Paid in Full, page 4
“Are you sure you didn’t get your signals crossed?”
“We always meet at Beaumont’s. Usually on a Tuesday.”
“Where does he live?”
From the way she pulled in the smoke, closed her eyes, and exhaled in a protracted sigh, I guessed that this was the first she’d had in a while. That plus the fact that she didn’t bitch about them not being menthol. “Here in Foxport.” She opened her eyes. “But he’s been staying at this house they have in a town right on Lake Geneva called New Berne.” I nodded.
“I’m worried sick and I don’t know what to do.” She tapped an ash off her cigarette and continued, “For obvious reasons I can’t go to the police.”
“So, you want me to find him?” Someone had to say it.
“Would you?” From the way her eyes lit up, you’d have thought that idea had never occurred to her. “Really, would you? I just need to know if he’s all right. Can you see if you can find him? No one will wonder about a man looking for him. Just say you’re a friend or something.” She had this all worked out.
I drained my beer. This didn’t sound difficult. I’m good at finding people. That wasn’t why I hesitated. I was trying to work out if there was anything unethical about my looking for the married boyfriend of the woman who was divorcing the guy who was living with my ex-girlfriend. My head spun.
Ellie said, “A small problem. I can’t afford to pay you right now.” She quickly added, “I will pay you. I’m not asking for a freebie or anything. Our money—Ed’s and mine—is all tied up in the settlement. But the divorce should be final in September—I’m sure—so I can pay you then.” She must have sensed my reluctance because she quickly added, “If you find my friend, he’ll pay you. He’s quite well off.”
When I didn’t give her an answer, she leaned forward, and placed her hands on the table. I noticed she still wore her wedding band. “Please, Quint. It would only take a day or so. I’m sure someone up there knows where he is. It’s probably something simple. But I can’t ask and it’s making me crazy.”
“What kind of message do you want me to give him?”
“Just tell him I was worried. Tell him to call me. That’s all.”
“Where is this place on Lake Geneva?”
She squeezed my hand, then reached into her purse, rummaged around and finally retrieved a scrap of paper. She squinted at it before handing it to me, then continued to dig through her purse.
I glanced at the address. “What’s his name?”
She handed me a photo. “Kurt Wicklow.”
Shit. Kurt Wicklow, all six-feet-three or so inches of him, leaned against the fender of his Lexus with a sports jacket tossed over his shoulder. With the jet- black hair, his pale, lightly freckled complexion, and the mile-wide smile, he looked like a model for Irish Spring. I must have scowled.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“You and I had better work out the terms right now. I know for a fact that this guy doesn’t pay on time.”
Chapter 5
I left for New Berne first thing in the morning with Peanuts in the back seat of my Accord. From the way he bounded down the steps, glancing over his shoulder, I think he was glad to get away from the cat. As a border collie, he’s got these instincts he can’t ignore. But, when he tried to herd McGee, he got batted in the snout for his efforts. It was a real pity my dog couldn’t see the innate humor in attempting to herd a cat.
I’d taken Peanuts with me before when I was working and he’d never been a problem. He’s got good manners and knows when to keep his mouth shut.
The air was muggy already, and Friday promised to be another hot one as I headed north up route 41. I hoped it was cooler over the Wisconsin state line by Lake Geneva but wasn’t optimistic. I don’t get along with the heat and I actually like rain. Every summer I think about moving either to Oregon or Ireland.
We passed through Richton, a small town just south of the state line, where it seemed like every other shop name had the word “Antique” in it. Beaumont’s, the restaurant where Ellie was to meet Wicklow, took up a corner of the main street.
For some reason, crossing the Wisconsin border reminded me of Ed Carver. Probably the cop connection. Wisconsin police pick off Illinois speeders for sport. As I eased up on the accelerator, I pondered the change I’d seen in Carver since he and Elaine had gotten together. True, he no longer had the pressure of being Foxport’s top cop, but I couldn’t believe that alone accounted for the new, improved Carver. Flowers, no less.
