Peak Season for Murder

by Gail Lukasik

  “Looks like I’m divorced.” I studied the window behind him, the blue blend of bay and sky that seemed endless and without purpose.

  He sat up straighter. “And when did this happen?”

  I shrugged. “A few days ago.”

  “And you’re telling me now?”

  “If it’s any consolation, you’re the first to know.” Okay, it was out and I didn’t feel any better about verbalizing it. In fact, I felt worse, as if someone had punched me in the gut. Jake’s stony expression only added to my misery.

  We sat there for a moment, neither of us saying a word. What was I expecting? That he’d jump up, take me in his arms and tell me he loved me? Yeah, I was expecting that, and if he did, what would I do? I hadn’t a clue.

  Finally, I stood up, dislodging a few pieces of paper that were stuck to my derriere. “I gotta email the Ryan article to Webber, so if there’s nothing else.”

  “No way. I told Barbara Henry that’s not how this newspaper rolls.” His eyes went to his computer screen. “When you’re done with the piece, shoot it over to me. I’m the only one who makes changes around here. Got it?” He looked up for a moment, not waiting for my answer before he began typing.

  “Uh-huh,” I responded.

  “I’m not even going to ask what you did now,” Marge teased as she opened her middle desk drawer and pulled out the dog tags.

  “So what’s so interesting?” I said halfheartedly, my mind still on Jake’s unemotional reaction to my divorce.

  She rifled through a stack of papers and then eased one out from the middle. “Read this.” She handed me an official-looking document with the seal of the U.S. Army on the top.

  I started reading through the document and stopped at the address of the next of kin—Elsie and Lawrence Browning, Senior, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. “So Brownie’s family isn’t from around here,” I said. “I wonder if they’re still alive?”

  “Did you read this part?” With her pen, she tapped the section that gave Brownie’s physical stats: 6' 2" and 185 pounds.

  “This can’t be Brownie,” I said. “He was around five-nine at most. What was he doing with these dog tags?”

  “Did you read this part?” Again she hit the paper with her pen.

  “MIA June eighteenth, nineteen seventy.” I digested the information. “He took this guy’s identity, switching the name around.”

  “Looks that way,” Marge answered, nodding her head.

  “I wonder if Ken Albright knew.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find out.” Marge bent down, grabbed her purse and pushed back on her chair. “Have to run. The Busy Bees are coming to my house tonight. And I’m making my famous blue margaritas. The quilt patterns are always so much more creative after a few drinks.”

  After Marge left, I powered up her computer and did a quick search for Elsie and Lawrence Browning, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Lawrence Senior was deceased, but Elsie still lived at the same address in Milwaukee. I jotted down the phone number.

  Just as I shut down the computer, Jake appeared at my desk.

  “Listen,” he began, looking uncomfortable, a state he seldom was in. Cool and collected was the image he liked to portray.

  “What’s going on?” I said. “Change your mind about the article?” I didn’t think that was the case. But something was up. He was swaying from one foot to the other, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “Why?” I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but I decided not to make it easy for him.

  “I got this gift certificate to the Camelot Inn, and I thought I’d better use it.”

  Wow, that was romantic. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  “Do you want it to be a date?” Now he looked annoyed.

  “Yeah, I do.” I didn’t know if I wanted it to be a date. I’d only been divorced for a few days. But being cut loose unceremoniously made me want to start fresh, take back some control.

  “You messing with me, Leigh?”

  I pushed back on my chair, stood up and stepped into his personal space. “Would I do that?”

  We were so close, I saw a few errant hairs he’d missed shaving. What was he seeing? The dark shadows under my eyes like bruises, the fine lines around my mouth, where insecurity and sleeplessness took root?

  He didn’t step back. Instead, he said, “I’ll pick you up around seven.”

  He turned and started toward his office, then turned back. “Gills Rock or the mobile home?”

