Where Is Henderson? (Sam Darling mystery #5) Read online

  He was the opposite of his wife. Where she was crying and grieving, he was angry and unyielding. Both were signs of grief, but it seemed to me that there was something just a little “off” about him.

  “You probably won’t believe me,” I said, “but I’m not really with the police. I accompanied a QPD officer here, but I just consult with the department. He’s with Detective Rawlings now.”

  “Chief Henderson was just here. He’s the one who told us.”

  Another Henderson? This was as bad as all the Bobs in Crackertown during my last murder investigation.

  “It must have been quite a shock,” I said.

  “We just saw him…,” Joan said before breaking down again.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “What’s today, Tuesday?” Joan asked, moving her head from side to side. “Yes, it’s Tuesday,” she said, answering her own question. “We saw him on Friday morning, right, Caleb?” She looked to her husband for confirmation.

  “Yes, Friday morning. The chief said he died on Friday, is that true?”

  “That’s what we think,” I said, using the term “we” loosely. “But I’ll let Detective Lansing talk to you about details. I really shouldn’t be talking to you about this without him here.”

  “No sooner said than done, Sam,” said George, appearing through the door, right before he said, “And what are you doing here?”

  “Just exploring,” I answered. “I came into this building and heard crying. So I followed my nose… er, my ears.”

  “Mayor Henderson?” George asked.

  At the mayor’s nod, George continued, “Mrs. Henderson?” Her sobs answered for her. “I understand Chief Henderson spoke to you.” Both Hendersons nodded again. “I’m George Lansing, Chief of Detectives of the Quincy, Illinois police department. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.”

  “What about?” blustered the mayor. “Can’t you see we’re grieving?”

  “Because your son’s death is a crime, it’s important that we collect information and evidence as quickly as possible. I’m sorry to intrude, but I really need to talk to you.”

  “Why you?” the mayor asked. “Why not Rawlings or Henderson?”

  “Because they know you, and are related to you, we thought it might be better for a stranger to talk to you. They will of course talk to you later.”

  The mayor finally sat, as if saying yes to the interview meant he was giving up. His bluster left and his shoulders sank. He looked at the floor, and seemed to have aged 20 years in a brief moment.

  George motioned for me to take a seat on a chair in the corner, and he took a chair near the desk. Mrs. Henderson was still sitting behind the desk where the mayor would normally sit, and the mayor himself was in a wooden visitor’s chair across from the desk.

  George opened his notebook and also pulled out his phone. He turned on the recording function as he asked, “Do you mind if I tape this?”

  At the resounding silence, he asked again, “Do you mind if I tape this?” and he added, “I need a verbal response, please.”

  “It’s okay,” the mayor said, sounding older and sadder. This was a totally different man than the one I’d met a few minutes ago. I noticed that neither of them sought to comfort the other one, which I thought was extremely odd, although Joan continued to seek comfort from Clancy.

  “You said that you both saw Cash on Friday? What time was that?” George began.

  “We met for breakfast at the Henderson Diner,” said Joan Henderson, stifling her sobs. “It was quite early because Caleb had a meeting. What time was it?” She turned from looking at George to looking at her husband.

  The mayor pulled out his phone, and looked for something. “It says right here that we met at 7:00 for breakfast. Although my wife was ten minutes late.” It sounded as if her lack of punctuality was something that had been discussed before.

  “You noted on your calendar that she was ten minutes late?” I asked.

  The mayor nodded while his wife said, “It’s like he’s keeping score.”

  I silently agreed with her.

  “You took separate cars to breakfast?” George looked at his notes, then wrote something.

  “Yes. I had meetings all day and I’m sure my wife had something to do as well.”

  “No. Not really. But we tend to each take our own car.” Joan Henderson gave her husband a look that wasn’t full of love.

  I wondered about the enmity between the two. As a therapist I knew that losing a child often causes marital problems after the initial banding together over mutual loss. However, my hunch was that these two seemed to have had problems prior to their son’s death, particularly since I hadn’t seen much sign of initial banding together at all.

  George looked at the mayor, “How did your son seem? Did he say he had plans for the day?”

  “He seemed excited, a bit overly excited if you ask me. What would you say, Joan?”

  “I agree. He was excited about a new project in the family business.”

  “What is the family business?” asked George.

  “The family owns AfterLife Holders,” the mayor said, as if George and I would know what that was.

  “What are AfterLife Holders?” I piped in from the corner, and ignored the look George gave me.

  “They are urns used to hold the cremains—the cremated remains of the deceased. We supply urns worldwide,” the mayor said with a note of pride in his voice.

  “Vases!” I said, thinking of the graffiti on the train car. “Vases,” I said again, looking directly at George.

  “What does she mean?” asked Joan Henderson.

  “Er… nothing,” replied George. “She has a tic.”

  I resented that, but understood that George had to say something. He didn’t want to give away that clue yet. I metaphorically kicked myself in the seat of my pants. How could I give that info away? Yet, that was really the only lapse in my control, so it wasn’t a bad record.

  George got back to work, “Did your son work in the family business?”

