Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek

by Terry Shames

  “I can do that.”

  McClusky goes to his foldout bed and brings his brother a flashlight he has beside the bed. As soon as Harold is gone, McClusky says, “I need to go down in the basement and turn on that power.”

  “I’ll have to go with you,” I say.

  “Suit yourself.”

  I follow him down to a big basement that’s stacked with tables and chairs and kitchen implements. He goes straight to a bank of switches, peers at them, and flips a few on. “That should do it.” He turns back to me, and for a second I tense, seeing in his eyes that he’s weighing how to get past me and out the door.

  “McClusky, let me ask you something. You’ve got all this furniture stacked in the cabins and down here. What are you doing with it?”

  “Auction company is coming next week to take it all off my hands. I’ll get pennies on the dollar. Maybe enough to pay the mortgage here a couple more months. I don’t know what I’m going to do about Harold. It’s going to break his heart.”

  I tense, waiting for him to do something to throw me off or get away, but the calculation in his eyes dies when he mentions his brother. Dibble is waiting for us at the top of the stairs, and we return to our seats by the fireplace.

  My mind is working furiously. McClusky is right—he’s worse off with Gary Dellmore gone. His source of funding with the bank is gone, and he was counting on Gary’s smooth talk to persuade Darla to rope in Gabe LoPresto. Not that LoPresto would have been roped in anyway, but McClusky doesn’t know that. So he doesn’t have much motive that I can see for killing Dellmore.

  But there’s still the fact that McClusky’s gun was used to commit the murder. If neither he nor Angel killed Gary, who else had access to the gun? And then I think about the neighborhood break-ins. Suppose the break-in at Camille Overton’s house was a cover-up to hide the fact that the real target was the McClusky house? What if someone broke in to steal the gun, and the second break-in—the one where the window was broken—was to put it back after it was used to kill Dellmore? There are still details to be ironed out, but if that theory is true, it means someone is framing the McCluskys for Gary Dellmore’s murder.

  “Slate, I’m willing for now to go along with you when you say you didn’t kill Dellmore, but you’re not off the hook. I found out you never had any intention of following through with building a water park in Jarrett Creek. You defrauded the town. You had a Ponzi scheme going, getting money from the town so you could put the money into your parks that were already failing.”

  “I swear to you, that’s not true. I had every intention of building that park. It’s just…” He stops and stares into the fireplace. “I couldn’t seem to buy a break. Everything went to hell all at the same time. I intended to put the money from the Jarrett Creek loan into a couple of places that were going under. And then once they were back in business, I was going to start the Jarrett Creek one.” He runs his hands through his hair. “And that’s when that damned foot-and-mouth thing happened. What a piece of bad luck! I was already forced to stop having people out here because I didn’t have the money to maintain the resort, but I couldn’t stop taking care of the animals…”

  “You were scrambling.”

  He stands up suddenly. “Bottom line is, you can’t prove I did anything wrong.”

  Dibble and I get up. “It’s not up to me to prove it. That’s what lawyers are for. I think you better get yourself a good one sooner rather than later.”

  Gary Dellmore was killed ten days ago, and I’m starting over from the beginning in my investigation. It looks like someone was trying to frame the McCluskys. That means whoever killed Dellmore had something against the McCluskys as well. The McCluskys weren’t just a convenient target—someone went to a lot of trouble to frame them.

  Barbara Dellmore fits that scenario better than anyone I can think of. On the way to talk with her, I stop by to see Camille Overton. I’ve been wondering how somebody managed to get into the McClusky house to steal the gun in the first place. I think I know how it was done.

  I drive up as Camille is walking out the front door. The wind is whipping up today and clouds are moving in. She’s bundled up and carrying an umbrella.

  “Let’s go back inside,” she says, when I tell her I need to talk to her. “I’m already tired of the cold weather and winter’s not even half over.” She shivers. “Now what can I do for you?”

  “Do you keep a spare key for the McCluskys?”

  “Oh yes, all of us keep each other’s keys in case someone locks themselves out. Mary next door has mine.”

  “Where do you keep it?”

  “On a pegboard in the utility room. I’ll show you.”

  We go through the kitchen into a room with a washer/dryer and utility sink. Jenny and I have the same arrangement, though I keep hers a little better hidden. Putting them in plain sight on a pegboard isn’t much in the way of security.

  “My goodness, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not here.” She points to a nail on the board, tagged “Angel.” “I don’t know where it could have gotten to.”

  Whoever planned to steal the McClusky’s gun got the spare key from right here—may have even been invited into Camille’s house and seen the key at the time, or even took it then. It could be anybody.

  When I drive up to Barbara Dellmore’s house, she’s climbing out of her Toyota. She reaches into the backseat and takes out a sack of groceries, then walks toward me, looking flustered. The slacks and sweater she’s dressed in are a lot more flattering than her gardening clothes. She’s done something to her hair, too, and it looks better.

  “Have you made any headway?” Her voice holds a note of belligerence.

  “No, I wish I had better news. But I do have a couple more questions.”

  “More questions?” She looks annoyed. “I don’t know what more I can tell you, but come on in.”

