Another Man's Ground--A Mystery, page 9
She looked out the window—his office had one, hers didn’t—and then back at him. Then she pulled a piece of paper out of her shirt pocket and slowly unfolded it.
“I got a call from Alice at twelve thirty-six P.M. She had tried yours, but you didn’t pick up,” she said, reading from her notes. “She and Kurt were the only two out there when she found the skeleton.”
Hank let out a slow sigh of relief.
“I immediately called Sam—via cell, not the radio—and told him to get out there. Then I texted you.” She looked up. “Since I knew you were at the luncheon. That was twelve thirty-nine P.M. I then called Bill Ramsdell, again on mobile, and told him to bring back out the rest of the pulley equipment and tarp awnings that we’d used for the first John Doe. Then I left for the scene. That was one oh-two P.M.”
When she arrived at Kinney’s house, she saw that Sam’s cruiser was already there, parked next to the crime scene unit van. The Confederate-flag curtain twitched and fell back into place as she’d walked by the house, so she’d known he was aware of the increasing police presence.
“So—me, Sam, Bill, Alice, and Kurt. And probably Kinney.”
Hank raised an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”
“I swear I was being followed through the woods to the crime scene. Never could see anybody, but you know that feeling that you’re being watched.” She shrugged. “To be honest, though, I probably would have done the same if it was my property. The law finally says they’re about done and then comes back again in full force? Anybody’d wonder why.”
Hank thought that was awfully charitable of her, considering the man they were talking about.
“And that’s it. From me, anyway. I’ve got no idea about the others.” She neatly refolded her paper and put it back in her pocket.
“Do you think any of them would have done it? Any of them closer to Tucker than they let on?”
She gave him another small smile, this one full of forbearance.
“I meant exactly what I said. I don’t have any idea where other people’s loyalties are. People don’t tell me what they’re thinking. It might be because I’m considered to be so close to you”—she paused and the smile turned to wry resignation—“or it might not.”
Hank nodded and said thank you. As the office door clicked shut behind her, he swore at himself for even bringing the whole thing up. Her job in this department was hard enough without him piling his own political needs onto it. And he’d just done exactly that. What an ass.
* * *
Vern the Verbose wanted to know if he could finish clearing his trees. The slippery elm harvest wouldn’t be worth selling if he didn’t get the bark out of those plastic bags and properly dried pretty darn soon, and seeing as the whole area was still roped off with crime-scene tape, he wasn’t going to start doing that without permission, because he’d seen the light and had no intention of breaking, or bending, or even slightly nudging, the law again.
Hank stopped him there. Man, could that guy talk. He was about to agree that Vern could start up again when he stopped himself. It wouldn’t hurt to take another look around the Miles side of those woods first.
“Tell you what, Vern,” he said into the phone, “I’ll come out and do a post-event inspection, and then you should be able to finish the job—with properly employed labor, of course.”
Five minutes of animated agreement later, Hank hung up and decided he had enough time to grab a Reuben sandwich at the Whipstitch Diner on his way out there. Who knew how long he’d be stuck out in that part of the county? Maybe he’d order some extra fries. Be prepared.
* * *
He pulled up to the yellow farmhouse to see a silver Audi SUV parked in front. He got out, brushed salt off his shirt, and took the porch steps up to the door. Vern opened it before he’d even knocked.
“Hello, Sheriff. Thanks for coming out to do your inspection. I really appreciate it. Would like to get that elm taken care of. You know. Got that property tax bill to pay. Plus, I could really use my truck back.”
Oh. Hank had forgotten that Vern’s pickup was parked in the middle of that clearing.
“So, what’d you do, borrow that?” He pointed at the Audi.
Vern snorted. “Not likely. That’s my sister’s. She’s come down. To help.” He did not sound appreciative.
Hank hid a grin. Then realized that without Vern’s truck, they’d have to walk all the way to the clearing. The grin became a sigh.
Vern made to step through the door but froze as a voice called from inside.
