Murder Passes the Buck (12 page)

Blaze
’
s truck?
”
Mary asked, peering into the barn.

“
I
’
m trying to get on Blaze
’
s good side,
”
I said.
“
I
’
m tired of squabbling with him and thought fixing his truck might help. It didn
’
t turn out quite like I expected, though.
”

Mary covered her mouth with her hand, and I could see the beginning of a smile under it.

“
That
’
s so nice of you,
”
Mary said. She walked around the truck with me, checking out my work.
“
I
’
d invite you in for coffee,
”
she said,
“
but let
’
s give Blaze some time.
”

“
That
’
s okay. We all know he
’
s high-strung. I
’
ll take a rain check.
”

I practically flew out of there even without wings.

While I was pulling off my boots on the hall rug, the telephone rang. It rang four times before I got the boots off and could pick up the receiver.

“
Better keep your nose in your own backyard,
”
a voice said.
“
Unless you
’
re looking to have it cut off.
”

“
Who is this?
”

I had to wait for an answer because the caller went into a coughing jag
— dry, racking coughs only smoking several tons of cigarettes can produce.

“
Better pay attention,
”
he hacked.
“
You ain
’
t getting another chance. Next time, you
’
ll be swimming with the fishes.
”

“
You must have the wrong number,
”
I said, and hung up the phone with a shaking hand.

I went over the conversation in my head a million times before I called Cora Mae.

“
Settle down,
”
she said.
“
It was only a crank call.
”

“
The mob
’
s after me.
”

“
The mob?
”

“
Who else would threaten to throw me to the fishes? Only gangsters talk like that.
”

“
Someone
’
s acting tough. There aren
’
t any gangs in the U.P. This isn
’
t Detroit.
”

“
Maybe you
’
re right,
”
I said.
“
My nerves aren
’
t as good as they used to be.
”

My understatement for the day.

I
’
m convinced the section of the Escanaba River west of Perkins is the most beautiful spot in the world. It
’
s hidden from the road so finding it isn
’
t easy if you don
’
t know where to look. I parked the truck by the side of the guardrail, walked over to the top of the path, and peered down. What a sight to behold! From my position high above the river
bed,

angular rocks sprouted up in the river, waterfalls cascaded down steep banks on both sides, and as far as I looked in every direction, there wasn
’
t a human being to be seen.

I crawled down a steep embankment, clutching small tree branches and brush to slow my descent. Soon I was standing next to the rushing water of the great trout river.

Barney fished for trout with a simple rod and reel and a spinner; he didn
’
t need a fancy fly outfit. We pan-fried rainbows and brown trout several times each week from the time the kids were little until Barney passed on last year. Trout fishing was his favorite thing to do.

The Escanaba River appears to be shallow. I
’
ve walked out to the middle in spots, sometimes even crossed over to the other side, being very careful. But the rocks are slippery, the current is fast, and the dropoffs are invisible.

Barney wasn
’
t the first and he won
’
t be the last to make a false step and pay the price to the Escanaba River.

I hadn
’
t been back to this spot for years, but in my younger days he and I stood together in waders knee-high in the cold water with the current sweeping past our legs, casting high and wide, the lines glisten
ing

in the rising sun, and there wasn
’
t anything better in the whole wide world.

Sitting on a flat rock on the side of the river, I talked to Barney. All the while, I had the feeling that he was watching me, looking down from above. I searched the sky. Nothing but clouds.

I explained to Barney that it was taking me a great deal of time to adjust to the idea that he was gone, and now with this phone conversation, things weren
’
t going so well, and he should give me a sign that things would be okay. Any sign would do.

I sat waiting a long time, but no sign came, although I still felt a watchful gaze upon me.

As I struggled up the steep slope, I heard a car door slam, and as I crested the hill, I spotted the back end of a magenta-colored sedan round the bend and disappear.

When I returned home, Carl and Little Donny had finished hunting for the day and invited me for a quick one. We piled into what was left of Carl
’
s station wagon and headed over to Herb
’
s Bar. By this time I needed a quick one the size of a gallon pitcher.

I glanced around the interior of Carl
’
s car. It needed work after the deer attack, but

Little Donny had agreed to pay for the damage without involving the insurance company. That way Carl
’
s insurance premiums wouldn
’
t go up and it kept Carl happy.

