Murder In The Heartland. M. William Phelps
of her “baby girl.”
By 3:00 P.M., the chill of morning had yielded to a comfortable fifty-degree afternoon. Driving west from Maryville, making her way past the massive Kawasaki Motors plant outside downtown, and after possibly getting something to eat nearby, Darlene Fischer continued south on Highway 71 before taking a hard right onto the “A” road leading into Skidmore.
Just outside downtown Skidmore, about fifteen minutes later, she would have taken a right onto the 113, which became Elm Street in the center of town and West Elm, her ultimate destination, beyond that, past the town’s one service station.
Sitting on the front seat beside her were directions to the house she’d printed off the Internet. As far back as November 17, 2004, Darlene had downloaded the directions and “mapped out” a route to this house. She had lived all over the Midwest and in New Mexico, San Diego, and Arkansas for a time, but found herself today driving into a town she had not been to before.
Following Elm Street down to the west end, Darlene heard the tires of her red Toyota Corolla crunch and pop against the gravel as she entered Bobbie Jo Stinnett’s driveway, near the corner of Orchard and West Elm.
There it was on the right porch post column, exactly where Bobbie Jo had said it would be: the number 410.
Bobbie Jo’s home, like most in town, was small, just as Darlene had heard. It was a charming little place, though, with two large elm trees centered in front of the porch by the road, their branches weeping downward, brushing the ground.
Darlene had told Bobbie Jo she lived in Fairfax, Missouri, about twenty miles west of Skidmore.
Not true.
She also said she was interested in a few rat-terrier puppies one of Bobbie Jo’s breeder studs had sired recently.
Like a lot of the pieces of Darlene’s chaotic life, inquiring about the puppies was also a lie. The woman calling herself Darlene had her own terriers back home. She didn’t need to travel over one hundred miles to buy one. In fact, she lived in Melvern, Kansas, 187 miles south of Skidmore, a three-hour drive. She was in Skidmore for the one thing Bobbie Jo Stinnett had that she couldn’t have: a baby.
Bobbie Jo was a local rat-terrier breeder. Married, just twenty-three years old, she was in the last trimester of her first pregnancy, her due date about a month away. Looking at her, it was easy to see a woman beaming with the delight only a first-time mother can emit: a glow, incidentally, Darlene Fischer didn’t have. The townsfolk of Skidmore adored Bobbie Jo. With her ebullient smile, large brown eyes, wavy brunette-auburn hair, blemish-free skin as soft as silk, she personified the all-American girl.
“She was such a sweet person,” recalled a friend. “She was so very smart. She would always give me advice when I needed it, and we would always talk about her pups…. She really knew her rat terriers.”
That same friend, a teenager, spoke of Bobbie Jo as though she were her big sister; someone to whom she could turn for advice. “She was such a beautiful person, on the inside and out. My mentor, really.”
It was around 3:15 P.M. when the woman who called herself Darlene Fischer pulled onto Bobbie Jo’s street and parked in her driveway. The sun was burning warm and bright, illuminating a glorious holiday season. Christmas cards were in the mail. Invitations to New Year’s Eve parties already out. Nativity scenes, cut from plywood and painted by hand, were propped up on front lawns. In Skidmore, people were, indeed, prepared to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ and the Christmas holiday.
Greeting visitors, a welcome sign stood above a carved miniature birdhouse, a red cardinal and yellow finch buzzing around a black-eyed Susan, to the right side of Bobbie Jo’s front door. This modest dwelling, set in a peaceful, middle-American suburb, was just like the dozen or so others around it.
As Bobbie Jo saw it, the afternoon meeting with Darlene had been brought on by chance. She and Darlene had made plans the previous day, after a mutual friend in the rat-terrier-breeding business had introduced them some time ago. From Bobbie Jo’s point of view, the meeting was supposed to be just a routine, friendly business transaction.
Darlene was a woman of thirty-six years, sporting large-framed glasses with thin lenses that magnified her sunken dark green eyes. She was of average size and shape. She had natural reddish blond streaks throughout her brown hair, which hung down and nearly touched her small breasts. In most respects, Darlene looked no different from thousands of other women marching through their lives in the Midwest.
Mrs. Nobody.
To those who knew her more intimately, though, she seemed depressed, vacant, especially angry, the last few years. Just the other day, quite unexpectedly, she had expressed interest in buying one of Bobbie Jo’s prized terrier pups. The two women had communicated via an online chat room, Annie’s Rat Terrier Rest Area, where they seemed to share a common interest in the feisty canines. Maybe a new pup—or the baby she was telling everyone she was expecting—would cheer Darlene up, make her feel better about herself and her life.
The previous day, Darlene had e-mailed Bobbie Jo at 4:22 P.M. She logged on to Bobbie Jo’s Happy Haven Farms Web site and, retrieving Bobbie Jo’s e-mail address, wrote, “I was recommended to you by [a mutual friend]….”
And so it began: a seemingly harmless electronic business proposition.
Using the e-mail address Fischer4kids at Hotmail, in that same brief note, Darlene said she had been “unable to reach” Bobbie Jo. She sounded somewhat panicky and impatient, perhaps worried the meeting the following day wouldn’t take place as planned.
“Please get in touch with me soon,” continued Darlene, “as we are considering the purchase of one of your puppies and would like to ask you a few questions.”
Three hours later, Bobbie Jo responded. Under the subject line “Done and Done!” she wrote, “Darlene, I’ve e-mailed you with the directions so we can meet.” To solidify her desire to get together, Bobbie Jo expressed her “hope” the e-mail would reach Darlene in time. “Great chatting with you on messenger,” said Bobbie Jo, after explaining how much she was looking forward to “chatting with you tomorrow a.m.,” before thanking their mutual friend for introducing them. “Talk to you soon, Darlene!” Bobbie Jo ended the e-mail. “Have a great evening.”
Word of mouth: most great businesses, especially in a rural region like Skidmore, were built on the recommendations of others. Bobbie Jo counted on it. Save for paying a major Internet search engine to list her as a top search result, the only way to reach people interested in her pups was to keep customers happy, get word out through the Internet, and make contacts at the dog shows she attended.
Bobbie Jo hadn’t been married two years yet. Eight months pregnant, she was happily going about her storybook life in Middle America. Happy Haven Farms had been Bobbie Jo’s design. Zeb, her husband, worked full-time at a manufacturing plant in Maryville. He had helped his new bride out with the breeding business, but, for the most part, he allowed Bobbie Jo to maintain it herself. In just a few words, some of what Bobbie Jo had written on the home page of her Web site seemed to reflect not only her and Zeb’s attitude toward breeding, but the way they viewed and valued life in general.
“Our puppies are placed in only the very best homes with the family that fits them best. Let us help you find your next pet, rat terrier or otherwise.”
Bobbie Jo was meeting with Darlene to see if she met her stringent criteria for ownership. Bobbie Jo wasn’t about to sell one of her pups to someone who couldn’t be responsible enough to love and care for it. Bobbie Jo and Zeb were good people, concerned about the animals they had made a large part of their lives together.
“They were the type of people,” said one former friend, “you could see growing old together…in their rocking chairs, watching their grandchildren play in the front yard. They minded their own business and didn’t start any trouble.”
Sitting in Bobbie Jo’s driveway on Thursday afternoon, the woman who called herself Darlene Fischer turned off the ignition of her Corolla and looked up at Bobbie Jo’s front door.