Deer Season (13 page)

The second area a shooter might have used was on a bluff that provided a good view of the front of the Boyd/Lowther home, but here again there were problems. When she started up the path to the top of the hill, two snowmobiles with deer hunters, one on each machine, passed her going the other direction. And while her fellow deputies had managed to limit traffic on Wildwood Road, cutting off access to all the trails and two tracks was impossible. When she got to the ridgeline that would have offered the assailant a good view of the mailbox, she did her best to visualize where a shooter might have been, but the area was covered with a blanket of new snow.

Sue had had her young colleague, Brett Carty, go over the area with a metal detector. He recovered a surprising quantity of brass, indicating that this summit was a favorite place for hunters. Most of the shell casings were heavily tarnished and filled with debris, suggesting that they had been there for years. One bullet case, however, was shiny. Was it from the gun of the assailant or some deer hunter?

All the things that might provide some real leads to the shooter—a dropped glove, a footprint she could cast—were not to be found. Her efforts to understand the crime scene and collect usable evidence had been totally frustrated by the weather, a snowplow driver doing his job, and deer hunters crossing the land, unaware that an investigation was in progress.

Sue was startled by the chirping of her phone.

“Sue Lawrence.”

“Yes.”

“This is Sergeant Reynolds, Michigan State Police. We have Dirk Lowther in custody.”

“Custody?”

“Yes, we waited until he moved his vehicle, then we pulled him over. He had an open container of beer next to him, and he was clearly inebriated. He blew a 0.30 and is a rather mean drunk. We have him under arrest, and he’s going to be charged.”

“We need to question him, and I would like his vehicle impounded,” said Sue. Then she went on to explain the circumstances. Reynolds agreed to transport Lowther to the Mackinaw City State Police headquarters and hold him there until she arrived to collect him.

23
Early that morning Ray called Nora Jennings—a woman in her eighties, an old friend of his, and someone who had helped look after him during his recent convalescence—asking if he could come by and have a quick cup of coffee on his way to the office, explaining that he needed some background information. Nora asked if Ray had eaten breakfast, and when he indicated he hadn’t, she said she’d give him more than coffee.

While Ray Elkins’ roots ran deep in Cedar County, Nora’s ran deeper. Her great-grandfather was one of the early European settlers. And her parents were active in business and politics of the region through the first half of the twentieth century. Nora got a degree from Ann Arbor just before the war, married, and eventually settled in Grosse Pointe. After Hugh, her husband, returned from the service, they built a summer home high on a bluff above Lake Michigan.

With her knowledge of people, her interest in the history of the region, and her amazing memory, Nora was an important resource for Ray. She had started working on an oral history of Cedar County in the fifties, when most of her parents’ generation, and remnants of her grandparents’ generation were still alive. And her knowledge cut across socioeconomic lines. She knew the farmers and the residents of the small towns and villages. She also knew the summer people, the people who had had cottages and family compounds for generations. Nora was a collector of stories, many of them in print in three volumes of local history.

When Ray arrived at the house she was sharing for the winter at the edge of the village, Nora was outside with her two dogs, Falstaff and Prince Hal. He was greeted by a cacophony of barks and wags.

Ray followed Nora and the dogs into the back entrance to the house. He left his coat and heavy boots in the mudroom and walked into the kitchen.

Nora was already working at the stove.

“Where’s Dottie?” he asked, looking about for the woman with whom Nora was sharing the house for the winter, a concession to her daughter who didn’t want her mother living alone in an isolated cottage on Lake Michigan.

“She’s in Grand Rapids with her kids for Thanksgiving. They picked her up on Sunday, and they’re bringing her back next Sunday. She didn’t want to be gone that long, but they insisted on it.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Ray. “Is your daughter coming up or are you going downstate?”

“We are discussing it,” Nora replied, some aggravation in her voice. “She was going to come up and get me and the guys, but given the weather, she wanted me to put them,” she motioned toward the dogs, “in a kennel and fly.”

“The dogs could stay with me for a few days,” offered Ray.

