by Terry Shames
“Did he ever ask for a divorce?”
“We considered splitting a couple of times, but neither of us really wanted to. I’ll bet it surprises you that I wanted to stay with him.”
I shrug. I don’t know why she’d care what my opinion is. “That’s your business.” She seems reckless, throwing out all this talk. And her anger is free-floating, as if now that her husband is gone she can let it loose.
“We both had our reasons for wanting to stay together. Mine were practical. I like a quiet life. If we had split up, I’d have had to get a job again. I like being at home and working in the garden. The only reason I hired out to do it before was because one of us had to have an income. So if getting to do as I please meant I had to put up with Gary fooling around, then so be it. Let people say what they want to—I was a perfectly good wife to Gary and if he felt like he had to go with other women, that’s on him.”
“I’m sorry. I know this is hard for you…”
She interrupts me as if I hadn’t said anything. “And what made Gary stay with me? I think he wanted to be able to play around and use me as a convenient excuse not to get too involved with anybody.” She stops as if she’s run out of gas. “I guess none of that matters anymore.”
“Let me change the subject. Did Gary ever have any dealings with Gabe LoPresto?”
“Dealings? You mean besides flirting with Gabe’s girlfriend?”
“What makes you think he did?”
“Cookie Travers and I are friends. At least I think we are. Sometimes I think she takes too much pleasure in telling me every little thing Gary is up to. She told me Gary and Darla had a lot of little private discussions—by that I think she meant they were flirting. She doesn’t like Darla. Thinks she’s a troublemaker.”
“I understand that Gabe LoPresto’s company was going to get some of the building business when the water park went in. Did Gary ever mention that?”
“If he did, I don’t remember.”
I stand up to go. “Can you give me the names of Gary’s hunting buddies?”
“You should talk to Annalise. Her husband is the one who knows those men.”
“One more thing. Do you keep a gun?”
“I do, but it hasn’t been cleaned or fired in so long that it would probably blow up if somebody tried to use it. I’ll go get it. I keep it in the utility room.” She’s back in a few minutes with a shoebox. Inside is a tiny little Smith & Wesson and a box of .22 shells.
“You can put the lid back on that box, and if I were you I’d either get rid of the gun or have somebody clean it and make sure it works.”
She follows me to the door, and on the porch she suddenly says, “Samuel? What do you suppose Gary’s car was doing out there at the dam?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll do everything I can to answer that question.”
My cat Zelda tells me in no uncertain terms that I’ve been away too much the last few days and she doesn’t appreciate it. It’s a good thing she’s small, because if she were any bigger, she’d stomp holes in the floor as she storms over to her dish and points out to me that it’s empty.
Up the road I hear cars honking at each other and kids yelling. Being Friday night, there’s a basketball game. Although football is king, the basketball team is doing well this year and enthusiasm is high. I enjoy watching professional sports on TV, but there’s nothing like going to a hometown game with the people you’ve known your whole life. I had planned to go to the game, but I’m too tired.
Before I can stop my thoughts I’m doubting myself, thinking I might be too old to carry out the duties I’ve signed on for. But then I remember I was always this tired on the job at the end of the day, even when I was younger. It was one of the reasons Jeanne wanted me to bow out of running for police chief again after I’d put in a dozen years. “You’re always on call,” she said. “I want to see more of you.”
Now she’s not here, and I have all the time in the world to stretch myself every which way for the job. I get a beer out of the refrigerator and sit down to watch whatever happens to be on the TV. I don’t even have the energy to change channels. I wake up sometime in the night with the half-drunk beer sitting on the floor next to me, and the TV showing an old episode of River Monsters.
Alvin Raines moved Dellmore’s Crown Vic into the service station garage last night to keep it safe, and this morning he’s brought it out into a side parking area and put sawhorses around it so nobody will mess with it. He gives me the keys in a paper bag and tells me he did like I said and only handled them with gloves on.
I pull on latex gloves from our crime scene kit and open up the doors and trunk to have a good look. I won’t have time to do the tedious job of fingerprinting. That will have to fall to the Rangers’ crime unit.
