“And you have no idea what could have caused Whitman to leave Thayerville in such a dramatic fashion?”
“Until today, Sheriff Hoffner, I didn’t realize Whitman had left Thayerville at all. I’ll think back over those years and see what some of the other old-timers can remember. If anything comes to mind, I’ll let you know.” Studebaker paused. “How did my Whitman, your Whitehead, die? I assume it wasn’t a natural death or you wouldn’t have bothered running his prints.”
“Now that’s truly ironic. He was hanged and burned to death.”
It was Studebaker’s turn to grunt. “A lynching. Poetic justice, it seems. Who did it?”
“We have no leads. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you. It takes some determination and planning for a man to walk away from his life, especially to leave a child. We wondered if whatever he was running from when he left Thayerville finally caught up with him here in Arcadia.”
CHAPTER 89
TRUMAN SHONE HIS FLASHLIGHT through the white latticework and shook his head. His face, flushed with mid-afternoon heat only moments ago, had lost its color. “Nope. Write me up, fire me, whatever. I’m not gonna do it.”
“Wimp.”
“Come on, Munk. Why would he put it down here? We didn’t find a way to get to a safe from the house. How could he get to the dang thing while crawling under here? There’s no room to move.”
Munk’s knees protested with several loud pops as he eased to a squat next to Truman. He squinted into the gloom, following the beam of Truman’s flashlight. The crawl space beneath Calvin Whitehead’s pier and beam house hadn’t been entered in years, if not decades. No more than three feet high, the area beneath the house was draped with webs. Brown recluse spiders and black widows, Munk thought, suppressing a shudder. “It can’t be in the shop or under his metal building. They’re both on a slab.”
“You’re probably right, but let me look. It won’t take long.”
Munk peered into the shadowy recess one more time. “All right. Let’s start with the shop.”
Truman offered Munk his hand, but the older man struggled to his feet by himself. “I’ve got to lose some weight,” he panted.
“Try protein shakes,” Truman said.
“Nasty.”
“You get used to it.” Truman led the way to The Whitehead Store, signed the crime scene log, and waited while the officer on duty unlocked the front door.
“How much longer do we have to stay out here, Officer Munk?” the patrolman asked, pushing his mirrored sunglasses up on his nose.
“Has anybody bothered you?” Munk asked.
“I’ve had a few drive-bys, but nobody stopped.”
“Then keeping somebody posted is worthwhile. We’d have looters and people trying to get a look inside if you weren’t here.”
“Hurry up and get this case closed, would you? This place gives me the creeps.” The officer shivered in spite of the day’s heat. “And it stinks.”
Disturbed dust motes danced a dervish in the golden slabs of sunlight falling through the store’s wide front windows. The smell of moldering food was muted, but Munk wondered what kind of nastiness waited in the storeroom. Beyond the sunlight’s edge, the shop was a murky haze. Truman found the light switch and fluorescent tubes stuttered to life, releasing a low buzz before bathing the aisles in a cool white light. Munk stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the parallel rows of shelves neatly stacked with goods. Packages of miniature donuts drenched with powdered sugar caught his eye, and he turned resolutely away. “Ideas?”
“I guess we look for anomalies in the floor. A trap door or something. And check beneath the floor mats,” Truman answered.
They worked their way along the aisles, probing at the occasional loose linoleum tile and lifting the heavy rubber mats in front of the doors and behind the counter. Nothing. At last they faced the door to the storeroom. Munk extracted a small pot of Vick’s from his pocket and smeared a dab beneath his nose. Truman did the same, then tied a red kerchief over his nose and mouth, bandit-style, and reached for the doorknob.
The smell of scorched meat melding with the stench of rotting food made their eyes water. Truman hurried to open the door into the small courtyard, gulping a breath of marginally fresher air before turning to survey the shelves of unopened boxes and the reddish mess still staining the floor.
The stockroom tiles were all in place and still firmly glued down. Truman scooted stacks of boxes aside and attempted to move some of the shelves. Nothing. Munk pulled gingerly at the shelf units fixed to the walls to see if they were mounted on hinges. Again, nothing.
He turned to Truman. “That safe has got to be beneath the house.”
“We still need to look at the courtyard.”
“It’s a slab out there too, isn’t it?” Munk followed the young officer outside and studied the small space. Truman had spotted a door secured with a padlock in the courtyard’s outer wall. A short, sloping roof disappeared into the yard beyond.
“Tool shed?” Truman asked before darting into the storeroom and returning moments later with Whitehead’s keys. Behind the door they found a space roughly four feet square that housed a neatly arrayed selection of tools: hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, and electric and battery powered saws and drills.
Truman’s face was bleak as he relocked the shed and examined the courtyard. He pocketed the keys and went to work. Munk studied the cracked concrete, glancing up at the faint scorching that marred the sycamore’s branch and quickly pulling his gaze away. Truman was moving equipment and lifting stacks of pallets, working his way around the small space. He tugged on a folded tarp piled high with flattened cardboard boxes stored beneath the shop’s overhanging eaves. The young officer turned to look at Munk, a smile shifting the red handkerchief. “Jackpot.”
