4 The Marathon Murders (2 page)

“Just find that fellow and get me
those papers,” Liggett said, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of
his nose.

Kelli and Jarvis followed us into
the corridor. “What do you think, Greg?” Jarvis asked.

“I think we’d better go camp on Mr.
Bradley’s doorstep. I hope he’s just gone fishing. It would certainly make
things a lot simpler.”

We had just returned to the car
when my cell phone rang.

“Hello,” I answered.

“Who’s this?”

I don’t take well to that sort of
question on the telephone. “Who wants to know?”

The voice was a young man’s, with a
good
ol
’ boy twang. “Well, I found this here cell
phone with a message on it to call you. I figured you’d know whose phone it
was.”

I checked the number on the caller
ID. It looked familiar. I opened my note pad. “It belongs to Mr. Pierce
Bradley. Where did you find it?”

“On Carey Lane,
just off Highway 25.”

“What’s that near?”

“Near?”

I shook my head. “Is there a town
somewhere around?”

“Walnut Grove,” he said, “but it
ain’t
zackly
what I’d call a
town.”

We hit busy Vietnam Veterans Parkway shortly after seven
o’clock, by-passing the upscale suburban town of Hendersonville as the sun
dropped behind us into a smorgasbord of clouds, shooting out rays that exploded
into a kaleidoscope of color. I hoped the light show was a good omen, but I
didn’t count on it after that phone call. Merging onto 31E, we passed the
mushrooming, high-ticket subdivisions of neighboring Sumner County, turned onto
Highway 25 and cruised through the less hectic historic center of Gallatin. It
was hardly fifteen miles across rolling farmland to the rural community of
Walnut Grove.

On the way Jill checked with a
phone company source and learned that Pierce Bradley lived on Carey Lane, where
the cell phone had been found, just inside Trousdale County.

The multi-hued sunset was fading to
black by the time we pulled into a convenience store/service station at a
four-way stop where two main highways crossed. Bright lights welcomed us to the
small oasis in a darkening world of cow pastures and cornfields. The farmhand
who found Bradley’s cell phone said he would leave it at the market.

I parked beside two vintage cars
and a pair of dusty pickups. We walked inside to find two young boys ogling a
candy display like a couple of small barn owls eyeing a pack of field mice.
Nearby, two bearded guys chatted with a lanky younger man who stood behind a
counter laden with overpriced knick-knacks. A youthful customer with a crew cut
and baggy jeans that appeared in danger of sliding off his backside strolled up
and plunked a six pack beside the cash register.

The clerk cast a curious gaze at
Jill and me. I speculated that he was gauging the possibility of our being
clandestine inspectors from the Beer Board. He turned to the boy and said, “You
sure you’re old enough to buy that beer?”

The boy frowned and pulled a card
from his pocket. “This says I’m twenty-one.”

The clerk looked at the card and
grinned. “You make this one yourself or buy it somewhere?”

The boy grabbed the pack and
stomped toward the beer display.
“To hell with you!
Damned if I’ll trade here anymore.”

“Watch your language, sonny.
There’s a lady in the store.” The clerk gave a tentative shake of his bushy
head and turned to us. “What can I get for you?”

“Am I old enough for a six pack?”

“I’d have to check your ID.”

I grinned. “I’m Greg McKenzie. A
fellow was supposed to leave a cell phone here for me.”

He reached under the counter and
pulled out a small flip-top phone. Instead of handing it over, though, he
gripped it in his hand. “The guy said this belongs to Pierce Bradley. What’s
your interest in it?”

“I’m headed for Pierce’s. I intend
to give it to him.”

“Where’re you from?”

“Nashville.” I took out a business
card and handed it to him. “He has some information for us. I know he lives on
Carey Lane, but I’m not sure exactly where his house is. Could you help us
out?”

“How come he didn’t tell you?”

I’m a pro at bluffing my way
around. I gave him a disarming smile. “We called his home but he doesn’t
answer. On a night like this, he’s probably outside in the hammock.”

One of the bearded men laughed. He
had the look of a life spent outdoors—gray hair, tanned, muscular arms, a
weathered face. I could picture him out in the field astride a chugging John
Deere.

“Pierce
ain’t
got
no
hammock,” he said. “Anyways, the
skeeters
would eat him alive laying out there tonight.
More’n
likely he’s somewhere with his coon dog.”

“Is that Reba’s boy?” asked the
other man. He was slightly stooped, with a corncob pipe sticking out of his
blue work shirt pocket.

“Yeah.
Don’t live too far from my place.” He nodded to his friend,
then
turned back to me. “Carey’s the next road toward Hartsville. Take a right. Go
down about a mile, maybe a little more, till you see a fancy brick entrance
gate on the left. A school
bus’ll
be parked in the
driveway of the next house. The one after that is Pierce Bradley’s. It’s a nice
looking double-wide.”

