Murder Passes the Buck (27 page)

back and forth.

I walked out to the porch with him while Little Donny finished up another order of bacon and eggs. Since George was about the only person I could trust with a secret, I told him about Chester owning the piece of land next to Onni and the mineral rights, which I now owned. He listened carefully until I finished.

“
That
’
s pretty much the way I heard it from Kitty,
”
George said.

I couldn
’
t believe it. Did the whole town know? Once she wound up there was no stopping her. I heard about an operation you could give your dog if it yapped too much. De-barking, it
’
s called. Maybe we could have that done to Kitty.

“
The land must have something to do with Chester
’
s murder.
”

“
Kitty thinks someone
’
s after gold.
”

“
Gold,
”
I scoffed.
“
The only gold involved in this case is packed in Kitty
’
s molars.
”

George burst out laughing. I told him about the Ropes Gold Mine and Kitty
’
s theory. It sounded pretty farfetched when I said it out loud.

“
Just be careful, Gertie.
”

George had parked in the back of the restaurant next to an LP tank. We walked in that direction, dodging puddles where the

snow melted.

“
Maybe Chester was murdered by those fellows from Lower Michigan,
”
I said, thinking out loud as we strolled back to his truck.
“
Maybe they were in cahoots with Barb.
”

“
Sounds like a tall tale to me,
”
George said, but he wasn
’
t paying attention. Instead, he stood with the truck door open, hands on his hips.

“
Damn,
”
he said,
“
I thought I locked up.
”

“
What
’
s the matter?
”
I asked.

“
My rifle
’
s gone.
”

No one at the Deer Horn Restaurant had seen anyone hanging around back by George
’
s truck. His rifle, which he
’
d laid on the floor tucked in under the seat, had walked away.

“
Maybe chthonics took it,
”
I said, not really sure I
’
d used my word right.

“
Hunh?
”
George said, distractedly.

“
Never mind.
”

“
Better call Blaze,
”
Ruthie said to George.

That was my cue to hit the road. I didn
’
t want anything to do with the traitorous Blaze Johnson.

Walter Laakso was considered a hermit, even for these parts. The ruts in his private dirt road were so deep you
’
d think an

earthquake had passed through. My truck bounced and bobbed so violently I thought we might have to get out and walk the rest of the way. I was grateful that Little Donny was driving instead of me.

“
What kind of job interview?
”
I asked Little Donny, clutching the dash as we hit the ruts.

“
An office job at an investment firm in downtown Milwaukee. I applied right before I came up here. I
’
d rather stay.
”

“
You can
’
t pass up the opportunity to make money,
”
I said, disappointed. Little Donny didn
’
t have his buck yet, and I hadn
’
t spent nearly enough time with him.

We pulled up to the house and got out.

Walter met us in the dirt next to his house with a sawed-off shotgun in his hand. He raised it and beaded in on us. Little Donny hit the ground.

“
Get up,
”
I said.
“
Don
’
t let Walter make a fool of you.
”
Then to Walter,
“
Put that thing away. Have you gone blind? It
’
s Gertie Johnson, and that
’
s my grandson, Little Donny, wallowing in the mud.
”

Walter lowered the shotgun and squinted.
“
Sorry. Eyes aren
’
t what they used to be. Come on in. Want some coffee?
”
Walter grinned and I could see his front teeth were missing.

“
Sure.
”

We sat at the kitchen table while Walter made coffee in a pot on the stove. I sat on a chair with a wobbly leg, hoping it didn
’
t give out till I was up and gone. The sink brimmed with dirty dishes and a layer of dust and food grime covered the table instead of a tablecloth. I was afraid to look down at the chair I sat on. Walter didn
’
t look any too clean himself.

He poured a cup all around, then poured a juice glass full of brandy from an oversized bottle on the counter. I glanced at my watch. It was just past ten o
’
clock in the morning.

Walter sat down and poured some brandy into his coffee cup, then passed the brandy glass to Little Donny. I took a sip of my coffee and thought it was perfect. The old timers don
’
t need fancy percolators or coffee machines to make a decent cup of coffee. They boil some water, throw in a handful of ground coffee, and let it boil away for a while
— five or ten minutes, depending on how strong they like it. If the pot sits a few minutes before it
’
s poured, the grounds settle on the bottom of the pot, making for clean, rich coffee.

