“And I wouldn’t be asking unless it were really important. Because it is.”
Finally, Decker and Jamison nodded in agreement.
“Well, at least this nightmare is over, right, Decker?” said Jamison.
“It’s not over yet,” he replied.
“What? Why not?”
“Because Irene Cramer, Pamela Ames, Hal Parker, Stuart McClellan, and Maddie and Hugh Dawson deserve justice. And it hasn’t happened yet. And I’m not leaving North Dakota until they get it.”
THE NEXT DAY AFTER BREAKFAST Decker got a cup of coffee from the hotel restaurant and carried it up to his room, sat on his bed, sipped on the drink, and thought about, well, everything.
But that only seemed to make the muddle worse.
He finally took out his wallet and slipped out the photo of his wife and daughter. He gazed at Molly’s young face, her crinkled smile, her plump cheeks, and he saw a bit of himself and a lot of her mother in there. He closed his eyes and just imagined being with them again. Holding hands, giving kisses and hugs, simply going for a walk, helping Molly to learn how to ride a bike, gripping Cassie’s hand and giving encouragement as their daughter was born.
He opened his eyes after this cleansing moment. As his wife and daughter receded into his memories, they both seemed to be speaking to him, telling him something.
You can do this.
Whether it was his imagination or something else, Decker really didn’t care.
You’re a detective—start acting like it.
He settled back and refocused. Something had been burning in Decker’s gut for a long time now and he’d really done nothing about it. He had, instead, just followed blithely along a traditional investigative path.
Okay, let’s go blank slate, square one. First rule, you don’t trust anybody. Second related rule, you suspect everybody until something comes along to definitively remove that suspicion.
He truly believed that the key to this whole thing had not started a week ago, or a month ago, or even a year ago. The bunker piece might have dated from then because up until that point, Ben Purdy could not have known that some of the deadliest substances on earth were buried in the North Dakota soil. But something really important to the current case had started even before that.
As he focused on certain possibilities, Decker’s memory file popped down from his cloud and settled front and center in his thoughts. In this memory, he saw the woman walk to the stairs and head up.
Decker grabbed his jacket and headed out.
Finally, finally, he might be getting somewhere.
* * *
The OK Corral Saloon was not yet open when Decker burst in.
Employees were unstacking chairs from the tops of tables and wiping down the walnut bar, counting glasses, sorting inventory, and unloading dishwashers.
“We don’t open until noon,” one of them said to Decker. “The door should have been locked.”
Decker strode forward, held up his FBI credentials, and said, “I need to go up there.” He pointed to the staircase that led to the second floor.
“You can’t,” said the man, who was in his twenties, scrawny, with pimply cheeks and a ragged goatee.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re closed, like I just told you!”
Decker stuck his creds right in the guy’s face. “This says otherwise.”
The man looked around at the others, who had stopped what they were doing and were staring at this face-off.
“Why?”
“Caroline Dawson keeps a room up there.”
“So?”
“So I need to see it. Now.”
“I have to call somebody.”
“The only person I’ll be calling will be the police, if you don’t let me up there.”
The guy’s Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down and he looked desperately around for some support from his fellow workers.
To a person, they all turned away from him and commenced performing their tasks again.
“Okay,” said the guy. “But you need a key.”
“Where is it?”
He grinned triumphantly. “Ms. Dawson keeps it.”
“No problem,” said Decker as he headed up the stairs.
“Hey!”
Decker doubled his speed.
He reached a closed door that was apparently the sole entrance to the space up here. It had been open the previous time. He tried the knob, but now it was locked.
He took out a small leather kit. Inside were two pick tools. He only needed one to do the job, since the lock was not a deadbolt.
He pushed the door open and went through. He quickly moved through the event space and bar area, turned left, and came face-to-face with the only other door here.
This lock took both his pick tools. And when that didn’t work, his shoulder did the trick.
When the lock burst and the heavy door swung inward, Decker found himself looking at the nicely appointed bedroom that he had been in once before while meeting with Caroline Dawson. Four-poster bed, an enormous armoire, a couple of nightstands, and an attached bathroom. He hadn’t seen that on his previous visit. He poked his head in and saw a toilet, a bidet, a double granite-topped vanity, and a marble walk-in shower with a rainfall showerhead.
Decker slowly took it all in, until his gaze fell upon the armoire. He walked over and opened the door. It was full of women’s clothing, some costume jewelry, and many pairs of shoes. He searched through it all but found nothing particularly useful.
He closed the door and took out his tac light. He shone it under all the furniture before coming to the bed. That was where he struck gold, in the crevice between the bed frame and the box springs. No one would notice unless they’d been looking closely.
His fingers gripped the tiny object and examined it closely. He had seen it before. Right in the bar downstairs. He pocketed it and went back down.
The same man confronted him at the bottom.
“I’ve called the cops,” he blurted out.
“Give them my best,” said Decker as he walked past him and out the door.
