Looking at the three boxes, she decided to change tactics since she was not making much progress. Pouring out the contents of all three boxes, she shuffled through the mounds of papers, looking for legal documents. Among the insurance policies and old report cards, she found papers related to Matthew’s military service. He received an honorable discharge from the U.S. Army in 1954 at the rank of TEC III. She made a note to look up what that meant.
Several hours passed, and she still had not discovered even one piece of information that would bring her closer to learning about Matthew’s death or the mysterious Leon Galt. Then she had an idea. In her address book, she found the phone number she was looking for. She dialed one of her former journalism students who was currently working for a publisher in New York City.
She was connected to Paula Reynolds and proceeded with the usual chitchat. After a few minutes, Deena explained her reason for calling. “Have you ever heard of Leon Galt?”
“The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. Why? Who is he?”
“He claims to be an investigative journalist out of New York, but I haven’t been able to find anything out about him. It’s a long story, but I was hoping you might know who he is.”
“The division I work for publishes mainly technical books and manuals, but I’ll ask around and see if I come up with anything.” Paula promised to call back within a few days, and they said their good-byes.
Deena considered calling Galt directly, but she wanted to get the scoop on him first. She looked back at the growing mess in the middle of the floor. The piles mocked her, or at least that’s how it felt. Something, anything, she thought. And just like that, a clue found her. It was a photograph of Matthew with a pretty blond, and it appeared they were more than just friends.
Chapter 10
Deputy Simms had warned Deena over the phone that there was not much more information he could offer beyond what was written in the newspaper, but he would be glad to meet with her anyway. The news article was a follow-up story explaining the details of Matthew’s identification, including quotes from Sheriff Lowry. It stated that the case remained an open investigation.
She arrived at the sheriff’s office expecting the inside of the building to look like the police departments on television, complete with officers sitting out in the open at their cluttered desks, ringing rotary dial telephones, and surly perps in being led away in handcuffs. She was disappointed to walk in and see just a counter with a receptionist. The place could have passed for a dentist office.
After signing in, she was escorted down a long hallway to Deputy Simms’s office. She had expected to be frisked or at least scanned with a hand-held metal detector, but no such luck. She waited in the doorway while Simms finished his phone call, observing that the inside of his office looked a lot like Jake’s, the loan officer at her bank. The small metal desk was tidy, the file cabinets were lined up in neat rows, and nothing screamed “Criminals Beware!” She took solace, though, when she saw a half-eaten donut on the side of his desk. Not a total let down.
Simms hung up the phone and walked around his desk to greet her. He offered coffee and water, which she declined. She noted that the attractive young deputy had good manners. He must have come from good stock.
“Mrs. Sharpe, I have your uncle’s file right here.” He opened the inch-thick manila folder. “We located the missing person report and have the original notes on the investigation. We have now combined that with the file on the recovery and identification of the body.”
“Are you the one who found the skeleton in the closet?”
Trey nodded. “Yes, ma’am. But it was Sheriff Lowry who made the decision to try to make an identification.”
He obviously knew where his bread was buttered. Deena pulled a legal pad out of her black satchel and flipped it over to a fresh page. “Any information you can give me would be helpful.” She clicked her pen and sat poised ready to take notes like a 1960s stenographer, wishing she knew shorthand.
“Besides the information that was in the newspaper, we have the name of the restaurant where Mr. Meade ate with friends on the evening he disappeared: 4 October 1963.”
This was just the kind of juicy nugget Deena was dying to chomp on. “Go on.”
“He had dinner with two work colleagues, Gene, that’s g-e-n-e Collins and Donna Morrison, usual spelling. They ate at the Park Street Café in Maycroft, which, as you probably know, is no longer there.”
“Were Gene and Donna interviewed? Do you have any notes on what they said?” Deena anxiously clicked her pen.
“It just states that they ate dinner and then all left around six-thirty. Neither saw anything suspicious.” Simms cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the file. “People from his work and a few neighbors were questioned, but no one had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary.”
“Was there any other evidence taken?”
“Yes ma’am. The lab took some fingerprints from the car, but they all belonged to Matthew Meade. Two former army buddies who were living in the area at the time were also interviewed. Their names were not listed in the report.”
Deena noticed the deputy’s face flush. She wondered why he felt uncomfortable.
“There is a note, though, that both gentlemen commented they were surprised there were eyeglasses found in Mr. Meade’s car.”
“Is that because he couldn’t see anything without his glasses?” Deena asked, anticipating his response.
“No, ma’am. They didn’t think Mr. Meade wore glasses. They said he had been a sharpshooter in the army and had perfect vision.”
Deena made a note and put a star next to it. “So, the day after he disappeared, his car was found with his keys in the ignition, his wallet on the seat, and his glasses on the dashboard. Was anything else found in the car?”
“That’s it. Also, you probably know that his parents searched his apartment along with a deputy and found nothing suspicious.”
Deena had not known that. She leaned back in her chair. “Matthew’s mother, Gran, told me once about hiring a private detective.”
