by Pill, Maggie
“Tell you what. I’ll do my lawyer bit on him. If he doesn’t agree to come back with us and tell his story, we’ll risk the kidnapping charge.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Retta
Yet another call to Dale revealed that Barbara and Faye had run into something and had to stay in the U.P. a while longer. He sounded a little fuzzy on the details, but that might have been because she’d told him not to give me any.
The clock at the bank read one-fifteen when I ended the call. I ran through a mental list of people who might have known Carina Wozniak Brown well enough to provide hints to her personality. One good prospect came to mind: the beauty salon. When you spend hours with a person on a regular basis, grateful for their ministrations and lulled by the pampering you receive, it’s easy to let secrets slip out. I didn’t know who Carina’s stylist had been, but my own stylist would. It was time to touch up my nails after all.
The Hair Place had expanded its offerings a few years back. Patsy, the owner, took out one of the chairs, reduced her staff by one, and hired a Vietnamese woman who performs magic on fingers and toes. I had to wait, having no appointment, but that was all to the good, because as I chatted with Patsy, apparently aimlessly, I found out what I wanted to know.
“She didn’t get her hair done here,” she told me, raising brows as thin as copper wire. “Drove all the way to Dorville, to some foreigner.” Patsy glanced at Mei, the manicurist, who made no sign she’d heard. It always appeared Mei’s English wasn’t good, though there were times when I suspected she understood everything. It was probably better to pretend ignorance around Patsy, to whom the only real American is one who shares her religion, her skin tone, her views on NASCAR, and her fanatical devotion to Toby Keith.
I don’t agree with her views, of course, but it’s never a good idea to upset a competent stylist once you’ve found one.
It was just after two when I left the salon. An hour to Dorville. I could easily find the shop before closing. I hoped the unknown French woman took walk-ins.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Barb
The battle of wits with Gabe wasn’t much of a challenge. Within three minutes he’d agreed to go back to Allport with us and tell his story. Though I made it clear he’d face charges, I offered to leave out the kidnapping part. He was almost pathetically grateful.
Brown arrived, having found the flash drive and hurried back to rescue Faye. He was as surprised as I’d been to find her unharmed, in fact, triumphant. Once all was explained again, we discussed how to proceed. Duty demanded we take Brown to Allport, but I didn’t know how to tell him that, or Faye either, for that matter. He was a step ahead of me.
“I’ve got to go back,” he said. “Maybe this thing has something on it that will clear me.”
“You should take a look before we go,” Faye said, and I agreed. We had to know.
We had no device with us capable of reading a flash drive, so we went in search of the nearest library. While Faye chaperoned Gabe, Brown and I entered and asked to use a computer. After listening to the library rules for use, showing I.D., and signing a form promising not to visit porn sites or engage in internet gambling, we were shown to an aged PC.
I inserted the flash into the machine and listened as it engaged with a soft whirr. There were several files on the drive, some .exe and others .doc. Ignoring the former, I hovered over the names of the four .doc files. Each had last been accessed the day before Carson and Carina Wozniak were murdered.
Starting with the topmost one, Fishing, I clicked to open the file. It contained links to various sites, and I looked to Neil for an explanation. “Stan’s only hobby.” Pointing at one link, he said, “I think that’s the place he was planning to try that year at Christmas time.” Indicating another link he said, “And that’s where he went the year before.”
“So these are probably Wozniak’s files. Any idea why your wife had them on her flash?”
He frowned at the drive sticking out of the USB port, the WOZ Industries logo imprinted on its casing. “Carina had a drive like this, but hers just had pictures on it.”
I thought about Carina’s house guest. “Did Carson have one?”
“Stan might have given him one. He bought them by the gross.”
“And they all looked exactly alike?”
He nodded. “You get a discount that way.”
Closing that file, I went to the next, Pierce. It contained information about the lake where Stan’s house was located: depths, dimensions, and other specifics. Looking again to Neil, I got a shrug. We saw nothing interesting, though it added to my belief these were Wozniak’s files.
The next one was labeled Water Bills, 2002. I clicked on it and got a list consisting of four lines. Each began with initials: AM, MT, CI, and NYCT, followed by dollar amounts and notations, UsageQ1, UsageQ2, and so on. I guessed that Q stood for quarter.
“Does this mean anything to you?”
“Nope.”
The last file was named Cinfo. When I opened it, I saw a list titled Carson’s Investments. There were eight listings, each describing a project Carson had proposed, the amount he’d been given, and the results in dollars. All of the final amounts were negative. I pictured Stan printing the list off and waving it in front of his son’s face while he promised there’d be no more money.
After I closed the file, Neil and I stared at the screen for a while, contemplating the titles of the files we’d just examined. None of them gave me a clue as to what had happened. None of them contained information worth stealing or killing for, as far as I could tell. Pocketing the drive, I said, “It would have been nice to find something simple. I guess we’d better go.”
