Darkness, Sing Me a Song--A Holland Taylor Mystery

by David Housewright

  “What are you doing here, Taylor?” he wanted to know.

  “I told you. I’m investigating a murder.”

  “You sonuvabitch.”

  “Don’t call me names.”

  “I told you, we had nothing to do with that girl’s death.”

  “I never said you did.”

  “If you think you’re going to put that on us, make unsubstantiated allegations in front of the people at the town hall meeting, accuse us of murder—”

  “I’m not that guy.”

  “We’re supposed to take your word for that?”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re working with the environmentalists, you bastard.”

  I pulled my fingers back on my right hand and tucked my thumb in, forming what the boys and girls at Dragons call teisho, meaning “palm heel.” I hit Kaufman under the jaw. The force of the blow snapped his head back. Both he and the chair fell backward into a heap.

  My first thought wasn’t that this was his fault for calling me names even after I told him to stop.

  Or that it was my fault for deliberately attempting to provoke him and his party when I stopped at their booth.

  My first thought was that I should have accepted my brother’s invitation to Thanksgiving dinner.

  Kaufman began to sputter. He called me even more names. He said I attacked him. He said he was going to call the police. His partner joined in while he attempted to help Kaufman to his feet, which wasn’t easy because he was so fat. Esther Tibbits remained seated in the booth. Acting Mayor Gischler and Bob Barcott left the restaurant.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I spoke loud enough for just about everyone in the place to hear. “I was just sitting here, minding my own business, eating my lunch, and you come over and threaten me if I interfere with your mining operations. What was I supposed to do?”

  “That’s a lie,” Kaufman said.

  “No it’s not,” Hank said. He was standing next to his booth, apparently happy to stick it to the sand miners. “I saw it all. He was sitting there like he said, and you came over—”

  “And threatened me,” I added.

  “It’s a lie,” Kaufman said.

  “Why did you come over to his table?” Patty asked.

  “To tell him—”

  “To tell me what?” I said.

  He hesitated too long before answering. It was a mistake that doomed him to a guilty verdict and Kaufman was enough of a PR man to know it. Instead of attempting a plausible explanation, he hissed at me.

  “We know how to deal with people like you.”

  “See what I mean,” I said.

  Disapproving murmurs followed Kaufman and Palo as they made their way to their booth. They searched for Gischler, threw money on the table when they realized she and Barcott were gone, and beat a retreat from the café. Esther trailed behind, paused at the exit, gave me a long, menacing stare, and followed them out.

  “I don’t know,” Patty said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I turned my attention to the remains of my lunch. Soon the other customers did the same. Just as I finished, Patty reappeared and offered a dessert menu. I turned her down. She gently slapped my check on the table and wished me a nice day. I glanced at the amount and debated cash or credit card, even as I reminded myself to save the receipt. Stanislav, Kennedy, Helin, and DuBois were very keen about receipts.

  I decided credit card because I liked to conserve my cash when I was away from home. Before I could do anything about it, though, a hand snatched the bill off the table. The hand belonged to a man who was about fifty and tall and looked like he spent a lot of time outdoors.

  “I’ve got this,” he said.

  “That’s generous of you.”

  “Are you here for the big meeting?”

  “No, actually. I’m not.”

  “Your friends from U.S. Sand seem to think so.”

  “I can’t help what they think. And they’re not my friends.”

  My response seemed to satisfy him in some way, because he grinned and offered his hand.

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he said.

  I shook his hand while thinking the enemy of my enemy might know something I didn’t.

  “I’m Holland Taylor,” I said.

  “Doug Pinter.”

  I gestured at the chair across from me, and he sat. I noticed the chair wobble, and I wondered if it had been damaged when Kaufman fell out of it.

  “I’m the executive director of KICASS,” he said.

  “Kamin Independent Citizens Against Silica Sand.”

  “You’re familiar with us?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Who do you represent?”

  I could think of a couple of names, yet I didn’t want to reveal any of them.

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said. “The name of my client is privileged.”

  Pinter nodded his head as if he understood perfectly.

  “Not U.S. Sand?” he said.

  “Oh, no. Certainly not.”

  “If you’re not here for the meeting, then why are you here?”

  “You could say I’m seeking enlightenment.”

  “About a girl who was killed? Forgive me, but I overheard what Kaufman said earlier.”

  I reached in my pocket for the ever-present smartphone, called up Emily’s pic, and showed it to Pinter. He didn’t recognize her either.

  “Is U.S. Sand responsible for her death?”

  “Are you responsible for the mayor’s death?”

  “I don’t like your insinuation.”

  “I’m sure U.S. Sand wouldn’t appreciate yours.”

  He stared at me for a few beats, the fingers of his hand drumming an impatient rhythm on the tabletop.

  “I’m trying to figure this out,” he said.

