4 The Marathon Murders

by Chester D. Campbell

  We found the Marathon Motor Works buildings refurbished into decent looking brick structures. The two-story, block-long factory stood on the north side of Clinton Street. The administration building, with three floors, sat across from the west end of the plant. Its large square entrance had been restored to the original glass façade, faced by a geometric design of metal rods. A glass door in the center opened onto a lobby floored with tile laid early in the last century. Not surprisingly, the walls and stairways showed considerable wear and tear. Taking into account the shape it must have been in a few years ago, the place looked quaint but attractive.

  Blow-ups of old Marathon ads, some from the Saturday Evening Post, lined the walls, along with copies of documents dealing with the car’s history. We entered the office on the left, where a dark-haired woman in a casual looking tan shirt stood behind a long wooden counter.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “We’re Greg and Jill McKenzie,” I said. I gave her a business card and told her we were looking into the old sheaf of papers that had been found in the building.

  She started to smile but caught herself. Her look turned somber. “Mr. Bradley told me about that. I was shocked to hear what happened to him. Wasn’t that awful?”

  “It was,” I agreed. “We think there’s a possibility those papers had something to do with his death.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widened. “That’s scary. What could be in there that would make somebody do something like that?”

  “That’s what we’d like to find out.”

  “Did Mr. Bradley tell you what the papers were about?” Jill asked.

  She looked thoughtful. “Just that they were dated back in 1914 and mentioned some man’s name. He said he was going to see if he could find a living relative.”

  We were in a large area that opened onto a conference room on one side and what appeared to be an office around the corner. “Is Mike Geary in?” I asked. “We’d like to take a look at where those papers were found.”

  “I’m sorry, Mike’s in Jackson today. He bought a building down there where they first worked on the Marathon. I know he’d want to talk to you. When he found out about those papers, he said he’d like to get them back for the archives. He’s compiled a lot of historical stuff on Marathon.”

  “If we can locate the documents, I’m sure we can get copies for him.”

  Jill had been looking at a photograph on the counter. “Are these yours?” She pointed to the photo, which showed the woman holding two small children.

  The woman nodded, smiling. “That’s Billy and Brenda. Oh, pardon me for not introducing myself. I’m Shannon Ivey, Mike’s girl Friday. If you’d like, I’d be glad to show you where the carpenter was working when he found those papers he gave Pierce.”

  “That would be great,” I said. “Jill brought our camera. Would it be okay if she shot some pictures?”

  A tall woman, Shannon Ivey had a voice that carried and a laugh that reverberated. “Hey, shoot anything you like. Mike is turning this place into a Marathon museum. He’s got a couple of restored cars in the back.”

  She came out from behind the counter and led us toward the front of the building, then around to an area that was still being renovated. A ladder stood in one corner, a power saw beside it. One wall was bare to the brick, which must have measured almost two feet in thickness. Weathered oak paneling gave a vintage look to another section.

  She pointed to an area that had been stripped of its paneling. “This is where he found them.”

  Examining the wall up close, I saw two small holes in the mortar.

  Mrs. Ivey noted my interest. “I think he said there were nails in the wall there that held up the papers.”

  Jill had her camera out and took a few shots of the area.

  “Is the carpenter who found them still on the job?” I asked.

  “No. I think they moved him to another project. Things have been slow this week without Mr. Bradley.”

  I thanked her for her help, and we started out.

  “Would it be okay for Mike to call you sometime about those papers?” she asked. “I’m sure it would tickle him to death to get his hands on something like that.”

  “Sure. No problem,” I said. “In fact, tell him to call when he gets back. I’d like to find out what he’s turned up in digging around among all that old Marathon memorabilia.”

  Since we didn’t know what kind of fare we might get at the Rottman’s tonight, I suggested we try a nice Italian restaurant for lunch. One with a reputation for great cannelloni or manicotti. But Jill was in a torture mood and insisted on stopping at a place that specialized in salads. When we got back to the office, I called Warren.

  “Have you heard anything else from the assistant DA?” I asked.

  “No. Should I have?”

  I told him about my conversation with Detective Adamson. He was livid.

  “Who the hell would bring up something like that? It was years ago, and nothing ever came of it. The authorities in Vegas ruled it purely an accident. I’d like to get my hands on whoever tried to stir that up.”

  “Calm down,” I said. “If that’s all it amounted to, I imagine Adamson will let it slide.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s damned disgusting. Who could have made that call?”

  “It could have been a friend of Sharkey’s, though I’m not aware that he had many friends.”

  Jarvis paused for a moment. “I don’t know anyone around Nashville, so I have no idea what else it could have been about.”

  I didn’t, either, though in the back of my mind I couldn’t dismiss the Marathon angle. “What have you and Kelli been up to today?”

  “She’s been over to see her grandfather. Look, Greg, she’s an action-oriented person. I hope you can come up with some ideas on what she can do to help. She gets out and runs like a sprinter to work off some of that pent-up energy.”

  I told him what we had learned from Agent Fought and about our visit to Marathon Village. “We’re going up to Trousdale County in the morning for Pierce Bradley’s funeral. We’ll probe around for some new leads while we’re there. Maybe we can come up with something to keep Kelli busy.”

