The Adventures of Philippine Maximine, P.I.

By Daniel Rehm

The Adventures of Philippine Maximine, P.I. is your modern equivalent of old radio shows that were heard over a radio wrapped in oak with its humming tubes filling the room with the wafting scent of electric ozone.

Join Philippine Maximine in a series of unique situations that start as she investigates the disappearance of a b

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rudbeckia Productions LLC
• Release date: Sep 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737515418

Daniel Rehm

Daniel Rehm became a full-time writer after a long career in the paint and industrial coatings industry. He still has nightmares about it. Dan wrote Let Flowers Be Flowers between 2008 and 2011 to include various landscapes he knows very well - from the coulee area of western Wisconsin to the boreal forest of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. He enjoyed writing Let Flowers Be Flowers because he was able to explore both character development and bringing to life the various relationships among men and their families. In addition, exploring the sociopathic nature of a killer - what motivates a killer, what haunts a killer, and what purpose that killer believes he has in his life. In 2020, he wrote the series The Adventures of Philippine Maximine, PI in an effort to capture the essence of some of the characters found in Flowers. It is in Philippine Maximine where you first meet Darlene and Bob, The Hunter, as well as others from the Flowers hunting party. The Hunter's story continues in The Troll Hunters. Dan enjoyed writing The Troll Hunters in 2023 weaving some of the fun of Philippine Maximine, PI into the dark undertones of Flowers. He is excited to introduce new characters as well as refresh readers with some old and dear friends in this modern and timely standalone thriller. Dan launched Rudbeckia Productions, LLC in 2020 to publish his work and vowed to never sell another gallon of paint as long as he lived.

Book preview

PART I

BEGINNER’S GUIDE TO CAMPING IN HELL

Chapter 1

The Beginning

Sometimes I wonder if I should clean the window. The outside may never be clean again. Probably hasn’t been since some guy slipped it into its frame a hundred years ago. I guess it would have to break into a million pieces before it would ever let light in again. Maybe next time it won’t be so distorted. There’s no real point in cleaning the inside anyways, unless I wanted to get a better look at the filth. The rusty downspout crawling down the brick building across the alley never seems to dry up. Drip, drip, drip every single minute of every single day, unless it’s frozen. This office wasn’t even new when they built it. It was born old, like me. An antique view of the backside of a modern world is exactly what I needed to see. No matter how fancy things get out on the street there’s always going to be trash.

I could tell it was a woman knocking based on her gentle attempt to live in a world without an electronic bell. That, and I heard her clomping down the hall. Women have a tendency to walk heels hard on the ground. Even the lightest girl can make stacked plates rattle in the next room. It’s just something I always recognized so I try not to walk that way. My apartment has wood floors. Every so often I notice my walk sounding like approaching war drums and I change it up. I would hate for some other bitch to characterize me.

Come in.

The look of concern on her face had my mind racing. I couldn’t wait to find out why this woman wanted to hire a P.I. I gave up guessing years ago. Even when I was right, my mind wanted to walk an ever-narrowing hallway. Instinctively fitting pieces together to fit the puzzle I had already pictured. It’s better to be surprised, to have an open mind. You see more that way. Not that I wanted a baby, but if I ever had one, I wouldn’t want to know what it was. No gender reveals for me, just good old-fashioned stirrups and a gorgeous father’s look of shock and awe.

Ms. Maximine? she asked.

Philippine. Philippine Maximine. Phil, Philly if you’re an old man but never Max, I said with a smile doing my best to be folksy.

I turned away from my office window and shook her hand. Please, have a seat Ms., Mrs.?

Marnie, Marnie Fankowski. Pleased to meet you.

I guessed her to be about thirty give or take. It’s harder to tell when a person has led a stressful life. She sat down in the metal chair in front of my desk. She tensely embraced the arms, crossed her legs and shimmied her back side into the flat cushion as if she was trying to fit it into a hole. It was an old precinct chair, a leftover from the days when they used to cuff the perp right to the chair. You can still run, but you’ll be a hell of a lot easier to catch when you’re dragging a heavy chair.

