Sonny and Will try to get the goods
on the sheriff and Art Voigt who they suspect as being behind drug trafficking in White Tail County.

Chapter 4

Don't Mess With the Bull!

"I will lay me down for to bleed a while,
Then I'll rise and fight with you again."
Miscellanies – John Dryden




The next day was Saturday and Ned spent the morning and early afternoon at Snow's, watching the Gopher game on ESPN2. For a while there, it looked like he was gonna be able to send Loretta a thousand, but in the second half the Purdue quarterback went nuts. When he wasn't running the sneak for thirty yards, he was hooking up with this flanker, who could've been the reincarnation of Red Grange. The ten points didn't do him any good. The Rodents lost 38-24.
Ned drank a six pack in a little over an hour and would've been in really tough shape if Will Kneebone and Ned's brother Sonny hadn't claimed one of the booths; they were poring over a bunch of papers.
Ned took his beer glass and weaved toward the booth. "What are you guys up to?" he said, trying to keep from slurring his words.
Sonny had the height in the family. Played center for the Chippewa basketball team in high school. Still had the blond, Jack Armstrong crewcut, thinning a bit, though. With rimless glasses to go with the haircut, he looked every bit the high school principal he was.
"Nothing that concerns you," Sonny said.
"Scuse me for breathing," Ned said, waving at Jake Werner for another beer. "Looks like abstracts; buying something?"
Jake put a bottle off Pabst in front of Ned and wiped his hands of his clean white apron. "Heard you took a pile off of Voigt the other night," he said.
"Yup. Just call me Amarillo Slim."
"What did you do with the money?" Sonny said, when Jake Werner left to wait on a customer.
You'd think he was the older one. If only he'd been able to reel in that walleye. Had to have been fifteen pounds at least. Sonny'd've turned three shades of green.
Ned shoved into the both alongside Will, took a good look at the abstracts. "Sent it to Loretta," he said. "The ditz forgot to renew her insurance and, sure enough, she bashed somebody. What's with the abstracts?"
"Got a source over at the Register of Deeds," Will said. "Sheriff Tibbetts has a piece of Robideaux Construction, the Pizza Supply, and KPLM."
"Guess whose land they're building Sunrise Addition on?" Sonny said, adjusting his glasses.
"Ah . . . the sheriff's?"
"Give the man a cigar," Will said.
Ned took a swig of beer, swirled it around in his mouth, and swallowed. "So fucking what?" he said.
"I wish you wouldn't use that kind of language," Sonny said.
"Lazy thinking is what it is."
His and Ned's relationship had been strained, ever since Ned had found out about the Home Ec. teacher. Sonny had a cute wife and two little towheaded boys who didn't need to see their parents go through a messy divorce.
Ned took another hit on the Pabst. "Forgot we were in church. Let me rephrase that; why the frick should anybody care if the sheriff has an interest in Voigt's businesses?"
Sonny made a praying gesture, pressed and unpressed his fingers, staring over the tips at Ned. "We think Voigt and Sheriff Tibbetts are the dope kingpins in White Tail County."
"I've been talking to people," Will said. He looked really different without his uniform. Bemidji State football jersey, hair parted in the middle. "As a young broadcaster, Voigt's job included attending town and school board meetings, where he met all the movers and shakers in town. At the time he was having a hard time making it on the ‘chicken feed' the radio station paid him. The sheriff was a lowly deputy, but he recognized a gold mine when he saw it when he busted the hippie behind the budding marijuana trade in White Tail County. The kid would be working for the deputy from then on, and Tibbetts was willing to cut Voigt in if he'd contribute seed money."
"Wait a minute," Ned said. "How do you know all of this? Who are the people you talked to?"
"‘Member I said I was gonna stake out Karnowski's Bait Shop?
Guess who shows up with a bag of burgers for my meth bust?"
"Haven't a clue."
"Cornelius."
"So what? Last I checked burgers weren't a regulated drug."
