2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  “His name is Harris Freeman. He’s Wheels’ stepbrother. But here’s where it gets interesting. He’s been AWOL since early January.”

  “AWOL?” Russell asked.

  “Poop, he’s missing?” Arvid shook his head and he and Russell turned to Fischer.

  “The brother of the guy who gave Dom a ride?” Russell asked. “That’s some coincidence.”

  “He’s a stepbrother.” Fischer said. “Yeah. It’s a hell of a coincidence.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Dom and Harris Freeman signed up together,” Fischer continued. “Good friends. All we know is that Harris was granted leave and left base to come home. The MPs located a motel in Hinesville where he stayed overnight. The bed hadn’t been slept in. His suitcase was left behind.”

  “Why Hinesville? Is that near an airport?”

  “He had a bus ticket from Hinesville to Savannah. According to what I was told, the bus drops the soldiers right at the airport. Needless to say, the ticket wasn’t used.”

  “Any leads to the kid’s whereabouts?” Arvid asked.

  “Not really. The motel desk clerk said he happened to be outside taking a smoking break, when he saw a guy he thought might have been Harris get in a black vehicle. Couldn’t give a make or model. Couldn’t even swear that it had been Harris Freeman. But there’s been no sign of him since.”

  “Oh, this gets curiouser and curiouser,” Russell intoned. “I wouldn’t call it going AWOL if you disappear and don’t take anything with you. I don’t think this sounds too good for Harris Freeman.”

  “Nup. Me either,” Arvid said. “No other clues?”

  “Well, there was an odd thing in his motel room. A flier. Get this. It was a flier advertising the Crooked Creek Art Expo. The one going on right now.”

  “Good God,” Arvid barked.

  “I know. His stepbrother, Wheels, participates in this show. He’s a sculptor. We asked if he’d sent it to Harris. He says no. And they picked up good prints off it. We checked Glen’s prints just to be sure. Not a match. In fact, no match on the fingerprints anywhere in the system except for those of Harris Freeman.”

  “So, Glen’s in the clear. Who inherits Berg Nielson’s place if Harris is found dead? Glen Heath—uh, Wheels, I guess you call him?”

  “No. Freeman’s mom, I suppose. She’s in a nursing home here.” Fischer went to the coffee pot, poured a cup, and took it back to his desk. “Her husband was a good friend of mine. I visit once a week to tell her there’s no news. God, I hate to go. It’s heartbreaking.”

  “Yeah, that’s gotta be hard.” Russell said.

  “So, where was Wheels when his stepbrother went missing?” Arvid asked. “Sometimes family ties come unraveled when money comes into the mix. Especially with step-siblings.”

  “Wheels was here in town. Solid alibi.” Fischer did not look happy.

  “How about when Adele Nielson was shot on the tractor?” Arvid poised his pencil over his notebook. “And during the months when Berg was receiving the threatening notes?”

  “We checked that out upside down, inside out, and backwards. When Adele was shot, he was at a motorcycle rally in California. It was verified by numerous bikers. No way he could have shot the girl. He was in town during the delivery of a couple notes, but not most of them. He never got to town until the end of November, and he came to lay around and recuperate from gallbladder surgery. We verified his surgery and his whereabouts in mid-November. He was flat on his back in a hospital in New Orleans. Then, shortly after he came home, his stepmother had a stroke and she went into the nursing home. What I don’t like is that he left the message on Berg’s answering machine, supposedly saying he was bringing Dom home. Now, Berg never listened to it. We don’t know why. Maybe he was outside. Maybe he was in the john. But,” Fischer paused for effect. “Even if he’d tried to listen to it, the message was so garbled he wouldn’t have understood a thing.”

  Russell looked at Fischer inquiringly.

  “Did Wheels have an explanation for that?” Russell asked.

  “Not really. He said his best guess was that because of the storm and being too far out of cell tower range, the message didn’t go through well. And it does happen.”

  “Think he was harassing the old man and garbled the cell message on purpose?”

  Fischer shrugged. “You never know.”

  “How about that trailcam video,” Arvid asked. “You think those boots might be Wheels’?