“Thanks,” I said. I held out my
hand to the clerk, who grudgingly parted with the cell phone.

Jill and I got back into my black
Jeep Grand Cherokee and headed for Carey Lane.

“How did that man happen to find
Bradley’s phone?” Jill asked.

I’d neglected to tell her. “He
pulled up to a stop sign at Carey Lane and noticed a buzzard pecking at
something by the side of the road. When the sun reflected off a shiny object,
he took a closer look and saw it was a cell phone.”

“How do you think it got there?”

“Excellent question, babe. I don’t
have the slightest idea, and I can’t think of a logical explanation for how it
could have happened.”

“Makes me wonder
if he’s all right.”

The headlights caught Bradley’s
name on a mailbox right where the old farmer said we would find it. I turned
into the driveway past the one with the school bus and pulled up to the house.
Clouds had obscured the moon, leaving no clear view of the place. As best we
could see, he had a well-kept yard and a few blooming plants around the front
steps. There were no lights visible inside and no sign of the vintage Jeep.

The coon dog barked from his pen in
back. Otherwise, the place appeared deserted. I rang the doorbell to make sure.

“Looks like we scored a zero,” Jill
said.

I had spent nights on stakeouts in
places a lot more lonely and deserted than this, but it had been a long time
since one left me with the uneasiness I felt here.

Jill locked her arm in mine as we
paused on the small stoop,
then
turned back toward the
driveway. As if to remind us we had invaded alien territory, a sudden gust
assaulted us with a disgusting whiff of manure from a nearby pasture. Cicadas
buzzed and tree frogs serenaded us with their rattling croaks. The sounds
magnified the eerie mood that pervaded this forlorn place and the moonless
night that closed in like the walls of a cave. Jill obviously sensed something,
too. She shuddered against my arm.

“I have a bad feeling about this,
Greg.”

I tugged her toward the car,
unwilling to voice my own sentiments. “Not much we can do around here in the
dark. Let’s call it a night and see what we can turn up tomorrow in the
daylight.”

We heard the phone ringing as we entered McKenzie
Investigations Wednesday morning at eight, refreshed by our two-mile walk
before the sun rose high enough to bake us like a couple of breakfast
croissants. Jill skittered across to her desk and answered it.

“Good morning, Kelli,” she said,
motioning for me to pick up my extension.

“Did you find Mr. Bradley?” Kelli
asked.

“I’m sorry, we didn’t,” Jill said.
“Greg is on the line with us. We found Bradley’s place out in the country, but
his coon dog was the only one at home.”

“Damn,” she said softly. “Where do
you suppose he is?”

“Considering the circumstances,” I
said, “I’m not too sure we’re going to find him.”

“Why would he run?”

I glanced at Jill with my try-again
look. “I don’t know if he’s done a disappearing act, but it looks like he could
be in trouble.” I hesitated,
then
put it out there.
“Somebody else may be after him besides us.”

There was disbelief in her voice.
“Over a ninety-year-old murder?”

“I’m talking about the papers.” I told
her about Bradley’s cell phone being found in Trousdale County. “There could
always be some other explanation, but maybe somebody else wants those papers as
much as your grandfather.”

“Who else would even know about
it?” Kelli asked.

She hit on a question that was
already bugging me. “That’s something I intend to find out. Your grandfather
said he thought Bradley began making inquiries at the Chamber of Commerce. That
sounds like a good place to start. Has he said anything else about what might
be the significance of those papers?”

“Just that they might show how
Sydney Liggett was framed. Grandpa’s father was only about fifteen when the
murder took place, if that’s what it was. They found Sydney’s remains in his
car in an abandoned barn a year before Grandpa was born. And since all the bad
publicity was so painful, it was rarely mentioned as he grew older. He told me
his father would never say a word about it.”

“That probably means there aren’t
any old family records around that might enlighten us,” Jill said.

Kelli sighed. “I doubt it. But
while Warren is down at Arnold today, I plan to dig around the house here and
see if I might turn up anything.”

“We plan to look into a couple of
things here,” I said. “Then we’ll head back to Trousdale County and see how the
situation looks in the daylight. Good luck on your digging foray around there.
Check with you later.”

Jill switched on the computer to
download our email, and I glanced at my calendar. We had a few minor tasks in
the works but nothing pressing. I took out Pierce Bradley’s cell phone and
checked the numbers in his contact list. He either had a new phone or few close
acquaintances. I recognized the number for Allied Construction. Marathon was
listed and someone named Pat. That was about it.