  I take the groceries from her and we go into the kitchen. There’s nowhere to set the groceries down. The counters are covered with dishes, and the cabinet doors are standing open.

  “You going somewhere?”

  She takes the sack from me, sets it on the kitchen table, and starts putting food into the refrigerator. “I have to sell the house eventually, but right now I’m reorganizing. Ever since Gary died, I can’t stand not to be busy. It’s not a good time of year for gardening, so I have to think of other projects. I woke up at four-thirty this morning and decided to clean out the cabinets and get rid of dishes I don’t use anymore.”

  She folds the grocery sacks, looks around, and says, “I was going to offer you coffee, but I don’t think that’s possible. You want a soft drink?”

  “No, let’s sit down.”

  “I’m going to get some tea anyway. She puts the kettle on. Through all of this I see what she meant when she said she has trouble being still. For the first time it occurs to me that despite the front she puts on, she is grieving her husband’s death.

  She sits down with her cup of tea. “What did you want to ask?”

  “At the funeral service the other day I got the feeling that you and Cookie Travers were watching for somebody. Do you mind telling me what was going on?”

  She blows on her tea and then takes a sip. “I guess it doesn’t make any difference now if I tell you this. Gary was having an affair with Angel Bright. I was afraid she’d try to come to the funeral.”

  “What made you think she might show up?”

  “I wasn’t really so concerned, but Cookie was worried. She said Angel sometimes came down to the bank, and anybody with eyes could see something was going on between her and Gary. She thought Angel was capable of anything.”

  “Gary had told you he was seeing Angel?”

  Barbara gets up, rummages around in the cabinets, and comes back with a sugar bowl and spoon. She stirs sugar into her tea and takes another sip. The whole time, she’s been keeping her face averted from me. Now she looks at me head-on, and her eyes are full of pain. “He told me a few days
before he died. He said she was hot to get married.”

  “Did he ask you for a divorce?”

  She looks startled. “No, of course not. The only time he ever admitted an affair was when he was ready to call it quits. He actually told me he thought Angel was acting a little crazy. Too possessive and demanding.”

  What must it have been like for this woman to hear again and again that her husband had slept with other women? How could her pride have allowed her to stay with him, time and again? Maybe she really loved him in spite of everything.

  “Do you know if Gary ever dated Darla Rodriguez?” I use the word “dated” to try to spare Barbara’s feelings, even though she doesn’t spare herself.

  “You mean from the bank?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Not that I know of. What gave you that idea?”

  “Clara said she thought Darla was after Gary.”

  She grimaces. “Clara said that? It must have taken a lot for her to admit that Gary might play around. She wouldn’t have wanted to admit that he was less than a perfect husband to me.” She sets her teacup down. “How would she even know who Darla was? I wonder if she was repeating something Alan said?”

  “No, she said it was Cookie who mentioned it.”

  “Hmm. I’m surprised she talks to Cookie. They don’t seem cut out to be friends. Anyway, that’s all water under the bridge. For the first time in a long time I don’t have to wonder who Gary is sleeping with. Is that all you wanted to ask me?”

  “There is one more thing. Did Gary ever talk business with you, like mentioning loans he made or business deals?”

  She grows still, suddenly wary. “Sometimes.”

  “Did he tell you he had a business venture going with Slate and Angel?”

  “Only the water park, but that was a while back.”

  “So Gary never mentioned that he and McClusky had a scheme to get Gabe LoPresto to buy McClusky’s resort?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know anything about that. As far as I’m concerned LoPresto is no better than my husband. If somebody is scheming against him, he deserves it.” Her eyes go to the kitchen cabinets, and I can see that she’s impatient to get back to work. “What does that have to do with Gary’s death?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out. But if he didn’t confide in you, there’s nothing more I need to ask.”

  I’m satisfied with what Barbara Dellmore told me, and yet when I get back to the station, I’m itchy. Something she said is echoing at the back of my brain, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. I have a feeling it was something about the bank. Did it have to do with Darla Rodriguez?

  “The way I figure it, somebody broke into Camille Overton’s house to get the key to the McClusky house. And they stole the gun to kill Dellmore and then afterward put the gun back.”

  “How did they know the McCluskys had a gun in the first place?” Rodell says.

  “Even if they didn’t know for sure that McClusky kept a gun, they’d know it was likely—after all he owns a hunting resort. McClusky told me himself that he kept the gun for times when Angel was by herself. I imagine it wasn’t a secret.”

  Rodell rubs the side of his jaw. “I don’t know if my brain has been addled by alcohol, but I’m having a hard time puzzling this out. How would the killer know that anybody would check McClusky’s gun to find out it had been used to kill Dellmore?”

  We sit lost in thought for a minute. “Here’s a possibility,” I say. “I wondered why somebody broke the window when they went to put the gun back, instead of using the key again. Maybe they meant to call attention to the fact that McClusky had a gun.”

  Rodell snickers. “Or maybe the killer lost the key.” Rodell is more alert than I’ve seen him in years, although his skin still looks like bread dough. “Or,” he points a finger at me. “Maybe McClusky broke the window himself to make it look like somebody stole the gun.”

