A Killing at Cotton Hill

by Terry Shames

  By midnight I have scoured her papers, and it’s clear she was barely solvent. The only money she had coming in on a regular basis besides her social security was a pittance she got for renting her pasture out. And that ended early in the summer when the man renting it sold out his herd and moved to be near his daughter. Besides that, she sold the occasional quilt, but that didn’t amount to much.

  I found the deed to her place in a drawer at her bedside, and apparently before Teague died he mortgaged it to the hilt. She’s paid down the mortgage over the years, but it has broken her back to do it. I’m ashamed that I never thought twice about her financial security, as lucky as I’ve been on that score.

  It was only after I married Jeanne that I realized her family had more money than they let on. Not by big city standards, but for someone growing up in a small town as I did, it seemed like a lot. She had a nice little trust fund from her grandparents, and when her younger brother died with no family, he left us another chunk. If we’d had to depend on my salary as chief of police and then as an oil and gas landman, there’s no way we could have been able to buy the pieces of art that we were so partial to.

  And here is evidence that my friend Dora Lee could have used a hand. Not that she would have accepted me giving her money, but I could have made her life easier by arranging a loan to be paid back “someday.”

  I have one more task to complete before I can quit. I go looking for Dora Lee’s purse and find it stowed on a side counter of the kitchen near the telephone. Sure enough, like every woman I’ve ever known, Dora Lee kept a tiny little address book. Like Jeanne’s, it’s dog-eared and worn, filled in with tiny print and crossings out that make it practically illegible. But I manage to put together a list of people I need to call to let them know what happened. And I wonder if someone on this list is the person who decided to end Dora Lee’s life.

  I had wondered if I could stand to sleep in Dora Lee’s bed, but there’s no good alternative. The single bed in the room she used as an office is piled high with quilting gear, and I don’t have the energy to move it.

  I’m normally an early riser, but when the phone rings the next morning, it wakes me up and I see that I’ve slept until eight o’clock. I know before I answer the phone that it’s Loretta, acting as if nothing unhappy passed between us yesterday.

  “How did you know I was out here?” I ask.

  “I went by your place to drop off some cinnamon buns and Truly was just leaving. He’d been there to see to your cows and said you were going to be out at Dora Lee’s.”

  “I guess it’s all over town that I sprung Dora Lee’s grandson out of jail.”

  “Rodell is fit to be tied, but since you had that Jenny Sandstone with you, he couldn’t do anything about it.”

  I tell Loretta I could use help if she has the time. She can’t get off the phone fast enough. I figure I have just about enough time to take a shower before she gets here.

  Sure enough, I’ve just wiped the shaving cream off my face when I hear Loretta yoo-hooing at the back door. She has brought a plate of fresh-made cinnamon rolls that are still hot.

  “You want me to knock on that boy’s door and tell him there’s rolls?”

  She doesn’t really want to, or she’d have just gone on and done it. Loretta is a generous soul, so if she has feelings against the boy, that means many others will take against him in town. I’ll have to go to work on that.

  I tell her to let him be. If he’s asleep, he needs the rest, and if he’s awake, he’s probably painting, trying to make up for lost time. He’s too young to know that never happens.

  By the time I finish a couple of Loretta’s cinnamon buns and a pot of coffee, I’m ready to get to the business of the day, and not a minute too soon. Two ladies have already shown up with casseroles and curiosity. It’s going to be an asset to have Loretta here. She gives them enough information to satisfy them, and yet manages to whisk them out the door in just a few minutes.

  Pretty soon I see the Baptist minister, Howard Duckworth, coming up the back steps. Duckworth is about the least godly man I ever knew. When he’s not strutting himself in church, he’s got a foul temper and a foul mouth and can’t keep his hands off any female in his congregation under forty. I’ve made it my business not to be in the same room with him any longer than I have to for fear I’ll say something I’ll regret. I’m not religious. If the Baptists want to pay Duckworth to tell them what’s right and wrong, it’s their business. I happen to know that Dora Lee was part of a church group that was planning to run him out on a rail. The very idea that he will speak at her funeral irritates the hell out of me.

  I leave Loretta to handle him, telling her I’ve got telephone calls to make. I sequester myself in Dora Lee’s office. The first thing is to find out when the county will release her body so we can plan the funeral. When I reach the county morgue, they tell me that because Dora Lee was murdered her autopsy went to the head of the list and is being conducted even as we speak. The body should be ready to release by late this afternoon. Today is Friday, which means the earliest the funeral could be is Sunday afternoon, which I doubt will sit well with the Baptists. I say I’d like to talk to whoever is doing the examination of the murder weapon. The woman asks me who I am, and I tell her I’m working with Rodell. She’s satisfied with that lie, because she doesn’t really care who I am, as long as she gets an answer. She says she’ll have the investigator get back to me.

  When I call over to Landau’s Funeral Home, I’m lucky to find Earnest Landau in. He took care of Jeanne’s funeral and I’m grateful to have him to handle Dora Lee’s. He asks me if I want to come down and pick out a casket and I tell him I can’t make that decision without a member of the family, but would he start whatever groundwork is necessary so he’ll be ready once I roust out Greg. He says leave it to him, and I know he means it.

  Then it’s time to start calling Dora Lee’s relatives. This is a whole lot different from when I had to do it for Jeanne. Then I was so full of grief and anger I could barely choke out the words. As soon as Tom heard the news about Jeanne, he dropped everything and he and Vicki came down and took over.

  With Dora Lee, my sorrow is tempered by a sense of outrage that’s beginning to fester in me. Jarrett County is my territory, and I don’t like somebody thinking they can get away with killing a good woman I’ve known my whole life.

