Murder Grins and Bears It (6 page)

Deputy Dickey puffed up his skinny rooster
chest. “This superb police dog will locate the suspect once he
acquires the proper scent. He’s trained for this line of
investigation.”

“
The suspect?” I shouted at
Dickey. “By suspect do you mean my grandson? I’ll suspect you, you
little twerp.”

Blaze grabbed my elbow and pulled me
back.

“
We’re still trying to get
a good scent going.” Blaze hitched up his pants over his potbelly
with his free hand. The weight of the gun on his hip was helping to
send them south.

I looked at my son’s gun. “Little Donny’s
still missing.” It wasn’t a question.

Blaze nodded.

“
He hasn’t called here. I
was hoping he’d at least call and let us know he’s
okay.”

“
No one’s heard a thing,
Ma.”

“
Your sister and her
husband are inside, and I don’t want them more upset than they
already are. Take that vicious animal and get out of here.” I
pointed at Deputy Sheedlo. “Go on, put that thing away.”

“
No can do,” Blaze said,
demonstrating his remarkable grasp of the English language. “The
dog needs to help find Little Donny. What if he’s hurt in the woods
and can’t find his way out? The dog can help, Ma.”

I hadn’t thought of that, and I didn’t want
to think of it now. With mixed feelings, I let them inside, and
Blaze led the way to the spare bedroom where Little Donny slept.
Big Donny and Heather watched from the hall, and when Heather
realized what was going on, the dam broke again. I would have to
put tissues on my grocery list.

“
What’s goin’ on out here?”
Grandma Johnson shuffled out of her room, forgetting her new teeth
in the excitement. Devil Fang and several weighty deputies almost
ran her over. Blaze threw out an arm to protect Grandma. “In
there,” he said, nodding toward the spare room.

Devil Fang went right to the jacket that I’d
rummaged through to find Little Donny’s keys. Another battle
started between the dog and me. Blaze jumped in between us and I
managed to kick him in the shin. The dog, excited now and not sure
whose side he should be on, grabbed Blaze’s other pant leg. Blaze
howled. Heather screamed.

The ruckus ended as quickly as it had
started.

The cops stared at Devil Fang, clearly
puzzled by the dumb dog’s inability to tell the difference between
Little Donny and a crusty old woman.

“
He’s getting up there in
years,” Dickey explained, defensively. “I was thinking about
retiring him next year, but at this rate, he’ll be grazing sooner
than planned.”

I grinned at Devil Fang. That’ll teach the
mangy mutt.

Blaze reached over and patted Devil Fang’s
head. “Good boy, Fred.”

“
Fred? That’s his name?” I
couldn’t believe this aggressive mass of hooked fangs could be
called that.

I pulled the bed sheet from the bed, balled
it up, and gave it to Blaze. “This’ll give Fred a good start. Now
get going. You’re riling Heather.”

****

Cora Mae was hanging all over George
something terrible.

“
I just love tools,” she
said, eyeing his groin and standing so close to him they looked
like Siamese twins.

She’d been after him without snagging him
for the longest time. Cora Mae usually gets what she wants right
away. George is her first holdout and, true to form, she wasn’t
handling it well and was acting more aggressive than usual,
especially after my reluctant approval.

George slid back his cowboy hat with the
coiled rattlesnake on the brim. He wore a tight white undershirt
and snug blue jeans, and I figured, if you’re going to dress like
that around Cora Mae, you’re just asking for trouble.

To tell the truth, I’ve never seen a
sixty-year-old man look so good. George Erikson and I have had a
special friendship, relaxed and easy, ever since his wife picked up
and left him on Christmas Eve the year before last, and I didn’t
want Cora Mae busting in and ruining it.

George was my best friend after Cora Mae,
and I wanted to keep it that way. I felt a twinge of irritation
every time I thought of them maybe getting together.

George slapped a wrench into Cora Mae’s
hand. “I sprayed oil on those rusty bolts,” he said, pointing at my
new truck’s strobe lights. “Give it a minute to work, then see if
you can pry them loose.”

