The Pink Pony Page 8

  “Mr. Conti, in your opinion, do you believe that Mr. Lyons’ death was accidental?”

  “No.”

  “Do you believe he was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  Emil Conti pointed at Murdo. “By the defendant, Murdoch Halverson.” Conti pointed at Murdoch like he was shooting him with a pistol.

  “I have no further questions, Your Honor,” Karpinen said. He and his stiff leg struggled back to the prosecution’s table. “He shoots. He scores,” he said to Burr, softly but with malice.

  “Mr. Lafayette,” Judge Maki said.

  We have a motive. Strike three.

  Burr drummed his fingers. It was painfully clear where this was headed. Now there was a dead man with a name tag and a motive. On top of that, Judge Maki was hungry.

  “Mr. Lafayette, are you still with us?”

  Burr stood. “The defense has no questions, Your Honor.”

  “Thank heavens for small favors. You are excused, Mr. Conti.” The judge looked at his watch, then at Burr. “You may call your first witness.”

  “We have no witnesses,” Burr said.

  “Will wonders never cease,” Judge Maki said, mostly to himself.

  Karpinen stood.

  “Sit down, Gus. You’re all done.”

  Karpinen sat.

  “The court finds there is sufficient evidence to bind the defendant over on a charge of open murder.” He banged down his gavel.

  Burr bolted to his feet. “Your Honor, there is still bail…”

  “You sit down, too.”

  Burr sat.

  “Don’t any of you follow me to Aggie’s. It’s meatloaf day and I don’t want to see any of you anywhere near the gravy. Bail is continued.” The hungry judge slammed down his gavel, opened the door behind him and slammed it on the way out.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The unhappy group, also hungry, found the closest restaurant to the courthouse, aptly named the Lilac. There were a few brown flowers clinging to what had once been shrubs but were now small trees. Burr thought a pair of clippers would do wonders for the view. The smell of sauerkraut and kielbasa hung over the restaurant like a fog.

  Burr looked across the table at Murdo, who was reading the menu with tortoise shell glasses that matched the ones found next to Jimmy Lyon’s body.

  He’s going to need different glasses for the trial.

  Burr studied the menu. It looked like he could order anything he wanted as long as it had either sauerkraut or kielbasa in it.

  The waitress, a thin, gray-haired woman with wire-rimmed glasses, came over to their table.

  Those glasses would be perfect for Murdo.

  Martha shooed her off. “Mr. Lafayette, your performance this morning was totally unacceptable.”

  I knew this was coming.

  “You didn’t lift a finger to get the charges against poor Murdo dropped.”

  I just wanted to have lunch first.

  Burr put his menu down. “All Karpinen had to do to get a murder charge was show that there was probable cause that a crime was committed. The standard is very low.”

  The three Halversons stared at him.

  “All he had to show was that it was more likely than not that a crime was committed. It’s a much lower standard than what’s required to convict.”

  “Which is beyond a reasonable doubt,” Jacob said.

  I have at least one ally.

  “You should have called me. Murdo was with me the whole time,” Anne said.

  “Respectfully, I think your credibility might have been called into question.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “With the Christmas tree and the lap.”

  “How dare you,” Anne said.

  Jacob shrunk in his chair. Eve rolled her eyes.

  “And we have no reason to let Karpinen know what we have on our side,” Burr said.

  “The judge doesn’t like you,” Anne said.

  “You’re right, but now that Murdo’s been bound over for trial, it doesn’t matter. We’re on our way to circuit court and a new judge.”

  “I think we should have kept the family lawyers,” Martha said.

  “Now what do we do?” Murdo said.

  “Now we have lunch,” Burr said.

  * * *

  Burr swung on the porch swing, a glass of Kim Crawford in his hand, Zeke at his feet. Burr only drank Sauvignon Blanc in the summer, only before cocktail hour, and the only Sauvignon Blanc he ever drank was Kim Crawford. There were more expensive Sauvignon Blancs than Kim Crawford, but none of them had the same sparkling, grapefruity taste. He had three more cases in the pantry, charged to his account at Doud’s. Surely enough for the rest of the season.

  Burr took the bottle out of the ice bucket and refilled his glass. He admired the curves of the bottle.

  If there is a Kim Crawford, she’s a leggy blonde with a ponytail.

  He sipped the wine, careful not to kill the whole bottle at once. It was going to have to last until cocktail hour. An hour later, Burr was napping on the swing, his glass empty and the dead soldier turned upside down in the ice bucket.

  He woke to a tap, tap, tap on his shoulder. There before him stood a leggy blonde with an exquisite champagne ponytail.

  Kim Crawford in the flesh.

  He stood and offered his hand. “Burr Lafayette.”

  She ignored his outstretched hand. “I know who you are.”

  “And you are?”

  “I thought you did a reasonably adequate job at the preliminary exam, but you’re going off in the wrong direction for the wrong reasons.”

  “I didn’t see you there,” he said.

  “I was in the back.”

  Mid-thirties, almost six feet. Blood red lips with matching fingernails and toenails. She wore a sleeveless, sky-blue top, a white skirt over Coppertone legs, and sandals. If her nose was a little too big, Burr didn’t care.

