“Mayor?” said Ray, some amusement in his voice.

“The summer colony has been run as a cooperative corporation through the years. There were no officials, policy was set by an elected board. But about 30 years ago major serious rifts began to develop between some of the summer residents.”

“Over what?”

“In a nutshell, one group was against any changes in the colony. The other group was interested in modernizing things a bit. Like we had that big incident over cutting some trees a while back. We had to call your department to keep people from coming to blows.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, maybe 20 years ago, perhaps a little longer.”

“Before my tenure. What was going on?”

“The township fire department came in with their new pumper truck. They wanted to make sure that they could get it through the colony roads and down to the lake. There were several places where trees had to be removed to make the road wide enough for the truck. We had some people who surrounded the trees with their bodies, the human chain thing. We had other people who stood around and heckled them. It got pretty nasty. Finally, we had a meeting and talked the whole thing through. Calmer heads prevailed, and trees were removed with the stipulation that the road would be widened with extraordinary care taken to avoid any unnecessary cutting or trimming. After that incident someone suggested that I serve as the mediator when there were major disputes between members of the colony. Someone gave me the title of mayor, in jest at first, but it sort of stuck. Then the board formalized the title, making it an appointed position.”

“And this book,” said Ray, “is the history that you wrote?”

“Yes, that’s the current working draft. I’ve made draft copies available to members of the colony since late last summer, hoping to get corrections and additions before we do our first edition. Then it will look like a real book. It will be in hardcover with high-quality paper and lots of photographs, some of them in color. I’ve spent years on it. I’m looking forward to holding the finished product.”

He pushed the book in Ray’s direction. “You’re welcome to take this with you. It will give you a complete background about the colony.”

“I would like that, thank you. I have become a student of the history of this region. My memory is that this was first an Indian mission.”

“That’s correct. The first few chapters of the book cover that period, and to my way of thinking, probably as a historian, they are the most interesting chapters in the book. Geoffrey Mather came out from New England in the 1830s to minister to the Indians. His first mission was south of here down around Saugatuck. Apparently he made a poor choice of terrain, the mosquitoes drove them out by the end of his first summer.”

“How do you know this?”

“Fortunately, Mather kept a detailed diary, day by day, of his adventures from the time he left Vermont until almost the day he died. So to continue my story, he loaded his wife and two small children and all their possessions in a small sailing craft and they headed north. Some of his Indian converts followed along with their families in canoes. There is a shoal just off the end of the colony’s beach area, not much really, just some big boulders one of the glaciers dropped off on its way north. Mather was coming up the coast close to shore with a good wind at his back. He managed to hit the rocks at a good clip and take the bottom out of his little boat. The family made it to shore, their meager possessions floating in after them. Mather records in his diary that his wife thought this was a message from God directing them to build the mission here. In the next sentence he opines that their landing at that location had more to do with his lack of seamanship than any message from the Almighty.” Grubbs chuckled, then continued, “Having studied Mather’s diary closely over several years, I think he was very much a believer, but there was always a bit of skepticism over what was God’s will and what should be attributed to human error or incompetence.”

“So how long did the mission continue?”

“Mather was able to buy a large tract of land, the money coming from a missionary organization back east. And he spent decades ministering to and looking after the spiritual and political interests of native people. Over the course of several decades Mather could see that the federal government was routinely robbing the Indians of the property and rights that had been promised to them in a number of treaties. He did his best to protect them, but his diary suggests that he could see it was a lost cause. While his faith in the Almighty remained steadfast to the end of his life, he totally lost faith in the federal government.

“His eldest son, John, followed him into the ministry and kept the mission going after Geoffrey’s death in 1881. By 1900 the area had been lumbered and settlers were building farms on the best land. Most of the Indians, the ones who survived smallpox and measles and the other diseases brought by the white settlers, had moved from the region.

“John Mather was rather entrepreneurial, but he still had his father’s sense of a Christian mission. By then the resorters, the first wave of summer people, had started to arrive from Chicago and St. Louis and points south and east, initially by lake steamer, and then increasingly by rail. So John created a Protestant resort without the strict denominational ties found in summer colonies like Bayview and Epworth. He did follow the Chautauqua model, creating a summer community for interfaith worship, recreational activities, cultural activities, and intellectual engagement. In the last years of his life he turned the whole enterprise over to a public corporation so it would continue on in perpetuity.” He pushed the book toward Ray. “It’s all here, and I think it’s a pretty good read.”

The sound of heavy footfalls pulled Grubbs’ gaze toward the screen door, interrupting the conversation. Ray watched a tall, stout, red-faced man march into the room, his voice thundering in Grubbs’ direction as soon as he crossed the threshold.

“I want you to get a contractor in here today, Grubby. I want that site bulldozed and cleaned up. Get the landscape restored, make it look like the building never existed. I don’t want a trace left, not a goddam trace. You hear.”

Without responding directly, Grubbs said, “This is Sheriff Ray Elkins. And Malcolm, I don’t think we can go forward until his people have completed their investigation.”

“What’s to investigate,” said the man in a scoffing tone.

“It’s a crime scene,” answered Ray, coming to his feet and looking directly into the eyes of the intruder.

“Crime scene my ass, there’s nothing there.”

“Sheriff, this is Malcolm Wudbine, he is the president of the board of the Mission Point Summer Colony,” said Grubbs, now standing also.

“Well, get your people to chop-chop,” Wudbine said directing his comments to Grubbs. “I know we are up north, and these folks have a way of doing everything in their time, but this needs to be done now. Don’t go native on us, Grubby. The property owners will start arriving in a week or so, and they expect to have things ready.”

“When can we have access to the area?” asked Grubbs, looking over at Ray.

“Right now we’re waiting for the state police arson investigator. He’s working on a case in Mecosta County. He hopes to be here sometime late this afternoon.” Ray remembered seeing Wudbine before. He was trying to remember where.

“Again, I ask, what’s to investigate?” said Wudbine, his words now directed at Ray. “Known crazy shows up, shoots up his place and one that I own, also. Then he blows himself up. And now that indigent SOB is in the hospital at taxpayers’ expense. I told him yesterday morning that he didn’t belong here. Too bad I didn’t grab him by the scruff of the neck and toss his sorry ass off the property.”