Authors: Elaine Orr
WHEN I REACHED MY BROTHER Ambrose, he'd just had a call from Sheriff Gallagher. He and my sister-in-law had been about to leave for River's Edge. I said I was doing better than I was this morning and wanted to go to bed early, so they'd be better off staying in Dubuque.
"What did the sheriff want with you?" I asked.
"He wanted to know if I'd heard you say anything especially antagonistic about Hal after he fired you, but I think Gallagher mostly called to be sure I knew about you finding Hal."
Neither Ambrose nor his wife Sharon are big critics of my behavior, so I didn't feel chastised. "I'm sorry I didn't call. I fell asleep until a bit ago."
"I should have insisted you come up to Dubuque after Mom and Dad died."
"Like that would have worked."
He laughed. "Probably would have been counterproductive. You can come now, you know."
I explained how Sandi had cued me into the new job. "I kind of like the work at Syl Seaton's place, and I'm only supposed to leave town if I'm on a story. Or I have to tell Sheriff Gallagher where I'm going, or something like that."
He didn't say anything for a moment. "He doesn't really think you did it, does he?"
I said I thought not, but explained about the hoe. That bothered Ambrose a lot, but I was firm about staying in River's Edge. I finally agreed to have the locksmith come in the morning to put in a deadbolt, but I refused his offer to pay for it.
WEDNESDAY MORNING was warm for barely the second week in May. It was supposed to get to the mid-eighties, although it might rain in the late afternoon. I hoped not. If it was a real soaker I probably couldn't work for a couple of days. Or I could, but I had no intention of getting drenched and muddy for what Syl was paying me.
I left a message for the locksmith, Marion Hardy, and told her I'd left the door unlocked so she could install a deadbolt. I hadn't thought to ask Mrs. Keyser if that was okay, but she's always let me paint whatever color I wanted. Besides, she could hardly argue about better security.
You left your house unlocked for a locksmith
. I was giggling as I pulled into the parking lot at Farm and More at seven-thirty.
Stooper-the-Stone-Mason was near the cash register talking to the first-shift clerk, Andy, who was leaning on the counter. Stooper looked sort of sober. They stopped talking as soon as I entered. Andy straightened up, and they both looked uncomfortable.
I stopped near them. "So, I'm here now. You can ask instead of guess."
Andy flushed. "Sorry, Mel. Everyone's kind of in shock."
My turn to be embarrassed. "I shouldn't have snapped. It was a shocker for me, too."
"You doing okay?" Stooper asked, and hiccupped.
Guess he's not sober
. "Yep." I looked at Andy. "Can I talk to whoever dropped off the mulch at Syl Seaton's place?"
"Whose?" Stooper asked.
"He bought the Silverstone place," Andy said. "Ordered that batch of mulch 'cause Melanie was going to spruce up the place."
They both just stared at me.
"Andy. Did you deliver it?" I asked.
He sort of gulped. "Yeah. Boss called me back to do it. Wanted it done right away."
"Did you see anything…odd? Out of place?"
Andy looked uneasy. "Am I supposed to be talking to you?"
"You've known me since I was in first grade, why… Oh, did the sheriff ask you not to?"
"Why would he do that?" Stooper asked.
I was beginning to feel as if I was on a merry-go-round. I ignored Stooper.
"It's fine if you talk to me, Andy. All the sheriff told me was not to tell any details to the guys at the News."
"Urrrp."
I backed up two steps. "Stooper, that stinks."
"Sorry. Need to go brush my teeth." He ambled toward the glass door.
When he was outside, I looked at Andy. "Is he driving?"
"Nah. The tavern lets him sleep it off in the back most days. He's not usually in this early."
"Andy," I began.
He's five-six and built like a stocky brick. Andy was in third grade when I started school, and his mother ran the school bazaar every year.
"Didn't see anything special. The guy – Syl you called him? I didn't even know his name. He came out to tell me to put the stuff at the end of the driveway. Seemed kind of stuck up, but then he give me a five dollar tip and I thought he was all right."
"Nice tip," I said. "Anyone ride with you or honk at you when you pulled in or left Syl's place?"
"I thought you got fired from the paper. By Hal," Andy said.
"I did. He thought I took too many pictures. But you know he fired somebody every few months lately, when subscriptions went down."
Andy leaned an elbow on the cash register, ready to chat. "Heard Fred got some part-time work in Des Moines."
"Andy! I don’t' care about Fred right now."
"You don’t have to get grouchy about it."
I shut my eyes for a moment. "Sorry, I…"
The door opened, and two men in dark-colored suits stood there, looking at me. "Miss Perkins?"
"Yes."
"Sheriff said your truck was here when he drove by. We're from IDI. We need to talk with you for a few minutes."
"Hot damn," Andy said.
The older of the two men was about forty-five, with close-cropped hair that was more grey than its original brown. "Probably at the sheriff's office."
"Sure. Meet you there."
For a couple of seconds it seemed as if the agent who was closer to my age was going to say he wanted me to ride with them.
I couldn't help it, I grinned. "It's not like I could go anywhere else without being seen."
Both men seemed to relax, and the older one held out his hand. "Charles Holcomb. This is David Masters."
I shook both of their hands. "I can lead you down there, if you like."
"No cuffs?" Andy asked.
THE TWO AGENTS were polite, but they spent a lot more time talking to me than Sheriff Gallagher had yesterday. Today, Deputy Granger sat on the same side of the table as the agents, and I sat across from them at the old metal table. Sheriff Gallagher stood against the conference room's door jamb, eyes moving to whomever was talking.