  “Are you done undressing me?”

  “I’m so sorry. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

  “You may.”

  Burr dashed off. When he returned, the mystery blonde was at home on the swing, one leg dangling. She was scratching Zeke’s left ear. He was in heaven.

  Traitor.

  He opened the wine and poured them each a glass. He sat next to her in the de rigueur Mackinac Island Adirondack chair. She sipped her wine and scratched Zeke’s ear. Burr refilled her glass.

  I’m not going to be the first one to speak.

  He filled her glass again.

  Finally, “I’m Jimmy Lyons’ wife. Or was.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Lyons.” He swirled the wine in his glass.

  “That doesn’t help. Not with a white.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Burr set his glass down.

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Zeke,” Burr said.

  I still don’t know her first name.

  She scratched Zeke’s right ear. The dog turned his head.

  “He seems to like the left ear better than the right.”

  “He does.”

  Mrs. no-first-name Lyons looked up at him. “Jane. I’m Jane.”

  “Jane is a lovely name.”

  “It’s a bit plain.”

  “Respectfully, Jane, there is nothing plain about you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lafayette.”

  “Burr,” Burr said.

  Jane Lyons brushed a fugitive hair off her face. “I thought you ought to know that Murdoch Halverson is a cur.”

  I haven’t heard that word since Grace’s lawyer used it on me.

  “Jimmy used to work for Murdo. Jimmy was a genius with metal manufacturing. Especially screw machines.” The widow Lyons b
rushed the rogue wisp off her face again. “Do you know what a screw machine is?”

  “I do.”

  “Jimmy left to start his own business. We were doing very well until Murdo sued over a patent.”

  “And?”

  “Murdo said it was patent infringement.”

  “If they were fighting, why were you all together at The Pink Pony?”

  “We’d been friends for a long time. Jimmy invited Murdo on the race as a peace offering. Anne and I drove up here to meet them.”

  The rogue wisp fell back on Jane’s face. She ignored it, but it was driving Burr crazy. He reached over to brush it off her face.

  “What are you doing?”

  Burr stopped himself. “Shooing away a fly. All these horses.”

  She ignored him. “Murdo waited until everyone left and then he killed my husband.”

  “Why did you come all this way to tell me this?”

  “You seem like a very smart man, and I don’t want Murdoch Halverson to go free.”

  “What if it wasn’t Murdo? Your husband had no enemies?”

  “None.” She handed Burr her glass and left.

  * * *

  Burr swung, Zeke at his feet, as before. Two dead soldiers overturned in the ice bucket. He had walked the widow Lyons to her bicycle and offered to escort her to wherever she was going, but she had declined.

  Two empty bottles of wine and the sun nowhere near over the yardarm.

  “Zeke, here we are on what’s supposed to be a good old-fashioned Mackinac Island vacation, and every time I fall asleep on this damn porch, somebody shows up and causes trouble.” He dozed off.

  * * *

  Burr sat in the bar at The Pink Pony, nursing an ice water in front of the infamous Labatt tap. Zeke lay at his feet. It always surprised Burr that he could take Zeke almost anywhere. He thought it was because he never asked permission. It was cocktail hour and The Pink Pony had started filling up, but there was no one sitting at the bar except the two of them. He looked out at the dangling chains.

  Maybe things would go better for me if they put another pony up there.“Mr. Lafayette?”

  The auburn-haired beauty with the pointy nose, freckles and ponytail sat down next to him.

  “Carole?”

  She nodded.

  “Would that be with an e?”

  “How did you know?”

  “There’s a lot of that going around.” She gave him a puzzled look. “May we speak privately?” he said.

  “There’s no one else at the bar. Except your dog.”

  “Right.”

  “Who isn’t allowed in here,” she said but made no effort to enforce the rules. She ducked behind the bar, drew each of them a Labatt, then sat next to him.

  “My favorite,” Burr said.

  “I thought you preferred your Labatt with tomato juice and Worcestershire.”

  “Only on special occasions,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t ask him if hangovers were special occasions.

  “What exactly is your job here?”

  “I manage the bar and the bartenders.” She drank off the top inch of her beer which left her with a foam mustache.

  “I’d like to ask Karen Vander Voort a few questions.”

  “She’s not here,” Carole said.

  “I can see that.”

  “It’s her day off.”

  “Do you like my mustache?” she said.

  “I was wondering about the doors.”

  “The doors?” Carole licked off her mustache.

  “Can you open the doors from the inside, after they’re locked?” He took another swallow.

  “The bartender who closes makes sure the bar and the kitchen are empty. Then they lock the door to the street, the door to the lobby and the back door, the one from the kitchen. They still open from the inside. That’s the fire code. But no one can get in from the outside.”

  “Then how did Jimmy Lyons get in here? Or for that matter, the murderer?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Could he and the murderer have hidden in here?”

  “I don’t see how.” Carole frowned at him. “It’s part of the closer’s job.”

  “What about the bathrooms?”

  “They’re in the lobby.”

  “Was Karen the closer that night?”

  Carole nodded.

  “Could she have let them in?”

