by Deb Baker
TWELVE
Word For The Day
PROMULGATING (PRAHM uhl GAY teng) v.
Making widespread.
“I NEED YOU AND CORA MAE to check every gun shop between here and Escanaba.” Kitty and I sat at Cora Mae’s kitchen table early Friday morning. Cora Mae was making buttermilk pancakes from a box mix.
Six inches of fresh, heavy snow had fallen through the night, and it was still snowing. Cora Mae and I took turns brushing the accumulation from her front steps with a broom.
“We’re promulgating this case,” I said, in a hurry to use my word for the day and get it over with.
“We’re what?” Cora Mae wanted to know.
Kitty piped up before I could answer. “We’re expanding our search for the killer,” she explained.
I shook my head. Where was she learning these words?
Kitty didn’t seem to think anything of it. She acted like she used big words every day. I watched her suck in pancakes without chewing.
“See what rifles are in the shops for repair,” I said. “Someone’s helping themselves to a lot of weapons, and I can’t figure out why. Maybe a name will jump out at you.”
“We can go through the yellow pages,” Kitty said. “There can’t be too many gun repair shops.”
“You better go to them. Maybe Cora Mae can weasel information out of them that they wouldn’t give on the phone.” I sipped my coffee and tried to ignore my head, which throbbed from yesterday’s wound. “Every hardware store repairs guns. Hit every last one of them.”
Kitty shifted her weight. “This is serious business now. Someone tried to kill you. No more fun and games. We have to get the killer before he gets you.”
“Let’s go over the facts one more time,” I said, flipping open my notebook. “Chester’s family wins Onni’s family land in a poker game, but Onni retains the mineral rights. Chester’s ready to sell the land to an outfit from Chicago, but is murdered before he can complete the deal. The desperate killer rips apart Chester’s house and my house and we have to assume he’s looking for the mineral rights, which suddenly I own.”
I glanced up. “Right so far?”
“Right,” Kitty and Cora Mae said in unison.
“The killer, “ I continued, “steals George’s rifle and uses it to attempt to kill me. According to Onni, when Barb tried to buy the mineral rights from him, he told her I owned them. And finally, Bill said Barb wouldn’t let him sell the land.”
I dropped the notebook on the table. “This is all adding up.”
“And?” Cora Mae leaned expectantly over the table.
“It’s obvious, Cora Mae,” I said. “Barb has a motive; she didn’t want the land sold. And she had the opportunity to steal Chester’s rifle and kill him. We have our killer. And to think I almost believed her.”
“Killers are smooth-talkers,” Kitty said, like she really knew anything about murderers.
While we were eating pancakes, Little Donny walked in dressed in hunter’s orange. He settled at the table and Cora Mae slapped a stack of pancakes on his plate.
“Blaze is driving me to the airport this afternoon,” he said through a mouthful. “I’m heading back to Milwaukee.”
“I’m sure going to miss you,” I said to Little Donny. “It’s been great fun, even if you didn’t get your buck. Plan on coming next September for bear season. That’s always a good time.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Little Donny said, butter dripping from his chin.
The phone rang and Cora Mae picked it up. Listening to her one-sided conversation, I knew she was talking to Blaze.
“A robber? Impossible… Me?… Well, it’s my word against hers and I say I didn’t do it… Can’t two people own the same dress? Hers wasn’t the only one made, you know.”
Cora Mae had her free hand on her hip and rolled her eyes for our benefit. “Kitty’s license plate number on the getaway car? You’ll have to talk to her about that.” She listened again then covered the receiver and said to me, “Blaze wants to talk to you.”
“I’m not here.”
“She’s not here,” Cora Mae said into the phone and hung up.
Little Donny stayed until the box of pancake mix was empty then gave goodbye hugs all around.
I slipped on my boots and jacket, and walked with him to Blaze’s Buick. “Maybe you can come for Christmas. Tell Heather to come, too.”
“Depends on whether or not I have a job.”
I nodded and waved as he drove off. Snow the size of cotton balls plopped down in fluffy piles, and I swept the porch one more time before going back in.
Kitty had a theory waiting for me inside.
“I think George is the killer,” she said, casually dropping her bombshell.
I almost spit coffee. “That’s a good one.”
