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Kate usually enjoyed covering the Board of Aldermen meeting every other Tuesday, but public comments about the new sign ordinance were less than stimulating. Her mind drifted from one topic to another finally landing on the key that unlocked Etta’s box. An almost unbearable hour and thirty minutes later the adjournment gavel rang down and she was out the door.
Breezing into the living room and ignoring her father, she came to an abrupt halt by the table next to the sofa. Both the cedar box and its metal companion were missing.
“Are you okay,” her dad asked.
She spun around and plopped down on the couch, shaking her head.
“If you’re searching for that box, I moved it to the shelf in the foyer. I needed the table space yesterday when I was sorting pamphlets for Margie.”
“You couldn’t sort them in the kitchen?” Kate said, immediately regretting her tone.
“Hey, I tried to find you to ask your permission, but you were at work.”
“I’m sorry, but the other night I found the key that opens the box. Then I got distracted and forgot about it. But tonight, I remembered.”
“That explains everything,” Roger said, shaking his head.
The metal container was on top of the wooden box, but the pile of rejected keys was not on the shelf. Worse than that, the working key was not in the lock. Calm down.
Kate picked up and shook the key case. She took a deep breath and stepped back into the living room. “Dad? What did you do with the pile of keys? And the one in the lock?”
“The little bowl on the second shelf, but there wasn’t a key in the lock.”
Kate examined the keys in the dish but didn’t remember what the successful one looked like. She sat down on the sofa, one hand cupping the small container, the other hand massaging her throbbing temple. She searched the floor next to the arm of the sofa then around and under it.
“Did you drop it in the pile?” she said.
“No key in the lock,” her father repeated slowly. “You need to relax and try to remember what you did with it.”
She had to admit the moment was a blur. She tried it and it turned. What did she do next? Marge knocked. Kate let her in. “I put it in my jeans pocket.”
“See? Relax and remember. Works every time.”
She grabbed Etta’s gift and the metal box and headed for her room. The jeans she’d worn Sunday were in the clothes basket in her closet. And the key was safe and sound in the right-hand pocket. Hoping she had not imagined it unlocking two days ago, she turned the key clockwise. As before, it rotated without effort.
Placing the box squarely in the middle of her bed, she raised the lid a crack and peeked inside. Etta was wrong. It’s not empty. Kate gently lifted a folded piece of paper, revealing more below. She laid the first on her bed and dumped the remaining contents on top to maintain the order. She stared at the items, suddenly overcome by an unsettling realization that she was invading Etta’s privacy, but shook it off and proceeded.
The oldest of the sheets, quite yellow and creased with age, was now on top. It appeared to be an official document. The paper was heavier. Even folded, the dark lettering revealed a structured form design. She smoothed open the creases to reveal a marriage license application, requested and signed by Claymore Phillip Stupholds and Henrietta Jo Freehman. The form was approved and certified at the bottom by a judge in Taney County Missouri on October 23, 1924—the day Etta turned sixteen.
One down.
Still concerned about reading the other keepsakes, she considered taking them to Etta. Certainly, they had nothing to do with Kate.
She returned them to the box and locked it, placing it on her bedside table. She stared at the object as if it would convince her it was okay to open and read the pages. In a few moments her reporter’s curiosity outvoted her sentiment.
Maintaining the order of the box, she lifted the middle sheet and spread it out carefully. The penmanship reminded her of her mother’s cursive, the style taught long ago in grade schools. At the top of the page, the date was also written in long hand—September 2, 1942. One glance at Clay’s signature and she knew what it was. She read it anyway.
“My Darling Wife,” the note began. “My true regret is that I failed to provide you all that you want and deserve in this life. Please know I tried. I hope you can forgive me. Eternally yours, Clay.”
Putting aside the uneasy feeling of reading such an intimate confession, Kate agreed with Etta—the note made no sense. Etta seemed to treasure memories of their life together. Yet in his mind, he failed her. How truly sad.
