A Dime a Dozen

by Mindy Starns Clark

  Using the number Karen had given me, I called Danny and told him simply that I had been held up. He said it was no problem, that whatever time I wanted to swing by tomorrow would be fine.

  Eleven

  I drove on to the police station, which was downtown and near the post office. At the main desk I asked for June Sweetwater, and they told me she had stepped out but would be back in about 15 minutes.

  Actually, I realized, that was probably good. I still needed to pick up the keys to my cabin from the Skytop Vacation Rentals office. As much as I had been dreading this particular errand in the past few weeks, I couldn’t imagine how I had almost forgotten to do it at all in the confusion of the day.

  The place was only a few blocks away, so I decided to walk. Fortunately, once I got there, I didn’t recognize a single person in the rental office. That made it much simpler for me, because I didn’t have to face any of those young-widow-whose-husband-died-a-tragic-death pity looks I had received when I first signed up with the place. To these strangers, my house was just another rental unit.

  It did strike me funny that I had to sign some paperwork before I could be given the keys to my own home, but then I supposed that was just as well. Better they be too careful than not careful enough. As I walked back outside, I slipped the keys into my pocket, thinking about the cabin and all of the bittersweet memories that it held, trusting that God would provide each little bit of strength as I needed it.

  From there, I slowed down a bit and enjoyed the stroll back to the police station. I looked around as I walked, reorienting myself to the charming little downtown.

  Greenbriar had grown a bit in the last few years, with a new high school stadium marking one end of town and a big, glowing Wal-Mart on the other. When I first started coming to Camp Greenbriar, the town always seemed fairly superfluous; the campground, after all, had everything we needed. But at least once during camp every year we were bussed into the sleepy downtown of Greenbriar and set loose for several hours of free time. My friends and I usually made a beeline for the Indian shop, where we strung turquoise necklaces and bought beaded keychains for souvenirs. From there we would hit the drugstore, which had an old-fashioned soda counter and a good-looking clerk named P.J., who made up our orders and ignored our preteen giggles.

  Finally, we would end our time at the Carolina Gem Museum, a small volunteer-run facility that featured rows and rows of glass cases with real gems inside—diamonds and emeralds and rubies—that had been dug from the dirt of the Smoky Mountains nearby. The highlight of the museum for us was the “panning” area in the back, where for a dollar you’d get a scoop of dirt from a real mine and a screen-bottomed pan. By dipping the pan in a trough of running water, the dirt would rinse away and you might be left with a few rough gems of your own to keep. I still had a little bottle at my mother’s house that held some of the miniscule rubies I had panned for myself.

  Smiling at memories of being young and silly, I paused and tried to recall where each of those places had been. From what I could see now, the Indian shop and the gem mine were both long gone, though the drugstore was still there. On a whim, I peeked inside but was dismayed to see that the soda counter had been replaced by an aisle of depilatories, a rack of tabloids, and a shelf filled with Chia Pets.

  As I walked the rest of the block, I decided that Greenbriar’s attempts at downtown renewal seemed to be working beyond just new trees and lampposts and benches. There was a funky coffeehouse on one corner and a nice-looking independent bookstore across from it. Signs in several windows advertised an upcoming wine and cheese tasting, and apparently there was live music on Friday nights at “Sparky’s,” a corner bar and restaurant that seemed to be rather busy for a Monday afternoon. As I reached the police station parking lot, I wondered if things perked up even more on the weekends. So many small-town downtowns were disappearing these days with the advent of superstores and shopping malls. It looked as though Greenbriar might be an exception to the rule.

  At the main desk I asked again for June Sweetwater, and this time she appeared through a doorway and invited me back to her office. I followed behind her, noting that today her ponytail had been woven into a thick, heavy braid which swung at her waist like a pendulum.

  Her desk was at the back of a large room, separated from the others by a low partition. She pulled up a chair for me next to the desk, and I started to ask if we could speak somewhere privately. Looking around, however, I realized we were the only ones in the room at the moment, so I sat.

  “How can I help you today?” she asked.

  I wasn’t quite sure. I had a lot of questions I hoped she might answer, but no good reason to convince her to do so except the truth. I decided to explain my situation fully in the hope she would be willing to bring me just a little bit into the loop.

  “First of all,” I said, “I need to explain to you who I am and why I’m in town.”

  “I thought you were the Webbers’ daughter-in-law.”

  “I am, but I’ve also come here in an official capacity.”

  I hesitated, knowing I might put her instantly on her guard by throwing out my qualifications of “attorney” and “private investigator.” Instead, I told her simply that I was the director of research for a nonprofit foundation, and that my task here was to “inspect” and “audit” the Webbers’ agency with the intention of approving them for a large grant.

  “I have to examine policies and procedures, finances, things like that, as well as look at more esoteric issues like effectiveness, reputation, results. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I think so.”

  “In any event, some things have come to light in my invest—”

  I cleared my throat.

