Murder in Winnebago County

by Christine Husom

  As soon as they looked away for a second, she turned her car around and drove away. She went down streets she didn’t know existed in Oak Lea. Not that she could tell much about what they looked like. That was a blur. Her main focus had been watching the rear view mirror to make sure they hadn’t followed her. And getting home before Rebecca woke up. During the summer, Rebecca usually slept in until nine o’clock, which had worked out especially fine that morning when Alvie had a little errand to run.

  But then that damn detective had picked her out, and even had the little sergeant look at her. No one, not the nosy neighbors, not the police chief, not the sheriff, not one of them had looked her way until then. Why was that? Speiss should be the next death, but maybe the detective had to be. Or maybe it should be the little sergeant, so Alvie could get to Speiss easier. Speiss never seemed to be alone.

  Alvie’s head was practically splitting open. Okay, time to regroup. She’d get home, redraw the three names, and see what that told her. Didn’t they say things happened in threes? Okay, she’d gotten the first three done and just had to figure out what to do about the last three. But the little sergeant made four. If she did Speiss and the little sergeant together, a murder-suicide, that would count as one, wouldn’t it? That deserved very serious consideration.

  23

  There were a few tables of mostly older people eating breakfast when we got to the cafe. The working crowd had eaten earlier and gone to their jobs. It was the place to go for home-style cooking in an old-fashioned cafe. Smoke and I greeted the patrons as we made our way to a back corner booth. The waitress served us the breakfast special of eggs, bacon, and toast.

  Smoke sipped his coffee then leaned forward and spoke in a tone one step up from a whisper. “I can’t help thinking there is some kind of nonprofessional connection between Arthur and Marshall. The question is, how deep do we dig to find out?”

  “What kind of a connection? Stefany and Brock Kelton both said Marshall didn’t hang out with Arthur.”

  “True. So if it was personal, it was secretive.”

  “Smoke, that sounds like a movie from the TrueLife network,” I said.

  He added more coffee to his cup. “I know. I’m just bouncing ideas around. Another possibility is they got mixed up in some kind of illegal activity.”

  “Like what?” I put my hand over my cup and shook my head to decline more coffee before he poured it.

  “Don’t know, cutting a deal with a client in exchange for money, drugs. Like I said, I don’t know, I’m just throwing scenarios out there,” Smoke explained.

  “Way out there.”

  “Look at how Arthur managed to keep virtually his entire personal life a secret. What’s one more secret?”

  Smoke’s words were worming their way through me, raising questions and doubts about two men I thought I had known. “And Marshall?”

  “His personal life doesn’t seem to be much of a secret, but what do we really know? A major crisis could explain what happened to Marshall and to Arthur. Marion McIllvery might provide an insight for us.”

  “But, Smoke, why investigate this? I mean, aren’t their families going through enough right now?”

  Smoke nodded. “But, if there was something corrupt involving the two of them, we owe it to the county and the citizens to get to the bottom of it and stop it before someone else gets hurt.”

  The previous day I had loved investigation. But at that moment, it was the least favorite part of my job.

  The public defender’s office was trying to function in the midst of their collective state of disbelief and shock. Despite his personal failings, Marshall Kelton had been well liked and fun to work with. No one in the office could believe, or understand, why he had killed himself. Yes, he had a stressful, way too heavy workload, but that had been true for years.

  No one had ever seen Marshall and Arthur together outside of work, but of course, it seemed strange Marshall had chosen to die on the day of Arthur’s service. In addition to the personal loss, they were scrambling to get help from public defenders from reciprocating counties, or from private attorneys, to help manage the caseload until another attorney was hired.

  Smoke and I were on our way into the sheriff’s department when I remembered I had a lunch date at noon.

  “Oh, my gosh, I forgot all about Nick.”

  “Nick? Who’s that?”

  I gave him an abbreviated rundown.

