by Gail Lukasik
“Fine,” she huffed. “But one of these days, you have to stop rescuing all these strays who seem to gravitate to you.” She’d done a psychic reading on me a few weeks ago, in which my guides showed up and said I needed to shift my direction in life. Too bad none of them mentioned Tom turning up with divorce papers and shifting my direction without me even trying.
She stomped away down the slate path to the parking lot. Her stilettos made sharp pings of protest on the stone.
For a moment, I stood there, letting the intoxicating scent of the flowers fill my senses. Their fragrance was as illusive as the moon slipping in and out of cloud banks, as if it too couldn’t make up its mind. Maybe I should attend the after-party and let Ken fend for himself.
I opened my phone. “This is Leigh Girard from the Gazette. I understand you’ve arrested Kenneth Albright.”
After filling out some paperwork, Deputy Chief Chet Jorgensen gestured me into one of the interview rooms—a windowless, gun-metal gray room as cold and stark as a fallout shelter.
“What’s up?” I asked Chet as he pulled out a chair for me before sitting down. Chet was a throwback to a time when men held seats out for women. Luckily, his chivalrous nature didn’t indicate a belief that women were helpless.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked, crossing his large arms on the table.
A massively built Nordic type, Chet took in a deep breath, which seemed to suck up most of the air in the room. He and I had our differences in the past, but deep down we liked and respected each other.
His question was one I’d asked myself on the drive to Sturgeon Bay. Was I letting my sympathy for those two men wipe out my common sense? Was I falling for my own story about them, not wanting it to be proven false?
“Look,” I began, placing my hands flat on the shiny steel table. “Ken feels guilty about leaving Brownie and not being there when he died. Yeah, he’s had a setback. But he only needs someone to show a little faith in him.”
Chet straightened. “Maybe he should feel guilty. Guys like him never change. I’ve seen it time and again. Eventually they go back to their scumbag ways. You want to mess with that?”
“Is there something you’re not telling me about Ken? And why are you treating Brownie’s death as a crime?”
“Best stay outta this one.” Chet stood up and went for the door.
“Why’d you arrest him?” I asked, still not satisfied with Chet’s answers.
“Never arrested him. He and the other drunk got into a fight. Bar owner didn’t press charges, just wanted them gone. We only hauled them in to sober ’em up. He just needs a ride back to his . . .” Chet hesitated. “Shack.”
I stood up and said, “Okay, I’ll take him home.” I stressed the word home.
Chet opened the door. “You wait out in the lobby. I’ll get him.” He started to walk away and then turned back. “Just be careful, okay? Guys like Albright always have one agenda, and that’s getting wasted.”
“Where’d you get the money to drink?” I asked Ken as we neared Sister Bay. He’d been slumped against the truck’s door for most of the trip, only stirring now.
He reeked of booze. I didn’t need to ask him what his drink of choice was. I could smell it: beer. The yeasty smell was making me feel sick.
“My paycheck from the Orchard,” he snapped at me. I was expecting a contrite Ken, but he didn’t do contrite. He was angry and belligerent.
“Why?” I asked as I turned east and headed down Route ZZ.
“That guy had it comin’. Callin’ me a cheat. I almost hit him with the pool cue. Slugged him instead.”
“You want to end up dead like Brownie?” I wanted to get through to him.
He punched his fist so hard against my dashboard, I jumped.
“Shut up. Just shut up about Brownie.”
I slammed on the brakes and pulled off onto the shoulder.
“Whatta you doin’?” he asked.
“Get outta my truck,” I said in a low voice.
“What?” It was as if I’d thrown cold water in his face.
“You heard me. Out!”
He looked around as if he’d suddenly realized where he was. I saw his hand reach for the door handle, then stop. On the dark road surrounded by open fields, I heard the wind whispering, an owl hoot, and then Ken’s ugly sobs. I kept my eyes straight ahead, not looking at him, waiting for him to stop. Finally, he swiped his arm across his eyes and said, “I’m not gonna make it.”
“You need to get some help. The YMCA has a twelve-step program.”