  “—in my audit,” I continued, “that have me a bit concerned, and I’m hoping perhaps you and I can share some information.”

  She leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs.

  “Who do you work for exactly?” she asked.

  “It’s called the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation,” I replied, reaching into my bag for a business card and then handing it over. “We are a national foundation based in Washington, DC.”

  “Hey, I know who y’all are,” she said, studying my card, her face lighting up. “Your foundation gave a van to the Greater Nashville Honor Guard.”

  “What?”

  “Just a few months ago, over in Tennessee. You gave a brand-new van to a veterans group so they could go around and serve as an honor guard at funerals.”

  I nodded, smiling as I recalled that particular assignment fondly.

  “How did you know that?” I asked.

  “The story is legend among the veterans around here. My dad’s in an honor guard unit too, and he loves to tell the tale of how this woman from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation showed up after a funeral one day and told the men there was a new van waiting for them at the car dealership.”

  “I was that woman.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Grinning, I relaxed and listened to her expound on the story, how on the day we gave the men the van they drove around Nashville for hours, stopping at the homes of every member of their group to show it off, gaining passengers and blaring out patriotic tunes all along the way. That had been a fun grant to present and a little out of the ordinary, since we had actually ended up awarding them with more money than they had requested so that they could have a new vehicle instead of an old used one.

  By the time the detective finished relating the story, she was visibly more relaxed, and I thought, thankfully, What goes around comes around. Our good deed somewhere else was going to help us out here in a completely different way.

  “So tell me what you need to know today and why,” she said warmly, setting my card on the desk in front of her and squaring it with the blotter. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.”

  With a silent prayer, I delved ahead, focusing on my investigation. Methodically, I explained the two work-related inc
idents that happened with Luisa Morales last fall, about the files that had been left in the Laundromat and then the breach of security on the wiped-out database.

  “We now have reason to suspect,” I continued, “that in fact Luisa didn’t do those things herself, but that someone else did them to her. If that is the case, then I’ve got a problem. Simply put, I can’t approve a grant for the agency until all of this is settled.”

  “I understand your position,” she said, “and it’s unfortunate. But what does that have to do with us?”

  “Last night, a man was killed in the same location and about the same time that stink bombs were set off in Luisa Morales’ car. I know you must suspect that those two incidents are connected. I just need you to shed some light on the whole situation, and also on the ongoing missing persons investigation for Luisa’s husband. The missing husband, in fact, seems to be a key issue here, since this all seems to have started with his disappearance. If I could find out what happened to him, then I might be able to search out the person who set Luisa up to lose her job. Once I’ve done that, the Webbers can take care of the employee problem and I can give them their grant.”

  June nodded, tilting forward until her elbows rested squarely on her desk.

  “I have to admit,” she said, “until the murder last night, we weren’t very convinced that Enrique Morales didn’t just walk off that orchard and thumb a ride out of town on the nearest highway.”

  “I know,” I said. “It was an easy conclusion to jump to. Can you tell me what has been done in the missing persons search?”

  She reached into a lateral file holder and pulled out a manila file. She flipped through pages, skimming the information.

  “No arrests, no hits running his fingerprints, no information from the scene or from interviews. No sign of a struggle, no sign of anything. Last person to see him was the foreman of Tinsdale Orchards, Pete Gibson, who sent Morales off to a back field at the orchard to do some pruning. That’s about it.”

  In other words, they didn’t know anything more than I did.

  “Did anyone ever run a search of public assistance databases?”

  She continued to flip through the file.

  “Yes,” she said, reading. “Looks like the wife is enrolled in a few programs, but there’s nothing on record for the husband.”

  “What about the letter from New York that showed up soon after he disappeared?”

  She closed the file and put it away.

  “After the events of last night, we’ve reexamined our position and have sent that letter off to be analyzed. But I can show you a photocopy, if you like.”

  She reached over to the bulletin board next to her desk and took down and handed me the infamous New York City letter that was supposedly sent from Enrique to Luisa shortly after he disappeared. Sure enough, it was intelligently worded and perfectly spelled and punctuated. As Luisa had said, there was no way a man who couldn’t write in English could’ve written that.

  “Do you sense a connection between his disappearance and the man who was murdered last night?” I asked, handing the paper back to her.

  “Oh, there’s a definite connection,” she said. “I’m sorry that I can’t elaborate.”

  I looked at her, trying to read her face.

  “Enrique Morales wasn’t the man who was stabbed, was he?”

  “No, absolutely not.”

  I decided to take another guess.

  “Fingerprints,” I tried. “Please tell me you didn’t find Enrique Morales’ fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

  “We didn’t find a murder weapon,” she replied. “But you’re correct in guessing that fingerprints are significant to this case. Though not in the way you might expect.”

  I was dying to know what she wasn’t telling me. I tried to reverse my line of thinking, and after a moment, my eyes widened in surprise.

  “The letter,” I said. “The letter that was supposedly written by Enrique and sent to Louisa from New York—”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t tell me the man who was stabbed had some connection to that letter. Fingerprints, maybe?”

