Ray Elkins mystery - 02 - Color Tour

by Aaron Stander

  “Did you have any further problems with Arnie?”

  “No, I don’t think he has ever been seen on school grounds again. But Quertermous, he’ll use anything he can to get at Dr. Warrington.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s one of the old guard. They’re all angry about the changes Ian has instituted. But Quertermous is particularly outraged. I think we’ve all become immune to his attacks.” Sarah glanced at her watch. “Sheriff, if you don’t have any further questions, I must look after some… ”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for giving us some background.”

  Ray and Sue watched her depart. The room was now empty. “What now?” Sue asked.

  “I’d like you to stay here for the meeting with the students and handle any questions. Stick around this evening, get a sense of the place. Talk to their security people. Let’s plan to meet early tomorrow morning and go over what we have.”

  “And you?” Sue asked.

  “I’m going to stop by Vedder’s. He’s not a likely suspect, but I’ll stop by and see how he and his mother are doing.”

  6

  There were lights on in the trailer when Ray pulled off the road onto the short gravel drive. He parked next to a sagging, purplish-red minivan. He had been here before, the bearer of tragic news. The door opened as he approached, first a tentative fraction, then wider as the woman inside identified her visitor. “Sheriff, it’s about Arnie, isn’t it? What’s happened?” The woman moved back from the door allowing him to enter. She muted the television, the pulsating flicker from a M*A*S*H rerun illuminating part of the room.

  “Nothing has happened, Kim. But I am looking for Arnie.”

  “He didn’t come home last night. He hasn’t been here today. I was starting to get worried.”

  Ray looked around. Everything was neat and orderly, but old and worn. The poorly constructed dwelling was years beyond its intended life.

  “Sit down, sheriff. I was just heating some water. Want some coffee?”

  “Please,” he responded.

  Ray watched her spoon instant coffee into two mugs and add boiling water. She placed one in front of him. “You want some sugar or milk?” she asked.

  “No, this is fine. Thank you. Kim, we need to talk.” She settled across from him at the small Formica table. “What do you mean Arnie wasn’t home last night?”

  “Well, you know, since the accident,” she fished a box of cigarettes from the pocket of her faded, shapeless cardigan, “he just ain’t right. He doesn’t live like normal people.” She lit the cigarette, a slight tremor in her thin, almost frail hands. As Ray looked at her, he ran the math in his head. She couldn’t be more than thirty-five or thirty-six, but she looked like she was in her late forties or early fifties. Her face was etched from years of hard work and sorrow. “Days and nights, it just doesn’t matter,” she said. “He wanders in and out like they don’t exist.”

  “And he didn’t come home last night, and you haven’t seen him today?”

  “I worked today, went to town real early. Ended up subbing for someone after my shift. Got twelve hours.” She drooped against the table. “God knows we need the money.”

  “And you don’t think he was here when you were gone?”

  “No. He would have left a trail—dirty dishes on the counter, clothes thrown here and there. Didn’t raise him up like that, and he wasn’t like that before the accident.” She looked across at Ray, her tone became more apprehensive. “Why are you here?”

  “This is just routine, Kim. His name came up in the course of an investigation. We’re going to be talking to lots of folks. Tell me about his experience working at Leiston.”

  “Leiston. Why?” Her tone became bitter, tears swelled in her eyes. “What did they say about him? They’ve already done enough. They gave him some hope. He told me when he got the job that he thought he could be a little bit like he was before. And they seemed so nice to him at first. They even took him on some of their outings. And then, out of the blue, they fired him. And they didn’t give him no reason or nothing.” Pain spread across her face.

  “He’s so weak now, sheriff. Getting fired was sorta the last straw.” She started sobbing, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. She got up, retrieved a box of tissues from a kitchen cabinet, and came back to the table.

  “And Arnie has no idea of why he was fired?”