Well Marnie Fankowski, what can I do for you today? I asked as I settled into my much newer and more comfortable office chair 200 miles away from her on my side of the desk.

Well, I’m here because of my brother, she paused, seemingly struggling for words.

Your brother who’s missing? In jail maybe? Could you be a little more specific? I asked.

My brother who’s dead, she said.

Okay, now I was short for words.

Let me be more specific. He has to be dead even though they never found his body. If he wasn’t dead, he would have made it back, she said.

Back? Back from where? I asked.

A camping trip, she said.

Where and when? Is this a local campground? Somewhere maybe he’s been to before? When did you last see him? I opened the top left drawer of my desk and pulled out a notepad and a pencil. I liked to use pencil instead of pen. You ever try to sharpen a broken pen?

It’s a little more complicated than that, she said. My brother, Gage, was a wilderness camper. He was up in a place they call the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. You literally paddle out into the wilderness with everything you need for the next couple of weeks and you know, live out there, in a tent.

I was doing my best to hide my squint of disapproval. I’m a city girl. The closest I came to camping was sitting at the festival bar under the beer tent.

He went out there, just like he’s done a hundred times. Even I’ve gone up there with him. When we were younger, when we were kids. Our parents started taking us up there when we were 10 or 12. It just sort of became an obsession with him. He lived for it. He went up there in the winter for God’s sake. There’s just no way that what they said happened really happened to him. He was safe, smart. Either they lied or they just don’t have any idea. I don’t know, it’s just so frustrating, I, I mean…

Okay, okay, let’s just slow down for a second and catch our breath. Can I get you a cup of coffee, maybe a bottle of water or something? I asked her.

Mr. Coffee lived on the credenza in the corner next to a little college dorm room sized mini fridge. I poured her a cup and handed it to her whether she wanted it or not. She wanted it.

Cream? Sugar? I asked.

No thanks, and thanks. She held the full cup I just gave her up slightly in the air. The instinctive move a person makes when they use their drink to either politely or mockingly approve of a crappy speech.

I just, you know I get worked-up when I think about it, she said.

Think about what exactly, Marnie? Honestly, you haven’t told me much more than your brother went camping and never came home. There’re quite a few different directions I could go from there. I don’t even know if there’s a case. Who’s they? What did they tell you? Just exactly what do you think happened?

Oh, there’s a case, she snapped back.

And ‘they’ are the Sheriff’s Department and the Forest Service. The so-called experts. They told us that he most likely drowned, and because of the size of the lake, the cold water, the animals, and the remote access that his body would most likely never be found. I mean, just like that, they look around for a while, don’t find him and wash their hands with the whole thing!

Marnie, how long ago did this happen? And really, I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, but who’s to say they are wrong? I asked.

I am, and my mother! She’s dead now too and I know for a fact that this whole thing helped kill her. They found where he was camping. I can show you on a map exactly where he was. They brought back all his stuff. His tent, clothes, packs, even his fishing equipment. Did you hear what I said? His fishing equipment! Rods and reels, tackle box, everything!

My zest for urban life and Marnie’s testimonial to fishing equipment had me admittedly flummoxed. After her rant it got so quiet in the room that we both turned our attention to something scratching inside the wall behind the plaster. I hear it all the time. I wonder if it’s a mouse, or worse yet, a rat. That’s when I think about getting an office cat, but as I run through the scenario, I always scrap the idea. I’d have to bring cat food into the office which would look weird enough but not as bad as cat litter. Then I’d have the box, and I’d have to scoop out the poop. There’s the smell. I could bring a home cat back and forth, but I keep odd hours. Sometimes I might not get back here for days. I’ll just continue to be slightly sickened by thought of sharing space with rodents.

