Board Stiff (Mattie Winston Mysteries) (25 page)

A
light rain begins to fall as we head out to talk to the Waldheim boys, who live on a sprawling farm a mile or so out of town. It’s a working farm, complete with cows, pigs, and the requisite faded red barn with a fieldstone foundation. Ironically, the barn is in better condition than the original farmhouse, a two-story boxy structure that looks as if a strong wind could blow it down. Spaced out around the main house are three mobile homes, six pickups of various ages, and a number of rusted car and tractor bodies.

If it was a few weeks later in the year, the odds of catching the Waldheim boys anywhere near the barn or the trailers would be long ones because they would be out tilling the fields, readying for their spring planting. Despite the warm weather we’ve had recently, the ground hasn’t thawed much yet. Apparently it’s not too early to fertilize the soil however, because the smell of manure is strong in the air. It’s a smell any Wisconsinite gets to know, and normally it doesn’t bother me. But for some reason today it’s making my stomach lurch.

Hurley parks his car and the two of us get out. Junior is behind us in his patrol car, and because the Waldheim boys have something of a reputation and we’re technically outside Hurley’s jurisdiction, we have also notified the county sheriff and deputies are on standby should we need them.

The Waldheim farm has been family run for four generations. Ruth’s husband inherited the farm from his father at the tender age of twenty after a tragic combine accident, and running it kept him busy and single well into his forties. He met Ruth, who was also in her forties and willing to take on the role of farm wife. Everyone thought they were too old to have kids, but the couple proved otherwise when Ruth spit out three boys in as many years.

As we pull up and park alongside the old farmhouse, the Waldheim boys come out of the barn to see who has arrived. All three of them are huge men standing six and a half feet tall and weighing well over three hundred pounds. They have always been huge. Even in grade school, they towered above the rest of the kids, including me. If the oldest boy, Jordy, had made it to high school, he might’ve saved me from being the tallest person in my class my freshman, sophomore, and junior years. But old man Waldheim died when Jordy was in the sixth grade for the third time, and when that happened, Ruth pulled all three of them out of school so they could help with the farm. Supposedly she homeschooled the boys, but I’ve met and interacted with them enough times to know that if Sorenson is ever invaded by brain-eating zombies, the Waldheim boys will be safe.

At first glance, one might assume the boys are triplets, but upon closer inspection you begin to notice subtle differences. This triplet effect is enhanced by the fact that they are all wearing the same clothes: denim overalls with long-sleeved, plaid flannel shirts, and knee-high, “muck-rucking” rubber boots. Their heads are bare; the only things protecting them from the rain are dark tonsorial rings, earmuffs, and a rather pronounced brow ridge. They make up for the lack of hair on their heads with thick winter beards that will likely require weed whackers and hedge trimmers when it comes time to trim them, assuming that’s ever done.

“Can I help you?” one of the brothers asks as we approach. I’m pretty sure it’s Jordy, but I haven’t seen them in a few years so I’m not certain.

Hurley makes the introductions and then asks the boys for their names. I discover I’m right in thinking the one who spoke is Jordy. Jerome and Jethro flank him on either side, and all three of them are staring at me in a way that makes me squirm. I suspect they are undressing me with their eyes, but I can’t tell if it’s because they want to have sex with me, or if it’s because they want to skin me alive, tan my hide, and boil up the rest for dinner.

Junior has his hand hovering close to his gun, but if Hurley is at all intimidated, he doesn’t show it. “We’re here to talk to you about the death of Bernard Chase.”

Jordy arches his brow. “That creep is dead?”

“He is,” Hurley says. “Murdered, in fact. Know anything about it?”

“No,” Jerome says with a snort. “But I’d like to buy a beer for whoever did it.”

“Why is that?” Hurley asks.

“Because that asshole was molesting our mother,” Jethro says with a sneer.

“What proof do you have of that?” Hurley asks.

“Momma said so,” Jethro yells. “What more proof do you need?”

I step up, trying to make eye contact with Jordy since he seems to be the one in charge. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Jordy,” I say, using my best calming nurse voice, “but we all know that your mama is pretty confused these days. What happened to her when she was younger was a terrible, terrible thing, but then she found your daddy and everything was good. Now that her mind is starting to go, she’s living in the past. I remember when you brought her into the ER seven, eight years ago. Even then, she was pretty confused, and I’ve heard that Bernard Chase looked like the guy who attacked your momma when she was younger. Is that true?”