  “I hope so. She’s going to wear out the soles on her running shoes. I don’t know how much longer I can hold her down here. She’s like a rocket waiting for ignition. Thank goodness you sound better than when you left us yesterday.”

  “Sorry for that little performance,” I said. “Kelli isn’t the only one suffering from acute frustration.”

  “I know it’s been rough, but we really appreciate all you and Jill have done.”

  “Thanks. And don’t worry, we’re not giving up. I’m hopeful we’ll come up with some new leads in Trousdale County tomorrow.”

  Jill had been listening to the conversation from her desk. She looked across with a gentle gaze. “Why don’t we concentrate on tracking down the Three Tees’ missing heir and let the Marathon buggy idle for a bit?”

  I swung my chair around and gripped the armrests. “I’m not happy with my performance, babe. I should have done more.”

  “Come on, Greg. We’re in this together.”

  “True.”

  “I have faith in you.”

  “Thanks.” I forced a smile. “Let’s track down Mr. Yancey.”

  The search turned out to be so simple it would result in one of our smaller bills to the lawyers. Since Terry Tremont had provided the missing brother’s social security number, we used our on-line resources, made a couple of phone calls and soon located Norris Yancey in Wenatchee, a town of about 30,000 on the Columbia River almost in the center of Washington State. I called Terry to give him the information.

  “Hey, you guys are great,” he said. “Nate will be here in about an hour. Any chance you could come by and give him the details? The client is always more impressed when it comes from the horse’s mouth.”

  I wasn’t sure I cared for the metaphor. Since we were billing on an hourly rate
, however, I didn’t mind reporting in person what could have been given on the phone.

  “That’ll work,” I said. “We can come by your office before heading home. Got to get ready for a party at Roger and Camilla Rottman’s, something Jill got us into with a symphony donation.”

  “You’re traveling in high society there, buddy.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. I don’t even know the people.”

  “Roger is one of those that helped give Nashville the reputation of a son-in-law town. You know, guys who came to Vanderbilt, married young debs and got cushy jobs with papa’s company. Camilla was a Hedrick.”

  “As in Hedrick Industries?”

  “You got it. Anyway, see you in about an hour.”

  When I told Jill what Terry had said, she looked down at her nails and ran a hand through her hair. I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head, playing a message that said: you should have gotten your hair done today.

  “I ought to have known that about Camilla,” she said. “I think Dad sold some insurance to Mr. Hedrick years ago, back when the company was a lot smaller. Now it’s an international behemoth.”

  I leaned back in my chair and clasped my hands behind my head. “I’ll bet the Rottmans put up enough cash to have something named for them at the new symphony hall.”

  “Probably. But knowing you, I don’t expect you to be intimidated.”

  She was right there. One of my basic tenets had always been never let anybody intimidate you. And I stuck by it, though sometimes it meant suffering the consequences, as with the general at Minot AFB who busted the rung out of my career ladder.

  Located in a high rise office building downtown, Tremont, Tisley and Tarwater occupied a corner suite with a panoramic view of Nashville’s northern and eastern environs. The hills that circle the city and play havoc with weather forecasters were somewhat obscured by typical summer afternoon cumulus buildups. A frumpish woman with round spectacles and graying hair ushered us into the senior partner’s office, which resembled a living room more than an office. It included a plush white sofa and chairs arranged around a dark wooden coffee table. The “desk” was a small table at one side of the room.

  Terry met us with hand outstretched in greeting, the cuffs of his white shirt turned back. A bear of a man in his mid-forties with eyes crinkled at the corners by frequent laughter, he seemed perfectly sized for the spacious office. I had learned to appreciate his style. He took nothing for granted but everything in stride.

  “Hi, Mrs. McKenzie . . . Greg.” He shook hands with both of us like priming a pump, a sparkle of humor in the twist of his lips. “Have a seat. Nate Yancey should be here any minute.”

  “What a lovely office,” Jill said. It was her first visit. She gazed around at the green plants and blooming flowers.

  Terry took one of the chairs as we sat on the sofa. “I like to feel at home when I’m working.”

  “Well, you’ve surely succeeded.”

  Before I could add a comment, the secretary re-appeared with a gangling, black-haired man who showed a broad grin as he walked in.

  “You must be the private eyes,” he said, looking from me to Jill. “Terry says you found my brother.”

  After Terry made the formal introductions, Nate Yancey joined us in one of the plush chairs.

  “We found your brother Norris in Wenatchee, Washington,” I said. “He seems to be happily engaged as an installer for a cable company out there.”

  “The hell you say. That boy used to tinker around with radios. I guess he’s moved up to television. Last I heard of him, must have been at least ten years ago, he was somewhere in Texas.”

  “You haven’t had a letter or anything since?” I asked.

  “Nope. I don’t think he knows how to write or use a telephone. I’m surprised my dad didn’t cut him out of the will. Dad turned the business over to me a while back, but he kept hoping to hear something from Norris. Guess we should’ve hired you sooner.”

  Terry shifted a clipboard on his knee, where he had been jotting notes. “Nate runs Big Red Express. You can’t miss those red trucks.”

