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Helen’s “see me” note was in the middle of Kate’s desk. The reporter decided to make the corrections she’d marked on the draft so she’d be more prepared for the meeting. The last page was printing when her boss appeared in the doorway.
“Perfect timing. The draft is ready for you. If it’s okay, I’d like to do one a week maybe putting more than one profile in each article.”
“Sounds like a good approach,” Helen said. “I recommend you start with people who are still alive, perhaps work in others who were contemporaries.”
“Good idea,” Kate said even though she already planned that approach.
“How’s Etta?” Helen asked, accepting the pages. “Are you helping her again today?”
“I dropped her at the hospital. She’ll stay with Sarah for a while and call me later. She’s doing much better, moving into the angry stage. Her friend is doing okay too.”
“That’s good news.”
Helen remained, but did not sit down. At the risk of a long conversation, Kate said, “Something else we need to discuss?”
“I’ve gotten a call. A complaint.”
“About me?” Kate asked, trying to imagine what she’d done recently to offend someone.
“To be honest the complaint sounds like you were doing your job. But I want you to be aware so you can smooth things over. Maybe you can try a more subtle investigative technique.”
Kate chuckled, then noticed her boss wasn’t laughing. “I’m sorry, Helen. Smoothing things over and being subtle are not skills I have fully developed.”
A whisper of movement in Helen’s lips, then a full-out smile.
“Who made the complaint?” Kate asked.
“A city councilman.”
“Let me guess. Larry Allen.”
“Yes. He says that you’ve agitated ... he actually used that word ... his grandfather. And that you’ve interfered in his business. And last, certainly not least, that you have been snooping at City Hall.”
“Snooping?”
“You have obviously made an impact on his life.”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“Since he wouldn’t give me specifics, I’ll say go easy with him. See what you can do about developing those people skills.”
***
WELL, HELEN’S ATTITUDE toward me has certainly changed. Maybe mine has too. Either way, working with her has been much more enjoyable lately.
Kate rounded up photographer Barry Turner and headed toward Table Rock Lake and her appointment with Harold Wainright. The new area-resident had agreed to what Kate told him was a customary profile on interesting transplants to the Ozarks. Fortunately, he enjoyed her articles on Etta and Branson in general, so he agreed. She decided it would be more productive—if not easier—to go to the source. Sitting on hold for ever or trying to figure out what an internet was and what it could do for a journalist did not appeal to her.
Barry, a willowy brown-haired twenty-one-year-old, joined the part-timers at Tri-Lakes News last spring. He primarily helped the staff with research but had been pressed into service more recently to take photos for various articles. Besides, Barry wouldn’t lend her the camera, which he had owned since being on the high school yearbook staff—not too long ago.
Getting to the lake road turn-off was a cinch, after that Marge’s directions became a challenge. The looping roads and hidden turns weren’t unusual for the area around Table Rock. The lake itself was created in the late 1950s when the White River was dammed not too far south of Branson. It served as a major tourist attraction with all the fishing and camping, enhanced by the beautiful, still rustic, scenery.
The final turn led to an asphalt road which curved in front of a simple log structure perhaps forty feet wide. A separate two-car wooden garage sat at the far end of the curve, which headed back to the main road. A matching wooden covered walkway spanned the distance from the garage to the house.
Kate continued on to a cleared area so as not to obstruct the photography. Barry snapped several shots from various angles as the two approached the entrance. The clear sky and fall foliage made for a breathtaking view.
Harold Wainright greeted them almost immediately and ushered them inside. He was at least two inches shy of Barry’s six-foot-one height. His well-groomed thick dark hair somehow made him seem taller. But the most disarming aspect of her subject was his ear-to-ear warm smile and cordial demeanor.
The foyer ran the entire length of the building. Across from the door, the largest picture window Kate had ever seen provided a panoramic view of the lake and surrounding hills. Hallways exited the entryway to the left and right. Although the wood paneling was impressive and the entry spectacular, the place had been grossly overpriced.
But first impressions can be deceiving. Their host turned left and down a short hallway, at the end of which a curved stairway descended into the main—and previously hidden—part of the house. Barry started clicking at the top of the stairs and didn’t stop until he reached the bottom. He continued, as if mesmerized, to the center of the lakeside wall, a series of glass doors framed in oak.