  Smoke looked both pleased and concerned. “I talked to your mother last night. I’m surprised she didn’t mention him. That would be big news for her . . . if she knew about it, that is.”

  Smoke knew me too well.

  “I haven’t exactly told her yet.”

  His words sunk in. “You were talking to my mother?”

  He nodded. “I’m making a little progress. She invited me over for dinner tonight.”

  “Smoke, I am so happy.” I reached over and bumped his arm with my elbow.

  “Any words of wisdom or advice?”

  “Just one—she’s always right. After I finally figured that out, our arguments almost completely disappeared.”

  The sheriff was in a closed-door meeting with the chief deputy and lieutenant. His secretary said she would page us when they had finished. I went to the squad room to file my reports from the previous evening and start my report on that morning’s call. It was after ten, so I dialed Nick’s number before I started writing.

  “Corky, hello. Just rolling out of bed?”

  “I wish. Actually, I got called in for the day shift, and the bad news is, I don’t think I can break away for lunch. The good news is, I should be off duty by three or so.”

  Nick didn’t miss a beat. “Then how about dinner? We’re grilling tonight. Will you join us?”

  Monday night. No plans. “I’d love to, if I can bring something.”

  “All right, well, how about a salad?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “Six?”

  “See you then.” A salad. I’d either have to call my mother or check online for a good recipe.

  Smoke stuck his head in the squad room. “Sheriff wants to see us.”

  The sheriff was pacing behind his desk, pounding his right fist into his left hand. “Close the door,” he called and Smoke did.

  “Just got done talking to Kenner and Randolph, prepared a public statement. Gilbert is sweating tacks over this whole ordeal.” Kenner was the chief deputy, Randolph was the lieutenant, and Michael Gilbert was the county administrator who oversaw both business and personnel issues for Winnebago County.

  The sheriff continued, “It doesn’t reflect well on Winnebago. Two prominent legal figures kill themselves—might be interpreted the stress of their jobs got to them. Like we work ‘em to death around here, for godsakes.”

  Politics.

  “Well, that might be better than the truth,” Smoke said, his blue eyes intense, darkening to navy.

  “Which is?” The sheriff raised his eyebrows.

  “I have no idea, Denny. Still, if it turns out they were involved with each other personally, it might be a lot for people to digest, but a whole lot easier on the county.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about, Dawes?” Sheriff Twardy’s frown deepened.

  Smoke explained the possibility of the attorneys being involved in some sort of illegal or unethical activity.

  The sheriff’s face turned a deep shade of red. “You don’t believe that?”

  “Sheriff, it’s my job to keep an open mind. I’ve got both cases. If there’s a connection, I’ll find it. If not, life just got a whole lot easier,” Smoke said.

  The sheriff rested both hands on his desk and leaned his body toward us, staring first at me, then at Smoke. “This theory of yours stays with the three of us. Be more than discreet. The reputations of two fine men are on the line here.”

  As we walked down the corridor, Smoke directed me toward his cubicle. On the way, we passed three other detectives at their desks
, reading or on the phone. Smoke indicated the visitor chair, and I sat down. He swung his long leg onto the side of his desk and half-leaned, half-sat close to me.

  He spoke quietly. “You have Marion McIllvery’s phone numbers?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. I’m putting you in charge of talking to her. Ask her what she knows, if anything, about a connection between Arthur and Marshall. We’ll do a follow-up with Stefany and Brock Kelton in a week or so. Meantime, I’ll get a search warrant for the county attorney and public defender files.” He stopped at the thought of it. “Damn. How are we supposed to do that without arousing suspicion in their offices?”

  I shrugged and whispered back, “I guess you’ll have to be honest. It’s an investigation of something you can’t discuss, but will explain it when it’s over.”

  Smoke raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  It was three thirty-five when I went off duty. I was usually barely beginning my shift at that time of day. I remembered Marion McIllvery was in Duluth for Arthur’s burial. Smoke said it was fine to wait until I got back from my days off to contact her. I debated whether to phone my mother or to stop by her shop for a salad recipe. I settled on the visit.

