Murder on the Lunatic Fringe (Jubilant Falls Series Book 4) (7 page)

“They seem to be delightful little old ladies, I thought.” Earlene looked at me over her list, hopeful I wouldn’t object to them.

“They’re not bad,” I shrugged. “I do think they probably have a vision of our business that is about thirty years old, but I think they are big supporters of a hometown newspaper.”

“OK, what about Melvin Spotts?”

“No. Just flat out no.”

“Why?”
“Do you have any idea what a crackpot he is?”

“He seemed rather, well, intense when he came to my office.”

“Intense?” I asked. “At least twice a month, he leaves a nasty message on my phone or sends an e-mail accusing me or my staff of covering up the real corruption he feels is going on in Jubilant Falls. It’s everything from crooked cops to upper level federal cover-ups and unidentified flying objects landing outside the city. You know he told me that he thought the federal government was hiding barrels of radioactive waste in the old landfill? It took me two weeks to convince him that wasn’t true. I’d take him seriously if his voicemails didn’t have a parrot squawking, “Don’t tread on me!” in the background.”

Earlene’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Oh, dear.”

“You didn’t promise him a place on the focus group, did you?”

She grimaced.

“You didn’t.”

She nodded. “I thought… he seemed to have so much valuable information.”

“Oh Jesus, Earlene.”

“I’ve scheduled a meeting for next week with these folks—next Monday at two o’clock.”

I stood up and closed my eyes, resisting the urge to blow up at her. Maybe she would see what a disaster this group could be after one meeting. I could only hope.

“OK,” I said, gritting my teeth and gathering my cell phone and notepad. “I’ll be here.”

My phone’s voicemail light was blinking when I dragged myself back to my office and shut the door. I shook off my need for a cigarette and punched in the password to listen to the message: “Penny, this is Gary. I looked into your buddy Jerome Johnson. I don’t know what to tell you, but the guy doesn’t exist. Neither does Ekaterina Bolodenka. Outside of a social security card and an Ohio driver’s license, neither of them has any records of any kind. Anywhere.”

Chapter 10 Graham

“You didn’t come over Sunday night.”

I took my chance while the newsroom was empty except for the two of us and made a beeline for Elizabeth’s desk.

For once, everyone else scattered. Addison came back from lunch and disappeared into a meeting with Earlene. Dennis slipped down to advertising to flirt with Jane the secretary, and Marcus was scouring the halls at city administration office for a story. Pat was down at the high school, getting photos of the high school football players at practice.

“I got into town late. I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t look at me as she pulled a plastic container with her lunch salad out of her bottom desk drawer.

“I called your cell phone a couple times. You never answered.”

“You know I don’t use the phone when I’m driving. Traffic was awful.”

“Everything OK? You feeling alright?”

Her brown eyes met mine.

“I’m fine.” Her tone told me not to ask again.

Last night, awaiting her arrival, I’d set my table with flowers and the two dishes I could find without cracks in them. Elizabeth’s favorite marinated pork chops still sat in the fridge, along with baking potatoes and fresh green beans. I bought a chocolate cake from an out-of-town baker with the words ‘Will You Marry Me?’ written in frosting across the top with the blue ring box embedded in the center. After eleven o’clock and no return phone calls, I put everything away, turned out the lights, and sat in my darkened apartment, alone.

“Would you like to have dinner tonight? My place?”

Before she could answer, I heard a woman with a heavy Russian accent speak.

“Can someone help me, please?”

We turned to see a tall slender woman with curly black hair standing in the entranceway. She looked like she’d been crying.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Is Miss Addison in office?”

“No, I’m sorry, she’s in a meeting. Can I help you with something?”

“I have farm with llamas—”

“Oh!” Elizabeth spoke up. “You’re Ekaterina Bolodenka—Addison did the story on your animals and your fiber arts for Saturday’s paper.”

“Yes. Someone is killing my animals. Last night it was my cashmere ram—this morning it is female cashmere goat.” She stopped to wipe her eyes. “My farm manager, Jerome Johnson, he find dead goat on doorstep this morning.”