“My wife fixed some iced tea and lemonade,” Wainright said, motioning toward the bar at the back of the fifty-by-fifty-foot room. “Help yourself.”
Barry took some shots of the view, including one with Wainright posed next to the center door. The width of the deck beyond the glass wall matched the room, with L-shaped extensions on either side. A relatively small hot tub occupied one of the extensions. Three separate conversation areas took up the rest of the deck area.
“This is amazing,” Kate said.
“We were pleased to find it,” Wainright said.
“I’d love to include your wife in the interview.”
“Rachel planned to be here, but something came up with the volunteer work she’s doing. It was unavoidable.”
“I’ll leave my card. If she’d like to meet me somewhere to chat, that would be great.”
He took the card and placed it on the table next to the sofa, then sat down across from Kate in an oversized chair next to the hearth that dominated one wall.
“If it’s okay, Barry will take a few pictures while we talk. Then he’ll probably go out on the deck and gawk at the lake.”
Wainright chuckled. “You’re welcome to wander around, Barry. That stairway on the left goes down to a path below the deck leading to our dock.”
“Of course it does,” the photographer mumbled.
Once Kate cleared the use of the recorder, she asked a few introductory questions. Wainright and his wife, as many before them, had come to the area to retire after spending several vacations over the years. He loved to fish and they both loved boating and hiking. It was an easy and natural choice for them. His wife had jumped in quickly to do volunteer work at the hospital. She’d been a nurse when they met and for a brief time after they married in the 1960s. He spent twelve years in the United States Air Force with his final tour in Southeast Asia.
“You got out after twelve years?” Kate asked.
“I was too old to risk another tour in that war. Rachel and I were married four months before I left for Vietnam. She begged me not to reenlist. To be honest, I was easily convinced.”
“And after the air force?”
“When we separated from the service, we went to Evanston, Illinois, close to Rachel’s family. Living near my family was not a good option. I used the GI Bill to finish my degree at Northwestern University. Eventually we moved to Chicago.”
Wainright told of how they struggled as a couple with three young children in a Chicago suburb during the 1970s. He commuted to his entry level position at a real estate development company in the city. He got his big break by impressing the CEO of a rival firm with his expertise. That company—Illinois Land Futures Inc.—offered him a promotion, a corner office, and more money.
“And you’d found a home.”
“For over twenty-five years.”
“Still, you were young when you retired.”
“The time was right.”
“Fair enough. But you’ve been here for a year or so and recently purchased some residential properties.”
“You’ve done your research.”
“I have a few sources. So, are you going to expand that new venture?”
“Anything is possible. But I’m basically a frustrated retired workaholic. I tried some volunteer work, thanks to Rachel’s urging, but it wasn’t enough. I’m not embarrassed to admit I like to make money.”
“Not much remuneration in volunteer work. You should join the area Chamber of Commerce.”
“Started attending meetings last spring. Branson is a charming town that’s expanding at an exponential rate. It would be dishonest to say I’m not interested in taking that ride.”
“Plenty of contacts at the chamber. I’m not sure how many big players we have, but they care about the city and the area.”
“I met a couple of players.”
“Jack Brighton was one,” she guessed.
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. He’s one of the few in town who are in your league.”
“Smart and blunt too.”
“Sorry, I’m told I need to tone it down some.”
“Don’t listen to that advice.”
“Well, I’m sure you and Mr. Brighton got along. Did you meet his grandson?”
“I’ve spoken to his son, Randy, and his grandson. Larry Allen, right?”
“You all will make a good team,” she said, fishing a bit.
“You may be jumping the gun on that collaboration, Kate. I’ve purchased a half dozen rentals, nothing more.”
“This area, especially Branson, is breaking loose, Mr. Wainright. Anything is possible.”
“That’s what Larry tells me.”
She decided not to press her luck regarding other gems Larry imparted.
The spicy smell of fall filled the air, damp leaves covering the path, as Wainright walked her down to the dock. Barry was sitting next to his boots at the end, his bare feet dangling in the water.