The final document consisted of two hand-written pages. “An Agreement” was in the top left corner of each page-numbered sheet. In the top right corner was the date—October 23, 1942, Etta’s 34th birthday. The agreement itself seemed official, but not in legalese. It spelled out an “arrangement for life” among the three old friends: Randall John Brighton, Alexander Benjamin Porter, and Henrietta Jo Stupholds. The last paragraph stated that the three, with the names listed again, had sworn solemn oaths on “this Friday, the 23rd of October in this year of Our Lord 1942,” by signing at the bottom of the second page.
“Bryan Porter was right,” Kate said aloud. “But is it valid?”
She found her father in the kitchen, having a short and neat whiskey, something he was prone to do on bill day. He lifted his glass in a mock toast and downed it quickly.
“All the checks written?” Kate asked.
“Mercifully, yes. Too bad this happens every month.”
“At least we have money in the bank to pay them now. It was touch and go for a while.”
“Would you care for a relaxer?” Roger asked.
“No, but I have a question. Do you think Phil Bingham would help me with something?”
“That’s not the best thing to ask your old dad on bill day.”
“Seriously. I need a lawyer to examine an agreement to see if it’s binding.”
“I imagine Phil’s up to the task and he has an office in Branson now.”
“Yes, close to the newspaper office. I’ll check him out.”
“Aren’t you going to let me read it? I’m a team member after all.”
“Sorry. I’ll have to invoke the need-to-know clause.”
***
KATE OVERSLEPT THE next morning after a restless night of mulling over the survey report and Etta’s agreement—first one, then the other, then back and forth. It seemed likely Allen had either directly or indirectly orchestrated the Chamber’s questionnaire. But so what?
She dragged herself to the newspaper office and plopped down at her desk. She was several minutes into reviewing her appointments for the day when she realized someone was lurking at her doorway.
“Nice of you to make it in,” Helen said.
“I had a rough night,” Kate retorted.
“What have you found on the series of fires? Anything worth a feature article?”
“I spoke to Chief Scherington. He was helpful. I’m still following up with owners and residents. Can I get you something in a day or so?”
“Sounds good. Keep me posted,” the editor said as she started to leave.
“Uh, Helen? Do you have a minute to discuss something else I’ve been investigating?”
The editor pulled a spare chair closer to Kate’s desk. “Does this have something to do with the skeleton case?”
“Sort of. Allen clearing the lot without his grandfather’s permission caused me to speculate about other things and now I’m not sure how ... or if ... it all fits.”
“Maybe we can sort it out together.”
Kate told Helen about the owners who were approached to sell their property by the lakefront, the Chamber’s survey, the preliminary report, and her theory about Allen’s involvement. She concluded with her list of what-ifs and what-if-nots, which was followed by several moments of silence.
“I can see why you couldn’t sleep,” Helen said, preparing to leave the room.
“Aren’t you going to tell me what to do?”
“Let me speak to some Chamber members, including your favorite, to check out the purpose and ultimate intention for this survey. If Allen plays dumb, I’ll see if he’s still having problems with my star reporter. My advice, however, is to stick to the facts. Throw away your what-if list and any other list of opinions, guesses, and rumors. Find out what has happened, not what may happen. Perhaps that will clarify the article.”
“Thanks, Helen,” Kate said as her boss walked down the hall.
Kate stopped at the front desk to copy Etta’s agreement. She wasn’t ready to give up the original, and the lawyer would need time to review it. She smiled as she left the building, recalling Helen’s “star reporter” comment.
***
LOCATED ON THE SECOND floor of one of the oldest buildings in town, Bingham’s office was accessible from an entrance off the alley. A sign on the heavy metal door read “Phil Bingham Esquire” in bold, red letters with Attorney-at-Law underneath in smaller, but still bold, black letters. On the third line in parentheses, it said Suite 201. She was halfway up the flight when the door slammed shut behind her. A smaller version of the outer sign hung on the door to number 201—a room rather than a suite.
