CRUELEST

MONTH

AARON STANDER

Writers & Editors

Interlochen, Michigan

© 2012 by Aaron Stander

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Printed and bound in the United States of America

FOR BEACHWALKER

WHO HELPS THIS ALL HAPPEN

1

Ma French bumped along the snow-covered two-track in her dilapidated GMC Jimmy, her golden retriever Roxy peering attentively out of the windshield. She slowed to a crawl and turned into a two-track that had been flattened by snowmobiles. Rolling forward a few dozen yards, Ma switched off the engine and pushed open the door, using her arm and shoulder to overcome the resistance of the worn hinges. She stood and waited as Roxy walked across the seat and dropped to the ground next to her, then turned back to retrieve a steel-tipped walking stick. Together, they followed a narrow, winding path of hard packed snow for several miles through the dense brush until they reached the shore of a small lake.

Ma stood for a long moment and took in the panorama. Her gaze moving from left to right, she viewed the perimeter of the ice-covered plain. Three sides of the lake were bordered in marshland. The dusky skeletons of long dead pine trees angled helter-skelter at the verge of the marshes. Beyond, scrub forests of oak and maple in saturnine nakedness stood on the rolling terrain. A dark overcast added to the grimness of the tableau.

Ma looked over the expanse of ice toward the old resort. She could just make out the dark forms of a few of the buildings near the shore. Winter was starting to loosen its grip. Ma knew with the coming of warm weather the inland lakes would start to open. She wanted to make this trip to the landlocked resort before anyone was around, and while it was still easy to get there.

A few inches of water separated the shore from the layer of snow-crusted ice that covered the lake. Ma took her walking stick and tested the ice, probing carefully, then stepping gingerly across the band of water to the ice. With Roxy at her side, she followed the shoreline, hoping that if she did break through, the water wouldn’t come above her rubber farm boots—boots her husband had worn for years before he became too sick to work.

Ma half circled the lake, coming ashore in the area where the dock extended far out into the water during the summer. She followed snowmobile tracks up past the main house—its interior obscured by wooden shutters—several hundred yards to the ridgeline. A derelict windmill stood at the top. The tower was covered with a thick layer of rust and most of the blades were missing, the remaining ones twisted and distorted. Just below it was the massive storage tank, steel bands on wood, now collapsing inward.

Ma crossed the ridge and looked out at Lake Michigan. Most of the shelf ice had disappeared in recent weeks, leaving the shoreline open to the waves. She moved toward the rolling surf, stopping on a bank high above the water. With trembling hands she pulled a plastic bag from her jacket pocket. These were the last of them, the last of Pa’s ashes. She had spread the others near his favorite deer hunting blind, and in the yard where they had buried many generations of dogs during the almost half century of their marriage.

The first two places were special to Pa. Perhaps, she thought, this is more important to me. This is where it all began that first summer when we met.

She slowly poured the ashes from the bag, letting the wind carry them away. Roxy stood at her side, silent and watchful. Ma folded the bag carefully and put it in her pocket. Then she turned and retraced her steps back up to the ridgeline, this time heading into the small family cemetery. Ma gazed across the undisturbed blanket that covered the area. She could remember a time, years ago, when a wrought iron fence surrounded the plot. Now only bits and pieces leaned drunkenly.

Ma carefully brushed the drifted snow from the base of the largest headstone.

Rose-Marie Hollingsford 1870—1962

She remembered when they brought Mrs. Hollingsford’s body back from Chicago for burial. It was late spring, and she and the other folks that worked on the estate had already completed most of the necessary work to open the place for the season. She was thinking about how kind Mrs. Hollingsford had been to her during the four summers she had worked there, only sixteen that first summer.

Roxy’s sudden barking pulled her from her memories. The retriever was pawing at something. Ma dropped to her knees to see clearly the object of Roxy’s attention. She pulled a jar from the sand. The glass had a greenish tint with the brand name Ball in raised letters on one of the four sides. Wiping the sand from the glass, she squinted at the contents—it looked like a roll of newspaper bound by several dull-red rubber bands. She pulled off her mittens, clasped the bottle firmly with her left hand and applied pressure to the lid. It slowly gave way. Pulling off the rubber bands, Ma peeled away the newspaper and unrolled a large wad of new $100 bills. She stood suddenly and looked around, up and down the shore and back toward the woods. Then for several minutes she stared at the money, flipped through the bundle. Scanning the area a second time, she shoved the bundle into the pocket on the right side of her jeans. Ma put the newspaper back in the jar, screwed on the lid and dropped it, pushing a layer of sand over the glass. Then she picked up the rubber bands and put them into her jacket pocket.

Dragging a reluctant Roxy, Ma quickly retraced her route past the main house, outbuildings, cabins and boathouse. She crossed the ice, and began the long trek back to her car, pausing occasionally on her retreat to listen carefully while surveying the terrain. Anxious and in a heightened state of awareness, she found nothing suspicious or alarming.

2

Ray Elkins, sheriff of Cedar County, was in the early stages of re-entry, a.k.a. the downside of taking a vacation. From the moment he walked through the back door to the department, everyone he met had to comment on his rich tan, a rarity in northern Michigan in late March. At the first few encounters, he felt obliged to explain that it was just a “skier’s tan.” It ended at his collar. He quickly learned that it was easier to say “thanks,” rather than try to explain.

Ray spent the early hours at his desk responding to letters and e-mails. His long-time secretary, Jan, had arranged the paperwork in order of importance so he could efficiently attend to the most pressing issues. Jan, also a skilled gatekeeper, gave him several hours of cover to begin the process of catching up. He was starting to think about lunch when Sue Lawrence, a key member of his small department, knocked at his closed door and uncharacteristically waited until he pulled it open before entering.

Although the Cedar County Sheriff’s Department had a command structure similar to other police agencies of its size, at least on paper, Elkins’ management style was more collegial than top-down. His approach was shaped by years he spent in university teaching and administration, and was further influenced by his desire to give every member of his small staff a role in improving the effectiveness of the department. Ray encouraged people to grow their professional skills, providing money and time for additional training.