by Beth Urich
“How’s your dad? I haven’t seen him for a month or so. When we finished the taxes, he said he didn’t want to see me ever again.”
“You may not know about his new lady friend.”
“Marge Connarde? You can’t have an office on this street, even for only two days a week, without knowing about Margie and Roger. I’m happy for him.”
“They seem to get along.”
“So, what did you want to discuss?” he asked.
She took the copy of the agreement from her purse and handed it to Phil, then waited for him to scan it. “I found it in an old cedar box that Etta Stupholds gave me,” she said.
“Why did you bring it to me?”
“I wanted to know if it’s a valid legal contract.”
“I can give you my opinion, but I’m due at a client’s by eleven, and, as you can see, I’m stuck on a point of law,” he said waving a hand across the opened book.
“I’m sorry, I should have known you’d be busy.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m never too busy for my favorite red head. How about you check with me tomorrow late afternoon?”
“That will be great,” Kate said, making a quick exit.
She had a few minutes before her scheduled follow up interview with Jack Brighton. Although the meeting was supposed to be about the more recent years and future prospects for Fortune Enterprises, she hoped for an opening to discuss Bryan Porter’s accusation that Jack reneged on a deal with Bryan’s father.
As usual, Ellen was alone in the large oval anteroom. She was smoothing her nails with an emery board when Kate opened the door.
“Oops, you caught me,” the young girl said.
“Hey, an emergency nail repair is critical,” Kate said.
“Absolutely,” Ellen agreed with a smile.
“I have an appointment with Jack Brighton.”
“Right. His assistant had an emergency at home. She told me to let you go on back. Mr. Brighton is expecting you.”
Kate walked across the room but hesitated for a second at the door. She felt odd without an escort, but—as Ellen said—he was expecting her. When she passed his assistant’s desk, she heard the voices and realized Jack was not alone. Once she entered the hallway between the two offices, the voices were clear and loud. Jack’s comments were softer and more controlled. No surprise to Kate, his visitor—Larry Allen—did not inherit his grandfather’s restraint.
Allen shouted, “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know the details of the problem between you and Porter. But it better not bite us in the butt as far as the city project goes.”
“Or what?” Jack’s control was loosening. “What will you do, Larry? Sue me?”
Torn between the terror of being caught and the desire to hear more, Kate froze momentarily. The two men were silent, and she feared the meeting would end and Allen would burst into the hallway any second. She turned and rushed through the assistant’s office and into the reception area.
Ellen was not at her desk. Kate knew she had to tell her something. Jack would probably ask if she’d called or come by. She needed a good excuse for leaving abruptly. Before Kate crossed to the desk, Ellen returned from the outer hall.
“Wow, that was a quick meeting,” she said.
“You know, I felt a little queasy at work, but I came anyway. All of a sudden I felt like I was going to faint.”
“Did you see Mr. Brighton?”
“No, I didn’t make it past his assistant’s office. I had to sit down. I’m okay now, but I better go. I wouldn’t want to spread my germs.”
“Do you want to rest for a moment? Maybe it will pass. I can call him and explain.”
“Please don’t. I feel like an idiot. In fact, don’t tell him I came by. Can you tell him I called to reschedule, that something came up?”
“I suppose I can do that.”
“I really appreciate your understanding.”
“No problem. I hope you feel better soon.”
“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine. Please, tell his assistant I’ll call for a new time.”
Kate wasted no time getting to the end of the hall and down the steps to the street and back to her office. What was she doing—lurking in the hallway like that? But she was glad she did. Now all she needed to figure out was the reason for the argument.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The police dispatcher woke Tom at five-thirty a.m. with an apology and a new call from the construction report hot line. The not-quite-awake detective told her to put the call through. He sat on the edge of the bed waiting for the telltale click and hoping perhaps this tip would have more substance than the hundreds of others they’d received.
“Sorry, Sergeant Collingwood, the caller hung up,” the dispatcher said.
“No problem. Did he say anything or give you a name?”
“It was a female. She insisted on speaking to you but wouldn’t tell me her name.”
“Okay. Thanks for trying.”
Tom hung up and leaned back, propping his pillow against the headboard. He was nodding off when the phone rang again.
“Detective Collingwood,” he said, knowing the dispatcher would connect the informant immediately on a callback.
A quick low gasp, as if surprised by his voice, then silence. He waited for a moment then repeated his name. Music, probably a radio, played in the background.
“This is a mistake,” the female said.
“Wait, how do you know? Tell me why you called,” he said without hesitating.
The radio deejay announced the next tune, but the caller remained silent.
“Anything you say will be confidential. Obviously, you feel you know something that will help our case. You’ve gone this far. You called back. Please tell me what you have.”
“Probably nothing.”
“Every piece matters. Can you give me your name?”
“You said it would be confidential.”
“Right, right. I’ll call you Mary. That’s my mother’s name,” he lied, hoping to develop some trust. He added, “You can call me Tom.”
“Okay,” she said, but fell silent again.
