by Claire Booth
He went to the Closeout Castle website and then the secretary of state’s searchable business database. There was nothing interesting with either one. He thought for a minute and then pulled up the federal PACER search page and entered his sheriff department login. He typed in the corporate name, and then slowly put down his beer. The Castle had filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy three years ago. It was quickly withdrawn, but the fact that the process had even been started meant Lew’s company wasn’t in good shape.
He dug around some more, but he could only find a few brief mentions on small websites. So he turned to Tina Hardy, who had lived in and around St Louis before moving to Columbia. Hank was just starting on her husband when Jerry walked in.
‘Hey, man. How was work?’
‘Eh. Fine. Two conference calls that were deadly boring. But good for business. At least they weren’t on video. I hate it when the clients want to do those. Then I have to put on a real shirt and look all attentive.’
Hank laughed. Jerry was standing there in an ancient, stretched-out ‘Liquor Guns & Ammo’ T-shirt. And cargo shorts, despite the fact that it was November.
‘Honestly,’ Hank said, ‘I’m a little surprised that you don’t just work out of the house.’ He waved a hand up at the vaulted ceiling and four upstairs bedrooms. ‘You got plenty of space.’
‘Oh, I tried that. Not a good idea. Turns out I was a little too close to the fridge, and the beer, and the five hundred TV channels. I never got anything done.’ He pointed at Hank. ‘Unlike you. What are you doing? You are most definitely not supposed to be sheriffing.’
Hank sighed. ‘You talked to Maggie, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah. We had a conversation. It was very informative.’
Hank rolled his eyes.
‘I was given strict – and, I must say, somewhat limiting – instructions about what I’m supposed to do with you,’ Jerry added.
‘What’s that?’
‘Show you a good time – but not a time that involves too much booze, or any college students of any sort.’
Hank burst out laughing.
‘I told her she should’ve come, too,’ Jerry said. ‘She said she couldn’t leave the kids with just her dad. “The house would burn down” were her exact words, I believe.’
‘That’s for damn sure,’ Hank said. ‘Dunc is … a lot of help, to be fair. But he’s also oblivious to a lot of things. Like bedtimes and balanced meals and kitchen cleanup.’
Jerry smirked. ‘Sounds like me.’
Hank looked around the immaculate great room. ‘You have a maid, don’t you?’
‘Hell, yes. There are no new leaves to be turned with me, my friend. Once a slob, always a slob.’
‘Yeah, I remember Mount Laundry on the floor of our dorm room.’
Jerry ignored that and fished two beers out of the fridge. He flopped down on the couch and handed one to Hank. He squinted at the entertainment center. ‘Dude, you’ve only got half the sound on. Watch this.’ He poked at the remote and an action movie appeared on the screen. Two minutes later, a car-chase explosion made the whole house shake. Hank toasted him with his beer bottle and wondered how he could install something like this at home.
SEVEN
Some of the driveways on the street were long, but all of the houses were visible from the road, which was nice. Not like farther out in the county, where property could be a dozen acres and the house set so far back that you had no idea what you were getting into – if you could even get through the gates to begin with.
No one had been home in the house next door to Mr Timmons. Instead of going to the house beyond that, Sam decided to try across the street. It had a pretty clear view of the dead guy’s front yard. Hopefully somebody saw something. He trudged up the gravel drive and knocked on the sturdy glass storm door.
The wooden front door immediately swung open. A very short, small-framed older lady peered out at him through the glass and demanded to know who he was. So it was going to be one of those kinds of interviews. He was in full uniform with his Branson County Sheriff’s Department badge clearly visible. And based on the speed with which she’d answered the door, the woman had obviously seen him coming up her driveway, which meant she’d been watching the commotion at Timmons’s place, too. But she was going to act like she hadn’t. Fine. He could play that game.
‘Hello, ma’am. I’m very sorry to bother you. My name is Samuel Karnes, and I’m one of your county sheriff’s deputies. We are looking into an incident across the street, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.’
