Broken Trust: A Laurel Highlands Mystery

By Liz Milliron

When Pennsylvania State Trooper Jim Duncan responds to a murder scene at a local mining company, the call hits close to home. The victim, Lonnie Butler, is a friend and neighbor who was just beginning to get back on his feet after a year of financial difficulties. Despite entertaining out-of-tow

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Aug 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781947915701

Liz Milliron

A recovering technical writer, Liz Milliron is the author of The Laurel Highlands Mysteries and The Homefront Mysteries. Her most recent release, Thicker Than Water, is the sixth in the Laurel Highlands Mysteries series. Short fiction has appeared in multiple anthologies, including the Anthony-award-winning Blood on the Bayou, Mystery Most Historical, Fish Out of Water, A Guppy anthology, and the upcoming Mystery Most International. She is a member of Pennwriters, Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, and The Historical Novel Society. Liz lives in Pittsburgh with her son and a very spoiled retired racer greyhound.

Book preview

Chapter One

Pennsylvania State Trooper Jim Duncan climbed out of his cruiser to see the EMT crew walking, almost strolling, toward the parked ambulance. The blue bar lights were still on, but there was no gurney. No frenzy. No shouted words.

Damn.

Hearing the name Southland Mining in the call from the Emergency Operations Center had given him a shock. Duncan had a friend who worked there. But it didn’t mean anything, not until there were more details. The company had at least a couple hundred employees, so the odds were slim. He grabbed a roll of crime scene tape from the trunk and nodded toward the emergency crew. Not rushing off anywhere, I see.

The air was warm with the hint of a fantastic Laurel Highlands summer to come. Memorial Day weekend had arrived along with a perfect weather forecast. The trees were lush with green leaves past the spring freshness. Bushes heavy with mountain laurel decorated the front of the brick building, the perfume of the flowers combining with the sound of birdsong to create a sleepy atmosphere.

If you could ignore the revolving lights from the parked ambulance.

The female paramedic nodded, waving her partner to the door. There wasn’t much hope when we arrived. We did our thing and turned it over to the coroner.

What can you tell me about the victim?

White male, probably early thirties. I’m guessing his height would have been around six-four, weight maybe two-oh-five. Reasonably good physical condition in my opinion. He’s in the office at the end of the hallway. She pointed and blew a strand of hair off her face. Wedding ring. Somebody’s not gonna have a good Memorial Day.

Duncan immediately thought of Lonnie, then brushed it aside. Damn it. Don’t panic. There were lots of men at Southland who fit that description. Probably.

The paramedic, taking silence as dismissal, headed for the ambulance. At the same time, Trooper Aislyn McAllister pulled up and got out of her car. Hey, Boss. Thought you were on vacation.

Next week. I’m working through the weekend. My sister and her kids get here next Tuesday.

Of course you’re working the weekend.

It’s me or a guy with a family. You’re working too, I’d bet.

McAllister shrugged. Like you said. Me or someone with a family. Tommy-boy and I can celebrate on our own time. What do you want me to do?

Start by interviewing anyone who’s in the building.

Anyone still here on a Friday afternoon before Memorial Day?

Someone called this in. That’s one person, hopefully. See if they’ve got video footage of the lobby. Or anywhere in the building, for that matter. I’m going to check the scene. He took a couple steps and stopped. You and Burns are still a thing, huh?

Something like that. She grinned. You said you’ve got a scene to inspect, so go.

He entered and headed to the office the paramedic had indicated, roll of tape still in hand, ready to cordon off the space. Once inside, he looked around. The blinds were up. The windows must have faced east, because although light poured in, the sun was behind the building. Books had been tumbled from the shelves. The desk drawers were all open and hanging at precarious angles, papers strewn around the floor. The one armchair for visitors looked out of place, the cushions pulled up and slit. White fluff from the pillows lay on the floor like snowflakes. The only scent was the metallic tang of blood, a scent that sat on the tongue like a penny. A scent Duncan had smelled too much in his fourteen years as a trooper.

