Page 33 of A Winter of Discontent for Henry Milch
“But they got divorced anyway.”
“Well yeah… Uncle Eddie left a long, detailed note.”
CHAPTER TEN
I got terribly lost on the way home. In the dead of winter when everything is white, it’s not hard to lose your bearings. It was lightly snowing, and I took a right when I should have taken a left—or vice versa, I still don’t really know. Normally, it’s not that hard getting around. Lake Michigan is to the west. If it was on your left, you were driving north. That meant getting home should have been a snap, since I lived across the street from Lake Michigan.
Of course, there are half a dozen other lakes to contend with. And that might be part of the problem. I think I took a different way out of the condo community that put me on a street behind the complex driving east. Well, mostly east, it was one of those roads that changed direction on a regular basis. When I realized I was lost, I decided to backtrack and try again. That didn’t work because I didn’t remember where I’d turned onto the road I was on.
Yes, I looked for signs. The street names made no sense. Then I started looking for someone to ask directions, but there really wasn’t anyone on the street. It was snowing enough to discourage people from taking a walk but not enough yet foranyone to be out shoveling their driveway. I slowed down a bit and started looking down side streets to see if I could find anyone… or figure out where I was.
After a few miles of nothing, I looked down one road and saw a sheriff’s SUV and the funky yellow Subaru. I made a quick turn and slid around a bit. I narrowly avoided going off the road entirely. The Metro did not have winter tires, and I wasn’t going to buy them since I’d be leaving soon. It was a very practical decision, one with a harrowing moment here or there.
When I arrived at the property, I pulled in behind the black SUV, managing not to drive into the back of it. Barely. I took a good look at the property. It was a large lot with a good number of buildings on it. In the center was a two-story, white clapboard house with a wraparound porch. It needed a paint job and probably a new roof. On one side, near the road, was a small building that had three doors and three windows. It was some kind of hastily constructed roadside motel from the sixties. Behind the house was a sort of barn, which looked like it might now be inhabited, and beyond that two single-wide mobile homes—one that had had the siding taken off and was waiting to have new siding applied.
Situated behind the mini-motel and next to the main house was an RV trailer, eighteen or twenty feet long. A picket fence peeked out of the snow. Redundantly, crime scene tape was wrapped around the fence. The door to the RV was open, and the one of the deputies I’d seen earlier peeked inside. I got out of the car and tried to figure out how to get to the trailer.
There was a plowed driveway on the other side of the house. Next to the mini-motel and in front of the trailer, a parking place had been plowed. It was empty.
After a moment I saw a narrow path shoveled from the driveway to the gate of the picket fence. Walking up to it, I noticed that the snow was dimpled with footprints, some heavilycovered with snow, some barely covered. Some went across the yard to the trailers in back, others to the house. The freshest footprints logically belonged to the deputies, but why had they left the path?
When I got to the gate, the deputy walked over to me. TWISS was written on a nametag that adorned his massive chest. I looked up at him, and asked, “Is Detective Lehmann inside?”
“You don’t have any business here.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“That’s a fuck off.”
I stood my ground. Fortunately, Lehmann came out of the trailer, so the deputy didn’t have an opportunity to crush me like a bug.
Lehmann looked tired. Of course, he hadn’t had a three-hour nap in between crime scenes.
“How long have you been here?” I impulsively asked. “It’s been hours.”
“I was stuck waiting for the foren—you know that’s not your business.”
“I was curious, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, following us around isn’t a good idea.”
“Actually, I’m lost.”
“You’re lost? M-22 is a block that way.” He pointed in what was apparently an easterly direction.
Okay, that was embarrassing. I’d come awfully close to not being lost all on my own. “Thank you. So, are you finding evidence?”
“Also, not your business.”
“You can live in one of these things in the winter?” I asked, meaning the trailer.
“It’s got a heater. Now go away.”
And I almost did. But as I turned, I realized something important. To Lehmann’s back, I said, “She wasn’t killed here, you know.”
“This morning you said she was.”
“I didn’t know her car wasn’t here.”
