He was still miles away when he first saw the glare on the horizon. As he drove closer he could see the flames rising from the harbor and being reflected back from the ceiling of low clouds. As he approached the marina, he saw the flames on the water, running along the docks, shooting up from burning boats. He could see the shadowy silhouettes of fire fighters on the shore. Behind them on a rise at the side of the marina was a throng of spectators, their faces lit by the glow of the fire.
Fire hoses carrying water from the river to the two pumpers blocked the drive to the marina. As soon as he emerged from his car, Ray could feel the heat from the intense fire. Acrid smoke burned his nose and throat as he ran toward the shore.
Ray found Jake next to the first truck. “I think we’ve got everyone off the boats. Bernie says all they can do now is contain the fire and let it burn out.”
“Injuries?”
“Nothing much yet, just minor stuff. God only knows what we’ll find in the morning.”
Ray spent the remaining hours of darkness coordinating the efforts of the emergency services. By first light, a shelter had been established in the township hall just across the road from the marina. By 8:00 coffee and food were being served to the fire and police crews and the people who had been staying at the marina. Initially, everyone seemed to be accounted for. Then Sue Lawrence brought Ray a tall, lean, graying man wearing only a bathing suit.
“Ray, this is Stuart Baker. I want you to hear what he saw.”
As he started to tell Ray his story, Sue brought Baker a blanket and put it over his shoulders.
“I was still on the Wisconsin side of the lake when I first heard the storm warnings. I was coming over from Green Bay to Old Mission. The wind came up real fast, so I thought I might as well run for the Michigan shore as try to tack back to Wisconsin. I was able to keep all the sails up for a while, but when the storm got really intense, I just used a storm jib and the auxiliary engine. It must have been well after two when I came into harbor. The place was dark. I was able to tie up just inside the sea wall. I heated up a can of hash and was having a sip of whiskey before going to sleep when this explosion scared the hell out of me. I crawled on deck and the whole place was on fire….”
Ray motioned with his hand, a sweeping gesture. “The whole place?”
“Not at first,” Baker said. “When I got on deck a big sailboat in the slip across from me was completely engulfed, and there was burning fuel on the water all around it. Within a few seconds the cabin cruiser next to it was on fire. I saw two people get off it just before it exploded, pouring a lot more fuel into the water. Then it really spread fast. As I looked back at the sailboat, I saw a figure climb out of the cabin. His clothes were on fire. He staggered to the side of the boat and jumped in. He just disappeared; I didn’t see him surface.” He paused.
“What else did you see?” asked Ray.
“Not much more. I decided it was time to get the hell out of there. I spent seven summers building this boat, and I wasn’t gonna let it go up in flames. I started the engine and backed into the channel and went out into the big lake. A couple other boats made it out behind me. I ran along the shore a few hundred yards until I got pushed onto a sand bar. I was stuck tight. I just sat there and watched the fire. I swam in a little while ago to see if I could get someone to help free my boat.”
Ray thanked Baker for his help, and Sue got an address and phone number. By mid-morning the victims of the fire had been questioned. Ray and Sue listened to many more stories about the panic and chaos that followed the initial explosion and fire, but no one else had seen the burning figure. Several people provided the name of the owner of the large sailboat. They believed he was staying alone on the boat.
An arson investigator from the state fire marshal’s office and the two state police divers arrived in the early afternoon. The divers carefully worked their way across the marina. They checked the submerged remains of the boats. Then they checked the deeper areas of the marina and the adjoining river.
In the deepest part of the channel, near the entrance to the harbor, the divers found a body entangled in weeds at the bottom.
The divers brought the body to shore, and Ray watched as it was loaded on a stretcher. He knelt down and closely inspected the badly burned remains. Sue was at his side. He glanced over at her. She looked green. He began to dictate into a small recorder. “Male, presumably Caucasian. Entire body has been burned; skin deeply charred in areas, especially face, hands and chest. Deep lacerations on right thigh, chest, right arm, probably from propeller blades. Right hand severed and missing.”
The divers returned to area the where they had found the body to look for the hand. A further search of that area and the marina failed to produce it.
12
Ray turned off the pavement onto the two-track, parallel trails of sand and mud the width of a car with grass growing between them. It already was late afternoon. The sun—high, breaking through gaps in the tight ceiling of leaves, running to earth in incandescent columns of heavy, moist air—created a dappled effect on the ferncovered forest floor. Ray was tired. His clothes smelled of smoke. As he made the final turn, he noticed Lisa’s car next to Marc’s. Finding the screen door to the kitchen was latched, he walked to the front. Marc was on the deck, leaning back in a chair, feet against the railing, looking out at thewater. He stopped and watched. Marc was obviously lost in thought.
“Have I caught you at a particularly pensive moment?” he asked.
Marc, startled, looked over at the intruder. “You look like hell. Where have you been?”
“Haven’t you been watching the news?”
“No, slept in. I’ve had a real lazy day. And the TV doesn’t work, must be twenty or more years old. What did I miss?”
“Probably the biggest story in years. We even made it to national news.”
“What happened?”
“Did you hear the storm last night?”
