A Violent End at Blake Ranch

by Terry Shames

  “What do you mean, his opinion?”

  “I mean he’s a doctor and I thought he might read something into the autopsy report that you and I as laypeople wouldn’t read into it.”

  How can I possibly explain to her that Taggart isn’t likely to take the autopsy seriously, and that, as a doctor, he’s fine for everyday things, but he scarcely counts as a forensics expert. “I think that’s fine,” I say. “I don’t know that it will come to much.”

  “It did actually. That’s why I’m calling.”

  That stops me in my tracks. “What do you mean?”

  “He found something odd. You remember the coroner found evidence of a broken leg in the past?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  A woman walking her dog stops right next to the car and makes no secret of the fact that she wants to know what a man is doing sitting in his pickup in her neighborhood. She’s pretty sure I’m up to no good.

  “Doctor Taggart said he didn’t remember anything like her breaking her leg when she was a girl. So I said maybe she broke it recently. He called the coroner’s office and they went back over the notes and the coroner said it was obvious from the way it healed that she was a young girl when it happened.”

  I’ve been sort of dogged by the notion that Maria Trevino has a little more initiative than I feel comfortable with, but now that egotistical problem flies out the window. “Good work, Trevino. Any estimate of how old she was when it happened?”

  “They said probably no more than ten years old. They can tell because there’s a certain way the plates in the leg grow as a child ages.”

  “What do you make of that?” I say. Since she’s the one who has found a little nugget, she should get a chance to run with it.

  “It occurred to me that maybe the family didn’t want people in town to know that she had a broken leg, and they took her somewhere else to have it set.”

  “No,” I say slowly, my mind working furiously. “That’s a good stab, but it makes no sense. They wouldn’t have been able to hide the fact that she was in a cast. But the bigger problem is that the physical they did for the initial psychiatric report cited no evidence of past broken bones.”

  “Oh, you’re right. But . . .”

  “But what does that mean? I’m not sure yet.”

  “Yes, sir. You want me to go out and ask the Blake family if they can explain it?”

  “No, I don’t. Wait until I get back and we’ll decide the best way to approach them.”

  The neighborhood I drove through getting here is middle class, with nice lawns and houses that are kept up, but the address I’m sitting in front of is a borderline block. The house is a duplex on a double lot, the two sides separated by garages. The place is painted the ugliest color of yellow I’ve ever seen, with brown trim that looks like mud smeared around the window and doorsills. The yard is fifty blades of grass shy of bare dirt, and a shade tree in the front yard has been allowed to shrivel. It’s a big building. Probably each side of the duplex is a three-bedroom apartment.

  I walk up to the “A” side of the duplex and ring the bell in vain. Then I knock, in case the doorbell doesn’t work. Still no answer. When I knock on the “B” side, the door opens a few inches, and a wisp of a woman of about sixty peeks out at me.

  I introduce myself. “Ma’am, are you by chance Susan Shelby?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Does she live next door?”

  The woman opens the door a little wider so I can see her. She cranes her head to look in the direction of the other duplex as if it might tell her who lives there. “I don’t know the people who live there. Two women. I don’t see much of them. I don’t like to get too friendly with neighbors. You never know when they’ll take advantage.”

  “Do you mind telling me who owns this place—who you pay rent to?”

  She frowns and hesitates, leery to be too quick to answer, even though I told her I was a lawman. “I pay my check to a real estate office. It’s called Ledford and Baker Realty. Their office is downtown.” She frowns. “What’s this about?”

  “I was hoping your neighbor would be able to help with a matter I’m looking into.”

  “You said you’re a police chief. Are they involved with criminals or something?”

  “Not that I know of. Any reason you think they might be?”

  “No, but like I said, I keep to myself. I don’t think it does anybody any good to be poking in somebody else’s business.”

  In a town that looks like it struggles for economic survival, Ledford and Baker Realty might be the most prosperous business in town, with a big new brick building that stands out from its meager surroundings. A marquee sign outside proclaims that it has been in business since 1959.

  A man jumps up to greet me when I walk in. He’s decked out in a black Western-style suit with wide lapels, a nipped-in waist, and white stitching outlining the edges. He’s wearing pearl-gray cowboy boots and has his hair slicked back in a style that would have been appropriate for a movie set in the 1930s. “Glen Webb at your service,” he says. He’s from Tyler, I can tell. Natives of this area have a deep twang you don’t hear anywhere else, like they’re talking through their nose.

  I tell him who I am and where I’m from. “I’m looking for somebody and my search has led me here.”

  “I hope I can help you,” he says, the world “help” sounding like “hnnelp.”

  “I’m looking for two women, one by the name of Winona Blake and the other Susan Shelby.”

  “I don’t know the Blake woman, but Ms. Shelby owns a couple of duplexes in town that we manage for her.”

  “She lives here?”

  “Yes, she lives in one of the two duplexes.” He goes over to a file cabinet and comes back with a folder that he puts on his desk. “Here’s the address.”

  “I went by there this morning, and the woman who lived next door says she hasn’t seen Ms. Shelby in a while. Have you talked to her?”

