Chasing a Blond Moon(7)

“Homey,” Pyykkonen said, wrinkling her nose.

Service was disturbed by the place. He’d always prided himself on not accumulating stuff when he lived in his cabin on Slippery Creek, but this looked barren and sterile, and he wondered if this was what people had seen when they came to his cabin. It was not a reassuring thought. There was nothing here but bare necessities—no personality, no decorations, no joy—just that peculiar painting.

The kitchen was small and equipped with all the conveniences, but it was so clean that it looked hardly used. Like the rest of the house it was virtually empty save a package of chocolate-covered figs and an untouched six-pack of OB Lager Beer in the fridge. Service looked at the bottles with the blue labels: Bottled by Oriental Brewery Co. Ltd. Seoul, Korea. “Never seen this brand before,” he said.

The figs were in separate compartments like chocolates, and three compartments were empty. The fruits were each wrapped in gold foil.

She said, “Tough to be overweight when there’s no food.”

“Maybe he ate out a lot,” Service said. The idea of a steady diet of restaurant food turned his stomach. He might not be adept at much, he told himself, but he knew good food and put a high value on it. Cooking was a way to lose himself in something that didn’t involve work and carried an immediate payoff.

The other two ground-floor rooms were empty, though one of them had some scrapes on the floor, suggesting recent use; perhaps the son moving out? But hadn’t the dead man’s son lived in the dorm? Not your business, he reminded himself.

“See anything interesting?” Pyykkonen asked.

“One thing bugs me,” Service said. “He’s supposed to be an avid hunter and fisherman. Where’s his gear?” Outdoor enthusiasts were rarely far from their equipment.

The homicide detective shrugged.

Macofome came up from the basement, shaking his head. “Better take a look.”

Service and Pyykkonen followed him down the steep steps and found the basement empty except for a large cement statue. It was the same ugly animal as depicted in the bedroom painting.

“Lion built by committee,” Pyykkonen joked.

Service nodded, but he had lost interest in the statue and painting as he pondered why there were no guns or fishing tackle in the house.

Pyykkonen looked over his shoulder. “If he had a bear in here at least it didn’t shit,” she said. Then she sniffed the air. “Ammonia. Somebody did some heavy duty cleaning down here.”

“The whole place looks too clean,” Macofome said. “Sterile.”

“Well,” Pyykkonen said, “We’ve had our walk-through. It’s time to go over the place inch by inch and get photos.”

“Nothing more here for me,” Service said. “If you don’t mind I think I’ll shove off.”

“Good idea,” Macofome said, breaking a smile. “Thanks for the help.”

“Gus will give you a call when the lab results are back,” Service told Pyykkonen, who followed him upstairs.

“Thanks,” Pyykkonen said at the front door.

Gus Turnage was one of Grady Service’s best friends. An elf of a man with the shoulders and arms of a blacksmith, Turnage had once been voted CO of the Year in Michigan and nationally in the same year, but had shrugged off the honors. He was also the longtime scoutmaster of a troop that won national recognition every year, but you would never hear this from him. Gus’s wife, Pracie, had died in a head-on collision with a logging truck almost ten years ago, and he had raised three sons on his own. All of them were away at college now and Gus was alone. He and Service had become COs the same year, and over the past twenty years their paths had crossed continuously. They’d had a lot of fun together, and both knew they could rely entirely on the other in a tough spot.

Gus lived east of Houghton, not far from their friend Yalmer “Shark” Wetelainen, who managed the Yooper Court Motel and spent the bulk of his time tying flies and reloading shotgun shells for his two passions in life. Shark was forty, short and thin, and partial to beer and any and all food. Despite copious drinking, neither Gus nor Grady had ever seen their friend drunk, and once, in disbelief, they had administered a Breathalyzer only to find that he barely registered a blood-alcohol level. They decided there and then that he had the metabolic system of a shark and the name stuck.

Since Pracie Turnage’s death, Shark was at the house as often as at his own place in the motel, and this morning was no different. His beat-up pickup was parked at the end of the driveway and one of his scrawny bird dogs was stretched out on the porch working over a bone.