Connections

by Beth Urich

  “Pressure from the city?” Tom asked.

  “Yeah, we were going along fine, but now they’re all nervous about this audit the state is doing. I mean, it’s a small office building.”

  “Not so small by Branson standards. Most of the office space in town is part of a strip mall. Sounds like this one is different.”

  “But they’re driving me to drink over it.”

  Tom took another swallow of his beer. “Who’s driving?”

  “My boss, Bob Clanton, is super. The building owner’s grandson, who happens to be best buddies with the architect, likes to pretend he’s the job superintendent.”

  “Ouch.”

  “And how!”

  “Not much you can do,” Tom said. “Whoever holds the purse strings, holds the reins.”

  “Hey, I can get behind that. But, when you don’t know what the hell you’re doing, you ought to stay out of the way of those who do.”

  Tom offered, “Just because you can pay for a building, doesn’t mean you know how to construct it.”

  Gary spun the empty bottle and said, “Damn right. Hell, he can’t even do his job.”

  “You’re talking about Larry Allen, right?”

  “Yeah, he’s doing everything from ordering materials to scheduling my men. Even Clanton’s getting pissed.”

  “Why doesn’t your boss withdraw your company from the job?”

  “We’re in it too deep. Besides, you don’t want the reputation as a general contractor that blows the scene when the going gets tough, especially where Fortune Enterprises is involved. We’ll be finished soon, in any case.”

  “But I heard the permit was only approved last week.”

  Gary lowered his voice and leaned closer to his friend. “That’s one of the things Allen bungled but somehow managed to straighten out. Course, the fat lady hasn’t done her solo yet.”

  “So, you worked without the permit?”

  “I was told to keep on keeping on. The plans were under review and the permit would be issued any day. Or so they kept saying.”

  “How long did that go on?”

  “Long. You know, it wasn’t many years ago, I would have accepted this little issue ... if you get my drift. But nowadays things are different, people are watching, and the city is more serious about code. Even Taney County is getting stricter about the rule book.”

  “Allen’s position on the city council and running project development for Fortune Enterprises should keep him plenty busy. Strange he’d take special interest in one contract.”

  “Be my opinion.”

  “Maybe he’s like this on every project,” Tom offered.

  “Who knows? I figure he needs a girlfriend to take up some of his spare time.”

  “He’s married, isn’t he?” Tom asked.

  “I rest my case.”

  Tom sipped some beer and leaned forward slightly. “Did the city try to stop construction? Isn’t it difficult to do inspections without an approved plan?”

  “Inspection reports are Allen’s specialty. He and his crew can bully an approval out of anyone. I consider the city’s new building inspectors professional, but they can take only so much shit from someone.”

  “Do the inspectors change the reports?”

  Gary squinted and whispered, “That’s a very complicated question. Not sure I can answer that one.”

  Tom was caught in his friend’s gaze for a moment and decided not to pursue the topic for now. He checked his watch. “Better get going or I’ll be late for a meeting.” He tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table.

  “Hey, it was good to see you,” Gary said, shaking Tom’s hand while pulling him close to a hug. As they walked toward the door, he added, “Don’t make it so long next time, especially if you’re going to pick up the tab.”

  “I’m pretty sure the phone lines go both ways, Bubba,” Tom said, getting into his car.

  THE RIDE TO CITY HALL took several minutes, time enough for Tom to digest Gary’s comments and consider how they applied to the overall Branson construction boom.

  The small table in the center of the staff room next to the detectives’ office had been set up for the meeting.

  “Sorry, fellas. I got hung up with an old friend,” Tom said, settling into the chair next to Sid. “Did I miss anything?”

  Sid glanced at the coroner, seated on the opposite side. “No problem, I was catching Artie up on the Tom and Kate saga,” he said.

  “Short conversation,” Tom remarked, furrowing his brow in Sid’s direction. He pulled up to the table. “Good to see you, Artie. What do you have for us?”

  Artie opened the manila file situated in front of the detectives. “Here are my notes, a copy of my photos, and a preliminary report on the remains. Also, I called both the University of Arkansas and Missouri forensic anthropology departments. Neither had anyone who could help right now. Missouri recommended a private contractor who they’ve used in the past. Arkansas hadn’t worked with him, but they were familiar with his reputation and concurred.”

  Sid said, “He’s like a scientist for hire.”

  “Precisely,” Artie said. “I made calls to check his references and determine what else we might need. Then I called him to check availability. The man, Dr. Charles Fredericks, has been doing this for many years. His bio and resumé are in the file. Most of his experience has been in larger projects to identify victims of mass killings.”

  Tom took out the bio and scanned the list of projects. “Very impressive. Why would he want to help us?”

  “He didn’t even hesitate. He’s available right now and he can see we need his expertise. He’ll fly in tonight. I’ll pick him up in the morning and meet you at the site.”

  “We’ll be there,” Tom said.

  “Have you found any pertinent cold cases?” Artie asked.

