Copyright © 2023 by Robin James
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
He slid two slender, white envelopes across the table. One in front of me, the other to the woman on my right. Her fingers trembled when she picked up hers. Odd, that. But then she’d been acting strange all day.
I caught her dabbing her eyes with a tissue as she sat in her car, waiting to pick me up from my motel. She’d been distracted, almost missing the turn to the title office in the heart of downtown Helene, Michigan. A quaint little resort town at the top of the mitten on the shores of Lake Michigan, between Petoskey and Charlevoix. A town that had only two intersections with traffic lights, and she blew through both of them.
“Are you okay?” I’d asked her. She said she was. But this wasn’t the shark I’d dealt with for the last few months. The woman who’d negotiated this sale with a spine made of steel. Aimee Whittaker, Northern Michigan’s top-selling realtor for five years running.
“Aimee?” the title agent said. His name was Dwayne. An affable guy. He’d inherited the business from his father who’d inherited it from his grandfather.
“I’m sorry,” Aimee said, forcing a smile.
“You wanna check the amount?”
I slid a fingernail under the envelope flap and pulled out my check.
It was big. More zeros than I’d seen in a while. Aimee’s check, I knew, coming in the last two weeks of the year would ensure she got another top-earner plaque to hang in her office.
“I trust you, Dwayne,” Aimee said. She slipped her check into her purse. Dwayne shot me a look. I’d only met him today, but clearly, he realized Aimee’s behavior had me concerned as well.
“Thanks, Dwayne,” Aimee said, her voice breaking. She was about to start crying. Right there in the middle of what had to be one of her largest house closings of the year.
There was something going on. Dwayne moved in and whispered something in her ear. It seemed an intimate gesture. Of course, these two had worked together hundreds of times, probably thousands. I suddenly felt like an intruder even though it was my money giving both of them their Very Good Year.
“I’m just going to step outside for a minute,” I said.
Dwayne quickly slipped into the chair I’d just vacated and brought his head close to Aimee’s. She was falling apart right in front of us.
I stepped out into the hallway. Classical Christmas music played softly from speakers in the lobby. A white Christmas tree flickered in the corner, decorated with blue and silver bulbs all bearing the title company’s logo. Window-cling menorahs festooned the glass double doors leading to the street.
I slipped my giant check into my bag, feeling a little like Santa Claus with it. The proceeds of this sale would keep roofs over my brothers’ and sister’s heads for the rest of their lives. It would help me start college funds for my nieces and nephews that came along. I’d do something special for the people who helped keep my law practice going, Jeanie Mills and Miranda Sulier. I had to be careful though. They both hated extravagances.
“We didn’t think that house would ever go on the market again.”
Dwayne’s receptionist looked up from her computer screen, flashing me a bright smile.
“I’m sorry?”
“The Endicott house,” she said. “On the point. It had been vacant for over a decade. A shame, really. Are you familiar with the history of the house?”
A lump formed in my throat. I knew she meant a different history than I had with the house. It seemed a lifetime ago when my former fiancé, Killian Thorne, bought it for us. A beautiful, four-thousand-square-foot Victorian home sitting on a private bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. He’d done it on a whim. Because I’d casually mentioned I wanted to retire up north. Being from Ireland, not Michigan, he didn’t realize that the phrase “up north” meant something entirely different to Michiganders. We don’t mean the literal north of the state. It’s more nebulous and depending on where you live, “up north” can mean anything north of Lansing all the way to the Upper Peninsula.
“I’m familiar with some of it,” I said.
“Oh, the Endicott was built in 1875,” she said. “Did you know that? The Endicott family owned it that whole time until the last one of them died fifteen years ago. And then you bought it. The Endicotts rented it out for weddings and fundraising events for most of the last half of the twentieth century. I miss that. My parents got married there.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, I can’t say I know much about the new owners. Only that their check cleared.” I patted the outside compartment of my bag.
“Sure,” the receptionist said. I stepped a little closer. Her desk nameplate read Wanda. “Still, we get a little worried around here with newcomers.”
I raised a brow. “Seems to me Helene wouldn’t exist without newcomers. You’ve got a whole tourism industry that depends on it.”
Helene had some of the cleanest, most pristine sand beaches along the coveted shoreline just west of Little Traverse Bay. More secluded than Petoskey or Charlevoix, the place was a boutique vacation destination.
“Lord,” Wanda said. “I didn’t mean it all snooty like that. I just mean I hope the new owners don’t do anything weird with that house. I mean, not that the zoning board would let them. They do a good job protecting us out here.”
