“I was beginning to get that idea.”
“I suppose you found my link to Tom Johnson.”
“It wasn’t too hard.”
“I can explain all that. But I don’t want to do it on the telephone. Can you meet me at Gray Gables?”
“Why there?”
“Because it will be completely private. I’m in Grand Rapids, and I won’t be back until around nine. I’ve got to go over there this evening. We’ll be able to hash the whole thing out.”
“Around nine?”
“I’ll leave the gate unlocked for you.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll come in the boat.”
The call ended. Mercy and I were staring at each other wide-eyed.
She spoke first. “That was Trey’s voice!”
“My God!” I said. “Joe’s agreed to meet the murderer all alone and on his own turf! We’ve got to stop him.”
Chapter 20
N
either Mercy nor I is the type to stand around wringing our hands. She headed for the door, and I beat her to it. The only reason I was there first was because Mercy had whipped a cell phone out of her purse and was talking as we ran.
“Mike! Mike! Emergency!” she was saying.
She was jamming the cell phone back in the purse as we got to the door. Luckily that door had an automatic lock. We ran for her car so fast that we would have left it standing open.
“Mike can track down Chief Jones if anybody can,” she said. “But he didn’t pick up his cell phone. Let’s head for city hall. You drive. I’ll keep phoning.”
“There’s nobody at city hall tonight, is there? I called and got the county operator.”
“The local dispatcher must have been on her dinner break.”
Mercy handed me her keys, and I got behind the wheel of her car. I burned rubber getting out of there. Mercy—proving herself a real insurance woman—dug a phone book out of the back seat and began calling Mike Herrera’s restaurants. He wasn’t at Herrera’s. He wasn’t at Mike’s Sidewalk Café. He wasn’t at the Waterside. By the time she’d screamed “Emergency!” and her cell phone number at someone at each restaurant, we were at city hall. I skidded into a parking spot normally reserved for one of the Warner Pier patrol cars, and we both jumped out. Mercy ran to the side door and began to pound on it. I could see the dispatcher jumping to her feet inside.
“You tell her what’s happened,” I said. “I’m going to try something else.”
I turned and ran down the street, flipping and flopping in those darn rubber beach sandals toward the alley behind TenHuis Chocolade. If Trey was at Gray Gables, I believed that I would be able to get inside.
I rushed to my van, flipped the rear door up, and scrabbled through the stuff I’d tossed in over the weeks and months. I might be determined to face down a murderer, but I didn’t want to do it without a weapon of some sort. But I couldn’t think of anything lethal in my van.
To my surprise, over in one corner I found a lucky stone, one of the ones I’d found in May when Joe and I picnicked. The average lucky stone, I’d guess, weighs three ounces; they’re usually pretty small. But this was one of the atypical ones—a three-pound number, even bigger than the one we’d left beside Joe’s shop, the one Trey had used to kill Hershel. And I found a chamois my father had given me for washing the van.
I wrapped the lucky stone in the chamois and put the improvised weapon in my purse. It seemed to be poetic justice. I was quite prepared to kill Trey Corbett with the same sort of weapon he’d used on Hershel.
I had just started the van when Aunt Nettie appeared in the back door of the shop.
“Lee!”
I punched the button that lowered the passengerside window. “I can’t talk! Got to go! Joe’s in trouble!”
I backed out and drove away wondering why she’d come back to the shop. There was no way she could know about Joe being in danger. I could have used help, true, but I didn’t want to involve Aunt Nettie. She’s not frail; she’s stronger and healthier than I am. But despite the rock, I didn’t intend to use violence on Trey. I intended to use guile to distract him, to keep him from harming Joe until Mercy could get the police there. I didn’t see how Aunt Nettie could fit into this plan.
I would simply go to the gate of the estate, then honk my horn to attract attention. I’d claim that I had found out that Joe was, after all, able to make the tour of Gray Gables, so I’d decided to join the two of them.
The big risk was that Trey would kill Joe as soon as he got there. I pushed that possibility into my subconscious.
My plan, like most of the ones I make, fell apart almost immediately. When I got to Gray Gables, the gate was locked, as I’d expected. But when I honked, nothing happened.
