I reclined my seat a little and decided he could handle a bit of my inquisitiveness. “Now, honey. Please tell me two things—what do you hope to accomplish in Henderson? And where are we staying?”
“I’ll answer the second question first,” George said, driving east toward the interstate. “We’re staying at the Henderson Bed and Breakfast. There are some motels in Henderson or we could cross the Ohio River and stay in Evansville, Indiana, but I’d prefer to stay in Henderson. And get a feel for the local color of the town itself.”
“That sounds nice. And…”
“And Conrad said Henderson died from a head injury, probably two days prior to the day his body fell off the train. It’s difficult to determine exact time of death because there was no real decomposition. He was frozen. Probably just from the weather, and not a purposeful thing, although he’s checking further on that. Of course, I traced the train. It ran from Henderson north to Chicago, then Chicago southwest to Quincy. And this particular train left Henderson two days prior to us finding the body.” He made an expert turn onto Broadway.
“Interesting,” I said. “So time-wise there’s the definite possibility he died in Henderson. But why do you have to go there? Why wouldn’t the Henderson Police Department handle the investigation?”
He paused, and then answered. “They’ll be involved, but we have jurisdiction too, since we discovered the murder and the body is in our possession.”
“You’re hesitating,” I said. “What else?”
“Well, the FBI contacted me yesterday. They’re claiming jurisdiction as well because the crime probably was interstate; that is if the guy was killed in Kentucky and not Illinois. So it might get a little messy.”
“So that’s why you’re going,” I said with a chuckle. “You want to solve it fast. You don’t want the FBI to show you up.”
“Could be,” he said quietly. “Could be.”
I plugged in my phone and we listened to 60s and 70s music for most of the drive. We stopped in St. Louis for lunch and I ordered my favorite thing in the world—fried pickles. George knows my weakness and deliberately found a place that offers that delicious specialty.
The drive to Henderson took about five-and-a-half hours, but with our stop we arrived there by 3:30. George’s GPS took us straight to a B&B downtown and near the river. Many things there reminded me of Quincy—a downtown near a large river and a lot of beautiful old homes. The B&B was one of them.
What made my jaw drop was that it was the spitting image of a house in one of Quincy’s historic districts. I wondered if it was too much of a coincidence, or was it merely one of those joyful serendipitous happenings that occur now and again.
George must have thought the same thing. “Look,” we both said at the same time. Then l laughed while George grinned.
“I can’t wait to find out about this and see if there’s a connection to Quincy,” I said.
George slowly pulled into the driveway of the imposing mansion, and before he’d even turned off the motor, a giant of a man loomed over our car. Of course our windows were up because it was January, and all I saw was this behemoth with his hands and mouth moving. Once I got over the initial fright, I didn’t feel any threat from the guy. His hand gestures were welcoming and in fact were directing me to get out of the car. So a split second after George opened his door, I did the same.
I quickly opened the back door as well and Clancy jumped out and christened a nearby patch of grass.
“I’m Nibby Hender,” the giant said, in a voice so gentle it could put babies to sleep.
“Oh, my,” was all I could say. I thought he was huge when I was sitting in the car, but was surprised that he looked even bigger when I was standing next to him. Plus his name sounded familiar.
George was much more polite, or perhaps his policing skills allowed him to hide his emotions better. “Hi,” he began. “I’m George Lansing and this is my fiancée Sam Darling.”
I looked at him. “Fiancée,” I echoed. This was the first time since we’d gotten engaged that George had needed to introduce me to anyone, so I’d never heard him call me that before. “Fiancee,” I said again, and let out a big sigh. I turned to Hender. “Gee, you must think I’m his trained monkey or something. I really can say something besides ‘fiancee.’ We just got engaged recently, and I’m still thrilled.”
I turned to my canine companion. “And this is the other member of our family, Clancy,” I said, indicating her, even though she’d already started rubbing against Nibby’s pants leg, demanding her introduction.
He leaned down from on high and petted her, and I knew she truly was welcome.
I stuck out my hand. Although I’m short, I’ve never been what one would consider dainty, but his paw dwarfed my right hand in such a way that I stared. “Sorry,” I added, concerned that I might have offended him.
“No worries. Welcome to Henderson and to the Henderson Bed and Breakfast. Let me get your bags.” He moved to grab all of them, but George ran a pass interception that the Rams would have loved. They did the manly tug of war thing, and finally were gentlemen and split the load.
“This is a beautiful home,” I said, craning my neck to take in all three stories of the stately structure. “I’m sure there’s a history here.”
“Yep. But I usually don’t talk about that until after I settle people into their rooms. Let’s go inside, shall we?”
“This is an exact replica of a house in Quincy. Or maybe the house in Quincy is an exact replica of this one. We can talk about that too, right?” I looked up at Nibby.
I still felt amazed that this giant man had such a gentle manner and soft voice. He was at least 6’8”, although from my vantage point at 5’2” he looked about 10 feet tall. And he was broad—not fat, but broad—with shoulders so wide that I thought he’d have to go in the door sideways.
