“Maybe; this was the first I’ve seen of anyone digging back there, although I haven’t been down to the creek in a week or two,” I said. “But someone’s been digging on Krystal Jenkins’s property.”
“I heard someone had been messing around over there,” she said. “That’s why I called you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “He only had two? What kind were they?”
“Two coins from 1862,” she said. “If they’re real, they should be worth a few thousand each. He told me there’s more where they came from. I offered to have an appraiser friend of mine in Houston to take a look at them, but Buster didn’t leave them with me.”
“There were a few certificates of authenticity at Krystal’s house,” I said. “Signed by someone named Kenneth Graham. They were addressed to a man named James Smythe, I think. I keep meaning to Google them.”
“Never heard of either name,” she said. “Maybe he got them appraised somewhere else.”
“It’s weird that they were sent to Krystal’s address, but with a different name.” I made a note to myself to ask Mary Jane about it. Maybe he was a former tenant?
“Anyway, I don’t know if it means anything, but I just thought I’d let you know.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You might want to tell Rooster, too.”
“I will, even though I might as well spit in the wind,” she said. “Any word on Brittany Kramer?”
“Nothing yet,” I said, feeling my stomach twist.
“I’m keeping them both in my prayers.”
“Me too,” I said. “Let me know if Buster comes in again, will you?”
“Of course,” she said. “Merry Christmas!”
“To you, too,” I replied, then hung up and grabbed my computer. I searched for Kenneth Graham first; although there were plenty of entries, none were in Texas and none were linked to gold coins. I came up equally blank on James Smythe.
Curiouser and curiouser, I thought, glancing at the clock on the wall. Mom and Dad were out and about for the afternoon, but Dad said he’d grill steaks for dinner at seven; when I found out about Molly, I’d texted them to let them know I was going to be out of pocket. It was still only midafternoon. I still had plenty of time to visit Buster—and maybe swing by the filling station and see if Dougie was working.
It took about fifteen minutes to get to Buster’s place, which was well on the outskirts of town, and as I passed the painted 1800s farmhouses and fallow golden pastures, I found myself trying to come up with a game plan that wouldn’t end with me peppered by Civil War–era bullets.
Although Buster’s trailer was hidden from view behind a bunch of scrubby cedars, it wasn’t too hard to figure out which property was his. The battered mailbox seemed to rise up out of a pile of tractor parts and what may or may not have been the remains of a spring mattress. A few yards away, a small oak tree was growing up through the rusted-out remains of an old combine, and a chained, padlocked gate blocked the end of the drive.
The only thing that looked like it dated from later than 1955 was the Confederate flag, which hung limp and bright from a peeling flagpole attached to the gate. The hair stood up on the back of my neck as I pulled over on the shoulder and grabbed the package of fudge I’d taken out of the freezer.
I crossed the road and was about to figure out how to get past the gate when my phone rang. I glanced down at the display; it was Quinn.
“Brandi was just in, complaining about Ethel trying to reform her,” Quinn groaned. “What are you doing?”
“Taking some fudge to Buster,” I said. I’d made a few batches the week before; I figured it might sweeten him up.
“Are you out of your mind, Lucy? What if he has a gun?”
“I know he has a gun,” I told her. “He has lots of them, in fact. But I’ve got to ask him questions if I’m going to find a way to get Molly out of jail.”
“You couldn’t wait for me?”
“I’m only going to talk to him. I’ll be fine,” I said with a breezy confidence I didn’t feel. In truth, I had decided it was best to go alone. I knew Quinn was still traumatized by what had happened with Jed, and I didn’t want to subject her to anything that would bring back bad memories. “I’ll call you when I’m leaving, okay?”
“What exactly are you planning on asking him? Questions like, ‘Did you kill your niece?’”
“I’m still working that out,” I confessed.
She sighed. “I don’t like this. Are you sure you won’t wait until tomorrow?”
“I’m already here. I’ll call you when I’m done,” I said.
“If you don’t, I’m coming out after you,” she said. “Be careful.”
“It’s a deal,” I said. I hung up a moment later, thankful to have a friend who cared, and confronted the gate. A barbed-wire fence extended from both sides, and the shiny padlock was shut, which meant I was going to have to climb over the gate. Thankfully, it wasn’t too high.
As I eased a leg over the gate, glad there wasn’t a “No Trespassing” sign, I found myself hoping Buster wasn’t the kind of person who shot first and asked questions later. The first barrier behind me, I walked up the rutted driveway, which was lined with debris of all varieties. I spotted a rotting box full of yellowed newspapers, a rusted-out wheelbarrow, the remains of an old bicycle, and a pile of trash bags lurking among the undergrowth. The property had the potential to be pretty, but it would need a lot of cleanup; it felt more like the town dump than a home. As I turned around a bend, the odor of stale beer wafted to me. It smelled like Brandi might not be the only one with an alcohol problem.
