Saving Farley's Bog Page 3
Stitch looked at the paper. “King?”
“That was his dog’s name. When he was a kid.”
Stitch nodded. “Right. Now let’s go and log onto your bank account online.” He glanced at Molly. “You do have access to the account?”
Molly looked surprised. “Yes. But what good will that do?”
Stitch smiled. “I’ll show you. Do you have wireless internet?” he asked as they walked back to the living room. Molly nodded. Stitch pulled his laptop out of the bag. He turned the machine on and quickly typed in the internet access data. He entered Maxwell’s card number. The he typed “King” in the code box.
Immediately all of Bob Maxwell’s credit card charges for the month appeared on the screen. Stitch studied them briefly. He nodded at the laptop screen. “Have a look.”
Molly peered over his shoulder. Her hair brushed gently against Stitch’s neck. “OK,” Stitch said. “This is what he’s charged in the last month.”
“Look!” Molly cried. “There’s that damned Rolex. See — $8,471!”
Stitch pointed to the latest charges. “But these are the ones that really matter.”
“Why?”
“Because he charged these since you saw him last.” Stitch pointed to a line on the screen. “Notice the location of the gas station.”
“Parry Sound!” Molly exclaimed.
“Right. April 26.” Stitch pointed at another charge. “Look at this. Later that same day.”
“Victor’s Grill,” she read. “Sudbury.”
“Stopped for dinner. And quite a dinner it was.” He pointed to the amount: $274.45.
“He spent that much for his dinner?” Molly asked, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“I’m afraid, Molly, he’s not alone. Celebrating, I imagine.” Molly flinched. “As soon as he left here he headed straight up 69. Directly towards Sault St. Marie. He got to Sudbury in time for dinner.”
Molly looked up from the screen. “It’s five days since the last entry. Why aren’t there any more charges?”
Stitch shrugged. “I imagine he wised up. He realized how easily we could trace him.” Stitch turned back to the screen. “Or the person he was travelling with did.”
Molly was quiet for a moment. “You think he’s headed for Michigan? To the cabin we rented?”
Stitch wrote internet access information in his notebook. Then he shut down the computer. “It’s possible. At least it’s a place to start. Molly, I am willing to look into this for you. But it could take some time.”
Molly sat down heavily in her rocking chair. Her shoulders slumped. “It will cost a lot of money, won’t it?”
Stitch looked at the ceiling, thinking. “It could. But there is more here than a simple missing person case. I think his disappearance is related to his vote on the shopping centre.”
Molly looked at him in surprise.
“I want to see where this takes us,” Stitch went on. “How about we don’t talk about fees until after it’s all over?”
Molly looked at him. She smiled gratefully. “I suppose it would be bad for client relations if I kissed you?” she asked shyly.
Stitch slipped the laptop into its case. “No, ma’am. In fact, I’d be right pleased to accept that as a down payment.”
CHAPTER 4
Farley’s Bog
“So this is it?” Stitch asked. “Farley’s Bog.”
Daffy stood next to him on a small dock that pushed through the reeds into the water. Stitch had called Daffy after he left Molly Maxwell’s house. They had agreed to meet the next day at the bog. “I’m out here most of the time now anyway,” Daffy had said. “Besides. I want you to see what I’m talking about.”
“Yep. This is it,” Daffy replied.
“Still looks like a swamp to me,” Stitch joked.
Daffy bristled. “It is a swamp. That’s the whole point!” Daffy’s voice began to rise.
Stitch gave him a playful punch in the ribs. “Just kidding. Lighten up, eh, Daf?”
Daffy’s face fell. “This isn’t light, Stitch. I mean it. There are lots of things worth fighting for. And this is one of them. In Canada, we’ve destroyed more than half of our wetlands. Isn’t that something? Over half of our swamps, bogs, marshes – gone.”
Stitch looked out over the quiet bog. It covered maybe 30 or 40 acres. A line of turtles was sunning on a log near them. A great blue heron stood motionless and regal near the shore.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Daffy asked.
