“So you can’t remember anyone lurking about, reading Fox’s book?”
“No.”
“The new patrons at the library, anyone looking out of place?” asked Ray.
“No one comes to mind. We have our regulars; some people come in daily to read the papers and periodicals. Others are here once a week, or every other week, to get a new supply of books. And then there are the walk-ins: summer people, weekenders, or people just passing through town who come in and use a computer or our Wi-Fi to check their e-mail. We try to be helpful without being intrusive.”
“Any Amish?”
“Amish?” Penny responded. “Not here. Not in my career. I don’t know if they use public libraries. Interesting thought. I’ll have to research that.” She paused briefly, “I think the nearest Amish community is south of Cadillac.”
“Fox was reportedly dropped off near here last Saturday afternoon. We haven’t found anyone who saw him after that time. Did you see him? Did he come into the library Saturday?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t work Saturday. I went into Traverse. Joyce Points, one of my assistants, was running the desk.”
“Is she here now?”
“No. She’s part-time; let me check her schedule.” She typed for a few seconds and then looked back at Ray. “She’s on again tomorrow. Joyce is a college student. Do you want me to call her right now?”
“That’s okay. Could you just send her a note? Ask her if she would respond directly to me.” Ray placed a business card on the desk, pointing out his e-mail. He waited silently as Storrer keyed a note.
“So these books,” said Storrer, pointing to Al Capone’s Michigan. “What should I do about them?”
“Just like you said: put them behind the circulation desk and make them available.”
19
Lost in thought, Ray climbed the stairs leading from the basement of the library and pushed his way through the aluminum doors into the dull gray afternoon. Outside, he took a few minutes to look around the area adjacent to the library—the parking lot and the sidewalks leading up to the village and the harbor. The village sidewalk was a quick to and fro, but at the harbor he walked slowly past the slips lined up at right angles along their long slender ribbon of land. The marina had stood empty since late October, when the last boat had been moved to winter storage. Today only a few clumps of snow remained in areas protected from the sun and rain.
A gentle rain was falling from low hanging clouds. The large homes on the west arm of the bay, mostly seasonal dwellings, were shrouded in a mist that clung to the shoreline. Standing at the end of the pier, next to a tall navigation light, Ray gazed out at the big lake. Beyond the harbor there was the bay, and, beyond that, open water stretched north to the Straits of Mackinac. Ray stood for a long moment, concentrating on the sound of the wind and the rhythmic splash of the gentle surf against the side of the pier. He closed his eyes. The air, still with a bit of winter’s frigid bite, smelled fresh and clean. He opened his eyes slowly retracing his steps back toward to the library.
Against the gloom of the day, Ray found the interior of the Last Chance with its familiar smells of burgers and beer welcoming. Jack Grochowski, the longtime owner, leaned over the bar and gave Ray a warm greeting.
“The usual,” said Ray, settling onto a stool.
“‘’Fraid we’re not doing the usual anymore,” answered Jack. “I can give you a Columbian supremo, I have a very nice French roast, a Viennese, and my current favorite’s a dark roast with hints of mocha and cinnamon.”
“What happened to the Eight O’clock from Sam’s Club, made with that special water you were always bragging about?”
“Progress,” answered Jack, rubbing a wrinkled hand across his grizzled beard. “People don’t want that old style anymore. I’m just keeping up with the times. Let me recommend the French roast. I think that’s close to what I used to serve you.”
“Sure,” Ray said. He watched as Jack inserted the coffee pod, his hands unsteady, into the shiny new machine that occupied the same shelf space where generations of Mr. Coffees had lived and died.
“Tell me what you think,” said Jack, setting a new, white mug with the steaming brew in front of Ray.
“It’s good, Jack,” said Ray, after several careful sips. “It’ll take some getting used to, but it’s good. Never thought you’d be one to buckle under pressure, though.”
“Well, you know, it’s the girls that work here,” Jack said, perching himself on a stool he kept behind the bar. “They keep saying it’ll be less fuss, that we wouldn’t be throwing so much coffee away. Yeah, I’m not sure of the economics. I think it’s mostly that the girls are into all these yuppie flavors.” He paused while he sipped from his own mug. “Yeah, well, things are changing. Point in case. I’ve been stocking these ‘craft beers,’ whatever that means. They sell like crazy, especially to the summer people. In fact, it’s worth having Bell’s or Shorts on tap during the season.” He took another thoughtful sip of coffee. “But I know you didn’t come in to talk about coffee or beer. I saw the news on TV. And I was sorry to see it. Good old Vinnie. I’ll miss that old boy.” He leaned close to the bar. “What happened Ray?”
“We’re still trying to figure that out. We’ll know more in a few days.”
Jack slouched. “Which usually means you know more than you’re telling, but that’s all you’re letting out.”
This time Ray leaned into the bar. “So I heard from several people that Fox was a frequent customer.”
“He was,” Jack responded, perking up. “Came in three, four, five days a week. Have a shell or two. ‘Course when his daughter’d bring him in for a burger, he’d make a big thing of it, like he only came here with her, like it was such a treat. And there’s a perfect example of what I was talking about.”
“Example?”
“People wanting new things. Vinnie, for years, would only drink Bud or Bud Lite. We’ve always had some imports in bottles, but I don’t think he ever tried one. Now these craft beers, I’ve got one on tap for the first time last June. In fact, I gave him a glass just for fun, expecting he’d swear it wasn’t a Bud. Hah! He loved it. That’s all he’s had since. And that old tightwad was willing to pay twice as much. And instead of nursing one for hours, he’d drink two.
“This past Saturday, do you remember Vinnie coming in?”
“Ray, that’s almost a week ago. I’m struggling with what happened yesterday.”
“Well, give it a shot,” pressed Ray.
“I can’t say for sure. The days sorta blend.”
“Was he alone? Did he come with a group? Did he meet people here?”
“Well, there was a group of them over the years, seven or eight of them back in the day. Most are gone now. Last year or two, it’s mostly Vinnie, his buddy Tommy, and Mildred Hall.”
“Mildred Hall, really?”
“Yea. Now she wasn’t as regular as the other two, but she was often with them.”
“Was she drinking craft beer with Vinnie?”
Jack laughed and rolled off his stool. “Mildred has her special tea.”
“That makes sense,” said Ray.
“You don’t understand.” Jack walked to the end of the bar, brought back a teacup and saucer, and set them in front of Ray. “And here’s the special tea,” he said, retrieving a bottle from the back row next to the mirror.
“Lagavulin, 12 years old.”
“Yup. I stock it for her; never had it in the place before. Two shots in this teacup, she’d have.” He pointed. “They liked to sit over in that booth, the two guys on one side, Margaret on the other. She’d always drink one tea and I’d ask her if she wanted another, and she’d always say, ‘I can’t, I’m driving.’ The guys thought it was a good joke, the tea and all. They never caught on.”