Her gaze switched from him to Timmons’s house and back again. He could see her reflex inclination to tell him to get the hell off her property battling with her nosy-neighbor curiosity. The Chief always told him, ‘Help people want to help you.’ He gave it a try.
‘I’m sure, ma’am, that you also have some questions for me. Any law-abiding citizen surely would. After all, we’re your tax dollars at work. If I could just come in for a moment, we could talk about it.’
He wanted to see what kind of view the lady had from her front window. That would let him judge how much she really was able to see as she monitored the neighborhood, which he was positive she did on a regular basis. He put on his best smile. The woman frowned more. Then she pushed the storm door open.
‘Only ’cause I can’t hear you through this glass.’ She shuffled back a few steps, leaving Sam to catch the door before it smacked his shoulder. He stepped into the little entryway and seemed to fill the entire space. He felt awkward until he realized it was causing the lady to back away and move farther into the house. She led the way into the kitchen, where the one window was fairly high up. She had solved this problem by putting a bar-height table right next to it. It was almost as tall as she was. He wondered how she got up on to the high bar stool, then smothered a smile as he saw the little stepladder next to it.
He shifted to get the right angle and was able to tell that from her perch, she could see all of Timmons’s front yard and halfway down the street. Jackpot. He decided to act like she hadn’t seen a thing.
‘First, ma’am, I wanted to explain what we’re doing over there across the street. There was some concern about Mr Timmons’s welfare, and so we’re checking on that.’ He wanted to get everything she knew before he told her about the murder. ‘So I’m sure you understand that we’d want to talk with folks in the neighborhood, especially anyone who might be particularly observant. I don’t suppose you know anybody like that? Any of your neighbors?’
‘My neighbors all work. Then they come home and don’t do nothing. Or they barbecue, real loud. And late. Those ones over there do.’ She jabbed a finger at a house two doors down that was set much closer to the road. ‘It’s so a body can’t get any sleep. Music going all the time.’
‘What about Mr Timmons? Is he noisy, too?’
‘Oh, no. He keeps to himself. Keeps his house up nice and don’t make a ruckus ever. A very good neighbor.’
‘He’s retired, correct? Does he have any regular habits?’
Her eyebrows rose in outrage. ‘I wouldn’t know that. We’re not familiar. What gave you that idea, young man?’
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant.’ He felt like she’d just rapped his knuckles with a ruler. ‘I just meant – do you ever notice him leaving at a certain time? Or does someone come over to his house every week? Does he have a grandkid visit? Things like that. That’s all I meant. Ma’am.’
‘Oh. All right then.’ She shook a finger at him. ‘Because no one’s ever accused Madge Lerman of being familiar.’
Sam was quite sure that was true. He smiled encouragingly, and she thought for a moment. Mr Timmons did go out every Tuesday and Thursday morning about nine in the morning, and sometimes on Saturdays. He went out other times, of course, but those times were consistent every week. He was always gone about two or three hours and then came home. As for visitors, there weren’t many. Although about two months ago, his car was in the
shop and someone came and picked him up for those Tuesday-Thursday times. A gentleman about Mr Timmons’s age. In a red Cadillac. Her slow nod showed what she thought of such showy transportation.
‘And he did once say something about a son. I got the impression he weren’t local, though. Maybe that’s where he is, going to visit his kid. And he just forgot to stop the mail.’
Sam congratulated himself. Madge Lerman was exactly what he thought. Eagle-eyed.
‘When did you notice the mail start to pile up?’
She thought for a moment. Maybe five or six days ago. And that was unusual. He was usually very prompt about collecting it every day. She would sometimes meet him on the street, as she was also that kind of orderly person. Sam seized on the easy transition.
‘Now I need to ask you about anything that was not orderly – anything unusual you saw during that five- or six-day time period. Any unknown people on the street at all?’