“The heron?”
Daffy swept his hand around the perimeter of the bog. Cattails stuck up along the shore like fuzzy spears. Islands of glossy water lily leaves floated on the still water. Yellow iris bloomed in clumps in the shallows. Sedges and other grasses crowded the shore. “All of it,” he said softly. “The whole thing.”
The two men were quiet for a moment. Birds were flitting and chattering in the black spruce edging the swamp. A carp splashed gently as it turned over in the still water near the pier.
“And it’s not just about the beauty,” Daffy went on. “Wetlands are like giant sponges. They soak up rain water that could lead to floods and erosion. All these plants? They suck up poisons like insecticides and fertilizers. Yeah, and they absorb lead, mercury and other heavy metals . Without this, all that crap is in our rivers and lakes. In our drinking water.”
“And they want to pave all of this?” Stitch asked.
“Oh, not all of it,” Daffy said wryly. “Just most of it.” He pointed to a field north of the bog. “They own that parcel. What they needed was the bog. That’s what was rezoned. Venam will fill in about half of the wetland. That’s 30,000 dump trucks of dirt. Then they’ll pave the whole thing. The runoff with the gas, oil and other crud will kill off what’s left.”
Stitch shook his head. “That makes no sense. No government should allow this.”
Daffy laughed bitterly. “Oh, there are regulations. Tons of regulation. Take Ontario Regulation 97/04. The Development, Interference with Wetlands and Alterations to Shorelines Regulation. Here’s a direct quote.” Daffy looked at the sky as he recited the clause. “This regulation is intended to insure that the regulatory processes are as streamlined as possible for development approvals.”
“Great,” Stitch said.
“And get this,” Daffy went on. “Every municipality decides what that means. It’s open season. Sure, the province can step in. So can the feds if fish are involved.” He shook his head. “But they never do. Not until the damage is done. When the wetland is lost forever.”
Stitch was quiet for a long moment. “I can see why you care so much.”
Daffy smiled and shrugged. “We do what we can, eh? There are huge issues facing our world.But this is my corner. And I’m going to fight like hell to keep it healthy.”
Stitch nodded. “And that fight boils down to the city council level.”
“Yeah, that’s right. And of course the developers come back again and again. We can stop them 10 times. But all they need is one approval. Then they bring in their bulldozers and it’s all over. That’s what Venam did. We stopped them eight months ago. Then they were back. And this time they got the vote they wanted. Maxwell’s.”
Stitch nodded again. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. After I left you at Tim Hortons I had a call. It’s one that might interest you.”
Daffy nodded. “Go on.”
“It was from Molly Maxwell.”
Daffy frowned a moment. “You
mean Bob Maxwell’s wife?”
“One and the same. She is now a client.” He paused. “Quite a pretty client.”
Daffy was getting exasperated. “You wanted to meet to tell me that Molly Maxwell is good looking?”
“Calm down, Daffy. And listen for a change. As my client I have to respect confidentiality. But this involves you too. And I may need you to help me figure it out. You see, Maxwell has disappeared.”
Daffy whistled quietly. “She hired you to find him?”
Stitch nodded. “I can only give you the broad strokes. But there’s a woman involved.”
“Isn’t there always?” Daffy asked.
“Yeah, but this one is a knockout. Maxwell isn’t. She’s 15 years younger than Maxwell. They left together.”
“How’d you find all that out?”
“I visited the Blue Angel Lounge last night.”
Daffy snorted. “That’s a sleazy place. I thought you liked microbrews.”
Stitch rolled his eyes. “Not for a drink, you lunkhead. Maxwell went there every night after work. I caught up with a couple of his friends. Asked a few questions.”
“So they unloaded?”
“Nope. Completely useless. Wouldn’t say a thing. But the bartender wasn’t so reluctant. Especially after I gave him two 20s.”
