Jackie called, “Come on, honey. You probably heard a mouse or something.”
Randall, returning to the counter, said, “Do mice turn the lights on, too?”
“You probably left them on this morning. Can’t we just get out of here? I hate this place.”
“Not as much as I do.” Randall suddenly turned and fired a round at the back wall of the shop. The sharp report was deafening, like thunder right overhead, and surprised and hurt like a punch to the face. Jackie’s yelp of surprise covered Marcy’s cowering whimper. He fired again, the round whining over the truck bed to pucker into the side wall of the shop. Abby squeezed Marcy’s hand as she scrunched up into a fetal position. Jackie ran for the door.
“Stupid idiots!” Randall yelled, swiping the contents of the countertop to the floor. He let out a string of epithets, knocked over a display of fishing lures, and then all the lights went out. “They think they can do whatever they want,” he muttered through clenched teeth. The bait shop door closed, and Marcy opened her eyes to the comforting cover of darkness.
Car doors slammed and tires spun on the gravel driveway. Abby was up and over the side of the truck bed before Marcy even lifted her head. When she looked over the wheel well, she saw Abby framed in the light from the small door’s window. The girl turned to face Marcy and quietly said, “They’re gone.”
Marcy collapsed in a flat-out heap on the truck bed.
“That fool,” Abby said, running back to the truck. Looking in on Marcy, she added, “He could have hurt someone.”
The absurdity of Abby’s understatement ignited a chuckle in Marcy. The laugh felt good, so much better than the frightful river of tears that had been amassing. She let it all out then, a snorting belly laugh that ultimately released the tears anyway, a wall of tension flooded under waves of relief. Abby caught the mood and joined in. When Marcy finally managed to sit up, they hugged over the side of the truck, still laughing, still crying.
“Okay, help me out of here,” Marcy said, climbing back to her knees. Abby helped her over the side, and then led her through the mess strewn across the floor. At the door, they looked out the window at the vacant driveway.
“I’m going to Duluth,” Abby suddenly announced.
“You’re what?”
“You heard him. Randall is in on this.”
Incredulous, Marcy asked, “You think Randall killed his own mother?”
“I don’t know. But I saw Rosie’s truck at the lake, and she wasn’t driving it.”
“What about that other guy you saw?”
“I know, I know. But Randall is in on this somehow. I’m guessing he knows where Ben is.” Suddenly Abby’s mouth popped wide open, and she grabbed Marcy by the shoulders. “Of course!” she exclaimed. “That’s it! I bet it was Randall I saw in the backseat of the car with Ben. That’s why the man assured me he would be safe. Mom probably even knows where he is!”
“That’s ridiculous.” Marcy opened the door and cautiously looked up the driveway. “I have a better idea, Abby. Let’s just tell Sheriff Fastwater what we know. Let him handle it.”
“No. I told you, that’s not an option. Mom wants me to come to Duluth, so I’ll go. And while I’m there, I’ll look for Ben.”
Marcy pulled the bait shop door closed behind them. The air smelled so fresh out here, and the sunshine felt warm and pleasant after the damp, terrifying darkness of the shop. Abby led the way along the side of the building, back down the path toward the beach. It was good to be moving again, to work the tension out of taut nerves and muscles.
“I’ll take you,” Marcy said as they trotted down the slope. Abby stopped so abruptly that Marcy collided with her backside. “You’ll do what?”
“You need a ride, don’t you?”
“I’ll take the Greyhound.”
“And you’re going to tell your dad about this? You think he’ll just let you get on a bus when his only other child is missing?”
“What’s the big deal?” Abby shot back. Marcy’s questions were interfering with her plans. She walked slowly down the remainder of the pathway, stopping at the entrance to the cobblestone beach.
“You know,” Marcy said, “I’ve never spent any time at the casino. Never had any interest before.” Abby looked at her, puzzled. Marcy shrugged her shoulders. “Hey, these mafia dudes could be connected to the casino. And they sure won’t let you in there.”
