Killer Moves: The 4th Jolene Jackson Mystery (Jolene Jackson Mysteries)

by Paula Boyd

  But it wasn’t really that—well, it wasn’t just that. I was on edge for a lot of different reasons, none of which I could really do anything about at the moment. However, what I could do was get myself inside the house, try to semi-relax and possibly even sleep at some point.

  After making my way through the back porch, I unlocked the interior door and pushed it open. A thick wall of hot stale air rolled over me. I hit the lights, made a beeline for the thermostat on the wall in the kitchen and turned on the air conditioner. The unit clicked on and the fan whirred to life. After an initial blast of heat, cool air began to pour down from the overhead vent. So did an eerie feeling that I couldn’t define.

  I’ve been in my mother’s house alone many times, of course, including a few days ago when I’d locked it up to head home. There had been so much going on then that I had been on autopilot. But coming in here tonight without her here, the house closed up and unlived in, was just plain giving me the creeps. Of course, it didn’t help that the last time I’d been here alone at night—because Mother Dearest had dumped me to go on a date—I’d wound up having a very bad time. Bad as in a kidnapping, a high-speed chase on back roads in the dark and terrifying gunfire—in this case, the gunfire happened to be mine, but I want it duly noted that I was badgered into it. Things didn’t get much better at the police station either, but that’s another story.

  All the unpleasant and near-fatal memories I’d collected here in the last year were more than enough to make me jittery, but this was different, sad, almost like a flash-forward into the future when I would have to deal with all of this alone—when she was really gone. I scolded myself for even having such a thought, because, as I’ve said repeatedly, I am certain the woman will outlive me by a decade at the very least.

  Still feeling unsettled, I locked the doors and checked the windows. I also checked inside the closets and under the beds, but it didn’t help me shake off the odd feeling that had started building when I’d turned off the main highway toward Kickapoo. Foreboding was the only name I could put to it, which didn’t fit exactly, but it was disconcerting enough that I stopped searching for a better one. It also took me from falling down exhausted to wide-eyed and nervous. I wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon.

  The air conditioner had cooled the house enough that the prospect of a hot bath seemed potentially relaxing, so I grabbed the appropriate bag and headed that direction. The hot water did help, but the uneasy feeling was still there. Deciding a snack was always a good and comforting option, I headed to the kitchen.

  I made a cursory look in the refrigerator just in case some decent food had miraculously appeared there in the time I’d been gone—it hadn’t. Lucille rarely cooked, but she was darned certain to have munchies stashed somewhere. After a little rustling around, I found a box of cheese crackers I would regret eating and closed the cabinet. Then, I jerked it back open.

  Had I just seen what I thought I had? Yes, indeed. Sitting beside a box of vanilla wafers were binoculars. Lucille had been conducting intense surveillance on the drilling activities behind her fence for quite some time, so it wasn’t a great shock to find her viewing tools, but it did make me curious.

  Since I had nothing better to do, including sleeping apparently, I took the binoculars out on the back porch and gazed at the eastern sky. The thick Texas air and wispy clouds made a fuzzy haze over the landscape and only a few stars twinkled through. I was just about to give up on spotting a satellite, the space station or galactic cruiser when I caught a flash of light over to the southeast, near the horizon.

  I kept panning the narrow field of vision until I found the light again. From what I could tell, it was probably a vehicle, going up an incline. Since there was only one such non-flat place anywhere around, it had to be at Bob Little’s house. Well, technically, it was now my house, the one on the hill at my newly gifted ranch—the one I hadn’t seen yet. I vaguely remembered something about there being a caretaker at the place, so it was probably just that guy making a security check.

  In reality, I was vague about a lot of things. I’d been so in shock over the whole estate thing that I really hadn’t paid that much attention to the minor details, the major ones having nearly exploded my brain. Now, however, it was right in front of me, and becoming more real by the second—I had to deal with it. A call to the attorney in the morning would be the first order of business. If they had a security service or foreman, or both, I needed to know about it. “And so it begins,” I muttered.

