Authors: Jim Harrison
The fishing village of Alvarado he would always think of as his escape hatch on earth. It was on the mouth of a huge estuary and there were many colorful houses, docks for the fishermen, and relatively small fishing boats. They caught a number of fish and shrimp but they were basically after
róbalo
(snook) which was a favored fish for restaurants. Sunderson ate it roasted for lunch with some wild shrimp which were wonderfully better than any cultivated variety. From his vantage point at lunch he could see across the estuary to the great swamp where an archaeologist had discovered the Olmec heads. He was troubled when reading about the matter that it took many months of brutal peasant labor to dig out the big stone heads and transport them to solid land, then ship them north to the museum in Xalapa. He tried to imagine the laborious process but fell short. Was it worth it? Probably. It reminded him of the forgotten men who had built the pyramids, and the peasants who built the vast cathedrals of Europe or the Borgia palaces for that matter. He had worked as a laborer in the summer in Munising and recalled what it was like to be utterly fatigued and drenched with sweat ten hours a day. His mother would pack him three two-sliced sandwiches for his lunch and that barely covered it. He was a shovel man for a construction company, digging forms, well pits, mixing cement. He made a good wage and gave his parents twenty bucks a week for his keep which only seemed fair. Even early on he lacked a trace of venality.
He found out that Alvarado was named after one of Cortés’s men. He tried to imagine Mexico without the invasion of Cortés but couldn’t do it. He sat there on a bench on the dock dreamily while Monica strolled around town. He thought over and over “I have found my favorite place.” They went back to Veracruz late in the afternoon. He had talked to a real estate agent about a cottage for sale for three thousand dollars. He took his card thinking it was certainly not beyond the realm of possibility. A winter fishing place, he thought, where you didn’t have to pretend you liked ice fishing and freezing your ass. Sunderson ignored the real estate agent who said the cottage might be too small for an American. Sunderson thought it was just right though the bathroom could use a little work, easy enough to arrange if you paid a fair wage.
Back in Veracruz he drank a little much on the balcony watching freighters. He and Monica ate a last roasted fish. He speculated he could cook a Lake Superior whitefish the same way. Start very hot rubbed with olive oil then turn down when it begins to brown. Butter would brown better. He would experiment, maybe cook it for Diane. He caught himself doubting that she would come over to his old house, so junky compared to her present one. He had been more than a bit irascible questioning Monica in the car as if he were a detective at work. “I need to know with absolute accuracy what you did to help Lemuel.” He felt sure Lemuel was the mastermind and intended to separate her activity from his. He could see it wouldn’t be easy as her story emerged. She had plainly enough served the victims cyanide-laced food, but she seemed unaware what it would do to them. Sara in the burn unit was a big problem. He would visit her. Likely Smolens had said he would prosecute her for child endangerment unless she told everything she had noticed. Sunderson would visit and snoop around in a friendly manner. Right now he had no idea what Smolens really knew. Monica kept saying, “I should have known,” but insisting she didn’t, and he couldn’t get any sense out of her after that.
Sunderson fell asleep a tad drunk on the balcony and Monica helped him to bed at 2:00 a.m. They had a ghastly flight day ahead. Veracruz, Cancún, Houston, Chicago, Marquette by midnight. Trying to fall asleep he was haunted by the worst mental image stored in his head, his brother Bobby’s leg in the dirt near the railroad track at the paper mill where it had been cut off nearly fifty years before. What could be worse for a young person short of getting your head cut off? It was tragic but not surprising he had problems with heroin later on. When Bobby died he had been doing well as a soundman. Sunderson drove to Detroit to claim his body and his friends told him that Bobby had been drinking a great deal to avoid heroin. So drinking has some use, he thought, even if it was ultimately unsuccessful.
On the way home he called Smolens from both Houston and Chicago later in the evening after Smolens had visited Sara in the burn unit at the hospital again where she seemed to be failing. She had told Smolens that Lemuel had said he hated his family and that none of them deserved to live except a few of the female children. The boys also deserved to die. Smolens had talked to the prosecutor who refused to start work on what he called hearsay evidence using the famous Shakespeare quote he always trotted out to make himself feel important: “You have but a woman’s reason. You think it so because you think it so.”
Smolens added that there was no one left who could have done it except Lemuel and Monica.
