From Newsprint to Footprints: A River's Edge Cozy Mystery (River's Edge Cozy Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

"What was it about?"

She smiled. "Being a private investigator. He saw me when he was storming out, but he didn't stop."

"But you asked him about it?"

"Next time he was in for coffee. He said he was writing some kind of crime novel and he wanted to learn how detectives investigated."

I raised my eyebrows. "I never heard a word about him writing fiction."

Shirley shrugged. "Maybe somebody'll find a draft when his house is…"

A sort of whiney voice reached us. "What was you doin' at that Sylvester's place at night?"

I hadn't noticed Andy at the table next to Shirley. This was probably because his arms had been folded on the table in front of him, and the crease on one cheek told me his head had been on them until just now.

"Early to bed, Andy?" I asked.

Shirley laughed. "He's not snoring yet, sugar."

Andy gave both of us a sour look. "I heard you was maybe where you weren't 'sposed to be."

I tried to keep irritation from my tone, but didn't entirely succeed. "I couldn't sleep."

"My wife tries warm milk."

Shirley put her hand over her mouth to hide a smile.

"I was thinking about Hal. Milk didn't work."

Andy opened his mouth to say something, but the door to the street banged open and he glanced at it.

Stooper stood, not swaying, and surveyed the room. I couldn't imagine why. He knows what it looks like.

He took in me sitting with Shirley, said, "Huh," and made his way to the bar.

I looked at Shirley. "I want to talk to Stooper before he, um, has a few."

She winked and raised her beer mug slightly in my direction. I smiled and moved toward Stooper, who was talking to Gary.

"See, since I'm in here every night, I think I should get half price for ladies night, too."

"Stooper," Gary rubbed the bar with a cloth as he spoke, "we've been over this. If I let you do it, then Andy'll ask. Pretty soon all the guys will get pissy if I don't give them two for one."

I sat on a stool next to Stooper and looked at Gary. "Can I do two for one and give one to Stooper?"

"Sure, Mel," Gary said. He looked anything but pleased as he pulled two beers for us.

I placed a bill on the bar as he set down the beer. "That enough for a tip, too?"

He nodded and walked to the other end of the bar.

I figured I'd really ticked him off.

"Thanks," Stooper said. "I don't think I know anything for the paper."

I met his eyes in the mirror behind the bar. "Don't work there any more, remember?

"Oh, yeah. Gardening stuff." He drank half the mug in one long gulp. When a couple drops made their way down his chin, I handed him a cocktail napkin from a pile on the bar.

He took it. "Thanks. What's up, Mel?"

"I need some help with the gardening stuff."

"Me?"

"It's not a lot of work, and it could be just a couple of hours some days, late afternoon. I hurt my head, so I can't do real physical work for a while. I mean, it's not heavy stuff. Weeding, spreading mulch, like that."

He swiveled to face me. "Guess you don't want to do the mulch anymore."

I sighed. "Mulch is fine, and more's already been delivered to Mr. Seaton's."

Andy spoke from just behind me. "He told me to call him Syl when I brought more."

God give me strength
.

I turned to face Andy. "Ditto. Did you need something?"

Andy looked at Stooper. "Don't you think she's kind of grouchy lately?"

Stooper's reply was very serious. "She's not used to finding bodies."

Behind me, Shirley laughed, but I didn't look at her.

"True. Sorry Andy. I'm just trying to talk to Stooper." I swiveled to face the mirror.

Andy muttered as he walked toward the other end of the bar. The only words I heard clearly were "stuck up."

Stooper actually grinned at me. "He likes to know what's going on."

"I've noticed."

Stooper drained his mug. "Sure, I can help you out."

"For money," I said. "Syl's money, not mine."

"Huh. Even better. Not every day."

Our eyes met in the mirror again.  "How about tomorrow about four. You need a ride?"

"I live on that end of town. Meet you there. Four is good."

"Thanks. Oh, Stooper. Thanks for calling the paper to say you saw me at the hospital."

"Huh. Didn't think I gave my name." He considered this for a couple of seconds. "I guess I probably sounded drunk."

"Gee, Sandi didn't say that."
It wouldn't have been necessary
.

