The Sleuth Sisters

by Pill, Maggie

  Unable to meet Wozniak face to face, I turned to the problem of who had driven Neil Brown’s truck to Port Huron. The principal candidates for such a favor were accounted for, which left me stymied. If someone had driven the truck downstate and left it, that person had been stranded there. Who wouldn’t have been missed by the police?

  Checking my notes, I found the name of the contractor Neil had worked for. When I called the number in the phone book, I got a voicemail that asked me to leave a number. He’d get back with me as soon as possible. At least he didn’t tell me how important my call was to him.

  It took about twenty minutes, but Ralph Torey returned my call, his voice hopeful until I explained the reason for contacting him. He’d obviously hoped it was an offer of work.

  “Yeah, Neil,” he said. “I liked the guy, but you just don’t know people. I mean, I knew they was having trouble, but nobody thought it would ever go that far. The wife was hard to take, the screechy type, but he always acted like it didn’t bother him. I guess it was different at home, though, from what the neighbors said later.”

  I heard a clunk as he apparently moved the phone from one ear to the other. There was the scratch of a lighter and a sigh as that first puff of inhaled poison was released. “He wasn’t happy when she called the job site that day,” Torey said around the cigarette. “I told him his wife wanted to talk to him and he said something like, ‘She can wait till I’m ready to talk to her.’ Maybe not his exact words, but close enough, I told the cops.”

  “What I wonder, Mr. Torey, is if there was someone on the job Neil might have asked to drive his truck to Port Huron. Someone who went missing for a day or so.”

  “The cops asked that back then. Only guy missing was a Mexican I fired that morning.”

  “One of your crew?”

  “Yeah. Those people got no sense of time, y’know? He was always late and always with an excuse. I’d had it that day so I said, ‘Adios.’ Even watched him walk down the road to make sure none of my tools walked away with him, y’know?” He waited for me to agree. I didn’t.

  “Anyway, they found him in Saginaw, where his family lives. He didn’t know nothing about Neil’s problems, said he hitched a ride south with a semi driver.”

  “Did this man work with Neil?”

  “Yeah, same crew, but like I said, I sent him on his way first thing. He ended up in Saginaw, but he coulda kept going south, y’know? Take his friends--that’d be even better.”

  I kept my voice level. “The police checked his story out?”

  “I guess so.”

  It was a possibility. “What’s the man’s name?”

  “Guillen, like the baseball player, except his first name was Juan.”

  Pretty much like looking for someone named John Williams in Rhode Island. I tried all the Guillens in the Saginaw phone book, but no one answered to Juan. Some spoke no English and I spoke no Spanish, so it was hard to tell if I was getting through.

  Still, I had a scenario. Neil had worked with a guy from Saginaw who’d been fired that day. If Guillen had still been around Allport, he might have driven Neil’s truck to Port Huron, allowing Neil to take a different direction.

  I was pleased to have found a possible explanation of how the truck got to the train station, but it was another dead end until I had a way to prove it. I cast about for other ways to learn more about the case. As I scribbled nothings on a notepad, my computer signaled an arriving email. I was surprised to find a cordial note from Detective Sparks with an attached file on the Wozniak murders. He hoped the information would get me started and ended by gently chiding me for not mentioning I was Margaretta Stilson’s sister.

  The file was great, but it irritated me to find that Retta didn’t even have to be around to interfere with my life. Although the guy had apparently heard about the connection and decided to be nice to the sister-in-law of a former cop, I’d have preferred it if he helped because it was the right thing to do. Still, the file was a gold mine: Sparks’ notes on the case.

  He told the story succinctly:

  Police called by S. Wozniak to his daughter’s home, where they found the daughter badly hurt and the son dead. SW said he saw his son-in-law, Neil Brown, leave the apartment building in a hurry. SW reports the couple was separated.

  Brown was abusive to his wife and had possibly been unfaithful. Neighbors don’t confirm that but say the Browns had noisy arguments accompanied by various things apparently hitting the wall.

  Brown was last seen at the local bank about fifteen minutes after the murders were discovered. He went to his safety deposit box then left the bank quickly, saying little and acting nervous. No one admits seeing him again.

  Reading Sparks’ words, I realized we’d begun with only Meredith’s version of what had happened. In our eagerness to tackle a real case, we hadn’t done the background work good detectives need to do. I began to remedy that by noting the names of the people Sparks had interviewed. The neighbor who reported violent quarrels between the Browns was Jasper Conklin. The EMT who had discovered that Carina Brown still breathed was Annamarie Bailey. I copied the names onto a sheet of legal paper.

  In the phone directory I found a number for Jasper Conklin listing Windswept Drive as his address. He hadn’t moved. There was no listing for Annamarie Bailey, but there were lots of Baileys. I called fourteen of the eighteen before I got somewhere.

  “She’s my niece,” a squeaky voice informed me. “Got married and moved to Wisconsin.”

  “Do you have a number for her there?”

  “Sorry. I don’t even remember what her husband’s name is. Von something-German.”

  “Does she have relatives left in the area who might get me in touch with her?”