  As I stepped back inside the kitchen, the front door bell rang.

  I jumped, pure fear shooting through me. I slammed the back door shut and snapped the deadbolt in place then crept into the living room. Leaning over the back of the couch, I peeked out the front window onto the porch—and screamed. Like a three-year-old. Or maybe like a thirteen-year-old. Whatever the case, the forty-something fool leaped away from the window and ran to the door, flung it open and grabbed the tall dark-haired man in the sheriff’s uniform and dragged him into the house.

  “You’re here!” I said, stating the obvious, gleefully, perhaps with the abandonment of a child seeing Santa Claus. “I thought you weren’t going to be back in town tonight. I’m glad you are, of course”

  Sheriff Jerry Don Parker did not respond verbally to shut me up. He did, however, respond. Oh, God, did he respond! And you are just going to have to use your imagination about what all happened in that moment and in the delicious ones that followed. Use a lot of imagination!

  Chapter 3

  I don’t know what time Jerry left that morning, but I do know that he left with a smile on his face. He also left one very happy girl curled up in her old bed with the blue velveteen headboard and worn out mattress. Maybe this Texas thing wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  A bleary glance at the clock on the dresser said it was only nine, so I hadn’t slept the day away even though I really wanted to.

  Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

  Dammit. Now what? I hurled myself out of bed, grabbed my jeans and shirt and scuttled into them as fast as I could. The bell still rang two more times before I managed to get myself to the door.

  Agnes Riddles stood in the doorway with a big brown sack. “I saw you were here this morning when I went by on my way to the post office, so I thought you’d probably need some food,” she said, stepping inside and heading to the kitchen.

  Agnes was about Lucille’s age, with chin-length light-brown hair, gold-rim glasses, tasteful matching knit separates and a genuinely good heart. She was also one of Mother’s two best friends in the whole world—the down-to-earth sane one. The other was Merline Campbell, and I was never sure how the term “friend” fit into that relationship—competing but loyal cobras would be a more apt description. I followed Agnes into the kitchen, feeling uncomfortable with the gift. “That’s very thoughtful…”

  “No, buts,” she said, setting the bag on the counter. “Your mother insisted I come over and clean out the refrigerator. I did, but it was hardly worth the trouble since she never keeps a speck of decent food in the house anyway.”

  She had a point, but it still wasn’t her problem. I started to tell her that, and that I’m a big girl and quite capable of finding my way to the grocery store and perhaps even cooking something, but I didn’t. That’s just how people were around here sometimes—how Agnes was anyway—and to refuse her gesture would have hurt her feelings. “Well, thank you very much for thinking of me, Agnes. I really appreciate it.”

  “You’re quite welcome. I certainly feel better knowing you have some good things to eat. You need to take care of yourself. You’ve got a lot to deal with.”

  That was the understatement of the year. “Speaking of which, have you talked to my mother this morning?”

  “Oh, yes, she called about seven.” Agnes pushed her glasses up on her nose and smiled. “I didn’t tell her you were here, but I expect she’ll be calling you shortly to see when you will be.”

  I expected it too. “Than
ks. I thought I’d surprise her later today.”

  “That’s good. She’s carrying on something fierce about that rehab place. It seems awful nice to me, more like a hotel and spa, but she’s having a fit about everything.”

  “As I understand it, she’s next in line to be murdered.”

  Agnes nodded and sighed. “I suppose collecting evidence keeps her occupied, but it sure makes her determined to find an accomplice for a jailbreak. I’m just glad you’re here now to talk some sense into her.”

  Optimistic thought, that, but hardly realistic. I’d never been able to talk my mother into or out of anything and Agnes very well knew it. But, hope springs eternal I suppose. “We’ll see,” I muttered.

  Agnes put the last of the containers in the refrigerator and closed the door. “It was just a blessing that she got her broken hip the way she did. If she’d fallen here at home by herself, well, I just don’t know if she could have stood the indignity of it—those were her words, of course.”

