Harry arrived well before 10:00 the next morning. He said he had called Hilga Haller and set up the meeting for eleven o’clock. He wanted a mug of my coffee. It came with a couple hooks of Paul Masson brandy and was guaranteed to chase the morning chills from your bones and whatever else might be ailing you.
We drove to Haller’s cottage which is three houses down from where I live; but due to the size of the lots, it is still over half a mile away.
We arrived early.
Her place is pretty much like mine, only it’s not; it’s nicer. Her small two bedroom cottage with Cedar Shake siding was built in the mid-1940s after World War II. Most of the cabins started out as some guy’s one room fishing shack, but over the years, many, hers included, expanded into a two bedroom house that could accommodate a small growing family or at least a spouse. Some of these cabins became permanent residences for people working around the Milwaukee area.
The trees lining her driveway had lost their leaves and snow was neatly piled along its sides. So much for Wisconsin’s colorful fall.
The driveway had been plowed recently, so there was only a light covering from last night's snow. Her sidewalk leading to the front porch was clean. I wondered if she did it herself or if she found someone local to come out and do it for her. If she did, I needed to find out who. I made a mental note to ask her before we left today.
We got out of the squad car, our breath bursting out in white clouds as we walked. Harry said, “After you do the introductions and niceties, I’ll take over and ask the questions. You just sit there and look pretty.”
“I’m good at doing that.”
“Sure you are.”
Harry knocked.
It took a moment before we heard the shuffling of feet inside and the door opened. A middle-aged, overweight, myopic looking woman, a little over five feet tall, peered at us through thick lenses on a pair of black plastic framed glasses. She graciously welcomed us and we were ushered inside.
As we were led into the living room, I noticed that the linoleum covered floor had a slight slant to it just like mine did.
The main living area had a fireplace against the back wall with a throw rug in front and two chairs and a sofa facing a blazing fire. There was a wall clock hanging over the mantel. It was warm in the room.
She offered us coffee and rolls.
We gave her our condolences for the loss of her niece and we spoke briefly about Pewaukee Lake and how it was growing and changing with more and more permanent residences moving out from Milwaukee and the surrounding area. Then Harry took over.
“I know this is difficult but we need to ask some questions.” Harry placed a file folder on the coffee table and folded his hands.
“Can you give us a little background on your niece, Miss Haller?”
She tried to smile, “She was enrolled at the Layton School of Art in Milwaukee on Jefferson Street, near Prospect Avenue. I’m sure you know where it is.”
We nodded that we did.
“Well, it is a beautiful school; in fact, Yousuf Karsh, a great Canadian photographer visited recently and said, ‘I had heard your school was the most beautiful art school in the United States. Now that I have seen it, I must say that the previous report sounds like typically British understatement,’ he has such a charming wit about him, don’t you think?”
We nodded again.
“Tell us about the last few days of your niece’s life, as much as you know,” Harry said, trying to get her back on subject.
“Sure; Candi moved in with college friends recen