  “Her mom’s still here, but she’s not a very trusting person, you know?”

  “And no one else knows her married name?”

  “I don’t know who. He wasn’t from here, so why remember it?”

  “For class reunions?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know who’s in charge of Anna’s class, though.”

  I thanked the woman and ended the call. Since Annamarie’s mother wasn’t a trusting type, I decided to ask Faye to handle that interview while I talked to the neighbor and a Wozniak employee the papers had mentioned. My sister looked like someone you could ask to hold a purse full of hundred dollar bills in perfect confidence they’d all still be there when you come back for them. The reason she seemed that way was because it was true.

  Chapter Eight

  Faye

  I was thrilled when Barb asked me to do an interview. Technically, I’m a partner, but I’m afraid she thinks of me as the office person, not one who goes out and tracks down leads. As things go on, I hope she’ll let me do my share of the legwork. I have a sense for those who’ve been kicked in the teeth by life, the type of person who doesn’t often trust easily.

  Putting together what the cousin said with the trailer park address, I figured Nancy Bailey wouldn’t answer the door to just anyone. To people like her, strangers mean trouble, and the best way to avoid them is to be out, or appear to be. To combat her distrust I took a bouquet of flowers along. How can trouble arrive at your door holding a handful of lilacs?

  The trailer park was—well, who doesn’t know about trailer parks? Steering around four small children whose game seemed to require screeching, I found Nancy Bailey’s rental by means of a wooden pylon out front that had been knocked crooked, apparently by someone backing into it. The number painted on it had faded from sun and weather. As I pulled into the drive there was no other car, but a shadow moved at the window.

  The trailer was battered and ugly, but attempts had been made. Weeds around the concrete slab had been pulled, and fresh digging indicated recent plantings, maybe flowers, maybe vegetables. The trailer’s exterior w
as scrubbed clean, unlike the one next to it, which had enough mold to manufacture penicillin.

  I knocked briskly on the door, and after a few moments, a woman opened the door a crack and peered around it as if she might need it to stop a bullet. Or an alien death ray.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Bailey? I’m Faye Burner. I hope you like lilacs.” I held the bouquet just far enough away that she had to open the door to accept it. “I picked them from my yard.” Actually I’d taken them from a vacant lot near our house. They say stolen flowers smell the best.

  “For me?”

  “A get-acquainted gift.”

  Mrs. Bailey didn’t seem anxious to get acquainted, but she liked the idea of flowers. She opened the door an inch wider but didn’t invite me in. I held onto the flowers.

  In her mid-forties, with dark hair and pale skin, she would have been attractive except for two things: her grooming habits and her eyes. Grooming might not be the right word, for no attempt had been made to groom anything, not today, not yesterday either. She wore a grimy housecoat bought before the century changed. Her hair was a parody of the “uncombed” look that was so popular. Her hands were grimy. Yesterday’s yard work hadn’t been washed away.

  The woman’s gaze telegraphed madness: not raving lunacy or hysteria, but madness she’d lived with for a long time. Her eyes moved constantly with no apparent purpose, not registering anything specific. When she briefly made eye contact with me she seemed confused, not quite sure what was going on. Drugs? Long-term mental illness? Stress? I had no idea.

  “May I come in while you put these in water, Mrs. Bailey?” After some thought, she moved back.

  “Nancy. Just Nancy.”

  Once inside, I felt like Shrek in an elevator. The place was claustrophobia-inducing, over-heated, closed-up, and stuffed with furniture and knick-knacks a second-hand dealer wouldn’t have given twenty dollars for. Everything was covered with a thick coat of dust, indicating that once an item arrived, Nancy paid little attention to it. The Room That Time Forgot.

  She seemed unsure what to do with a visitor, but when I handed over the flowers she went to the kitchen and began rummaging through the cupboards.

  “Mrs. Bailey, I work for a company that tries to find out what happened.” Instinctively I avoided the words crime and investigation. “I need to speak with your daughter.”

  She paused, and her eyes sought whatever it was they were unable to find. “Annamarie?”

  “I need to know about a woman she helped.”

  Pride raised her chin half an inch. “Annamarie helped lots of people.” She opened a door, took a plastic cup that said Arby’s Roast Beef from the cabinet, and filled it with tap water.

  “I heard that.”

  Nancy stopped fiddling with the flowers. “She don’t want me giving her number. There’s nobody here she wants to talk to.” Her tone changed as she parroted her daughter’s words.

  If I’d endured this depressing environment as a child, I’d have moved away, too.

  Nancy touched her chest, fearing I’d misunderstood. “She calls Fridays to see I’m okay.”

  “Will you ask her to call me?” I handed her one of the business cards Barb insisted I carry. “It’s about an emergency she was called to.”

  “Annamarie didn’t do nothing wrong. She scored real high on the test.” Nancy’s face had grown suspicious again.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Annamarie found a mother who was dying. She saved her baby.”

  Again Nancy’s roving eyes found mine for a second. “I know who you mean. The husband hurt her bad and killed her brother.” She paused. “Brown. Neil Brown.”

