Summer People

by Aaron Stander

  Summer People

  Aaron Stander

  © 2001 by Aaron Stander Second Edition 2009 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Publisher’s Cataloging in Publication Data

  Stander, Aaron.

  Summer People / Aaron Stander. – Interlochen, Mich.: Writers & Editors, 2009.

  ISBN-10: 0-9785732-1-8 1. Murder–Michigan–Fiction.

  2. Murder–Investigation–Fiction.

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  For Beachwalker

  1

  From a dune near the shore, a telescopic sight cut through the heavy rain and fog. The six figures on the porch were clearly visible—three women to the right and three men to the left. Two clusters, six people at the opposite poles of the long, brightly-lit porch.

  The cross hairs wheeled along the porch from left to right, stopping at each figure, pausing for a long moment, and then moving on. The scope traveled back across the porch; the cross hairs centered on a woman standing at the far end of the porch. The woman turned and went into the cottage. The sight stopped at the two women seated at a table. They were older than the first, middle-aged. They pulled closer to one another as they talked, moving apart when the third woman rejoined them.

  The telescopic sight moved back along the porch to the left, centering on the man with the thinning, blond hair—moving with him, waiting until he leaned forward away from a window pillar, waiting for him to turn sideways, waiting until the profile of his head and neck could be perfectly aligned in the cross hairs.

  Randy Holden mixed drinks for his two friends, Robert Austin and Larry James. His wife made coffee for their wives.

  “How do you get by the SEC when guys like Ivan Boesky got nailed to the wall?” Robert asked as Randy handed him a gin and tonic.

  “Boesky lacked subtlety. He always wanted to make it and show it. He came from nothing. His old man owned a greasy spoon in Detroit before the tribe moved to West Bloomfield. As soon he started making the bucks, he flaunted it. It’s sort of a Jewish thing, isn’t it?”

  “Now Randy,” interrupted Larry in a mocking tone, “Aren’t religious and ethnic slurs, particularly ones directed against a Cranbrook graduate, in bad taste, especially for old money like you? You must take pity on those not fortunate enough to be born Episcopalian, rich, and with impeccable taste.”

  Just as Randy started to answer, a long flash of lightning raced across the horizon, vertical bolts crashed into the lake. The lights flickered and went out as the thunder rocked the old cottage. A few seconds later the lights came on again.

  “See,” said Larry with a broad smile, “even the gods don’t condone that kind of bigotry anymore.”

  “Sarcastic bastard,” retorted Randy. “Besides, Ivan never graduated from Cranbrook. He went back to a public school, probably graduated from Mumford or Central. That’s where they all went. Anyway, I’ll be the Episcopalian Ivan, and I’ll have the good sense not to end up in a federal country club. What kind of Scotch do you want?” he asked Larry. “I have Cutty and Black and White.”

  Larry raised an eyebrow, “I thought you’d stock something a bit more exotic. You always insist on a single malt when you’re at my place.”

  “What can I say, these are the high-end Scotches at the liquor store down the road. We’re in the provinces, remember. What are you going to have?” he asked again.

  “I’ll have the Black and White; it’s probably the least likely of the two to burn a hole in my esophagus.”

  “Good choice, I’ll have the same,” said Randy. “Soda, water, or neat?”

  “Better make it a lot of soda.”

  Randy turned his back to the other two men as they continued to banter back and forth. He pulled two glasses from the shelf, dropped three ice cubes in each, and half-filled the first glass with Scotch from a bottle on the bar. He pulled a second bottle from an obscure corner of the cabinet, taking care to position his body so his guests couldn’t see what he was doing, and half-filled the second glass. Turning the label to the back, he hid the bottle from view again. He topped the first glass with soda, placed a paper napkin—a napkin with a silk-screened fern—around the bottom of the glass and served it to Larry. Then he added a splash of soda to his drink and rejoined the conversation.

  As he lifted the glass to sip, the jalousie window to his right exploded. For an instant he had a slightly sick look; then he collapsed backwards, head loose, body limp. The heavy, amber whiskey tumbler fell. Its bottom edge slammed into the thick, grass-mat flooring, bounced once, turned a perfect 360 as its contents emptied, rolled on its side, and finally came to rest against a lifeless hand.

  2

  Even in the heavy rain and fog, the flashing lights from a patrol car made the cottage easy to find. Sheriff Ray Elkins was met at the back door by one of his deputies, Jake Howe. As Howe led him through the cottage, Ray noted the layout was like most of the summer homes from the twenties and thirties. The back door opened into the kitchen, the front door led to a screened porch that faced the lake. Between the kitchen and the front porch was a large living room. Usually the bedrooms were on the second floor.

  Jake led Ray into the living room. Three couches, forming a “U”, were grouped in front of a massive, split-stone fireplace. Two middle-aged couples sat close together on two of the couches. At the far corner of the third couch was a young woman wrapped in an afghan, her feet pulled under, her hands covering her face. Brian, the department’s newest deputy, stood behind her looking ill at ease.

