2 Death at Crooked Creek

by Mary Ann Cherry

  Arvid grunted in agreement. He texted Esther that they wanted to go out to the Gingerbread Man’s shop if the invitation could be moved to the next day…then he punched in the numbers for the Sheriff’s Office.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Christofferson’s Law Office, Crooked Creek

  Tate leaned forward and placed the crumpled notepaper on Richard Christofferson’s desk. Looking around the room, he took note of the diplomas hanging in walnut frames on the richly wallpapered walls.

  The attorney’s hand swept out and pulled the crumpled paper toward him. He reached into his desk drawer and brought out reading glasses. As he read, he ran nervous fingers through his salt and pepper hair.

  Tate looked at the family photos on the desk. In them, the attorney stood with his arm around a slender brunette woman and two little boys about seven and nine, posed in front of their parents. Nice looking little family. Something he wanted himself, but something that wasn’t in the cards right now. He wondered if there’d ever be a time that he could have a family—even with this windfall will that he’d just handed the lawyer. He was committed to the Army for another year.

  A pity, too. Now he’d have everything he’d ever dreamed of. Money for nothing. Everything a man could want. He really liked the flame-haired artist, Jessie. If he was going to be around her neck of the woods, he’d make a huge effort to get better acquainted. Give that Grant Kennedy some competition. When he helped Jessie clean up her supplies after the quick draw, and Kennedy stuck his crooked nose in the mix, he hadn’t liked the way the two kept stealing glances at one another.

  Oh well.

  Maybe he was coming to the attorney’s office too soon. Maybe he should have stayed under cover for a while longer. Then he saw the framed quote hanging behind Christofferson’s desk area and he brightened. The attorney’s choice of décor gave him hope.

  “Discretion is the perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the duties of life...”

  - Sir Walter Scott

  Hopefully this small-town attorney knew the meaning of discretion. Tate made up his mind to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “It’s the original will, sir, and I hope you’ll keep it quiet for a while. I imagine you received the faxed copy of the handwritten will that Dominic Nielson, Harris Freeman and I all signed. This original was witnessed by a couple of the Army officers we knew.” Tate was somber. “The three of us were good friends.” He cleared his throat, which was suddenly tight. “Like brothers. We went through a lot together during our time in the army. I was from Hawaii, not raised around here like Dom and Harris, but it didn’t matter. We watched each other’s backs.”

  Christofferson looked up from the paper and nodded. “Go on.”

  “When Dom died, Harris and I were determined to find out exactly what happened here in Crooked Creek. Harris bought a ticket home, but I don’t think he even got out of Savannah.” His voice caught. “My superior called me today. This morning, a Georgia farmer and his son were out squirrel hunting, and they found the remains of a man. In the woods about twenty miles out of Savannah. The local police and the military police had been working together to find Harris. Papers found in his pockets make it pretty certain it’s him, but he wasn’t wearing his dog tags. The tags weren’t in his luggage left at the hotel, either. Because of the deterioration of the body and the fact that critters had been at it...well, the MPs at the base are waiting for DNA confirmation. There was a phone on the body, but it had to be sent to a data recovery wizard.”

  “I’m sorry to hear,” Christofferson said, his tone sympathetic. “His mother is in an assisted living facility here in Crooked Creek. I hope her dementia will be somewhat of a barrier between her and such a blow.” He looked down again at the paper in his hand. “For a few of these old folks, sometimes it’s a blessing not to realize what’s happening. I sure hope I never get to that point, though.” He looked again at the paper Tate had given him. “You realize that when Althea was told she was developing Alzheimer’s, she put everything into Harris’s name. Everything. Not even her stepson knows that at this point.” He looked up. “It’s a considerable amount. It does stipulate that her health care and assisted living expenses are to be paid—any expenses incurred that are not covered by her insurance, that is—and it stipulates a nice bequest to her stepson.” He looked down at the paper again. “A handwritten will, witnessed by two army officers. This may be remarkably distressing to the stepson, even though he hates farming.” He looked up at Tate. “You’re an MP, correct?”

