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Jack Brighton’s assistant showed Kate into a small conference room close to his office suite. The meeting, rescheduled from last week, was a follow-up for the Branson history series, which had proven to be popular with readers. She hoped to get information from Brighton about some individuals he knew and worked with in the early days as Riverside Mercantile evolved into Fortune Enterprises. Her ultimate goal was to maneuver the discussion to the “city project” his grandson confronted him about during their argument.
“Great view,” Jack said, joining Kate by the large picture window. “You know Randy. And this is my lawyer, Keith Hawthorne. I hope you don’t mind if they sit in on the interview.”
“No problem.” She took out her recorder, turned it on, and placed it in the middle of the table, following the if-you-don’t-want-to-know-don’t-ask rule of journalism. When no one made a comment, she started with her first in a series of questions about the first decade of Jack’s company. The questions were innocuous and straightforward, preliminary inquiries to make the interviewee comfortable and begin to tell his story. His responses were complete and accurate, according to research Kate had done in preparation for the discussion.
Hawthorne chimed in about thirty minutes later, “I might make a suggestion, Kate. Jack could probably use a break. I’d like to get up and stretch my legs myself.”
“That’s a good idea,” she said, turning off the recorder.
During the break, Randy excused himself to go to a meeting in Springfield. Kate, impatient to finish the interview, waited five more minutes before switching on the recorder.
“I’d like to move on to more specifics about Fortune Enterprises during the 1960s up to the present. Our research department made a list of major projects, in particular ones that were turning points for the Branson community.” She handed Jack and his lawyer a copy of the list and asked Jack to discuss the impact of each on the city and him personally. Jack described each project thoroughly.
“One final question,” Kate said an hour later.
“It seems like you have enough for several articles,” Hawthorne commented.
“You’re right. The stories have been so interesting, I didn’t want to stop. But I have one more question and this will be the last session for the series. I promise.”
“I’m fine, Keith. What’s your question, Kate?”
“I’ve heard rumors that your company has a big project in the early planning stage for Branson. Specifically, the project involves a major renovation of old downtown and a significant development along the lakefront.”
“And your question?” Hawthorne said when she paused.
“Can you tell me more about the project, including specifics and a timeframe? I’d like to give the readers a little teaser for the future.”
“Specifics and a timeframe would be a lot more than a teaser,” the lawyer said.
“But you can confirm there is a project in the works?” Kate asked.
Hawthorne started to respond, but Jack held up his hand and shook his head. “You are very clever, Kate. But we had this conversation weeks ago. As I told you then, Larry will keep you in the loop for any announcements, which we will make at an appropriate time.”
Kate turned off the recorder, securing the latch on her portfolio before she rose to leave. “I’ll have a draft of the article to you in a few days,” she said.
Jack said, “Before you go, I would like to chat about the papers you gave to Etta. I’m interested in one of the documents.”
“The partnership agreement?” Kate asked, pushing her luck a bit.
Jack took a step closer to the reporter. “You gave Etta a copy. Where’s the original?”
Hawthorne touched Brighton’s arm and said, “We don’t want copies to be circulating that may confuse the issue. The fact is, the document is not a legal contract that would stand the test in a court of law.”
“Why would I test it in a court of law? I prefer the court of public opinion,” she said, immediately regretting her words.
“Etta would appreciate your giving us the original document and any copies you have made,” Hawthorne said.
Kate said, “She told me the document was a lark, the act of two good friends trying to cheer her up during an incredibly sad time in her life. She didn’t ask if I had copies. You are the ones placing importance on an invalid document.”
“You have no reason to keep the original. You have nothing to gain by sharing it with anyone,” Hawthorne said, speaking slowly and more sternly.
“You’re right. I have nothing to gain by doing that.” She paused at the door with one parting shot. “But I thought perhaps Bryan Porter would be interested in seeing a document signed by his father.”
***
KATE COULDN’T GET OUT of the building fast enough. Her people skills—not to mention her common sense—had taken one giant step backward. She rushed to her office and removed the original partnership agreement from her case. She took a deep breath and tapped on Helen’s door.
“You have a safe in your office, don’t you?”
Helen looked over her computer screen and sighed. “I’m afraid to ask ...”
“I need to use it for a few days.”
“Sit down. Sounds like we need to talk. You first.”
“I finished my final interview with Brighton for the history series.”
“Did you plan two more articles about him, his family, and company?”
“Yes, but that may not be possible now.”
“Explain, please.”
“You know I’m doing research on Larry Allen. Well, I am now convinced he has some big project in mind for Branson. How bad can that be, right? But what if he is setting himself up to make a lot of money?”
“I hate to point out the obvious, but Allen is a businessman. His family has been extremely successful in this town. I can’t say it would be surprising for him to make lots of money. But what does this have to do with putting something in the safe?”
“The interview cruised along for two hours and everything was fine. But I was trying to find out about Allen’s project. His grandfather has to know about it. But that’s another story. Anyway, Brighton got defensive and clammed up.”
“You didn’t push him at all, right?” Helen asked.
Kate shrugged and then said, “I was about to leave, but he stopped me. He wanted the original copy of an agreement I found in one of Etta’s keepsake boxes.”
“And that is the document you are gripping in your hands as if it were attached?”
“This is an agreement between Jack Brighton, Etta Stupholds, and Lex Porter, which sets up the three dear friends, and their heirs, in a partnership for life in Riverside Mercantile.”
