Riverwatcher

by Ronald Weber

  *  *  *

  BACK IN THE kitchen he dialed Mercy’s number. “She’s stuck in a meeting,” Fern Lax told him. “Some people over from the Traverse City office.”

  “It’s important,” Fitzgerald said. “At least it might be. Just ask her if Theona Orr mentioned the titles of the three books. Mercy will know what I’m talking about.”

  “No,” Fern said when she came back on the line. “All she told Mercy was three books.”

  “Okay. Now this is important, too. Call Theona Orr in Big Rapids. Tell her you’re Mercy’s secretary, that Mercy wants to know if the three books have been put in the mail yet. If not, Mercy has changed her mind. She’ll come down after them.”

  “Has she changed her mind?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ll go down, get the books. But it will be better if you make the call to Theona, as Mercy’s secretary. Theona wouldn’t know who I was.”

  Fern hesitated.

  “It’ll be okay with Mercy. I promise you.”

  Fitzgerald had just poured more coffee when Fern called back. “Too late. Her daughter took the books to the post office. Should I call there now?”

  He thought for a moment before he said, “No. Probably only Theona could get the package back. Going down to Big Rapids might have taken too much time anyway.”

  “For what?”

  “Tell you the truth, Fern, I’m not sure. Have Mercy call me when she gets free of the meeting.”

  “Okay.”

  “On my cell phone,” Fitzgerald added, “if I’m not at home.”

  *  *  *

  ON THE WARM, sun-filled, high-summer morning, Fitzgerald approached the circulation desk as the sole patron of the Ossning public library. Wanda Voss, peering at him over the top of half-glasses, produced a welcoming smile. The smile broadened when he told her that Charlie Orr’s library books were safely on the way to Ossning via mail from Big Rapids.

  Then he told her what he wanted, and the smile changed to a frown.

  “I know,” he agreed, “there’s confidentiality involved—a library member’s circulation record. I wouldn’t want mine handed around, not that it would reveal anything. I read a lot of junk fiction, is all.” He tried a grin, sheepish variety, but the frown remained fixed on Wanda Voss’s narrow face.

  “This is different, Wanda. Charlie’s dead. Murdered. The sheriff could require the circulation records be turned over to him. He might make them public. Who knows, they could get written up in the Call. This way, telling me, I can decide if they have any importance. If not, there’s no reason to involve the sheriff.”

  “And it’s only the last books Charlie checked out?”

  “I don’t need the whole record. Only the last three.”

  “Having books out like that—I was worried what might happen. I didn’t wish to say anything to the sheriff. It’s such a small matter under the circumstances.”

  “Of course.”

  “But—”

  “But what?”

  “One of the books is an interlibrary loan. From Michigan State University. It would be terribly costly to replace.”

  Fitzgerald said he understood that. But the two books from the Ossning library—could she look the titles of those up for him?

  Wanda Voss still hesitated.

  “Maybe we could do it this way. My guess is they’re two collections of fishing and hunting articles by an outdoor writer named Will Woodsman. Could you confirm that?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You don’t need to check your records? You’re certain?”

  “I checked earlier. People don’t know, but librarians have an awful duty when someone passes away in the community. We must look to see if they have books outstanding, and if they do, make inquiries as to their return. Delicate inquiries. Charlie Orr was one of our best patrons. He was certain to have books outstanding.”

  “The interlibrary loan,” Fitzgerald asked. “What was that?”

  “It’s rather involved. First Charlie took out the two volumes by Will Woodsman. Then he came back in, another book on his mind, one he believed he’d read in the past, and he wanted to check to make sure. But the exact title eluded him. He knew the author’s name, though, and that was enough. So we put in an interlibrary loan request. We charge two dollars per request—in case you ever want to use the service. Anyway, there was a copy at the Michigan State library. We got it for him, then after two weeks he came back and said he’d like more time if that was possible. We checked with the library, and they were willing to renew it for another period.”

  “And?”

