Murder Before Retirement: A Detective Bass Mystery

—Chapter 1—

In late June, Detective Gilbert Bass took his vacation. His aunt, Aunt Alison, had been relocated to a residential care facility two months prior and Bass felt that the fresh face of a caring nephew would cheer her up. He planned to spend two out of his three vacation weeks in the small town of Champia, a few miles from where the facility was located; the remaining week would be doing the dreaded home repair chores, which he had successfully postponed until now.

The route Bass took to visit his aunt was a familiar one. The roads were the same as those he took on his visits years ago, the same blacktop roads where he recalled listening to radio stations playing 80’s pop when all of his ties and suit lapels were wide. Now, the radio stations had changed, the music had changed, fashions had come and gone, but the roads were still the same. Bass remembered them well. They were still narrow and stretched around the same alfalfa fields and low hills. Even though the roads had been tarred over many times, deep fissures in the pavement had returned, and the fresh white lines running down the center would eventually fade. These were the back roads of the farming communities, the roads which wound, twisted, and dipped over the rolling countryside where the land was put to use.

Occasionally there was a hill that rose gradually enough to be plowed and disked, to be tilled and planted with corn. The lower land was prime acres for sweet peas and green beans, both quickly harvested by local canning factories. Those same fields were let for alfalfa after that. Bass remembered, having seen those crops first harvested when he was a younger man.

He had stopped coming on a regular basis when his grandmother had passed away. That was years ago. His Aunt Alison and several cousins still lived in the area.

He arrived on Thursday afternoon. His booking at the Clover Bed & Breakfast was for Friday. In between he stayed at a motel. Champia had only one motel, situated close to the state highway. Bass signed in and dropped off his luggage. He quickly left to visit his aunt.

Come in, his aunt said, lying on the bed. There’s a chair here waiting for you.

The woman’s hair was whiter than Bass had remembered. It had been white before, but now it appeared almost a snowy, crystal white. She was also frailer than he had expected.

Bass rubbed his eyes and then his cheeks in an effort to revive himself after the two and a half hour car trip. With a fresher gaze, he noticed that the furnishings in the small room had a certain familiarity. He quickly recognized the bed from the spare room, the two chairs, the two oak dressers, the blankets, and the pictures on the wall. All of which were from her previous home.

I hope you like this, Bass said. He handed her a gift, a small box of chocolates and a humorous card. He sat in a wooden armchair across from the bed. That particular chair had been his grandfather’s, passed onto his aunt when his grandmother died. They called it the captain’s chair, and his grandfather sat in it much of the time. That was one of Bass’s few memories of the man on his mother’s side of the family. The house where his mother grew up, the house which had been passed on to his Aunt Alison, was large and spacious. He felt sad that she was now confined to living in such a small room.

His aunt must have sensed his concern. Don’t look at me like that, she said, and frowned. She tore off the candy box’s wrapping while still looking at Bass. You think this is a terrible place, don’t you?

Bass smiled kindly.

It’s not. It’s a blessing. I don’t have to worry about paying bills, writing those checks out every month with my penmanship the way it is. Every night I used to stand at the sink and wash dishes. I enjoyed it, it was okay, but my legs aren’t keeping me up as well as they used to. God forbid, I can do without the ironing. I never liked any of those press free kind of blouses. I never found one that felt comfortable on my shoulders. And the way they scraped up under my arms. I miss the gardening though. Pulling up a few weeds now and then. I think it’s what kept me young.

Really? Bass asked.

I can think what I want, can’t I? She opened the box and examined the chocolates. Each piece was wrapped in gold foil. She frowned again and presented the open box to Bass. Here. Take a piece.

No thanks, he said. I bought them for you.

She said nothing for a minute, but still held out the box for him to make a selection. The first piece always goes to the giver. That’s what they say. So take one.

Bass was not interesting in eating chocolate. I never heard that, he said.

Shut up and take one. We say that here, so don’t act foolish.

Bass selected one of the gold-foiled pieces. He undid it in his hand and crunched up the foil as he bit into the chocolate. It tasted sweet, perhaps too sweet.

Without taking a piece herself, Aunt Alison set the box next to her leg where the unopened card lay. So are you really on vacation? she asked.

Yes, finally, Bass replied. He felt relieved she had changed the subject. I’ve been saying I would for quite a while now.

Yes, you have. Her voice was harsh, but it had a touch of forgiveness in it, and playfulness. You have been saying you’d visit. It’s a good thing you came this time. I’ve been telling everybody here you would be coming. I didn’t want to be made into a liar. Not by my favorite nephew. She smiled. This might interest you. Sheriff Hardy’s mother is down the hall. Sylvia Hardy. I’ve been telling her, too. And the sheriff dropped by a couple days ago and told me he wants to meet you. I told him it would be today that you’d arrive. So you better go see him and give him your, hello.

