Murder Under the Tree (17 page)

Sitting in the study, I took a sip of my tea and looked up the number and owner's name for Harbor's Edge Village in Two Rivers. I dialed.

“Harbor's Edge. Mrs. Maxfield speaking.”

I gave Mrs. Maxfield a fake name and told her that I was calling from the Catholic Home in Sudbury Falls and related that Nancy Reinhardt had applied for a job as the director and had used Mrs. Maxfield's name as a reference.

Mrs. Maxfield responded that Nancy's name was familiar and would just take a minute to get her file.

I finished my cup of tea while waiting and started to look at the P.I's report again.

“Let me look at my notes,” she said when she came back on the phone. “Yes, I remember her. Nancy was a manager here. I started as the director a few months before she quit.”

“And how did she get along with the residents?”

“Fine, really, she got along particularly well with the men.”

With the men? “I see.” I didn't want to say too much, hoping that Mrs. Maxfield would fill the silence with more information.

When she didn't, I asked, “Why do you think she left?”

I heard the rustle of a page. “She probably thought it was time. Rumors had started...and she probably thought...”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Well, one of the male residents....” She hesitated. “When he died he left everything in his will to her. He didn't have much...she probably thought it was best to go and stop people from talking. Look, as I said, I only worked with her a short time. And after all, those were only rumors. Nothing was ever proven...”

Interesting! Silence for another few moments.

“I think I remember her saying she knew someone in Sudbury Falls.”

I thanked Mrs. Maxfield for her time and hung up.

I went back online and searched a number of engines, looking for headlines about a young boy being hit by a drunk driver in Two Rivers. After searching for a while I found a couple of articles in the
Two Rivers Press
archives.

September 11, 2004 Two Rivers. A family is mourning the death of a young life, after a car crashed into him while riding his bike along County Road A, a block from his home. The driver is being charged with intoxication assault and intoxication manslaughter. The officers identified the 32-year-old driver as Leslee P. Hollingsworth. The 12-year-old boy died at the scene. Bobby Harris was loved by everyone....

It continued.

Next I found the young boy's obituary which was two days later.

Two Rivers—Bobby David Harris, 12, passed away on Friday, September 11, 2004 at St. Nicholas Hospital in Two Rivers. He was born on September 14, 1993 in Two Rivers, Wisconsin, and was three days away from his 12th birthday. He attended St. Pius School as a 7th grade student. Bobby was active in sports and loved the outdoors. He will be missed dearly by those who had the privilege of knowing him.

Bobby is survived by his parents Jack and Mary Pat (Smith) Harris of Two Rivers; his sister Sheila Harris of Two Rivers; paternal grandmother, Charlotte Harris of Green Bay, WI; his nana, Mary Rocke of Pittsburgh, PA; Godmother (aunt) Nancy Reinhardt of Two Rivers; It continued...

I read through it again. I couldn't believe it. Were these the missing pieces to the puzzle? Sheila Harris was Bobby's sister! And Nancy Reinhardt his godmother! A motive for Les' murder was staring right at me, vengeance for Bobby's death. I pictured a young boy lying next to his bike on a roadside and then thought about Will and Andy. If this had happened to one of them and their killer received two years for his actions, would I seek additional vengeance? At any cost? I stared out the window and thought about moral goodness and consequences.

Phil walked into the room and took a book from the bookcase. “What are you thinking about, Kay? You look dreamy.”

I smiled. “About how much I love you and the boys.”

“I love you too.” He kissed and left the room.

I looked back at my computer and thought, Les had never seen the report from Mr. DeMire. What would have happened if he had? Would he have figured this out, what I had just read on the computer and left the Home and still be alive? There was a strong possibility that Les had been investigating his own murderers. I never had thought of Sheila.

I called Sarah and asked her if she would be around this afternoon and that I wanted to discuss something with her and added she should also call Anne and Martin.

* * * *

When I arrived at the Home, Sarah, Anne, and Martin were waiting for my visit. They lit up when they saw me.

“What's happened?” Martin asked, his eyes sparkling, as I came in through the door.

