by JoAnna Carl
But if I could get outside, I realized, I could go in another door—such as the side door, the door off the deck, the door to the room where my mom must be a prisoner.
But how could I get out of the kitchen and around the corner to that door?
Then I remembered I’d seen another door as Lovie and I came around the house. A cellar door. The old-fashioned kind used when farmers carried potatoes or apples into the basement for winter storage.
And cellars traditionally were also accessible from kitchens.
I spotted a door at the back of the kitchen. My heart began to pound. Could it be my escape hatch?
I tiptoed back there—the argument in the living room was getting louder and louder—and I carefully opened that door, peeking around it to see what was inside.
Something flew out at me.
It was instinct that made me put up my hand, some primitive instinct that I was about to get hit in the head and should try to avoid the blow.
I gasped and realized I was standing there holding a mop handle. I’d opened the broom closet, and the mop had nearly fallen out.
My heart was beating so loudly I felt sure Quinn and Rollie would hear it in the next room. It took me at least a minute of deep breathing to get my nerves calm enough that I could move.
When I was able to command my muscles again, I opened the door a bit wider and tried to see what else was in that closet. It might hold something useful. Like a flashlight.
I didn’t find a flashlight, but I did see an odd white stick—right in front of me, at eye level, lying flat. Thanking my tall Texas and Dutch ancestors, the ones who handed me the genes that made me tall enough to see what was on that shelf, I touched the white stick gingerly. It was a candle.
It was beside a cheap star-shaped glass holder. And right beside the holder was an old peanut butter jar. Hope began to sing. I took the peanut butter jar out and held it in the light coming in around the shutter, and my heart gave a leap of joy. It held a box of matches, sealed inside the jar to keep out the damp.
I knelt behind the range again, opened the jar, and lit the candle. And once it was lit, I found the cellar door without any trouble. It was around a corner in a little alcove that held the refrigerator.
I crept down the cellar steps and found myself in a Michigan basement, a cellar with a sand floor and stone walls. By that time I was completely turned around, and I had to make a circuit of the cellar before I found the outside door. Then another fear arose. That door ought to be held shut from the outside by a padlock. I might need a hacksaw to get out. Or an ax.
But luck was with me. The double door to the blessed outside was held shut by a bar on the inside. A rugged two-by-four was across the double doors, held at each end by rough-hewn wooden hooks.
Some McKay farmer of bygone days had carved those hooks himself, and the family had never bothered to change the arrangement.
Not that it was easy getting out. Even after I’d taken the bar down, I had to shove on one of the doors like crazy, then dig my way out through the snow. I shoved the door just far enough open that I could squeeze out. Then I knelt in the snow and panted for a minute before I reached inside and pulled out my candle.
I stood up and started for the side deck and the door to what Rollie had called the “cathouse bedroom.”
Before I could get there, someone called my name.
I was completely surprised—I swear I looked up in the trees to find where the sound was coming from. Then I thought I’d imagined it.
But I heard it again. A low sound, almost a whisper, but insistent. “Lee!” When I looked around, I saw a movement.
It was Joe. He was standing at the edge of the woods, and he was motioning to me. I could see his mouth move. “Come! Come!”
I longed to run to him. Right through the snow.
Next I saw another movement, and I realized Hogan was standing about ten feet away from Joe. And through the bare winter trees, down on Lake Shore Drive, I saw police cars.
The police had found out where we were—even though I hadn’t been able to tell them. They were surrounding the house.
I felt a great sense of relief. But it was quickly followed by fear.
My mom was still a prisoner in that house. She would be a hostage. When the police stormed the place, she’d be in desperate danger.
I had to get her out.
Joe was still gesturing. He obviously couldn’t understand why I was just standing on the deck—holding a lighted candle in the bright sunlight—instead of running toward him.
I put the candle on the porch railing. Then I gestured to him. We’d gone to a couple of West Michigan Whitecaps games the summer before, and the entertainment had included audience participation. We’d all waved our arms enthusiastically, spelling out “YMCA” with gestures. Maybe I could remember the motions, and maybe Joe would recognize them.