By the look on Cora Mae’s face, the wrench
in her hand wasn’t the tool she loved so much.

George winked at me.

I hid a grin and went to work opening the
lettering kit and arranging the letters on the ground.

Cora Mae and I had had a
heated discussion on the way over to George’s house about the name
of our company. I won, since starting the business was my idea, and
to top it off, it was
my
truck. She wanted to go over every little
contribution she had made. I acknowledged her points, but still won
because it was
my
truck.

Putting lettering on the side of a truck is
harder than it looks. I stood back and viewed my work. THE TROUBLE
BUSTERS. The letters swayed and swerved along the passenger side of
the truck. I tried to peel a few off and set them right, but they
were already cemented on like dried concrete.

I did a little better on the driver’s side.
By the time I finished, George had the lights and siren in working
order, and we were ready for business.

I gave him a quick cheek kiss and pulled
Cora Mae toward the truck before she could give him her version of
the same.

We bounced along a gravel road north of town
with the lights and siren going just for fun. “Where are we going?”
Cora Mae asked.

I shouted back over the blare of the siren,
“We’re going to have to interrogate the bear hunters camped in the
area where the murder occurred. Maybe someone saw something.”

I turned onto the rutted dirt road leading
to Walter Laakso’s house, remembering at the last minute to warn
Cora Mae about his typically friendly greetings to visitors.

Walter barreled out the front door with his
sawed-off shotgun leveled directly at me. Cora Mae had decided to
wait in the truck till introductions were over.

“
Dang,” I said, stepping
away from the truck, my hands in the air. “It’s Gertie Johnson. Put
that thing away. Do we have to go through this every time I come to
visit?”

“
Hey, Gertie,” Walter said,
glancing at the passenger window and frowning. The shotgun didn’t
waver, it just redirected. “Who’s that with ya?”

“
That’s Cora Mae. Come on
out, Cora Mae. It’s safe.”

After Walter lowered the gun, she slid out
of the seat and followed us inside. We sat at the kitchen table
while Walter boiled a fresh pot of coffee on the stove. He poured
coffee all around, then dumped brandy in his and added some to Cora
Mae’s before she knew what was happening. I spread my hand over the
rim of my cup to ward him off.

“
No thanks,” I said. “I’m
on the job.”

Walter gave me a wide grin, exposing the
gaps where his front teeth used to be.

I looked around. Walter’s place was what
you’d expect from an old guy who’s lived in the backwoods alone
pretty much all his life. Piles of dirty dishes lined the counter
and the kitchen table was littered with tools, cans of bug spray,
and other health hazards.

Walter scratched his long scrawny beard,
took a sip of his coffee-laced brandy, and asked about my
husband.

“
Barney’s been dead a few
years now, Walter. You remember, don’t you? You came to the
funeral.”

“
Oh, ya,” he said. Then
waited.

Small talk is an art in the Michigan U.P.,
since most things that happen here are small. Long silences are
okay, too. Most of what’s said will be said again tomorrow. The
weather, gardening, and the no-good federal government are all good
topics, interspersed with pauses and throat clearings. It’s our way
of life.

Only I wasn’t here for small talk.

“
A warden was killed
yesterday. You hear anything about that?”

“
Just that he’s dead,”
Walter said.

“
Who told you?” I sipped my
coffee, noticing Cora Mae hadn’t touched hers. She slid her chair
back as far from the table as possible.

“
The Detroit boys came in
from the bait pile early yesterday. They knew.”

“
You’re still renting out
bait piles to out-of-towners?”

Walter nodded.

“
Where are they
staying?”

“
I’ve got a trailer out
back.”

Leasing chunks of land to hunters is common
practice around Stonely. There aren’t many jobs to speak of, and
taxes have to be paid on the properties, so some people have
resorted to renting to the city boys, most of them coming from
Chicago or Detroit. However, it’s not a popular way to add income,
and those who do it generally don’t make announcements to the
community.

“
My grandson seems to be
missing,” I continued. “Anybody around here see him?”