"The burgers weren't burgers, dumbass. Given a choice between me forgetting he existed and doing time with the Aryan Nation, Corny decided to give Uncle Art up. Corny was there when the sheriff made the proposition. He and Voigt were buds growing up."
"You have to hand it to him," Sonny said. "Who would ever suspect Cornelius of muling drugs?"
Will continued. "So the deal they had was Boyd Tibbetts would take all the risks if Voigt would smooth the way with the powers that be. Nobody would suspect him. Not only did he do the Sports Roundup on Saturday mornings discussing Friday night football with the coaches and listeners, but he also occasionally sat in on a kiddy show, during which he interviewed five-year-olds about what they thought of the latest Disney feature at the Bijou. ‘And what gave you the idea that I'd be interested in this sort of thing?' Voigt supposedly said. Tibbetts explained that he could spot another ‘pothead' a mile away, and that Voigt could get a loan from the bankers on the city council; whereas, they'd never give it to a lowly sheriff's deputy. Tibbetts hinted that the risk was minimal because the sheriff would wink at their endeavors, provided he got his cut. After that, Andre Robideaux buys the radio station, lets it drop that he's planning on retiring and needs someone to manage the books for his road construction business. Still unmarried, Andre's daughter wouldn't let a little impediment like marriage bother her in the least."
"What about Cornelius? What's he doing working in a rundown bar when he's in on a cushy deal like this?"
"Corny's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, you know that. Voigt lets him work at Snow's, which Voigt also owns a piece of."
"So Voigt was married before?" Ned said.
"Had a little girl, too," Will added. "Within the year, Art divorced his wife and married the Robideaux snatch. When Andre croaks, Art inherits the paving business, worth something like two million smackers, some of which he plows into his drug business."
"We found the first wife," Sonny said, adjusting his glasses.
"He's still humping her," Will added. "That's according to Cornelius."
Ned finished his beer, signaled for another. "I saw Art Voigt shooting up once."
"Yeah, so Corny said; that's why he always wears long-sleeved shirts, even in the summer," Will said.
"What're you gonna do about this?"
"We're gonna take him down. Once we finish our fact checking, we're taking our evidence to Fred Merkle at the Chronicle. Voigt and Tibbets'll be sculpting license plates at Stillwater."
"And I'm running for mayor," Sonny said, "and I've been trying to persuade Will to campaign for sheriff."
Ned had always suspicioned Sonny would run for God someday, so that didn't surprise him much. He told them about the derringer and the other hardware the Robideaux foreman had told him about. "Better make sure Voigt doesn't own a piece of the Chronicle, first. What's the woman's name?"
"Which woman?" Will said.
"Voigt's first wife?"
"Shippe. We're going to see her this afternoon. She lives near Hole in the Day Park."
Ned had been in the process of swallowing, and the stuff rebounded like Coca Cola spiked with tabasco sauce. Peggy Shippe was Art Voigt's daughter, and he'd been worrying about a lump on her breast? He took a deep breath, said, "If she's still having sex with the old goat, what makes you think she'll tell you anything?"
"We'll lie," Will said. "The FBI has got our back and all that. She'll cave like a Polish cake."


#
Art Voigt and Audrey Vonderhaar sat in a window booth at Mom's Cafe, watching a gravel truck screech to a stop at the intersection as the light abruptly changed from amber to red. An old woman following a bit too closely in an early model Oldsmobile hit her brakes so hard that her car stalled. She promptly wore down the battery, trying to get it started again. Meanwhile, the traffic behind her began to clog the intersection.
Voigt turned to Vonderhaar, the chairman of the school board, a blond woman with a kinky hairstyle too young for her doughy face, who'd doused herself with enough lilac-scented perfume to drown a rat. He'd financed the woman's campaign against a twenty-year incumbent and expected some payback.
"What's this I hear about Sonny Tuttle being chosen principal at the high school?" he said.
