Beer Money (A Burr Ashland Mystery) by Dani Amore
Authors: Dani Amore
Tags: General Fiction
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politicians. She's an amazing woman, one hundred and one years old. I should think neither one of us will live that long. If we do, I highly doubt we will have the same mental and physical competence that Gloria demonstrates."
"I've been eating a lot of bran, Paul, I might make it,” I said.
"Gloria," he continued, "Did not recognize the man in the photograph, but she had an inclination that the young girl," and here Mr. Jenkins slapped a hand on the picture of the girl, "may have been one of the Schletterhorn girls."
"The Schletterhorn girls?"
"...were the daughters of William Schletterhorn, a prominent banker in Milwaukee during the early 1900s. He moved in the circles of the rich and famous."
"And his daughters did, too, I assume?"
Jenkins pulled a pipe from the top drawer of his desk and tamped some tobacco into the bowl. He puffed, got it going and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air.
" They were quite the...butterflies...I believe is the correct term these days."
"Are any of them still alive?"
"One. Mary. The youngest."
"What do you know about her?"
"I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Schletterhorn. You see, she’s a bit of a legend around the Milwaukee art circles. She is a patron saint, bestowing, from time to time, enormous sums of money on carefully selected entities."
"What do you consider enormous?"
"Upwards of seven figures."
I let out a low whistle. "So do I."
"Quite," Mr. Jenkins responded. He continued, "I called Ms. Schletterhorn, hoping to ask her about the photo as well as talk to her about supporting the Historical Society."
"And what did she say?"
"She said no." He flipped open the scrapbook, and turned a few pages, then back a page. He grabbed a pencil and with the eraser hand, tapped a photo.
"Here she is."
I looked, and felt my heart skip a beat.
"Where does she live?" I asked.
"She shuns publicity, and values her privacy above all else. When she has made donations, she has summoned the recipients to her home. There have never been any public ceremonies to mark her philanthropy. You'll never see her standing with a six-foot long check posing for reporters."
"And that home would be located where?" I asked.
"On Pewaukee Lake," he said.
"Do you have an address?"
He jotted it down on a notepad, tore off the sheet and handed it to me.
I looked at my still photo pulled from the film, and compared it to the photo in Jenkins' scrapbook. Studied the young woman in both pictures.
They were one in the same.
"Can I borrow that?"
He nodded silently.
I stood and scooped up the photos from his desk.
"I hardly suspect she would agree to see you, Mr. Ashland."
I looked at the photo in my hands.
At the door, I turned back to him, peered at him through the thick cloud of pipe smoke.
"Thanks for your help, Mr. Jenkins. I’ll tell her you say hello."
Seventeen
Pewaukee Lake offers some of the state's best muskie fishing, although you'd never know it because the majority of boats on the lake during the summer are drunken water-skiers from Illinois. The lake is long and narrow, with lots of small bays that during the summer are choked with weeds. Now, during the winter, it was a frozen wasteland save for the occasional ice fishing shanty surrounded by its orange-flagged tip-ups.
I drove along Highway G as it began to dip and wind through the postcard-quality scenery. The homes surrounding Pewaukee Lake were a hodgepodge of architectural styles and sometimes, atrocities. A quaint Victorian cottage could be side-by-side with a broken down trailer home that looked like something out of the Depression-era South. Most of the nicer-looking cottages appeared to be vacant, while the more run-down homes most often had a telltale tendril of smoke curling from a chimney pipe, signifying year-round inhabitants.
I passed at least ten corner bars in the first five minutes on the frontage road. Bars with names like Tasmanian Devil, Pete's, and Frog's Landing. I made a mental note to
"I've been eating a lot of bran, Paul, I might make it,” I said.
"Gloria," he continued, "Did not recognize the man in the photograph, but she had an inclination that the young girl," and here Mr. Jenkins slapped a hand on the picture of the girl, "may have been one of the Schletterhorn girls."
"The Schletterhorn girls?"
"...were the daughters of William Schletterhorn, a prominent banker in Milwaukee during the early 1900s. He moved in the circles of the rich and famous."
"And his daughters did, too, I assume?"
Jenkins pulled a pipe from the top drawer of his desk and tamped some tobacco into the bowl. He puffed, got it going and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air.
" They were quite the...butterflies...I believe is the correct term these days."
"Are any of them still alive?"
"One. Mary. The youngest."
"What do you know about her?"
"I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Schletterhorn. You see, she’s a bit of a legend around the Milwaukee art circles. She is a patron saint, bestowing, from time to time, enormous sums of money on carefully selected entities."
"What do you consider enormous?"
"Upwards of seven figures."
I let out a low whistle. "So do I."
"Quite," Mr. Jenkins responded. He continued, "I called Ms. Schletterhorn, hoping to ask her about the photo as well as talk to her about supporting the Historical Society."
"And what did she say?"
"She said no." He flipped open the scrapbook, and turned a few pages, then back a page. He grabbed a pencil and with the eraser hand, tapped a photo.
"Here she is."
I looked, and felt my heart skip a beat.
"Where does she live?" I asked.
"She shuns publicity, and values her privacy above all else. When she has made donations, she has summoned the recipients to her home. There have never been any public ceremonies to mark her philanthropy. You'll never see her standing with a six-foot long check posing for reporters."
"And that home would be located where?" I asked.
"On Pewaukee Lake," he said.
"Do you have an address?"
He jotted it down on a notepad, tore off the sheet and handed it to me.
I looked at my still photo pulled from the film, and compared it to the photo in Jenkins' scrapbook. Studied the young woman in both pictures.
They were one in the same.
"Can I borrow that?"
He nodded silently.
I stood and scooped up the photos from his desk.
"I hardly suspect she would agree to see you, Mr. Ashland."
I looked at the photo in my hands.
At the door, I turned back to him, peered at him through the thick cloud of pipe smoke.
"Thanks for your help, Mr. Jenkins. I’ll tell her you say hello."
Seventeen
Pewaukee Lake offers some of the state's best muskie fishing, although you'd never know it because the majority of boats on the lake during the summer are drunken water-skiers from Illinois. The lake is long and narrow, with lots of small bays that during the summer are choked with weeds. Now, during the winter, it was a frozen wasteland save for the occasional ice fishing shanty surrounded by its orange-flagged tip-ups.
I drove along Highway G as it began to dip and wind through the postcard-quality scenery. The homes surrounding Pewaukee Lake were a hodgepodge of architectural styles and sometimes, atrocities. A quaint Victorian cottage could be side-by-side with a broken down trailer home that looked like something out of the Depression-era South. Most of the nicer-looking cottages appeared to be vacant, while the more run-down homes most often had a telltale tendril of smoke curling from a chimney pipe, signifying year-round inhabitants.
I passed at least ten corner bars in the first five minutes on the frontage road. Bars with names like Tasmanian Devil, Pete's, and Frog's Landing. I made a mental note to
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