Oh, oh, and I forgot to tell you. They found his canoe. It was a couple miles down the lake, just bouncing against the rocks, nothing in it. No paddles, nothing. And you see, that’s the thing. Gage was a fishing nut. That’s half the reason he went up there, to fish. There’s no way he went out and didn’t bring his fishing stuff with him. And the best, or maybe not the best, but you know what I mean. Maybe the best evidence was his life jacket. People that do this sort of thing regularly are like a community. Another camper found his life jacket floating all by itself in a different part of the lake and brought it to the forest service. So, not only would he never have gone out without his fishing stuff, there’s no way he wouldn’t have had his life jacket on either.

Okay, I get it, I do, but are we talking about something that happened last week, last month, last year? I asked.

At this point I was feeling like she was just another familiar sole survivor. She missed her brother, she missed her mom, had nobody else, and hadn’t quite accepted that reality yet. Her case was weak at best.

When Marnie? I asked forcefully.

Last fall. Look, I know what you’re going to say but somebody had to have done something to him. I’m telling you; he was an expert in wilderness survival, he even wrote stories about it for outdoors magazines, she said.

Last year? Even if you’re right, by now, what can you hope to learn? Did Gage have any enemies that you were aware of? Personally, I don’t feel like the highly competitive world of outdoor writing is much like being James Bond but, she interrupted me with a hard edge.

You’re mocking me now, Max. See how you like it. I came here because you’re supposed to be different, not like everyone else. All the others asked the same questions, used the same mocking tones. I knew my brother, I knew him better than anyone else on the planet and I know in my heart of hearts that something horrible happened to him, and I want the people responsible caught, and punished.

Her words left her mouth and went directly to the lump in my throat. I was embarrassed, I even felt a little guilty. She was good at this, probably catholic. I had to let the Max thing slide, I deserved it.

I’m sorry, Marnie. Look, I’m glad you came to me and I can especially appreciate the reasons why. I’m just not too sure you have very much to go on. To be painfully honest with you, it sounds like nothing more than an accident. And let’s say for a second that maybe, and this is a big maybe, that you’re on to something. I’d have to go up there. I don’t know if you know this about me, but I’m not exactly the outdoorsy type. Not to mention the expense of you paying what may amount to an exorbitant amount of money for me to go on a camping trip.

"Believe me Ms. Maximine, money is not an issue. As the sole proprietor of the policies of both my mother and brother I have unfortunately become extremely comfortable. And then there’s this, she reached into her purse, removed a torn-out page of a magazine and handed it to me.

What’s this? I asked.

This is a picture of Ross Parent. He was featured in one of the articles Gage wrote. It says a lot about his qualifications. I know he’s a little young, but he’s a fishing, slash wilderness guide up there. He works for a local resort and Gage knew him pretty well. He knows the area and has agreed to take whoever I hire into the bush to see if they, or more accurately, you, can find out what happened to Gage.

Staring at the front page of the article I could barely believe that only a few minutes ago I was contemplating cleaning my office window. Now, here was this suddenly affluent woman offering to finance a camping trip with an overly cute kind of guy that makes you want to go out and buy a flannel shirt. From my bottom drawer I handed her a manila folder, with a contract.

Read it through. It explains what I’ll do, what and when you’ll pay me. I make no guarantees besides this, I’ll go harder than the rest, always.

Chapter 2

The Adventure Begins

I’m not a big fan of cars, any cars. Car and motorcycle fandom can become a lifestyle, a kind of addiction. I’m already addicted to coffee, and maybe alcohol. That prognosis, however, would depend on the eggheads who penned the latest guidelines echoing how the people that paid them feel I should live my life. Nine hours in a car is nine hours I could have been doing anything else except sleeping. I don’t sleep. Honest clarification would include me admitting that I can’t sleep, unless I drink. Red wine, therefore, is medicinal.

