by Claire Booth
There was a rattling noise and Chung came back on the line. ‘A Kircher did work for us. Retired five years ago. There’s a notation about a name change.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means she changed her name.’
Sheila was not enjoying her time with Mr Chung.
‘Well, does it mean she got divorced? Remarried?’ Became a nun? Joined the CIA?
‘I have no idea.’
‘What’s her new name?’
‘That’s not in this database. That would only be in payroll. They mail the old company’s pension checks that we’re forced to keep paying out. I don’t have access to it here at home. You’ll have to wait until Monday.’
Alex Chung was very lucky he wasn’t in the same room with her right now. She spent ten minutes trying to convince him. It didn’t work.
‘I’m going back to my TV show now, lady.’ And then he hung up.
‘He didn’t …’ Molly whispered as Sheila put down the phone.
‘He did. And he and I will be having a conversation about it Monday morning when I show up at his office.’
‘Can’t you make him do it right now?’ Earl said.
‘Not without a search warrant, which no judge is going to grant at this time of night unless it’s an emergency. And really, the records aren’t in danger of getting destroyed. So the Mrs Kircher-slash-Whoever avenue of investigation will have to wait.’
She grabbed the interview notes again and dialed Jeanette Pistoresi’s number. The woman was very nice but had never heard of Dick or Roberta Maher. There’d been a Bobbi who worked in shipping years ago, but she didn’t think Nell knew her. Sheila added that name to her Monday morning South Sun Manufacture Inc list. Then she called Mary Johnson.
‘I’ve been thinking about Nell ever since that young man called yesterday. I don’t know that I have too much more to add, but I did remember that Clyde loved to garden. Is that helpful?’
Sheila stifled a groan and told her that could be very useful.
‘Oh, and for a time Nell did a baking circle with some ladies. It wasn’t through church because she didn’t attend, so maybe the community center? I don’t recall any names but I do know I laughed when she told me that it was always the nurse who brought the unhealthiest treats.’
Sheila shot up out of her dejected slouch.
‘Ma’am,’ she said, ‘that is more helpful than you could ever know.’
THIRTY-FOUR
‘You want to bust down the door of a business at this time of night? You’ve tried just asking, and they’re refusing to let you in?’
The judge stood on his porch in a velour jogging suit and slippers, squinting at Hank’s slap-dash application for a search warrant.
‘The store proprietor is currently wanted for fraud by authorities in Columbia and we want him because he’s linked to that body we found today.’
‘A body? The one on Nighthawk Lane?’
‘No, sir. A different one. In the woods south of Hercules Glades Wilderness.’
Judge Sedstone’s white caterpillar eyebrows hiked up toward his hairline. ‘You sure do seem to bring them out of the woodwork, my boy. We haven’t had so many killings since the late sixties, early seventies, when—’
‘We should be able to get the property manager to let us into the unit,’ Hank cut in. ‘It’s part of a strip mall off Gretna Road.’
Sedstone adjusted his glasses. ‘Are you worried evidence will be destroyed if you don’t get in there tonight?’
‘Yes, sir. The suspect’s car was spotted by the shop’s back door this morning. And we don’t know what’s in that back room. So yes, sir, we’re definitely worried about that.’
He had a feeling the judge was thinking of financial documents or shadow inventory lists. He was thinking of a bloody pipe or the lifeless body of Tina Hardy. He tried not to fidget as Sedstone ruminated. He’d learned in the almost full year he’d been here that the judge took his own good time. Trying to hurry him along only made it worse. Finally, the caterpillars relaxed and he took a pen out of his pocket. Hank swallowed a sigh of relief, took the signed document, and hustled off the porch before the judge came up with any more questions. He slid into the driver’s seat and punched the property manager’s phone number as he was pulling out past Mrs Sedstone’s bare rosebushes. The guy seemed genuinely excited to meet him at a deserted strip mall on a freezing cold Saturday night. Hank started to consider deputizing him.