  “I doubt it. Wheels wears nothing but cowboy boots. Big, maybe size twelve, twelve and a half.”

  “Yeah. The ones in the video are work boots, not cowboy boots.” Arvid stuck out a foot. “Probably bigger than mine.”

  Russell laughed. “Bigger? I doubt it.”

  Arvid gave him a dirty look.

  Russell ignored him. “Who else might benefit with the family gone from Nielson’s ranch?”

  “Well,” Fischer scratched his head. “There’s a rancher nearby who wants to add property to his spread. Nielson’s acreage adjoins his property, so it’d be perfect. If whoever inherits isn’t planning to run the ranch for cattle or use the land for crops like it’s seeded in now, they might sell to the guy. His name is Collin Bingham. Nielson’s place has good outbuildings too. Bingham needs a better barn and a good hay shed. But it’s a stretch. He’d have no way of knowing whether the heir would actually sell him the land, or the entire ranch, or even if he could get a loan big enough to buy it.”

  “Huh,” Arvid grunted in agreement. “If it’s like Sage Bluff, a lot of farmers and ranchers are ‘land poor’. They have so much money tied up in their land that it’s a stretch to purchase decent farm machinery, let alone a nice home for the missus. Things go begging while they tally up more and more property trying to make a living off wheat and alfalfa. And cattle.”

  “Yeah, it’s the same here. Feel free to go pick Bingham’s brain if you want. He’s an interesting fellow anyhow. I told him to think on the issue a bit last time I was there. Maybe he’s come up with some theories or ideas since then.”

  “So, you asked this local guy his ideas, but you don’t want to bring Jessie in to look at the video? What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”

  Fischer had the grace to look embarrassed. “Well, yes, but he’s local. And he knew Berg Nielson well. They were friends.”

  “Did Berg Nielson tell Bingham about the threats? And if he was interested in the land, is it possible he might actually be the shooter? And be the one behind the notes? You say he lives close by. He probably had opportunity.”

  “I might have thought so earlier, but not after Miss O’Bourne received the notes outside her door. It just doesn’t seem like something Bingham would pull together. My guess is it’s someone closer to Evan Hanson. Someone associated with the art show, or who knows the Hanson family. What gets me is how they knew which room Evan would be in? Even though he was moved, the only reason he was moved was so Miss O’Bourne could have the room with her cat. It’s one of the few designated as ‘pet friendly’.”

  “Ours was too,” Arvid said. “Esther and I gave her our room, because there wasn’t any other vacancy. So, Jessie and the beast are in there now. And for Pete’s sake, call her Jessie.” He waved his hand in the air. “I can’t even figure out who you’re talking about with this ‘Miss O’Bourne’ this and ‘Miss O’Bourne’ that.”

  “You and Esther are staying in her old room now, Arvid?” Fischer looked concerned. “Be very, very careful. Aren’t you worried about your wife there alone?”

  “Nah, not much. She was determined we’d switch with Jessie. Jessie can take care of herself okay, but my Esther is a force to be reckoned with. She helped nab one of the guilty parties last year during that murder case in Sage Bluff. Broke his kneecap with a cast iron frying pan.” He shook his head, wincing. “BAM! Down went the skillet and that kneecap made a sound like a firecracker. Cool as a cucumber, Esther was. Not a wince. Not the slightest bit remorseful or s
ympathetic. Let me tell you, the fellow was no good, but my own knees ached for a week just witnessing that, and I trembled in fear for a month every time she picked up that skillet to fry the morning bacon.”

  Russell chuckled.

  Fischer looked skeptical. “Well, be careful anyhow.”

  Arvid nodded, and he and Russell rose and began slipping on their jackets. “You still have Jessie’s Hawk in your lot, don’t you?” Russell asked.

  “Yes, but I have good news. I think we can release her motorhome tomorrow, so perhaps she won’t need to rent an interim vehicle. The forensics technician is coming this afternoon. I’ll call her by ten tomorrow morning and let her know for certain.” Fischer rose and shook each man’s hand. “Sure appreciate the collaboration on this.” As Russell and Arvid turned to go, the Sheriff held up his hand in a stop gesture. “Just a second.” He scribbled on the back of one of his business cards and handed it to Russell. “Here’s the address for Collin Bingham. Let me know if he gives you anything worthwhile.”

