by Claire Booth
‘Sir,’ Sam said, ‘we do not recommend you do that. Really. You can call nine-one-one. But please do not go shooting at somebody who’s just playing bocce.’
That got him a harrumph and a lot of muttering about trespassing and the sacred rights of property owners. Sam nodded along and managed to get in one more plea to call law enforcement before the man stomped off and slammed the door to the office behind the registration counter. Sam trudged out to his car. His initial delight at figuring out the bocce ring had gradually turned into frustration during his long day of resort canvassing. If only he had even one identity, he could confirm whether Mr Timmons was part of the group and start to learn more about the guy.
Now it seemed likely they’d have to do a press release asking the public to come forward with information about the victim. He stopped short just as he was about to climb behind the wheel. Now that he thought about it, that reporter hadn’t been around. Which was weird. He usually showed up at crime scenes. Especially murders.
Sam thought about that as he drove back to the office. Sheila had called a meeting for six thirty. He wasn’t sure why they didn’t just talk on the phone. She usually wasn’t one for wasting time traveling all over the place just so people could meet face to face. He arrived at department headquarters in the county seat of Forsyth just in time. Trying to calm down that old ‘property rights’ motel owner had put him further behind than he thought. He walked quickly to Sheila’s office, only to find it empty. Was she in the conference room? Geez, put her in charge of the whole office and she started getting all official and bureaucratic. He went down the hall, opened the door, and instantly felt guilty.
There were stacks of paper all over the table. Derek Orvan sat at one end and Sheila was in the middle. The white board behind her was covered with writing. The room smelled like pastrami.
‘I had the Whipstitch Diner make us sandwiches.’ She gestured at a box in the middle of the table. ‘I figured we could eat while we worked.’
They dug in as Sam told them about the late-night bocce matches throughout the city. Derek almost choked on a French fry, he laughed so hard. Sheila shook her dry-erase marker at him and then wrote the men’s descriptions on the board. Then she pointed to a date and time written in the upper left corner of the board. Four days earlier, at two fifty-two p.m. That was when a car driven by Lonnie Timmons was ticketed on a downtown Branson street.
‘So he was in town around the time we think Mr Timmons died?’ Sam asked.
‘Well, the car was. We don’t know for sure who was driving it. It’s not his – it’s registered to a woman in Des Moines. Lonnie told me this morning he’s been out of state the whole time. He said he just got into town this morning. Driving that car.’ Sheila smirked. ‘I don’t believe him. And I don’t trust that he’s not going to take off. So he’s currently under surveillance. Pimental’s following him around in his wife’s Subaru.’
Derek flashed Sam a look that communicated the same thing he was thinking – that kind of surveillance meant a lot of overtime. Both of them quickly looked away before Sheila could see anything. Derek turned to her and laughed.
‘Lucky Ted,’ he said. ‘That makes my day only the second-most-boring of everybody on this case.’
He gestured at the piles of paper.
‘I’ve pulled every red Cadillac sedan registered in Branson County. There are twenty-two. Then I pulled the driver’s license of the registered owners. I’ll do the surrounding counties if I need to, but I thought we should at least go through these first. And I’ll tell you right up front, there’s no “Owen” in the bunch.’
‘That’d be too easy,’ Sheila muttered.
They spread out the DL photos. No one was under the age of fifty-five. The only two women got put to the side. Sam rifled quickly through the rest, but there was no head of thick gray hair on anyone. That left them with one pile for ‘bald’, another for ‘short’, and a third for ‘tall and skinny’. And of course there was overlap.
‘We might as well go through and just call everybody,’ Derek said with a groan.
Sam hadn’t realized he was slowly drumming his pen on the table until Sheila leaned forward.
‘You got something, Sammy? You have that look. What are you thinking?’
He felt his face go red. He didn’t want to question anything, but he was wondering.
‘It occurred to me,’ he said slowly, ‘that the Branson Daily Herald guy hasn’t been around. So there’s been no news story about the murder. And maybe if there was, people would come forward – you know, who knew the victim?’