“No, you don’t get it. Them cops busted my alibi.”
Now I turned and looked at him. His shoulders were slumped forward; he seemed to have lost some part of himself. “Weren’t you at your sister’s in Green Bay?”
He chewed on his lower lip and shook his head. “Me and Brownie got into it Thursday. I took off, looking to score. Hitchhiked to Green Bay an’ caught up with some of my old buddies and got high. Never made it to my sister’s. When I got back Saturday, I found Brownie dead. So it’s my fault. I should have never left him.”
“What did you fight about?” Now his self-destructive behavior was making sense.
“He didn’t want to stay on there anymore. He wanted to pack it in. He wouldn’t tell me why. And I just lost it. Told him he was weak and stupid, that kind of stuff. Then I took off.”
“It’s not your fault.” Even as I said it, I felt the doubt in my own words.
“It is my fault. Because of me, he started drinking again and it killed him. I might as well have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” He opened the door and stumbled out. “I need to walk. Thanks for getting me out of jail.”
I watched him disappear into the night, wondering if some things really couldn’t be fixed and if Ken’s life was one of those things.
CHAPTER TEN: WEDNESDAY, JULY 12
“I’m almost going to miss the old theater,” Rich said as he directed me along the slate walkway toward the tiered gardens.
I stifled a yawn. Last night I’d tossed and turned, wondering if Ken had made it home. Finally, I gave in to my insomnia, got up and read The Importance of Being Earnest, the BT’s next production after MOV. I’d gotten maybe three hours of sleep and a few good laughs.
“It just won’t be the same. No more bats, no more sharing washrooms with the audience. Though you have to admit, the bats do add a bit of fun,” he winked at me. “Can’t imagine what’s going to happen to them when they tear down the old theater. All them bats will have to find another home. Must be five hundred of them living around the theater.”
Rich was wearing a black t-shirt that read “Celebrate Diversity,” with at least twenty-five different handguns depicted in white. The blue bandana that covered his balding head and his dark mustache made him look like a pirate. He seemed to be moving even slower than usual, probably because of the unrelenting heat. The humidity and high temps made me feel like I was running a low-grade fever. I’d even taken my temp this morning, thinking I might be sick.
“You seem pretty sure that there’ll be a new theater.” I didn’t want to think about five hundred bats nesting somewhere nearby.
“Oh, it’s going to happen. Not only did last night’s opening break box office records for a single performance, but Nate Ryan pledged a half million dollars. Right before the performance he told the cast and crew. It’ll happen.”
Ryan pledged a half million dollars? Why hadn’t he told me about the donation when I’d interviewed him? It would have been great PR for him, putting him in a very favorable light. Could he have developed a conscience in rehab? Atoning for all the hell he put Nina through? Or was it his very generous attempt to remake his image? My mind was spinning with questions.
“How was the after-party?” I’d left Lydia two voice messages this morning asking about the party. She still hadn’t returned my calls. Which wasn’t like her. Unless her plan to corral Nate into her lair hadn’t worked and she didn’t want
to talk about her failed seduction plan.
“Oh, that,” he laughed. “I didn’t go. I’ve been to so many of those through the years. They’re pretty much all the same. Lots of drinking and people doing and saying things they regret in the morning, if they remember. Rather stay home with Dixie. Well, here it is. Hope you’re gonna take some pictures.”
We’d stopped on the middle tier of the limestone steps. On either side were banks of flowers so vibrant in color, they looked unreal.
“Sure thing,” I answered. Though it was unlikely I’d use the photos, I didn’t want to dampen Rich’s enthusiasm. He was visibly proud of the gardens. Later if he asked about the photos, I’d blame Jake for their not being published. That’s what editors were for.
“Over there where it’s shady, I planted mostly ground cover. Then you can see where there’s full sun, I put in daylilies, sunflowers, purple coneflowers. There’s even a Shakespearean garden. Over there by the bench.”
I looked to where he was pointing. Sure enough, I recognized roses, columbine, pansies, rosemary and violets. A rose by any other name, I mused lamely.