“It is,” Jordy says. “But that doesn’t mean he didn’t do what she said.”

“If you truly believe Bernard Chase molested your mother, why haven’t you filed a police complaint about it?” Hurley asks.

All three boys narrow their eyes at Hurley, their feet shuffling nervously, their fists opening and closing, opening and closing.

“Yeah, right,” Jethro says. “Like that would do any good. All you snobby, smarty-pants, rich people hang together and protect the perverts.”

“I need to know where the three of you were yesterday morning between the hours of nine and noon,” Hurley says, clearly growing impatient.

The brothers look at one another and then Jordy smiles. “Seems we got us an alley-by. We drove up to Green Bay yesterday to buy seed. Left here around seven-thirty in the morning and didn’t get back until after five last night.”

Hurley looks quite bummed at this news, particularly after he asks for addresses and the brothers provide them without hesitation, along with the names of people who saw them there. After jotting down all this information, Hurley asks the brothers when they were last at the Twilight Home.

“We take Momma breakfast from McDonald’s every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning,” Jordy says. “So, the last time we were up there was Friday morning. We usually stay . . . what . . . a couple hours?” He looks over at his brothers for affirmation and both nod.

As Hurley finishes writing down all the details the brothers have provided, he sighs and sticks his notebook back in his pocket. “I’ll check out what you said. If what you say is true, then we won’t be back. But if it’s not . . .”

“Man, you cops never quit, do you?” Jerome says. “You just love to harass people.”

Jordy says, “Let it go, Jerome.”

“He’s right, Jordy,” Jethro says. “First that asshole cop from yesterday, and now these yahoos. I’m tired of being treated like we don’t matter.”

“What cop from yesterday?” I ask.

“That deer was gonna die, anyway,” Jethro says. “They had no right to take my gun away.”

“What deer?” I say.

“What gun?” Hurley says at the same time.

Junior steps up, his hand poised over his gun. “Everybody settle down. We’re not here to harass you.”

“The hell you ain’t.” Jethro spits on the ground and then spins on his heel and heads for the barn. I watch him disappear inside it, wondering if he’s in there to sulk or to dig out the rifle they probably have stashed in there somewhere.

“Jerome! Go look after your brother!” Jordy’s loud command to the remaining brother makes it clear who is in charge and that he will brook no objections.

Jerome shoots us a dirty look and then follows his brother’s footsteps into the barn.

“I apologize for my brothers,” Jordy says. “They tend to get worked up pretty easily, although they get picked on enough that it’s justified.”

“What’s the story with the cop and the gun Jethro was talking about?” Hurley asks.

“We had what the sheriff called a little incident yesterday,” Jordy says. “We was almost to Green Bay when some guy in front of us hit a deer. He didn’t die but he was pretty messed up, so we stopped and Jethro got out of the truck and shot him to put him out of his misery.”

“I hope you mean the deer,” I say, swallowing hard.

“Of course I mean the deer,” Jordy says. “You think I’d shoot some guy for no reason?”

I kind of do, but I don’t say so.

“You can’t just shoot a deer like that,” Hurley says.

“Yeah, well we know that
now
,” Jordy says, his eyes big. “But we didn’t know it yesterday. Farming is hard work. We don’t make a lot of money and that there deer was enough food to feed the three of us for a good long while so we decided to load the carcass in the truck.”

“You can’t just take the carcass like that,” Hurley says.

“Yeah, we know that, too,
now
,” Jordy says, clearly frustrated. “At the time, it seemed like a smart thing to do, you know? All that good meat . . . why just leave it to rot on the side of the road? But then the guy who hit the thing comes backing up along the shoulder and gets out of his truck and says the deer is his. We said it was ours because we were the ones what actually killed it, you know? But this guy didn’t see it that way and afore you know it, we was all arguing pretty loud and Jethro started waving his gun around. He wouldn’t a shot the guy. He was just trying to put the fear of God in him, you know? But I guess someone driving by called the cops and the next thing you know some sheriff shows up and wants to take away our deer and Jethro’s gun.”