Abby turned to take Marcy’s hands. “Are you sure, Marcy? What about the café?”
“Oh, please! I haven’t taken a vacation in years. They’ll cover for me.”
Sensing that Abby was close to agreeing, she pressed her argument. “I’ll get a motel down in Canal Park. That way, if you have any trouble at your Mom’s, you can just come down there. In the meantime, I’ll check out the casino and see if Randall has any connection to it.”
Abby squeezed Marcy’s hand, but turned to look out to sea.
Marcy added, “Matthew—I mean, your dad—asked me to help look after you. He doesn’t have a clue about teenage girls.”
Even in profile she could see the smirk on Abby’s face.
“I’ll talk to him, tell him we’re taking a girl’s trip to Duluth. We’ll buy some clothes, hang out, and maybe get a makeover. Jackie wants you to visit. This way, your dad will be relieved that I’m spending time with you, and your mother will be happy to have you staying with her. And hey, if anyone asks, haven’t I earned a few days off in Duluth?”
“Of course,” Abby agreed, smiling at her friend. “And I promise it will only be a couple days. I’ll figure out where Ben is by then.”
“But there’s one big condition in all this, Abby, and you have to agree to it.” Clasping Abby by the shoulders, she studied the young girl’s big brown eyes. It was hard to miss the confidence in her youthful expression. “At the first hint of danger, we’re out of there. You understand? I’m a big coward, Abby, and I won’t let you get yourself into trouble. First hint, we’re gone.”
After a brief, thoughtful hesitation, Abby slowly nodded. Marcy released her shoulders to pull her into a friendly bear hug. “It’ll be fun, Abby. Hey, who knows? If things go well, you’ll find your brother, and with some beginner’s luck I just might win some money at the casino.”
NINE
Jackie Simon
An antique feather duster got the job done about as effectively as any utensil she’d tried. Jackie Simon scoffed at comments about how silly and unnecessary it was to dust the whole gallery every day, because by the time she worked her way from the rear of the long, narrow building to the front of the shop and turned around in the light of the huge bay windows, she’d swear the freshened-up artwork seemed to jump out into the light. And the thing she’d tell all those ill-informed slackers is that when you’re selling original oils and watercolors, getting the picture to “pop” is what it’s all about.
Of course, she’d admit that sought-after art required, first and foremost, a gifted artist. And framing, the way in which a piece was displayed, was perhaps as important . But Jackie also knew the importance of lighting, knew that if any aspect of it was wrong, even the best work would hang in unappreciated neglect for months, or even years.
The Tempest carried some of the best artwork in the upper Midwest, and Jackie wasn’t shy about taking credit for making that happen. She knew art, had a discerning eye, and worked hard to display the gallery’s pieces to their best advantage. She currently had an original Oberg oil on the wall, although with the price the original commanded, a few numbered prints of the East Coast seascape were about all she could realistically hope to sell. Watercolors by Lars Hedstrom, the popular Canadian, meshed nicely with the Great Lakes theme of the shop. Local artists were represented as well, showing rugged Lake Superior landscapes in all seasons.
Whenever possible, Jackie displayed a dramatic, oversized painting of the sinking of the ore freighter Edmund Fitzgerald. She’d readily concede that, from a technical standpoint, these pieces didn’t repre
sent very good art. But around the upper Great Lakes region, the demise of the Fitzgerald carried a folklore-like mystique, and although the paintings weren’t very valuable, she still found it surprisingly difficult to keep one on the wall.
After dusting her way to the front door, Jackie turned to look back through the narrow, cavernous gallery. Discrete, recessed lighting further illuminated specific highlights of the art on display. Ceramic and stoneware pots by local artists sprouted up on stands, arranged in such a fashion to slow the pace of browsers through the shop.