  “No, you’re trying to decide how to use it to your advantage. I don’t blame you for that. Here’s the skinny. The girl was killed about a week ago in St. Paul, Minnesota. I have reason to believe her death has something to do with what is going on in Arona. Our friends at U.S. Sand are convinced I’m going to blame them. The truth is, though, there’s no evidence at all to suggest U.S. Sand was involved. Anyway, no more than there’s evidence to suggest that you were involved.”

  “Me?”

  “You. KICASS.”

  “If you think you can blame us—”

  “See, now you’re behaving exactly like U.S. Sand. Paranoia is a terrible thing, isn’t it?”

  “We’ve been unjustly accused of other crimes.”

  “The murder of Mayor Franson?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as vandalism, spray-painting buildings, sabotaging equipment, sending threatening emails to those responsible for environmental abuse and their families.”

  “Is any of that true?”

  “Neither I nor anyone involved with KICASS is responsible for these things.”

  “Who is?”

  “Radicals acting outside the law. We do not approve of their activities. Yet we understand. While we cannot condone violence in any form, the urgency of the current crisis facing us demands that we do everything within our power to try to prevent or mitigate the irreparable harm that is being done to the environment by both fracking and silica sand mining.”

  “Did you just make that up?”

  “I think I prefer Kaufman and Palo. They’re bastards, but at least I know where they stand.”

  “Tell me about the mayor.”

  “Todd Franson was a pig.”

  “I heard that.”

  “Never mind that he liked to use and abuse women, he sold his office to the sand miners.”

  “What women?”

  “That’s what you’re interested in. The women he slept with?”

  I raised my hand off the table and let it fall, just like Skip Zetzman had.

  Pinter pointed his finger at me.

/>   “Franson’s crime,” he said, “is that he opened the door to these people and invited them in. That’s what’s important. Arona has become ground zero for sand mining, and it’s all because of him. I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  “No.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “No.”

  “So much for not condoning violence.”

  Pinter was on his feet now.

  “You’re not our friend,” he said.

  “I don’t have any friends.”

  He took my check, crushed it into a ball, and threw it on the table before stomping out of the café.

  “So much for a free lunch,” I said.

  * * *

  Before I left, I asked the waitress if she could tell me where the mayor used to live. She directed me to a large white house with an old-fashioned porch less than a mile away from the café and a good ten miles from Mrs. Barrington’s home along the Trempealeau River. There were many houses nearby and lights lining the street. Despite that, Todd Franson’s killer was able to park a vehicle, walk along the sidewalk, come up from behind him on his own porch, calmly put a bullet in the back of his head, and make good a getaway without being witnessed by anyone.

  For a moment, I was a homicide cop again, working angles and testing theories. If I had my way, I would have interviewed each and every person who lived on the street. I would have reenacted the crime at night to see how much light the streetlamps threw, determine where someone could have hid in the shadows, and decide what the neighbors could have seen and what they couldn’t have. I might even have brought out a K-9 unit. Yes, there were a lot of things I might have done to catch the killer if I had still been a homicide detective.

  I was a private investigator, though. Catching killers was no longer my job.

  * * *

  An app on my smartphone directed me to a farm outside of Arona where Mayor Franson’s brother lived. It wasn’t hard to find. I took a corner and instead of forest, I found a long, flat field where nothing was growing. In the middle of the field, there was a huge gash in the raw earth. Two pyramids rose up on either side of the gash, one of rich topsoil and a second, much higher hill of yellow sand. They were both surrounded by heavy machines operated by men who were laboring mightily to make the gash deeper and the pyramids higher. The sight caught me by surprise. For some reason, I thought that silica sand mines were holes dug deep into the ground. This one was a straight-up strip mine, where they simply scraped away the soil close to the surface and processed the sand beneath it.

  At the far end of the field there was a farmhouse and a barn. I followed an asphalt road around the field to the house. The road was covered with yellow dust; it scattered behind my Camry like snowflakes in a blizzard. I parked in the driveway, went to the front door, and rang the bell. There was no answer. I knocked. Still no response. I wondered if the residents could hear me above the noise of the heavy equipment in what amounted to their front yard.

  I walked around the house toward the backyard. My shoes kicked up the dust as I went. I found an older woman pinning what looked like a small quilt to a clothesline. Her back was to me. As she pinned it, a man roughly the same age approached her from behind. He slid his hands around her waist and squeezed tight. The woman squealed. The man began kissing her neck and throat. She said, “You’re driving me crazy.” His hands moved up her waist and cupped her breasts. Her mouth fell open and she leaned her head back against him.

  I turned my back and looked out toward the strip mine.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Who are you?” the man asked.

  I spun around slowly. The man was now standing in a defensive posture, the woman behind him. Her hand rested on his shoulder.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “My name is Taylor. I deeply apologize for interrupting you.”

  “You weren’t interrupting,” the man said.

  The woman smiled and shoved his shoulder. They both started to giggle.

  “I could come back at a more convenient time,” I said.

  The woman shoved the man again as she slipped past him.

  “There’s no time like the present,” she said. “Are you with the mine?”