She surveyed the restaurant, checking for little pitchers with big ears, looking down her nose at the six booths and the row of red vinyl stools, then turned back to him. "He'll be certified at the end of fall quarter," she said. "He was appointed temporary principal when Ted Dunbar unexpectedly retired in August, and we like to hire from within. Why, do you have a problem with him?"
"Didn't he try to hire his brother as a janitor?"
She took a tentative bite of salad, chewed what had to be at least a dozen times, and swallowed before she spoke. "Yes, but he wasn't aware of our nepotism policy."
"His brother's a drunk, you know."
Mrs. Fasbender, whom her customers called Mom, arrived with a coffee carafe, topped off their cups and waddled off down to the table two booths down, where some lumberyard workers were arguing about the Friday night Chippewa game with Rail City.
Vonderhaar dabbed at her lips with a napkin. "I hadn't heard that."
"Anyone with any common sense would have known better." Art cut his steak, took a bite, swallowed after chewing only twice. "We'll live with him awhile; just keep close tabs on him. There's another matter that could be more troublesome. My sources tell me Tuttle's running for mayor. Maybe you should let it be known that you're not enthralled with that idea."
Vonderhaar speared a slice of boiled egg and held it poised above the salad bowl. "I think his winning might reflect well on the school. Besides, he has some wonderfully innovative ideas. School-Within-a-School for our problem students. The updated DARE program for our ninth graders."
Art glanced out the window again, his breath visible on the glass. A wrecker had arrived on the scene and had already hooked up the Oldsmobile to the crane. One of the local constabulary was directing traffic. He turned back to Vonderhaar. "The mayoral office is largely a ceremonial post. The city manager does the real work." He stirred sugar into his coffee. "I've heard that you plan to run for the state legislature, that your bid for the school board was only a stepping stone."
She sipped her coffee, measured him. "Are you suggesting that I run for mayor?"
While they were talking, the kid from Karnowski's Bait Shop shuffled in and dropped down on a stool half-way down the counter, wearing cargo pants so low you could see the crack in his ass. The boy ordered the special, then got up and put a quarter in the juke box. The electric guitars made Voigt want to get up and bang his head up against the wall. That kind of music would never disgrace the airwaves of KPLM while he owned the place. He stomped over and unplugged the machine.
Mrs. Fasbender gave the boy back his quarter. Voigt would have liked to give him a boot in the backside that'd require surgery to remove his number nine oxford. Methamphetamines! After what had happened with that bust, the boy might need to disappear.
Back at the booth, he smiled, patted Audrey on the hand. "Sorry for the intrusion. I've been impressed with the way the test scores have improved since your tenure began."
She removed her glasses, folded them and put them in an ornate see-through case. "Maybe there is something. There's a rumor circulating about Sonny Tuttle. Ordinarily I don't believe in interfering in my staff's personal lives."
"A rumor?"
"Yes, supposedly Sonny Tuttle has an untoward relationship with Miss Peters, one of our home economics teachers. But . . . I don't have evidence that it's true . We get these rumors, and sometimes they're just the work of lounge talk, your toxic personalities who spend most of their prep time gossiping."
"This is Plunder Lake. We don't tolerate that kind of shi–-. Ah . . . those kind of shenanigans around here. Could you have the Super talk to this Peters woman?"
She smiled. "Wilson's on a one-year contract. Reviewable every year. Ever since all those buy-outs in the seventies and eighties, school districts have looked askance at long-term deals. I think he'll do what he's told. Meanwhile, I'll talk to Sonny, see if I can get a denial out of him. Ask him if there's anything in his background that could be a possible embarrassment to the school district. If he denies it and it turns out he's really been bedding Peters, then we've caught him in a lie."
"Make it so," he said, dabbing at his lips with a napkin.
When she left to pay her check, Art scanned the street to see if the traffic had cleared. It had, but a pickup glided through the stoplight on yellow, and not far behind a White Tail County cruiser emerged, forcing the truck to the curb in front of Hardware Hank's.
