Signs of Struggle (16 page)

I heard a truck go by on the street behind the church. There was a clashing of gears and then the truck backfired. VanderKellen flinched, then turned away from the window to face me.

“Can’t come up with just one more observation? You seem reasonably bright, but your appearance does belie that.”

“The flower arrangements were special,” I said. A fail-safe topic.

His face brightened. “I did that. My doing. You are perceptive, Mr. O’Shea. Did you notice that my tie was accentuated by the dahlias?”

“Totally escaped me. My powers of discernment obviously failed.”

Dr. VanderKellen offered a brief, artificial smile, as if he were riding along on a float with other grandees during a town parade and I, a street urchin, had waved at him. “You said you had questions for me?” he asked.

“I did, but I believe they have fled my mind,” I said. “Thanks, anyway.”

“In that case,” he said, returning to his side of the mahogany handball court, “I have much to do this morning.”

I stood. “Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll be happy to meet with you another, less frenetic, time. Good day, Mr. O’Shea. Oh, and I’d have a physician take a look at your wounds. There are several excellent plastic surgeons in Iowa City.” He sat down and began shuffling through a sheaf of papers in front of him.

“I think plastic surgery was an option
before
the rumble,” I said. VanderKellen did not respond to my wit, so I turned and left his office as he called out, “Please close the door, Mr. O’Shea.”

Responding to my inner adolescent, I left it open.

I retraced my steps and found myself in the domain of Bixby and Dreusicke. They looked up and smiled. I said, “Thank you for working me into the good pastor’s busy schedule. I appreciate that.”

“You’re welcome,” Eleanor said. Then, before turning back to her work, she said quickly, “Would you like to meet our Assistant Pastor, Carl Heisler? He’s in, and he loves to talk to people without appointments.”

Eleanor was up to something. I could feel it. The day was becoming brighter, and I could feel life pushing its way back into me. Besides, Liv Olson said good things about Heisler. I said, “I’d love to. Thanks.”

“Follow me,” she said again. I did. We came to an office with a sign that read, simply, “Assistant Pastor.” In various colors. In crayon. A child’s hand. The door was open just a crack and I could hear Harry Chapin music. Eleanor stepped just inside.

She said, “Thomas O’Shea, Carl.”
Carl?
She stepped back and said, “He’s all yours,” smiled, and left.

I went in. Mostly windows and books; a mess. A sandy-haired, angular young man who looked barely fourteen slouched behind a desk piled high with books, newspapers, and empty Diet Dr. Pepper cans. On the edge of his desk a glass jar quarter-full of peppermints sported a peeling Minnesota Twins decal. The young man jumped to his feet and accelerated across the room, right hand out.

Tall and lanky, he wore faded khaki’s, running shoes, and a white t-shirt with a picture of Michael Moore in a tutu. Under Moore’s picture was written, in block letters, “JESUS CAN REDEEM ANY HISTORY.” Heisler’s blue eyes made me think of the word “merry.”

“I'm Carl Heisler, and what in the world happened to you?”

We shook hands, Heisler’s big and strong. I said, “The metaphor is ‘speed bump in an industrial park.’”

Heisler laughed. “Great, but that can’t be the explanation. What happened?” I told him about the fight.

“I heard about it on the news this morning. I should have made the connection. They gave your name. What was that all about? And what can I do to help you?” Heisler dragged forward a pair of folding metal chairs and sat down in one, offering the other. “Can I get you anything to drink? I’m going to get a Diet Dr. Pepper.”

“I need a beer, but I’d be happy with what you’re having.”

“Excellent.” He sprang to his feet and disappeared out the door. I looked around the cluttered office where sports equipment and boxes were scattered. Several posters adorned the walls; one of Jerusalem, another of the New York City skyline with the two World Trade Center towers smoking from the terrorists' attacks, and still another of Kirby Pucket catching a ball as he crashed against an outfield wall.

Behind his desk, slightly askew, hung a framed diploma from Luther College, and another, from a seminary I couldn’t discern. An Honorable Discharge from the Marine Corps and a certificate naming Carl Heisler as an All-American in NCAA Cross Country kept the diplomas company. He came back with the soft drinks.

“Hope you don’t mind drinking from the can,” he said, handing me the soda. “I can get you a glass and ice if you’d like.”

“This is fine. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. He flopped down in the chair next to me. “Now, wha'sup?”

“Eat Dessert First.”

“Eat Dessert First? You wanna talk about Cherries Jubilee?”