  “No ma’am. Are you”—I nearly said the mayor’s wife, yet caught myself in time to say—“Bridgette Franson?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “My name’s Taylor, like I said. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into the murder of a young woman in the Twin Cities that might be connected to the murder of your, of Mayor Franson.”

  Bridgette glanced over her shoulder at her companion. Some kind of signal was exchanged, and he came up in a hurry.

  “I’m Mark Franson, Todd’s brother,” he said.

  He thrust his hand at me. I don’t think he wanted to shake so much as separate me from Bridgette. I pulled the smartphone from my pocket and called up Emily’s pic.

  “Can you tell me if either of you recognize this woman?” I asked.

  I handed the phone to Bridgette, and she shared it with her brother-in-law.

  “No,” Bridgette said. “Sorry.”

  “No,” Mark said.

  Bridgette returned the phone.

  “Is this the woman who was killed?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is she?”

  “We’re not entirely sure. She went by the name Emily Denys, only we think that was an alias.”

  “What makes you think her death was connected to my brother’s?” Mark asked.

  There was that question again.

  “We believe she might have been involved with the sand mines,” I said.

  Mark turned his head and grimaced as if I had just made an off-color remark.

  “Yeah, well, they’ve been the cause of a lot of misery,” he said. “Look, you came here to speak with Bridgette, right? You don’t need me.”

  “Mr. Franson—”

  “I’ll just get out of your way.”

  “Sir—”

  Bridgette rested a hand on my wrist to keep me from speaking. We both stood in the yard and watched as Mark retreated to his farmhouse.

  “He’s still upset about it all,” she told me.

  “About the murder of his brother?”

  “No. About making about a deal with U.S. Sand. He loved farming. He’ll tell you now that he should never have listened to Todd.”

  “Why did he?”

  “He wanted plenty of money so I would be comfortable when I left my husband to live with him.”

  The remark caught me so far off guard that I didn’t know what to say, so I ending up saying, “Oh-kay.”

  Bridgette smiled at me and hooked her arm around mine. She led me to a low stone wall that had been built around a fire pit. There was yellow dust on the wall that she brushed away with the flat of her hand. We sat next to each other.

  “We knew each other when we were kids; practically grew up together,” Bridgette said. “Todd was the ambitious one. He always wanted to be somebody. Mark wanted to be a farmer like his parents. I married the wrong brother. I knew it right away, too. What can I say? It happens. I was going to stick with him, though, because that’s what you do. That’s what my generation was taught to do. I knew he was cheating on me, of course. That was okay, because I was cheating on him with Mark. Only it became ridiculous, Todd’s cheating. Maureen McMahan, the little girl he hired to be his secretary, Dawn Gischler—”

  “The acting mayor?”

  “Those are only a few of the women he dallied with, Taylor. This actual list is longer than the phone book. Well, if we still used phone books. It was okay when he was just a businessman. Except then he was elected mayor, for goodness sake, so you knew it was all going to come out, eventually. Instead of being a dark little secret, our infidelity was going to blow up, as the kids say. It was going to be a public embarrassment. That’s when Mark made his deal with the sand company, so it would be easier f
or me to leave Todd when it hit the fan. I just wish he would’ve talked to me first, because I would have lived with him in a tar shack. You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this.”

  “A little bit.”

  “After Todd was shot, do you know who the sheriff questioned first? It was me. He said Todd’s cheating and my relationship with his brother gave me plenty of motive. He asked if I had an alibi. I told him that I was sleeping with Mark at the time. He didn’t think that was very helpful. Oh, well. I expect that most people in town think I did it. Or Mark did it. Or, more likely, that we killed Todd together. Fortunately, there’s a whole universe of other people to blame, too, which is why Mark and I weren’t arrested. Don’t you think?”

  “Probably.”

  “I didn’t do it, though. Neither did Mark. I just wanted to tell you that. I don’t care if you believe me or not. Some do. Some don’t. That’s all right by me. It’s kind of liberating, having some people think you’re a murderer. I no longer have to worry about appearances. When I was married to Todd, I worried about it all the time.”

  “Who do you think killed your husband?”

  “The sand miners.”

  “Why?”

  “At the end of the day, they’re businessmen. They don’t want problems, they don’t want headaches, they don’t want controversy, and I think working with Todd, that’s all he gave them. They didn’t need the city to condemn any property. There are plenty of people around here who’d be happy to sell them the land they need. A year ago, there were seven mines in the county. Now there are eighteen. I think they found out what Todd was doing and decided to cut their losses. If the Record hadn’t printed the story, no one would have even known what he was up to.”

  “Speaking of the Record—”

  “You’re wondering how Skip got the story? Probably from Sheila. I’m only guessing, though. Sheila. I was sorry to hear about her and my husband. I liked her.”

  “How did he manage it, so many women?”

  “Todd found out what they wanted and he gave it to them. That was his way. Mousy Maureen wanted to be chief of police. The little Tibbits girl, she wanted to have an important job. The reporter’s wife wanted to escape her dull country life.”

  “What did Dawn Gischler want?”