“I don’t hear you,” she responded with a laugh. “I’d rather be here sharing a frozen turkey dinner with these two guys than being a captive in Detroit playing at being a matriarch. Besides, I love these big storms, and we don’t get them much anymore.”

“What’s for breakfast?” asked Ray.

“Buckwheat pancakes, something you used to love.” She looked over at Ray, “I got some good local maple syrup and some of that thistle honey, too.

“Sounds wonderful,” he responded with a laugh.

He helped carry things to the table, including the coffee pot. Ray attacked his plate of pancakes and Canadian bacon, washing them down with Nora’s dark, strong coffee. When they both had consumed most of their breakfasts, Nora asked, “So what do you need to know? You didn’t tell me much on the phone, just enough to get my curiosity up a bit.”

“You heard about the shooting yesterday?”

“I turned on the news to get the weather, and that’s all they were talking about. Horrible thing. And the woman has those two precious little girls. I often see them at the market with her. They’re just wonderful. Do you know who did this?” Nora asked as she started to clear away the plates. Ray got up to help her.

“It’s still early in the investigation.” Ray heard himself giving out the same line, a tired and painful cliché meaning that he didn’t know anything yet.

“So what can I help you with?” Nora pursued.

“Lynne Boyd, what can you tell me? Not so much about her, but about the family,” Ray explained.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been introduced to her, formally,” started Nora, “other than, like I said, chatting with her and the little girls in the checkout line.”

“The family,” pressed Ray, “you know the family, Prescott and Dorothy Boyd. They own that big estate near the top of the county. I think it was a hunting club at one time.”

“I don’t know them,” responded Nora. “They’re rather reclusive, at least when they’re up here. I knew his parents, Nick Liago, the wife’s name was Lillian.”

“I’m confused,” interrupted Ray. “Who are the Liagos?”

“That’s Prescott’s parents. He shed the family name, had it changed, wanted something more Anglo.”

“Okay,” said Ray. “Tell me about his parents and this piece of property he owns.”

“It wasn’t really his parents, it was his grandparents who were part of the original group that developed that property. And it even goes back further than that.”

Ray was getting frustrated with Nora. She knew so much about people and places in the region, but it was hard to keep her focused. And she always wanted to tell the whole story in minute detail.

“Can you tell me about the property, how did it come into Boyd’s hands?” asked Ray.

“I can’t really start there, or you won’t get the big picture. You need to have the complete history.”

“How about a summary, Nora. I’ve got to get to the office.”

“Well, the story goes back to the 1890s. Virgil Nobel, a forefather of a member of the original group, bought up hundreds of acres along that west coast after the area had been lumbered. The land wasn’t worth much after the trees had been cut and the area had been burned over to make it easy to get the logs out. He farmed part of the land away from the shore. Later he and his wife built a hotel north of Crescent Cove, it was the first summer resort in the area. There was still a big pier left over from the lumber days, and during the summer lake steamers would drop off passengers coming from Chicago for vacations. Fairly quickly some of the summer visitors wanted to have their own cottages, and Virgil started selling off some of his lakefront. At the same time he was buying up the property around the nearby inland lakes and turning it into resort property. Virgil was a real entrepreneur: built a general store, started a bank. But Crescent Cove and Round Island, he always held onto that. Late in life he built a grand cottage on Round Island, but that burned down during the winter a few years later, shortly after his death. Some of the old timers—this was years and years ago—told me the locals who were used to hunting deer on the island had torched the place in revenge for being told they couldn’t hunt there any more.”

Nora paused and poured some more coffee, adding cream and some honey to her cup. She held out the pot toward Ray, who covered his cup with his hand.

“Do you want to know about the Indian legend?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Ray, resigned to the fact that Nora would get to the part of the history he was most interested in when she got to that part of the chronology.

“Well, the Indians always said the island was a land of evil spirits. I’m not sure why, but they usually had a good reason for their beliefs. Hugh thought it was perhaps because of the shoals that run along the west side of the island and the entrance to the cove.”

