The Homicide Report: A Nell Matthews Mystery (InterMix)

by JoAnna Carl

  “I want to tell you about your phone call from Joe Phillips,” I said.

  We weren’t alone in the room. A table full of pressmen occupied the back, and some ad makeup people were between us and the door. So I kept my voice low as I told Arnie about Dan’s problems in Springfield.

  Arnie whistled, then frowned. “But that’s not really much to hold over Smith’s head,” he said.

  I was deflated. “Why not?”

  “If his clients and current associates found out about it, it might embarrass him, but he’s been cleared by the Springfield authorities. It’s not as if he’d wind up in jail.”

  I could see that Dan Smith’s problems looked like nothing to Arnie. If his own past was revealed, he very likely would wind up in jail. It was easy for him to shrug off Dan’s troubles. I decided it was best not to say anything. I reached for the styrofoam cup that held my chili.

  “Unless . . .” Arnie said. He frowned again.

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless the letter was a fake.”

  “Whoa! Surely the police checked the handwriting.”

  “Didn’t Joe say Dan’s wife was a reporter?”

  “Maybe a former reporter. She had a journalism degree. Why?”

  “If you write a letter, do you do it by hand?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t. You’ve got a good point. Once you learn to compose on the typewriter or computer—”

  “On the keyboard—”

  “Right. I don’t know any reporter who doesn’t write letters on the typewriter. So, if Dan’s wife followed the pattern, the letter she sent Martina was probably typed.”

  “So the cops would have had to compare her letter with Dan’s wife’s signature only. It wouldn’t have been as exact as comparing her handwriting for an entire letter. Martina might even have arranged to get hold of the typewriter she would have used.”

  I stuck my chili in the microwave for thirty seconds, while Arnie spread out his hamburger and fries. We ate silently. It seemed we’d chewed the situation over until there was little left to say. We were gathering up our dinner trash before Arnie spoke.

  “Are you going to tell Mike about this? Or Jim Hammond?”

  “I’ll check with Mike, unless you know some reason I shouldn’t. But I’m sure the Grantham P.D. got the straight story from the Springfield police.”

  We walked upstairs together. I still was frightened about Arnie’s safety. I remembered Jim and Boone escorting Dan Smith out of the office. Would they come for Arnie next?

  I tried to stick to business for the next half hour. Ruth hadn’t said anything, but she must have been thinking both her copy editors had gone crazy. Neither of us seemed to have much interest in local news, which was what we were getting paid for, and we had our heads together all the time. She had no way of knowing why we’d developed this sudden sympathetic mood.

  So I conscientiously tried to read copy and not think about murder. Then my phone rang.

  “Copy desk,” I said.

  It was Kimmie’s tinkling tones. “Nell, there’s someone up here to see you.”

  Could it be Mike? I looked at the front door, where Kimmie sat beside the night elevator, but Mike wasn’t there. A tall man was leaning over the counter, looking at Kimmie. A potbelly made his windbreaker gap, and his head was square and was covered with a shock of hair that was the light gray of natural wool. He turned his head, and his nose inexplicably made me think of the paintings of van Gogh.

  Kimmie spoke again. “It’s a Ronald Vanderkolk,” she said. “He said he just got in from Michigan. He said somebody from the Gazette called him.”

  Chapter 26

  As I watched, Kimmie gestured in my direction, and the man at the front turned and looked at the desk.

  I felt as if his eyes were boring straight into me. I wanted to run out the back of the office, down the stairs, and out into the night. But I couldn’t. I had to act normal, go up to the front and talk to him.

  But first I had to warn Arnie.

  Dan Smith had thought he recognized Arnie, but he couldn’t figure out where or when he’d seen him. Former Sheriff Ronald Vanderkolk was almost certain to know him on sight. He’d probably had a picture of Alan Matthews pinned to his bulletin board for twenty years. A bald head was unlikely to fool him.

  He must not get a good look at Arnie.

  I started to lean across the desk and talk to Arnie. Then I realized I didn’t dare. Vanderkolk was staring at me. He didn’t have a clear view of everybody at the city desk, because of the visual display terminals, but I didn’t want to call Vanderkolk’s attention to Arnie.