It was not particularly surprising to find Deputy Coroner Tom Burns working over the body. Duncan couldn’t see the victim’s face, but he recognized the clothes, the scuffed wingtips in particular, instantly.

Double damn it.

Burns was fastening paper bags over the victim’s hands. We have to stop meeting like this. People will talk. Kind of early to get started on the kebabs, don’t you think?

Not now, Burns. Not with this one.

Burns sat back on his heels. This isn’t our first rodeo together. What’s your problem?

Duncan waved at the inert body, staying still to avoid stepping in the pool of blood that surrounded it. The victim. Lonnie. No such thing as coincidence. Duncan should know that by now.

Based on rigor and body temp, he’s been here since late morning, but no later than noon. He hasn’t been moved. He pointed. A wood-handled object protruded from the victim’s chest. And, while the official verdict will have to wait, I think that is a pretty good indicator of cause and manner of death. I haven’t moved him much, because of the presence of the knife. Or letter opener, or whatever is buried in his chest. As soon as I finish with the physical exam and the crime scene guys finish taking their pictures, we’ll be able to pull out the weapon. Then I can check the back pockets. See if he’s got a wallet and a license so we can get you an identification.

Lonnie Butler, Duncan said, taking off his hat and running his hand through his hair.

Say again? Burns froze, all attention on Duncan.

The victim’s name is Lonnie Butler. Wife Rayann, son Eric.

You know him?

He lives…lived down the street from me. We’ve been friends since they moved to Confluence.

Burns whistled. Shit. No wonder you aren’t up for the jokes. I didn’t know. Sorry.

No reason you would. Duncan replaced his campaign hat. While the room was a mess, he didn’t see signs of a struggle. The desk held a few silver-framed photos, including one of a pretty black woman and a young boy. All of them upright, not strewn about as Duncan would expect if Lonnie had fought with someone. This wasn’t a simple assault. By the looks of things, the actor was looking for something. What about defensive wounds?

Not that I can tell, at least not right away. Burns turned away from his work long enough to take in the mess. I doubt your actor was looking for a spare pencil.

Duncan grunted. Lonnie hadn’t worked for Southland long, maybe three months. He hadn’t tried to defend himself. It led Duncan to think Lonnie knew his killer and hadn’t considered him or her a threat.

Duncan snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and looked around. Books were scattered everywhere. Engineering guides and tomes of federal regulations on coal mining. The papers were a mishmash of company stationary, reports, and blank corporate letterhead. The tray that held paperclips and pens was no longer organized, and the blotter on the desk was off-center. Probably moved by the actor and thrown back in place.

Unless there were two actors, killer and searcher. Duncan wasn’t ready to open that can of worms yet.

Searching for what? The drawers of the file cabinets were partially open, folders inside askew. Ripped cushions didn’t lead him to think paper, but perhaps the intruder had been desperate. Were you hiding something, Lonnie? If so, what?

Beg pardon? Burns looked up from the floor, where he had unfolded and unzipped a body bag. The crime scene crew continued to snap picture after picture.

Nothing. Talking to myself.

Just don’t answer.

They worked in silence for at least twenty minutes. Members of the forensic team dusted for prints, combed for trace evidence, and placed their numbered markers while the photographer took the standard slew of scene photographs. When Burns finally got the all-clear, he gently maneuvered the corpse into the bag. Lonnie’s family isn’t the only one who is going to have a sucky start to the weekend.

Oh?

Think of the poor sod who has to do the notification.

Thanks for your concern.

Burns zipped up the bag. What do you mean?

The Butlers are friends. If you think I’m letting anyone else do this notification, you’re out of your damn mind.

He wiped his forehead. He’d radio Lieutenant Nicols, the barracks commander, in a minute to make sure no one else was dispatched to do the death notification. In the meantime, he needed to follow up with McAllister.

As if summoned by thought, the younger trooper stuck her head through the door. Boss, you probably want to hear this.

Duncan picked his way around the remaining crime scene personnel. Out in the hallway, McAllister stood next to a man Duncan assumed was a Southland employee.

