“Weren’t they?”
“Louise says no.”
“I saw his car parked at her place many times. What does that tell you?”
Peg wanted me to call Louise a liar. Instead, I said, “It tells me that Montgomery’s car was parked near her place many times.”
“In a murder investigation, don’t the police check the GPS on the victim’s phone to determine everywhere he’s been?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then that will show that he parked on the street where Louise lived, won’t it?”
“It should, yes.”
“Then we’ll see, won’t we?”
“You’re pretty determined to prove that Louise was involved with Montgomery, aren’t you? Why?”
“Somebody killed him.”
“It wasn’t Louise. She was surrounded by a half-dozen documentary filmmakers when Montgomery was shot.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. McKenzie, since you’re not going to let me in—”
“No.”
“I should be going.”
“Okay.”
“It’s too bad. I wore my sexiest nightie. It’s lavender. Do you want to see?”
“Better not.”
“Then I’ll say good night.”
“Drive carefully.”
“Not me, McKenzie. My motto—drive fast, take chances.”
“You’re an interesting woman, Peg Younghans.”
“You have no idea.”
* * *
Ten forty-five on a Saturday night and I was alone in a Grand Marais motel room eating what was left of the salty caramel pretzels I bought from the Great! Lakes Candy Kitchen. I had the TV on and was watching halfheartedly while a Duluth sportscaster explained how the Gophers lost to Wisconsin instead of how the Badgers beat them.
I grabbed my smartphone and started surfing the net. I found a couple of websites that listed crime statistics for Cook County. Turned out, it was a great place to be sheriff—no homicides, armed robberies, aggravated assaults, arsons, human trafficking or prostitution beefs reported in the previous calendar year, plus only eight motor vehicle thefts, fifteen DUIs, twenty drug arrests, twenty DCs, and two rapes—and both rapes were cleared. But burglaries? The numbers were all over the place, yet with a little adding and subtracting I decided that the News-Herald was correct; the number of burglaries had doubled in the past four years from an average of about sixteen incidents to thirty-two while the clearance rate declined from thirteen percent, just above the national average, to less than eight.
Not exactly a crime wave, my inner voice said. The number of burglaries—that’s a slow weekend in Minneapolis.
Still, I wondered why there was an uptick and what the ratio was between tourists and residents. Plus, how many crimes were committed in the winter when people left their homes and cabins unattended while they escaped to warmer climes? The News-Herald didn’t say. Neither did anybody else.
Montgomery divorced his wife four years ago, my inner voice reminded me. Gillian Davis says he’s been sending his ex and his daughter money ever since. Is this where he got it?
I had finished the pretzels and started working on the assorted truffles when I logged off the internet and started scrolling through my phone contacts. I tapped the icon for Rickie’s because Nina nearly always left her cell in her office when she was working. A woman’s voice said, “Rickie’s, how may I help you?” I recognized the voice, Jenness Crawford, the weekend manager.
“Jenness,” I said. “This is McKenzie. Is the boss free?”
A minute later, Nina said, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“You’re actually calling me when you said you would. When was the last time that happened?”
“C’mon, I’m not as bad as all that.”
There was music in the background.
“Who’s in the big room tonight?” I asked.
“Patty Peterson and the Jazz Women All-Stars.”
“I love those guys.”
“You love everybody who plays jazz.”
“Mary Louise Knutson on piano showing Bill Evans’s ghost how it’s done. What’s not to love?”
“Let me put you on hold for a sec. I want to go to my office.”
When Nina picked up the phone again, I could hear nothing but her voice and that was fine. She asked me about my day and I told her. When I finished, I said, “What do you think?”
“I am so glad that I didn’t go to Grand Marais with you.”
“That boring, huh?”
“I like the girl with the camera, though.”
“Jennica is great. She reminds me a little of Erica without the tats. How is Erica, anyway?”
“Fine as far as I know. She’s like you. She never calls when she’s supposed to. Tell me more about the woman who showed up at your door wearing nothing but a lavender nightie.”
“Peg was wearing a trench coat. I took her word about the nightie.”
“Reminds me of my mother.”
That caused me to sit up in bed. In all the years I’d known her, the only thing Nina had told me about her mother was that she didn’t want to talk about her mother.
“She was the Whore of Babylon, too,” Nina said. “I couldn’t count the number of times she left the house late at night when I was a kid in school. ‘Don’t wait up,’ she’d say. One time she was gone for three days. When she came back she said, ‘Miss me?’ like she had gone off to the corner store for a gallon of milk. You know what’s truly sad, McKenzie? I didn’t miss her. Not at all. I knew how to take care of myself; she had made sure of that. Good for Mom. As for the rest—I sometimes wonder if that’s the reason I married so young, if I was looking for the attention and affection that I didn’t get at home. We both know how that worked out, too, don’t we? Okay. Call me tomorrow. Let me know when you’re coming home.”
“I will.”
“And don’t brood.”
“Brood?”
“Right now you’re wondering about all the things I never told you about myself. Really, McKenzie there aren’t that many and they’re not that interesting. Besides, it’s not like you don’t keep secrets from me.”
