Pineland Serenade

by Larry Millett

  “That’s the official verdict, at least for now.”

  “So are you looking into it?”

  “I can’t comment on that, Marty.”

  “Oh sure, I understand. I wouldn’t know anything about it anyway. You know, I was just thinking it’s funny how you found both messages.”

  “Hilarious,” I agreed. Marty’s hands shook slightly as he cradled his coffee cup, and his face was so ashen I thought he might be ill.

  “Are you all right, Marty? You look a little pale today.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” he said, but the salesman wasn’t convincing. Nothing about him suggested he was in a good frame of mind. “Think I might have a touch of the flu or something, that’s all.”

  “Well, I hope you feel better soon. And how’s your family? Haven’t seen Doris or the kids lately.” Marty’s wife, Doris, is one of my favorite people in Pineland—a plain, sturdy woman with an earthy sense of humor. She also has a fine voice that earned her roles in the Gilbert and Sullivan productions I staged after returning to Pineland. She and Marty have two teenage sons, both good kids, but it’s no secret in town that Marty’s philandering has brought their marriage to the brink of divorce.

  “Everybody’s all right,” Marty said in a monotone.

  I thought it best to change the subject. “By the way, I saw your name in the newspapers, talking about Peter’s disappearance. You’re a celebrity, Marty.”

  He responded with a dismissive snort. “No, it’s nothing like that. I just wanted to make sure people understand what Peter did for this community. He was a great guy.”

  “If you say so. But it almost sounds like you think he’s dead.”

  “That’s not true. Not true at all. I mean, who knows? Poof, one morning he’s gone and then his house blows up. What are we supposed to think? Believe me, I hope he’s alive, but what are the odds? There hasn’t been a ransom note or anything like that, has there?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. But as you said, who knows? There are people who think maybe Peter had enough of his glorious life here and decided to head for the Caribbean.”

  “Oh, he’d never do that. He liked it here. He really did.”

  “He liked you, too, from what I understand. I’ve heard stories about all those parties at his mansion.”

  These stories, as Marty surely knew, were mostly of the X-rated variety. Lap dances, hookers, cocaine, all the pointless thrills of high living, Hollywood style, right there on a lonely hilltop in Paradise County. Word in town was that Marty was often among the satyrs at these bacchanalia. Then again, the stories could be greatly exaggerated, since gossip usually comes down to thinking the worst of people.

  “Those stories are a bunch of crap,” Marty said with considerable vehemence. “People make shit up. Besides, just because I was Peter’s friend doesn’t mean I did everything he did. It’s guilt by association, that’s all.”

  There was a pause before Marty said, “I’m a good person, you know. I really am.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “Thanks for saying that. You know, I wish, I really wish—.” His voice trailed off, as though whatever he wished for could never come true, and then he said, “Well, no matter. I’ve got to be going. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime. Let’s hope, right?”

  And with that odd farewell, Marty swung off his stool and left.

  14

  Religion in Pineland isn’t what it used to be. When I was growing up, churches seemed to be everywhere. The Lutherans, Catholics, Methodists, Baptists and Presbyterians all had substantial houses of worship, while a motley group of smaller denominations made do with simple wooden buildings, always white and always with a big cross pasted over the front door. The mainline churches are still around, but their congregations are dwindling, and if you attend Sunday services at Redeemer Lutheran or First Methodist or Grace Baptist, you’ll find yourself in an oversized, echoing space with more pews vacant than filled.

  The real religious action these days is in the Pentecostal churches, of the kind that once occupied those little white buildings. Pineland’s largest congregation is the Call of God Church, which is out near the interstate in what used to be a big-box discount store. A thirty-foot-high fiberglass cross, complete with programmable LED lighting, rises above the old store building, where the congregation’s five hundred members come on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings to hear the divine word as delivered by the Reverend Ronald Peterson, better known around town as Reverend Ronnie.

  He arrived in Pineland a few years ago, took over a small, struggling church and turned it into a powerhouse. Although he’s a charismatic fire-and-brimstone preacher of the old school, he also blogs, tweets, maintains a sophisticated website, and views Facebook as God’s own playground. I’m not much for religion myself—I had all of it I ever needed as a Catholic schoolboy—but I don’t mind the Reverend Ronnie. He’s not entirely God crazy and he has a sense of humor, unlike some of the diehard believers I know.

  “Is that a sinner I see before me?” he called out in his booming basso as I was leaving Koffeeken’s.

  I turned around and saw him coming up behind me. As always, the Reverend Ronnie cut a striking figure, dressed in his usual head-to-toe white outfit—jacket, shirt, slacks, and even snow-white sneakers. He’s a big-shouldered man in his early thirties, with a long smooth bloom of a beard, jet black hair so shiny it look likes it was buffed with a floor polisher, and small dark eyes. Do away with the beard and black hair and attach some wings and he might pass for an angel come down from heaven to save our miserable souls.

  “I haven’t managed any sinning yet,” I told him as we shook hands. “I usually wait until after dark. How’s the God business doing these days?”

  “Better than ever. The Good Lord is working wonders for our church, but I also have to deal with some earthly real estate matters. I’m just going over to see Marty Moreland.”