“Invite the man in, Vernie. We’re not heathens.”
Vern heaved his own sigh and held open the screen door for Hank. He walked through an entryway cluttered with muddy boots and two full gun racks, and into a sunny living room full of spindly furniture that Hank would wager had not been chosen by Vern.
A woman rose from the couch and came forward to shake his hand. And it was the damnedest thing. She looked exactly like Vern—but was attractive. He had no idea how genetics had managed it. She was the same height and had the same green eyes and roundish face. But where Vern’s eyes seemed to pop out of his face like radioactive plutonium, hers refracted like emeralds. And the jawline that was starting to sag on Vern still held tight on his sister.
“How do you do? I’m Donna Kolpeck—Donna Miles Kolpeck. You’re the sheriff?”
Hank introduced himself and sat in a wingback chair across from her as directed. There was already a pitcher of iced tea on the coffee table between them. Vern stood impatiently, shifting from foot to foot until he must have decided it was better to just give in. He sat heavily in a matching wingback and stared at his sister. As did Hank.
“I was hoping you would give us an update on your investigation, Sheriff,” she said as she handed him a glass of tea. “Other than the unfortunate illegal-immigrant situation”—she glared at her brother—“there is no connection to our property, correct?”
“My property,” Vern muttered out of the side of his mouth as Hank took a sip of tea. Amazing how that mouth and Donna’s were the same, full bottom lip and turned up at the corners, and yet so different. Maybe Vern would look better with lipstick.
He pulled himself back to the conversation, where Donna was clearly waiting for a response. He cleared his throat.
“The investigation is ongoing,” he said. “So, there is not much I can tell you about it at the moment. Except that I do need to inspect your clearing again before I release it back to you.”
He looked at Vern as he said the last bit. No reason to get him muttering again. Vern seized the moment and rose to his feet. Hank took a final swig of his tea and stood as well. As did Donna.
“Then let’s get to it,” she said with a smile. Vern glared at her and stomped out of the room. Her smile widened, and she gave Hank a little shrug. He stepped back and gestured for her to go ahead of him. As she made her way toward the door, he looked around. While the coffee table and the sideboard shone, the crowded fireplace mantel and the clock busy ticking away in the corner were still covered with dust. And the olive green curtains, pulled back to let the golden Ozark sunshine in, had left tracks along the neglected pinewood floor. Vern apparently hadn’t done much entertaining since moving into the family farmhouse. At least the kind that called for serving refreshments and finding a bottle of Pledge.
He took a last glance at the room and followed Donna into the entryway. Vern was wrestling a rifle out of the closest gun rack.
“You know, I don’t really—” Hank stopped himself. He might not think a gun was necessary for their little hike, but Vern obviously did. He’d had one with him the first time they’d gone out to look at the elm trees. Hank couldn’t make a stink about it now. That’d divulge more about Vern’s status as a possible suspect than Hank was willing to say at this point. He’d just make sure that Vern stayed in front.
That didn’t turn out to be a problem. Donna was in no hurry and strolled along farther and farther behind her brother, who had taken to muttering again. Hank kept with her easy pace.
“So, how often do you get down here?”
She thought for a minute. “Well, I was down when Dad died. I haven’t been back since then, though. It’s hard to find the time, with the kids and everything.”
Hank asked how old they were. Teenagers, she said with a laugh. Fifteen and thirteen and in need of rides all over the St. Louis area for all of their various sports and activities. That, plus her interior-design business, kept her days full. And her husband was of little help. He ran a technology consulting firm, so he was just as busy.
They veered left, taking the same route Hank had walked the day he and Sam had discovered the undocumented immigrant crew. Donna kept up the conversation, chatting about the kids’ Little League achievements and academic honors, her hands fluttering descriptively as she talked. She never once broke her stride on the uneven ground or shied away from a buzzing insect. For all of her citification, she was just as at home in these woods as her brother.
