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Tom parked as close to the house as possible, but still more than halfway toward the motel office. Roger’s business had definitely recovered in the last year—good for him and Branson. And good for Tom that he didn’t see Roger’s truck. Maybe Roger and Marge are out on a date.
Kate—framed by the front picture window—directed him around to the patio. Two candles were centered on the table, which had been set with what Tom knew to be Kate’s mother’s best dishes.
“What did I do to deserve this?” he asked.
“I decided to take advantage of the warm evening. Oh, did I mention that Dad and Margie are in Springfield at a real estate thing. Won’t be home until late.”
“Sorry I missed them.”
“Liar.”
Tom leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “I confess. I’m not disappointed we are able to spend a little quality time alone.”
Kate put her arms around his neck. “After dinner, I have a surprise for you.”
He kissed her gently on the lips, pulling her closer. His heart pounded in his chest, or maybe it was hers. Welcoming her eager hug, he nuzzled his cheek against hers. He didn’t want to let go, and he knew she felt the same as he welcomed her lips with his own. The depth of his obsession with Kate had never diminished. When they broke up and he moved away, he buried the feelings, tried to forget how special their relationship—their love—was. But that changed when he returned to Branson.
She pulled away and stepped back. “That was the pizza.”
“What was the pizza?”
“Didn’t you hear the timer?”
He followed her into the kitchen. “Perhaps you didn’t notice, but I was seriously in another world.”
She glanced over her shoulder and wrinkled her nose like the schoolgirl he remembered. He grabbed her arm and drew her to his chest. She pressed against him until the oven bell sounded again.
“Let me turn this off.”
“Can you do that without moving?”
She shook her head. “Do you want to eat charcoal pizza?”
“My favorite.”
“We have all evening. Remember?”
“Exactly how late will they be?”
She raised an eyebrow and pulled away to retrieve the pizza and slice it. “I’ll take this out. Can you grab a couple beers?”
“Does this mean we’re going to eat now?”
Tom had to admit, the evening was spectacular—a light southern breeze and a still bright waning moon. He leaned back in the chair and watched his companion slip a wedge of pizza on each plate. She poured her beer into a glass and took a sip.
“I love ice-cold beer, especially with pizza,” she said.
“This looks great. Did you make it from scratch?”
“Okay. Either that was sarcasm, or you’ve forgotten who your date is.”
“I made a little joke. I’m having a great time, that’s all.”
The first pieces disappeared in silence with Tom lost in his memories. Although Kate was quite a bit taller now, the five-year-old he met in school was still around—the long auburn hair, dazzling blue eyes, and glowing freckles. So much had happened. He was grateful for another chance at happiness.
“Why are you staring at me with that silly gaze on your face?” she asked.
“I was remembering this cute little girl I used to see during recess.”
“The one you chased around the school yard?”
“That’s the one.”
Kate served each of them another slice. “Wonder what happened to that cute little gal.”
Tom reached across the table and took her hand in his. “She grew into a beautiful, intelligent, lady. I lost touch with her for a while, but we’ve recently reunited.”
“How’s that going for you?”
“Seems pretty good so far.” He came out of his chair at the same time pulling her toward him. They shared a passionate kiss, but he stopped. He didn’t want to rush things. Stepping back, he let his fingers slide down her arms and squeeze her hands.
She returned the squeeze. “Too soon,” she said—not quite a question.
“Part of me feels as though we’ve never been apart. The other part keeps remembering we reconciled ... once again ... less than two weeks ago.”
“You do have a way with words, Detective Collingwood,” Kate commented, rolling her eyes.
“I don’t want to mess this up. This time it seems like we have a chance.”
“We’ve been up and down on a few occasions. You’re right about that.”
“What’s the surprise?”
“I almost forgot. I rented our favorite movie.”
“Okay. Remind me again the name of it.”
“You don’t remember?” The wrinkle in her brow and the daggers coming from her eyes meant he was in serious trouble.
We saw a lot of movies in high school, he thought. Our favorite, meaning her favorite, was probably a chick flick. Or maybe a special date. Think, man.
Kate crossed her arms in front of her—time was running out.
There was one special night. He had to try it. “Heaven something. Warren Beatty, right?”
“You have no idea how close that was, detective.”
“Uh, I’m pretty clear on that point.”
“Heaven Can Wait. Pop it in the VCR and I’ll get us another round.”
He followed her orders and cued the tape. When she returned, she snuggled close to him and laid her head on his shoulder. Although he had hoped the evening would take a different turn, he was happy. In the months after her dad was cleared of the murder charge, the couple had tried several times to start dating again. Something always came up to sabotage the relationship. Perhaps this time would be different. Kate surprising him with the movie they saw the summer before his senior year was a good sign—a good place to start fresh.