  Mother put down the dress she was holding and gave me a hug. “Hi, dear. You got my message?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I didn’t talk to you yesterday, and I tried to catch you before you went to work.” My mother didn’t have a cell phone and never called mine.

  “What’s up?”

  “Well, I called the first time before I heard about that public defender, then I called again after I heard.” I waited patiently for her go on. “You never stop in when you’re working,” she finally realized.

  It saved time for me to summarize my life and activities since the last time we had spoken, which was Saturday morning. I gave her the details of the memorial service, why I had spent the night at Sara’s, and how I had gotten called in for the day shift.

  “I know who the Keltons are, but I really don’t know them. Do they think there’s a connection between the two suicides? KRKW, you know, the Winnebago County radio station, is saying there isn’t any known connection, but that the sheriff’s department is looking into it. What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t know how you can do what you do,” Mom said.

  “Just routine investigation.” The official reason for the investigation was under wraps. “Mother, you didn’t tell me what your phone message was.”

  “Well.” She picked up the dress and slipped it on a hanger, not looking at me. “Elton is coming over for dinner tonight.”

  “Good for you, Mother, good for both of you.”

  Mother hung the dress on a display rack. “It’s not really a date. We have been friends for many years, you know.”

  “It’s a start.” I watched her work for a moment. “Actually, I have a dinner date myself.”

  She finally braved a look at me. “Corinne May Aleckson, you have a date! With whom?”

  “Nicholas Bradshaw—”

  “The hospital administrator?”

  “—and his eight-year-old daughter.”

  “Well, you are old enough to have an eight-year-old yourself.”

  My ever-practical mother. I could envision the wheels in her head turning, processing the information and the potential impact it could have on all our lives.

  I didn’t want to go there, so I stuck to my original subject. “We’re grilling, and I’m bringing a salad. Any suggestions? Something really good, but easy to make?”

  I made a pasta salad as a side dish for tonight. Why don’t you take half of it? I made way too much.”

  Even better than me trying to cook. “Are you sure?”

  She smiled. “Of course, dear. What time will you be by to pick it up?”

  “Ten to six?”

  I drove to Sara’s neighborhood to ask whoever was home if they had noticed any suspicious activity the previous day. The couple to the immediate east of Sara were both teachers and had the summer off. The ones on the west side worked in the metro area and were gone most of the time, according to Sara.

  I got no response from the first five houses I tried. When I rang the doorbell on the sixth house, directly across from Sara’s, a woman’s voice called out, “I’m coming.”

  An older, portly woman opened the door. Her hand flew to her heart, and her brows knitted into a frown. “What is it?” she pleaded.

  “Nothing to be upset about, ma’am. I’m a friend of Sara Speiss’s, across the street?” I showed her my identification and handed her my card. “I’m Sergeant Aleckson from the sheriff’s department. And you’re Missus Sanford, is it?”

  “Yes, Mabel Sanford.” She squinted for better focus. “Oh, yes, now I recognize you. I’ve seen you go into her house, but I’ve never seen you close up before.”

  “And I’m not usually in uniform when I stop by,” I added. “Actually, I wanted to ask you some questions, if you have a few minutes.”

  “Come in, come in. Let’s sit in the kitchen. I have warm chocolate chip cookies cooling on the counter. I’ll put some on a plate. What would you like to drink: coffee, milk, water?” She held her hand on her right hip, waddling her way to the next room.

  Mrs. Sanford’s house smelled friendly, like sunshine and bread baking in the oven and lemon cleaner. There was nothing quite like homemade chocolate chip cookies, and my stomach growled in anticipation. “Thank you. I’d love some milk.”

  My grandmothers always loved to treat me, so how could I have disappointed this nice old lady? She set cookies, plates, napkins, and beverages down before lowering herself onto a chair opposite me. Mrs. Sanford waved her hand back and forth over the table. “Don’t be shy. Help yourself.”