I’ll be looking forward to it, Bass replied with a laugh. He was not looking forward to meeting the sheriff and his voice echoed his lack of sincerity.

He’s your age. Older maybe. He’s about ready to retire. Hint, hint, Aunt Alison said. Anyway, I thought you might get bored here, sitting talking to me, and might want to talk shop with someone. So be neighborly and say, hello.

At that point an older woman appeared at the door, her small frame shored up by an aluminum walker.

Sylvia, Aunt Alison said. I was just mentioning your son.

Can I talk to you a minute? she asked. Her voice sounded as weak as her thin arms looked.

Of course. Come in. Meet my nephew, Gilbert.

Bass briefly rose from his chair and nodded.

The wheels of the walker scraped across the tile floor until it met the softness of the throw rug. She adjusted herself onto the rug and came over to Bass.

I must really apologize for this, she said. My son just phoned me and asked if you were here yet. There’s been an accident at Bennett’s farm. My son is there now and he would really appreciate it if you could come see him. I know this is terribly imposing on you, and I apologize deeply.

An accident?

Yes. He says it’s serious. About a death of a man.

And he wants me to come?

Yes. That’s why I’m here. To ask you for him.

I’m not sure what to say, Bass said. As a detective I don’t get involved in other people’s jurisdictions.

He would really appreciate it, Mrs. Hardy replied. That’s all I can say.

Go ahead, Aunt Alison said. Get yourself some coffee at the cafeteria. Tell them you’re my nephew. They’ll give you some. Then get out of here. Sheriff Hardy can certainly use your opinion. Trust me, he can. I know.

Mrs. Hardy stared at Bass with her cloudy gray eyes until he finally nodded his consent.

Okay, he said with reluctance.

Thank you, Mrs. Hardy said. She turned the walker around and slowly maneuvered off the area rug and back onto the smooth tile floor. Eventually, she rolled the walker out of the room.

You know where the Bennett farm is? Aunt Alison asked.

I passed it coming in, didn’t I?

You should have, if you took County P.

When Bass left his aunt, he followed her advice and stopped at the cafeteria for coffee. Two large silver canisters sat on the counter. The warm coffee soon steamed into a Styrofoam cup. The heat generated in his hand told him it was too hot to sip. He set the cup in the plastic holder between the front seats of the car and drove out of the facility’s parking lot.

Bennett’s farm was about fifteen minutes from the Care Center.

Bass saw the collection of barns and sheds as he followed the dirt road onto the man’s property. Two local police cars were parked next to the concrete incline which led up to one of the barns. The large, metal door had been rolled open and left to one side. He could see the straw stacked to one side. Bass parked and went in.

The bales had been piled high, leaving a cavernous aisle down the center of the barn. The other side had the alfalfa bales. Compared to the fresh June air, the barn smelled musky and closed in. The straw dust made Bass rub his nose.

Two men stood behind several bales to the right. Bass assumed the older man was the sheriff. Bass reached out his hand. Sheriff Hardy?

Yes. You’re Detective Bass. Thank you for coming out here. His uniform was simple, clean, neatly tucked in. The sheriff’s face was also clean and neat, except for a little reddish irritation left on his pink skin from his morning shave. He did look the age of a man on the verge of retiring.

What’s your rank? the sheriff asked.

Bass laughed. It doesn’t matter out here. I’m on vacation. Let’s keep this informal. Call me Gil.

Okay, Gil. This is what we got.

The sheriff then stepped aside, revealing the body of a man in his mid-thirties who lay in the hay with a thick, dirty rope around his neck. Dressed in tan slacks and an open collar shirt, the person seemed out of place.

He’s dead, the sheriff said. It was called in. We found the body like this. Of course it’s a suicide. The paramedics will be out here shortly.

Bass bent down next to the body. The face was puffy with a tinge of blue. Common for the asphyxiation cases Bass had seen. He carefully pushed the rope away from the man’s neck. There were purple markings. Bass looked for rope abrasions higher up under the chin. There were none to be seen. He examined the man’s scalp, barely touching the slicked, combed hair. There appeared to be redness in one area, but no blood had clotted yet. Bass stood up.

This isn’t a suicide, he said.

It’s not? The sheriff seemed hesitant. I was afraid you would say that.

If it wasn’t me, it would have been the coroner who told you, Bass said. It’s an old ploy.

