“He’s a wife beater, Bruce, and therefore a coward. Hasn’t got the stones to kill anyone.”
“We ought to check on it anyway.”
“Let me see what Bobby’s doing about it,” Branden said halfheartedly and studied the sheriff’s face.
Robertson’s eyes closed, and Branden said into the room, “I’m working on it, Sheriff.”
Later, in a whisper, Robertson said, “You were right about Missy.”
“I’m glad to see you’ve finally caught on.”
“I think I’ve always liked her. Figured it was respect. You know, the girl who can do everything. But it’s more, Mike.” He shifted awkwardly on his back and groaned softly.
“You’ve been thinking about her for a long time,” Branden offered.
“Can’t think of anything else,” Robertson said, labored. “When she’s here, I feel like I can handle anything. When she’s gone, I feel like a radio program with a long stretch of dead air.”
Branden nodded and watched the sheriff.
Robertson squeezed his eyes shut, and whispered, “I want you to get me a new pair of cowboy boots, Mike.”
“Boots?”
“Yeah. Dancing boots. Go over to my place and get that old pair out of my closet.”
“Cowboy boots?”
“They’re in the closet in my bedroom. Stuffed way in the back.”
“Then what?”
“I want you to get me a new pair just like ’em. Smooth ostrich skin. Twelve and a half, extra wide. I like Dan Posts. They used to have them down at Trail’s End, just north of Delaware on Route 23.”
“OK, I can do that,” Branden said, and waited.
Sadly, Robertson said, “Renie and I used to go country-western dancing a lot. There’s a nice little dance hall over by Brewster—The Red Lantern Barn. It has a good wooden floor, and they give lessons through the week. Then you go there on Saturday nights for the big dances.”
“You’re gonna take Taggert dancing?”
“I’m going to ask Missy to start taking lessons with me.”
“A date.”
“More than one.”
“People will talk,” Branden teased, worried about the sheriff’s state of mind.
“Don’t care, Mike. No one has made me feel like this since Renie died. No one but Missy.”
“All you want me to do is get your boots?”
“No. There’s more. I want you to find out what size Missy wears and buy her a matching pair.”
“Then what?”
“Get them wrapped, Mike. Bows, ribbons, everything. Before I leave this hospital, I want to give them to her as a present.”
“Before you leave.”
“I’m gonna do that, Mike.”
“I know. What makes you think Missy will take up western dance?”
“Missy can do just about anything, Mike.”
“But what makes you think she will
want
to?”
“You just get the boots, buddy. Let me handle the rest.”
28
Tuesday, August 15
9:20 A.M.
“HE’S GOT a trail, Bobby,” Branden said to Captain Newell in the sheriff’s office at the old red brick jail. He held up an empty coffee cup at the credenza, and Newell waved him ahead. Branden poured a cup, walked across the big room to Robertson’s desk, and sat in front of it, in a straight-backed, gray metal office chair.
Newell waited behind the big desk for additional information, but Branden sat quietly, taking little sips of the hot brew.
Newell asked, “How about the dirt bike Wilsher said you rode?”
“Took it down the trail behind Yoder’s trailer. It led straight to J. R. Weaver’s farm. Yoder had an ideal position for rifle work.”
“That’s all we’re gonna need, Mike. We’re charging Yoder with everything. Weaver, Schrauzer, and the others. Britta Sommers, too.”
“I told Dan I wasn’t sure about Britta,” Branden said, uneasy.
“He had means, motive, and opportunity.”
Branden appeared unconvinced.
“Missy Taggert says Sommers died of strangulation sometime early Thursday morning,” Newell said. “Yoder wasn’t on his way to the hospital in Canton until late that afternoon.”
Branden said, “I’m working on a different angle.”
“We’ve got the letter Yoder intended to send to Weaver after he shot up his buggy.”
“Anyone could have produced that letter,” Branden said. “Could have reset the date on his computer in order to make it appear that the letters had been written before Weaver died.”
Ellie Troyer appeared in the doorway and ushered in a man and a woman, announcing them. “Captain Newell, this is Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Parents of Brad Smith.”
Newell came out from behind his desk and greeted them, shaking their hands. Branden rose and said, “I hope you’ve had some luck with Bill Keplar.”