  “Well, I just talked to him and he’s sounding pretty down. Maybe the word of God can cheer him up.”

  “Sorry to hear that about Marty. He’s been a member of our church since the beginning. I’ll have a talk with him. Maybe I can be of help. What about you? How are you dealing with your troubles?”

  “Which ones? I’m starting a list just to keep track of them all.”

  “I understand. That cross burning was terrible. Who would do such a thing? And then there’s Peter’s disappearance and this business with the Serenader. My congregation talks of little else.”

  “Well, whoever he is, he’s certainly been on my case, and Marty’s, too.”

  “May I offer some advice? There’ll be no charge.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “I believe this man who calls himself the Serenader was sent by God for a purpose we have yet to discover. I know you think that’s nonsense, but you don’t know the world as I do, my friend. There are hidden currents everywhere, moving around us, and sometimes they push at us, if we are open to their power. God is pushing at us now, to open our eyes and hearts, and the Serenader is the instrument he has chosen.”

  What could I say? Much of life comes down to whether or not you believe in hidden things—God, Fate, Voodoo, the Trilateral Commission, or anything else that might explain the great, heaving mess of the world.

  “Well, let’s hope God’s instrument isn’t also a kidnapper or even a murderer, because that’s what he just might be.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” said the Reverend Ronnie, but with a smile emerging out of his beard. “We shall see, won’t we? Well, I’m off to see Marty. In the meantime, I’ll pray for you.”

  “Can’t hurt,” I said.

  It was my day for unexpected encounters. At the courthouse square I ran into Dewey Swindell. He’d just parked his car in a handicapped spot, displaying his usual class.

  I braced for a confrontation, and not just becau
se of our unpleasant phone conversation a few days earlier. Dewey’s held a grudge against me for years. It all centers, weirdly enough, on a production of H. M. S. Pinafore.

  I love Gilbert and Sullivan, and I’m a passable singer and actor, just good enough for community theater. So when I returned to Pineland seven years ago, I rounded up a few like-minded souls and proudly established the Lost Pines Gilbert and Sullivan Society. Thus far our little company has put on Trial by Jury, Patience and H. M. S. Pinafore, all staged with minimal splendor in the Paradise Consolidated High School auditorium.

  We were running out of money after putting on Patience and that’s when Dewey, newly arrived in town, stepped in with a surprising offer. In exchange for a $5,000 donation and the prospect of a major role, he’d help us stage Pinafore. As director of the company, I reluctantly agreed. Big mistake.

  Once rehearsals began, I discovered Dewey couldn’t sing in the vicinity of any known key. I tried to persuade him to take on a role in the chorus or to become a backstage presence, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I finally refused to cast him on the grounds he was wholly incompetent. Things then got nasty and Dewey ended up suing me for breach of promise. He lost, primarily because I’d inserted some legally potent qualifying language into his contract with our company. Tommy Redmond covered the whole flapdoodle in the Tattler, depicting Dewey as a vain popinjay, and he’s never forgiven me.

  Now he was itching for a fight. “I’ve got you,” he said, stepping out of his big gray Mercedes. “We’re going to talk.” There was a whiff of alcohol on his breath.

  “No, we’re not.”

  “Yes we are,” Dewey said, blocking my path with his wide body as I tried to go around. His meaty face, decorated with a chin mole sporting its own hairdo, came up uncomfortably close to mine.

  “Your new girlfriend came by this morning, looking for money,” he said. “Do you think I don’t know her game? She won’t get a cent and neither will you.”

  As everyone knows, there are people in this world who could best be served by a punch in the face—say, once a day—as a general service to humanity. Dewey was just such a person. But I decided to leave the punching to someone else for the time being. “Okay, Dewey, you’re losing me here. Who’s this ‘girlfriend’ of mine you’re talking about?”

  “Don’t play dumb. Here’s the deal. There won’t be any DNA test. Not now. Not ever. So you can send your little gold digger friend back to Chicago or wherever the hell she came from.”

  Now the picture became clear. Cassandra Ellis had approached Dewey about taking a DNA test. The encounter hadn’t gone well. No surprise there. What I didn’t understand was why Dewey thought Cassandra and I were plotting to steal his inheritance.

  “Listen up, Dewey. I’m not Cassandra Ellis’s boyfriend. I didn’t send her to talk with you. She’s not a gold digger. She’s a very successful lawyer and has plenty of her own money. She’s just trying to find out if your father might also be hers. You know how much he screwed around.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the old man,” Dewey said in a touching display of affection. “But I goddamn well will get his money—all of it.”

  “I’m sure you will and that it will make you very happy. But if Cassandra is just a gold digger, why not take the DNA test and clear things up once and for all?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You and your little colored slut would figure out some way to doctor the results, for all I know.”

  “All right, that’s enough,” I said. “You can go away now. But I still think you should have that test. Wouldn’t it be nice to know you have such a lovely sister?”

  That set him off. I’m not much for fisticuffs in the streets, but what the hell. I thought it just might feel good.