New Berne was a tiny, picturesque town on the north end of the lake with the requisite stone churches and shops selling T-shirts and real estate. I had some trouble finding the tourist center, finally locating it in an adjunct to the post office. Since it didn’t seem prudent to ask for directions to Wicklow’s place, I figured I’d need a map. The woman working there looked down her nose at Peanuts and informed me that dogs weren’t allowed in the building. I left him outside with his leash tied to the porch railing.
Kurt Wicklow’s summer house was embedded in an area where the lake-front homes had large, wooded lots and long, winding drives. The sun filtered through the trees so that the road resembled a leafy mosaic. A steady stream of cars accompanied me. Every now and then someone would merge in from one of the side roads. I had figured the heavy traffic would hold off until mid afternoon, the unofficial beginning of the summer weekend, and wondered if the hot weather had convinced some people to start early.
I turned off the main road and onto Arrowhead Drive. Every road I came to had an Indian name. I wondered what tribe, if any, had called the area home. Steering with one hand, I propped the map against the wheel with the other. I counted four roads leading to the lake before I came to Wicklow’s. Each was marked by a small, obscure sign attached to a thin pole.
As I approached Wicklow’s turn, a white Chevy S-10 pulled out of the gravel road. I wouldn’t have thought much of it, except I’d noticed one in my rear view mirror on the way up. Probably a coincidence, but I jotted down the plate number as it drove off in the opposite direction. I couldn’t read the state, but the colors—dark letters on white—were different from both Illinois and Wisconsin.
The Wicklows’ residence was less than a quarter of a mile down the road. Like the places surrounding it, this vacation home was nicer than what most people lived in year round. The long, curved drive led to a two-car garage attached to a stone “cottage”—a ranch with a deck that wrapped around it.
As I pulled into the empty driveway, I wondered if finding Kurt Wicklow might be as easy as ringing his doorbell. It had occurred to me that Ellie might have misread his absence at the restaurant. Maybe he didn’t want to see her anymore and that was his way of break- ing the news. I knew the guy was a deadbeat. I wouldn’t put being a louse past him. Although, most of Foxport’s citizens would have disagreed with that conjecture.
Wicklow had earned the town’s undying affection in high school when he was named All-State tight end both his junior and senior years. He could have stopped achieving at that point and not slipped a notch in popularity. But Kurt Wicklow continued to excel. After college, the Bears made him their third- round draft choice, but he played for only one year before a knee injury did him in. He had a good head for business and didn’t mind trading on his name and connections while he established himself as a stockbroker and financial advisor. He married a hometown girl, the daughter of a prominent family. They appeared to be as close to an ideal couple as you could get—prosperous, sociable churchgoers, not to mention photogenic. When his wife died in a hiking accident, he maintained his eligible-but-grieving status for a number of years before remarrying. The guy could do no wrong.
It was going on eleven when I attached the leash to Peanuts’ collar and we got out of the car. I rang the doorbell and listened to the chimes echo within the house. No answer. I rang again. Still nothing. I tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked.
I knocked, then pushed it open. The heat poured out in a wave. “Kurt? You there?” Not likely, I thought. Not only did the house feel empty, but who could stand living in a sauna? On the other hand, I didn’t smell bodies festering in there either.
A gravel path skirted the porch, and Peanuts and I followed it around the house, passing tall, narrow windows facing west, their curtains wide open. That probably added ten or fifteen degrees to the house’s temperature. Once we got around to the back, the pine-tree studded yard dipped down to the lake—an expanse of about fifty feet where a short, wooden pier jutted out into the calm water. No boats were moored to it. The air was heavy and still, and when I looked out onto the lake, I didn’t see any sailboats, but I did hear the drone of motor boats. If he had a motorboat, Kurt might be out there. Peanuts pulled at the leash as he tried to persuade me to go back up the hill toward the house. I decided I couldn’t resist the temptation of an open door. If Kurt were out in his boat I’d hear him return.