Herb
’
s Bar is the only bar within twenty square miles and is owned by Star
’
s twins, Ed and Red. I can
’
t say why the bar was ever called Herb
’
s because, thinking back, no one by the name of Herb ever owned it, at least not in my time. And I
’
ve been around a spell.

When Little Donny opened the door, the whole place quieted down. You could have heard a nickel drop behind the bar. That
’
s small-town life in the U.P. Everyone stopped talking and turned to see who was coming in. Nobody called out a greeting until they looked past Little Donny and saw Carl and me. By the time Carl shut the door, everybody was back to his own business.

The place sure was hopping. Carl found one bar stool at the far end of the bar and helped me crawl up onto it. We had to wait a few minutes until Red worked his way down to us. Little Donny and Carl ordered tap beer. I settled for a soda pop.

The twins looked exactly alike from the day they were born, and still do. The only thing that saves me from total confusion is their hair. Once the baby hair fell out, Ed
’
s

came in chestnut-colored like the horse I had my eye on long ago. Red
’
s came in the color of fresh-pulled carrots. His birth name was Ned, but we just naturally started calling him Red, and the name stuck. A lot of discussion ensued about where that red hair came from, but if I recall right, my own German Nana had fiery red hair.

The twins are in their early twenties, slender like marsh reeds, and are handsome pups. They share a two-bedroom apartment above the bar, and I hear they
’
re hot with the local girls. They
’
re hard workers though
— have to give them credit where credit
’
s due. Finns and Swedes admire hard workers.

“
Sorry we had to miss dinner the other night,
”
Red shouted over the noise,
“
but since hunting season started, we
’
ve been working
‘
round the clock.
”

“
You missed Chester
’
s funeral yesterday,
”
I shouted back.
“
I
’
m investigating his death, you know.
”

Before Red could reply, an out-of-town hunter stomped his empty glass on the counter and Red hurried away.

Carl, Little Donny, and I toasted to Little Donny
’
s future hunting success, which I was losing faith in, and we downed our drinks.

I
’
d never seen Herb
’
s Bar so busy. Every hunter from across the county must be pounding them back tonight. My eyes swept up and down the bar. I turned to the tables and studied each of the hunters sitting down.

I remembered the threatening phone call and the smoker
’
s cough. Was he in here right this minute
— and which one would he be? Was Chester
’
s killer sitting right next to me while I sipped my soda?

I lifted my glass to my lips and my eyes locked with a grubby-looking guy at the other end of the bar, which wasn
’
t anything unusual. Most of the hunters in Herb
’
s are grubby. Part of the attraction of hunting for the men is the length of time they get to take between showers and shaves. Being a dirtball is expected and welcome behavior.

Only this guy was different. He looked like he should be on the Most Wanted list at the post office. In some ways he looked pretty much like everyone else in the bar
— scruffy, several days
’
growth on his face, greasy unwashed hair poking out of a dirty gray ball cap. The difference was in his eyes. They radiated pure evil, cold and hateful, and they were glaring right at me.

I looked away first and shivered. Suddenly, I felt cold.

“
Who
’
s that guy at the end of the bar?
”
I said to Ed when I was sure he wasn
’
t watching.

Ed shrugged.
“
Don
’
t know.
”

“
Is he from around here?
”

“
Don
’
t think so. I
’
ve only seen him this week.
”

I glanced across the bar and watched him paying up with Red. He looked back at me one last time before leaving, with cold dark eyes and a cigarette hanging from his lips.

Cora Mae opened her front door before I crawled out of my truck, a cup of coffee in her hand.

“
You won
’
t sleep tonight,
”
I warned, refusing a cup.

“
What brings you by so late?
”

I told my best friend about the car following me at the river and about the sinister man at the bar.
“
He stared me down.
”

“
You mean he won.
”

“
I had to look away. He gave me the creeps.
”
I shivered, thinking about it.

“
Did you recognize the car?
”

“
No. Who around here owns a purple car?
”

“
Nobody that I know.
”
Cora Mae sipped her coffee.
“
We
’
ll keep a lookout. By the way, Kitty stopped by earlier. She brought