He looked at my untouched beer. "You gonna finish that?"

AFTER MY FUN TIME at Beer Rental Heaven, I sat in the recliner and made lists of what I knew and needed to find out. Or, to keep my promise to Sharon, what I needed to work with Sandi, Ryan or Fred to find out.

The what-I-knew list was short and wasn't too different than what had been in the paper or what the neighbors had told me.

What I needed to know was:

•              Where's the damn autopsy report and will it pinpoint the time of death?

•              Where is Hal's car?

•              Where was Hal killed?

•              Are there security cameras that might have caught his car the night he was killed?

The question about where he was killed would be the start. No one was going to stand up and claim they did it, unless Morton Anderson's medal came with a huge cash prize.

•              Did Betty have a fling with Hal, and was she mad it ended?

The question about Hal and Betty was really touchy. If they had been lovers or even close friends, it was their business. Unless Betty had killed Hal, but it didn't seem likely. How on earth would she have gotten him into the mulch? I supposed she could've teamed up with someone else Hal had annoyed.
That'll be a tough list to narrow down
.

Still, if Betty, Shirley, or anyone else had seen Hal outside the office, they could know more about his personal life. I'd have to find a way to get them to talk about their love lives. I wrinkled my nose. It was hard to imagine anyone snuggling with Hal.

No matter what I considered, there was the issue of my hoe. The murderer knew I was working for Syl and knew where I kept my tools.

CHAPTER TWELVE

MONDAY WAS CRISP, and overnight rain had given the air a fresh smell. I decided that was a reason to be optimistic about finding the truth. What I needed were facts, and they weren't going to come from the sheriff or IDI. I thought my best options were research on Hal's past and information from his autopsy report. It was ridiculous that we didn't have it.

I headed for the library. It's in a small building behind the Chamber of Commerce office, just off the square. The brick structure used to house the town's telephone equipment, but many years ago the Rural Electric Cooperative helped River's Edge get a grant for more modern service.

Nowadays, the big phone companies would be willing to string phone lines or provide digital service, but the town is adamant about keeping its own phone company. I used to wonder why, but as phone service prices have gone up around us, I get it.

I parked in the library parking lot and slowly got out of the truck. I wasn't woozy, but the world still had a bit of extra spin.

Kimberly was at the library's front desk. She's thirty-five and still likes to be called Kimi. "Gosh, Melanie, I'm glad to see you're up and around." She waved all five fingers, with their perfectly manicured, bright red nails.

"Hey, Kimi. I'm not top shape, but a lot better. Thought I'd get a book on CD for the truck." I didn't really want one, because sometimes they end up under my seat and I have to pay a fine. It was better than starting the conversation by saying I was here to find out more about Hal's life before River's Edge, though.

"We have some new ones. Mrs. Stevens' son donated a bunch after she died a few days ago."

I followed her back to the audio section. Kimi recommended two new Nora Roberts' books, but I went with Robert Harris's
Pompeii,
which I'd read in paper and thought would be interesting to listen to.

I had followed Kimi to the check-out counter before asking, "Do you know if there was an obituary for Hal in a paper near where he grew up?"

She stopped going through the CDs to be sure they were all there. "Gosh, I'm not sure I know where he was from."

"I think he grew up in Iowa Falls, or at least that's where he was for a time."

"Hmm. We don't have a paper from there, but we have an index of Iowa papers. Oh, it probably wouldn't be in it yet." She brightened. "What am I saying? Go online, the paper up there probably puts its obits online."

She handed me my book, and I headed for the computer. A Google search usually only turned up articles from the last ten or fifteen years. I wanted older articles. The library subscribed to the Iowa newspaper index. The
South County News
did, too, but I wasn't up for asking for access to it.

I found the Iowa Falls paper with no problem, but was disappointed to see its index was grouped in five-year increments. I'd have to search several times for the same topic.

Starting with papers from thirty years ago, I searched for Hal Morris, Morris family, house fires, fatal car accidents, and murder suspect. My rationale was that something bad must have happened to Hal to make him such an ill-natured jerk.