  Of course. But I had to agree. Falling at home was an “old people” thing. Being injured in the course of a homicide investigation—or, technically, interfering with one—was the stuff celebrities were made of, not that she didn’t have enough notoriety already.

  “Me, I have two artificial hips and am quite glad of it,” Agnes continued. “Never bothered me for a second, but you know how your mother is.”

  Yes indeed, we all know how my mother is.

  Agnes folded the sack and tucked it under the sink then walked to the front door. She pulled a slip of paper out of her pocket and handed it to me. “These are all the phone numbers of the people around here in case you need them. Call me any time, of course.”

  “Thank you, again, Agnes,” I said sincerely, “for everything.”

  She pushed open the glass storm door and stepped outside. “If you want me to go up the hill with you to the house, just let me know.” Looking me in the eye, she added, “It’s probably best not to go up there alone.”

  I opened my mouth to ask her what she meant by that, but she’d already turned and scurried to the car. I had plenty of reasons why going alone sounded like a bad idea, but I had a feeling she had better ones. “Well, shit,” I said, closing the door and continuing to talk to myself. “That just can’t be good.”

  Chapter 4

  After a long shower and a quick breakfast of eggs and toast, graciously provided by Agnes, I went over the list of what I needed to do before the end of the day. It was neither a short nor fun-filled list. The un-fun part included finding a place to unload and store my stuff, making an appointment with the attorney and, yes, going to see my mother.

  That last item was sure to end badly since I was not “breaking her out of jail” anytime soon, which was why I hadn’t intended to go see her the minute I set foot in Texas. However, if Agnes knew I was here, so did everyone else—and had ratted me out to Lucille. If I didn’t get to the rehab center pronto, I’d be hearing about it—loudly.

  Clearly, my grand plan to have a few days to myself before anyone knew I was in town had failed about ten seconds after I pulled into the driveway. If I’d actually let myself think through the situation, I would have realized that would happen. But then again, if I’d let myself think about any part of this deal for very long, I’d probably still be huddled in a corner somewhere, sucking my thumb and mumbling, “I don’t want to and you can’t make me.” Instead, I gave denial and delusion free reign and I just kept telling myself everything was going to be fine…just fine.

  Of course, we all know by this point that nothing is ever really “fine” in Kickapoo, Texas, and especially not for me. I’ve tried a lot of things to help me deal with insanity of it all and nothing does. The St. John’s wort pills that were supposed to help keep me calm in dealing with my mother’s murdered-boyfriend crisis and the subsequent mayhem that followed didn’t do squat. I popped those pills like lemon drops, but not once did anybody ever accuse me of being calm.

  After my second bullet-ridden adventure down here, It occurred to me that prior to my mother becoming insane, the only time I’d needed pills of any kind had been in the years preceding my divorce from Danny. I’d been taking sam-E for my moods, antihistamines to sleep and high-octane antacid pills so I didn’t choke to death from bile lurching up into my throat when I was semi-comatose. Once Danny vanished, so did the need for all the drugs—instantly and overnight—not kidding. Unfortunately, none of the situations I had to face here were going to vanish that easily, and more likely, the problems would be multiplying like rabbits.

  I shook off a shudder and started to add “stop at drugstore” to the list, but I just couldn’t do it. Not this time. This time, Jolene Jackson was not going to fall into that trap. This time, Jolene was going to be in control of her emotions and her person at all times and all by herself, thank you very much. And she wasn’t going to put up with any crap from anybody. Not from her mother and not her new attorneys. And furthermore, she was going to support her assertion that she didn’t need any medication by immediately ceasing to refer to herself in the third person. Geez.

  Maybe I really was crazy. I went back to my list and wrote, “Call attorney” one more time. I hadn’t tried crazy on him yet—it might work. Although, I suppose he already thought I was insane, since a few seconds after he informed me I was the sole heir to the grand and well-funded estate, I’d tried to give it back. The team of lawyers there with him, supposedly representing the various business deals left in the lurch by Bob’s untimely death, had not found my responses amusing and had made it abundantly clear that I had no other choice—no good ones anyway.