He was just getting out of the squad car by the store’s back door when Ray Gillespie pulled up in a five-year-old Lexus. He was younger than Hank expected, maybe early thirties, but with thinning hair and lines around his eyes a little too deep for someone that age. He looked like he just came from work – navy blazer and brown tasseled loafers that showed way too much argyle sock. He broke into a grin and shook Hank’s hand enthusiastically. He was happy to help in any way he could. Pleasure to be of service. Hank extracted his hand and asked for the keys. He handed Argyle the warrant and told him to wait by the Lexus. The lock opened easily, lit by the cruiser’s deliberately aimed high beams. He drew his gun and pulled the door open. The light bounced off metal shelving and disappeared into the dark corners.
He quickly moved to the other side of the doorjamb and looked at the room from that angle. It was small, about ten-by-twelve, and the shelves lined the two interior walls. A sink and counter were on the long exterior wall. The other exterior wall, where he was standing in the doorway, was bare. There was nowhere to hide. He stepped inside, the leasing agent on his heels. He glared until the guy stepped back over the threshold, then checked that the front of the store was empty, too. When he came back, he turned on the overhead light. Argyle gasped.
Blood darkened the floor just to the left of the door. Only one streak, a rusty brown just about the color of Argyle’s loafers. Their owner got very pale. Hank ignored him. It looked like someone had tried to scrub the stain but given up after a few swipes. It smeared exactly where a body would’ve slid as it was dragged through the door to a waiting car. Say, a 2002 Honda Civic. He wanted to know right now whether the stain really was blood and whether it belonged to Tina Hardy. Or Vic Melnicoe. But with the state crime lab backlog, he’d be lucky to get DNA results back by next Easter. He sure as hell wasn’t getting them by Thanksgiving. He was pulling out his phone to call Alice Randall when Argyle recovered his composure.
‘Why would there be a toothbrush?’
Hank turned. The leasing agent pointed. A travel toothbrush stood inside a plastic cup on the edge of the sink. A small mirror leaned against the wall and a towel lay on the counter. Hank walked over and stared at the toiletries. This was turning into a DNA jackpot. He called Alice.
Sheila pounded on the door again. There was some swearing and it finally swung open. Roberta Maher practically spat in her face.
‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘Yes, ma’am, and I frankly don’t care. I’m conducting a homicide investigation, and you’re going to answer some questions. Did you know Nell Timmons?’
‘Who? Is that someone to do with Clyde? Was that his wife? Was she murdered, too? Because if not, I don’t give a shit. Get off my porch.’
Her husband materialized at her side, patting her arm and trying to coax her back into the house. Both women waved him off.
‘Have you ever participated in a baking club or cooking group or any kind of community activity like that?’
‘No. I had a career. I didn’t have time for that crap. What the hell does this have to do with anything?’
‘Let’s talk about that career. You worked as a nurse and had the knowledge to help someone end their life,’ Sheila said. ‘Did you help Nell Timmons end hers?’
Roberta gaped at her. ‘I never met the woman. I didn’t even really know Clyde.’ She turned to her husband, who was clutching a highball and looking shell-shocked. ‘Tell her I’m telling the truth.’
Dick Maher blinked several times before he seeme
d to come back to himself. Nell was already dead when he met Clyde five years ago, he said, so nobody had the chance to know her. Hell, even the wives still living had only ever met one another once, when Ward got remarried. And Clyde hadn’t even been there. He’d been home with a bad case of pneumonia.
‘All the men met me plenty,’ Roberta snapped. ‘You brought all those old goats over here when you started playing bocce. I was subjected to them four times.’
‘How charitable of you to keep track, Mrs Maher,’ Sheila said. ‘I’m sure with your excellent memory you can tell me whether you and Clyde had any conversations on those occasions?’
She glared at Sheila. ‘I’m done with this. If you’re bent on harassing the wives, why don’t you go menace the other ones? Mine wasn’t the only backyard those idiots destroyed.’
