Hook, Line, and Homicide

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “Who recruited Scarth?”

  “I place a small ad in porn magazines and on the Net. He said he saw it and was curious. I’m careful when I meet them.”

  “Did you grow up around here?”

  “Kenora.”

  “Did Scarth do anything besides beat off?”

  Broder said, “He made six.”

  “That sounds like a lot.”

  “It is. Five of them were solo jobs. He was a hot man. He’s a big seller.”

  “But he did one with someone else.”

  “Yeah. Not somebody from around here. I can tell usually in the first two minutes what they’re really going to be willing to do. Some gay guys and women really get off on straight guys kissing, making out, and having sex. A surprising number of women order DVDs of guys beating off. Scarth claimed he wouldn’t do anything with another guy. I had to offer him a whole lot of money just to sit next to the guy. I put porn tapes on to get them in the mood. I tried a bisexual one. Scarth made me switch it. For a short while at the start, I thought he might be a little flexible. With the guy, he was out of his clothes in seconds and his dick was hard before his boxers came off. I offered him good money to interact with the other guy, but he said no. His two buddies gave in when I suggested lots more money if they’d beat off with another guy. They gave me this big show of reluctance. I get that a lot. Once they got started, it was no holds barred.”

  Turner asked, “What tips you off to their willingness to experiment?”

  “They look at the other guy too often. A straight guy who is totally straight barely looks at the other guy. Scarth looked a little.”

  “Scarth doesn’t know about his buddies?”

  “They haven’t confided in me.” He hesitated. “I guess I could tell you. You’re smart enough to check the Net. The two are Dunsmith and Doran. They got done with each other and made all kinds of protestations about doing what they’d done for money, only for the money. They kept repeating to me and to each other how many girls they’d had. What I don’t get is what all this has to do with Scarth getting drunk and falling into the lake and drowning.”

  “It gives me insight into who he was, what made him tick. Did any of the other guys who drowned appear on your Web site?”

  “That would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it? One of them was, only one. I didn’t get started with this business until after the first two deaths.”

  “Tell me about the one who did.”

  “He was the fourth one who died. He was friendly enough. Most of them get shy and nervous at first. He was silly and goofy. He’d smile, and nod, and do everything I asked for not that much money.”

  “Do you have sex with these guys?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “With Scarth?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “And do you put the ones with yourself and them on the Internet?”

  “No. That’s my little private bonus for living in this godforsaken corner of the world.”

  “Why do you live here?”

  “It’s quiet. It’s a world I know. I’m actually an artist. I sell my paintings in Vancouver. I make a little money doing that. I do a little guide work for the tourists in the summer. In the winter sometimes I work at a university in British Columbia.”

  “What do you know about Evon Gasple?”

  “Town slut. I heard she got an abortion, but I have no idea if that’s true. She wouldn’t do porn. She was also the local drug connection.”

  “As in occasionally she had stuff for everybody or as in major market supplier?”

  “Major market. She’d get Scarth and the boys to sell and distribute for her. I’m not sure Scarth was much into the organization although I guess he often kept stuff hidden for her. Everybody figured that since his dad had money, he’d be able to pay somebody off, or somehow pay their way out of any trouble.”

  “Evon was the leader?”

  “Yeah. Women aren’t drug kingpins in Chicago?”

  “I guess they could be if they wanted.” Broder knew no more.

  28

  It was midafternoon. Turner met Fenwick and went back to the houseboats. Brian was on the lake with the Jet Ski. Jeff was racing his wheelchair along the dock with another kid in a wheelchair. Madge and Ben joined the two detectives. Paul and Ben put together a large plate of cold cuts, bread, pickles, chips, mayonnaise, and mustard for a late lunch. Madge panfried several perch that her daughters had caught that morning. The Turner and Fenwick kids bolted their food and rushed off to their own interests.

  After the kids left, Ben asked, “Any luck with the investigation?”

