Anyone new hanging around lately, anything unusual?”
“Nothing I can remember. This is the slowest time of year.”
“Do you know about Fox’s book?” asked Ray.
“Oh, yeah, that book. It’s all he’s talked about for a year. Before the book, he mostly talked about World War II and all his bomber adventures. Then that whole Capone thing took over.”
“Have you seen the book?”
“I got a copy back at the house. He gave it to me for Christmas. I’m not much of a reader, but I’ve made my way through most of it.”
“And?”
“Well, Vinnie’s a good story teller, he is. And there might be some truth in his book. I mean we all know Capone made a lot of money and was doing his best not to give it to the taxman. But, well, I can say there’s always lots of fun in the telling, and the listening.”
Ray finished his coffee and set the mug back on the counter. “It’s pretty good coffee, Jack. I’m not a convert yet, but this could grow on me. Listen, if anything occurs to you about Vinnie, give me a call.”
“I’ll do that, Ray. I’ll miss old Vinnie. There aren’t many of us left.”
Sue Lawrence scraped back a chair at the conference table. “I thought you were going to be back earlier,” she said to Ray.
“Did I say that?”
“No, not exactly, but I thought you were just going to talk to Joan Barton.”
“Well, I was going through the village, and I got inspired.” Ray told Sue about his several conversations.
“So,” said Sue mildly, “what you established is that we’re clueless as to who walked out with Fox’s book, no one remembers seeing him after Mildred Hall dropped him off in the village on Saturday afternoon, and that he drank craft beer.”
“No, there’s more. Not that they’re relevant to this investigation. But still surprising and interesting.”
“Like?”
“Mildred Hall, my old chemistry teacher, Fox’s sometime driver. She told me that she only spent time with Fox at the casino and the library. Turns out she also would have drinks with Fox and Tommy Fuller at the Last Chance.”
“That’s pretty scandalous, Ray.”
“It gets better. Jack keeps a special bottle of high-end single malt Scotch for her and serves it up in a proper teacup.”
Sue shrugged. “What can I say, or as my Grandmother would say, ‘A lady has to protect her reputation.’” She smiled and added, “And what you high school boys didn’t know was that Mildred Hall probably had a number of interesting lovers and spent her evenings drinking Scotch and having torrid encounters while you were home memorizing the periodic chart.”
Doing her best to control her mirth, Sue unrolled a plastic covered map, turned it 180 degrees for Ray, and pushed it across the table. “I read Fox’s book very carefully and highlighted the possible burial sites for the Capone stash.”
Ray looked at the large ellipse that encompassed the coastline from Frankfort to Charlevoix and included the Manitou and Fox islands.
“Where do you think we should start hunting for the guys digging in the sand?” she asked, doing her best to control the grin.
Ray just shook his head.
“This weekend…” began Sue.
“Yes?”
“I’m running down to Ann Arbor to spend some time with friends, and I was wondering about Simone. Could she stay with you?”
Ray took a moment to respond. “That should be fine,” he drawled. “If something happens that I’m mostly on the job, she can ride with me.”
“And I’d like to take a little extra time. I should be back here Monday by 1o’clock. Are you okay with that?”
“No problem,” Ray said, looking at the map again. “You’ve got a mountain of leave time. You should be using it.”
“Great. And here’s the quid pro quo: on my way out of Ann Arbor on Monday morning I’ll stop at Zingerman’s for you.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Ray. “Give me a few minutes to make a list.”
20
After leaving the office, Ray drove to the Lake Michigan shoreline for a long walk with Simone. Ray started their hike at a brisk pace and held it for several miles, but when they turned to retrace their steps, he allowed Simone to dictate the pace. They stopped frequently so Simone could carefully inspect pieces of driftwood, clumps of dune grass, and the assorted detritus that collects on a beach.
It took several trips to carry all of Simone’s weekend supplies into the house: her bed, a crate, a bag of food and treats, a doggie raincoat, and a bag of toys. All were neatly packed and organized in Sue’s usual fashion.
For dinner, Ray constructed a sandwich with bread sliced from a peasant loaf and some aged Vermont cheddar. After he pressed it into a Panini pan, he opened a can and dished out food for Simone. She approached the bowl warily, smelled the contents, and returned to Ray’s side, and looking up at him with large, expectant eyes.
Ray had promised Sue that he would not share his gastronomical creations with Simone and that she would be kept on her usual diet of gourmet canine food. But after a session of sad eyes he retrieved her dish and topped the brackish mixture of congealed gristle and meat with some pieces of cheddar. He watched with delight at how quickly she ate her dinner.
The rest of the evening was spent quietly. He filled several journal pages and then looked at the stack of books that had been collecting on his desk. He passed over several newly released novels. He needed something calming, something that would complement his pensive mood. He settled on Jim Harrison’s newest volume of poetry, and, starting at the back, he paged through it in a random manner. This was the first read. He knew that he would return to the book many times over the years, finding favorites among the carefully crafted poems.
Ray woke in the early light to the sound of snoring. He opened one eye and peered across the floor to the empty dog bed. Rolling over, he found Simone stretched out on the pillow next to him.
Ray parked behind Nora Jennings’ Ford Explorer, pulled Simone into his arms, and walked to the back door of the cottage. Ray had done odd jobs for Nora and her husband Hugh when he was in high school and college, and had stayed in touch with them through the years. After Hugh’s death, he had made a special point of checking on Nora by phone, and occasionally dropping by her isolated home on a bluff above the Lake Michigan shore.
His rapping brought a cacophony of barking as the resident dogs, Falstaff, a Labrador, and Hal, a Welsh terrier, charged the door to welcome the visitor. Nora pushed back the curtains and peered out before sliding back the deadbolt.
“I thought you were coming right over,” she said, hustling him into the kitchen. “The coffee’s not completely fresh.”
“It just takes longer to do things,” Ray explained. “I hadn’t factored in how long Simone would insist on walking this morning. Is it okay that I bring her in?”
“She’s in already. Just set her down. She gets along fine with the boys.” Nora started filling the two coffee mugs that were already standing on the table. “I made those cookies, oatmeal with walnuts, just the way you like them.”
Ray settled at the table and looked out at Lake Michigan through a wall of glass. There were modest swells in the light wind, the water dull and gray under a thick overcast.
“How was Detroit?” he asked.
“The best part was climbing in my truck and pulling onto I-75. God, was I glad to get out of there. Two weeks in Grosse Pointe was more than I could bear. I know my daughter means well, but that’s just not where I want to be.” Nora pulled a chair next to him to share the view, “The guys hate it, too.” She looked off toward the couch where they were curled up, one at each end, Simone in the center.”