Connections

by Beth Urich

  “That Branson Missouri has a newspaper or that I’m a reporter?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Starling. I arrived in Branson yesterday and I’ve met five people, including the maid and desk clerk at my hotel. I’m amazed that you found me.”

  “I saw you at the crime scene by the lake yesterday. Artie said you were busy, so I thought I’d call today and see how the project’s going.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, Ms. Starling, but—”

  “Please, call me Kate.”

  “Kate, we are in the middle of an official police investigation. I won’t be able to tell you anything about the work I’m doing.”

  “Yes, I understand. When might you know when the skeleton was buried?”

  “You are persistent, aren’t you?”

  “My specialty, Dr. Fredericks.”

  “I’ll have to refer you to Detective Tom Collingwood of the Branson Police Department. He’s the official contact on the case.”

  “Can I ask how much a consultant like yourself charges a city for services rendered?”

  “Goodbye, Ms. Starling,” he said, and the line went dead.

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Kate said, clipping her sketchy notes to the fax.

  She opened the skeleton lot file from the Building Department, hoping she’d missed something. Only the old citation regarding unpermitted removal of vegetation and the most recently issued clearing permit and inspections were in the folder. No justification for the work was provided beyond “future commercial development of lot.” A visit to City Hall was in order.

  THE ENGINEERING DEPARTMENT secretary greeted Kate as she entered the office with a familiar, “Hi, Kate. How can we help you?”

  “Hey, Libby. You’re back from vacation.”

  “Yes, and I had a great time. What’s up?”

  “I want to check pending development permits,” Kate said.

  Libby pointed to her office mate and said, “Claire, have you met Kate Starling yet?”

  “Yes, a few days ago. One of my first challenges.”

  “You handled my requests very professionally.”

  “Thanks. What can I help you with today?”

  “You must have a way to keep track of ongoing projects in town.”

  “Yes, we have a log. When a new permit request comes in, the project is added to the log and the log is updated as progress is made.”

  “Like a spreadsheet?”

  “Exactly like a spreadsheet,” Claire said.

  “Great. I’d like a copy of the current ongoing log,” Kate said matter-of-factly.

  Claire glanced at Libby, now busy with a customer, and then back to Kate.

  “Have I challenged you again?”

  “I’m afraid so. I want to be sure of our procedure. Unfortunately, Mr. Leatherman is in a meeting. Can you call or come back sometime after lunch?”

  “Sure. But first tell me if any new activity has been logged for the skeleton lot.”

  Claire walked to her desk and checked a file on her computer then a pile of paper next to the monitor. “It would have to be a new request that hasn’t made it through my backlog, and I don’t see anything.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you later this afternoon.”

  KATE PARKED IN THE newspaper lot and walked up the street to the Riverside Mercantile Building. “I have an appointment with Jack Brighton,” she told the receptionist.

  “Have a seat,” the young woman said, pointing to the waiting area. She poked a button on her phone and spoke quietly into the mouthpiece then hung up.

  “Your name is Ellen, right?” Kate asked.

  The girl nodded.

  “Your cousin Cassie interns at the paper. She mentioned you worked here.”

  Before Ellen could respond, a woman—probably in her early forties—opened the middle door and motioned for Kate to follow. She introduced herself as Judy Stark, administrative assistant to both Brightons.

  Judy led the way down a gloomy narrow hallway away from Allen’s office. Several feet beyond a door marked storage, the hall opened into an ample-sized area with a desk, credenza, and three file cabinets. The plaque on the desk indicated it belonged to Judy. Across from her desk and beyond the file cabinets another, much shorter, hall led to a door labeled “Randy Brighton.”

  “We’ll be going this way,” Judy said, her tone indicating a bit of annoyance.

  Another hallway, to the left of Judy’s desk, led to an arched entryway leading to a large triangular office. Kate guessed the door to her left led to the hallway outside the suite—a private entrance for its chief executives perhaps. The door on her right most likely adjoined Randy’s office. One wall of Jack’s office was completely covered with framed photos of family and past projects. Four large windows looking out over downtown Branson comprised the final wall.

  The man seated at the oversized executive desk in the center of the room stood and came toward Kate. He appeared older than his file photo but still younger than the eighty-six years reflected in his bio—still trim and fit, with a full head of neatly groomed light gray hair. His casual trousers and sports coat communicated an unassuming air.

  “My pleasure, Ms. Starling. I’ve enjoyed your articles about Etta. Brought back fond memories.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brighton. Please call me Kate.”

  “Then you must call me Jack,” he said, motioning for her to sit on the sofa next to the window. He eased into a matching chair close by, then glanced toward the still-waiting Judy who quickly exited down the hall.

  “I know you’re a busy man, Jack, so I’ll get to the point of my visit.”

  “I’d expect nothing less of the professional young woman Etta has told me about.”

  “First, I want to thank you for meeting with me. I regret it took an assignment from my editor to awaken my interest in Branson’s history and to meet one of its most influential long-term residents.”

  “One of the old timers,” he said with a disarming smile.

