Pineland Serenade

by Larry Millett

  “As in we’re having sex? That’s bullshit, Tommy, so don’t go there.”

  “Okay, okay. It’s just something I heard, that’s all. Well, I should be going. I have lots of work to do. Thanks for talking to me, and make sure you read the Tattler on Friday. There’ll be some surprises.”

  “I can hardly wait. One more thing. I’ve done you plenty of favors, Tommy, and you owe me a few of your own. If you find out any big news about what’s going on here you give me a head’s up, all right? I need to be the first to know.”

  “Fair enough,” Tommy said.

  Cassandra was stuck in Chicago. She’d called on Monday to say the hearing had been delayed. By Wednesday the news was even worse.

  “It’s just one fucking thing after another,” she said over the phone. “I won’t be able to get up to Pineland until Saturday at the earliest. Sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “I understand,” I said, then told her about my conversation with Tommy and the voices on the thumb drive.

  “That’s really strange, but the voices must be of real importance to the Serenader.”

  “Agreed, but we’re in the dark unless we can figure out who the voices belong to.”

  “Well, let me know if you learn anything more. By the way, you were in the Sun-Times yesterday.”

  “Really? Was I named lawyer of the year?”

  “No. But there was a big feature story about Pineland and the Serenader. The story mentioned that you’re suspected of writing the messages. Thankfully, it didn’t include the latest news about the typewriter.”

  “My lucky day, I guess. I hate to tell you, but you may be in for some publicity as well. Tommy passed on a widely-circulating rumor here that we’re bed mates.”

  “So, if I’m a Black woman I must be sleeping around, is that it?”

  “I’m pretty sure the same rumor would be floating around if you were white. Apparently, people think I’m so charming women find me irresistible.”

  “You’re not all that charming,” Cassandra said. “So what about this Redmond guy? How much do you think he knows?”

  “Hard to say. Tommy’s the town magnet. He attracts all sorts of junk and he doesn’t always bother to sort it out. There are also times I think he just makes up things to stir the pot.”

  “Fake news, Pineland style?”

  “Something like that. Tommy’s big story is coming out Friday. I’ll save a copy for you.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you a call when I get in Saturday. Are you still up for going to St. Cloud?”

  “Sure,” I said. “It’ll be nice to get out of town.”

  I spent the next day dodging reporters and ignoring phone calls, except for one, from Alice Sigurdson. She said she’d talked to the two Jasons and recanted her alibi for Arne.

  “I’m moving out,” she added. “I told Arne yesterday.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “He actually seemed surprised. Can you believe it?”

  I could. Husbands can be incredibly stupid when it comes to reading their wives, a behavior with which I was personally familiar.

  “Where are you going to go?” I asked Alice.

  “I’ve found an apartment in town. It’ll work for the time being.”

  “Okay. Good luck, and let me know if you have any problems with Arne. I can be of help if need be.”

  “Thanks so much,” she said and disconnected.

  With his alibi gone, Arne became the prime suspect in Marty’s murder. He wouldn’t be for long.

  The special edition of the Tattler arrived at my office Friday while I was at lunch. Doug always bags it at his desk, so he’d read every word by the time I returned.

  “Wow, some interesting stuff,” he said, tossing the newspaper on my desk. “You and that Black girl are big news. Is she, you know, pretty hot, or shouldn’t I be asking?”

  “Go away, Doug,” I said and started reading.

  Tommy’s special edition, all six pages of it, offered up a journalistic jambalaya filled with several well-spiced stories written in his usual delirious style. There was also a full-page ad from the Word of God Church suggesting repentance would be a good idea for everybody. The Reverend Ronnie clearly knew a good advertising vehicle when he saw one because the special edition was sure to be read by just about everyone in Paradise County.

