Shelf Ice (21 page)

Simone barked a greeting, dashed to Ray, tail wagging, begging to be picked up. Ray held her in his arms, scratching her head, and taking several sloppy kisses on the cheek.

“You have a way with women,” joked Sue.

“Did I tell you how nice you looked in a dress yesterday,” was Ray’s opening gambit, noting Sue was in the department’s winter uniform, her beautifully coiffed hair now covered by a thick, blue, stocking cap with the department emblem stitched on the front.

“I’m happy you noticed, and that you are able to mention it. You’re always so professional, I’m not sure what you recognize and what you don’t.”

“There’s nothing that says female officers can’t wear skirts,” Ray countered.

“And skirts would be terrific when you’re trying to run a bad guy to ground in deep snow.”

“How’s Simone?”

“She’s good and wonderful company, but she’s spending more time with the dog sitter than me. Sometimes she ends up being boarded there several days in a row. Wonderful people, they keep her in the house, but I feel guilty.
 
It’s not a good situation, I’m trying to decide what to do.”

Ray looked out at the big lake. There was no wind, the water’s surface mirrored the sky in the early morning light. “There’s a hint of spring,” said Ray. “We’re supposed to have clear weather and sun today and tomorrow.”

“Good, I need the sun.” Looking back at the shore, Sue asked, “Assuming it was Kinver’s body in the truck, what do you think happened? He didn’t strike me as a suicidal type.”

“No,” Ray agreed. “Never can dismiss any possibility, but suicide seems unlikely.”

“We should have the results of the preliminary autopsy by tomorrow afternoon. If I can find and get Kinver’s dental records faxed to the pathologist tomorrow morning, we can probably have a positive identification, also.”

“I didn’t look at the body too closely,” admitted Ray. “When you were photographing, did you see any wounds?”

“Ray, if there were any wounds, they would not have been visible. It was bad.” Sue let her comment hang for a long time. “I think that got to me, the condition of the body, maybe the smell of burnt rubber and flesh.”

“So we have three arsons, two homicides—well, one homicide, one suspected homicide. And a murderer who likes fire,” observed Ray.

“And how is Kinver part of this? Why did someone need him dead? Is there a killer out there who might think we know more than we do?” asked Sue.

“Several days ago we were talking about Kinver’s alibi.”

“Yes, Mike McFarland,” said Sue.

“We need to bring County Commissioner McFarland in for a conversation. Now that Kinver is dead, I wonder if his memory of his time with Kinver in Lansing might have changed.”

Sue pulled a notebook from her jacket pocket, flipped to the first blank page, and jotted McFarland’s name.

“What do we tell the news media?” Sue asked.

“Tomorrow and maybe the next day we can get by with the victim has yet to be identified. Then we’ll figure out what to do,” answered Ray.

“What was he doing here in the middle of the night?”

“Perhaps he was killed somewhere else and brought here for cremation.”

“That would have been considerate,” said Sue. “Bring him to one of the loveliest beaches in the region and send him to the afterlife on a Chevrolet pyre.” She paused briefly, and turned back toward the lake. “So what’s going on with Sarah?”

“You’re changing the subject,” protested Ray.

“You looked like you were becoming a couple.”

“I told you yesterday.”

“You didn’t tell me very much. Like most guys, you’re quite laconic when it comes to anything that involves feeling.” Sue looked thoughtful. “Well, that’s not quite true, you’re better than most guys, but you’re still very guarded.”

“Thanks, and I don’t know what to tell you. Her job at Leiston went away. She had this terrific job offer in Chicago where she’s going to make a lot of money. I’m here, she’s there, and she says she loves being back in the city. That’s all I know.”

“Well, how do you feel?”

“I don’t know. I enjoyed being with her. And I’m amazed at how quickly everything changed.”

“And you’re not going to resign your job and follow her to Chicago?”

“No, and I don’t think she wants that either,” said Ray, setting Simone down.

“Are we heading back to the office?” asked Sue.

“No, I think you and Simone deserve some quality time together.”

“How about you?”

“I might bring a kayak over, cruise up and down the shelf ice for awhile.”

“You and the young doctor?” she asked playfully.

“ You know everything.”

“Yep.”

34.

As Ray settled onto the small oak bench in the mudroom, he could hear the hubbub of friendly voices within and smell the rich aroma of skillfully prepared food. He pulled off his boots and put on a pair of soft moccasins that he had brought along. Sunday night dinner with his friends at Marc and Lisa’s house had become a tradition. In recent weeks, however, the demands of his work had kept him away.

He pushed his way into the kitchen, greeted first by his friend Nora and her two dogs, Falstaff and Prince Hal. After a short flurry of welcoming barks and wags, the dogs wandered away and Ray was able to hand Lisa two bottles of wine for the meal.

“Sorry all I can do is bring wine this week,” he said.

“What do you mean, just wine,” retorted Marc. “You’re providing the main course, that beautiful steelhead that you brought us a few weeks ago. I froze it so we could have it on a special occasion. I’m going to steam it in white wine.”

“What else is on the menu?” asked Ray.

“Marc’s been experimenting with bread again,” said Lisa. “I don’t think he’s going to be happy until we build a brick oven. If we ever get around to redoing the kitchen that’ll probably be part of it.”

“No,” said Marc. “If I’m going to go to all that trouble, I want something really big. It will have to be out in the yard.”

“Maybe you’re on the verge of starting a new business,” joked Ray.

“If my investments don’t get better, it’s something I’ll probably have to do,” said Marc.

“Don’t get him started, Ray. We now have a rule around here that Marc doesn’t get to talk about the Wall Street robbers, at least not in my presence,” said Lisa.

