Black & White & Dead All Over: A Lost Hat, Texas, Mystery (The Lost Hat, Texas, Mystery Series Book 1)

by Anna Castle

  “Is he still here?” Tillie asked.

  “His car broke down.” Krystle flashed me a quick look. “But he found the money to get it fixed, so he’s supposed to be out of here by tomorrow.”

  “I thought he was kind of cute,” Tillie said.

  “He’ll be tons cuter when he’s gone.”

  I cracked my window open an inch. Between the noonday sun and the three healthy women, the cab of my truck was getting fairly toasty. We passed around bottles of water and assorted snacks and kept right on plowing through that list. The rest of the day went pretty much the same. I was amazed at what people were willing to tell us, just because we knocked on their front doors.

  Take Marge Henderson, for example. She was a perfectly respectable woman, the secretary of a loan officer at the Caine Bank and Trust. She told us her husband was having Internet sex with “all manner of whores, half of them probably men.” She wanted to know from me, woman to woman, if it felt better to go ahead and kill the you-know-what, because she surely did want to. We gave her a flyer and advised her to take a weekend trip to Colorado to cool off.

  Old Mrs. Carroll was convinced her identity had been stolen by some man, because she kept getting advertisements for male enhancement products. Her son had given her that computer to look at pictures of her grandkids, but if it was going to risk life and limb, she’d as soon junk the contraption. We explained to her about spam, but I think we only confused her more.

  Not everybody talked, of course. Lots of folks closed the doors in our faces, some without so much as a “Sorry, can’t help you.” Others said various things that ultimately boiled down to, “Say what?”

  Veterinarians Doug and Julia Garrick had locked up their offices and skedaddled. A note on the door advised boarding clients to seek their animals at Noah’s Ark Veterinary Clinic on Highway 331. Andy Lynch was a door-closer. We didn’t even try the clinic or the high school.

  * * *

  A little after noon, my cell phone burbled. Tillie whispered, “Bet it’s Ty.” I shook my head, not wanting to jinx it. I swiped it on without looking at the number, my heart beating double-time. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Trigg? This is Sheriff Hopper. I need to trouble you for a little more of your time.”

  My heart rate sank back to a disappointed normal. “My time?”

  “We got a tip that we might find something interesting in your house. We’d like to meet you over there for a quick little look-see.”

  “My house?” The words he was using were simple enough, but I was finding his message difficult to grasp. What interesting thing could there be in my house?

  “Yes, ma’am. We could get a warrant, if you don’t choose to cooperate.”

  “I’ll cooperate. I’ve been cooperating all along. I’m totally cooperative.”

  Chapter 38

  Krystle took the wheel and they dropped me off at my house. They were going to keep working down the list until I called them to come get me.

  Deputy Finley and Deputy Millhouse were waiting in a brown-and-tan parked at the curb in front of my house. The sheriff pulled up as I arrived. I let them in and the deputies went to work. Sheriff Hopper accompanied me to the kitchen and accepted a whistle-dampener in the form of a Diet Coke. We settled ourselves at my kitchen table.

  He wouldn’t tell me what they expected to find. “Won’t know ’til we find it, Penny.”

  He kept me well distracted, reminiscing about Sophie and Gertie. He thought they had been a couple of “grand old gals,” which I interpreted as Hill Country code for “silverback lesbians.” They’d met in the Army in World War II, young nurses out to see the world, and they’d lived together until Gertie died of breast cancer in 2001. Aunt Sophie never recovered from the loss, which is why Gertie’s clothes still hung in the closet and Gertie’s antique lotions still cluttered up her bathroom cupboard.

  Sheriff Hopper brought tears to my eyes at one point, talking about how proud Sophie had been of me. “She used to show me the pictures you took.” His eyes crinkled with pleasure at the memory. “Heck, she used to show ’em to everybody that came into her shop. Braggin’ on you like you hung the moon.”

  I hadn’t known that. He gave me a different view of her, the way the town saw her, the way she was when I wasn’t around hogging center stage. He made me miss her horribly. I didn’t want him to stop.