I turned to Jill. “Find anything
interesting in the mailbox?”

“Somebody wants to refinance our
non-existent loans, several people propose to sell us a bunch of pills we don’t
need, and there’s the usual suggestion of how to enlarge your manhood. Since I
have no complaints in that department, I guess we can delete it, too.”

“Thanks for that vote of
confidence,” I said with a
Groucho
Marx flutter of my
brows.

“You mentioned the Chamber of
Commerce to Kelli. Shall we head downtown?”

I leaned back in my chair and
tapped my fingers on the desk. “Why don’t we split
up.
You’re a much better library researcher. How about you head for the Nashville
Room to see what you can find out about Marathon Motors. I’ll check the Chamber
for any leads there.”

She gave an exaggerated imitation
of a pout. “You hog all the choice assignments. I get the dregs.”

“What’s so choice about a visit to
the Chamber?”

She planted her hands on her hips
and did her Lucille Ball impression. “You don’t fool me, old boy. You’re going
down to check out the shapely young things who answer the phones, while I get a
headache with my face buried in a microfilm reader.”

I laughed as I walked over and
popped her on the bottom. “You’re the youngest shapely thing I’m interested in,
babe.”

My wife was amply endowed, and I
would put her up against a lot of women half her age. I gave her a peck on the
cheek to emphasize the point.

It was around nine o’clock when we turned into the garage
that adjoined the main library downtown, the asphalt already feeling mushy
beneath an impassioned sun. I still wasn’t convinced about global warming, but
our little corner of the globe was damned sure doing its part today.

Jill took the escalator up to the
library while I literally sweated out the three-block jaunt down Commerce
Street to Third Avenue. The Nashville Area Chamber of Commerce, which I had
recently heard was the third largest chamber in the U.S., had its swanky suite
of offices in the Commerce Center Building. The location bordered on The
District, a quaint nickname for the row of Victorian commercial structures
along Second Avenue that had been converted to prime tourist territory. It
included the
Wildhorse
Saloon, the big dining,
dancing and live country music emporium that was part of the Opryland Hotel
empire
.

I strolled into the Chamber lobby
and approached the young woman at the front desk. She had long blonde tresses
partially obscuring the one blue eye. Her teeth could have graced some
dentist’s whitening
ad.
As I gazed at the twinkling
eyes and coquettish smile, I remembered Jill’s comment about my checking out
the shapely young things. I smiled in return.

“I’m Greg McKenzie, one of your
members,” I said. I handed her my card.

She glanced at the inscription.
“Hi, Mr. McKenzie.
What can I do for you this fine summer morning?”

“This fine
sweltry
morning.”
I fanned my face with the small
note pad I always carried in my shirt pocket. “I have a little question for
you. If somebody called looking for information about a local businessman from
many years ago, who would you refer them to?”

“That’s an easy one. I’d turn them
over to Craig
Audain
.”

“Who’s he?”

“He works under the senior vice
president for Business Services. He’s been around the Nashville business
community forever.”

Audain
sounded like my kind of guy. “Is he in?”

“Sorry. He’s out of town.”

“Is there some way I can get in
touch with him?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” She
brushed the blonde hair from over her eye. It promptly fell back into position,
a Veronica Lake hairdo, if anyone remembers Veronica. “He’s on a business
recruiting trip that’s so hush-hush I don’t even know where he went.”

I twisted my face into what must
have appeared a frown of frustration. She hastened to add, “I’m really sorry.
If you’d like, I’ll make a point of giving him your card just as soon as he
gets back.”

“Is there someone else the caller
might have been referred to?” I asked.

“Who was the person they were
inquiring about?”

“A man named Sydney Liggett. He was
assistant treasurer of the old Marathon Motor Works.”

Her face brightened. “I remember
that. It was just a few days ago. And I did switch the call to Mr.
Audain
.”

Just my luck.
Industry recruiters could be as secretive as Pentagon spooks. I’d need more
than bloodhounds to track him down. “When do you expect him back?”

“In the next few
days.”

“Then I’d certainly appreciate your
asking him to call me just as soon as possible.”

I left the Chamber, jerked my
Titans cap down on my forehead, and walked toward the library, fuming over this
unexpected setback. I had counted on the Chamber contact pointing me toward
anyone else who had knowledge of the Marathon papers discovery. I saw two
possibilities. Maybe I could turn up someone who had a reason to want those
papers. Or, perhaps I’d find somebody with a better take on what they might
concern.

I strode up the sidewalk almost
oblivious to the blare of horns along the street and the hickory smoke wafting
from a restaurant whose sign I nearly collided with. A trickle of sweat down my
back kept me from ignoring the fiery red ball that peeped around downtown
Nashville’s most prominent landmark, the Batman Building—actually the BellSouth
Tower, its twin spires rising skyward like Batman’s ears.

