by Claire Booth
Tina had clearly spent her energy on the other room. Everything was new. The bedroom set was perfectly sized for the space and the linens a gracefully feminine silver and dusty purple. The bathroom accessories matched perfectly. Hank stood in the small space and stared at the scatter of makeup and lotions on the counter. Nothing seemed missing. Wouldn’t there be if Tina had packed a suitcase and gone somewhere, like Lew said she had? He had Fin take a look.
‘Oh, yes. She wouldn’t go somewhere without some of these things at least. This one, especially.’ Fin pointed at a jar of some kind of cream. ‘This is quite expensive and you use it daily. You wouldn’t have a spare one of these in a travel bag like you would a mascara or something. If she’d gone somewhere, she would have packed this.’
Hank nodded. He stepped back so Fin could leave and give him enough space to open the medicine cabinet. It contained a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a box of bandages, an unopened pack of razors, and two toothbrushes. He wished he could bag them for DNA analysis right now. He closed the cabinet and walked back into the bedroom. Fin was closing the drawer to the nightstand.
‘There’s only a paperback book and some Kleenex,’ she said. Her shoulders slumped and she sank wearily on to the bed. ‘I just really thought we’d find more … something that would tell us what’s happened.’
‘I know this is tough, Fin. But we’ll keep at it, OK?’
Hank held out his hand to help her up – he really didn’t want her sitting on anything. She waved him off and started to heft herself to her feet on her own. The sound of tearing paper stopped them both. Hank pulled her away from the bed and knelt down. He pulled back the bedspread and lifted the mattress away from the box spring. A file folder had been stuffed between the two and the top few pages had gotten wedged in a way that tore them when Fin’s weight shifted the bed. He pulled the file out and laid it on the floor.
‘That’s from the Castle,’ Fin said.
Hank was dying to just walk out with it. That would make his life a lot easier, but it could torpedo a potential criminal case. He thought for a second, then pulled out his phone. He and Fin spent the next half hour photographing every piece of paper. Then everything went back exactly as they’d found it. They took off their gloves and let themselves out of the condo with what Hank was hoping looked like the nonchalance of people who’d just stopped by to water the houseplants.
‘Those were financial documents,’ Fin said once they were back in the car.
‘Was there any reason for her to have them?’
Fin shook her head. ‘I can’t think of any. Maybe the small office accounting, but not anything else.’
Hank started the BMW and pulled into the street. ‘Then there’s something in them that’s important enough to hide.’
Sheila decided to divide and conquer. She sent Sammy to interview Dick Maher, the man who got everyone interested in bocce in the first place. Derek Orvan was given the last group member, Owen Lafranco. She kept the bad-tempered Hodges for herself. Except that he was perfectly pleasant. He offered her coffee and admitted the trespassing as soon as she brought it up. She wasn’t ready to discount Mrs Ullyott, however. A woman’s take on a group of men was usually accurate and always valuable.
He handed her a mug and smiled. ‘It’s awful late at night to be investigating a bunch of old men who aren’t doing anybody any harm, isn’t it?’
She nodded. ‘I’m actually here to ask about one of them in particular – Clyde Timmons. How well do you know him?’
‘As well as any of the others, I suppose. Why?’
Sheila told him. He almost dropped his own mug.
‘Murdered? Oh, my Lord.’
He last saw Timmons the same night as Ward Ullyott had. He was kinder about Clyde’s bocce skills, but also mentioned his friend’s poor physical condition as a result of years working that sawmill job.
‘Did you know him when he worked there?’
Hodges shook his head. He’d met Clyde when he was waved over one morning at the Roark Creek Diner, where a little group of men was talking. He hadn’t known any of them before that. They were all retired and had a lot of time to burn. That’s why the bocce was so much fun.
‘Did you ever get caught?’
‘Not outright,’ he said. ‘I think some of them figured out that something was up. Especially the Meadowview Lodge. Their lights came on the last time we were there. We hightailed it out of there before the guy saw us, though. We haven’t been back there since.’
