Death in a Summer Colony

by Aaron Stander

  He pushed the book in Ray’s direction. “You’re welcome to take this with you. It will give you a complete background about the colony.”

  “I would like that, thank you. I have become a student of the history of this region. My memory is that this was first an Indian mission.”

  “That’s correct. The first few chapters of the book cover that period, and to my way of thinking, probably as a historian, they are the most interesting chapters in the book. Geoffrey Mather came out from New England in the 1830s to minister to the Indians. His first mission was south of here down around Saugatuck. Apparently he made a poor choice of terrain, the mosquitoes drove them out by the end of his first summer.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Fortunately, Mather kept a detailed diary, day by day, of his adventures from the time he left Vermont until almost the day he died. So to continue my story, he loaded his wife and two small children and all their possessions in a small sailing craft and they headed north. Some of his Indian converts followed along with their families in canoes. There is a shoal just off the end of the colony’s beach area, not much really, just some big boulders one of the glaciers dropped off on its way north. Mather was coming up the coast close to shore with a good wind at his back. He managed to hit the rocks at a good clip and take the bottom out of his little boat. The family made it to shore, their meager possessions floating in after them. Mather records in his diary that his wife thought this was a message from God directing them to build the mission here. In the next sentence he opines that their landing at that location had more to do with his lack of seamanship than any message from the Almighty.” Grubbs chuckled, then continued, “Having studied Mather’s diary closely over several years, I think he was very much a believer, but there was always a bit of skepticism over what was God’s will and what should be attributed to human error or incompetence.”

  “So how long did the mission continue?”

  “Mather was able to buy a large tract of land, the money coming from a missionary organization back east. And he spent decades ministering to and looking after the spiritual and political interests of native people. Over the course of several decades Mather could see that the federal government was routinely robbing the Indians of the property and rights that had been promised to them in a number of treaties. He did his best to protect them, but his diary suggests that he could see it was a lost cause. While his faith in the Almighty remained steadfast to the end of his life, he totally lost faith in the federal government.

  “His eldest son, John, followed him into the ministry and kept the mission going after Geoffrey’s death in 1881. By 1900 the area had been lumbered and settlers were building farms on the best land. Most of the Indians, the ones who survived smallpox and measles and the other diseases brought by the white settlers, had moved from the region.

  “John Mather was rather entrepreneurial, but he still had his father’s sense of a Christian mission. By then the resorters, the first wave of summer people, had started to arrive from Chicago and St. Louis and points south and east, initially by lake steamer, and then increasingly by rail. So John created a Protestant resort without the strict denominational ties found in summer colonies like Bayview and Epworth. He did follow the Chautauqua model, creating a summer community for interfaith worship, recreational activities, cultural activities, and intellectual engagement. In the last years of his life he turned the whole enterprise over to a public corporation so it would continue on in perpetuity.” He pushed the book toward Ray. “It’s all here, and I think it’s a pretty good read.”

  The sound of heavy footfalls pulled Grubbs’ gaze toward the screen door, interrupting the conversation. Ray watched a tall, stout, red-faced man march into the room, his voice thundering in Grubbs’ direction as soon as he crossed the threshold.

  “I want you to get a contractor in here today, Grubby. I want that site bulldozed and cleaned up. Get the landscape restored, make it look like the building never existed. I don’t want a trace left, not a goddam trace. You hear.”

  Without responding directly, Grubbs said, “This is Sheriff Ray Elkins. And Malcolm, I don’t think we can go forward until his people have completed their investigation.”

  “What’s to investigate,” said the man in a scoffing tone.

  “It’s a crime scene,” answered Ray, coming to his feet and looking directly into the eyes of the intruder.

  “Crime scene my ass, there’s nothing there.”

  “Sheriff, this is Malcolm Wudbine, he is the president of the board of the Mission Point Summer Colony,” said Grubbs, now standing also.

  “Well, get your people to chop-chop,” Wudbine said directing his comments to Grubbs. “I know we are up north, and these folks have a way of doing everything in their time, but this needs to be done now. Don’t go native on us, Grubby. The property owners will start arriving in a week or so, and they expect to have things ready.”

  “When can we have access to the area?” asked Grubbs, looking over at Ray.

  “Right now we’re waiting for the state police arson investigator. He’s working on a case in Mecosta County. He hopes to be here sometime late this afternoon.” Ray remembered seeing Wudbine before. He was trying to remember where.

  “Again, I ask, what’s to investigate?” said Wudbine, his words now directed at Ray. “Known crazy shows up, shoots up his place and one that I own, also. Then he blows himself up. And now that indigent SOB is in the hospital at taxpayers’ expense. I told him yesterday morning that he didn’t belong here. Too bad I didn’t grab him by the scruff of the neck and toss his sorry ass off the property.”

  “About what time did you have this conversation with Mr. Zwilling?” asked Ray.