“Jerome Johnson? Is that Jerome Johnson the same man who was assaulted this weekend?” I asked, directing her to my desk.

Nodding, Bolodenka pulled a wadded tissue from her jeans pocket and wiped her nose.

“Why would someone do that to my animal?” she wailed. “Why?”

I pulled a notebook and a pen from the piles of paper on my desk. “Tell me what happened.”

“Yesterday, we have picnic with Addison and her husband,” Bolodenka began. “Wonderful, relaxing picnic on front lawn. We come home and find my Dasha, my ram, dead by fence.” She stopped and shuddered before continuing. “Someone cut his head off and—” she made a slashing motion from her throat to her belt and began to cry quietly.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “What happened this morning?”

“Today, I am fixing coffee when Jerome comes in, with hands covered in blood. He has found another dead goat on his doorstep, the small house near barn.”

“I know it’s hard to talk about it, but what happened to this animal?” I asked.

She made the same slashing motion and once more burst into tears.

Elizabeth came over with a box of tissues and handed her one, patting her on the shoulder.

“I just never expect this to happen to my animals!” she said. “Me, it’s one thing—animals, it’s another.”

“Have you filed a report with the sheriff?” I had a fairly decent relationship with the new sheriff, Judson Roarke. He’d replaced the old sheriff, Ernest Boderman, who retired after nearly thirty years in the position.

Roarke had been Boderman’s chief deputy and my go-to source for any information for crimes in the county, since Boderman had a chip on his shoulder regarding the media and seldom returned anyone’s calls.

Boderman was the reason why I began carrying a police scanner wherever I went, since showing up at the scene was just about the only way I would get information.

“Jerome, he was going to do that. I thought Addison can help us, so I came here.”

“Why did you need to talk to Addison?”

“Her husband Duncan said she knew who punched Jerome, Saturday.”

I lay my pen down on my desk. “Miss Bolodenka, the man who struck Jerome Johnson may have some connection to hate groups. It’s possible that Doyle McMaster is killing your animals to intimidate Jerome.”

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t speak.

“Let’s go talk to the police. Maybe they can give us some other information.”

***

Chief G was finishing a phone conversation when Ekaterina Bolodenka and I walked into his office a few minutes later.

“Yeah. Whatever you can find out let me know. Great. Thanks,” he said as he hung up. “Hi, Graham, what can I do for you?”

“Chief, this is Ekaterina Bolodenka, and she’s having trouble with someone killing her livestock.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Anybody who hurts an animal is special scum in my book.” Chief G’s face betrayed nothing as he reached out to shake Bolodenka’s hand.

“Thank you,” she answered, wiping her eyes.

“I told her that McMaster might be a likely suspect, if he’s doing what you think he’s doing,” I said.

“That’s entirely possible.” Chief G indicated we should sit down in the chairs in front of his desk. “Tell me what happened.”

Bolodenka repeated the story she had told me as the chief took notes, interjecting an occasional “Uh huh” as she talked. She was crying again by the time she finished; it was difficult to pull the facts from beneath her heavy accent and her sobs.

“Can you tell me a little bit about yourself?” he asked. “What is your relationship to Jerome Johnson?”

“He is farm manager,” she said. “I am born in Moscow. I come to this country when I am five and my family we live in Chicago. I also lost a sister and a niece in car accident. Her husband died too. I studied art and taught art history before coming here to Jubilant Falls.” The story was automatic, like the recitation of the lines from a play. She’d probably been asked those questions so often it just ended up sounding that way.

“You’re not employed now?” Chief G looked up from his notebook.

“My farm and my art are my income. I have rented out several hundred acres to other farmers for their crops.”

He nodded.

“It’s entirely possible that Mr. Johnson is being targeted by Mr. McMaster as part of a hate crime,” Chief G said. “We have reason to believe that McMaster is part of a group from the adjoining county that may be coming into Plummer County and organizing more hate groups. The problem is that your farm is not in my jurisdiction, since you live out of the city. You need to report this to Sheriff Roarke.”

“Jerome, he is reporting to sheriff.”

“Good. Sheriff Roarke is aware of the same facts that I just told you. I will tell him that we spoke and what I told you. He may want to take other steps, but you’d have to talk to him about it.”