‘Who picked which place you’d go on which night?’
‘Usually me or Dick Maher. We rotated them as best we could.’
‘And no one else minded that they didn’t get to pick the locations?’
Hodges laughed. ‘No. Everybody’s pretty easygoing.’
‘Anybody ever have a disagreement with anyone else?’
‘Ah, I see what you’re getting at. No, ma’am. We all got along just fine. It was just about shooting the shit and then goofing off with the bocce. None of us would ever have hurt Clyde.’
‘Do you know of anyone outside your group who might have wanted to?’
Hodges thought for a minute and slowly put down his mug.
‘Clyde and I were pretty alike in circumstances, I suppose. I’m a widower as well. We didn’t talk about it much – what is there to say? – but some things we’d chuckle about together. Like how hard it is to cook dinner for yourself every night. Or do the laundry without ruining something.’
Sheila tried to force a smile, but she was tired and he was talking about missing his live-in maid, so it came out tight and grudging. He was staring into his coffee and didn’t notice. She held her tongue and let him meander to what she hoped was some kind of point.
‘We also were similar in our kids. In that we don’t speak to them.’
Sheila sat a little straighter. He looked up, directly at her.
‘We’d talk about that, every once in a while. That son of his was a trial. A lazy, disrespectful, drug-doing thug who stole from Clyde repeatedly. Has a temper, too. Busted up some furniture when Clyde let him in the house last month.’ He pointed a wrinkled hand at Sheila. ‘That good-for-nothing bastard is who you need to be talking to.’
Papers covered the floor and the printer kept spitting out more. The file under Tina Hardy’s mattress was more voluminous than he’d realized as he was hastily taking photos of the pages. Once he’d taken Fin home and was back at Jerry’s house, he had quickly decided he needed to print hard copies and attack it that way. He took the final pile of documents into the formal dining room, with its massive – and probably never used – oak table and started dividing everything into stacks. Financial data, inventory lists, an investor prospectus.
Everything looked great. He didn’t get it. The Castle was doing good business. The sales figures were healthy and looked persuasive in the investor pitch materials. Documents showed lists of vendors and how much they’d sold to the company, with prompt payments sent in return. There were payroll figures and health insurance costs. Why would Tina feel these documents needed to be hidden under her bed? He sorted everything into categories and discovered there were several email printouts mixed in with the rest.
The earliest was three years ago, from someone with a free email account labeled muncie2652: Communicate only through the phone or by email at these addresses. Report agreed-upon numbers.
The next was sent six months later from the recipient of the earlier one, bilbobaggins: Need more staffing. Looks bad.
Then a response from muncie asking for ideas: I know somewhere to ask.
Another muncie message said: We can spike sales at Christmas. Needs to be big.
On the face of it, all the emails were innocuous. But they could mean other things, too. He raked his hand through his hair and tried to remember. The bankruptcy. He grabbed his phone and pulled up the notes he’d taken when doing research on Jerry’s laptop. The Castle’s withdrawn bankruptcy petition had been just weeks afte
r the date on the first email.
Hank looked over at the rest of the documents, now haphazardly scattered all over the table. Then he considered the otherwise bare room and made a decision. He went into the kitchen and while a Hot Pocket thawed in the microwave, he rooted around in Jerry’s cabinets until he found a roll of masking tape.
He took them both back to the table and ate while taping the email pages to the dining room’s big blank wall. He needed a timeline and this was how he’d grown used to doing it. What he wouldn’t give for a white board right now. Something he could scribble notes on. Which was Sheila’s influence. He smiled. He did miss her for this. Investigating something without her felt like working a construction project while missing a hand. Possible, but a hell of a lot more daunting.
A half hour later, he had the financial documents in chronological order and was able to see that Closeout Castle got a cash infusion of three million dollars just four weeks after that first muncie email. That must be the first outside investment. He taped the paper to the wall.