  Deputy Millhouse called out, “Got it!” He came back to the kitchen and handed the sheriff an evidence bag containing an orange prescription bottle.

  “It’s OxyContin, all right,” he said. “Made out to Gertrude Simons.”

  “OxyContin!” My heart sank. “Isn’t that what killed Jim?”

  The sheriff leveled a cool gaze at me. “Yes, ma’am, it sure is. And here it is in your medicine cabinet.”

  “Gertie’s medicine cabinet,” I said, for the record.

  The sheriff studied the label, turning the bottle this way and that. “Two old pills stuck to the bottom. Good work, Les.” He handed the bag back to his deputy. “I reckon the lab can tell us if it was the same batch or not.”

  “What is OxyContin anyway?” I asked, knowing that I sounded like a peevish child. Having people think I murdered one of my best friends makes me cranky.

  “They tell me it’s a narcotic pain medicine,” Sheriff Hopper said. “They give it to folks with cancer, broken backs, bad burns, that kind of thing. Pretty potent stuff.”

  “I would never in a million years have done anything to hurt Jim.” I met the sheriff’s eyes. “You have to believe that.”

  “I do believe it. I think you were right on the money the other day. I think that pink cake was meant for Greg Alexander.”

  “But—”

  Deputy Finley barged through the kitchen door, waving another evidence bag in his gloved hand. “Look what I found, Sheriff!”

  “Les found the drugs,” Sheriff Hopper told him.

  “Well, now.” Finley grinned. “That makes a full house.” The sheriff scowled at him and he shook his head. “Sorry. But if y’all got the means, I got the motive. I found this letter stuck inside some old book about plumbing out yonder in the garage.”

  He handed his evidence bag to the sheriff. It held a single sheet of paper.

  “Now, isn’t this interesting,” the sheriff said, after studying it for a while. He handed it to me with an inscrutable smile.

  The sheet was letterhead from Oliver, Smith and Boone, Attorneys at Law in Naugatuck, Connecticut. “Gertie was originally from Connecticut,” I said.

  I had to read the letter three times before it made sense. Underneath the cold legalese, it appeared to be a threatening letter regarding Aunt Sophie’s final will and testament. Not the will that had been read to me last March in the offices of Crumley and Quayle, Attorneys at Law in Long County, Texas; a different and supposedly superior will. A will in which Sophie divided her estate right down the middle between me and a great-nephew of Gertie’s named Frederick Simons, instead of leaving everything to me alone. Messrs. Oliver, Smith and Boone were profoundly annoyed with me for refusing to respond to their many previous communications on the subject and were on the brink of taking more aggressive action on behalf of Mr. Simons.

  “This can’t be right.” I handed the letter back to the sheriff. I felt as if I were moving in slow motion, that the air was too thick. I even heard a horn honking in the distance, although there was no reason why there should be horns. Booming kettle drums would be more like it.

  “Can’t it?”

  “Why wouldn’t she tell me?” Tears stung my eyes. Aunt Sophie must have changed her mind near the end. Was it something I had said or done? Something I didn’t do? Everything had always been about me: my plans, my photographs. When did I ever listen to her concerns?

  The sheriff was watching me with an odd glint in his hazel eyes. “I think we’re done here, fellows,” he said to his deputies. “Let’s swing by the pharmacy and have a word with old Tuttle about these pills.”

 
I walked them to the front door, through what I had thought was my living room. I surveyed the mismatched furniture and the whatnots laden with knick-knacks. I could live without the house. I could totally live without the figurines. But what about my studio? As I opened the door, I said to the sheriff, “Do you think Gertie’s great-nephew would settle for a truckload of antiques?”

  Chapter 39

  I walked the lawmen out to the porch and found Tillie and Krystle sitting in my truck in the driveway. They got out to help me wave good-bye to the officers and take a potty break. When that was done, I said, “Y’all’s timing is perfect. How’d you know I’d be ready to go?”

  “We didn’t,” Tillie said. “We’re pretty much done. We figured you’d want to visit Mr. Muelenbach with us.”

  “I don’t think he’s home,” I said. “His paper’s still on the porch steps. He’s probably out at Licha’s. They’re running pretty hot and heavy these days.”