I found nothing except the title and date of an article about Hal buying the
South County News
. It was frustrating not to be able to read the article, but it probably didn't offer clues to Hal's temperament. Either he had been the way he was for some private reason, or he'd been spoiled rotten as a kid and didn't know how to get along with anyone.

Just as I reached for the Off button on the computer monitor, I thought about the Iowa Falls obituaries. They might be available by date. Sure enough, a four-paragraph article began with the date of death and immediately mentioned he was murdered.

The obituary said Hal had been an assistant editor at an Iowa Falls paper for several years. The third paragraph said he had been orphaned in his teens and had stayed with a local family until he graduated from high school, because he had no other relatives.

In one sentence I might have the answer to Hal's anger with the world. Not that I'd ever know. However, it told me there might not be a later event that shaped his temperament. I'd been half expecting to see that he was bilked out of a small fortune or created enemies by recommending people join a pyramid scheme.

I'd been older than Hal when my parents died, but only by a few years. It was sad. But there didn't appear to be a dramatic story behind his rudeness.

I closed the file and decided to learn about Syl Seaton. There probably weren't too many Sylvester Seatons in the country, but I thought I'd try Iowa before I went to Los Angeles.

It took about thirty seconds to find a
Des Moines Register
article about the contract he got for the insurance company. Except it wasn't with a particular firm. It was with a state insurance industry organization. My eyes widened. It was a $1.2 million contract to compare products each Iowa company offered, rates that were publicly available, aggregate claims data, and a lot more. Syl was described as an experienced business analyst who had worked in several states, including California and Wisconsin.

Insurance is a big industry in Des Moines. I was surprised there weren't local firms that could do the work. Five minutes later, I found two letters to the editor saying that plenty of local businesses could have handled the contract. The final mention of him was a terse statement from the company that awarded the contract saying that a competitive bidding process ensured the best product for the best price. The letters had been several paragraphs. The statement was a one-inch item in the business section of the paper.

While the material gave me a better understanding of what Syl would do, it didn't sound like the kind of work that would entail having henchmen watch his house and hit people over the head.

All in all, I felt as if I'd just wasted an hour of my life.

That meant trying to get information on Hal's death. Since that would not come from the sheriff, I headed for the county coroner. The position is a part-time one, and Iowa law requires the person to be a physician. The official title has been medical examiner, probably since before I was born, but the term is only slowly taking root. It might not have at all except TV shows usually say medical examiner. Since I wanted to talk to the South County examiner, I reminded myself to use the correct term.

Doc Shelton is the local physician most people go to for colds or whatever, but he isn't the medical examiner. Doctor James T. MacGregor, Jr., is head of pathology and hematology at the hospital, but it's not like he's the one who draws your blood. People mostly deal with him if they have some kinds of cancer or an infection gets into their bloodstream. Either way, you might not be his patient for long.

Dr. MacGregor's office is in the hospital, so the only way to get hold of him is to call or go there. I decided to visit, since I had no idea who would get my phone call. I didn't want a rumor about me having some infectious disease. Even more important, I didn't want someone calling Ambrose to see if I was okay. Privacy laws only go so far in a small town.

Southern Iowa Memorial is a twenty-five bed hospital. When I did a story on its fiftieth anniversary, I learned that so-called critical-access rural hospitals get Medicare payments from Uncle Sam that correspond to the cost of their services. Larger hospitals only get to recover a percentage of costs. The full reimbursement policy is supposed to keep smaller-town hospitals open, and I'm glad it seems to work.

I parked in the hospital's back lot and went in the door near occupational and physical therapy, which is close to the blood unit. My mother used to go there to donate blood. I keep meaning to do that.

My running shoes squeaked on the impeccably clean tile floor. Along the beige walls were pastel paintings of peaceful scenes, probably to calm nervous patients. If I had to pick a favorite, it wouldn't be the one that showed pink marigolds. I've never seen even a hybrid in anything but shades of orange or yellow.

I paused outside the wide glass door that opened to the hematology waiting room. Dr. MacGregor's name was on the door, but I didn't know if his office was in the suite. Only one way to find out.

The automatic door swished apart, and I glanced around the waiting room. A very elderly black man was reading a copy of
Family Circle
magazine that was past its prime. A quick look told me it was the only reading option. He didn't look up.