“
Sorry for scarin
’
you like that, boy.
”

“
That
’
s okay.
”
Little Donny had mud all

over the front of his coat. He took a gulp of the brandy and I noticed a twitch in the hand holding the juice glass.

“
Walter, I
’
m investigating Chester
’
s murder, and I need to ask you some questions.
”

“
Didn
’
t know he was murdered. Talk is he took a stray.
”

“
We need to rule out murder, is all,
”
I said, remembering that I knew things others didn
’
t.
“
Those guys from down south last spring were trying to buy up land. They tried to buy from you, didn
’
t they?
”

“
That
’
s right.
”

“
Did you catch their names?
”

“
Naw, didn
’
t pay attention to that.
”

“
Too bad,
”
I said, taking another sip of coffee.

“
But they ended up buying property up by St. Ignace.
”

“
How do you know that?
”

“
They
’
re friends of my brother. He keeps in touch, writes me letters once in a while.
”

I mentally crossed the Detroit boys off my list of suspects. An amateur investigator might be disappointed when faced with a dead-end, but for me it simply eliminated possibilities
— tightening the noose, closing in.

“
Chester wouldn
’
t sell to my brother
’
s friends, but then he turned right around

and started negotiating to sell to someone else.
”

I slid forward.
“
Who else?
”

“
Don
’
t know, but he said his property was as good as sold last time I talked to him. Right before he died.
”

“
Right before he died?
”

“
Yup.
”

“
Better do some work on your road,
”
I told Walter.
“
My eyeballs nearly popped out of my head getting in here, and Little Donny
’
s brains are scrambled for sure.
”

Little Donny was still driving when we passed Chester
’
s house on the way back from Walter
’
s, and I noticed the Lampi
’
s foreign car in the driveway.

“
Whoa,
”
I called out.
“
Back up. We
’
re paying a visit.
”

Little Donny swung around, turned in, and parked. Bill Lampi came to the door and watched us walk up to the house. I stepped over the broken boards on the porch. Bill opened the door and we wiped our wet boots on a worn rug.

“
Thought we
’
d stop and see how you
’
ve been doing,
”
I said. Bill wore a blue sweater pulled over an oxford shirt, and he wiped his hands on a dishtowel.

“
I
’
m fine.
”
He peered at us through his

thick glasses.
“
I
’
m going through some of Dad
’
s things, trying to put the place back together. Who would do something like this?
”
He gestured at the mess.

Everything Chester owned had been dumped on the floor. Bill had brought a stack of empty cardboard boxes, which he
’
d piled by the door, and by the looks of things, he had just started to clean up.

“
I tell you what,
”
I offered.
“
Why don
’
t I stay and help for awhile. I
’
ll clean up the kitchen.
”

I took the dishtowel from him and started for the kitchen. What an opportunity. And no sign of Barb. She probably didn
’
t want to mess up her manicure by working here.

“
I couldn
’
t ask you to do this,
”
Bill called after me.

“
You didn
’
t ask. I offered.
”
I turned to Little Donny.
“
You go on. I
’
ll call you when I
’
m done and you can pick me up.
”

Little Donny nodded and tore out of there, grateful that he wasn
’
t being asked to help.

Chester had the smallest kitchen I
’
d ever seen. There was barely room to maneuver between the table and the sink. Garbage and broken dishes covered the floor. I took a garbage bag and picked up as much from the floor as I could, then ran water in the

sink and started on the unwashed dishes. I had two thoughts as I worked. The first was that whoever searched the house didn
’
t care about covering up his tracks. The second thought was that Walter Laakso would be right at home in this mess.

I noticed someone had replaced the broken glass in the back door. Bill, probably. I thought I should talk to him about the broken porch boards before I left. Those needed attention, too, before someone broke a leg.

Bill worked in the bedroom for a while, then came to check on me.

“
You don
’
t know how much I appreciate your help,
”
he said. I could hear the relief in his voice as he saw the kitchen shaping up. He leaned on the edge of the counter, took his glasses off, laid them on the counter, and rubbed his face with both hands.
“
It
’
s a lot all at once
— cleaning up, sorting through Dad
’
s boxes, trying to make sense out of something so senseless. You were right. He was murdered. The sheriff told me.

“
I heard about that. What
’
ll happen to the house now?
”
I asked.

“
I
’
m not sure. Barb
’
s family likes to hunt. They might come up once in a while and use it as a hunting cabin.
”