  If I refused to accept, the extensive estate—and all its extensive warts—everything went wholly and directly to my children. Since both were over eighteen, I couldn’t refuse on their behalf either. I know because I’d tried. So, rather than let their academic aspirations—and perhaps morals—be compromised by the mess, I took it on. Which meant, at some point, I was going to have to deal with all the fine properties I’d been bequeathed, including the one I least wanted to. I tentatively added “go see ranch house” to the list. I probably wouldn’t make it there today, but I assumed the attorney would give me the keys to the castle so I could go whenever I got the nerve.

  That whole situation felt weird in every way possible. And as much as I hated to admit it, I almost wished Lucille could go with me. “Oh my God,” I said, out loud and to myself. “I haven’t been in Texas even a half a day and I've already completely lost my mind.”

  I grabbed the phone, fished around in my billfold for the attorney’s card. Perhaps if I told him it was a matter of life and death—my rapid loss of brain function certainly supported that theory—he might try a little harder to find a loophole to get me un-inherited, like maybe giving it all away. Why couldn’t I just donate everything to a legitimate nonprofit organization with a real mission and let some overseer board somewhere deal with it? The place would make a great “scared straight” kind of boot camp for troubled teens. It certainly scared the crap out of me.

  Or what about giving it to Greenpeace? That would be a hoot for about fifty different reasons, none of which were because it would bring either green or peace to the region, although both were desperately needed. On the plus side, if there were any horny toads left in existence, the enviro-militia would have no problem hauling out the big guns to protect them. “Ha!” The dichotomy of that thought was mildly amusing, this being Texas and all, but the half-hearted chuckle that escaped my lips was really just a nervous reflex. The reality of what my life was about to become terrified me, which was why I was still grasping at straws to find a way out. So, I called the attorney.

  “Good morning, Vanderhorn Carpenter Vanderhorn Smith, Sheila speaking, how may I help you?”

  Wow, say that three times fast. “Good morning, Sheila, this is Jolene Jackson and I”

  “Jolene? Jolene Jackson?”

  Oh, geez, really? “Yes, this is Jolene.” I paused for
effect. “Jolene Jackson.” Yes, I was being a smartass.

  Apparently though, I was the only one who noticed, because within seconds, the law office’s primary attorney, one Edmond G. Vanderhorn, III, Esquire, came on the line to speak to me, personally, immediately and enthusiastically. “Jolene!” he said chummily, calling me by my first name and thankfully not repeating it. “Good to hear from you. Ready to get this thing going?”

  No, I was not, but we exchanged pleasantries—or unpleasantries—anyway.

  Vanderhorn was much cheerier than in our earlier communications, possibly because he thought I had accepted my mission. I admired his confidence and optimism, but I certainly didn’t share it. His big-bucks spin did not convince me I should be dancing a jig as if I’d won the lottery. Best I could tell, what I’d won was a front row seat in hell.

  Still, despite playing the devil in my personal nightmare, Vanderhorn seemed nice enough. He’d been Bob Little’s lawyer for decades and really did seem sincere about wanting to do what he could to help me with the details of the estate—just not getting me free of them. He insisted I call him Ed since we were apparently going to be spending a lot of time together. He also insisted I get to his office as soon as possible so we could get started immediately.

  I did have to wonder, though, why an attorney who could command $400 an hour—in Redwater Falls, no less—would instantly drop everything and be available to meet with me at whatever time I named. Granted, this was going to be a long and arduous process and would require a great deal of his professional and billable time to resolve… Yes, I’d just answered my own question and it had probably cost me a couple hundred bucks.

  * * * * *

  The double garage beside Lucille’s house had a room that extended across the entire back. The first part of the storage area had been my dad’s old workshop, and the rest had been my playhouse. I unlocked the door, stepped inside and flipped on the old light switch. A single bulb in the low ceiling flooded the area with light. My dad’s workbench was pretty much as he’d left it. I blinked back tears.