  “Will do.” Russell tucked the card in his pocket.

  “Oh. And watch out for his dog. He’s got a big monster of a hound.”

  Arvid nodded, tossing Fischer a sloppy salute.

  *.*.*

  Russell looked at Arvid after they’d exited the Sheriff’s Office and rounded the corner of the hallway. “Guess you’ve got the hound thing covered, huh, Arvid? I mean, you’re the one with experience with big dogs.” Russell snorted in amusement. “They don’t come any bigger than that Mastiff of yours.”

  “Poop.” Arvid snickered. “Fischer was afraid of Jack. Jack. Can you imagine? That hound he claims is so fierce is probably the size of a Chihuahua.”

  “Hope it isn’t a Chihuahua. Take it from me. They’d just as soon gnaw your ankle as look at you.” Russell tapped his fingers and thumb together rapidly like biting teeth and grinned. “They’re the worst.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Sheriff’s impound lot, Thursday afternoon

  Forensic Investigator, Monte Taggart, stood in the beautifully appointed, tidy kitchen of the Hawk looking around appreciatively. He liked the solid cherry cabinets and the cheerful Native American motif of the dinette set. A lovely small painting of peonies was screwed—he peered closely—yes, actually screwed, to the wall. Hmm. Guess it keeps it from shifting if the road is rough. He stepped forward, his large bootie-covered shoes making a scuffling sound like boots through dry leaves.

  Unfortunate that the motorhome was too large to pull into the garage at the Sheriff’s Office, he thought. In an ideal world, even small towns would have a secure, climate-controlled facility, not this podunk outdoor shelter more suitable for storing hay.

  Actually, from the shreds he’d noticed here and there, he realized someone still stored hay in the shelter during the winter.

  As Taggart worked, he spoke into a small hand-held recorder used to document his findings during each evidence recovery job. Too bad he’d found no obvious clues that anyone except the owner had been inside the Greyhawk. Although he’d lifted numerous fingerprints, all the fingerprints probably belonged to the same woman. It would take a few days to go through it all. One thing was certain. Unless the lady who owned the motorhome was stronger than most women, she wouldn’t have had enough strength to shove the body into that storage unit. Not without help. And not without disturbing more of the snow near the vehicle.

  Monte swabbed the inside of the door handle and steering wheel of the vehicle, and then decided to do both seat-belt buckles. The swabs would be checked for DNA. Maybe the victim had never been inside the interior areas of the motorhome, but he prided himself on being thorough. The storage area of the big vehicle had probably just been a convenient place to stash the body. By the police report, it was suspected that he’d been killed in the parking lot, not the well-appointed motorhome.

  Poor bugger, he thought, imagining the victim crammed into the storage area like a bundle of old cloth. Poor, poor bugger.

  He peered down at the pet entrance installed in the door of the Jayco Greyhawk. Cat, or small dog, he figured, judging by the few nuggets remaining in the bowl of pet food. He unlocked the pet door and pushed the vinyl flap back and forth. It was too small for a person to slide through. He spoke again into his recorder. Stepping out of the Greyhawk, he turned and pulled the outer door firmly closed. Having processed both the interior and exterior of the assigned vehicle, he removed his booties and gloves, then strode toward his van with a light step, humming to himself as he walked. He slid behind the wheel of his trusty van, made a note of the time in his notebook—padding the expended time by forty-five minutes—and grinned.

  A good day’s work for a good day’s pay.

  *.*.*

  At dusk, a masked intruder walked under and around the Hawk. The raccoon’s curious nose sniffed the tires. It stood on its hind feet, nose twitching, testing the air. When it reached the step to the door, it clambered up the steps and sniffed again. Then it stuck its head through the pet door Monte Taggart had neglected to lock. The marauder swiveled its head, peering cautiously around. Something smelled delicious. With dexterous paws the coon pulled at cupboards not properly closed by the investigator, unwound paper towels, and hit the jackpot when it discovered a full bag of cat food under the kitchen sink. Dragging the sack out and chewing through the heavy paper to liberate the kibble was a task of mere minutes. Soon, after devouring half a bag of seafood medley, it pushed its way back out the pet hatch and ambled away, leaving the remains to the shadow that followed the raccoon's nightly rounds.