  “No,” Fenwick said. “Scarth was a shit, but his friends liked him.”

  “Isn’t that always the case with friends?” Madge asked. “Otherwise they would come under the heading of enemies.”

  Ben said, “No wonder you married him. You have the same ghastly sense of humor.”

  All of them knew the truism that you were more likely to get useful information out of the enemies of the dead person than from the friends.

  They spent the rest of their lunch speculating about numerous possibilities. As they were settling down on the comfy chairs on the top deck of the Turners’ boat, a gray Honda Civic drove up. Howard Coates, the bar owner, and Ian emerged. They strode to the seated assemblage.

  “What’s up?” Fenwick asked.

  Coates said, “I have inside information. There’s no question that Evon was murdered, and now Scarth’s death is definitely being considered a homicide.”

  Madge asked, “Could they have killed each other? Maybe they had a huge fight. You’ve described them as constantly battling.”

  Ben said, “That would work very neatly and get rid of two boils on the butt of life.”

  Turner said, “That can’t be ruled out. Did they say what Evon died of?”

  Coates said, “My source would tell me only so much. He did say there had been pressure to rule Scarth’s death an accident, but he’s sticking to his guns. He’s a new guy. He never dealt with the other six deaths. I heard he may reopen the inquiries into those. The shit is about to hit the fan in this town.”

  The silver cigarette boat with the man who had picked up Mrs. Talucci entered the bay and headed for their dock. As the boat pulled in, Turner grabbed the line the man threw. After securing the boat, he walked up to Turner. This was the first time Turner had seen him up close. He was five feet eight, slender, with blond hair. He wore a blue blazer that was cut to emphasize broad shoulders and a slender waist. His deep voice was soft. He might have been in his middle-to-late twenties.

  “Mr. Turner?” Polite, deferential.

  Paul nodded.

  “Mrs. Talucci sent me to ask if you would accompany me to see her.”

  Everybody exchanged looks.

  Ian said to the young man, “Do you want me to go with?”

  Fenwick guffawed.

  Madge said, “I teach a course in subtlety. It meets once a week for the rest of your life. For the entire hour we practice keeping our mouths shut so we don’t embarrass ourselves.”

  Ian said, “I’m going to look for a burly Mountie who will come back and arrest you all.” He stomped off. Turner heard him mutter, “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  Through all this the young man had remained impassive. To Turner he said, “Sir?”

  Turner said, “Of course.” He didn’t ask what it was about. If he was supposed to tell, he guessed this young man would have told him.

  Ben said, “I’ll watch the kids. We could try and get in some more fishing.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Turner put his life jacket on and buckled himself into the boat next to his driver, the young man said, “Mr. Turner, my name is Phil. If I can do anything to make your journey more comfortable, please let me know. This will be a straightforward shot. We have about an hour and a half ahead of us.”

  Turner said, “Thank you. I think I’ll be fine.”

  Phi
l turned the boat on. Fenwick threw them the rope. Everybody waved as they pulled away.

  29

  Conversation over the roar of the cigarette boat’s twin engines would have had to occur at the shout level. The young man stood at the wheel and dodged marker buoys deftly. Turner would never have gone this fast through parts of the lake he was familiar with, much less these parts, which he didn’t know. An errant rock could tear the hell out of the bottom of your boat. The sun was warm, but the lake was cool. Turner was glad he was wearing his heavy sweatshirt. By the end of an hour they were on parts of the lake Turner had never been.

  Abruptly, the boat slowed. Turner looked around. They were miles from land. The engine noise was down. He looked at the driver, who said, “We’re being followed.”

  Turner looked back. In the far distance he saw a speck of black in the middle of the water. It could have been a rock, except in a few moments it began to get larger.

  “Someone who happens to be on the lake at the same time?” Turner asked.

