Sixty Minutes for Murder

by Mary Maxwell

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” I said. “Why have you been looking into Kanter?”

  “Your friend mentioned that you’d probably be intrigued,” he said.

  “Which one?” I asked. “Trent Walsh?”

  “Yes,” Stafford replied. “He referred to your innate curiosity as one of your best traits.”

  “Did he mention any others?” I laughed. “Or was it all about my inquisitiveness?”

  “No, no,” the reporter said. “He told me that you were one of the nicest people in town, that you had a very kind heart and that you made some damn fine pies.”

  “Did he put it that way?” I said. “‘Damn fine pies.’”

  “That’s the PG-13 version,” answered Stafford. “Deputy Chief Walsh made it a bit more colorful than that.”

  “I can only imagine,” I said. “But as far as my question...”

  “About why I’m doing a story on Frank Kanter?”

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  “Well, I received a tip,” he told me. “It was about a couple of con artists who prey on real estate investors and developers as well as wealthy individuals who dip their toes into the business.”

  “To test the water?” I teased.

  “Exactly,” Stafford said. “They like to see how lucrative it can be to put some of their capital into things like retail shops, gated communities and luxury developments.”

  “And then what? How does all of that lead to a reporter from…” I tried to remember if he’d told me the name of his publication. “…from a business magazine coming to Crescent Creek? What was the spark that lit the flame?”

  “Frank Kanter,” he said, chuckling. “There’s something shifty going on, something that involves allegedly fraudulent reports by a structural engineer that sends the market value of existing properties straight into the pits.”

  “And you suspect that Kanter’s involved?” I asked, wanting to confirm what was becoming apparent.

  “I do,” Stafford replied. “And so does the FBI, the Internal Revenue Service, the Federal Trade Commission and probably half a dozen other government entities.”

  “Uh-oh,” I joked. “Somebody’s in hot water, huh?”

  “It’s beginning to look like he’s swimming laps in it,” Stafford said. “And I find it highly suspicious that one of the tenants in his building is now at the center of a local murder investigation.”

  I felt a surge of adrenaline. When I originally met Stafford in Frank Kanter’s office, I guessed that he might be coming to town to write another glowing profile of one of Crescent Creek’s most illustrious business leaders. But now, in less than ten minutes, the reporter from New York had unexpectedly hinted that Wendy Barr’s death may be connected to ongoing crimes related to Kanter’s real estate and property development business.

  “You still there, Miss Reed?” Stafford said.

  “Oh, sure…” I took a breath and shook off the swirling thoughts. “I was considering what you just told me.”

  He chuckled softly. “Surprising, isn’t it?”

  “That and much more,” I said, glancing at the time. “Can I ask what you’re doing later?”

  “You can,” he said. “I drove over to Carlton Springs to interview a couple of folks about Kanter’s business. We just finished, so I’ll be heading back to Crescent Creek in a few minutes.”

  “Would you have time to meet for a drink?” I asked. “I’d love to know more about the article that you’re writing.”

  “How about five?” Stafford suggested. “We could meet at The Wagon Wheel and chew the fat over a beer.”

  “Chew the fat?” I asked. “Are you talking about the fried mozzarella sticks or the Frank Kanter story?”

  Stafford chuckled. “Maybe both,” he said.

  CHAPTER 35

  “How’s your mood?” asked Harper.

  She was standing in the open walk-in doorway, pinching the end of a ballpoint between her teeth. It was nearly four o’clock, and I wanted to finish the weekly inventory before I left to meet Wyatt Stafford.

  “My mood?” I smiled. “It’s dandy!”

  She sighed with relief. “Great! There’s a guy sitting at the counter in the dining room. When he knocked on the front door, I told him that we were closed for the day. But he said he needed to talk to you about something really important, and I got the impression it might be a tricky subject.”

  “What kind of tricky subject?” I asked.

  She offered a shaky grin. “He wants to discuss a rumor that someone said you’re spreading around town.”

  “Me?” I followed her out of the cooler into the kitchen. “I don’t spread rumors.”

  Harper shrugged. “I’m just the messenger,” she said.

  “Okay, now I’m curious. Who are we talking about?”

  “Barry Thornhill,” she answered.

  When Harper reminded me that Barry Thornhill was the part-time graphic designer that Sharon Ruiz had recently hired for her candle company, I felt a twinge of guilt.

  “Is this about him possibly being in the—”

  “Harper?” Julia interrupted from the front line. “Sorry to cut in, but our friend at the counter is getting antsy.”

  “No worries,” I said. “I’ll talk to Mr. Thornhill.”

  Julia smiled as I crossed the room. “Good luck, boss,” she said quietly. “He doesn’t look very happy.”

  When I approached the front counter a moment later, Barry Thornhill glanced up from his phone. He was a chubby, bearded guy in his mid-thirties. He was wearing a striped rugby shirt, tan slacks and wire-rimmed glasses. His dark brown eyes glowered at me beneath a furrowed brow.

  “Are you Kate Reed?” he asked.

  “That’s me,” I said, extending my hand. “And you’re Barry, right?”

