Harbor Nights Page 3

  Before Maxine could ask, I explained. “The increased heat causes the boil-over, which washes the oil out of the cauldron. Let’s go eat.” I took her hand and led her to the dining room.

  After a wonderful dinner, we crossed the road and sat on one of the docks. A gentle breeze wafted in off the bay as we watched stars appear out of the twilight. The harbor was now dotted with red, green, and white running lights.

  “I come down here a lot at night and watch the lights. It’s mesmerizing. And I have no idea how all those boats avoid running into each other.”

  I laughed and tried to explain the navigation rules. “It’s all about the lights. And you can tell which direction a boat is moving by which lights you see.”

  She thought for a minute. “Kinda like a stoplight. If you see red, you stop. If you see green, you go.”

  “Well, on paper. But you need common sense, too. The other guy isn’t always going to stop. Always better to be alive than right.”

  We spent an hour with Maxine trying to tell me which way boats were moving and who should be waiting for whom. Toward the end of the hour she was getting most of them right.

  ***

  I drove across the peninsula on Highway Q and turned down the road to Moonlight Bay. A half moon was just rising over the roof of the dark cottage. I dropped my bag in the kitchen, walked through the living room, and opened the drapes covering the sliding glass doors that looked out over the still waters of the bay. As I sat on a deck chair, an owl hooted from somewhere in the evergreens. And from farther off, the plaintive cry of a loon broke the silence.

  I watched the moonlight shimmer on the water and wondered where Kathleen could be and why she had disappeared. Nothing made sense, but that was par for the course with her. In the morning I’d stop at the police station, the frame shop, and Kathleen’s gallery and studio. For the moment, I just listened to the crickets and an occasional frog before falling asleep in the chair. I woke up at two a.m. and went to bed.

  Chapter 7

  I woke up at five Saturday morning and watched the sky turn from black to gray as the stars disappeared. Venus still shone brightly in the eastern sky about thirty degrees above the water.

  I had planned to stop in at Framed when it opened at ten. I made some eggs and bacon, ate out on the deck, and looked forward to a sunny, hot Saturday. The weekend forecast was for clear skies and breezes off the bay, which would help keep the heat down.

  At eight, I called the Ephraim police station. I recognized the voice that answered.

  “Ephraim Police, Sergeant Gruber. How may I help you?”

  “Hello, Paul. Spencer Manning.”

  “Spencer! I figured we’d be hearing from you. Long time no see.”

  “But always a pleasure.” Paul was two years younger than me and had always wanted to be a policeman. We had spent a lot of time on the water during my high school summers. He was the grandson of Gus Gruber, better known as Rusty, and had often joined Kathleen and me on our summer adventures.

  He laughed. “Maybe not so much this time, eh? Our Kathleen seems to have gotten the best of Chicago’s finest.”

  “They never had a chance,” I said cheerfully. “You going to be there a bit? I’d like to stop by.”

  “Sure. Chief’s out on a call. I’ll be here.”

  “Great. Be about a half hour.”

  I hung up and cleaned up breakfast. The rinsed dishes went into the dishwasher. I used so few dishes that I often washed them by hand and used the dishwasher for a dryer.

  The Ephraim Police Department had doubled in size a year ago when they hired Paul. Before that there had just been the chief. Technically, they called Paul a constable. They were the only town in upper Door that had a police force, if you call two a force. The peninsula was patrolled mostly by the County Sheriff’s office out of Sturgeon Bay, but crime was minimal and usually not serious, so there wasn’t much need for the sheriff. There was only one road into the peninsula. Most people didn’t even bother locking their doors.

  ***

  Paul was sitting at his desk doing paperwork when I walked in. We shook hands, caught up a bit, and then I sat on the wooden chair at the side of his desk.

  “You know anything about this craziness, Paul?”

  He shook his head. “I’m just as confused as you. But then I never have been able to figure out that girl.”

  “You and me both. Were you here when she was brought in?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  He folded his hands on top of the desk. “Is this off the record?”

  “Shouldn’t I be the one asking that? I’m not in charge of the record.”

  His eyes locked on mine and he looked like he was trying to make a decision.

  “I was the one who took the call from Chicago. That was at seven a.m. I was told that two detectives were on their way to get Kathleen, and I was asked to pick her up for questioning.”

  “And you went out to get her?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  I spread my hands, palms up, and stared back at him. “So give me the exactly.”

  “Between you and me, right?”

  “Don’t see why not.”

  “There’s that law thing.”

  “Unless you killed her, I don’t see a problem.”

  Even though it was clear we were the only ones in the office, he looked around.

  “I didn’t kill her. But I didn’t pick her up either. I called her and told her about the call from Chicago.”

  I’m sure my face showed surprise. “Not exactly standard procedure.”

  “Not exactly. Hence the problem.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t see why. She did get picked up eventually. And you weren’t the one who lost her. So what happened?”

  “She said she would come in on her own but asked for a few hours. I said sure, but made it clear she had to be here by the time the Chicago detectives showed up or my ass was in a sling.”