  The first cookie, then a second one, melted in my mouth and I would have eaten a third, but the thought of saving some room for dinner stopped me.

  “Thank you. I haven’t had homemade cookies for a while. They are really delicious.” Mrs. Sanford beamed. “The reason I’m here is, yesterday, when Sara was gone, someone got into her home. I was wondering if you saw anyone going in or coming out of her house in the afternoon or evening?”

  Mrs. Sanford’s expression changed instantly, her smile replaced with a frown. “Oh, my. We haven’t had any trouble in this neighborhood before. Let me think . . . yesterday . . . I went to church in the morning, then out to lunch with my lady friends. . . . My husband died last year.” She paused for a while, organizing the previous day into a narrative.

  “Then I came home and took a little rest and read some. It was too hot to be outside until evening. After I had a bite to eat for supper, I sat in the back in my screened porch and read awhile more. I saw my next door neighbors come home from their open house about six. They’re realtors and had an open house yesterday. I watered my flowers in the front around seven, then went inside and watched a little television until bed.”

  “So you didn’t see anyone at Sara’s house?”

  Mrs. Sanford shook her head. “Not even Sara. This morning—I get up early—I saw a Winnebago County Sheriff squad car parked in her driveway, and the next time I looked, it was gone.”

  I nodded. “How about Saturday, or another day last week? Anyone in the neighborhood, hanging around?”

  “Well, there are people who walk by that I don’t know, or sometimes those Jehovah Witnesses handing out their magazines, or people selling cleaning products.” Her face brightened. “Wait a minute, there was a man sitting in a car one day last week. I remember because it reminded me of one of those private investigators on television, you know how they sit in their cars and watch people. Maybe take pictures of them doing something they shouldn’t be doing.”

  “Can you tell me what the car looked like?”

  Mrs. Sanford squeezed her eyes together, then shook her head. “I guess I can’t. It was one of those older ones. I’m not good with cars.”

  “What color?”

  “I’m not sure about
that either. Gray, or green, or blue. Oh, I’m not much help, am I?”

  “You’re doing just fine. Can you tell me where the car was parked?”

  “Why don’t I show you?”

  It took a while, but we got out of the house, walked to the street, and a little way down the block, where Mrs. Sanford stopped.

  “Right about here,” she told me.

  I stood on the spot and looked toward Sara’s house. There was a large tree in her neighbor’s yard that obstructed part of the view, but her driveway and back deck were clearly visible. Why would a private investigator be spying on Sara? Or anyone else, for that matter? I got goose bumps wondering if Sara was, in fact, being stalked.

  24: Alvie

  It was late afternoon, and Alvie was finally enjoying a more normal heart rate and lower body temperature than she had all day. It had been the most stressful twenty-four hours since her mission began. It had started out pleasant enough, watching the prosecutor’s wife and friends mourn the loss of his merciless life. After the judge, the prosecuting attorney had the most power to destroy people, young men like her Nolan who didn’t deserve to die in prison.

  And Alvie was prepared to take on the little sergeant if she showed up at Speiss’s house. Even though she didn’t want to kill her, it might be a relief to get Aleckson out of the way. She was always showing up.

  The gun had worked so well. Almost unreal how it made men grovel. Alvie was surprised when she found the gun on the shelf in her uncle’s closet. Nolan was a toddler, three years old. At nineteen, Alvie had divided her energy between taking care of her baby and hoping Uncle would leave her alone. She kept the gun and hid it under her mattress, just in case.

  One night, she woke up to the sound of Nolan crying. She went to the room next to hers, and found her uncle doing awful things to him. It was bad enough he had abused Henry and her, but his own son. Her beloved son. Alvie would not stand for that. She ran to her room, grabbed the gun, and gripping it with both hands, pointed it at Uncle and told him to stop. He laughed at her. “You wouldn’t shoot your own uncle.”