“Don’t ask me which flowers are from which play. You’ll have to talk to Nina about that. The garden was her idea. Something new we put in this year.”
I couldn’t remember if there were any flower references in MOV. “So the garden is new this year?” I coaxed.
“Yeah, and the moon garden too.”
“Where’s that?” I’d never heard of a moon garden.
He chuckled. “You walked right past it, all along the edges of the path.”
I didn’t see anything but snarls of green. “I’m guessing the flowers only bloom at night?”
“Right. Evening primrose, moonflower, night phlox, jasmine. Once they open, they have a real strong scent meant to attract moths.”
So that was the illusive fragrance I smelled last night. “Your idea?”
“Nah. Nina again. She’s really into the flowers, says they add ambiance. Of course, I’m the one who has to do all the work.”
“So how much time do you spend a week tending the gardens?”
We started back down the steps toward the theater. He offered me his hand, which I politely waved off. “Depends, but I’d say anywhere from twenty to twenty-five hours a week. But that’s after everything’s in. Because of the Shakespeare garden, I had to hire some guys to help out with the plantings and such.”
He wasn’t an actor, and I probably wouldn’t use most of what he told me, but I asked anyway. “Tell me one surprising thing about yourself.”
He scratched his neck and tightened his mouth. “I have an engineering degree from Purdue University.”
I looked down at my notes to cover my shock. “What happened?”
“That’s why I never tell anyone. They always ask that question. Nothing happened. It wasn’t for me.”
I didn’t believe him, and I wanted to challenge his answer. But Rich was a minor character in this piece that I still had to write. “Well, thanks for the tour.” I started to walk away.
“Thought you were going to take pictures.” He sounded hurt.
“Right.” I took my digital camera from my bag and snapped a few photos, not really aiming at anything in particular.
“I’ll be looking for those photos. And here’s my cell number in case you have more questions for me.”
He handed me a piece of paper with his name and number written on it. “By the way, just so you know, I told Barbara I’d been messing around the cabin. Bob’s in the clear.”
“Thanks.” I shoved the paper in my pocket. “Any guesses who unboarded the windows and put those things in the kitchen?”
He shook his head no. “Don’t worry about it. Soon as I get a minute, I’m going to board everything up again, and this time it’ll be permanent.”
He held out his hand for me to shake. “Been a pleasure, Leigh.” He put his other hand on top of mine and held my hand just a second too long before he let go. Then he listlessly ambled down the stone steps. His hand had felt rough and feverish.
As I watched Rich walk away, a line from Julius Caesar came to mind, something about a character having a lean and hungry look. There was something rapacious about Rich that went counter to his laidback lifestyle as the BT’s groundskeeper and bartender.
On my way to the parking lot, I took a detour to Ryan’s condo, wanting more information about his generous gift to the BT.
I hustled up the steps to the second floor and knocked on his door, noticing that the pitchfork was gone. No answer. I knocked again. It was nearly eleven o’clock; he had to be up by now. If he’d slept in his own bed.
Was this a good idea? I asked myself as I knocked a third time. What if he is sleeping and I wake him? So what? I wanted to know why he’d neglected to tell me he was donating half a million dollars to the BT.
Silence. I put my ear to the door and heard the hum of the refrigerator.
Just then my cell phone trilled, startling me. It was Lydia, finally.
“Where have you been, or should I say who have you been with?” I teased.
“Leigh, you’ve got to come now. He’s dead. The police are here. But I need you.”
“Who’s dead?”
“Nate Ryan. He’s dead. I tried to resuscitate him.” She sobbed. “But it was too late.”
“Where are you?”
“The studio. Come to my studio. I don’t know what happened.”
“Okay, sit tight. I’ll be there in a few. I’m leaving the BT now.”
I ran to my truck, jumped in and spat up gravel as I sped out of the parking lot, my mind whirling. Nate Ryan was dead. Lydia had tried to save him. But her effort had been too late.
