The Next Great Discovery: A Heartland to Hometown Mystery ~ Book 1

By Katherine Bennett

Enlarged Print Edition

Small-town reporter Leni Spencer is shocked to learn the victim found in a cornfield with his throat slashed is her cousin, a popular college student. Tension mounts when a second body is found after a raging arson fire destroys an historic gristmill.

Baffled by the two senseless deaths, Leni seeks answers. Detective Doug Joseph repeatedly warns her of the dangers of sleuthing, but Leni contends that a reporter must investigate. Despite their amicable professional relationship, this tension stands in the way of the more personal, romantic relationship that Leni desires.

Events take Leni and Doug to New Orleans, the hometown of the burn victim. There, in a macabre setting of sorrow, jubilation, and great personal danger, the mystery deepens while their relationship grows.

A local college dreading an accreditation review, a missing Native American weapon, an archeological dig that may not be all it seems, some academic skullduggery, and a vibrant cast of multigenerational characters complicate the investigation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798823025447

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It was late August at the Benton County, Missouri, fairgrounds. The wide-open doors at each end of the enormous crafts and culinary display barn did not provide enough breeze to offset the heat that radiated downward from the sunbaked metal roof or discourage the flies that buzzed lazily around the baked goods tables. There was just enough movement to keep aloft the flurry of brown dust that rose from the unpaved parking lot and carry it into the barn.

Leni Spencer wiped the dust from her eyes with one hand and lifted her dark ponytail off her neck to release the heat. A trickle of sweat dribbled down between her shoulder blades.

This morning’s assignment brought her to the booth belonging to the local quilt guild. The guild’s stately white-haired president sat behind the table, seemingly impervious to the heat and dust. A colorful quilt hung behind her. She waved a roll of raffle tickets as she rattled on about the guild’s fifty-third annual quilt raffle and the importance of getting an article into the paper’s next issue.

Leni stifled a yawn. If she were to rank her assignments as a reporter for the Hawkinston (Mo.) Daily News, this one would score near the top of the ho-hum list. Finding a fresh approach to a story that had run fifty-two years in a row would be challenging. She had written the five most recent versions herself.

She longed for a story of great interest that would cause the editor of a major newspaper to slap a button on his desktop intercom and shout, Madge, get me this Leni Spencer! This is the finest reporting I’ve ever seen! The best she could do was take a picture of the guild president with the quilt and spell her name correctly. Hawkinston was a quiet place. In her five years at the newspaper, no events of great interest had provided grist for even one incredibly wonderful story for her portfolio.

She slipped her cell phone and notebook into her multicolored messenger bag. The bag was a patchwork comprising bits of brightly colored leather embellished with organic and geometric shapes. It was a present to herself when the newspaper hired her. She said it went well with her typical gray slacks, skirts, and colorful tee shirts or sweaters. Fashion was not her life.

She thanked the president for the interview and assured her the story would run in Monday’s edition. She squinted her eyes, steeled herself against the shimmering heat and dust outside, and fumbled in her messenger bag for her cell phone, which bleated the ringtone assigned to her boss, Charlene Drake, the newspaper’s editor.

Leni answered without a social nicety. Where’s the county water truck? she demanded. They were supposed to spray the parking lot this morning to keep the dust down. It’s—

Charlene cut her off. Leni, get over to your uncle’s farm. The police scanner is reporting a death.

Accident? The Allen farm was hosting the annual state-wide corn husking competition. A vision of a wickedly sharp shucking tool popped into her mind.

No details. Go find out.

She closed her car window against the dust and pushed her black and yellow Mini Cooper at top speed over the dirt road to the farm.

Benton County traditionally hosted the competition in August, with huskers coming from every corner of the state. Kenneth Allen’s cornfields were adjacent to the fairgrounds. In the days before the competition, trucks and scales lined the road and set up in the spacious farmyard. The local Rotary Club parked their food truck and put out picnic tables to feed the participants and the spectators. A wide swath of the barnyard became a makeshift parking lot.

Leni looked for Uncle Kenny, a widower, and her cousin, Kenny’s twenty-year-old son, Bruce Jeffrey Allen, better known as Tiger, as she pulled into the parking area.

Tiger Allen lived at home and helped his father with the farm while in his senior year at William Preston College, a private local college with a significant sports component and Leni’s alma mater. Leni did not see them in the crowd around the food truck, where the event organizers and most competitors appeared to be gathered.

Two of Hawkinston’s police vehicles were behind the house, near the cornfield’s edge, with blue lights flashing. One of the deputies appeared to be decorating for a Halloween party as he draped yellow crime scene tape from cornstalk to cornstalk. The restricted area at the cornfield’s edge contained a giant green harvester, a hay wagon, and a handful of people. Detective Doug Joseph, the Hawkinston Police Department’s only detective, a six-foot-two Native American, stood beside Uncle Kenny, who sat on the wagon’s tail.