  Carole set her beer down on the bar. “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “One of the witnesses at the preliminary exam said that he saw Murdo come out the kitchen door.”

  “I don’t see how that could have happened.” Carole drank from her beer. Another mustache. “Especially if Patrick was doing what you think he was doing.” She smiled at him and her mustache dripped into a Fu Manchu. “It was clever of you.”

  Burr was nothing if not clever. Sometimes too clever by half.

  “Maybe she forgot to lock one the doors.”

  “They were all locked, all three of them.” Carole licked off her Fu Manchu.

  * * *

  The following afternoon, Burr sat comfortably at the north end of the porch of the Grand Hotel, porch being something of an understatement. Veranda was more like it. A grand, Victorian veranda almost as long as a football field. Twenty feet wide, underneath a sky-blue beadboard ceiling supported by white columns thirty feet tall. Wicker chairs and cocktail tables all painted in white enamel stretched the length of the veranda, filled with resorters, mostly middle-aged to old-aged sprinkled with a few unruly children. Red-jacketed waiters bussed the tables and plied the idle with alcohol.

  Burr sat by himself. Lake Huron, beyond the trees and a hundred feet below the hotel. Then, the Mackinac Bridge stretching across the straits like a dinosaur. The same west wind that lulled him to sleep on the porch at Windward stirred the lake just enough for the sun to sparkle on the wave tops.

  Burr dropped his left hand to scratch Zeke … who wasn’t there. No dogs at the Grand and the rules strictly enforced. He had called for Murdo, at Aerie, and was told by the maid to meet him at the Grand at three o’clock sharp. And here he was. Next to him, the biggest bottle of San Pellegrino money could buy. And a saucer of lime wedges. After yesterday’s run-in with the Kim Crawford, not to mention the Labatt, sparkling water was all he could manage. He drank the sparkling water and waited. And waited. By three-thirty he was losing interest in meeting with Murdo, but he didn’t want to get fired, and the ten large was already spoken for. He ordered another San Pellegrino.

  At last, the accused arrived. Murdo wore lemon-yellow slacks with midnight-blue whales, a white polo shirt and Weejuns with no socks.

  “Hello, Murdo,” Burr said, standing. He shook Murdo’s hand, not exactly a bone crusher.

  Murdo flagged down a waiter. “Dewar’s with a twist. You?”

  “All set.”

  Murdo looked at Burr’s glass. “Gin?”

  “San Pellegrino.”

  “Of course.” Murdo sat in the chair next to Burr, a cocktail table between them.

  Murdo said, “How about a friendly game of gin? While we talk?” He asked one of the red-jacketed waiters for a deck of cards.

  Does he understand he’s been charged with murder?

  The scotch arrived along with the cards. “We’ll cut for the deal.” Murdo slid the deck to Burr, who turned over the Queen of Spades. Murdo swung his hair out of his eyes and turned over the King of Hearts. “Dollar a point. Hundred a game. Fifty for a gin and fifty for an undercut.”

  “Done,” Burr said. Burr discarded the Jack of Diamonds, which Murdo swooped up.

  They played.

  “Murdo, we have to talk about your defense.”

  “Of course.”

  Burr picked up the five of clubs. He was working on a ru
n. “Did you kill Jimmy Lyons?”

  “That cuts right to the chase.” He picked up Burr’s discard and rearranged his hand, then discarded face down. “Gin.” Murdo counted Burr’s deadwood. “That’s fifty-nine in points and fifty for the gin. One hundred and nine in all.” Murdo wrote it all down on his cocktail napkin.

  “Murdo, did you kill Jimmy Lyons?”

  Murdo dealt again. “No. Of course I didn’t.”

  “Who did?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Discard, please.”

  Burr discarded the King of Spades. Murdo drew.

  “Murdo, you were seen arguing with Jimmy at The Pink Pony. Your name tag was on his shirt. Your glasses were found next to his body. Your fingerprints are on the lights that strangled him. You were seen leaving The Pink Pony after hours. And yesterday I found out you were suing him.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Burr ignored him. “And on top of all that, the homicide cop testified that Jimmy was having an affair with Anne.”

  “She most certainly was not. I was with her the entire evening. She’ll testify to that.” He flipped his hair off his face again. “For that matter, I will, too.”

  Burr thought the best way to send Murdo to Jackson for the rest of his life would be for him to testify on his own behalf. Sympathetic he wasn’t.

  “Murdo, it’s seldom, if ever, a good idea for the defendant to testify, and who knows if the jury will believe Anne. The prosecutor will try to show that Anne and Jimmy were having an affair and you killed him out of jealousy. And if that doesn’t work, he’ll say you killed him because of the lawsuit.” Burr picked up the King of Diamonds and discarded it.

  Murdo picked it up.

  Damn it all. He’s working on a run in diamonds.

  “Anne is my wife.”

  “My point exactly.”

  Murdo motioned the waiter for another round. Burr passed.

  If I drink anymore sparkling water, I’ll float out of here.

  “Murdo, why were you suing Jimmy?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Jane.”

  “I should have known. I wasn’t suing him. Detroit Screw Machine was suing him.” Small point.

  “Do you know what a screw machine is?”

  “My grandfather invented the broach.”