“Time to head back, Barry,” Kate shouted.
“Sorry, can’t hear you,” came the reply.
In fact, she also hated to leave. Something about the water and the bucolic atmosphere relaxed her. Maybe she and Tom could live on the lake.
***
WHEN SHE RETURNED TO the newspaper office, she drafted a piece without reviewing the tape. She’d listen to it later and expand the article for Helen’s review. Maybe the Branson transplant series is a good idea after all.
A message from Marge requested Kate to call, but she walked up the street to Connarde Realty instead. One of the best things about being a reporter was not staying in the stuffy office all day. With that in mind, she invited Marge to take a walk to the lakefront to discuss their mutual progress.
“I interviewed Wainright at his home this morning,” Kate began. “You were right about the house and the setting. He seemed like a nice man. I’m doing an article for the paper, so I won’t spoil it for you. But he knows both Brightons and Larry Allen.”
“Lots of people know them. It doesn’t mean they’re in cahoots,” Marge said.
“I know. Something about how coy he was when we discussed them. I wouldn’t be surprised to see them join forces someday.”
“We’ll see, I suppose. This is a list of the lakefront owners who’ve been approached to sell. As you can see, I’m a frustrated spreadsheet creator.”
“No kidding. Name of owner and/or resident, address of property, sale/no sale, who approached each owner. This is great.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open for more activity.”
Kate tucked the pages into her pocket. “I’m afraid I didn’t find out anything at Branson City Hall. My contacts are limited, and the city administrator has warned people not to speak to the media. I’ve asked my dad to check with some of his old planning commission contacts to see if anything is cooking. The city can’t do anything in secret, but I was hoping to find out about long-term plans. Turns out the only thing going on is the city hall expansion, which is slated to begin in two or three years.”
Marge said, “The Chamber has undertaken something interesting. But don’t get your hopes up. It may not be a big deal. I only wish I participated in the committees.”
“Because ...”
“One of the groups is doing a big survey. They’ve sent out hundreds of questionnaires to small, medium, and large companies nationwide. The majority are in the Midwest, but the committee figured it was worth the price of postage to ask.”
“And they were asking?”
“What would make you bring your company meetings to Branson? You know, things like how big would the meeting rooms need to be, how many would you use, how many hotel rooms, what other activities would be of interest? It goes on and on.”
“I don’t suppose you have a copy.”
“I have one in my office ... just for you ... including a list of the companies.”
“Great,” Kate said. “When was it sent out?”
“Several months ago.”
“Which means they’ve been working on it for a while.”
“A company developed the questionnaire, but certainly members of the committee provided input and review. A list of members is on the contact page by the way.”
“It does sound interesting.”
“I suppose, but this is what chambers of commerce do. They hope to encourage people with money to come to the area.”
“Knowing what will get them to come is clearly important. Can you find out the status of responses? They should have some preliminary data by now.”
“I’ll give it a try. Can’t hurt to seem interested.”
***
KATE WAITED IN THE chairs not far from the nurses’ station while Etta wrapped up her visit with Sarah. She was reviewing her notes on Wainright when a familiar voice stopped to speak to a nurse. By the time the butterflies in her tummy stopped fluttering, Tom was next to her chair.
“Hi, Katie. Thanks again. The tape of your interrogation was a big help.”
“Interview. You interrogate. I interview. And you are welcome. I hope you can arrest whoever trashed Etta’s house.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“It was a pretty traumatic afternoon putting everything back together.”
“I’ll bet. I’d like to ask her a couple more questions.”
“Etta’s in with Sarah now.”
Tom motioned to Sid, who tapped the door jamb as the two detectives disappeared into the room.
Kate was finishing her notes when the policemen and Etta stopped in front of her. “All set to go home?” Kate asked.
“This nice young man of yours is going to take me.”
Kate grinned in Tom’s direction. “That’s very sweet of you, Detective Collingwood.”
She took Etta by the arm and walked her to the elevator, Sid and Tom following closely behind. They rode silently down to the lobby level. The police vehicle was parked close to the door, so Kate said her goodbyes as they exited the building. She smiled all the way to her car thinking about that nice young man of hers.