“I can see where that might not have gone well,” I say.

“You can say that,” Jordy scoffs. “I thought we was going to have to get Jethro out of jail, but after I got him calmed down, the sheriff was willing to let us go with a warning.”

“What time of day was this?” Hurley asks.

“I think it was right around nine o’clock in the morning,” Jordy says. “Maybe ten?”

“Did the sheriff let you take the deer?” I ask.

“Um, no,” Jordy says, his eyes shifting nervously.

Hurley shoots me a funny look, one I can’t quite interpret. Then he says, “Let me guess. The sheriff told you to leave the carcass on the side of the road so it could be tagged and picked up later. Then he made you leave. And I’m guessing you came back sometime later, saw that deer was still lying on the side of the road, and figured no one would be the wiser if you took it.”

“You can’t prove that,” Jordy snaps. “That meat in our freezer could have come from anywhere.”

“Whatever,” Hurley says. Then he turns to me. “Come on, let’s go.”

Junior gets back into his squad car, turns around, and heads down the driveway. Hurley and I get into his car and do the same.

“Well, that was entertaining, but a total bust,” Hurley says. “If what Jordy just told us is true, they couldn’t have been anywhere near the Twilight Home when Bernard was killed. And it will be easy enough to verify their story with the sheriff’s department because the call should be on record.”

“So what’s next?” I ask.

“Vonda Lincoln and Regan Simmons’s husband. If they don’t look good for this, we’re stuck going through all those files back at the station.” Hurley takes out his cell phone and makes a call. I can hear the distant ring of the other phone as he holds his own up to his ear, but that’s all I hear. There is no answer, no voice mail, no nothing. After a minute, he disconnects the call, tosses the phone on the seat between us, and swears under his breath.

“Let’s go to the Simmons place next. I don’t know how long it will take to search Chase’s house so I want to save it for last.” He picks up his cell phone again and punches in another number. “Junior,” he says after one ring, “what did you find when you ran Mitchell Simmons?”

He listens for a minute, and I struggle to overhear what Junior is telling him, but I can only make out a few words. Finally Hurley says, “Interesting,” then disconnects the call.

“What?” I ask.

“Maybe we’re finally on to something. It turns out that Regan Simmons’s husband has a prior battery offense and a restraining order. His victim’s name was Ron Hildebrand. Apparently this isn’t Regan’s first affair and Mr. Simmons is a very jealous man. Want to guess the name of Regan’s last paramour?”

“Ron Hildebrand?” I guess.

“Bingo!”

T
he Simmons home is in a newer development on the east side of town. Hurley’s phone rings as we pull up and park and he grabs it eagerly. I suspect he thinks it might be Kate, but it’s only Junior Feller calling to let us know the sheriff’s department has verified the “incident” and, subsequently, the alibi of the Waldheim boys.

As we sit in the car listening to Junior’s update, the Simmons’s two-car garage door opens and a Mazda SUV backs out into the street. The car zips by us and I see Regan Simmons behind the wheel. She shoots us a dirty look as she passes, which comes as no surprise to me since she must know that we are about to reveal things to her husband that she would rather keep hidden. She’s in a tough position with plenty of contentious days ahead given that she has a murdered lover on one hand and a husband who’s about to find out he’s been cuckolded on the other. Given her husband’s history regarding her last affair, I’m not surprised that Regan is making a run for it.

When Hurley disconnects his call, we get out of the car and head for the front door of the Simmons house. Mitchell Simmons answers, and I’m surprised to see that he is a tall, handsome, blond-haired, blue-eyed man with a deep, sexy voice. Maybe I’m just shallow, but when I look at someone like Mitchell Simmons and compare him to Bernard Chase, I can’t help but wonder what made Regan’s eye ever wander in the first place. Then again, looks certainly aren’t everything. Maybe Mitchell Simmons is a wife beater. Or maybe he’s terrible in the sack. Or maybe he’s a psychotic nut job. Was his one violent episode an anomaly triggered by jealousy? Or is he a cleverly disguised violent psychotic all the time?