  “Yes,” said the mayor, running a hand through his hair, and once more looking at the ground. “He was learning the trade, and was working in the shipping department in the warehouse.”

  “Do you know what project he was excited about?”

  “No,” said the mayor, “and what would that have to do with his death?”

  “Maybe nothing,” said George, “but we have to examine a lot of small things and create the big picture.”

  Joan said, while nodding at George, “He was going to go to the plant and clean up some stuff in the warehouse after he left us. The plant was closed on Friday because it was Henderson Day, but he wanted to clean up the place so it would be nice and clean for Monday.” She dabbed her eyes. “He was a very neat boy.”

  “So he left the diner when?”

  “Was it about 8:00, darling?” This from Joan, the first endearment we’d heard between the two. Frankly, to me it sounded rehearsed, as if it was a word without meaning.

  “Yeah, I guess,” the mayor responded. “I had an 8:30 meeting and was early for it.”

  George continued with basic questions and Clancy stayed with Joan while I looked at both Hendersons. If I had to be judgmental (and I did) I thought Joan Henderson looked like a typical rich first wife—aging along with her husband, but obviously fighting against the aging process. Right now it looked like she was winning the battle, but age was rounding the corner and catching up. She looked good, but still was probably in her early to late 50s, since her son Cash was 32. It was so hard to estimate people’s ages when they had a good plastic surgeon. She had on what looked like a cashmere suit, not that I was an expert on cashmere. It had fur around the collar. All she needed was a pillbox hat to be emulating Jackie Kennedy. Except for her hair. In what I guessed was a further effort to look younger she had blonde spikes all over her head, in stark contrast to her suit and her position.

  The term “stark contrast�
�� fit her husband also, especially when you looked at the two together. He looked like Humpty Dumpty in an expensive suit. As round as he was tall, Mayor Caleb Henderson didn’t seem to be making an effort to fight aging at all. In fact, he appeared to have surrendered. There were a few wisps of gray hair left on his head and they were unruly, shooting out in every direction, just like his eyebrows.

  I was brought back to the conversation at hand when I heard George say, “Sam, can you think of anything I might have left out?”

  At my quizzical look, he said, “Anything I didn’t ask that you think is important?”

  “No. I think you covered it all.” I hoped I was right.

  With a promise that he’d stay in touch, George took my arm and escorted me from the mayor’s office all the way down the steps of City Hall, and I pulled an unwilling Clancy.

  “You were daydreaming, weren’t you?”

  “I prefer to think of it as problem-solving,” I said.

  “When did you tune out?”

  “I remember the mayor saying he made his 8:30 meeting. Anything important after that?”

  He looked at his notes. “When I asked if Cash had any enemies they were both quick to say no, but I don’t quite believe them.”

  “Why?”

  “They were both antsy and kept looking at each other. I think if we question them separately we might get a different answer.”

  We. He said “we.”

  “Sure. Let’s do that,” I said, afraid he’d change his mind. “Anything else?”

  “Apparently, the business is doing well. The mayor hasn’t been involved in hands on operation since he was elected. His younger brother, Jonah, runs it until Cash gets trained. Or at least, that was the plan, until…”

  “Until he got murdered,” I said. “Now what’s the plan for the business?”

  “I asked the question. Joan didn’t really know, but Caleb said that after they died it would probably go to his younger brother, since Cash was their only child.”

  “Interesting.” I turned to my canine friend, “Clancy, quit pulling. We’re walking back to the B&B. You did a good job with Joan, but you can’t stay with her.”

  I took George’s hand since I thought he wouldn’t resist a small public display of affection. Even though he was on the job, we were in a strange city, so he might be okay with it. I was right. “Have you thought any more about the urns we saw on the train car?” I asked.

  “Not really. Pull up the pictures for me, will you?”

  I let go of his hand long enough to get the phone out of my pocket. I looked through pictures of Clancy and my nieces and nephews and got to the one of the urn on the outside of the train and the one on the inside of the train. I handed the phone to George. “The first one is outside the boxcar, and the second one is inside.” It was kind of obvious, but I said it anyway.

  “Did you notice anything written on the urn?” George asked.

  “No. Although if you make the picture bigger you’ll see that there was scribbling where words might be.”

  “Email those pictures to me, will you?”

  I nodded as I said, “Maybe we ought to get to the factory and check out what the urns look like in person.”

  “Great idea. I’ll do that,” said George, perhaps sarcastically.

  Sometimes I get what I think are great ideas but when I voice them they don’t sound so great. They sound like something everyone else has already thought of.

  “I’ll do that,” he said in a voice devoid of sarcasm this time. “I didn’t ask, but the plant probably has at least two shifts, so it would be open now. No need for you to come along this time.”

  “But…”

  “But I said you could help me and you can. Just let me go to the factory and you’ll be able to help me out later. I’ll tape anything interesting and you can go over the tape with me while we figure out what it means.”

  I felt kind of useless, but I’m not one to stay down for long. “Okay,” I said to a departing George, “Clancy and I will walk back to the B&B. No, we don’t need a ride.” The last sentence was a phantom reply, since he hadn’t offered to take us back.

  Then something hit me. George was already in his car, so I texted him to say, “We have a dinner reservation at 7. Meet you at B&B at 6:45.”

