Dead Woman Crossing by J.R. Adler (best management books of all time txt) 📕

“Just need to ask you a few questions. This here is Chief Deputy Kimberley King.” He gestured to Kimberley.

Kent Wills waggled his eyebrows slightly. “Got yourself a looker.” He leered. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a town like this?”

“Solving the murder that happened near where you put on your ghost tours. Know anything about that?” Kimberley raised her chin.

Kent coughed a few times and swallowed hard. “Of course not.”

“Let’s go inside and chat,” Sam said. His tone was friendly, disarming.

Kent backed up, allowing Kimberley and Sam to enter his home.

The home was beyond cluttered with outdated furniture and décor. Stacks of cardboard boxes lined a wall. Another wall was covered in a hodgepodge of tacky bird clocks that Kimberley found quite disturbing. The beige carpet was worn and covered in stains. It was clear all of Kent’s energy was put into his business and not his house. He walked over to the orange couch and pushed a stack of newspapers off of it.

“Here, have a seat,” he said.

Kimberley was going to decline, but when Sam sat down, she figured she would too. Kent sat down in the plaid tattered chair kitty-corner to the couch.

“Do you keep records of the people that go on your ghost tours?” Kimberley asked, cutting right to the chase.

“Why you asking about my ghost tour? You trying to book a spot?” Kent lifted an eyebrow.

“No. We’re just gathering some information. So, do you keep a record of your ghost tours?” Kimberley asked again.

“Of course. Got to for future marketing.” He nodded.

“And tax purposes,” Kimberley added, knowing full well there was no way Kent was paying taxes on the money he earned from his ghost tours. When she had learned he only accepted cash, she figured it’d be an angle she could use to force information out of him if he were uncooperative. The IRS threat worked on most people.

“Yeah, for that too,” he said unconvincingly.

“How far do your records go back?” Sam asked.

“Since I started the business.”

“We’re going to need records for the last twelve months,” Kimberley said. She figured in order to appease Sam’s “gut feeling” she’d have to be thorough. Six months would have sufficed, but twelve months would allow Kimberley to see the bigger picture. How many people on average went on the tour? Were there any repeaters? Her gut told her they were barking up the wrong tree, but this was Sam’s town.

Kent looked at Sam and then at Kimberley, his eyes like a pendulum. Finally, he stood up. “Let me just get that from my office then.”

Kent walked slowly out of the room, shuffling his feet along the floor. Kimberley and Sam exchanged a look of disbelief. As soon as he was out of the room, Kimberley stood up and hurried over to the cardboard boxes. She opened up one. It was full of old books. Another one revealed a set of dishes.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked just above a whisper.

“Shh, just browsing,” Kimberley hissed.

Kimberley opened another box. A stack of old Penthouse magazines sat inside. The top one was from June 1978 and on the cover appeared the naked bottom half of a woman upside down inside of a meat grinder with the text “‘We will no longer hang women up like pieces of meat.’ Larry Flynt.”

Grimacing, she hurriedly closed the box back up and took her spot on the couch when she heard Kent’s shuffling footsteps.

Kent returned with five spiral notebooks. He handed them to Kimberley before retaking his seat.

“They’re all in there. Names. Email addresses. Phone numbers. Separated out by each day. I do one tour a day, three hundred and fifty-one days a year. I give myself a total of two weeks of vacation. I’m the hardest working retired man you’ll ever meet,” he said, raising his chin proudly.

Kimberley gave Sam a puzzled look and then looked down at the spirals, thumbing through them. Each page had the date at the top and then below it a table was drawn in pencil with three columns labeled—name, email and phone number. Like a guest book for his tours. With this type of outdated record-keeping, she wondered how reliable they actually were.

“No one is calling your work ethic into question,” Sam said soothingly. “We’re just trying to get a sense of people coming in and out of town. And since your ghost tour is more of a tourist attraction, we figured it’d be a good start.”

Kent looked mollified. “Oh. Okay. You said someone was murdered down by where I give my tours? Think someone on one of my tours did it?”

“We’re exploring a number of possibilities,” Sam said carefully.

“Have you noticed anyone acting rather strange on your tour? Maybe someone a little too invested in the true-crime story you cover?” Kimberley asked, also careful not to reveal too much.

Kent scratched at his chin as if he were considering, thinking back to the people he had encountered. “Not that I can think of off the top of my head. Well, we had this one weirdo a while back. I remember because it was the hottest day of the year—over a hundred degrees outside—and he was wearing black jeans and a black hoodie. He had them big holes in his ears. I swear I could have fit one of my dinner plates inside of them.”

“How long ago was this?” Kimberley tilted her head.

“Years ago.”

She let out a small sigh and moved on with the questioning. Kent was an old-fashioned man, so anyone that was dressed out of the ordinary would appear to be a weirdo to him. As this person clearly had a goth or punk style and visited years ago, it wasn’t of any help to the current case.

“And you’re the only one that gives the tours? Your wife doesn’t help out?” Kimberley asked.

“Just me. My son Kent Jr. was helping here and there when we were fully booked, but he hasn’t in a while. My wife’s actually the