“So, Mary, do you work in the construction business in Branson?”
“My boyfriend does. We moved here when he heard about available work.”
“I see. When was that, Mary?”
“Almost three years ago. And he’s worked steady. But things changed this past year ... became more difficult.”
“Longer hours? Too many bosses?”
“No, he’s used to the demands of the business. But part of the reason we left home was the big city corruption.”
“Big cities can be complicated.”
“No kidding,” she said, her tone becoming less stressed. “Don’t get me wrong,” she continued. “We love Branson. It was so friendly, so different at first.”
“But that changed?” Tom asked, hoping to reach a relevant point in her story.
“Yes.”
“Where does your boyfriend work, Mary.”
“I’m not sure I want to say.”
“That’s okay. Can you tell me the name of the project?”
“I may as well tell you the company.”
“Any one project has many companies involved, some large, some small. Wasn’t it like that in the big city, Mary?”
“Julie. My name is Julie.”
“Thanks, Julie. Do you remember the project name?”
“Yes, but. I’d rather not say.”
“Okay, tell me whatever you can. We’ll take it from there.”
A new song played in the distance. Julie hadn’t hung up. Tom waited, not wanting to push too hard.
“My boyfriend saw someone give the city inspector an envelope.”
“A building inspector?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know what was in the envelope?”
“Yes. He saw the person put a bunch of cash in the envelope.”
“Is he sure it was cash?”
<
br /> “Yes. He worried about it for over a month. I knew something had happened, but he wouldn’t tell me what. Finally, the other night he blurted out that we needed to go back to Chicago. He said jobs were scarce in Branson. I knew that wasn’t true. It took a while to make him tell me what was bothering him.”
“Okay. Now, Julie, I want you to listen carefully. We can protect your boyfriend. And you. But we’ll need to have him make a statement regarding what he saw. It can still be confidential, but we need to have it in writing, if possible. We need to find out what other information he might have.”
The radio music was replaced by a dial tone. He called the nonemergency number for the police dispatcher. “Please tell me I can pick up a recording of that call in an hour.”
“Did you have any doubt, Sergeant Collingwood?”
“Not for a second,” he said, uncrossing his fingers. “What about a trace?”
“Pay phone at a gas station about two miles north of the Arkansas-Missouri line.”
“Better than nothing, I guess. See you in a bit.”
The dispatcher seemed impressed when Tom tapped on the glass behind her less than thirty minutes later. She gave him the cassette and a note with the name and location of the pay phone. As he flipped on the light in the police detective suite, he was still hoping Julie would help them. It would be a lot easier.
He put on a pot of coffee and sat at his desk to listen to the tape. The woman went from very cautious to more-or-less comfortable during the conversation. Convincing her boyfriend to trust the police would be a different story.
“Burning the midnight oil again, partner?” Sid asked, grabbing his mug and heading for the fresh brew.
“Not exactly,” Tom said, brandishing the small cassette in the air.
“Recording those 900-number calls again?”
“Even better.”
Sid placed the mug on his desk and sat down. “Do I have to guess?”
“Give it a shot,” Tom snickered.
“I’ll go for door number one. Someone called on our hot line and had a certifiable tip about construction ethics ... or lack thereof ... in Branson.”
Tom nodded and slipped the tape into the player. When Julie hung up, Sid shrugged. Tom came to his feet and leaned forward across Sid’s desk. “Hey, this was a banner call,” he said.
“Sorry, but the woman, who claims her name is Julie, said nothing we can use.”
“I know that.”
“And yet?”
“If she talks her boyfriend into making a statement, we might have something.”
“Okay. Two words: if and might.”
“We can start at the gas station. Either she works there, or someone saw her use the phone at that ungodly early hour.”
“Hey, maybe we could check with every construction-related firm in Branson to see who relocated from Chicago with a girlfriend named Julie.”
“Did you speak to Artie?” Tom asked, ignoring Sid’s sarcasm and tossing the tape into the Porter complaint box.
“The lab received Sylvia’s sample Monday. We should have a report later this week. The other samples will be on the way today.”
“I want to move forward as if Lex Porter is our victim,” Tom said.
“I agree. What do you have in mind?”
“Let’s speak to Etta. See what she knows about Lex’s disappearance.”
“Then we can visit Jack Brighton and compare their stories,” Sid said.
“Now you’re getting the idea.”
The detectives caught up on paperwork until the department secretary arrived. They asked her to call and make an appointment with Brighton, knowing he didn’t like surprises. They stopped for breakfast before heading—unannounced—to Etta’s place.
The older woman seemed small, cocooned in a colorful quilt, rocking on the far end of her veranda. They were almost to the bottom of the steps before she noticed, or at least acknowledged, their arrival. She unwrapped the blanket and hung it over the railing.
“Hope this isn’t a bad time,” Tom said.
“Enjoying the fall colors. They’re so vibrant this year.”
“If you don’t mind, we have a few questions for you.”
