a hand pump.
Kimball emptied the remains of the cocoa equally into our two cups and replaced the stopper and cover. He seemed to sense that leave-taking pleasantries were required but couldn’t quite get the phrasing. “Fire’s good for the night.” With that he left, pulling the slightly warped door closed behind him with a scrape.
We sat silent until we heard the door of the main house close a few seconds later. Barb raised her cup in salute. “Our gracious host!”
“He isn’t so bad,” I countered. “Just not used to being in the company of ladies.”
“Being in company, period. The guy can barely put a sentence together.”
“Can you blame him? People treat him like he’s a freak, so he avoids them. He was actually quite concerned for our comfort.”
She glanced around. “This won’t rank with a stay on the Riviera, I can tell you that.”
“The only Riviera you even got close to is the hotel in Vegas,” I countered.
“True.” Draining her cup, she set it down. “We’ll stop on the way home tomorrow and show the picture around. Maybe someone at a gas station or a party store will remember Brown.”
“Okay, but the person most likely to remember him was Kimball. During hunting season, he could have stayed here for weeks without raising suspicion.”
Barb looked around at the shadowed knotty pine and shivered at the thought. “I suppose you’re right. This was the perfect place to plan his next move.”
“We can’t be sure he came here.”
“But I think he did.”
“His truck was a couple hundred miles south of here, in Port Huron.”
“Up here, no one questions strangers during hunting season. Who’d know where he came from or where he went when he left?”
“How’d he get the truck down there?”
“Drove it there and backtracked, maybe. Or he paid someone else to do it.”
“Who?”
“I’m just theorizing,” she said impatiently. “Meredith might have a guess. Let’s see if anyone remembers Brown being up here. That would help.”
After a not-too-uncomfortable night we left Buck Lake and started for home. On the way we stopped at several businesses, but everywhere we showed the picture we got shrugs and negatives. Barb was clearly disgusted, whether because she’d really thought we’d find Neil or because she’d driven to the U.P. for nothing.
Something odd happened that had nothing to do with Mr. Brown. We entered a party store/gas station with our photo and our questions, and as we went in, I elbowed Barb and snickered at a sign taped to the counter. Puppy’s free to good home . I’m not the world’s best speller, but I caught that one.
We showed the photo to the girl behind the counter, got nowhere, and turned to leave. “Go ahead,” Barb said. “I’m going to get a water.”
“You’ve got one already.”
“It’s warm.”
At the car I remembered I was almost out of cigarettes. I went back inside, got a pack, and went to the counter to pay. The sign now read, Puppies free to good home . Heavy black letters had been written over the incorrect ones with a marker.
“Did you point out the spelling error?” I asked Barb as we left the store.
“I never correct people.” She uncapped the water bottle. “She must’ve caught it herself.”
We continued our quest, stopping periodically to show Neil Brown’s picture. Nothing. I stared out the window at Lake Michigan’s beautiful, rocky shore. “It was a faint hope, I guess.”
Barb concentrated on navigating the always-tricky traffic. Despite plentiful passing lanes, there’s a constant game of Involuntary Chicken on US2, initiated by idiots too impatient to wait for the next one. At the same time, a second game called Pass-Then-Slow-Down is played. Drivers pass via the extra lane then slow to fifty miles per hour when it disappears. Barb made some decidedly un-lawyerly comments about being an unwilling participant in both games.
“We’ll go home and start again,” she said as she passed
Kimball emptied the remains of the cocoa equally into our two cups and replaced the stopper and cover. He seemed to sense that leave-taking pleasantries were required but couldn’t quite get the phrasing. “Fire’s good for the night.” With that he left, pulling the slightly warped door closed behind him with a scrape.
We sat silent until we heard the door of the main house close a few seconds later. Barb raised her cup in salute. “Our gracious host!”
“He isn’t so bad,” I countered. “Just not used to being in the company of ladies.”
“Being in company, period. The guy can barely put a sentence together.”
“Can you blame him? People treat him like he’s a freak, so he avoids them. He was actually quite concerned for our comfort.”
She glanced around. “This won’t rank with a stay on the Riviera, I can tell you that.”
“The only Riviera you even got close to is the hotel in Vegas,” I countered.
“True.” Draining her cup, she set it down. “We’ll stop on the way home tomorrow and show the picture around. Maybe someone at a gas station or a party store will remember Brown.”
“Okay, but the person most likely to remember him was Kimball. During hunting season, he could have stayed here for weeks without raising suspicion.”
Barb looked around at the shadowed knotty pine and shivered at the thought. “I suppose you’re right. This was the perfect place to plan his next move.”
“We can’t be sure he came here.”
“But I think he did.”
“His truck was a couple hundred miles south of here, in Port Huron.”
“Up here, no one questions strangers during hunting season. Who’d know where he came from or where he went when he left?”
“How’d he get the truck down there?”
“Drove it there and backtracked, maybe. Or he paid someone else to do it.”
“Who?”
“I’m just theorizing,” she said impatiently. “Meredith might have a guess. Let’s see if anyone remembers Brown being up here. That would help.”
After a not-too-uncomfortable night we left Buck Lake and started for home. On the way we stopped at several businesses, but everywhere we showed the picture we got shrugs and negatives. Barb was clearly disgusted, whether because she’d really thought we’d find Neil or because she’d driven to the U.P. for nothing.
Something odd happened that had nothing to do with Mr. Brown. We entered a party store/gas station with our photo and our questions, and as we went in, I elbowed Barb and snickered at a sign taped to the counter. Puppy’s free to good home . I’m not the world’s best speller, but I caught that one.
We showed the photo to the girl behind the counter, got nowhere, and turned to leave. “Go ahead,” Barb said. “I’m going to get a water.”
“You’ve got one already.”
“It’s warm.”
At the car I remembered I was almost out of cigarettes. I went back inside, got a pack, and went to the counter to pay. The sign now read, Puppies free to good home . Heavy black letters had been written over the incorrect ones with a marker.
“Did you point out the spelling error?” I asked Barb as we left the store.
“I never correct people.” She uncapped the water bottle. “She must’ve caught it herself.”
We continued our quest, stopping periodically to show Neil Brown’s picture. Nothing. I stared out the window at Lake Michigan’s beautiful, rocky shore. “It was a faint hope, I guess.”
Barb concentrated on navigating the always-tricky traffic. Despite plentiful passing lanes, there’s a constant game of Involuntary Chicken on US2, initiated by idiots too impatient to wait for the next one. At the same time, a second game called Pass-Then-Slow-Down is played. Drivers pass via the extra lane then slow to fifty miles per hour when it disappears. Barb made some decidedly un-lawyerly comments about being an unwilling participant in both games.
“We’ll go home and start again,” she said as she passed
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