Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

  “I’d say she’s looking for the Marathon papers just as we are.”

  “Where?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t know what we could do beside talk to Mr. Liggett and try to find out what sparked this sudden decision to head off on her own.”

  “We can’t do that until tomorrow.”

  “True. And not until after Pierce Bradley’s funeral up in Hartsville. We need to head that way early in the morning.”

  “I’ll drop by and see Mr. Liggett.”

  When I repeated the story for Jill, she didn’t appear too concerned. “More power to her if she can find what we haven’t been able to.”

  “I just hope she doesn’t get blindsided by whoever is behind all the mayhem up in Trousdale County.”

  Chapter 25

  We spotted Wayne Fought, dressed in his Sunday best, as soon as we entered the funeral home, a long, single-story yellow brick building on the main highway. I had donned a suit and tie, also—two days in a row, and in the middle of August. Ugh! I felt sure he had come for the same reason we did. In a murder case, who showed up for the funeral could sometimes tell a lot.

  Fought frowned when he saw Jill and me. I decided to ignore him for the moment and walked over to a doorway marked “Chapel,” where a guest book sat on a small table with Pierce Bradley’s name on a placard above it.

  “Shall we sign in?” Jill asked.

  “Why not? We need to be sociable.”

  She wrote our names and the office address. We entered the chapel and looked around. It was already half filled with a mixture of people dressed in everything from suits and dresses to tee shirts and overalls. One crusty looking fellow wore tomato-red galluses. Sheriff Driscoll stood in the back, his uniform freshly pressed, talking with a lanky teenage girl with stringy blonde hair and braces on her teeth. Her full face seemed a mismatch for her slim body. We waited a couple of minutes until he looked around and saw us. When he waved, we walked over.

  “I didn’t expect to see you two, but glad you’re here,” Driscoll said. “Mr. and Mrs. McKenzie, this is Marcie Cook. She’s Pierce’s niece. ”

  I shook her outstretched hand. “Patricia Cook’s daughter?”

  “That’s my mom,” she said, smiling. “You folks aren’t from around here.”

  “We’re from Nashville,” Jill said.

  The sheriff nodded. “They’re private detectives. Pierce had some papers for a client of theirs, but we haven’t found them yet.”

  A lanky girl with stringy blonde hair and braces on her teeth, Marcie narrowed her eyes. “Must have been about a building or airplanes. That’s about all Uncle Pierce ever talked about.”

  “The papers were about a man named Liggett who worked for Marathon Motors in Nashville, many, many years ago,” I said.

  “Did they sell Jeeps? That’s what Uncle Pierce was in when they found him.”

  “No. They sold a car called a Marathon. It was way back, even before I was born.”

  “Who would want that stuff now?”

  “Mr. Liggett’s family for one, and probably some other people.” I turned to Driscoll. “Has anything new been turned up on Casey Olson?”

  “Nothing I know of. I haven’t had a chance to talk with Wayne this morning. I think they’re having Casey’s funeral on Tuesday, if the docs in Nashville get finished over the weekend. Marcie, you’d better go get with your mom and dad. It’s about time for the service to get underway.”

  When the girl walked toward the doorway, the sheriff lowered his voice. “Didn’t want to say anything around her. She’s nosier than a billy goat. Wayne told me last night they matched the mud on Olson’s Corvette with that around the lake. And they solved the mystery of the stainless steel pipe. It came from an IV stand they hook to gurneys at the Samran plant. Looks pretty certain Casey was one of the killers.”

  “When I talked to Fought yesterday morning, he said they had taken a nine-millimeter bullet from Olson.”

  “Yeah. It got too dark on the TBI team Thursday to locate any cartridge cases. The lights didn’t help. I sent a couple of my boys out there yesterday morning. They went at it on hands and knees until they came up with a nine-millimeter casing. I had one of them take it to the TBI lab in Nashville.”

  Jill kept her eyes moving, checking out the crowd, while I spoke to the sheriff. “Did they come up with any footprints, anything that might give a clue to the guy who fired the shots?”

  “The sun had baked the area pretty good. There were some beaten down weeds where he probably walked in or out, but nothing good enough to get a shoe impression.”

  With the room beginning to fill, we left the sheriff and moved into the next to last row of seats. I gazed around the room before sitting down. The only person I recognized was the old farmer we had talked with at the convenience store Tuesday evening. He wore the same garb we’d seen that night.

  “Spot anybody you know?” I asked Jill.

  “Nobody but our farmer friend. Who did you expect?”

  “Maybe the Lone Ranger. We could use a good silver bullet at this point in the game.”

  She rumpled her brow and turned toward the center aisle as a group headed toward the front of the chapel. I saw Marcie Cook holding hands with a woman who had the same thin build and stringy hair. She reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West without her pointed hat.

  “I’d say that’s Patricia Cook,” I whispered. “She sounded more like Aunt Bea on the telephone.”

  “And the big guy beside her must be the banker.”