I stuck my elbows up in the air and clinched my hands on top of my head. M. Then I made my arms into a big circle with my hands linked in the air above my head. O. Then I made another M. Then I pointed to the door behind me. I took Lovie’s key from my pocket and pantomimed turning it in a lock. Then I picked up my candle and moved toward the door.
It might not open anyway, I told myself.
But it did. The key turned easily in both locks—the one in the door handle and the deadbolt. I opened the door just a sliver, and I poked the candle inside.
I saw a movement. My mom was alive.
She was tied to one of the bedposts, and thank God she was gagged. I’m sure I startled her so much that she might have screamed. But she couldn’t.
Putting my finger to my lips, I crossed to the bed. The floor was covered with a thick carpet, so making noise wasn’t such a worry in there.
Then I started trying to get her loose. Rollie and Quinn had used some kind of clothesline to tie her up, and the knots didn’t make any sense at all. I struggled with them.
Mom began to yank her head back and forth, and the light changed. I realized someone had come in the door behind me. It was Joe.
He pushed the outside door almost shut, and he crossed to the bed. I gave him the finger on the lip bit, and he nodded. He took a look at the knots that held my mom; then he reached somewhere under his ski jacket and produced a pocketknife.
It was more beautiful than a diamond tiara.
Joe’s wonderful knife—as a good craftsman he takes care of his tools, so it was sharp—made quick work of the clothesline. We had Mom untied and off the bed in about a minute. We were holding her, trying to help her stand up, and dragging her toward the door, when the noise coming from the living room changed.
First a loud bang came from somewhere in the house. It was wood against wood, and it was a hard blow.
Quinn yelled, “What was that?”
Rollie yelled, “What are you doing here?”
Lovie yelled, “Ed!”
Ed yelled, “Mom! If they’ve hurt you, I’ll kill ’em!”
Joe growled. “Ed’s come in without waiting for the rest of the troops,” he said. He dropped Mom’s arm and headed for the living room. Ed had apparently made his usual entrance, banging the door into the wall.
I jumped from side to side, trying to figure out what to do. I had to get my mom out of there. But I sure did want to know what was happening in the living room.
As I whirled around, trying to decide what to do, I spotted a big metal candlestick on the bedside table. I shoved Mom toward the outside door.
“Run!” I said. Then I grabbed the candlestick. Small objects flew from around its base, but I ignored that. Holding that candlestick over my head—and probably roaring some kind of war cry—I ran for the living room.
The scene in there was already confused. For one thing, the candles they’d been using had apparently fallen over and gone out, so the only light came from the fireplace. Ed Dykstra and Rollie were locked in combat. Lovie was hovering over them holding the fireplace poker. As I ran in she whacked Rollie on
the shin.
But I didn’t pay too much attention to them. Joe and Quinn were circling each other, fists doubled up. Or Quinn’s fists were doubled. Joe—once a champion amateur wrestler—was facing him with bent knees and arms extended, hands half open and ready to grab him and tie him into a knot.
It was no time for a fair fight. I whammed Quinn on the shoulder so hard that I broke the heavy candlestick. He dropped to one knee, screaming.
“My god!” Joe said. “I hope you didn’t break his shoulder!”
“I hope I did,” I said.
Then I realized that Mom had run into the room. She was holding the candlestick that matched mine, the one from the other side of the bed.
She rushed toward Rollie and Ed, who were now rolling on the floor with Ed on top, and raised the candlestick like a club.
“Stop!” Joe and I yelled the word at the same time. “You’re about to hit one of the good guys.”
With Joe to help, Rollie was immobilized before Hogan and his cops rushed in through the kitchen door.
Hogan looked at the scene—Rollie pinned securely by Joe and Ed, Quinn just beginning to move, and Mom, Lovie, and me all brandishing clubs—and shook his head.
“And they complain about cops being violent,” he said. “We’re not in it, compared to angry civilians.”