Sunderson said in reply, “You should make that just Lemuel. I questioned Monica exhaustively under the most relaxed circumstances on our vacation. I had found a pamphlet on poisons in her room at my house.”
“You should have told me, for God’s sake,” Smolens nearly shouted.
“She had a perfect explanation. She’s been doing Internet research for Lemuel for his detective novel.”
“Anyone can get cyanide in a day,” Smolens said. “It must be hard to think about your girlfriend in prison for life.”
“Don’t talk like that! I may be retired but I’m a cop at heart,” Sunderson said sternly, though if he was honest he was less so than before.
“Sorry. Anyway, the prosecutor won’t move until we get some hard evidence. He’s ambitious politically and has no reason to move on something everyone thinks is obvious. And all the locals in the county feel that we’re well rid of the murder victims. Myself I can’t bear the idea that anyone should get away with serial murder. Another problem is that Lemuel has retained this hot defense lawyer from Lansing. I wonder where he got the money.”
“He likely embezzled it from his father. He kept the books and there’s no other source. I know he had a trust officer, Bissell in Escanaba. I’d guess he has a pile and he’s sitting pretty with the only house left. The rest of the family is camped at that trashy old house in town where they started. Lemuel won’t let any of them in his place. They’re living on welfare. And Lemuel told me he bought the seized land back cheap at an auction in Chicago.”
Smolens whistled saying, “A smart cookie.”
“Dumb financial people. Burn sites aren’t popular with big city buyers. They should have had the land auction in Escanaba. It’s a moneymaker, especially if you put cattle on it.”
“Cattle aren’t fast enough for people making money. Most people can’t think of future burgers. My cousin is in the business in Indiana. Prices are up.”
“Yes, wheat is easier and more profitable. Or so I read,” Sunderson said, bored with the conversation.
“Sara said Levi was sure Lemuel would try to kill him. He was real scared for a drunk. Forensic evidence said that there was cyanide in the sausage patties John and Paul ate. That points to Monica.”
“Anyone could poke a hole in a sausage patty and put a pinch of cyanide while she was serving someone else. The kitchen is largely invisible to the dining room where they ate but a swinging door is all that separates them.” Sunderson felt a little sweaty.
“Are you fighting for your girlfriend?” Smolens was in a huff.
“Cut the shit. You remember all of those death row prisoners in Illinois who shouldn’t have been there? That’s a rush to judgment.”
“That’s not fair. I admit we need hard evidence. I’m just speculating, so stop changing the subject. Sara saw Monica drop a vial of white powder in the kitchen.”
“Probably cocaine,” Sunderson said knowing it was unlikely that Monica had ever been close to the stuff. “We have to look for hard evidence. I’ll call from Chicago.”
“Okay, but you better play it straight with me. Call my cell. We’re going out for a picnic on a sailboat. It’s a hot one here.”
Sunderson brooded from Houston to Chicago. The flight was two hours late and they missed the Marquette connection. They rebooked on a morning flight and he thought of a downtown hotel but was too tired. The desk agent made him a reservation at the airport Hilton across the courtyard.
Monica was absurdly impressed by the Hilton. He had a whiskey from the room bar and a short nap. She stretched out checking all the TV stations with the sound off. On waking he recalled that his friend Marion had told him from his travels with his busy wife that there was a first-class steak house in the Hilton with the unlikely name the Gaslight Club where the waitresses wear garters. Sunderson thought that might attract horny travelers though the average man might never have seen a garter except at a wedding. He called for a reservation. They were booked except for early. Sunderson accepted a 6:00 p.m. reservation. It was nearly 5:00 o’clock now and he was already famished. He regretted the first-class ticket because the plane lunch was a chicken pastrami sandwich. He took umbrage knowing from his trip to New York City that true pastrami is not made from chicken. He was, after all, a veteran of the famous Katz’s Deli. He was still in a minor snit about this food setback. It was therefore quite a solace to have a big, fatty rib eye steak and a bottle of old Barolo, a wine he remembered from his ill-fated retirement party. He certainly had never ordered a sixty-dollar wine before in his life but then the dinner was the swan song of their vacation and Monica loved it, studying the label as a mystery. Back in the room they made love briefly. Monica teased that the scantily clad waitress had inspired him which, of course, was true. He finished half a pint of tequila while staring out at the night.