What is? the sheriff asked.

See the bruising marks around the neck. They aren’t consistent with where the rope would be if he had hanged himself. They’d be higher up, under the chin.

But it doesn’t look like a hand did it, though. Like he was choked, the sheriff said. Wouldn’t someone have to be pretty strong to make it look like suicide? Pulling his body way up there where it was? He looked up at the rafter, where there was a rusty pulley. I think suicide would be a better answer. It would make more sense.

That’s up to the coroner, Bass said. As he surveyed the loft, he rubbed his nose again. He didn’t have allergies, but the hay particles tickled the lining of his nostrils. There were several busted bales nearby, and the whole opposite side of the barn had straw piled to the roof’s height. Several of the upper beams had chains and pulleys hooked to them. He also saw a pair of gray pigeons roosting.

Did you know the man? Bass asked as he stepped away from the body. He slapped his hands across his brown suit pants, brushing off stray bits of straw. Did you know of any reason that would make him want to kill himself?

I didn’t know him personally, the sheriff replied somewhat modestly.

Now your job begins, Bass said. He slapped his hands together one more time to dislodge the last bits of clinging straw. Just fill in the blanks. Ask, ‘Who knew him?’ And of those who did? ‘Who would want to kill him?’ That’s all I can tell you.

And you’re sure it’s not suicide?

The coroner can give you a definite answer.

But you knew it first, right?

Bass nodded. It’s simple detective work.

The sheriff was clearly impressed. And you could tell by the markings on the neck. How?

Go back with the corner. Have him show you the body. He can explain it. They’re very lonely people, the coroners. He’ll enjoy talking with someone who’s alive.

Our coroner is a she, actually.

Oh. A she? That’s nice, Bass said.

He turned his attention to the other officer, who was noticeably younger than the sheriff. His features were less defined, smooth, average, and he wore a gray windbreaker which had a small police logo on the left side.

This is Jim, Sheriff Hardy said, introducing his fellow officer.

It was nice meeting you, Bass said, reaching out to shake hands.

Bass left the barn then.

The paramedics had just turned off their siren when the van pulled up next to the other two police vehicles. The men passed Bass while on their way into the barn. They were each carrying orange EMS cases.

Bass considered his obligation to the sheriff’s aging mother completed. He drove back to the motel.

He confirmed the reservation at the B & B that evening, and the next morning Bass packed up the one suitcase he had used that night, out of the three he had brought for the trip, and checked out of the motel.

The town of Champia was small and linear, and located in a valley. The business area consisted of one main street, fronted with old brick buildings. Farther up on the hills were white, wood framed houses. With a total population of five hundred and forty-three, as noted on a sign at the entrance to the town, the business area stretched along the lower part of a hill, parallel to a narrow, quick moving river flowing behind the storefronts. Farther down, the waterway turned under a crossing road where it streamed into a wide lake. A city park adjoined one area of the lake, and farther down from there was the dam that formed and held the lake in. It reverted to a little stream after that.

The houses in town were built on one side of the river. From the flat area on the hilltop, where the level land blended with the fields, one could see only the rooftops of the lower houses and the roofs of the storefronts on Main Street. The river flowed silently behind those businesses. The other side of the river bank was too steep to build on, and the wooded area was left alone except for a few scattered homes.

The Clover Bed & Breakfast was located on that flat area in the upper part of the valley. The porch faced a small side street and a cultivated field beyond that. One year, the local canning factory used it to harvest peas, and another year, for green beans.

As he entered town, Bass drove over the railroad tracks that skirted the south end. The canning factory was to his right, and he soon turned down Oak Street to his left. The Clover B & B was a block in. He parked on the gravel lot in front of the house.

The B & B was smaller than he had expected. The house looked Victorian, but it lacked the ornate filigree and cupolas. The porch was modest and simple. There were several wicker chairs out front. Bass wondered how comfortable they were as he carried his three suitcases in.

Thank you for coming. Mr. Bass, is it? a middle-aged woman asked while holding the door open for him.

Thank you, Bass replied. You must be Cynthia.

Yes. Call me Cynthia. I’ll show you your room and then we can take care of a little paperwork.

Bass followed her up the stairs. The hall had three doors on one side before it turned in another direction. Bass’s room was the first door. After Cynthia led him in, he set his luggage next to the bed. It was a full size, contemporary bed with a burgundy, flowered bedspread. The most noticeable feature in the room was the large window with lace curtains. Bass could see the railroad tracks and the adjoining green cultivated fields through the sheer fabric.

Cynthia excused herself. I’ll be in the dining room when you get settled, she said.