“Of course,” I said. I might have said more, but Aimee and Dwayne came out of the conference room just then. Her face was purple, her eyes bloodshot. Dwayne had his arm around Aimee. She blew her nose into a hanky then found a smile for me as she came around the reception desk.
“I owe you lunch,” she said brightly.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I’ve actually already checked out of my hotel. I should probably hit the road. It’s a five-hour drive back to Delphi.”
“Maybe you can spare at least five minutes for our Aimee,” Dwayne said. He gave her a nudge in my direction. Dwayne clearly wanted Aimee to talk to me about it.
Now even Wanda had an expectant look on her face. She gave Aimee a nearly imperceptible nod. I had the distinct feeling I was about to be ambushed.
“I suppose I have some time,” I said. “I was hoping to get home before dark. I need to turn in my rental car. And there’s some weather coming …”
Then, Aimee Whittaker, the most ruthless realtor in northern Michigan, started to cry in earnest.
“Please,” Wanda and Dwayne said.
“You can use the conference room,” Dwayne said. “I’ll send out for lunch.”
“Okaaay,” I said.
Dwayne ushered Aimee back into the conference room. I followed her. Dwayne closed the door behind us, and Aimee practically collapsed into a chair.
“I think maybe you better tell me what’s going on,” I said. “Is it something with the house?” I knew Aimee was also representing the buyers. It was the other reason that commission check in her purse should have made her smile, not cry.
She shook her head. “No. It’s not that. It’s … I don’t know what to do. Who else I should talk to? I feel terrible. You barely know me. We’re not … friends. And I thought I had all of this handled. I did. Then today … it all just fell apart right before I picked you up.”
“Okay,” I said, taking a seat. “So what’s going on? Are you in trouble?”
“It’s not me. It’s my cousin. Nick. He’s … Cass … he’s been accused of something awful. Just awful. It’s all such a mess.”
“Did he hurt someone?”
Aimee blew her nose into a tissue, then nodded. “Steve Anspaugh.”
She said the name as if I should know who that was. When she saw my expression, she put her tissues down.
“They’re saying Nicky beat Steve within an inch of his life. I mean, the literal inch of his life. With a tire iron. He’s been in a coma for months. They’re saying he’ll probably never wake up. It’s so terrible. He’s got a wife. Nicky has nobody. He just has me. And now he doesn’t even have a lawyer.”
“You want me to talk to him?”
Aimee launched herself across the table and gathered my hands in hers. “Would you? Please? I wouldn’t ask. But I thought I had it all handled. His lawyer just … bailed on him. That’s the phone call I got this morning just before we came. He’s lost, Cass. Nicky’s just lost. I know he didn’t do this. I know what they’re saying about that surveillance footage. But I just know this wasn’t Nicky.”
Oh boy, I thought. There was a video. Of course, there was a video.
“Just talk to him. That’s all. I’m scared, Cass. Nick just has the biggest heart of anybody I’ve ever known. This is killing him. He won’t ask for help. I had to force him to use the lawyer I got for him. And now … he’s just … well, I’m afraid.”
I should have said no. Helene County wasn’t exactly in my backyard. I don’t know what made me do it. They say I’m a sucker for lost causes. But as Aimee Whittaker cried against my shoulder, I found myself agreeing to meet with her cousin Nick. Then fifteen minutes after that, she drove me to the county jail where he was being held.
“Wait here,” I told her as the deputies looked at my bar card and identification.
“Hey, Aimee,” one of them said. “Hang in there. He seems better today.”
This got a new round of tears from Aimee. Deputy Walling, a young kid, probably fresh out of college, led me down the hallway to the lawyer’s room.
“I’ll be outside,” he said. “You can take all the time you need.”
I thanked him and walked into the small, windowless room. I’d been in a million of these in my career. Drab brick walls painted beige. A long rectangular table with loops through the center for wrist irons.
I waited five minutes before the inner door opened and Deputy Walling led the inmate in. I had my face in my phone. When I looked up, the breath went straight out of me.
Inmates of the Helene County, Michigan jail were issued red jumpsuits with black lettering down the right pant leg. The man shuffling toward me had a thick head of white hair and a fluffy beard that hung to the center of his chest. He was large. Six feet at least and probably three hundred pounds, including a bulging belly that wobbled like jelly as he walked toward the table. I found a smile. I think I said my name. But there in front of me, in leg irons and handcuffs, was friggin’ Santa Claus himself.
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