Lenora Smith crossed the room to Branden and took up his hand in both of hers. “We have, Professor. Thank you!”
She turned back to Newell and said, “We’ve hired a PI, Captain, and you’re going to be surprised by how much we have learned about the crash that killed our son.”
Newell seated them in chairs in front of his desk. Branden stood at the left side, and Newell sat behind the desk and asked, “A PI, Mr. Smith?”
“Please, it’s Denny. And yes. We’ve hired a private investigator in Chicago to look into the truck driver and his company. We know why our son died, and we know who’s going to pay for it.” He turned to Branden and added, formally, “Thanks to Professor Branden here.”
Newell gave a curious glance toward Branden and asked, “Can we lay charges against the driver?”
“It’s not just the driver,” Mr. Smith said.
Ellie Troyer’s voice came softly over the intercom. “A gentleman to see you, Captain.”
“Can it wait?”
“It’d be better if you came out, now.”
Newell pushed his muscular frame out of Robertson’s chair and said, “I’ll be back.”
Branden rose to refill his coffee cup and poured one cup each for the Smiths. They sat quietly in their chairs and waited with the mugs in their laps. Branden lingered by one of the tall office windows and squinted into the glare of bright morning sun. He pulled the shades and drank his coffee, remembering dim, watered, forest glens—cool, quiet, and peaceful.
Through the thin paneled wall, they heard a raising of voices. Branden recognized Arden Dobrowski’s. He set his coffee cup down beside the coffee maker on the credenza, turned to the Smiths, said, “I still want to hear what you’ve got for the captain,” and went down the hall to Ellie’s front counter.
Dobrowski scowled bitterly and said, “I want that man locked up,” pointing a finger at Branden.
Newell said, “You’re not pressing charges, remember, Dobrowski?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Branden started purposefully through the counter’s swinging door, but Newell clamped both of his hands on Branden’s shoulders and hauled him back.
Branden wrestled free of the captain’s grip and stood where Newell had planted him. “Don’t go anywhere, Dobrowski,” Branden said. “You’re a suspect in Britta’s murder.”
Dobrowski guffawed. “Get real, Branden. I’ve lost a tooth on account of you.”
“You’ve got a bad habit of not listening, Dobrowski. You’re a suspect. Don’t leave town.”
Dobrowski whirled around and stomped out of the jail.
Ellie asked, “Did he just press charges against the professor?”
“Not that I heard,” Newell replied. He stiffened next to the counter, flexed the taut muscles in his arms and shoulders, and demanded, “What was that all about, Mike?”
“Dobrowski and I don’t get along.”
“I can see that,” Newell said. “Now tell me why.”
Branden hesitated with a scowl on his face, and Newell repeated, “Tell me why, Mike.”
Heated, Branden said, “About a month before Britta divorced him, she called me out to her place. When I got there, she was bruised, had a black eye, and her lip was split. I stayed with her a while, and Dobrowski came back. Even with me there, he started in on her again. He was drunk and abusive and took several swings at her. I had to lay him out. That’s when Britta started talking about divorcing him.”
“And what was that about Dobrowski’s being a suspect?”
“Somehow Dobrowski’s gonna benefit from Britta’s death. An insurance policy. Something in her will. She always took out partner’s insurance, one for the other, in business affairs.”
“So?”
“Britta owned most of Dobrowski’s auto dealerships at one time. Dobrowski’s probably still got a policy on her.”
“Nevertheless, you’re gonna let me decide who is a suspect and who isn’t,” Newell said officiously.
Branden shrugged, and said, “I was just giving him something to think about. Besides, he could have framed Yoder for Sommers easily enough.”
Newell stepped wearily back into the sheriff’s office, saying, “This is a simple case, Mike. You’re thinking too hard again.”
Branden smiled wanly and took a seat beside the sheriff’s desk. He nodded to the Smiths and said, “You’ll be interested in the answer to this question.” Turning to Newell, he asked, “What did Jimmy Weston bring you yesterday that got you that warrant so fast?”
Out at Ellie’s counter, there was a commotion, and just as Robert Cravely pushed through the sheriff’s office door, Ellie spoke over the intercom, “Sorry, Bobby. He wouldn’t wait.”