When I opened the door, I called his name again. Nothing. It felt empty. While it was possible he’d walked next door for a beer with a neighbor, the temperature in the house implied that no one had been there for a while. I went on in.
Peanuts’ claws clicked against the rust-colored ceramic tiles that spilled out from the entryway, past the living room and into the kitchen on the right and down a hall on the left. As I walked toward the hall, a painting over the couch caught my eye. It was a watercolor of a rocky, rugged coastal scene that reminded me of Scotland. I walked up to it, leaning over the couch to see the signature. Gina Montague.
The living room had a vaulted ceiling, skylights and glass doors looking out on the lake. Except for Gina’s painting, the walls were bare. While the furniture looked expensive—leather couch and chairs, marble coffee table with matching chess set—I didn’t see anything in the way of personal touches. The place seemed sterile—like my place, only pricier. The way I figure, if sterile is the look you’re going for, might as well do it on the cheap.
I checked out the kitchen next, going straight to the huge, stainless steel refrigerator. From its size and prominence, I expected to find it stocked with gourmet products, but it held only the bare basics—bread, milk, lunch meat, frozen dinners. Déjà vu again. The cheddar looked a little stale but it hadn’t turned green yet. The milk was dated yesterday and the ham had been purchased seven days ago. Wicklow’s taste in frozen dinners ran toward the low fat, high salt variety. Again, I related.
A wine rack built into the cabinets stocked some impressive labels. French white wines with words like “Premier Cru” and “Grand Cru” on the labels. That probably meant “expensive” and “really expensive.” A larger selection of reds. When I pulled out a bottle of Opus One I wondered, briefly, if he’d miss it.
A door in the corner of the kitchen led to the two-car garage. A silver Lexus, license plate BROKER9, took up half the area. Its hood felt cool. On the other side, a bicycle hung from the wall above a motorcycle. Apparently Wicklow liked variety in transportation. An elaborate weight gym occupied the rest of the garage. I wondered where Mrs. Wicklow parked her car.
By this time a bored Peanuts was pulling on his leash, trying to drag me back into the house. I took one more look around the kitchen and saw an expensive, modern room—professional-looking stove, granite countertops, butcher block table—with no personal touches. No fingerprints marring the stainless steel appliances. Except for mine. I wiped these off the refrigerator with my handkerchief. A stiff, dry washcloth draped over the sink tap implied some use.
Peanuts led me down the hall. In the first room on the right, a half bathroom, I found a used bar of soap in a brass dish and a white towel hanging, unfolded, on a brass rack.
The next room appeared to be an office—bookshelves, a large desk and a computer. The drapes were closed and the sunlight diluted. As I stepped in, thick brown carpeting recorded my footsteps. Scanning the area, I took in a few papers scattered on the desk, a credenza against the wall with a wooden cross hanging above it, and a tan leather chair in the corner. I stopped. Was the carpeting beside the chair and under the window a slightly darker shade of brown? When Peanuts started to whine and pull at his leash, I knew we were onto something. He’s no Lassie, but he’s got good instincts.
I crossed over to the chair and squatted beside it. Peanuts buried his nose in the darker area, drinking in the scent. Once his lungs were full, he huffed and drew in another snootful. I guess it agreed with him, because he dropped down and began to roll on the stain, writhing on his back like he was enjoying a fresh patch of sweet clover. The area felt stiff like dried paint. I drew my hand away and sniffed the rust-colored residue on my fingers. No mistaking the metallic smell of blood. From what I could see, a good deal of it had been spilled on the carpet. Maybe Kurt Wicklow left involuntarily. When I pulled Peanuts up off the rug, the blood-red powder clung to his coat. I brushed him off. On occasion, dog behavior leaves me a little uneasy.
I drew back one of the drapes and saw blood smeared on the wall and the windowsill. The room looked out on a wooded area that started about ten feet back from the house. Using my handkerchief again, I raised the window. Peanuts propped his front paws on the sill and stuck his head out the window, sucking in the outside air. No screen. The trail of blood continued over the sill. Ground cover ran along the back of the house. Directly below, I detected drops of red among the green leaves. I considered walking around the back to check it out, but didn’t want to add my footprints to what might already be there. I pulled Peanuts back inside and closed the window.