CHAPTER 90
CASS LIFTED THE FINAL box of documents to her desk and rifled its contents. These were the last of Donna Moore’s personal and business records for the prior five years. Cass sincerely hoped they wouldn’t have to look farther back in the woman’s life; Moore kept meticulous notes about her hours at the office, and since she spent the majority of her waking hours there, about her life. It all seemed a bit sad.
She found a calendar and paged through it, marking the dates when Moore was absent from work or had left early. As her assistant Joshua Reed had indicated, the accountant rarely took time off. In fact, prior to the last four years, Moore was away from the office during business hours only two or three times each year. And her absences were explained by doctor or dentist appointments, or training classes. But in the last four years, she’d taken unexplained time off on several occasions. Slots in the calendar were neatly blocked off with no notations as to where she was going or what she had planned. On some dates, business appointments were scratched through as if Moore decided to leave the office on short notice. Cass recorded every anomaly but could see no pattern in the woman’s absences.
Mitch was working his way through Emmet and Celia Hedder’s bank statements, identifying instances when cash was withdrawn from locations outside the immediate area. He picked up the hanger.
“How’s it going?” he asked Cass.
“Donna wrote everything down.” She grabbed a calendar and flipped to a page early in the book. “You and Darla had your taxes done on March eighth last year.”
“We did?” he asked, inching the hanger beneath the brace.
“According to this you did.”
“What else?”
Cass tapped her notepad. “I’ve got thirty-seven unexplained absences from the office over the last four years.”
“How long was she gone?”
“Sometimes, for a couple of hours in the afternoon or early evening. On a few occasions, like in March last year, three days.”
Mitch reached for a stack of bank statements, leaving the hanger protruding from his brace. “What days?”
“Just before you went to see her about your taxes,” Cass sai
d.
Mitch’s face was contemplative. “Emmet Hedder withdrew three hundred dollars from an ATM in Kentucky on one of those days.”
“So?”
“Maybe they were together.”
“Come on, Mitch. They didn’t even know each other.”
“As far as we know.”
She gaped. “They were involved? Having an affair?”
Mitch started scratching again. “I remember that visit to Donna’s office. She was always pretty straight, very professional. But that day, she seemed really happy about something. Darla even said she was glowing.”
“You don’t really think she was involved with Emmet Hedder, do you?”
Mitch opened a desk drawer, scrounged around, and extracted out a phone book. “There’s one way to find out.”
“How’s that?”
“Talk to the woman who owns that old folks home where Emmet works and see when he’s been away from work for the last few years.”
____________
IT WAS CASS WHO ended up persuading the owner of Pecan Grove Residential Retirement Community and Gardens to share the dates Emmet had been absent from work, because Darla came to collect Mitch for his physical therapy appointment. He left the squad room under duress, whining about spousal abuse and demanding better pain medications.
Cass dialed Pecan Grove and had trouble getting past the secretary to the owner. At first, the woman simply refused to talk to Cass without her lawyer. She seemed determined to keep Pecan Grove out of the press. It took some persuading to convince her that Cass wasn’t a reporter and the police department didn’t have a problem with Pecan Grove. The problem wasn’t even with Emmet Hedder. In the end, the icy owner’s fears of press coverage and her anger over Emmet’s unexplained absence melted when Cass told the woman they thought that Emmet’s life was in danger. She promised to fax his employment records to the police station immediately.
Cass waited in Elaine’s alcove, listening as the curly-headed receptionist soothed frustrated courthouse visitors with her honeyed voice. Bernie Winterbottom stood and offered Cass his chair. She waved for him to sit and leaned against the counter housing the fax machine, one ear cocked for its familiar purr.
“Did you have time to look at the photos of Moore’s artwork?” she asked.
“Yes, I did. She was an excellent artist.”
“Any ideas what they’re about?”
“I’m afraid not. Each, however, is drawn or painted from an unusual perspective.”
“How do you mean?”
Bernie angled a hand upward. “It’s almost as if you are viewing the object from the ground upward. Or from a position beneath the object.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s as if you were lying on the ground looking up at a tall tree. Imagine the sketch of the trouser legs. They are fuller at the bottom, and grow narrow as they get to the top.”
“What does it mean?”
He shrugged. “Until we understand what the artwork represents, we can’t decipher why Miss Moore chose to use that upward perspective.”
“Well, thanks. I wouldn’t have picked up on her perspective.” Bernie’s smile was shy. “How’s the dig?”
He smoothed a hand over his unruly golden hair and straightened his safari vest. “Quite good, thank you. The developer has finally accepted that it is in his best interest to allow us to explore for Caddo burial sites before he begins construction.”
“How can it be in his best interest?”
Bernie leaned forward, his green eyes twinkling. “Through a contact in the archaeology world, I’ve discovered that he’s one of three finalists in the running to design a new office park in Houston. I’ve offered to put in a good word for him with the contractor if we’re allowed to proceed with the exploratory excavation. And the work we’d like to perform shouldn’t put him back more than a few weeks.”
“What kind of influence do you have over this office park development?”
“Didn’t I mention it?”
“Mention what?”