  “Gills Rock,” I answered, trying not to see the disappointment in his eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On my way home, I stopped by the real estate office in Egg Harbor to sign the rental agreement and pick up the keys to my “new” home. This would be my third move in two years. Though I didn’t own much—books, a few art photographs, my clothes—the thought of uprooting Salinger and myself made me anxious. My plan was to start moving my stuff a truckload at a time, which probably wouldn’t take very long—three to four trips at the most. My nomadic life was starting to feel old. Once the money from the divorce came through, I’d look for a more permanent home.

  Avers Realty shared quarters with a coffee shop/bookstore and had an expansive view of Green Bay from the upstairs shops. Diane Avers owned both. She was a no-nonsense businesswoman who had the palest blue eyes I’d ever seen and a disconcerting habit of staring at you a little too long, as if she couldn’t quite get you in focus.

  When I walked in, she was putting folders into a leather briefcase. “I wondered when you were coming by.” She sat back down, pulled a folder from the stack on her desk, took out the rental agreement and pushed it and a pen toward me.

  Quickly I scanned the document, signed it and handed her the check for the first month’s rent and the security deposit.

  “He’s looking to sell, you know.” She lifted her outsized black-rimmed eyeglasses off her short nose as if they were too heavy. “You should think about it. With some TLC, that place could make you some money down the line.”

  I was about to say that I was in no position to buy a house when I reminded myself that I soon would be. “Let me see if I even like the place first.” My hesitation had more to do with Joe Stillwater’s close proximity than the house itself.

  “I know Roy will consider any reasonable offer,” she nudged me, ignoring my comment.

  Okay, she’d piqued my interest. “What’s he asking? And what’s a reasonable offer?” When it came to business, I was hapless, mainly because I had no interest in it.

  Diane handed me the listing sheet. “The place’s been on the market for over two years. So he’d probably take eighty-five percent of the asking price.” Those pale eyes were boring a hole into me.

  “That’s doable,” I said, not sure if it was. Tom was buying out my share of the house in Illinois. But again, I had no idea what the Illinois house was worth. Was that in the divorce papers? I’d have to read them. I’d thrown them in my dresser drawer under my old sweaters.

  “Then there’s the land. That house sits on over ten acres, mostly forest.” She was sensing blood in the water.

  “I’ll think about it. You going to Marge’s tonight?” I asked, desperate to change the topic. Diane had started the quilter’s group, cleverly named the Busy Bees, and several of her quilts were displayed around the upstairs bookstore. The quilts were in sharp contrast to the hardheaded businesswoman she presented—lush, vividly colored nature scenes.

  “Have to. Margaritas and quilting.” She tsked and shook her head disapprovingly. “Do I have to say more? Someone has to steer the ship.”

  After leaving Egg Harbor, I drove by the BT hoping to catch Harper. Either she wasn’t answering her door, or she wasn’t there. Her phone rang to voice mail and I didn’t leave a message.

  It was almost ten o’clock by the time I’d moved my stuff into the cabin, which I’d discovered came with a field mouse living inside the dishwasher and more spiders
than in a horror film. Except for needing a cleaning, the rest of the cabin seemed fine—a living room with a wood-burning fireplace, those massive built-in bookcases, kitchen, two bedrooms, one and a half baths, kitchen, window boxes. I opened all the windows to get the musty smell out and decided I’d start on the bathrooms tomorrow.

  Salinger had worked herself into a frenzy, trying to herd the mouse around the kitchen. Finally, I’d opened the kitchen door and with a broom scooted the mouse outside, Salinger close behind—all my pleas to come back going unheeded. She’d return when she was good and ready.

  Sitting on the kitchen step, I stared out into the dark, humid night. A sickle moon hung low over a stand of evergreens; a few stars punctured the sky like errant thoughts. I’d eaten half a sandwich earlier that I’d picked up at the market in Egg Harbor and was nursing my second glass of wine, a dry California chardonnay that fit my budget. My cell phone sat beside me like an accusation. I should call Lydia. By now she was probably back at her apartment above the studio. But that phone call would lead to her nagging me about not seeing the doctor as I’d promised. So nix to that. Then there was Joe. Shouldn’t I at least thank him for directing me to this house? Let him know I was moved in? That would lead to his wanting to stop by. Not tonight.