She took a step back and swung the door shut in Sheila’s face. Sheila’s jaw dropped. No one had ever dared do that to her before. Certainly not when she was fully uniformed and armed. She raised her hand to do to the door what she’d like to do to the woman’s backside – and stopped. The bocce boys had gone to another house. She stomped back to her cruiser and pulled the initial interview notes out of the file she brought with her. In the middle of Orvan’s scribbles, she found it. Ward Ullyott had the group over, but they determined his yard was too rocky to use. It was after that they started sneaking on to the proper courts around town.
Sheila looked back at the Mahers’ front door. She didn’t have any probable cause to bring that woman in for questioning, much as she wanted to. Come Monday, she would be checking every baking club membership roster for the past two decades and showing Nurse Maher’s photo to everyone she could think of. If that woman was lying and she really had known Nell Timmons, Sheila was going to find out. And hopefully arrest her in a public place. That would be enjoyable.
But until then, she could check in with the Ullyotts. Maybe Roberta Maher said something about a personal connection the one time she met Belinda Ullyott. Maybe Clyde said something about Roberta to his good buddy Ward. And maybe she was just grasping at straws late on a Saturday night, Sheila thought as she started the car.
Ward invited her in and offered her a cup of tea. She declined and asked about Roberta’s interactions with Clyde the times they played bocce at the Maher house.
‘Oh, I don’t know that they ever even exchanged words,’ he said. ‘We all just tried to keep away from her. That’s why I said we could try my yard. I have a nice wife.’
He smiled. Sheila tried not to – professional objectivity and all.
‘Is she here? I’d like to ask her about any conversations she’s had with Mrs Maher.’
‘She’s asleep. I’m sorry.’
Sheila tried to tamp down her impatience. ‘I really need to ask her these questions. I’m trying to find out if Mrs Maher knew Clyde’s wife before she passed on.’
‘But that was so long ago. None of us knew each other then.’
Sheila raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh. You think one of us did know them? Before?’
She nodded and watched him carefully. He looked more confused than anything. Befuddled, almost. She wondered how intact his mental faculties still were.
‘I need you to get your wife, sir. I’d like to talk with her, and then I won’t have to bother you two again.’
That was almost certainly not true, but truth wasn’t going to get Mrs Ullyott out of bed. Reassurance was. Ward nodded and shuffled toward the hallway. Sheila wanted to tell him to hurry up. She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. She felt like she was running on a hamster wheel, and that pent-up frustration wasn’t something she needed to take out on Ward Ullyott. She looked around the room again – the wingback chairs where she, Sam, and Derek had sat two days ago, the flowery curtains, the mantel knick-knacks, the awards that spoke to a lifetime of work.
Two days ago, she’d thought it was a lifetime together. Now that she knew this was a second marriage she stepped closer, curious about what they’d done separately. An attorneys’ bar association award, a thirty-year anniversary medallion from some law firm, an old Cadillac key in a velvet-lined shadow box. An American Institute of Professional Bookkeepers certificate, a retirement plaque from a company that had just bought into the area a few years ago, a sprig of pressed Ozark bluestar flowers in a crystal frame.
Sheila stared at the collection of achievements until it blurred in front of her eyes. Then she whipped out her phone and made a call. She hung up without saying thank you and turned to greet Mrs Ullyott as she came through the kitchen.
‘Hello, Bea.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Alice was working her way around the storeroom. She’d just knelt down and was closing the door between the three of them and the main retail space when headlights flashed briefly through the front windows. She started to open the door back up but Hank blocked her movement.
‘Hit the lights.’
Argyle obeyed instantly and the room went pitch black. There was no reason for anyone to be here at this time of night. Hank slowly opened the door and slid between the rows of bare shelving, his eyes on the section of parking lot he could see through the glass. The car, a sedan, was still cruising the lot – now with its lights off. Hank crept closer. It turned to make another pass and Hank saw the Toyota Avalon logo on the back. He spun and burst into the back room at a full run. Shouting for both Alice and Argyle to stay there, he threw himself behind the wheel of his cruiser and reversed with a screech of tire rubber and a string of profanity.