Sheila nodded. ‘I noticed that, too. He always shows up. Since he hasn’t, though, I wanted to get as much done as we can without the public – and the killer – knowing. He left the house closed up and looking normal. If he hasn’t seen news that Timmons was found, he might not have his guard up yet.’
‘Eh, that does make sense,’ Derek said, ‘but man, it’d be a lot easier if we had a helpful public just calling us with information.’
Instead, they spent the next several hours calling Cadillac owners. They were able to reach almost all of the bald ones, and none knew Mr Timmons or played bocce. Sam was halfway through the list of short dudes, mostly leaving messages, when someone actually answered the phone.
‘Oh, yes,’ the woman said. ‘Ward knows Clyde Timmons. They’ve been friends for years.’
Sam snapped out of his bored slouch, startling both Derek and Sheila. He waved the driver’s license printout at them and grabbed his pen.
‘When was the last time your husband saw Clyde, do you know?’
‘Well, now, let’s see. They had bocce on Monday. So it was probably then.’
Sam smacked the table in glee and then tried to calm down.
‘And that bocce – what time of day do they play?’ he said in what he hoped was an even tone of voice.
‘Oh, it’s always in the evening. They go out and do that, and then coffee or whatever. You know, old retired men gabbing like a gaggle of geese.’
The days of the week varied for their bocce meetups, she said. She’d stopped paying too much attention. It kept him active and out of her hair, and that was all she cared about. But say, why exactly was the sheriff’s department calling about all this? Was everything all right with Clyde?
The phone was loud enough for everyone to hear. Sam paused. Sheila shook her head.
‘Is your husband home, ma’am?’
There was a resigned sigh and some rustling on the other end of the line. Then they heard a muffled ‘sheriff’s office’ and a sharp gasp. Sheila leaned back in her chair like she was getting ready to watch a good movie.
‘Who is this?’
Sam identified himself.
‘And what do you want?’ The voice was cautious – and worried. Sheila raised an eyebrow.
‘Go out there in person,’ she mouthed at Sam.
He nodded and told Ward Ullyott that he would be at his house within a half hour. Once his was off the phone, Sheila rose to her feet.
‘We need to see his reaction when we tell him Clyde’s dead.’
They raced from Forsyth over the Bull Shoals Lake bridge and down Highway 76 to Branson, where the Ullyotts lived in a neighborhood well south of the Strip and near to Lake Taneycomo. Sam drove while Sheila sat beside him jotting questions in her notebook. Orvan followed in his own squad car, every mile he went adding to her overtime expenses.
But she’d seen the look on his face as she and Sam got ready to leave the conference room. She’d stood there and, God forbid, thought about what Hank would do in this situation. He would consider the feelings of those around him – not the department budget. So she told the lanky deputy that his work had led to finding this guy, and he should be in on the interview. And Sammy had to be, since he was the only one who knew about this bocce nonsense. And neither one of them was going anywhere without her.
So it was a damn caravan that pulled up outside the Ullyott house just aft
er eight o’clock. She gestured for Sam to do the knock. The door opened immediately. Ward was a short, somewhat chubby white man with rosy cheeks and thinning gray hair. He cringed when he saw all three of them.
‘May we come in, sir?’ Sam said. ‘We’re really sorry to bother you this late in the evening, but we do need to speak with you.’
Nobody did polite quite like Sam. Always the perfect blend of earnest and firm, she thought. Ward moved aside and they all trooped into the house, a nice split-level with country décor and lots of flowery curtains. The front room was crammed with furniture, not in a messy way, just an overstuffed one. A fire crackled in the fireplace and the mantel was covered in awards, plaques, and medals and other tidbits in shadow boxes. They sat in stiff wingback chairs and sipped their coffee. Ward didn’t touch his. Sheila thought it was interesting that he hadn’t asked them any questions.
‘We need to ask you a few things about the bocce,’ Sam began.
Ward’s cheeks went from rosy to tomato. He clasped his hands together.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ he said.
His wife looked at him like he was daft. He carefully avoided looking at her, focusing instead on Sam, who repeated his question with different phrasing.
‘I do occasionally play bocce,’ Ward finally said.
‘Who do you play with, sir?’ Sheila said.
