Connections

by Beth Urich

  “To be honest, I didn’t know about the trust fund. How’d you find out?”

  “I know people who know people,” he said before changing the subject. “So, what do you keep in the box?”

  “That is somewhere between nosy and curious.”

  “Ah, secrets. Not a good start for a long-term romance.”

  She put her arms around his waist. “Long-term?”

  “We should definitely give it a try and see how it goes.”

  “Etta didn’t have a key, but she says the box is empty.”

  “That will not slow down a good detective.”

  “Maybe Sid could unlock it for me.”

  He squinted and frowned, then took her hand as they walked across the lot to his vehicle.

  “I’ll see you soon,” she said.

  “Count on it.”

  WHEN HE ARRIVED AT his apartment, Tom stayed in his car for several minutes. He stared at the building, but all he could see was Kate’s face. It was almost one in the morning when he finally lay down. Only a couple of hours later, he sat straight up in bed. The dream—more like a nightmare—was elusive, but it had something to do with Kate breaking up with him in the middle of the city hall lobby. He couldn’t go back to sleep, so he got up and walked around his apartment for several minutes. Unable to calm himself down, he gave up and went to work. He’d been going over the stack of cold cases for a while when Sid arrived.

  “What are you doing here on a Sunday? Didn’t you have a date with Kate last night?”

  Tom walked to the coffee stand and filled two mugs.

  Sid said, “No comment. Now I get it.”

  “You get what?”

  “The date went better than you expected it would. But when you went home ... bingo!”

  “Bingo?”

  “You questioned the greatness of the date itself. You were afraid she’d dump you again. You couldn’t sleep.”

  “How can you know all that?”

  “Been there.”

  “So, what are you doing here on a Sunday?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. This skeleton case gives me insomnia. Did you solve it without me?”

  “I wish. But a couple of things interest me. First, let’s discuss the crime itself. We know the victim was approached from behind. He heard or saw the killer and turned to face him and was struck in the side of his head. The weapon was most likely a long-handled shovel and the blow was fatal.”

  Sid interrupted, “But he may not have died immediately.”

  “Right,” Tom said, shrugging. “There had to be more than one killer. At the very least, someone had to help transport the body to the lot.”

  “We know the buildings on the lot were not occupied at the time. The murder could still have taken place on site.”

  “Could, but probably not,” Tom said, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

  “Because?”

  “Brighton’s records show the buildings were vacant, meaning no furnishings and no electricity, from late 1942, when Etta moved out, until early 1949, when they started renting the property.”

  “Unlikely a shovel happened to be available for a spontaneous murder.”

  “Exactly. This was not planned. If it was, it was a dumb plan. If you want to kill someone, do it away from civilization, with an appropriate weapon, and dispose of the body where it will never be found.”

  “Unfortunately, that means the murder took place anywhere in the city of Branson.”

  “That’s true, but let’s assume it was in the place where a shovel similar to the one Chuck likes for the weapon would be found,” Tom said.

  “A farm. A business. Anywhere.”

  “But probably not far from St. Limas Street. The body was carried or transported manually or at best in some simple hand cart. If a car or truck had been available, the killer would have used it to take the bundle farther out of town.”

  “I hate to be the devil’s advocate, but you’re counting on our perps being logical, even smart. What if they were stupid or wanted to frame someone in the city?”

  “Let’s go down the logical path for now. If that doesn’t work, we’ll retrace our steps.”

  “Okay, if the murder wasn’t planned, something happened to provoke the attack.”

  Tom said, “I see a couple of options, but one makes more sense. The guy with the shovel was trying to stop the victim from hurting someone else. I know you’re skeptical, but hear me out. Let’s say our victim was arguing with someone. The argument heats up. Our victim attacks someone, knocks him down or pushes him. The fight continues and eventually gets out of hand. The shovel guy grabs the conveniently located weapon and strikes our victim. Maybe he knew it would kill him, maybe he didn’t.”

  Tom handed Sid a large black marker and motioned toward the three-foot square pad of plain paper resting on an easel beside the worktable. Sid made notes as his partner recapped the scenario. When he filled a sheet, he ripped it off the pad and taped it to the wall. When they finished, they leaned back and stared at the five sheets.

  “Let me guess,” Sid said picking up the cold case folders, “all we have to do is see which of these missing persons fits neatly into our crime scene.”

  “Three good fits are on top, all from your review of the 1940 cases.”

  Sid opened the first file. “John Newsom. Age fits. Went missing in November 1948. Lived in Omaha, Arkansas, but worked in Branson at the lumber company. According to his wife, he stayed in Branson during the week and came home most weekends. When he failed to come home the second Friday in a row, she tried to find him. Eventually a report was filed in the city. Branson police worked with the Taney County Sheriff’s office to check out several leads. Found nothing.”

  Tom said, “However, several reports concerned Mr. Newsom’s possible relationship with a local woman. Both of them seemed to disappear at the same time. All the department could do was wait for another lead.”

  Sid shrugged and took the next folder from the pile. “I remember this one. Robert Jeffries. One problem with him.”