  “Not yet,” Tom said. “I’ve had a chance to review from 1982 to present, the years in our automated system. I haven’t pulled records before then. Records for earlier years are in the archives, which I’m still trying to pin down.”

  Artie glanced in Tom’s direction. “I guess you lost the toss.”

  “How’d you know? I should have gone with seniority,” Tom said.

  Artie pushed away from the table. “I’m sure we’re going to need whatever you can find. We’ll learn more from Dr. Fredericks tomorrow.”

  As soon as the coroner was gone, Sid said, “Guess we better grab a quick bite before the thing starts tonight.”

  “Thing? You mean the Branson Citizens Police Academy?”

  “Fancy title.”

  “Yeah. I can’t wait either,” Tom said, heading for the door.

  TWO SIX-FOOT FOLDING tables were positioned against the wall on the left side of the police department meeting room. Handouts and student badges were lined up on either side of a poster displaying the PD organization chart, including external associations. About twenty folding chairs were situated in the center of the room to accommodate the citizen students, many of whom were already seated. Four empty folding chairs on either side of a podium in the front of the room faced the student bull pen. Tom and Sid proceeded to the front table where their boss stood checking his watch.

  “Good evening, Lieutenant,” Tom said, adding, “Sorry we’re late.”

  “You’re good,” Dan Palmer said. “We’ve been waiting for the last attendees to show. How’d it go with the coroner?”

  “Not much yet. The forensic anthropologist will arrive tomorrow.”

  Dan said, “I would guess this one could take a while. Any progress on the old cases?”

  Tom shook his head. “Not much to report on the Porter complaint issue either. Between Sid and me we’ve questioned bosses and workers in several construction companies doing work in Branson. A good friend of mine is the foreman with the general contractor on the big office complex job.”

  Sid said, “No one has described anything illegal going on.”

  “Lots of the usual you-scratch-my-back
stuff that goes on everywhere.” Tom said. “We addressed specific issues, per the complaint. Some innuendo but no specific proof yet. Porter named every project in town, so it was hard to take it too seriously.”

  “Have you spoken to anyone with the Building Department?”

  “Not yet,” Tom said. “We have an appointment for both of us to speak to Leatherman tomorrow. His responses are predictable, but we need to hear his perspective.”

  Sid said, “I’m not holding my breath for a confession, but we’ve let it be known we’ll pay a reward for information on questionable activity. Everything would be confidential.”

  “Sounds good,” Dan said. “Okay. I guess we better take our seats.”

  “I hate to say this,” Tom began, “but participating in a Citizens Police Academy is not my idea of a good way to end this day. I need some time away from City Hall and the crime business.”

  “Understood,” Dan said. “But tonight, you can leave when Chief Daniels completes the overview.”

  It wasn’t until Tom pulled his chair up to the speaker’s table that he saw Kate smiling at him from the audience. He returned the greeting then leaned toward Dan and whispered, “Did we authorize press coverage?”

  Dan shook his head. “Kate Starling will be one of the attendees. I’m sure she’ll use the information wisely.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Tom said still watching Kate. He wasn’t sure if her being part of the citizens academy was good or bad, but he knew it would make the classes more interesting.

  Forty-five minutes later, Leonard Daniels finished the introductions and overview by saying, “We’ll take a break now. Meet Sergeant Munroe in the hallway in fifteen minutes. He’ll take you to Dispatch for your next session.”

  Once the students vacated the room, Chief Daniels spoke briefly to the police personnel before ending with a reminder “to be prepared and on time for your portion of this academy. This class is important for community relations.”

  As the detectives walked to the Adams Street entrance, Sid said, “I’m going to take off, partner. See you in the morning.”

  “Okay,” Tom said. “I, uh, need to check on something before heading out.”

  “Right. Good luck with that.”

  “Seriously, I left something in the office.”

  Sid peeked over Tom’s shoulder. “I think something is by the bulletin board.”

  “What do you mean?” Tom asked, following Sid’s line of sight to Kate. He took a deep breath and made his way across the lobby, surprised to feel the tingles on his neck.

  “Anything interesting?” he asked, still a few paces away.

  She turned and smiled. “Just killing time.”

  Tom said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the class.”

  “Why? I’m a citizen.”

  “Yes, you are. But you already know how the department works.”

  “I figured it was time for a refresher course. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, especially when Helen suggested I attend.”

  “Ah. Truth at last.”

  “I’m sure it will be interesting, but it’s still an assignment, a feature article with the blessing of the city’s PR rep.”

  Tom stared into Kate’s eyes, not sure how to move forward.

  “I better get to the meeting spot,” she said, starting up the hallway. “I’d hate to have to stay after school.

  “Uh, Katie, I was wondering ...”

  She turned to face him. “About?”

  “We haven’t been out to dinner in quite a while.”

  “Several months. Did you want to know exactly? I can check my calendar.”

  Tom shook his head. “You know, I’d forgotten how mean you are.”

  Kate whispered, “I would love to have dinner with you.”