Ray chuckled, “My financial advisor said I shouldn’t look at my monthly reports. He said I should try to focus on the big picture. I should probably only look at what’s going on with my investments every five years.”

“You’re kidding,” said Marc.

“No,” said Ray. “And he told me this with a straight face. So I’m following his advice. Every month, when the statement arrives, I open the envelope and then shred the contents without looking at them. It’s one less thing to get upset about.”

 
“I saw you at the simulcast of the opera yesterday,” said Nora. “You and that pretty young woman from your department.” Nora, now in her late 80s, and Ray had been friends for years. When he was in high school and college, Ray had done odd jobs for Nora and her husband, Hugh. They were summer people then, living in Grosse Pointe, but spending much of July and August at their home on the Lake Michigan shore. Nora’s roots ran deep in the area, and she had become an authority on local history. In addition to being a good friend, she had proven to be an important source when Ray needed background information about families and events that had occurred over the past decades.

“You sort of showed up at the last minute, just before the curtain, when the only seats were right up in front. Did you get a sore neck looking at the screen?” she asked.

“It wasn’t too bad,” said Ray.

“And where is Sarah?” asked Nora. “It wouldn’t be like you, but is something going on between you and what’s her name, Sue? I mean, you never know about men.”

Before he could answer, Lisa was herding them to the dinner table and pouring wine for the appetizer course. She removed an extra place setting, an indication that she had anticipated that Sarah would accompany Ray.

“So what’s going on with Sarah?” Nora asked again.

Ray explained briefly why Sarah was moving to Chicago.

“How do you feel about that?” asked Nora, falling into the patter of her former profession.

“No therapy tonight, Nora,” said Lisa, with a smile. “Let’s focus on Marc’s wonderful cooking.”

“I’m trying to do local,” said Marc. “But that’s hard in the dead of winter. Although with the help of a freezer and one jar of canned jam, I almost made it.”

Ray examined the appetizers Lisa placed in front of each of them, small perfectly formed quiches. “Looks beautiful Marc. All local?”

“Pretty much. Morel mushrooms we picked and dried last spring, locally produced raclette cheese, local organic eggs, but I can’t vouch for the butter, cream, or scallions.”

“I want you to know what a special friend you are,” said Lisa. “Marc used his last jar of thimbleberry jam to make the dessert. And speaking of our carbon footprint, what do you think of the environmental implications of our travel to the tip of the Keweenaw Peninsula to compete with the bears so we can make a few jars of jam?”

“Lisa, no one was talking about our carbon footprint,” retorted Marc.

Ray helped Lisa clear away the appetizer plates as Marc plated the main course, pieces of poached steelhead with a delicate sauce and green beans, carefully steamed to ensure the best color and retain a bit of crispiness.

Lisa poured wine from a freshly opened bottle into clean glasses. Once they were settled at the table again, Ray asked Nora, “Do you know anything about a man called Tristan Laird?”

“Who?” asked Nora, after swallowing her first bite of fish.

“Tristan Laird,” repeated Ray.

“Why should I know him?” she asked.

“He is a man who’s probably in his late 30s. It has been reported that he often camps out in the National Shoreline or in the woods adjacent to the park.”

“Maybe he’s the son of Lorna of the dunes.”

“Who? Isn’t she a character in a Victorian novel?” asked Ray.

“No Ray, not Lorna Doone, Lorna of the dunes,” said Nora, with obvious amusement. “It was a while back, maybe before your time. Late 50s, early 60s, but it was all the buzz one season. That’s all the summer people talked about. It was a great story. Some young woman, supposedly a graduate of one of those girls’ schools back east, when there were still girls’ schools, had gone native. People would talk about seeing her on the beach, dressed in animal skins, her Phi Beta Kappa key glistening in the sunshine.”

“Any truth to it?” asked Lisa.

“I don’t think so,” answered Nora. “Hugh and I spent so much time wandering the beaches and canoeing along the shore, if Lorna had been there we would’ve seen her. It was a good story, folks had a lot of fun talking about her, and by the next summer they’d forgotten her. I’ve got to say, it was a lot more fun than all of this chatter about the cougar that I’ve never seen.”

“So you don’t think you’ve ever seen Tristan Laird? He’s supposed to do a lot of kayaking, even in the winter.”

“I thought you were the only one nutty enough to kayak out beyond the shelf ice. No, Ray, I don’t think I can help you with that one. Lots of strange people wander past my place all year long. But I don’t know any Tristan Laird.”

“Have you noticed anything strange tonight?” said Marc, directing his question to Ray.

“What do you mean?” asked Ray.

“I told Lisa that I would take her to Key West for a week if she could get through an entire meal without asking you about your latest investigation,” said Marc.

“We’re not even at dessert yet,” said Lisa. “Why did you bring it up?”

“It’s wonderful spending several hours not talking about it,” said Ray. “Tell me about this thimbleberry tart,” he said, moving the conversation away from the investigation.

35.

Way before first light the next morning, Monday, Ray was wide-awake. The relaxed feelings he had experienced the previous evening were gone. He was tense, he needed some answers, and he needed to get the investigation moving forward.

He was able to spend several hours at the office very productively before the business of the day got started. He was always amazed by the amount of paperwork required, even in a very small police agency.

A few minutes after 9 a.m., Sue arrived, County Commissioner Mike McFarland in tow.

“What’s going on, Sheriff,” McFarland demanded. “Your deputy here had me on the phone just after seven. In the winter I try to sleep in. What’s so important?”

“Have a seat,” directed Ray. “I need to talk to you about Richard Kinver.”

“What’s the problem?” Mike McFarland asked, his tone hostile. He took off his heavy brown canvas jacket, dropped it on the back of a chair, and settled across from Ray at the conference table. He was wearing a green flannel shirt and red suspenders.