  ‘Too old?”

  “Right, but everything else fits. Missing in 1947. Lived a couple miles north of the city. Had a hard time adjusting after returning from the war. His only living relative, a sister, made the report when she hadn’t heard from him in several months.”

  “Not much to go on, so the case was quickly tabled. Still we could follow up with the sister or her children.”

  “Last one. Alexander Porter. Wife reported him missing in 1945. He’d been living and working in some factory in Kansas City, Missouri. Hadn’t been home to see her in a while but corresponded regularly. Last letter she received was in September 1945. He said he hoped to be home soon. Branson PD followed up with Kansas City and the surrounding area. The fleabag hotel where he was staying hadn’t seen him in a while, but ... being a fleabag ... they didn’t care. When his prepaid rent ran out, they removed and stored his belongings, including personal letters, his toiletries, and some clothes. Eventually they returned the property to the wife.”

  “Branson PD found no other leads, no indication he had returned to Branson. He did not match any Kansas City-area John Doe. In fact they checked as far north as St. Joseph, Omaha and Cedar Rapids, and the rest of Missouri for unidentified bodies matching his description.”

  Sid walked to the easel and wrote down the three names with a few key words under each. Then in large letters under the three lists he wrote and circled: NEED DNA LINK.

  “We need to see if any of these victims have living relatives and hope one of them is a maternal link. I’ll start by speaking to the old-timers ... I mean long-term residents,” Tom said.

  Sid stepped to the board and put a large arrow next to the third name and shook his head.

  “Spit it out,” Tom said.

  “Two things. One, we went through a lot of files. Fredericks said the murder could have happened anywhere in the 1940s or 50s. We’ve selected three files out of maybe two dozen from that tim
e period. What if our victim had no kin or friend or whatever to report his absence? What if his kin didn’t care or did the deed?”

  “We have to do this step by step. My gut tells me someone buried in Branson was probably killed close by. I’m going to assume his absence was reported in the city. We have to eliminate those possibilities before we resume the what-ifs.”

  “Fair enough,” Sid said.

  “You said two things.”

  “Yeah. Do you suppose this Mr. Porter is related to our favorite complainer, Bryan? You have to admit that would be quite a coincidence.”

  “My thought exactly.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Kate’s father peered over his newspaper. “There you are. I was beginning to think you moved out of the old homestead.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “You haven’t been around much. I don’t think I’ve seen you since you and Tom were lingering in the parking lot on Saturday.”

  “I went to the office while you were at church yesterday. But I was home and in bed before you drifted in last night. How was the real estate thing with Margie on Saturday?”

  “It was okay. I have a feeling you had a more interesting evening with Tom. How’d Margie’s pizza recipe work out?”

  “I decided to use one of my own.”

  “You called Domino’s?”

  “Good guess, but I bought a fresh one at the store and baked it myself.”

  “So, you two managed to get along for a few hours. That’s progress.”

  She shrugged and poured a glass of orange juice.

  “Katie? Is everything okay with you and Tom?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “We’ve tried so many times to make it work. I suppose I’m afraid I’ll blow it again.”

  “Take it from me, you and Tom are meant for each other. I knew that when you were nine years old and the two of you vowed to be “best friends forever.” You’ve had a bumpy ride, sure, but you seem to be on track this time. Of course, that’s from the point of view of a third, almost impartial, observer.”

  She shrugged and took a sip of coffee. “What’s for breakfast?” she asked.

  “Considering the time, it will have to be brunch.”

  “Oh no. Helen will kill me.” She raced to the phone. One of the reporters answered on the third ring. The good news was Helen had taken the day off. The bad news was she called to make sure Kate was working on the Branson history article for the weekend edition.

  “Don’t worry, I covered for you. She said for you to call when you returned to the office. By the way, that’s four you owe me.”

  “Whatever you want. Thanks.”

  By the time she scurried around and raced to the office it was almost noon. A message from Tom was posted on the reporter’s check-in board. The warm feeling of Saturday evening overwhelmed her. She pulled down the note and rushed to her desk. She started to call his office but noticed the number on the message was for police dispatch. The joy of hearing from him turned to anxiety. Tom’s message was almost an hour old. By the time the dispatcher forwarded her call to Tom’s radio her heart was pounding.

  The line clicked and he said, “Katie, I need your help. Can you come to Etta’s house?”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s shaken, but unhurt. Maybe you can help her and me at the same time.”

  She made the ten-minute drive in less than six, turning into the drive a few moments after an ambulance pulled out. The absence of lights and siren helped to reduce her concern for Etta. Tom met her car as she made the final turn. Two patrol cars were parked in the yard. He motioned for her to pull over, then opened her door.

  “Etta’s fine. Her friend Sarah picked her up at the crafts fair. When they pulled up here the front door was open. One of the intruders knocked Sarah down as they fled. The EMTs transported her to the hospital to be checked out.”

  “Knocked her down? Why in the world did she get out of the car?”