She nodded.

We stood and shook hands.

“Graham, I need to speak to you about something else. If you would wait here, I’ll walk Miss Bolodenka to the elevator.”

“I can find my way back to newspaper and car,” she said. “Thank you so much for helping. I feel better now.”

Chief G led Bolodenka from the office and I sat back down in my seat. Within a few minutes, he was back, with a file folder in his hand. He handed me another copy of Benjamin Kinnon’s picture as he returned to the seat behind his desk.

“So, is he any relation?”

I studied the picture silently as I thought about my answer. What would happen if I revealed what I knew?

At boarding school, the Jesuits taught us to be open to God’s directions, to discern God’s will for ourselves, not an easy concept for a dorm full of hormone-poisoned boys to consider, to conquer ourselves and to regulate our lives in such a way that no decision is made under the influence of anyone or anything else.

I had no emotional connection to Benjamin Kinnon. He was only a name on my birth certificate. Yet, I hated what he had done to my mother and, with the situation with Elizabeth, on some level I now realized the damage of his abandonment.

I also sensed his evil.

“Yes, I know him.” I handed the photo back to Chief G. “He’s my father.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Sperm donor is probably a more appropriate term.” Briefly, I briefly filled him in on my past: Mother’s connection to Benjamin Kinnon, her drug use and rehabilitation, my time in foster care and what amounted to our dual transformations into the wife and stepson of one of Indianapolis’s bright lights.

Chief G leaned back in his chair when I finished speaking. “Wow. I was figuring maybe an old drunk uncle, idiot cousin or something like that—everybody has one like him in the family, right? But your father?”

“I never had any relationship with him. He disappeared a long time ago.”

“Well, he’s back. Like I told you the other day, he’s moved to Jubilant Falls.”

“Where is he living?”

“He’s out in the west end, right now living out of an old motel there. We’ve got our eye on him.”

“Do you think he and McMaster could be behind these animal killings?”

Chief G nodded. “I think they put him at the top of the list.”

My stomach dropped. “What are you going to do?”

“Right now, all we can do is watch. People have a right to their opinions, however ignorant and ill informed. These folks also have the right to meet with other ignorant and ill-informed idiots, but they don’t have the right to do anything like this. If we can confirm that these two assholes have anything to do with these animals being killed and they are part of a pattern of intimidation, there will be consequences. They will be swift and they will be serious. The problem is, guys like this are like bloodhounds when it comes to sniffing out an undercover cop.”

“What can I do to help?”

Chapter 11 Addison

No, I’m sorry. I have been the priest here for many years.” The priest at St. Volodymyr’s church spoke slowly and thoughtfully at the other end of the phone. “I don’t know of anyone named Bolodenka who attended here, or lived close to here.”

I pushed for a little more information.

“She had a sister named Svetlana, who had a daughter named Nadezhda—they called her Nadya,” I said. “She died, along with her husband Alex and the baby in an auto accident in Moscow. Would there have been a memorial service here for them?”

“Well, it’s entirely possible that a memorial service could have been held here, but as I said, I don’t know that name and when an entire family is killed like that, our whole community would grieve. We haven’t had a service for a circumstance such as that since I’ve been here. Is it possible Bolodenka is her married name?”

“I don’t know if she was ever married. Her mother and father are both deceased, though.”

“Hmmm… Is it possible that she attended another church?”

“How many St. Volodymyr’s churches are there in Chicago?”

“There are a couple, actually. This church is Eastern Orthodox. There is a St. Volodymyr and Olga Catholic Church and, to confuse you even more, a Saints Volodymyr and Olha Ukrainian Catholic Church. Maybe you could try there.”

“OK, thanks.” I hung up the phone, chewing pensively on my thumbnail. Had Katya Bolodenka fed me a line? And why would she do that? What point did it serve? What were she and Jerome Johnson hiding? And why couldn’t Gary find anything?

I really didn’t like the idea that a story I’d written could be blatantly false, but I didn’t have any proof of that. How important was it that a priest in a large city like Chicago couldn’t remember one parishioner? Did that mean anything at all?