“Yes, it woke me once.”
“Well, it appears that lightning hit the mast of one of the larger sailboats in the marina—boat exploded. There was a fuel fire and several other boats burned to the water line.”
“People hurt?”
“Bumps and bruises, a few minor burns, and three or four fire fighters went to the hospital for smoke inhalation. Burning fiberglass and plastic are pretty vile stuff. And there is at least one death. We recovered a badly burned body. I think it’s the man who was on the sail boat.”
“When did this all happen?”
“Sometime after three.”
“How long did it take to get the fire under control?”
“Didn’t ever really get it under control, just contained it and let it take its course. They’re not equipped to fight that kind of fire.”
“Lisa and I were there for dinner last evening.”
“I noticed the car,” said Ray referring to the presence of Lisa’s car.
“You wouldn’t have expected anything like that.” Marc ignored Ray’s last comment.
The screen door slammed. Lisa had just emerged, hair wet, smelling of soap and shampoo, wearing one of Mark’s Oxford cloth shirts, and a pair of tan shorts—the fit suggested that they were also borrowed. She carried a tray with sandwiches and two glasses of tea. She greeted Ray. “You look like hell. Did we have another rough night in the jack pine jungle?”
“He was just telling me that a sailboat was hit by lightning in the marina. There was a hell of a fire.”
“Anyone killed?”
“One fatality. I hope that’s all.”
“We’re having a late lunch. Do you want a sandwich or something to drink.”
“I can only stay a minute. I have to get a shower before we do a press briefing. There’s a chamber concert at the Colony tonight. Are you people interested?”
“Do you know the program?” asked Marc.
“Schubert, Op. 100 and Mozart. Faculty members from Interlochen; they’re good.”
Marc looked ov
er at Lisa. She nodded. “We’d like to do that.”
“Let’s meet there, just in case I get held up. I’ll take care of the tickets. Pick yours up at the box office.”
“We’ll give you a late supper after the concert,” said Lisa.
“That would be great. Make sure you watch the 6:00 news. See you tonight.”
Lisa and Mark sat in silence for a few minutes until they heard the engine.
“Do you think we shocked him?” asked Marc.
“Hardly. I don’t think Ray is easily shocked, but you’re a bit embarrassed, aren’t you? I saw you blush when I came out of the cottage,” said Lisa, showing some obvious joy at needling him. “Has Ray always been interested in chamber music?”
“He was in love with a cellist when he was in graduate school. She was on the music faculty and part of a very successful string quartet. I think that she was Ray’s first real love, but she ended up marrying someone else.”
“And then? I don’t really know much about Ray other than his life up here.”
“He took a job teaching criminal justice.” Marc paused and then continued, “It looked like he was going to spend his career at a university. When he found out his mother was terminally ill with cancer, he took a leave of absence and came back to look after her. About that time the sheriff announced his retirement and some locals got Ray to run in the primary. After he won the primary and general election, he resigned his teaching job. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
13
Ray was not looking forward to interviewing the ex-wife of the dead man. He arrived a few minutes before the time the person on the phone had said, “Mrs. Bussey will find it convenient to meet with you then.”
A pretty young woman, probably the voice on the phone, met him at the door and escorted him through the living room and out onto a deck overlooking the lake. By her dress it was difficult to tell whether she was a maid or a secretary, but her formal manner suggested she was not a family member. She offered him a chair at an umbrella- covered table and said Mrs. Bussey would be with him in a few minutes.
Ray surveyed the house, large and new, a kind of rustic modern that mixed stone, wood, and glass. A glass-walled living room faced the lake; the vaulted ceiling rose two stories. The house was perched high on a hill over the water, and the deck was cantilevered out over the sideof the hill, providing an extraordinary view of the lake and shoreline. The deck was an elaborate piece of craftsmanship—redwood, cut and fitted in an intricate pattern, a Jacuzzi carefully worked into the pattern at one end of the porch.
Ray’s attention was pulled back as the sliding door opened and a woman emerged. The young woman who had met him at the door followed her carrying a tray with coffee. The woman crossed the deck to where he was sitting, extending a hand as she approached. He rose to greet her. Her hand was cold and bony, her grip strong.
“Please stay seated. I’m Rachel Bussey.” She seated herself across from Ray. The tray with a silver coffee pot, creamer, sugar bowl, and two cups—thin, white, and translucent—was placed on the table. The young woman silently departed.
“Sheriff Ray Elkins, ma’am. I just have a few questions. I know this probably isn’t an easy time.” He looked across the table. She was wearing a large pair of dark glasses, and he couldn’t see her eyes. She was very slim, almost frail and appeared to be in her early forties. Her hair, very blond, was pulled into a tight roll at the back of her head, giving the impression that the hair was helping to pull the skin taut over her narrow, tense face. She was wearing a dark blue cotton skirt, pink knit polo shirt, and white court shoes.
“I’m upset,” she said in a low, tense voice, “but hardly grieving.” Without asking whether or not he would have any, she poured two cups of coffee and served one to Ray. “Cream and sugar?”
“No, this is fine.”