“The file has no information about that. From what I can tell, there was no evidence of a crime, so the investigation was minimal. It was treated like a missing persons case. Seems like some people just thought he took off.”
Deena scribbled some notes but knew they would be useless.
“There is one last thing I thought you might be interested in seeing.” Simms walked over to the shelves that lined one side of the office and gently took down a small plastic container. He brought it over and set it on his desk. “This is the scrap of clothing found with your uncle’s body.” He looked at Deena before removing the lid. “Not everyone has the stomach for this kind of evidence.”
Deena stood up and moved closer to the desk. Simms pulled out a plastic bag containing a large stained swatch of green cloth. She noted that the fabric at one time had been shiny, like the yellow rain slickers people used to wear. “That’s it?” she asked. “Deputy Simms, I taught high school for twenty-nine years. I’ve seen worse than that on the floor of the girls’ bathroom.”
Her humor broke the tension, and Simms laughed as he returned the evidence to the shelf. “My wife is really squeamish, so I like to ask just in case.”
“Thanks,” she said and stepped back from the desk. “What I find the most disturbing about the case is that Matthew’s body was identified as a female and not a male. And you say it was because he was wearing a green rain slicker? That one mistake cost our family years of heartache and let someone else get away with murder.”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand. The deputy who investigated must have thought the coat belonged to a woman..”
Deena looked at the list of questions she had made prior to coming. “Do you have the name of the officer who conducted the original missing persons investigation?”
Simms shuffled through the papers in the folder. He appeared nervous again. Then without looking at the file,
he said, “Deputy R.G. Brice.” Deena wrote the name in her notes.
“I assume he no longer works here after all this time.”
“No, he doesn’t. He died.”
“Oh...sorry.”
“Here. I made you a copy of the ballistics report.” He pulled the paper out of the folder and handed it across the desk. “I hope this information helps.”
“Will you or anyone else in the department be working on the case to find out who killed Matthew?”
“As you probably know, ma’am, cold cases like this are not high priorities for the county. I’ll follow up if any tips come in, but I seriously doubt they will.” He closed the folder in front of him. “The person who committed this crime probably got in a lot of trouble in his life and spent most of it rotting away in prison. I’m just glad we were able to make the identification so your family could get a little closure.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” She put away her notepad and pen.
“I understand you are looking in to this matter for Mrs. Meade. I got to visit with her when I went up there to get the DNA sample. Nice lady.”
“She wants me to find out whatever I can. Also, I’m a...writer.” The word sounded awkward to Deena as she said it aloud. “I am planning to write a story about the case when I get all the information I can.”
Simms cocked his head. “That’s a coincidence. A man called me a few days ago asking for information about the case. Said he was writing about it, too.”
Deena’s jaw dropped a bit. “By any chance was his name Leon Galt?”
“Yes, it was.”
Chapter 11
About twenty miles southeast of Maycroft lay Crossbow, a small town of about eight hundred people living on large plots of land. Unlike Maycroft with its tourist spots, thriving businesses, and neat rows of homes in well-planned neighborhoods, Crossbow had the feel of the Old West, which is just how the residents liked it. They had few city ordinances other than burn bans when the summer drought was at its peak. People were free to hunt, shoot off firecrackers, and leave burned out cars and rundown barns just as they pleased.
Russell Sinclair liked living in Crossbow.
When his neighbor Cliff’s wood-frame house burned down, Cliff decided to build his new brick home, complete with a target range and swimming pool, on the edge of his property line so he and Russell could be in closer proximity for backyard barbeques, particularly on Sundays when the Cowboys were playing.
On her drive back home, Deena decided to make a quick detour to her brother’s house. His knowledge of guns and weapons might be helpful. When she parked the car, she heard Russell’s yellow lab making sure everyone was aware of her arrival. When no one answered her knock on the front door, she followed the panting dog around the side of the house. Russell shouted from Cliff’s yard, so she walked over to the gate.
As she got closer, she saw the two of them sitting on lawn chairs inside Cliff’s empty swimming pool. “What in the Sam Hill are y’all doing?”
“We’re just testing out our new bunker,” Russell said and spread his arms out like Vanna White to showcase the set-up.
She looked down at the empty pool. They had transformed it into an underground man cave. Besides the lawn chairs and beer cooler, they had a small, archaic television atop a wobbly TV tray along with a large electric box fan. The television scratched out some unrecognizable sporting event.
“What on earth is this?” Deena asked, hands on hips, staring at her brother.
“Isn’t it great?” Russell said. “As it turns out, most of this area is solid limestone, so we gave up trying to dig. Then Cliff had the brilliant idea for us to use this giant hole that he had already paid someone else to excavate.”
Deena shook her head in disbelief.
“All we have to do is build the top, and we got us a man-made, underground, kick-ass bunker.” He gave Cliff a fist bump and then motioned for another beer. “We’re going to convert the pool equipment to work as a sewage pump, get all battery-operated appliances, and add shelves to the shallow end. The diving board is still a bone of contention.”
