“And risk getting sued by the Medola crime family? Fat chance. I’d need a taped confession of guilt and the indictment in hand before I’d run that story.”

  “But you just called Henry Novak a horse’s rear end.”

  Earl took another sip of his whiskey. “There’s a big difference between the Portland News Gazette and the Hopeless News, most noticeably their size. And with their size and their assets they should be in a better position to stand up to the Tommy Medolas of the world. Me? I’d be out of business before his lawyer got done printing out the forms. You got anything else lined up?”

  “An interview with the editor in Spokane, Doris Mahoney.”

  “I hear she’s tough.”

  “She sounds tough. So, Earl, what do you think happened?”

  “What do I think happened or how am I covering the story?”

  Earl Denton was an old timer and he kept to a very strict code of journalism. He only printed facts. Verifiable facts. And in the world of ever-growing fake news and claims of fake news, Earl’s approach wasn’t about to change.

  “Both.”

  He shrugged. “Detective Kramer, he’s definitely doing his best to keep a lid on his investigation. The facts as we know them are few. Sheriff Ed Kline found dead in the middle of the Library by one Hope Walker. Doctor Bridges concludes he died from blunt force trauma to head.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Between one and three a.m.”

  “Any prints on the whiskey bottle?”

  “Wiped clean.”

  “How do you know that if Detective Kramer’s kept a tight lid on everything?”

  “He slipped. I suspect he won’t slip again. And then there’s Patrick Crofton. Found stabbed in his cabin… again, by you. And when the police and ambulance got there they found one dead body and one injured body. The same Hope Walker had been hit by a car and was taken to the hospital where her injuries were determined to be minor. And apparently, she was released shortly thereafter.”

  “That’s all in the paper?”

  “Some of it I’m just learning now. Why are you out? Why aren’t you resting in the peaceful confines of that hospital bed?”

  “Detective Kramer made me mad.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “He told me to stop my investigation.”

  Earl slapped the desk. “Stubborn, pain-in-the-rear Hope Walker. That’s the girl I remember. So your response to being told you can’t investigate is to—”

  “Rip the tubes from my body and go home and continue my investigation. Earl, what do you think happened?”

  He tapped on the desk. “You know that’s not how this works. You first.”

  Newspaper people were always hesitant to share information. It was in our DNA. We needed to protect our scoop. Earl swirled the whiskey around his glass and took another long sip. “Don’t worry, Jim and I will wait.”

  “I haven’t really had much time—”

  “Spill it, Hope. What do you know?”

  “Okay, but you cannot, I repeat cannot—”

  Earl held up his hand. “Stop right there, young lady. I think you forget which of us came in here today looking for information. Don’t be lecturing me on how this works.”

  “Ed Kline was having an affair.”

  That straightened him up. “Impossible.”

  “A man, cheating on his wife is impossible?”

  “Not a man. Ed Kline.”

  “You’re really that naive? Do you have any idea how often married men flirt with me?”

  “That’s what you young folks call a humble brag isn’t it?”

  “No, Earl it’s not. It’s just a fact. Usually a very creepy fact.”

  “But Ed Kline. Sheriff Kline? Was he grumpy and miserable? Sure. But a cheater, I don’t buy it.”

  “I’ve seen the evidence, Earl. Paper trail. Photograph. Listen, I’m not passing judgment on the guy. Maybe Margaret, a woman that everyone thinks is a saint, is really Dr. Evil. Or maybe, just maybe, Sheriff Kline got bored and he did what countless other men have done. He succumbed to temptation. It wouldn’t be the first time in history.”

  “You’re thinking jealousy?”

  “It’s the oldest motive in the world. Ed sleeps with a woman, that woman’s husband finds out and then they argue and bam, he hits Ed with a whiskey bottle.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “No idea,” I said.

  “And how exactly does Patrick Crofton fit into this?”

  “I’m not sure. At first, I suspected Patrick because he’s an ex con. Sheriff Kline was the one who put him in jail and, well, I can’t imagine Sheriff Kline being that happy he was back.”

  “Not true,” said Earl.

  “What do you mean not true?”

  “I saw them around town a few times. Looked like they got along just fine. In fact, I’d say they were—”

  “Friendly?”

  “This is Ed Kline we’re talking about. No, friendly’s not the word.” He shook his head. “It was more like they had—business—with each other.”

  “Business?”

  “That’s not the right word either. It looked like they had something they were working on, discussing.”

  “What?”

  Earl shrugged. “I don’t have the foggiest.”

  “For a while, I wondered if Gemima might have been the one sleeping with Sheriff Kline.”

  Earl laughed. When he saw I wasn’t laughing with him, his face changed. “Wait? You’re serious?”

  “I figured maybe she was trying to get something from the sheriff. Patrick finds out, kills him.”

  “So, who kills Patrick?”

  “Maybe Gemima? Here’s the thing. I caught Patrick and Gemima lying about their alibis for the night of Sheriff Kline’s death. But I think it was Patrick who lied. Gemima was just covering up. And after I talked to her and she realized Patrick was lying about that night, maybe she figured it out. She went out to his cabin to confront him, they got into an argument and boom. She stabs him.”