Unlocking the door, she stepped outside among the strolling tourists and window shoppers in Canal Park. It was especially gratifying to see so much foot traffic considering the fact that it was a Monday morning early in the tourist season, with a sky hanging low with clouds piling in off Lake Superior. Consisting of just a few square blocks of upscale shops and trendy restaurants, surrounded by lakeside motels and luxury condominiums, Jackie often called Canal Park the Navy Pier of the North. A native of Chicago, she’d spent many hours in the waterfront amusement park on Lake Michigan. Instead of a Ferris wheel, however, Canal Park boasted a one-hundred-year-old steel girder lift bridge. When the traffic horn sounded, tourists gathered along the concrete piers lining the canal to watch the bridge go up, allowing deep-water vessels, even ocean-going ships, to enter or leave the harbor.
Jackie waved at Camille, the owner of the bookstore two doors down. Just as Jackie dusted all the artwork in her shop every morning, Camille swept the sidewalk in front of the bookstore before wheeling out a cart of older hardbacks offered on sale. The lake was only a hundred yards from her door, close enough for Jackie to smell its cool freshness on the air, but far enough to be blocked from view by traffic and the two-story motel on the water’s edge.
The Tempest was housed in a row of refurbished stone warehouses that at one time served the commercial needs of the Duluth harbor. Painted in flamboyant hues, with brilliant multi-colored trim work, signs, and doors, the shops were as unique as their owners and the merchandise within. Everything from tacky souvenir baubles to high-end baby boomer clothing was represented. The hip coffee shop on the corner always had a line of customers, and Camille hosted well-attended book clubs in her bookstore on an almost daily basis, but Jackie would argue that it was The Tempest that brought a classy atmosphere to the row of shops. All her efforts were directed toward elegance and beauty, and she considered the gallery itself to be a work of art.
A furrow wrinkled her brow as she thought of the commitment required to maintain that aura of effortless grace. Randall was useless. Of course it was his gallery, but since she’d come on board over a year ago it seemed more of the day-to-day management had fallen to her. Randall had his various business cronies, their luncheon meetings, and their private little business dealings. She’d never really understood exactly what it was that he did to lead such a privileged lifestyle, but it sure didn’t seem to take any long hours or self-sacrifice.
Before she’d taken over management of The Tempest, the gallery was nothing more than a two-bit souvenir shop, selling western-style artwork, postcards, the usual run of snow globes and collector spoons made in China, and cheap birchbark and beaded Native American trinkets made in a factory in Illinois. What Randall couldn’t seem to understand was that it took capital, a lot of capital, to run a first-rate gallery.
Her looming financial predicament darkened Jackie’s countenance even further. Randall was so quick to blame her for the escalating debts. She argued that it wasn’t her fault. She was doing what she had to do to make the gallery profitable. She’d realized from the outset that The Tempest was her ticket out of Black Otter Bay—certainly the best, and perhaps her only means of escape. The men from the casino had been more than willing to extend a line of credit to her through Randall. It wasn’t her fault that he’d never explained the timeframe to her, or the ridiculous interest rates they expected. It wasn’t her fault that she’d hit a run of bad luck. But even as it continued to sour, hadn’t she cut back on the hours she spent at the card tables? There were no more all-nighters, even though one good hand, or a lucky pull on a slot machine, could change all their fortunes.
When Jackie reached back for the door handle, her eye caught the approach of a large luxury sedan. It stuck out from the usual run of minivans and yuppie SUVs so common in Canal Park. It pulled up to the curb across from the gallery, and for a moment Jackie’s heart froze at the thought that it might be one of those thugs from the casino. Through the darkened windows of the car she saw the driver glance at the gallery while talking on a cell phone. He said a few more words, slipped the phone into his coat pocket, and turned off the ignition.
When the car door opened, Jackie stood rooted in place as a tall man, large without being overweight, emerged from behind the wheel. She noted the casual way he buttoned his expensive sport coat with the fingers of one hand. When he paused at the side of the car waiting for traffic to pass, she was taken by the utter blackness of his sunglasses. She took another look at the sky. Dark clouds billowed overhead, tumbling ashore out of the vast wasteland over Lake Superior. If she had-n’t known it was the beginning of June, she’d say it looked like snow coming. At the very least, it certainly wasn’t sunglasses weather.