Chapter 23
Once I got a look at Quinn in the light, I recognized him. He was the well-dressed man who tried to pick up my mother in a big black Lincoln at the Grand Rapids airport. He was also the mysterious big-nosed customer—the one with his collar zipped up around his ears—who had bought a pound of bonbons and truffles from me three days before. Joe and I decided later that Quinn came into the shop so he could see what I looked like, in case he needed to know.
Quinn and Rollie, not being complete idiots, both hired lawyers immediately and have kept their mouths shut. There are signs, however, that Quinn’s willing to cut a deal. He’s obviously going to deny any involvement with the deaths of either Bill Dykstra or Sheriff Van Hoosier. And that could be true; Quinn could claim that he didn’t know Rollie had killed Bill until after the fact, and he has already proved he was in Chicago on the day Van Hoosier died. Rollie, on the other hand, was at the retirement center that day, calling bingo. Now there’s a suspicious activity if there ever was one.
Ed Dykstra is being frank with the authorities, or so he claims. Joe doesn’t think he’ll be charged with anything. If Ed left Warner Pier before Bill was killed—and Hogan thinks he’s telling the truth about that—all they could charge him with would be attempted extortion from the failed attempt to force Quinn McKay’s father to quit polluting Lake Michigan and to pay ransom. Because Quinn himself was involved in that effort—and he has since inherited his father’s fortune—that whole case is in legal limbo. There might be a charge to do with wasting the time of law enforcement officials, but after thirty-plus years, it’s hard to say. Ed’s mainly concerned with trying to keep his license as a registered nurse.
I did witness an odd episode in the Superette, when Ed came face-to-face with Greg Glossop. Greg stammered out a greeting, looking terrified at the sight of Ed. Ed got a wicked grin on his face and acted very friendly. Then, as he said good-bye, he patted Greg on the shoulder.
“We were young in interesting times,” Ed said. “But those times are long gone for both of us.”
Greg looked relieved.
But just where did Sheriff Van Hoosier fit into the kidnapping of Quinn McKay?
Apparently, after Mom called and told Van Hoosier about finding Ed, Quinn, and the unrecognized—by her—Ratso at the McKay cottage, the sheriff saw a chance to make money off the McKays. So he ordered my mom out of town. Then he went to the cottage, where he found Rollie and Quinn, who must have been hanging around trying to make the fake kidnapping plot work.
Subsequent events indicate that, while Quinn’s motive in faking his own kidnapping may have been forcing his father to stop polluting Lake Michigan, Rollie’s—even then—was probably money. His tightwad attitude should have been a hint; money is really important to Rollie. That was a clue to his true character, I guess, just like the way he smiled at inappropriate times. I think the smile was a demonstration of the false face he showed the community for thirty-three years—doing good deeds outwardly, while he was blackmailing and murdering behind closed doors.
At any rate, since the time the kidnapping plan was upset it appears that Van Hoosier and Rollie had combined their efforts to blackmail Quinn McKay. If Quinn’s personality didn’t still have elements of the meek little boy he once was, Rollie and Van Hoosier would probably both have died by his hand years ago. He must have hated and resented them.
But they were smart blackmailers, Hogan says. They didn’t bleed Quinn too badly. Each of them asked for just enough to pay their living expenses—to buy groceries, clothes, other items that wouldn’t raise questions when they were paid in cash. They could basically double their salaries with that technique, and the proceeds were tax-free. It was a simple method of laundering money.
Ed and his mother weren’t in touch for a year after Bill died, and even after they began to see each other again, it took some time for them to pool their information. They had figured out that the sheriff was involved, because they felt sure some of the circumstances of Bill’s death were covered up, but they didn’t really understand what had happened.
Ed had no trouble with people recognizing him after he came back to western Michigan. All anybody seemed to remember about him was that he had a huge head of black hair and a large black beard; a razor and the passage of time changed his appearance drastically. He assumed a false identity before he entered nursing school.