All he had left on the table was what looked like a hurriedly photocopied original – not a digital copy like everything else. It was an unsigned lease agreement between a real estate investment trust and Closeout Castle for twenty-five hundred square feet of space. Probably Lew’s proposed new store. But the second page was missing. Hank was going through the photos on his phone to see if he’d missed printing the second page when Jerry walked in. He stared at the wall and then at Hank.
‘If you start putting up newspaper clippings and attaching string in between all this, I’m going to report you as a serial killer.’
Hank sighed. ‘I’m not quite to that point yet, man.’
Jerry took a swig of beer from the longneck he was holding.
‘It does look like you’re investigating something. You know that’s against the rules.’
Hank shrugged.
‘You’re going to get me in trouble with Maggie,’ Jerry said. ‘I’m supposed to keep you from working. What’d you do, bring all this shit with you?’
Hank shook his head. And then he explained. It took long enough that Jerry had to get another beer. He brought Hank one, too.
‘And so this,’ Hank finally said, waving his bottle at the wall, ‘is where I’m at. I think Tina’s suspicious that something’s going on at the company.’
Jerry walked the length of the timeline as Hank went back to his phone. Everything was too damn small to read this way. He sighed and kept flipping, zooming in when he needed to. He’d gone through almost everything when he found it. He enlarged it to fill the screen, because he didn’t believe what he saw. Closeout Castle wanted to lease a location in Branson.
SIXTEEN
Sam could see why Dick Maher’s hair was so memorable. Super thick and longish in front, it was highly unusual for someone that old, and it was hard not to stare at it. The man invited Sam in. He’d obviously been relaxing on the couch with a novel and a glass of whiskey. The room was cozy with a fire going in the gas fireplace and framed photos everywhere. It looked like he had a large family and many years of service at Lansfield Pharmaceutical.
Mr Maher waved Sam to a seat and sipped at his drink as he went over the four years he’d known Mr Timmons. He had the same take as Mr Ullyott – Timmons was a shy man who didn’t share much. He had a good sense of humor and was always kind to folks.
‘He didn’t come to … well, we had a get-together on Monday and he didn’t show up, which is unusual for him. I tried calling him the next day, but didn’t get an answer.’ His eyes widened. ‘Oh, shit. Is that why you’re here? Did something happen to Clyde?’
Sam broke the news. Mr Maher gasped and dropped his glass. It hit the edge of the coffee table and upended all over the floor. Sam leapt to his feet, but wasn’t fast enough to avoid getting whiskey on his boots.
‘I’m so sorry, my boy. Let me get a towel. I can’t believe this. Clyde …’
He shuffled toward the kitchen just as a woman in a housecoat came down the hallway. She was halfway through a snippy reprimand when she saw Sam.
‘Who the hell are you?’
That seemed pretty obvious to Sam as he stood there in his uniform. He started to identify himself, but Mr Maher spoke over him.
‘Clyde’s dead. Somebody killed him.’
The lady froze. Then she stomped over to Sam and waved a trembling finger in his face.
‘Are you sure?’
Sam took a step back. ‘Mrs Maher? Yes, ma’am. We’re sure.’
Her hand dropped to her side and she turned to her husband, now carrying a dishtowel. They were the same height, about five foot eight, and the same shade of fading tan. Must be the cruise ship trips, he thought. She had short hair that was probably usually curled but lay flat on her head right now. She ran her hand through it, told Mr Maher to clean up his mess, and started shooting questions at Sam.
‘C’mon, Roberta,’ Mr Maher said. ‘You never showed any interest before. You wouldn’t even let them all come over.’
‘Why would I want six ancient men tottering around my backyard? Who knows what could happen? One of you could’ve fallen and cracked your skull.’
Sam winced. She kept going until he cut her off. He told them that he knew about the bocce trespassing. Mrs Maher got furious, and Mr Maher got laughing.