  He shrugs. “No need to. I collect the rent and put it in her bank account. If the tenants need something, I take care of it and send her the bill.”

  “Seems funny that she’d get a manager if she only has a couple of properties.”

  “Some people don’t like to mess with having to ask for rent and taking care of maintenance. That’s where we come in.”

  “So you don’t know anything about the Blake woman who supposedly lives with her?”

  “No, I know most of the tenants. I get the contracts. But . . .” He frowns and starts flipping through the papers in the file. He shakes his head. “I thought maybe I’d forgotten the name on the contract, but I haven’t. The place belongs to Ms. Shelby, so she can have anybody she wants living there without a contract.”

  “Do you have a work number for Ms. Shelby?”

  “I do. She’s an assistant manager out at the Walmart on the edge of town.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The Walmart looks like every other big-box store: a big sprawling building with a huge parking lot that’s only half full. Inside, I go straight to the office and ask to speak to the manager. “That’s Mr. Sweet,” the young girl at the window says. “I’ll get him for you.”

  Mr. Sweet turns out to be a man who looks around twenty-five years old. “Barry Sweet,” he says, sticking out a smooth young hand. “How can I help you?”

  I tell him who I am. “I’m looking for one of your employees, Susan Shelby.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. Susan’s out on vacation.”

  “Really? How long has she been gone?”

  He blinks. “Let me look.” He darts away from the window and disappears into an inner office. He comes back in a minute. “The master time sheet says she’s been off for a couple of weeks. She’ll be back next Monday. Anything I can help you with?”

  “You know where she went?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know that.”

  I’m aware of the growing line behind me, but he doesn’t seem inclined to take our busines
s off to the side. “She got any friends here that I can talk to?”

  He gets a funny look on his face. “Uh, I’ll tell you what, let me take you back to the employee break room. Maybe somebody there can help you.”

  He comes out of the office area and leads me to the back of the store, through metal swinging doors and into a room with a couple of chrome-legged tables with folding chairs and a Mr. Coffee setup. There’s a vintage refrigerator at least fifty years old and a row of vending machines. A couple of older women in powder-blue uniforms come to attention with a wary eye at Sweet.

  “I’m going to turn you over to these two ladies,” he says. His eyes drop to the nametag of the nearest one. “Uh, Mrs. Barstow, this is . . .” he turns to look at me, and I realize he’s completely forgotten my name.

  “Samuel Craddock, chief of police down in Jarrett Creek.”

  Mrs. Barstow licks her lips. “What can I do for you?” She casts a fidgety eye to her boss.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you,” he says. “I’ve got a lot to take care of today.”

  When he’s out the door Mrs. Barstow’s companion says in a low voice, “Yeah, a lot to do. Playing those computer games. They say that’s what he does all day.”

  “I’m wondering if either of you can tell me who might be friendly with a woman by the name of Susan Shelby.”

  It’s like a door slams shut on both women’s faces. Mrs. Barstow smooths her uniform. “I don’t really know who might be a close friend,” she says. The two women cut their eyes at each other.

  “I take it she’s not well liked here?”

  Mrs. Barstow looks me up and down. “You could say that.”

  “Happens that way sometimes,” I say. “Mr. Sweet said she’s on vacation and I need to get in touch with her. I’m looking for somebody who can tell me where she might have gone.”

  They both look at me blankly.

  “Anybody you can think of she might have told?”

  “I suppose you could ask Nonie Blake,” Mrs. Barstow says. “I believe they’re friendly.”

  I try not to show how startled I am. “How might I get in touch with this woman, Nonie Blake?” I say cautiously.

  Mrs. Barstow screws up her face. “I believe I saw her over in menswear today. Or was it the boys’ department?”

  “You saw her today?”

  “This morning.”

  When I leave the two women I walk slowly toward the big sign that says “Boys/Men,” my brain in turmoil. If Nonie Blake is here in Jacksonville, who is lying in her grave? I’m getting a very bad feeling that I know who.

  I have no trouble recognizing Nonie Blake. She’s a little heavier than her sister, Charlotte, and a little shorter, but they look so much alike, with their almond-colored eyes and light hair, that I would have known they were sisters. Approaching her, I feel like I’m walking up to a ghost.

  “You’re Nonie Blake?” I say.

  Her eyes meet mine boldly. “Yes. Who are you?” A firm voice, bordering on aggressive.

  “My name is Samuel Craddock and I’m the police chief of Jarrett Creek, Texas.” I wait for her reaction.

  “Jarrett Creek.” She takes a step back, her face clouding over. She was holding a stack of neatly folded boys’ shirts, and she sets them down so haphazardly that they topple over. “What do you want?”

  “I need to talk to you in private.”

  “Has something happened to my mother or father?” I notice the formal words she uses for her parents.

  “No. It’s something else.”

  “I’m working. I can’t walk away from my station without good cause. Even then, I’d have to talk to my manager. He’s not going to like it. He doesn’t like employees to take care of personal business during work hours.” She has lowered her voice, and there’s an urgent note to it.

  “I can speak with Mr. Sweet if that would help.”

  “Not a great idea. I don’t want to lose my job.”

  “This is pretty important.”