Logic tells us that if you are afraid to cross the world’s tallest and most rickety bridge, you would want to get it done quickly. White-knuckle panic on the other hand, dictates that safely advancing with extremely limited tunnel vision at a breakneck eighteen miles per hour is in fact the proper crossing procedure. A chorus of car horns played harmonic surrogate to the radio that I couldn’t twist any more ‘off’ without breaking the knob. The concrete rainbow peering over the edge of this vast, great lake was my gateway to the north, a landmark that screamed from the heavens that I was finally getting somewhere, but the toll would cost me a piece of my sanity.

Buildings of any kind were becoming fewer and farther between as I trickled north. The road thinned-out and wound without mercy through a rocky forest. You couldn’t swing a dead cat without dropping it into a lake. That would have been my office cat. After nine hours on the road I needed two things, a bathroom and a drink. Luckily both were available at a bar called The Cabin, the place where I was scheduled to meet up with my wilderness guide extraordinaire, Ross Parent. I was told I couldn’t miss it, and if I did, just ask anybody because everybody knows where it is. Apparently, I wasn’t anybody, but soon, I’d be everybody.

I was late, and that was okay. I needed time to acclimate. I left the city the first of June and stepped out of the car sometime in mid-February. Walking through the front door I suddenly felt like I was on the menu. This crowd wasn’t used to me, a creole girl who hadn’t bothered to change into her new flannel shirt for the occasion. I walked hard, coaxing the heels of my tall leather boots to tell a different story than the harsh grip of pink timberlands.

Beer please, I said to the bartender.

Leaning towards me on the backside of the bar he looked towards the taps and then back at me.

Any particular kind? he asked.

I wasn’t much of a beer drinker but at that point in time it felt like the right thing to do.

How about a Schmidt? I said. When in Rome.

He cracked open a can and set it on the bar in front of me. He just sort of stood there, repeatedly wiping his hands with a rag. I could tell he wanted to ask me something and based solely on the silence, I’m guessing every other retired lumberjack in the place did as well. I’m nothing if not intuitively helpful.

Hey, let me ask you something, I said. He perked up.

You guys look like you’ve been around, you know, like you have your fingers on the collective pulses of the comings and goings around here. You ever hear anything strange about people coming up missing? I mean, I know people get lost and accidents happen, right? Maybe they weren’t prepared, or didn’t know what they were doing? I get that. I’m more interested in people maybe like yourselves, guys that are, you know, seasoned and know what they’re doing. People you would never expect to have a problem.

I looked down the bar trying to keep everyone in view. The look on most of their faces was stoic. One guy smiled and shook his head and there was a lot of hemming and hawing among them.

People die in the bush around here all the time. Every year, one of the men said.

Yeah, but do they always find the body? I asked.

What, are you some kind of cop? one of the others asked. He was a human mountain with frying pan hands big enough to cook two pancakes and a side of scrambled eggs. He had obviously been overserved.

No, I’m no kind of cop, just making conversation, that’s all, I said.

Just about then my guide came barreling in the front door. Gentlemen, he paused when he saw me, and lady. You must be Ms. Maximine. Ross Parent at your service. He reached out to shake my hand while keeping his eyes focused on my high heeled boots.

Philippine Maximine, pleased to meet you, I responded cordially.

You know this, this, lady? frying pan hands asked Ross, except he tried his drunken best to make ‘lady’ sound as disparaging as possible.

She some kind of cop or something? Pan Hands asked.

Ross’ response and ensuing explanation was buried under my annoyed retort stating quite clearly that I had just told him that I was not a cop. Asking him if the extra chromosome that made him freak sized also caused him to be deaf, very ironically made the room go silent. Even the TV in the corner seemed to hush in anticipation.

You don’t know what a chromosome is, do you? I asked. Far be it from me to let a room be silent for too long.