  “And she obviously agreed.”

  “She did. And at a little after eleven she showed up.”

  “Did you ask why she wanted a few hours?”

  “Yes. She wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Not surprised. And what did you two do while you waited?”

  He shrugged. “We just sat and chatted. I asked her what it was all about. She said she didn’t know and swore she didn’t steal anything.”

  “No. Of course not. Any idea where she is?”

  He shook his head. “I checked the obvious places with the Chicago detectives, and then a couple not so obvious on my own. Nothing. I made a few calls. Either someone is lying or she’s disappeared—and I don’t rule out the first.”

  “No, me either. Pretty close bunch, these Johnsons. How about the Chicago detectives? Know where they are?”

  “Not a clue.” He straightened in his chair. “They’ve been working with the sheriff and chief.”

  I handed him my card. “Do me a favor and give me a call if you find anything. Use the pager number.”

  “Sure. But I don’t think I’m in the loop. I get the feeling they don’t trust me—me being related.”

  “Well, if you do.”

  “Sure, Spencer. What are you going to do?”

  “Talk to a few people and see if I can make sense of this. Going to start with Framed over in Fish Creek. Who am I likely to find there this morning?”

  “Edvard Gunderson, the owner. And he’s got a kid who runs errands and helps with the framing.”

  “Yeah, that would be the kid who picked up the paintings. You know his name?”

  He smiled mischievously and tilted back his chair. “Cletis Muddd.”

  My face must have shown my surprise. Paul laughed.

  “Not from around here, I’m guessing.”

  “Hardly. He’s from Tennessee.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Gunderson asked us to look into his past when the kid applied for the job a few months a
go.”

  “That’s a little strange. Do you always check backgrounds for normal jobs?”

  “No. I thought it strange, too, so I asked him about it. I didn’t get a good answer. He just said he had a reason to ask and would greatly appreciate it.”

  “You find anything?”

  He shrugged. “Not much. Marijuana possession, a theft charge that was dropped.”

  I nodded. “Lotsa kids up here. Why would he hire someone with a background like that? Even if it was a minor offense.”

  “Seemed strange to me, too. No clue. And by the way, the last name is spelled with three Ds.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Who the hell would do that?”

  “No one. I checked on the parents and their name only has two. So my guess is someone screwed up on the birth certificate and the parents let it ride. Makes a nice conversation piece.”

  “Strange.”

  “And here’s somethin’ else. The kid lived in Chicago before he came up here.”

  “Hmmm. You have an address?”

  “Yup.” He waved at the stack of files on the counter. “If you want to spend hours trying to find the report, be my guest.”

  I nodded toward the counter. “Nice filing cabinet.”

  “We’re a little short of help. You going to look for her?”

  I stood. “Gonna try, but if she doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be. Thanks for your help, Paul.”

  He set his chair back down and we shook hands.

  I hadn’t learned much, but I had a few more bits of information that might fit somewhere in the puzzle. And it was nice seeing Paul.

  Chapter 8

  Mid-June was always pretty predictable in Door County. Mild temperatures and sunny days were a joy compared to the heat and humidity of July that brought some pretty severe storms. Saturday morning was gorgeous—72 degrees and a few puffy, white cumulus clouds drifting across the sky.

  My next stop was Framed in Fish Creek. The shop was at the edge of town. An empty lot separated it from the Village Hall and the row of restaurants, art galleries, and various other stores that lined both sides of the street. It was a little before ten o’clock and the sidewalks were not yet crowded. I was able to get a parking spot on the street in front of a frozen yogurt stand across from Framed. By noon, the sidewalks would be crowded with tourists and open parking places would be rare.

  The shop looked like an old cottage. Two large picture windows showed off dozens of frames. A Closed sign hung in the window to the right of the door. I sat on a bench across the street and waited. The opening time, ten o’clock, was stenciled on the door.

  At ten minutes after ten, the lights came on and someone took down the Closed sign and unlocked the door. It was an older man, probably the owner, Mr. Gunderson. I waited a few more minutes and then strolled across the street.

  When I opened the door, the man behind the counter turned and uttered a very prim and proper good morning.

  “Good morning. Nice day.” I tried to sound friendlier than him.

  He smiled stiffly. Always smile at a customer, whether you mean it or not. “Yes, this is a beautiful time of year. I’ll be right with you. My employee didn’t show up this morning.”

  While he got the cash register ready I looked around the store. There were two main rooms—the one I was in, and a larger room through an open doorway. I could see several counters and frames in various stages of construction.

  The man finally stepped around the counter and asked how he could help me. He looked to be about sixty, was about my height, a bit overweight, and balding.

  “Well, I’m looking for some information.”

  “Of course. What are you looking to have framed?”

  “Not that kind of information. I have some questions about one of your customers.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Kathleen Johnson.”

  He lost the smile and stepped back.

  A customer came in.

  He looked at me defiantly, probably hoping I would leave.

  “I’ll wait.”