The farmer was a picture of misery. He was hunched over, shoulders forward, feet dangling. His hands kneaded his green and yellow John Deere baseball cap between his knees. Leni thought having a body in your cornfield must be a blow, but his posture expressed more than mere shock. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his face pale with red blotches. He had been crying.

She called out as she ducked under the yellow police tape. Uncle Kenny, what’s happened?

He lifted his head and reached out to her. Oh, Leni, he said. It’s Tiger.

Leni stumbled, stunned with shock and disbelief. Detective Joseph grabbed her arm to steady her. She stared at him, wide-eyed, speechless.

It is Tiger, he confirmed. The stalk cutters found his body when they cleared a row.

She boosted herself onto the wagon beside her uncle. Uncle Kenny, how awful. I don’t know what to say. What happened?

He shook his head slowly. He pushed back the gray hair that fell over his forehead and put his hat on as he gathered his thoughts. He didn’t come home last night, he said. I was at Glenn’s house playing cards until late. I think he was out with his buddies. I don’t know. His truck was here when I got home. I thought he’d gone to bed, but he wasn’t here this morning. I thought he spent the night with one of his buddies. I was mad at him for not being here to help with the competition this morning. He ran his hand over his sweat-soaked hair, and put the hat back on. I didn’t know—

Leni was stunned. She turned to the detective. Despite the victim being her cousin, she was on assignment. What can you tell me? Charlene sent me.

Doug shook his head. We’re waiting for the medical examiner.

There was a little flurry of excitement among the spectators. Doris Herrmann, Leni’s aunt on her father’s side, broke through the growing crowd and came bustling up to the tape. Aunt Doris was who Leni wanted to be when she grew up. Doris was eighty years old but looked and acted more like sixty. A short dumpling of a woman, she was clear-eyed, clear-headed, and quite spry for her age and build. She lived in a Victorian house near the town center and took great pride in her rose gardens. Her late husband was an insurance agent who believed in his products; he left her very well off.

Doris was born and reared in Benton County, and if she did not know someone personally, she knew something about their family. She was a great source of background when Leni was working on a story. Sometimes, she would respond to a question with a terse, It’s better not to go there, if she thought it best to let a particular topic lie. Leni knew better than to press.

Doris gave the detective a try-and-stop-me look as she slipped under the yellow tape. Kenny, dear heart, I came as soon as I heard. Poor Tiger. How are you doing?

Kenny shrugged. I don’t know, Doris, I really don’t know.

Doris sat beside him and clasped his rough hand with both of her cool, smooth, manicured ones. She shot the detective her I-am-taking-charge look. Do we know what happened?

Not yet, he told her.

Doris eyed the scene as more onlookers swarmed the farmhouse lawn. Come with me, she said to Kenny. I’ll make you some tea and get you away from all these people.

The word was out. People were gathering. The onlookers, more than the number of spectators usually drawn to the competition, pressed toward the crime scene. They flowed around the empty wagons and the scale. They munched chili dogs and waited for whatever might happen next.

Aunt Doris embraced Leni. Leni, will you come with us? Leni declined. She needed to discover what had happened and would not learn anything if she left the scene.

Detective Joseph permitted the bereaved father and his sister-in-law to go up to the house. Leni’s heart ached for her dear uncle as she watched them walk away. Tall, strong Uncle Kenny appeared vulnerable, even childlike, as he walked beside Aunt Doris. He seemed physically shrunken inside his denim overalls and a sweat-soaked tee shirt. Doris gripped his elbow and propelled him along. The hem of her short cotton muumuu, her dress of choice for both heat and comfort, fluttered as they disappeared into the crowd of spectators. Confident that Doris had Kenny well in hand, Leni turned back to the detective. Despite the initial shock of the situation, her reporter genes and innate curiosity kicked in.

Leni knew Doug well enough to address him by his first name and, in her heart, dreamed that she might someday share his last name. At thirty years old, he had her by four years. Perfect. He was single, never married, with no obvious baggage. Her crush on him began when he joined the force six years ago when she was in her senior year at William Preston College in Hawkinston. He seemed unaware that she carried a torch for him; she thought she would probably die if he found out.

Leni had the crime beat in their small town, so their paths crossed frequently. She managed to suppress her frustration when he was not as forthcoming with details. He and Doris shared the same ethic regarding what they consider private information about individuals. However, his reasons were more legal and less social than hers.

Leni struggled to accept the fact that her cousin was dead. She was reluctant to come to terms with the details, yet she needed to know what happened for herself and the story she was determined to write. To see Tiger’s body and convince herself this nightmare was true, she stood on the wagon for a better view.

There’s not much to see, Doug said. Come on down.