Voigt reached in his pocket, found his cell phone, and punched in a number. "Tibbetts? Art here. The Indian's at it again. I just saw him pull over this guy who went through the light on Main on yellow."
"Are you sure it was yellow?"
"What the hell were you thinking when you hired that Indian?"
"Good public relations. Placate the Chippewa. Besides, he was an all-American halfback at Bemidji State."
"Well, make him toe the line. We don't harass the citizens in this town. Put him on the graveyard shift, permanently if you have to."
Voigt paid his check, then sauntered out onto the sidewalk toward the radio station, where he'd be on the air in fifteen minutes. Usually he drove his Austin Healy wherever he went, but Doc Benson had advised him to get a little exercise during his last check-up. And so he'd take the long way around, give him a chance to look in at the German-American National bank where he was on the board. He whistled as he walked, waving at passing motorists, and admiring the new green awnings on the stores the Chamber had footed the bill for.
He watched Audrey Vonderhaar start her car and pull out into traffic. She reminded him of Miss Albright, his English teacher in high school, who'd wrangled him a hundred-dollar scholarship to Brown Institute when he'd had no other option other than joining the military. He'd scraped together the rest of the tuition working for Andre Robideaux on road construction during the summer. That's when he slept with Lorna for the first time. She'd been the town pump back then. Who knew he'd wind up marrying her?
Voigt flirted with the teller at the turn-of-the-century bank, cashed a hundred-dollar check, then strolled down Mule Deer Lane toward KPLM, passing the old Woolworth's building, which he'd recently purchased. He was having one hell of a time finding a rental client. All the possibles wanted him to remodel. Whatever he got for it would be chicken feed compared to the killing he'd make when he sold his reservation property to Chairman Mad Bull.
A pretty young blonde woman pushing a baby stroller smiled at him as she passed, reminding him of Tillie. Would she be home tonight? They'd married right after he'd gotten the job at KPLM, had the kid within a year, and divorced eight years later when Andre had dropped two million dollars in his lap. But he still missed her, and his daughter Peggy. He'd tried to give the girl money, and she'd always thrown it back in his face, until recently when he'd tricked her into taking it to finance her antique store, or whatever the hell it was she was doing in there.
As he was entering the front door of KPLM, the same White Tail County cruiser drove by, with Will Kneebone driving and Sonny Tuttle in the passenger seat.
The Register of Deeds had said that Kneebone and Sonny Tuttle had been snooping around. Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone. Perhaps a little shoot-out, where both combatants take some lead? He'd let Audrey handle Sonny Tuttle.

#

John Mad Bull, Chairman of the Plunder Lake Band of the Ojibway, certainly looked the part. He wore his hair in long grayish-black plaits tied at the ends with blue yarn. He also had the Native American hooked nose and the petulant pout to go with it.
Prior to one o'clock air time, Voigt had asked about the wheezing old man about his family. Between squirts from his inhaler, Mad Bull told him all about his grandson and how he'd married a white woman and had joined the white man's police force rather than head up the tribal cops as Mad Bull had wanted him to. Voigt hadn't really been listening and hadn't made the connection until later.
The engineer held up five fingers, then began to count down, and pointed when he ran out of digits.
Voigt spoke into the microphone. "Ladies and Gentleman, today we have the distinct pleasure of having as our guest the chairman of the Plunder Lake Band of the Ojibway, Mr. John Mad Bull."
"Happy to be here," Mad Bull said.
"Mr. Mad Bull, I'm wondering if you'd tell our listeners about the Treaty of 1837. There is some lingering bitterness among our area's hunters and fishermen."
"Thank you, Art. I'd be happy to. In 1837, the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibway and some other tribes ceded land to the feds. We freely admit this, but we did this under the provision that we would retain hunting, fishing, and gathering rights into perpetuity."
Mad Bull sounded like a lawyer for the ACLU Art had interviewed once, when a former principal had sanctioned a gay and lesbian club at the high school. "Yes, we understand this, Mr. Mad Bull."
"Call me John."
