by Ace Beckett
“Baseball. He was a coach of a local little league team,” she said proudly. “But besides business and baseball, nothing else. He had just opened the store about four months ago and it was going better than expected. A lot of people told him not to do it, they said Amazon was buying up everything and smaller, local stores were losing business. In ten years there would be no local businesses anywhere in America. Harp thought that was doomsday nonsense. He was optimistic and confident. He believed people liked doing business with their friends and neighbors not some monolithic, faceless company. He said his employees would come to your house and install the appliances and televisions and hook them up for you. Amazon couldn’t do that. If you bought a computer from him employees they would connect you to the Internet and do everything else necessary to assure it ran well. Harp even had a computer expert in his store that customers could call for help and advice.”
“Did he seem worried or concerned about anything before his death?”
“No, as I said Harp was optimistic. There was no change in his attitude before he died, he was the same Harp he always. He kidded me once that it was only four months until February when the new baseball magazines would come out, the ones that detailed all the teams and made predictions of who will win the divisions. He read those avidly and kept them until after the season. Then he would compare which teams the writers predicted would be in the World Series and which teams actually made it. I think he said the accuracy ratio was about 20 percent and he threatened to quit the business and become a baseball writer. He said he was a better picker than the magazine writers were.”
I rubbed my jaw. “Think I may be driving down a dead-end street but let me ask you one more question. Did he mention anything or say anything that was odd or unusual during the weeks before the accident?”
She thought for a moment then slowly shook her head. “No, he didn’t. If he was murdered Mr. Lancaster I wish I could give you a clue but I can’t… the weeks and months before his death were routine. Nothing stands out in my mind. We had a wonderful marriage, a wonderful life with our children and we were more than content in this small town.”
I frowned. I prefer cases where the clues jump out at you in bunches or fall out of the sky like hail. It’s easier that way. In this case, trying to find clues was akin to hacking my way through an Amazon rain forest with a machete.
If there was a murderer in this case, he was extremely diligent, intelligent and cunning and if there actually was a murderer he wasn’t a serial killer. Serial killers strike at random, whereas this murderer was targeting victims. The question was why?
Or maybe Mrs. Laurie just made a mistake and drowned and maybe Harp simply drove into a tree.
A cold wind and dark clouds swept through Georgia. A jagged white bolt of lightning split the clouds as I heard the rain pound down on the roof. I was glad I brought a jacket. A blue and white pamphlet on the room desk informed me that the average low temperature in October in Green Groves was about 50 degrees, I had a hunch the town was lower than average today. Say about eight degrees lower than average.
I sipped my bourbon and coke and watched local news from the city of Macon but not too much was happening. I phoned Astrid again but only got a message. Checked the television listings and saw an old detective film “Harper,” was playing. Paul Newman was in the role of Ross MacDonald’s detective Lew Harper. Hollywood changed his name. The detective was Lew Archer in the novel. I’d had seen the movie but it was so good I’d thought I’d watch it again. Newman’s Harper is a distinctive character but he is nothing like the fictional detective in MacDonald’s novel. Even so Newman is excellent in the film as is Robert Walker as the smiling jovial crime boss.
Harper had just been hired by a client and walked out of her house when Bill Wyland called me and introduced himself.
“Wonder if we might get together sometime. I’d like to talk to you,” he said.
“Sounds good to me.”
“Let’s talk private. Is your room good?”
“Yes.”
“Have whisky?”
“Have Ancient Age Bourbon.”
“Didn’t they stop making that?”
“I purchased a large supply when it was on the market.”
“Good enough. I’m not in Green Groves and it’s about a two hour drive from where I am now. If I start driving right now I’ll be there by tonight, does that work for you?”
“The sooner the better,” I said. I checked my watch. It was a few minutes after five.
“It’s raining here so the trip might take longer than expected, but I should be there about seven-thirty.”
“Look forward to talking to you.”
Wyland didn’t wear a raincoat when he dashed into my room so there were dozens of water spots on his shirt and blue coat. The way he ran he was in good shape although the stomach had a few extra pounds and I guessed he was about forty. He offered a wet hand.
“Bill Wyland,” he said.
“Hank Lancaster. Call me Hank.”
“Like to trade information, Hank?”
I nodded.
“First let’s have a drink. You say you have bourbon?”
I pointed to the desk. A bottle of Ancient Age stood there with plastic glasses lined on both sides of the bottle.
“I like it with Coke. Couple of cans in the fridge if you like to mix it too.”
“No, straight-up for me.”
After we both filled the plastic cups I sat on the bed, back and shoulders against the pillows, legs stretched out. He took one of the two chairs in the room and swirled the liquor in the cup then took a gulp.
“Hank, let me tell you what I suspect happened in the Fletcher case. It’s a bit shocking but after I give you my theory I’ll tell why I came to that conclusion. OK?”
I nodded. “Please proceed.”