There are food containers and wrappers from McDonald’s and Dairy Queen, and beer cans on the floor of the car. We don’t have a McDonald’s here in town, but I know they have one over in Bryan-College Station. We do have a Dairy Queen. It’s always possible that some of the trash was here before the kids took it joyriding. I can’t picture Dellmore eating at the DQ and throwing the wrappers in the back, but I have no way of knowing exactly what happened with the car around the time Dellmore was killed—who rode in the car or what they might have done. All the trash has to be left as is to be dusted for prints and tested for DNA.
In the glove compartment I find some country music CDs: one by Robert Earl Keen, a Ryan Bingham, and a T Bone Burnett. When I come to the fourth one, a familiar face, younger, stares back at me. It’s Angel Bright’s greatest hits CD. The picture on the front shows Angel on stage, head thrown back, body arched as if she’s prepared to be pulled up into the sky.
In addition to the usual road emergency stuff you find in a trunk, Dellmore has some gardening tools and a box of files. I thumb through the files and see that they’re job orders for some kind of building project. The crime unit will need to dust the files for fingerprints, but it’s possible they contain evidence pointing to whoever wanted Dellmore dead, so I want to go through them myself before I turn them over. I’ll make a note of what’s here for Alan Dellmore in case there’s urgent business that needs to be taken care of. I move the box to the trunk of the police car. The Rangers’ crime team won’t be happy with me taking it out of Dellmore’s trunk, but I have my own investigation to see to.
I arrange with Raines to have the Crown Victoria locked up in a shed in back of his service station until the crime unit can get to it.
On the way back to the police station I stop by Patty Skinner’s house to find out what fresh complaint she called about yesterday.
There’s a gleam of triumph in her eye when she answers the door. “Well, lookie who’s here. I guess you need some help.”
I can’t begin to imagine the kind of help she thinks she can give me, but before I can hazard a guess she opens the door wide. “Come on in and lay it out for him.”
A feeling of foreboding comes over me. I think I know who “him” is. Sure enough, Rodell Skinner is propped up on the couch in the living room. Patty flings her hand out to present him as if I ought to genuflect. Rodell struggles to sit up and makes an attempt at a smile. His skin is yellow and slack and he’s lost a good bit of weight.
“Rodell, I’m glad to see you’re back.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” Patty says.
“Patty, don’t be that way,” Rodell says. His voice sounds strange. He’s always been full of beer and bluster, and now his voice sounds thin, like he’s lost his punch. “I need to talk to Samuel, Patty. Will you let us have a moment?”
“I don’t know what you have to say to a traitor like him, moving in on your job the minute your back is turned.”
“Patty, it’s not like that,” I say.
“Go on now,” Rodell says in that new voice that gives me a bad feeling. “Let us have a few minutes.”
As soon as she’s gone, Rodell lets himself fall back on the sofa with a groan. “She’s try
ing to be loyal, that’s all. She always was loyal.” He says it like it’s a trait that has less to recommend it than you might think.
“How are you feeling?” Normally I would have said he’s looking good, but that’s way too big a lie.
“How do you think I’m feeling? I feel a little worse than I look.” He gives a short laugh and then coughs. “Patty’s got this idea that I’m going to jump up from here and go roust you out of my job. But you can see that’s not going to happen.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“Says my liver isn’t holding up.” He snickers and I see the old rascal in him. “Not hard to believe, is it?”
“Rodell, you’ve given your liver every reason to rebel.”
He beckons me closer. “Listen, I’ve only been home a day, and I’m already going crazy here. I need you to help me.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Take me down to the station with you. Patty is a good woman, but I know her, and she’s not going to give me a minute’s peace.”
“I’ll be honest, you don’t look like you’re in any shape to be doing any work.”