Uh, did I say something wrong? The man looked back and forth between the two troopers. His breathing came shallow and fast, a thin bead of sweat at his hairline, and he clasped his hands tightly, maybe in an attempt to keep them steady.

What’s the problem? Duncan asked.

No problem. None at all. Well, except for… The man gestured toward the office. I’m a little freaked is all. More than a little. I mean, you probably see dead bodies all the time, but this is my first. It doesn’t help that it’s a co-worker. I should have left early, but no. Just had to finish ‘a few more things.’ He squinched his eyes shut and shuddered.

I understand. I need you to tell Trooper Duncan what you told me, McAllister said, voice soothing. Trooper Duncan, this is Paul Simmons. He’s Southland’s environmental safety officer and the man who found the body.

I was trying to get a couple things squared away before I took off. While he spoke, Simmons smoothed his tie, a plaid that clashed horribly with the striped shirt. Some interoffice mail came to me. It should have gone to Lonnie. Honestly, I think the mailroom sees the word ‘safety’ and just throws it in my box.

Knowing McAllister would have taken notes, Duncan concentrated on Simmons. I thought you’re the safety officer.

I’m environmental safety. I deal with issues that would involve environmental hazards, such as waste, adherence to Pennsylvania environmental protection regulations, things like that. As opposed to Lonnie, who was physical safety.

I see. So you took this mail to Mr. Butler.

Right. Simmons focused on Duncan’s face, hands knotted in front of him. I got as far as the door and there he was in a pool of… He gulped.

Did you touch the body at all? Try to administer first aid or check for a pulse?

Hell no. To be honest, I was too scared. Simmons paled, but his gaze didn’t waver. There was so much blood. I backed up and called 911.

I see. Duncan glanced at McAllister.

Mr. Simmons, when I first spoke to you, you said you and Mr. Butler argued recently, McAllister said, consulting her notes.

What? Oh…right. Simmons shook his head as though to brush off an annoying insect. Yes, we had a…difference of opinion over some internal matters.

What kind of internal matters? Duncan asked.

Simmons shot a quick look at McAllister but returned to staring at Duncan. Southland is investigating expanding one of their existing coal mines.

Is it tapped out?

No, but there are greater deposits outside the existing mine. Lonnie and I were working on the details of a plan to be presented to the executive board. He thought there were too many safety risks and I didn’t.

Environmental or physical? McAllister asked.

Both. Simmons adjusted his tie. It all kind of overlapped. I told Lonnie to butt out of my business, he did the same, and we…it went downhill from there.

Duncan looked at his former trainee. Was anyone else at this meeting?

We brought in Florence to scribe for us, so we could talk without worrying about taking notes. Simmons completely ignored McAllister. Honestly, it wasn’t as big a deal as it sounds. The argument, I mean. We would have worked it out.

Duncan studied Simmons’s face. Open, eager. Too eager? Hard to say. Between the dead body and the holiday weekend, the man undoubtedly wanted to leave. Where did this meeting take place?

The question seemed to take Simmons by surprise. Where did it take place? I…I’m not sure I know what you mean. We were here at Southland.

You must have been meeting in a specific location, McAllister said. Were you in a conference room, one of your offices?

Oh, I see. Simmons ran his fingers through his hair. Then he focused on Duncan, not breaking eye contact. We were in one of the conference rooms. They all have whiteboards, so we can write, draw, whatever we need. Simmons relaxed a bit. Do you need anything else? Can I go now? I don’t want to be uncooperative, but I’ve told you everything. Honest. He shot a look in the direction of the office and paled.

Duncan glanced in the same direction, but nothing caught his eye. Simmons, quite naturally, was most likely squeamish at the thought of a corpse. Duncan caught his former trainee’s eye and McAllister gave a tiny nod. Thank you. I’m sure Trooper McAllister gave you a business card. Here’s mine. If you want to add to your statement, please call either of us. I hope your holiday weekend gets better.

Simmons took the card and bolted.

McAllister shook her head. Okay, that’s not quite what he said to me the first time. She consulted her notes. He got the mail for the victim, went into the office, found the dead body, called 911. All good. But the way he described the argument, it was a lot more violent. They were shouting at each other, he said.