“Never. Well, almost never.”
“Good night, McKenzie. I’ll tell Mary Louise you said hi.”
NINE
I had my second cup of morning coffee in the same resort chair positioned in the center of the horseshoe as the day before.
In Minnesota during that brief passage of time when summer gives way to fall, there are days of pure grace with the sun, clouds, wind, and temperature reaching a golden balance. On days like that you don’t want to do much of anything except sit back and enjoy, yet instead I was studying the traffic on Highway 61 as it passed between the Frontier Motel and the great lake beyond. I did not see the same vehicle more than once, nor was anyone parked along the shoulder in either direction that I could glimpse from my perch. I was a little disappointed. I was sure that Jennica Mehren would be watching and waiting for me to make a move.
Finally, I did. After returning the now empty coffee cup to the room, I climbed into my Mustang. Less than a minute later I was on Highway 61, only I was driving northeast toward Canada and not southwest toward Grand Marais.
Seven miles from the border I found Grand Portage, an unorganized territory, whatever that meant. It contained not only the community of Grand Portage, but also the Grand Portage Indian Reservation, called Gichi-onigamiing in the Ojibwa language. The Grand Portage Lodge and Casino was located on the reservation near the lake. Next to it, and also operated by the Ojibwa, was the Grand Portage Trading Post where you could buy everything from groceries and gas to fishing rods and grass seed. Between them was the Grand Portage Art Gallery.
I parked near the front entrance of the gallery. The trading post was open from six A.M. to eleven P.M. on the weekends and, of course, the casino never closed. I doubt its front door even had locks. The art gallery, however, opened at te
n A.M. and if you couldn’t find anything you liked by five thirty, you were out of luck.
I had arrived nearly a half hour early and decided to take a walk and enjoy the day. Soon I found myself on Casino Road where it met Marina Road that led to the Grand Portage Marina, which was also owned by the Ojibwa. I was wondering how much the tribal members each earned from all of this entrepreneurship when I noticed the distinctive black-and-white Cook County Sheriff’s SUV parked on the shoulder about a hundred yards down the road. It was behind a tan-colored two-door. It could have been a Toyota; it could have been a Honda. It was hard to tell from that distance. My first thought, Traffic stop.
Deputy Wurzer got out of the black-and-white and moved toward the two-door. He did it sloppily, approaching on the driver’s side instead of the passenger side, swinging his arms like he was marching in a parade, walking away from the vehicle instead of hugging the body so he could watch the driver through the side view mirror.
“Don’t you get it?” I heard myself saying aloud. “Traffic stops are among the most dangerous things you can do. Read the damn statistics.”
Only it became apparent that Wurzer knew exactly what he was doing and to whom. He yanked open the driver’s side door and pulled at the driver. The driver was taller than Wurzer with a full body and long black hair. He came out of the vehicle and shoved the deputy. Wurzer shoved back. The Ojibwa—I assumed he was Ojibwa—looked like he was going to take it up a notch when Wurzer stepped back and rested his hand on his service weapon. The Ojibwa gave him the finger. Wurzer waved his own finger at the Ojibwa, but did not take his other hand from the butt of his gun. The Ojibwa threw his hands in the air in exasperation, but not surrender. More words were exchanged. The situation de-escalated. Wurzer removed his hand from his weapon. The Ojibwa folded his arms across this chest.
Maybe they’re discussing the weather, my inner voice said.
Eventually, the Ojibwa made a yeah-I-get-it gesture with his hands. Wurzer spread his own hands wide. The Ojibwa gestured some more, turned, and slid back into his vehicle, shutting the door behind him. Wurzer leaned on the door, hanging his ass out into the traffic, if there had been traffic. More words were exchanged through the open window. Finally, the deputy pushed himself upward and stepped away from the two-door. The Ojibwa drove off. Wurzer watched him go. When the two-door was far down the road, the deputy turned and walked back to his own vehicle. He looked up when he reached the bumper and saw me.
And froze.
I was too far away to read his expression, yet I was fluent enough in body language to know that he was not pleased that I had witnessed the traffic stop. He climbed into the SUV. I turned and walked back toward my own car. I walked quickly. Still, if Deputy Wurzer had wanted to overtake me, he could have. He didn’t.
* * *
It was five minutes to ten when I returned to the art gallery. I tried the door anyway and was surprised when it opened. It was pleasantly warm inside, yet not nearly as pleasant or warm as the voice of the woman behind the counter.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said.
“Take your time.”
I spent the next few minutes drifting through the gallery until I stopped at a glass case which contained a lot of beadwork. The artist was identified as Marcie McIntire. Above the case were several prints of landscape paintings by a man called George Morrison, whose Ojibwa name was Wah Wah Teh Go Nay Ga Bo, which meant Standing in the Northern Lights. The woman stepped next to me.
“George was from here,” she said. “He was born on the rez in 1919.”
The woman was tall with lustrous straight black hair and eyes that reminded me of Belgian chocolate.
