by Beth Urich
Kate ran to the living room. Her father had shoved the note under the pile of rejected keys. The gift box from Etta and the metal container with the remaining keys were close by. The note said call anytime, so she dialed the number and hoped for an answer.
“I’m returning a call from Kyle Henderson,” Kate said, when the woman answered.
Sitting on hold, Kate stirred the keys in the metal box, then selected one and inserted it in the lock. Like other rejects, it didn’t budge. She tried another. No movement. Maybe Tom would get a chance to show his lock-picking skills after all. She tried several more keys and had chosen the next when Henderson came to the phone. She gave her mother’s name as she inserted the key in the cedar box.
He paused. She detected a faint sound of paper shuffling before he said, “Ah, yes. Miss Carson. I researched the motel and spoke to the owner. Frankly, this location is not what we’re interested in at this time.”
“May I ask why?”
“We’re looking for something closer to downtown Branson.”
“The action in Branson is along the Strip, Mr. Henderson. Downtown Branson is not much of an attraction.”
“Perhaps not at this time, Miss Carson. But we have an eye on the future.”
“Really? What’s in old downtown Branson’s future?”
“One never knows. Perhaps a facelift of sorts. In any case, we are not interested in buying the land you proposed.”
Kate was still sitting on the sofa staring at Etta’s box and pondering Henderson’s words—specifically his use of the plural pronoun and the facelift in Branson’s future—when someone knocked on the front door. A reflexive twist of her wrist initiated the key’s smooth rotation in the lock. “Whoa,” she whispered as she raised the lid slightly.
A second knock reminded Kate of the visitor. She locked the box and slipped the successful key in her jeans on her way to the door.
“Katie, I was hoping you were home,” Marge said.
Kate furrowed her brow and stepped back to let the woman enter. “Dad already mentioned I lingered more than usual.”
Marge chuckled. “I’m glad you called him. He seemed worried for a moment or two. But what I mean is, I have some information for you.”
Kate led the way to the kitchen and was taken aback when Marge leaned down to peck Roger on the cheek with her greeting.
The realtor poured herself a cup of coffee and removed a hefty stack of papers from a large manila envelope. “As it turns out the Chamber already has a preliminary report prepared by the survey company. The return on the mail-out was seventy-two percent, which is truly incredible, and most companies responded immediately even though they were given a six-month window to reply.”
“That’s impressive,” Kate said, adding “By the way, Dad has joined our little team.”
“Oh, I thought he was already a part of it. Can I spread this stuff out here?”
“You bet,” Roger said with a gleam in his eye.
It took the woman several minutes to get the piles of paper in an acceptable order. All the pages were facing so Roger and Kate could read them. Marge sat behind the array, her fingers clasped in front of her on the table.
Kate said, “Wainright indicated the responses weren’t expected for months.”
Marge clarified, “Only the committee members have it. They’re still compiling data to be discussed in a general meeting, or so I was told.”
“Why wouldn’t they simply turn over the report to all chamber members, including the city government?” Kate asked.
“Very good question,” Roger commented.
“Before we discuss that, let me give you a quick summary.”
Marge explained that, the four stacks represented the four parts of the questionnaire—company demographics, facility requirements, services and features, and desired activities. Surveyed companies ranged from small, with less than fifty employees, to medium with up to three-hundred employees, to large with between three-hundred to a thousand employees, indicative of the sample selected. Most of the responding companies had between three-hundred to six-hundred employees, with a few in the upper end of the large category or greater. Respondents were based nationwide, although most of the surveys were sent to and received from companies headquartered in the Midwest.
Overwhelmingly, the preferences involved centralized facilities, with sleeping and meeting accommodations for up to two-hundred individuals in the same hotel or hotel campus. A few respondents specified higher capacities. Required amenities included access to three meals per day, with some meals—as well as beverage services—provided in the meeting areas. Extra-curricular activities, such as visiting area attractions, should be close or easily reached and prepared for large groups. Most of the activities or attractions were in-line with what the Branson area could provide, with some notable exceptions. Meeting rooms should accommodate various numbers of attendees, ranging from twenty-five to two-hundred, and should be equipped with a comprehensive audio-video system, including recording features. Full-service copying, faxing, and phone services should be available close to meeting areas.
Marge paused as Roger and Kate scanned the draft report sections. She poured each of them a cup of coffee and started another pot.
Roger was the first to comment. “You know, in my conversations with former and current planning and zoning members, nothing like this has been proposed.”
Marge offered, “But chamber members have been promoting a convention center for a couple of years now. We’ve been competing with Springfield for large meetings for a while.”
“The convention center that folks around town are picturing is not the sophisticated facility described by the survey responses,” Roger said.
Kate added, “I agree. These companies want something John Q. Hammons can build, like the large hotel complex on Table Rock Lake he’s supposedly planning. Certainly, that would help Branson compete with Springfield, but it won’t be within city limits.”
“And the size of the hotel is only part of it,” Roger said.
“Right,” Marge agreed. “Although Silver Dollar City is a popular attraction, the companies expressed the need for a menu of activities for their members.”