"Okay . . . John. What our listeners want to know is whether there will be any walleye left if the tribe has unrestricted fishing rights."
"I was getting to that. As you know, in 1994 we went to court. A federal judge ruled in our favor. In the second phase, six other tribes joined our suit. Then in August, 1997, a three judge panel from the Eighth Circuit Court reaffirmed the original decision."
"Yes, I know. Ultimately the Supreme Court ruled, I think it was in March, 1999, that the tribes could hunt, fish, and gather on the ceded land under tribal regulations. We want to know what those are."
"The regulations?"
"Right."
"We want to conserve the fish as well. As a matter of fact, the Ojibway have a lot more respect for the land and animals, than your people ever had. We were willing to work with the state of Minnesota to implement a Conservation Code for the ceded territory. Under this provision, band members need to buy licenses from our department of natural resources. They must also obtain daily spearing and netting permits and they are closely monitored by game wardens."
Uncle Art touched his lacquered hair. "So then, what you're saying is that the tribe will regulate the fishing in conjunction with the state?"
"Yes, the walleye will not be depleted."
"Is there anything else you wish to say before we conclude?"
"Do we have time to talk about the casinos?"
Art looked at the big IBM clock above the console.
"Ten minutes."
Mad Bull went on to tell the listeners about the 2,900 people the casinos employed, how the number of jobs in White Tail County had risen twenty percent, how unemployment in White Tail was down fifty-three percent since the casinos opened, how minimum wage in the casinos was seven dollars an hour, about how the casinos had generated more than fifty-nine million in federal taxes and almost seventeen million in state taxes. Home sales were up, rental units were in demand. The population of Plunder Lake had grown twenty percent since 1991. He added that the casinos had contributed two and half million to law enforcement, hospitals, schools, and food shelves.
The technician in the booth held up both hands, signaling ten seconds. "Very impressive, John. I'm sure this will help to quell a lot of discontent among our hunters and fishermen. We'd like to have you on again if we may."
"I'd be happy to come any time, Art."
After Chairman Mad Bull had gone and Art had handed off to the news announcer, he sat back in his padded chair and lit a fat Havana, congratulating himself on the coup he'd just pulled off.
That little interview should be worth at least a hundred grand.

#

What the fuck was the use? Ned thought. Everything he touched turned to dog turds; couldn'ta done worse if he'd been trying to blow the five hundred. Had the dough for Loretta in his hot little fists, but nooo! he had to play Jimmy the Greek.
Maybe he should do everybody a favor and end it all. Slash his wrists in the bath and watch as the tepid water turned to tomato soup, or down a bottle of tranqs, along with applesauce, then tie a plastic cleaners bag over his head. Nah, too chickenshit. Ideally he'd do it the way he'd always wanted to go. In the saddle. The saddle of Baby, the big Cat. The other kind of saddle wouldn't be all that bad either, but he didn't think his heart was that feeble yet. Maybe he could start smoking three packs a day like his old man had at the end.
As he waited for the light to change at the corner of Main and Trailer Park Road, watching Will Kneebone pull over a truck who'd run the light, he thought about running in front of a car. With his luck, he'd only maim himself, wind up stuck in a rest home, eating through a straw. Instead he got in his truck and drove to Mrs. Ledbetter's, who'd been complaining that her windows rattled every time a Burlington Northern and Sante Fe freight went through town. The sealing job took about an hour. Then he went home to check his messages.
Something was different about the Mobil gas station. He couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was.
He heated coffee, then took a steaming cup over to the window and looked out. Same kid across the street, steering his trucks to and fro in the sand box, despite the temp. Ned worried about the tyke, who was about the same age as his boy had been when Loretta left. The house was a rental. You'd think the place was a U-haul parking lot, it changed hands so often. Ned drained the mug, made a face, and spit the dregs back in the cup. Damn that was awful.
Should he report that mother? She never seemed to be home. Left the little teamster alone when she went to the store. Some pervert could drive by, snatch the boy, and no one would know until she came back and found him as gone as her figure. Maybe he could tell her parents. Anonymously.