Daffy looked back over the bog. “Ah, money. Money and greed. That’s what makes the world go round, it seems.”
“Don’t get philosophical on me. The guy filled me in. Maxwell had been showing up with the chick for the last three weeks. Maxwell introduced her as Didi.”
“Didi who?”
“Not that far yet. But we’re working on it. Erin is checking out some contacts. See if we can get an ID on her. Show the barkeep some pictures.In the meantime, I’m heading after Maxwell.Tomorrow.”
Daffy was getting more and more interested. “Do you think this chick was blackmailing him?”
“Dunno. But Maxwell was also spending like a drunken sailor.”
Daffy whistled again. “You know what this means, don’t you Stitch? It means if we can prove Maxwell switched his vote because he was bribed I can get an injunction.”
“I thought it might run something like that.” Stitch replied. “That’s why I wanted you to know this. But there are no guarantees. The guy has a head start. The trail is pretty cold. I don’t know if I’ll find him.” He paused and looked out over the bog. “And if I do, I don’t know if I can get him to return.”
Daffy put a huge paw on Stitch’s shoulder. “I’ve never told you this, bro. But you are one smart guy. That’s why you’re the best detective in southern Ontario.”
Stitch pretended to twist Daffy’s beard. “What about the rest of Ontario?”
Daffy shook his head. “Nah. There’s tons better than you up north.”
CHAPTER 5
Tracking Maxwell
Stitch entered the US at Sault Ste. Marie. An old steel town, the Sault wasn’t much to look at anymore. He drove across the short bridge that led to the US side. He passed under the Welcome to the United States sign and headed toward the immigration booths. He sighed. There seemed to be only three or four booths open. Each had about 30 or 40 cars lined up behind it. He scanned the row of stalls. Six were closed. What’s with that? he thought. Michigan has the worst unemployment numbers in the country. And they can only hire four guys at a major border crossing?
Stitch made sure he had his passport on the passenger seat. He listened to Led Zeppelin as he inched forward. After more than an hour, he finally pulled up to the booth. He took off his sunglasses and put them on the dashboard. If there was anything that set off border guards it was wearing dark glasses.
A burly man in a blue immigration suit sat on a stool in front of a computer screen. He eyed Stitch suspiciously. Stitch thought about someone he’d heard on CBC one time. “I always get nervous when I cross into the States,” the person had said. “Even though I haven’t done anything. I call it ‘borderline paranoia.’”
“Where do you live?” the agent barked.
Stitch was careful to make eye contact with the guard. But not too much. Too much, Stitch thought, and they’re like dogs. They feel challenged. Too little and they think you’re afraid too look them in the eye. Hiding something.
“Toronto,” Stich said. The guy didn’t look too bright. “Ontario,” he added.
“Purpose of visit.”
“I’m visiting a friend.” Keep it simple.
“And where would that friend live?”
“Lansing, Michigan.” Big city. But not Detroit. Too general.
The guard looked doubtful. “Let me see your passport.”
Stitch handed his blue Canadian passport to the guard through the window. The guard flipped through the pages. He studied each one carefully.
Finally he looked down at Stitch. He leaned forward, his eyes searching the inside of the car. “Looks like you’ve travelled a lot overseas.”
“Overseas?” Stitch asked in surprise. What the heck was this guy talking about? “I’ve never been off the continent,”
The guard opened Stitch’s passport and pointed to the many stamps he’d accumulated travelling to the Bahamas. “Yeah? Then what are these, then?”
Stitch looked at the guard. He couldn’t help but shake his head just a tiny bit. This guy was a border guard? “Those are from the Bahamas. I go there regularly.” He paused. “The Bahamas are in North America. Just a few hundred miles off the Florida coast.”
The guard grunted, unconvinced. “So what were you doing down there?”
Stitch knew he should say vacationing. But the guy was bugging him. “Solving murders.”
The guard’s eyes opened wide. He sat back in his chair. Then he leaned forward again. “Are you jacking me around?” he asked dangerously.