  Licha Gutierrez had a small ranch where she raised Nubian dairy goats and made the most delectable cheese in the world. Most of it got shipped to Dallas and Houston, but I got a taste now and then. As I drove into the countryside for the second time that day, I worried over what had just happened in my house, feeling severely bummed. I didn’t really want the house, although I had gotten used to the luxury of living in my own home pretty quickly. But I’d fight tooth and nail to keep my studio. How was this going to work, anyway? Would the lawyers send appraisers and value everything, so we could split it down the middle? I wouldn’t mind having the antiques appraised by pros. I wouldn’t mind selling them all to pay my share. What kind of guy was Gertie’s great-nephew: a greedy guy or a decent guy?

  Then a funny thought popped into my head. “They didn’t arrest me.”

  “Were they supposed to?” Tillie asked.

  “I don’t know.” I told them about the OxyContin and the letter.

  “Dude, that is harsh!” Krystle said. “Sounds pretty solid to me. You should be in jail. Are you sure you didn’t do it?”

  I shot her a quelling glance. “Seriously, why didn’t they arrest me?”

  “They must know something else,” Tillie said.

  “I guess. But what?” I reviewed my limited knowledge of Gertie’s history, trying to remember if she’d ever mentioned a great-nephew or even one that was not so great. “I always had the idea Gertie was an only child.”

  “Then where’d the great-nephew come from?” Tillie asked.

  Good question. I wondered if Sheriff Hopper knew the answer already. Tonight I’d have to dig around in Sophie’s papers and see if I could find anything helpful.

  “Also,” Tillie said, “didn’t Ms. Simons die a long time ago?”

  “A little more than ten years,” I said.

  “Do drugs stay good for that long?”

  “Not reliably,” Krystle said. “I had to take these training modules for my job at the clinic. They said drugs must not be used after their expiration date, because the effects would be unpredictable. We have this whole protocol for disposing of them. They could be dangerous, because of chemical changes, but probably they would just be less effective.”

  I glanced at her. “Like, they would get you stoned instead of killing you.”

  “Yeah,” she said slowly. “Like that.” We were both thinking the same thought: those cookies had been dosed with somebody’s leftover meds.

  Tillie said, “I’ll bet the sheriff knows all about that. They do training modules galore, my uncle Flip says. I’ll bet he didn’t arrest you because he knows those drugs in Ms. Simons’ cupboard were too old.”

  “That makes me feel better,” I said. Somebody was trying to frame me and doing a pretty brassy job of it. “And even better, how trustworthy is it that Deputy Finley found that letter? He’s the one squelching the blackmail story.”

  “I don’t want it be Michael,” Krystle whined. “He’s so cute. And he’s got a sweet side.”

  “If he’s framing me for these murders, he is neither sweet nor cute.”

  Tillie said, “I hope it’s nobody I really know, you know?” She sounded mournful. The odds were high it would be someone she’d known all her life.

  Krystle and I made comforting noises. This was no time for sniping at each other. We had a murderer to identify.

  “Did y’all finish the rest of the list?” I asked.

  “It went fast,” Tillie said.

  “But we had to stop at M,” Krystle said. “Mr. Matslar answered the door and said, ‘I’d be happy to sign your petition, girls. But first let me give the mayor a call right quick.’”

  “Oops!” I said. “What did the mayor say?”

  “He might not have actually called,” Tillie said. “We kind of just left.”

  “We were cowards,” Krystle said.

  “Total cowards,” Tillie agreed.

  “So we’re as good as busted.” I slowed down. “Should we even go out to Licha’s?”

  “Mr. M. won’t care about the mayor,” Krystle said. “He can be the last one.”

  “Except Robbie,” I said. “I want to know what that kid’s been up to.”

  “I think Mr. M. did it,” Krystle said.

  “No way!” I protested. “He’s my favorite old coot. He’s the coolest old coot in the history of cootdom.”

  “He gave me a C in English in tenth grade. And he totally hated my Juliet.”

  “You said you knew you weren’t a good actress.”

