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

“Maybe you will.”

“Not after last night. When I brought up your offer to build new boat ramps I was shouted down.”

“They weren’t interested?”

“I never got the chance to find out. Mr. Stegman’s oldest son runs a sawmill on the north shore of the bay. His crew was making most of the noise and they’re a pretty rough lot. People were intimidated.”

“Thanks for trying anyway. And for talking to Mr. Donakowski.”

“Who?”

“The building inspector. He was here a few days ago and gave us a pass, though he wasn’t too happy about it. I assumed you leaned on him.”

“No, I haven’t seen him.”

Puck rapped on the door and stuck his head in. “Mr. Raven? You’d better get out here. We got visitors and they ain’t the welcome wagon.”

Raven started to follow, then turned back to Erin. “You’d best stay here.”

“I’m not afraid of them.”

“It’s still better for you if they don’t see you with me. Wait here, okay?” He hurried out without waiting for her answer.

Outside, the parking lot was filling with vehicles, SUVs and oversized pickups with contractor cabs and dual rear wheels. Engines roaring like a NASCAR practice lap, they formed up in a phalanx of Detroit iron facing the fish house.

Someone blared a horn, and in an instant the others followed suit, raising a thunderous din that echoed across Wolf Woman Bay like an L.A. gridlock.

On the fish-house deck, Puck glanced at Shea but neither man said anything. Overhead, the roofers quit working, eyeing the scene below.

Pachonka took a long look at the crush in the parking lot and shook his head, smiling.

“Guys, I think I hear my mama callin.’ Have fun, Beau Jean. See ya.”

“Right,” Raven nodded as Chunk walked coolly to the Cadillac Escalade, climbed in, and drove off.

Gradually the din slackened, then halted altogether as the men began piling out of their vehicles. A rough dozen loggers, flannel shirts, canvas pants, hobnailed boots. No weapons in sight, but considering the odds, they didn’t need any.

“Cedar savages,” Puck said. “That’s what the locals call ‘em.”

“An insult or a compliment?” Raven asked.

“Depends on who says it,” the older man said grimly. “I wouldn’t use it if I were you.”

“But you could say it?”

“Hell, I’m one of ‘em. You want me to talk to them?”

“No point, Mr. Paquette. They’re not here for you.”

“Which one of you clowns is Raven?” Big guy, a step in front of the rest. Burly, bearded, shaggy hair shot with gray. Tweed sport coat over faded jeans. A fashion plate compared to the others.

“That would be me.” Beau Jean stepped onto the ramp, alone.

“I’m Rich Stegman, I own a sawmill on the north shore. I understand you gave my dad a hard time.”

“I gave him fifty bucks. Figured I owed it. If you don’t like it, give me a fifty back, we’ll call it even.”

“You always were a mouthy little punk. But you ain’t a kid no more. I’d kick your ass for ya but it looks like somebody beat me to it. Or is that sling a city-boy thing, like carryin’ a purse?”

“It’s real enough. But I can put my other arm behind my back if it makes you nervous.”

“Another time. And it’ll have to be some other place. Because you’re leaving.”

“Not likely. I just got here.”

“We know the city council offered to buy this dump, but we figure they’re a bunch of politicians, so maybe they didn’t explain the situation clear enough. That’s why we put together this here citizen’s committee. To make sure you understand how things are.”

“I think I get the picture.”

“No, you don’t, or you’d already be gone. This is our town, Raven. Our bay. We don’t want any houses here, especially when you’re only building it to give everybody the finger.”

“Not true. It’ll be a nice place. I’ve offered to build the village new launching ramps—”

“Screw that. We don’t want anything from you. But we’re not chiselers. We took up a collection, came up with fifty grand. Cash money. You’d better take it while you can.”

“Not interested.”

“No reason he should be,” Puck said, stepping onto the ramp, the decorator shotgun from the office cradled casually in his arms. “The building’s worth two or three times that in salvage alone. Maybe more.”

“What are you talking about?” Stegman demanded. “Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Dolph Paquette, Puck to my friends and everybody else. I’m a workin’ man, like you boys. Spent a couple winters loggin’ these hills back in the day. I work construction now with Danny Shea. This is our job site. Know what we found here? The substructure holdin’ up this old fish house is black walnut, timbers a foot thick. Or maybe you knew that already?”

“No,” Stegman said, glancing uneasily at some of the others. “We didn’t know anything about it. But if that’s the problem, we can work something out—”

“We tried that,” Puck said, cutting him off. “Me and Danny already told Mr. Raven he could make a bundle of money by tearin’ down this rattrap and sellin’ it for scrap. He said no. Just wants to build his house. So that’s exactly what we’re gonna do. Why don’t you boys get on back to your jobs, let us get on with ours?”

“And if we don’t?” One of the loggers stepped forward. Barrel chest, bow legs. Built like a bear in Carhartt coveralls. “You plan on using that shotgun, old man?”

“This? Nah, I found it in the office. Don’t even know if it works. Some chickenshit weasel messed up our job site last night. If I knew who did it, I’d find out if this thing shoots or not. Wasn’t you, was it?”

“Don’t know a thing about it.”

“Glad to hear it. Anybody else know who trashed our site? No? Good. We’ll be addin’ some crew in a few weeks. Any of you boys need work over the winter, come see me.” Puck turned and sauntered back toward the porch, giving Raven a “Come on” look. With a shrug, Raven started to follow.

“Wait a minute,” Stegman said. “We’re not finished.”

“Sure we are,” Raven said. “You made your offer, I’m not interested. Have a nice day.”

“Hey, Raven! Hey, pickaninny!” the bear in the Carhartts yelled, pushing past Stegman. “Remember me? Tay Maggert? I used to jump your mama. Five bucks a hump.”

“Really?” Raven said, facing him. “I’m surprised. You look like little boys would be more your speed.”

“You sonovabitch!” Maggert roared, charging him, swinging wildly.

Raven held his ground, waiting. Ducking under a haymaker, he lunged upward, headbutting Maggert full in the face, lifting the big man off his feet, kicking his legs out from under him as he fell. Maggert hit the deck with a thud. Raven was on him like a cat, his knee jammed against Maggert’s chest, fist cocked, ready to finish him.

No need. Maggert lay writhing on the ramp, blood gushing from his ruined face, his right leg twisted at an odd angle. Beau rose, facing Stegman. “How about it, sport? Wanna try your luck? Anybody else?”

Dead silence, except for Maggert’s moaning.

“Take your friend and go,” Raven said. “If you come back, better pack a lunch. You’ll be in for a long day.”

A few minutes after the parking lot cleared, Pachonka came rolling back in the black Escalade. Taking a rifle case out of the backseat, he came trotting up the ramp.

“Nice you could drop by,” Puck said sourly. “Fun’s over.”

“I know, watched it from higher ground a few blocks up the street. Through a scope,” he added, patting the gun case. “That was a pretty gutsy move with that old shotgun, pops. It’s broken, you know.”