The piece ended abruptly, with a single sentence saying that despite the high number of leads, none had ever pointed conclusively toward a suspect. No mention was made of what, if anything, successive sheriffs had done with the case in the ensuing twenty-five years.
Mac set the article on the lamp table, wondering if its abrupt end came from coarse editing – small-town newspapers were not always known for prizing quality in the prose they published – or whether the piece had been chopped for some other reason.
The phone rang. It was Jim Rogenet, Mac’s lawyer in Linder County. ‘Wainwright’s not returning my calls. Obviously he’s not anxious to offer you the chance to plead out.’
‘I won’t plead out,’ Mac said. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’
‘I think we ought to countersue to get his attention.’
‘Charging him with what?’
‘Irresponsible, malicious and politically motivated prosecution.’
‘How much would that cost?’
‘What will it cost if we don’t counter?’ The lawyer was inferring the wretchedly obvious: a conviction would lead to prison. ‘I’d like you to come in so we can get this counterpunch filed.’
Mac told him he’d be in the next day.
‘One more thing,’ Rogenet said. ‘How good are your press contacts out there, Mac? I’m having no luck interesting anyone in Linder County about Wainwright’s standoffishness. They’re afraid of him.’
‘Like Jen Jessup?’
‘She just hates you, period.’
‘We’ll have no luck in Grand Point, either. The local publisher is still loyal to the man I beat for mayor.’
‘Nuts. I was hoping the announcement of a countersuit might pressure Wainwright to return a call. Listen, Mac, bring in what you’ve got that proves you spent most of your nights in Linder County.’
That was a problem. He’d pulled together nothing at all.
He drove to the Bird’s Nest. It was shockingly cold inside, almost like a crypt. And that triggered a memory: ‘The girl comes back, you know. She comes back to the Wren House,’ the former owner’s wife had said, pressing an envelope at him. An envelope he’d never opened.
His office was upstairs, a pair of rooms cut into the attic. A yellow, lined pad of paper lay on his desk next to his old appointment calendars. Rogenet told him to list everything – dentist and doctor appointments, board meetings, car repairs – that would prove he’d spent the overwhelming majority of his nights in Linder County. The lined tablet was blank. So were most of the pages in the appointment book. Mac never had been one to write much down.
‘The girl comes back, you know. She comes back to the Wren House.’
He knelt to rummage through a bottom file drawer, found the woman’s envelope mixed in with real estate documents and brought it to his desk. He shook out an old Wren House menu, a Grand Point Chamber of Commerce booklet and several yellowed newspaper clippings.
The menu listed specials for late June and early July, 1982. The Wren House had offered a Patriots’ Platter of fried fish; a Bunker Hill burger topped, predictably, with American cheese; and a potentially disgusting Independence salad of red cabbage, white onions and bleu cheese served warm, if it had ever been served at all.
He set the menu aside and picked up the slim Chamber of Commerce booklet. It was a typical booster piece, eight pages featuring lists of local restaurants, shops, and services. The first two pages showed photos of the town’s leaders. Someone had made little checkmarks above some of the photos.
The newspaper clippings had been cut from the Peering County Democrat. Each had to do with the murders of Pauly Pribilski and Betty Jo Dean.
Mac arranged them in order. The first had been published on Wednesday, June 23, and reported the discovery of Pribilski’s body the previous morning. Thursday’s clip summarized the leads that had been gathered and detailed the search to find Betty Jo Dean. The same photograph of Betty Jo Dean was run at the top, both days. She wore a two-piece swimsuit, and was semi-reclining on the grass in a sunny park, smiling seductively. She’d been in her mid-teens, trying hard for older. It was a wrong photo to run of a missing girl. It made her look like a tramp.
Friday’s clip reported Thursday’s discovery of Betty Jo Dean alongside the Devil’s Backbone Road. As in each of the previous clips, someone had underlined, in soft pencil, the mention that the couple had been last seen leaving the Wren House.
He picked up the Chamber of Commerce booklet again. As he thought, the publisher of the Peering County Democrat was pictured. Then, as now, it was Horace Wiggins. His photo was one that had been marked with a tiny check.
The fourth clip, run on Saturday, reported Friday’s sudden death of Sheriff Delbert Milner. Milner was described as a caring man. Some speculated that distress over the discovery of Betty Jo Dean had overtaxed his already diseased heart.
The last newspaper article ran on July 8, and reported testimony at the coroner’s inquest. The dead man’s brother described Pauly Pribilski’s last evening at home as being ordinary – dinner as usual before leaving for Grand Point. A local man described the different couples that had been hanging around the parking lot at Al’s Rustic Hacienda. A young trucker told of discovering Betty Jo’s body. Bud Wiley spoke of removing Betty Jo from the field. Doc Farmont discussed his brief examination, saying a formal autopsy was not needed because the cause of death was so obvious. Finally, the then-acting sheriff, Wilbur ‘Clamp’ Reems, gave an account of the scant evidence found at both murder scenes.
The coroner’s inquest adjourned in short order. Causes of death were obvious. The investigation would continue.
Slam, bam; thank you, ma’am. All wrapped up nice and tidy, except that no one knew who might have done the killing.
He picked up the Chamber booklet again. Two of the town’s trustees, Doc Farmont and Bud Wiley, had testified before the coroner’s jury. Wiley’s wife was the jury’s secretary. All three pictures had gotten checkmarks, along with Wiggins’s.
He rootled in his center drawer, and found the slip of paper. He dialed the Florida number of the restaurant’s previous owners.
Phil answered on the first ring.
‘Phil? Mac Bassett.’
‘How are you?’ The retired restaurateur sounded genuinely pleased to hear from him.
Mac filled a sociable first minute with bromides about the restaurant and the town, and then eased into the reason for his call. ‘I was cleaning out my file cabinet and came across an envelope. It contained some old news articles, one of your old menus, and a Chamber of Commerce booklet, all from the summer of 1982.’
‘I’m sure I don’t remember,’ Phil said. But he’d said it too fast.
‘The news accounts were about a couple of murders.’
‘Throw them out.’
‘Someone saw reason to mark a few photos of the town’s trustees with little check marks.’
‘I’m late for bridge,’ Phil said in a nervous voice, and hung up.
Mac set down the dead receiver. He wasn’t really surprised.
Then he picked up the phone again. Rogenet, his attorney, had given him a thought that could kill two birds.