“He graduated from Grand Marais High School in 1938 and the Minnesota School of Art, what is now the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, in ’43. He won the Van Derlip Traveling Scholarship, studied at the Art Students League in New York and, after receiving a Fulbright scholarship, studied in Paris and at the University of Aix-Marseilles. He was awarded a John Hay Whitney Fellowship in 1953.”
“I have no idea what any of that means. The way you say it, though, makes me think Mr. Morrison was quite an artist.”
The woman thought that was funny. She offered her hand.
“Ardina Curtis,” she said.
I shook her hand.
“What does that mean in Ojibwa?” I asked.
“Ardina Curtis. Actually, Ardina is from the Latin. It means ardent, eager.”
“McKenzie,” I said.
“What can I help you with?”
I gestured at the beadwork.
“Is Ms. McIntire also from the reservation?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
I expected more, but didn’t get it.
“I take it you’re not as impressed with her,” I said.
“Is beadwork a true art form or simply a craft or folk art?”
“I’m the last person you should ask that question. I suppose like most things it’s in the eye of the beholder. I, for example, insist that a chili cheese dog with chopped onions is real food.”
“There’s no accounting for taste.”
“Exactly my point.”
“What can I show you, Mr. McKenzie?”
“McKenzie is fine. Do you have any Louise Wykoff?”
“Now there’s an artist. Right this way.”
We didn’t travel far, only to the other side of the gallery. Ardina had three of Louise’s paintings hanging on the wall, all of them featuring Ojibwa models.
“Louise is originally from Duluth, if I’m not mistaken,” she said. “She’s lived in Grand Marais for decades though, so we claim her as one of our own. I like her very much. She has a quality about her that I find fascinating. Not aloof so much as…”
“Distant?”
“No, more like—detached. Like she’s not connected to the world the way the rest of us are. She floats above it. Yet her paintings are very grounded. In many ways, her work is reminiscent of Eastman Johnson.”
“That’s the second time I’ve heard his name. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about him.”
Ardina looked at me as if she was concerned about the quality of the schools I attended.
“Among other things, Johnson was one of the cofounders of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York,” she said. “In his day he was known as the American Rembrandt.”
“So he was a big deal?”
“Oh, my God.”
“How is he like Louise Wykoff? Or vice versa?”
“In the mid-1850s, Johnson spent time in Superior, Wisconsin, what is now on the other side of the bridge from Duluth. I guess he had people living there. While he was in Superior, he spent a lot of time with a man named Stephen Bonga who was married to an Ojibwa woman and had an Ojibwa family. Through Bonga, Johnson was able to convince a great many Ojibwa to sit for him and he painted them as he saw them. As people. There were no war bonnets, no loincloths, no half-naked maidens; none of the noble savage stereotypes that existed at the time and for God knows how long afterward. Maybe that’s why he didn’t sell the paintings during his lifetime, because they ran counter to the prevailing attitude people had of Native Americans. They’re now owned by the St. Louis County Historical Society and are on display in Duluth. Louise has been doing much the same kind of work for the past few years, often creating these very intimate portraits of everyday Ojibwa living their lives.
“She’s really come into her own as a painter. Every artist has an individual style, a technique; a way of putting themselves on canvas. It isn’t necessarily something they think about as much as it’s something they develop over time. It took years for Louise to reach that point. Before it was all Randolph McInnis. Do you know McInnis?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must know about Louise’s relationship with him and the Scenes from an Inland Sea.”
“I do.”
“Her early work resembled his later work, the work he displayed in the Scenes. Style—t
echnique—is what distinguishes you from other artists, and what keeps your work looking professional, cohesive, and focused. The greatest artists throughout history had styles that were incredibly distinctive and unique. Take someone like Van Gogh as an obvious example. If you’ve seen one Van Gogh painting, you can spot another from a mile away. If you looked at Wykoff’s earlier work, though, all you saw was McInnis. Over time, Louise was able to break away from that and find her own voice. ’Course, once you find a style that works for you, that doesn’t mean you stop. The creative process doesn’t end. At least it shouldn’t.”
“What about Louise? Do you think she’s a one-trick pony?”
“No. Well, we’ll see. Historically, the most compelling artists have been the ones who are constantly reinventing and transforming themselves. Monet. Degas. Diebenkorn. I’m anxious to see what she does next. Am I boring you?”
“Not at all.”
“I’ve been told I have a tendency to lecture people, especially when it comes to art.”
“Lecture away.”
“I think I’ve gotten it out of my system for a while. Did you want to buy a painting?”
“I’m afraid this is where I confess that I’m here under false pretenses.”
“Oh?”
“I know Louise personally,” I said. “She asked me to help find some paintings that have gone missing from her studio.”
“She was robbed? That’s crazy.”
“It gets worse.”
“How?”
“I’m told you were involved with David Montgomery.”
I couldn’t have hurt her more if I had slapped her. Ardina abruptly turned away, showing her back to me and hiding her face. Her shoulders heaved and I thought I heard a whimper.
“Ms. Curtis?”
She held a hand up, asking for silence. I gave it to her. She reminded me of an athlete who took a hard hit yet didn’t want you to know how much he felt it.
“David was my friend,” she said, her back still to me.
“More than a friend?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She held her hand up again.
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