DECKER’S LONG LEGS CARRIED HIM swiftly to the funeral home. On the way he had called Jamison and told her to join him after filling her in on his discovery.
The funeral home parking lot held two long black hearses and a limo for transporting the family to the cemetery. There was also a late-model Mustang convertible, with its top up, parked near the side door. The license plate read: HEAVN.
Jamison joined him at the front door. “What are you going to do?”
“Cut through the crap,” he replied.
They entered the front doors and were confronted by the same young man they had previously dealt with here.
“Oh, it’s you again.”
“Where is Mrs. Southern?”
“She’s currently occupied.”
“Not good enough,” said Jamison, holding out her badge. “Be more specific.”
“She’s . . . she’s working on a client.”
“Where?” said Decker.
“You can’t go back there.”
“Watch me.”
He strode off with Jamison in tow.
The young man cried out, “I’m calling the cops.”
“Good,” said Decker.
They heard noises and followed them to their source. It was a door to a room on a hallway they had not been down before.
Decker gripped the knob and glanced at Jamison, who nodded. He pushed the door open, and they strode in.
Liz Southern looked up from what she was doing, which apparently was preparing her husband’s body for his funeral. He lay naked on a table before her. On a rolling cart lay all the tools and cosmetics she was employing to do her task.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped, jumping up. “How did you get back here?”
“We need to talk to you,” said Decker.
“I’m going to have both of you—”
She stopp
ed when Decker held it up. The item he’d found under the bed.
“You’ve probably been looking for this,” he said.
She froze, her hand halfway to the phone sitting on a counter. She turned, seemingly mesmerized by what he was holding, and held her hand out for it.
She had almost reached it when Decker pulled it back.
“Jade earring. You were wearing a pair when I first met you at the bar. Buddhist temples. Very nice.”
“Where did you find it?” she asked quietly, slumping down on the stool she had been perched on when they had come in.
Decker glanced at Walt Southern’s body. “I’m not shy about these things, but still. Can you cover him up?”
Southern hastily draped a sheet over her husband’s remains.
“Surprised you’re the one doing that,” he commented.
“Someone had to do it,” she explained, her gaze downcast. “I want him . . . I want him to look . . . presentable.”
“It must be very hard,” said Jamison sympathetically.
“Right now everything is hard,” Southern shot back. She glanced at Decker. “And apparently it’s about to get even harder.”
“To answer your question, I found it under the bed in the room Caroline Dawson keeps at the OK Corral Saloon. The same one I saw you heading up to that night. And I have it on good authority that Caroline Dawson spent that night there as well. She said she went up there with a headache, but that apparently wasn’t true. You could obviously confirm that for us.”
“I don’t feel the need or desire to confirm anything.”
“You and Caroline are a couple?” said Decker.
“I really don’t know what you’re getting at,” said Southern dully.
“You told us your husband was being blackmailed because he was seeing another woman. If the truth had come out it would have ruined him. Well, we checked on that story. And we could find no evidence of any such affair.”
Southern looked uncertain. “That’s not possible. I know that he was having an affair.”
“And I’m telling you he wasn’t. Which means you lied.”
Southern looked stricken at Decker’s words. She took a moment to compose herself. “Okay, you’re right, he wasn’t having an affair. I did lie about that.”
“Then how exactly was he being blackmailed? And we need the truth this time, Liz.”
She let out a long, resigned sigh. “He was stealing.”
“Stealing what?” asked Jamison.
“Personal effects that people were supposed to be buried with. Watches, rings, other jewelry. He’d put them on the bodies for the viewing and the funeral service, but right before the casket was sealed, he’d take them off. Who would know, right? It wasn’t like they were going to dig the person up or check. And if they were cremated, there was no way to ever check. Then he would take trips out of town or even the state to sell them. He made quite a lot of money doing that.”
“Why did he do that?” asked Jamison.
Southern looked at Decker. “Remember when we first met I told you that during bad times when people couldn’t pay us for our services they’d try to barter?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Walt got desperate. I think he convinced himself that he was simply just getting paid for services rendered by the very people he was providing the service to.”
“That doesn’t make it legal, or right,” Jamison pointed out.
“Desperate people do desperate things,” retorted Southern.
“And you knew?” asked Decker.
“I suspected. Right before he killed himself we had a big argument. You see, I knew that one of our clients had been dressed in her diamond engagement ring. It was at least four carats. Exquisite. Walt closed up the casket after the service, right before the body was loaded into the hearse to be taken to the cemetery. Then I couldn’t find one of my tools that I used to touch up the body before the viewing. I remembered that I had used it to work on her. I opened the casket and found it. It had slid down to the side of the body. That’s when I noticed that the ring was gone. After the service was over, I confronted him about it. He was furious. He said I was nuts. I thought he might hit me.”
“So that explains his note,” said Jamison. “That he was sorry and hated himself.”
