Sheila and Mortimer took a moment to regroup after the surprise visit from the police detective.

"So," Mortimer began, "we know someone shot from the outside with, presumably, a gun--- likely a pistol or something relatively small--- pushed up against the tent wall. That sounds kind of random."

"Let me see that photo again," Sheila said, and then laughed. "It would really frost that detective if he knew we had made copies. Well, he probably figured we did, I suppose."

Mortimer opened his laptop and brought up the photo of the small hole in the tent with burn marks.

"Enlarge it," Sheila said, "and enhance the focus if you can."

Mortimer did as Sheila asked, and then said, "Well, I'll be ... "

"Yes," Sheila said, "there's the hole marked by burns, such as from the muzzle of a gun, but the burns are more on the sides than the top and bottom, and there's a longer slit running up and down from the hole."

"So not random," Mortimer said. "Someone cut a slit to have a look, probably to take aim, and then inserted the pistol and fired."

"You know my next question," Sheila said, placing a hand on Mortimer's shoulder.

"Yup," Mortimer replied. "Was Bob Pace the target, or just a target of opportunity."

"In other words," continued Sheila, "did someone just want to shoot someone ... "

" ... or did that someone want to specifically shoot Mr. Pace," Mortimer finished. "This calls for some research. I can probably do a lot of it online."

"Good," said Sheila. "Meanwhile, I'll look over my own photos a little more closely. I took quite a few of the body and the floor and so on. Maybe that will give me some ideas."

"This is all kind of straightforward so far," Mortimer said. "Don't you think the police will be a few steps ahead of us?"

"They might be," Sheila replied, "but if they were very far ahead they wouldn't have come here asking for our photos, I don't believe. They're looking for leads, but they're too proud, or stubborn, to ask directly for help, despite this being a high profile crime."

But Mortimer hardly heard Sheila; he was already deep into his research.

About an hour went by. "Interesting," Mortimer finally said.

"What did you find, dear?" Sheila replied. Then she hesitated. "Oh, I hope it's not some checker problem ... "

Mortimer had this on his screen ...

... but he quickly switched views. "Uh, yeah, sweetheart, I found out some stuff about ... about Bob Pace."

"Like?" Sheila had her hands on her hips, and Mortimer knew that could go one of two ways. Sheila did have a temper at times, even though it wasn't very often.

"He's a well known player. But not the best in Iowa. Not the best in Des Moines either."

"I see," Sheila said, "and yet he was playing for first prize. Makes me wonder ... and combine that with what I found out, too."

"What?"

"Well, obviously I couldn't do an autopsy, and for sure the police aren't going to share those results with me, but Mr. Pace was hit squarely in the forehead with a single shot. That's not something your average random shooter does."

"You mean ... "

"Yes. A random shooter, shooting at just any target, would be in a hurry and wouldn't be so precise. That's not impossible, of course, but it's not the typical profile. No, I'll bet Mr. Pace was deliberately targeted, and by a professional. I'd say I'm certain, except for one thing."

"Which is?"

"It's too complicated and risky," Sheila went on. "If someone wanted to do a hit on Bob Pace, why would they do it in such a public setting? Why take the risk when they can corner him somewhere when he's alone and out of sight and just do him in then? No, something doesn't fit, or else we're missing something."

"Look," Mortimer said, "there's a lot here on the internet from the Des Moines Checker Club and Bob Pace's page on MyFace and so on. But we need to get more of the inside scoop."

"How do we do that?"

Mortimer smiled. "That's easy," he said. "We go to a checkers sports bar! There are a couple of them in Des Moines, and maybe we should start at the biggest one and do a little asking around from the local fans. We can do that tonight. The place is called Checkers on the Cob Sports Bar."

"Checkers on the Cob? You're making it up, right?"

"Dear, no one could make up a name like that."

