A Deadly Affair at Bobtail Ridge

by Terry Shames

  “Your mamma was in her mid-seventies. She had a long life.”

  “It should have been longer.” Suddenly Jenny smiles. “She was scared she’d be a burden to me if she got too old. I told her she’d never be a burden.”

  “You were lucky to have a good mother like that.”

  Jenny nods. We’ve had a lot of good talks, and she understands that my situation was the opposite. My mamma was a difficult woman, and when she became ill at the end of her life, she resented all the well people around her and anything they tried to do for her. Jeanne and I took good care of her in circumstances where a lot of people would have left her alone.

  “You said she was talking crazy. What kind of things was she saying?”

  “She kept telling me to find my daddy. I don’t think she ever talked like that—not to me, anyway. And she kept telling me to be careful and take care of myself.” She starts to cry again, tears slipping down her cheeks. “That’s the way she was, always worrying about me instead of herself.”

  “She asked me to find your daddy, too.”

  “I don’t know what she was thinking. Poor thing.”

  I decide to plunge in. “There was something else, too. She wanted me to find your daddy’s first wife?”

  Jenny sits bolt upright. “What? What first wife? My daddy wasn’t married before. Like I said, she was talking crazy.”

  “What do you think about the autopsy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What would your mamma have wanted?”

  Jenny ponders for a few seconds and begins to nod. She squares her shoulders, and her eyes lose some of their misery. “That’s exactly the right question to ask. You’re right. She was an educator through and through. She would want her death to be used to teach somebody something, and she would have fussed at me for dragging my feet.” She stands up. “Let’s go talk to the doctor.”

  Half a dozen people are huddled near the nurses’ station and they all turn toward Jenny when we walk up. Wilson Landreau, the man Jenny was arguing with at the hospital last week, is here. He walks up to us and says, “The nurse said you were in the chapel and we wanted to give you time to be alone.” He casts a curious look at me.

  “Thank you, Will.” Jenny grabs his hand for a brief moment, and he puts his hand on top of hers.

  Two elderly women and a couple move to Jenny’s side, murmuring their condolences. One of the women, rail thin and with sharp features, says, “Jennifer, I don’t know what I’m going to do without your mamma. She was my best friend for forty years. It’s going to take its toll on me.”

  Jenny puts her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Mrs. Matthews, I know how much Mamma loved you. It’s going to be hard for all of us to get along without her.”

  Mrs. Matthews takes a tissue out of her sleeve and dabs her eyes. She looks sharply at Will and then at me. She may be grief-stricken, but not so much that she can’t assess who Jenny’s men friends are. Seeing that Jenny is well taken care of, I bow out, telling Jenny to call if she needs anything.

  I’m at the juncture of two hallways, headed to the elevators when I see Dr. Patel hurrying down to meet Jenny for their appointment. I flag him down.

  “Jenny would like to go ahead with the autopsy,” I say.

  “Good, I’ll take care of it right away.” He starts to walk away, and I put my hand up to stop him.

  “A question. When I came here to visit Vera yesterday, she seemed agitated. If someone said something to upset her, could that have caused another stroke?”

  He hesitates. “It isn’t unheard of for someone with high blood pressure or with a weak immune system to be affected adversely by anger or from some terrible event. But Mrs. Sandstone was not an elderly woman and she was in generally good health. She should have recovered. I’ll be glad of the opportunity to find out more from the autopsy.”

  “I’m glad Jenny decided to go ahead then.”

  “There is one thing. You were right, Mrs. Sandstone did have a visitor who upset her. One of my nurses told me there was an incident.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  Patel grimaces. “I can’t say more than that. It’s a privacy issue, but I wanted you to know that your question was not out of line.”

  Back home, I call a few people Jenny is friendly with in town and tell them her mother passed away. In the best of times, Jenny is not a cook, and the food that people will bring her will be helpful. I make a fair beef stew myself, and I throw the ingredients into a Crockpot.