  “They’ve been behind us since we started out.” Phil shoved the throttle down and the boat flew off. They were heading due south. In about ten minutes they closed in on a series of islands. Phil took the boat around the first three then doubled back. He drove in under a wide swath of overhanging trees. He tied the boat up and began to disembark.

  “I’m coming with,” Turner said.

  Phil nodded. They crossed a small isthmus and were able to look back on the way they’d come. In a few minutes a charcoal gray boat approached going at high speed. Turner saw four men in the boat. They were about a half mile away so he couldn’t be sure who it was.

  Phil said, “Scarth’s buddies.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I recognize the boat. It’s the one Scarth Krohn always used. I assume it’s them.”

  The boat raced past their observation spot. Turner began to go back to their boat.

  “Wait,” Phil said.

  Minutes later another, much smaller powerboat drove past. This one was much closer to the shore they stood on.

  Turner said, “That’s Ralph Bowers. What the hell is going on? Is he following us or them and why is anyone following us?”

  Phil said, “I don’t have the answers to those questions. We need to go. They’ll probably figure out we’re not ahead of them fairly soon.”

  They returned to their boat and took a different channel out into the lake. Phil pushed the throttle on full and they raced away toward the north.

  Twenty-five minutes later bright red, elegantly lettered signs began to appear warning them that they were entering private property and that there would be no trespassing. Another five minutes and Turner saw they were approaching the largest log structure he had ever seen. It was a mansion built with lodgepole pines. There were outbuildings with horses in front of them being led in circles around a paddock. A wide green lawn led up from a small dock. Another cigarette boat, which matched the first, was pulled up to the pier. A young man about Phil’s age hurried from a boathouse and helped with the lines. Turner noted that this man, like Phil, carried a deftly concealed handgun.

  Turner spotted Mrs. Talucci on a shaded veranda. She waved. Accompanied by Phil, he strode forward. The backdrop to the home was tall pine trees and solid oaks. His feet sank into the well-manicured lawn.

  When Turner touched the door of the screened-in porch, two large dogs rose from the ground within. One was a black German shepherd, the other a Doberman pinscher. They neither barked nor wagged their tails. Phil said, “Excuse me, sir.” Turner stepped back. Phil touched the door and said, “Friend.” The dogs subsided. Turner entered. Phil followed.

  Mrs. Talucci rose and greeted him. She introduced a man sitting in a two-seater swing, which was next to her chair. “Paul, this is my brother, Dominic Antonetti. You’ve heard me speak of him?”

  Turner remembered Mrs. Talucci had nine brothers and sisters. He recalled that Dominic was the youngest. He looked to be in his late seventies. Turner shook his hand. Turner noted that the swing did not squeak as it moved with the man’s motion. Somebody kept it well oiled.

  Dominic said, “Forgive me for not rising. The doctors say I am to take it easy for three more weeks.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope,” Paul said.

  “With old people, things break down,” he said. His voice was soft and raspy. He looked thin and frail. He wore a brown cardigan sweater over a blue, long-sleeved shirt, and khaki pants.

  Next to Mrs. Talucci on a white wrought-iron table sat a glass of iced tea and a book of Kierkegaard’s writing. Paul knew in the fall she was planning to take another philosophy course at the University of Chicago. The pine chairs on the veranda had deep, soft, flowered yellow cushions for the occupants to relax on. The veranda was cool and pleasant, the giant oaks in the yard casting vast shadows.

  Phil said, “Mr. Antonetti, we had two boats following us.” He gave his report.

  When he finished, the young man said, “I’ll order the usual precautions.”

  Antonetti said, “Thank you, Phillip.”

  Another gentleman emerged from the house. He was about the same age as Dominic. This new person was introduced as Pierre LeBec. He sat down next to Dominic on the swing. He put his hand on Dominic’s shoulder and asked, “Do you need anything?”

  “I’m fine for now, thanks.”

  Pierre put his hand around Dominic’s shoulder and left it there.

  Paul wasn’t stupid.

