Man in the Water, page 16
Brother? Does that mean he was Black?
“Did Bizzy take care of it?” I asked.
Marilyn shrugged her reply.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I only know that the next day Bizzy and her lawyer come in again and tell us not to discuss our business with anyone and if anyone should ask, to tell them to contact either Bizzy or the lawyer. Which is what we told you. Besides you, no one else has asked about our business except once in a while a long-ago customer might wonder if we’re still cutting and planting.”
“Did you tell Bizzy and her lawyer that I came in to see you?” I asked.
“Sure we did. Is that a problem?”
Marilyn was looking at Nevaeh when she asked that question.
“I don’t know why it would be,” Nevaeh answered.
“We miss you, sista.”
“I miss all of you guys, too.”
“Marilyn.” I asked her the same question that I had posed when we began our conversation. “Do you know who E. J.’s partner is?”
“Like I said before, I have no frickin’ idea unless—I’m still thinking Bizzy. Who else could it be?”
Good question.
Does the answer even matter? I asked myself.
Inheriting the business could be a motive for murder.
So is flirting with another man’s wife and apparently E. J. wasn’t above that. Or maybe he was. I don’t know.
The total amount of what you don’t know is staggering.
“Anything else?” Marilyn asked.
“What’s the name of the person who comes in and does your books?”
“You know him.” Once again Marilyn was looking at Nevaeh when she answered me. “He was your dad’s VFW buddy. Mike Boland.”
* * *
Nevaeh and Marilyn were happily reminiscing about the good old days when I left Neumann’s Bar and Grill, but only after I settled the tab, of course. I headed to my Mustang.
My first thought was to track down Mike Boland again. Except he told me when we first met at the VFW that he didn’t know that Earl John Woods had a business partner.
No, he didn’t. The others, Grant and Josh, said they didn’t know if E. J. had a partner. Mike didn’t say a word.
Which means either he didn’t know or he deliberately chose not to give up the name.
Do you think anything has changed since then?
Do you think you can stop talking to yourself?
My cell was in my hand by the time I reached my car. I tapped H. B. Sutton’s name on my contacts page. She answered the phone just as I was opening the door.
“McKenzie.” Sutton sounded nearly breathless. “I can’t decide. Should I wear red?”
“Red?”
“It’s such a sultry color. A sensual color. I’m afraid it’ll send the wrong message. ’Course black—what does a black dress say?”
“Depends on who you’re talking to.”
“You know what? I’m going to wear blue. God, what is wrong with me? You’d think I was sixteen years old again.”
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“I’m going on a date. Is that so hard to believe?”
“No, not at all.”
“McKenzie, I’m fifty-four and I’m going on a date. It is hard to believe.”
The voice in the back of my head reminded me that Sutton had not once spoken of a relationship with anyone at any time in the ten years that I had known her, only I wouldn’t let it speak.
“Truth is, any man who dates you is one lucky S.O.B.,” I said.
“Why would you insult his mother like that?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“He’s so sweet, McKenzie, and so kind and why am I telling you this? What the hell do you want, anyway?”
That’s my girl.
“Would the bookkeeper of a business know who all the partners were?” I asked.
“Yeah, most likely. The bookkeeper would probably be the one doing the business tax filings, the K-1s. The bookkeeper is probably also writing the checks. Are the partners taking a salary; are they actually working as an employee?”
E. J. was.
“Are they taking their money in quarterly payments, semi-annually, yearly?” Sutton added. “The bookkeeper would know all that.”
“Then I should talk to the bookkeeper.”
“You could, but if he was my bookkeeper and he answered your questions, I would fire his ass on the spot. A bookkeeper is expected to protect confidential information. Is this guy a licensed CPA? Is he a member of the Institute of Certified Bookkeepers?”
“I don’t know. Does he need to be?”
“No, but if it were my business he’d be licensed up the ying-yang. McKenzie, I don’t have time for this. I need to get dressed.”
“When’s your date?”
“I’m going to meet him—oh, not for two hours yet.”
“Can I give you some advice?”
“You can try.”
“Have a drink—not alcohol. Alcohol is for later. Have an iced tea, coffee, whatever. Relax on one of those chairs on the roof of your houseboat facing the sun and just chill. Listen to some tunes. Then in an hour, slowly get up, slowly get dressed, slowly head out to where you need to be. Remember, you’re not dating him, he’s dating you.”
“He is?”
“And H, wear red.”
“You think?”
“If you’re going to bet, bet big. Besides, what if your date is also wearing red?”
“Oh, God.”
* * *
Nina Truhler had propped her elbows on Rickie’s downstairs bar, rested her face in her hands, and leaned toward me while I nursed a Maker’s Mark on the rocks. It seemed as if we had been doing that a lot lately, talking to each other across a bar.
“I’m so happy to hear that H is dating,” she said. “I’ve always liked H even though I don’t think she’s ever called me by my first name.”
“You’ve only known her for about a year and a half.”
“True.”
“I wonder what her red dress looks like,” I said. “I wonder if it looks anything like that shimmering red number you wore to the old Minnesota Club.”