Two desks took up most of the space in the office. A small desk near the door was unoccupied with only an empty pencil holder and blank pad of paper on top. Phil Bingham sat at the back desk next to a file cabinet and a small table holding a coffee pot. Stacks of papers covered his desk except for the space in front of him where a huge law book rested. He combed his fingers through his thinning gray hair. In his late fifties, his hair had been shades of gray for as long as she could remember.
“Is this a good time?” Kate asked, tapping on the door frame.
“Katie, good to see you,” the lawyer said, coming to his feet.
She crossed the room to receive his usual warm greeting—an almost-hug with a brief pat on her back. She returned the gesture and stepped back with a smile.
“How’s your dad? I haven’t seen him for a month or so. When we finished the taxes, he said he didn’t want to see me ever again.”
“You may not know about his new lady friend.”
“Marge Connarde? You can’t have an office on this street, even for only two days a week, without knowing about Margie and Roger. I’m happy for him.”
“They seem to get along.”
“So, what did you want to discuss?” he asked.
She took the copy of the agreement from her purse and handed it to Phil, then waited for him to scan it. “I found it in an old cedar box that Etta Stupholds gave me,” she said.
“Why did you bring it to me?”
“I wanted to know if it’s a valid legal contract.”
“I can give you my opinion, but I’m due at a client’s by eleven, and, as you can see, I’m stuck on a point of law,” he said waving a hand across the opened book.
“I’m sorry, I should have known you’d be busy.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m never too busy for my favorite red head. How about you check with me tomorrow late afternoon?”
“That will be great,” Kate said, making a quick exit.
She had a few minutes before her scheduled follow up interview with Jack Brighton. Although the meeting was supposed to be about the more recent years and future prospects for Fortune Enterprises, she hoped for an opening to discuss Bryan Porter’s accusation that Jack reneged on a deal with Bryan’s father.
As usual, Ellen was alone in the large oval anteroom. She was smoothing her nails with an emery board when Kate opened the door.
“Oops, you caught me,” the young girl said.
“Hey, an emergency nail repair is critical,” Kate said.
“Absolutely,” Ellen agreed with a smile.
“I have an appointment with Jack Brighton.”
“Right. His assistant had an emergency at home. She told me to let you go on back. Mr. Brighton is expecting you.”
Kate walked across the room but hesitated for a second at the door. She felt odd without an escort, but—as Ellen said—he was expecting her. When she passed his assistant’s desk, she heard the voices and realized Jack was not alone. Once she entered the hallway between the two offices, the voices were clear and loud. Jack’s comments were softer and more controlled. No surprise to Kate, his visitor—Larry Allen—did not inherit his grandfather’s restraint.
Allen shouted, “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know the details of the problem between you and Porter. But it better not bite us in the butt as far as the city project goes.”
“Or what?” Jack’s control was loosening. “What will you do, Larry? Sue me?”
Torn between the terror of being caught and the desire to hear more, Kate froze momentarily. The two men were silent, and she feared the meeting would end and Allen would burst into the hallway any second. She turned and rushed through the assistant’s office and into the reception area.
Ellen was not at her desk. Kate knew she had to tell her something. Jack would probably ask if she’d called or come by. She needed a good excuse for leaving abruptly. Before Kate crossed to the desk, Ellen returned from the outer hall.
“Wow, that was a quick meeting,” she said.
“You know, I felt a little queasy at work, but I came anyway. All of a sudden I felt like I was going to faint.”
“Did you see Mr. Brighton?”
“No, I didn’t make it past his assistant’s office. I had to sit down. I’m okay now, but I better go. I wouldn’t want to spread my germs.”
“Do you want to rest for a moment? Maybe it will pass. I can call him and explain.”
“Please don’t. I feel like an idiot. In fact, don’t tell him I came by. Can you tell him I called to reschedule, that something came up?”
“I suppose I can do that.”
“I really appreciate your understanding.”
“No problem. I hope you feel better soon.”
“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine. Please, tell his assistant I’ll call for a new time.”
Kate wasted no time getting to the end of the hall and down the steps to the street and back to her office. What was she doing—lurking in the hallway like that? But she was glad she did. Now all she needed to figure out was the reason for the argument.