Doug Allyn: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 104, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 633 & 634, October 1994

“Probably not,” Charlie said honestly. “On the other hand, I can’t say I like the alternative any better.”

“What do you mean?”

“We had a hard rain most of last week, Mr. Calderon, and the riverbank’s so muddied up we can’t be sure where the car went in. See that area up there, just before the bridge? It’s a blind curve, a nasty one. People miss it sometimes, mostly out-of-towners who don’t know it’s there. It’s especially difficult to see in the rain. And with the bank muddy, a car’d go down it like a toboggan, hit the river, and the current would carry it to just about the point where we hauled it out.”

“And you think my brother missed a curve in the dark and wound up in the river?”

“No sir, I’m not saying that. We don’t know what occurred yet. I just want you to be aware of the possibility.”

“I see.” Calderon nodded. He walked away from us to the river’s edge, staring out into the dark, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly against the pain.

“But if... if that’s what happened, where’s the body?”

“The driver’s side door was open,” I said reluctantly.

“But dammit, Jimmy’s a strong swimmer and that car was only a few feet from the bank.”

“That’s where it came to rest,” Charlie said. “It would have gone in about fifty yards upstream. Maybe he was injured in the crash, or simply couldn’t find the bank in the rain.”

“Maybe,” Calderon said. “Where would a body end up, if it went into the water here?”

“The river empties into Lake Huron about four hundred yards downstream,” I said. “The thrust of the current continues more than a mile offshore. With the water this high, it might be closer to two miles.”

“Bodies surface after a day or so,” Calderon said, his voice barely audible. “Wouldn’t someone have found it?”

“In the summer, maybe,” Charlie said, “when we have a lot of boaters. But this time of year, especially with all the rain this past week, it’s quite possible it wouldn’t be seen. We can start an air search tomorrow, but it’s a big lake out there, Mr. Calderon, a hundred and fifty miles to the Canadian shore. And he might not be on the surface now. Meanwhile, why don’t we consider the other possibilities.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, but maybe you do. Why did your brother come up here to Huron Harbor?”

“It was — personal. He was — he was trying to locate his father.”

“His father?” I said, surprised.

“That’s right,” Calderon said, looking at me for the first time. “We’re only half brothers, Jimmy and me, same mother, different fathers. Jimmy never had any contact with his real father. He came up here to find him.”

“Who’s his father?” Charlie asked.

“A man named Walter McClain.”

“Then he made a trip for nothing,” Charlie said. “The only Walter McClain I know’s in his early thirties.”

“He did ask about Walter,” I put in.

“You talked to my brother?” Calderon asked, surprised. “When?”

“Last Wednesday,” I said, glancing at Charlie for an okay. “I own a little bar/restaurant and he stopped in for... information, mostly. I told him he’d probably find Walter at the plant. And he drove off in that direction when he left.”

“Well, we can’t do any more here tonight,” Charlie said. “Maybe we can get a line on his movements. The McClain place is on the way back to the station anyway. Where can I contact you, Mr. Calderon?”

“No place, I mean, I’m not staying anywhere yet. The cabby dropped me here. Can I catch a ride into town with you?”

“No problem,” Charlie said. “Climb aboard. Passenger side, please. Mitch needs the backseat to change.”

“That was a nice bit of diving you did back there,” Calderon said over his shoulder without turning his head. He was riding shotgun in Charlie Bauer’s county Blazer. I was in the backseat. I’d shucked my diving gear and climbed back into faded jeans and a sweatshirt.

“Just another day at the office,” I said.

“You learn in the military?”

“No, I grew up underwater. My dad owned the Crow’s Nest and rented boats and diving gear. He taught me. After high school I got a job with Exxon out on the Texas gulf for a while, doing underwater maintenance off the oil platforms.”

“I didn’t know they hired women for that kind of work.”

“They don’t hire women,” I said evenly. “They hire divers who can do the job. The money was good, but the platforms aren’t much of a life. My son was in boarding school, and I could only see him on weekends. So we moved back up here.”

“I can see why,” Calderon said absently, “it’s beautiful country, what I’ve seen of it.”

“What did you do in the navy, Mr. Calderon?” Charlie asked.

“Flight crew. The last few years I worked in an air/sea rescue squadron out of Norfolk. Which means I’m aware of the odds against recovering my brother’s... body. If he went into that river.”

And that chilled the conversation until we pulled into the long circular drive of the McClain estate. It’s a Tudor-style manor, three stories, twenty rooms or so, overlooking the north shore of Thunder Bay. In Detroit or Grosse Pointe it would have been surrounded by spear-tipped steel fencing, but up here neighbors are all you need.

I expected Charlie to tell us to wait in the car, but he didn’t. Calderon flanked him while he rang the buzzer. Chimes tinkled like Waterford crystal somewhere within.

The door was opened by an over-the-hill surfer, or at least that was my first impression. He was tall, tanned, a bodybuilder type, mid-fortyish with a shoulder-length mane of dark, tousled hair. He was wearing a white cable-knit sweater, white slacks, and deck shoes, no socks. No underwear either unless I was greatly mistaken. His sleepy gray eyes had all the intensity and intelligence of a cocker spaniel.

“Yes?”

“I’m Sheriff Bauer, to see Mr. McClain? I called ahead.”

“Of course, please come in.”

We followed the surfer down a tiled entry hall into a modest-sized living room, comfortably furnished with wine-toned leather sofas and a half-dozen chairs. The McClain family was all there, what there is of it. Walter, a pudgy jock-gone-to-seed with thinning sandy hair — he was wearing the vest and dress pants of a business suit, a Wall Street Journal on his lap. A solid citizen. But I noticed his fingertips were raw, nails chewed to the quick.

His wife, Hannah, stood behind his chair, wary as a doe in a rainstorm. She was a rangy blond stunner, half a head taller than Walter, a local girl, nee Luebner. Her family were woodcutters, cedar savages, a ragtag army of kids and dogs and pickup trucks and chain saws. I had vague memories of her from high school, a quiet girl, self-conscious about her diction, I think. But she got good grades and made the state finals as a distance runner. When she married Walter, the local gentry clucked that he’d married beneath himself. Personally, I thought he’d scored a terrific catch. I wasn’t so sure she had.

She was dressed casually in a teal designer sweater, slacks, and pumps, yet seemed uncomfortable, as if she feared Charlie’d come to haul her back to Shacktown where she belonged. Or maybe she hoped he would.

Walter’s mother, Audrey McClain, was in her wheelchair near the fire. She was tiny, and frail as smoke, probably fiftyish but her debility made her seem older. Her gleaming platinum hair contrasted with a simple blouse of raw silk, black, with matching skirt, a string of pearls at her throat.

Her finely sculpted face must have been truly lovely once. To me she still was. Her shoulders were humped from arthritis that forced her to cock her head when she looked at you, like a kitten listening. Her eyes were catlike too, curious and alert. Her body was bent, but her spirit was unbroken. Rumor said she had a tongue like a horsewhip when crossed. I didn’t doubt it.