“You mean the night I pushed that guy who was threatening you down a flight of stairs?”
“The night I fell hopelessly in love with you.”
“Ah, memories.”
My cell phone began playing Louis Armstrong again. I glanced at the name on my caller ID. Something in my expression must have alerted Nina.
“Who is it?” she wanted to know.
I responded by tapping the green telephone icon.
“Good evening, Sergeant Holmes,” I said.
“McKenzie, I said I would share if you did the same.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me more about Michael Boland.”
“I already told you pretty much everything I know about the man except I learned just a couple of hours ago that he works as a freelance accountant for E. J. Woods Tree Care Services and has been doing so for the past five or six years.”
“You said he was a veteran,” Holmes reminded me.
“The first Gulf War. H. W.’s war, they called it. He hung out at the Potzmann-Schultz VFW post in Maplewood along with Woods.”
“You also said he was receiving therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“No, Sergeant, I did not,” I told him. “I said he was receiving therapy, but I didn’t say why. I don’t know why. His therapist is named Tara Brink. I suppose you could ask her.”
“Probably doesn’t matter.”
“Why doesn’t it matter?”
“He’s dead.”
“Excuse me?”
“Boland is dead. They believe he committed suicide.”
I came off of the stool in such a hurry that it wobbled and nearly fell. I heard Nina call my name.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Based on what you told me Saturday, I reached out to the Goodhue County Sheriff’s Office to see if they had anything on Boland; Red Wing, where he used to live, is the county seat. Captain Follmer runs the Investigations Division down there. She said at the time that she didn’t have anything on Boland. An hour ago she called back. Seems a couple of tourists just found our boy’s body at the bottom of a cliff. Goodhue ID is pretty sure that Boland jumped. Telling them what you told me about Boland seeing a therapist only confirmed their theory.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Seems pretty cut-and-dried from what Captain Follmer told me.”
“Where was Richard Bennett when this happened?”
“Do we care?” Holmes asked.
“As far as we know he’s the last person to see Boland alive.”
“On Friday night. It’s Monday, McKenzie.”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“You’re going to make a big deal out of this, aren’t you?”
I almost said it—“No shit, Sherlock”—only I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Loose ends vex me.”
Holmes thought that was funny.
“Keep in touch,” he said.
* * *
Nina became distraught when I revealed the contents of my conversation with Sergeant Holmes.
“Am I responsible for this?” she wanted to know.
“Of course not. Why would you be?”
“If I didn’t make you go out and ask questions … I just wanted to find out what happened to Mr. Woods. I didn’t want to make things worse.”
“No, honey bunny.” I reached across the bar and took hold of both of her hands. “Yes, I called you honey bunny in public. This has nothing to do with you. I was told that Mike Boland had issues; he was receiving therapy because of them. Probably they just caught up to him.”
“I don’t know,” Nina said.
Neither do I.
I comforted my wife as best I could; it wasn’t something I was particularly good at. When she was called away, I reached for my phone again. I found a number on my contacts list and placed a call. Brad Heggstad answered on the second ring and for a brief moment I wondered if he was always at his place of business.
That would make him a member of Nina’s tribe.
“Brad,” I said. “Is Richard Bennett at the marina?”
“No. I checked just a little while ago. Rick pulled out early Saturday A.M. and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. McKenzie, like I told you before, that’s not unusual behavior for him. If I don’t see him again until the end of the month, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Same as before—if you see him, let me know.”
“A couple of hours ago a guy from the sheriff’s department asked me to call them, too.”
“Sergeant Stephen Holmes?”
“Yes.”
Okay, Sherlock. I see you.
“McKenzie, what’s going on?” Brad asked.
“What makes you think something’s going on?”
“C’mon.”
“Give G. K. my love,” I said.
After thanking Heggstad for his time, I found yet another name on my contact list. It took Nevaeh Woods five rings before she answered.
“McKenzie,” she squealed. I heard the instruments of a rock and roll band in the background yet could discern no melody. “Where are you?”
“It doesn’t matter. Listen—”
“You should join me and Marilyn at Bunkers, Dr. Mambo’s Combo is rockin’ the house.”
Apparently, they were rocking the house very loudly because Nevaeh had to practically shout to be heard.
“I’m going to pass,” I said.
“No. Come dance with us.”
“Some other time. Listen, Nevaeh…”
“What?”
“I changed my mind. I think it’s time we had a very serious talk with your stepmother.”
ELEVEN
I was sitting at a table on the second floor of Dunn Brothers Coffee in downtown Minneapolis, about a fifteen-minute walk from the condominium I shared with Nina. From the window I watched the heavy traffic moving along Central Avenue and crossing at the intersection with Washington. Meanwhile, the ancient building across the street that sheltered the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, the National Labor Relations Board, and the Minneapolis Passport Agency didn’t seem to have any traffic at all.
Despite my surveillance, I didn’t see Garrett Toomey enter Dunn Brothers. I didn’t even know he was there until he climbed the stairs and slowly crossed the room toward me. He was fifteen minutes late, which didn’t surprise me at all. I had expected him to keep me waiting; would have been surprised if he hadn’t.
