by Beth Urich
“Sid is being too subtle. We have no idea what it all means. We know the victim is a male and maybe how and when he died. We have a lot of work to do.”
“We didn’t expect the forensic anthropologist to fill in all the blanks,” Dan Palmer said.
“True enough. But a wallet with a picture ID would have been nice.”
“Maybe it will help that you have permission to bring whatever files you need from the archives into the office. Cindy will brief you on the procedure. Can we release the crime scene?”
“Fredericks says not yet.”
“It better be soon. Allen has called two more times. Even the mayor asked me about it.”
Palmer signed for the coroner’s report and handed the form to Sid as he started to leave. “One more thing. I read your report on the Porter suit. Do you have anything to add?”
“I don’t know if we could call his suit frivolous, but we found nothing illegal or even particularly questionable going on around town. Since Porter provided no witness names or specific details, we’ve investigated the general process for each job. Leatherman has made a lot of procedural changes and is stricter on the permit process than in the past. I’m sure if the state finds any issues during its investigation they will already have been remedied. We spoke to the City Attorney who is preparing his response point-by-point. He’s satisfied the responses will quash the suit. Both Leatherman and the City Attorney’s office have tried without success to get additional information from Porter.”
“We still have our hot line open and will continue to follow any leads,” Sid added.
“Consider the case tabled, at least until the audit is complete or you get a new lead.”
Tom and Sid walked Palmer back to his office on the way to speak to Cindy and get the files they needed from the storeroom. They checked out the cases from the 1940s and 1950s. After they helped Cindy return files to boxes and boxes to shelves, they went to lunch, then stopped by the crime scene.
“Nothing out here we haven’t seen,” Sid said.
“I wanted to walk around before I read the detailed report. I’m sure Artie and Chuck were thorough, but I want to refresh my memory.”
“Something keeps nagging at me.”
“You’ve narrowed it to one thing?” Tom asked.
“One in particular. Why in the world would someone murder a person then bury them in the city?”
“I’m not sure if this was in the city in the 1940s.”
“Still, why not take the body to some remote part of the county or, even better, to Arkansas?”
“Good question. I guess we’ll need to start a list of those little nagging mysteries,” Tom said.
“Except this one will have a longer list,” Sid said.
“Here’s another one. Why would they bury the body not fifty yards from the creek? Why not weigh it down and dump it downstream?”
“Like I said, a long list.”
Chapter Sixteen
The list of recent property transactions provided by Kate’s new friend Evan included refinances and transfers between individuals Marge knew—no mysterious corporations, no sinister plots.
Since neither the Missouri nor Delaware agents from Marge’s notes had returned Kate’s calls, she decided a stroll down to the Sammy Lane Resort was in order.
As she passed the cottages next to the pool area, she recognized a man carrying a large toolbox. “You’re Darin Smith. Do you double as the maintenance man?” she asked.
“One of the perks of being an owner,” he said. “I haven’t seen you, Kate, since I was on the Planning and Zoning Commission a few years ago.”
“Don’t you wish you were on it now with all the development?”
“Not on your life.”
“You know, when I was a young girl my family would spend a day or two here in that cottage by the pool. My mom called it our little vacation.”
“Did you want to rent it for old time’s sake? I just fixed the plumbing for the umpteenth time, but it’s ready for occupancy.”
Kate laughed, but considered the idea for a second—perhaps a romantic weekend for her and Tom. She shook off the idea as a bit impetuous.
“Thanks, maybe someday. I do have a few questions, if you have time.”
“Depends. Am I going to read about it in the newspaper?”
“You never know,” she said with the sweetest grin she could muster.
“Let’s go to the office and get out of this blustery wind.”
Kate followed for a short distance, then stopped and turned her attention across Lake Taneycomo. The Candlestick Inn, situated on top of the bluff, was her mother’s favorite restaurant. It seems impossible she’s been gone almost twelve years.
She pulled her sweater close against the cool breeze and caught up with Darin. “Must be amazing to own this resort,” she said.
“Most of the time. It can be a challenge, but Dad’s still around to come to my rescue.”
“I’m writing a series of articles about Branson’s history. Sammy Lane Resort is an important part of that. You should be proud.”
“We are. We’ve been around for a while. We have many regular visitors, but new folks come all seasons.”
“My parents brought us maybe twice a year, even though we lived in town.”
“You probably don’t remember, but I went to school with your brother. RJ was a year behind me, but we played baseball together in middle school. To be honest, I had a crush on his little sister.”
Kate fidgeted in the chair and glanced out the window. She knew without a mirror that the freckles on her face were emphasized by a blush.
“I’m glad you didn’t bring up that fact at the planning meetings. RJ took no prisoners when it came to teasing me about you.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“That’s okay. Good memories. It was hard on our family when he was killed in the boating accident.”
“I know your father blamed himself, but there was nothing he could have done.”
“It was my mother who got us through that tragedy. But we’re okay now, I suppose.”