Sheila insisted on Chinese for dinner saying she had enough of midwestern food, so she and Mortimer took a ride-share to Iowa Woks, which was just a block away from Checkers on the Cob.

Although the waiter insisted that the Sweet and Sour Corn Fritters were not to be missed, Sheila and Marvin both passed and they ordered Beef and Broccoli Stir Fry and Chicken Lo Mein.

"Pretty Americanized," was all that Mortimer would say, and Sheila didn't disagree. Mortimer said there would be stale fortune cookies along with the check, and it turned out he was right.

But then it was time to go to the sports bar. "Bet they serve corn on the cob," Mortimer said.

"No bet," Sheila replied.

They arrived a few minutes later. The place was large, with modern tables, wall murals, and a long bar that ran nearly the length of the main room. The lighting was surprisingly warm and bright, and it wasn't especially noisy inside, let alone rowdy.

A number of patrons were at the bar.

"Let's sit up there instead of at a table," Sheila suggested. "It'll be easier to talk to people."

"Uh, yeah," Mortimer said.

"You getting cold feet?" Sheila asked. She knew that Mortimer was on the shy side and not so great at talking to strangers.

"N..no," he replied, "this was my idea in the first place."

They took a couple of stools nearby but not adjacent to a couple of people who looked like regulars. On Sheila's left was a lady about 45 years old, with dyed blonde hair, plenty of makeup, and unexpectedly expensive looking clothes. On Mortimer's right was a burly guy in a muscle shirt and wearing sunglasses.

"What's popular?" Mort asked the bartender.

"Corn on the cob, what else!" the bartender replied. He was a chubby young fellow with a black bow tie that didn't match his brown apron and blue button-down shirt. "But look, if you're not hungry, a couple of Blue Ribbons ought to do ya."

"Okay," Mort said, "a couple of Blue Ribbons, then."

"You're joking," Sheila whispered. "Blue Ribbon beer? That's like drinking ... "

"Don't say it, honey," Mortimer whispered back, "they'll be offended."

The beers arrived and Mort took a sip. He grimaced, and the fellow next to him noticed.

"You from outta town?" he asked. "Don't like our beer?"

"Uh ... yeah ... I mean no ... I mean ... well yeah I'm from Denver. Here for the State Fair. And the beer ... just not used to it."

"State Fair, huh? Well that didn't work out, did it now, what with that guy Pace gettin' killed. Hey, you weren't in that tournament, were ya?"

"I was, actually," Mortimer said. "Kind of had an abrupt ending."

The big guy laughed. "Yeah, sure did! Hey, you ain't bad for an out of town doofus. What's yer name? I'm Ike, but my friends just call me Ike." He let out a loud laugh and offered his hand. Mortimer put out his own right hand and it was at once enveloped in a bone crushing grip.

"Ow," Mortimer said, but Ike just laughed again as he let go.

"Holy cow ... anyhow, my name's Mort," said Mortimer.

"Mort, huh? Well you're kinda short so I guess you're Short Mort!" Another laugh. "Hey, you any good? At checkers I mean, 'cause you ain't no good at handshakes!"

"Not great," Mortimer said, "but I was doing okay and maybe could have won some prize money. Guess I'll never know now. It's all closed down." He took another sip of beer and this time tried not to grimmace. "So you know anything about this guy that got shot?"

"Bob Pace?" Ike replied. "Yeah, kinda sorta good player but he ain't no pro, or I oughta say he wadn't no pro. Plays around town a lot. The type a guy what finishes third or fourth most a the time. Don't never win first place much. Maybe second once in a while."

"He was doing pretty well," Mort said. "He was in line to win."

"Yeah, that was a big soo-prise to a lotta people," Ike said.

Meanwhile, Sheila had struck up a conversation with the lady next to her, who, as it happened, called herself Rosie. "Like my complexion, you know," she had said with a titter. "I'm from New York, actually, but it's kind of fun to hang out in these little towns and I sorta struck up a--- well--- a thing with Ike over there."