I could see that same corner of the house through the trees. But I sat there honking while the hands of my watch whirled through six minutes, and no one came to the gate. No Trey came walking or driving up the drive to the gate. Nothing. Gray Gables, for all intents, was deserted.
Well, if I couldn’t get in through the gate, I’d have to do it another way. I backed up, then turned, backed, and turned. After doing this several times, I managed to get the van sideways in the drive, almost touching the gate. I’d climb on the top of the van and get over that way.
But when I opened the door and got out of the van—I’d decided to use the back seat as a ladder—a voice boomed out of bushes.
“Ms. McKinney! What in the world are you doing?”
I nearly fell flat on my flitter. Then I realized it was Dolly Jolly—all six feet three or four inches and 250 pounds of her. Well, of course. She’d heard me honking, even if Trey hadn’t.
And I also realized she might tell me how to get into Gray Gables without risking my neck by tumbling over that wrought-iron gate. Dolly Jolly lived in a cottage that was almost on the grounds of Gray Gables. I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t have peeked inside the property. Maybe she would help me.
“Dolly! I’ve got to get into Gray Gables. Can you show me a back way?”
She frowned. “I think they keep the gate locked because they want to keep people out!”
“It’s a matter of life and death!”
She lowered her voice to a dull roar that she probably intended as a whisper. “There’s something going on over there tonight. Better stay away.”
“No! That’s what I’m afraid of. Oh, God, it’s too long a story, but my boyfriend’s been lured over there by a killer! The police are on the way, but Joe doesn’t know he’s in danger and I’ve got to warn him!”
I realized I had closed in on Dolly and I was gripping her arm. I tried to back off. “Please. It’s really important.”
Dolly sighed. “Well, if you’ve called the police . . . I guess I could go over there with you. Keep an eye on things.”
“Anything! But I’ve got to get in.”
“There’s a better way than climbing over the gate.” She led me through the bushes, down the path that she’d used to confront Lindy and me. The sun was nearly down to the horizon—miles away over Lake Michigan—and the woods were growing dark. I glimpsed a simple little house, but Dolly walked past it, following a path that led back toward the left. “There’s a gap in the fence,” she said. She was still trying to talk quietly. “Probably something to do with the hobo jungle!”
We got through a line of shrubs and came to a high, chain-link fence. Then we turned right and followed the fence. I don’t know how far we went, but she suddenly grasped the woven wire and pulled it back. We’d come to the gap. I went through the fence, then pushed at the wire to keep the gap open for Dolly. Inside the fence was more undergrowth, but there was definitely a path. And after twenty or twenty-five steps, we came to a cleared area with large trees here and there. The giant house—three stories of turrets, gables, and porches—loomed between us and the river. The last rays of the sun were slicing through the trees, but the half-mile of woods between the mansion and the lake meant that we were in heavy shade. Inside the house, it would have been dark. And there were no lights in any of the windows.
I whispered. “They’ve simply got to be there.”
“Let’s go around the house,” Dolly said. She really was speaking quietly now.
We turned left and circled the house. There was a sidewalk, but we stayed away from it, keeping our distance from the structure. When we rounded the end, we saw the broad lawn leading down to the river. But that side of the house was dark, too, and no doors were open. The whole area was quiet. We could hear a motorboat down on the river, but nothing any closer made a sound.
Had I been wrong? Was Joe not there? Or had Trey already attacked him? Killed him? Dumped him in the river? I shivered all over. Then I pointed. “There’s a car!”
It was Trey’s SUV. It was parked about a hundred yards away, close to a long wooden shed. The shed, I realized in a minute, was down by the river.
“It’s by the boathouse,” Dolly said.
“Of course! Joe came in his boat.”
To my relief I saw that the structure she described as the boathouse had no windows on the side facing us. I began to run toward it, realizing that people inside would not be able to see me approaching unless they came outside. Dolly Jolly followed me, also running. Two big, tall women jogging down the lawn.
When we got near the boathouse, I slowed down and tiptoed. After a few more steps I could hear voices. Just a murmur, but two men were talking. I moved closer, planting my feet firmly, daring those darn sandals to make a flip or a flop.
