When I was in elementary school, a girl two years older than me was murdered. It was summertime and she’d been at the county fair. It was always suspected that one of the carnie workers was responsible, but by the time her body was found, the fair had moved on.
The case is still cold.
There are the everyday thefts that plague all communities: bikes, cars, livestock. Okay, maybe not every town has missing cattle, horses, or hogs. There are also domestic disputes, most certainly more than are reported.
A few years ago, a boat capsized on Sapphire Lake. It was a pontoon, a party boat. Six people went into the water. Four were rescued. A mother and child weren’t. Alcohol was believed to have been involved.
Not every crime is solved or sometimes even reported.
Like any town, Blue Gil isn’t perfect.
Nevertheless, to enhance the attraction for the summer residents—the outsiders—when possible, incidents are buried. What better way to avert the spotlight than to classify the incident as an accident?
As I push the ignition button on the car, the headlights illuminate the fresh gravesite.
“I want answers, Craig. I want to know the truth. That’s why I’m here.”
Chapter
Three
The parking lot of the Walleye Tavern, the most established business in town, is packed with cars. I slow as I consider my Dollar Store dinner. Becky won’t be meeting me for another hour. I could grab a greasy burger, some fries, a nice cold beer, and still get to the Iverson cottages before her.
My mouth waters.
I haven’t eaten anything since a prepackaged salad and iced tea at O’Hare Airport.
For the record, the flight time from O’Hare to Kalamazoo isn’t the one hour they claim. It’s almost literally—wheels up to wheels down—no more than thirty minutes. There’s not even a beverage service, much less pretzels or peanuts.
Steering the rental car into the gravel parking lot, I contemplate my next move. The Michigan license plate won’t give me away. My trepidation comes with the possibility of coming face-to-face with the people who I once knew.
Turning off the engine, I let my growling stomach make the decision. It isn’t just my hunger for food that has my stomach in knots. Being back in Blue Gil has me on edge. A tried-and-true old alliance blooms anew—the yearning for a liquid sedative. Maybe something a bit stronger than a beer would help to calm my nerves.
As I approach the front entrance, the door opens, the screen door banging against the building as a couple no older than twenty-two come out, tangled together. If I know them or they know me, there’s no connection. With the man’s arm wrapped around her, the young woman only has eyes for him. I slow my steps, waiting for them to pass.
The Smoke-Free Air Act Law eliminated smoking from bars and restaurants in Michigan in 2010. Pushing the inside door open, I’m hit with a wave of stale smoke. The air is clear. There’s no cloud hanging near the ceiling, yet the stench is still there. The Walleye Tavern has been in this same location for over half a century. The faded paneling, neon signs up on the walls and over the windows, and the vinyl chairs are no doubt all culprits in retaining nearly fifty years of stench.
My eyes adjust as I take in the atmosphere. Not much has changed. Booths line three sides of the large room with tables filling the floor. There is a long bar along the wall to the left and two pool tables in the attached room off to the right. Only one of the pool tables is in view, but from the sound of things, including f-bombs being thrown here and there, both are in use. Flat television screens with closed caption dot the walls and twang-filled music permeatesthe air.
Both families and couples occupy most of the booths and tables.
Until the Valley Concert Venue opens, there is only one night spot in Blue Gil—and this is it.
As I survey the crowd, I sense a cloud of reverence settled over the patrons. This isn’t a usual Friday-night foray. Instead, the atmosphere holds a somber undertone. It makes sense. Most of these people undoubtedly spent today paying tribute to Craig Gilbert, beloved coach of Blue Gil’s state football championship teams.
I make my way through the scattering of tables to the bar and take a seat a few empty stools from anyone else. Beneath my touch, the tips of my fingers stick to the shiny surface. Behind the bar the shelves are filled with bottles of different liquors. In the center there is a tap. The handles advertise not only the commonly found beers but also a few local craft brews. I set my ID on the bar.
“What can I get you?”
When I look up, my gaze meets pale blue eyes beneath a crown of wavy brown hair.
I turn toward the tables, taking in the meals others are eating. When I turn back, I ask, “Is it too late to order food?”
Mr. Blue Eyes reaches for a menu. It’s one page sealed within a plastic case. He places it on the bar in front of me and glances down at my ID. When he looks up, he asks, “How about a drink while you decide?”
“I’ve decided.” I push the menu back and retrieve my ID. “Cheeseburger, well done. French fries and slaw. Oh, and I’ll take a—” My lips press together as I focus on afew patrons farther down the bar. There are two women staring my way. My stomach does another flip. I look back at the bartender. “How about a double shot of” —I peer above the bar to the bottles on display— “Makers.”
The tips of his lips curl as he nods. “Coming up, pretty lady.”