Sheila didn't think Des Moines was all that little, but maybe compared to New York, it would seem that way. She also didn't know what Rosie might see in Ike, but appearances can be deceiving.

"Those two are talking about that Bob Pace fellow," Rosie went on. "Bet Ike doesn't give your boyfriend the real inside scoop, though."

"Oh," said Sheila, "you mean there's deeper story?" She gave Rosie a conspiratorial wink. "Buy you a drink if you spill," she said.

"Honey, you got a deal," Rosie replied. "Hey Larry," she said, calling for the barkeep, "double shot of rye straight up."

Sheila wasn't surprised when Rosie took the shot in one gulp. "Ah, love that rotgut," Rosie said. "Well, here's the deal. That Bob Pace, he was an okay player like Ike said but he wasn't nothing great. Thing is, he liked to bet a few dollars on the side. Like quite a few. Liked to bet on himself, too. Lost a lot of the time. Heard he was in hock to some people that ... well let's say they ain't too nice, and ain't too forgiving, if you get me."

Sheila knew there was organized crime in Des Moines, but didn't know a lot about it. "Hmm," she said, "no kidding."

"Well," Rosie said, putting her head close to Sheila's and whispering, "I think there was somethin' goin' on."

"Really? We were right there when it happened. Kind of scary. What do you think it was all about?"

"Don't know. Just know that Pace played at this illegal gamblin' joint that kinda specializes in checkers. Better not say more, though." Rosie leaned back toward her own seat.

"Where's this place?" Sheila asked. "My boyfriend here ... he likes to place a bet or two on his games and we haven't seen any action around here."

"I shouldn't tell ... it ain't safe ... but if you buy me another drink ... "

This time Sheila was surprised when Rosie put down another double rye without so much as taking a deep breath.

"It's not far ... you go over to the next block ... there's the Sweet Corn Cafe. Go in and ask for Colonel Checkers ... "kernel" checkers, get it?" Rosie laughed. "They'll take care of you from there. They'll ask who sent you and you say, "Rosie Double Rye." Then they'll know you're legit. But keep this to yourselves, okay?"

"Thanks Rosie ... well, uh, we have to go." Sheila turned to Mortimer. "Honey, we have to go. Pay the tab and come on."

"But ... okay," Mort said. "Nice to meet you Ike but I'll skip another handshake, okay?"

On the way out Mort asked, "What's the rush?"

Sheila replied, "You won't believe what I found out. We have one more stop to make."

"Where?" Mortimer asked.

"The Sweet Corn Cafe."

"The Sweet Corn ... "

Mortimer wore a puzzled look as Sheila pulled him through the door and out onto the street.

To be continued.

---

Do you, like Mortimer, take little breaks from your work to look at checker problems? We can't blame you if you do; just don't let the boss find out. In any case, try out the problem that was distracting our hero and see how you do. Clicking on Read More will show you the run-up and the solution.

Solution

Today's problem, titled Practically Practical, is by Jim Loy. It tied for first place in Bill Salot's Contest 18 in August 2014. The run-up is as follows.

1.	9-14	22-18
2.	5-9	21-17
3.	14x21	18-15
4.	11x18	23x5
5.	8-11	25-22
6.	4-8	22-17

27-23 or 24-20 would be best. This move gives Black an advantage.

7.

12-16

24-20

26-23 would have been better. Black has what now may be a winning position.

8.

16-19

29-25

27-25 would perhaps have been preferrable.

9.

11-15?

...

8-12 would have kept the strong Black advantage; White can now win. Here's the position at this point.

8.

...

17-14

Mr. Loy gives this to corrrect Teshelheit's 27-24 (which misses the win).

10.	10x17	26-22
11.	17x26	30x16
12.	21x30	31-26
13.	30x23	27x4

White Wins.

Our thanks to Jim Loy and Bill Salot for providing this fine study.