I stopped about ten yards from the house. It was a wonder it was standing, since the whole thing kind of sagged to the left. In fact, it appeared to be held up by the piles of debris leaning against it. There were holes dug in a scattershot pattern here, too, I noticed, but none of them were fresh. “Hello!” I called out, just to be sure he heard me coming. There was no response, so I said it again, louder.
This time, there was a loud thump from inside the house. It made me jump.
“I brought fudge!” I announced, feeling adrenaline shoot through my body. Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad idea to bring Quinn, I thought, pasting a smile on my face and trying to look nonthreatening. A moment later, the rust-stained door banged open, and I found myself facing the barrel of a musket.
“What are you doing here?”
I swallowed hard. “I just brought you some fudge,” I repeated. Buster scowled at me, but lowered the gun a fraction of an inch. He wore dirty jeans and a stained red sweatshirt with bleach spots.
“Didn’t you see the ‘No Trespassing’ sign?”
“No,” I said. “There wasn’t one.”
He eyed the fudge in my hand. “Why’d you bring that?”
“I thought it would be a nice thing to do,” I said. “It’s Christmas, after all, and I know you just lost your niece.”
He grunted.
“I hear Brandi and Krystal used to live with you. Were you and Krystal close?” I asked.
“No,” he said shortly.
“I understand you spent some time together recently,” I said, “and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
“About what?” he asked, narrowing his eyes in his sallow, leathery face.
“About Krystal, and who might have wanted to hurt her.”
“House burned down,” he said shortly. “That’s what happened.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “Did you know they arrested Molly Kramer for murder?”
He lowered the gun a little bit more. “I heard something about that. Poisoned bread or something.” He looked at the container in my hand. “Did you put something in the fudge, too?”
“Why would I want to do that?” I asked. “I’ve barely met you.”
“Never can tell,” he said. He gestured with the gun toward a small rusting table a few feet from the door. “You can put it there,” he said.
“Gosh,” I said, feeling irritable despite
the musket being leveled at me. I didn’t follow his instructions; I wasn’t fond of being ordered around. “How about thank you?”
He looked a little embarrassed suddenly, and the gun dropped. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re right. I should say thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, and walked over to set the fudge on the table he had indicated. The metal table had once been painted turquoise; now, it was rusted orange. “I’m sorry about your niece.”
He shrugged. “Happens,” he said.
“I was hoping you might be able to tell me who her boyfriend was,” I said. “I’d like to get in touch with him, too. Do you know anything about him?”
The gun rose a bit again. “I don’t know nothin’ about no boyfriend,” he said. “And why do you care?”
Because they arrested one of my best friends, I thought. “Just wondering,” I said, letting my eyes rove over the cluttered front of his trailer. “I hear you know a lot about the history of this town,” I said, changing the subject.
“I know a thing or two,” he said, the muzzle of the musket dropping another few inches.
“I understand you know a lot about the Confederacy.”
“You’re right about that,” he said. “I’ve been researchin’ it for years.”
“No one ever found the buried treasure?”
His mouth snapped shut. “I don’t know nothin’ about that,” he said.
“Fannie said you brought a few coins in the other day,” I said. “You must know something about it.”
“Found it on my land.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Someone was digging on my land the other day. Gave me this,” I said, pulling my hair aside to show him the goose egg.
He shrugged and looked away.
“Krystal apparently called Brandi, and said she’d come across a windfall. Were you planning on sharing the proceeds of your gold with your niece?”
“Like I said, I only found a little bit, and that was on my land. If you’re looking for a big spender, maybe you should ask Ben O’Neill,” he said.
Ben O’Neill? That was interesting. What could the hobby rancher turned would-be mayor have to do with a windfall?
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He’s got lots of funds. Maybe he gave some of them to Krystal.”
“Why would he do that?”
He shrugged again. It seemed to be his stock response to questions.
“Are you saying he was Krystal’s boyfriend?”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” he said. His hand twitched on the musket, and I felt my stomach twist.
“Krystal had a few certificates of authenticity for Civil War coins,” I said.
He blinked rapidly, but said nothing.
“They were sent to someone named James Smythe,” I went on. “Did she ever mention finding any coins to you?”
“I wasn’t into Krystal’s business. I hardly saw her.”
“Your truck was there a few times,” I said.
“She’s kin,” he said. “I was checking up on her.”
Somehow I doubted he visited her out of family duty. “You know, Brandi’s in town,” I said.
This news didn’t seem to impress him. “Haven’t seen her. She hasn’t been by,” he said.
Looking around, I could see why.
“We weren’t close,” he said shortly.
I sucked in my breath and decided to be brave. “I’m going to ask you again. Were you out digging behind my house the other day?”
His eyes hardened, and his shoulders tensed; I guessed the answer was yes.
“If so,” I added, “don’t do it again. I have the right to protect my property, and I’ll do whatever I need to.” Strong words from a woman whose only weapon was a hoe, but I wanted him to know I meant business.
“I think it’s time you headed on out of here,” he said.