He asked if she’d played out here when she was a child. The question was met with another laugh as she easily sidestepped a tree root Hank hadn’t even seen.
“Oh, yes. All day long in the summers. We just had to be back by dinnertime. Those were the days when parents didn’t care where you were, as long as you didn’t break a bone or someone else’s window. Of course, we did both. Vernie broke both arms at different times. Falling out of trees, I think. I twisted a few ankles, but that was it. I was always the better one in the woods.” She gave Hank a wicked grin. “And we did hit the kitchen window with a baseball once. I threw it, and Vernie should have caught it, so we both caught hell from Mama. She was standing at the sink and saw the whole thing, so there was no shifting blame on that one.
“When we could get some of the other neighbor kids, we’d play cops and robbers. They always made me be the cop, which I hated.” This time she actually stopped walking as she realized what she’d said. “Oh. I’m sorry. That was rather impolitic. But you’re laughing. You’re not offended?”
Hank shook his head. “Not at all. The robbers were always the more exciting ones. I never wanted to be the cop, either. Until I grew up and realized that their retirement plan is better.” He shot her his own wicked grin, and they both laughed.
Vern glared back at them and kept walking. Donna, with the practiced skill of a little sister, ignored him and continued talking.
“We knew every inch of these thirty acres. We’d roam all over.” She paused. “Up to the creek, that is. But then, you know that by now, don’t you?”
Good. The conversation was going in exactly the direction he wanted. He shrugged nonchalantly.
“I know that’s the property line. And I know that your daddy and Jasper Kinney didn’t get along. I—”
Her laughter cut him off.
“Didn’t get along? Sweet Jesus, that’s an understatement. They hated each other. Hated. Always had. Their fathers hated each other, too. Multigenerational, I guess you could say.”
She looked at Hank and answered the question he hadn’t asked.
“Why?” She shrugged. “They were always going off about one encroaching on the other’s property. There’s a stretch upstream where the property line isn’t so clearly delineated. A border war, I guess you could call it.”
“So what was that like for you growing up?”
She thought for a minute. “Not much of anything, really. We couldn’t cross the creek, and we weren’t supposed to talk to any Kinney we happened to run into. But that’s about it.”
“Didn’t you go to school with Jasper’s boys?”
She nodded. The older two—Jeff and Jed—were around the same age. Jason was much younger.“What about his wife?”
“She was killed in a car crash, coming back from Springfield, back when Highway 65 was a two-lane death trap. Mama wanted to go to the service, but Daddy wouldn’t let her. It was no wonder that no Kinney showed up for her funeral, or for Daddy’s.”
They had almost caught up with Vern, who had reached the edge of the clearing and whipped around toward them at her last comment. His rifle swung through the air. Hank tensed.
“They wouldn’t have dared. Those bastards. Especially Jasper. Probably ecstatic that he outlived Daddy. Sitting over there”—he waved the gun in the direction of the creek—“laughing at us. I’ll bet—”
Hank grabbed the rifle barrel with his right hand and gently patted Vern’s shoulder with his left as he eased it away. “I’m just going to set this here, by this tree. Just for now.” One last pat and the gun was safely out of Vern’s grasp and leaning against a naked elm.
He opened his mouth to protest, but the sound came from his sister.
“Oh, my Lord,” she gasped. “The trees. What have you done? Our poor trees.”
Vern began to turn a worrying shade of purple. “My trees.”
Donna didn’t hear him as she ducked under the crime-scene tape and walked slowly into the clearing. Vern followed her, stiff-legged and straight-backed. Hank stayed by the rifle.
“How could you—”
“I’m not the one who stripped them. I’m just trying to salvage—”
The next ten minutes involved a lot of yelling, some pointed gesturing, and frequent use of the word “my.” Hank used the time to tuck the rifle, the same old .22 Vern had carried before, behind a sizable hickory tree a short way down the path. He then walked the perimeter of the clearing, snapping photos of the machinery and piles of trees.