Darin smiled and said, “I’m sure that’s not what you came to discuss with me.”
“First of all, I wanted to see if the resort was still the same, still in good hands.”
“What’s your verdict?”
“Yes, on both counts. But I also wanted to ask you about a rumor I heard.”
“Must be exhausting to check out all the rumors in a small town like Branson.”
“I rather enjoy it. I hope this one isn’t true.”
“Sounds ominous,” he said, widening his eyes and smirking.
“It is if you’re planning to sell the resort.”
Darin snickered. “That’s the rumor? I can officially take that one off the circuit.”
“But someone did approach you about selling. That’s what I heard.”
“Correct. But this resort has been our family business for decades. We won’t sell.”
“Can you tell me about the person who made the offer?”
“It was more of an inquiry to see if we’d be open to the idea. It was a short conversation. The man was from out of town ... way out of town. I’m talking big city. He gave me a card. I can see if I still have it.”
“That would be great.”
Darin rummaged through a side drawer on his desk then searched the drawer below it. “I know it’s here. I’ve been called a packrat. Never throw anything away. The man was wearing a five-hundred-dollar suit. His nails were manicured. Around thirty-five years old, I’d say. Very not-Branson. He said he represented a potential buyer.”
“Did he say who?”
Darin slammed the third drawer and shouted, “Found it.”
Kate took the card and wrote the information down in her notebook. The company name—handwritten on the back—matched the name Marge had been given. The name on the front was a new one. It didn’t match the agent listed with Missouri o
r Delaware.
“Thanks,” she said, returning the card.
“To answer your question, no, he didn’t say who the buyer was. He told me he represented some company. I asked him to write the name on the back. I guess that’s the point of using an agent from out of town.”
Darin walked Kate to the north side of the resort at Main Street. She thanked him for his time and asked him to contact her if anything else happened, and then walked toward the marina. The dock owner was tending one of the slips, helping a fisherman cast off.
“My father would say this is a great day to be out on the lake,” she said.
“And he would be correct.” The man in his late forties, Kate guessed, with an outgoing personality and warm smile, offered a strong Midwestern handshake. “Hi, I’m Jake Forester.”
She handed him her card as she introduced herself and explained the series of articles she was writing.
“Nice to meet you. I’m not sure how much I can help. I’ve only been here a year.”
“Let’s start with why you chose a boat dock in Branson, Missouri.”
“You might say it’s been a dream of mine for a while. When this business became available, we grabbed it.”
“How’d you hear about it?”
“Like a lot of people who’ve moved to Branson, we vacationed in the area for years.”
“Timing’s everything,” Kate said. “Any plans to change the name?”
“Nope. Scotty’s Trout Dock suits it.”
“I don’t suppose anyone has approached you about selling.”
“Funny you mention that. Some big city lawyer-type spoke to my wife when I was out one afternoon several weeks ago. She told him it was no longer available.”
“Do you remember his name? Maybe he left a card.”
“If he did, we tossed it. Like I said, this has been a dream for a while. I don’t intend to sell it any time soon.”
Kate continued walking along the lakefront and spoke to several business owners. They told similar stories about turning down offers to sell. She considered knocking on doors of private residences but decided to discuss it with Marge first.
Commercial Street was bustling with tourists and locals, alike, visiting crafts fair booths. She stopped by Connarde Realty and was surprised to see a poster-size blowup of her first article, complete with Etta’s picture. Etta and her volunteer friends were positioned in the entryway behind a display table covered with memorabilia. Small space heaters blazed at either end of the table.
“You ladies seem cozy,” Kate said.
“Looks can be deceiving,” one of the older women said.
“Lots of people milling around,” Kate remarked.
“We’ve had lots of drop-ins who want to meet the famous lady you created in your articles,” Etta said. “I told them she was run out of town on a rail.”
One of the volunteers pointed her finger at Etta. “Now, don’t be modest. You did after all have the idea. And you did nurture this event every year for many decades.”
“Well, if this year is a success, we can thank Kate for all the publicity,” Etta said.
“Amen to that,” Marge said, emerging from the back room with a large thermos.
“Just doing my job, ladies. And speaking of that, do you have a minute, Margie?”
Margie’s office was small but tastefully decorated, including several personal awards and family pictures. A framed photo of Roger and Marge at a recent Chamber of Commerce event sat next to the phone. It was good to see her father having such a good time. Marge smiled toward the photo, and then handed Kate a mug of coffee before sitting in a nearby chair.
“Great picture of your dad.”
“You know, he whistles all the time now. I remember when I was a kid he was always whistling, and it really annoyed me. He resumed the habit when you two started dating. Now he’s in this persistently happy mood.”
A rosy blush bloomed across Marge’s cheeks.
“Yes. It is all your fault. But I forgive you.”
“So, what did you want to discuss?”