Morning came abruptly early. Monica had luckily preordered breakfast at 6:30 a.m. from room service. Who wants to look presentable at dawn? Women learn that early. At the gate there were a lot of people he recognized bound for Marquette. Many seemed to be staring at him and Monica. He introduced her as a niece to a sort of friend art dealer who had a twinkle in his eye. Sunderson slept all the way to Marquette. What put him to sleep was overhearing two people talk about the big Russian plane that had landed at the Marquette airport, a former SAC base, at the end of the Cold War. About half a dozen passengers and crew ran for the woods, which were vast. It was obviously a well-planned migration. He had been sent to look for them with the rest of the police but all of them had gotten lost without compasses and the local search and rescue squad had to be sent out to find them. None of the Russians was ever found and their plane is still at the airport, the Russian government not wanting to admit that such a thing was possible.
Chapter 21
He slept on their arrival until late afternoon when Diane called. She wanted to hear about the vacation about which she was jealous. They had never traveled anywhere until their forty-year marriage was nearly over. He was too busy, as they say. He read history books, watched sports on TV, and drank too much. Now he had the itch. They arranged to have a light supper at the Landmark Inn where Monica worked. Diane wanted to meet her.
He only had one drink before he left thinking Diane’s alcohol antennae would be sharp as usual but when they met she untypically ordered a martini and he said, “Make that two.” Perhaps she was loosening up her rules after her husband’s death. She finally got the husband she wanted and he disappeared within a year after they were married.
Sunderson had met the man several times, a retired surgeon. His ex-wife couldn’t bear Marquette winters and had moved back to New York City, where she was from in the first place, with their daughter. Sunderson admired the man but he couldn’t help the absurd fantasy that now that he was gone maybe he and Diane could travel someplace, Paris and Barcelona, separate rooms of course. If you push a fantasy too hard it will self-destruct of its own weight.
She was pleased to hear about Mérida as she had always wanted to go there and it was high on the list of destinations she kept and checked off, a list that began in her girlhood so that when her parents took her to New York City for her twelfth birthday it had enormous meaning. The jump from Ludington, Michigan, to New York City is immeasurable to a girl, or boy, of twelve. You are finally out in the world after the semi-suffocation of home. When she finally walked into the Metropolitan Museum she broke into tears. She wanted to stay so long she wore out her father who walked back to their hotel, the Carlyle, for a nap. Her mother absorbed her daughter’s enthusiasm and hung in there. One of Diane’s few regrets was that after five years of trying she had no talent as a painter, a dream that trip to New York had inspired. Her friend had the talent but didn’t particularly care about art. It seemed so unjust because it was. All Diane could do was stare at art books with love and envy. The envy part embarrassed her but she had no power over it. Eventually she learned to find pleasure in it.
Monica came out and sat with them during her break. Sunderson could tell immediately that they liked each other. You either like someone or you don’t. At first Diane acted a little motherly knowing that Monica was pregnant. She and Sunderson had tried unsuccessfully to have a child, then she chose a career over adoption. In any event she would love a child in the family or whatever it was, somehow still a family. Monica was voluble about Mexico and talked as if she were the first person ever to go there. She told the funny story of Sunderson using their pocket Spanish dictionary to try to get another pillow over the phone at the hotel. A room service waiter had brought an omelet and a glass of wine which were good. He showed the waiter the pillow from the bed and the waiter brought five of them, all blue and green.
When Monica went back to work Sunderson confessed to Diane his secret project, writing about violence as the eighth deadly sin. His problem was getting started. She approved and told him he must buy a journal and write anything about the matter that came into his head. It would take shape later. “In short, writing causes writing. Thinking causes more thinking and is not necessarily helpful. Just write an hour or so each day.”
They ended the evening on a woozy note having added a bottle of wine to their martinis. It was almost romantic with glances that said “we blew it.” When they got in their separate cars tears of frustration formed in his eyes. Life was so unforgivable. She recalled that in his last days her husband could only eat soup, peas, beans, or barley. Otherwise he couldn’t keep down his myriad of pills. He was miserable and considered euthanasia at one point. She ate sparingly herself but loved to cook. Even when she and Sunderson were still married she was always looking for an occasion to cook a French or Italian meal. She never watched television unless a chef was on. She loved a big round red-haired guy from New York. She had all his books. Sunderson never read the recipes but liked looking at the food photos. His favorite was called
osso bucco
. After the divorce he quickly lost thirty pounds. He struggled to cook well and nothing was as tasty as when Diane would cook.