Kitty didn’t smile. “And I think George tried to kill you. He knew you weren’t home the night of the break in.”
“But he was with me the entire time, playing cards. He has an iron-clad alibi.”
“He’s the accomplice.”
“And whose accomplice would he be?”
“Barb Lampi’s,” Kitty said.
Cora Mae’s eyes grew wide and she gasped. “A love triangle.”
“No.” I snorted. “A love triangle would be between George, Barb, and Bill. Bill would be dead, not Chester.”
“You’re right.”
“Where was George while you were fighting for your life in the blind?” Kitty asked.
“Cutting Christmas trees.”
“Where was Little Donny?”
“I don’t know.” I frowned in thought, remembering that Little Donny came from the direction of the house and George had come from the tree line. “Working in the barn maybe.”
“You don’t know where George was,” Kitty said, slowly. “But you know who owned the rifle.”
I felt the color drain out of my face. “George’s rifle was stolen.”
“Was it? George had time to attack you, hide the clothes he wore, and pop out of the woods as good old George, your friend.”
“This can’t be true,” I muttered.
“A horrible thought just raced through my head,” Cora Mae squealed. “What if it is true and Little Donny showed up before he could finish the job? I think Little Donny might have saved your life.”
Kitty slapped her thighs. “There you go.”
The more I thought about it, the more it ridiculous it sounded.
Kitty shifted again, and the chair groaned. “George and Barb could be lovers, driven by greed for the land and the promise of gold. George knew he had to kill you before you exposed his scheme. You haven’t been telling him about our investigation, have you?”
I shuddered, remembering. “I might have told him a little.”
“You have to learn to keep a secret,” Loudspeaker Kitty had the nerve to say. “It could be the difference between life and death.”
“Every time I’m interested in somebody they turn out to be a prime suspect in this murder case.” Cora Mae said.
“You do go through them quickly,” Kitty observed, while I studied her.
“Well,” I said. “This new murder theory was a lot of fun, but let’s get back to real life now and work on this case. George is no more a murderer than I am a…” I struggled for the proper comparison.
“…a fashion model,” Cora Mae finished for me with a howl.
Kitty tilted her chair back onto two legs, I saw a slight wobble, and Kitty, in slow motion, sank to the floor.
“The legs snapped right off my chair,” she puffed as we helped her up and resettled her in a sturdier chair.
I couldn’t help noticing Kitty’s new wardrobe accessories. “Where did you find white bobby pins?”
“A hairdresser friend of mine. You like them?”
“Snazzy,” I said.
A few minutes later Kitty and Cora Mae squealed out of the driveway in Kitty’s rusted-out beater, hot on the trail of the man they insisted had onl
y pretended to be my friend.
“Don’t forget Barb,” I called after them. “My money’s on her.”
A few minutes after that, they were back at the house.
“Almost forgot my job,” Kitty said sheepishly after climbing the steps one more time and resting. “You have to come with us if I’m going to protect you. I messed up once, I’m not about to do it again.”
“You can drop me at my shrink appointment.”
__________
The psychological evaluator put me through what he called “a battery of tests,” including the standard inkblots. They were easy.
“Doughnuts,” I said when he asked me to use my imagination. “Tractor tires, blow flies.”
I tried to explain to him that I didn’t have time for all this nonsense; I had a bigger goose to cook. But he insisted that the court would expect the results of these specific tests.
After the written and visual tests, he wanted to talk about me and about what was going on in my life.
He was taller than anyone I’d ever met. When he first opened the door, I thought I’d walked into the Green Giant’s lair. He was well over six-foot-five.
Cora Mae won’t date a tall man. She says she’s always looking up into his nose hairs and there’s always something suspicious dangling there. The psychologist’s nose hairs were fine.
He pushed back from the table and wrapped his long legs in a complicated twist like a pretzel and waited for me to begin.
I gave him an earful.
I told him about the murder investigation, the attempts on my life, the suspects, and about the document in Barney’s notebook. In fact, I showed him the deed, which was the only piece of concrete evidence I had in my possession. I did have the shot-up hunting blind, but that’s more stationary evidence. I offered to show him that, too, if he felt like taking a drive. He said it wouldn’t be necessary.
He listened without interrupting, making notes as I talked. I leaned forward, trying to read the notes upside down, but he moved the papers away.
