Thunder Bay

FORTY-TWO

We headed back to the marina to take Pollard to her boat.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked along the way.

“Get rooms for the night,” I said. “These wet jeans are starting to chafe.”

“You’re welcome to stay at my place,” she offered.

“Don’t think we’d all fit in the cabin of your sailboat, Trinky.”

“I have a house. I’m not there much during sailing season, but it’s a perfectly fine place. I’ve got a guest room, a sofa, a cot.”

“We’ve already imposed enough,” I said.

“Nonsense. This is the most fun I’ve had since I retired.”

“Guys?” I said.

“I’m game,” Schanno replied.

Meloux said, “Migwech.”

Pollard said, “Eh?”

“Ojibwe,” I told her. “Means thank you.”

Instead of returning to the marina, we went directly to her little bungalow on a tree-shaded street northwest of the downtown district. I parked in the drive, we grabbed our bags, and headed toward the front door along a walk lined with flowers. We climbed four steps up to a small, covered porch with a swing. When we stepped inside the house, everything looked simple, neat, and clean.

“Nice woodwork,” Schanno noted.

“That’s what sold me on the place,” she said. “I’d be happy to make coffee. Decaf, I suppose, at this time of night. And I’ve probably got frozen pizza I can throw in the oven. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starved.”

She gave Meloux the guest room. From the hallway closet, she pulled a cot, which I set up in the living room. She brought in linen for it and for the sofa. Schanno offered to take the cot, but I could see that big as he was, his feet would hang over the end, and I argued him out of it.

By the time we’d changed into dry clothing, Pollard had the coffee ready. She pulled the pizza from the oven, and we sat around her dining room table, feeding our faces and talking about plans for the next day.

“We still haven’t located Henry Wellington,” I said. “I think we should talk to his brother, Rupert.”

“Think he knows what’s been going on?” Schanno said. “Sounds like it was Henry who set up the whole charade.”

“Rupert can’t be clueless. He probably knows where his brother is. Or at the very least, how to contact him.”

Pollard said, “The contact number Ellsworth gave me, I’ll have that checked, see if it leads us anywhere.”

“Thanks, Trinky.”

Meloux looked tired.

Pollard saw it, too. “We should all get some sleep,” she suggested, rising from her chair. “Tomorrow’ll be another busy day.”

I woke in the night. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard something or dreamed it. I lifted my head from the pillow and saw that the front door stood ajar. Through the open window overlooking the front porch, I heard the gentle scree of the chains as the swing went slowly back and forth.

I was about to check it out, just to be safe, when Schanno got up and shifted himself so that he could look through the porch window, which was directly behind the sofa. He stared awhile as the swing kept up its quiet rhythm. He glanced my way, and I pretended sleep. He slipped from the sofa and padded to the front door. After a minute of hesitation, he pushed the screen door open and stepped outside.

The regular beat of the porch swing ceased. I heard their voices, hushed. I heard rain dripping from the eaves. I heard a car drive past, its tires sighing on wet pavement.

Then the swing began again.

Wally Schanno did not return to the sofa that night.

In the morning, I found Schanno and Pollard in the kitchen. Crisp bacon lay on a plate on the table, eggs were frying in a pan on the stove, coffee was fresh and hot in the brew pot, and bread was ready to be dropped into the toaster. The rain had long ago ended, and the sun was rising in the sky like a bubble in a champagne glass. Pollard wore a white terry-cloth robe. Her feet were bare, her hair brushed, her eyes happy. Schanno had on a T-shirt, plaid sleep bottoms, and a big grin.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Pollard said. “Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

“Sit down.” Schanno wielded a spatula, which he aimed at the small kitchen table.

I sat. Pollard poured coffee while Schanno tended the eggs.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Give me a minute. But probably.”

“Hope you like your eggs over easy,” Schanno said. “Only way I know how to cook ’em.”

“Over easy’s fine, Wally.”

“How’s that toast coming, Trinky?”

“Going down,” she said.

Then she laughed, as if it was the funniest thing she’d heard in forever. Schanno laughed, too.

“You guys sleep okay?” I asked.

“Marvelously well,” Pollard said.

Marvelously was drawn out and affected, the way Tallulah Bankhead might have said it. They both laughed some more.

“Henry up yet?” I asked.

“Gone for a walk,” Schanno replied. “He said he’d be back for breakfast.”

I heard the front door open, and at the same time, the toast popped up.

“On cue,” Pollard sang. “What timing.”

Meloux came in looking refreshed. He was beaming just as brightly as the other two. Everyone seemed to have had a better night than me.

“It is a good day,” Henry pronounced. “On this day, I will see my son.”

Schanno lifted the coffee cup that sat near him on the counter. “To this day,” he toasted.

Trinky Pollard did the same.

Despite the sunny morning and dispositions, I’d awakened with a sense that we were all swimming upstream against a current of doom. Why, I didn’t know. But I didn’t want my concern to infect the others. Who was I, anyway, to blunt their optimism?

I raised my cup. “To this day, Henry,” I said and hoped it was true.

Over breakfast, we talked specifics. I proposed that Meloux and I go together to see Rupert Wellington.

“I’ve spoken with him before, so he knows me. Henry will tell his story, and we’ll see what Wellington does.”

“What if he refuses to see you?” Schanno’s elbows were on the table, and his coffee cup was lost in the grip of his big hands.

“When I trot out Preston Ellsworth’s name, I’m betting he’ll want to talk,” I said.

Pollard said, “In the meantime, I’ll see what I can run down on that contact number Ellsworth gave us. And also the company that’s been paying for his performances.”

“Don’t say anything about this to the police yet, Trinky,” I suggested. “I’d rather we get what we can from Rupert Wellington first.”

“Understood.”

“What about me?” Wally asked.

Over her cup, Pollard smiled at him, impish and beautiful. “You, Mr. Schanno, can do the dishes.”