  Tate nodded in the affirmative.

  “Interesting. I think it is alright for me to tell you that I received another copy of this in the mail two months ago—from Harris Freeman. I have not made this public because there is not, at this time, valid proof he is deceased. And you realize it will need to be verified. Then it will have to go through probate. That often takes several months.” He flipped the pen he was holding end over end in his fingers. “It was determined that Dom passed away after his father had already died. The sequence of deaths determines that the Nielson place and all monies, including life insurance, went from Berg, then to Dom, then to Harris Freeman and now to you. It’s a large bequest.”

  “I know,” Tate said sadly. He cleared his throat. “I never visited out here, but I had suspected as much.”

  Christofferson gave Tate a pointed look. “Don’t be offended, not that you’d tell me, but I don’t suppose you killed Harris Freeman yourself? You’re actually the best suspect. You had motive. You were in Georgia. You knew his plans.”

  “No. I’m not offended. If I didn’t know I hadn’t killed a good friend so that I could inherit a ranch—two ranches, actually—I would even suspect myself. Nielson’s is certainly a nice place. I drove by yesterday, just to take a look from the road. I’ll need to make some arrangements for its management and for that of the Freeman ranch. I haven’t been by the house there, yet, but I understand the two properties share a common border. Do I recall Harris saying that your brothers did some farm management?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “I may need to contact them and ask if they have time to handle a few more acres.” Tate leaned forward. “However, the inheritance isn’t the only reason I’m here. I came out to find out what happened to the Nielson family. What can you tell me? Who had reason to kill Dom’s sister? Who would want to drive the old man half-crazy with worry until he was so paranoid he shot his own son? And how does it tie in with Harris Freeman’s murder? Because he had to have been murdered.”

  “I really don’t know. And I’ve given it a lot of thought. The logical suspect for Harris’ murder would have been Wheels—sorry, that’s Glen Heath—Harris’s stepbrother. The two were never close. He probably never knew that Harris would inherit from Dom, but he probably thought with Harris gone that he’d inherit the ranch. But Glen is a nice fellow, and he wasn’t even in town for most of the problems with Berg Nielson. I heard that he was totally cleared by Sheriff Fischer with an iron clad alibi. When Addie was killed, and Berg began receiving the threatening notes, Glen was recuperating from some miserable surgery. Gallbladder? Gallstones? I can’t recall.”

  “Well, if you think of anything, no matter how small, please call me.” He handed Christofferson a card with his cell phone number. “Until I’m satisfied the Sheriff’s Office identified the correct killer—or killers—for each and every one of those deaths, I’m staying put.”

  Christofferson looked startled. “I’ve heard of no arrest.”

  “They couldn’t make an arrest because the suspect is dead. His name is Benny Potter.”

  Christofferson stared in bewilderment. Then he shook his head. His eyes met Tate’s. “No.” Christofferson said the single word again, with even more conviction. “No. Not Benny.”

  “You don’t think so, huh? Do you know that Potter went all the way down to Savannah and rented an SUV? And that was the vehicle the motel clerk saw Harris get into the day he died. It’s prett
y cut and dried. But I agree with you. I’ve been checking on this Benny. Everyone I asked, ‘Did you know this poor guy who got killed?’ said he wasn’t very bright. I don’t think he was capable of the planning. So, my job here is not done.”

  “No.” The attorney said again emphatically. “You’re right.” Then he sighed and shook his head. “Since it’s been proven that he went to Georgia, maybe he’s the one who killed Harris Freeman—although I can’t imagine why—but I went to school with Benny Potter. He barely graduated. He could never plan something like the campaign mounted against Berg Nielson.” He tapped a pen on his desk, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I imagine the Sheriff would love to think that Benny did this. He’d like to think the matter was settled, too—that people are safe now. But no. Benny was a bit slow mentally. However, he was also gullible.”

  “Gullible in what way?” Tate demanded.