Both she and Orvan had notepads on their laps, but she wasn’t taking her eyes from Ward’s face. Orvan had been conscientiously writing the whole time. Maybe it was useful having him along after all.
Ward slowly gave them names. Timmons was second-to-last of six.
‘When was the last time you saw Clyde Timmons?’ Sheila asked.
Ward seemed like he knew right off, but paused and acted like he was thinking about it. Sheila didn’t have time for this. She leaned forward.
‘Sir, we know that you’ve been sneaking around to different resorts in the area and using their bocce courts without permission.’
His eyes popped wide and all the color left his face. Off to the side, she heard the wife mutter in confusion.
‘So, please,’ Sheila continued, ‘just answer the question.’
He hung his head. Sheila wasn’t sure whether it was embarrassment over getting found out, or an effort to avoid revealing something much worse than a bit of minor trespassing. When he finally looked up, his eyes were unreadable.
‘It was last Thursday. We played at Meadowview Lodge.’
‘Were all the players there?’ Sam asked.
No. Adam Moreno was out of town, Ward said, visiting family in Texas. Wouldn’t be back until next week. Orvan carefully made a notation in his notebook.
‘Is that the last time the group met to play?’ Sam said.
Ward shook his head. ‘We played on Monday at Piney Cove. But Clyde didn’t come. I don’t know why.’
‘Have you tried to contact him since then?’ Orvan asked.
‘I gave him a call the next day, but I didn’t get a hold of him.’
‘Excuse me.’ Belinda Ullyott, who was plump and fairly tall and could pass for Mrs Santa Claus, set her coffee cup down with a clink. ‘What is this all about? It sounds like all six of them were being idiots. Why are you asking about just Clyde? Has something happened to him?’
Both deputies shot quick glances at Sheila. She nodded to let them know she’d be taking this one, but she didn’t take her eyes off Ward.
‘Clyde was found dead in his home yesterday. He’d been murdered.’
Ward’s mouth sagged open. His color got even more pale, which Sheila wouldn’t have thought possible. His wife gasped and gripped the arms of her chair.
‘Who would kill Clyde?’ Ward said hoarsely.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir,’ Sam said. ‘So we need to know everything you can tell us about him.’
The man started nodding like a bobblehead. It took thirty seconds and a sharp nudge from his wife for him to actually start talking. He’d known Clyde for about five years. They met at the Roark Creek Diner, where they both had a habit of going for breakfast on half-price Tuesdays. That meal deal eventually drew together the six of them. They’d get together there and shoot the breeze for hours. Clyde was a shy one. He never said too much. Never even mentioned he had a son until several years into their meetups. Seemed to be a bit of a falling out there. Once, he forgot his wallet and Clyde had immediately put down cash for them both.
‘Said he was glad to treat me, instead of giving it to his ingrate, laggard son. I got the impression that the kid had been pestering him for money.’
Orvan asked if anyone had ever met the son. Ward hadn’t, and didn’t think anyone else had, either. How about any other of Clyde’s friends? Ward shrugged.
‘I never did. He didn’t have many interests. He’d retired from the sawmill. That work did a number on him. His joints weren’t too good, especially in his arms and hands. I don’t think he kept in touch with anybody from there. He wasn’t a churchgoer, so there weren’t any folks along those lines. He was just … he was just somebody who was fine with his own company.’ Ward wiped at a tear that started to run down his cheek. ‘He didn’t need much. A simple guy. He’d always kid me about my Cadillac. I loved driving him around in it. He’d say that his little car was just fine, and I’d say that his old bones deserved a cushy ride every once in a while.’
‘How was he at bocce?’ Sam asked. Sheila settled back in her chair. She wouldn’t have turned the interview to that subject so quickly, but she wasn’t going to interfere with his decision.
‘Terrible.’ Ward smiled. ‘We all are. Just a bunch of lousy beginners.’
They’d only been doing it for about two months. Dick Maher had gone on a cruise and played it on the ship. Said it was a gas. At first, Ward thought that was probably because Dick was drunk the whole trip. But once they all started getting the hang of it, everybody agreed it was a pretty good time.