  “None that he could think of. We talked about it a long time. And sheriff, he’s honest. The accident didn’t change that. I came home from work, guess it’s been a couple of weeks now, and he was on the couch pulled into a little ball like a baby. I could tell he had been crying. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me he had been sacked. When I asked him why, he said, and I remember this so clearly, he said, ‘cause I’m fucking weird, Momma. Fucking weird and everyone knows it.’ It just broke my heart. Maybe it woulda been better if he had died in the accident. He shouldn’t have to live like this.”

  “Did you contact Leiston School after he was dismissed?”

  “Yeah, I called. Couldn’t get anyone who wanted to talk to me at first. Finally the head man called back. He was very nice on the phone, but didn’t say anything helpful.”

  “What did he say? Do you remember?”

  “Just that it hadn’t worked out, and he was sorry. That’s all. I could tell he really didn’t want to talk to me; he was just going through the motions.”

  “Not coming home at night, how often does it happen?”

  “This past summer, lots. He’d take his bike down to the sand dunes above the beach. He’s got a sleeping bag and this telescope his dad got for him the Christmas he worked at Wal-Mart. I think he watches the stars most of the night and falls asleep at dawn. He’d usually come back here sometime late morning, have some cereal, and sleep a few hours.”

  “But it’s almost winter. He can’t be sleeping on the beach now. Especially not last night.”

  “He’s built himself a hut deep in the woods, in that swamp a few a miles back from the lake,” she said. “He took me there week before last. He’s real proud of it. It’s rough, but it’s a shelter. I’m surprised he could do that good.” Kim smiled sadly. “It’s even got a little wood stove, something he found.”

  “And he stays there?”

  “Yeah, two or three nights a week. At first I was worried, but he seemed to be doing fine with it. I figure he knows how to keep dry and warm. Imagine he’ll give it up when it really starts getting cold.”

  “Could you take me there?”

  “Now?” she asked incredulously. “It’s a dense swamp. I don’t think I could find the place in the dark.”

  “How about tomorrow, mid-morning, say ten o’clock?”

  “That’d be okay. I’m off tomorrow.”

  “I’ll either pick you up or send a deputy. Where do we start from?”

  “The park at that trailhead near Otter Lake. Make sure you got some tall boots. There’s several places where you’ll be wading halfway to your knees.”

  7

  It was a few minutes before ten o’clock when Ray arrived at a long-standing dinner invitation. He had called earlier in the day to cancel, as events were unfolding, but his friend Marc had prevailed on him, saying that he and Lisa, his companion, would serve dinner whenever Ray arrived, even if it was two in the morning. So, when Ray had completed his interview with Kim Vedder, he called Marc to say he was finally on his way. Ray and Marc had been friends since they were boys. Marc had been reared by his grandparents who summered in the area, and Ray was a local kid whose parents had worked for Marc’s grandparents.

  Marc had continued vacationing in northern Michigan as an adult, eventually inheriting the old clapboard cottage that had been in his family for almost a hundred years. In his late forties Marc had quit a high-pressure Wall Street job and become a fulltime resident. He originally intended to continue to work in the investment field as a consultant, but he quickly found he was more interested in rebuilding a
n old wooden sailboat than working with clients.

  The summer of Marc’s relocation to Michigan, Lisa was staying just down the beach at her family’s cottage, using an inheritance from her father to take a sabbatical from her public relations career in Detroit. Marc and Lisa had known each other over the years, their friendship starting as a big-brother-kid-sister relationship between summer neighbors. Before the summer was out, they had become a couple.

  A thick fog had followed the heavy rain, and Ray slowly maneuvered his way through the dense haze and darkness along the narrow two-track to Marc’s house. He parked in the round pool of yellow light emanating from a fixture nailed to a large oak tree near the back of the faded blue cottage. He opened the tailgate of his Jeep, removed a carefully wrapped bottle of Cotes du Rhone wine, and walked to the back door. The door springs squeaked as he entered the kitchen. Inside, Ray saw his friend Marc working at the stove while Lisa cleaned up after him.

  “You know, you could change that bulb outside. Mosquito season is over,” Ray offered with mild sarcasm.