Keeping Peanuts on a short leash, I quickly examined the rest of the room. The papers on the desk turned out to be junk mail. A set of encyclopedias took up much of the bookshelf space. I also found a Bible and several religious and spiritual texts, including Nostrodamus’ predictions. When I opened the Bible, I saw it was inscribed to Kurt from Karen. No words of wisdom, just “to Kurt, from Karen,” dated a year and a half ago. I wondered if Wicklow had spent an influential weekend at the cabin with Karen and her friends. The cross above the credenza suddenly got more interesting and I started to move around the desk for a better look. When I did, my foot whacked something by the floor. A framed picture was propped against the side of the desk. I crouched down to examine it. Another one of Gina’s, it was small and from what I could make out through the broken glass, radiating out like a spider web from the center, it depicted a shop-lined street in a village. Judging from the narrow street and the architecture, the setting was European. Glancing up at the cross, I wondered if the painting had once hung in its place. I stood to get a closer look at the cross, which was simply two pieces of wood nailed together. I lifted it off the hook and turned it over. Carved in crude, block letters down the spine of the cross were the words: “Salvation through Rebirth.”
I returned it to the wall and before I left the office obliterated my footprints by dragging my foot over the carpeting along with the nap and picked up a few dog hairs. A brief inspection of the other rooms—two bedrooms, one with a full bath—revealed nothing out of the ordinary. They all had the same blank look as the rest of the house.
As Peanuts and I left, I mulled over my next move. I could have been wrong about the spill in the office, but I’d have bet the money Wicklow owed me that it was blood. Whose blood was another story.
Whether Kurt Wicklow had met with or indulged in foul play, or had simply slaughtered a duck in his den and thrown it out the window, I had to treat it as the first scenario. Admittedly, the signs seemed obvious—almost too obvious—the trail of blood a series of arrows pointing toward the woods. But murder wasn’t always subtle, just as murderers weren’t always bright. After briefly weighing my options, I decided to find a nice anonymous telephone and make an equally anonymous call to the New Berne police department.
My work for Ellie was finished. True, I’d told her I’d look for Kurt. Said I’d ask around. But, I didn’t want to get her (or myself) implicated in whatever occurred here. Let the police figure out what happened to Kurt Wicklow.
Chapter 6
By the time I got back to Foxport the temperature had hit ninety-seven degrees. I began to have serious concerns about the global warming effect.
If I’d had any other news for Ellie, I’d have called her. But, I figured since I had to tell her the only sign of her boyfriend was a dried-up pool of blood, she deserved the news in person. At the same time I wondered who would break the news to Wicklow’s wife.
I hoped I’d find Ellie alone, but figured with it being summer and all, odds were that at least one of the kids would be home. I had finally recalled their names.
I’d met them once, not long ago. Foxport’s got a class A ball team called the Foxes, and I’d run into them at the opener last spring with Ed. The boy, Aaron, was about ten with tousled hair the color of straw and a way of looking at his dad that made me wish I’d taken the time to have kids. The girl, Diana, was several years older. They called her DeeDee. I expected a DeeDee to be bubbly, vivacious. Possibly to a fault. But DeeDee Carver was a quiet, serious kid and pretty in a somber way. That afternoon at the game, they wound up sitting a few rows in front of me. Whenever I looked over there, DeeDee’s face was buried in the pages of a book.
After the split, Ellie and the kids had stayed in the house—a white Cape Cod with a screened-in porch in the older section of Foxport where the homes were modest, but the lawns trimmed, and bushes and small firs framed picture windows. The Carvers’ lawn was a little shabby, but then Ellie didn’t strike me as the gardening type.
I still had Peanuts with me, so I took him up to the house, figuring he could stay on the porch while I talked to Ellie.