I told them what I had found out through the P.I.'s report and online about Nancy and Sheila and Bobby Harris.

“Les never talked about his past,” Martin said. “Interesting about Nancy and Sheila being related. Never liked either of them.” Martin's face grew a deep red. “But I still think the killer is Nancy.”

“The plot thickens,” Anne said.

“I plan to do a little investigating in regards to Sheila,” I said.

“Such as?” Martin asked, his eyes lit up. He rubbed his hands together.

I hesitated. “It'd be better if you didn't know,” I said.

His eyes widened, followed by a grin that couldn't be contained. “You're not the only one who wants to have some fun. We want to have an adventure while we're still young.”

“This isn't fun.” I grew annoyed at the sound of his enthusiasm. “Remember, it's not a game. If they are murderers, this could be quite dangerous.”

As I said good-bye to the three of them, I sensed danger when I looked into Martin's eyes.

* * * *

After dinner, I left to help Deirdre paint her shop. I put a second pair of shoes in the trunk of my car. We parked in front of her shop, and Deirdre went in to start getting the paint mixed up and ready to go. I walked towards the patisserie pounding the freshly fallen snow, trying to avoid the icy patches, to pick up some desserts before they closed; I didn't expect the selection to be particularly varied or fresh at this time of night.

Marissa wasn't out front when I walked into the patisserie. I looked into the first dining room for her and stopped. Seated at a table were the Chief of Police Kirk, Robert Peterson, and Nancy Reinhardt. Why were the three of them together? Kirk look distressed when he saw me walk in. He took a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket and patted his forehead. After Nancy looked up, she put her head closer to theirs, and started talking, obviously saying something to them about me. As she spoke, Kirk and Peterson glanced towards me.

I jumped when Marissa addressed me. “Kay, can I help you?”

“Yes.” I followed Marissa towards the mostly-empty pastry display shelves to pick through the leftovers.

When I got back to Deirdre's shop I told her about seeing Kirk, Robert, and Nancy being at the patisserie, and about the private investigator's report and Lola's chart.

“I knew there had to be a deeper truth shrouded in darkness. Everyone is ready to remain in darkness and accept this crime as an accident. It's up to you to shine a light on the truth of the matter!”

Good, enthusiastic Deirdre. “I plan on making sure the truth gets out there. And you can help me, if you'd like.”

“How? What can I do?”

“I was wondering if you'd like to go with me to Sheila's place?”

“Why, has she invited you?”

“Well no. I just want to look around, maybe look through the windows...”

Enthusiasm left Deirdre. She gave me a weird look. “And if one is open...”

“Well, that would be an invitation.”

“Kay, that's breaking and entering. What do you hope to learn?”

“I don't know. I'm looking for clues, but—”

“Didn't you learn anything from breaking into the other house when you were working on the ginseng case?”

“Yes, we learned
a lot
from breaking into that house. It was our big break, finding out a number of those who and what they were involved in.”

Deirdre made a disgusted face. “Just what clues are you going to look for at Sheila's? A giant jar of peanut butter?”

“Who knows, if it's a giant jar, that might make her a serial killer. Sorry, that's not funny.”

Deirdre laughed. “It is, actually. But your plan is too dangerous.”

“We could go during the lunch hour at the Home. Sheila can't leave then.”

Deirdre didn't say anything. She just shook her head.

“I know it's terrible, but how else am I going to find anything out?” I said, glancing at the paint cans. “All I know is that I need to look for the truth. Maybe Elizabeth will go with me. She was thrilled last time.” I looked up at Deirdre. She shook her head. “Sorry.”

“You're crazy. Let's just start painting.”

I excused myself. “I'm going to make a quick call.”

Deirdre gave me another disgusted look. I went into the back room, and punched in Elizabeth's number.

“Well?” Deirdre said when I returned.

“Elizabeth's in.”

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

I shrugged my shoulders. We started rolling the paint on the walls in silence. It looked like we had a good chance of finishing the project tonight. I kept thinking of how Elizabeth and I would get into Sheila's apartment. I didn't even know where she lived. And what would I be looking for? Was this a bad idea?

