“About what time did you have this conversation with Mr. Zwilling?” asked Ray.

A look of surprise crossed Wudbine’s face. It took him several seconds to adjust to the fact that he was being questioned. “I think it was about nine. I had gone over to Dune Side Cottage with one of my workmen. I wanted to give him precise instructions on how the job was to be done. Zwilling was on his front porch smoking. I went over to talk to him. He looked drunk, probably doped up, too. I told him I was interested in buying the place. Told him I wanted to contact the current owner. That’s when he started swearing at me. Foul stuff, an unending stream of obscenities.”

“How did you respond?” asked Ray.

“Can’t remember exactly. I probably told him he was just a piece of garbage. It seems to run in the family. They were all trash, the lot of them.”

“You said he was out on the porch smoking?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see a weapon?”

“No.”

“Was that the end of your conversation?”

“Yes. That was it. I didn’t want to waste time talking to that idiot. I’m not surprised an hour or so later he went totally postal. Apparently my cottage was the target of much of Zwilling’s rage. Guess I was lucky to be out of the area when the shooting started.”

“And you’re pretty sure of the time,” said Ray.

“Sheriff, that’s my best guess, but don’t involve me in your investigation.”

“Mr. Wudbine, I’m trying to piece together what happened. Zwilling committed multiple felonies. Anyone who was a witness or has information about this incident is of interest to me.”

“Whatever. So back to my initial question, when can we get that mess cleaned up, and when can I have my people assess the damage and get started on repairs?”

Ray took his time answering. “It all depends when the state police arson investigator completes his work. We need to know if this was a natural gas explosion, or something else. We also need to make sure that no explosive materials are in the wreckage. Then the utilities have to sign off that the gas and electricity have been turned off. We don’t want anyone hurt in the process of clearing this site.”

“Specifically, what does that mean, Sheriff?”

“It means a day or two more, whatever it takes to do a thorough job. I will inform Mr. Grubbs when we are done with our investigation. I suggest you contact him in a few days.”

Wudbine directed his attention to Grubbs, “As soon as they are done let me know. We’ll get this mess cleaned up.” Then he spun on the heels of his spit polished boots. The screen door on the old colony office building slammed hard after he departed.

Grubbs looked over at Ray, a faint smile played across his face. “If you ever get a phone call from the Mission Point Summer Colony saying that there’s been a murder, I’d be willing to bet Malcolm Wudbine will be the victim. And you will have great difficulty finding the murderer.”

“Why’s that?” asked Ray.

“There would be so many suspects, so many people with a motive. Almost everyone here has been abused by that odious man over the last 40 or so years.”

“Didn’t you say he was president of your board? It is an elected position?”

“It’s an interesting story, Sheriff. Can I get you another cup of coffee?”

4

“Was this your first introduction to Malcolm Wudbine?” asked Grubbs, refilling Ray’s coffee mug, then his own.

“In the formal sense, yes. But I have seen him before. It took me a moment to make the connection. I was seated near him in a restaurant sometime last summer.”

“And he was part of a large group?”

“Yes, that’s my memory.”

“Let me guess, he was louder than anyone else, not only in his party, but in the whole place, making decrees rather than conversation and being surly to the wait staff at every opportunity?”

“Exactly,” said Ray. “At the time I wondered if the man had a hearing problem.”

Grubbs chuckled at Ray’s response. “No hearing problem, at least none that I know of. Although at his age it’s possible, but the loud voice and dominating presence is not new. It has been his modus operandi for as long as I’ve known him.”

“You said the board presidency was an elected position. If he is as disliked as you suggested, how does he…?”

“It’s quite simple,” explained Grubbs. “He continues to rescue Mission Point Summer Colony financially. When our recreation building burned down, he paid for the rebuilding. Not only did he rebuild it, but he made sure that the job was done on a timely basis. The fire was in late February. The new building was ready for use in early June. And that’s just one example. When our sewage system was starting to fail and the health department was barking at our heels, his foundation spent millions building a new system. At the same time he had a modern water system installed, complete with high-pressure hydrant lines for firefighting. We’ve all learned to put up with Malcolm because this place would fall apart without his money.”

“The building that Zwilling was firing at, I assume that was Wudbine’s cottage?”

“It’s one of Malcolm’s many properties in the colony. He purchased one for his son and daughter-in-law. Dune Side Cottage is for his aircrew. And he owns several more that are used by guests or other employees.”

“So he doesn’t live in the colony.”

“Correct. His cottage is just north of our property. And it is not a cottage. It’s a mansion on more than a thousand feet of lakefront,” Grubbs looked over at Ray and chuckled. “I see I’m completely confusing you. All of us locals, and I mean locals in the sense of long-term summer colony residents—not to be confused with real locals like you—all of us locals know the backstory.”

“Which is?” ask Ray.

“Malcolm was first married to Verity Wudbine-Merone. Her maiden name was Behrens, German stock who settled in Illinois in the 1850s. She was a descendant of several of the earliest members of the colony. Her family was from a farming community west of Chicago, her father was a local banker. She met Malcolm in college, Champaign, I think, or perhaps Northwestern. The father took him into the business after Malcolm and Verity were married. It’s the old story; a lad from a modest background is brought into the family business and later walks with a fortune. When his marriage to Verity was coming apart, he sold his interest in the family bank and bought a seat on the Chicago Mercantile exchange.”

“How do you know all of this?” asked Ray.

“Verity is my age. I was quite taken with her when we were 15, or 16, or 17. Summer romance and all that.” He paused for a moment, looked away and then back at Ray. “That’s not quite true,” he said, repeatedly tapping two fingers on the table. “It was a teenage boy’s silent infatuation. I’m not sure she ever knew, but I was a great admirer. And over the years she told me bits and pieces of her story. I think that’s one of the things we do here, especially when we get old. We tell our stories. Let’s see, where was I?”

“The Chicago Mercantile Exchange.”

“Yes. Verity told me he made a fortune in pickles futures. I don’t know if there’s such a thing. She’s very sarcastic and quite bitter. From pickles or whatever it was, he moved onto gold, at first losing most of his fortune, but then learning how the market worked. He was already enormously successful when he moved into stocks and bonds. But, by all accounts that wealth pales when compared to what he’s done in the last decade or so. Reports are that he’s made billions in things like derivatives and currency trading. I don’t understand any of that. Not part of my world.”

“You said his property is outside of the colony.”

“Let me explain,” said Grubbs. “When they were divorced there was a major fight over the family cottage. Verity prevailed. So then he buys this big place just on the beach. And he does it in such a way that she can’t look north from her place without seeing his. I’m sure he did it out of spite. And then he started buying up cottages in the colony.”