Stitch leaned over toward the glove box. He noticed the guard tense and drop his hand to the gun strapped on his belt. Stitch quickly sat back. Boy, he thought. How dumb can you be?
The guard’s face was flushed. His hand rested on his gun butt.
“Sorry, Officer.” They always liked to be called Officer. “I wanted to show you some papers. They’re in the glove box. Can I get them for you?”
The guard eyed Stitch uneasily. He gave a curt nod. Stitch leaned over again. He pulled the glove box door open and searched through some envelopes and papers. He made sure the guard could see what he was doing.
Stitch found the brown envelope he was looking for. He sat back and opened it. He pulled out a newspaper article. It was a front page story from The Nassau Guardian. There was a large picture of Stitch. The headline read, “Canadian Sleuth Commended for Solving Grimm’s Island Murder.” He handed it to the guard. The guard scanned the article. Stitch could see him begin to relax. He turned back to Stitch, pointing at the picture. “That you?”
God, Stitch thought. Who else could it be? “Yes sir.”
The guard nodded. “And what’s a ‘sleuth’?”
“It’s a detective.”
The guard nodded. “Kind of like a cop.”
“Kind of,” Stitch agreed.
“Can’t have too many cops,” the guard commented. Stitch chose to keep his mouth shut.
The guard leaned forward and handed Stitch his passport through the open window. His eyes had cleared. Now he looked at Stitch with interest. “You’re after someone.”
Stitch eyed the guard cautiously. He wasn’t smart enough to be trying to trap him. So maybe play along. Maybe he could get something out of the guy. “Could be.”
The guard’s face lit up with excitement. Just like a little kid, Stitch thought. “Can I help?” the guard asked eagerly. His eyes narrowed and darted around like he was afraid someone might be watching. “I always wanted to be a detective. Not just
a dumb border guard.” The guard looked up at the line of traffic behind Stitch. “Hour after hour: ‘What’s your name? Where you from?” He looked back at Stitch. “Gets boring, you know?”
Stitch nodded sympathetically. “Bet it does.”
The guard’s face lit up again. “So what did he do?”
“Who?”
“The guy you’re after! What did he do?”
“Oh, the guy I might be after.”
The guard half winked. He nodded his head to show he got it.
“Name is Robert Maxwell. Robert George Maxwell. From Mapleton, Ontario.” Stitch looked at the man’s round, eager face. What would get this guy onside? “Left his wife for another woman. She thinks he’s in a biker gang. Might be running cocaine into Canada from the US.” Stitch lowered his voice. “Nothing solid. Yet. That’s why I’m on the case.”
The guard nodded knowingly. “OK, I think I might be able to help you out there, partner.” The guard turned to his computer monitor and began typing on the keyboard.
Stitch looked in his rear view mirror. Now there were at least 60 cars behind him. “Listen,” he said uncertainly. “Shouldn’t we, uh, go to your office or something? Look at all the cars behind us.”
The guard didn’t look up. “Screw ‘em. We’ve got important work to do.”
Stitch sighed and settled back into the Rav’s leather seats.
“What date you figure he crossed into the US?” the guard asked.
“About a week ago. Either the night of the 26th or morning of the 27th. Somewhere around there.”
“Bingo!” the guard called out happily. “Mr. Robert George Maxwell. Crossed into the US at this station at 11:47 p.m. April 26.”
April 26, Stitch thought. Same day he left. Didn’t waste any time. He’s got nearly a week’s lead on me. “Anything else on the file?”
The guard studied the screen. “Said he was on a vacation. Headed for Parsons, Michigan.”
Parsons, Michigan. Stitch reached over to the Garmin GPS system mounted on his dash. He pushed the voice activation button. “Parsons, Michigan,” he said.
“Beginning navigation,” the GPS replied. Almost immediately the screen lit up with the route to Parsons. Damn, he liked voice recognition. He never could figure out all those keys.