Murder in Death's Door County (4 page)

“I’m listening,” I ground out through
clenched teeth. Whatever joy I had felt from ditching CritiCentric was being
replaced by a feeling I knew well—anxiety.

“There’s actually a reason why you’ll
have restricted access to Marcos. He doesn’t want visitors.”

“Oh, he doesn’t like having people over?

“Kind of.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Gosh, I’m
starting to feel bad about putting you in this position. I really should have
told you how limited your access would be to Marcos.”

That struck me as a very odd thing to
say. Alarm bells started clanging in my head. Suddenly, I realized exactly what
Harry was trying to tell me. I reasoned, no, Harry wouldn’t do this to me.

I yelled into my phone, “Are you saying
he’s still in PRISON? What are doing to me, Harry? Is this why I got this
project?”

Flopping onto the couch, I tried to get
some perspective. I quit my job for this gig. Oh. My. Gosh. I. Quit. My. Job.

“Ssh. Ssh, Annie! Calm down! No. No, it’s
not that. He’s a little—just a little, mind you—crazy.”

“Crazy! Like that makes it better. Well,
maybe it does a little. But you said to calm down? Okay, seriously, I’m not
even sure I want this project anymore.” My mind started racing: I could
waitress. I like people. I can take food orders. The break from Corporate
America will be good.

It had occurred to me that the pay was
suspiciously high for this project—something I should have paid more attention
to before.

“No, no. Please don’t quit this project,
Annie! We need you because of your lo-,” Harry stopped himself. I burned with
curiosity to know what he was about to say. He continued, “What I mean to say
is, we really need
you
to stay with this project. Actually, there’s an extra
five grand—in advance—if you stay on. I’ll bring it up personally, myself. I
can meet you up in Door County. Are there any good steak joints up there?”

Shooty booty. An extra five thousand?
Wait? What? Did Harry say Door County?

“Did you say Door County, Harry?”

He gave a nervous laugh, “Oh yeah, doll,
didn’t I tell you? I’m gonna need you to temporarily move to Door County for
however long this book takes.”

“I’m sorry, what?

“You’re going to need to move up there
to complete this one.”

“Why?”

“He needs to be near his doctor.” Then
he whispered, “His psychiatrist. He has had some psychotic episodes.”

His voice rose again, “Besides, it’ll be
a nice little vacation for you, right? Anyway, you’ll be staying on Egg Harbor.
He lives nearby, near Fish Creek, or some similarly crazy named place. I dunno.
You live up there, not me.”

“I live up there? No, I don’t. How close
do you think Milwaukee is to Door County?” Squeaking again, I emphatically
pointed out, “it really isn’t that close! And I thought you’d said I’d have
limited access to him. Why do I need to move up there?”

“In addition to vindicating Marcos, the
piece is supposed to be a ‘slice of life’ type of book. He’s started a kind of
artist colony up in Door County, so you’ll need to get a feel for the place.”

“The artist colony?”

“No, just the culture of the area.
Marcos recommended it.”

Anxiety warred with practicality for a
few seconds. But, the fact still remained that I had quit my job and had
outstanding bills to pay. Plus, it didn’t hurt that I loved Door County, and
really could use a change. I had grown stagnant in Milwaukee. I felt like my
friends were moving on with their lives, while I was still waiting for my
adventure.

“Aw, c’mon, Annie. We really need you to
do this book.”

Practicality and the need for adventure
won out. I ground out, “Fine, I’ll do it.

“And you’re going to bring up the extra
five thousand? And you’re going to cover my room and board for the designated
time?” I confirmed.

“Yep.” Hmmm… he had agreed to that room
and board request a little too readily. He must be desperate.

“All right, Harry. This is it, though.
No more surprises. Please. I can’t take any more surprises. Okay?”

“Yeah sure, doll. I’ll be up Saturday
afternoon. We can go over your outline then and I’ll give you the bonus check.
Oh, and I already stuck the first payment in the mail.”