“You could never get away with this in the suburbs. I can’t imagine why you are still single,” she said with sisterly affection. Deena looked back over her shoulder at Russell’s house. “Can we go inside to talk? I’m melting out here.”
“Sure thing.” He unplugged the box fan, and they all headed back to the house.
Russell lived in a three-bedroom ranch built in the late sixties. They walked through the sliding glass door into the den with its knotty oak paneling and wood-burning fireplace. The well-worn gold sofa and matching club chair reminded Deena of her childhood home. Russell’s prize possession, a brown leather recliner, sat to one side of the laminated coffee table. Deena folded and stacked the newspapers strewn across the sofa and sat down. Cliff sat in the club chair, knowing the unwritten rule about never sitting in another man’s recliner. Russell set the fan on the old Magnavox stereo console that used to be their father’s and headed to the kitchen to get his sister a bottle of water.
“Thanks,” she said, opening it and taking several big swallows. She pulled papers out of her satchel and handed her brother the ballistics report she had gotten from Deputy Simms. “Ever seen one of these?”
Russell took the papers and sat down in his chair. “Let me get my cheaters.” He leaned toward the coffee table and pushed around some hunting magazines until he found his reading glasses. “Sure. It’s a ballistics report.” After looking it over for a minute, he asked, “Is this about Uncle Matthew?”
“Yes. I’m planning to write a story about him. One of those unsolved mysteries that everybody loves to read.”
“That sounds interesting,” Russell said. “How’d you get this?”
“I drove up to Bingham and talked to the deputy who worked the case. He gave me some details I hadn’t known as well as this report. Since you are the gun expert in the family, I thought you could explain what it says.”
Cliff’s eyes widened. “A real-life whodunit. If you need any help, let me know.” Deena hadn’t thought about recruiting a side-kick. However, she would indeed need someone at the other end of the walkie-talkie if she ended up doing serious surveillance.
“Well,” Russell said, looking back and forth between the pages. “The bottom line is that Matthew was shot twice at close range with a Model 10 Smith & Wesson.”
“Is that a handgun or a shotgun or what?”
Cliff chuckled and the two men exchanged amused glances.
“It’s a handgun. Here, I’ll show you.” Russell stood up and headed into one of the spare bedrooms. Deena could hear him open the metal door of the gun safe.
“Tell me, how does a person grow up in Texas and not know anything about guns?” Cliff asked.
“How does a person live in Texas and have a swimming pool without water?” she shot back.
“She’s got you there, Cliff,” Russell said as he walked back in the room. “Now this here is a Colt, but it’s very similar to the Model 10. Want to hold it?”
“Not really, but I guess I should for the sake of research. Is it loaded?”
“Of course not,” he said. “Do you think someone as wacko as I am would be safe around a bunch of loaded guns? In fact, you won’t find a single round of ammunition on this entire property.”
She looked at her brother incredulously. “But you have so many firearms? What about protection? What if someone breaks in?”
“Don’t you worry about that.” He reached down and scratched the top of his dog’s head. “I got Maggie here for protection, plus I keep a Louisville Slugger right next to my bed.”
Deena just shook her head. Her brother was full of surprises. She took the gun, which was heavier than she had expected, and pointed it toward the door. “So back in the sixties, who would have used a gun like this?”
“Bad guys, good guys, cops—basically anyone with a holster and need for fire power.” He took the weapon back fr
om Deena and passed it over to Cliff who was obviously interested as well.
“Have you ever shot it?” Deena asked.
“Oh sure, at the gun range. It packs quite a punch.”
“I see. So, knowing this is similar to the type of gun that killed Matthew, does it point to any particular type of shooter?”
“About all I could say is that it probably wasn’t a woman. No offense or anything, but it is a pretty big gun to be handled by a girl.”
“Good point.” Deena drank the rest of her water and got up to take the empty bottle to the kitchen. Her cell phone rang.
It was Paula. “I just have a minute before I have to go into a meeting,” she said. “But I wanted to tell you what I found out about Leon Galt.”
“Great.” Deena hurried back to the sofa to get her notepad.
“He’s an author. He writes under the name of Noel Future. Most people know him just by his pseudonym.”
“What sorts of things does he write?”
“Conspiracy theories. Non-fiction, if you can call it that. Apparently, though, he is well respected as a writer. Not as ‘out there’ as you might think. Look, I’ve got to let you go. Search for him on the internet, and you will see some of his articles and books.”
Deena thanked her and hung up. “Wow,” she said and finished writing her notes. “Have either of you ever heard of an author named Noel Future?”
They both gushed at once. “Yes, of course.”
Russell’s eyes lit up. “Are you kidding? He’s amazing.”
Surprised by their enthusiastic reaction, Deena looked back and forth between the two. Then she nodded her head knowingly at her eccentric brother and his best friend. “Oh yeah. Of course, you have.”
Chapter 12
The following day was Saturday, and Deena could hardly wait to get to her hair appointment. These gray roots age me ten years, she thought. In an hour or so I will be a new woman.
Cozy Suburbs Mystery Box Set Page 5