  Dewey stepped back and took a swing at me. He missed. I put a shoulder to his chest and pushed him back against his car. A comic groping session ensued—two middle-aged guys trying to stage a presentable altercation—when someone pulled me away.

  “Stop it, you two,” Robby Lindquist said. My least favorite deputy sheriff had been on his way to the courthouse when he came across our feeble attempt at a street brawl. “What are you doing?”

  “Just having a little legal disagreement,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “The fucker attacked me,” Dewey proclaimed. “You saw it.”

  “All I saw is the two of you fighting,” Robby said. “Christ, you guys should know better. Now, what say we forget the whole thing? Go about your business, all right?”

  “Oh no, you need to file a report,” Dewey said. “I was assaulted. I want this man arrested on criminal charges.”

  Robby took on the pained look of a man with a headache from hell. I suspected he wished he’d just ignored us. I had the same wish. “I don’t think I can do that,” he said.

  “Good call, Robby,” I said. “Dewey here started the whole thing, but I won’t press charges. No need to make a big deal of this.”

  Dewey thought otherwise, and much back and forth followed, none of it edifying. But he finally agreed to leave, on the condition that Robby file a report about our little set-to. Robby promised he would.

  As he got into his car, Dewey directed some final words of wisdom at me. “I’m going to get you, you asshole. Don’t think I can’t.”

  The next person I ran into was Ed Boudreau. He was standing on the courthouse steps, a grin plastered across his lined, coppery face.

  “I didn’t know you were such a brawler,” he said. “Dewey doesn’t seem to like you very much.”

  “I’m not sure anyone does at the moment. But you know how Dewey is.”

  “Only too well. Feel free to kick him in the ass on my behalf anytime you feel like it. I’d do it myself, but I’m too old. Besides, he’s already in plenty of trouble, or so I hear.”

  “You mean over the Jill Lorrimer business?”

  Ed grinned. “Pussy problems are the least of his worries. Haven’t you heard? Rumor has it Tommy Redmond is working on a big expose. Dewey’s wading up to his big blue balls in debt and a lot of people are looking for a piece of him. That’s why he’s not shedding any tears over daddy’s disappearance. He’d love to get his fat little fingers around Peter’s fortune. Some folks think he might have even done away with the old man. Of course, that’s just pure speculation.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then again, you can never be sure when it comes to white mischief, can you? There’s no end to it. You know why this town even exists? Because white folks stole all the land around here in 1837 so they could cut down the trees.”

  “The Treaty of St. Peters,” I said. “I’ve read about it. The Ojibwe got screwed.”

  “The history of America,” Ed said. “Screw the Indians every which way you can.”

  “Well, maybe the casino at least buys you a little revenge.”

  “There can never be enough revenge. But, hey, good things do sometimes happen in this world. Dewey’s going to take a fall one way or another. Well, I’ve got to be moving along. Got to keep my eye on all you white sinners.”

  “Me included?”

  “Ha,” Ed said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “We’re all sinners, aren’t we? And now a bit of friendly advice. I’d start working on a left hook if I were you. Might need it the next time you see Dewey.”

  “I’m not worried. I can take care of the fat boy.”

  Unwise words, as it turned out.

  15

  Peter Swindell was on my mind when I returned to my office. Even if Dewey didn’t care about his missing father, I did. Peter’s disappearance had brought out the Serenader and set other events in motion, but I wasn’t sure how everything connected. All I knew was that Peter had to be the key.

  My encounter with Ed Boudreau reminded me of what he’d told me earlier about a mysterious “cloud fund” draining Peter’s ban
k accounts. Ed had said a “secret” lay behind the fund. I decided to do a little digging in hopes of finding out just what the secret was.

  The State Bank of Pineland stands at a prominent corner along Paradise Avenue in a heavy stone building that resembles a jail decorated with Ionic columns. I maintain a personal account at the bank, and I’m well acquainted with its president, Toby Lucker. I like Toby well enough—like me he’s a native Pinelander—and he seems to be a decent guy. But around town he has a reputation as a skinflint who not only has the first penny he ever earned but worships it nightly during dark ceremonies in his basement.

  I stopped in at the bank just before three. Toby, as usual, was in his corner office, ensconced behind a mahogany desk the size of a small SUV. My plan was to chat Toby up and maybe, just maybe, find out something about the “cloud fund.” In traditional Pineland fashion, Toby and I talked first about the weather and agreed it had been a miserable April so far but that May was bound to be better and then there’d be summer and wouldn’t that be lovely. Once we’d shared these brilliant observations, I casually broached the topic of Peter’s disappearance.

  “I suppose those fellows from the BCA have been going through all of Peter’s accounts. It must be quite a job trying to sort out his finances.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Toby agreed. “An agent came by this morning to examine the accounts. There’s a lot to deal with.”

  I then went directly to that old standby, the bald-faced lie: “You didn’t hear it from me, but our office has also been digging up some stuff about Peter. That cloud fund of his has raised a lot of eyebrows. It’s very mysterious.”

  “It is strange, the way he sent those payments to that post office box in St. Cloud, but I’m sure he had a good reason.”

  “You’re probably right, but just between you and me, I was surprised by how much he sent.”