  I forced myself to smile at Vanderkolk, and I waved two fingers at him. I hoped he’d understand my message. I’d be up front in two minutes. I could see Kimmie talking to him and gesturing toward the couch in the waiting area, but the old sheriff continued to lean across the railing, staring at me.

  I created a computer file called “note” and marked it “FYI, Arnie.” Then I typed in a few words. “Ronald Vanderkolk is at the front desk asking for me. I’ll get rid of him as quickly as possible. I suggest a quick trip to the library.”

  I saved the note to the proof file, picked up my notebook and ballpoint, then stood up. I was careful to keep my eyes on the notebook, but I spoke aloud. “Arnie, I put a note for you in ‘Proof.’ Maybe you ought to read it right away.”

  Then I went up to the front desk. I was scared stiff, but I didn’t know if I was more frightened of what Vanderkolk might say or of what he might see—namely, Arnie. Act normal, I told myself. Act normal.

  I went through the little gate that tells visitors to stop in the reception area, and I walked around behind Vanderkolk. This made him turn his back on the newsroom. I stuck out my hand.

  “Sheriff Vanderkolk? What can I do for you?”

  He took my hand, but he squinted his eyes suspiciously as he did it. “Sheriff, huh? Then you are the young lady who called me Saturday,” he said.

  Belatedly I remembered that I’d used another name when I called. Damn! I could have denied knowing who he was. But it probably wouldn’t have done any good. He would have recognized my voice or something.

  “Yes, I called.” I gestured at the reception area couch. “Won’t you sit down?”

  Vanderkolk sat, perching on the edge of the cushion and resting his paunch on his lap. “The receptionist said there isn’t any Nell Lathen at the newspaper,” he said. “She said you’re the only Nell on the staff. Why did you use another name when you called?”

  I couldn’t think of any reason not to tell him the truth. “Because of what my name is,” I said.

  “She didn’t tell me what your name is.”

  “It’s Matthews. Nell Matthews.”

  Vanderkolk’s jaw dropped. “You’re little Mary Nell Matthews?”

  “Yes.” Right at that moment I saw Arnie moving across the newsroom, headed toward the back door. He was behind Vanderkolk, of course. His progress drew my eye like a magnet. Hurry, Arnie, I told him silently. Hurry.

  I forced myself to look at Vanderkolk, to stare into his eyes sincerely. And to speak. “I only recently learned that my mother was murdered,” I said. “I wanted to know more about what happened to her. I am a reporter, and I’m used to getting information from law enforcement people. So I simply called you up to ask about the case. I didn’t tell you my real name, to be honest, because I thought you might be more forthcoming with a reporter than with a family member.”

  Vanderkolk was still staring at me. “You’re that little girl.”

  “Right, the scrawny one with the tangled hair and the skinned knees.”

  Vanderkolk smiled suddenly. “Well, you turned out all right. And you’re an editor? Like your dad?”

  “Temporarily. I’m filling in as copy editor,” I said. “And the city editor’s glaring at me because I left the desk, so I can’t talk long. I hope you didn’t drive all the way from Michigan to see who called you about that old case.”


  “What about this policeman who came to Jessamine? How did the police get involved? Who’s this Mike Svenson?”

  I dropped my eyes and tried to look coy. “Mike is my boyfriend,” I said. “He didn’t tell me he was going up there to try to find out about my family.”

  “Then he was looking into it on your behalf?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m sure there was nothing official about his trip.”

  “Are you in contact with your father?”

  That question called for a tricky answer. “I was raised by my grandparents,” I said. “In twenty years—if my dad made any effort to see me—well, I wasn’t aware of it.”

  Vanderkolk was frowning. I’d evaded any reference to recent events. Had he noticed? I went on quickly. “Mike got involved—well, because I never knew why my father left me with my grandparents. I guess I don’t need to go into my psychological problems, but it was an issue—an emotional issue—I need to settle before I can—before Mike and I . . .”