He seemed reluctant to leave, probably disappointed the flash contained nothing that proved his innocence. Even if he was eventually cleared of murder charges, he had a lot to face between now and then. And if he wasn’t cleared, he was on his way to prison, probably for life. I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile. “If you’re innocent, Mr. Brown, we’ll prove it. Faye wants Brooke to get her daddy back.” He smiled grimly, compliant but not convinced.
We left the library and rejoined Faye and her captive, who was wheedling unsuccessfully for a soda and some Cheetos.
Taking Faye aside, I told her what we’d seen on the flash drive. “What would Wozniak’s reaction have been if he learned someone stole some files from his home computer?”
“If it was Neil, he’d have had him arrested.”
“What if Carina or Carson did it?”
“Why would they?”
I wasn’t sure, but I was convinced one of Stan’s children had put those files on the flash. Either had plenty of opportunity and would have known Stan’s habits. “I don’t know about the son, but Carina had given her husband an ultimatum, and he moved out rather than bow to Stan’s wishes. Maybe she thought if they had money, she could have Neil and the life she wanted.”
“Then why the murders?”
“Maybe one of them found out what the other was doing. That could have led to the fight Neil interrupted. And maybe after he left, it started up again.”
“That would explain one death, but not two,” Faye argued.
“You’re right.” I sighed. “At least the long drive will give us time to think it through.”
We decided Brown, Faye, and Gabe would take Brown’s car back to Allport while I drove my own. Gabe had a cell phone, as did I, so we could communicate if we got separated. Faye would drive and Brown would, ironically, guard the prisoner lest he decide to bolt. Hitting the “Go home” button on my GPS, I followed its flat-voiced commands, checking the mirror often to assure that Faye was safe in the driver’s seat of the other car.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Retta
The shop was called Entrez, and the French theme
was carried out everywhere: white, lacy furniture, draped pastel curtains, and prints of Paris landmarks on the wall. The stylist’s name was Simone. Her French accent was real, though Michigan-isms had crept into her vocabulary over the twenty years she’d been here.
Claiming I had to attend a funeral, I asked for a trim. Eyeing me critically over the wet head of her current customer, Simone said, “Return in twenty minutes. I will fit you in.”
After browsing a couple of over-priced clothing stores, I returned. The customer was putting on her glasses as Simone swept up clumps of gray hair littering the floor. Soon I was in the chair, and she stood behind me as we both faced the mirror. “A trim, you say?”
“Not more than half an inch.” I didn’t want Patsy to suspect I’d gone to another stylist. “This funeral is unexpected, but I want to look my best.”
Simone raised her brows briefly, which I interpreted as irritation. She probably wanted to try something creative with my hair, which stylists often tell me is perfect to work with: full-bodied, thick, and with just enough curl to make it easy to style.
Choosing her tools, she wet a section with a squirt bottle and began clipping the hair into manageable blocks. I waited for a question, and it wasn’t long in coming. “Where do you live?”
I had my story ready. “Detroit, but I’m staying at a cabin near Allport, on Pierce Lake.”
“Ah, yes. I once had a customer who lived on that lake.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “I thought her family owned it.”
“Someone owns most of it,” I responded. “There’s a huge house on the opposite side that looks like something from Architectural Digest.”
She chuckled. “That sounds right. Her father is quite concerned with money, I think.”
“And is she as concerned with it as her father?”
Simone pressed her lips together for a second. “She died.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear it.”
Hairdressers are great listeners, but to whom do they ever get to talk? I was the perfect candidate: a stranger to tell an old story to. “She was murdered by her husband.”
“How awful!”
“Yes.” For a few seconds there was only the grind of scissor blades meeting. Bits of hair fell onto the plastic cape over my shoulders. I tried not to shudder. “I was surprised, you know?” Her sentences ended with the Gallic rise, and you know? might well have been n’est pas? “I thought he was crazy for her. But maybe that was it, you know? Maybe a little too crazy.”
“You met him?”
“He came in on her first visit. After that, he would wait in the car. She said he was silly about her pregnancy, but I think she liked that he worried about her.”
“So you were surprised when he killed her?”
“Who knows which of us is capable of such a thing?” Simone said philosophically. “But he seemed…gentle, even in dirty jeans and work boots.”
“She married a working man? I thought you said her dad was rich.”
Simone chuckled. “This girl, she was like a matador, and her father was the bull.”
“She goaded him.”
“That is the word. Her father wanted her to marry someone in his business. Instead she chose this construction worker, very handsome, but not a man for the suit and tie, you know?”
“You think she chose—” I caught myself and didn’t use Brown’s name. “—this guy because her father disapproved?”
She thought about it. “I think she loved him as much as a spoiled girl can love anybody.”
“That’s good.”
She snipped for a while then said thoughtfully, “The last time she came here, she said they would move to Detroit soon. He didn’t want to, but she said he would do as she wanted.”
“And that’s why he killed her?”
A shrug. “The TV said they fought. Her brother was there, and he was killed, too.”
