“Yeah, just in case, right?”

“Is there some way I could help you?” asked Ray. “I could find someone to get all this on a computer and ready for printing.”

Helen was silent for a long time. “I think I’d like that, Ray,” she said finally. “My fingers.” She held up her hands.

Ray noted the swelling around the joints and the misalignment of the digits.

“It’s always worse in the winter. I’ve talked to the doctor about it. He gave me some medicine for the pain, but said there’s not much he can do about it. It’s the damn age thing.” She paused and looked at her paper-laden desk. “The book, would it cost much to do that?”

“Not so much. It isn’t the investment it used to be. There are new technologies called print-on-demand. Basically, you just pay to get the book formatted. And I could probably help you find some underwriters.”

“Let me think about it. So what do you need today? You said you had a question.”

“The Hollingsford Estate, what can you tell me about it?”

“Hollingsford…my, I haven’t thought about that in a long time. Is it still there?” She answered her own question in a few seconds. “Yes, it’s down at the end of the National Shoreline. It should have been part of the Park, but talk was they had better lawyers and more political connections than everyone else. When the final boundaries were drawn, it was excluded.”

“Did you know the people, the Hollingsfords?”

“No, but my mother did. My mother, she was from Chicago, and I think they were, too. I don’t know if she knew them from up here or down there.”

“Where you ever there? Did you ever visit the estate?”

“I may have as a child. My mother was a real gadabout. But I have no memory of it.”

“Here’s another question: When I was growing up, I heard lots of stories of Al Capone coming up here in the ’20s. There were rumors that he and his boys may have tried to hide some of his misbegotten wealth up here, bags of gold coins buried on beaches and hidden away in houses like the one on the Hollingsford Estate.”

Nora scowled. “I was just a little girl when that could have happened, but let me tell you, Ray, those stories have been around for as long as I can remember. And that’s all they’ve ever been, rumors. Let’s see, what do they call them now? Urban legends. I’ve heard about Capone having a house in Frankfort. He also had a place in Leland, and maybe a place up in that Methodist summer colony in Petoskey.” She chuckled at her joke. “And, Ray, how we girls were warned to avoid swarthy city-types, sharpies, men driving big Cadillacs and Buicks, men coming up here to woo young farm girls and take them back to Chicago or Cicero to a fate worse than death.”

“Never to be seen or heard from again,” added Ray.

“Worse than that, they were seen again. A year or two later they’d be back—dropped off by a Greyhound at the end of the drive with their name and address on a label hanging by a string around their neck. Their bodies would be covered with oozing pustules and their brains rotted by syphilis. The girls would either die quickly, surrounded by distraught relatives, or they would end up at the Traverse City State Hospital for the rest of their miserable days.”

“Yes, I see, you were duly warned.”

“Never mind that I never saw anyone fitting the description. And actually, I’ve always really liked dark-haired, olive-skinned men—those brooding Mediterranean types. But,” she said wistfully, “in the end it was Hugh that captured my heart. His reddish-blond hair, his light freckled skin, and his Scotch heritage.” She paused briefly. “Anyway, by that time I was old enough to be in danger, Capone was either in jail or long dead. And I was a college girl in Ann Arbor.”

“I sense you don’t put much stock in the Capone story.”

“Stock, schlock, it’s a bunch of junk. You know, Ray, people are always getting excited about stuff that has little or no truth to it. The important things that they should be concerned about go unnoticed. But why all this talk about Capone?”

“Vincent Fox, he spends a lot of time around the library. He’s written a book on Capone.”

“Vinnie, the old guy in the buckskin jacket?”

“Yes.”

“I know who he is, nothing much more.”

“He was found dead Monday, while you were away.” Ray gave her the information his department had made public and told her about Fox’s book.

“Well, I’m sorry he’s dead. Truly, there’s too much of that going around. And I missed the fact that he’s an author. Probably a good thing. I may have ridiculed the book. I’ve become such a sarcastic old crone, bit of a book snob, too.” She got up to refill their mugs. “I’m afraid I’m not giving you much help. Is there anything else?”

“A drowning on Lake Michigan about twenty years ago, the body ended up on the Hollingsford beach.”

“Drownings,” she sighed. “There were so many over the years. Was there something special about this one?”

“It was early in the season, late May or early June. The victim was a 15-year-old kid from Sandville.”

Nora took a sip of coffee, set her mug back on the table. “The warm air fools the kids. They don’t understand the difference between air temperatures and water temperatures.” She paused, “But 20 years ago, nothing particular comes to mind. I’m sorry. And now there’s something I want to know.”

“What’s that?”

“A security system, my daughter thinks I should invest in one.” She waved her hand. “It’s more about getting help if I’m sick or something rather than burglars.”

Ray sat for a long moment without responding.

“Well,” said Nora. “Cat’s got your tongue?”

“They’re the bane of my existence. The summer people are always putting them in their cottages, and we respond to lots of false alarms. But, Nora, in your case I think it’s a good idea. You’d wear one of the lavaliere call units.”

“Who should I call?” she asked.

“Let me get back to you on that. I’ll ask around and give you a call or stop by at the beginning of the work week.” When he stood, Simone jumped off the couch and raced to his side, ready to get back on the road.

21

At home, Ray found Hannah Jeffers’ Subaru parked next to the garage door. Both of their kayaks were again secured to the roof rack of her car. Inside he found Hannah curled up asleep under a fleece throw in the great room. Simone welcomed her by jumping up on the sofa and barking enthusiastically, followed by wet kisses.

“What did I leave open this time? Ray asked.

“The front door. But both the garage and the door from the garage to the house were locked. You’re getting more diligent, Elkins. We did talk about kayaking today, didn’t we?”

Ray couldn’t remember any such conversation. “You look more like you’re into napping than kayaking,” he said. “Did you work last night?”

“Got off at seven, picked up my boat and kit. Thought I could catch a nap here before we launched.”

“And where did I say we should go when we talked about kayaking?”

“I detect a note of incredulity in your tone. In truth, I may have just dreamed that we talked about kayaking today. And it might have been in the same dream where we talked about kayaking out to South Manitou. I’ve checked the weather….”

“Is this in a dream or….”

“This is the real thing. I checked it this morning, NOAA and the local TV guy. The wind will be from the southeast at five to ten, and the waves one to two. Temps are going to be pushing into the high 40s and low 50s.”

“What’s the water temperature?”

“30s at the buoy, but that’s the middle of the lake.”

“Hannah, even if the conditions hold, and NOAA’s forecasts are less than perfect, it’s a hard paddle. Eight miles out, eight miles back. That’s more than two hours each way, hauling ass. There will be wind, waves, and current. How much sleep have you had?”