Deadline for Lenny Stern, Peter Marabell [sneezy the snowman read aloud .TXT] 📗

spend an hour in those uncomfortable chairs. Besides, I’m lucky. I can talk to Lenny anytime I want.”

“Okay.”

“You’re taking your gun, right?” Sandy asked.

“Probably a good idea.”

“You’re not going to clip the holster to your belt, are you?”

“I’ll take a jacket,” I said. “The Carnegie’s air conditioned. Nobody’ll think anything.”

I went over and took a dark green nylon jacket off the hall tree.

“Stay safe, boss.”

The sidewalks of Lake Street were still busy, but with people reading menus for an early dinner. There was plenty of traffic, so I crossed at the stoplight and went over to Mitchell. Not as many shoppers as Lake Street, but several bars and restaurants helped make up the difference.

I made my way to the Carnegie Building on East Mitchell and waited for Andrea McHale. A few people milled around the front of the building, no doubt waiting to get a good seat. Near the main door sat a plaque honoring Bruce Catton, the Civil War historian and Petoskey native. I’d admired his work ever since I first read A Stillness at Appomattox years ago. He deserved the tribute.

“Mr. Russo.”

I looked up and spotted the library director waving from the doorway.

“Hello, Ms. McHale.”

“Come on. Get out of the heat.”

I went through the side door, and she closed it behind us.

“We won’t use the back entrance for Mr. Stern’s talk,” she said. “Just the front door.”

“Admission tickets only, right?”

McHale nodded. “But once he starts signing books, both entrances will be open to the public. The parking lot is out there,” she said, pointing to the rear door. “It’s closer for our older folks, if you get what I mean.”

“Got it,” I said.

“This way,” she said.

We entered the rotunda. It was set up much as I’d seen the room for the gardening writer. The podium was at the far end, by the windows, with chairs arranged in rows reaching back to the front door. I’d already picked the best spots for Henri and me to watch the doors.

McHale moved around the room, talking with staff members, then went over to unlock the front door. She clicked the latch and turned toward me.

“We’re ready, Mr. Russo.”

14

I watched people pass through the door, giving over their tickets and making a much bigger deal out of selecting seats than the event required. They were mostly older adults, the ones who likely read Lenny Stern in a paper copy of the Post Dispatch rather than the digital PPD Wired. Locals and tourists alike ambled into the rotunda, filling most of the seats.

After thirty-five minutes, I recognized two men who arrived together: Frank Marshall and Wardcliff Griswold.

Marshall, a retired investigator from Chicago, was an old friend, a mentor from my early days as a private eye. A touch over six feet tall, he was trim and fit, befitting an avid runner (despite having edged into his seventies). He was dressed in resort casual: a navy polo shirt, khaki shorts and a beat-up pair of running shoes.

Wardcliff Griswold was another matter. We tangled several years ago when I helped the police investigate a murder at ritzy Cherokee Point Resort, just north of Harbor Springs. Griswold, the self-important president of Cherokee Point, made it his business to hinder that investigation using every option shy of illegal. I didn’t like him, he didn’t like me. Fair enough, but Frank Marshall was his neighbor at the Lake Michigan resort, so I tried to be nice. Griswold frequently wore khaki pants with little green ducks all over them. He did the first time we met, and he did not disappoint tonight.

“Michael,” Marshall said, coming up to me with a huge grin. We hugged.

“AJ and I were just talking about you, Frank,” I said. “How are you?”

“Training for the Great Turtle half,” he said, referring to the annual October thirteen-miler on Mackinac Island. “You remember Ward, don’t you?”

“Certainly,” I said, acting interested and polite as I reached out my hand.

“Mr. Russo,” Griswold said, condescending to shake my hand as if I were there to park his Mercedes. “I shall secure two seats while you chat,” he then said, turning away.

“Be right along, Ward,” Frank said.

“Didn’t think you two were friends,” I said.

“Ah, Ward’s okay. He just has an odd priority list, that’s all.”

“Are you a fan of Lenny Stern?”

“You bet,” he said, smiling. “Chicago was my town, too, remember?”

We took a few moments to catch up, as old friends do when they haven’t talked in a while. He started to walk away, but stopped.

“Michael,” Marshall said, glancing from one side to the other. “You’re working, aren’t you?”

“Is it that obvious?”

He shook his head. “Not to the others, but it’s all the years I did the same thing. I had a gut feeling.”

He said good-bye again and went off to find Griswold.

“Was that Frank?” a familiar voice said.

I turned to see AJ and the crew from the newspaper come through the door.

“It was,” I said. “Where’s Lenny?”

“Outside talking to someone. Henri’s with him.”

I nodded, and said hello to the others.

“I want to catch Frank before the talk,” AJ said as Henri and Lenny walked up. “See you after.”

“Anybody look suspicious?” Lenny said.

I shook my head. “Not unless our assassin has gray hair and moves very slowly.”

“That’s a depressing thought.”

“Hello, Mr. Stern,” Andrea McHale said as she walked up.

I introduced McHale to Henri.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “This way, please, Mr. Stern. We have a full house.”

“Duty calls,” Lenny said with a grin and a quick salute of his right hand.

When McHale took the podium, Lenny stayed off to one side.

“Good evening, everyone,” McHale said, and spent a few moments on a brief biography of the evening’s guest, concluding with his introduction.

“Any changes to our plan for this little soiree?” Henri said.

“Nope.”

Henri nodded, then circled around the rotunda and took up a position on the opposite side of the room. I stood on the sidewall across from him. We had a good view of the entire space, both doors, and of each other.

“Good evening,” Lenny said from the podium. “I’m