St. Jo was 531 miles due north from Texarkana, roughly a nine hour drive.  Cass had tried to insist on following Eileen up, getting her settled in a motel, and then driving back to Texas the next day.  “It’s not safe, a young pretty girl out on the road by herself,” he tried to tell her.  She thought that was as cute as it was sexist.”

“I’ll call you when I get there.  Come up when you want to.  If you want to,” she said.  “Your call.”  She wasn’t trying to make it sound like she didn’t really care either way.  She really didn’t.  Eileen enjoyed Cass, when he was around, on several levels.  She enjoyed a TV in her motel room too, but didn’t miss it when there wasn’t one and damn well wouldn’t pay extra for it.

The big, softly sprung Cadillac glided down the highway, a monument to a decade old automotive tradition that dictated ‘luxury’ meant ‘huge’ and the road should never be heard, much less felt.  The Gotham Gold color grew on Eileen, as did the outlandish design of the thing.  “The car reminds me of you,” Cass had told her the first time he saw it.  “Big and bulbous up front, and a rear end that stays in your memory long after it rounds the corner.”  That Cass was a charmer, to be sure.

Eileen hit Bentonville, Arkansas right after noon.  There was absolutely nothing in the town to distinguish itself from anywhere else in the midwest.  She thought about calling Cass and telling him to leave now and catch up, then thought better of it.  By the time she drove into Joplin to fill the big thirsty beast up again, she thought about not calling him at all.  Just let the thing go the easy way.  It’s not like there was a long term future there.  It was early evening when she pulled into the parking lot of the Shamrock Motel.  She checked in hoping to find a St. Jo version of Maybell who might prove to be useful.  Instead she found a young man about her own age behind the desk.

As she studied him she wondered how he came to be working at a small motel in a small town.  Glancing down at the countertop where she was filling out a registration card, she noted an open copy of Catch-22.  That meant he read something more advanced than the Sunday comics, the extent of Cass’ literary expertise.  The glasses and stubble were an interesting combination of brains and brawn.  Eileen was a little disappointed that he didn’t seem to want any information other than what was required to check in to the Shamrock.

The big Caddy parked out in front of Room 6, her things brought in and unpacked, and a quick shower to help her wake up and wash the road grime away, it was time to call Cass and let him know she’d made it.  The call was short and sweet.  “Maybe I’ll come up next weekend,” he said.

“Suit yourself.  I’ll be here.”  Eileen was pretty noncommittal.  They had never got to that place where they said ‘I love you’ when they departed. The relationship didn’t merit even the pretense of that.  Now wasn’t the time to start.  It was awkward when they hung up.

Eileen put on a little make up.  Maybe more than a little.  Then made it a point to drive by the motel office for advice on where to grab a bite to eat.

“You drive that land yacht all the way up from Texas?” the clerk asked when she walked in the door.  He seemed a little more at ease.  Catch-22 was closed, his glasses lying on top of the paperback novel.

“Texarkana to be exact,” she replied.

“The registration card says Fort Stockton.”  The card was nowhere to be seen, so he must have read it and paid more attention than he’d let on.

“Fort Stockton is home.  Texarkana is where I bought the car.  Long story.”  Eileen was wondering if she should have put on a different shade of lipstick.  Something deeper red.  “Know a place to eat that’s decent?”

“If you give it ten minutes, I’ll take you there myself, Eileen.”

Damn.  The guy was smoother than velvet.  

Twelve minutes later the OPEN sign on the motel office had turned around to say CLOSED and Rusk Taylor was opening up the passenger door on his 1964 Ford Galaxie 500XL convertible for Eileen to enter.  “Should I put the top up?” Rusk asked Eileen.  “Don’t want you to get cold.”

“I’m good.”  Eileen looked around at the open cabin of the Ford ragtop.  “I’ve got a thing for big Ford convertibles.  Had one myself, back in the day.  Red and white as a matter of fact.  A ’57 Sunliner.”

“Once you’ve had one, you don’t want anything else.”  Rusk cranked up the 390 cubic inch V8 and grabbed the shifter just under the big knob on top, sliding it into gear.  “Surprised to see you in a big ol’ Caddy now.”

“Another long story.”  They made their way to the Hoof & Horn on Illinois Street.  Pulling into the parking lot, Eileen asked “How many motel guests do you treat to dinner at such an establishment?”