  “Frank Forester was the name Charlie remembered. It was unknown to me. The book we sought, The Warwick Woodlands, is quite old. It was published in the 1840s.”

  “Frank Forester,” Fitzgerald repeated.

  “He’s thought to be one of the founders of outdoor writing in this country. He was an Englishman, well educated, equally well versed in aristocratic sporting traditions. For financial reasons he began writing for the magazines, applying those sporting traditions to America. Frank Forester was a pseudonym first used, if I remember correctly, in a magazine called the Spirit of the Times. He thought the name sounded woodsy and democratic. Eventually, Frank Forester became widely admired, publishing numerous sporting books as well as articles.”

  Fitzgerald said, “How come you know all this, Wanda?”

  “Charlie knew. He knew so much.”

  “And you’re certain the name was a pen name?”

  “Charlie was. The author’s real name, Henry William Herbert, he reserved for publications he considered more serious. Under his real name he published several novels.”

  “He would have.”

  Wanda Voss dipped her head, examined Fitzgerald over the top of her glasses. “If you already knew, why are you asking?”

  “I didn’t know,” Fitzgerald said. “But it fits. That’s all.”

  *  *  *

  THE WISE THING was to wait—wait for the books to arrive in the mail from Big Rapids, then do some hurried reading, making absolutely certain. He was operating entirely on a hunch. Charlie had checked out the two books of Will Woodsman from the Ossning library—that much of his hunch had been proven right. The third book was something new, something he hadn’t known about. Now that he did, he thought he understood why Charlie had wanted it. It all fit together, he had told Wanda Voss.

  But that, everything fitting, was another part of his hunch. He wouldn’t know anything for certain until he had the three books in his hands. The mail from Big Rapids would take a couple days or so. And going through the books once they came . . . more time lost. He could have Wanda check with Traverse City, the nearest good-sized public library, see if they had the books, drive over there if they did. But Wanda wouldn’t have contacted Michigan State if Traverse City had the interlibrary-loan book. It was fairly rare, she had said.

  Fitzgerald sat in the Cherokee in the library parking lot, windows open to the warmth of the day, trying to decide. The wise thing was to wait. If he asked anyone for advice, that was what they would advise. Don’t go off half-cocked. Go back to the A-frame, settle down with the laptop, work on your novel, wait for the books to arrive from Big Rapids. Or go fishing, waiting that way.

  It was advice he couldn’t take. He wouldn’t be able to get his mind on anything but the books, on what they might reveal. He wouldn’t be able to focus on his novel or the river. But that wasn’t the whole of it. He had a nagging feeling he was pressed for time.

  From the car he called Hoke Harkness at the Free Press. When Harkness came on the line, Fitzgerald apologized for what he was going to ask. He needed help. Again.

  “Up there in the woods,” Harkness said, “everybody’s useless?”

  “I’m in the parking lot of the public library,” Fitzgerald said. “I could go in, ask the librarian to dig up the information. Or I could get on the Internet, find out that way.”

  “But you’d rathe
r use up my valuable energy.”

  “I’m in a rush, Hoke. At least I think I am.” After he told Harkness what he wanted, he said he would phone back within the hour.

  “Hold on,” Harkness said. “This is a different guy. You’re sniffing out another story?”

  “Within the hour,” Fitzgerald repeated, and added, “I’ll owe you one.”

  “It’s two. You don’t think I’m running a tab?”

  *  *  *

  “WHY?” WILLARD STROUD said when Fitzgerald asked to listen again to the recorded interview with Alec Proffit.

  “I’m not sure. There was something . . . I’m not sure I’m remembering it right.”

  “Something about what?”

  “I won’t know until I hear the recording.”

  “Are you trying to be mysterious,” Stroud asked, “or don’t you really know what you’re talking about?”

  “Probably the latter.”

  Stroud called out to Elsie to get the cassette from the file on Charlie Orr, put it on the machine in the interview room. “Maybe I should listen with you,” he said to Fitzgerald. “Except I’ve got things to do. So maybe you’ll tell me if you remembered right. We’re working together on Charlie’s death. You, Mercy, me. You remember that much?”