When I was finished he said, “Uh huh.”
And that was his entire contribution to our conversation and his only comment on all the information I’d presented him with.
“Has Blaze been in for his evaluation yet?” I wanted to know on the way out the door.
“It’s not required for him.”
“Figures,” I said. The ones who need it never have to. “Did I pass?”
“I’ll be issuing a report and you will receive a copy.”
I better have passed or I’m in deep trouble.
__________
Cora Mae and Kitty escorted me back to Cora Mae’s house.
“I didn’t realize how many shops repair guns,” Cora Mae whined. “They’re in Trenary, Gladstone, Escanaba, and a few places scattered here and there between Rapid River and Marquette.”
“Forget Rapid River and Marquette. No one from around here would drive all that way.”
“Well, we’re about half done.”
“Put it on hold for awhile. We need to follow George and tie him in with Barb.”
Both stared at me.
“I’m not saying your right,” I said with regret. “But he’s on the list. The very bottom of the list.”
Kitty had a sack of Big Macs, fries, and chocolate shakes from Escanaba. We warmed the burgers and fries in the microwave and dug in.
“I’m having a lot of trouble believing that George is a killer,” I said between mouthfuls. “He’s been my best friend…”
Cora Mae gave me a withering look.
“I mean, after you, of course. And he’s been so nice to me, doing repairs, playing cards; I can’t believe it.”
Kitty started in on her second Big Mac. I’ve never seen anyone eat two Big Macs in my entire life. “Killers look and act just like the rest of us,” she said.
“Give me one good reason why George would want to kill me.”
“You have an unregistered deed to the mineral rights on three hundred acres of prime land that Bear Creek runs right through and that could possible be the site of a huge vein of precious metal,” Kitty said with one cheek full of fries.
“When you say it like that,” I said, “it sounds believable.”
Cora Mae chimed in. “I always knew something was strange about him.”
“You did not.” I rubbed my hands together to shake off the bun crumbs. “And answer this for me—If I can’t register the rights because I’m dead, then they still belong to Onni, not to Barb or George. Are they going to kill him too? And then what? Who are Onni’s heirs? Are they going to kill all of them?”
We all traded surprised expressions.
“Who would inherit Onni’s estate?” Kitty put special sarcastic emphasis on the word estate. “He doesn’t have any family, at least that we know of.”
“It doesn’t matter because his distant relatives would probably sell it for next to nothing.” I was on a roll. “Onni’s in as much danger as I am. We’re both marked for execution.”
“What should we do, Gertie?” Cora Mae asked. “What’s our next step?”
“Surveillance run tonight, partners.”
__________
Owning the mineral rights to Chester’s land means I own everything on and under the ground, dirt and all. Does that mean I can haul away the topsoil? There are quite a few gray areas associated with these rights, and I need to find the answers. For now, I know I own the following things if, and this is a big if, they are found—oil, copper, iron ore, silver, or gold. Quite an impressive list of valuables.
Another thing I know—gold is found along streambeds just like Bear Creek, which runs through said land. And gold really has been found in Marquette County, which is close enough to almost spit on. And the U.P. is part of the Canadian Shield, made up of the oldest rock in the world. And oil has even been discovered here, so why is the idea of gold farfetched?
Ropers Gold Mine, according to the library lady in Escanaba, had the richest specimens of gold-bearing quartz every found in the area, and every river in Michigan has had shows of gold.
Gold in the ground, in my ground? It’s not nearly as impossible as I thought. My scoffing days are over.
__________
Surveillance work isn’t as glamorous as most people think. Every time I tell someone I’m an investigator they want to know about the spying part of it.
For one thing, it’s dangerous. The last thing you want is your suspect walking up to your vehicle and confronting you. There’s nothing worse than being hauled out by your shirt collar and held ten inches off the ground while he waits for a plausible explanation.
It could happen.
What’s more likely to happen, though, is the neighbors get suspicious, think you’re spying on them, and call the police. Then there’s some explaining to do, especially if it’s late at night, which is when the most serious surveillance work is carried on.
Finding the right spot to watch from isn’t easy, either. Once the suspect starts moving, you don’t know which way he’ll go. You need perfect positioning.
