Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 6. Whole No. 766, June 2005

Crumpling the fifty, Stegman tossed it aside, then turned and stalked away.

Erin started after him, then whirled to face Raven. “What the hell was that about?”

“History. His and mine. What can I do for you?”

She took a breath, visibly controlling her temper, face flushed, accenting her freckles. “I’m Erin Mullaney, I’m city manager here. The Bay Chamber of Commerce has been planning to convert this warehouse into a combination museum and community center. A magnet to draw people downtown.”

“Nice idea. Why didn’t you bid when the state put it up for auction?”

“We did, but—”

“—but you went lowball. Tried to grab it up for back taxes plus a dollar, right?”

“We didn’t think anyone else wanted the place.”

“You thought wrong. Sorry about that.”

“Granted, bidding low was our mistake, but the council is prepared to make things right with you, Mr. Raven. We’re willing to refund your bid and any expenses you’ve incurred plus a reasonable profit for your trouble—”

“Not interested.”

“Let me finish, please!”

Surprisingly, Beau smiled. A good smile that softened his face. “Okay, sorry, Red. Go ahead on.”

“The name is Erin Mullaney, not Red.”

“I’m guessing the locals call you Red, right? They’re big on nicknames around here. Or used to be.”

“Not that I’ve noticed. There are a number of attractive vacation homes for sale in the area. If any of them interest you, the council can help you arrange financing.”

“Very considerate. Of course, they made this offer before they knew who I was, right?”

“I don’t see what difference that makes.”

“Maybe none. Times change, maybe things are different now. We’ll see.”

“Then you’ll consider the offer?”

“Nope. I don’t need financing and I’m not interested in any other properties. I have the one I want.”

“But why would you want this... dump? It’s practically falling apart.”

“I’m going to put it back together. As for the why part, that’s really none of your business, Red — Miss Mullaney. There is one thing you can do for me, though.”

“What would that be?”

“This property is zoned commercial. I’ll need a variance from the zoning board to convert it into a private residence. I’d appreciate it if you could arrange that for me.”

“All things considered, the board might be reluctant to do you any favors, Mr. Raven.”

“Then I’ll manage without it. My attorney says one rental rowboat tied to the dock will qualify the site as commercial.”

“You’ve already consulted an attorney? Why? Were you expecting trouble?”

“I’m just a careful guy, Miss Mullaney. Like a Boy Scout, you know? Be prepared? When you get careless in my line of work, bad things happen.” He patted his sling.

“I wouldn’t know. And I don’t know what your problem is with Mr. Stegman, but—”

“I don’t have a problem with old man Stegman or anybody else in this town.”

“Then I wish you’d at least consider the council’s offer.”

“No deal. Sorry.”

“So am I,” Erin said, disappointed. “If you change your mind or want more information, here’s my card. In the meantime, I’ll ask about getting your variance.”

“That’s mighty white of you, miss.”

“Just doing my job. By the way, how did you injure your arm?”

“I was just doing my job. And somebody shot me.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Erin sighed. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Raven. Gentlemen. Welcome to Wolf Woman Bay.”

Sloshing around in the muck beneath the warehouse, Puck pulled a clasp knife out of his hip pocket, flicked it open, then stabbed upward into the support beam. The blade barely penetrated. Jerking it free, he tried another beam, then a third. At the far end of the warehouse, Shea was doing the same, methodically checking every piling. A dirty job. The beams were filthy, draped with cobwebs and grunge from decades of exposure.

“What do you think?” Shea asked when they met in the middle.

“I think that half-breed Ojibwa up there ain’t no Boy Scout. Nor his pal, neither. Look like leg breakers to me.”

“I meant about the building.”

“I’m getting to that. Building looks okay, sort of. Been here a hundred freakin’ years, oughta be good for another hundred.”

“So why aren’t we happy?”

“This ain’t the original building, Danny. See them doubled up pilings under the east wall?”

“I wondered about those. Why are they so much heavier than the others?”

“Because they weren’t designed to support a warehouse. They’re trestles for a narrow-gauge railway. Timber train. I noticed some old photographs of a sawmill and a bay full of logs up in the office. Thought they were for pretty, you know? But now I’m guessing they’re pictures of the original building. You don’t run railroad tracks to a fish house. I think this place used to be a sawmill. Probably burned in the Great Fires.”

“What fires?”

“The Great Fires, you young pup. Remember the Great Chicago Fire? Mrs. O’Leary’s cow and all that crap? Michigan burned at the same time, only one helluva lot worse. Millions of acres went up, more than a thousand people died, maybe fifteen hundred, roasted alive. Pretty goddamn awful.”

“Why did it burn?”

“Loggers. Like me and my dad and my granddad. Back when they cut the virgin timber they didn’t clean nothin’ up. Left the branches and slash to rot on the ground. After the loggers moved on, that slash dried out, turned into tinder. Lightning strike, careless campfire, it exploded like napalm. Lucky the whole damn country didn’t burn down.”

“Okay, there was a bad fire. So what?”

“Wasn’t no timber left after the Fires so they didn’t rebuild the sawmill. Built this fish house instead. On the original pilings.”

“Even so, they’re in great condition.”

“You bet they are. They’re at least a hundred years old and not a termite hole or dry rot on any of ‘em. Know why? Because they’re from the virgin forest around here. They’re black walnut. Every damn one of ‘em.”

“My God,” Shea said, glancing around. “How many are there? Twenty?”

“Twenty-four, all at least a foot thick. And nowadays they sell black walnut logs by the inch. I don’t know what Raven paid for this wreck, but the timbers holdin’ it up are worth six, eight thousand apiece. Too bad.”

“Why? I don’t... Ah.” Shea nodded, getting it. “If we tell him, we can kiss our remodeling job goodbye. He’ll tear this dump down, sell off the timbers, and walk away whistlin’, a hundred grand ahead of the game.”

“That’s what he’ll do, all right. If we tell him.”

“Let me get this straight,” Raven said. “You’re saying this building’s worth a lot of money?” They were in the fish-house office. Dusty desk, layout table. Yellowed photos on the wall beside crossed fish spears, an antique shotgun over the door. North-Country chic.

“The building isn’t worth doodly, only the pilings that support it,” Shea explained. “They’re black walnut. When they built this place there was a lot of it around here but it’s a rare wood now, used for veneers and fine furniture. Black walnut logs sell by the inch. This dump of a fish house is sitting on a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty grand worth of timber, give or take.”

“Wow. I only paid twenty-two for the place,” Raven grinned, glancing at Pachonka. “Seventeen for back taxes plus a five-K bump.”

“Looks like you got one helluva deal, Mr. Raven,” Puck said. “Tear it down, take the money and run. You want to thumb your nose at this town, it’s the perfect way to do it.”