With a mighty roar, Pan Hands jumped up off his bar stool. He placed his right mitt on Ross’ chest and swept him out of the way like yesterday’s news. With his left, he telegraphed a massive backhand that I’m quite sure would have finished me along with the scalloped potatoes and fried sausage.

Just effin’ try it big man! I said confidently, holding the barrel of my pistol against his left temple.

Who knew if it was alcohol or loneliness? Usually, the two go hand in hand. Whatever fueled his rage distracted him long enough for me to draw my weapon. His eyes were sober enough to understand. They looked all around, individually making suggestive arguments to every other part of his body that moving in the opposite direction of that barrel was imperative. Pan hands huffed out the door and peeled out of the parking lot in a rusty, hollow sounding truck. Ross, along with everyone else in the bar was stunned. Once the shock wore off a couple of the older guys started to laugh.

Did you see his face? He about shit! one of them said as they laughed together.

Lil’ lady, you’re alright in our book, said another. You’re gonna have your hands full with this one, boy.

Nine mil? Ross asked, referring to my gun.

Damn straight. It’s not the first time it got me out of a jam either, I said.

Seems to me you got yourself into the jam, Ross said.

Yeah, well, it’s what I do, I said.

What are you going to do if that guy comes back with a rifle or something? Ross asked.

I spun slowly on the bar stool and looked him calmly in both eyes, I’m going to shoot him in his God damned forehead. Now how about we get down to business?

I wanted to make sure this kid knew I was no pushover. He had to know I was no sort of lady in distress, and he was under no obligation to return my missing slipper. He needed to know if I didn’t have it, it’s because I left it in someone’s ass. My mind wandered through the lanes of dozens of forgotten miles thinking about how I was going to get that point across. Thanks Pan Hands, the look on Ross’ face, was, satisfactory.

***

In my world, when an alarm goes off in the dark, you either grab a bucket of water or a gun. A gun was a bad thing for me to have this early in the morning, especially when there’s a gung-ho type, youth mountain man banging on my bunkhouse door. The large cup of gas station coffee he surprised me with may have saved his life.

Mornin’! How’d you sleep? he asked with oh so much cheeriness.

First of all, I didn’t. Second, I hate you more than what’s healthy right now, I told him as I went into the bathroom to get ready.

Will there be a third? he asked sarcastically.

I heard him. I thought about throwing something at him, something heavy, but I needed everything I had in front of me. I smiled to myself picturing the look that would be on his face if I came out pointing my gun at his head. Even answering him however was more effort than I was willing to put forth.

The drive to the landing point was shrouded in ominous darkness with the occasional patch of spooky fog. Wet cedars smelled like urban gardens after a flood.

Your pack, Ross said placing the large, blue backpack on the ground behind his truck.

Okay, now what? I asked.

You carry it, that way, Ross said pointing at a trail that disappeared into the forest.

Carry it? I thought that’s why you were here, I told him.

Lady, I’m here to keep you alive. Stop when you hit water.

The prospect of spending the rest of my life in jail was keeping him alive, barely. The pack, which had almost nothing I owned inside of it weighed more than a Volkswagen. Almost everything I brought along was hastily discarded in a pile of ‘don’t needs’ the day before by Mr. Outdoors himself.

Oh. And grab a paddle. No sense in having empty hands, he said, nearly singing it like it was a catchy little commercial jingle.

My disdain for him was growing.

When are we going to get something to eat? I asked.

Eat? You should have eaten when you got up, he said.

I was the proud recipient of that sort of stomach drop you get when you just find out a person died. As lost as I was in anger and personal life mismanagement at that moment, it could have been me, my death. Maybe Pan Hands really did hit me, and I was still laying on the floor in the bar.

Here, I usually bring these for later, but here’s a granola bar to tide you over, he said.