  “This is Sheriff Elkins,” the deputy announced. The men stood. The one nearest Ray extended his hand.

  “I’m Doctor James, my wife Jean.” The woman on the couch next to him gave a weary nod. James gestured toward the couple on the other couch, “Robert Austin, Judy, his wife.”

  Ray shook hands with the second man; his wife held a fixed gaze on the floor in front of her.

  Dr. James gestured to the third woman, “This is Mrs. Holden.” The young woman opened her eyes, but didn’t move.

  “Sheriff, we’re all exhausted. Can we get this over with so we can go home?” James asked.

  “I’ll try to move things along as quickly as possible, sir. But there are certain procedures we have to follow, and they take time.

  Jake led Ray onto the front porch.

  “This is just how I found the victim.”

  “Did you check outside?”

  “After Ben got here I checked the beach and looked around for a vehicle, didn’t see nothing. Imagine the shooter was long gone by that time. There’s a bunch a two-tracks running to the other cottages, lots of ways to get out of here.

  “We’ll go over the area in the morning. Given the heavy rain, I don’t think we have to worry about losing much.”

  Ray knelt next to the body; he looked from one side of the victim’s neck to the other. “Nicely done.”

  “How’s that?” asked Jake.

  “A good shot, accurate, and effective. Looks like the shooter really knew what he was about. I’ll question the others; what do you know about them?”

  “Not much,” said Jake as he pulled a small notebook from his pocket. “The victim is Randy Holden, forty-eight, summer resident, home’s in Chicago. The younger woman is the wife of the victim. The other two couples are from around
Detroit; they have places up here—Suttons Bay and Old Mission.”

  Ray returned to the living room and announced to the group that he would be questioning them briefly, one at a time, in the kitchen. He asked Doctor James to follow him, offered him a seat at the kitchen table, and took the chair on the opposite side.

  “To the best of your memory, tell me exactly what happened.”

  “It was close to midnight when we got back here. My wife wanted to go home after the play, but Randy insisted we come out for a nightcap. Randy mixed drinks. He had just handed us our drinks and finished getting his own when the window near him sort of exploded. I looked at the window and then back at him as he fell.”

  “Then what happened?” asked Ray.

  “I started to search for a pulse, but after I saw the wound, I knew that he was dead. By the time I looked up, everyone was around me. I think I said that Randy was dead. For a few seconds we were all sort of frozen. Then Bob’s wife became hysterical and started yelling we were all going to get killed. We hurried into the cottage, locked the doors, dialed 911, turned off the lights, and waited for the police.”

  “How much time passed before the first officer arrived?”

  “It probably was only ten or fifteen minutes, but it seemed like hours. Bob’s wife was almost out of control. I tried to talk her down.”

  “And the victim’s wife?”

  “She was quite calm. I don’t think that it sank in right away. Then she just sobbed; my wife tried to comfort her.

  Ray nodded. “There are three cars parked here; did you meet here and go as a group?”

  “No, we met for dinner and the theater. Then we came out here in our own cars. Actually, we’d been together most of the day.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We met, the three of us, Randy, Bob and I, for lunch and golf.” He paused.

  “Where?”

  “At the Resort. We had lunch and then played the Bear. After, the women joined us. They came to our place for cocktails. We had dinner at Bowers Inn and went on to the theater.”

  “And then you came back here. About what time was that?”

  “Must have been around 11:30 or 11:45 when we finally got here. With the rain and fog it was slow going. As we were coming up the drive I promised my wife that we would only have a quick drink and go home. She was angry we’d come out here for a nightcap.”

  “Did you notice other vehicles or any people in the vicinity?”

  “I didn’t see anything. As I said, it was pouring. I followed Randy out. Bob followed me—sort of a caravan.”

  “What happened after you arrived?”

  “We waited in our cars until Randy had the door open and the lights on, then we ran for the house. We went out on the front porch. Randy started mixing drinks. The girls didn’t want any alcohol, so his wife was making coffee.”

  “Were you all on the porch at the time of the shooting?”

  “Yes, Bob and I were almost next to him. The girls were sitting at the table at the other end of the porch.”

  “Did you hear a shot?”

  “No, just the window shattering.”

  “Did you hear any additional shots?”

  “No.”

  “And after the victim was shot, did you see anything, car lights, anything like that?”

  “Nothing at all, but my attention was first with Randy and then looking after the women.”

  “I can appreciate that,” said Ray. “I’m just trying to get as complete a picture of the events as possible, so anything that you can remember might be helpful. Can you tell me about the victim? How long have you known him?”

  “Years. I met Randy in high school.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Cranbrook, that’s in Bloomfield Hills.”

  Ray nodded without commenting.

  “And then we were in the same fraternity at Michigan.”

  “So you were a close friend of the victim?”

  “I wouldn’t sayclose. Randy had a million friends, but I doubt if any of them were close. In recent years I usually saw him only once or twice a year, always up here. We’d get together for golf. Bob was also in the frat, he occasionally joined us.”

