Oh yeah, I know him,” he said with a smirk.

  “Was he lying?”

  “Hey, I don’t-”

  Pollard was very close to him now. “Was he lying?”

  The kid leaned on the handle of his Bissell. “What you just witnessed was a performance.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Here’s something else for you. He drives a Ferrari. He does seasonal melodrama for a living, but he drives a Ferrari. How do you figure that?”

  “Yes,” Pollard agreed. “How do you figure that? I think we’ll go back and talk to Mr. Ellsworth further.”

  The kid shrugged-no big deal to him-and went back to cleaning the lobby. “Through that doorway and down the hall. His dressing room’s on the right. His name’s on the door,” he said without looking at us again.

  The door was unlocked, and we went in without knocking. Ellsworth was at his dressing table. He’d removed his sport coat and was in his T-shirt. He was in the process of wiping cold cream off his face when he saw us in the mirror. He was clearly startled, then angry.

  He swung toward us. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

  “We came to congratulate you on a pretty good performance,” I said. “And to get the truth from you.”

  “If you don’t get out of here, I’m calling the police.”

  “Fine,” Pollard said. “And when you do, maybe you can explain to them how an actor in local theater gets the kind of money it takes to buy a Ferrari. And if the police aren’t interested, I have friends with the CRA who’d love to follow up on that.”

  “I pay my taxes.”

  By that time, I’d had enough. I was on him in two long strides. I grabbed a handful of his T-shirt, bunched it at his throat, and shoved him against the back of his chair. I put my face an inch from his. I could smell the greasepaint, the cold cream, the ghost of whiskey on his breath. His eyes bloomed with surprise and fear.

  “I’m tired of being fucked around,” I said. “That goon Morrissey followed me back to Minnesota and tried to kill my friend Henry. Morrissey’s dead, but I want to know if there are going to be any others trying to make sure the killing gets done. I swear to God, what I’m about to do to you isn’t a performance you’ll soon forget. You want that face to be in shape for the stage tomorrow night, you’ll answer my questions now. Who hired you?”

  Ellsworth gave me no answer. I lifted him out of the chair and slammed him against the wall. The drywall behind him crunched.

  “I can’t tell you,” he squawked.

  “Can’t?”

  “Breach of contract. If I tell you, I lose everything.”

  “Everything’s already lost, pal. The gig is over. We’re busting Wellington wide open, and I’ve got no problem busting you open first. Who hired you?”

  “Wellington,” he said.

  “Henry Wellington?”

  “Yes.”

  I eased up a bit, let him off the wall. “Tell me about it.”

  “Six years ago. He called me to the island and laid out what he wanted.”

  “Which was?”

  “Somebody to be him.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He offered me a deal I’d have been a fool to turn down. But there was a stipulation. I could never reveal the agreement, never tell anyone about my role.”

  “His idea to be so eccentric?”

  “More or less. He said he’d been compared to Howard Hughes all his life. No reason to stop now. He thought it would be a good way to keep people at a distance. So I studied Hughes.”

  “He’s okay with this character?”

  “I assume. Once I signed the agreement, I never saw him again.”

  Meloux walked forward. Ellsworth shifted his ey
es toward the old man.

  “What was he like?” Henry said.

  Ellsworth thought a moment. “Rather cold. Unhappy.”

  Meloux nodded.

  “Who pays you?” I asked.

  “I get a monthly amount deposited into my bank account. A retainer. And for each performance, I get something additional.”

  “How often do you perform?”

  “A couple of times a month, usually. I make an appearance at twilight for the benefit of the gawkers. Every once in a while, like when you showed up, I’m called to make a special appearance. I use the darkened room and the mask bit to keep people from looking too closely.”

  “Wellington’s never on the island?”

  “As far as I know, he hasn’t set foot there in six years.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “You know his brother, Rupert?”

  “I know who he is. I’ve never met him.”

  “The money that’s deposited in your account, where does it come from?”

  “On my bank statement, the notation reads Entertaintec, Inc.”

  “You don’t know anything about the company?”

  “No.”

  “Who contacted you for my performance?”

  “I have a cell phone dedicated to gigs on Manitou. Whenever they want me, they call me on it.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “I don’t know. A voice I don’t recognize.”

  “Has it always been just a voice?”

  “At first it was Wellington himself. That lasted a couple of years. Then it was a different voice.”

  “No name?”

  “No.”

  “And so no face to go with it, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What if you decided to contact your contact? Can you call him?”

  “Yes. There’s a number.”

  “He answers?”

  “No. I leave a message. I don’t do it often. They don’t like it.”

  “If I had the number, I could have it traced,” Pollard said to me.

  “Give it to her,” I told Ellsworth.

  He went to his sport coat and took a pen from the inside pocket. He wrote the number on the back of a program lying on the dressing table and handed the program to Pollard.