She retreated into the gallery. It was just so unfair, she thought, the way people ridiculed and blamed her. The situation should be obvious: good art commanded good prices, and eventually The Tempest would underwrite itself with a high-end inventory. But it didn’t just happen overnight. She was confident she had the knowledge, but it also took time, effort, and a lot of money. She glanced outside to see the man crossing the street. “Leave me alone,” she muttered to the artwork around her as she slid in behind the counter. A heated blush rose in her cheeks, and tears threatened to well up in her eyes. “I’m doing everything I can,” she said to the pictures on the wall, as if trying to convince them, as well as herself, that none of this was her fault. “I’m risking everything, including the welfare of my children, to fix the problem.”
And then it occurred to her, with a glimmer of hope, that maybe that was the reason for this stranger’s sudden appearance: another stupid cop, with more questions about Ben, and nosy innuendoes regarding the divorce. If that were the case, at least she wouldn’t have to make excuses for the money she owed. Those idiot associates of Randall’s would never talk to the police about her debts. They had other means of collecting their money.
With shaking fingers, she distracted herself by arranging pens and papers next to the cash register. Then the sleigh bells over the entranceway jingled, and the sounds of traffic and voices and the wind accompanied the man through the door.
Acting nonchalant, as if too busy to notice his arrival, she even abandoned her usual smile and greeting. Seconds ticked by in which she expected him to directly approach the counter. She brushed away imaginary paper scraps and dust, rearranged the countertop items once again, and then in a fit of anxious energy grabbed the telephone and held it to her ear. The dial tone was so loud! He’d have to hear the incessant buzzing.
Finally, she stole a peek at the tall man in the well-cut suit. He stood in front of the Oberg, as far back as he could manage, to get the clearest overall view of the work. His head canted to one side in a thoughtful pose, with his gelled hairstyle standing straight up. On a younger man she’d say it was the early stages of a Mohawk, but he was too old for that, and with his deep tan and muscular good looks, she decided it was just his personal style. His sunglasses hung out of the chest pocket of his sport coat now, while his hands were casually slipped into his trouser pockets.
Jackie dropped the phone back in its cradle and turned to face the man. Still not ready to come out from behind the counter, she leaned against the cash register, a hand resting on her hip. “That’s an Oberg,” she said.
No reply, other than a soft sigh.
Jackie cleared her throat and stepped out from behind the counter. Still keeping her distance, she asked, “A
re you familiar with Phillip Oberg’s work?”
The man looked at her and smiled. “Sure. I’ve seen copies of this one before. I never thought I’d actually see the original, though.”
Letting her guard down completely, Jackie approached the stranger, saying, “Phillip Oberg was from Massachusetts. He died just last winter.” She found it refreshing to be in the company of someone who understood and appreciated good art. “Most of our inventory represents a Lake Superior theme,” she continued, “or at least the Great Lakes. But Oberg is just so classic, you know?”
The big man extracted a pair of half-glasses from inside his coat pocket. Holding them over the bridge of his nose, he stepped up to the painting for a closer look. “Vermont,” he said.
“Beg your pardon?”
Studying the painting at close range, scrutinizing the signature, he said, “Phillip Oberg was from Vermont. Many of his seascapes, like this one, were painted in Massachusetts: Cape Cod, Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket, and all that. For that reason it’s been a long-held misconception that he was from Massachusetts.” He turned to peer at Jackie over the top of his glasses. “But he was a lifelong resident of Vermont.”
Jackie found herself grinning like a schoolgirl, but couldn’t think of a word to say. Fortunately, the stranger continued. “Not a lot of rustic seacoast in Vermont to paint.”
Jackie sidled up to the man to make her own distracted inspection of the work.
The stranger said, “Oberg spent some of his early years up in Maine, but he said the whole coastline up there looked the same. Paint one scene, he contended, and you’ve done them all.”
Now Jackie was chuckling, a spontaneous reaction to the release of tension as well as joy in the intellectual banter.
“Where did you get it?” he asked.
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