by George Wier
*****
“The guy investigating all this is your old running buddy, Bill,” Perry told me. “Patrick Kinsey.”
“Well I’ll be damned,” I said.
“He called me up and then came out and I told him my life story, which is a long and sad tale,” Perry said.
“No doubt.”
Perry had his feet up on the corner of his desk and I sat in a creaking leather chair, waiting for it collapse on me.
Perry and I used to play one-on-one basketball when the weather was fine and both of our calendars were clear. That was before my husband-and-father days, though, speaking of which, I was due to give Julie a call and let her know when I’d be home.
“Why are you asking about the stiff?”
That had me stumped. “Idle curiosity,” I said. A lie, I know, but it wasn’t any of Perry’s business.
“Yeah,” he said. “Right. Bill, I’ve known you for how long? About ten years?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“You’re supposed to be an accountant,” Perry said.
“Investment counselor.”
“Same thing.”
“So?”
“Getting yourself in the middle of shit must be just a hobby, then.”
“A fellow’s got to do something,” I said.
“Tell you what, Bill. I’m bored. My life is one long series of boilerplate contracts. I’ve got no attachments.”
“They keep slapping you and running off,” I said.
“That was a low blow, Bill.”
“Sorry.”
“Anyway, I would dearly love to get out of this office and... you know. Do something.”
“I fly pretty much solo, Perry,” I said.
He frowned.
“Ever since I found that old man’s body, Bill, it’s been bothering me. I need—there’s some word for it.”
“Closure.”
He slapped the desk. “Closure! Exactly! That’s what I need.”
“Perry,” I said. “I’m not as gullible as your hired help.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Come on,” he said. “Help a brother out. Help me find closure.”
I suppose my eyes narrowed as I scrutinized him. Thus far all I had done was talked to one Texas Ranger nearing retirement and my office neighbor. What possible harm could come? And then I felt it again. A little shiver down at the pit of my gut and a creeping feeling over the nape of my neck.
“I don’t know, Perry.”
He waited.
“Have you ever been in a close scrape?” I asked him.
“Got myself sued. I’ve been married. I’ve been divorced.”
I laughed. “That’s not exactly what I mean, Perry. But. . .” and despite the fact that I knew better: “Okay,” I said.
He slapped his desk hard. “Hot damn!”
“Get your jacket,” I said. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER FOUR
It was unseasonably cool out. During the previous evening a thick cloud cover had rolled over Austin and the Hill Country and a steady drizzle began. The local weather report promised a day or two of it, no less, the type of weather my father would have called “the drizzlin’ shits.” Temperatures dropped down into the low fifties and most people out in it were sporting jackets and rain slickers of one kind or another.
Perry Reilly rode shotgun as I drove. On his lap was an open Austin phone directory over which he ran a steady finger.
“I’ve got a Phillip C. Burnet in Point Venture.”
“That’s not in Austin. That’s in a different county.”
“I know where it is,” Perry said.
Already he was getting on my nerves. What are friends for, anyway?
“Those people out there in Point Venture like to buy annuities,” he said. “I pretty well farmed the place out years ago.”
“Ever sell an annuity to Phil Burnet?” I asked him.
He turned and gave me a blank stare for a moment.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Okay.”
“We going to Point Venture?”
“Where else?” I asked. “Unless you want to go see an autopsy in progress. Not that they would let us in.”
“Point Venture it is,” Perry said.
*****
I looked down upon West Austin and the surrounding area in my mind’s eye as if from twenty-thousand feet in the air. I love maps. I love collecting them and pouring over them, looking for things I’ve not seen before. Especially I like the idea of taking a look down upon places I have been in my life and recalling when I was last there and what I had seen. Sometimes this little penchant for the bird’s-eye view comes in handy. As I drove west listening to Perry hum the soundtrack music for what I placed as Cool Hand Luke, and badly, I saw in an instant a little detail that made all the difference in the world. Between Point Venture—where Phil Burnet allegedly had lived and likely not far from where he allegedly liked to fish—and Town Lake—where Perry had found him—there were two obstacles that would stand firmly in the path of an inert human body seeking its lowest level: first, a broad concrete dam with a rocky, shallow spillway at its foot, and second, much closer to Town Lake, a far older dam. If Phil Burnet was killed on Lake Travis then it was virtually impossible for his body to end up in Town Lake, much less a few hundred yards upstream from the lake in Barton Creek. That is, impossible by way of nature.
I thought about mentioning this little tidbit to Perry for the longest possible time—about a tenth of second—and decided against it. Maybe he’d figure it out himself.
*****
Lakes in Texas are created by damming rivers, creeks and even trickles of water, from the largest, such as Lake Livingston in East Texas which was created by damming the Trinity River, to the smallest duck pond on the back forty of any given parcel of land. Lakes are made by tractors, cement trucks, and the inexorable physical laws governing water. Lake Travis is no exception.