If he only knew her name.
The red button on his answering machine was blinking. A plumbing job, which would net him a big sixty-five bucks at the most; another client wanted him to insulate his attic. The natural gas prices had doubled during the past month and people were fucking freaking out. A third caller wanted him to tear down an old shed. Now there was something he could definitely get into. He'd postmaul the fucking thing all the way through to China.
The last was a message from Loretta. As she spoke, he smelled jasmine, and the familiar voice with the long vowel sounds caused his heart to race. Thanks for the money, she said. She hadn't meant to make such a big deal out of a little car accident. The car hadn't been totaled after all, although there had been five hundred dollars worth of damage and she didn't know how she'd pay for it. Still no sign of Darwin. She was beginning to worry. The rest of it was about her job, about the increasing number of ADHD students and the immigrants from Somalia and Kosovo who needed more hand holding than a two-year old at the Megamall. There was a long pause, during which time he heard only static, and as he was about to turn it off, she asked if there was a woman in his life. She hoped so, she said. It's not good to live alone. Love you, she added, then there was a click.
He felt dizzy and oddly like a little kid on Christmas morning, maybe around five o'clock, too early to get up yet. He took a deep breath and the lightheadedness let up a bit. Ironic that; the five hundred dollars he'd won in the poker game would have done the trick. She hadn't mentioned the other driver's car, though. Wouldn't she be responsible with no insurance? And that asshole Darwin had skipped town for sure. He'd get her some money if he had to hold up the fucking German-American National Bank.
Still in a daze, Ned shuffled into the kitchen, where he kept his telephone on the door jamb next to the Plunder Lake Casino calendar. He punched in a number. "Bud? Ned here. You still have that flatbed trailer?"
He listened as Bud bawled him out about the last time he'd borrowed it and brought it back without sweeping down the bed. "Easy, Bud. I'll put down a deposit, and if you're not satisfied you can keep it, okay?"
Bud's cranky tone faded. He and Bud Allyn had worked on Robideaux's road construction crew as kids, both of them only sixteen when they started. "That's okay, Neddie. I suppose you'll need the semi?"
"What good's a flat-bed without a truck?"
"Yeah, I guess. How're things going with you these days? Ain't seen you since I don't know when."
As he talked, Ned stretched the cord to the window, where he looked out at the kid playing with his Tonka trucks. The mother was there for once; all two hundred and fifty pounds of her. "I've got a few irons in the fire. I'll pick up the truck in a couple of hours, if that's okay."
"Sure. As long as I have it by tomorrow morning. What you got going, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I'm gonna steal a D7R Caterpillar."
Bud giggled like an ‘NSync groupie. "Sure you are. Didn't you used to jockey a big Cat?"
"Yeah--Baby. She's the one I'm gonna steal."
"You could make a fortune on one of them. They retail for over a quarter million bucks, you know. You could probably get more if you stripped her down and sold the parts."
"Why didn't I think of that?"
Bud made a slurping sound, the Tootsie Roll Pops he was addicted to. Ever since he'd kicked the non-filtered Camels. "You should be on Comedy Central," he said.
"Don't say I didn't tell you when you read about it in the paper. Just wanted you to know what kind of shit your semi's gettin' into."
"Yeah, I know. We never had this conversation."
"That'a boy."
"Well, gotta go. I hear the old lady yelling at me. Probably wants me to bring in the stove wood. It's like she's got a broken arm or something."
"It's man's work, Buddy."
"Yeah, right, and she expects me to help dry the damn dishes."
"Hang up, whydon'cha?"
"You first."
They counted to three and both hung up simultaneously. It was then Ned realized what had been missing. He looked out the window. The Mobil sign, the one with the flying red horse, was gone.
He strolled back into the kitchen, dialed the Porch to Purgatory. "You ready for tonight?"
"You're actually going through with it? I didn't think you had the balls."