But Ed says he’d never given up figuring out who killed his brother. After Van Hoosier moved to the Pleasant Creek Senior Apartments and Nursing Center, Ed sought out a job there, hoping to keep an eye on the old law officer.
Ed says he was stunned when he ran into Rollie at the center. Rollie was apparently also keeping an eye on Van Hoosier. Luckily, Rollie didn’t recognize Ed. But when Rollie found out my mom was coming back to Warner Pier and that I was trying to find Van Hoosier, the old sheriff’s fate was sealed. He had to die before Joe and I could question him.
Ed was eager to keep Joe and me interested in the link between my mom and Sheriff Van Hoosier, however. That’s why he came by TenHuis Chocolade and told me the sheriff had muttered about my mom being connected to a kidnapping. Now Ed admits he made that up to keep our curiosity piqued.
A white knit hat with a roughly made red pom-pom was found in the McKay house after Quinn and Rollie were arrested. Apparently one of them disguised himself as Lovie—all it took was the hat and a big down jacket like hers—and came by to poke around in Mom’s rental car. We don’t understand why they did this. Nothing was taken from the car. My theory is that they intended to damage the brakes, but Joe thinks they were merely trying to get us to think Lovie was involved with all the odd goings-on.
As I say, it’s hard to tell just what will happen by the time everything shakes out, but I do think that my mom will no longer be afraid to come back to her hometown.
And Lovie’s still picking up cans, but she’s washed her hat.
Nobody died at our wedding.
Oh, there were a few disasters—like Lindy scorching the hem of her dress at the last minute—but none of them were fatal. Of course, once my mom was saved from her kidnappers and we got her on the plane back to Dallas, I had tried to head off a few calamities.
First, I took Mercy to lunch and explained to her that my own mother was financially unable to help with the reception. I was frank. “My mother has no money sense,” I told her. “She has no savings, no IRA. And you do. I know that, and I admire that, and I’m thankful for that. But how can I snub my own mother and allow you to give the reception?
“And Joe and I still don’t want a rehearsal dinner. But I’ll tell you what we do want. We’d like a Sunday brunch for all the fami
ly members before everybody heads out for their planes. Mercy, it would be a terrific help if I could turn that over to you.”
Mercy beamed. “Of course,” she said. “How many are we talking about? A dozen? Fifteen? I can handle that at my house—if Mike helps me cook.”
“That would be wonderful. And I need another favor. Your guidance.”
“Guidance on what?”
“On Warner Pier customs. For example, we really don’t want to spend our money on a band. But could we have a deejay? Or would that look too fancy? Hot hors d’oeuvres? Or just wedding cake, punch, and a dish of nuts, like in Prairie Creek?”
Mercy beamed even brighter. And she was a major help. She suggested a keyboard player who performs in the Sidewalk Café bar during the summer. He played everything from hard rock to golden oldies. Perfect. She convinced Joe that a steamboat round would not only be too expensive, but also too pretentious. She suggested handwritten reception invitations—and she helped write and address them.
After I’d talked to Mercy, I tackled Aunt Nettie. I cornered her after dinner, and I tried to explain how much she and Uncle Phil had meant to me, how I had appreciated their taking me in when I was a difficult teenager. I thanked her for giving me a picture of what a truly happy marriage could be like, of what a real home is.
We were both in tears by then, but I went on.
“And your house is part of my picture of what a home should be,” I said. “That’s why I want to marry Joe here. Please don’t change it, fancy it up. I love it just the way it is.”
“It sure would be nice to have another bathroom,” Aunt Nettie said. “And some decent closets.”
“I’m not getting married in the bathroom! Or the closet!”
Then we both started laughing. But that ended the discussion of redecorating.
The month before the wedding, the hairnet ladies—the wonderful women who actually make TenHuis chocolates—surprised me with a shower and gave us a very fancy set of cookware. Lindy and my banker friend Barbara gave us a wine and cheese party with all the guys invited. The dishes, silver, and toasters poured in; I got way behind on my thank-you notes.