  Was it too late to call Elsie Browning? I picked up the cell phone. It was 9:50 p.m. I took the phone number from my pocket and punched in the numbers. The phone rang and rang and just as I was about to hang up, a woman answered in a thin, shaky voice.

  “Is this Elsie Browning?” I asked.

  “Yes, and who is this?”

  “Sorry to call so late,” I began. “I’m Leigh Girard, and I’m a reporter with the Door County Gazette.”

  “Where did you say? Door County?”

  Salinger took that moment to come bounding out of the woods, running toward me, barking frenetically.

  “Is that a dog barking? I thought you said you were with a newspaper?”

  “Salinger, hush.” I pulled her close to me to quiet her.

  “I’m not going to buy anything, if that’s why you’re calling.”

  “No, I’m not selling anything. In fact, I have something I think you might want.” Okay, why was I sounding like a con artist?

  “I can’t imagine what that would be.” Her voice hardened, all the shakiness gone. “So I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Wait, Mrs. Browning. I have your son, Lawrence’s, dog tags.”

  “Who did you say you were?”

  “Leigh Girard with the Door County Gazette. A man who was using your son’s name had the dog tags. I was wondering if I could return them to you and maybe ask you a few questions about your son.”

  “My son went missing in action in Vietnam. We never knew what happened to him. How could you have his dog tags?” Now she was angry as well as suspicious. Good job, Leigh. Scare the elderly woman.

  “If you’re not too busy, I could return them tomorrow.”

  There was a long silence, then a deep intake of breath. “You know, I’m pretty sharp for an eighty-eight-year-old woman. So don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes, young lady. If you really do have my son’s dog tags, I can meet you after mass tomorrow morning. St. Francis of Assisi Church, west side of Milwaukee, ten o’clock inside the vestibule.”

  “Can we meet later? I’m driving from Door County.”

  “Then you’d better get to bed, because you’ll be getting up early.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: FRIDAY, JULY 14

  Rain had been falling steadily since Port Washington, where I’d picked up a fast-food breakfast sandwich and a supersize coffee, letting Salinger take a run in the field behind the restaurant before getting back on Highway 43. From all the physicality of the move, I’d slept like a teenager last night and been on the road by six o’clock. Well rested and well fed, I was ready to deal with Elsie Browning and this emotionally difficult situation. After all these years, to have a complete stranger contact her and say she had her MIA son’s dog tags was beyond shocking. It was more like unbelievable. No wonder she was so leery.

  Taking the Brown Deer exit north of the city, I spotted the golden dome of St. Francis of Assisi shimmering in the rainy morning. The church bells rang out as I pulled up across the street from the church. Leaving the windows sufficiently open, I gave Salinger a reassuring pat on the head and the remains of my breakfast sandwich as a treat.

  “I’ll be right back,” I told her, exiting the truck and stepping out into the street.

  Suddenly, a black sports car whisked by, sending up a wave of water that splattered my lime seersucker pantsuit and black flats.

  “You jerk,” I shouted after the driver, who was too far away to hear me. “Great, just great,” I said aloud, looking at my wet shoes and water-stained pants’ legs.

  I’d chosen my wardrobe with care, wanting to give Mrs. Browning the impression that I was a professional journalist she could trust. I’d even rubber-banded my unruly hair in a ponytail.

  So much for best-laid plans, I thought, dashing across the street to avoid a red panel van coming from the opposite direction.

  When I stepped inside the church’s vestibule, a familiar, cool, dark silence enveloped me. The last time I’d been inside a church was for my mother’s funeral. Thankfully, my thoughts were immediately interrupted by footfalls. An elderly woman entered the vestibule accompanied by a middle-aged priest. Though the woman was clearly quite elderly, frail and hunched with age, her hair was a dark teased halo, and she was dressed in a sporty pink pantsuit and white loafers with gold tassels.

  “I think that’s her,” she said to the priest, pointing at me as if there were a roomful of people.