  “Once the snow comes it will give everything a lovely golden tint. And then it will be spring and… ” Marc raised both arms, hands and fingers opening toward the ceiling, “they’ll be back. Besides, if it ain’t burned out don’t… ”

  “I’ve always been impressed by how quickly you went native,” Ray laughed. “Sorry to be so late, good of you to put up with my schedule.”

  “A fashionable time for an evening meal, very Continental,” Lisa said. “Don’t most of you locals have dinner about five?”

  “Usually about four-thirty, but now that you two are becoming perma-fudge… ” Ray peered into the large stockpot Marc was gently stirring with a long wooden spoon.

  “One of your favorites, coq au vin,” said Marc. “And fortunately for you, it was something I could take off the heat without ruining.”

  “You do look worn,” said Lisa as she pulled a large serrated knife through a baguette. “It was the lead story on the six o’clock news. But you set the rules. We’d be happy not to mention it again and give you some rest. And, Ray, while you’re standing around, would you serve the wine? I’ve made a fresh pot of coffee, knowing you probably won’t have wine.”

  Ray poured two glasses from a bottle of Shiraz standing open on the worn marble counter and got himself a mug of coffee.

  Mark put steaming bowls of coq au vinat each place, and Lisa passed the ciabatta as they settled in. The table was covered with a bright yellow cloth of a Provencal design.

  “Sure you don’t want some, even half a glass?” asked Lisa.

  “Okay, a taste,” Ray said, “enough to bring up the flavor, not that this wonderful food needs enhancing.”

  Lisa poured a glass and handed it to Ray. He swirled the wine, inhaled the bouquet, and took a small sip.

  “Well?” asked Lisa.

  “So, you hold dinner for hours, put a wonderful meal before me, pour me some noble red that you’ve given an adequate time to breathe, and I show you my appreciation by telling you that the wine is corky. Sorry.”

  “He’s right,” said Marc after carefully sampling the wine.

  Marc opened another bottle, wrapped a towel around the label, and brought three clean glasses to the table. He poured a splash of wine in Ray’s glass. “How’s that?”

  Ray held the wine glass by the base and gently swirled the wine, observing its dark ruby color and near-perfect clarity; he sniffed it slowly, and then took a small sip. “Very nice.”

  “Is this the bottle you brought or one of mine?” Marc quizzed.

  “One of yours. The one I brought is a bit lighter.”

  Marc removed the towel, revealing the label, and filled Ray’s glass. “Good answer, but I thought I’d go easy on you. The rest of your day has provided enough challenges.”

  “Make sure I only have one glass,” said Ray. “It would be tempting to have more.”

  There was a lull in the conversation as they settled into the meal.

  Ray stopped eating and closely examined the coq au vin. “Wonderful sauce, it’s rich. And the color. What’s in here?”

  “Secret ingredient. This will be a real test of your nose, your taste buds, and your powers of detection.”

  “I’m afraid my powers of detection have already been overly taxed today.”

  “Sure you don’t want to guess?” pressed Marc.

  Ray carefully filled his spoon with the sauce. He focused on it through the bottom lens of his bifocal and set the spoon back in the bowl. He then moved forward and slowly inhaled.

  “Well, the wine was all red, you sometimes do a white and red combination. You’ve thickened the sauce a bit, probably with a little arrowroot; it has a lovely sheen. The mystery ingredient, or should I say ingredients?”

  “Ingredient. Give up?”

  “I have a sense of it, but I just can’t put my finger on… ”

  “Okay, enough pain,” said Marc. “Chocolate. Bitter chocolate. Recipe suggests one ounce, I liked it so much I put in two.”

  “Coq au vin with a Oaxacan twist. It’s wonderful.”