Toomey’s secretary had called me at exactly eight A.M. I was in bed with Nina at the time. She often didn’t get to bed before two—she ran a jazz joint after all—and seldom rose before ten. I had left my cell phone plugged in to its charger on my desk in the office area. However, my smartwatch was synched to it and began to vibrate. The vibration not only woke me, it woke Nina who demanded to know who was calling at that ungodly hour. I read the caller ID.
“Not Erica,” I said.
Learning that it wasn’t her daughter was enough for Nina. She rolled over, said, “Well, then,” and went back to sleep. I slid out of bed and made my way to the office area. The phone had stopped ringing by the time I reached it. I called the number that had been left.
“O’Hara, O’Hara, and Thomas,” a woman said. “How may I direct your call?”
“My name is McKenzie. I just received a call from this number. I presume it came from Garrett Toomey.”
“Please hold, Mr. McKenzie.”
A moment later another woman spoke to me.
“This is Mr. Toomey’s legal secretary,” she told me. “Mr. Toomey requests that you meet him in his office at exactly nine A.M. this morning to discuss a matter of some importance.”
“Tell Toomey that I’ll meet him at Dunn Brothers Coffee at exactly ten A.M. Tell him not to be late.”
The woman began to protest. I hung up the phone.
Now Toomey was sitting across from me dressed in a suit that cost more than my car and glaring over his white cardboard coffee cup. I made a production of looking at my phone, swiping through pics Bizzy Woods had posted on her social media accounts.
That’ll teach him, my inner voice said.
Eventually, I set my cell face down on the table.
“You know how some people say ‘This ain’t my first rodeo’ when they’re dealing with an issue they’ve dealt with before?” I said. “Well, I’ve never been to a rodeo; not once in my life. Yet I have sat in the luxurious offices of several attorneys while they attempted to intimidate me into doing something that wasn’t necessarily in my best interest. Which, of course, is what you intended to do. I thought I’d try something different this time.”
I held up my coffee cup.
“Besides, have you tried the caramel mocha?” I asked.
Toomey was clearly not appeased by my explanation for demanding that we meet at the coffeehouse.
“You will immediately cease involving yourself in the affairs of Mrs. Elizabeth Woods,” he told me.
“See, I knew you were going to say that, only it sounds much less threatening when you’re sipping a cup of joe and watching a beautiful woman jogging outside the window.”
Toomey’s eyes darted outside and slowly found mine again when he realized that there wasn’t a beautiful woman jogging outside.
Gotcha.
“If we need to take legal action—” Toomey began.
I interrupted him, reciting from memory, “Minnesota statute 609.50, Subdivision 1: Whoever intentionally hinders, or prevents the lawful execution of any legal process, civil or criminal, may be sentenced to imprisonment for not more than ninety days or to payment of a fine of not more than $700, or both.”
Toomey raised an eyebrow, which I took to mean I had scored a point.
“Remember what you called me during the deposition?” I asked. “Well, I’ve been a vigilante for a long time, counselor.”
“Is that what this is about? I damaged your pride? Is that why you insist on involving yourself in something that is none of your business?”
“I was asked to help; that’s what made it my business.”
“Not. By. Elizabeth. Woods.” Toomey emphasized each word by jabbing a finger at me. “I received a very disturbing phone call from Mrs. Woods last night. It came immediately after she spoke to her stepdaughter who, in a drunken rage, all but accused my client of murdering her husband.”
“Really? I wonder what prompted that. Nevaeh sounded both sober and happy when I last spoke to her.”
“What prompted the altercation is your insistence that Mr. Woods was killed—”
I raised my hand like a referee calling a penalty in a hockey game.
“Who says?” I asked.
That caused Toomey to pause before adding, “Mrs. Woods said that Nevaeh said that you said—”
“You call yourself an attorney? I’d pay real money to hear you repeat that in a courtroom.”
“McKenzie—”
“I did not tell Nevaeh that E. J. was murdered. In fact, I keep repeating to her that there isn’t a scintilla of evidence even suggesting that he was murdered. Why she would believe otherwise has nothing to do with me.”
“Then what is this about?” Toomey wanted to know.
“Questions. We have questions. Nevaeh and I wanted to speak to her stepmother to see if she could answer some of our questions.”
“There. Is. No. Way.” Toomey was jabbing his finger at me again. “Mrs. Woods. Speaks. To. You. Ever.”
“Well, that makes it harder.”
Toomey stood up, rested his hands on the small table, and leaned toward me.
“You will no longer insinuate yourself into these proceedings, McKenzie.” His voice was stern, the words coming out in a slow hiss, and for a moment he reminded me of the assistant principal in charge of discipline at my high school who once heatedly berated me about underage drinking. “You claim that this isn’t your first rodeo. It isn’t mine, either. I know how to deal with people like you. I have been doing it my entire career. Do you understand me? As for Nevaeh Woods—Mrs. Woods chose to involve her stepdaughter in these matters strictly as a courtesy. That courtesy is revoked as of now.”