“We’ve been divorced for almost three years—just had this place built before he wanted the divorce. Our old cottage was in the village, a cute Victorian my great-grandparents built around the turn of the century. But he wanted something that reflected us, the house we were going to grow old in together, and before it was finished he wanted a divorce.” She paused, pulled a cigarette from a pack and lit it. “What can I help you with?”
“Now that the body has been recovered and identified, we need to know who to contact regarding its disposition.”
“You should probably notify his brother Sidney, Sidney Bussey. He lives in Kenilworth and has an office in Evanston. I imagine he’ll take care of things.”
“Are there any children?”
“We had one, died in infancy. No other children.”
“At this time,” said Ray, “we believe Mr. Bussey was on the boat alone. Would you know if there might have been other people on the boat?” He sensed her immediate tension after he asked the question.
“For a while he kept an air-head on the boat. He went public with the little bitch before the divorce was final. But I haven’t seen her this summer. For the last two summers I seemed to run into them every time I was in the village. If she was on board, so much the better. God got them both. I don’t know why he had to keep the boat here after the divorce. I think he did it just to spite me. When he was a high school boy he used to spend his summers around here. But then his parents bought a place in Harbor Springs—I don’t know why he didn’t go back there. He’s more the Harbor Springs type. And that boat—we had a smaller one before the divorce. He bought it to just to show me what he was doing with our money. He knew that I’d notice that the biggest boat in the harbor was his.”
“I don’t quite follow you.” Ray was surprised at the direction the conversation was going.
“Arthur always had a need to show his money, if you know what I mean. His family always gave the appearance that they were well to do, but it was only after we were married that I found out how close to the edge they were. He made his fortune with my family’s money. And I have to admit we did well by him.”
“What type of business was Mr. Bussey in?”
“Investments, all types. We were married when we were seniors at Northwestern, and then he got his M.B.A. at Chicago while I taught elementary school in Winnetka. After he got out of school my father lent him enough money to get started. He was a real promoter and had the knack of buying up vacant land a year or two before the urban sprawl moved in that direction. Then he moved into developing malls. I knew he was leveraged to the hilt, and that a lot of his business was little better than gambling, but he always seemed to pull it off. I was always amazed that he could get banks to lend him money. I remember asking him if he ever thought about the people who sometimes lost their life savings when some of these schemes collapsed. He said there was no problem, the government would take care of them—and I guess we’re all paying now.”
“You said you were divorced three years ago.”
“Three years last May. He wasn’t as difficult as I thought he would be. But then, I had the best law firm in Chicago, old family friends. The only thing he wanted to haggle over was the Bears’ tickets.”
“Bears’ tickets?” repeated Ray with a restrained, quizzical smile.
“Bears, Chicago Bears, four season tickets on the fifty-yard line thirty rows up. They had been in my family since the thirties. I made damn sure he wasn’t going to get to sit there, sit there with his bimbo, where my grandfather and father once sat. I told my lawyer to tell him to go to hell.”
“I know this has to be unpleasant, but might I call on you again if I need further help?” Ray asked.
“Yes, certainly. I’ll be here until October.”
“Thank you for your assistance and the coffee.” Ray rose and shook her hand. “I can find my way out.” He paused at the door, looked out at the lake. He could make out the silhouette of a distant ore carrier steaming north to the Straits. From that height he could see the earth’s curve across the horizon and the long lines of waves moving toward shore—there was a sense of rhythm and harmony
in the scene.
14
Lisa and Marc waited for Ray outside the hall until an usher insisted that the concert was about to begin. Lisa saw Ray slide into a chair near the back between the third and fourth movements of the Schubert. He joined them at intermission.
After the concert they walked across the road to a coffee shop.
“I hated to be late, but I had something to take care of. I really liked the Schubert. Kubric used it as the theme music in Barry Lyndon.”
“I remember that,” said Marc.
Lisa nodded her head, “Must have been before my time.”
“Kids,” said Marc, “high culture is lost on them.”
“But we do understand the use of media. Do you want a critique of your interview on the six o’clock news?” she asked Ray.
“Yes, I’d like that.”
“Well, I don’t know about the hat,” she said with a broad smile letting him know that what was to follow wasn’t a serious observation. “It makes you look a bit like Smokey the Bear. Initially, I thought I was watching a report on the dangers of forest fires. It was only when I saw the marina in the background that I realized that you were talking about last night’s fire.” Then, modulating her voice to suggest the serious nature of her comments, she continued, “Actually, you projected a convincing image of intelligence and competence….”
“Come on, Lisa,” interrupted Marc, “it was more than image. Perhaps it wasn’t image at all. You’ve got the real person, intelligent and competent, explaining what happened in a clear and thorough fashion—thorough given that we only had a sound bite.”
“You’re really bothered by the idea of packaging, aren’t you?” Lisa asked. “You mentioned it at dinner last night.”
“I really am. I’m bothered by the fact that the packaging is more important than the content. It’s like the label on the side of a potato chips bag that says the product is sold by weight, not by volume. Translation, ‘Don’t be surprised if the bag is half-empty.’ I am tired of elected officials who are half-empty—the top half.”
Summer People Page 5