  Dominic said, “They came with an entourage.” He explained to LeBec what Phil had told them. He finished, “We’ll double the guards for a while.”

  A man in his late twenties appeared with a cart that he wheeled down a smooth concrete path that snaked around the property. On the cart were a variety of snacks, a silver tea service, and a small coffee urn. Turner recognized a plate of Mrs. Talucci’s fudge. The combination of miniature marshmallows, pistachios, and cashews was her signature. Dominic served. Paul took a small piece of each pastry and a cup of coffee. Serving her guests food and drink was a time-honored activity for Mrs. Talucci. If you came to her house, she fed you. Obviously her brother had the same approach with visitors. Paul felt little occasion to refuse; besides, it would be rude. He took a bite of fudge. Delicious as always.

  When they were each settled with their bits of confections, Mrs. Talucci said, “Are the boys all right?”

  “They’re coping pretty well. I’ve talked to them both. I’ll want to keep talking to them.”

  “You always do,” Mrs. Talucci said. “Now, you’ve been having adventures. Tell us what’s happened.”

  Turner told the story.

  When he finished, Pierre said, “The sabotage that happened to your boat worries me more than anything else. And you were attacked. And you were followed out here.”

  Dominic added, “And you had the break-in that first night.”

  Pierre said, “Be careful who you trust.”

  “I agree,” Dominic said. “It’s a big lake and accidents can happen awfully conveniently.”

  “I’d never endanger my family,” Paul said.

  Mrs. Talucci said, “We will do our best to make sure nothing happens.”

  “Thanks,” Paul said. He didn’t know what they could do, but Mrs. Talucci was a marvel.

  Paul asked, “What can you tell me about the Krohns?”

  Dominic said, “I knew Scarth Krohn’s great-grandfather, Arnold, best. He hired me in his mill when I came up here when I was fifteen. I had to run away from home.”

  Turner could guess why, but he kept silent. Listening to people’s stories was a good part of his job as a detective. He was fairly good at getting people to talk or letting them talk. He was hoping to hear a new bit of Mrs. Talucci’s family history.

  Dominic said, “I was a wild kid. I didn’t think the world could hold me.” He smiled. “I was also flat broke. I did every rotten, low-level job in the mill. I boarded in a house near downtown.” He smiled at Pierre.
“He was fourteen then. What a time we had running in the woods, falling in love. I worked for the mill for fifty-two years. Eventually, I became foreman. I saved my money.”

  Pierre said, “I became an attorney and worked for the mill. I also inherited some money.”

  Dominic said, “We bought an acre of land out here in 1946.”

  Pierre added, “We used to always come out here separately. We were always careful. We bought more and more land and eventually built this place. We did much of the work ourselves.”

  Dominic said, “Well, to business. I feel bad about Scarth Krohn dying. Not because he was a good person. He was terrible, awful, but it’s sad when any young life is snuffed out. I always hold out hope that people can change.”

  Mrs. Talucci said, “You are kinder than I am.”

  Dominic said, “Old Arnold Krohn, the great-grandfather, was a merciless skinflint. He drove all his rivals out of business, then created rivals so he could pretend there was competition. If he cut prices one place, he made a bundle in another mill. He didn’t care if he ruined the lives of hundreds of employees.”

  “It was all secret,” Pierre said. “Arnold Krohn specialized in secrets. The more harmful to someone else the better. I was a lawyer for the mill, and I thought I knew secrets, but he was a master at creating them, keeping them, and crushing people with them.”

  Dominic added, “He was the most rotten of all to his son, Blake, who was even more rotten to his son, J.T.”

  “I’d like to talk to Scarth’s dad and mom,” Turner said.

  Dominic said, “I will arrange it.”

  Turner noted that there was no mention of “trying” to do it.

  “I appreciate that.”

  Mrs. Talucci said, “I’m worried about you and your family. What else can we do to help?”

  “Tell me more about these people. I need background.”