Verity stood, “Thank you for coming, Sheriff. And you, also, Detective. I think this matter will take care of itself without any outside help. But, again, my thanks. Would either of you like a cookie for the road?”

8

“If he would move over a little, we could get out of here,” said Sue as they followed Richard Grubbs in his golf cart two-track.

“You’re showing remarkable patience,” observed Ray. “A few years ago you would have been laying on the horn.”

“Yup. Yoga. Deep breathing. I keep telling you to show up. The women would like you. And you’d like the view, fit women in Spandex. And there’s never a man there. You would be a cherished minority.”

As they got close to the colony office, Grubbs waved them over. “Would you come in for a couple of minutes, I have a few more things to tell you? Bring the dog.”

Sue looked over at Ray and smiled. “Deep breathing, Ray. Pretend that you’re listening as you focus on your mantra slowly running through your brain. Nod occasionally, like you’re attending to his every word.”

“I don’t have a mantra.”

“Then think about lunch, have food fantasies.”

They followed Grubbs into his office, settling into chairs, Simone in Ray’s lap.

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Sheriff. But I thought that Verity would be more helpful, especially after Malcolm told her to let it go. She usually does the opposite of what he tells her. You see they were once married.”

“Yes, you’ve told me about that.”

Grubbs cocked his head and looked at Ray. “I guess I did, didn’t I. Sorry, I’m afraid I’m starting to do that. Where was I?”

“You were saying that Verity usually does the opposite of Malcolm Wudbine….”

“Yes, of course. So the fact that she mentioned him is a surprise. They don’t talk much, not since their son grew up. I mean, occasionally they’re in the same place at a colony gathering, but she seems to keep her distance from him as much as possible.”

“So there are no grandchildren?” asked Sue.

“None from that marriage. And I know Verity remains close to her son and tries to protect him from Malcolm. Wudbine is extremely hard on Elliott. He’s got him running the business, but he micromanages the hell out of him. Elliott is the COO of Wudbine Financial, Malcom continues on as the CEO. Around here people make a comparison to old Henry Ford and his alleged mistreatment of his son, Edsel.

“You said you had a few more things to tell us,” said Ray, trying to get the conversation back on track.

“Yes, this burglary. It’s not the first. There were a few last winter. And it’s not every cottage that’s getting hit.”

“So what are you telling us?” probed Sue.

“Well, as I think about this. Let’s say teenagers from around here, some of the locals, were looking for booze in the winter when the colony is unoccupied. They’d probably just go down the line, wouldn’t they? That’s not what’s happening here. It’s only selected cottages, places with lots of alcohol, that are getting hit. Whoever is behind this is one of ours. They know where to find the booze.”

“And in Verity’s case, it didn’t happen in the dead of winter,” added Sue.

“Exactly. When it happened before in the past, I was thinking, you know, January or February, something like that.”

“But no one has ever contacted us before? What’s going on?” asked Ray.

“People are very protective of this place. They don’t want outsiders in here doing an investigation, and they certainly don’t want to read in the local paper about break-ins and the theft of alcohol. I can imagine we would be the butt of lots of jokes in the greater community. And we all live with the memory of the last time we had something like this happen. It just pulled this place apart.”

“What was that?”

“Arson. As I remember it, two cottages the first year, three the next, and then it stopped.”

“When was…?”

“Oh, let me think, late 70s, no, it was the 80s. It was the time of, what did they call that? You know, the big ugly piercings, nails through noses and ears, people dressing in black.”

“Punk?” offered Sue.

“Yes, that might have been it. Well, our young people, they follow the fashions or movements, whatever those things are. We had a few kids, maybe a dozen, who, for a number of summers, just dressed like bums. First, there were stories about the kids, like they were into devil worship. Then the fires started. Vacant buildings, no one ever hurt. The township fire chief said the fires were of suspicious origin, all of them. But if there was an arson, well.”

“Well, what?”

“There was never an investigation or anything, but kids, the punk ones, they were the prime suspects. And it was like a Hawthorne story. There were secret meetings, vigilante patrols, rumors, anger, and weird prejudices. An unusual number of cottages went on the market. But by the third summer nothing happened. Some of the kids were still around, most had moved on or grown out of that mode of dress. And I don’t think anyone quite noticed them anymore. People just wanted to get things back to what they had been before. And that sort of happened.

“I’m telling you this because I think that’s what may be going on here. No one wants to talk about this. If anyone would have been willing to file a police report, it was Verity. And Malcolm turned her. So, as the chief administrator of the area, I’ve got this problem. I’ve had a string of robberies, and people, especially our board president, want to keep it quiet. What is your counsel?”

Ray passed Simone to Sue and took a while to consider his response. “If no one is willing to document the fact that a crime has taken place, our hands are tied. If what you say is true, clearly there is criminal activity taking place here. So far it’s just about theft, no one has been harmed. That could change. Keep us in the loop. Our job is protecting and serving you and your community.”

Ray stood, setting his card on the desk facing Grubbs. “Please don’t hesitate to call.”

Back in the Jeep, just before starting the engine, Sue said, “A tradition of temperance, and a tradition of summer cocktail parties. What am I missing?”

Ray laughed, “Traditions are sort of funny that way. They are hard to understand unless you’re a member of the group. You’ve got to be part of the system, native to the culture. Outsiders always find them silly, even branding long-held traditions as little more than superstitions.”

“Well, Margaret Mead, where do you want to go for lunch, the Tiki Café? You can get the vegetarian Samoan Samosa.”

“I think you’re mixing cultures and cuisines.”

“It’s all about fusion, Ray. The wave of the future.”

9

Over two months passed before Ray returned to Mission Point Summer Colony. In the intervening time there had been no further calls from Richard Grubbs about break-ins, missing cases of liquor, or anything else. And with the coming of warm weather and the influx of tourists and summer residents—doubling the area’s population—the day-to-day demands on the Cedar County Sheriff Department had doubled as well. Ray had only thought about the Colony as he occasionally rolled past the front entrance—two tall, widely spaced telephone poles with a sign reading Mission Point suspended by ropes high above an open gate—when he was in the area on some other business.

In mid-July an invitation, the address hand-written by a skilled calligrapher and sealed with wax, beckoned Ray back to the colony for a gala cocktail party and buffet, performance of the annual summer play, and an afterglow the first week of August. Richard Grubbs, who signed the invitation, added that he hoped Detective Sergeant Lawrence would come also. The R.S.V.P. card had Ray and Sue’s names already penned in. There were two blanks for the names of their guests. When Ray first floated the invitation past Sue there was a lack of enthusiasm on her part, but a few days later she asked if he had sent back the response card. Ray shifted through the pile of mail in the wire bin on his desk and handed her the envelope.