I took the hint and started backing up. “If you happen to remember anything about those certificates,” I told him, “you know where to find me. I plan to do a little more digging myself.” I turned around and walked down the dirt road, feeling his eyes burning into my back. There seemed to be no love lost between Buster and the rest of his family. Maybe he had killed Krystal after all.
“You are an idiot, Lucy Resnick.”
“Thanks,” I told Quinn on the phone as I pulled away from Buster’s house. She’d called just as I got back into the truck.
“So, was your visit worthwhile?”
“He claims not to know anything about the certificates we found at Krystal’s, but when I asked him about the windfall Krystal called Brandi about, he said that I should ask Ben O’Neill.”
“Do you think O’Neill might have been her mystery boyfriend?” Molly asked.
“He didn’t elaborate, but I wondered that, too.”
“If she wasn’t wearing that sapphire necklace when you found her, maybe she sold it.”
“If it was the one I saw in La Grange, it was worth only five hundred dollars, remember?” I said.
“Not exactly a fortune. Maybe he gave her a breakup gift, and that was what she meant.”
“Do people do that?”
“They do if they want people to be quiet,” she suggested.
“Perhaps I should have a chat with him,” I said. “Oh—and I think Buster’s the one who was digging behind my house,” I said, reaching up to touch my temple. It still hurt, but it was healing. “When I mentioned it, he clammed up.”
“Jerk,” she said.
“I told him he’d better not do it again, or I’d take any necessary measures to protect my property. I kind of insinuated I had a gun.”
“You don’t, do you?”
“Not yet,” I said. “The way things are going lately, though, I might reconsider.”
“It won’t protect you from poison,” Quinn pointed out.
“Thanks for the encouraging words. Any word on Brittany, by the way?”
“Alfie says they still haven’t heard anything. I wish there were something we could do to help.” She pursed her lips. “I think I’m going to ask around down at the high school.”
“Good plan,” I said. “And I need to find out who Molly gave friendship bread to. I know Opal and Dougie had a loaf, so at least we have one suspect.”
“Dougie? I guess it’s something,” Quinn told me. “I told Tori to keep an ear out at the Blue Onion and see if she hears anything about Krystal or Brittany. Mindy was in this afternoon, by the way.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“She and Faith were chatting over chicken salad. And when they were done, Faith and Ben O’Neill had a hush-hush meeting in the corner.”
“That’s the second one I’ve known of between those two. What do you think they’re meeting about?”
“It looked like they were going through property listings. I don’t trust either of them.”
“Do you think it has something to do with O’Neill’s bid for mayor?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “Oh—Faith did mention that there was a squatter out on the Simpsons’ ranch.”
“Not a surprise,” I said. “The Simpsons have had that place empty and up for sale for months. Do they have any idea who it is?”
“Nobody was there when they got there; they must have moved on. There were frozen pizza boxes and empty beer cans all over the place.”
“No whiskey?” I asked. “I guess that rules Brandi out. Have you seen Brandi, by the way?”
“She was only in for a few minutes with Ethel, who was buying bread; she didn’t look very happy, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to her. I thought I’d swing by Ethel’s this evening, assuming Brandi hasn’t moved out by then,” she said. “See what else I can find out.”
“Let me know how it goes,” I said. I hung up a moment later and pulled into the filling station on the square with a loud thunk. Usually I did the self-service, but this time I pulled into the full-service pump. Dougie Metzger, tall and gangly with a m
ix of wrinkles and acne, loped up to my truck a moment later.
“Better get that noise checked out,” he said as I cut the engine.
“I will,” I said. “Any thoughts on what it might be?”
“Sounds like it might be a broken axle.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s not good, that’s for sure.”
“You’re Dougie, right?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I hear you were friends with Krystal Jenkins.”
His spotted face flushed red. “What about it?” His tone was gruff.
“I’m so sorry about what happened to her,” I said. “It must have been really hard.”
“Regular, or premium?” he asked, ignoring my comment.
“Regular, please,” I said. I waited until the pump was running and he was reaching for the windshield wiper. “I hate to bother you, but do you know if she was seeing someone?”
His back stiffened. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I need to find out more about her,” I said. And my friend is in jail and I want to get her out, I added silently.
“She was,” he bit out, not turning to look at me.
“Do you know who?”
“I never saw him, and I don’t know his name.”
“Married?”
“Look. Why are you asking me all these questions? I wanted to date her. She turned me down. I don’t know who she was seeing.” He turned to look at me, and there were tears in his eyes. “I loved her. She didn’t love me.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I know how hard that is. I hate to ask, but . . . did you ever leave anything at her house?”
“That’ll be eighteen fifty-three,” he said, ignoring my question, but turning beet red. Which I took as a “yes.”
I fished a twenty out of my purse, along with one of the cards I gave out at the market. “Thank you,” I said, handing them to him. “If you ever want to talk, or you think of anything, please get in touch with me.” He took them both and started to fumble in his pocket for change. “Keep it,” I told him.
He looked up at me. “I left carnations after she died. And other things, before.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I said. “And you don’t know anything at all about who she was seeing? Even a guess?”
Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2) Page 13