Bass had little to unpack. He took off his suit coat and hung it on a brass coat tree near the door. The tree was wobbly, and Bass assumed it was cheap and came from an outlet store. Such stores must even plague the countryside, he thought.

Bass had worn no tie that day. It was actually his second day without a tie, and the open area around his neck felt odd. At times he went to press down and smooth out his tie, but found that his hands only touched the buttons of his white shirt. His shoulder holster was missing too. He had left it at home. That felt odd as well. He gathered up his checkbook and proceeded downstairs.

Cynthia was at the table as expected. Thank you for coming, she said. We hope you enjoy your stay. I would like to ask how you heard about us.

It was recommended in a newspaper article, on B & B’s in the state. A friend, Lucille, wrote it.

How nice. All we need from you now is a check. Less your deposit, of course, and you can get on with your vacation. This is a vacation for you, isn’t it?

I hope so, Bass replied with a laugh. Then he asked, Is there still a Mobil station at the bottom of the hill? I need some gas.

It’s a Shell now, she replied. Or is it? Whatever, there is a filling station there.

Bass wrote out a check for the remainder due and then went to fill up his Crown Victoria at the station. He visited his aunt after that.

She was in the bathroom when he arrived. Bass sat patiently in the captain’s chair and waited. There was another chair in the room, cushioned in a velvet green fabric that was tied to the chair’s back spindles. Since Bass was a child, he always liked sitting in grandpa’s chair.

To his left was a window. The drapes were open, which made the room seem larger and more adequate in size to hold her furnishings. Her bed was already made. The tropical motif bedspread was patted down and wrinkle free. Two dressers, one high, one low, stood next to one another. An apartment-size refrigerator sat on the floor next to an old boxy television. Bass didn’t recognize the TV set, but the bedspread was familiar. The colorful palm trees and topical fruit had wrapped around him as a boy as he lay on the couch in his grandmother’s living room on a Saturday morning watching Sky King on an even older model television set.

I got a card from Pauline, Aunt Alison said, standing in the doorway on her return. She was leaning slightly to the right and was bracing herself on an aluminum cane. It’s the card with the big smiley face. She glanced in the direction of the low dresser, where half a dozen cards were displayed. She was wishing me well.

Bass picked up the card, read it, and set it back with the others. He watched his aunt slowly move across the length of the room and then seat herself in the chair with the green cushion.

Did you take care of Sheriff Hardy’s problem? she asked.

Bass returned to his chair. I believe so. Hope so, anyway.

I told him you were coming up for a visit. My nephew, a big city detective like you. I deserve some bragging rights. And he did seem interested in you in a professional way. His mother, Sylvia, has been here over two years. Her family had a place on County L. You probably don’t remember them. They had a great big oak tree in the center of their yard, and one night it was struck by lightning. Split right down the middle. Your grandpa took me and your mother to look at it the next day and had our pictures taken standing next to it. Most of their family moved up to Omro, but Sylvia’s side stayed back. The sheriff really isn’t the brightest one of the litter. Not very bright at all. I know I shouldn’t say that about a local man, but it’s true. I guess that’s why I’m glad you helped him out.

I offered very little help, actually. He seemed competent enough. Anyway, there are enough people involved in our law enforcement business that if one person isn’t sure about something, there’s always someone else who will know.

It may work like that in the big city, but here everything is up for grabs. We’re lucky we don’t have many problems. She turned and glanced out the window at the blue sky. Only getting old. That’s the only problem we have here. And we can’t do anything about that. She paused and added, Can we?

Bass laughed. No, I guess not.

You noticed that I said ‘we?’

Bass laughed again. Yes. I did.

Sheriff Hardy suddenly appeared in the open doorway.

You were right, he said as he burst into the room. He turned to Alison. Pardon me a minute. I need to speak to your nephew. He turned to Bass, who was still seated, I was going by and saw your car parked in the lot.

How’s Sylvia doing? Alison asked, interrupting the sheriff.

Fine. Just fine. We’ll probably have to be moving her. His tone was short and brisk. He then grabbed Bass’s shoulder to pull him aside. Can I speak with you a minute. Alone? He gave Bass’s shoulder another squeeze.

Bass rose and the two men moved close to the open doorway.

You were right, the sheriff said again. The coroner said it wasn’t suicide. It’s only preliminary, but it looks like strangulation and . . . He paused, repeated the word and several times, then he looked down at his shoes. "I need your help on this. Really. We don’t have murders here. And. . .and. . .I’m getting ready to retire and people don’t think I can handle a real case. . .I mean, a real case. . .er. . .a big case. Some even