“I once saw a t-shirt in a shop in Abingdon, Virginia that read, ‘Life is Short: Eat Dessert First.’ I would have bought one, but they were all too small,” I said, smiling and instantly remembering my hurting face.

Carl smiled too. “Poignant revelation. And this relates to…?”

I decided to go for broke. I told Carl what had happened, from Wendy screaming in my arms right through to the attempted murder on the bridge last night. Carl raised his eyebrows, stood, stalked to a window, and gazed outside at the church parking lot. He turned away from the window and said, “What do you think happened? And why?”

“I think Larry killed his brother, probably for the money that will likely become his inheritance. Greed’s always been a strong motivator, especially when you mix in booze, drugs, gambling, and sex. Too bad for Wendy. I’m glad your wife was able to get out there so fast that day.”

“Molly mentioned you. She said God had sent a kind man at that exact time. She did not know who you were, had never seen you before. Said you might have been an angel.”

“Those guys on the bridge wouldn’t say so.”

“You ever notice that every time an angel is mentioned in the Bible, there’s always an admonition from the angels to the regular folk to ‘be not afraid’? It ain’t because angels are little chubby cherubs with wings and curly blonde hair. Would you piss your pants if an overweight baby showed up at your house? Angels are awesome, fierce looking, filled with God’s power, and highly capable individuals no one in their right mind would mess with. So you haven’t disqualified yourself by putting two tough guys in the hospital. They probably deserved it. So, what’s Sheriff Payne say about all this?”

“He said he’d look into it. I think he’s suspicious.”

“Well, duh!”

“I trust him to do a thorough, careful job of finding out the facts. He wasn’t all that inquisitive to start with, but his activity on the case has increased since all these coincidences have reared their ugly little noggins. He’s getting a search warrant for Larry’s house, wherever that is.” I took a slug from my cold soft drink. It tasted good.

“In the meantime, maybe you can tell me something about the Soderstroms, or people who might be useful in helping me get to the truth about what happened that day.”

“Why don’t you leave it to Sheriff Payne? He’ll do a great job, really.”

“Payne might, but his cohorts don’t impress me much. Besides,” I said, scooching forward to the front of my chair, “I am taking this personally. Larry Soderstrom threatened to shoot my dog.”

“That’s despicable!”

“You must have a dog.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Tell me what kind, and I’ll immediately be able to know a lot about your character.”

“We have a Bullmastiff. His name is Crunch.”

“You’re real people, then.”

“Tell me about your dog,” Heisler said, a smile crinkling his face. “And don’t say it’s a Mexican Hairless or I’ll throw you out of my office; that is, if I were capable, which I guess I’m not, judging from the looks of you.”

“Female Bulldog. Name of Gotcha.”

“You da man!” Heisler exclaimed, laughing with delight and clapping his hands. He offered a fist bump and I responded. “Is there anything else motivating you to snoop around, not that there needs to be. You clearly have sufficient cause.”

“People are being paid to kill me,” I said. “And it’s not my nature to sit around in a defensive posture and hope it doesn’t happen. Besides, I have time on my hands. I might come up with something because of how much time, and tenacity, I can bring to the investigation.”

I noticed Heisler’s merry eyes took on a different tone, a deeper blue and an intensity that would have made me nervous under different circumstances. “I will tell you what I can,” he said. “Your face and story give you ownership to the information.”

“I’d appreciate it very much.”

“It must remain confidential.”

“It will.”

Carl took a long gulp from his Diet Dr. Pepper, adjusted his weight in the chair, and spoke. “Here goes.”

“I’m holding onto my chair,” I said, and he began.

C
arl Heisler paused; gathering his thoughts, then spoke. “Hugh Soderstrom was my friend and brother in Christ. He loved life, the farm, Wendy. Oh, man, did he love Wendy. His character was impeccable, and his priorities were solid down the line. However, all was not well in Hugh’s life.”

“Larry.”

Heisler smiled ruefully and nodded. “And Wendy. She was not happy down on the farm. She encouraged Hugh to sell the land to Jurgen Clontz, but he would not, could not. He did not have the authority. So they had a marriage that was not united in its goals and objectives; in fact, they were one hundred eighty degrees out of phase.”

“Maybe kids would have given them more in common. People seem to think they were trying to have children,” I said.

Heisler got up and walked over to the door to his office and closed it, then returned to his chair. His voice was softer, lower. “Hugh wanted children. Wendy was ambivalent, but it was a moot point. Hugh was sterile. Tests at University Hospitals proved it. He wanted to adopt. She drew the line. Wendy felt as if they weren’t supposed to have children, that this was a sign.”