Cravely bounded into the office, dropped his heavy briefcase onto the floor, and began wiping sweat from his face with a crumpled and stained handkerchief.
Newell sat rigidly behind the desk, neither acknowledging Cravely nor letting his disapproval of the little man show on his face. Branden watched Cravely and realized the insurance agent had not recognized the Smiths.
Cravely took a stance with his feet planted wide and, ignoring the professor and the Smiths, challenged, “I know you’ve got bullets and a rifle from Yoder’s trailer that will exonerate my driver.”
The captain said nothing.
Cravely knelt and opened his briefcase on the floor. When he had pushed himself up, he held a document of several pages, bound in a black clamp folder. “This is my final report,” he said, and tossed the document onto the sheriff’s desk.
Newell glanced at it, but didn’t pick it up. “I don’t care what you’ve got there, Cravely. We’re charging your driver with a DUI, multiple vehicular homicides, depraved indifference, whatever. I’ve just come from Phil Schrauzer’s funeral, and I can promise you this. You’re gonna pay off Schrauzer’s widow. Robertson’s medical bills, too, and the parents of the boy who died out there!” He cautioned the Smiths with a glance, and they sat tight. Denny Smith’s face was flushed a brilliant red, and Lenora Smith had a death grip on the arms of the chair. “Whatever Larry Yoder might have done, your driver put that truck into a jackknife because he was drunk, not because Yoder shot a horse!”
Cravely snorted. “Yoder killed more than those people, Captain. I know about Ms. Sommers.”
Branden sat up straighter to say something, but Newell cut him off. “Maybe Yoder did kill Britta Sommers. That doesn’t let you off the hook for the others.”
“Yoder killed everyone,” Cravely snapped and bent to lift his briefcase. “You have my report.”
Denny Smith rose slowly from his chair, fists clenched at his sides, and turned to face the insurance agent. Taking hold of the small man by his lapels, he boosted Cravely violently off his feet and pushed him back against the office wall where Robertson’s collection of police arm patches was displayed. Cravely squirmed, and a handful of patches fell from the wall behind him.
Newell managed to take Smith from the back, pulling his grip on Cravely loose. Pushing Smith away, Newell stepped around to put himself between the two men.
Cravely yelped, “You rotten cur!” and Smith lunged again at the man. Newell held Smith back, the muscles in his neck and arms straining his uniform.
“That’s enough, Smith,” Newell said, and pushed the angry man back into his chair.
Lenora Smith sat quietly weeping. Denny Smith got up again and stood behind her chair, holding her shoulders. He looked angrily at Cravely and started talking in a forced, yet soft tone, laced with bitter animosity.
“We know the whole story, Mr. Cravely. None of it, I am quite sure, will be found in that report of yours.
“You see, we hired a detective in Chicago, and we know all about your company and that driver who killed our son. That man has been fired once before. For drunk driving, Cravely. He’s had a history of DUIs, and he crashed another of the company’s trucks last year. So they fired him. But what do you know! The regular driver was out sick last week, and your company re-hired the bastard because they didn’t have anyone else to make the run.
“Well, he made the run, all right. Stopped off in Wooster to have a few cold ones. The bartender there has recognized his picture. Then he showed up drunk at his first stop, and the Amish carpenter remembers trying to sober the guy up with coffee. Tried to stall him. Keep him from driving.
“But, no! Your guy had to get back in that truck. He was drunk, Cravely, before he crested that hill, and it’s your company who’s to blame. I don’t care what’s in your report. Nothing about our son’s death is settled. Not to my way of thinking.”
Smith scowled at Cravely for another half minute and then helped his wife out of her chair, and they left.
Cravely’s face was flushed red. He made a pretense of straightening his suit coat, and bent to pick up his briefcase. Then he turned sharply and stomped out of the room.
Branden shook his head. He picked up Cravely’s report in the black binder, flipped some pages and set it down. With a new sense of urgency, he asked the captain again, “What did Weston give you that secured the search warrant?”
Newell refocused his thoughts with an effort. “What?” he eventually said to Branden.
“You said Weston came in here yesterday and told you something new to help get a search warrant for Yoder’s place. What was that?”