If it’s the latter, he hides it well. He is polite and cordial when he answers the door, and even though he seems surprised to see us and puzzled as to why we are here, he doesn’t hesitate to invite us inside. What we can see of the house is neat and clean, and the living room is furnished with an eclectic combination of traditional and transitional mismatched pieces that go together surprisingly well. Mitchell invites us to sit on the couch, which is plush and covered with a soft, textured, plum-colored fabric. As I sink into it, I take in the warm, café au lait color of the walls and the dark stained wood of the floors, both providing a pleasing contrast to the wide, white trim. There is a funky coffee table that appears to be some sort of reclaimed factory warehouse cart complete with large, metal wheels and worn wooden planks. Across from the couch are two chairs: one in sage green, the other in chocolate brown leather, both of them wide, cushy-looking, and inviting. At the end of the room to the sides of the chairs and couch is a large fireplace trimmed in the same wide, white wood as the rest of the room and topped with a large, flat-screen TV. I get the sense that each piece of furniture in the room was chosen for its individual attributes rather than because it would fit into some coordinated display. The room should look like a hodgepodge mess, but it doesn’t, thanks in part to a Persian area rug that nicely ties in the plum, sage, and brown colors and feels like heaven beneath my feet. I can’t help but wonder how much of the room is Regan and how much of it is Mitchell. I get a sense that it’s a mix of both, that the eclectic nature of the room is representative of their mutual respect for one another’s desires and tastes. It’s too bad Regan’s desires went beyond the furnishings and the marital bed. I like this room, and I think that under different circumstances, I might have liked the Simmonses as well.

Hurley takes the lead with Mitchell, who has settled onto the leather chair across from us. “Mr. Simmons, I’m sure you’re aware of the death of Bernard Chase at the nursing home where your wife works?”

“Yes, Regan mentioned something about him collapsing. It’s sad when people so young develop serious health problems.”

“What did she tell you he died from?” I ask.

“She didn’t know for sure, but she said it was probably a heart attack. It really shook her up.” He looks at me suspiciously. “Why are you talking to me about this?”

“How’s your marriage?” Hurley asks, deftly ignoring Mitchell’s own question. “Are you and Regan getting along okay?”

Mitchell frowns. “I imagine we’re like any other couple. We have our ups and downs, but overall our relationship is a solid one. Why do you care?”

His tone of voice has changed; Mr. Nice Guy seems to have left the building. At this point, I’m pretty sure Mitchell has no idea his wife has been having an affair. I’m curious to see how he’s going to react to the news, whether it will be with anger or despair.

“The two of you have no children?” I ask.

Mitchell shakes his head. “Regan says she isn’t ready yet.”

“Are you?” I ask.

“Am I what? Ready to have children?”

I nod.

He shrugs. “I’ve always wanted children, but we’ve got time yet, and obviously Regan and I need to be on the same page with that regard.”

“Did you know Bernard Chase?” Hurley asks.

“I met him a time or two,” Mitchell says. “Once at a Christmas party, once at an employee picnic, and I’ve seen him around town on occasion. I know who he is, but we’re not what I would call friends. More like acquaintances.”

“It seems your wife knew him very well,” I say.

Mitchell smiles, looking a little baffled by the statement. “Of course she did. He was her boss.”

“He was more than that,” Hurley says.

“What do you mean? What are you implying?”

Up until now, Hurley and me taking turns with the questions and comments has forced Mitchell’s focus to shift slowly back and forth between us. It’s a technique that has evolved between us naturally over time as we’ve worked together. It turns out it’s an effective tool, as it keeps people a little on edge, a little unsettled. It appears to have worked on Mitchell, who is more than a little unsettled. Instead of a baffled expression and a slow shift of his attention, he looks panicked and his gaze is bouncing rapidly between the two of us, unsure just who he should settle on. Hurley gives me a subtle nod, and I deliver the coup de grace.

“Your wife was having an affair with Bernard Chase.”

Mitchell practically explodes with nervous laughter. “That’s utterly ridiculous!” he scoffs. “Regan wouldn’t do that to me.”

In my gentlest, kindest voice I say, “You truly didn’t know, did you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing to know.”

“Think about it,” Hurley says. “I’m guessing Regan has had a lot of reasons to be gone from the house lately. Based on what we’ve learned, I’m also guessing she was frequently late getting home from work, or had some explanation for why she needed to go in early.”