“What about the lakes themselves? Those are big attractions with both boating and fishing,” Kate said. “And we have the new Tanger Outlet and other shopping areas.”
Marge said, “Remember a big issue is proximity to the hotel or easy transport for large groups. We do not have a transportation system in Branson. Commercial busses are okay for small tourist groups, but not practical ... or even available ... for these large corporate clients we want to attract. Don’t forget, wives will come too. And although outlet shopping is popular, not everyone wants factory-overflow or irregular items, name brand or not. Boutiques and small specialty or novelty shops were specifically noted in the responses.”
“Okay, so we need a facelift,” Kate said, using Henderson’s term.
“I’d call it more like major reconstructive surgery,” Roger said with a snicker.
Marge said, “You asked before, Katie, why the chamber hasn’t released this report and the detailed responses to the members. I don’t have an official answer and, since I acquired this draft prematurely, I couldn’t ask the question of the board or the committee. But I will say fulfilling the requirements summarized in the report would be monumental and way beyond the loose structure of the chamber.”
“Like Katie said it will take a major developer to address these needs,” Roger agreed.
“No developer in town comes close to Hammons’ caliber,” Marge said.
“True, but there may be one who aspires to that standard,” Kate said, drumming her index finger on the stack in front of her.
When her dad and Marge left for a seniors’ miniature golf tournament, Kate gathered up the papers and went to her room. She sifted through the summaries, her head spinning with excitement. She fell asleep speculating about what Allen and Wainright had in mind
and if Henderson was involved with them or someone else or no one.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kate usually enjoyed covering the Board of Aldermen meeting every other Tuesday, but public comments about the new sign ordinance were less than stimulating. Her mind drifted from one topic to another finally landing on the key that unlocked Etta’s box. An almost unbearable hour and thirty minutes later the adjournment gavel rang down and she was out the door.
Breezing into the living room and ignoring her father, she came to an abrupt halt by the table next to the sofa. Both the cedar box and its metal companion were missing.
“Are you okay,” her dad asked.
She spun around and plopped down on the couch, shaking her head.
“If you’re searching for that box, I moved it to the shelf in the foyer. I needed the table space yesterday when I was sorting pamphlets for Margie.”
“You couldn’t sort them in the kitchen?” Kate said, immediately regretting her tone.
“Hey, I tried to find you to ask your permission, but you were at work.”
“I’m sorry, but the other night I found the key that opens the box. Then I got distracted and forgot about it. But tonight, I remembered.”
“That explains everything,” Roger said, shaking his head.
The metal container was on top of the wooden box, but the pile of rejected keys was not on the shelf. Worse than that, the working key was not in the lock. Calm down.
Kate picked up and shook the key case. She took a deep breath and stepped back into the living room. “Dad? What did you do with the pile of keys? And the one in the lock?”
“The little bowl on the second shelf, but there wasn’t a key in the lock.”
Kate examined the keys in the dish but didn’t remember what the successful one looked like. She sat down on the sofa, one hand cupping the small container, the other hand massaging her throbbing temple. She searched the floor next to the arm of the sofa then around and under it.
“Did you drop it in the pile?” she said.
“No key in the lock,” her father repeated slowly. “You need to relax and try to remember what you did with it.”
She had to admit the moment was a blur. She tried it and it turned. What did she do next? Marge knocked. Kate let her in. “I put it in my jeans pocket.”
“See? Relax and remember. Works every time.”
She grabbed Etta’s gift and the metal box and headed for her room. The jeans she’d worn Sunday were in the clothes basket in her closet. And the key was safe and sound in the right-hand pocket. Hoping she had not imagined it unlocking two days ago, she turned the key clockwise. As before, it rotated without effort.
Placing the box squarely in the middle of her bed, she raised the lid a crack and peeked inside. Etta was wrong. It’s not empty. Kate gently lifted a folded piece of paper, revealing more below. She laid the first on her bed and dumped the remaining contents on top to maintain the order. She stared at the items, suddenly overcome by an unsettling realization that she was invading Etta’s privacy, but shook it off and proceeded.
The oldest of the sheets, quite yellow and creased with age, was now on top. It appeared to be an official document. The paper was heavier. Even folded, the dark lettering revealed a structured form design. She smoothed open the creases to reveal a marriage license application, requested and signed by Claymore Phillip Stupholds and Henrietta Jo Freehman. The form was approved and certified at the bottom by a judge in Taney County Missouri on October 23, 1924—the day Etta turned sixteen.
One down.
Still concerned about reading the other keepsakes, she considered taking them to Etta. Certainly, they had nothing to do with Kate.
She returned them to the box and locked it, placing it on her bedside table. She stared at the object as if it would convince her it was okay to open and read the pages. In a few moments her reporter’s curiosity outvoted her sentiment.
Maintaining the order of the box, she lifted the middle sheet and spread it out carefully. The penmanship reminded her of her mother’s cursive, the style taught long ago in grade schools. At the top of the page, the date was also written in long hand—September 2, 1942. One glance at Clay’s signature and she knew what it was. She read it anyway.