Tom relaxed and enjoyed the movie. He’d forgotten how funny it was. What he did remember was the time afterward with Kate. They were celebrating her seventeenth birthday early because his family would be out of town on the actual date. It was a special evening.
Kate brushed a tear from her cheek and sat forward on the sofa as the final titles rolled on the small screen. She sighed deeply and walked to the VCR. “I love that ending,” she said, putting the tape in the rewinder.
“It brings back good memories,” he said.
“You do remember.”
“Yeah, I remember a lot about that night.”
“I hate to say this, but Dad will be home soon.”
“What happened to later?”
“We spent it watching a movie.”
They walked through the living room into the small foyer by the front door. He leaned against the wall next to the bookshelf, trying to stretch out the goodbye.
“Thanks for coming over. I had a great time,” she said, taking his hands.
“Me too. I enjoyed seeing our favorite movie again.”
“Even if you didn’t know it was our favorite?”
“Hey, is this a new bookshelf?”
“Okay. I’m not sure we voted it our favorite movie, but it was fun to see again. And all the furniture in this house has been in exactly the same place for thirty years.”
“But this box hasn’t. Is it one of Etta’s?”
“Very observant, detective. It was a gift from her for my incredibly kind and extremely professional job of writing about the creator of the Branson crafts fair.”
“I’m impressed.”
“It was a thoughtful present from a lady who lives a simple life.”
“Right.”
“What does that tone mean?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure the gift was sincere. But don’t for a second feel sorry for Etta Stupholds. She is most likely one of the richest women in town. Remember she’s a full partner with Jack Brighton in Fortune Enterprises. He established a trust fund for her in the 1940s. She wants for nothing.”
“Technically their partnership is in Riverside Mercantile.”
“Which owns Fortune Enterprises.”
Her hurt expression caught him off-guard. When it turned to a sweet pout, then the Katie-has-you grin, he relaxed. She smiled and moved close. Relieved that his weak attempt at banter had not backfired, he returned the hug and kissed her. He hesitated briefly before letting her go.
“To be honest, I didn’t know about the trust fund. How’d you find out?”
“I know people who know people,” he said before changing the subject. “So, what do you keep in the box?”
“That is somewhere between nosy and curious.”
“Ah, secrets. Not a good start for a long-term romance.”
She put her arms around his waist. “Long-term?”
“We should definitely give it a try and see how it goes.”
“Etta didn’t have a key, but she says the box is empty.”
“That will not slow down a good detective.”
“Maybe Sid could unlock it for me.”
He squinted and frowned, then took her hand as they walked across the lot to his vehicle.
“I’ll see you soon,” she said.
“Count on it.”
***
WHEN HE ARRIVED AT his apartment, Tom stayed in his car for several minutes. He stared at the building, but all he could see was Kate’s face. It was almost one in the morning when he finally lay down. Only a couple of hours later, he sat straight up in bed. The dream—more like a nightmare—was elusive, but it had something to do with Kate breaking up with him in the middle of the city hall lobby. He couldn’t go back to sleep, so he got up and walked around his apartment for several minutes. Unable to calm himself down, he gave up and went to work. He’d been going over the stack of cold cases for a while when Sid arrived.
“What are you doing here on a Sunday? Didn’t you have a date with Kate last night?”
Tom walked to the coffee stand and filled two mugs.
Sid said, “No comment. Now I get it.”
“You get what?”
“The date went better than you expected it would. But when you went home ... bingo!”
“Bingo?”
“You questioned the greatness of the date itself. You were afraid she’d dump you again. You couldn’t sleep.”
“How can you know all that?”
“Been there.”
“So, what are you doing here on a Sunday?”
“Couldn’t sleep. This skeleton case gives me insomnia. Did you solve it without me?”
“I wish. But a couple of things interest me. First, let’s discuss the crime itself. We know the victim was approached from behind. He heard or saw the killer and turned to face him and was struck in the side of his head. The weapon was most likely a long-handled shovel and the blow was fatal.”
Sid interrupted, “But he may not have died immediately.”
“Right,” Tom said, shrugging. “There had to be more than one killer. At the very least, someone had to help transport the body to the lot.”
“We know the buildings on the lot were not occupied at the time. The murder could still have taken place on site.”
“Could, but probably not,” Tom said, pouring himself another cup of coffee.
“Because?”
“Brighton’s records show the buildings were vacant, meaning no furnishings and no electricity, from late 1942, when Etta moved out, until early 1949, when they started renting the property.”
“Unlikely a shovel happened to be available for a spontaneous murder.”