The wagon blocked most of the onlooker’s view of Tiger’s body, but from her perch, she could see a blue tarp covering a body shape among the clutter of downed cornstalks in front of the harvester.

Her mind reeled with thoughts of her funny, spirited, endearing cousin and that he would not be funny anymore or annoying. Those feelings mixed with her effort to consider the scene with a reporter’s sensitive eye. She focused on the tarp to steady herself and tried not to think what was beneath it.

Doug, please. Just a peek. I won’t touch anything. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her shorts to emphasize her point. His look said no. Before he could say it aloud, she asked how Tiger had died. Was he competing? I didn’t think he was going to. Did the harvester—? She could not finish the sentence.

Leni, I’m sorry for your loss, for your uncle’s loss, but you know I can’t talk about this. He turned away briefly and motioned to one of the patrol officers to move the onlookers back from the scene.

I know, she said, but what do you think?

I think you need to come outside of the tape.

Leni nodded and took a last look around before jumping off the wagon. She wiped a tear from her eye as she slipped under the crime scene tape.

Go up to the house and be with your uncle, Doug said.

She shook her head and called on every reporter gene in her DNA helix to get centered. What was he doing in the corn?

Don’t know, Doug said, but I don’t think he was murdered here.

Murdered! This was Hawkinston, Benton County, Missouri. People got killed here. Traffic accidents. Hunting accidents. Accidents with farm equipment. Stupid accidents. Avoidable accidents. All kinds of accidents. But they were not murdered. People did not get murdered here.

What do you mean, murdered? How? How do you know?

Doug grimaced. He had not meant to let that slip. This was his first murder, and he was still coming to grips with the responsibility. There would not be an official cause of death until the medical examiner spoke. What he had seen did not look accidental. I’m sorry, Leni. I can’t say any more. Why don’t you go check on your uncle?

She nodded and started toward the farmhouse. On the way, she called the newspaper office. The victim is Tiger, she told Charlene. Doug says it looks like he was murdered.

Charlene responded with uncharacteristic kindness. I heard it was your cousin, dear. I’m sorry. Are you sure about murder? How are you doing? Do you want me to assign Mary Jackson to take over?

"No! Doug thinks it’s murder. It’s not official yet. Despite her anguish, she would not let go of the story. It was her cousin, her story, her first murder, for goodness’ sake. There was no way Mary Jackson, a society page reporter, would give it the tea cakes and starched lace slant that gummed up her every line in print. I can handle it, Charlene. I’ll shoot you some copy in a little while." She cringed at her choice of verb. How did Tiger die? Was he shot? She shuddered.

Thanks to the marvels of modern technology, Leni frequently avoided the newspaper office on the town square by posting her copy from her laptop. She would submit something by the three p.m. deadline, but first, she wanted to see her uncle.

Calls from the growing crowd assaulted her as she made her way to the house. What happened? Is it really Tiger? Is he really dead? The police officers were doing their best, but crowd control was not a significant component of their training.

She stepped across the broad porch, past the rocking chairs and the flower stands that had been empty since her aunt’s passing last summer. Usually, she would let herself in and holler a greeting, but to do that now felt like a rude intrusion. She knocked on the screen door.

Aunt Doris peered around the curtain before opening the door. She held her finger to her lips in the universal sign for quiet.

How’s he doing?

He’s sleeping. You want a cup of tea?

Leni was surprised that her uncle could sleep.

It’s all right, Aunt Doris said. I slipped a little chloral hydrate into his tea. He’ll be sleeping a good long while. That was pure, practical Doris. Man in shock? Put him to sleep. When he wakes up, perhaps some of the shock will have worn off, and he can better handle what life has handed him. If the police or anyone else needs to talk to him, they can wait.

It was quiet in the house, so Leni opened her laptop on the dining room table and filed a brief report, which was a little more than half of the six essential reporting components. The who, what, and where were known; when, why, and how awaited the medical examiner’s report.

After a refreshing glass of iced tea, Leni grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and returned to the cornfield to see what else she could learn. Two big vans parked in the yard indicated that the county medical examiner and the state crime scene investigators had arrived.

Doug Joseph met her at the tape. He thanked her for the water. How’s your uncle doing? I need to talk to him.

Uncle Kenny’s asleep under Aunt Doris’s special care, she told him. He won’t be fit for questioning until tomorrow.

Doug frowned. That Doris, he muttered.

He turned away to scan the growing crowd. Ducking under the tape, he strode purposefully toward four young men Leni recognized as Tiger’s town buddies.

She knew the medical examiner would not answer questions at the scene. She wanted to talk to Tiger’s friends, but they were tied up with Doug. She saw no one else she wanted to talk to. She was still gripped with disbelief and not sure what to do next. There was not much point in returning to the fairgrounds. She wanted to be with a friend who could help her clear her