"A guy likes to hear that sort of thing from his best girl."
"Your only girl, you mean."
"Say, you know anything about that sign you said you wanted?"
"What sign was that?'
"You remember, the flying red horse."
"You must have been dreaming. I'd never go near a horse who'd buck his master off, just because he was trying to fly to Olympus."
"Don't you know stealing is wrong? You know, of course, that there's a kid across the street who watches my house constantly. Ten hours a day he's out there with his eighteen wheelers."
"Yeah, you told me. You turned his mother in for child neglect."
"Did not. Said I wanted to is all. So, I'll be getting the truck from Bud in a couple hours. Why don't you meet me at the Pizza Supply at seven?"
"Why can't you pick me up here?"
"I don't want anybody to see me driving the rig. Bud lives out near the old Outdoor; I can take a back road from there to 55."
"Want me to bring a gun?"
"Hell no!"
"How about a billy or brass knuckles?"
"We aren't going to hurt the watchman at all. I'm gonna sneak up behind him, grab him around the neck, and bind, gag, and blindfold him. He's old. I should be able to tackle him easier than a foreign field goal kicker."
"Handcuffs. I'll bring handcuffs."
#
No one had graded the road that wound past Little Plunder Lake to Hole in the Day Park where Mrs. Shippe lived, and Will Kneebone had to shift into first gear to negotiate the muddy track. He parked under an oak tree that had to be at least a hundred years old.
Mrs. Shippe lived in a house that looked as though it belonged in New England. High windows, shutters on every one of them. A chimney climbing up one side of the building that seemed to disappear in the cumulus clouds. A dog the size of a pony was tied to a yard light.
Will checked his watch. It was already four o'clock; if this took too long he'd be late for dinner, and when that happened, Lila gave him the silent treatment. He thought this excursion was probably a waste of time. If the woman was still sleeping with her husband, she'd never say anything to implicate him.
"What are we going to say when we get in there?" Sonny asked.
"We'll just play it by ear."
They got out of the 4X4 and climbed the steps to the front door, then stamped and scraped their feet on the rubber welcome mat.
Will knocked on the door. He could see a kind of porch through the window. There was fire wood in one corner and a big freezer in the other. Rubber boots and a pair of clogs were lined up by the door.
Tillie Shippe opened the door. Looked more like Martha Stewart than the recluse Will had anticipated. "Come on in here, boys," she said. "It's cold out there. Seems like it's going to be an awfully early winter, don't it?"
They took seats around a kitchen table with a blue and white checked table cloth. A wonderful aroma, homemade bread mixed with the tomatoes plumped to the top of Bell Jars lining the top of the stove, tickled Will's nose.
Mrs. Shippe noticed Will savoring the smell "Would you boys like some new baked bread?" she said. "I have tea."
"I'd love some," Will said. He was thinking of asking her to adopt him.
Will tasted the bread heaped with homemade marmalade, swallowed, then said. "You sure do have a nice place here."
"Thanks, deputy. Want to tell me what this is about?"
"Well, I was going to ask you about the Ojibway artifacts on your property, but I can see you're much too clever for that sort of artifice."
"Much too clever."
"Mrs. Shippe, we'll trying to dispel a rumor that's been going around town about your former husband being the mastermind behind the drug trade in White Tail County."
"What sort of rumor?"
"More of a suspicion actually. Art was a poor announcer working at KPLM and then suddenly, just like that, he was rich."
She gave him a small smile. "I'd assumed he made some wise business investments."
"Then you don't know anything about his relationship with Sheriff Tibbetts?
"What's Sheriff Tibbetts got to do with the price of tea in China?"
"I'm making a real hash of this, aren't I?" Will said. "I should have mentioned Sheriff Tibbetts right away. Did Art know the sheriff when he first started working at KPLM?"
"They were always together during Art's time off."
"This source I have, he says your husband made a deal with Tibbetts."
"What deal would that be, deputy, and who's this source?"
Will had a feeling she would be a lot tougher adversary than he'd bargained for.