“You’re always welcome,” Etta said, motioning toward the glider. She moved her rocker so that she faced the detectives. “Is it about the break-in?”
“No, we want to discuss Lex Porter. We understand you were good friends and business partners,” Sid said.
Etta furrowed her brow and stared at the two men. “Does this have something to do with Bryan?” she asked.
Tom took a small notebook from his jacket pocket and opened it to a blank page. “We’re trying to close the case on Lex Porter’s disappearance,” he said, ignoring her question.
“He left Branson to find work in the Kansas City area.”
“Did he find it?”
“I assume so, he didn’t come back, but I wouldn’t call that a disappearance.”
“You’d know if he returned, right? You were best friends as children, had been close all your lives. Did you find it odd when he left his family behind?”
“Tory stayed to run their business.”
“Did she tell you he stopped communicating with her?”
“I don’t remember. Is that what Bryan says?”
“We haven’t discussed this with Bryan yet.”
“He’d remember more than I would.”
Tom made some notes, cuing his partner to ask the next question.
“What happened to cause Lex to leave Riverside Mercantile? He’d worked with Jack from the beginning, right? You three were partners.”
“I know Bryan believes we were partners. But we were just close friends.”
“But you and Jack are partners now,” Tom interjected.
“Yes.”
“So, when did that happen?”
“I’m not sure of the exact date.”
“We could check the date on your contract,” Tom said.
“I’m not sure when he and I first spoke of the partnership.”
Sid said, “Back to why Lex left Riverside. Do you remember the circumstances?”
“He started his own store shortly afterward. Maybe that’s why he left.”
“You’re saying he quit Riverside to start his own store?”
“I guess that’s what happened.”
“You know, it seems like a person would speak to a best friend to see if leaving and going out on his own was a good idea. Did Lex consult you about quitting?”
Etta rocked forward and stood up. “You’re getting me all confused, putting words in my mouth. I tell you I don’t remember exactly what happened. That’s not a crime, as far as I know, especially if you’re eighty-something years old.”
The men hesitated briefly, but Tom shrugged and signaled Sid. When they reached the stairs, Tom turned and said, “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything else, give either one of us a call.”
The detectives returned to their vehicle and pulled out of Etta’s driveway. As Sid turned onto the main road he said, “That lady was lying.”
Tom snickered. “What was your first clue?”
“Hey, I sat in the back of her car with her for thirty minutes, remember? And I finally read Kate’s articles. And neither of those Etta Stupholds was on that porch.”
“I agree. Unfortunately, I’m not sure what that means or, more important, what we can do about it. The questions are: Is she protecting someone? Is she in denial? Or even worse, has she forgotten?”
“Probably. Maybe. And I doubt it,” Sid said.
“It isn’t likely she has forgotten something as serious as the departure of a lifelong friend ... partner or otherwise ... from a business he had been a part of for many years,” Tom said. “And she would have been concerned that he didn’t return to Branson.”
Sid said, “Odds are Brighton has a similar story.”
“What time is he expecting us?”
“In about thirty
minutes. Maybe, on our way, we could see what Bryan remembers.”
“Worth a try, but remember he was eleven years old when his mother filed the missing person report, even younger when his dad left Riverside. Most of what he remembers is what his mother told him.”
“Not necessarily a bad thing.”
“No, but most likely a softer, romanticized version. Let’s talk to Jack Brighton first.”
THE RECEPTIONIST TOLD them to have a seat while she called Brighton’s assistant. As expected, they waited several minutes before being escorted to his office. The detectives did not expect to see Randy Brighton and Jack’s personal lawyer, Keith Hawthorne, at the meeting as well.
Tom had dealt with the lawyer many times in court. The man had a knack for getting his clients off the hook when it came to minor offenses and civil suits. His success could be attributed, at least in part, to his professional—almost sleek—appearance. At a modest five foot eight inches tall, maybe one hundred sixty pounds, he dressed for success and wore his charm like it was part of his wardrobe.
Jack came to his feet and walked, hand extended, to greet the policemen. “Tom, Sid, nice to see you again. I hope you don’t mind, I asked Randy and Keith to stick around for our little chat. We were in an early-morning meeting when your secretary called.”
“No problem,” Tom said, nodding in the direction of the other men.
Once they were seated, Jack asked, “What’s the topic for today, gentlemen?”
“We have questions about the disappearance of Alexander Porter,” Tom said.
“Seriously?” Randy said, drawing the attention of all present and an unspoken censure from his father.
Keith said, “Sorry, if you’ll indulge me, who is Alexander Porter?”
Jack explained before the detectives had a chance. “He was a dear friend from childhood, Keith, but I haven’t seen him for over fifty years.”
Tom injected, “And you wonder why we’re interested now.”
Jack said, “As a matter of fact ...”
“We are examining old missing person cases. One was filed by your friend’s wife in 1945. At the time, all leads were followed, but nothing led to Porter’s whereabouts.”
“I know crime is low in Branson, but it would seem more productive to concentrate on today’s issues,” Randy said.