The third time one of them asked me what time I got to Syl's I said, "Do you really not hear what I say, or is this some kind of deal where you're trying to see if I tell you the same thing each time?"
"Melanie." The sheriff's mouth twitched for a second. "It's just how they do their job."
I looked back at the agents. "I get that, and I realize I know I didn't do it and you don't. It just seems to me that you'd catch the killer faster if you looked for him."
Sheriff Gallagher cleared his throat, and Charles Holcomb nodded. "We have to check every possibility."
"So what others are you checking?"
David Masters didn't seem to have his colleague's patience. "We're asking the questions, Miss Perkins."
"Clearly. But a news reporter asks questions too."
"Which you aren’t anymore," Granger said.
For the third time we went over why I was fired and what Hal said in the grocery store. Then the agents looked at their notes, apparently trying to come up with something new.
"Sheriff."
Gallagher looked at me.
"Can I leave?"
"They may have more questions," he said.
I looked at the two IDI agents. "I'll answer any new questions. But I'm not answering the same ones again."
"We'd hate to have to categorize you as a hostile witness," Masters said, almost smirking.
"You can categorize me as dumber than a mule, as long as we cover new ground."
When they didn't say anything I picked up my purse from the chair next to me and left.
IT WAS AFTER the breakfast rush and too early for morning coffee breaks, so the diner only had a couple of people in it. I glanced at the woman behind the counter. "The usual, Shirley, if you've got it."
"Coming right up, sugar." She tucked some loose strands under her hair net as she went to get my food.
I sat in a booth toward the back and scowled for a few seconds as I stared out the window. The diner is on a side street off the square. The buildings are a mix of brick and frame, none more than two stories. A couple of vacant buildings, one with several boarded windows, were eyesores, and a plastic bag moved slowly across the street.
What did those IDI agents think they would accomplish by going over the same material three times? And who else were they talking to?
Shirley set half a bagel and two small cartons of grape jelly on the table. She's sixty or so, or maybe fifty. Hard to tell with her skin creased from smoking. She stopped last year when she got an official diagnosis of COPD. Shirley leaned over to whisper to me. "I know it wasn't you, sugar."
"Thanks."
"I knew your Mom and Dad all my life. They mighta raised a nosy reporter, but they didn't raise a killer."
Damned with faint praise.
"I appreciate that. Would you mind if I had that coffee? I got up really early."
She popped her gum as she smiled over her shoulder. "You betcha. Be right back."
I pulled a thin notebook from my purse and opened to a clean page. I'd been so tired last night I hadn't even done an idea page. Whenever I worked on a story, I made myself write fresh notes each evening, and I had to put at least one question at the end. Too many questions to even fool with it last night.
I hadn't realized I was thinking about the first item until I wrote, "Where was Fred yesterday?"
I placed my hand over the sentence as Shirley put a mug of coffee, sugar already in it, on the table. "Eat that bagel now. It'll be cold."
"Yes ma'am." I managed a smile.
When she walked away I scratched out the sentence. Still, since Fred had been in town so soon after I found Hal, it was a fair question. I supposed if Sandi had called him the second she stopped screeching he could have been in River's Edge that fast, but I doubted she had.
Was Fred in town when Hal was killed?
Fred had had a lot more to lose than I did. He'd bought a house just three years before Hal fired him, and he had to rent out two of the bedrooms to guys who worked at the meat packing plant. He stored his coin collection and expensive shoes at Betty's in case the men were not as honest as the shift supervisor at the plant said they were.
I thought for a full minute. I could see Fred gloating all over town if he won his appeal to claim unemployment benefits. Killing Hal would probably just delay processing Fred's appeal. And how would Fred know there would be a fresh pile of mulch at Syl's, much less be able to get the body there?
Fred knows where I keep my gardening tools. So do lots of other people
.
It was hard to do a list of people mad at Hal, because so many people were. I thought about a story he did on Blackner's Insurance. Hal had made it sound like they inflated prices for life and health insurance, but he'd run a correction on the front page above the fold. He had to, because Bruce Blackner said he'd sue the bejesus out of Hal if he didn't. It definitely didn't get Hal the firm's advertising budget back.
The
South County News
plopped on the table, and Sandi slid into the booth across from me. "I can't believe you didn't call me."
I frowned. "You know how to find me. Did you need something?"
She looked offended. "I thought you'd have something to say about the article."
I pulled the paper toward me. "It wasn't in the box at home when I left."
"We were late putting it to bed last night, so the printer couldn't get it out by five a.m. Wish we were still a daily. The Register scooped us by putting it on their web page." She tapped her index finger on the table top. "Read it."
Publisher Found Dead
The body of South County News publisher Hal Morris was discovered at eight forty-seven a.m. Tuesday, in a mulch pile at the Silverstone place (now owned by Sylvester Maximillan Seaton) on County Road 270. Former reporter Melanie Perkins, who had been hired to do some landscaping work on the property, discovered Morris' body. Deputy Aaron Granger, first on the scene, verified that the body was that of the local publisher and editor.
Morris had fired Perkins several weeks ago, but Sheriff Michael Gallagher noted he did not consider her a suspect. When asked if he thought Morris was killed on the Seaton property, Gallagher said he was more than likely killed elsewhere, but the state medical examiner would be the one to determine that.
Given Morris's prominence in the community, Gallagher called in Iowa IDI to work with the Sheriff's Department. Neither Agent Charles Holcomb nor David Masters were willing to talk to South County News staff.