“You’re my first.  We’ll have to see how it works out.”

Dinner was the best Eileen had enjoyed in a long time.  The wine was probably as responsible as the thick steak and trimmings.  What she would remember later is the conversation.  The fact that they’d read a lot of the same books, enjoyed the same movies, and shared several common interests.  Rusk had never been to Texas and had countless questions.  “Do kids ride horses to school?” he asked at one point.  Eileen didn’t know if he was even serious.  

They talked about music.  He cared nothing about country and western, but extolled the virtues of jazz.  Eileen thought it must be a midwestern thing.  He talked about getting his degree in liberal arts from Kansa State.  Eileen told him about her three years at TCU, but didn’t go into detail about why she came home early.  She certainly didn’t mention leaving the Sunliner in the parking lot at the train depot in Fort Worth, top down and trunk up in the pouring rain, taking on water like the SS Minnow.  While she told him about TCU she couldn’t help but wonder if they wouldn’t be top down and trunk up back in her hotel room once dinner was finished.

She needn’t have worried.  Once they were done at the Hoof & Horn, the Galaxie was parked next to her Cadillac in front of Room 6 and inside it was all tongues and tonsils.  Eileen had made it a point not to ever compare men.  It was demeaning and counterproductive.  And yet, Rusk Taylor was as different from Cass Harrison as Rusk’s Galaxie was from Cass’ old Chevy truck.  Sometime after midnight, after the second coupling of the night had taken place, when Rusk got up and went into the bathroom to shower Eileen watched him.  Immodesty left him no reason to close the door.  It left her no reason not to enjoy the show.

In the morning Eileen woke up alone.  Peering out the curtains, she looked across the parking lot and saw Rusk Taylor in the office, the sun framing his silhouette behind the counter, creating some kind of ungodly glow about him.  The Ford Galaxie was parked next to the office, top up, windows down.  She wondered briefly if the whole thing had been a dream.  Then she noticed his jacket, folded in half lengthwise and draped over the chair in the corner.  “Good gawd almighty,” she said softly to herself.

It took a cold shower, hot coffee and concerted effort for Eileen to focus on the Greenlease kidnapping.  The number of romantic partners she’d had in her first thirty years had doubled in the last week.  Not at all what she had expected when she headed to Texarkana, much less St. Jo, Missouri.  She tried not to look over at the office as she pulled out of the Shamrock parking lot, but she did.  The smile Rusk gave her from inside the office almost made her run right into the Galaxie 500 XL convertible.

The public library proved to be a valuable resource.  Old newspaper articles on microfiche gave her all the basics she was looking for.

On the morning of September 28, 1953 a woman approached the front door of the French Institute of Notre Dame De Sion in a nearly hysterical state.  The school was a private  institution for small children in Kansas City, Missouri.  The stranger told Sister Morand that she was the aunt of one of the students, Robert Cosgrove Greenlease, Jr.  

The rattled woman said that her sister, Robert’s mother, had just suffered a heart attack and had been rushed to the hospital.  The woman was convincing, even apologizing to Sister Morand for her emotional state.  The sister fetched the young boy, but did not explain why she was there to pick him up from school so early.  The young lad went to her without hesitation, confirming the legitimacy of the situation in Sister Morand’s mind.  She watched the woman and Robert walk down the sidewalk and get into a waiting cab, the woman’s arm around the shoulders of the boy the whole time. 

Eileen thought back to her own experience.  She was only a year older than Robert when she went out to the Buick parked in front of her school and discovered her father slumped over the steering wheel.  When she quickly discovered he wasn’t asleep, she would have gone with any adult who presented themselves.

The boy’s father, Robert Cosgrove Greenlease Sr., was a multimillionaire who’d made his fortune building car dealerships all across the Midwest all the way from Texas to South Dakota.  Sixty-five and married to his second wife at the time of the boy’s birth in 1947, both parents were said to have doted on the young boy.  The boy was trusting and never questioned going with the woman who came to pick him up.  He had no reason to.  She later said he took her hand and did anything she told him to.

Eileen understood being a compliant child as she jotted notes down in the steno notebook she’d brought with her.