  He ignored the offer to shake, so I lowered my arm and stepped back.

  “Why did you tell Detective Kincaid that I drove Sharon’s van last weekend?” His voice was pinched as it slipped through his tightly clenched teeth. “Do you know how much of a hassle you’ve created for me?”

  I was momentarily speechless, remembering the email that I’d sent to Dina with a recap of what I’d heard from Lindy Showalter the day before.

  “Well?” His voice spiked with impatience. “Do you?”

  “So sorry,” I said. “I’d heard that you were in the office that day, and I passed that along to—”

  “I was in the Emergency Room that day,” he said sharply. “Actually, I was in there beginning on Saturday night around ten o’clock. Our baby girl has been really sick. Her fever went above one hundred, so my wife and I took her to Regional Med. We didn’t leave until late Sunday evening because the doctors were running tests.”

  My heart sank. “Look, Mr. Thornhill,” I began. “I am terribly sorry about the misunderstanding. I never meant to cause trouble. I was—”

  “But that’s exactly what happened!” he said brusquely. “You caused trouble for me and my wife when you told the police. They came to my work. They also told my boss about the side job with Sharon’s company that I was trying to keep private. I may lose my full-time job because of what you did.”

  I offered a contrite smile. “I am truly sorry, sir. My intention was to help the police investigate the murder of Wendy Barr. If I’d known that the information was inaccurate, I would have never passed it along to Detective Kincaid.”

  “But you did,” he said.

  “Yes, there’s no denying that fact,” I replied. “And there’s nothing that can be done about that now.”

  He leaned forward, tightening his fingers into pudgy fists. “Yeah, there is,” he said. “You can tell the cops that you got it wrong so they can correct the record with my employer.”

  “I will absolutely call Detective Kincaid as soon as we finish,” I said. “But I assume that you’ve already told her about the hospital, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said, glaring at me through narrowed eyes. “But I want her to know that
you messed up. It’s that Golden Rule thing; do unto others and all that. If I was spreading rumors about somebody and found out later that I was wrong, you can bet your ass that I’d go to them and apologize.” He paused long enough to taper his gaze even more. “I would ask for forgiveness and hope that they’d be nice enough to grant it.”

  I felt my heart thudding in my chest. “Well, then,” I said, keeping my voice as calm as possible. “Once again, I am deeply sorry for the error. I didn’t realize the information was incorrect. The person who told me seemed quite convincing. There was no reason to suspect that she had been lied to about—”

  My breath caught in my throat. Of course! Lindy’s friend lied about Barry Thornhill! She diverted attention to him because—

  “Did I lose you?” asked Thornhill.

  “No, I was just…” I swallowed hard to steady my voice. “I really am so sorry about this. I hope that you’ll forgive me. I was just trying to help the police.”

  He stared at me blankly, letting the awkward moment linger.

  “And, like I told you,” I continued, “I will call Detective Kincaid right now to let her know that I was misinformed.”

  Thornhill smirked. “In that case, I guess that I’ll be going now,” he said, getting up from the counter. “I wanted you to hear it from me, not just have the police tell you later that you totally got it wrong.”

  “Message received,” I said. “Please know that I never intended to cause any harm for you.”

  “Too late for that,” he growled angrily. “Better luck next time.”

  I stood behind the counter and watched him cut a zigzag path across the dining room. When he stepped through the door onto the porch, I felt a cold lump settle in my chest.

  “You okay?”

  I hadn’t heard Harper walk up beside me.

  “I will be,” I told her. “But it’ll take a minute.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “Refill on the chardonnay?” Red Hancock asked. “Or would you rather switch to something stronger?”

  It was half past five that afternoon. When I’d arrived earlier, The Wagon Wheel had been fairly quiet, but it was now buzzing with couples and small groups ready for some weekend fun.

  “I’m okay for now,” I told the burly man with the exceptionally warm smile. “It looks like I’m being stood up.”

  Red frowned. “By Zack?”

  I shook my head. “No, I was supposed to meet a reporter who’s in town from New York. He’s writing about real estate deals that involve someone from Crescent Creek.”

  “His name’s Wyman something or other, right?” Red guessed. “The guy with the Fu Manchu?”

  I smiled. “His name is Wyatt Stafford,” I said. “And technically, he has a horseshoe mustache. They get confused pretty often, but a Fu Manchu starts at the corners of the upper lip and grows down past the chin.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You actually know that stuff?”

  “Sure thing, big guy.” I tapped my forehead. “Tons of trivia stored up here, although there are times when I wish it was possible to clean out a few of the needless files like you can on a laptop.”

  “Uh-huh,” Red drawled, sounding simultaneously amused and skeptical. “I never really thought about it before, but I see your point.”

  “Well, I should probably get back to Sky High,” I said, taking the last sip of wine in my glass. “If I’m not meeting with Mr. Stafford, I can finish paying the stack of bills on my desk.”

  “Want to do mine before you leave?” Red joked, tilting his head toward the office. “I’ll give you twenty bucks and all the fried dill pickles you can eat.”