“What do you think she’ll do now?”

“I imagine Wendy Soderstrom will get on the first thing smokin’ and head for a city. Minneapolis, Chicago, St. Louis. Somewhere far from that farm. I don’t want to sound uncharitable, but she just never did acclimate to farm life, or this town, for that matter. That’s not a condemnation. Not everyone is in love with farm life. And that’s fine. I don’t think I’d care to live out there, either. But if Hugh had been a C.P.A. or a banker in a city, I don’t think you could have found a happier wife. But he wasn’t those things. He was a farmer, and happy to be one.

“I can’t imagine why Hugh married her, but people do illogical things when they’re in love. She went through the motions, attended church with him, pitched in on covered dish dinners and church activities, even headed up Vacation Bible School two summers ago.”

“That would make me lose my religion,” I said.

Carl laughed. “Me, too.”

“Do you know the details of the Soderstrom Farms Estate? You said Hugh didn’t have the authority to sell the land to Jurgen Clontz, even though Wendy wanted him to. Who gets what?”

“By the way,” Carl said, holding my eyes with his, “the only people who know Hugh was sterile are you, me, and Wendy, so…“

“I won’t tell anyone. I don’t
know
anyone.”

“I know. It just makes me feel a little funny to be telling you all this, but with Hugh in Heaven now, I guess it won’t hurt. If Hugh was murdered, he would want me to do everything to help bring the killer to justice.”

“So what are the details of the estate?”

“It’s no secret. Soderstrom Farms was left fifty percent to Hugh and fifty percent to Larry, but it belongs to the church. It’s a Living Trust. Larry rented his out so he wouldn’t have to work, but would have a steady stream of income to bankroll his poor choices. Hugh worked his half with the intent to make it productive so he could someday buy the land free and clear, as provided in the Trust.

“If either brother died, the land would be made available to the other brother, not the family of the deceased brother, at fifty percent of the appraised value. A good deal if the money’s there. That’s where it gets sticky. The Trust becomes quite complicated.”

“I thrive on complications.”

Carl Heisler smiled. “It’s like this: Larry has sixty days from Hugh’s death to declare if he wants to buy the land or not. Full discounted price, cash only. If Larry doesn’t buy, notices would then go out that the land is for sale, sealed bids and all that. The land must be used for farming only—no developments, golf courses, water parks, or even just left fallow. Has to be a working farm. And the bids go to Doctor VanderKellen and the Deacon Board sixty days from whatever date Larry makes his decision, or not. That clock started ticking the day after Hugh died. If Larry doesn’t act, the Trust would appoint an overseer to manage the property.”

“Do you think Larry will bid?”

“I have a hunch he won’t. Furthermore, the Soderstrom Trust, the church, has the right to refuse sale to any nefarious or questionable sources. Other than that, it’s smooth sailing for some reputable person or entity to acquire the land.”

“So what happens to Wendy?”

“A cash settlement would be made by the Trust to the family of the deceased brother if either or both brothers were married, that figure to be ten percent of the value of the half.

"This is a large estate, Thomas. Iowa farmland that can yield one hundred and sixty bushels of corn per acre goes for about five thousand dollars an acre, which is up a good bit since the early eighties, the previous high. But there are fewer farmers, with the average age right now being mid-fifties. And the children of farmers don't stick around, so with fewer farms and thirty-three million acres in the state, you can figure it out."

"Farms are getting larger, and I would think, scooped up by conglomerates," I said.

"Over a third of all farmland in Iowa is owned by investors."

"Like Jurgen Clontz, Junior?"

"Yep. And it makes sense. As they say in real estate, God isn't making any more land, so it can only go up. And Iowa farmland is primo stuff. We're not talking sand or red clay," Carl said. “I would guess Soderstrom Farms is worth forty-two million dollars more or less. Probably more."

“So how much will Wendy receive from Hugh’s death?”

“From the estate? A couple million, give or take,” Carl said, his eyes sparkling as he laughed, the skin crinkling around his eyes in a big smile. “Wendy will be just fine, financially. She will not be left to live under the bridges of Rockbluff County.”

“Good for Wendy, especially since she wants off the farm. That much would buy a bus ticket to a big city, and a buck or two left over to purchase a condo and a Beamer or two,” I said, Carl nodding his head in agreement. “I have another question.”

“Shoot.”