“Exactly. This was not planned. If it was, it was a dumb plan. If you want to kill someone, do it away from civilization, with an appropriate weapon, and dispose of the body where it will never be found.”
“Unfortunately, that means the murder took place anywhere in the city of Branson.”
“That’s true, but let’s assume it was in the place where a shovel similar to the one Chuck likes for the weapon would be found,” Tom said.
“A farm. A business. Anywhere.”
“But probably not far from St. Limas Street. The body was carried or transported manually or at best in some simple hand cart. If a car or truck had been available, the killer would have used it to take the bundle farther out of town.”
“I hate to be the devil’s advocate, but you’re counting on our perps being logical, even smart. What if they were stupid or wanted to frame someone in the city?”
“Let’s go down the logical path for now. If that doesn’t work, we’ll retrace our steps.”
“Okay, if the murder wasn’t planned, something happened to provoke the attack.”
Tom said, “I see a couple of options, but one makes more sense. The guy with the shovel was trying to stop the victim from hurting someone else. I know you’re skeptical, but hear me out. Let’s say our victim was arguing with someone. The argument heats up. Our victim attacks someone, knocks him down or pushes him. The fight continues and eventually gets out of hand. The shovel guy grabs the conveniently located weapon and strikes our victim. Maybe he knew it would kill him, maybe he didn’t.”
Tom handed Sid a large black marker and motioned toward the three-foot square pad of plain paper resting on an easel beside the worktable. Sid made notes as his partner recapped the scenario. When he filled a sheet, he ripped it off the pad and taped it to the wall. When they finished, they leaned back and stared at the five sheets.
“Let me guess,” Sid said picking up the cold case folders, “all we have to do is see which of these missing persons fits neatly into our crime scene.”
“Three good fits are on top, all from your review of the 1940 cases.”
Sid opened the first file. “John Newsom. Age fits. Went missing in November 1948. Lived in Omaha, Arkansas, but worked in Branson at the lumber company. According to his wife, he stayed in Branson during the week and came home most weekends. When he failed to come home the second Friday in a row, she tried to find him. Eventually a report was filed in the city. Branson police worked with the Taney County Sheriff’s office to check out several leads. Found nothing.”
Tom said, “However, several reports concerned Mr. Newsom’s possible relationship with a local woman. Both of them seemed to disappear at the same time. All the department could do was wait for another lead.”
Sid shrugged and took the next folder from the pile. “I remember this one. Robert Jeffries. One problem with him.”
‘Too old?”
“Right, but everything else fits. Missing in 1947. Lived a couple miles north of the city. Had a hard time adjusting after returning from the war. His only living relative, a sister, made the report when she hadn’t heard from him in several months.”
“Not much to go on, so the case was quickly tabled. Still we could follow up with the sister or her children.”
“Last one. Alexander Porter. Wife reported him missing in 1945. He’d been living and working in some factory in Kansas City, Missouri. Hadn’t been home to see her in a while but corresponded regularly. Last letter she received was in September 1945. He said he hoped to be home soon. Branson PD followed up with Kansas City and the surrounding area. The fleabag hotel where he was staying hadn’t seen him in a while, but ... being a fleabag ... they didn’t care. When his prepaid rent ran out, they removed and stored his belongings, including personal letters, his toiletries, and some clothes. Eventually they returned the property to the wife.”
“Branson PD found no other leads, no indication he had returned to Branson. He did not match any Kansas City-area John Doe. In fact they checked as far north as St. Joseph, Omaha and Cedar Rapids, and the rest of Missouri for unidentified bodies matching his description.”
Sid walked to the easel and wrote down the three names with a few key words under each. Then in large letters under the three lists he wrote and circled: NEED DNA LINK.
“We need to see if any of these victims have living relatives and hope one of them is a maternal link. I’ll start by speaking to the old-timers ... I mean long-term residents,” Tom said.
Sid stepped to the board and put a large arrow next to the third name and shook his head.
“Spit it out,” Tom said.
“Two things. One, we went through a lot of files. Fredericks said the murder could have happened anywhere in the 1940s or 50s. We’ve selected three files out of maybe two dozen from that time period. What if our victim had no kin or friend or whatever to report his absence? What if his kin didn’t care or did the deed?”
“We have to do this step by step. My gut tells me someone buried in Branson was probably killed close by. I’m going to assume his absence was reported in the city. We have to eliminate those possibilities before we resume the what-ifs.”
“Fair enough,” Sid said.
“You said two things.”
“Yeah. Do you suppose this Mr. Porter is related to our favorite complainer, Bryan? You have to admit that would be quite a coincidence.”
“My thought exactly.”