‘We started doing it in Dick’s backyard. It could’ve worked, but his wife’s, ah, difficult.’
Mrs Ullyott rolled her eyes and muttered, ‘Amen to that.’
‘She suggested we go someplace else,’ Ward continued. ‘So we tried it here at our place, but it was too sloped and rocky. We decided to sneak into the Ol’ Mountain Resort to see what a proper court looked like. And somehow that turned into doing it all over. Two nights a week – three if we could swing it.’
Orvan wrote down all the locations Ward said they’d used. Sam had found all but two, Sheila noted.
‘Did you get chased off any of them?’
‘Nope,’ Ward said, pride plain in his voice. ‘They never caught us.’
‘Are you sure?’ Sheila said. ‘Nobody was mad at you? Nobody followed you?’
Ward didn’t think so.
‘What about within the group? What’s that like? Anybody not get along?’
Ward lifted his hands and then dropped them limply back in his lap. ‘No, ma’am. We’re just a bunch of old men who’re happy to be mobile enough to leave the house, and together enough to carry on a conversation. Nobody’s antagonistic. Especially Clyde. I don’t know how anybody could want to hurt him.’
They stayed to get the contact information for the rest of the bocce group, but otherwise, Ward wasn’t capable of anything more. His wife showed them out. As Sheila stepped out on the porch, Sam hung back. She glimpsed the woman’s hand on his arm and heard her whisper.
‘One of them is a troublemaker. Ned Hodges. Talk to him. He doesn’t like when things aren’t run his way. He can get very angry. That inside, seething kind of angry. Ward doesn’t tend to pick up on that kind of thing. But I do. Talk to Ned.’
Sam thanked her and traded looks with Sheila on the way out to the squad car.
‘I guess that makes it easy to decide who we’re going to see next,’ he said.
‘Oh, yeah.’
FIFTEEN
‘So we’re just walking right up and letting ourselves in, c
orrect?’
Hank nodded and handed her the key. Aunt Fin stared at him for a moment and then climbed out of the BMW. She smoothed her tweed skirt and walked briskly toward the condo. Hank followed along behind her, trying to look like nothing more than a tag-along relative. It took all of his self-control to squelch the bounce in his step. Because this was brilliant. It was completely plausible that Fin, the wife of Tina Hardy’s boss, could have a key to her home and would need it to check on things during the woman’s absence. Not necessarily likely. But certainly plausible. And that was what they would say if anyone stopped them and asked about it.
Hank hadn’t stretched the truth this much since college. He and Jerry had talked their way into some crazy places, including the nuclear research reactor and the dazzling white dome of Mizzou’s main administration building. That last one had been the high point, both literally and figuratively. All that stopped once they graduated and he became a police officer. Now, though, there was a little of that old tingle in his spine as Fin unlocked the front door and they stepped inside.
He nudged the door closed with his elbow and handed Fin a pair of nitrile gloves. She just stared at them.
‘We don’t want to contaminate anything,’ he said quietly.
Her eyes widened in understanding. Hank helped her get them over her arthritic fingers and they stepped from the small entryway into the front room. The furniture set was sleekly modern and a little too big for the space. He supposed it had come from the house they’d divvied up. Things were fairly tidy, except for a half-full oversized mug sat on the coffee table and a pair of heels dropped near the couch.
They both moved farther toward the back, where they found the kitchen and a half-bath. Fin pointed with alarm to a stack of dirty plates in the sink. Hank bit back a chuckle. The only thing that would prevent Fin from doing the dishes was kidnapping or death. Most people weren’t so fastidious. And he’d seen some – in both the city and the rural Ozarks – who lived in filth that would make pig slop look neat.
He turned away from Fin’s worried look and opened the refrigerator. And felt his face morphing into the same expression. The milk was expired and starting to get chunky. The cream cheese was moldy, and the bagged salad was long past putrid. He closed the door and headed quickly for the stairs. There were two bedrooms on the second floor. Tina was clearly using one as storage. It was littered with moving boxes, framed art prints, bed linens, unnecessary kitchen accessories. All things she hadn’t dealt with yet from the old house. The leftover baggage of a married life.
