“He preached abstinence?” asked Ray.
“Yes, but I think Mather’s avoidance of alcohol was driven by his concern for native people. He saw traders cheat them with cheap whiskey and politicians manipulate them with free drinks on election day. And I suspect this place was pretty much alcohol-free in the early years, but who knows what happened behind closed doors. After the war, I’m talking about WWII and my parents’ generation, the cocktail hour became the norm. But again, it was never done in public places.
“But to go back to Malcolm,” Grubbs continued, “even though I am the executive director of the summer colony, when he’s in residence he’s always about telling people what to do. Like I said, we’ve all learned to put up with Malcolm. His money has kept us going at critical times. And we all pray that the good Lord will accept him with open arms, the sooner better than later. That said, it would be good of him to leave the colony a generous legacy.”
Ray closed the top of his laptop and pushed himself from his chair.
“Is there anything else, Sheriff?”
“No, I think that’s about it. Here’s my card if anything occurs to you that you think I should know.”
“You’ll let me know when we can begin the cleanup?”
“Absolutely.”
“There’s one more thing,” said Grubbs.
“Yes?”
“Well, it can wait a few days. Please keep me informed about Garr Zwilling’s condition. In spite of the unfortunate events, he’s part of our family, part of our history.”
5
The next morning Ray Elkins was up, dressed, and out of the house before 6:00 A.M. Gale force winds had been advised the evening before, and he wanted to walk the beach early and watch the pounding surf. He did a couple of miles on an out-and-back hike, stopping occasionally to watch the waves and listen to the howling wind. Ray needed time to absorb the beauty and power of this special landscape.
By the time he arrived at his office a little after 8:00, Detective Sergeant Sue Lawrence, in her usual highly organized manner, had laid out two piles of documents on the conference table in Ray’s office and was working on her laptop as she waited for him. Simone, a cairn terrier Sue and Ray co-parented since rescuing her from a crime scene in the late winter, was curled up in an overstuffed chair in the corner of the office. Ray sat on the edge of the chair and scratched Simone’s ears for a few moments before joining Sue at the table.
“How was your walk on the beach?” she asked.
“It was great. Some big wave sets, huge breaking surf. It almost looked like November.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t go paddling.”
“Not this morning. Not today. The winds were too high. It would be impossible to launch without getting broached. Some days you just have to walk on the beach.” Sliding into his chair, he said, “Looks like you’ve been busy. What’s happening with Zwilling? Any news?”
“I talked to one of the doctors at the burn center in Ann Arbor before I went home last night.”
“What time was that? I think our no extraordinary hours we’ve got to have a life pledge is starting to break down.”
“It was okay, Ray. Simone was with me.”
“And?”
“The doctor, I didn’t get her name, said the first 72 hours are the most critical. She also indicated that the prognosis was rather bleak. In addition to the extensive burns, they suspect lung damage, but have not been able to assess how extensive. About all I came away with was that he was lucky to be alive, and it’s extremely difficult to estimate the viability of a patient with his injuries.”
Sue gave Ray a few moments to absorb the information before bringing his attention to the material on the table. “On the top sheet,” she motioned with an index finger, “is a list of everything contained in that pile. The first item under that sheet is a summary of my conversation with Mike Ogden.”
“I thought he was tied up…?”
“He was, a suspicious warehouse fire in Gaylord. He arrived about four. We still had plenty of light to pick through the ruins. Before we started I showed him the video of the explosion—we’ve got it from two directions. His immediate response was that it looked like natural gas, the way the building came apart, the appearance of the flames. Mike did take samples for analysis, but he was pretty certain that Zwilling had turned on all the burners on the stove or opened a gas line. The remains of the water heater and stove were down in what was once the crawlspace. There’s a connection from the gas line to the water heater, he had a name for it.”
“Coupling?”
“That sounds right. How do you know that?”
“Remember, my father was a jack-of-all trades, and I spent much of my childhood and teenage years following him around as his assistant.”
“Okay,” she continued, “it appeared that the coupling had been disconnected. He suggested that Zwilling was doing his best to blow the place up.”
“Anything else?”
“You were worried about a large stash of ammo. It wasn’t there. Zwilling must have run through most of it before the explosion.”
“And the weapon?”
“It turned up in the bottom of the debris. It was pretty grimy. Ogden said it looked like a Chinese knockoff of an AR 15, something about the machining being crude and the serial number looked like it had been done by junior high shop kids. He’s going to run it through the ATF tracking system, but didn’t think they’d get a hit.”
“Probably a gun show special,” said Ray.
“His words, exactly. We also had a run-in with a citizen.”
“What was that all about?”
“This obnoxious ass comes marching right into the site, tells us he’s the president of the place, and demands to know when we’re going to be finished. Ogden explains to him that this is a crime scene and politely asks him to leave. The guy just continues ranting at us. Ogden asks him to leave a second time. This time he’s much more direct. The man’s unfazed. So Ogden tells him if he doesn’t leave immediately, he’s going to be arrested and put in jail. Just about that time Richard Grubbs shows up in a golf cart and hustles the man away.”
Ray chuckled, “You met Malcolm Wudbine. He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”
“I can think of a few other ways of describing him. Not long after that Grubbs came back. We were just finishing up about that time. He said he thought he found the car.”
“Zwilling’s?”
“You got it. It’s an older Chrysler 300 with Arizona tags. It had been tucked behind one of the cottages close to the highway. I ran the plates. It was registered to a Garrick Zwilling in Tucson. I made a call to their PD, ended up getting a chatty detective on the line. Mr. Zwilling is known to the department, lots of problems with alcohol, lots of mental health issues. He’s one of those guys who goes out of control, gets taken to the hospital, three days later he’s back on the street. Occasionally he ends up in front of a judge, promises to stay on his meds, and in a few weeks or months, the whole cycle starts again.”
“It’s a familiar pattern. You got all that accomplished before the end of the workday?”
“No, I did that in the evening before going home.”
“I thought as part of our plan to have lives outside of work we….”
“That was a good thought. But neither one of us is going to be able to do that. It was okay, Ray. I went to dinner with Mike Ogden. I always thought he was very married, turns out he’s not anymore. I guess he wanted me to know. It was a little bit awkward. It’s not like he asked me out or anything, or even asked if I was involved with anyone. But it was clumsy.” She paused for a few moments. “I’ve got one more thing. You sent me an e-mail with the out-of-date contact info on the owner of the cottage, Regina Zwilling-Glidden.”