  After they took their seats down front, the service began. It was mercifully brief. The preacher quoted some scripture, spoke a bit about Bradley and his family, and introduced one of the pilot’s Air Force buddies from the Gulf War. The former colleague described a few of Bradley’s exploits, and told how he had helped save lives of other soldiers and airmen. As the service ended, his sniffling sister followed the casket out to the parking area, and we looked around for Wayne Fought.

  We found him outside watching people head for their cars. When he seemed to lose interest and started walking away, I hailed him.

  He turned, glanced at us and stopped. “I saw you two come in. Did you find anything of interest?”

  “Not much. The only new person we met was Marcie Cook, Patricia’s daughter. Sheriff Driscoll says she’s as nosy as a billy goat.”

  He gave me a half-hearted smile. “I’ll make sure she’s not around when I talk to her mother.”

  “The sheriff also told us he sent you a nine-millimeter cartridge case from the Olson crime scene. Have your lab folks determined the make of the gun, anything on manufacture of the cartridges?”

  The agent gave me a wary eye and folded his arms. “You know, McKenzie, you ask too many questions for an outsider.”

  Jill smiled. “I thought we were all in this together, Agent Fought, trying to find out why this man was killed and, hopefully, who did it?”

  He took a deep breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. I suspected he felt uncomfortable trying to stiff a woman who may have reminded him of his mother. “Markings on the bullet indicated it was fired from a Beretta.”

  “Interesting,” I said. I carried a government-issue Beretta on active duty and still owned a smaller version. “What about the ammo manufacturer?”

  “They’ve been contacted, but it’ll take a while to research the lot and what stores received them.”

  If we had a suspect, a lot of shoe leather could be expended calling on retailers that sold the cartridges, hoping to find somebody who could ID our man. But at present, we had no suspect.

  “Are you going to the cemetery?” I asked.

  He looked around at the cars lining up behind the hearse. “Yeah, and I’d better get moving. See you around.”

  With that he hustled off toward his unmarked car, leaving us to wonder who owned the Beretta that fired those three shots into Casey Olson.

  Chapter 26

  Instead of going to the graveside, Jil
l and I pursued another line of investigation we had decided on earlier. The first thing I did was get rid of my coat and tie. We drove to the edge of Hartsville, which was just far enough to warm up my Jeep, and found the small white frame where Jeff Olson, Casey’s father, lived. The place was a prime candidate for a paint job. The small front porch accommodated a wooden swing, suspended from the ceiling by chains, and a rocking chair with a faded yellow cushion. A cocker spaniel came sniffing around as we approached the porch.

  The door stood halfway open. From what we could see of the inside, the house looked dark as a cave. The whir of a floor fan sounded through the screen. Although a layer of clouds had kept the heat at bay more than in recent days, the temperature had slipped well into the eighties. I knocked and waited. A man with a full gray beard appeared after a couple of minutes. Considering when Casey’s father had served in Vietnam, this man looked much older than he should have.

  “Mr. Olson?” I asked. “Casey Olson’s father?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re Greg and Jill McKenzie from Nashville. We’re private investigators looking into the circumstances surrounding your son’s death.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’ve already talked to the cops.”

  “I know you have, but we’re doing an independent investigation. We’d like to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “What you want to know?”

  I smiled. “It would be more comfortable for all of us if we came inside or sat out here on the porch. Which would you prefer?”

  He frowned, making it clear he preferred neither, but opened the door and came out. Jill and I moved to the swing, while Olson took the rocker.

  “Did Casey live with you?” I asked.

  “He stayed here some.”

  “Does that mean he also had another home?”

  “He had a girlfriend. Sometimes he stayed at her place.”

  That gave us another subject to interview, though I realized she might be even more reluctant to talk. I could always use my secret weapon—Jill. She had a real knack for pulling information out of women. Looking out in the front yard where a large maple tree stood still as death, I began to push my foot against the floor, attempting to create a little breeze.

  Jeff Olson stared across at the dog as it chewed at fleas on its brown coat.

  “Did your son bring his girlfriend around here very often, Mr. Olson?”

  “Not when his Ma was here. Mazie couldn’t stand the girl..”

  I was sure that little fact would give Jill some ideas. “Did you have a chance to talk to Casey on Monday?”

  His eyes blinked, and he looked down at his rough, weathered hands. “Not much.”

  “Did he say anything that might have indicated he was having trouble with somebody?”

  “Casey was always having trouble with somebody.”

  “Anybody in particular?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he mention where he was going that night?”

  “I didn’t pry into his affairs, and he never said much.” Olson rubbed a hand across his chin. It sounded like sandpaper.

  “Can you tell us anything about his close friends?”

  “Some was stock car drivers. And I guess he had some from that Samran plant where he worked.”

  “How about some names?”

  He took out a large handkerchief and swiped it across his forehead. “You ask a lot of the same fool questions as that state cop. Why don’t y’all get together and save both of us some breath?”

  “I’m sure it gets a little old,” I said, trying to show a bit of sympathy, “but sometimes a fellow will remember things he didn’t think of the first time he was questioned. Do you have any idea who would want to do this to your son?”

  He shook his head, heavy brows pinched. “It don’t make no sense to me. The boy was a little wild at times, but he never done any real harm to nobody I know of. It just don’t make no sense.”