Begrudgingly, I thanked him. “Um, how
will I get in touch with Marcos?”

“Let him call you. He has all of your
contact info. Be ready to answer his call anywhere and anytime. He really doesn’t
like to be kept waiting.”

Oh great!

—
–

At ten the next morning, my phone rang
and caller ID said, “Unknown.” Tentatively, I answered it.

In for a penny, in for a pound, I
thought as I said, “Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Annie Malone?” answered
a low, growly voice. He had a very heavy Mediterranean accent. Given his name, I
had assumed he came from Greece. Given the growliness of his voice, I didn’t
dare ask.

“Well, um, yeah, hi. This is Annie. Oh,
right, you know that already. I’m going to be writing your book. I’m so glad
you call-”

“Of course! Of course! Oh, Harry spoke
of you in such glowing terms! You are going to help vindicate me after my
terrible ordeal!” Huh, he certainly liked to exclaim things.

“V-vindicate? Well, I don’t kn-now
about vindication, per se. I d-do know that I’m going to get your story
out there.” I stammered, “I-I me-mean if you need vindication, then I
guess I’m h-here to help.”

Mentally, I banged my head against the
wall. This guy had me frazzled within 10 seconds of talking to him. How did
that happen?

“You must vindicate us! We are pinning
all of our hopes on you,” continued Marcos. “I have been framed, framed I tell
you! And I will have redemption!”

Okay, Sparky, just calm down. I had
learned that people got very passionate about their books. They paid a lot of
money to Harry and expected their ghostwriter to be a sort of therapist. In my
time with Harry, I had heard a lot of bizarre stories and life viewpoints.
Typically, I viewed clients with a certain detachment in order to keep my
sanity. Marcos seemed to want to pull me into the phone and into his story.
Once I realized that, I was able to retain a sense of objectivity (and lose the
stammer).

“Marcos, I will do everything I can to
get your story told.”

“Have your read our case yet? You
believe I’m innocent, don’t you?” Marcos sounded slightly suspicious.

“Harry sent me some of the files, but he
said you could send me additional files. Also, I’d like to set up some time for
us to conduct a phone interview.”

“The InterGlobal Bank is persecuting me.
They are hunting down my family and in cahoots with the police departments. Did
you know that? Did you know that the police sent me to prison? Wrongly. They
framed me. They said I beat up my tenant and killed her boyfriend. Me, Marcos
Landrostassis! I would never do that!” He became agitated again. “I would not
do that! I am a proud family man!”

“And I want to help you,” I said, amazed
at how quickly he could lose focus. I spoke to him slowly and gently, as I
would to a toddler. “Let me look through more of the paperwork and let’s set up
a time to talk tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes, of course. We will talk
tomorrow,” said Marcos. “Can I call you at three o’clock day after tomorrow?”

“Perfect. Thanks for your time.” I gave
him the rest of my contact information, and he gave me the website where he had
stored the files I needed.

“Thank you so much! When you hear my
whole story, you will know I am innocent.”

With that, he hung up the phone. I shook
my head. Where on earth did Harry come up with these people?

W
ITH HARRY’S ADVANCE, I
BOUGHT
the most basic
laptop possible.

Once I got the laptop home, I had just
enough time to prepare for my initial interview with Marcos. I downloaded and
read some of the files from Marcos’ website. The gaps in his timeline struck me
as very odd. Whole pockets of time, years even, were missing from these files.
If I had to rely on pure instinct, it felt like the omissions were strategic.
The names Tina Delvecchio and Ray Harris kept appearing again and again.

Despite the weird feelings I had about
the project, I still found myself temporarily moving up to Door County. My
Grandfather and Aunt Helen had a special dinner for me, with a few of my
friends from college and work. We met at Giovanni’s for pizza and beer. Since I
was leaving so quickly, the party was hastily put together, which suited me
just fine. I really didn’t relish being the center of attention.