  “And then she tries to run you over?”

  “She has always hated me.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I’m not,” I admitted. “Now, normally I’d be the first one to doubt Gemima’s capable of actually loving anything but her own reflection, but talking to her… I don’t know. I think she really might have loved that guy.”

  “But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Hope. Remember those crimes of passion Detective Kramer mentioned? Let’s say Gemima loved Patrick, and like you said, she was seeing the sheriff to help Patrick in some way, as weird as that sounds. Then she figures out Patrick killed the sheriff and ruined everything, and she loses it on the man she loves.”

  “I guess but—”

  “It doesn’t fit,” Earl said while shaking his head.

  “I don’t think so either. I’ve shared mine. What do you got?”

  “Well, since I didn’t know that little detail about the affair, I didn’t chase down that particular rabbit hole.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “Killed Sheriff Kline? Could have been anybody. That grumpy Gus has ticked off a lot of people in his life. A lot. All it takes is one argument and somebody grabs a bottle and swings it and bam.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “Honestly? I think you’re a pretty good suspect.”

  I spit my whiskey out. “You’re not serious.”

  “Hope, all personal feelings aside, I gotta look at this like a newsman. And as a newsman, I like to keep things simple.” Earl pointed to a poster that had been on the wall of his office as long as I’d know him.

  “‘All things being equal, the simplest solution tends to be the best’. William of Ockham.”

  “Ockham’s razor?”

  “Think about it, Hope. Everyone in town knows that you and Sheriff Kline fought like cats and dogs. Finally, after twelve years, you come home and he serves you with unpaid speeding tickets? That had to make you mad.”

  “But, Earl!”

  “You’d also just lost your job, your dream job. And then you were drinking all day. My Ockham’s razor theory of what happened? You passed out in that apartment above the Library. You woke up, you came down… Sheriff Kline is in there, the two of you get into an argument, you’re drunk and angry so you hit him over the head with the whiskey bottle. You don’t mean to kill him, but you do. You don’t know what to do so you leave the body, close up the Library, and in the morning, you call Granny.”

  “And in this theory did I also kill Patrick Crofton?”

  “Indeed. My guess is Patrick saw you and the sheriff arguing in the Library. You had to shut him up.” Earl tapped his fingers against his glass. “You’ve got to admit, it’s compelling. And if I thought of it, then that Detective Kramer, he’s thought of it as well.”

  “Then how do you explain the car that ran over me and put me in the hospital?”

  “I can’t. And I’m guessing Detective Kramer can’t either, which is probably the number one reason he hasn’t arrested you yet.”

  “Do you really think I did it?”

  “Hope, I said that you killing those two gentlemen is the simplest explanation. That’s different from saying it’s the correct explanation.”

  “If you were looking for a suspect other than me, who would you look at?”

  He smiled, then shoveled through the papers on his desk and retrieved a brown folder. He handed it to me and his smile went away. “I’d look at her.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I looked at the photo on the first page of the file and looked back up at Earl. “Mayor Jenkins? You think Mayor Jenkins might have killed Sheriff Kline?”

  “You were asking about other suspects and when it comes to Wilma Jenkins, I’d say she’s pretty suspect.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everything I know is right there in the file.”

  “But if you were going to summarize.”

  “Then I’d tell you that Wilma Jenkins might be the most ambitious human being I’ve ever met. That she has a particular vision for the future of Hopeless, Idaho and that vision will almost certainly result in her becoming obscenely wealthy. And I’m pretty sure Sheriff Kline was in her way.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “In the time you’ve been gone, Wilma Jenkins has built herself a bit of a real estate empire. And for the last five years, she’s also been the mayor. It would appear she’s got everything anyone could want, but as I said, Wilma’s ambitious. She wants more. The biggest problem with her real estate empire is, well, our town. It’s still relatively inexpensive to live here because Hopeless is a bit of a hidden gem.”

  “I’d call it more of an acquired taste.”

  “Tomatoe, Tomato. That’s why she wants to change the town’s name. Change our image. If we were more like Park City, Utah or Sun Valley, Idaho, then Wilma Jenkins’ real estate empire would suddenly become a lot more valuable.”

  “And she thinks changing the town’s name is going to make that happen?”

  “She thinks it’s one piece of the puzzle. And to her credit as mayor, she’s worked tirelessly to bring new development to our area. Nobody could fault her on that.”

  “What could they fault her on?”

  “The other piece of her puzzle.” Earl thumbed through the file and came up with some kind of illustrated brochure. On the bottom right was a stamp that said Top Secret, and across the top it said Sawtooth Mountain Ski Resort.

  “Sawtooth Mountain Ski Resort?” I asked.

  “According to that document they call it Sawtooth Mountain for short.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Well, if Wilma Jenkins has her way, you will.”

  “Where is it?”

  Earl gave me a look and then spread his hands. “It’s all around us.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Hope, Sawtooth Mountain is the Resort that Wilma Jenkins is trying to start, right here. She wants to turn Hopeless into the next Sun Valley—even bigger—by building a world class ski resort right up there on the other side of Moose Peak.”