Who is Florence? Duncan put out his hand.

McAllister handed over the notebook. Florence Carter. She’s one of the office secretarial staff. I interviewed her before Simmons. Her recollection of the meeting goes beyond a simple disagreement. She said Simmons looked like he was going to have an aneurysm. Red face, screaming, the works. In Ms. Carter’s words, ‘He was swollen like a bullfrog and I thought he was set to pop.’

Any of the executive officers here? Duncan thumbed through the notes, which were clear and detailed.

Most of them weren’t even in today. Those who were split for the weekend before lunch. McAllister took back her notebook and slipped it in her shirt pocket.

Of course. He looked in the direction Simmons had taken. What did he do with the mail? The stuff he got by mistake?

According to his first statement, he dropped it on the office floor when he saw the body. Shock, I guess.

It would be bagged and tagged already. No matter. He’d check with the crime scene unit. Simmons definitely changed his story on the argument?

Not changed so much as it sounded a lot worse when he said it the first time. And it conflicts with how Ms. Carter described the incident. It set off enough bells that I thought we should talk to him together.

Could be that Simmons was excited the first time and had calmed down. If it was the first time he’d seen the victim of violence it was entirely possible. Do me a favor? Stick around until this is finished? He jerked his thumb in the direction of the office.

No problem, Boss. I told Ms. Carter to hang out in case you wanted to talk to her.

I trust you, unless there’s a reason you think I should.

McAllister demurred. You sure you don’t want a partner to do this notification?

Normally I’d take you up on that, but this one is personal. I’ve got it. He nodded at her and headed outside. Glorious day, sunshine and warmth. Too bad he was about to blow it up for Rayann Butler and her son.

Chapter Two

Duncan left the scene in McAllister’s capable hands. It was almost four when he reached Confluence. Since it was an official visit, he left his uniform on, but stopped home to pick up Rizzo, his golden retriever. The dog would be a comfort to the Butlers’ young son.

Glad to get out, Rizzo pulled his owner down the street to the Butlers’ neat two-story Victorian. The grass was mowed, but the small front yard was strewn with sports equipment. A green bicycle leaned against the porch, black helmet with flames matching the bike’s design hanging from the handlebars. Rayann’s cheerful spring tulips had been replaced with equally cheerful purple and pink petunias. The unmistakable scent of charcoal came from the backyard. Getting ready for dinner and a husband who wasn’t coming home.

Duncan had been practicing his speech since he left Southland, but the homey scene in front of him derailed his thoughts.

Ten-year-old Eric sat on the steps, pounding a baseball glove. At the sight of Rizzo, he leapt to his feet, glove forgotten. Rizzo! How are you, boy? He knelt, rubbing his hands through Rizzo’s fur, giggling as the dog licked the boy’s face and ears. Silly. Hi, Mr. Duncan. How come you’re in your uniform? Can I take Rizzo for a walk?

Absolutely. Duncan handed the leash to Eric. Be careful. Your mom inside? I need to talk to her.

Yeah, I think she’s in the kitchen. I’d better tell her where I’m going. Eric stood, wiped his face, and took the leash.

I’ll let her know. Duncan ran his hand over Eric’s close-cut hair.

The boy’s brown eyes sparkled, and he practically glowed with happiness at being trusted with the dog. Come on, Rizzo. He ran off down the dusty street, Rizzo loping at his side.

Duncan watched them go. There wasn’t much traffic in Confluence. Boy and dog would be easy to see, and everybody knew Eric. Steeling himself, he climbed the porch steps, which needed a new coat of paint after a winter beating, and let himself in. Hello? Rayann, you here?

A slender woman with caramel-brown skin, hair pulled back in a glossy ponytail, leaned out the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. Hey, Jim. Did I hear Eric just take off with Rizzo? Her forehead creased as she frowned, taking in the uniform. Lonnie isn’t home yet, but I can offer you a glass of iced tea or a beer if you want to wait.