From this sculpting of Texas, which prior to the advent of European culture on the continent was a land devoid of open waterways—the only notable exception being Caddo Lake—is a land now dotted with thousands of lakes of all sizes. And around each lake of any appreciable size, communities have sprung up. Such a comm-unity was Point Venture, a small pre-planned and developed neighbor-hood that included a few hundred expansive homes for the new rich and the wealthy retired, with the requisite golf course, clubhouse, meeting hall, and churches in odd places as an afterthought.
Point Venture had the kind of tilted-up chin atmosphere about it I would normally strive to avoid. Not that some very fine people don’t live there. It just wasn’t my scene.
There was a security gate and a bored guard on duty, a grizzled and gray-headed, clean-shaven fellow probably nearing his own retirement. He stepped out of the guard shack and walked around to my door.
“Are you a resident here?” he asked.
“No sir. Coming to pay my respects to a deceased resident,” I said.
The guard hunkered down and studied our faces.
“I know you,” he said to Perry Reilly.
“No you don’t,” Perry said.
“I do. I never forget a face. I ran you out of here a couple of years back. You were selling something. As I recall you also hit on one of the residents. I don’t think she liked it.”
“Must have been my brother,” Perry said.
“You haven’t got a brother,” I said. I turned to the guard. “I’ll make sure he’s on best behavior. A Texas Ranger asked me to check into something for him and when a Ranger asks me to do something, I usually do it.”
“You don’t say,” the guard said, his interest clearly piqued. “Must be about that dead museum fellow. Well, tell you what. Let me copy down your driver’s license number and if there’s any backlash, we’ll know how to find you.”
“Fine,” I said, and fished out my wallet. “I appreciate it.”
The guard took out a notepad, jotted my name an
d number on it, then handed my license back.
“I won’t be long,” I said.
“No. That’s fine. But if you’re not out of here by the time I go off shift, I’ll come looking for you.”
“I appreciate it,” I repeated.
“And watch him,” he jabbed a finger, indicating Perry.
“That I will,” I said.
Inside of thirty seconds the gate came up and we drove into Point Venture.
“What is it with you?” I asked Perry. No reply. I suppose I wouldn’t have replied either.
*****
Perry and I got out in the deepening drizzle during the lunch hour at the clubhouse, having driven by the Burnet place and noted yellow police tape on the front door.
“What are we doing here?” Perry asked.
“I’m hungry,” I said.
“Oh.”
Inside the clubhouse a silver-haired receptionist was on duty at a posh-looking desk. I found myself comparing her desk to my own.
“We’re not members,” I said, “but I’m thinking of investing in some property out here and I wanted to try the clubhouse restaurant.”
“Oh!” she brightened. “Goody! Right through that door. And let me know what you think when you come out. Ask for the blue plate special. Today its chicken and dumplings, string-beans and apple cobbler. The best on the whole lake!”
“Why thank you,” I said.
“How do, Miss?” Perry said.
“I do fine,” she said. “You fellows enjoy.”
“Come on,” I said and grabbed Perry’s elbow and led him off.
CHAPTER FIVE
Phil Burnet was not much on making friends. This I found out from the waiter, a tall, thin fellow of about my own age.
“Yeah, he eats here. Or used to. I’m not surprised he’s dead. Mean son-of-a-bitch.”
“Never tipped?”
“Not once. Ever. But that isn’t the half of it. Anything he could find wrong, and even if there wasn’t anything wrong, I would hear about it. Also, he could get... verbal.”
“You mean loud?” Perry asked.
“Right. Somebody capped him, I heard.”
“Good news travels fast, huh?” Perry said.
“You might say that,” the waiter said. “Let me go put in your order. I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
“Perry,” I began, when the waiter was out of earshot, unsure of what I was going to say, “can you keep a low profile?”
His brow furrowed.
“What I mean is, can you let me ask the questions?”
“Oh. Sure thing, Bill.”
When the waiter returned, coffee and coke balanced on a huge tray, I said, “Say, do you remember the last verbal repartee Burnet had here?”
“Yeah. It was a law man. Texas Ranger, I think.”
“Fellow about six feet, one-eighty or so? Going on mid-sixties?”
“That’s him.”
“When was this?” Perry chimed in.
I looked hard at him.
“Little over a week ago. Say, that was about the last time I saw the old bastard. Burnet, that is.”
*****
I tipped the waiter a twenty. The food had been extremely good and it had gotten to us piping hot and instantly.
We quitted the clubhouse with a positive report to the receptionist, who was thrilled, and then drove down to the Point Venture marina on the shores of Lake Travis.
Large Texas lakes have that wonderful universal lake-scent about them, a combination of old rain, rotting lakeshore vegetation, and fish. I found myself appreciating the scent.
We walked over wet planks out over the water and under an awning.
I waited for Perry to ask what we were doing, but when he didn’t I didn’t bother to fill him in.
The place was deserted, the various boats were secured and water lapped at gunwales and pilings down below. I peered out into the mist as far as I could across the lake and saw a light that grew as I watched. A boat, hopefully headed in.