“I suppose it does, yes.”
“And someone else must’ve found out,” said Jamison. “And blackmailed him.”
“How did the blackmail start?” asked Decker.
“He received an anonymous message just about the time that Irene Cramer’s body was found.”
“He showed it to you?”
“Yes. He was both angry and scared.”
“What did it say?”
“Basically, it threatened exposure unless Walt did what they asked him to do.”
“Fudge the post results?” said Jamison.
“Yes. Particularly about the slicing of the stomach and intestines. To tell the truth, I was surprised that he had even mentioned it in his report. But he really did care about doing a good job, I’ll give him that.”
“How did you know they weren’t bluffing about knowing about his thefts?”
“Those ‘business’ trips he took? They had photos of him pawning the items he’d stolen. Business records, payment receipts.”
“Any idea who it was?”
Southern shook her head.
“Why did he tell you about the blackmail?”
“I guess he needed my support on this to make sure it all went okay. I mean, I was part of the business, too. Our whole life is tied up in this place. If it went under we’d have nothing. And Walt said if he was caught he’d say I knew all about it. That I would go to jail, too. I was so scared. So I just went along with everything.”
“Have the blackmailers been in touch with you since Walt killed himself?” asked Decker.
“No. Why would they contact me?”
“I don’t know, but they might. And let us know if they do.” He paused. “So what do you plan to do now?”
“I don’t know. My head is filled with so much stuff now it’s hard to think straight. I have to keep the business going, for one thing.”
“Can you manage that?”
“Walt was certified in doing postmortems, which I’m not. But I am a trained and certified mortician. I can do embalming, cosmetics, cremation, everything you need to take care of people properly at the end.”
“Will you eventually leave here?” asked Jamison. “I mean, you could build a business somewhere else.”
“Caroline would have to agree. I don’t want to go without her. I really do care for her. And, yes, we are a couple.”
“But she was seeing my brother-in-law. You saw them together at the OK Corral.”
Southern smiled grimly. “She was merely keeping up heterosexual appearances.”
“That must’ve been hard to keep secret in a town this small.”
“We worked at it. We were very careful.”
“Not so careful if you met up in the bedroom above the bar,” Decker pointed out.
“We did that very infrequently. Besides, all the people at the bar were drunk and the staff was too busy to notice. And we were friends. Everyone knew that. They just didn’t realize what close ‘friends’ we were. And we’d leave out the back only very late at night. Most of the time we would go out to my parents’ old farmhouse to be together. I thought about selling the place. Walt wanted me to. My father fought in Vietnam. He brought back a lot of curiosities from there that might be quite valuable. Plus a lot of weapons. He was quite the gun guy. But it made for a private place for Caroline and me. So I’m glad I kept it.”
“Is that your car in the parking lot?” asked Decker. “ ‘Heaven’?”
“Yes.” She smiled.
“What?” asked Decker.
“Remember I talked about barter? Well, the tires on the Mustang came from Hal Parker in payment for us burying his wife.”
“I guess people do what the
y have to do.”
“Will this have to come out, I mean, Caroline and me?”
“Lots of gay people live their lives openly and freely now,” said Jamison.
“Yes, but not here, I think.”
“Look,” said Decker, “we can’t guarantee anything. We’re trying to solve a series of crimes. We have to go where the evidence takes us.”
“I guess I can understand that. Will you be talking to Caroline, too?”
“Probably.”
“Can you tell her that I didn’t tell you about us? That you figured it out?”
“If it’s important to you,” said Jamison.
“It is. Very important.”
“I can see that,” said Decker quietly.
DECKER MADE A BRIEF STOP at the police station to look at an old report. Then he and Jamison drove to the offices of Dawson Enterprises, located in a building in downtown London.
“Why are we here?” Jamison asked.
“To learn stuff we don’t know,” replied Decker cryptically.
They were taken to the office of the firm’s CFO. His name was Abner Crutchfield, a small, dapper man in his late fifties with resolute features and a deep voice. He was dressed in an open-collared shirt, slacks, and polished tasseled loafers.
“Terrible business with Mr. Dawson and Mr. McClellan,” he began. “I guess you’re working on their cases.”
“We are,” said Decker. “We’re looking for motives, and we’d like to know about the business deal that they concluded right before their deaths.”
“All right. I’ll certainly tell you what I can,” said Crutchfield cautiously.
Decker glanced at Jamison before saying, “I was surprised that Dawson would sell out. He was in the midst of a buying spree, or so I’ve been told. Even sold his daughter’s restaurant out from under her.”
“Yes, yes, that surprised many of us here.”
“Was it a large amount that McClellan paid?”
“I can’t get into specific numbers, but it was into the nine figures.”
“Wow,” said Jamison.
“Yes, indeed,” commented Crutchfield. “Quite a fortune.”
“When did you first learn that McClellan was going to buy him out?” asked Jamison.
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