You also need a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, which Kitty brought, a six-pack of Pepsi, and an old rusty coffee can, which I provided. Just in case. You can’t go looking for a bathroom in the middle of your watch. He’ll decide to move exactly then.
I still couldn’t believe George would murder Chester, but the evidence tipped heavily in his direction. And stronger men than George have succumbed to the wiles of a woman. I remember hearing that George’s wife ran off a while back, maybe six or seven years ago on Christmas Eve. When George got home from work, there was a note waiting for him on the kitchen table. I thought that was a cruel way to leave someone. George never talked about her, and never took up with anyone else as far as I knew. Until now.
“Here he comes,” Kitty said, already digging into the bucket, one greasy hand full of chicken poised halfway to her mouth. “Duck.”
Headlights sliced the dark leadin
g from George’s house and his truck turned onto the road heading toward Stonely. Kitty started the car and blew out of the ditch, a chicken leg clenched in her jaw, both hands swinging the wheel sharply. Running without headlights to guide her, she strained forward in her seat to see.
Cora Mae clutched the bucket of chicken, a soda pop can flew from the seat, and we were in hot pursuit.
“Don’t pass him up,” I called out as Kitty continued to gather speed. “Stay way back.”
Kitty popped on her lights when we passed through Stonely. George’s truck kept going. “He’s heading for Gladstone.”
Twenty minutes later we drove down Delta Avenue, the main drag in Gladstone, staying back as far as possible without losing sight of him. All the little shops were along a six- or seven-block stretch and they were all closed.
George turned onto a side street, and Kitty almost rear-ended him. “He’s parking,” I said, ducking down. Kitty swerved around his truck and sped away.
“Did he see us?” Cora Mae said.
I straightened up. “I don’t see how he could have since we were moving at the speed of light. Kitty, you have to learn the meaning of slow.”
After much discussion and a little backtracking, we parked a block away from George’s truck, which was now empty. We spend several minutes guessing where he might be.
Another danger in surveillance work is the risk of being recognized by the suspect or by someone passing on the sidewalk. We’d taken care of that. Cora Mae has a wig for every occasion so we all were in disguise. My wig was long and blond, Cora Mae’s was a sassy little red bun, and Kitty’s was a black flip, which I hear is back in style.
We had to keep the truck running because it was cold and we needed the heat. Snow still fell, heavy and wet, so occasionally Kitty ran the windshield wipers to clear the glass, the defroster barely keeping up with our warm breath.
Another danger in the eye-spy field is boredom. It’s the number one reason surveillance is so difficult. Hours and hours of sitting staring out the window can drive you over the edge into insanity, or can put you right to sleep.
Cora Mae kept the conversation going.
“Do you have an attorney yet?” she asked.
“I don’t need one.” I brushed coarse blond hair out of my eyes.
“The judge said you did.”
“I’m representing myself.”
“You’re not taking any advice,” Cora Mae whined, “and I’m not visiting you in some nursing home in Escanaba. You need to spruce up your appearance, tone down your personality, and get a lawyer. It’s only for a little while, and then you can go back to your old self.”
“And you,” she turned to Kitty, whose black flip was bobbing in time with her chews. “You need to spruce up, too, so you can find a man.”
Kitty stopped chewing. “I can get a man anytime I want to. In fact, I fight them off daily.”
Cora Mae and I looked doubtful.
“It’s true. Haven’t you ever heard of chubby chasers?”
Cora Mae hooted and we shushed her.
“Lots of men out there like a fat woman,” Kitty said. “If you don’t believe me, ask one of them.” She licked her fingers. “I just don’t want one.”
Cora Mae’s final words of advice were, “If you don’t use it, you’re going to lose it. It’s like pierced ear holes. They close right up if you don’t keep putting posts in.”
“Shhh.” I saw two black dots walking down Delta from the opposite direction, heading toward George’s truck. I scrambled for the binoculars and put them up to my eyes. Nothing.
Apparently binoculars don’t work well in the dark. Kitty tried to see through them, then Cora Mae tried. The black dots came close enough so I could make out the shadows of arms and legs, but we were parked too far away to get a good look. The falling snow and fogged windows didn’t help either.
Kitty started the car and rolled forward. But it was too late. A figure came into shadowy view and hopped into the truck. Whoever he was with had vanished.
I put night-vision binoculars on my wish list.