by Beth Urich
Connections
Table of Contents
Title Page
Connections (Kate Starling Mysteries, #2)
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Beth Urich
Reader’s Guide
Chapter One
A Note from the Publisher
Connections
Kate Starling Mysteries
Book Two
Beth Urich
THIS BOOK IS A WORK of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher.
For permission requests, write to the publisher
“Attention: Permissions Coordinator”
Zimbell House Publishing
PO Box 1172
Union Lake, Michigan 48387
mail to: [email protected]
© 2021 Beth Urich
Published in the United States by Zimbell House Publishing
http://www.ZimbellHousePublishing.com
All Rights Reserved
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-64390-211-1
Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-64390-212-8
.mobi ISBN: 978-1-64390-213-5
ePub ISBN: 978-1-64390-214-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021908985
First Edition: July 2021
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Zimbell House Publishing
Union Lake
Dedication
TO MY MOTHER, EVA, who inspired and supported me in so many ways. I wish she could have shared this milestone with me, but she is here in spirit.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to forensic anthropologist, Frederick Snow, PhD, and Taney County Coroner, Kevin Tweedy, EMPT-P, CCEMTP, who each graciously provided answers to technical questions for this novel.
Chapter One
The flashing lights filled Kate’s rearview mirror seconds before the speeding police car passed her on Main Street. Adrenalin electrified her muscles despite the lack of sirens. Dark splatter from the rain-soaked pavement arched across her windshield. She gripped the wheel as the aroma of a breaking news story filled her nostrils.
The officer eased through the four-way stop at the bottom of the hill before gliding left onto Commercial Street. She tapped her brake and checked for cross-traffic as she approached the intersection before making the turn herself.
With a glance at her dash clock, Kate realized her plan to beat her boss to the office would be scuttled by the detour. But postponing the—no doubt—well-earned reprimand could not be avoided. The young officer was on a mission and now so was Kate.
She slowed to a discreet distance as the patrol car proceeded over the railroad tracks and crossed St. Limas Street. The driver immediately turned left onto the large corner lot bordered on the west and north by woods along Roark Creek as it merged with Lake Taneycomo. He parked close to two half-ton pickups where St. Limas dead-ended at the creek.
As the young officer emerged from his car, he pulled on a jacket and hat against the persistent rainfall. The six-foot-six burly frame could belong to only one of Branson’s finest—Patrolman Harold “Skip” Rogers. As a city-beat reporter, Kate interviewed Skip last year for an article on police recruits. His polite “yes ma’am” responses made her thirty-two years feel old at the time, but she hoped for the same courteous treatment this morning.
He treaded carefully around three pieces of heavy clearing machinery now abandoned on the muddy acreage. Two of a four-man crew met him halfway from where two others were hunkered down next to a massive uprooted tree stump on the far-side of the property.
Kate approached slowly and parked her car next to a flatbed logging truck situated along Commercial Street. The stack of twenty-foot trunk sections—and the renewed downpour—would conceal her Ford Escort from Skip and the others, if only temporarily. She waited as he listened to the first two men. When the three headed toward the stump, she grabbed the Silver Dollar City rain poncho from the back seat and eased the door open.
The ground, sodden with a week’s worth of autumn rainstorms, was treacherous with tree limbs and branches, but she didn’t hesitate to follow. Her hiking boots were tucked away in her closet at home, so her bargain-store tennis shoes would have to do. Kate prepared a speech in her mind, knowing Skip would spot her at any moment.
“Wait here,” Skip said, signaling the men to stop. Taking a position still a dozen feet away, he surveyed the area on the root-end of the stump. Staring briefly, he lowered his chin to his chest for a moment and then unhooked the microphone attached to his uniform. “Dispatch, Rogers,” he said, still facing away from Kate’s position.
The female voice on the radio crackled, “Go ahead, Skip. Over.”
“Yeah, I’m down by Roark Creek, north of the railroad tracks on Commercial. Looks like these boys found something the detectives will want to see. Over.”
“Ten four.”
Kate, hoping to eyeball the location before being noticed, eased closer to the group, but her view of the scene remained blocked.
Without warning, Skip spun around and took a stride in her direction. His widened eyes and gasp preceded a disgusted frown. “Jeez, Kate, what are you doing?”
She smiled and cocked her head slightly, meeting his steely glare with her soft blue eyes. “Hey, Skip. What’s happening? I saw you rushing down the hill.”
He took her elbow and rotated her toward the street. The gentle touch belied his large stature, but his intent was clear.