  The longest and least interesting story was a rehash of the latest news about the murders, fires, and the doings of the Serenader. But two other front-page stories were real eye catchers. One of them unspooled next to a three-column reproduction of the photo showing Jill Lorrimer on Arne’s lap, her nipples blurred so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of the reading public. The story below recounted Arne’s various troubles and did not shy away from speculating about his possible involvement in the deaths of Jill and Marty.

  It was a riveting read, but Tommy also had plenty to say about Cassandra Ellis in a separate story. The headline said it all: “Evidence Mounts Chicago Lawyer is Peter Swindell’s Daughter.” Tommy had no shortage of details, including a more or less accurate description of the letter that had lured Cassandra to Pineland. The story went on to say Cassandra “worked very closely with County Attorney Paul Zweifel before he recused himself from the case.” Readers were left to judge what “very closely” might mean.

  Although Tommy had already linked Cassandra to Peter in his blog posts, the story in the Tattler, with its details about the letter, promised to ratchet up the pressure on her. The national media, I feared, would take renewed interest in the story and come chasing after Cassandra. She wouldn’t like that, and neither would her fancy law firm.

  The only other story of interest was tucked away on the back page under the headline, “Zweifel Says He’s Not the Serenader.” I plowed through it and discovered I’d come off reasonably well. Tommy being Tommy, however, there were wildly overwrought details—did I really have “bags like dark, angry bruises” under my eyes?—and he managed to garble a few facts. But on the whole I had no cause to complain.

  That evening I called Cassandra and told her about Tommy’s story.

  “Well, that’s just wonderful,” she said. “I’m becoming a regular media sensation in the middle of a triple-murder case. The partners will be very unhappy.”

  “I imagine they will be. My advice when the media horde comes for you is to issue a brief statement of some kind. You know, you were simply trying to trace your roots, you’re not sure Peter is in fact your father but you’re saddened by his death, etcetera, etcetera, and you’ll have nothing more to say at present.”

  “Fuck,” Cassandra said. “I don’t need this shit right now.”

  “I agree. Maybe you should forget about coming back here for a while. Let things simmer down.”

  “No, I have to see this through. I’ll be back Sunday. Pineland’s such a beautiful goddamn place I just can’t stay away.”

  39

  Saturday was a day of rest and evasion. I slept late, then took Camus out to Pembroke Woods for a long traipse. I started thinking of the man in black and Cassandra and all that had happened, but after a while the old trees spoke to me. They counseled calm and patience, and by the time I coaxed Camus back to the Prius I was feeling better than I had in days.

  The good feelings didn’t last. My land line at home began to ring incessantly. Reporters from across the continent wanted to talk to me. Even someone from the Wall Street Journal called, no doubt in search of insightful financial advice. I’ve never been interested in being front-page news, but that hardly mattered. The Serenader was now manipulating my life, and I was merely along for the ride at his amusement park of chaos.

  I wanted to pursue a night of oblivion with Jack but the part of me that isn’t a complete fool counseled sobriety. I listened to that part. When night finally arrived, I went out on my back patio wi
th Camus and looked at the stars. The air was calm, the sky clear, the stars a spangled salute to the flight of time. I don’t believe in omens or dream visions or anything that might foretell the future. But I do believe that lodged in our old animal brains, well beyond the boundaries of conscious thought, there are intimations of things to come, swirling around like ghosts in a haunted house. And as I gazed up at the lonely stars, the ghosts were telling me something very bad was about to happen.

  I woke up Sunday morning at nine o’clock to the sound of my cell phone ringing. The call was from Tommy Redmond, one of the few people I’d entrusted with the number. What he had to say roused me from my sleep like the crack of a gunshot.

  “You didn’t hear this from me, but those BCA guys are looking to get a search warrant for your house. They got a tip about some crucial evidence you’re supposedly hiding. Apparently they consider the information very credible.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Don’t know, but the BCA guys think it could blow the whole case wide open.”

  “How’d you find out so quickly about the tip?”

  “That’s my business. But you said I owed you a favor, and now you’ve got it. So what are you going to do?”