  “I do.”

  *  *  *

  “WELL?” STROUD ASKED when Fitzgerald returned to his office.

  “What I remembered—I was right.”

  “And?”

  “Proffit told you he came back to Rainbow Run when he realized that, Charlie murdered, he had a better story than the one he planned to write about poaching on the Borchard. It was a hotter story, he told you, than the one he’d bargained on. As Will Woodsman he was going to write it up in Angling World.”

  “Go on,” Stroud said when Fitzgerald stopped.

  “That’s all.”

  “You wanted to remember he was going to write about Charlie’s murder, pointing the finger at poachers?”

  “And the DNR.”

  “I could have told you that’s what he said.”

  “I needed to hear for myself.”

  Stroud looked hard at Fitzgerald. “You figuring on writing something? That’s what this is about? You figuring on beating Proffit to the punch?”

  “He’s a big name as a writer. I couldn’t do that if I wanted to.”

  “You could get something in the Free Press.”

  “But you know I won’t. Not unless I tell you first.”

  “Then what the hell’s going on here?”

  “I was only trying to remember something,” Fitzgerald said. “I told you.”

  *  *  *

  “SHORT NOTICE LIKE that,” Hoke Harkness said when Fitzgerald called from the parking area of the city-county building, “it’s all I could pull up.”

  “It’s enough.”

  “Don’t suppose you could tell me why.”

  “It would take too long. It’s just the last piece of information I needed. I’m pretty sure everything fits together now.”

  “Okay, play it your way.”

  “I’ll let you know when it’s over.”

  “You do recall we run a newspaper here?”

  “But I don’t work for it anymore.”

  “You’re on leave, is all.”

  “I don’t know,” Fitzgerald said. “It’s beginning to feel permanent.”

  26

  HIS FIRST CHOICE was Calvin, but when Fitzgerald called him from the Cherokee there was no answer at the cabin, which probably meant Calvin was either guiding or out fishing himself. Verlyn was a possibility, but getting Verlyn involved would require a lengthy explanation—and might, in the process, alert Kit. Mercy would never forgive him, Fitzgerald knew, if any harm came to her son.

  There was no reason to anticipate harm, or at least any he couldn’t handle himself. But it was wise, all the same, to have a backup. He believed he knew now what had happened to Charlie Orr, and what was likely to happen next. But he couldn’t be certain. A backup was needed in the event he was wrong.

  Mercy would expect him to call on her, but she was in a day-long meeting, and he didn’t want to draw her out, foolishly so if what they were doing turned out to be yet another dead end. Besides, Mercy would insist on even more of a backup: Stroud and his deputies, everyone armed to the teeth.

  Fitzgerald wasn’t that confident he was on the right track. He wasn’t merely operating on his hunch. He was beyond that, thanks to what he had heard on the tape and what Hoke Harkness had told him on the phone. But he couldn’t know definitely until he took the next step, which meant going out there, confronting him—with a backup hidden in the jack pines.

  *  *  *

  AT THE DOOR of the fifth-wheeler, Billie Berry told him Burt was inspecting campsites farther along the first loop road in preparation for campers who, so it was hoped, would soon be showing up at Rainbow Run. When Fitzgerald located him at site twelve, Burt came over to the Cherokee, leaned in the passenger-side window.

  “Remember me,” Fitzgerald asked him, “from the Eagles?”

  “Yup.”

  “Billie told me you were here.”

  “She’s fixing us lunch.”

  “I need your help, Burt.”

  Fitzgerald motioned Burt into the Cherokee. He still felt pressed for time, but he needed Burt to fully understand. What he was going to ask of him wasn’t among the ordinary duties of a campground host.

  “Yup,” Burt said when Fitzgerald inquired, “I got one. Smith & Wesson .38. Don’t like being in the woods with Billie without protection. Deputies asked what I had, I told ’em a handgun, they were only interested if it was a shotgun.”

