“Obviously something had to be done, and that something was replacing Chief Philipps. Who did the mayor have in mind for a replacement? Maureen McMahan, who had a law enforcement degree, who was certified to be a Wisconsin police officer, yet who didn’t have a single day of experience. Somehow, he got the votes and Maureen was in.
“You have to give her credit, though, because one of the first things she did was to investigate the mayor for misconduct in office for making the city pay for all of his personal expenses during a trip he took to Washington. Franson went ballistic. He claimed that the investigation was retaliation because he took someone else to D.C. with him instead of Maureen. He told me that the chief was trying to get revenge because he was now sleeping with someone else instead of her.
“What is wrong with people? The man was married. Maureen was married. I’m begging him, don’t do this in an open city council meeting. Franson wouldn’t listen. He said he was tired of being punished for being the mayor. That was on a Monday. By Tuesday he was dead. On Thursday they made me acting mayor until the election in November because I was the senior city council member. Isn’t life grand?”
“It worked out for you,” I said.
“You think so? Look at this.” Gischler took the sheaf of papers she had been staring at when I arrived and shook it at me. “It’s a petition started by the Red Stone Patriots demanding that the city council vote to make English the official language of Arona. I’d ignore it except that ten percent of the city voters signed the damn thing, which means I have to bring it before the council, which means all hell is going to break loose, never mind the potential legal ramifications if we adopt it. This on top of the controversy over the silica sand mines. I hate this job. I just hate it. There’s no way I’m running in the election.”
“The story you told me about Chief McMahan sleeping with the mayor, does the county sheriff know?”
“Ask him.”
“We’re not on speaking terms.”
“Guess you’re out of luck. Taylor, you’ll have to excuse me. I need to get ready for that damn meeting tonight. It’s going to be a nightmare, a real nightmare.”
“Are you planning a vote of some kind?”
“No. That comes in two weeks. Tonight we’re just giving everyone a chance to have their say. Democracy at work. God … God, I hate this job.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The publisher slash editor slash news reporter slash chief cook and bottle washer locked his fingers behind his head, leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on his desk, and repeated the question I had just asked him. “Who do I think killed the mayor?”
I wasn’t surprised that everything in Arona was close to everything else, but I had driven only two hundred yards from City Hall before I spied a sign above a jewelry store.
KAMIN COUNTY RECORD
PUBLISHED EVERY WEDNESDAY
I parked on the street and climbed the stairs. For the second time that day, I was mistaken for a reporter.
“It’s the sports jacket,” the newsman told me. “I used to wear one, too, when I was with The Des Moines Register.”
His name was Skip Zetzman, and he took over the Record after accepting a buyout from the struggling Iowa newspaper nearly ten years earlier.
“These people never heard of investigative reporting until I got here,” Zetzman said. “It was all ‘Arona resident teaches Hawaiian dance at hula school’ and ‘Heart disease is on the rise: what you need to know.’ Most newspapers are in financial trouble. Yet I’ve managed to both maintain our circulation and actually increase advertising revenue. It helps that there’s been a lot to investigate.”
I started by showing him the smartphone pic of Emily, which he didn’t recognize, explained that I was investigating her death, and suggested there was an outside chance it was linked to the silica sand mining in Arona. I figured that would get him talking, and I was correct. I had never met a reporter who wasn’t delighted to tell you how much they knew that you didn’t.
“Who do I think killed the mayor?” Zetzman asked. “I think it was the enviros.”
“Environmental extremists have committed God knows how many acts of vandalism and harassment,” I said. “To my knowledge, though, they’ve never actually killed or injured anyone, unlike say, the nut jobs in the pro-life and animal rights movements.”
“There’s always a first time.”
He had me there.
“What about the Red Stone Patriots?” I asked.
“The neighborhood bad boys? There’s always been some dispute over the meaning of the word ‘Wisconsin.’ Some people think it means ‘red stone,’ and that’s where their name comes from but, man, they don’t care about the environment. If they were in charge there would be no EPA. Besides, they’ve been all talk and no action since starting up a half-dozen years ago. They have a compound a few miles out of town where they practice shooting automatic weapons in case black helicopters should descend upon us. Other than that, we usually don’t hear much from them unless it’s an election year.”
“Like this year.”
“Yeah, but I’m still betting on the enviros. The place has been crawling with them ever since they discovered that Mayor Franson was trying to sell the place to U.S. Sand. We even have our own group of activists. KICASS, short for Kamin Independent Citizens Against Silica Sand. Catchy, huh? These guys, they compare what the mayor was doing to Benedict Arnold attempting to surrender West Point to the British.”
“If I’m not mistaken, you broke that story—”
“You heard about that, huh?”
“The day after the mayor was killed.”