  I had more than an hour to kill, so Clancy and I walked home a different way. We passed a meeting hall with a sign that said, “Worsham Hall, Wednesday, Improve Your Life with Louise Shannon.”

  “That’s it, Clancy! I knew I’d heard of Henderson, Kentucky before. You know I get pamphlets at work all the time advertising workshops. This one must be a self-help or a mental health workshop or I probably wouldn’t have gotten the brochure. Maybe I’ll go to that tomorrow if George won’t let me help him.”

  The rest of the short walk was uneventful, so I talked to Clancy. “You know, I don’t need to improve my life. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. But if I go to the workshop I might be able to do some investigating on my own. You know—talk to some townspeople about Cash Henderson.”

  That brought a smile to my face that lasted until the next morning.

  SEVEN

  I rolled over Clancy to kiss George good morning. As usual, Clancy had wormed her way in between the two of us as we slept.

  “Good morning, sweetie!” I said, as I lingered near George, still smiling.

  “Hey,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “Now this is a great way to wake up. What are you smiling about? It almost looks like you’re up to something.”

  “You’re such a cop,” I said and kissed him on the cheek. “So suspicious.” Rolling back to my side of the bed, I said, “I think we both need to brush our teeth. Last night’s meal was delicious, but sure had a lot of garlic in it.”

  “I’ll shower first,” he said. “I have a long day ahead.”

  I’d interrogated him last night, but he hadn’t had any new information. The plant hadn’t been open after all. I thought that was interesting—maybe they weren’t doing well, maybe they’d never been open more than one shift, or maybe they were closed because of Cash’s death. Several possibilities.

  Besides the food, the other interesting thing that happened at dinner was that the room was buzzing. I guess a murder wasn’t commonplace here, and the victim was a member of a prominent Henderson family. I couldn’t make out a lot of what was being said, but I heard people talking about Cash Henderson, then a lot of whispering. Ah, I wished I was a fly on the wall. Except there were no flies in the restaurant.

  Back to the present. “So you going to spend the day at the plant?” I asked.

  “Yes. You can come with me if you want, but I think it will be pretty boring.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I noticed a workshop in town I might go to.”

  “You gave up kinda easy,” George looked at me even more suspiciously. “What exactly are you up to?”

  “Seriously. When I was walking last night with Clancy I saw a sign about this workshop and remembered that I’d gotten a flyer about it at work.” I looked him in the eyes as he got up. “I thought that maybe you wouldn’t let me go with you today, so I decided to check out the workshop. Promise.”

  George knew that it was hard for me to lie while making eye contact, so he said, “Okay. But how about I let you know if I need you?”

  “Sure. However, won’t Chief Henderson be helping you?”

  “Probably. He did say he’d let me handle the factory though, because Henderson relatives are everywhere, and it would be easier for me to be objective.”

  “What about Detective Rawlings?” I asked.

  “His mother was a Henderson.” George shrugged his shoulders in a “what can you do” kind of motion.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. It was true. This place was full of relatives of the victim, and we needed to find out if any of them were responsible for Cash Henderson’s death.

  Plus, we had to do it quickly. My wedding was coming up fast.

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nbsp; George and I showered and then, after a breakfast supervised and served by an ever-perky Nibby, we went our separate ways. Nibby said he’d be happy to keep Clancy for the day, and I gladly agreed. She tried to plant a guilt trip on me, but I resisted.

  George took the car to the factory and I walked to Worsham Hall, just a few blocks away.

  As I arrived at the historic building I joined a line of women waiting to get in. I found a friendly face and said, “I’m surprised there aren’t any men here. Don’t they want to improve their lives?”

  She laughed and we introduced ourselves. She was Coronation Wilson, and was the new assistant to the workshop presenter, Louise Shannon. I told her I had accompanied my fiancé who was in Henderson to investigate a crime. I neglected to mention that I was helping him.

  “Why are you standing in line with the rest of us?” I asked.

  “I’m kind of a spy,” she whispered. “Louise asked me to get the ‘feel’ of the crowd and fill her in.”

  That intrigued me, but not enough to ask her for more information, because the line started moving just then.

  Once the doors opened, everything happened smoothly and quickly. Those with tickets were ushered in directly, and the few of us without tickets stopped at a table.

  “That will be two hundred dollars. Will it be cash or charge?” asked a woman in a tone that indicated she really didn’t care. She held out her hand.

  “Two hundred dollars?” I asked. “The flyer I got at my office said fifty dollars.”

  “If you read the flyer thoroughly you would have noticed it said quite clearly, “Fifty dollars in advance, two hundred at the door.” Neither her voice nor her hand wavered.

  “Oh well, it’s tax deductible,” I muttered under my breath, thinking any workshop that was focused on mental health related to my job. I handed the woman my credit card and when she gave it back to me she included a receipt and a booklet.

  I went inside the large, pleasant meeting room and found a seat at the back. It disappointed me, because I like to sit up front so I don’t miss anything, but all those seats were taken. The only good thing about being in back was that my seat was next to Coronation Wilson, Louise Shannon’s secretary.