Ms Lerman thought about that and started counting things off on her fingers. There was the mailman, of course, but they knew him – a nice black gentleman who always waved. Then there were the Carvers at the end of the street, who were having some sort of repair work done, so there had been trucks coming and going for that on Friday and again Monday. And then there was the barbecue. She couldn’t remember which night exactly, but it went to all hours. Loud and smoky and crowded and the barbecue itself out front like this was a no-account trailer park. Which this neighborhood most definitely was not.
‘I can’t believe they do that. Isn’t there some law against doing things like that, out where the whole neighborhood’s got to be exposed to it? Don’t we have rights? You should do something about that. I’ve called plenty. I’m glad you’re concerned about Mr Timmons and all, but that’s the real problem over there.’ She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘So I’ll let you all know when he comes home, and you go deal with those trashy people instead.’
Sam stiffened. He couldn’t get out of it now. He had to tell her.
‘I, uh, I appreciate your offer to help, Ms Lerman. But … we do know where Mr Timmons is.’ Her face scrunched up, all puzzled. He fumbled for the words. ‘He … I … I came this morning to check on him … and I found him deceased in the residence.’
He took a big gulp of air. She gaped up at him.
‘He’s dead? Is that what you’re saying? He’s been over there laying dead and nobody knew?’
She swayed a bit and Sam reached out to steady her. She smacked his hand away, but kept wobbling. He dodged the second swat and took hold of her elbow. Then he helped her up the little stepladder and eased her on to her padded bar stool. He got her a glass of water, left his card on the table, and fled before she could ask how exactly her very good neighbor had died.
The unfortunate Clyde Timmons was on his way up to the pathologist’s office in Springfield. Even the voluble Larry Alcoate had been struck speechless at the state of the poor old man’s body as he loaded the gurney into his rig. He merely pressed Sheila’s hand in between his own two cold ones and then drove away. Stupid man, turning supportive when there was no need, she thought as she swiped at her suddenly itchy eyes.
She gave herself a minute before she walked back into the house and to the bedroom, where Alice and her fingerprint kit had joined Kurt. There was no room for Sheila. She made a sour face that they both ignored out of habit and long experience. She wandered into the spare bedroom, which held nothing but the furniture, an old army coat hanging in the closet, and the faint smell of lavender in the dresser drawers.
She didn’t think she could face inventorying the kitchen contents at the moment. She decided to walk the property perimeter and had stepped back on the porch when there was a commotion down the street. Deputy Orvan came jogging along the gravel shoulder of the road and waved her over.
‘There’s a mailman down there wigging out. I told him it would be a bit until he could get through, and he started ranting about Clive Timmons. Is that the dead guy?’
‘Clyde. Yeah. You didn’t tell him the guy’s dead, did you?’
Orvan shook his head.
‘Is it the regular guy on this route?’
‘How would I know?’
She sighed. ‘Is he black?’
‘Yeah. Why, does that narrow it down?’
‘In this county, yeah. There’s only two.’
She walked down the street and found Rodney sitting in his mail truck. He was quite agitated.
‘Sheila. Thank God. You’ll tell me what’s going on. This is about what I told Tyrone, isn’t it? What happened to Mr Timmons?’
My, did his voice carry. And his window was down, of course, so he could reach out from the standard-issue boxy white mail truck to stuff mailboxes. She told him that he needed to come sit in her squad car. He spread his arms wide – there was no way he could leave his load unattended. They compromised by him driving closer to the scene and leaving his truck under the hopefully watchful eye of the deputy who’d relieved that bastard Hoch. Then she sat the portly mailman with snow white hair in her passenger seat and pressed a bottle of water into his hands.
‘Rodney, honey, I need to ask you some questions. So I need you to calm down. Can you do that for me?’
He took a big swig and nodded. ‘Is he OK? Mr Timmons?’
‘No, he’s not. He’s died.’ She waited to continue until Rodney had gulped even more water. ‘So I need to know some things. What was the first day you noticed that he wasn’t collecting his mail?’
