Where Is Henderson? (Sam Darling mystery #5) (6 page)

I walked directly to the sobbing woman sitting in a huge leather chair and put my arm around her. At that point it didn’t matter to me who she was or what had happened, I just felt her pain. Clancy joined me and put her head in the woman’s lap, ever ready to fulfill the role of therapy dog.

She looked up and said, “Who… are… you?

“Get away from my wife,” said a voice coming from behind me.

I straightened up and looked in his direction. A man was approaching quickly and he tried to grab my arm. I moved as quickly as my middle-aged body let me and got on the opposite side of the desk with the skill of Bruce Lee. Clancy must have known I wasn’t in any danger, however, and didn’t move, remaining with the lady.

“I’m with the police,” I said as fast as I could. And it wasn’t really a lie. I was
with
the police.

“No, you’re not,” the man said. “I know all the police officers.”

“I’m from Quincy, Illinois and am here investigating a possible murder.”

With that the woman’s sob’s intensified. I didn’t take my eyes off the man, though, since he remained a possible threat.

“My name is Sam Darling,” I said. “I just came in when I heard her crying,” I pointed at the lady with my head. “Not trying to hurt her. Promise.”

I both felt and saw his rage subside.

The woman looked up at me and said, “We just found out our son died, and was found in your town.”

“Your son is—” I wondered if they were talking about my murder victim.

“Cash Henderson,” the man said.

H
e stuck out his hand. “I”m Mayor Henderson. Caleb Henderson.”

His hand trembled as I shook it, and that sparked my interest.

“And this is my wife, Joan Henderson.”

I nodded at her as I heard her mumble, “Yes, I kept my maiden name.” It was said in a flat voice, and sounded as if it was something she said automatically at an introduction. She absentmindedly stroked Clancy’s head while she spoke.

“So you…”

The mayor answered, “Her family name is Henderson. It’s not uncommon around here.” He faced me square on and said, “Enough about that. We just found out our son is dead. Tell us what you know about that.”

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.”