“I spoke to a few of the owners on the lakefront. None of them knew about others being approached. The mysterious out-of-towner ... his name is Kyle Henderson ... didn’t press the issue, merely asked if they were interested in selling. He didn’t reveal who the actual buyer was, although he did tell Darin Smith the name of the company he represented. It was the one that we checked out in Missouri and Delaware. Incidentally, neither registered agent has returned my call. I got Henderson’s voicemail too.”
“Maybe one of them will call you back.”
“I didn’t leave a message for Henderson. It occurred to me I might want to bend the truth a bit when I talk to him. You know, keep the newspaper out of the conversation.”
“Sounds devious. Good idea though.”
“I wanted to ask you about the residential owners in the area. Have you heard anything? What’s the best approach to find out about offers?”
“I suppose that would be for me to do my job. Any good realtor is constantly looking for listings. The only way you find out if someone wants to sell is to ask. People will be much less suspicious of my inquiries. Nothing personal, dear. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Something bothers me about Larry Allen,” Kate confided.
“Jack Brighton’s grandson?”
“He cleared that lot where the skeleton was found but won’t say why. He claims his grandfather was going to replace some buildings for Etta. But when I asked Brighton about the lot, he was clueless, not to mention angry, about the clearing.”
“Sounds like a bit of miscommunication. But I agree with your misgivings about Allen. I’ve had some bad experiences with him on previous sales. One was so ugly, I had to ask for Jack’s help.”
“Jack?”
“We’re acquaintances.”
“Very mysterious,” Kate said.
“My former husband was involved.”
Kate nodded, even though she had no idea what Marge meant—the subject of a future conversation, perhaps. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but if folks are interested in buying lakefront property, there has to be a reason.”
“Maybe they’re simply checking things out,” Marge offered. “Branson has been in the news lately. Most of the attention has been for the land on West 76 with all the new theaters and hotels. Could be some sharp real estate tycoon wants to see what else is available.”
“You may be right, but I’m going to see what I can find out at City Hall in the morning, not that they’ll tell me anything willingly. But the rumor mill is always abuzz with something.”
Marge walked Kate to the front of the building. “This is exciting. You investigative reporters must be on a constant adrenalin high.”
“It comes and goes, trust me.”
Chapter Seventeen
Kate moved her finger down the agenda for next Monday’s city council meeting. Nothing stood out—the same general topics the alderman discussed every two weeks. She tapped her finger on the seventh item. “Ah. Newest member of annexation-of-the-month club.”
Mayor Kenneth Holt’s admin assistant shrugged. “Job security. And at my age, I need it.”
“Come on, Laura. You know this place would fold without you. Besides, if I remember correctly, you turned forty-seven last year. That’s not so old.”
The woman tucked an errant brown strand into the otherwise neatly packaged bun on top of her head. “Spoken like a true politician, and, I might add, an above average reporter.”
“Thanks. My goal in life is to be above average.”
“You know what I mean.”
Kate bowed her head in mock modesty. “You’re right about job security. Branson’s growth pays the bills, for sure.”
Laura leaned forward, resting forearms on the counter separating the administrative offices from the cavernous lobby. “And the city expects it to be a record year for building permits and rezoning applications. We haven’t had an accur
ate city limits map in two years. We need more room for all the paperwork and additional staff. I swear it hasn’t been this crazy since the city annexed everything on West 76.”
Kate folded the agenda and filed it in the to-be-studied compartment of her portfolio. “Definitely bizarre but I love it.”
“Speaking of bizarre.” The woman nodded toward the building department office across the way. “There’s an unlikely pair.”
Kate’s initial heart-skipping reaction upon seeing her newly reinstated boyfriend gave way quickly to her reporter’s curiosity. “Wonder what Tom’s doing with Bryan Porter,” she said, not expecting an answer.
Laura leaned forward and whispered, “I’d wager it has something to do with yesterday’s city council luncheon.”
An edge of white outlined Porter’s well-groomed auburn hair from the temples to behind the ears. Probably in his late fifties, his sunbaked face added years to his age. Tom, who at six foot two stood more than a head taller, placed a hand on Porter’s shoulder. The older man shook his head, making gestures with both hands as he spoke, his voice low, his words inaudible.
“What happened?” Kate asked.
“Interrupted the session. Got in a squabble with Councilman Allen.”
“He’s been working toward a face-to-face confrontation for a while. I bet the youngest alderman was suitably embarrassed.”
“Are you kidding? Allen’s not one who likes public humiliation, even in small groups.”
“I’ve noticed. Did they argue?”
“I’m not sure, but it was definitely loud. At least according to someone who attended. Allen responded to Porter in a way that ...”
“Spill it, Laura. You have to know more.”
Laura straightened her back. “I’ve already said enough. City administrator’s getting real uptight about the media, especially a certain noteworthy member of the press. You know, with everything that’s going on.”
Kate crinkled her brow. “Audit a headache?” she said, taking a guess at everything.
“Unfortunately, I’m three requests behind already.”
“What a drag. Take up a lot of your time?”