  “Can you tell me anything more about the victim? Do you know why anyone might want to kill him?”

  “I’ve known him for a long time, but our friendship has always been of a casual nature, and after he moved to Chicago, that’s about ten years ago, we didn’t really see much of each other. But I can tell you this….” He paused and looked at Ray for a long moment. “Let’s see, how do I want to say this? Randy was full of himself. He seemed to enjoy giving people the impression that he was a bit out-of-bounds; he liked to say he was ‘living on the edge.’ It was sort of charming. But I’m sure a steady diet of it would have been rather tedious. I know he was in trouble some years back, and after, he moved on to Chicago. I never knew exactly what the problem was, but some kind of ethics issue got him in trouble with the state bar. As I said, a charming guy, but not someone you’d trust with your retirement.”

  “Before today, when was the last time you saw him?”

  “Probably last August.”

  “Who arranged this get-together?”

  “He did. He called me at the office a couple of weeks ago and asked when I was coming up and if we could get together. He told me he had remarried, and he wanted me to meet his bride.” He paused.

  “I noticed you smiled when you said, ‘meet his bride,’” Ray said.

  “As long as I’ve known Randy, he’s always been introducing me to his new woman, bride, whatever.”

  “He was married before?”

  “At least three or four times, and in between he was never without a woman. He seemed to show them off like some expensive new toy. I don’t think I ever saw any of them more than two or three times.”

  “Did Mr. Holden say anything yesterday that would suggest that he was in any trouble, or did he appear worried about anything?”

  “Nothing at all. Randy was bright, but not deep. I never saw him worry about anything. He told us about how well he was doing, how much we would like his new bride—I guess that’s why I liked seeing him occasionally.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was like being a college boy again. Sitting around, shooting the bull. It was all so removed from my day-to-day worries.

  “Do you know what business he was in?”

  “He was a lawyer by training, but after he moved to Chicago I think he mostly worked in investments. He said he was making millions in futures.”

  “While you were with him yesterday, did anyone approach him, or did he have any phone calls?”

  “Not to my memory.”

  “Did he make any phone calls?”

  “After we finished playing, he called his wife briefly. I think that’s the only call he made.”

  “So you don’t remember anything that might suggest that he was in some sort of trouble?”

  “No, nothing. Just the same old Randy. He was full of himself and quite pleased with his new wife. He seemed to bring her into our conversations all afternoon, as if to tell us he had found the fountain of youth. He always needed to brag. Actually Tawny, that’s a hell of a name, isn’t it, turned out to be quite nice. I don’t understand how she hooked up with him. Sorry, Sheriff, I don’t know anything else. Getting together with Randy was just a summer thing. I really don’t know a hell of a lot about him.”

  Ray next questioned Robert Austin. He seemed to know even less than the doctor. Their wives added nothing of substance, but each woman gave Ray the impression that they disliked Randy. Then he talked with the widow briefly. She was obviously in shock. He decided to put off further questioning until the next day. Dr. James and his wife offered to take Tawny Holden to their home for the night.

  Ray asked Ben to get all the names, addresses, and phone numbers before they left. When he went back out to the front porch, Ray could see that the coroner, Ted Lyn
ch, was kneeling beside the body on the porch. Ray knelt at his side.

  “Dead as hell, Sheriff,” said Ted.

  Ray had always been put off by Ted’s casualness with death.

  “He died instantly, one shot. Look,” he pointed to a wound in the side of the victim’s neck. “The bullet entered here—blew most of his spine away. Didn’t know what hit him. Can’t find any other wounds. When can I move the body?”

  “As soon as Sue Lawrence, our evidence tech, is done.”

  Ted gave Ray a tired look. He hated waiting while the police gathered evidence. He wanted to go home and get back to bed.

  3

  Sheriff Elkins was leaning against his patrol car and drinking coffee from a large, insulated cup and dreaming about a cigarette when Deputy Lawrence drove up the two-track to the Holden cottage.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said as she climbed out of her car. “I couldn’t get back to sleep after I got home. I finally fell asleep just about the time the alarm clock went off.”

  “I just got here a few minutes ago myself,” Ray responded. “Let’s start on the porch,” he said leading the way to the front of the cottage; Sue noticed he was carrying a wooden stake and some string. He pushed the screen door open and held it for Sue. He pointed toward the broken window and the screen behind it. “We have the hole in the screen and the slug over here in the wall, and they seem to be in line with where the victim was standing.” Ray’s inflection suggested a question.

  “Yes, I don’t think the bullet was deflected much.” “So let’s run a string between those two points and we can sort of eyeball where the shooter was.” He put a tack in the wall just below a circle that marked where the bullet was buried, attached the string to the tack and ran the string to the hole in the screen.

  “Take this stake out to that dune. I’ll yell to you where I want you to put it.”

  Sue walked in the direction of the beach; when she got to the top of the dune near the water, she turned back and faced the cottage. As Ray gestured, she moved the stake until he yelled, “Right there.” She pushed the stake into the sand. Ray walked out to join her.