  “According to Etta, you’ve lived in Branson your entire life. Although you’ve traveled more than she, you’re a true native son.”

  “Did she tell you about our adventure in St. Louis?”

  “Yes, and a few other things. But I’d like to hear some of your stories too. I’ll be doing a series of articles on Branson history-makers as a follow-up to the crafts fair articles. I would like to spend some time interviewing you, at a time of your convenience.”

  “That’s flattering, Kate. I’d be delighted. Set up some times with my secretary when you leave. But I suspect there’s another reason you stopped by today.”

  “You’re right. I do have some specific questions about current issues.” She took her recorder from her portfolio. “Do you mind if I record our talk?”

  “Not at all. Fire away,” he said, relaxing back in his chair.

  “With all the development going on in Branson ... and I know Fortune Enterprises is a leader in the pack ... citizens are eager to know what’s happening. People say we have enough theaters and hotels and strip malls. Are there more in Branson’s future?”

  “That’s a good question. I agree we may be approaching our quota of theaters and hotels. Don’t get me wrong, the folks who come for the crafts and Silver Dollar City and for the music are great. But, in my opinion, we need to attract a new crowd, do bigger things.”

  “I’ve heard rumblings about a convention center. Isn’t that a little ambitious?”

  “Maybe so, but we can’t let Kansas City and St. Louis, or even Springfield, hold all the corporate meetings.”

  “Will Fortune Enterprises step out on that limb?” she asked.

  The glare in Jack’s eyes, the ingratiating smirk as he paused before responding, reminded Kate of Larry—perhaps the political façade was a family trait.

  “More like a rocky crag,” he said, his tone relishing the irony of his comparison. “We don’t want to be known as the town that gets all the overflow business.”

  �
�Does your company have any specific plans?”

  “First of all, ours is a development company. We put together projects initiated and invested by others.”

  “That’s what you’ve done so far. What about in the future?”

  “I wouldn’t rule anything out. I didn’t get where I am today by saying no one’s ever done that before let’s not risk it.”

  “But nothing specific to tell me about.”

  “My grandson, Larry Allen, is our project development manager. I know you’ve met him. He’d be the person with details, as they become available for publication. You should get in the loop with him.”

  “I’m not sure he would welcome me in that loop.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll tell him to call you,” Jack said.

  “I appreciate your help.”

  “Okay. Next topic,” he said.

  Kate flipped the page in her notepad.

  “I’d like to talk about the lot where Clay and Etta’s original store stood.”

  Jack squinted his eyes as his brow creased. He seemed to be searching his memories. In a moment he said, “The lot by Roark Creek?”

  “Yes, close to North Beach Park.”

  “I haven’t been down there in years, maybe decades.”

  “The recent articles in the paper were brief.”

  “Why would that lot be in the news?”

  “I’m sorry. I assumed your grandson told you that human remains were found while he was clearing the lot.”

  Jack grasped the arms of his chair and pushed himself forward, striding around the sofa toward the window. He gazed in the direction of Etta’s lot, but the view was probably blocked by several buildings. “Randy, my son, and I were out of town all last week, didn’t get in until late last night.”

  Jack walked slowly to his desk and then moved a fountain pen from the desk pad to a pencil holder next to the phone. He straightened his spine and returned the friendly smile to his lips as he walked back toward Kate.

  For some reason she stood up, feeling an urge to leave.

  “Obviously, this is news to me. I’m not sure what’s been found. I’m not even sure why the lots being cleared. We promised Etta to leave the lot intact. We tore down the original buildings because the city demanded it. Etta insisted I rebuild them exactly as Clay had constructed them but with modern materials. Even stranger, several years ago I seriously considered proceeding with that project.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Granddad,” Allen said, barreling from the hallway. “I found out five minutes ago that Ms. Starling was interviewing you.”

  Jack turned and met Larry mid-room, ignoring Kate and cutting her out of the conversation.

  “Imagine what I found out five minutes ago, Larry.”

  “I’m not sure.” Larry’s tone was uncommonly reserved. He glanced at Kate, then again at his grandfather.

  “Kate shared with me about Etta’s lot being cleared. Why I heard this news from a reporter as opposed to my grandson whom I trust to run my business truly befuddles me.”

  Larry swallowed hard. “We should discuss this privately.”

  Jack stared briefly at Larry, uttering barely audible words drenched in an angry tone. After another moment, Jack turned with a slight bow toward Kate.

  “My apologies. We’ll have to bring this interview to a close.”

  The reporter—who had remained by the sofa, trying to be invisible—quickly picked up her things. She extended her hand toward Jack. “Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice. I’ll call to set up the other interviews.” Entering the hallway, she couldn’t resist adding, “Nice to see you again, Mr. Allen.”

  Kate nearly ran back to her car at the newspaper, hoping to get to Etta’s before anyone could call her and quash her access. She wasn’t sure why that might be a problem, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

  Etta was nowhere in sight when Kate drove up and parked next to the small garage, but the truck in front of the house resembled the one belonging to Bryan Porter. As soon as Kate got out of her car, she heard their voices, clearly arguing about something. She couldn’t distinguish the words until she eased up the porch stairs and approached the front door.