‘I’ve heard of this happening,’ Rodney said. ‘Older customers passing away, and us being the only ones noticing. Us mailmen.’ He sniffed a little. ‘I never thought it would happen to one of my folks, though.’
Sheila gripped the steering wheel and prayed for patience. Rodney was a sweet man. She and Tyrone had known him forever. His flair for tangents was one of his more endearing qualities. Except today. Today, she needed him to focus. She repeated her question. He thought out loud, going through the aspects of the last week that had lodged in his memory, and finally decided that it was the same day that he’d later had steak for dinner. So, Saturday. Yep, that was the first day there’d still been mail in Mr Timmons’s box.
‘And he never picked it up again,’ Rodney said with more sniffles and another gulp of water. He’d almost drained the bottle. Sheila didn’t know what she’d do when he did – it seemed to be the only thing holding him together.
‘How well did you know him?’ she asked. ‘Did he come out and chat?’
She knew many people, especially older ones living alone, certainly did. Tyrone had a devoted following. They baked him cookies at Christmas and made sure he had sunscreen during the summer. He knew who had new grandbabies and financial troubles and too many Amazon orders.
‘Not especially,’ he was saying. ‘If he happened to be outside, he’d surely say hello and ask how I was. But he wouldn’t make a point of it, you know? Not like some. I got one lady at the end of my route who rushes out—’
She cut him off. ‘So in the times you did talk, what did he say?’
‘Oh, we’d jaw about the weather. That’s always an easy subject. And he had a garden – round the back, I think. Gave me a basket of tomatoes once. He’d get a gardening catalog. That was always good for a chat. I’d tell him about that wife of mine killing her flowers, and he’d tell me about his vegetables. Oh, I hope he doesn’t have a crop going right now …’
He drained the rest of the water bottle, his hand shaking the whole time. She noticed her own clenching the steering wheel and turning her knuckles pale.
‘It’s November, Rodney. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in the garden right now.’
‘Oh, well, that’s good. It’d break my heart if a crop he worked hard on went to waste.’
If only a neglected garden was the biggest tragedy out here today.
‘You mentioned a gardening catalog. What other mail did Mr Timmons get?’
Rodney’s hands slammed down in
to his lap, smashing the plastic water bottle with a sharp crunch.
‘Mrs Sheila Turley. I can’t tell you that. That’s sacred.’
She glared at him.
‘OK, not sacred, exactly. But it wouldn’t be professional. Mail carriers don’t go talking out of turn. You, of all people, know that.’
‘Oh, yeah? And I also know that you all share which houses get the heaviest packages or the most overdue notices. So don’t give me that.’
He glared back at her. ‘Why does it matter anymore anyway? Just leave the poor man be.’
She did not want to tell him about the murder. It would be all over the county before poor Timmons even made it to the morgue.
‘You’re just going to need to trust me, Rodney. Trust me when I say that the best thing you can do for Mr Timmons right now is help me. I promise you.’
He pressed his lips together and blew out his cheeks. ‘All right, dearie. I trust you.’ He looked out the window over to the bulging mailbox. ‘And that load isn’t going to help much, if I recall correctly. It’s mostly all junk that everybody gets. Nothing specific about it.’
‘What did Timmons get that was specific?’
Her hands strangled the wheel some more as Rodney thought on it for a bit. Then he started to talk, and hallelujah, it was worth the wait. By the time she’d hurriedly dug out her notebook and taken down everything he said, she knew where he banked, where his son lived, what company sent him sleep apnea machine replacement parts, which charities he donated to, which local clubs sent him newsletters, the name of his doctor, and that he was partial to mail-order fruitcakes at Christmas. It was all information that could potentially be in the house, but scattered through messy paperwork or, God forbid, in that chaotic bedroom somewhere. The mailman had at the very least saved her tons of time, and at most, saved the whole investigation.
‘Oh, and about the son – Mr Timmons said something once that made me think they don’t get on very well. Maybe about him coming to visit, or not coming to visit? I can’t remember what it was, but I definitely got that impression.’