I almost blurted out “Andre the Giant” but caught myself in time. Facially he didn’t look like the actor, and talked with a southern drawl instead of whatever accent Andre the Giant had, but his size was similar. Nibby held the door for me and then allowed George and Clancy into the B&B.
“Oh, this is…,” suddenly I was at a loss. I looked around and couldn’t come up with the words to describe what I saw. The entry hall was grand. As simple as that. Grand. The ceiling stretched up to include the second story and I could almost picture the Von Trapp kids leaning over the railings singing to us. A chandelier hung from on high and the lights reflected from the second story down to us and to the surrounding walls. Muted colors danced as the chandelier moved slightly.
“Follow me,” Nibby said and led the way upstairs. “I knew there would be two of you, so I put you in what I call the Love Suite. I hope that’s okay. I’m an incurable romantic.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I gushed. Clancy’s low growl reminded me there would be three of us in the suite.
“I’m here on official police business though.” George mumbled as though he was a little uncomfortable with the notion.
“Yes, but when you made the reservation you mentioned you were bringing your fiancée, so….” Our host let his words trickle off discreetly.
Fiancée. I smiled. Even though this was police business George had mentioned me.
Nibby stopped at the top of the stairs and opened the door on the left. As he did, I noticed the intricacies of the carving on the door and thought it must be the original. Nibby noticed my interest, and said, “This is the original door, dating from 1885 when the house was built.”
He swung the door open and then stepped aside for us to enter. I looked at his face before I looked in the room. I saw love there. And pride.
When I stepped over the threshold I saw the evidence of his love for this place. The room was exquisite. A four-poster bed with a lace canopy was the main attraction. Dressers and a tallboy graced the walls and a small desk was perfectly placed near the windows.
I couldn’t help myself. I turned and hugged Nibby. “This is perf
ect.” Then I turned to George.
He obviously wasn’t as moved as I was. He said, “Nice.”
Nibby stood at the door beaming. I’d bet he did that with all the guests and with all the rooms. He then showed us the en suite bathroom and explained the intricacies of operating some of the ancient plumbing. “I assure you that everything is in working order, no matter how old it is. And in the cupboard is a dog bed large enough for Clancy, should you choose to use it.”
George was clearly getting antsy and I knew he was anxious to get to work. He walked toward the door, almost as if he were the host, trying to coax a guest out the door who had overstayed his welcome.
Nibby took the hint. On his way out he said, “Information on the town and activities are on the desk, and the activity calendar is updated weekly. Breakfast is from 6 to 10 in the morning, but coffee, tea, iced tea, and snacks are available at any time. I just ask that you are quiet after 10 at night in deference to our other guests. Do you have any questions?”
“No,” said George, edging Nibby out the door. “Thank you though, and we’ll see you in the morning.”
I wasn’t about to let Nibby go without sharing my reaction. “Thank you so much. I love your home, and can’t wait to spend time with you talking about the history of your house and of Henderson. And any relationship to the house in Quincy.” The last few words were said to a closed door.
I turned and faced the culprit. “George, that was just plain rude. That man is so sweet and proud of his home, and you practically kicked him out.”
“I’m sorry, honey, I just have to get to work. Maybe I could have handled it better, but I’ve got to go. I want to get to the police station before Detective Rawlings leaves for the day.”
“You didn’t mention him before.” I succeeded in keeping any sound of a whine out of my voice.
“I don’t tell you everything, Sam.” At my look, he added, “About work, only about work. Otherwise my life is an open book for you to read.”
I was satisfied. Since it was about 4:00 there was still some daylight left, so I said, “I think I’ll explore the downtown a little… unless you want me to go with you.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I can handle this.” As he opened the door he turned his head and said, “But I’ll fill you in when I see you. Why don’t you figure out where we can go for dinner? I don’t think I’ll be all that long.”
I managed to give him a hug before he shut the door again. Then I looked around the room and decided to unpack before I left. I had this system—if I was only staying one night I lived out of the suitcase. If I planned to stay longer, I put everything away, as if I lived there. Somehow it helped me to sleep better. My hotel rooms were always a lot neater than my bedroom at home. So I put my stuff away—enough for two or three days. Then I looked at George’s rolling duffel. I moved toward it, but stopped abruptly. Warring voices were clamoring in my head.
Good Sam: You can’t just open his bag without his permission. What if there’s something you aren’t supposed to see?
Bad Sam: You’re engaged to the guy. You’re just trying to be nice. Of course there’s nothing there you can’t see. Open the bag, Sam. Open the bag. Besides if there’s something there you shouldn’t see, then that’s his problem, not yours.
I told both Sams to shut up, and put away George’s stuff too. There were no surprises, good or bad. I wondered why I’d created such drama about unpacking his suitcase. Absurd. Then I resolutely put on my coat for an exploratory stroll. I hooked on Clancy’s leash and we descended the grand stairway. Western Kentucky was a little warmer than Quincy, so I’d brought a lighter coat and when I slipped out the front door I was glad I did. There was only a slight dusting of snow on the ground, but it felt warm enough that it would soon melt—unheard of back home in January. On the front porch I took a deep breath and looked to my right and left. Old homes on both sides and across the street. I could see downtown from where I stood, but the B&B was definitely in a residential neighborhood.