“I suspect Harper Fletcher was murdered. I think a driver forced him off the road and into a ditch. Where then the car flipped Fletcher was injured but not killed. He stumbled out of the car where the killer was waiting for him. He saw his victim was not dead and knocked Fletcher with the proverbial blunt object. It was the blow on the back of the head that finally killed him.”
I swallow some of the drink and raised my eyebrows. “You go to the police with this theory.”
He shrugged. “They not impressed with my detective techniques.”
“But there’s enough evidence for you to believe he was murdered?”
Sounded far-fetched but, then again, Wyland was in the same position with law enforcement authorities in Dalton County, Georgia as I was up in North Carolina.
“Yes. I checked the body. Melinda Fletcher wouldn’t let the Funeral Home embalm him until I checked the body and there were a number bruises, abrasions on his body including two contusions on his head. Two were not critical although one needed attention as soon as possible. However it was the third one that bothered me. My father was a cop and so was his father. They both knew how to use a Billy Club and if you’re good with one of those you can knock a man unconscious easily. You can put him to sleep and he won’t have much of a headache when he wakes out. You can knock out an assailant’s shoulder and paralyze the nerves and muscles, which was a great tactic by rotten police apples in, say, 1955. A blow by a Billy Club to the right shoulder of a suspect and then another to the left shoulder by a cop could paralyze a man. Both arms would be useless, leaving the man with no defense as the officer beat him up. In other words I have a lot of expertise when it comes to a Billy Club and I don’t think that third dent in Fletcher’s head was made when the car turned over. I don’t think he hit his head on the roof, rather I think he climbed out of the car, bleeding and confused and staggering, but then was hit by a Billy Club, or something very much like it, and that was the fatal blow. I’ve also investigated a number of car accidents so I know a lot about crashes. There’s one dent on the driver’s door that I don’t think occurred when the car turned over. I can’t prove it but I think anot
her car hit Fletcher. There are a lot of dents there but I think one was made by a second car. I’ve seen enough crashes over the years to know what an impact looks like.”
“Interesting story but I understand why the police wouldn’t give it the time of day.” I swallowed more gulp of the Bourbon and Coke. “But I find myself leaning toward your position, Bill.”
“There’s a little bit more,” he said.
“Go ahead. This is getting very interesting.”
“If my theory is correct I wondered if the driver wanted to use his own car. If he had to crash it there’d be incriminating evidence on the car’s fender. I checked a few car agencies around here but found nothing. Then I drove down to Tifton, not too far from here, which has a population of about sixteen thousand people and a rental agency that rented out a new Hyundai Sonata to a gentleman four days before Fletcher’s fatal accident. But it was never returned. The agency notified law enforcement agencies of a stolen car and about ten days later it was found abandoned in a desolate spot up in Fargo County. It had a dent in its’ right front fender, as if it had crashed into something… something like another car.”
“Do tell,” I said.
“I do,” Wyland said.
“To get a rental car you have to provide your driver’s license. I assume you checked it?”
“I did.”
“Was the man’s name Paul Smith?”
Wyland disappointed me when he shook his head. “A man named Richard Donaldson of Troy, Alabama.” He reached into coat.
“Would you like to see his picture?”
“I sure would,” I said.
Even in the days of high technology Driver’s License pictures are not sharp and precise. The small photo was fuzzy and brown. It showed a man with moderate long hair and a bushy mustache. He could have been any age from twenty-one to late thirties.
“I’m guessing the hair is a wig,” I said.
“The mustache might be fake too.”
“The local police were not impressed with this either?”
“No. To them a man stole a car from a car rental agency. Their view is no car crashed into Mr. Fletcher’s vehicle so they are not interested in a stolen rented car from Tifton.”
“But we are,” I said. “Would you like a refill?”
“I would.”
I eased off the bed, grabbed the Bourbon bottle and refilled his glass. He reached toward the ice bucket, took a few cubes and dropped them in the bourbon.
“I’m beginning to think you are a Grade-A private detective, Bill. I’m glad you are on the case.”
“Thank you,” he said as he sipped the refreshed Bourbon. “I have a little more information for you.”
“Even more? You are good.”
He showed a jolly smile. “Mr. Fletcher was also seen talking with a man at a local bar in Keen Junction the day of his death. The bar was only about a block from Fletcher’s business and apparently the man insisted they have a second drink.”
“Did the man was long hair and a mustache?”
“No. From what I was told he was an average looking gent with nothing to distinguish him but he and Fletcher talked for about thirty to forty-five minutes.”
“If he had long hair and a mustache we might have had some proof,” I said.
“Our killer is a very cunning man.”
“Did the two leave together?”
“Yes, according to two other men at the same bar.”
“I don’t suppose they got a look at the other man’s car?”
“No, unfortunately not.”
“Shucks, we were almost on a roll.”
He drank half his second cup of bourbon. “One other problem with my theory is I never could figure out a motive for the crime. Fletcher, far as I could tell, didn’t have any enemies, all of the locals liked him, his employees liked him, and random strangers liked him. Nobody wished him ill but Melinda told me you know a possible motive?”