We waited. Perry drew out a cigarette and lit it.
“When did you start smoking?” I asked him.
“Geez louise. You’re worse than my ex-wife.”
“Thanks,” I said.
The boat grew closer. It was a bass boat, with seats at stern and bow.
The boat engines cut down to a dull rumble as the boat glided in, and then at the last second, the engine killed. The sign of an old pro.
I waved.
The boat kissed the dock at our feet.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi yourself,” the voice said, the voice of a woman, though raspy and at the same time very feminine.
She secured the craft with a deft flick of the wrist, grabbed a collapsible wire basket half full of fish and stuck out her hand. I reached but Perry was closer.
“Good fishing on a day like this?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “Just me and the little guys today.” She hefted the basket and I looked in and saw crappie and catfish, the smallest at about half a pound.
“I wish I could fish,” Perry said.
“Well, get a cane pole, some bait and a bucket and fish,” she said.
“I’m Perry Reilly,” he said, and extended his hand.
“Glad to meet you, Perry. I’m Sarah. Sarah Banks.” They shook hands. I could tell that Perry was mesmerized by her. Her hood fell back to reveal mousy, dishwater blond hair, a bit bedraggled, and a kind face with bright, quick eyes. As I looked at the two, it hit me. Possibly Perry had just met his match.
“Sarah, this is Bill. Bill Travis.”
She extended her hand to me and smiled warmly.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Travis.”
“Bill. Just Bill.”
“Fine, Bill. What are you guys up to? It looked like you were waiting for me.”
“I was,” Perry said. “I mean, we were. You tell her, Bill. Bill does the talking.”
“I was wondering if you knew Phil Burnet,” I said.
“Who doesn’t—or rather, didn’t? Terribly wonderful guy. Damn shame.” I tried to detect a degree of irony, but couldn’t.
“Do you know where he fished?” I asked.
“He only ever fished the one time I know if. Always said he was gonna retire and fish all day. Best laid plans. But I was curious when he bought an actual boat, so I watched him that day from a long way off.”
Perry was smiling, watching her. Every time her eyes went from me to him, they brightened ever so slightly. Despite the conversation and my part in it, I might as well have been on the opposite rim of the galaxy from those two.
“Did you see anybody with him” I asked.
“No,” she said, “and I got tired of watching him. I think that was about a week or more ago.”
“Could you show us where he was fishing?” Perry asked.
“Show you?” She asked him. Perry took the wire basket from her hands and set it down on the planks at their feet.
“Yeah,” Perry said. “Call it curiosity.”
“You fellows aren’t cops, are you?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m an investment counselor and he’s—”
“An independent insurance agent,” Perry finished for me.
Their eyes were still locked on each other.
“Really?” Sarah asked. “Insurance? Oh wow. I’d love to do that. Have a desk and an office and a telephone and talk to people and fill out forms and stuff. Indoors where its climate controlled all day! Maybe you could show me your office?”
“I’d be happy to,” Perry said. “But only if you’ll promise to help me do something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time.”
“What’s that?” Sarah asked.
“Go fishing from sunup to sundown, without ever setting foot on land.”
She laughed. It was a husky laugh that had a physical effect on Perry. I believe he dropped five years from his appearance as he grinned from ear to ear.
“Perr
y,” she said, still chuckling, “you and Bill wait right here. I’m gonna put these fish on ice. Give me ten minutes.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said.
She brushed past Perry, turned and regarded me with a wide smile. She had a little gap in her front teeth. We turned to watch her as she made her way around the marina and down the boardwalk to the parking lot.
“I’ll be damned,” Perry said.
“You’re a hound dog,” I told him, and he didn’t even hear me.
CHAPTER SIX
We were in Sarah Bank’s bass boat, crossing Lake Travis roughly in the direction I took to be the town of Lakeway on the opposite shore. Sarah held the tiller and I could hear her and Perry jabbering away with each other as the fine drizzle pelted us. Sarah had been kind enough to bring back a couple of old rain slickers that fit us. They had a musty smell about them, but they kept us dry.
“You know,” I heard Perry say to her, “I’m really a bit of a womanizer. I suppose I hit on just about every girl that comes within ten feet of me.”
She laughed. “How the hell else are you going to get anywhere if you don’t?”
“Exactly!”
Criminy, I thought.
“Been slapped a few times, huh?” she asked, still very amused.
“Definitely. At least once a month. Sometimes more often.”
“Mmmm,” she sighed, satisfied.
I noticed from the corner of my eye that she laid her hand on his arm.
“I would never slap you, Perry,” she said quietly.
Bow waves roiled beneath me.
It was colder on the lake. We were making our own wind and it sliced at every slight opening in my clothing. My toes were beginning to numb.
We neared the farther shore and a dark shape grew out of the mist. It was an ancient marina made completely of wood which had grayed to an almost silvery sheen. As we drew closer and Sarah eased off on the engine, I could pick out boards that lay at odd angles, half in—half out of the water, and dark oblong windows where doubtless glass once kept out the weather.