An hour or so after sending the boy on his way with his “aunt”, Sister Marthanna called the Greenlease home to see how Mrs. Greenlease was doing.  She was surprised to actually be talking to Mrs. Greenlease, herself.  Of course, it took no time to see that the entire situation had been a hoax.  Mrs. Greelease hung up the phone and immediately called the police and then her husband.

A letter arrived at the Greenlease home via special delivery soon after.  It was postmarked at 6:00 AM that morning.  The kidnappers demanded $600,000 in $10 and $20 bills (the equivalent of just over $7,000,000 today).  They wanted the money placed in a duffle bag.  They promised Bobby’s safe return within 24 hours, as long as their demands were met in full and nobody tried to play any tricks.  Greenlease Sr. was working with the FBI who’d been brought into the case, but refused to follow all their advice, desperate to do whatever he could to save his son.  He paid the money.  The young boy had already been shot and killed before the money was ever put in the duffel bag.  The kidnappers never had any intention of returning young Robert to his parents.

Eileen stopped and put the pen down on the table.  She thought about Evelyn McHale.  She recalled the murderer of five people in Texarkana who was never caught.  She reflected on Carl Hall and Bonnie Heady, the couple who’d plotted and then followed through with the kidnapping and murder of a six year old boy.  She tried to put herself in the minds of those involved in the tragedies that had come to dominate her thoughts.  

Consuming all the information she could in one morning, Eileen put her things away and thanked the librarian.  “Thank you ma’am,” she said.  “I’ll be back tomorrow.”  The accent told the librarian Eileen wasn’t local.  She smiled and said goodbye.

Back at the motel, Eileen parked the Cadillac right outside the office.  She walked in and went behind the counter, grabbing Rusk by the hand and dragging him into the office located behind the registration desk.  She closed the door behind them and forced Rusk to make her forget everything she’d just read about.  He was not difficult to convince and performed to expectation.  Exceeded it, in fact.  Fifteen minutes later, the Cadillac was parked in front of Room 6 and Eileen was curled up in a ball on the cheap bedspread.  She slept till it was dark outside.

Two weeks later Eileen and Rusk were back at the Hoof & Horn.  “So you’re a writer?”  Eileen asked.  “Working in a motel?”

“So you’re a writer, living in one?” Rusk replied.

They both chuckled at the arrogance of the other.

“My aunt and uncle own the Shamrock.  They’re on vacation.  I come over and take care of things for them while they’re gone.  Fill-in.  They need the time off.  I need the time away from whatever I’m working on at the time, too.  I’m sure you get that.”  Eileen was happy to have found something else in common other than mutual appreciation between the sheets to focus on.

“I can’t even tell you,” Rusk chuckled.

Cass had called and said he was coming up for the weekend.  He was surprised when Eileen begged off.  Said she was too busy.  Said the story was taking a toll on her.  What was taking a toll on her was the pounding she was getting on a nearly daily basis after coming back to the motel each day.  She’d found a couple of retired policemen who’d worked the case.  What they told her was disturbing.  Details coming out of the mouths of the men who’d lived it were different from the printed words from old newspapers reporting it.

She’d called Perry back in Fort Stockton a couple times, but he was focused on the Texarkana story.  “I trust you on this one.  Let me know if you need anything.  I’m working on the book details.  The publisher wants to go with Murder by Moonlight for the title.  You good with that?”

“I like it.  Deadly and romantic.”  Eileen was only half kidding.  “I think this one might just stay in-house.  Do a serial feature in the Telegram-Dispatch.  Maybe see if one of the services picks it up.  I’m ready to get back home soon.  It’s all starting to take a toll.”

Both the kidnappers, Carl Hall and Bonnie Heady, were alcoholics.  Over the course of the ordeal the pair had mailed six ransom notes and made fifteen phone calls.  The second letter had Bobby’s Jerusalem medal enclosed and said he was in good health, but homesick.  In reality he’d been dead for days, his body taken from where they had killed him, driven to the home of Bonnie Heady, and buried in her yard, near the house.

Once they had the ransom money, Hall and Heady transferred it from the duffel bag to two metal suitcases and headed to St. Louis, 380 miles away.  Carl drove Bonnie to an apartment he’d rented on Arsenal Street.  She was drunk by the time they got there and went to sleep immediately.  Seeing this as his opportunity, Hall left $2,000 of the ransom cash in her purse and fled with the rest.  He moved into a different apartment at the Townhouse Hotel.