Duncan took off his campaign hat and set it on the end table. Everything in the living room looked a bit worn. Two wood tables, a low coffee table. A couch rejuvenated with a bright red slipcover. Two armchairs clad in matching red and white striped covers. The wallpaper was a little faded, but barely visible under the framed photos. Eric through the years, smiling in all of them. A family Christmas photo. This was a home. Duncan’s heart ached at what he was about to do.

What’s up? You’re still in your uniform. Are you working? The smile slid from her face. Like I said, Lonnie’s not home yet, so if you’re off and you want to change first, you’ve got time.

It’s Lonnie I’ve come to talk to you about, Rayann.

I don’t understand. What do you want with Lonnie? Has he done something wrong?

Duncan beckoned to her. Why don’t you come sit on the couch?

Jim…what’s this about? Why— She froze. No. I don’t believe it.

He could tell she was beginning to suspect why he’d arrived, still dressed for duty. Rayann, come sit down.

This…no. This isn’t happening. Lonnie is fine, right? He’ll be home shortly and…and…

Rayann. Duncan took her hand and tugged. She followed him, but it was like leading a trance victim. I’m sorry. Lonnie was murdered this afternoon. At work.

She shook her head, clutching the towel. No. No, no, no.

Lonnie’s dead, Rayann. Duncan took his handkerchief out of his pocket and waited for his words to cut through Rayann’s shock.

The change was visible. The wall of denial cracked and Rayann buried her face in her hands, towel falling by the wayside. Lonnie…who…it’s not possible. She stopped, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Duncan handed her his pocket handkerchief.

Rayann did not scream. She let out a low moan, a keening that was worse. It tore at Duncan’s soul and he laid a hand on the new widow’s shoulder.

They sat that way for what felt like hours. The scents of charcoal and clean linen air freshener contrasted with the painful scenario being played out. Eventually, Rayann lifted her face, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks tear-stained. Where did it happen? How did he die?

They found him in his office. Duncan debated taking out a notebook and pen. Not yet. There will be an autopsy to determine the exact details, but he was stabbed.

With what?

The deputy coroner couldn’t tell exactly, but the handle of whatever it is looked the same as his desk set.

His letter opener. Damn thing is sharp enough to be a knife. Rayann sniffed, but she couldn’t stop her tears. That’s why I made him take it with him to work. Eric always played with it. She swallowed hard.

He squeezed her shoulder. I need to ask you some questions.

Who did it?

We don’t know yet. He took out his notebook, flipped to a clean sheet, and clicked open a pen. I know this sounds bad, but it’s routine. Have you two fought recently?

It was tough, Lonnie being out of work. A lot of stress on both of us. Since he got the job at Southland, things have been better. Lonnie’s back to being the guy I married.

He mention any problems at the office? Threats, people he’d argued with?

Not by name. Rayann scrubbed at her eyes.

But there was someone?

I think so. She got up and pushed back the plain white drapes at the front window.

I doubt Eric and Rizzo are going to be back this soon. Duncan nodded in the direction boy and dog had taken.

Rayann turned and gave a watery smile. He loves that dog.

Duncan waited until Rayann sat again. What was the problem at work?

She shook her head. Lonnie came home a week or so ago all pissed about something. Some safety violation. He said he didn’t think it was being taken seriously enough.

Did he offer any specifics?

Rayann rubbed her forehead. I don’t think so. No. She blew her nose. I’m sorry, Jim. Lonnie was pretty adamant about leaving work at the office. All I can tell you is he had a bug up his butt about something.

Duncan scribbled a note. What about neighbors? Any fights? Disagreements about parking, Eric pulling up people’s flowers?

She barked a laugh. The neighbors are great…with one exception. There’s a rotten apple in every barrel. She twisted the handkerchief, thinking. Last winter, Lonnie got into it a bit with the guy next door about blowing his snow into our yard, but that was six months ago. I don’t think he’d drive to Southland to kill Lonnie over some freaking snow.

Duncan offered a faint smile. I wouldn’t think so. He’d check with a few other people in town as well. Anyone who might have threatened Lonnie or overheard arguments. What about Eric? Anything said to him?