  As I’m leaving for headquarters, Jenny calls and asks if I’ll come to her mother’s house later. Some of her mother’s friends will be visiting this afternoon. “I need somebody to help me entertain them. You’ve got a gift of gab.”

  I spend a couple of hours at work and then go over to Vera’s house to help Jenny slog through conversations with the mourners. They all press to know when the funeral will be and what they can do to help. Jenny tells them she’ll decide with the preacher tomorrow and let them know.

  Mrs. Matthews has been fluttering around Jenny like a hummingbird and suddenly she says, “Jennifer, I hope I’m not out of line. Have you phoned your brother and told him Vera passed?”

  Jenny’s reaction takes me by surprise. Usually unflappable, she couldn’t look any more stunned if the woman had slapped her across the face. When it’s clear that she isn’t going to reply, one of the other ladies says, “I’m sure Jenny will do what’s right. This isn’t the time to bother her.”

  “I just meant . . .” Mrs. Matthews’s voice trails away, and then she looks around the room. “Can I get anybody a refill of coffee?”

  When the conversation returns to normal, Jenny signals me that she wants me to follow her. She takes me out onto the back porch. We stand looking out over the yard. “I just need a minute to collect myself,” she says.

  The grass is freshly mowed. “Smells good out here,” I say. “You mow this yourself?”

  She smiles and says, “You know me better than that. It was Nate Holloway from next door. As soon as I got here and told him Mamma was gone, he came over to clean up the yard and mow. He said he wanted everything to look as nice as Mamma would have wanted it to.”

  “Sounds like a nice young man,” I say.

  “You wouldn’t think a twenty-five-year-old man would take any notice of an old woman like Mamma. Shows how much everyone loved her.” She crosses her arms, hugging herself. “Listen, I called you out here to ask you something. Did Dr. Patel have a particular reason for requesting an autopsy?”

  “I think he just wanted to get as much information as he could. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. He just seemed like he had something particular in mind.”

  “He did mention one thing.” I tell Jenny her mother had a visitor who upset her.

  “What do you mean he wouldn’t tell you who it was? Why not?”

  “He said it was a privacy issue.”

  “She’s dead. How much privacy does she need?”

  “Maybe he’ll tell you; just not me. Now, you want to tell me what that was all about in there? I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  She gets that same strained look on her face, but at least she doesn’t stonewall me the way she did Mrs. Matthews. “For all intents and purposes, I don’t,” she says.

  I’ve become more accustomed to the horses in the past week and feel comfortable leading them into their stalls for the night. I could get Truly to do it, but I don’t want to put him out, and besides, I haven’t minded getting to know the horses. So when I get Mahogany to the door of his stall at dusk, I’m surprised when he balks and dances backward. “Come on in here. I’m not doing anything different,” I say, hoping the sound of my voice will calm him.

  I pull on his lead, and he takes a few steps in, but he stamps his feet and blows through his nostrils, something he’s never done before. His eyes are rolling and he looks frightened. I could let him stay in the pasture and have Truly come by later and put him
away, but it hurts my pride to think I can’t outsmart a cranky horse. I step deeper into the stall, speaking calmly, and Mahogany takes another step or two. He’s halfway in now, and I move to the side to get out of his way. Suddenly he screams and rears. I jump back, dropping the lead. And that’s when I see a huge rattlesnake on the floor of the stall. He’s half-hidden by straw strewn on the floor.

  “Son of a bitch!” I yell. Mahogany rears again, panicked. In the stall next door, Blackie takes up the panic and begins blowing and flailing around, kicking and butting up against the sides of the stall.

  Mahogany continues to rear and stamp, his eyes wild. I fling myself up against the far wall to avoid his hooves—and to avoid the snake, which has begun to coil itself. “Whoa, boy,” I say. “Easy does it. Back on up. Take it easy.” I try to keep my voice even, although I’m as alarmed as the horse is. I’m relieved when Mahogany moves backward far enough to turn around and bolt out of the stall.