‘You found us out? Well, good for you, son,’ he said. His smile faded and he sniffed. ‘It’s not funny now, is it? But it was. A great time. It made us all feel young again. Daredevilish, you know? But we weren’t doing anybody any harm, not really. Are you going to have to ticket us or something?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You should.’ Mrs Maher glared at her husband. ‘I can’t believe that’s what you were doing. What idiots.’
Sam was starting to feel a little bad for the guy. ‘We aren’t interested in the trespassing. I just need to know if any property owners found out and were upset. And I need to know very specifically the last time you saw or talked to Mr Timmons. You said it was at a get-together. Was it bocce?’
Mr Maher nodded. It was a bocce game last Thursday at Meadowview Lodge. Their next one was at Piney Cove, but Clyde didn’t show up. They’d always meet at the diner and carpool, so they had fewer cars attracting attention. He used his cell phone to call over to Clyde’s house, but there was no answer.
‘Had he ever done that before – not come?’ Sam asked.
‘No, not at all. He’d had a cold the time before, though, so we figured he was just taking a sick day, so to speak.’
‘Do you remember anything else about the Thursday game?’
‘Well, let’s see … Clyde was pretty quiet that night. Barely said anything. Not that he was much of a talker in the first place, but he was especially quiet that night. Like I said, he had the sniffles, so I just chalked it up to him not feeling well. I was hoping to see him next time at the diner for breakfast, ask how he was feeling. At our age, you don’t want things like that to linger too long. But now …’
He took a shaky breath and bunched up the wet towel. His wife scowled something fierce, and Sam started to feel bad that he’d have to leave Mr Maher to face her wrath on his own. The man walked him to the door and patted him on the shoulder.
‘Don’t worry about me, my boy. I’m used to her. You concentrate on what happened to poor Clyde.’
Sam nodded and stepped on to the porch. Facing the street, he noticed a bag full of balls and a pair of shoes tucked in the corner that he hadn’t noticed on the way inside.
‘My bocce stuff,’ Mr Maher said with a shrug and then a sly grin. ‘She won’t let me keep it inside. What she doesn’t know is that having it out here makes it easier to sneak out and go play without her knowing.’
He gave Sam a wink and closed the door. Sam walked slowly back to his car, thinking about old men and marriages and bags full of bocce balls.
‘Hey, I got some news.’
Sheila straightened in the driver’s seat. ‘Is he try
ing to leave town?’
‘Nah,’ Ted Pimental said. ‘He checked into that crap motel over near Bull Creek. And I looked – there’s no back window to the room. He’s not going anywhere I can’t see him do it.’
Good. It was past eleven o’clock and Sheila was hoping she could finally go home. She didn’t need an absconding dirtbag at this point in her day.
‘Anyway,’ Pimental was saying, ‘I called the registered owner of the Chevy Cavalier this afternoon and left a message. She just called me back. And ol’ Lonnie here didn’t have her permission to take the car.’
Sheila let out a delighted gasp. ‘Really?’
‘Yep. She’s never even set foot in Branson, so she sure wasn’t down here to get that ticket four days ago. Says she had the car parked in a lot because her license is suspended. So she hadn’t used it in a month and didn’t know it was gone until I called.’
‘Please, please, please … tell me she’s going to report it stolen.’
‘Oh, yeah. Apparently they date off and on. They’re “off” right now, so that’s good timing for us.’
Sheila couldn’t keep the glee out of her voice as she agreed and jotted down the information. ‘Sit tight. I’ll call you right back.’
She dialed the Des Moines PD watch commander number that she’d used that morning and got the same guy again.
‘Pulling a double shift,’ he said. ‘Sounds like you are, too.’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘It’s about to pay off for me, though. I hope. Have you had a vehicle theft report come through tonight for a 2005 Chevy Cavalier?’
He scoffed. ‘Maybe. Probably not something they’d flag me to right away.’