"The source is an old friend of your husband's. He's very convincing."
"Is it Cornelius?"
Will tried to keep the surprise out of his face, but it was hard, even for a supposedly stoic Indian.
"I can't tell you that, but the source claims Tibbetts would assume the risks; Art would provide the money."
"Why would Tibbetts come to Art with this deal?"
"Connections. He covered town board meetings, the chamber of commerce; he could get money from bankers who wouldn't give Deputy Tibbetts the time of day."
"He hated those meetings. Didn't like the people. Art is a simple man. Everything is sports, hunting, fishing, and card-playing. He inherited his money when he married Lorna Robideaux."
"Mrs. Shippe. We have evidence he had lots of money before he married Lorna."
"He kept Andre's books when he wasn't announcing. If it wasn't a business investment, maybe Andre loaned him the money."
Sonny sat up in his chair a little straighter, leaned toward Mrs. Shippe. "Andre never loaned anybody any money in his life, and you know it. He was tighter than the cover on a Gedney pickle jar. My brother says he never even paid a living wage. Do you still sleep with Art, Mrs. Voigt?"
"It's not Mrs. Voigt. I took my maiden name when we divorced. Why would I want to protect a man who deserted me and my little daughter?"
"You didn't answer me."
"We were high school sweethearts. He still visits me every so often, but I won't let him touch me. ‘You made your bed, now sleep in it,' I always tell him when he gets frisky. I don't think he's a very happy man. He traded the pleasure of seeing his daughter grow for a woman who thinks vacationing in Hawaii is more important than raising a family. He's been trying to get me to intercede with Peggy ever since she returned to Plunder. He gave me the money as a start-up for that so-called business she runs. We set it up with the bank as a kind of pseudo loan, where Art would pay any deficit."
"If we find out you knew about Art's illicit activity, Ms. Shippe, you'll be tried as an accessory," Will said. "Tell us something. No matter how innocuous."
She frowned, shook her head no, but then one eyebrow rose, she squinted and her face brightened. "There is one thing. This is so stupid; I feel like a fool even mentioning it. One night he had a little too much wine to drink. Anyway, he said he hid some money out in the woods that he won in a big poker game down in the Cities from a bunch of sharpies who might be looking to get even. He said, ‘If it should all come crashing down, we'll always have that money where we can get our hands on it easily.' I thought it was just drunk talk. Even before Arthur hit it big, he thought he was going to be the next Arthur Godfrey."
"If it was drug proceeds, he would have been afraid to spend it," Sonny said. "He wouldn't have known how to launder the money before he got a seat on the bank boards."
"How do you know he never dug it up?" Will said.
"I don't even know if it's really there, trying to stay out of jail is all. He never mentioned poker winnings again after that night, and I never asked him about it."
"Maybe it was a way for him to quiet his conscience," Sonny said. "A kind of payoff."
"If it was a payoff, why not tell her where it is?"
"She'd have to explain where she got all the money," Sonny said.
"So when was he planning on telling her?"
"Maybe a will. Now that he's rich, who'd question it?"
"When was this, Ms. Shippe? How soon before the divorce?"
She sipped her tea, stared up at the white ceiling as if trying to go back in time. "Maybe a year. He'd already stopped coming home at night. He never showed up at all for the first five years after the divorce, just mailed his alimony payments. Then when he did start dropping by, I was always with him."
"I think it's still there," Sonny said.
"Coulda dug it up at night."
"I really doubt it," Mrs. Shippe said.
"Why's that?" Will said.
"Because at night I take Hercules off his leash. He was always afraid of that dog, would never park his car in the drive, always drove it into the car shed."
"And you had the dog when he told you about the buried loot?"
"You bet. If he was skulking around here, he'd get more than he bargained for, believe me."

HONEST THIEF, TENDER MURDERER is a work in progress. Comments
appreciated. A full-length novel by Dave Schwinghammer, SOLDIER'S GAP, is available on Amazon.com.