“My brother owns the company that is acting as general contractor for the development.”
“Is he based in Houston?”
“No, in Dubai.”
Cass blinked. “The Dubai in the Middle East?”
“Yes, that one. He does a bit of work for the royal families over there.”
Cass studied the Englishman with curiosity. “Have you ever worked for the royal families?”
“Only at home.” He smiled up at her. “The Queen Mum was my favorite. A tough old bird, but a gentle soul when it came to antiquities. I have hope for Prince William. He has a bit of his mother’s sensitivity about him.”
Cass suppressed a smile. It seemed that scruffy Bernie Winterbottom pottered about in elite circles. The fax machine hummed and Cass watched as papers slid into the receiving tray. “Any plans to go home?” she asked.
Bernie’s glance shot to Elaine. She was helping an elderly Hispanic woman with her property tax forms. He lowered his voice. “It may be sooner than I wish.”
“Why is that?” Cass whispered.
“Mum phoned. Donald, my contractor brother, can’t get away from Houston and she needs someone at home.”
“Are there just two of you?” Cass asked, collecting the pages from the fax machine. “Two brothers?”
“Not exactly,” Bernie answered, flushing. “But we’re the two with Mum duty.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, I hope your mom gets better soon.” Cass headed for the secure door to the police station, only realizing as she swiped her card that Bernie didn’t say his mother was sick. “Families are bizarre,” she muttered to herself, spreading Emmet Hedder’s paperwork across her desk.
It was all straightforward. Emmet Hedder started working at Pecan Grove Residential Retirement Community and Gardens as a nurse five years ago. He worked full-time, five days a week from eight to five. On occasion, he arrived at the facility at around six in the morning, finishing by three in the afternoon. He worked some overtime in the evenings or at the weekends, perhaps when the residents needed additional care. It seemed that Emmet had two weeks of vacation, and he took this in small bites here and there throughout the year.
Cass started working from that first February forward, noting month by month when Emmet worked the six to three shift, and when he took vacation. When she finished, she compared the results to Moore’s absences from her office. Unbelievable. Cass leaned back in her desk chair. Mitch was on to something. On many of the days when Emmet worked a shift that ended at three, Moore had blanked out her calendar from three or four onward. When Emmet took vacation, Moore was absent from the office for the same length of time on almost every occasion.
Elaine hurried into the squad room and dropped several sheets of paper on Cass’s desk. “These came through after you left.” She raised an eyebrow. “They’re weird. See you at the funeral home.”
Cass glanced at the handwritten note on the top page. “I should’ve mentioned these when we spoke. I showed them to Emmet but he didn’t know who would’ve sent them. Perhaps they came from the person who tried to kill him.” Pecan Grove’s owner had signed at the bottom.
She flipped through the remaining four sheets, amazement growing. There was one line on each page, words formed from letters cut from magazines and newspapers:
How well do you know Emmet Hedder?
Where is Emmet Hedder?
Why do you trust Emmet Hedder?
Emmet Hedder is not a nice man.
Cass snatched the phone’s handset and dialed, glancing at the clock. It was nearly five. She barely had an hour to get home, change, and get to the funeral home for the Franklins’ visitation. She spoke briefly to Pecan Grove’s owner, arranging to have an officer collect the originals of the four letters. She punched in the sheriff’s extension, jabbing the disconnect button at the last minute. They needed Moses’ personnel records to see if he had been absent from work at the same time as Emmet and Donna.
But given Hoffner’s irritation with her, things would go more smoothly if Mitch asked for them.
She turned off the computer and whispered to the empty room, “That’s why you make the big bucks, my friend. Hoffner hazard pay.”
CHAPTER 91
IT TOOK THE LOCKSMITH over an hour to drill through both safes. He stepped away from the hole in the concrete, an expression of respect on his face. “They don’t make ’em like this anymore.”
Before he poured the slab for his courtyard, Calvin Whitehead had dug and fortified a rectangular space. It was protected by a hardwood trap door on hinges, which was further protected by a tarp. The hole housed the floor safe and a battered metal footlocker. Inside the safe, they found straps of currency worth three hundred thousand dollars wrapped in thick plastic, a woman’s wedding ring, a photograph album whose pages were yellowed and brittle, and a package of papers, also wrapped in thick plastic.
Truman cracked the padlock on the footlocker with a crowbar. He cocked his head as Munk lifted the lid, and then took a step back.
“You’ve never seen this stuff up close?” Munk asked.
“No. It makes me kind of nauseous.”
A little stack of booklets was bound with a red ribbon. Munk reached in with a gloved hand and unknotted the bow. “These are rare.” He held up one titled Constitution and Laws of the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan and gently fanned the pages. “I think this is the pocket edition. This,” he held out a slim volume titled Klansman’s Manual, “contains the instructions on how to initiate a new Klan member. It talks about duties and ceremonies, and even includes a penal code.”
Truman reached a finger out, but quickly withdrew it.
“It is kind of nauseating,” Munk said.
“How do you know so much about this stuff?” Truman asked as Munk pulled a silky purple costume decorated with colorful patches from the trunk and held it up.
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