“If we’re being honest here, we might as well say it right out: You’re right. The doctor says if I stay off alcohol, I’ll last a while, but I’m never going back to work. Not to do real work. But I tell you, Samuel, if I have to stay around here and have Patty hover over me, there’s no way in hell I won’t get back to drinking.” This speech exhausts him and he seems to shrink right in front of me. He closes his eyes.
I’m having an unexpected reaction to all this. Rodell has always irritated me, but as much as I didn’t like him doing a bad job as chief of police, I hate seeing him frail and needy. I prefer the bluster to the pleading.
“Rodell?”
He opens his eyes. “Will you do it?”
“Not today. You’re in no shape to get up. But I’ll tell you what I’d like to do that would be of benefit to both of us. I suppose Patty told you that Gary Dellmore was killed. I’m going to come over here once a day and discuss the case with you. You’ll have a chance to think things over and give me advice.”
He cackles. “Me giving you advice?”
“It never hurts to have an extra mind working on things.”
“Not much of a mind,” he mutters.
“Your mind will work fine. It was the alcohol that kept you from being at your best.”
“You really think so?”
“I think you’ll be surprised.” I don’t know whether I’m right or not, but Rodell can use the encouragement.
“Samuel, I’ve got to get out of here, though.”
“Look at you, Rodell. You can’t even sit up. Wait until you’re a little stronger, and then we’ll get you down to the station.” I stand. “How is all this medical care getting paid for?” Although he looks like an old man, he’s several years shy of Medicare.
“That’s one thing about having a wife like Patty. She had sense enough to keep good medical coverage over and above the disability the job provided. Patty’s trying to find a part-time job, too.” He closes his eyes again. “That’ll be a blessing.” And I know he means more than just having money coming in.
“I’m going to leave you alone now. But I’ll come back in the morning and we’ll talk things over.” Rodell has put himself where he is, but that doesn’t make it any less pitiful. Seeing someone take the consequences of abusing their body has never done much to satisfy me.
I bring the banker’s box containing the files I found in Dellmore’s trunk into the station and set them under my desk. I’m curious to know what’s in them, but there’s no hurry. I won’t be able to turn them over to Alan or Cookie until Monday morning. The light on the telephone is blinking with five messages, and I take care of those first. Three of the calls are things that can be put off: Tools are missing from a construction site, an abandoned house has been vandalized, and someone is playing music too loud. The fourth one needs a follow-up.
“Mrs. Witz, is your car missing?”
“No, it’s right out front.”
“What makes you think somebody was riding around in it?”
There’s a long pause. “I know I sound crazy, but when I got in it to go to the store this morning, I was pretty sure somebody else had driven it.”
“When was the last time you drove it?”
“I go to the store once a week, every Thursday. That’s when the Qwik Mart puts things on sale.”
I’m patient with her. She admits the seat hadn’t been moved and as far as she could tell it had the same amount of gas in it. “But my mamma always told me I’ve got second sight, and I had this strange feeling that somebody had been in it. Maybe it had a different smell. Something.”
I tell her to call me if anything like that happens again.
The fifth call is more worrisome. A woman living out in the area where I was looking at property with Marietta Bryant yesterday has called to say that her teenage daughter seems to have run away from home. She sounds a little hysterical. It’s probably a teenager who got mad at her folks and is off sulking somewhere, but there’s always a chance it’s something worse. It needs to be handled right now. I don’t see a duty roster anywhere, so I call Zeke and tell him about the missing girl. “When are you scheduled to come in?”
“Not until this afternoon, but I’ll come in right now. You’ve got your hands full with the Dellmore thing. I’ll go talk to the missing girl’s mamma right away. Gives me an excuse to get out of cleaning the gutters.”
I re-record the message on the machine to give out my cell phone number and then sit back to plan what to do next to investigate Dellmore’s death. I feel like a rusty wheel that’s not able to move as smoothly as when it’s oiled. But there’s a method to be followed, and I’ll get there. I start by trying to think of a motive. The motives that pop to mind right away where Dellmore is concerned are sex and money—motives don’t get any more basic than that.