  God! I was stumbling around like the worst liar in the world. But Vanderkolk was nodding in a grandfatherly way. He even reached over and patted my hand. And I blushed. I felt like an awful liar. I was leading him right down the garden path, and he was being kind and understanding.

  “I see,” he said, “and I think you’re a very smart young woman to understand that.” He beamed. He almost chucked me under the chin. He showed every tooth he owned. Then he spoke briskly.

  “Now, what about this Martina Gilroy? This murder you’ve had here at the newspaper?”

  I could only hope that my guilty start hadn’t blown the whole thing. I did stammer then.

  “Well . . . naturally . . . we’re all upset—”

  He snapped his fingers. “You’re the one who found the body!”

  I gulped and decided to ask a few questions before I answered any more. “How did you find that out?”

  “I went to the public library, right down the street here, and looked at the back papers.”

  “But how did you find out about Martina’s death in the first place?”

  “I read about it in the Chicago Tribune.” He smiled his grandfatherly smile again. “Of course, a newspaperwoman as a victim—that put me in mind of the newspaper people we’d had involved in a murder right there in Jessamine. You working on the story about this new murder?”

  “No. As I said, right now I’m a copy editor. And I’m not a detective. I leave that strictly to the police. Have you talked to them yet?”

  “No. I went by the station and asked about your boyfriend, this Mike Svenson, but they said he wouldn’t be on duty until eleven.”

  “Mike’s not working on the investigation into Martina’s death,” I said. “The detective in charge is Captain Jim Hammond.”

  “Well, as long as I’m here, maybe I’ll talk to Captain Hammond before I go home.” Vanderkolk got to his feet a bit stiffly, went to the elevator, and punched the button.

  I stood up, but my stomach stayed down. I might evade Vanderkolk’s questions, but Jim wouldn’t. He might not want Arnie arrested and taken back to Michigan, but he’d work it out on a cop-to-cop level. He’d tell Vanderkolk who Alan Matthews was today, and that he was a suspect in a new murder.

  Unless . . . a bit if hope entered my mind. Maybe Vanderkolk’s trip to Grantham was as unofficial as Mike’s trip to Jessamine had been. “Are you still an active law officer?” I asked.

  “Yes and no. I’m no longer sheriff, but my nephew is, and he lets the old man have deputy status. I don’t work a regular shift. But, like I mentioned on the phone, I transport prisoners for the county and for several other law enforcement agencies in western Michigan. I had to make a trip to Dallas, so I stopped by to find out what was going on.”

  Vanderkolk put his hand in his pants pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “You have something of your mother about you, Ms. Matthews.”

  “My mother’s family always said I was like my dad.”

  “Your coloring, sure. But you’ve got the same look around the eyes your mother had.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Oh, yes. She went to PTA at Jefferson Elementary School. Volunteered in the school library. My youngest son was in sixth grade that year. He—well, he had a big crush on her.”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant this as a compliment. “I guess all the boys liked her,” I said. “I guess that was her problem.”

  Vanderkolk frowned. “I never thought there was much harm in her,” he said. “She just thought she could get by on personality. Lots of people think that—men as well as women. They think the rules should be bent to accommodate them because they’re cute. They’re not content to go through channels. Then they’re amazed when being cute isn’t enough to keep them out of trouble.”

  The elevator opened, and Vanderkolk stepped into it. Then he put a hand against the edge of the door, holding it open.

  “Your mom may have been foolish, but she sure didn’t deserve what happened to her,” he said. “I’m sorry about your family’s troubles, Miss Matthews. But I’ve been lookin’ for your dad for twenty years. I’m too old to stop now.”

  He smiled his grandfatherly smile again and moved his hand. The door slid smoothly shut.

  I stared at the door. Vanderkolk had given me a couple of things to think about. First, as I’d anticipated, just because he was retired, he wasn’t about to give up the hunt for Alan Matthews. Second, his view of my mother’s personality had jibed almost exactly with Aunt Billie’s and with my dad’s. Sally Lathen Matthews had been “cute,” and she had used that cuteness to get her way, ignoring the rules of life if they didn’t suit her purposes. Vanderkolk had barely known her, but he had understood her personality.