  “Now. Back then I thought I was fabulous. But that’s not the reason I think he did it. Haven’t you noticed that he’s been flashing a lot of pricey new stuff around lately? The Prius, the diamond in his earring…”

  I had noticed. “The python boots and the vintage champagne.”

  “Uh-huh. So where’s the money coming from?”

  “Wouldn’t he have less money, if he was being blackmailed?” Tillie asked.

  “Hmm,” Krystle said. “You’ve got a point. I still say there’s something skeezy going on. Maybe he was like the mastermind, taking a cut off the top.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said. “But maybe he found out about Greg and was blackmailing the blackmailer.”

  “How is that different from taking a cut?”

  I didn’t know. We bickered about that thorny distinction until we got to the turn-off to Licha’s place. We bounced along a rutted caliche road in low gear until we got to a double-wide trailer house. Mr. M.’s silver Prius was parked in front next to a beat-up green truck that could be the Beast’s little brother.

  The double-wide had a patio and the patio had a vinyl roof with a painted fence railing all around. Mexican paper cutouts in bright primary colors, called papelitos, were strung between the roof supports. The blue plastic patio furniture sported flowered cushions. It was cheery and inviting, ready for a drop-of-the-sombrero fiesta.

  I liked the place at once. I wanted my house to look more like this and less like Little Old Lady Land. Would papelitos alone do the trick, or did I need to paint my porch railings different colors? We knocked on the door and waited. All we heard was that deep and settled country quiet, accentuated by an occasional bird call.

  “They must be here.” Tillie gestured at the vehicles.

  “Let’s try the barn.” Krystle pointed at a long building off to the left of the house.

  Tillie was sliding a flyer inside the screen door when we heard a horrendous scream, like a wailing yell, coming from behind the house. We turned, shocked, and saw a woman with blazing red hair holding her long skirts clear of her feet with both hands race across the field and out of sight.

  We were glued to the porch in astonishment. Then we heard shrieks and high-pitched cries of Help! Help! from beyond the barn.

  I vaulted over the railing, catching a strand of papelitos around my shoulders, and lit out in the direction of the shrieks. I could hear feet pounding behind me and figured it was Krystle. I banked around the barn without slowing down. Ahead of me was a belt of oaks
and cedars. Right at the edge a man in black knee breeches was binding the redheaded woman to a tree with a long coil of rope.

  “Help! Help!” she cried, writhing in terror.

  I aimed straight at Mr. Breeches and barreled into him at full-speed, knocking him into a patch of Turk’s caps. He landed on his back with me on top. He groaned in an oddly pitched voice. I struggled off his overly soft body, rising to my knees beside him. Then, and only then, did I look at his face.

  Only the face wasn’t his; it was hers: Licha Gutierrez, glaring up at me with fury, wearing a black handlebar moustache that was coming unglued. “Penny! What did you do that for? I think you broke my back!”

  Laughter rang out behind me, coming from Tillie, Krystle and Mr. M.. He wore a long red wig that looked blatantly fake up close. Krystle and Tillie were trying to unwind the rope, but they were laughing so hard they weren’t making much progress.

  I got to my feet and helped Licha up. I untangled the papelitos from my shoulders and handed them to her. She seemed to be more or less intact. “We’re lucky that wasn’t a yucca patch,” I said.

  “You’re lucky I’m not a lawyer.”

  “Hey! We heard screaming, we ran to help. I thought you were—”

  The absurdity of the scene finally caught up with me: Mr. M. tied to a tree in a long skirt and a cheap wig; Licha in a Snidely Whiplash costume, complete with moustache.

  “What on earth are y’all doing?”

  Mr. M. freed a hand from inside the ropes and wiped tears of hilarity from his eyes. He pulled his glasses from the bodice of his gown and strung them over his ears. “You should have seen your face, Penny. Priceless!”

  “I’ll save you!” Krystle cried in a Dudley Do-Right voice and the three of them crumpled into helpless gulps of laughter again.

  “Funny, funny; I get it.” Now I was feeling abused. I had made an honest mistake. Didn’t I get points for good intentions?

  The last turn of the rope fell away and Mr. M. stepped over to Licha. “Are you all right, querida?”