“I don’t believe this,” he mumbled. “You have to go.”
“Not yet,” she said, securing the poncho hood in place and planting her feet in the mud.
He pushed her elbow forward as if it were a throttle, but she shook off his grip.
“Tell me what they found. You know I’ll find out sooner or later.”
“I’m sure you will. But not from me.”
Applying more force, he grasped her arm and accelerated the pace. Closer to the flatbed his hold relaxed somewhat. She pulled away and slogged back to
ward the stump, the poncho hood trailing in the wind with her now drenched mane of auburn hair.
“Hey,” Skip whined. Then he mumbled something she was glad she couldn’t understand, followed by a bellowed “Stop!”
She glanced over her shoulder and yelled, “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back,” before crashing into the four men, who apparently felt obligated to help her follow Skip’s command. In a matter of seconds, the officer joined the group.
“Look, Kate, you know the drill. You were asked politely, if I must say so myself, to leave the premises of a potential crime scene.”
“Crime scene?”
Skip directed his attention over Kate’s head and said, “Good morning, detective. Sorry, sir, we have a bit of a situation.”
“I can see you have your hands full,” Tom Collingwood said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll take care of this, Skip, and join you in a minute.”
Kate froze, somewhere between glad to recognize Tom’s voice and disappointed with his timely arrival. His new partner, Sid Green, would have been easier to deal with. Charming a man with whom you became friends in first grade, dated in high school, broke up during college, and resumed a relationship not quite fifteen months ago would be next to impossible.
“Okay, Katie. You know better than to try to intimidate your way into a police investigation.”
“How do you know I was trying...? Oh, never mind. I can explain,” Kate said.
“I look forward to discussing it. But right now, you need to resume whatever you were doing before you took this side-trip.”
“But I was just—”
“I know. But you need to leave.”
“Okay. I’m going,” she said. Halfway to her car, she turned back and shouted, “Can’t you tell me what’s by the stump?”
Tom raised his arm, index finger extended toward the street.
Not easily dismissed, Kate retraced her steps, standing about a foot from her on-again-off-again sweetheart and gazed sweetly into his eyes. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
“That is so considerate.”
“Seriously. I’ll leave, but you have to promise to give me a heads up before any public announcement about the body they found.”
“What body?”
“I get it, Tom. You can’t say anything. We’ve discussed this before. But can’t you give me the hometown advantage on your news release?”
“Playing the hometown-advantage card?”
“I’d use the best-friend-forever card if I thought it would help.”
“I bet you would,” he said, walking away.
In a few steps, he stopped and turned, resuming eye contact with Kate. “I will try to alert you before we make a public announcement.”
“That’s good enough for me,” she said, hurrying to her car as fast as the mud would allow. “You have my pager number, right?”
KATE SHOOK OFF THE remnants of mud clinging to her shoes before entering the newspaper office. It was quarter to eight and her boss was talking to a couple of the Branson-beat reporters at the front counter. Helen glanced at Kate and nodded, then finished her instructions to the others.
“I’m sorry I’m late, but I ran into a story,” Kate said, following Helen to her office at the back of the building. Two chairs were positioned in front of the manager’s gray army surplus desk, which sat in the center of the room. The two women stood eye-to-eye for a few seconds before Helen gestured for Kate to sit, positioning the other chair for herself close to Kate’s.
Ten years to the day Kate’s senior, Helen Saint James had taken the fledgling reporter under her wing about nine years ago. After college, Kate worked part-time at first, helping her father at his motel most of the time. She didn’t become an official, albeit on-call, reporter until five years later. By then, Helen was in a full-time staff position but remained a generous advisor.
Three summers ago, when the incumbent moved to Arizona for his health, Helen accepted a promotion to Managing Editor. She changed her hair from a long brown straight non-style to a blond highlighted shoulder-length body-wave. Her wardrobe went from casual slacks and jeans to young executive suits and tailored dresses.
Helen’s attitude changed with her upgrade and a tension developed between Kate and her mentor. The former chose not to analyze it too much and blamed the alienation on Helen’s increased workload and responsibilities.
“I’m not sure how to begin,” Helen said.
“Say what’s on your mind, Helen. How hard can that be?”
“For you? It may be easy. But I don’t want to—”
“Tell me what I did wrong. I promise I’ll fix it.”
Helen took a deep breath. “I wish it was one thing, but it’s everything.”
“That could be harder to fix,” Kate muttered.