  I stepped forward. “I’m Leigh Girard from the Door County Gazette. It was good of you to meet me on such short notice, Mrs. Browning.” I held out my hand to her and instead of shaking my hand, she took it sideways and held it for a moment before letting go.

  “The only reason I’m here, young lady, as I told Father Stan, who thought you might be up to something, is because of my son.”

  That seemed to be Father Stan’s cue because he took in a deep breath and said, “May I see some proof that you work for the newspaper?”

  In anticipation of that question, I’d brought a copy of my article on Brownie and Ken. A tiny photo of me was beside the headline. “This is the man who was using your son’s identity, Brownie Lawrence.” I handed Mrs. Browning the article.

  As Mrs. Browning dug in her purse, searching for her glasses, Father Stan said, “You’d better let me look at that.” He took the article from the woman’s hand. I watched his eyes move from my face to my newspaper photo and back again. When he was sufficiently satisfied I was who I said I was, he handed the article back to me.

  “Mrs. Browning, why don’t you hold onto the article so you can read it later,” I told her. She’d found her glasses, but didn’t put them on.

  “I’d like that,” she said, folding the article and shoving it into her voluminous white vinyl purse along with her glasses.

  “Let us see the dog tags,” Father Stan demanded, his tone bordering on rudeness.

  I was getting more and more annoyed by the priest’s overbearing presence. My intention was to meet with Mrs. Browning alone so that I could ease into some questions about her son’s service in Vietnam. Father Stan was acting as though I was a criminal after the woman’s money and that she was incapable of taking care of herself. His judgmentally arched black eyebrows and pronounced widow’s peak only added to my dislike of the man. Reluctantly, I took the dog tags from my bag and handed them to Mrs. Browning, ignoring Father Stan’s outstretched hand.

  She put one hand to her chest as she stared down at the dog tags. When she looked up, her eyes were glazed with pain and her mouth trembled.

  “You’d better tell me how you got these.” Father Stan’s crow-like eyebrows arched even higher. If they were capable, they would have flown right off his face.

  Clearly Mrs
. Browning was too overcome with emotion to speak.

  “Is there somewhere we can sit down?” I asked the priest. For all his hovering, he didn’t see the woman was in distress or didn’t care. “Mrs. Browning doesn’t look too good.”

  “Are you all right, Elsie?” he asked, craning his neck toward the woman, specks of dandruff like snow on his cassock’s shoulders.

  She shook her head no, and then said, “It’s like yesterday, losing him all over again.”

  “You know we talked about this, Elsie. God will see you through, just as He did before.” He glanced at me. “Why don’t we go into the rectory?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he took Mrs. Browning by the arm and guided her back through the church and through two doors that led to the rectory, with me following behind like a recalcitrant child. Why was Father Stan so hostile toward me? Something more than protectiveness was going on.

  The rectory was dark with heavy furniture from the 1950s and large stained-glass windows depicting various portraits of St. Francis of Assisi accompanied by animals. Mrs. Browning and I sat side-by-side on a brown leather sofa, and Father Stan pulled up a matching chair positioned equidistant between us.

  Mrs. Browning was still holding the dog tags in her right hand, now running her finger over the embossed surface repeatedly, as if that could bring back her missing son. I’d explained how I’d gotten the dog tags and that Brownie had been using her son’s name. When I’d finished, it was Father Stan who spoke first.

  “So you’re here because you think this person who called himself Brownie Lawrence knew Mrs. Browning’s son in Vietnam? And that Mrs. Browning could help you find out who he was?” His words were for Mrs. Browning.

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “I never met any of the boys Lawrence served with,” Mrs. Browning said. “All I know is he was last seen during a night attack in the jungle. There was a lot of confusion because it was dark. After the attack, it was as if Lawrence had vanished into thin air. No one knew what happened to him. That’s what we were told, anyway. Oh, if only Larry, my husband, were alive. He knew more about this. After we got the news that Lawrence was missing in action, I just shut down. All I did was pray and pray.”