  Her eyes hold mine steadily. “Tell me right here. If a customer comes up, I’ll have to take care of them, but as long as you’re quick, it’ll be okay.”

  “When was the last time you were in Jarrett Creek?”

  She picks the shirts back up, hardly glancing at them. “I assume you know my story.” She slots the shirts into an empty space on the table.

  I nod.

  “I haven’t been back since I left when I was fourteen.”

  “I see. Well, someone claiming to be you came to Jarrett Creek and stayed with your family.”

  “Really?” She cocks her head like a little bird, but her eyes look more like a hawk’s. “She claimed to be me? Why would somebody do that?”

  “I hoped maybe you would have some idea.”

  “Me? How would I know? Why don’t you ask her?”

  “She was murdered after she’d been there a week.”

  “You’re kidding!” She crosses her hands over her heart. Color rushes to her cheeks. “What happened? I mean, who killed her? And why?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. Until five minutes ago, I thought it was you who had been killed. Everybody did.”

  She frowns. “You mean my mother didn’t recognize that whoever it was, it wasn’t me?”

  “As I understand it, it’s been a while since she saw you.” Even to me, this sounds like a thin reply. The more I think about it, the more I realize that ever since the woman who called herself Nonie Blake was murdered, the Blakes have told me one lie after another.

  “But still. You’d think she’d recognize her own daughter.”

  “Do you know a woman by the name of Susan Shelby?”

  “Susan? Of course I do. We share a house. I mean, it’s her place and I rent a room, but we’re friends.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “I met her in Rollingwood, the place where my parents parked me after . . . you know.”

  “Why was she in Rollingwood?”

  “She tried to kill herself, and her parents had her committed.” She says it in an offhand way, as if it was an everyday occurrence.

  “Miss?” A big woman with thick arms and legs and a look of permanent grievance, dragging a disheveled three-year-old boy, interrupts. “If you’re not too busy, could you help me?” She glares at Nonie and at me, as if I’m guilty by association.

  “Of course. What are you looking for?” Nonie is no mouse. Her voice is polite, but there’s hint of steel in it.

  The woman says she’s looking for pants for her son. Nonie leads her to a nearby table. The woman takes her time, asking pointless questions and fingering one garment after another. Once or twice Nonie glances at me, her expression unreadable.

  Eventually the woman is satisfied and drags the three-year-old off, carrying a stack of jeans and T-shirts. I’m wondering why she didn’t get a cart for her purchases when Nonie says, “She comes in here for entertainment. She’s here at least twice a week and never buys anything. Drags that kid around like a rag doll, lets him play in the toy department, and makes work for everybody.”

  “Doesn’t seem all that entertaining.”

  “Tell her that.”

  We watch the woman toss the stack of goods a few tables away and keep walking. Nonie lifts an eyebrow. “Where were we?”

  “We were talking about Susan Shelby.”

  “Why do you want to know about her?”

  “I have reason to believe she’s the woman who was killed.”

  “Susan?” She jerks her head in what I take to be a nervous tic. “No way. Why would she claim to be me?”

  “That’s what I need to find out. She didn’t tell you she was headed down around Jarrett Creek?”

  She shakes her head, her cheeks flaming. “She’s supposed to be on vacation in Corpus. You know, Padre Island.”

  “Did she have a reservation somewhere?”

  “I don’t know. I assume so, but she didn’t tell me the details
of her trip.”

  “Would you mind if I take a look at her belongings in your house?”

  She hesitates. “Just hers?”

  Strange question. “Yes, of course. I can get a warrant if you prefer.”

  “Can I be there to watch you? I mean, what if it isn’t her? Why do you think it’s her?”

  “I found something at your folks’ house with her name on it.” And now that I’m thinking about it, I wonder why she got her prescription filled at a pharmacy in Tyler if she worked at Walmart.

  “What was it you found?”

  “Let’s talk about that when I come over later. What time do you get off work?”

  “This is a short day. I get off at four. Tomorrow I have to work until nine.”

  “I’ll meet you out front at four.”

  “No, there’s a back employee entrance. My car is parked back there. I’ll meet you there and then I can lead you to the house.”

  I go into town and find a coffee shop where I can have some lunch. I’m still unsettled from finding out that Nonie Blake is alive. And I’m increasingly angry about the lies the Blakes have told me. I don’t believe that Adelaide Blake could have thought that Susan Shelby was her daughter. They’ve been playing me for a sucker.

  As I’m eating my lunch, I realize there’s something else that has to be done. The medical examiner has to be notified that the wrong person is buried in Nonie Blake’s grave. As soon as I finish lunch, I call the medical examiner’s office. When T. J., the coroner, comes on the line, I say, “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Those are words to chill the heart. What kind of problem?”

  “The woman we buried as Nonie Blake? She’s not Nonie.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “I just talked to Nonie Blake.”

  “Who the hell did we bury? And how come the family identified her?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. I’m in Jacksonville right now, but tomorrow I’ll be talking to them. Let me ask you something. By law do you have to dig up the remains?”

  He’s quiet for several minutes. “That’s going to depend on who we buried and what her relatives have to say.”

  “First I have to find them.”