The woman behind the long counter smiled in recognition. "Hey Melanie. Glad to see you looking good." She sombered. "I'm sorry about Hal."

"Thanks, Rosemary. Tough week, but I'm good." I waited for a minute as she took a phone call. She's only about twenty. Rosemary went through a medical assistant program at a business college in Des Moines. She was disappointed that the only job she could get was as a medical receptionist.

She hung up. "What's up, Mel?"

I took a breath. "I wonder if I could talk to Dr. MacGregor for a minute?"

Rosemary doesn't frown, she sort of does a pout of concentration. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No. It's not about me." I lowered my voice. "It's about Hal."

Her puzzled look cleared. "Oh. You mean because Dr. MacGregor's the medical examiner."

No, I mean I wondered what his good cholesterol was
. "Yes. You know I don't work for the paper any more…"

She grinned. "Everyone knows that."

I smiled even as I did an internal groan. "It was…odd finding him. I know Dr. MacGregor didn't examine him, but I'd still like to talk to him."

She shrugged. "Since you aren't reporting, I can ask." She stood and walked down a carpeted hallway on the left.

I glanced at the silent man and his magazine, noticing that he had a hearing aid. Good.

Rosemary came back and nodded to me. "See that gate in the wood, on the left?"

I hadn't seen it, probably because no handles or hinges were visible. I nodded.

"I'll buzz you back."

At the sound of the buzzer, the man looked up. "You got right in."

"I'm not getting lab work done. Just talking to someone."

He nodded, seemingly satisfied that I wasn't butting ahead of him, and resumed reading.

It was only a few steps to a door on my right. It was open, and Dr. MacGregor looked up as I walked in. "Have a seat, Melanie. Glad you don't look much worse for wear." He looked at me more closely. "Is that a bruise near your right ear?"

"Yes, sir. I shouldn't have been at Syl Seaton's place after dark." I sat across from him in a chair with a leather seat and back and wooden arms. The formal chairs matched Dr. MacGrgor's stiff posture.

"Goodness." He took off his dark framed glasses, folded them, and placed them on the desk. "I read that short piece in today's paper, but I didn't realize you were seriously hurt."

Thankfully, the article was largely an update on Hal's murder. After the article continued on a back page, it said that this was 'the second crime within a week on the property recently purchased by Sylvester Seaton.' The attack on me and my hospital stay were mentioned, but so was the fact that Syl had hired me to work on his yard. Someone who didn't notice that I'd been hit about two-thirty a.m. might infer that I was knocked out while digging up weeds.

I smiled. "Not badly. But someone else was there, and they didn't want me around."

He shook his head. "Something to do with Hal's murder, you think?"

I was relieved. I'd been afraid Dr. MacGregor would go all doctor-patient privacy on me and not be willing to talk. "Makes sense to me."

"Why were you out there in the middle of the night?"

I told him the truth, but didn't refer to the broom which, thankfully, had not been mentioned in the paper.

He joined his hands as if praying, but brought the fingers to his chin. "I probably shouldn't talk to you, but I knew your parents, of course, and Rosemary said you're not here for the paper."

I nodded. "If you did the autopsy, we'd know the results by now. I suppose they sent him to Des Moines because it was more convenient for the IDI guys."

He shook his head. "Sheriff Gallagher explained that Hal was so universally disliked anyone could have killed him. He didn't want information getting around. I didn't like it, but I had to respect his decision."

"He's a smart guy." I sighed. "It feels as if whoever did it wants the sheriff to think I killed him."
Should I mention the hoe
? No. "That's why I really want to know what killed him."

He stared at me, still leaning his chin on his fingers. Apparently he decided it was okay to talk to me. He lowered his hands to his desk and drummed on it for a few seconds with his right fingers. "Two blows to the head. The first one would have knocked him silly, but he would have survived. Second one led to so much swelling he likely died within an hour, maybe a good bit less. Can't be sure, but there was such a scant amount of mulch in his lungs that…."

"My God. He was alive when someone put him in there?"

MacGregor's tone was gentle. "Barely, but not conscious. He didn't smother, if that's what you hate to think about."