About ten minutes later, Deirdre asked, “What did you get us from Marissa's?”

“I don't know what's in the box. I couldn't decide, so I told her to surprise me.”

Saturday, January 3

I tossed and turned through most of the night having nightmares about Elizabeth and I searching Sheila's apartment...

Elizabeth and I sat in her car a block away from Sheila's apartment, waiting for her to leave and head to Hawthorne Hills for the day. We had spent the last couple of days observing the place: looking through binoculars at the locks on the doors and into the windows, watching to see what times of day Sheila tended to leave the house. Yesterday, Elizabeth had grabbed a Bible and rang the doorbell, trying to invite herself in. Sheila wouldn't allow it, but Elizabeth had gotten a good look at the entryway to the house: it was difficult to see the front door from the street. Today was the big day!

Sheila got into her car and drove down the street. We waited a full five minutes to make sure she wasn't coming back for something she'd forgotten, then we grabbed a brown package from the trunk. I looked at Elizabeth, and she at me: we were both looking professional in our brown United Packing & Shipping uniforms that Elizabeth had bought at the costume shop for her and a boyfriend a couple of Halloweens ago. Well, Elizabeth looked stunning and beautiful in hers; I was wearing the ill-fitting boyfriend's uniform. We carried the large box to the front door and set it down. No one except someone approaching the apartment could have seen us in the entryway.

Elizabeth reached into her pocket and pulled out her handy set of thieves' tools, ready to pick another lock, as she had a couple of months ago in the ginseng case. She grunted as her usually dexterous hands seemed to have trouble working the lock.

I looked around. “Everything all right, Elizabeth?” I asked, somewhat impatient.

More grunting. “I seem to be having a little trouble with the deadbolt.”

The lock pick broke off in the keyhole with a snap.

I sighed. “Step aside,” I commanded, opening the box that we had brought with us.

I pulled out a handheld SWAT-issue door battering ram, courtesy of my friend Thom Harris from the FBI. I wound up and busted the doorknob right off with one violent jab, the force of the impact causing the door to swing open into the house. Before it hit the wall, Elizabeth and I were already inside. Elizabeth closed the door behind us.

The house was pristine; nothing looked out of the ordinary at all. Lavish furniture adorned the main living area with wall art and sculptures completing the impressive appearance of the space. Elizabeth and I pulled a pair of crowbars out. “Let's get to work,” I said.

We went through the living room, the kitchen, the guest rooms. Sofas and chairs were overturned, mattresses and cushions torn apart, looking for clues. Elizabeth swatted all of the food and jars off the shelves in the pantry and groaned as she knocked the refrigerator over. I looked behind all of the paintings on the wall for any documents or photos that might relate to Les, throwing them to the floor when I found nothing. Nothing: that was what we were finding. Nothing at all: that was what this mission was amounting to so far.

We moved up the stairs when we were finished with the ground floor. I paused to check out the window: it sounded like we were making a terrible racket in here. I hoped that it wasn't loud enough to attract attention of the neighbors. There were no police cars parked outside yet; so far so good. We encountered more bedrooms and duly searched those in our usual manner. I realized that I really enjoyed destroying Sheila's things. If she wanted to take someone's life, then I was more than happy to ruin hers. I rolled her bed to the stairway and pushed it down, gleefully watching as it slid all the way down and smashed onto the tile floor below.

Elizabeth and I encountered a locked door, which our crowbars made quick work of. Once inside, we stood, dumbfounded, trying to process what we were seeing. “DIE, LES HOLLINGSWORTH!” the walls proclaimed at us from every angle. It was written hundreds of times, sometimes small, sometimes as large as the entire wall. But always crudely scrawled in a bright, angry red. “Well, I think we may have some proof that Sheila is the killer,” Elizabeth whispered to me.

“It seems like perhaps you do,” another voice responded.

Eyes wide, we both turned around to see Sheila and Nancy, a pair of pistols trained on us. Seeing no way out, we put our hands up in surrender. Nancy gestured toward the corner of the room and we went over to sit down. Nancy kept her gun trained on us while Sheila went to look out the window, probably also looking for cops.