  Just from her expression, I could tell I had guessed correctly. She tacked the paper back on the board.

  “You’re very clever, Mrs. Webber,” she said. “The dead man’s fingerprints were all over that letter. Have you ever considered a career in law enforcement?”

  “My father and brother are both cops,” I said, feeling guilty I hadn’t told her I was a PI. “I guess it runs in the family.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Can you tell me what you know about the dead man,” I asked, “other than the fact that his fingerprints were on that letter?”

  She shook her head.

  “With no ID and no vehicle, we still don’t know who he is. He’s a John Doe for us right now, and no one is exactly stepping forward to claim the body, despite the fact that he was wearing expensive clothes and a diamond-encrusted watch.”

  “You’ve searched nationally?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she replied, sounding vaguely offended. “We’re doing everything we can to ID the man. We’ve got him up on a national crime database, so if anyone runs an official search for a man with his stats, his info will pop up. So far, no one’s come looking, and his fingerprints have had no match except to that letter.”

  “So what will you do next?” I asked, hoping she didn’t think me too pushy.

  “We’re pursuing several avenues,” she replied, and at my entreating expression, she lowered her voice and elaborated just a bit. “For example, apparently the man’s shoes were custom made by an expensive leather crafter. We’ve been in contact with the manufacturer, and hopefully we’ll be able to trace him out that way.”

  “That’s good news,” I said. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

  “No problem.”

  “What about the diamond watch?” I asked. “I guess that rules out robbery as a motive for the stabbing.”

  “Not necessarily,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s a Bohgan Ghia watch.”

  At my blank stare, she explained.

  “It has an unusual clasp, one that’s very hard to open unless you know exactly what you’re doing. From what I understand, the corpse had scrape marks all over his wrist. So someone tried their hardest but must’ve finally given up.”

  “Well, at least that gives you another expensive item to try and trace through the manufacturer.”

  “Yep, we’re working on it. It also links the dead man back to the Morales case in another way, since the person who tried to remove the watch also left some prints on a stink bomb in the car, one that didn’t go off.”

  “I knew there had to be a connection! So the person who set off the stink bombs was also the person who committed the murder?”

  “Just going by fingerprints, it sure looks that way.”

  I was about to ask another question when several people came walking into the room. Instantly, June Sweetwater sat up straight, her expression closed off, and I knew this free exchange of information had come to an end. I stood and shook her hand, thanking her for her help and reiterating how sorry I was that I hadn’t gotten a better look at the man I spied running through the woods.

  “Nevertheless,” she said, “I do hope you’re being cautious. You’re our only witness at this point, Mrs. Webber.”

  “Witness? Of the guy I saw running through the woods? I’ve already told you I didn’t see much of anything.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she replied. “If the perp thinks you can ID him, then you could be in for some trouble.”

  Twelve

  With that comforting thought, I left the police station and climbed into my car. It hadn’t crossed my mind that I might be in danger. Hopefully, the detective was overstating the situation.

  Before starting the car, I dialed the Webbers to touch base with them. They invited me to dinner, but I told them I wanted to get up to the cabin and get settled
in before it got too dark. They made sure I had all of their phone numbers—home, office, and cell—and then I told them I would see them in the morning. I told Natalie about my appointment at Go the Distance, and she said she would line up some more meetings for me the next day so I could visit some of the other charities they supported.

  On my way out of town, I stopped for a few quick groceries, and then I decided to take the long way around to the cabin. The sky probably wouldn’t be dark for another hour, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to check out some of the charities I would be visiting before I actually went there. More importantly, if I went the long way, I would also go right past Tinsdale Orchards. Though I would see the orchard tomorrow on my tour with Danny Stanford, I still wanted to check it out on my own.

  Most of Greenbriar was merely hilly, a series of pleasant mounds clustered with neighborhoods, schools, downtown, and the lake area. Near the lake, however, was a road that headed steeply up what people called “the mountain,” though I wasn’t sure if, technically, it was high enough to be a real mountain. Certainly, it was much higher than the rest of the town, and the road meandered all the way up to the top. Dotted all along the way were hillside homes nestled privately among the trees—some incredibly beautiful and expensive and others not much more than trailers set up on cinder blocks. My cabin was near the top, on the side that faced the lake. A short way beyond there, the hill crested and then the road started back down the other side. I knew that the Tinsdales owned most of the land all the way down. Apple trees lined the road, and, near the bottom, was the gorgeous Tinsdale mansion.

  Today I would be coming at the orchard from below it, as I was circling around the long way to drive up the back side of the mountain. The same highway Dean had driven to get to Luisa’s trailer would eventually lead me to the orchard, where I would turn off and begin my ascent.

  First, however, I watched the mailboxes for the address of Go the Distance Learning Center. I knew it was along here somewhere, and, sure enough, I passed it only a few blocks out of town, on my right. I slowed as I drove past, to see what looked like a weathered old house that had been converted to a small business.