Although, the suddenness of my trip
shocked many of my friends, they all agreed that I needed a change. They had
all kind of moved on with their lives… they had spouses, kids, homes, while I
seemed to be stagnating. I didn’t even have a goldfish. I hadn’t realized it so
much as when I ditched my job at CritiCentric and made my plans to move up to
Door County for the fall.

Thus, only two days after walking out of
my job, I found myself driving up the interstate to Egg Harbor, Door County. I
had found a cute place to stay, the Lighthouse Inn, and was hoping I could stay
there all winter. I wasn’t sure how accommodations would work, but I figured
with so much unknown at this point, what’s one more unknown thing, right?

When I arrived in Door County, I felt a
freedom I hadn’t known in a long time. It was weird—I was so far from my
hometown, but I felt like I had come home for the first time. Fortunately,
since it was the middle of October, the leaves had just hit their peak up there.
The trees exploded in color and made it hard for me to keep my eyes on the
road. Vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges greeted me as I zipped down the road.

As I drove into Egg Harbor, a quaint
church and cemetery greeted me. They crested a hill. Driving down the rather
steep hill made me feel like I’d end up in Green Bay (the actual bay, not the
city). But the road ended right at my destination: The Lighthouse Inn.

If you weren’t careful, you could hit
the charming little inn. As the road slopes into the quaint village, the inn’s
property juts into the intersection. Oh, and if you missed that, there’s a big
picture of a sea captain with “Lighthouse Inn” sign on the side of the
building. I figured out where to park and went to the reservation desk. At
least I thought it was the reservation desk. After ten minutes of waiting, I
thought that maybe I should try the adjacent room, which looked like the bar.
Grabbing my stuff, I trudged over to the bar.

By that point, all I wanted was a big,
juicy burger and a cold beer. Since the Lighthouse also boasted a microbrewery
on its premises, I figured I’d be a bit adventurous and have a local brew.

As I approached the bar, out of the
corner of my eye, I saw a pile of boxes moving towards me. The boxes looked
like they could topple over any minute. I couldn’t tell whether they were full
or empty.

“Out of my way! Out of my way!” said the
boxes.

I turned towards the unseen voice, “Hey!
Do you need some help?”

“Sure, can you grab the top box?”

“I think so,” I said, as I stood on my
tiptoes to reach the box. As I grabbed it, a smiling face framed by curly
blonde hair beamed down at me. The bartender was a taller-than-average
woman, about my age, with long, curly blonde hair held back with a headband.

“Thanks! I think I grabbed more than I
realized!” The smiling face laughed. After putting the rest of her load down on
the bar and gesturing for me to do the same, she put out her hand, “Hi! I’m
Lizzy Holloway. Are you staying here?”

We shook hands, “My name is Annie Malone
and, yes, I’m staying here. And I need to talk to someone about extended rates?”

“Oh sure, no problem. Kitty’s the owner
and she can help you with that, but she’s out right now.”

She said that last bit over her
shoulder. After rummaging around in the cupboards under the cash register, she
came back with a binder.

“Yep, I see you right here. Okay, you’re
in Room 4. Here’s your key. Yeah, I know, we’re an inn—we have old-fashioned
keys here.” She scrunched up her face.

“Oh and Annie, I almost forgot, you get
a couple of coupons for your stay here. You get a free sampler platter of our
micro-brewed beers and a free drink anytime.” She put her hand to the side of
her mouth, and stage whispered, “But come right back down and I’ll give you
another free drink for helping me out.”

“In that case, I’ll be right back down,”
I said. “I’m famished! I just realized I forgot to eat breakfast in my
excitement to get up here.”

With my free hand, I grabbed the
coupons, thanked her again, and negotiated my gear up the narrow staircase to
my room. Housed in an old Cape Cod-type house, the inn had eight rooms. I’m not
sure whether it was an attempt at “old-world charm” or cost issues, but the
place had a sense of being a bit rundown. The seeming fragility of the building
kind of lent credence to the rumors of the place being haunted. Supposedly,
famous gangster Al Capone’s stepson haunted the roof and attic.