“Yes and no. Assuming our theories are true Fletcher’s murder is linked to the murder of a woman named Mary Laurie in North Carolina. They were both in the same high school class in a small Florida County, although that’s the extent of the connection. Why anybody would want them dead is still unknown.”
“The lady in North Carolina. What were the circumstances surrounding her death?”
I gave Wyland a three-minute summary of the details. He looked suitably impressed.
“You appear to be a Grade-A private detective, Hank.”
“Thank you.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a picture of the mysterious renter over in Cross Creek, would you?”
“A very, fuzzy one.”
Wyland leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. “Care to speculate about our clues.”
I smiled. “I’m not sure police or prosecutors would call what we have clues. They might call them random events but let’s assume our suspect moved into a lodge in Cross Creek, North Caroline so he could keep watch in Mary Laurie. He knows she’s a swimmer and she lives near a lake, so in time he spots an opportunity which he can take advantage of because he is scuba diver. He, or possibly a second suspect, drives to Georgia where their second target lives and let’s suppose our suspect dangles a business proposition in front of Mr. Fletcher. Fletcher listens to it. They talk in a bar one day after work and have a few drinks.”
Wyland nodded and took another sip of his drink. “Maybe the suspect is hoping the extra drink will hike Fletcher’s blood alcohol rate over .08. He’d be legally drunk and there’d be even fewer questions about the upcoming crash. Suspect follows Fletcher when he starts driving back home, sees a chance to run him off the road and does. At least that’s the theories we’re leaning toward but with no hard evidence the police won’t even listen to our theories. So where do we go from here?”
“Go to the place connected to both. Winter Springs, Florida. I’m going to ask my client for names of other classmates and then interview them and see if there is any other connection between the Mary Laurie and Harper Fletcher. Oh, and there might be a fly in the ointment.”
I gave him details of the Todd Hedley case but also said it might not be connected to the other two murders.
“Why don’t you get the names of the other classmates, can you e-mail the list to me?” he said.
“Are you going to stay on the case?”
He nodded. “Mr. Fletcher not only owned two businesses, he had a quarter million dollar insurance policy on his life. Melinda would prefer to have him back than have the money but she was incredibly generous with my fee. Tomorrow I will give her an update and I suspect she will extend my contract if it means finding her husband’s killer. So I’ll probably mosey down to Winter Springs too.”
“I’ll send you the names. The key to the case may be down there.”
We swapped war stories until the rain stopped, exchanged numbers and e-mails as water drizzled from the roof and trees he walked out and got in his car.
I usually work alone but, in this odd case, I was glad to have another trustworthy man working with me.
CHAPTER FIVE
I dreamed of being on a raft with Astrid near a scenic desert island. We floated toward shore. Astrid wore a tiny bikini and was about to take the top off when an annoying black Crow flew overhead and cawed loudly. The thing was getting really annoying when I suddenly woke up and grabbed my smart phone. I needed to change the ring tone.
“Hello,” I said, groggy.
“Hank, there’s been another one.”
“Another what?”
“Another death.”
The two words woke me up slightly but I was still feeling a little foggy. When I say I’m not a morning person I mean the U. S. Marine Band blasting out “From the Halls of Montezuma” would have trouble getting me awake before eight.
“Stephen?” I asked.
“Yes, there’s been another death. From the high school class.”
Reinforcements came rushing to the Marine Band
’s rescue. I rolled out of bed and stuck my feet on the thick motel carpet.
“Who? Where?”
“A man named Dale Keegan. He was in our class. He lived in Sebring and he died there.”
“Just one minute,” I said.
I put the phone down and slipped the white circular whatever that said ‘Coffee’ on it into the machine that appeared to be a percolator and pushed it until it shut. I wondered if had mastered the complex technology but I did hear a slushing sound. I pressed the phone back up to my ear.
“What happened? Have any details?”
“I’m reading from the Sebring News newspaper. Keegan apparently hung himself in the woods outside his house. He also left a suicide note.”
“Does the paper report what it said?
“No, the story just says he left a suicide note.”
“Any other details?”
“Not much. Says Keegan was a twelve-year resident of Sebring and worked at the Key Stone Financial Agency, was divorced and a backer of the local football team.”
“Then he’ll obviously go to heaven.”
“Huh? Beg your pardon?”
“Forget it. I’m still half-sleep. When did he die?”
“Two days ago. I keep up with a few high school friends on Facebook. One had messaged me today asking if we’d heard about Dale Keegan. I messaged him and was told about the suicide. I checked the Sebring paper online and that’s how I found the story.”
“E-mail it to me.”
“OK. What are we going to do? It’s another one!”
His voice indicated he was close to panic. It suddenly hit me that Stephen was a member of the high school class that was being depopulated and perhaps he was thinking about his own mortality.
“I suggest you do nothing. I’m going to pack my bags and head down to Sebring. After that I’m headed to Winter Springs but on the way up I will swing by and give you an update. Until then just try and stay calm. If it’s any consolation to you, Stephen, I am one private detective who believes your theory is correct and I also bumped into a second private detective who thinks so too.”