Mitchell opens his mouth to object yet again, but something in what Hurley has said finally drives the truth home. It’s painful to watch the reality hit him, and when it does, it’s apparent. His entire body sags with the weight of this newfound knowledge. I imagine the self-doubt, self-recriminations, and anger will come later. They always do. I feel a little sorry for Mitchell, given that I’ve been in his position myself, and it appears that this is the second time for him. His marriage may have survived the first betrayal, but I seriously doubt it will survive this one. Part of me wants to take him off to one side and have a private chat with him, to prepare him for what’s to come, to let him know the despair doesn’t last forever. But I don’t. I doubt it would help, anyway. I think this type of pain is something people have to experience and learn to deal with on their own. It’s an agonizing but necessary part of the healing process.

I feel certain that Mr. Simmons had no idea of his wife’s affair prior to our arrival and as such, he is an unlikely candidate for Bernie’s murderer. I suspect Hurley feels the same way, but we still need to take care of the basics.

“Mr. Simmons, can you tell me where you were between the hours of nine and noon yesterday morning?” Hurley asks.

Mitchell stares at him and blinks hard several times, as if he’s seeing him for the first time and can’t quite believe his eyes. “I was here at home,” he says finally. “I had work I brought home with me and I didn’t leave the house all day. It’s a very busy time of year for me.”

“What is it you do?” I ask.

“I’m a CPA. And it’s tax season.”

“Was your wife here at home with you?” Hurley asks.

Mitchell stares at the floor, still wearing his stunned expression of disbelief. “Part of the time,” he says with a frown. “She said she had some errands to run and she left around nine-thirty. I think it was around noon or so when she came back. She brought me lunch.” He looks at me when he says this, his tone suggesting that his wife wouldn’t have done such a sweet, thoughtful thing if she was sleeping around on him. Would she?

“I think she was home after that until she left for work at a little after two-thirty.”

“You think she was?” Hurley says.

“I never came out of my office, but I heard the TV going, so I assumed she was here. She told me she had to leave a little early for work because she still had some errands to—” The reality hits him and he squeezes his eyes closed.

“Have you ever been to Bernard Chase’s office?” Hurley asks.

“His office?” Mitchell scrunches up his face with the effort of his thinking. “No, I don’t think so.”

“So we shouldn’t expect to find your fingerprints or DNA anywhere in that office?”

He shakes his head. “Nope, I’ve been to the nursing home before, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never been in any office there.”

Hurley gets up and I follow suit. I think we are both satisfied that Mitchell Simmons had nothing to do with Bernard Chase’s death. And now that we have ruined Mitchell’s life—however temporarily—we thank him for his time and depart, knowing we are leaving a trail of emotional devastation in our wake.

It’s not a pleasant feeling.

Outside in the car, Hurley says, “Damn, I had high hopes for that one, but I don’t think he had any idea his wife was stepping out on him again.”

“Neither do I. In fact I’d bet money on it.” I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Had I always used so many betting clichés, or were they new to my vocabulary now that I was a regular at the casino?

Hurley’s phone rings and he answers it. I can hear the voice on the other end well enough to know it’s not Kate. But lest I have any doubt, the sagging disappointment in Hurley’s face would clue me in. Not that I think Kate will be calling if what her letter said holds true. But maybe she’ll have second thoughts.

I hear Hurley say, “No, just leave her there for now. But tell her not to leave town. And have the officers who helped you meet me at the Chase house.” He sighs and disconnects the call. “That was Bob Richmond. The search of Jeanette’s apartment didn’t turn up anything more than a two-year-old prescription for some codeine that she had left over from a dental procedure. No drugs, no potential poisons, no nothing.”

“So what are we left with?”

“Not much,” Hurley says. “Let’s hope my initial impression of Vonda was wrong and we can find something significant at her house, like a signed confession letter.” He glances at his watch. “When do you think Emily will be back?”

“I don’t know, but the last time my sister took the kids to The Dells, they didn’t get home until after eleven that night. That wasn’t a school night, though.”

“Neither is tonight,” Hurley says. “When I dropped Em off, Desi told me the kids don’t have school tomorrow because of some teacher workshop day.”

“Well in that case, I wouldn’t expect them anytime soon.”

“Okay then, what do you say we take on the Green Fiend?”

“Let me at her,” I say with a smile.