  Christofferson stopped tapping the pen and leaned back in his leather office chair. His face was furrowed in thought. Then he spoke. “From junior-high school on, Benny was always being taken advantage of by boys who talked him into doing their dirty work. Want to have a dead chicken put in someone’s school locker? Pay Benny five bucks. Want chewing gum stuck in your ex-girlfriend’s hair or a rival’s new car keyed? A dead catfish slid under the backseat of a teacher’s car? Pretend to be his friend and ask Benny.” He gazed out the window. “Young people are cruel. It was pitiful.”

  “So, you think someone else—someone pretty damn vicious by the sound of the nasty notes sent to a harmless old man—pulled Benny’s strings?”

  “Yes. I do. Do I understand that you plan to stick around until you figure out who the puppeteer is?” The lawyer’s tone was sharp.

  Tate leaned forward again. His eyes were hard. He answered the lawyer in the lawyer’s own clipped tones. “Yes. I am. And I’m going to find a way for the law to hang him from his own strings.”

  “Well, here’s what I suggest. There’s an old fellow in town who knew more about the Nielson family than you’d be able to find out anywhere else. He’s been acting as a caretaker. I can’t give you a key to Nielson’s place yet. That will have to wait until the will is verified, but the old man has one. Get him to show you around. I’ll give him a call and tell him to expect you. And I’ll tell him not to mention you’re looking into the murders. Or that you’ll be inheriting.”

  Tate nodded. “Thanks.”

  The lawyer yanked a post-it-note from a stack on his desk and scribbled a name and address. “Don’t let his appearance fool you.” Christofferson smiled at Tate. “Lately, he seems about half a birthday candle from dead, but he’s a healthy old codger and tough as an old railroad spike. He tells me he’s been trying to check into the deaths, but so far hasn’t had a lot of success.” He handed Tate the contact information. “Joe Helland. Around here they call him the Gingerbread Man.”

  Tate raised his eyebrows. Then he thought about the old vet who’d lingered at the table while he and Jessie O’Bourne were drinking cocoa. Jessie had brought the old guy into his art room, too, with the man lugging an oxygen pack and appearing exhausted.

  He looked at Christofferson and grinned. “I may have already made this fine gentleman’s acquaintance.”

  Christofferson nodded. “He expected someone from the army to come looking for Harris Freeman.” His eyes grew serious. “And Tate?”

  “Yes?” Tate noted the grim expression on the lawyer’s face.

  “Like I said, the stepbrother is going to be a might upset that he isn’t the primary heir. But the law is the law. Right now, it is assumed that Mrs. Althea Heath will inherit, and I’ll let people assume so for a bit. When Berg first wrote his will, he had several minor bequests he asked Dom to honor. I can go over them with you in detail later. You could choose to honor those as well. It might make you a tad more popular in the community.”

  Tate nodded.

  “And I’m assuming you do plan to check in with the Sheriff’s office?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “They aren’t a bunch of rubes, you know. If you actually did have anything to do with Harris’s death, they’ll eventually find out.”

  “Nothing to worry about, sir.” Tate flashed an impish grin. “I’m innocent as the proverbial newborn babe. I’ll visit this fine Sheriff’s Office tomorrow, as promised. But today I’ll go speak with Mr. Helland.”

  Christofferson harrumphed. “I don’t suspect Glen had anything to do with the Nielson’s deaths, either. Or his own step-brother’s. But someone has gone to a lot of trouble and planning—it could have nothing—or everything—to do with the property you inherited. Watch your back.”

  Tate tossed him a quick salute and turned to go.

  After he left, Christofferson reached into a drawer and pulled out a thin file folder. He opened it and read through it once more, checking each bequest Berg Nielson had listed, and evaluating the wording to see how binding the bequests were. Then he sat for a time, forming circles with the tip of his index finger on the stack of papers. Thinking.

  Chapter Forty-six

  The Gingerbread Man

  Tate looked up at Joe Helland in amazement as the old man climbed off the top rung of the steep rickety ladder and hoisted himself onto the floor of Nielson’s barn loft like a man half his age. “For God’s sake, be careful,” he called up, fussing. “And don’t think I’m coming up. I hate heights. And that beat up ladder doesn’t look like it would even hold my weight.”