I’m not entirely convinced of Barbara’s explanation for why she stayed with Gary when she knew he’d had multiple affairs. Maybe I was too quick to dismiss Loretta’s suggestion that she’d had enough and killed Dellmore. But if she did decide she’d had enough, why now? Is there something going on that made her suddenly decide she’d be better off with him dead? Maybe he asked for a divorce, and this time he meant it. It’s hard for me to imagine that Dellmore seriously considered Jessica Reinhardt as a possible replacement for Barbara. Was he seeing someone else?
I don’t for a minute suspect Jessica of killing Dellmore, even if he disappointed fantasies she might have had about him. But if Rusty Reinhardt knew that Dellmore had actually gone to Jessica’s house, he might have been angry enough to confront Dellmore. Jim Krueger said he overheard Rusty asking Gary if he could talk to him after the meeting. Maybe the confrontation got out of hand. And it’s always possible that if I dig deeper into it, I may find other boyfriends or husbands or fathers angry at Dellmore.
The phone interrupts my thinking. It’s Barbara Dellmore. “I got a call from the funeral home. The medical examiner released Gary’s body yesterday afternoon, and nobody bothered to call and tell me.”
“That’s not the first time someone told me that. I guess they think it’s up to the funeral home to let the family know. Anyway, I’m sure you and his folks are relieved. Do you know when you’re going to have the funeral?”
“It’s not going to be a public affair. We want it private, with just a few friends. I’m calling because it would be nice to have a law enforcement person there.”
“I’m glad to be there, Barbara, but what do you mean it would be nice to have the law there?”
“In case anybody shows up uninvited. Anyway, it’s Monday afternoon at the Episcopal Church at two o’clock. Can you be there?”
“Of course I will.” I don’t mind going, but I wonder who she thinks will show up that she didn’t invite.
Still considering possible motives for Dellmore’s murder, I turn
my attention to money—always a complicated matter. Maybe Dellmore meddled in somebody’s business that he shouldn’t have. Or maybe somebody was involved in illegal transactions, and he found out and threatened to expose them. I’ll need to ask Cookie Travers what kind of banking matters Dellmore was currently working on.
Then there’s his involvement with the water park out at the lake. Alton Coldwater claimed that Dellmore was partly to blame for that fiasco. And according to Oscar Grant, Dellmore bragged about making a secret killing on the deal. It seems straightforward—Dellmore put together the loan and probably got a commission. What else could he have done that he needed to keep secret? I could ask Alan Dellmore, but I decide to consult Cookie first. She’s been Alan’s loyal right-hand man for a long time, and if she can answer my questions it will mean I can spare Dellmore having to dredge up what may have been shady business practices on his son’s part.
The door opens and Truly Bennett pokes his head inside.
“Come on in,” I say, rising.
Bennett steps inside, cringing as if he’s expecting to be hit. In his fifties, Bennett grew up at a time when daily life could be hard for men of color, especially in small towns. For Bennett there’s the extra history of the time he spent in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. He has his old straw hat in his hands, and it looks like he’s going to tear it apart if I don’t settle him down.
“What’s up, Truly? You look worried.”
“Chief Craddock, I had to come around and see you because something happened over at Mr. McClusky’s place, and I don’t want to get blamed for something I didn’t do.”
“Sit down here. Let me get you a cup of coffee.” I set the coffee in front of him, but he’s still working on the hat. “What happened?”
“Somebody broke into Mr. McClusky’s house last night.”
“Uh-oh. Tell me about it.”
“You know I’ve been over there painting. This morning I planned to start early, but my truck had a dead battery. I had to wait for somebody to give me a jump. So I only got there twenty minutes ago. I went around back to pick up some brushes I cleaned last night, and I saw that the backdoor was open a little bit. I thought maybe Mr. McClusky or Ms. Bright had come home, so I called out, but nobody answered. And then I saw that the little window next to the door was broken. I knew then that somebody must have broken in. I went around and rang the front doorbell and called out some more in case they hadn’t heard me, but nobody was home. I came down here because I don’t want anybody thinking I did that.”