The boathouse was an old wooden building, more of a work shed for storing boats in the winter than a place for them to be tied up. I couldn’t see that any boats were around. Probably the building was open on the other side, with a dock going out into the water.
I was concentrating so hard on being quiet that a sudden thud made me jump and whirl around. It was a car door slamming, up near the road.
Dolly had turned toward it, too. I leaned close to her. “Maybe it’s the cops,” I said. “Can you go back and let them in?” She hesitated. “Please.”
She nodded and started back up the lawn, walking fast, but obviously trying to keep quiet.
I went around the corner of the boathouse, looking for an entrance. I found a door, and I touched the handle. It moved. I was able to crack the door—just slightly. I got ready to do my act: Throw the door open and walk in demanding a tour.
Then I heard Joe’s voice.
“I think I’ve earned a cut,” he said. “I don’t know why everybody in Warner Pier thinks I’m not interested in money. I am.”
“You could have made a lot more practicing law than you’re likely to repairing boats.” It was Trey’s voice.
“Yeah, and be stuck in an office in a suit my whole life. Having to kowtow to the client. You don’t like that. Why should I? But I don’t object to making money. I like to think I’m not greedy, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t get in on this sweet deal you’ve come up with.”
A cut? A deal? What was Joe talking about? I peeked through the crack, but I couldn’t see anything but a bunch of junk. I saw weathered oars, rusty fishing tackle boxes, a couple of antique wooden barrels, scrap wood, tangled wire—just general trash. But there was no sign of either Joe or Trey.
I looked around the outside of the building, and I spotted a window. It was about six feet farther down the wall and rather high. But it wasn’t too high for a tall woman to look through. I stood on tiptoe and looked inside. Now I could see that the shed really was a boathouse. The opposite end was open to the river, and I could even see Joe’s sedan tied up just outside. I could see Joe and Trey, too. They were standing inside the door I’d been peeking through. If I had looked in the door, they definitely would have seen me.
Joe spoke again. “Anyway, Trey, I ought to thank you for pulling the Root Beer Barrel down. It needed to be done, and I wouldn’t have known how to do it.”
“That was easy. I just put a rope around it, borrowed a big truck, and pulled.”
“How did Hershel get involved?”
Trey laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Stupid jerk! He was always prowling around.”
“I guess you told him I did it.”
“I didn’t have to. He came to me, told me about seeing the truck over there, then seeing the Barrel go down. It mystified the poor jerk. All I had to do was point out that it was going to be a lot easier for the property owner to redevelop that lot if an Act of God got rid of the Barrel.”
“But you didn’t like it when he accused me—to my face—of pulling it down.”
“As long as you thought it blew down—well, you were doing exactly what I needed done. If you got too curious, I didn’t know what would happen.”
Joe’s voice became cold. “I ought to punch you until your teeth rattle, Trey. There was no need to try to kill me. And Lee!”
“Oh, those weren’t serious attempts, Joe.” Like heck, I thought, remembering that cold swim and that scary ride in Joe’s pickup. “I just wanted to distract you.”
“Well, I didn’t appreciate it—whatever you had in mind. So I don’t expect us to become close friends over this, Trey. But there’s no reason we can’t be business partners. What are you planning to do with that strip, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“Today I talked to the people who own the DeBoer House and the Old English Motel. Tom Johnson is dealing with them, too. That’s nearly a city block long. You’ve obviously got bigger plans than some little restaurant or motel on the site of the Root Beer Barrel.”
It took all my self-control to keep from going to the door, throwing it open, striding inside, and telling Joe just what Trey’s plan was. But I didn’t understand the conversation I was hearing. Joe was trying to cut himself in on the deal? He didn’t mind making money? That was probably true, but he certainly hadn’t talked to me like that. I didn’t want to believe that Joe would go along with anything crooked, and what Trey had done—pulling down the Root Beer Barrel—was illegal. Killing Hershel was even more illegal. But now Joe was proposing to participate in whatever Trey was up to. I was more confused with each word I heard from Joe.