I hated having to confess to Jill
that I had struck out on our only promising lead. As I mulled over what little
we knew about Pierce Bradley, I realized we had yet to establish any family
connections. Since he seemed to be well known around Walnut Grove, he must have
parents or siblings in the area. The farmer type with the corncob pipe in his
pocket at the convenience market had mentioned something about “Reba’s boy.”
His mother must live nearby.

When I got to the Nashville Room,
where comfortable chairs invited curious minds to lounge and absorb a wealth of
knowledge about the local scene, I found Jill at a table with a book-like file
of clippings, jotting notes on a ruled pad. She looked up as I scooted onto the
chair beside her.

“This is fascinating,” she said.
“I’m a native
Nashvillian
, but I’d never heard of an
automobile called Marathon. Southern Engine and Boiler Works built the car
originally down in West Tennessee, in Jackson. Marathon Motor Works split off
in 1910 and moved here. They bought a factory and built an office building on
Clinton Street. By 1912, the plant was producing sixty cars a month. It was the
only car completely manufactured in the South and was sold in every major
American city, as well as in Europe, South Africa, South America and
Australia.”

“Impressive. What were the cars
like?”

She pushed a sheet toward me.
“Here’s a picture.”

Photographed beside Nashville’s
full-size replica of the Athenian Parthenon in Centennial Park, the Marathon
was a sleek black touring car. With the top down, the flat, rectangular
adjustable windshield was slanted at a rakish angle above the steering wheel.
It had gas headlamps and two side oil lights. An online engine gave it a long
high hood you could lean against.

“What did it sell for?” I asked.

She flipped a few pages. “Based on
an Olympic theme, they had three models. The Champion sold for eighteen hundred
dollars as a seven-passenger touring car. The Winner was thirteen-fifty, the el
cheapo Runner, nine-fifty.”

“A tad less than
my Jeep.”

“About twenty
thousand cheaper than my little red Camry.
I haven’t found the whole
story on what happened to the company, but there were mentions of mismanagement
that brought on lawsuits by suppliers.”

“Did you find anything about the
current rehab?”

She looked down at her notes. “A
fellow named Mike Geary bought the buildings and has been restoring them. He’s
rented suites to musicians, photographers, artists, and such. His office is in
the old Marathon administration building. He calls his development Marathon
Village.”

My cell phone rang. I moved to a
corner beside the windows as I caught a disapproving glance from a librarian
behind the nearby counter.

“I’ve found something that might be
interesting,” Kelli Kane said. Up to this point she hadn’t exhibited a great
deal of emotion, but I caught a touch of excitement in her voice now.

“What do you have?”

“A packet of
letters dating back to the nineteen teens and twenties.
They appear to
be from my great-great-grandmother, Grace Liggett, to her sister in Texas. She
writes in a beautiful script. I haven’t read much yet, but she talks about
Sydney’s problems at work. Before I go any further, I thought I’d visit Grandpa
and ask him about them.”

“Let us know what you turn up,” I
said and switched off the phone.

I relayed the message to Jill, who
nodded as she gathered up the clipping book and stuck it back in its place on a
nearby shelf. “They have stuff on every local business you can imagine in these
volumes,” she said. “What did you find at the Chamber?”

“The guy we need to talk to is out
of town. Incommunicado.” I explained the situation.

“Bummer.
Where does that leave us?”

“I need to call Mrs. Nelson at
Allied Construction and see what she knows about Pierce Bradley’s next-of-kin.”

“You make it sound like he’s no
longer with us.” She gathered up her note pad and pen, shoving them into her
large handbag.

“Not necessarily. True, next-of-kin
is an old military expression with that connotation, but
us
civilians use it in a lot of contexts, too.”

“Okay. Let’s get out of here so you
can call her without raising too many eyebrows.”

When we got down to the garage, I checked
my call list and re-dialed Allied Construction. I asked the secretary if she
had heard anything from Pierce Bradley. She hadn’t. I asked what she knew of
Bradley’s family.

“I’m not sure about his mother,”
she said, “but I think his father died recently. He has a sister in Hartsville.
She’s called here for him a couple of times.”

“Do you have her name?”

She asked me to hold while she
looked for it. A minute or two later she came back on. “It’s Patricia Cook.
That’s Mrs. A. B. Cook.”

I shut off the phone. “We have a
name. I’ll bet it’s the Pat I found in his cell phone. Let’s head for the
office and check her out. Then we can hit the road to Trousdale County.”

“Good. I’ve been worrying about
Bradley’s dog out back. If he’s not being cared for, you know something has
happened to Bradley.”