  “That’s fine,” Helland rumbled down.

  Tate heard a low muttered ‘little wuss’ but pretended he hadn’t caught it.

  “I just want to check and see what’s left up here. Berg used it for storage and he has some big steamer trunks up here. They should be fairly secure. But I want to make certain the mice aren’t getting in. They can squeeze into a quarter of an inch hole if they feel motivated. Berg used to have a couple barn cats to keep after them. One of the neighbors gave them a home after he died, so all you’ve got left to keep the mice down is the King. Watch out for him.” Joe Helland scurried down the ladder, stepped down onto the dirt floor of the barn and wiped the palm of his hands on his jeans.

  “The King?” Tate asked. “Nielson had a cat named after Elvis?”

  Helland looked blank, then chuckled. “No…he isn’t named after Elvis.”

  “King Tut?” Tate looked at Helland with expectation. “Martin Luther King?”

  “Nah,” Joe said. “Named after a card. The King of Diamonds—probably around here somewhere.” He waved his hand, indicating the interior of the barn. “Unless he’s still hibernating. But they usually come out of hibernation in March or April if it hits sixty degrees out.”

  “Cats don’t hibernate.”

  “Right you are. It isn’t a cat. It’s a big rattler. Diamondback.”

  “A snake?” Tate took a step backward. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Nope. Berg took the shotgun out several times to try and get rid of it last fall, but I don’t believe he ever got him. I’ve seen a few mice in the loose haystack over there, and I know they’d attract him like a magnet.” He gestured to a large pile of hay in the corner from which a pitchfork protruded. “I’d planned to move the hay out this spring. Don’t suppose you want to take care of that while you’re here?”

  Tate pulled a face and laughed good naturedly. “Nossirree. Good story, though.” He waved his hand above his head in an airy manner. “Go ahead and make fun of the new Hawaiian kid on the block. I can take it.”

  Helland looked at him. “No story. I’m dead serious. Be careful if you come out here by yourself and walk around. See that small cabinet on the wall? It has a few things in it Berg used to keep when he had horses or new lambs. Veterinarian type stuff. But let me just check if there’s also a snake-bite kit. He used to keep one here because of old King.” He walked over and opened the cupboard door, rummaging around in the supplies. “Nope. Not there anymore. Might be that he put it in the house.” He st
rolled toward the open barn door. “Do you want to see any more?”

  “Yes. I meant to ask you to show me approximately where Berg had the trail cam placed over by the house. The one he told you about?”

  “Sorry. I never saw it. Probably somewhere near the front door because the notes were almost always left at night. Evan Hansen loaned the camera to him. I know that young man. He was sure sweet on Adele. When she died, Evan took Berg under his wing. He brought over meals—big dinners Berg could use for several days at a time. He was pretty disgusted about the video cam though…said Berg moved it and the only thing it captured on film was someone’s feet. Not much you can tell from that. When you go in to talk to Sheriff Fischer, you can ask him about it.”

  Tate glanced at the lonesome-looking house. “I will. I suppose I’d better head back. I have a room-sitter watching my art display.”

  “How’s that going for you? You actually interested in art? Or are those sketches even yours?”

  “Oh, they’re mine all right. Old ones I did before I joined the Army. And it’s going well. I’ve actually sold enough to cover my framing and the show-room fee. It’s amazing. I’ve always loved drawing. Getting to try my hand at doing an art show make me rethink a military career. And I like meeting the people who come to the show.”

  Helland grunted. “It’s a good cover story, too. Why do you think someone at the art show is involved with the Nielson’s deaths? And I suppose if what you are telling me about Harris is true, whoever was responsible for Adele Nielson’s death and Berg’s notes is probably involved with Harris Freeman’s death—if he is indeed dead—as well. You know, that almost has to be Harris’s body they found near Savannah.

  “Yeah, I feel certain it’s him.” Tate peered around the barn warily—obviously looking for a snake.

  As they stepped through the barn door into the sunlight, Joe Helland was glad he was walking in front, so Tate couldn’t see his wide smile.