  “I’m asking for another reason.”

  As Fitzgerald explained what he wanted, Burt nodded knowingly. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him for the sheriff,” he said when Fitzgerald finished.

  “This is something more, Burt. Can you get the handgun from the trailer without Billie noticing?”

  “Yup.”

  “And make certain she stays inside?”

  “She doesn’t go around the campground much. Not after what happened to Charlie.”

  “Good. Now when you get to the campsite, hold back in the cover. Make totally certain he can’t see or hear you.”

  “Had him sized up all along as Charlie’s killer,” Burt said. “He tries anything, I’ll wing him.”

  “It’s just a precaution. I don’t expect a problem.”

  “Fellow who killed once can kill twice.”

  “That’s why you’re backing me up. But don’t overreact. If I’m right, he has no reason to kill me.”

  “You figuring out he killed Charlie, that’s a reason.”

  “I don’t think so.” Fitzgerald reached across the seat, touched Burt’s arm. “You don’t have to do this. We could get the sheriff out here.”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Burt grinned. “Beats hell out of bingo.”

  *  *  *

  “YOU DON’T KNOW me,” Fitzgerald announced. “Mercy Virdon and I live together. You’ve met Mercy. She came out here to see you.”

  Alec Proffit had risen from his camp chair, lowering a stenographer’s notebook to the ground beside him, when Fitzgerald stopped behind the Land Cruiser and came up the path into the campsite. He stood now across the fire pit, taller than Fitzgerald had imagined, well proportioned, better looking, hands sunk in the pockets of khaki trousers. The blue shirt he was wearing had a Royal Coachman stitched above the pocket. Only Orvis, the Berrys had called him.

  “I’m disturbing you?”

  Proffit smiled. “I was merely making notes.”

  “For a Will Woodsman article?”

  “No.” Proffit turned, motioned toward the campsite’s picnic table.

  “I won’t be staying,” Fitzgerald said.

  “You’re with the DNR as well? I confess I failed to live up to my agreem
ent with your colleague. I told her I’d go to the sheriff, speak with him again. Earlier I made a rather baseless charge against the organization.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh?”

  “I heard the recording with Mercy. I know what you said.”

  “Yet this isn’t about that?”

  “Mercy and I are together,” Fitzgerald repeated, “but I’m not with the DNR. I used to work for a newspaper, now I’m trying to become a writer. I fish and I write.” He paused, holding Proffit’s eyes. “The other thing you should know is that I was a friend of Charlie Orr. We fished together—and talked about books. We talked a lot about books.”

  “Ah,” Proffit said, releasing the sound in a long sigh. “You didn’t, I suppose, come here to discuss your writing.”

  “No.”

  “You came to discuss books. I was expecting that—that someone would. The sheriff perhaps. He seemed an intelligent man, possibly a reader.” Proffit again motioned to the picnic table. “Please. Humor me to this extent.”

  *  *  *

  FITZGERALD SAID, “THERE were three books in Charlie’s tent: Will Woodsman’s two collections and a book of Frank Forester’s called The Warwick Woodlands. The books were sent back to Charlie’s wife along with the rest of his belongings. She phoned Mercy, told her the books were library books. Two of them were from the local public library, the other was an interlibrary loan. The librarian told me this much.”

  “And you made the connection.”

  “Guessed it.”

  “Yes, a writer would. Very astute, nonetheless.”

  “Did Charlie really send you a letter?”

  “He did.”

  “But it wasn’t about poaching on the river.”

  “No. Not on the river.” Alec Proffit folded his hands on the scarred surface, looked agreeably across the table. “I’ve often thought it could be a plot for a novel: committing a crime, knowing you would be caught out, wondering who will make the discovery. In this instance, one might expect a fanatic bibliophile, someone spending his life in a library, devoted to unmasking errors. In truth, I suspected it would be someone less obvious, though I hardly guessed it would be someone spending his summers in a tent in northern Michigan. When Charlie Orr wrote to me, the plot was completed.”