“Which owns Fortune Enterprises,” Helen said. “And, let me guess the rest. Since you were out on the limb, you decided to jump up and down on it.”
“That would be a good description of my next move. Brighton and his lawyer insisted the agreement was not valid, so I asked why they wanted the original document. And then the conversation went downhill.”
“How far downhill?”
“I may have implied I would give the document to Bryan Porter.”
Helen closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “I’m not seeing how this fits in with any of your current assignments. You found this document in one of Etta’s boxes?”
“Don’t worry, I showed her what I found. I gave her a copy of the agreement, but I returned the originals of the other two.”
“Good. More or less. Why did you keep the original of the contract?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe because Bryan deserves to know about it. Etta and Jack might not be eager to share it with their partner’s son.”
“I would suggest that you put it somewhere other than the newspaper’s safe until you decide who to give it to.”
“Speaking of turning things over. I know my investigation on Allen and this big project hasn’t turned up anything more than my curiosity. My dad encouraged me to confide in Tom. He hasn’t said anything, but the police have to be checking on Porter’s lawsuit, hoping to prove or disprove his allegations. Maybe what I’ve collected can help.”
“I agree with you. It seems so sensible, maybe even wise.”
“And out of character?”
“You have to admit, this is not your usual way of completing an investigation.”
“Trust me, I haven’t finished with Allen. Or the Brightons for that matter. But I realize I need help.”
“I’m proud of you, Kate.”
“Don’t be too hasty. I plan to blackmail Tom into giving me an exclusive on the councilman’s arrest.”
“Do his activities warrant criminal charges?”
“Maybe not. But whatever it is, I’ll have the story.”
“That sounds more like my ace reporter.”
***
KATE CONCEALED THE partnership agreement in her mother’s recipe box between spaghetti marinara and squash soufflé—no one would look there. The note by the phone indicated her father planned to “linger” at Marge’s after dinner and a movie. Kate smiled, then frowned and blocked the mental picture.
Tom hadn’t elaborated about his unexpected trip to Chicago. He was sorry they’d have to reschedule the Silver Dollar City outing and bowling date for next week and the surprise she had planned for tonight.
She had no choice—she’d take a nice hot bubble bath.
An hour later she gathered the left-over tuna surprise casserole and a half bag of potato chips and snuggled down on the sofa. She watched a marathon featuring the last six episodes of Cheers followed by cast interviews, recording the last two hours to share with Tom when he returned from the windy city.
Her arms full of dishes, she couldn’t quite flip the light-switch in the kitchen. As she set the load on the counter, she saw the councilman standing outside under the patio lamp. Without thinking, she slid open the glass door.
Allen said, “I rang the bell, but you didn’t answer. Your car was out front, and I saw the light on the patio, so I came around.”
She didn’t respond, trying to figure out why he’d come to her house and why he lied about ringing the bell.
“Can I come in?” he asked, but he was already brushing past her.
He continued down the short hall to the living room. Her first instinct was to leave the house, go to the hotel office, and call the police. But it occurred to her he couldn’t be stupid enough to hurt her in her own home. Nevertheless, she scooped up the paring knife from the dish drain, slid it into to her robe pocket, and proceeded down the hallway.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“My grandfather is unusually upset.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You have something he wants.”
“Councilman Allen, you’ll have to contact me tomorrow at the paper. This is my home. I’m expecting my boyfriend any minute. He’s returning from a business trip. You know my boyfriend, don’t you?”
“I know Detective Collingwood is still in Chicago. He won’t be back until tomorrow or the next day.”
“I spoke to him a couple hours ago before he boarded the flight to Springfield.”
“Nice try. And don’t even bother to say your father will be home soon. He’s still at the movie with that realtor girlfriend of his. I’m sure they’ll go to her place afterward.”
“Okay. How about I don’t want you here. Please leave.”
“It will take you less than five minutes to retrieve Etta’s original document from whatever clever place you’ve stowed it and bring it to me. That’s all I want, and I’ll be gone.”
Kate put her hand in the pocket containing the knife and walked to the front door. Her pounding heart echoed in her temples. She wasn’t sure if her adrenalin was pumping out of fear or anger. She turned on the porch light, opened the door, and then turned to stare at her visitor.
Allen shook his head and took a step backward. “Okay. I’ll search for it myself,” he said, opening several drawers in the living room tables.
She approached him, even though her twitching muscles argued for her to stay put. After taking a shallow breath, she said, “You know, according to your grandfather’s lawyer, the document is a useless piece of paper. Why do you think it’s so important?”
“We have no doubt it will be invalidated, but don’t want to create any confusion.”
“You mean, if I give it to Bryan Porter.”
Allen stepped closer and crouched down to stare directly into her eyes. Pushing his pointed index finger into her shoulder with each word, he said, “Very bad idea. Understand?”
She glared at his hand until he withdrew it, straightened up, and stepped away—assessing her reaction to his obvious threat. Taking a deep, calm breath through her nose to quell the anger welling in her gut, she counted to ten as her mother would have insisted.
“You have forced your way into my house and assaulted me. You are essentially holding me a prisoner in my own home. The question is, Councilman Allen, do you understand?”
Careful not to touch her as he headed to the door, he made a beeline to his car and drove off the motel lot. She engaged the front dead bolt, pulled down the safety bar on the patio entrance, and double locked the back door. Then she checked all the windows to be sure they were closed and secure.
Once in her room, she crawled into bed and—still shaking—cried herself to sleep.