  A look of surprise crossed Wudbine’s face. It took him several seconds to adjust to the fact that he was being questioned. “I think it was about nine. I had gone over to Dune Side Cottage with one of my workmen. I wanted to give him precise instructions on how the job was to be done. Zwilling was on his front porch smoking. I went over to talk to him. He looked drunk, probably doped up, too. I told him I was interested in buying the place. Told him I wanted to contact the current owner. That’s when he started swearing at me. Foul stuff, an unending stream of obscenities.”

  “How did you respond?” asked Ray.

  “Can’t remember exactly. I probably told him he was just a piece of garbage. It seems to run in the family. They were all trash, the lot of them.”

  “You said he was out on the porch smoking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see a weapon?”

  “No.”

  “Was that the end of your conversation?”

  “Yes. That was it. I didn’t want to waste time talking to that idiot. I’m not surprised an hour or so later he went totally postal. Apparently my cottage was the target of much of Zwilling’s rage. Guess I was lucky to be out of the area when the shooting started.”

  “And you’re pretty sure of the time,” said Ray.

  “Sheriff, that’s my best guess, but don’t involve me in your investigation.”

  “Mr. Wudbine, I’m trying to piece together what happened. Zwilling committed multiple felonies. Anyone who was a witness or has information about this incident is of interest to me.”

  “Whatever. So back to my initial question, when can we get that mess cleaned up, and when can I have my people assess the damage and get started on repairs?”

  Ray took his time answering. “It all depends when the state police arson investigator completes his work. We need to know if this was a natural gas explosion, or something else. We also need to make sure that no explosive materials are in the wreckage. Then the utilities have to sign off that the gas and electricity have been turned off. We don’t want anyone hurt in the process of clearing this site.”

  “Specifically, what does that mean, Sheriff?”

&nbs
p; “It means a day or two more, whatever it takes to do a thorough job. I will inform Mr. Grubbs when we are done with our investigation. I suggest you contact him in a few days.”

  Wudbine directed his attention to Grubbs, “As soon as they are done let me know. We’ll get this mess cleaned up.” Then he spun on the heels of his spit polished boots. The screen door on the old colony office building slammed hard after he departed.

  Grubbs looked over at Ray, a faint smile played across his face. “If you ever get a phone call from the Mission Point Summer Colony saying that there’s been a murder, I’d be willing to bet Malcolm Wudbine will be the victim. And you will have great difficulty finding the murderer.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Ray.

  “There would be so many suspects, so many people with a motive. Almost everyone here has been abused by that odious man over the last 40 or so years.”

  “Didn’t you say he was president of your board? It is an elected position?”

  “It’s an interesting story, Sheriff. Can I get you another cup of coffee?”

  4

  “Was this your first introduction to Malcolm Wudbine?” asked Grubbs, refilling Ray’s coffee mug, then his own.

  “In the formal sense, yes. But I have seen him before. It took me a moment to make the connection. I was seated near him in a restaurant sometime last summer.”

  “And he was part of a large group?”

  “Yes, that’s my memory.”

  “Let me guess, he was louder than anyone else, not only in his party, but in the whole place, making decrees rather than conversation and being surly to the wait staff at every opportunity?”

  “Exactly,” said Ray. “At the time I wondered if the man had a hearing problem.”

  Grubbs chuckled at Ray’s response. “No hearing problem, at least none that I know of. Although at his age it’s possible, but the loud voice and dominating presence is not new. It has been his modus operandi for as long as I’ve known him.”

  “You said the board presidency was an elected position. If he is as disliked as you suggested, how does he…?”

  “It’s quite simple,” explained Grubbs. “He continues to rescue Mission Point Summer Colony financially. When our recreation building burned down, he paid for the rebuilding. Not only did he rebuild it, but he made sure that the job was done on a timely basis. The fire was in late February. The new building was ready for use in early June. And that’s just one example. When our sewage system was starting to fail and the health department was barking at our heels, his foundation spent millions building a new system. At the same time he had a modern water system installed, complete with high-pressure hydrant lines for firefighting. We’ve all learned to put up with Malcolm because this place would fall apart without his money.”

  “The building that Zwilling was firing at, I assume that was Wudbine’s cottage?”

  “It’s one of Malcolm’s many properties in the colony. He purchased one for his son and daughter-in-law. Dune Side Cottage is for his aircrew. And he owns several more that are used by guests or other employees.”

  “So he doesn’t live in the colony.”

  “Correct. His cottage is just north of our property. And it is not a cottage. It’s a mansion on more than a thousand feet of lakefront,” Grubbs looked over at Ray and chuckled. “I see I’m completely confusing you. All of us locals, and I mean locals in the sense of long-term summer colony residents—not to be confused with real locals like you—all of us locals know the backstory.”

  “Which is?” ask Ray.

  “Malcolm was first married to Verity Wudbine-Merone. Her maiden name was Behrens, German stock who settled in Illinois in the 1850s. She was a descendant of several of the earliest members of the colony. Her family was from a farming community west of Chicago, her father was a local banker. She met Malcolm in college, Champaign, I think, or perhaps Northwestern. The father took him into the business after Malcolm and Verity were married. It’s the old story; a lad from a modest background is brought into the family business and later walks with a fortune. When his marriage to Verity was coming apart, he sold his interest in the family bank and bought a seat on the Chicago Mercantile exchange.”