  “We’ve been unable to get that answer. Sarah was quite shaken. Etta refuses to speak to us. I was hoping you could calm her down and maybe get answers.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In Sarah’s car with Sid.”

  “Considering her age, maybe she should go to the hospital too,” Kate said.

  “Going to the hospital was not an option she would consider. We’re doing our thing in the house, which is a mess. Try to talk to her. Maybe if she calms down, she’ll help us.”

  Kate opened the driver’s side door. Sid was in the back tapping the blank pad with his pen. He raised his eyebrows and gazed desperately in the reporter’s direction.

  “Are you okay, Etta?” Kate asked. “Sid, maybe a glass of water, please?”

  The detective said, “Be back in a few minutes.”

  The older woman took a deep breath and exhaled, placing her hand on her chest. “I’ll be okay. Give me a moment.”

  “Etta, you’re as white as a sheet. You should go to the hospital to have them look you over. Maybe you could call your doctor. I’ll take you, if you like.”

  “The young man in the ambulance checked me.”

  Etta rested her head against the seat as the color gradually returned to her cheeks.

  “Were you able to tell Sergeant Greene anything?”

  “I don’t know anything, but he doesn’t believe me.”

  “They’re trying to get a time-line, Etta. What time did Sarah take you to the crafts fair this morning?”

  “She picked me up at eight-thirty, as usual.”

  “But you normally stay until noon. What changed?”

  “I’d been there a half hour or so when Sarah called to say she had to go somewhere. I could go home early or wait until she returned around three. I didn’t want to stay downtown that long, especially with the rain coming.”

  “What time did she pick you up?”

  Etta sighed, shaking her head. “It had to be around ten, maybe quarter after. Margie might know.”

  “And you came directly home?”

  “We stopped at the grocery store. It took about twenty minutes.”

  “Good. This will help Tom.”

  “Why? What difference does it make when we got here?”

  “Because your schedule is set during the fair. You go downtown, entertain the fairgoers for a few hours, leave at noon and generally come directly home.”

  “I wouldn’t say I entertain anyone.”

  “But the rest is true. Right?”

  “Maybe you should join the police department.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that would work out. You know how I am about rules.”

  Etta smiled and relaxed into the seat.

  Kate said, “Can you remember exactly what happened when you got home?”

  “Nothing unusual when we drove up. I was fiddling with my purse, still trying to put the change away from the grocery store. Sarah got out of the car and grabbed the bag from the back seat. When she got to the foot of the steps she stopped.”

  Etta paused, her focus on the stairs leading to the veranda.

  “Was she waiting for you?”

  “No, she was staring at the open front door. Before I could think, two young men came barreling out of the house. One of them pushed Sarah out of his way as they came down the stairs. She fell down and I just stared at her,” Etta said, her brow furrowed.

  “I’m sure she’ll be okay. They weren’t even running the siren when they left.”

  “I know. But I couldn’t move. Several minutes passed before I got to her. What if she’d been seriously hurt?”

  “Your reaction was normal.”

  “Not for me. I’ve never felt that terrified. Ever.”

  “Did you recognize the two men?”

  “No, but they were traveling pretty fast. They were in their late teens, maybe early twenties.”

  “Tom said the house was really ransacked. They had to be searching for money or valuables.”

  “I suppose it’s po
ssible, but all of my money is with me.” She tapped her purse in the seat next to her. “I have nothing of value to anyone but me.”

  “Someone may think you have something of value.”

  Etta squinted and shook her head, staring directly at Kate. “Bryan would not do this. For sure he wouldn’t hire someone else to do it.”

  “You know him better than I do.”

  Without acknowledging Kate’s remark, Etta got out of the car and picked up the groceries strewn at the bottom of the stairs. She sat down on the top step next to the collection.

  Tom opened the driver’s door and took Kate’s hand, squeezing it gently.

  Kate said, “I asked her a few questions. Maybe her answers will help.”

  “Etta seems calmer now. Thanks for speaking to her. I don’t suppose you took notes.”

  Kate handed him her pocket recorder and smiled.

  “Thanks,” Tom said. “Maybe you can help her put things back together. It would be good if she can give us a list of anything that’s missing. A patrolman will drive by at least once an hour for the next few days. But make sure she locks things up tight.”

  “Will do.”

  He took a few steps, then turned around. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Kate joined Etta on the stairs and watched as each police vehicle drove away. “What can I do to help you?”

  “I’d like to go see Sarah, or at least find out what’s happening.”

  “We can do that. Would you like to go inside first?”

  “How about we lock the door and go to the hospital?”

  THE TWO WOMEN SPENT almost thirty minutes trying to get information about Sarah’s condition. Kicking herself for not doing so sooner, Kate finally enlisted Shirley’s help.

  “Strictly speaking, you didn’t get this from me,” her best friend said. “Nothing is broken. Her shoulder is bothering her. They are concerned about a concussion. She has a serious bruise on her forehead. They’re waiting until her husband arrives to decide about keeping her overnight.”

  Etta said, “Thank you so much. They wouldn’t tell us anything.”