Early the next morning he heard steps on the front porch. When he got up he found a red leather-bound journal made in Italy inscribed to him with “Good luck. Love, Diane. Bought this in Perugia.” He ate a light breakfast knowing that too much food steals brain power. He washed the jam off his fingers and took the journal and a cup of coffee to his study. He couldn’t resist watching Delphine doing her nude morning yoga. Her bare ass seemed to be aimed at him. He had a hard-on which is not a good way to start a writing day. He opened his journal and wrote.
Cain rose up and slew Abel. The first human brothers. Not a good start for the human race. It was over jealousy, Cain’s anger that Abel’s gift was more acceptable to God than his was. So he killed him. Daughters would have been easier than these two guys. Is violence basically a “dick thing” as girls say these days?
Looking these words over cast Sunderson into despair. He had wanted something elegant on the order of the Sir Thomas Browne he had read in college. What to do? Keep writing, Diane would advise, but then what had she written? He had never looked at the journal she kept in a desk drawer in her room. The act could be too craven like any marital snooping. A friend thought his wife might be cheating so he followed her one day. She stopped at the apartment of a bookstore clerk for an hour, he told Sunderson. For lunch? He doubted it, more likely for what is called a
nooner
. However, the friend couldn’t confront her as within his own ethic he shouldn’t have been following her. “If she’s cheating on me I finally don’t want to know it,” he concluded.
Cain rose up and slew Abel. From time immemorial men have murdered each other, in this case over jealousy. Abel’s gift was more pleasing to God which angered Cain. These were purportedly the first human brothers, born of Adam and Eve. Centuries later the streets of Jerusalem ran red with blood after the Crusades started. Evidently some Arabs were still vexed by the Crusades despite their having taken place over a thousand years ago but then there is no statute of limitations for murder. Just lately we expected the Indians to celebrate the anniversary of Lewis and Clark despite it spelling their doom. The whites are a confused race indeed. It has been to our collective advantage that scarcely any of us knows our own history. The cheers of Fourth of July could be dammed otherwise.
Sunderson was confused because he had dreamt about Kate, a spindly girl of twelve years with big ears who was Sprague’s daughter. Perhaps he ignored her out of guilt because her father died in his home. Kate was quiet and pleasant, helped Monica in the kitchen, and Lemuel had taught her bird watching. Sunderson idly wondered if Lemuel had made love to her. Lemuel had a taste for
young stuff,
as they say. Another idea arose. Could Kate despite her youth be a coconspirator? She kept herself as remote as possible from everyone else. She was especially welcome at Lemuel’s house. She and Lemuel would pack a lunch and walk far back in the forest to a small lake where there was a family of loons which thrilled them with their querulous cries.
His own mind was a bit twisted on the subject. Monica was only nineteen but seemed a woman in every respect. Every female is different but there must be laws, he thought, to protect them from predatory males of which there were many. Meanwhile Kate ignored everyone and everyone ignored her. At least Lemuel didn’t beat her into a prune. Sunderson had heard that once Sprague beat her severely for pouring a bottle of his vodka out on the ground. To her vodka was the obvious curse of the family. Oddly, he thought, Lemuel never mentioned her. Monica said that Kate was helpful and had alphabetized the spice rack. Sunderson wondered if it was still intact. Maybe he should take a look?
He was suddenly bored with his cop mind when he should be pondering the eighth deadly sin. The Old Testament was full of horrors he remembered from when he read it in high school, skipping through the nonsense of Deuteronomy and Habakkuk. It was during a religious phase when he was trying to help his brother Bobby through a profound depression. The coach was angry at him because Sunderson had quit the squad when he was their roughest tackler at middle linebacker. At the time Sunderson was very strong and known for being able to push a powerless lawn mower up the steep hills of Munising and for shoveling snowy driveways faster than anyone else. Every time there was a snowstorm there were many calls for his services. But he had quit the football team because after school in the fall Bobby liked to ride on the lumber barge over to Grand Island. Bobby would stumble along the beach on his artificial leg and they would look for rare agates among the rocks, put them in a pail, and Bobby would sell them to tourists in the summer for good money. One day they missed the barge’s return to the mainland and Dad had to come over and pick them up. Berenice was on the beach yelling at them, as always. Sunderson was having a difficult time. He had lost his popularity when he quit the team. Everyone was mad at him, including teachers. He had fallen in love with a transfer student from Flint who came north so her mother could take care of her infirm grandmother on a small farm on the way to Trout Lake. Both Marilyn and Sunderson were juniors. She was sexually experienced and he wasn’t. She let him see her nude on a warm early October day out in the woods. He had to lean against a tree to avoid fainting. It was a much rawer experience than he had expected in his relentless fantasies. She was a precocious city girl and had stolen some condoms from an ex-boyfriend. She put Sunderson through his clumsy paces. He still felt it might have been the best sex of his life. One day Marilyn’s mother went shopping in Marquette and the grandmother died when Sunderson and Marilyn were supposed to be looking after her and not fucking on the living room sofa. Out of guilt Marilyn no longer wanted to see Sunderson despite his relentless efforts. Soon after her mother sold the farm and had an auction for the belongings. She and Marilyn drove back to Flint in her newish blue Buick she had bought at a discount while working at the Buick plant. Once on a hot July day he and Marilyn had made love in the sweltering backseat of the car and he still had memories of the odor of her sweat and the new car smell.