“My Darling Wife,” the note began. “My true regret is that I failed to provide you all that you want and deserve in this life. Please know I tried. I hope you can forgive me. Eternally yours, Clay.”
Putting aside the uneasy feeling of reading such an intimate confession, Kate agreed with Etta—the note made no sense. Etta seemed to treasure memories of their life together. Yet in his mind, he failed her. How truly sad.
The final document consisted of two hand-written pages. “An Agreement” was in the top left corner of each page-numbered sheet. In the top right corner was the date—October 23, 1942, Etta’s 34th birthday. The agreement itself seemed official, but not in legalese. It spelled out an “arrangement for life” among the three old friends: Randall John Brighton, Alexander Benjamin Porter, and Henrietta Jo Stupholds. The last paragraph stated that the three, with the names listed again, had sworn solemn oaths on “this Friday, the 23rd of October in this year of Our Lord 1942,” by signing at the bottom of the second page.
“Bryan Porter was right,” Kate said aloud. “But is it valid?”
She found her father in the kitchen, having a short and neat whiskey, something he was prone to do on bill day. He lifted his glass in a mock toast and downed it quickly.
“All the checks written?” Kate asked.
“Mercifully, yes. Too bad this happens every month.”
“At least we have money in the bank to pay them now. It was touch and go for a while.”
“Would you care for a relaxer?” Roger asked.
“No, but I have a question. Do you think Phil Bingham would help me with something?”
“That’s not the best thing to ask your old dad on bill day.”
“Seriously. I need a lawyer to examine an agreement to see if it’s binding.”
“I imagine Phil’s up to the task and he has an office in Branson now.”
“Yes, close to the newspaper office. I’ll check him out.”
“Aren’t you going to let me read it? I’m a team member after all.”
“Sorry. I’ll have to invoke the need-to-know clause.”
KATE OVERSLEPT THE next morning after a restless night of mulling over the survey report and Etta’s agreement—first one, then the other, then back and forth. It seemed likely Allen had either directly or indirectly orchestrated the Chamber’s questionnaire. But so what?
She dragged herself to the newspaper office and plopped down at her desk. She was several minutes into reviewing her appointments for the day when she realized someone was lurking at her doorway.
“Nice of you to make it in,” Helen said.
“I had a rough night,” Kate retorted.
“What have you found on the series of fires? Anything worth a feature article?”
“I spoke to Chief Scherington. He was helpful. I’m still following up with owners and residents. Can I get you something in a day or so?”
“Sounds good. Keep me posted,” the editor said as she started to leave.
“Uh, Helen? Do you have a minute to discuss something else I’ve been investigating?”
The editor pulled a spare chair closer to Kate’s desk. “Does this have something to do with the skeleton case?”
“Sort of. Allen clearing the lot without his grandfather’s permission caused me to speculate about other things and now I’m not sure how ... or if ... it all fits.”
“Maybe we can sort it out together.”
Kate told Helen about the owners who were approached to sell their property by the lakefront, the Chamber’s survey, the preliminary report, and her theory about Allen’s involvement. She concluded with her list of what-ifs and what-if-nots, which was followed by several moments of silence.
“I can see why you
couldn’t sleep,” Helen said, preparing to leave the room.
“Aren’t you going to tell me what to do?”
“Let me speak to some Chamber members, including your favorite, to check out the purpose and ultimate intention for this survey. If Allen plays dumb, I’ll see if he’s still having problems with my star reporter. My advice, however, is to stick to the facts. Throw away your what-if list and any other list of opinions, guesses, and rumors. Find out what has happened, not what may happen. Perhaps that will clarify the article.”
“Thanks, Helen,” Kate said as her boss walked down the hall.
Kate stopped at the front desk to copy Etta’s agreement. She wasn’t ready to give up the original, and the lawyer would need time to review it. She smiled as she left the building, recalling Helen’s “star reporter” comment.
LOCATED ON THE SECOND floor of one of the oldest buildings in town, Bingham’s office was accessible from an entrance off the alley. A sign on the heavy metal door read “Phil Bingham Esquire” in bold, red letters with Attorney-at-Law underneath in smaller, but still bold, black letters. On the third line in parentheses, it said Suite 201. She was halfway up the flight when the door slammed shut behind her. A smaller version of the outer sign hung on the door to number 201—a room rather than a suite.
Two desks took up most of the space in the office. A small desk near the door was unoccupied with only an empty pencil holder and blank pad of paper on top. Phil Bingham sat at the back desk next to a file cabinet and a small table holding a coffee pot. Stacks of papers covered his desk except for the space in front of him where a huge law book rested. He combed his fingers through his thinning gray hair. In his late fifties, his hair had been shades of gray for as long as she could remember.
“Is this a good time?” Kate asked, tapping on the door frame.
“Katie, good to see you,” the lawyer said, coming to his feet.
She crossed the room to receive his usual warm greeting—an almost-hug with a brief pat on her back. She returned the gesture and stepped back with a smile.