  “You would? I mean, that’s great. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Seven

  The sign hanging on the motel office door was older than Kate. The hands on the tattered cardboard clock indicated someone would return in fifteen minutes. Either the night desk clerk went the way of the others her father had hired or a motel guest called for his assistance. She made a mental note to buy a new sign.

  Dried leaves churned by the crisp autumn breeze fluttered across the dimly lighted parking lot. The house seemed forlorn, almost eerie in the shadows, no lights in the windows facing the motel, no trace of her dad or his vehicle.

  Along the north side of the house weeds and crabgrass gnarled the garden, once her mother’s pride and joy. As a little girl, Kate had marveled at the variety of flowers and plants, which miraculously changed with each season. Later she helped her mother tirelessly replace the tulips with marigolds and mums, trim the iris leaves, and thin out the day lilies in preparation for the next season. She missed her mother’s sense of calm and her unconditional love. The garden missed her too. And so did Kate’s father. Even after all these years, Margaret Carson Starling’s place in their lives had not been filled.

  The view from the back porch, once trees and hills as far as the eye could see, revealed signs of construction on a not-too-distant ridge. No doubt the site of another theater or motel, the newly cleared acreage was conspicuous even in the light of the newly waning moon.

  She settled onto the glider, closed her eyes, and summoned memories of the way Branson had been not too long ago, before the boom. Additional businesses brought jobs and a flourishing economy to the area, but at what price? Trees, water, land, and air had all been affected.

  “Mighty serious frown, Katie,” her father said, letting the screen door slam shut.

  She sighed. “I was remembering a different time.”

  “When your mother was alive?”

  “Yes, and before the changes.”

  “Not all for the good, I’m afraid.”

  “Not all bad. At least the motel is doing better now.”

  “Considering its owner was accused of murder.”

  “That’s over. You were totally cleared.”

  Roger Starling nodded and leaned his back against the railing, crossing his arms across his chest. The paunch, so prevalent in men his age, had never appeared. Thanks to hard work and good genes he seemed much younger than his sixty-five years.

  “What brings you home?”

  “I live here.”

  “I haven’t seen you for weeks.”

  “That’s not true. We have breakfast every Monday.”

  “Usually downtown after you’ve already been at work for two hours. Seriously, Katie, you work too much. Usually, you go directly to your room and I don’t see hide nor hair of you.”

  “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”

  “I know my daughter.”

  She took his hand, pulling him down to sit next to her. “Where were you?”

  “Had to go out.”

  “Had to?”

  “Someone came by. We went for a quick supper. That’s all. No big deal.”

  “Could this someone be female?”

  “Could be.”

  “Marge Connarde?”

  His face flushed. “Nothing wrong with Margie. She’s a very nice lady.”

  “I agree. She’s a foxy lady.”

  “Not sure foxy is what I need in my life.”

  “Trust me, you could use a little foxy. You’re too young to be alone. If you’re comfortable with Marge, I mean Margie, go for it.”

  “I appreciate the advice of one so experienced.”

  “Hey. I read a lot.”

  He cupped her hands in his and set the glider in motion. The associated bitonal to-and-fro creaks blended easily with the symphony of tree frogs and crickets in the Ozarks night.

  After several minutes, Roger said, “How’s it going with Tom?”

  “Why is everyone concerned about me and Tom?”

  “Shirley been on you too?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “So, how are the two of you getting along?”

  “Fine, I guess. Most of the time.�
�

  “Must not be too bad, if you’re talking.”

  She twisted around and glared. “Did Tom call you?”

  “What if he did? We’re old fishing buddies, you know.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing about you.”

  “Did he say we were speaking again?”

  “I got that impression, but we mostly discussed how the trout were biting.”

  “You’ll be pleased to know we’re going to have dinner.”

  “Halleluiah. I thought he’d never ask.”

  “I’m happy it makes you happy,” she said.

  “Are you going to tell me why you waited for me on the glider?”

  “I need your help with an article I’m doing. You’ve seen the features on Etta Stupholds and the crafts fair.”

  “Yes. Reading those brought back some memories.”

  “Great. I need your memories.”

  “Okay, but why?”

  “Helen wants me to do a series on Branson’s history. She wanted Etta and the crafts fair to be the focus, but Etta is running out of steam. She may not put up with me much longer.”

  “But I will?”

  “You can tell me what you remember about this area in the forties, fifties, sixties. You know, the good old days. Maybe you can give me leads on who else I can talk to. I’ve read the newspapers from the period, but nothing really juicy was ever published.”

  “You want the juicy stuff, huh? You know I was a young boy in the forties. I’m not sure how much juice I can scare up.”

  “Do you remember Etta? I know you worked for her husband.”

  “Had my first paying job sweeping floors at Clay’s store. Used to go every day after school. I’d sweep the inside, then the porch, then the storeroom. Whether they needed it or not, every day I’d sweep. Clay ... I called him Mr. Stupholds ... said he would give me a dime if I did a good job. Never failed to earn that dime.”

  “What was he like?”