  “I’ve pretty much ruled out McClusky as a suspect. He had a lot to lose with Gary Dellmore dead.”

  “Maybe McClusky thought Dellmore couldn’t be trusted to keep quiet about his part in the water park deal. Dellmore was killed after that meeting you all had. Maybe McClusky thought people were getting too close to figuring out that the water park deal was what sent the town’s finances into a tailspin, and he was afraid Dellmore would blow the whistle on him for fraud.”

  “I thought of that, but I only got interested in the water deal after Dellmore was killed. If he hadn’t been killed, people would have put the blame on Alton Coldwater and moved on. Also, Dellmore was the key to getting Gabe LoPresto interested in buying McClusky’s resort to get out from under some of his debts. Without Dellmore, LoPresto is a lost cause. It doesn’t make sense for McClusky to kill him.”

  “I hate to say it,” Rodell says, “but the only person you’re leaving open is Barbara Dellmore. She had motive and opportunity. Unless you think Alan or Clara killed him, which is going way too far out on a limb.”

  I describe my last interview with Barbara, hoping that telling him might trigger the elusive thought I had at the time. But when I finish, the idea seems farther away than ever.

  Rodell moves restlessly. He seems a little stronger, but he’s still on the sofa. At least he is sober. “By God, I wish I could get up and go help you out.”

  “If you did, what would you do first?”

  He screws his face up. “I don’t know. Go talk to everybody again, I guess.” He sighs. “This is the kind of situation that makes me want to have a beer.”

  I get up from my seat. “I appreciate getting your input on this.”

  “I don’t know that I was much good to you.”

  “As matter of fact, you did rattle one thing loose when you said I should talk to everybody again. There is one person I haven’t questioned yet. Darla Rodriguez.”

  He makes a gun out of his hand and shoots. “Good place to start.”

  So it’s back to the bank. I park in the lot and as I’ve taken to doing lately, I scan the cars parked there to see if there’s one that could be taken for Dellmore’s Crown Victoria. For once I score and spot a car in the lot that could be mistaken for a Crown Vic in the dark.

  I ask several people before I’m directed to a bookkeeper. She’s startled when I ask to speak to her privately. In her forties, she’s plump, with a pleasant, round face. “How well did you know Gary Dellmore?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and looks blank. “I can’t say I knew him at all.” She gets a look of distaste on her face. “I’m not exactly his type. He was more chatty with the younger girls.”

  “The Buick belongs to you?”

  “Actually, no. I’m driving it today. It’s my brother’s car.”

  “How long have you been borrowing it?”

  She’s increasingly puzzled. “Today was the only day. He’s visiting from Dallas and he wanted to go fishing, so I lent him my little pickup.”

  “When did he get here?”

  “Why are you asking? Has he done something?”

  “I’m not sure. If I know when he got here, I’ll be able to judge a little better.”

  “He got here Sunday. He’s taking a week off.” Now she’s distinctly annoyed.

  “I appreciate your help. That’s all I needed to know. Your brother’s in the clear.”

  “Wait a minute. It’s not right for you to ask me questions and not tell me what’s going on. Did somebody complain about my brother? He can get rowdy sometimes.”

  “No, nothing like that. There was a car like your brother’s involved in a little dust-up last week, but if he didn’t get here until Sunday, it has nothing to do with him.”

  Darla’s a pretty girl, wearing a curvy black business suit that manages to look professional and sexy at the same time. A little white lace something peeks out from the cleavage of the jacket. She’s wearing a necklace with a single diamond that nestles in the hollow of her throat. That’s cold, wearing Gabe’s birthday gift after declaring the
gift wasn’t good enough and insisting he take her off for an expensive weekend and then dumping him.

  “How can I help you?” Her eyes sparkle as if I’m the very person she was hoping would come to see her.

  I introduce myself.

  “I know who you are.” She says it like she admires me, which I doubt.

  “I need to ask you a few questions about Gary Dellmore.”

  “Like what?”

  “Why don’t we find a spare office, or I can take you down to the station.”

  She looks startled. “Oh, that won’t be necessary. I think we can find someplace private.” She looks out over the lobby. “Let’s go over there.” She points to an isolated desk over by the wall. Nobody is sitting nearby. The desks are arranged so that customers can consult with bankers about their finances without being overheard.

  We sit down, and she turns her whole attention to me. “Now what can I help you with?” By now Slate McClusky has had plenty of time to alert her, so I expect she knows exactly why I’m here. She’s a good bluffer; I’ll give her that.

  “What was your relationship with Gary like ?”

  The light in her eyes snuffs out. “I loved Gary. He was such a wonderful man. A great boss.”

  “Did you have any problems with him at all?”

  “Problems?”

  “Like him being too friendly, harassing you, anything like that?”

  She looks like she’d like to laugh. “Absolutely not. He was always professional.” Light dawns in her eyes. “Oh, you’re thinking about Jessica Reinhardt. That poor girl had such a crush on him. He knew it too, and he was really sweet to her.”

  “Sweet, like going to her house and trying to seduce her?”

  “Did she tell you that? He went over there to apologize.”

  “Apologize for what?”

  “For getting her in trouble with the Dragon Lady—Cookie Travers was on her case.”