  He looked past Marc and Lisa, out toward the starry northern sky beyond the small-paned windows, and sighed at the emptiness of his own new house, which he’d built after his steady decided to move to Seattle to be nearer to her children. He understood, of course. That was what needed to happen. If he had children, and now perhaps grandchildren, he’d do the same. He’d do whatever it took to be part of their everyday lives. He thought back to the first woman he’d dreamed of having children with, a lovely graduate student with whom he had a brief summer romance. Ray wondered where she was tonight.

  Lisa looked over at Marc and winked. “He’s a culinary genius.” The couple smiled at each other fondly. Ray felt a bittersweet pang as he leaned back in his chair and observed his friends together, looking at each other with that brief, knowing glance that people in love share. A fond complicity. He smiled. He was happy for them, happy that they’d found one another and made a warm home together.

  “Ray?” Lisa asked, jarring Ray back to the room.

  “Yes?”

  “You look like you’re far away,” Lisa said, refilling her wine glass and looking up with concern. “Are you okay?”

  Ray sighed and nodded. “I have a lot on my mind tonight. You know how it goes.”

  “Can I ask… ?” Marc paused.

  “Go ahead,” said Ray, knowing what was coming.

  “So, what happened? Double homicide?”

  “I thought we weren’t going to mention it,” said Lisa.

  “It’s okay,” said Ray. He summarized all the public information about the murders, including the fact that one of the victims was a teacher at Leiston School. And then he said to Lisa, “You went there, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, ninth and tenth grade. By my junior year, Mother wanted me closer to home and enrolled me at Kingswood.”

  “Tell me about the place. I just have the bits and pieces I’ve heard over the years.”

  “I have bits and pieces, too, but perhaps they’re different from yours. My grandmother knew the family, even got invited to tea parties there in the old days.” Lisa sipped some wine as she organized her memories. “And Mother knew Gwendolyn Howard, she was the second Mrs. Howard. She started the school in the ’60s. I think she was probably thirty years younger than her husband. His parents built the estate as their summer home. Gwendolyn had been a teacher before they married and was very interested in progressive education. Soon after they retired up here he died, heart or something. She was left with that enormous mansion and lots of money. She had been very taken with the educational philosophy of A. S. Neill and the way he ran his school, Summerhill.”

  “I can remember reading Summerhill during my brief excursion into ed courses, when I considered a career as a high school English teacher,” said Ray. “Summerhill, let me think, lots of stuff about freedom and kids making their own choices.” He paused. “Schools should f
ocus on the psychological health of their students rather than pouring knowledge into them. It was very ’60s. Made lots of sense to me at the time,” he paused and looked thoughtful. “Actually, it still makes sense.”

  “Good memory,” said Lisa. “Mrs. Howard went to England, studied with Neill, and came back and started the school. She called it Leiston, the name of the village where Neill’s school was located. But Leiston was her version, or perhaps vision, of Summerhill. It was just a high school because she didn’t like working with younger kids. I think Neill would have argued that high school was too late to start. The kids would have already been ruined by traditional schooling.”

  “How many students?”

  “Ninety-six, twenty-four in each grade. She had an elaborate formula based on groups of six and multiples of six. Six students per class for laboratories, twelve for lectures. Twenty-four students in each house, that’s what they call the dorms.”

  “What’s special about six?”

  “I have no idea. But I’m sure there was some sort of theoretical basis. Maybe number of lines of communication, that sort of thing.”

  “Why did your mother send you there?” asked Ray.

  “It was during father’s first illness. You know about his depression?”

  Ray nodded.

  “Mother thought it would be best if I didn’t have to deal with it. He was no longer working; he was at home then and quickly deteriorating.”

  “So, was there a Summerhill-like freedom when you were a student?”

  “Actually, no. Leiston had started to change a lot before I got there. The school had gotten a reputation for drugs, sex, and rock ‘n’ roll. They were doing their best to shed that image as quickly as possible. By the time I arrived they were making the place much more structured and academic.”

  “Any great scandals when you were a student?”

  “No, just the usual boarding school stuff. We used to gossip about some of the faculty members, romances, things of that sort. I think most of it was the product of our imagination.”

  “And the drugs and sex?”