  There, I thought, is one slick lawman. I understood why Arnie had fled the country when he thought Vanderkolk was after him. The old Dutch sheriff and his gentle smile had scared me to pieces. And the most frightening thing about him was his similarity to Mike. They both had a way of seeming friendly and interested, and before you knew it, you were telling them things you hadn’t intended to reveal.

  It would have been interesting to see them quiz each other.

  But I was too scared to speculate about that. I headed straight for the library, ready to report to Arnie. I glanced at one of the newsroom clocks. Nine o’clock. If Vanderkolk was going to see Jim Hammond, he’d probably have to wait until morning. So Arnie had a little more than twelve hours to decide what to do.

  Would he run? Or stand his ground, sure that someone else had killed Martina and that that same someone killed my mother?

  Would this be the last time I ever saw him?

  I was mentally wringing my hands by the time I got to the library, ready to spill everything in Arnie’s lap. So it was a complete let-down when it was empty. Arnie wasn’t there.

  I walked back to the city desk slowly, checking in the newsroom cubicles and looking over the tops of the partitions. Nothing and no one seemed out of place. Chuck, the night police reporter, was listening to something on the scanner. The city hall reporter was in; I knew he’d covered a speech the mayor made to a chamber of commerce dinner that evening. And the obit kid was frowning at a stack of faxed death notices.

  There was no sign of Arnie. Where had he gone?

  When I sat down at my terminal, Ruth was glaring at Teensy Ames, the dramatic brunette who was on the education beat. “You can go to Jake if you want to,” she told Teensy. “But he doesn’t appreciate the reporters going over my head. I don’t appreciate it, either.”

  I looked at Teensy ruefully. Going over Ruth’s head? I could tell her that was the dumbest thing a reporter could do in the Gazette newsroom. Ruth and Jake worked closely together. Jake rarely overturned one of Ruth’s decisions, because if it wasn’t cut and dried, Ruth consulted Jake before she made the decision.

  I shook my head. Teensy was like my mother. Cute. And they both used that cuteness to avoid work, to butter up news sources and other people they
wanted help from. My mother hadn’t seen why the Michigan rules for teachers should apply to her; she’d wanted a special deal.

  I stared at my terminal and thought about my mother and my new knowledge of her personality. She’d been facing a real problem in Jessamine. Her unguarded tongue and her impulsive visit to the Elks Club bar had ruined her reputation in the small town. She and my father had agreed that the only recourse they had was to leave. But he hadn’t been willing to quit his first job as managing editor when he’d had it less than a year. He had to prove to the small chain he worked for that he could cut the printers’ ink there before he asked for a transfer. She’d disagreed. She’d wanted him to quit, if he had to, so she could get out of Jessamine.

  So what would she have done?

  The answer was plain. She’d have done just what Teensy Ames had threatened to do. She’d have gone over my father’s head, tried to pull strings, called his boss and told him her husband needed a transfer immediately. She’d have relied on her cuteness to charm the boss into doing what she asked.

  But had she done this? Arnie hadn’t mentioned it. It would have humiliated him. I didn’t even know who his boss had been. Would it have been the Jessamine business manager? Or would it have been someone from the chain, a district manager of some sort?

  “Nell!” Ruth’s voice made me jump. “What is going on?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t seem to keep a copy editor on duty tonight. First you disappear. Then Arnie. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know, Ruth. I suppose he could be in the men’s room.”

  “Well, he’s got a problem, then.” She pulled her phone over and punched numbers. “He’s a smoker. Maybe he went downstairs.”

  But whoever answered the break room phone denied that Arnie was taking a cigarette break. Ruth almost slammed the receiver into its cradle. “Well, I’m taking a break for a few minutes. Please read the planning-commission story while I’m gone. We can’t move 4A until I get it.”

  I meekly opened the story. Ruth was madder than I’d ever seen her. I didn’t blame her. Teensy was pulling an unprofessional stunt, and Arnie and I hadn’t been exactly paying attention to business that evening.