  “Await the posse,” I said. In fact, I wasn’t at all sure what I’d do, but I didn’t want to share any plans with Tommy. He was a conduit and the current flowed both ways.

  “Well, good luck,” he said. “I think you’re going to need it.”

  I had no idea what the supposedly “crucial evidence” was or who had tipped off the BCA. Maybe the Serenader had shifted course and wanted to implicate me as well as Arne in Marty’s murder or other crimes. If that were the case, the Serenader wouldn’t have alerted the authorities about my house unless he knew it contained highly incriminating evidence. But how would he know?

  Camus interrupted my thoughts by dragging out his leash. He wanted to go for a walk and he’d start barking until I complied.

  “All right,” I said, snapping on the leash. “But we won’t be gone for long.”

  At that instant, I had a disturbing thought that produced a big, ugly knot in my stomach. It concerned Camus and the message the Serenader had posted on my front door days earlier. I’d assumed his motive was simply to cast suspicion on me as the possible author of the message. But now it dawned on me that the Serenader had selected a most fortuitous day to do his work. Camus, guardian of the household and no friend to questionable strangers, was away all that day being groomed—a rare event. In fact, it was the only time in weeks he hadn’t been stationed at my house.

  If the Serenader knew Camus would be absent, he would have had a perfect opportunity to rummage through my house before leaving his message. Which meant he could have taken things from the house, or, better yet, left a prize clue behind to be found later by Jason Braddock and his crew.

  I’m not a tidy housekeeper. My modest estate is a densely packed repository of items that should have been thrown out long ago, much of it stored in two back bedrooms piled high with boxes, old pieces of furniture and the accumulated detritus of a life not particularly well lived. I also have a basement and garage filled with junk. All of which meant I’d be hard pressed to find a carefully hidden piece of evidence without a lengthy search. Trouble was, I didn’t think I had much time.

  I took Camus for a very short walk, my mind a racehorse, and by the time we returned a couple of bright ideas had found their way into my brain. I went into the kitchen, where I keep my everyday keys, all neatly labeled, on little hooks. Duplicate keys and others I rarely use are scattered in a drawer below. My regular keys were all in place, including the one to my father’s office. That key has a duplicate, however, which is supposed to be in the drawer. It wasn’t there. So now I knew the Serenader had been in my house at least once and had found the duplicate key to the office, thereby allowing him to plant the incriminating typewriter. But what, if anything, had he left behind while he rummaged through my home?

  My land line, an elderly Panasonic handset, is in the kitchen, with a second phone in the bedroom. The kitchen line looked okay. Not so the bedroom. There I found a tiny black transmitter with two wires attached to the phone line near its plug-in behind my bed. No wonder the Serenader seemed to know my every move. I left the transmitter in place, since its presence could be used to argue I’d been a victim of the Serenader’s scheming. If he’d bugged my land line, I could only assume he might also be listening in on my cell phone calls.

  I was certain now the impending search of my house would turn up some damning piece of evidence. But what would “blow the case wide open,” as Tommy Redmond had put it? I soon had an “oh shit” moment. I went down to the basement, where I keep most of my father’s old belongings, including his Colt revolver. I’d hung on to the gun on the off chance I might need it someday for personal protection but had never fired it. It was supposed to be in a cardboard banker’s box marked “father’s stuff #1.” The box seemed to be in order—the top was still on—but when I looked inside the gun was gone.

  I stared at the box for a moment and knew I was in really big trouble. The revolver, I feared, had been used to kill Peter and Dewey Swindell and Marty Moreland. I suspected it had now been returned to my house and squirreled away in some obscure corner. I’d been at Pembroke Woods with Camus for hours the day before. Had the Serenader taken that opportunity to return the gun and then tip off authorities where to find it? Of course he had. Once again, he’d made me his pawn.