  When we left him sitting on the porch, his eyes were closed. His head rested on one hand. About all we had managed to get out of him was a name and an employer for the girlfriend.

  Mickey Evans worked as a waitress at a small café in Hartsville. It was run by a large woman with frizzy brown hair and the gentleness of a grizzly bear, according to Jeff Olson’s description. The place was wedged between a grocery and a real estate office. The cash register, a genuine antique machine, had keys you pressed to make a ca-ching sound. The clock above it showed eleven when Jill and I walked in.

  “You must be the proprietress,” I said to the woman who approached us wearing a flowery dress that covered her like a tent.

  “Most folks just call me Big Mama. Two for lunch?”

  “Not yet. Right now we’re looking for Mickey Evans. Is she working today?”

  Big Mama gave a grunt that sounded more like a growl, which fit the grizzly description. “Girl ain’t been in since they found Casey Olson’s body. Said she’d be in today at three. We’ll see.”

  “We’d like to talk to her. Do you have her address?”

  “You a preacher or something? You don’t look like police.”

  I guess I looked too old to fit her image of a cop. I handed her a business card. “We’re private investigators.” Recalling Jeff Olson’s last comment, I added, “Trying to make some sense out of this.”

  Big Mama snorted. “Well, if you can make any, I sure wish you’d tell me about it. Trousdale County don’t have one murder a year, much less two in one week. That’s the sort of thing you folks probably have in Nashville all the time, but it just don’t happen around here.”

  She gave us directions to where Mickey Evans lived on the lower floor of an old house that had been split into apartments. It sat on a hill that looked down toward the town, a small, sparsely populated chunk of rural Middle Tennessee that made a valiant struggle to create its niche in the fast-moving world of the twenty-first century. We had earlier noted such enhancements as the Tennessee Technology Center at Hartsville, a small school that trained young people for jobs in offices and factories like Samran, where Casey had worked.

  Discussing what might lie ahead, we decided if the young waitress showed any reluctance, I would make some excuse to move on and leave the questioning to Jill.

  A small yellow Ford sat in the rutted driveway, which needed a new layer of gravel. On the right side of the house, an outside stairway led to the second floor apartment. We got out of the Jeep and walked to the front door across a wooden porch painted dark gray. The air smelled of freshly-mowed grass. I used the brass knocker to rap with a metallic clanking sound.

  A girl about Jill’s height opened the door just wide enough to poke her face out. She had short brown hair and a plain though pleasant face, highlighted by sad brown eyes behind thin metal-framed glasses. She gave us a blank stare. “Yes?”

  “Mickey Evans?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “We’re Greg and Jill McKenzie, private investigators from Nashville. We have been asked to look into some aspects of Casey Olson’s death. It would be a great help if you could answer a few questions.”

  Her look hardened. “You think he killed that Bradley man, don’t you? That’s what they’re saying. Casey wouldn’t of done that.”

  “That’s part of the case that we’re not concerned about,” Jill said. “We’re only interested in finding who killed Casey.”

  Mickey hesitated a moment. “I don’t know.”

  I took a step back. “I need to get into town to pick up some things. Why don’t I just leave Jill here and you two can chat.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Jill said before Mickey could reply.

  I turned and headed toward the car. As I slid into the driver’s seat, I heard Jill say, “I know this has been a rough time for you, dear. I’ve been through something like this of my own. I can sympathize with you.”

  I glanced up, key poised at the ignition, as Mickey Evans swung the door open wider and Jill stepped insid
e.

  Chapter 27

  With time to kill, I decided to check out the area where Casey Olson’s car and body were found. I stopped by the sheriff’s office and got instructions to follow Church Street, or Highway 141, south of Hartsville and across the Cumberland River. I drove leisurely past vintage churches, an odd lot of small businesses, and several nondescript homes on the south side of town. When I spotted a historical marker near a sign pointing to the Battle of Hartsville Park, I pulled in to see what it was about. Since the Japanese hadn’t made it this far in World War II, the battle had to have taken place during the Civil War. I’m not much of a student of that period in our history, but a couple of friends from our Sunday School class were rabid Civil War buffs. This would give me an opportunity to surprise them with a bit of unexpected battle lore tomorrow morning.

  The World War II analogy turned out to be not all that far-fetched. The battle took place on December 7, 1862, seventy-nine years to the day before Pearl Harbor. According to the marker:

  “After marching 24 miles in four inches of snow and crossing the icy Cumberland River, Colonel John Hunt Morgan and 1,300 men attacked the Federal 39th Brigade under the command of Colonel Absalom B. Moore. Although greatly outnumbered, Morgan succeeded in capturing 1,800 prisoners and re-crossing the Cumberland before Federal reinforcements arrived from Castalian Springs. Federal losses were 2,096 while Confederate losses totaled 139.”

  I found the park just off the highway behind a building that housed ambulances. Maps and descriptions showed how the Rebels had approached Hartsville along the same route we had taken Wednesday afternoon. The battle had been fought in this area, with a Confederate artillery battery firing from across the river near where Olson was found.