  Now it’s me and the snake, which is fully coiled and making that rattling noise that chills the blood. The snake is so long that he might be able to reach me if he strikes. I’ve got sturdy boots on, but I don’t know how high up he can lunge. All he has to do is hit my femoral artery and I’m done for. I look for something to defend myself with and see a pitchfork on the wall just out of reach. Should I lunge for it or stay still? The slightest movement could set the snake off.

  Knowing a bit about rattlers, I opt for stillness. It’s a waiting game that has my legs shaking and gives me plenty of time to get a good look at the snake. This isn’t your central Texas rattlesnake. It’s thicker and longer. If I’m not mistaken this is a timber rattler, which you sometimes find in east Texas but not so much around here. When I worked as a land man and did a lot of land surveys, I made it my business to know the habits of the poisonous snakes in Texas—which are many. The timber rattler is less aggressive than some others. Sure enough, after a time of seeing no movement from me, he uncoils himself and slithers back under the straw.

  I wait until my breathing is quieter and my legs less rubbery before I ease out of the stall, keeping my back to the wall and my eye on the straw where the snake disappeared. Out of the barn, I hunch over with my hands on my knees, taking deep breaths, waiting for my heart rate to slow down. The sun has set, but there’s still a good bit of light in the sky. I’m relieved to see that Mahogany has retreated far down into the pasture, still blowing and dancing skittishly.

  I go back into the barn and lead Blackie out to the pasture. I don’t know what that rattlesnake has in mind, but I don’t want it to corner Blackie. The horse is reluctant to leave and tries to go back into the barn, so I have to swat him on the rump to get him to move away.

  I waste no time going back to my place for a shotgun. I come back and find a long-handled hoe, which I use to push straw aside until I uncover the rattlesnake. Then I dispatch it with a couple of shots. Normally I wouldn’t bother a snake, but this one was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I feel sick thinking what could have happened if Jenny had come home, distracted, and tried to put the horses away.

  After I hang the snake’s body on the fence, I try to get the horses back in, but Mahogany is having none of it. I get Blackie in and then go back to my house and call Truly Bennett and tell him what happened. “I’d appreciate it if you’d help me get Mahogany in the stall. He’s pretty spooked.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Truly says. “I’m glad it was you and not me found that rattler. You know I hate snakes.”

  “I know you do, and I can’t say I was too fond of this one myself.”

  “What’d you do with the carcass?”

  “I hung it on the fence.”

  “Good. I’ll take it to a lady I know who makes things with snakeskin. How about lye soap? Did you put some in the stall?”

  “I’ll take a bar over there now.”

  I don’t really believe in the old tale that says where there’s one snake there’s two and that a bar of lye soap will keep the second one away. But it can’t hurt to put the soap out. I take the pitchfork and toss the straw in the stall around to make sure there are no more surprises.

  When Truly arrives we coax Mahogany into the stall. Between the cut lock and the timber rattler that’s out of its territory, I can’t help wondering if somebody has it in for these horses—someone who knows how much Jenny cares for them.

  CHAPTER 6

  I’m glad that Truly is spending the night with the horses so I don’t have to worry about them and can get a good night’s sleep. Early the next morning I get a call from a jogger who says that Ellen Forester’s art gallery has been vandalized. I call her and she says she’ll meet me there.

  She’s there when I arrive, standing in front of the store with the look of someone who has been punched in the stomach. Her face is splotchy from crying, although she’s dry-eyed now. She’s pretty, even with the traces of tears on her face and no makeup. She’s wearing jeans and an oversized shirt that makes her look even more petite than she is.

  Hands on our hips, we survey the considerable damage to the front of the building. The big picture window that displays art has been smashed, and a couple of the paintings near the window have big splashes of red paint on them. The door and front of the building are also splashed with paint.

  “This makes me so mad,” Ellen says. “I can hardly stand to look at it. Why would anybody be so mean?”