“That makes sense,” said Ray. “I’ve kayaked through that area many times. When there’s a strong wind from the southwest, it’s tricky just paddling a kayak through there without getting capsized. And when it’s really blowing, the water moving up the coast gets funneled through. There’s a strong and unexpected current.”

“Some of the old-timers talked about drownings there, people swimming on the north side of the cove being pulled out into deep water. They’d talk about the awful undertow.”

“When the conditions are right, there’s probably a rip current,” Ray observed. “Perhaps we’re lucky that that stretch of beach hasn’t been available to the general public for decades.”

“And that leads us back to your initial question, I think. How did Boyd come into possession of Crescent Cove and Round Island?”

“Yes, how did that happen?” asked Ray, slightly amused at the way the conversation had suddenly shifted toward his original inquiry.

“Well, Virgil’s son, Percy, went down to Ann Arbor and got a law degree. He moved on to Chicago, became a big time LaSalle Street lawyer. He had two sisters, Lucinda and Matilda. After the old folks died, the estate was divided in thirds. Percy wanted the land, and he had the cash to buy out his sisters. He developed the hunt club at Crescent Cove and sold memberships to his rich friends. For its time it was a very exclusive club. The first building was a massive log lodge. The main building had hotel-like suites, each with a bath. This is at a time when most of the people up here were still using outhouses. There was a large dining room where everyone ate. The members brought their servants with them, cooks and maids. They didn’t employ locals. Behind the main lodge were stables with servants’ quarters on the second floor.

“The place was open during June, July, and August; every member got so many weeks they could be at the lodge with their family. And then the club was open for deer season, but that was a strictly stag affair.” Nora giggled. “Well, perhaps not strictly stag. There were lots of stories about the carrying-on during deer season. Let’s put it this way, wives weren’t included.”

“So how did the Boyds…?”

“Hold your horses, I’m getting there. So most of the hunting was done over on Round Island. There were a lot of deer over there, more than that small island would support. Yet they had one of their caretakers feeding the herd all year long. I heard from people that those animals were almost tame. They had blinds set up for the members, a warming cottage where they served lunch. These guys were really roughing it.

“Eventually some of the older members died off.” Nora took a long sip of her coffee before continuing. “As it was explained to me, the club was set up so when a member died, his estate would be paid the price of the original share and some modest interest. Percy’s idea was that some of the offspring might not be acceptable members. And I think new members were recruited for a while, but then with the depression and the war, well the club got very small.

“Along the way, your predecessor, probably the longest serving sheriff in the history of this county—maybe the state, became sort of an honorary member of the club.”

“How did that happen?” asked Ray.

“Well, old Orville just loved doing favors for rich people, whether it was fixing a ticket or driving a drunk home. During the late thirties or maybe during the war years there was some vandalism up at the club. I think some poaching, too. Orville worked out an arrangement that he’d provide special protection in exchange for hunting privileges and the occasional use of the lodge, when the place wasn’t occupied by members. Orville’s special deputies were included in this deal. Percy thought it was a great idea, and the arrangement lasted for decades.”

“What does this have to do with…?”

“Just wait, I’m getting to that. Some time ago, in the 70s or early 80s there weren’t many members left. By then Boyd was president of the club. And one year during deer season one of the older members, Talmadge Hawthorne, was shot and killed on Round Island. Orville and this group of young guys who ran the department investigated the incident. It was reported that Talmadge shot himself accidentally and bled to death before anyone found him.

“There was a lot of talk at the time because Talmadge was trying to stop Boyd from getting control of the club. There was some kind of settlement with Talmadge’s family, it was all sort of hush, hush. Soon after that, Boyd managed to buy out the last few members. And as long as Orville lived, he and his special deputies continued to hunt there.

“That all changed when Boyd tore down the old buildings and built his own place. And you know he brought in an out-of-state firm to do the work. He didn’t want the locals to know anything about the place. He’s even got a landing place for a helicopter. Have you been there?”