  “Etta, I simply want what I’m due. I know you have the proof. You owe me that much,” Porter shouted.

  Her voice much calmer, Etta said, “Bryan, you must know I would help, if I could. We were close, remember?”

  His tone lower, more measured, he said, “I do remember. I remember a young woman who was generous and giving and caring to a young boy. She helped me through a difficult time. I’m asking her to help me now.”

  “Even if I had this proof, what would it settle? Nothing can change the past. Nothing can make things happen differently.”

  “Think it over. I’ll be back.”

  Porter banged the screen door against the porch wall and tore across the veranda. He charged past Kate without acknowledging her presence. When the truck’s tailgate disappeared around the bend, Kate knocked.

  Etta was noticeably shaken, but her voice still calm. “Kate. Did we have an appointment?”

  “No, I stopped by to ask a couple questions. Are you okay? I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing the loud voices when I drove up.”

  “Bryan is a troubled man. He was a troubled boy. I wish I could help him.”

  Once they were settled in the living room, the reporter said, “He thinks you have some kind of proof that he needs.”

  “He is searching for a solution to his problems.”

  “May I ask what kind of solution?”

  Etta abruptly rose and went to the small front window. “Someone’s coming up the drive.”

  “Do you think Bryan has come back?” Kate asked, following her hostess, who was already halfway to the hallway.

  The older woman stopped short of the entryway and turned to face Kate. “I’ll take care of this. You wait here.”

  Kate complied but remained ready, afraid to imagine what the desperate man might do.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Take the next right. Etta’s house is at the end,” Tom said. “And tell me that wasn’t Bryan Porter pulling onto the highway from her road.”

  “Looked like his truck,” Sid said. “Maybe we should follow him and have a little chat about his lawsuit against the city.”

  “Let’s speak to Etta first. We can always find Porter.”

  “I didn’t know you were on a first name basis with Mrs. Stupholds.”

  “Haven’t you read Kate’s articles?” Tom asked as they made the final curve.

  “I’m afraid I’m not a devoted reader of the Kate. That’s your thing. And speaking of the notorious reporter, isn’t that her little Escort?”

  Tom said. “Better let me handle this.”

  “You read my mind.”

  As they crossed the veranda Sid dropped behind Tom who reached up to knock, but the door opened and the woman—shorter than he expected at less than five-foot-tall—stepped squarely into the doorway behind the screen door. She started to say something, but stopped, apparently taken back by her visitors.

  Tom introduced himself and his partner before confirming the woman’s identity. “We have a few questions about property you own in Branson,” he added.

  “Can it wait? I’m busy right now.”

  Tom was about to suggest a later time when Kate came into the hallway.

  “Hi, Tom.”

  “Katie,” he said with a nod.

  Etta said, “Do you know these men?”

  “I’ve known Tom since grade school. Sid, not so long, but they’re both okay.”

  “Then I guess you can come in. Would you be interested in some tea?”

  “No, ma’am. Thanks, but we’ll get right to our questions and be on our way,” Tom said, staring at Kate.

  “Oh,” she said, apparently recognizing her cue to leave. “Etta, I’ll come back later. I have some things I can do.” As she passed Tom in the doorway, she whispered, “
You play nice with my good friend Etta.”

  Tom grinned and said, “Yes ma’am.”

  As the men followed Etta into the living room, Sid asked, “Was that a threat?”

  “For at least one of us it was.”

  “Make yourselves comfortable, officers,” Etta said as she settled into her chair.

  Tom said, “We’re interest in your lot on St. Limas Street.”

  The woman’s previously warm expression transformed into one of confusion.

  “Do you know the location?” Tom asked.

  Etta said, “Yes, I know where you mean. But it seems odd.”

  “Odd in what way?” Sid asked.

  “Kate asking about that acreage, doing her articles and all, is one thing. But why would the police care about it?”

  “You discussed the lot with Kate Starling?” Sid asked, scooting forward on the sofa.

  “A couple days ago.”

  “Did Kate say why she was interested?” Tom asked.

  Etta frowned as if trying to recall the conversation. “I don’t remember her giving a reason. But she recorded the whole thing. I’m sure she’d let you listen to it.”

  “Maybe you could summarize what you discussed about the lot,” Tom said.

  “My husband and I built a store on the lot and lived behind the store for a while before building this house.”

  “And the store?”

  “We worked it until my husband passed away in 1942. I accepted an offer from an old friend to merge with his mercantile a few months later.”

  “Jack Brighton?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened to the lot?”

  “Nothing. We moved everything up to Jack’s location on Commercial. The buildings were rented out a couple times, but eventually stood vacant.”

  “Do you remember the name of any renters?”

  “Jack would have the records.”

  “But you ... specifically you and Jack Brighton ... still own the land?” Sid said.

  “It belongs to the business.”

  “And you are part of the business.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And the city of Branson asked you to tear down the buildings on the lot when they became unsafe,” Tom said.