  “How do you know all of this?” asked Ray.

  “Verity is my age. I was quite taken with her when we were 15, or 16, or 17. Summer romance and all that.” He paused for a moment, looked away and then back at Ray. “That’s not quite true,” he said, repeatedly tapping two fingers on the table. “It was a teenage boy’s silent infatuation. I’m not sure she ever knew, but I was a great admirer. And over the years she told me bits and pieces of her story. I think that’s one of the things we do here, especially when we get old. We tell our stories. Let’s see, where was I?”

  “The Chicago Mercantile Exchange.”

  “Yes. Verity told me he made a fortune in pickles futures. I don’t know if there’s such a thing. She’s very sarcastic and quite bitter. From pickles or whatever it was, he moved onto gold, at first losing most of his fortune, but then learning how the market worked. He was already enormously successful when he moved into stocks and bonds. But, by all accounts that wealth pales when compared to what he’s done in the last decade or so. Reports are that he’s made billions in things like derivatives and currency trading. I don’t understand any of that. Not part of my world.”

  “You said his property is outside of the colony.”

  “Let me explain,” said Grubbs. “When they were divorced there was a major fight over the family cottage. Verity prevailed. So then he buys this big place just on the beach. And he does it in such a way that she can’t look north from her place without seeing his. I’m sure he did it out of spite. And then he started buying up cottages in the colony.”

  “Does Mr. Wudbine participate in your activities?”

  “Absolutely. He thinks of himself as quite the thespian. Malcolm always has a part in the annual summer play. And he always participates in the fathers and sons baseball game—I think he played college ball. After the baseball game, we all wander down the beach to his manse for a New England lobster boil and clambake with several kegs of beer. We have a no-alcohol clause in the colony covenant. Somehow it’s okay if we’re on his land. I wonder what our founder would think of this.”

  “He preached abstinence?” asked Ray.

  “Yes, but I think Mather’s avoidance of alcohol was driven by his concern for native people. He saw traders cheat them with cheap whiskey and politicians manipulate them with free drinks on election day. And I suspect this place was pretty much alcohol-free in the early years, but who knows what happened behind closed doors. After the war, I’m talking about WWII and my parents’ generation, the cocktail hour became the norm. But again, it was never done in public places.

  “But to go back to Malcolm,” Grubbs continued, “even though I am the executive director of the summer colony, when he’s in residence he’s always about telling people what to do. Like I said, we’ve all learned to put up with Malcolm. His money has kept us going at critical times. And we all pray that the good Lord will accept him with open arms, the sooner better than later. That said, it would be good of him to leave the colony a generous legacy.”

  Ray closed the top of his laptop and pushed himself from his chair.

  “Is there anything else, Sheriff?”

  “No, I think that’s about it. Here’s my card if anything occurs to you that you think I should know.”

  “You’ll let me know when we can begin the cleanup?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “There’s one more thing,” said Grubbs.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it can wait a few days. Please keep me informed about Garr Zwilling’s condition. In spite of the unfortunate events, he’s part of our family, part of our history.”

  5

  The next morning Ray E
lkins was up, dressed, and out of the house before 6:00 A.M. Gale force winds had been advised the evening before, and he wanted to walk the beach early and watch the pounding surf. He did a couple of miles on an out-and-back hike, stopping occasionally to watch the waves and listen to the howling wind. Ray needed time to absorb the beauty and power of this special landscape.

  By the time he arrived at his office a little after 8:00, Detective Sergeant Sue Lawrence, in her usual highly organized manner, had laid out two piles of documents on the conference table in Ray’s office and was working on her laptop as she waited for him. Simone, a cairn terrier Sue and Ray co-parented since rescuing her from a crime scene in the late winter, was curled up in an overstuffed chair in the corner of the office. Ray sat on the edge of the chair and scratched Simone’s ears for a few moments before joining Sue at the table.

  “How was your walk on the beach?” she asked.

  “It was great. Some big wave sets, huge breaking surf. It almost looked like November.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t go paddling.”

  “Not this morning. Not today. The winds were too high. It would be impossible to launch without getting broached. Some days you just have to walk on the beach.” Sliding into his chair, he said, “Looks like you’ve been busy. What’s happening with Zwilling? Any news?”

  “I talked to one of the doctors at the burn center in Ann Arbor before I went home last night.”

  “What time was that? I think our no extraordinary hours we’ve got to have a life pledge is starting to break down.”

  “It was okay, Ray. Simone was with me.”

  “And?”

  “The doctor, I didn’t get her name, said the first 72 hours are the most critical. She also indicated that the prognosis was rather bleak. In addition to the extensive burns, they suspect lung damage, but have not been able to assess how extensive. About all I came away with was that he was lucky to be alive, and it’s extremely difficult to estimate the viability of a patient with his injuries.”