Helen paced the width of the room, stopping a few feet from Kate. She held her hands in front of her as if serving from a tray. “We’re a small newspaper in a small town that’s growing fast. The few of us on the news staff must work together. No stars or egos here. We don’t manipulate individuals to get information. We don’t manipulate the information itself. We write a factual and professionally prepared article based on our assignments.”
“And I’m not doing that?”
“Are you?”
Kate fidgeted in her chair. “I do my job in a professional manner.”
“Do you feel you’re part of a team?”
“Yes,” Kate said with conviction, but Helen’s incredulous gaze reflected her own doubt. “Okay, so I work better alone.”
The Managing Editor’s eyes softened. “This isn’t a contest, Kate.”
“If I get a lead for a story, I want to follow it. Right now, I have a lead. Something was found on that lot they’ve been clearing down by the lake.”
“Something?”
“I couldn’t get by the responding patrolman. Then Tom ran me off. I’m sure it’s a body.”
“Kate, you are not supposed to get by the police. You can’t assume that what they found is a body, no matter how logical that may seem. This attitude of yours is what I’m talking about.”
“Sometimes you have to work harder to get the information.”
“But is that worth alienating the police?”
Kate ignored the allegation. “If I don’t do the story someone else will.”
“And that would be okay. But my job includes making sure articles are completed in a timely and professional manner. If I give you an assignment, I expect it to be done.”
“I see now.”
“You see what?”
“You’re mad because I haven’t done the feature on that woman.”
“Henrietta Stupholds,” Helen said. “Your article was due two days ago. And that woman is responsible for starting an annual activity that brings thousands of tourists to this little town.”
Kate stared at her boss, not knowing how to respond.
Helen said, “The article I assigned may not be about a dead body on a vacant lot, but in this town the crafts fair is news and the Stupholds piece belongs in the anniversary series.”
“I haven’t been able to get an interview.”
“You’re telling me the bloodhound of Tri-Lakes Newspapers failed?”
“I called, but Mrs. Stupholds didn’t answer.”
“Okay, Kate,” Helen said, moving toward the door. “Get the interview. We need to run the first article in this weekend’s edition.”
“But—”
Helen held up her hand as if stopping traffic. “Don’t worry, if that something on the lot becomes news we’ll talk about an assignment.”
Chapter Two
The morning showers all but forgotten, Kate walked the distance from her office to Connarde Realty, a narrow storefront office on Commercial Street across and down the street from the paper. Marge Connarde, an active member of the Branson Chamber of Commerce, had been chairman of the annual crafts festival for the past fifteen years. A table in
her storeroom served as headquarters for the organizers.
Marge struggled with a display easel on the sidewalk in front of the door. Brochures, posters and other paraphernalia were stacked nearby under the awning. Her tailored business suit flattered her petite figure while lending an air of authority uncommon for such a small woman. Amazingly, the red ensemble complimented, rather than clashed with, her strawberry blond Farrah Fawcett styled hair. Somewhere in her mid-fifties, Marge’s attitude, dress, and actions were those of a woman fifteen years younger.
“Well, Katie Starling. How are you? How’s your dad? Still as feisty as ever?”
“We’re fine,” Kate said when the woman took a breath. “Can I help with that?” Kate held the back legs steady as Marge adjusted the front, snapping two narrow shelves into place.
“Thanks. You know, I missed Roger at church Sunday. Nothing wrong, I hope.”
“Touch of a cold, probably.”
“I’ll take him some of my chicken soup.”
“That would be nice,” Kate said.
The woman, twelve-thirteen years his junior, had been infatuated with Roger for as long as Kate could remember, maybe even before Kate’s mother died. Definitely before Marge’s husband ran off with his secretary almost twelve years ago. The realtor squared two posters and several bundles of brochures on the display, then stepped back to inspect her work.
“Perfect. What do you think?”
In the larger poster, three-man kiosks of canvas, wood, and colorful fabric lined Commercial Street from Main Street to the post office. People—presumably paying tourists—crowded the streets and browsed at each crafts display.
“I don’t remember as many booths last year. Nor as many visitors.”
“This is an artist’s concept, dear. You know what that means. Nothing ever quite turns out the way one conceives, does it?” She collected the extra brochures and savored one final review of the display.
Kate followed Marge into the office and greeted the three women working around the table in the back room. None of them was old enough to be the lady who began the Branson Crafts Fair forty years ago.
“I’m Kate Starling with Tri-Lakes News. Will Henrietta Stupholds be in today?”