There was so much more to say, but none of it was kind. I stopped at the water as instructed. My foot slipped off of a shoreline rock. I remember it probably more slowly than it actually happened. From the minute I put the dark brown leather hiking boots on my feet, I concerned myself with stepping into water that was deep enough to go over the top. Expecting to immediately touch down, is much like expecting there to be one more stair at the bottom. The balance that you deem necessary to staying vertical in the next few crucial seconds suddenly becomes a failed war with no exit strategy. I would have never guessed that little creek, no wider than a two-car garage to be instantly two hundred feet deep. Now, I was awake.

Ross was a few feet behind me just standing there with a stupid grin on his face and an upside-down canoe on his shoulders.

How’s the water? he asked.

I pulled half my body up onto the rocks and blew the wet hair up away from my face. I wanted to say something witty, maybe mean, something that accentuated the cold that I felt and the defeat that was welling up in my heart.

I had to decide if I was done, if I was going to quit. I had to decide if I was a fake, if I was just another chick in a unicorn show whose favorite dolly just got smudged with the blood of her slave ancestors. I had to decide if I was going to give this strapping, young annoyance the satisfaction of substantiating the doubt hidden in his eyes the second he first saw my high heeled leather boots in the bar.

Only seconds had passed, but that was plenty of time for me to make the decision. I was never about satisfaction for anyone else and I wasn’t about to start now.

Just a bit colder than I would have liked, I said.

You gotta watch your step, Ross said.

No shit.

From my seat in the bow I felt exposed to the world behind me, without control. My job was to make sure we didn’t hit anything. It seems canoes aren’t all that tough, not like P.I.s with wooden paddles. This whole trip was going to be a job. I knew that going in, but I didn’t really expect it. I needed more out of it than clues or money now.

My unintentional baptism was ordained by my new pseudo office cat. He was one of those sad people that did this sort of thing for fun. They enjoy the suffering, convincing themselves that they are part of something bigger, wrapped in their mother nature, suckling off her tit. Really, they are just pets. Goldfish, that are fed twice a day just swimming in circles until they get more flakes. Now that I’ve considered it, maybe I was the flake.

Chapter 3

In the Bush

What in God’s name was I hoping to find? My arms and shoulders ran the gamut of exhaustion. I didn’t think I could take another stroke, and then all of a sudden, I forgot I was tired. Tomorrow I’d be in hell, as if I died a terrible person. The conglomerate of my sins overrepresented by exercise.

How soon before we reach the campsite?

Hmmm, maybe four or five hours. We should be there in plenty of time to get set up before it gets dark, Ross said.

Dark? You’d better be kidding, I said.

Depends on the wind really, Ross said, looking up at the sky.

What happens in the wind? I asked, genuinely ignorant.

Well, canoes are designed for rough water, sort of, Ross said.

What do you mean, sort of?

They do great in the waves as long as you are going with the wind, or directly against it. It’s when you get sideways in big waves is when you get into trouble. Especially loaded, we’re tippier when we’re loaded.

That’s just great, I said quietly to myself.

What’s that? he asked.

I said, are we in any danger? Ross knew damn well those were not the words I mumbled.

You’re always in danger up here. You always have to treat it that way. The minute you take your eyes off the prize, that’s when an accident can happen. One minute you’re walking down a portage trail and the next, you’re neck deep in the river.

Oh. You’re just what I needed, I said sarcastically.

Ross laughed out loud, Seriously though, let’s say you hit your head or something, could have been a lot worse than just getting wet and cold. Even then though, hypothermia is a real concern.

What about drowning? I asked.

Of course drowning, you’re surrounded by water. Wearing your life jacket though will pretty much eliminate that worry.

What about Gage? What are the odds of Gage drowning? I asked.

His demeanor took a showbiz turn of epic proportions, only he wasn’t acting. The air got thicker, humid with the sort of discomfort you get when you’re the third eye, and the other two are fighting. Not getting any sort of response I set my paddle down and spun around in my seat to face him. Eye contact might help get me an answer, and besides that, I desperately needed a break.

How does a man like Gage drown?

Ross couldn’t