  A cheery disregard for reality is not among my limited inventory of virtues, so I knew what would happen if searchers found the murder weapon on my property. I’d be arrested on the spot and taken to the jail on suspicion of first-degree murder. That is, if I was around to be arrested.

  To obtain a search warrant, Jason would have to prepare suitable documentation, locate a judge—undoubtedly my old buddy A. A. Anderson—to approve it, assemble a team of law officers, and then head to my house, probably around noon at the earliest. Another possibility was that Jason might wait to serve a late-night, no-knock warrant. Such warrants are typically approved in cases where there’s reason to think evidence might be quickly disposed of if officers politely announce their presence before conducting the search.

  I didn’t think Jason would go the late-night route, simply because the longer he waited to serve the warrant, the more time I’d have to find out about it via the local gossip network. I glanced at my watch. It was nine thirty. I devoted a half hour to a search of the house, but I didn’t find the gun or any other damning evidence. The clock was ticking down. Jason would be at my door before long. It was time for some seriously creative thinking.

  When I left the house an hour later, I didn’t have my cell phone with me. But I did have Camus, who was in the back seat, whining. He’s never liked car rides.

  “Don’t worry,” I told him, “we don’t have far to go.”

  I drove into town, parked in front of Kat Berglund’s apartment, and went up the steps with Camus to see if she was home.

  “Jesus,” she said when she opened the door, “do you know what time it is?”

  “Early for you, but getting late for me,” I said as Camus wandered inside to putter around. “I need a big favor.”

  Kat, bless her, was willing. “How long will you be gone?” she asked after I’d returned to my Prius to fetch a bag of dog food, a package of Camus’s favorite chew toys, and a bed he used when I wasn’t around to sleep with.

  “A couple of days, no more. Camus will be fine. I think he likes you already.”

  I’d told Kat an old college friend of mine was dying of leukemia in Minneapolis and had called at the last minute for help with his tangled estate. I lied because I didn’t want Kat to get in trouble. The less she knew, the better. I wasn’t at all sure she bought my story, but it didn’t matter. She was willing to trust me.

  I lied again
when I asked her to take Camus for a walk while I called my supposedly dying friend. Camus wasn’t eager to go without me, but Kat got some venison sausage out of her refrigerator and led Camus nose-first down the stairs.

  Using Kat’s land line, I called Cassandra. I couldn’t lie to her, not with what I wanted her to do, so I laid out my situation.

  “You can say ‘no,’” I said. “In fact, you probably should.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Not a chance. I’m coming along. I’ve already got a three o’clock flight scheduled to the Twin Cities. You’re going to need a good lawyer. By the way, where are you calling from?”

  I told her. “Do you still have your cell?” she asked.

  “No, I tossed it because it could be used to track me.”

  “Okay, I’ll get a couple of burner phones so we can communicate. See you later.”

  Once Camus settled in with Kat, I gave her a kiss and left. Not much goes on in Pineland on Sunday mornings, and Paradise Avenue was deserted as I slipped into my Prius and headed toward Swaboda’s Funeral Home a few blocks away.

  Cousin-in-law Dale, I knew, was busy partying in Las Vegas, and I was certain no one alive would be in the funeral home. I parked in the rear lot, which was screened by a row of trees, and got out a heavy crowbar I’d taken from my tool collection. I forced open the back door, which gave way with surprising ease, and slipped inside.

  A two-stall garage occupies much of the mortuary’s lower level, along with the embalming room where the little surprise had been left on Marty Moreland’s corpse. I went into the garage. A shiny black hearse took up one of the stalls. I opened the garage doors, moved my Prius inside next to the hearse and then closed everything up. The Prius, I figured, would be safely hidden from view until Dale returned.

  I’d scavenged food from my house — a bag of potato chips, a box of Cheerios and a half-loaf of bread, along with sliced Provolone cheese, milk and orange juice in an ice chest. Not exactly a feast, but it would keep me going until morning. I’d also taken along a duffel bag with spare clothes.