  “But that side’s nothing but wilderness and cabins.”

  “Not if Wilma has her way. She’s going to get rid of all those cabins, take out most of the trees and build ski slopes and fancy hotels.”

  “But there are dozens and dozens of cabins on that side of the mountain. I can’t imagine them all selling out.”

  “That’s where things get interesting. Nobody knows about it.”

  “Now I really don’t understand. What’s the brochure for?”

  “Notice the top-secret tag. I’m not supposed to have this, but stuff finds its way to the newsroom. Showed up in an envelope in my mailbox one day. So, I started digging.”

  “And what’d you find?”

  “Mayor Jenkins. That’s what I found.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “I talked to a few of the people living in the cabins on that side of the mountain. I didn’t give away too much, just wondering if they’d heard about any new development going on. I talked to six different homeowners and the response I got was eerily similar. The answer was no, but they had been contacted by a real estate company interested in buying their cabins for a premium.”

  “Wilma Jenkins’s real estate company?”

  “Not exactly. I was given the names of three different companies, none of which I’d ever heard of. Did some searching online and was able to find only minimal information. I contacted an old friend at the state office. She did some searching and found that each company was actually owned by a fourth company. Yellow Palms LLC.”

  “And are you going to tell me that Yellow Palms LLC is owned by Wilma Jenkins?”

  “No, I’m going to tell you that Yellow Palms is owned by Wilma Jenkins and a company from Las Vegas called Blue Sky Development.”

  “Las Vegas?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And who owns Blue Sky Development?”

  “That’s the thing. According to my friend at the state, nobody knows.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit it. That’s weird. Wilma Jenkins already has a real estate company so why not just use that?”

  Earl narrowed his eyes. “Exactly.”

  “But how does this make her a suspect in Sheriff Kline’s death?”

  “Here’s why. I thought what I’d found was fishy enough that it was time to share it with Sheriff Kline. I met him two weeks ago and showed him the envelope and the file I’d put together. He scratched his chin and said, ‘I figured you were the right guy to send it to’. Then he walked away.”

  “Sheriff Kline was the one who sent you the brochure?”

  “Yep.”

  “Earl, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t really know. But I know there’s a story in there. And maybe it’s what got Ed Kline killed.”

  “Wait a second, Earl. Patrick Crofton, his cabin. It’s on that side of the mountain too.”

  “Then maybe it’s also what got Patrick killed.”

  Earl had visited with some homeowners, made some calls and even checked with the sheriff. He was working the story. But he was also being careful. If there was anything I learned from my time as an investigative reporter, it’s sometimes being careful isn’t the right approach.

  That’s what led me to the front door of Jenkins Real Estate five minutes after I left Earl and the Hopeless News. I didn’t want to think about what this all might mean. I wanted to shake the tree and see what might fall out.

  And when I opened the door, the particular tree I was seeking was coming out of her office.

  Mayor Jenkins.

  She was on her cell phone, signing something for her secretary and when she noticed me, she gave me a smile and waved. She finished up her call and joined me, sticking out her hand like it was a weapon.

  “Hope Walker. What a nice surprise. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of staying long term. That’s it! That’s got to be it. Are you thinking of renting or buying? This is the right time to do it, Hope. I’m telling you, this is the right time to buy and invest. I see this whole market going up, up, and away.”

  “No, Wilma. I’m not looking to buy.”

  Her face went down just a bit.

  “At least, not quite yet.”

  And her smile returned.

  “What is it that I can do for you?”

  “It’s a bit delicate.”

  “Okay, I can do delicate.”

  “I’m not exactly sure how to say it… but when I was in high school, the house I loved most in the world was this old log cabin off of Highway 15. And it just so happens that this cabin is the same cabin that Patrick Crofton bought and was restoring as a bed and breakfast.”

  Wilma frowned. “And now Patrick is dead.”

  “Exactly. And near as I can tell he didn’t have any heirs.”

  “And you want to know what will happen to his property.”

  “I am a little curious, but what with me finding the body and all, it could look a little… tacky.”

  “Even worse than tacky,” said Wilma. “It might look like you had a motive to kill him.”

  “You see my predicament.”

  “I do, but I’m a little unclear as to what you’d like me to do. We’re just a real estate firm.”

  “Ah, Wilma, I was wondering if there might be some way, some firm or company that handles this kind of thing, you know, discreetly.

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Well, for instance, Wilma, how about Yellow Palms LLC? Would Yellow Palms be the kind of company that could make this sort of inquiry for me?”

  The color drained from her face. Her interest was gone; her face hardened.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know, Yellow Palms. The company you own. You and that company from Las Vegas.”

  Wilma’s eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, and her nostrils flared. “Just what kind of game are you playing here?”

  “That’s sort of the question I wanted to ask you.”

  “Trust me, young lady, you’ve been gone far too long, and you are way, way out of your depth.”

  “You know, Mayor Jenkins, I’ve dealt with people far, far scarier than you. And in case you didn’t know, that’s exactly the kind of thing criminals say.”

 

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