  “Wow, that’s so tempting,” I said. “Let me think about it.” I furrowed my brow in contemplation. “And that’s a no thank you, kind sir.”

  I got up from the bar stool, smoothed the front of my blouse and reached for my purse.

  “Quick question before you go,” Red said. “What’s this Stafford guy sniffing around for?”

  “Local color,” I replied. “I was hoping to get the full scoop when we met here this evening, but I can see that’s not going to happen.”

  “He was in here a couple of nights ago,” Red said.

  I slipped the purse over my shoulder. “Did you talk to him?”

  “For a few minutes,” he said. “Nothing more than the usual small talk people make with strangers in a bar.”

  I nodded. “And then?”

  Red chuckled. “And then what?”

  “And then did he leave or just stop chatting with you?”

  “Oh, I see what you’re going for,” Red said. “After we talked for a while, he went over and sat at one of the tables with that Kanter guy and a couple of women.”

  “Frank Kanter?”

  “Is there anybody else with that name in town?”

  I matched his smile with my own. “Calm down, Mr. Hancock,” I said. “I’m just trying to keep things straight.”

  “Well, yeah,” Red went on. “It was Frank Kanter and Wendy Barr and some other chick.”

  “Chick?”

  He scowled. “Woman. I didn’t see her face. We were three deep at the bar, and I was short a guy in the kitchen.”

  “Sounds like a rough night,” I said.

  “I’ve survived much worse than that, Katie.” Red laughed so hard that his face went beet red. “Becca always tells me to breathe real deep and count to six when I get stressed.”

  “Only to six?”

  “Yeah, she knows my patience is pretty thin when things are rocky,” he said, “so going all the way to ten would probably be pushing it.”

  “Good plan,” I said. “Your wife’s a smart woman.”

  “Don’t I know,” Red replied. “And I’m a lucky cowboy.”

  CHAPTER 37

  My phone vibrated in my pocket a few minutes later as I walked out to the parking lot behind Red Hancock’s bar. I smiled when I saw the name on the screen: Detective Kincaid. I’d planned to check with Dina again if I didn’t hear from her by six-thirty, so I answered her call and scrambled into the car.

  “I got your message,” she said. “Thanks for letting me know about Barry Thornhill. I talked to him earlier and apologized for the situation.”

  “He was pretty unhappy with me when he came to Sky High,” I told her. “I felt bad about what happened.”

  She sighed. “I can imagine. But don’t sweat it too much. After Barry and I talked, he understood that you were simply passing along a tip about the case. I explained that there were times when it’s difficult to manage all the moving parts without one or two missteps.”

  “Well, after my conversation with him, I have some news to share,” I said.

  A pickup truck in the parking lot blasted its horn when someone came around the corner at a high rate of speed.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “The Wagon Wheel,” I said. “I was meeting Wyatt Stafford, that reporter from New York. We were supposed to have a beer and talk about Frank Kanter, but he never turned up.”

  There was a brief pause before I heard Dina exhale slowly. It was one of her recognizable tells; the unconscious actions that always preceded the delivery of distressing or unexpected news. I could picture her behind the desk in her office, gradually releasing the breath as she cupped her chin with her right hand.

  “I can tell you why Stafford was a no-show,” she said finally.

  I waited for the explanation, but heard only empty air. When I finally asked if she was still on the line, Dina sighed again. Then she told me something that was both a genuine shock and an unexpected twist in the Wendy Barr investigation.

  “Wyatt Stafford didn’t meet you,” she began, “because he came across a crime scene on the drive back to Crescent Creek from Carlton Springs. He went over there to interview Frank Kanter’s tenants for that big story he’s working on. When he headed back here, he noticed a dark sedan on a side road with the emergency flashers going.”

  “Hang on a second,�
�� I said. “Did you talk to Stafford?”

  “Not yet,” Dina replied. “Two of our uniformed officers responded to his call to 911.”

  “What was the deal?”

  “It was Richard Poole,” she answered. “He’s the structural engineer that works with Kanter all the time. He’d been shot twice.”

  The news left me speechless, but Dina didn’t wait for a response. She kept going with more about the scene Stafford had discovered.

  “The passenger door was open on Poole’s car,” she said. “There were tire tracks from another vehicle in the mud, an empty Styrofoam cup in the passenger footwell and a stack of hundred-dollar bills in the glove compartment. The cup had bright red lipstick on it, so it’s safe to assume that Poole was with a woman at some point before he died.”

  “Did Stafford see anyone?” I asked.

  “No,” Dina said. “But there was one other thing.” She hesitated. “We found a red fleece glove. It was on the ground about fifteen feet from the victim’s car. The lab has it now.”

  “Do you think it’ll be a match for the fibers on Wendy Barr’s body?”

  “It would in a perfect world,” Dina said. “But I’m waiting for forensics to finish the analysis.”

  “Well, this is fairly astonishing,” I said. “Richard Poole, dead less than a week after Wendy.”

  Dina sighed again. “I know it’s a cliché,” she told me, “but sometimes when it rains, it really does pour.”

  “Do you feel that the person who was responsible for Wendy’s murder struck again this afternoon?”