  A second animal scurried up the steps.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Bingham Farm

  Arvid and Russell turned at the Bingham mailbox. It was shaped like an enormous shotgun shell and had, ironically, been the unfortunate target of some target shooting. It was peppered with holes that were beginning to get an edge of rust. Arvid grinned. “You gotta love Montanans, Russell. They come up with the craziest rural mailboxes.”

  “I still like yours better. Pretty hard to beat a Viking ship being attacked by a sea serpent.”

  “Esther gets most of the credit for that idea,” Arvid replied, “but ja, it’s hard to beat.”

  The pickup rumbled down the heavily graveled lane, bordered on each side by a rail fence with rough pine poles, both weathered to grey. Arvid avoided the worst of the puddles left by the melting snow. The fence around the rambling farmhouse had been painted white. On top of several posts perched bluebird houses waiting for new occupants.

  As they pulled up to the house, a large brown dog barreled around the corner of the building, sending up an alarm of deep-chested whoofs. It stopped near the porch and continued its throaty bellows. The dog’s wide stance showed off a massive chest. It was a beefy, heavily-muscled animal ready to rumble.

  “Fischer wasn’t kidding,” Russell said. “That dog must be some kind of Rhodesian ridgeback mix.”

  “Ja. It’s huge. I’m thinking maybe part bullmastiff and part Mount Rushmore.” Arvid watched the dog, trying to judge its threat level and shook his head. “We’re not getting out until the Binghams open the door. They can’t miss hearing that dog’s racket. And Russ,” he continued, “when we do get out, don’t shut your pickup door until they get that animal under control. We might have to jump back into the truck.” They sat inside the pickup and looked toward the white house, waiting to see if the dog’s alarm would bring the owners.

  In a few seconds, the door swung open and two people stepped out onto the narrow porch. They were well-matched. The woman was short, heavy hipped and blocky, dressed in worn, capacious blue jeans. Her husband was short and square, put together as solidly as a concrete roadblock. Both had short grey hair. They were a couple built in the generation of heavy battleships—solid and dependable and as ready for combat as the dog.

  They gazed at Arvid and Russell with unfriendly eyes but were courteous enough to call the dog. The big animal turned feverishly around in a
circle several times but then turned and trotted to the woman’s side. It licked her hand and she laid a soothing hand on its head.

  Russell and Arvid exited the vehicle, stood by their open doors, and nodded to the couple.

  “Morning,” Arvid said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Arvid Abrahmsen and this is Sheriff Russell Bonham. We’re from Sage Bluff and are collaborating with the Crooked Creek Sheriff’s Office for a spell.”

  Russell nodded with a, “Hello.”

  “Sheriff Fischer asked us to come out and visit with you.” Arvid continued, “Is this a good time?”

  The woman’s expression softened.

  “Good a time as any, I guess,” Bingham growled, but his eyes held less animosity. “Fischer sent you, huh? Then you might as well come in.”

  Arvid and Russell shut the pickup doors and turned. As Russell took the first step toward the house, the dog bared his teeth and started toward him, chest low to the ground, menace erupting into snarls.

  Both men took a step back, their hands gripping their pickup door handles. As they retreated, the dog paused, head thrust forward. His growls held a note of inquiry. Should I eat them? Or let them live?

  “Hank! Come!” The answer came with the woman’s sharp command. The dog turned, moved to her side and sat. His tongue lolled, giving him a friendly clown-like expression. A huge tail thumped a dull percussion on the wooden porch. “He won’t bite. Not most folk, anyhow.” She turned and opened the door. “Coffee’s on. Just made a batch of cookies.”

  *.*.*

  “Nah,” Bingham said in answer to Russell’s question. “I can’t think of anybody who’d want to kill that sweet Adele. Or harass Berg Nielson, neither. He was a nice old guy. Sure glad he’s dead, though.”

  Russell and Arvid’s eyes met in surprise. Then Arvid’s gaze met Collin Bingham’s. The man was serious.