While on the porch it hit me. “Nibby Hender,” I said to Clancy. “That’s the name from the advertisement on the scrap of newspaper from the train. What are the odds we’d stay at the same place I noticed in the boxcar?” Clancy didn’t have any response, probably because it wasn’t important enough to comment on. I coaxed her, “But don’t you think it’s strange that his house is exactly like the one in Quincy?” At that she looked at me, and finally agreed. I felt vindicated.
We descended four steps to get from the private sidewalk to the public one, and didn’t have to look for ice once. That was certainly a new experience for me in January. “I won’t tell Nibby about the scrap of paper until I talk to George,” I said to Clancy. I smiled in satisfaction. The old Sam would have gone right back in the house and told Nibby what I’d found without thinking of the consequences. I was learning.
Once on the sidewalk I didn’t know which way to turn. A smart person might have asked Nibby about restaurants, but I really enjoyed “following my nose” and seeing what I could find. I decided to walk toward the river, since both cities had that in common. It was just two blocks away. A huge difference was that Henderson was built kind of flush with the Ohio River, but Quincy was built on tall limestone bluffs overlooking the Mississippi. The Ohio looked like any major river, wide and muddy, but another difference was that it wasn’t frozen over.
I took a left when I hit the river and was rewarded right away. Facing the river was the Henderson Commonwealth Kitchen. Located in a red, two-story historical building, with details of the building on a plaque fastened to the corner, it looked like a wonderful possibility for dinner. It was a few minutes after 4:00 and so it was open, and probably full of elderly, early-bird diners.
I peeked through the window but couldn’t see anything, so I moved to the door and pulled it open. Like the one at the B&B, this was old, wooden, and heavy. I was greeted by a true Southern belle, although she was dressed in modern clothes, and she took my name and a reservation for 7:00. She was kind enough not to mention that I was half in and half out of the restaurant, dutifully keeping Clancy outside.
I hoped that 7:00 that would give George enough time to do his work and make it back to the B&B.
I left the restaurant and continued walking in the same direction. The next few buildings were a pleasant mix of residential and commercial. Another left turn brought me to the City Building—a modern box totally out of keeping with the rest of the downtown. It had some of the same red brick as other buildings, but there seemed to be more glass and chrome than brick. Ever curious, I walked up the steps and opened yet another heavy old door. The door seemed out of place in such a building. Since it wasn’t a restaurant or grocery store I had no qualms about bringing Clancy with me. My motto was that it was easier to seek forgiveness than permission.
The first office door announced it belonged to Caleb Henderson, Mayor. Everyone in town must have the same name, I joked to myself. As I began walking past the door, I heard sobbing coming from that room, and I couldn’t resist the lure.
I pulled the door slightly, which was hard to do, given its size. As I pushed my head through I thought the door would be a more-than-adequate guillotine. I maneuvered the rest of my body, and Clancy too, into the outer office and saw another office beyond. Both noise and light spilled from that room.
I walked directly to the sobbing woman sitting in a huge leather chair and put my arm around her. At that point it didn’t matter to me who she was or what had happened, I just felt her pain. Clancy joined me and put her head in the woman’s lap, ever ready to fulfill the role of therapy dog.
She looked up and said, “Who… are… you?
“Get away from my wife,” said a voice coming from behind me.
I straightened up and looked in his direction. A man was approaching quickly and he tried to grab my arm. I moved as quickly as my middle-aged body let me and got on the opposite side of the desk with the skill of Bruce Lee. Clancy must have known I wasn
’t in any danger, however, and didn’t move, remaining with the lady.
“I’m with the police,” I said as fast as I could. And it wasn’t really a lie. I was with the police.
“No, you’re not,” the man said. “I know all the police officers.”
“I’m from Quincy, Illinois and am here investigating a possible murder.”
With that the woman’s sob’s intensified. I didn’t take my eyes off the man, though, since he remained a possible threat.
“My name is Sam Darling,” I said. “I just came in when I heard her crying,” I pointed at the lady with my head. “Not trying to hurt her. Promise.”
I both felt and saw his rage subside.
The woman looked up at me and said, “We just found out our son died, and was found in your town.”
“Your son is—” I wondered if they were talking about my murder victim.
“Cash Henderson,” the man said.
SIX
He stuck out his hand. “I”m Mayor Henderson. Caleb Henderson.”
His hand trembled as I shook it, and that sparked my interest.
“And this is my wife, Joan Henderson.”
I nodded at her as I heard her mumble, “Yes, I kept my maiden name.” It was said in a flat voice, and sounded as if it was something she said automatically at an introduction. She absentmindedly stroked Clancy’s head while she spoke.
“So you…”
The mayor answered, “Her family name is Henderson. It’s not uncommon around here.” He faced me square on and said, “Enough about that. We just found out our son is dead. Tell us what you know about that.”
Where Is Henderson? (Sam Darling mystery #5) Page 4