I was thinking back to something she’d said earlier. “Her father wanted her to marry someone else? Someone who worked for him?”
“His ‘right-hand toad,’ she called him.”
Carina might have said toady, but there wasn’t much difference. Eric DuBois was Stan’s right-hand man. Had she rejected DuBois because she didn’t like him, or because Stanley did?
After tipping Simone generously for not butchering my hair, I drove back to Allport, my mind digesting and dissecting what I’d learned. Stanley Wozniak had hoped for a connection between his daughter and Eric, but Carina chose Neil, married Neil, and became pregnant with Neil’s baby. It seemed highly unlikely DuBois would have waited a year then killed Carina to frame Neil. What would it have accomplished? No girl, no fortune, no in with the boss. Unless he was a lunatic, DuBois gained nothing. I knew Faye wouldn’t like it, but Neil Brown was still the most likely candidate for life in prison.
Chapter Thirty
Barb
We took the eastern leg of 123 southward to I-75, just north of St. Ignace. Soon we saw the Mackinac Bridge towering gracefully over the straits. I wondered how Faye would do driving across, since she usually shuts her eyes on the section where gridwork makes a car sway and rumble. She handled it well, probably unwilling to show weakness in Gabe’s presence.
We planned to go directly to the police department, where Neil would surrender himself. Faye and I would introduce Gabe and tell the part of the story we could attest to. Nobody expected Neil would be set free immediately, but we had to begin somewhere.
It was almost five o’clock when we arrived at the Allport P.D. Tom Stevens was surprisingly calm at the appearance of his longest-sought suspect, but word spread quickly. Soon people began passing his office door, moving in slow motion as they tried to get a look at us. Several city employees invented reasons to collect in the hallway. Tom frowned at them intermittently as he listened and tried to look as if he had an open mind.
“You understand I’m taking you into custody,” he told Neil when we finished.
“Yes, sir.”
Tom fell into his old lecturing way. “You gave the legal system a lot of headaches, son.”
“It was a mistake to run,” Neil agreed. “Because I wasn’t here, nobody looked for the person who really killed my wife. If I’d told my side of it, maybe he’d have been caught.”
“Or you’d have gone to prison,” Faye put in. I hoped she wouldn’t start telling Tom his job, though I had to admit, his obvious assumption Neil was guilty made me nervous.
Brown seemed resigned as he was taken for processing, an officer on either side. Once he left, Stevens turned to us. “Not wise, going up there on your own.”
“We weren’t sure it was actually him.”
“Well, you were lucky. He coulda hit you both over the head like he did his wife.”
“You don’t know he did that.”
Stevens folded his hands on the desk. “Faye, you’ve seen the evidence against him.”
Her voice rose a notch, and I sensed trouble ahead. “Why did someone send Gabe here to follow us up there and steal a flash drive from Neil?”
Her question reminded Tom of the other player present. “Oh, yeah.” Without moving, Gabe seemed to shrink into his chair. “Mr. Wills is acquainted with the Allport P.D., ain’t you?”
Gabe didn’t answer. He seemed to find the floor tiles really interesting.
“That doesn’t make his story less credible,” Faye insisted. “He had no reason to follow us except that someone hired him to see if we found Neil.”
Stevens rubbed both cheeks with a beefy, spread hand. “If some guy hired Mr. Sleazy here, it only proves somebody was interested in finding Brown. If old Gabe went off the deep end and started shooting, he’s in big trouble.”
Gabe found his voice. “I told you, my associate did the shooting.”
“A per
son you refuse to name and who probably doesn’t exist.”
He seemed insulted at the slur on his honesty. “He does too!”
Faye interrupted before Gabe could go into his story again. “And the flash drive?”
“Maybe somebody thinks it has evidence against Brown on it.”
“By somebody you mean Stan Wozniak.” Faye’s tone was as sharp.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
There it was. Stevens believed Stan Wozniak had hired Gabe Wills to follow us. Any deeper purpose would not be considered. With a warning glance to Faye, I rose from my chair. Her neck was splotched with red, which meant she was furious, but she followed my lead.
“Thank you, Officer Stevens.” I was almost as frustrated as my sister. Somewhere along the line, I’d become convinced Neil was innocent, but Stevens pooh-poohed the whole idea. Could he not see there was something going on that needed investigation?
No. He’d gladly take the credit for apprehending a suspect who’d eluded the law for years, and he was unwilling to complicate the accepted story with possible alternatives.
As we left, Faye blew out a breath of frustration. “You know he’ll charge Gabe with stalking or something and ignore the rest of it.”
“We’re going to appeal to a higher power.”
“What?”
“The new chief is a former Chicago police officer. He won’t have preconceived ideas of this case, and he’s got more investigative experience than the rest of the department put together.” I paused. “And there’s one other thing that might make him want to help us.”
“What’s that?”
“When we had dinner the other evening, he mentioned that he finds me attractive.” I left my sister wide-eyed and gasping as I turned toward the car, hiding a grin I couldn’t suppress.