An ambulance and two police cars were parked in the lot behind Founder’s Square in Fish Creek. Gawking tourists milled around near the back entrance of Lydia’s studio. Before exiting my truck, I considered how I was going to get past the ever-diligent Deputy Ferry, who was guarding the door, directing tourists to move on.
From my other encounters with Ferry, I decided that charm wouldn’t work. Like most of the Door County police force, he considered me a nuisance. So charm would be like bullets to Superman. My only other option was the professional approach. Failing that, I’d plead friendship. My friend was in trouble and had asked for my help. You have to let me in.
Notepad in hand, pen tucked in my shirtfront, I slammed the truck door and headed for the studio. When I reached Ferry, I said hello and moved to go inside.
But he blocked my entrance with his body. “You can’t go in, Leigh, press or no press.” Ferry was a short man with dark hair and a sharp nose, who had a habit of putting his thumbs in his belt loops and bouncing on his heels when he asserted his authority, like a boxer about to deliver a punch.
“Lydia called me and asked me to come,” I pleaded. “Could you at least tell her I’m here?”
He looked around the parking lot and said, “Move along,” to a group of teens. “Nothing to see here,” then turned his attention back to me. “You know I can’t let you in there.”
“But Lydia needs me.” I tucked my notepad in my pocket.
“That so? I’ll tell you what. Soon as Chet is done interviewing her, I’ll let him know you’re here. Then we’ll see how that goes. Now I’m going to watch as you walk back to that truck of yours.” He gestured at my truck.
I let out an exasperated sigh. Because of my interference in a murder investigation last year, I’d been responsible for Chet being suspended. Ferry wasn’t going to let me anywhere near Lydia.
Cell phone at the ready, I sat down under a honey locust tree adjacent to the ambulance and texted Lydia, “I’m here.” Ferry wasn’t going to tell me where I could or couldn’t sit. I stared right at him as I finished my text, daring him to make me move. He bounced a few more times on his heels then looked away.
In about fifteen minutes, Chet emerged from the studio, glanced my way, and then motioned to me. When I reached hi
m, his finger was already pointed at my face. “Here’s how it’s going to work. You’re here as Lydia’s friend. That’s it. No quotes for that paper there.” As his finger jabbed at me, I studied the jagged, bitten edge of his fingernail, rather than the red glare of his face. “She’s in bad shape. That’s the only reason I’m letting you anywhere near her. Got it?”
“Okay,” I answered. “You don’t have to go all commando on me.”
“Don’t I?” He leaned in so close to me, I wanted to take a step back, but I didn’t. He wasn’t going to intimidate me. For about a minute we faced each other down. Then he turned and walked into the studio and I followed.
The studio’s burnt-incense smell was in stark contrast to the blare of the overhead lights. I only caught a glimpse of Nate Ryan’s body, splayed on his back, as if he’d lain down to take a nap from which he fully expected to wake from. On the floor scattered around him were an assortment of items: crumpled eye pillow, jacket, overturned metal water bottle and a yoga bag lying on its side.
Beside the mat was what looked like vomit. I took in a deep breath. Yep, it was vomit. Kneeling over the body was Sonny Chambers, the undertaker at the Chambers Funeral Home. Before I could get a better look, Chet grabbed me by my upper arm and steered me toward Lydia’s office to the right of the door and off the main studio.
“Leigh,” Lydia cried as I walked into the room. She sat on a futon hugging her knees to her chest, shivering. “It all happened so fast. There was nothing I could do.”
I’d never heard Lydia sound so helpless and vulnerable. Chet stood in the room against the wall, his arms folded across his chest.
“It’s okay,” I said. “We know you did everything you could.” I turned toward Chet. “Right, Chet?”
He didn’t answer, just stood there like he was guarding Hannibal Lector.
“What was Ryan doing here?” I whispered as I sat down next to her and put my arms around her.
“Like I told Chet.” Lydia seemed oblivious to Chet’s presence. “We hit it off last night at the party. I gave him my card, and he asked if he could come by this morning for a massage and a yoga class. So we arranged for him to come around eight a.m., before the shops opened. He wanted to avoid the tourists.” She took in a deep, shuddering breath.