“Are you familiar with the case of Robert Greenlease?”  Eileen asked Rusk as she lay in bed, watching him pour each of them a drink at the table in the corner.

“You can’t be from St. Jo and not know about the Greenlease case.”  He got back into bed, handing her a drink.  “Is that what you’ve been working on this whole time?”

“It is.  I’m surprised you never asked.”

“Figured you’d tell me if you wanted me to know.  What have you learned so far?”  He seemed interested.

She ran down the basics of all the research she’d done so far.

“That’s more than I’ve ever known.  Surprised you were able to learn all that.  Folks tried to forget about it for a long time.”  He sipped his drink.  “It was not what St. Jo wanted to be remembered for.  You know they only ever recovered half the money.”

Over the next couple days, Eileen learned the rest of the story.  A phone call from a cab driver on October 6, 1953 provided the break in the case the FBI needed.  That tip led police to Carl Hall at the Townhouse Hotel.  It didn’t take him long to finger his accomplice, Bonnie Heady.  Hall admitted to planning the kidnapping and transporting the body of the boy, but denied any involvement in his actual murder.

On October 7, 1953 police drove to the home of Bonnie Heady at 1201 South 38th Street in St. Joseph.  They dug up the body of Robert Cosgrove Greenlease, Jr. wrapped in plastic, covered in lime and dirt.  Fresh flowers had been planted on top of the makeshift grave.  Police collected enough evidence from the home, the shell casings, and the Plymouth station wagon used to transport the body from where the boy had been shot to St. Jo where Hall buried him.

“I need you here to wrap up everything for the book,” Perry said when Eileen called him to update him on the Greenlease story.  “The publisher wants to move forward.  You’re going to need to sign agreements, approve the book jacket, and plan the release.”

“Give me just another day or two and then I’ll head out.”  Eileen figured she could finish up the research and then write the rest of the story back home.  She’d been dragging her feet and she knew it.

On October 30, 1953 Carl Hall and Bonnie Heady found themselves in the court of Judge Albert J. Reeves pleading guilty to the crimes of kidnapping and murder.  Less than three weeks later, on November 19, 1953  a jury took only an hour and eight minutes to decide on the death penalty for the pair.  Less than a month after that, the couple was executed together in the gas chamber of the Missouri State Penitentiary.  The time period between being caught and being executed was three and a half months.

“Did you find out anything about the money?” Rusk asked Eileen that night and they ate pizza in her room, washing it down with chianti.

“Apparently the two officers who took Hall into custody only turned in half the money.”  Eileen topped off the glasses of wine as she crawled back into bed.  “The were both tried and convicted for perjury for lying about turning in all $600,000, but the other half of it was never found.”  Rusk had more questions, but was quickly distracted by Eileen, who was intent on committing a few crimes of her own.

When Eileen woke up the next morning the darkness of the room created a zeitgeber that made her question whether it was evening, morning, or afternoon.  She showered and walked across the parking lot to the motel office to get a cup of coffee and say good morning.  There was an attractive woman, about her age, with two small children at the desk whom Eileen assumed was checking into a room.  She waited behind the woman.  Rusk looked up, surprised.  “Oh, hi.”  He seemed uncomfortable.

The woman turned around and looked at Eileen.  Rusk introduced them.

“I’m Rusk’s wife.  Just stopped by on my way back home.  Took the kids to see my folks while he covered here at the motel.  Don’t mind me.  What brings you to St. Jo?”

“I’m a writer.  Working on a story.”  Eileen was having trouble putting her thoughts together.  “Like Rusk, I suppose.”

“Rusk?  A writer?  Well, I guess so,” the woman giggled.  “If writing jingles for ad spots on the local radio station counts as being a writer!”  Rusk’s wife said.  “Well, I’ve got to run.  Nice to meet you.”  And with that she leaned over the counter, planting a peck on Rusk’s reddened cheek, scooped up the two toe-headed toddlers and headed out towards the station wagon parked next to the office.

Once the wagon was loaded and pulled away from the motel, Eileen looked at Rusk.  “To be fair, you never asked,” he said sheepishly.

“Jingles?” she said.  “Jingles?  And you call yourself a writer?”