  “You have insurance, right?”

  She looks up at me, her dark eyes angry. “Of course, but it’s got a high deductible. That’s not the point anyway. The window can be replaced, but people have worked on those paintings, and even though they may not have any monetary value, they’re important to somebody.” She surveys the damage again. “What’s the chance of catching whoever did it?”

  “I’m not going to lay any odds, but you’d be surprised how one thing leads to another and before you know it . . .” I shrug and then try to lighten her mood. “And it’s always possible that someone will get a guilty conscience and tattle.”

  She smiles. “You’re thinking it might be teenagers?”

  “It is that time of year.” It’s prom, finals, and graduation in rapid succession. Kids get amped up, and there’s no telling what they will get up to. But that’s not actually who I think is likely to have done this. The damage to the window is so thorough that it has to have been more than somebody randomly throwing a rock from a car. It looks like somebody took a hammer and smashed out as much of the window as he could reach. “You got any other ideas. Had any threats?”

  She shakes her head, eyes narrowed. She knows what I’m referring to.

  “Could this be the work of your husband?”

  “Ex-husband! I swear I’m going to convince everybody to call him that. And there’s no reason he would do something so low.”

  A crowd is forming, courtesy of Jarrett Creek’s lively grapevine, all angry at the destruction. The gallery hasn’t been open that long, but it already has a following of would-be artists who jumped at the chance to take classes from Ellen. Many of them huddle around her, commiserating.

  Gabe LoPresto storms up to Ellen, “I bet this is the work of that husband of yours—or somebody he hired to do it.”

  “We were just discussing that,” I say. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Although I have to admit that I agree with him.

  LoPresto considers himself witty, and a smirk comes to his face. “I don’t suppose this is somebody’s critical commentary on people’s artwork?”

  Ellen grins. “Gabe, if everybody who doesn’t like my art expressed it this way, I’d have to fold up business.”

  “Well, don’t you worry,” he says. “I’m going to have a crew out here the minute the insurance people say I can get started, and I’ll fix you up in no time.”

  Gabe’s words sound like he’s the soul of charity, but I know his wife Sandy takes classes here. She brags that she has discovered a previously untapped talent. Gabe has been working hard to
get back in Sandy’s good graces ever since he strayed. If he wasted ten minutes repairing the damage to the gallery, she’d give him hell.

  I poke into the glass a little bit, but there’s nothing in the rubble that could have been used as a missile. “Have you been inside?” I ask Ellen.

  “No. I guess I should. The door was still locked, so I assumed everything was fine inside.” She pulls out a key and heads for the door.

  “Hold it,” I say. “I need to go in there first.”

  Not only do I want to be sure the crime scene is secure, but also having had the recent run-in with the snake, I want to check things out. I can imagine somebody throwing a snake through the window and it lying in wait inside. But when I check the gallery and workshop area, Ellen’s office, and the restroom, everything looks undisturbed—and there are no vipers in sight. I bring her inside to see if anything is missing.

  Ellen’s art is prominently displayed in the gallery, along with pieces from other Texas artists, mostly landscapes. None of it is to my taste, but I haven’t said so. I used to like representational art—the Texas school of cactus, cows, and bluebonnets. But my wife Jeanne gradually won me over to modern art. I have a pretty fair collection that gives me great pleasure. Ellen doesn’t carry that kind of art because most people don’t have a taste for it. She’s got a business to run, and there’s no point in carrying things people won’t buy.

  “At least everything is okay in here,” she says. She looks like she’s going to start crying again but turns to me with a fierce look instead. “I’m not going to cry! I won’t give anyone the satisfaction.”

  It’s late afternoon when I get a call from Jenny. “I wanted to let you know that Dr. Patel called and he said Mamma died of a stroke, pure and simple. Apparently the autopsy set his mind at rest.”

  “That’s good to know. Where are you? You sound like you’re calling from the bottom of a well.”