  Jill grinned. “I think I’ve encountered a few of them.”

  “Hope they didn’t do anything wild,” Yancey said. He stared at her for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Did you know you guys were in a dangerous profession? I saw where a local PI got killed the other day at the home of an old nut named Liggett. I know all about that man.”

  That perked me up. “How did you know him?”

  “He got really steamed at the truckers a couple of years ago. Claimed trucks were running him off the interstate, all kinds of stuff. He even went to the governor, tried to stir things up in the legislature. I just ignored him, but some of the others weren’t so willing to take it lying down.”

  I saw Jill cut her eyes toward me. Maybe that idea about the house trashing on Blair Boulevard being revenge by truckers or Teamsters wasn’t so far-fetched after all. But why now?

  Chapter 22

  A tribute to Roger Rottman’s ability to marry well, our destination lay on a tree-lined street of opulent mansions in Belle Meade, Nashville’s ritziest suburb. We drove through an elaborate stone entrance, up a circular driveway, into a large parking area that fronted a stone mansion resembling something out of nineteenth century England. My Jeep Grand Cherokee seemed hardly grand between a sleek Lincoln and a high-powered Mercedes.

  “What a beautiful Georgian house,” Jill said in a hushed voice.

  I had only a vague notion of Georgian architecture. Whatever it was, it certainly looked imposing. Four large white columns held up what I would have called the front porch roof, though Jill promptly set me straight on that.

  “Look at that impressive pediment. Its triangular design is repeated in the gables.”

  “Thanks for that architectural enlightenment,” I said.

  The retreating sun bore down at a sharp angle, filtering narrow shafts of light through the trees, as we started for the entrance, a large white door flanked by narrow glass panels and topped by an arched window. It rested beneath a wooden balcony that could have been designed for a latter-day Juliet. Smaller room wings on either side joined the main part of the house.

  I gave a self-conscious tug at my tie and pressed the button beside the door. Our arrival had been noted, as the door opened seconds later to reveal a man about my height, though heavier. He had a jowly face, graying hair, and glasses that enhanced a benign smile.

  “Come in,” he said. “I’m Roger Rottman. I recognize you. You’re Greg McKenzie.”

  My eyebrows lifted. “How did you know that?”

  “When Camilla told me who was coming, I thought I recalled the name. I looked it up and found you played a prominent role in tracking down Dr. Elliott Bernstein’s murderer.”

  I waved a dismissing hand. “I wasn’t much help to the poor chairman, I’m afraid, but it sure gave me a load of publicity.”

  He turned to Jill. “I believe you had a hand in that, too, Mrs. McKenzie.”

  She nodded, tight-lipped. It had been better than four months ago, but she still bore some lingering fallout from the experience.

  I smiled. “Fortunately for us, there are plenty of other evil-doers around to keep us busy.”

  “That’s good . . . or is it? Anyway, let me show you into the drawing room where the rest of the guests have gathered.”

  He led us past the broad entryway, where a curving staircase wound upward. Colorful area rugs covered the gleaming hardwood floor here and there. We entered a large room lighted by a crystal chandelier. A table bearing an attractive array of finger foods sat near a bar where a white-jacketed young man dispensed drinks. Several round tables with chairs had been placed about the room, though no one seemed interested in sitting at the moment.

  Camilla Rottman turned as we came in. She broke into a big smile and hurried over, her blonde tresses just touching bare shoulders that glowed bronze in the light from the chandelier. She wore a
slinky, low-cut black dress that barely contained her ample bosom. Those pale blue eyes looked sultry. Taking Jill and me by the hand, she led us over to a group of six people.

  “I want you to meet Greg and Jill McKenzie,” she said with a little more vigor than I thought necessary.

  She went around the group, introducing two married couples and two singles. I recognized the names of a lawyer and a prominent heart surgeon. The unmarrieds were thirty-ish, the others not a lot younger than Jill and I. When the bartender came over to ask what we would like to drink, the chatter returned to its previous level. The doctor made a comment to Jill, and she began telling him about our wanderings after retirement, before settling in Nashville.

  Camilla brought my drink with a gleam in her eye. “I love a man who drinks Scotch. Shows he’s made of the right stuff.”

  I suspected she had been hitting the stuff long before our arrival. “I guess it comes from my Scottish heritage,” I said. “I had a chance to spend a little time in Scotland during my Air Force career.”

  Her smile appeared glued on. “I believe you were a colonel?”

  “Lieutenant colonel.”

  “I’m not too well versed in military matters, but it sounds impressive. I never had much contact with the military. My grandfather was a pilot, killed in World War II, so I never knew him. Roger missed Vietnam, of course. He was in Vanderbilt at the time. My father served in the Army in World War II, but he never talked much about it.”

  “Was he in combat?”

  She shook her head, letting the blonde hair sweep about her shoulders. “He was a finance officer in the Medical Corps. He’s always been good with dollar signs.”

  If he lived anything like his daughter, he had to be. “I presume your dad’s retired?”

  “In name only. Actually, he serves as chairman of the board of Hedrick Industries. Roger is president.”