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THE NEXT day, I concentrated on relaxing, while trying to put the factory out of my mind. Anne served a full breakfast: eggs, sausages, oatmeal, locally-baked whole-grain toast, juice, coffee. She said I’d need the energy, once she learned I was going to bike around the lake. Little did she know I planned to rent an ebike for the trip. I was here to relax, and riding a regular bike sounded too much like work. Plus, I hadn’t slept that well. New place, I supposed.
The ride itself was — I don’t know if I’d say enjoyable, exactly. The scenery was nice, different views of the lake and a little island in the middle of it. But by the end I was glad for the ebike. I’d have been bored out of my mind if it had taken any longer.
The bike path paralleled the road that circled the lake, passing the “cottages” that often blocked the view. If you were a fan of architecture, I suppose that part could be interesting. At one point, the path travelled through a nature preserve where the road didn’t go. No cars, no houses, just big trees and a raised path across a marsh filled with water lilies and cattails. That’s where I stopped for the dreaded selfie, determined to show the Chief and Joanie how hard I was relaxing.
Even with the electric assist, there were enough ups and downs that I was feeling pretty tired when I returned the bike to the rental shop. What the hell, I was on vacation, why not have a nap? I returned to the inn, showered, and fell asleep until it was nearly tea-time.
It was warmer today, so I went out to the garden in my shirt sleeves. Anne brought the tea and asked about the ride. Having skipped lunch, I grabbed a cookie and took a bite, trying not to spray crumbs as I described my day.
“That must have been fun.” There was something wistful in her tone, and she still had that crinkle of sadness around her eyes.
“Have you done that ride?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, Philip and I used to ride that way two or three times a year. I haven’t done it since…” She paused, looking forlorn.
“How long ago did he pass, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Not at all. It was last fall. Unexpected — an aneurysm.”
I set my teacup back on its saucer, trying not to stare at her.
“Did I share too much?” she asked. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No… It’s just…” I hadn’t come up here to hash through this, but now it looked like it couldn’t be helped. “That’s what got my partner, Frank. Thirty years a cop in Detroit, and he drops dead from an aneurysm.”
“Oh, that must have been hard.”
“Harder for his family. He was only a couple of years from retirement. Two kids still in college.”
I couldn’t help picturing the funeral, Janey and Travon standing next to their weeping mother, practically holding her up. I’d watched those kids grow up. I don’t know which one Frank was prouder of, Janey at UM or Travon at Morehouse. But another thing about that day: I looked around at all those faces, black, white, brown, all there to celebrate the life of Frank — the detective who’d taught me everything I know about police work and how to work with a distrustful community — and it gave me hope that maybe we all really could get along.
I must have been lost in my thoughts for a while because it felt like waking up when Anne said, “Still, we have to soldier on, don’t we?” Her expression wasn’t quite as resolute as the words implied.
I nodded.
“But it takes a toll, doesn’t it?” She looked like she wanted to say more, the silence lengthening. But instead of pursuing it, she lifted the teapot, giving it a swirl. “Will you need more tea?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She set the pot back down. “Well, I have to get back to it.” She turned and disappeared into the house.
I finished the last cookie, gulped the tea, and headed down the hill to Al’s.
It was the same regulars at the bar, and Jake behind it. “Maker’s, one rock?” he asked as I took a stool.
“Aw, you remembered.”
Hank, the guy who’d worked there, turned to me. “Learn anything new about Anderson’s?”
“Forgot all about it. Trying to remember I’m on vacation.”
“Whatever,” he said, and went back to his beer.
I took a sip from my own drink, the bourbon burning as it went down, giving off that comforting glow. I was already thinking of ordering another one.
The door to the bar opened and in walked a cop in full uniform, including the hat. “Hey, Sean,” Jake greeted him. “This is Chief Reilly,” he said to me. He looked at the clock on the wall, which showed a few minutes past five. “Get you anything?”
The Chief shook his head. “I’m good.” He came over to the stool next to mine but didn’t sit, taking off his hat and placing it on the bar. If Miguel had been here, he definitely would have put Reilly in his “potato people” category: belt buckle straining at a 45-degree angle against the beer belly, everything above the collar either white or sunburned red, the pale scalp showing through a stubble of close-cropped hair. Only a graying goatee gave definition to all the white roundness. “You must be the Detroit detective,” he said to me.
“Jim Pulaski. Did someone call a cop meeting?” I winked at Jake, hoping to lighten the mood.
Reilly didn’t crack a smile. “Just like to check up on the brotherhood when they come to town. Professional courtesy. I hear you were asking questions about the factory.”
“Damned good ones, too!” Hank said from his spot farther down the bar.
“I wasn’t talking to you. Everyone knows your opinion about it. I’d like to hear what Detective Pulaski has to say.”
“Just curious, really. And call me Jim. I hope I didn’t step on any toes.”
“Not at all, as long as that’s what it was, curiosity. Or maybe you’re moonlighting outside your own turf, doing PI work for someone.”
“No law against it if I was,” I pointed out. “But no, I drove into town, saw the wrecked factory, and questions naturally sprang to mind. Seems like I hit a sore spot.”
Reilly narrowed his eyes at me. “I’ll be honest with you, Jim, this town’s had a run of bad luck. There was the fire. Development projects gone south. Grant money not coming in. Tourism down. Not to mention a whole lotta personal travails. The mayor and the town fathers want to turn the corner on all that. It doesn’t help to have someone come and dig it up again.”
“Dig it up again?” Hank exclaimed. “The case is still open!”
“Technically, yes. Obviously, everyone would love a conviction, put closure on the whole thing. But that ain’t happening.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s what I want to know,” Hank put in.
The Chief turned to him. “It was in the paper, if you’d bother to read it. You think I don’t want to provide some sort of peace for Bob’s family? Go ahead, say that to my face.”
Hank’s jaw flapped and he turned back to his beer.
“Bob?” I asked.
“Night watchman who died in the fire.”
“First I’ve heard of anyone dying. So it’s both arson and murder?”
Reilly nodded. “If we could prove it was arson. But it’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. The fire investigators can’t figure it out, either. We had the best in from downstate, plus the insurance guys. They can’t even agree on a cause. I don’t have to tell you, we can’t bring an arson case if the investigators aren’t sure it’s arson.”
“That kid could have covered it up somehow,” Hank said, though with less heat than he’d had before.
“Sure, a kid right out of high school is going to set a fire that stumps the best arson experts. No jury is going to buy that.”
“I understand your predicament,” I offered.
“Good.” He picked up his hat. “Okay, I’m out. Glad we’ve cleared up where we both stand. Enjoy the rest of your vacation.”
After the door had closed behind him, Hank gave a scoff. “Our tax dollars at work.” He shook his head and took another drink.
I finished my bourbon and went in search of a healthier dinner than what they had on offer at Al’s. I ended up at a place that served planked whitefish, caught from the lake that day, along with risotto and roasted zucchini, locally grown. Joanie and my doctor would have been proud.
As I ate, I read the brochure for the kayak tour I’d scheduled for the next day. It involved paddling down the river that fed Lost Lake, finishing at a dock in town. The brochure talked about the kingfishers, bald eagles, and river otters we were likely to see, while reassuring that it was a trip suitable for the whole family, no whitewater involved. Sounded just my speed.
But I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about the conversation with Reilly. Apparently the Chief wasn’t that familiar with Polish stubbornness. If there was one way to encourage me to keep digging, it was to tell me to stop. The only question was who I’d visit first, the fortune teller or the mayor.
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