  He turned and asked the woman how he could help. He wasn’t happy that I had walked into his store. I considered myself a pretty nice guy, but I sometimes had that effect on people.

  They chatted for a few minutes before she left without buying anything.

  He walked back to the other side of the counter. Back there he was in charge.

  “Kathleen Johnson?” he asked warily.

  “Yes, are you Mr. Gunderson?”

  He nodded. “And what questions do you have about Kathleen Johnson?”

  I leaned against the counter. “She’s missing and I’d like to find her.”

  “Are you with the police?”

  “No. Private.”

  “Do you have ID?”

  I showed him my Wisconsin license.

  He looked at the license, then at me, then back at the license. “And who are you working for, Mr. Manning?”

  “No one. She’s a friend.”

  “I see.” He sat on a stool. “And why do you think I can help?”

  I knew he knew why I thought he could help, but he didn’t know how much I knew.

  “I understand you framed some of her paintings and shipped them to Chicago.”

  “My help framed them.”

  I waited but he offered nothing else.

  “And I understand there was some confusion with the paintings.”

  “Confusion?” He looked surprised.

  “Yes, something about her favorite painting being taken, and then two paintings disappearing from the gallery in Chicago.”

  “I did hear about that. Very worrisome. I understand the police are looking into it.”

  I nodded. “They are. But I have some questions.”

  He looked nervous. His lip quivered and he was rubbing his hands together. “Well, I really don’t have much time. There is a lot to do to get ready for the day.”

  “I’ll be quick and would really appreciate your help.”

  “Well, okay, as long as it is quick.”

  I flipped pages in a catalog on the counter and said, “I understand there were thirteen paintings taken for display and some were already sold. Correct?”

  “Yes. That often happens. Someone pre-buys a painting and then the sold painting is used kind of like a pump primer. No one wants to be the first to make a purchase.”

  “Makes sense. But what I don’t understand is why she was arrested for taking her own painting.”

  “Evidently you don’t know the whole story. There was another missing painting. She may have taken that one.”

  “Just to be clear, we’re talking about Blue and Green and Harbor Nights. Right?”

  He sighed. “Yes.”

  I leaned on the counter. “And Blue and Green was her property, and should not have been shipped to Chicago. Do you know how that happened?”

  “I did ask my hired boy about that. He says he was confused by the names. There also was a Green and Blue. He thinks he put both paintings in the crate when he loaded the paintings from her gallery. He’s not the smartest kid. I wasn’t happy about hiring him in the first place.”

  “So why did you?”

  “Well, let’s just say he had friends in Chicago who suggested strongly that I hire him. But he made mistakes and I warned him I might have to let him go if he kept making them.”

  I nodded. “Could be he mixed them up. But did you know that Blue and Green wasn’t on the list?”

  “I guess it wasn’t. I had tried to buy that from her but she wouldn’t sell.”

  I slid down a few feet closer to him. “So why did you frame it and send it to Chicago?”

  He grabbed onto the edge of the counter and straightened. “I didn’t. The boy does the framing. I just do the paperwork and make sure he makes the delivery.”

  “I see. So you never saw the paintings?”

  “I saw them. But the boy
handled them.”

  “That would be Cletis?”

  He nodded.

  “I’d like to talk to him. Do you know where I can find him?”

  He frowned at me. “You should find him here. But as you can see, he isn’t here—on my busiest day.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “He was at work yesterday. He left at five.”

  “Does he work every day?”

  “No, just three days a week.”

  “Has Kathleen been in touch with you lately?”

  “No. No, she hasn’t.”

  I handed him my card and asked him to call if he heard anything, or if Cletis showed up. He said he would, but I had the feeling he was just saying it to get rid of me. I made him nervous, but I didn’t know why. I had the feeling it was more than just confusion over the paintings.

  I turned toward the frozen yogurt stand after I walked out. I glanced back through the window and saw Mr. Gunderson making a phone call. I had stirred a pot, but I had no idea what was in it.

  Chapter 9

  When I finished the yogurt, it was close to eleven and the sidewalks were crowded. I had two more stops I wanted to make—Kathleen’s gallery and her studio. I took Highway 42 back to Ephraim. Her gallery, Color My World, was about a block up the street from the harbor. The small parking lot in front of the row of shops was full so I drove the few blocks back to the inn, parked, and walked back. I turned at Wilson’s Ice Cream and went up the hill to the gallery.

  Adam had told me the manager was Inga and that he would call and tell her I was a friend. She was busy with a customer so I browsed the paintings. I wasn’t impressed with most of them. Good thing for Kathleen I wasn’t an art critic.

  I watched Inga talking with a male customer about a foot taller than her. She was a little blond, about five-foot-four with short, straight hair, rosy cheeks, and blue eyes. She wore a bright, flower-patterned dress that just covered her knees, and a white pullover cotton top. She was telling the man about Kathleen’s style of painting. It sounded like she knew what she was talking about, but it made no sense to me. When the man left, I walked over and introduced myself.

  She smiled. “Yes, Mr. Johnson told me you’d be stopping by. How can I help?”