Finally, the siblings’ hollering petered out. He had a feeling the argument was far from finished, though. Donna walked over and placed a careful hand on one of the few stripped elms left standing. Vern stomped up to his pickup, slumped against the tailgate, and shot his sister a dirty look.
“She’s probably gonna hug it next.” He sounded like a eight-year-old.
Hank leaned against the truck’s rusty fender.
“Do you two usually not get along?”
Vern rubbed the stubble on his chin and took a deep breath, which helped return his coloring to its normal sunburned shade. “Nah. We’re okay most of the time. There’s never been something like this to divide us, though. She doesn’t get it. I want to keep this land just as bad as she does. But to save it, I’ve got to make a business of it. Otherwise—”
Hank put up a hand as he started to gesticulate again.
“Oh. Yeah, sorry.” Vern shoved his hands in his jean pockets and gave Hank a lopsided grin. “The two of us haven’t argued like that in years. We used to go at it like two roosters in the ring, though. When we were little. But then…” He looked down at his boots. “Then my little brother got cancer. We didn’t argue much anymore after he died.” He shrugged. “And that’s that, I suppose.”
Hank helped him fill the bed of the pickup with the sweet-smelling bark and then gathered up his crime-scene tape. Donna stood scowling the whole time, and declined a ride back to the house. She’d rather walk. Hank, relieved that he wouldn’t have to spend the trip sandwiched between the two combatants on the front seat, climbed in. He needed to get back to the office.
Halfway into the truck, Vern froze. Damn. He’d remembered his rifle. Hank sighed and got out of the truck. He retrieved it and nonchalantly stuck it in the bed with the bark. Vern grunted and got in the cab.
“I usually put it on the seat with me,” he said. “Since you’re sitting there, though … maybe I should put in a gun rack.” He pondered the back window for a moment and then fired up the engine. Hank didn’t tell him that he wouldn’t have allowed the gun up front even if there had been a gun rack in the cab.
“Daddy left me quite a collection of them when he died. Course, you couldn’t have too many guns, living so close to the Kinneys. That was his philosophy.” He pulled out of the clearing on the opposite side from which they’d entered and onto the rutted track that led back to the farmhouse. He waved back toward the truck bed. “That one was a gift from him. Brought me out here on my twelfth birthday and gave it to me. It’s a Remington 552 .22-caliber. He told me that I was never, ever, to come out here by the border unless I had it with me. And I never have.”
CHAPTER
14
Hank was almost late for the appointment the next morning. He parked in back of the strip mall and entered through door number five. That let him into the break room, where the Keurig sat quietly on its shelf and the Daily What’s-It lay open on the table. He skirted the table and walked down the short hallway, where he could wait without being seen from the shop. Dan Larkson had set one of the break room chairs there for him to use. Hank liked this guy more and more all the time.
Hank had originally planned to show up for Lloyd’s tattoo appointment as part of the investigation into the bark theft. But now, that was the least of his priorities. He had a homicide that needed solving, and he had to wonder—did the brothers who likely stole from Kinney’s land also commit murder there?
He didn’t suspect the Taylor boys in the death of Little Doe. That skeleton was probably older than any of those yahoos. Plus, they didn’t know yet how the child had died. But Rotten Doe—that could be a greedy accomplice, or a rival bark thief, or a—
The bell on the shop door chimed. He stopped theorizing and started paying attention as something heavy thunked onto the counter.
“You paying in cash again?” Larkson asked.
“Yeah.” And then the rustling of a grocery sack and a series of smaller thumps.
“Damn,” Larkson said. “How much is that?”
“Fifteen hundred. I want as much of the sleeve, plus color on this other arm one, as you can do today. Now. Let’s go.”
There was a noise that sounded like Lloyd making to come around the counter toward a chair, but Larkson must have stopped him.
“Dude. Hold up. I thought you didn’t have all the money. How’d, uh, how’d you manage it?”
Nice. Maybe. As long as he didn’t go overboard, Hank thought. Don’t press too much.