“Yeah, but I knew about it a couple of weeks earlier. I needed to get someone to confirm on the record what my original source told me off the record before going to press. This isn’t an online media operation, all right? It isn’t Fox News. I’m trying to be responsible here. It was a good story, too. What Franson was doing … The legal process of eminent domain is called condemnation. What happens, once the local government decides it wants a parcel of land or a building, it contacts the owner to negotiate a selling price. One, the owner can take the offer, which they almost never do. Two, the parties kick it around until they decide what the fair price is, and then they make a deal. Or three, the government files a court action, claims it tried to negotiate a sale in good faith, appoints an appraiser to establish fair market value, condemns the property, pays off the owner, and tosses him on the street. Franson was going straight to option three. He didn’t even contact the property owners. They had no idea what he was up to. Getting killed when he did, that was just unfortunate. Believe me. Kicking the mayor around every week was going to be pure pleasure. ’Course, now I’ve got Bob Barcott, and he’s almost as good.”
Zetzman rapped twice on the top of his desk for luck.
“Bob Barcott?” I asked.
“He’s in charge of planning and zoning for Arona, and he is a pro-sand fanatic. Complaints have been rolling in about him threatening to tear down the homes and cabins of people who speak out against the mines and slapping frack opponents with bogus zoning violations. He told one homeowner who complained about the noise that zoning codes require houses to be one thousand feet from a mine and that he was twenty feet shy of compliance. He told the homeowner that he had ten days to bring the house into compliance or the house would be removed. Except the code prohibits mine owners from opening a mine within one thousand feet of a house, not the other way ’round. I have no doubt that Franson was in the pocket of U.S. Sand. Now that he’s gone, it looks like they got someone else to do their dirty work. God, I love Bob Barcott. He’s gonna sell a lot of papers.”
“The story you broke about Mayor Franson—who told you what the mayor was up to?”
“Now, now, Taylor. A journalist never reveals his sources.”
“Was it Esther Tibbits?”
“Ahh, Esther. That’s what brought you to Arona. Esther Tibbits, who was the mayor’s new sex toy
and who now works for U.S. Sand.”
Anne Scalasi would be appalled, I told myself. She would never have made that mistake, asking a question that told a suspect more than his answer would have revealed to her. No wonder she was promoted over me.
“New sex toy?” I asked.
“The one he played with after discarding his old sex toy.”
“Who would that be?”
Zetzman lifted his hand and let it fall as if he had no way of knowing. I didn’t believe the gesture.
“Chief McMahan?” I said.
“You do know a thing or two, don’t you? No, it wasn’t Maureen. It was the woman who came after Maureen, no pun intended.”
“The woman he took to Washington, D.C.?”
“There you go.”
“The acting mayor told me—”
“Dawn? What did our resident hippie have to say?”
“That Mayor Franson said he was going to reveal his relationship with both Maureen and the woman he took to D.C. at the council meeting right before he was shot.”
“Did she name names?”
“No.”
“It’s possible she doesn’t know the name.”
“I bet you do.”
“You’re insisting that I say it, aren’t you?”
“Say what?”
“It was my wife. Sheila. There. Are you happy? I thought she was visiting her family in Philadelphia. Surprise, surprise.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“Neither did I until Maureen told me.”
“The chief—”
“Apparently Franson and Sheila met at the airport in Minneapolis and flew out to D.C. together. Maureen discovered the truth when she investigated the expenses the mayor submitted to the city and thought I should know. That was kind of her, don’t you think?”
“She’s a peach.”
“No big deal, though. It all worked out in the end.”
“Did you and your wife reconcile?”
“Hell, no. I divorced her on the spot, and she moved back to the East Coast. That’s what she always wanted anyway. We met in school. I took her to Des Moines and then up here, and all the while Sheila yearned for the coast. I only hope she’s happy at last.”
I had a thought that I couldn’t help but give voice.
“Your wife didn’t leave until she exposed what Mayor Franson was up to,” I said—a declarative statement, not a question.
Zetzman raised his hand and let it fall again; apparently it was a habit with him.
“What can I tell you?” he said. “The mayor liked to brag, and my ex felt she owed me one.”
“What did his wife think about all this?”
“The mayor’s wife? Bridgette? All I know is that she moved in with her brother-in-law, who’s been living high, wide, and handsome ever since he sold most of his farm to U.S. Sand. For the record, she was the first person the county sheriff interrogated after Franson was killed.”
“How did that work out?”
“She remains at large, as they say.”
“With her brother-in-law?”
Zetzman lifted and dropped his hand.
* * *
It was starting to be a long day, and it was barely half over when I left the offices of the Kamin County Record. There was a café across the street, and I decided to try my luck. It wasn’t just because I was hungry, either. I had learned long ago that small-town waitresses can be terrific sources of information. They always seemed to know when a farmer was having an off year, when a customer’s balloon mortgage was coming due, when the weather was making people weird. They could tell you which customers were on the verge of divorce, who was escaping the kids for a cozy night out, who were dating for the first time. They always seemed aware of the emotions at the tables they served.