“What happens if both brothers were to die in an accident, or they just grew old and passed away? If I understand you, their families would get only the ten percent, but who gets the entirety of Soderstrom Farms should Larry die now?”

“As I said, Soderstrom Farms is what the lawyers call a Living Trust, which means in this case the sons can manage their half of the farm as long as they live, as long as they actually live on it, and it is used for farming. There is a special provision in the Trust that allows either brother to purchase outright the land from the Trust at fair market value, which is what Hugh planned to do with his profits. If he couldn’t raise the money he planned to buy other land nearby and work both farms, hiring more men, and so forth. Larry had no interest in that provision, according to Hugh. But if both brothers are gone, and neither has purchased their half from the Trust, the land itself reverts to…?” Carl asked, eyebrows going up as if it were a quiz question.

“Ahhh,” I said, slowly figuring it out. “That would be Christ the King Church in Rockbluff, Iowa.”

“To appropriate a Roman Catholic term, bingo! Point of fact,” Carl said, holding up a cautionary finger, “it does not go to Doctor VanderKellen or Mrs. VanderKellen, or Molly or me, or even wonderful Eleanor Bixby, although she should get it for putting up with us. It reverts to the church, and the assets would then be managed by the Elders. Thirty percent of the interest must go to missions, but that’s the only caveat. Missions were very important to the Soderstroms Senior; they were killed in a car accident when they were serving on a short missions trip to Haiti.”

“They sound like they were good, tough, smart people.”

“I never met them. All that was before I came. But obviously they were good stewards of their assets, and committed to having their wealth put to good use when they were gone. First the land goes to the church, then the proceeds of the sale of the land go to the church, the land itself going to whomever buys it.”

I stood to ease the growing pain and stiffness in my body, walked over to the window, looked out at Rockbluff. Carl continued.

“Mr. And Mrs. Soderstrom loved this church, and they wanted Christ the King to always have the very best in facilities and staff as a way of honoring our Lord. So they took time to say so in their estate.”

“What would you have to do if Larry Soderstrom were to die tonight?”

“The sale of the land would have to go to the bidder with the highest offer closest to the fair market value of the land, the sale taking place no later than sixty days after the death of the remaining son. It could happen sooner than sixty days, too, because the Trust is so organized and clear. But it might take bidders a while to get together their bids, so sixty days makes sense.”

Carl raised his eyebrows again to punctuate what he’d just said. “The Soderstroms did not like to dink around. They foresaw endless dickering over the dissolution of the Trust and took care of it. And you can be sure the big boys are tracking the farm so they can put together a bid quickly. Clontz, of course, is on it, as well. There’s nothing he would like better than to get his hands on that land.”

“What are the parameters on price?” I wondered. “I mean, what if the closest bid to fair market value is a rigged deal for, say, twenty percent of the value of the land?”

“It’s got to be no less than ninety-five percent of the fair market value, which is, as I anticipate your next question, arrived at by independent licensed appraisers every six months. Pricey, but that’s…“

“In the Trust, too.”

“You got it, Thomas. And by the way, there would be no problem selling the land.”

I finished my Diet Dr. Pepper and just held the empty can in my hand. “Would you sell the farms to Jurgen Clontz?”

“I’d rather sell it below value to keep him from getting his hands on it. At the same time, to be candid, there probably aren’t many other individuals out there who could come up with the cash. Corporations can do it, of course. Anyway, we are required to take the best legitimate offer from a reputable source.”

“Why would Harmon Payne be afraid of Jurgen Clontz?”

Carl Heisler's blonde eyebrows went up again. “Is he?”

“In confidence?”

“Of course.”

“He told me Jurgen Clontz gives him the willies.”

“Did Sheriff Payne fill you in on the Clontz family history?”

I nodded.

Carl said, “Jurgen has significant wealth and, therefore, power and influence. People like that can get a little carried away if they’re not careful.”

"Human nature. Behavior probably reinforced time and again over the years."

“Darn tootin’. Jurgen is used to getting his way and, if he doesn't get it, well…”

Heisler’s voice trailed off.

“It’s called a pre-extinction burst,” I said. “If you’re used to getting your way, and then you don’t for some reason, you escalate behaviors that worked before until they work again. Of course, if they don’t work, you modify your behaviors, such as becoming more pleasant, or conciliatory, or maybe killing the person who denied you what you wanted, to use an extreme to make my point."

“Are you a psychologist or something?” Carl asked.

“Behavioral health guy.”

“So you know why people act like they do?”