She blew her nose. Not that he’s told me. He mostly plays with Marge’s son.

Duncan made a note to talk to Marge, his neighbor. Anything else? A bad apple, Rayann had said. Duncan knew who that was. Albert Munro and his junior sidekick, Owen Jacoby. Duncan didn’t have to assert his status as a state trooper in Confluence often, but when he did, Munro and Jacoby were often at the heart of the problem. And they never seemed to get the message.

No. We get along with folks here.

You get anything in the mail, from Southland, maybe anonymous letters? Or even not-anonymous letters?

Lonnie is usually home before I am and he gets the mail. She blew her nose again. If there was any problem mail, I never saw it.

Duncan closed the notebook. If you think of anything else, you know where to find me. Eventually someone will come by to go through Lonnie’s things. You find anything on your own, you let me know, okay?

She tried for a smile and didn’t quite make it. I thought you were finally taking vacation. Something about family coming.

Yes, but I’ll work it out. He stood. My sister’s boy is a little younger than Eric, but I think they’ll get along. I’ll send him down to play.

Rayann followed him to the door. I don’t know how I’m going to tell Eric his daddy isn’t coming home. Tears threatened to break loose again.

Duncan hugged her, and she buried her face in his chest. When she pushed away, he let her. Remember, I’m right down the street. So is Marge. You aren’t alone.

Rayann wiped her face and straightened. Got it. You want your handkerchief back?

Keep it. Duncan picked up his hat and went out the door. Don’t worry about bringing Rizzo back. I’m going out for a run and I’ll pick him up on the way home.

Thank you, Jim. I know you could have let someone else break the news, but I appreciate you taking the time.

He squeezed her shoulder. I’m sorry, Rayann. Lonnie was a good guy. I’m not supposed to say it, but I promise we’ll find out who did this. He left the Butlers’ and strode down the street. He had three days before he went on leave. Then a week of his own time. Somehow, he’d make this right for Eric and Rayann.

***

Sally Castle parked her Camry in Jim’s driveway and got out. It had been a glorious drive to Confluence, the perfect start to a long weekend. The only thing better would have been having company. Jim’s yard was as neat as ever, the boxwoods in front of his porch trimmed, grass cut, all the edges precise.

The front door was shut. Hello, she called and tried the knob. Locked. But no Rizzo leapt to the window. No barking from the backyard, either. A quick look confirmed it. Neither dog nor owner was home. Jim’s Jeep was in the drive, so he had to be close. Sally sat on the porch steps to wait.

She didn’t wait long. At about six, less than ten minutes after she arrived, she spotted Jim jogging down the street, Rizzo loping ahead of him. Sally took a minute to appreciate the sight of a fit, handsome man with his dog. His shirt wasn’t tight but it wasn’t baggy either, showing off strong upper arms. Likewise, his shorts weren’t skin tight or ultra-short, but neither were they billowy and long, allowing her to see the motion of his legs working in a smooth stride. She stood and brushed dirt off the butt of her shorts. There you are. I’ve been waiting.

Rizzo bolted down the street, barking joyously, leash dragging on the ground. Sally braced for the inevitable impact. Rizzo didn’t slow and leapt the final few feet to greet Sally by slobbering all over her face, his front paws braced on her shoulders. Yes, yes, I’m glad to see you, too. She managed to coax Rizzo back onto all fours and wipe her face by the time Jim made it to the yard. I thought it was bad to go running with a dog like a golden when it’s warm outside.

I wasn’t running with him. Jim used his PSP T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. The faded blue had already turned dark. He was comforting a friend’s son. You should have called ahead. I’d have left the door unlocked.

Spur of the moment decision, Sally said. What friend?

You remember Lonnie Butler?

The guy we helped get the job at Southland?

They found him in his office this afternoon. Someone buried a letter opener in his chest.

Oh my God. She stared, dog forgotten. He and his wife are such nice people. I can’t believe it.

Believe it. Jim clapped his hands and Rizzo followed him to the front door. Come on in.

Trailing behind him,