He rounded the strip mall building doing twice the speed he should have. Lew was at the far end of the parking lot. Hank saw the brake lights flash and then the old bastard floored it. He cut left and bolted for the nearest exit. The Avalon caught the curb and bounced in a way Toyota never intended as he bottomed out before regaining control and fleeing north. Hank hit the emergency lights and then decided Aunt Fin deserved the full package and flipped on the siren, too. He easily caught up with Lew, but the octogenarian refused to pull over. Hank radioed Branson city PD for backup. He’d rather get Lew with a nice, easy roadblock than have to conduct a solo stop by forcing him off the road. That’d probably give the guy a heart attack, and Maggie was mad enough as it was.
Hank relayed his position as Lew sped down Gretna Road where it turned into Shepherd of the Hills Expressway. The few cars on the road got out of the way, thank God. Branson PD was making a calculated guess as to his path and starting to set up, but before Lew reached them he turned left, barely slowing before he gunned it again, this time into a neighborhood. Hank’s stomach started to twist. Lew turned right, then left, then swerved down a long, straight street, taking out two of the neighbor’s geraniums before coming to a stop cockeyed on the lawn. He pushed himself up out of the driver’s seat and rushed to the door.
Hank pulled up and angled the squad car so he blocked in the Avalon. He shut off the siren, which he knew was too little, too late. Maribel’s face popped up in a bedroom window seconds later. But hell, if that hadn’t done it, Lew’s frantic pounding on the front door sure would have. Hank got out of the car and was starting to come around it and walk up to the house when the door swung open.
‘Uncle Lew?’
Maggie stood there in her flannel pajamas, alternating blue and red as the cruiser’s light bar flashed over her. The surprise on her face melted into confusion and then slack-jawed astonishment as she saw her husband zeroing in from behind. Every step closer made Hank hate him more. Making him do this in front of their family. He reached for his handcuffs.
‘Lewis Lancaster, you’re under arrest for financial fraud, and for the murder of Tina Hardy.’
Maggie staggered back. She bumped into Duncan, who materialized behind her at just that moment. She pointed, but couldn’t get any words out. Dunc didn’t have that problem.
‘What the bloody hell?’
‘It’s not Beatrice. It’s Belinda, isn’t it?’
Mrs Ullyott’s f
ace had gone a very pinched pale. ‘Of course my name’s Belinda,’ she finally managed. ‘You knew that.’
‘I did. What I didn’t realize was that people shortened that to “B”. The initial, maybe? Or “B-e-e”? But not “B-e-a”. That was our mistake. Just like we didn’t realize that your former name was Kircher.’
Belinda just stood there. Ward’s brow furrowed in confusion.
‘That’s not a secret.’
‘You’re right, Mr Ullyott, it’s not. What your wife did want to keep secret, though, was that she knew Nell Timmons.’ She turned to Belinda and pointed. ‘You lied to me.’
The last sentence came with all the condemnation Sheila could summon. Belinda shrank back like some no-account violet. Sheila advanced.
‘You worked for White Tail Manufacturing.’
Belinda went no farther. She stopped in the space at the edge of the kitchen where the tile met the carpet. She put her hands in the pockets of her robe, but not before Sheila saw them tremble.
‘I retired from South Sun Manufacture Incorporated.’
‘Yes, I see that.’ Sheila gestured toward the plaque on the mantel. ‘But nine years ago, South Sun was White Tail. Where you worked with Nell Timmons. Why didn’t you mention that?’
‘You weren’t asking after Nell. You were here about Clyde.’
Sheila hated hair-splitting on a normal day. After the day she’d had today, she wasn’t even going to acknowledge it. She took a step forward.
‘You were Nell’s best friend at work. So supportive when she got sick.’
Another step.
‘Tell me about what she was like then, after the cancer diagnosis.’
Belinda stammered and clenched her fists. Sheila could see them through the robe pockets.
‘She … she was in chemo for a while, and she had to stop working. It made her feel horrible. She lost so much weight. I’d take her over the food that folks made for her, but she couldn’t keep any of it down. And the chemo didn’t even help. The cancer spread anyway. It got in her bones. That was when they said there was nothing else they could do.’