Walter shook his head back and forth. He
rolled up the sleeves of his worn, red flannel shirt and took a
long gulp of his coffee. I noticed red welts skittering over his
arms.

“
Looks like you got
yourself into a mess of stinging nettles,” I said.

“
I was sicklin’ brush over
on the side of the south fence, and must’a got in it there. Didn’t
even notice till I was done. Stuff runs for miles all along the
fencing on that side.”

Stinging nettle can grow as tall as a large
man. It looks wispy and harmless along the edges of clearings,
snuggling up against fences and outbuildings where people tend to
walk. Then it waits patiently for some poor sucker to come wading
through it. If you rub up against it, small hairs poke through your
exposed skin injecting formic acid, the welts leap up, and the
itching starts and goes on forever.

I heard you can boil and eat the new growth
of a stinging nettle--that could come in handy if you were lost and
starving. Boiling supposedly neutralizes the acid. Of course, you’d
need a pair of gloves to pick it and a pot to boil it in, which
aren’t convenient items to locate out in the woods.

Lost and starving reminded me of my
mission.

“
I need to find Little
Donny,” I said, draining my coffee. “Maybe the Detroit boys know
something useful. How many piles are they sitting on?”

Walter scratched his welts. “Three. But
they’re buried deep. Can’t drive your truck in.”

“
No, but your ATV ought to
do just dandy.”

****

The ATV was painted in camouflage, or camo
as we like to call it. Brown with large green leaves. And it roared
like a souped-up racecar down the path Walter had pointed out to
us.

“
Hang on tight,” I called
over my shoulder to Cora Mae as I opened up the machine on a
straight stretch. “Let’s see what it’ll do.”

I was having so much fun, I almost blew
right past the first bait pile.

Pre-work is everything in bear hunting.
Since a bear travels in a circuit ranging from several days to
several weeks, a hunter tries to hold him in an area as long as
possible by enticing him with tantalizing treats. The smellier, the
better.

I smelled the pile before I saw it.

Pulling over, I crawled off the ATV,
adjusted my oversized weapons handbag on my shoulder, and began
surveying the site.

The Detroit boys sat like ants on a log and
watched. Cora Mae noticed them immediately. She patted her hair and
re-tucked her blouse. Then she made more detailed clothing
adjustments, slowing down for their benefit, opening a button on
her blouse, and fanning herself like she was overheating.

“
Oh, for God’s sake,” I
snorted. “Give it a rest.”

They must have heard us coming a long way
off, which is the disadvantage of the ATV mode of travel. You
aren’t going to be sneaking up on anybody. I suppose I looked
pretty ridiculous driving up in blazing orange and freshly mended
suspender pants riding on a camo ATV, but they didn’t notice my
attire since they were all staring at Cora Mae, the sandwiches
clutched in their paws forgotten.

I have to give it to Cora Mae. She can turn
a man’s head no matter his age. He can be twenty years older or
twenty years younger than she is. She’s definitely got sex
appeal.

These three men were in their early fifties,
give or take a few years, and they looked alike. Large round faces
and large facial features with big honking noses and wide-set
eyes.

“
Hey, boys,” Cora Mae
called, strolling over, apparently in her element. “Let’s introduce
ourselves.”

The boys turned out to be brothers – Marlin
Smith, Remy Smith, and BB Smith – and none too bright. Detroit
schools must not turn out too many rocket scientists. But I had to
admire the creativity of their parents. While I’d named Blaze,
Heather, and Star after horses, the Detroit boys were named after
firearms.

“
It smells like someone
died,” I said, after making sure the odor wasn’t floating over from
the boys. “What a stench.”

They seemed to notice me for the first time.
Marlin pointed at a five-gallon bucket hanging from a large tree
branch. “Walter goes smelting in the spring, throws a bunch of them
in a bucket, seals it, and lets it sit all summer in the garage.
Then we string it up and I shoot a hole in it with my twenty-two so
it dribbles out onto the ground. Have to shoot a hole a little
lower every day to keep it dripping. Works like a charm.”