  I’d said too much. If this woman could figure out what our case was, anyone could. Reiterating that it was important Annamarie call as soon as possible, I moved to the door. “Annamarie saved that baby,” Nancy repeated, holding onto a bright moment in her past.

  “I hope she’ll tell me about it. Will you call her, please? Today?”

  I left, keeping my smile bright as I closed the trailer door behind me. The deep purple flowers on the counter contrasted starkly with the rest of the place. I hoped she liked them, but for me they only made Nancy Bailey’s home more depressing.

  Chapter Nine

  Barbara

  Jasper Conklin, Neil and Carina Brown’s neighbor, had a doctor’s appointment in the afternoon but agreed to see me that evening. With several hours to wait, I went to the library and read old news stories. The local paper fairly dripped with excitement over having something to report besides city commission proceedings. There was a little purple prose, but mostly the reporter kept to the facts. What I’d been told so far was more or less confirmed. Though the bereaved father had declined to be interviewed, Eric DuBois, spokesman for Wozniak Industries, said the company would do everything possible to see that the killer was brought to justice.

  Digging my phone from the bottom of my bag, where it always seems to end up, I called Wozniak Industries. Despite protests from the secretary that Mr. DuBois was a very busy man, I managed to talk my way into a ten-minute interview at two-thirty in his office.

  There was plenty of press on Wozniak, but it revealed little about his personality. Ubiquitous in business circles, he guarded his private life jealously and seldom spoke directly to the press. In articles about him dedicating a building or contributing to a cause, there was only standard biographical information, couched in identical terms, meaning it was handed out on a press sheet. Reporters could use what they were given or say nothing.

  In the years after the murders, a reporter occasionally took an interest in Neil’s daughter Brooke and wrote a story on her progress. She was always referred to in terms of tragedy, but the candid photos snapped from far away, obviously without permission, showed a little girl playing happily in the park or splashing in the community pool. Whatever traumas she had experienced coming into the world had been eased by the obvious love and care she received from her aunt and grandparents. She didn’t look like the child of a crazed killer.

  One reporter had written a series of human-interest stories to serve as Sunday fare for a month: What would life have been like if the tragedy hadn’t occurred? He covered the possibilities for Meredith one week, Stan Wozniak the next, then Brooke, and ended with Neil himself. He considered two scenarios, what might have occurred if Neil had been able to control his rage in the first place, and how it might have gone if he’d “accepted as a man” responsibility for what he’d done. Nowhere was there any suggestion Brown wasn’t guilty of the crimes.

  When I got back to the office, Faye told me about her visit with the trailer-park lady. After congratulating her on getting into the house, I told her I was meeting Mr. Conklin at seven.

  “Go slowly,” Faye said with that look she gets when she feels compelled to instruct me. “Old people want you to talk to them, or even better, they want you to listen to them.”

  “I’ll listen as long as Mr. Conklin wants me to,” I promised.

  “I’m hoping Annamarie calls us, but here’s one for you.” She handed me a note that said JUAN GUILLEN and a phone number. “He wouldn’t talk to me. I told him you’d call back.”

  In the office, I located my phone and made the call. A man answered with a terse, “Yes?”

  “Juan Guillen? It’s Barbara Evans from the Smart Detective Agency.”

  “You say you want to help Neil Brown.” His English was softly accented but precise.

  “I’m working for his family. Once I find him, I’ll do what I can to help.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  I wished I could see Guillen’s facial expressions and let him see mine. Lacking that, I tried to inject honesty into my voice. “Neil’s truck. How did it get to Port Huron?”

  There was a pause, a very long one. I
’d begun to wonder if he’d hung up the phone when he finally answered. “I was not a citizen then. They could have deported me.”

  “If you’d told the truth?”

  “Yes.” A pause. “I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “Mr. Guillen, I won’t make trouble for you. I just want to know what happened.”

  “I don’t know where he went.”

  “Tell me about the truck.”

  Guillen sighed. “I got fired that morning. I was late, but it was not my fault.”

  I didn’t want to get into employer-employee relations. “So where did you go?”

  “I had to walk back to town, which took an hour. I went to the motel room we were renting and packed up my stuff. I hung out for a while, trying to decide what to do. Then I started for the highway, to hitch a ride to Saginaw.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Early afternoon, maybe one o’clock.”

  “But you told the police you left town that morning.”

  “Like I said, I was scared it would mess up my citizenship to be involved in a crime.”

  “What really happened?”

  He sighed as if preparing to jump off a cliff. “I was hitching, like I said. Neil came along and picked me up. I could tell he was in trouble. He said he could get me close to Saginaw. He drove for a while, kinda quiet, then all of a sudden he pulled off the road. He said he was getting out, and I should take the truck and keep going south.”

  “So after he picked you up, he got the idea of planting a fake trail.”

  “I guess so. He said I should leave the truck somewhere public. When I got to Saginaw, I called a friend with a car who followed me to Port Huron, and I left Neil’s truck near the train station. I figured they’d think he went to Canada, and that would make it tough for them to find him. My friend took me back to Saginaw.” He paused. “Neil was good to me, you know?”