Next morning bright and early he shopped for groceries in Escanaba and drove to the cabin to hopefully fish which he did immediately on his arrival. He caught a few small rainbows and one good brown on a caddis fly. When he returned to the cabin he was irked by Lemuel and Kate showing up wearing their bird-watching binoculars, but he gave them coffee and didn’t act cross. They were headed upstream for the afternoon and Sunderson realized that gave him free time for snooping. Kate offered to make spaghetti for dinner seeing that he had bought some Italian sausage. He gracefully accepted and waited until they disappeared out of sight upriver before driving over to the second burned house. No one was around and he entered the burned-out kitchen. Luckily the fire truck was parked on the back drive and the pantry was scorched but pretty much intact. He put on rubber gloves to avoid marring any prints or leaving any of his own. He was very gentle when he discovered that the small amount of alum didn’t smell like alum, used for making pickles crisp. He knew what it smelled like because as a child his mother would dab on alum when he had a canker sore. The only other light-colored spices were dried mustard which was definitely dried mustard and a tiny amount of garlic powder that was transparently not garlic powder. He put all three in his coat pocket and left pronto fearing to get caught. He drove up to a hill where he could get cell service to call Smolens who was thrilled with the story and the work. It wouldn’t be admissible unless they could sneak it back into the kitchen, but maybe it would help get a confession. He said he never thought of Kate when he did prints of anyone working in the kitchen because she was too young. He added that he still hoped to find the prints of Monica and Lemuel on the bottles. Sunderson let it pass knowing how hard it is to change your mind when you think you have solid suspicions. He’d send someone out immediately for a pickup.
Sunderson was irritated with himself over the Kate situation. In his very necessary mental rehearsals of the crime scene he had foolishly bypassed her, maybe because of her age as Smolens said. Irrelevant, dammit. Lemuel could very well have engineered the poisonings through her despite the idea that Monica was more obvious.
The deputy reached the cabin in the record time of a couple of hours just as Lemuel and Kate returned from bird watching. Kate saw Sunderson hand the deputy a small paper bag.
“What’s this all about?” she asked, naturally curious.
“Just some evidence from your house.” Sunderson stopped himself from telling her they were dusting for prints. She looked startled.
Kate whipped up a fine pasta sauce working at a speed incomprehensible to Sunderson. He kept a close eye on her while she was cooking to make sure everything came from his kitchen. She was masterful at chopping garlic which made her attractive to him since he was a clod at garlic and onions. She was however slight indeed and if Lemuel was making love to her there was something clinical going on. Lemuel was a little
off
and had probably overheard their interchange about evidence. Sunderson was having a bountiful glass of whiskey while Lemuel had a little wine. Kate refused a beer saying sharply that she intended to never drink a drop in her life.
“Look what it did to my family,” she fairly hissed. “My father would be alive now if he wasn’t a mean drunk who had to be shot.”
“I’m so sorry. It couldn’t be helped.” Sunderson had a lump in his throat despite the fact that Sprague had had it coming. Him or me was the conclusion. Monica had since told him that Kate’s mother was terrible calling her U.D. for Ugly Duckling while her father had frequently taken her fishing and hunting. She was very good at finding the grouse and woodcock he shot in heavy cover. She would also pluck the birds and get them table ready. In Sprague’s mind she was a third son and a fine substitute now that Tom and Paul were gone.