I stepped inside. A sign told me to wait until I was seated, so I did. While I waited, I scanned the room. I discovered five people crammed into a booth in the corner—Esther Tibbits, her employers Richard Kaufman and Allen Palo, Acting Mayor Dawn Gischler, and a man wearing dress slacks and a button-down shirt that I didn’t know.
I found a copy of the Record at a stand just inside the door and pretended to read it, hoping that the party wouldn’t notice me. Finally the hostess led me to a table for two. Along the way, I paused at the booth, lowered the paper, and said, “Hey, whaddaya know, everybody’s here. Small world, isn’t it?”
Call it a flair for the dramatic.
“You,” Kaufman said.
“What are you doing here?” Palo asked.
“Investigating a murder,” I said. “What are you guys doing here?”
Esther turned her head and looked out the window.
“Taylor,” the acting mayor said. She seemed genuinely distraught that I had caught her with the sand miners. The unidentified man sitting next to her didn’t seem to care one way or the other. “We were talking about the town hall meeting that we’re all attending tonight.”
“Please, don’t let me interrupt. Esther…” She turned her head and glanced up at me. She was wearing a light blue shirt that emphasized her chest and a dark blue skirt that emphasized her shirt. “Tell your brother I’m looking forward to meeting him again.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kaufman asked.
I could have answered, only the hostess seemed anxious that I continue following her to my table, so I did that instead. Once seated, I buried my head in the menu. I didn’t look up until the waitress was filling my water glass. Her name tag read PATTY.
“I don’t know what you said,” she told me, “but it sure upset those folks over at Booth Number Four.”
“It did?”
“They’re using a lot of obscenities that a small-town girl like me doesn’t hear very often.”
I didn’t believe that for a moment. It might be a small town, but they still get HBO.
“Are you sure they’re upset at me?” I asked.
“Are you ‘that goddamn fucking Taylor’?”
“’Fraid so.”
She shrugged and said, “Would you like to order a beverage while you look at the menu?”
I wanted bourbon, but it wasn’t that kind of place. I asked for a Coke. She told me they only served Pepsi.
“Okay,” I said.
Patty tapped the menu.
“Today’s special, the open-face turkey sandwich, is really good,” she said.
“Then that’s what I’ll have. Say—”
“Yes?”
“Do you know the man sitting next to the acting mayor?”
Patty glanced at the booth and turned away.
“Bob Barcott,” she said. “He’s head of Arona’s planning and zoning.”
“Thank you.”
Patty hurried away. I stole a glance back at Booth Number Four. The acting mayor and the two lobbyists were leaning toward each other and speaking earnestly. Barcott sat back. Esther looked bored nearly to tears. A moment later, the waitress returned with my drink. A man sitting at a nearby table with his wife spoke to her.
“Patty, can I get my check?” he said.
“Coming right up, hon.”
Another man, this one sitting in a booth behind me, called to the first man.
“You got a lot of nerve, Paul,” he said. “I gotta give that to ya.”
I turned to look. There were two men sitting in the booth. I didn’t know which one spoke, but Paul did.
“What are you talking about, Hank?” he asked.
“Coming into town with so many people ready to kill you.”
“Nobody wants to kill me.”
“Guess again.”
“’Sides, this is my town. I live here.”
“You put yourself above the town.”
“What I did, it isn’t any different than raising corn and soybeans,” Paul said. “Silica sand is just another crop you’re harvesting, ’cept it pays more than corn or beans ever did.”
“Tell that to Lisa. Her asthma is so much worse
.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Sure you are.”
By then, Patty had returned with the tab. Paul paid it in cash and left with his wife. Hank shouted at him as he left the restaurant.
“You’re ruining the fucking town.”
A moment of silence followed. There wasn’t a second outburst, however, and the diners settled back into their meals and conversations.
“You get a lot of that?” I asked.
Patty set a plate filled with turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, corn, and gravy served over sliced white bread in front of me.
“Yeah, these days,” she said. “Paul and Hank, they live next door to each other, used to be friends. The sand mines, I don’t know.”
“Who’s Lisa?”
“Hank’s little girl. Paul’s goddaughter. People are upset because, well, a lot of them figure the sand miners are raping and pillaging the land. If you’re Paul, though, what do you do? They were going to foreclose on his place. The lease he signed with the mining company paid him enough up front that he was able to pay off his debts. He claims the mining company says they’re only going to dig up small areas at a time and then reclaim them quickly, so he’ll still be able to farm most of his property. I don’t know.”
Patty left me alone with my meal. It reminded me a little of Thanksgiving, which reminded me that I blew off my brother’s dinner invitation last year and spent the holiday alone in my apartment watching football games that I didn’t care about.
Get out of your head, I told myself, a feat easier said than done. Fortunately, I had help. I was nearly finished with my meal when Kaufman appeared at my table. He took the chair opposite me without asking and sat down on it as if he were attempting to break it with his massive frame.
Darkness, Sing Me a Song--A Holland Taylor Mystery Page 13