  You have to observe a ritual when notifying next of kin about a death. People get put out if one is called before the other, or if one gets told something that another doesn’t get told. It’s a delicate business. Dora Lee’s living daughter, Caroline, ought to be the first person I contact. In Dora Lee’s dog-eared address book, I find Caroline’s number in California, but it has been crossed out and nothing written in its place. Then I remember the letter Greg said Dora Lee got from her. Maybe because it’s morning and I’ve got some of my wits back, it occurs to me that the letter might be stashed in Dora Lee’s purse, a woman’s repository of all significant things.

  The letter is there, the paper soft from being handled so much. It’s dated July 1, six weeks ago. I figure Dora Lee wouldn’t mind if I read it.

  Dear Mother,

  I’m writing to tell you that I’m moving to Houston. The company I’m with, Dellams Software, has decided to relocate there from Los Angeles. I wasn’t happy about it at first, but have made my peace with it. In some ways I guess it will be good to get back to Texas.

  I will call you when my house is set up. Maybe we can arrange to meet.

  Caroline

  I don’t like the letter. There’s no warmth to it. Caroline could be writing to a business acquaintance. She says, “maybe we can arrange to meet.” Not that she’ll invite Dora Lee to her house. Not that’s she’s looking forward to seeing her. Just that cold, begrudging statement.

  Then I think I’m being mean. Caroline could have moved back and not let Dora Lee know. At least she wasn’t that callous. The fact that the letter has been unfolded and refolded tell
s me all I need to know about how it affected Dora Lee. I hope she didn’t notice the slight. I hope she died in the warmth of knowing her daughter was coming back to her. I can be such a sentimental old fool.

  I still don’t have a number to reach Caroline. Information in Houston doesn’t have anyone by the name Caroline Parjeter. So then I get the number for Dellams Software in Houston, and ask for Caroline and am put on hold. After a while a slick-voiced young man comes on and asks who I am. I tell him I’m trying to reach Caroline because there has been a death in the family.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” he says. “But Miss Parjeter was with our California office, and she’s no longer with the company.”

  “I see. Can you tell me if she left a way to get in touch with her?”

  “If she did, all those records would be in back files.”

  “Back files?”

  “Yes sir, we only keep employee information for a year, and Miss Parjeter hasn’t worked for Dellams for two years.”

  I hang up and sit staring at the place where the missing picture used to hang. So there was a lie in the letter Caroline wrote to Dora Lee. She didn’t transfer with Dellams—hasn’t worked for them for two years. So where is she working, and how long has she been back in Texas? When Dora Lee went to Houston a couple of weeks ago, all excited, I’m wondering if she was going to visit Caroline. If so, how come she didn’t tell anyone?

  I go through Dora Lee’s purse, carefully this time, but find nothing that would tell me where Caroline might live in Houston. Just to be sure, I call the number that was crossed out in Los Angeles. But the woman who answers says she’s had the number for over a year and doesn’t know any Caroline Parjeter.

  In the kitchen I can hear Duckworth and Loretta jawing on and on, so I sneak out through the front door and go out to Dora Lee’s car. It’s a burgundy Ford Taurus, about five years old. It’s clean as the day she bought it, except for a couple of business cards in the front tray. One of them is from a place called Houston Antiques ’N Art. Is it possible that Caroline has gone to work there?

  I take the card back in and call the shop.

  “Parjeter?” the man says. “That’s an unusual name. Did she say she worked here?”

  “No, I found your card and was trying to put two and two together. I guess I came up with something other than four.”

  “Well I never heard of her.”

  “Let me ask you this. Did a woman by the name of Dora Lee Parjeter come to your shop maybe two weeks ago?”

  “If she did, she didn’t introduce herself. Like I said, that’s an unusual name and I would have remembered it.”

  My last resort is to go through Dora Lee’s phone bills to see if I can come up with a number. I find the bills from the past few months, but they contain nothing but local calls. If Dora Lee talked to Caroline, it was an incoming call.

  I’ve put way too much time into finding Caroline. There are other relatives to notify. Dora Lee had a sister several years younger who moved to Virginia a long time ago. I call her and she’s upset, but says there’s no way she can make it back for the funeral. She gets the name of the funeral home and says she’ll send some flowers. Dora Lee has some distant cousins around the county, and I call one of them and ask her to notify the others. She’s a practical woman, who says she’ll wait until she knows exactly when the funeral will be, then make the calls.

  Greg’s aunt on his dad’s side, Patsy Raymond, lives way down in Harlingen, so I figure I’d better let her know pretty quickly, so if she and her family want to come for the funeral they’ll be able to arrange the trip.

  “This is Patsy. Praise the Lord. How can I help you?” There’s a TV blaring in the background and I can hear someone say, “Who is it?”

  “Patsy, you don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Dora Lee Parjeter.”

  “Hold on a minute, please. Mamma, it’s a friend of Dora Lee’s. Now let me talk. Sorry about that. How’s Dora Lee?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Dora Lee was found dead yesterday.”

  “Oh, but that’s not bad news! That’s good news. She’s with Jesus! What could be better than that?”

  I can think of a few things that would be better, but I don’t think Patsy’s up for a serious discussion. “Well, I thought you’d want to know. I think the funeral will be Sunday.”

  “Please don’t tell me that. My family will want to be there and we don’t travel on the Lord’s day.”

  “I see. Well, it’s not decided yet. I’m sure Monday will work as well. I’ll call you back when I know for sure.”

  “How’s my nephew holding up? Is he there? Can I talk to him?”

  I tell her that Greg is off on an errand, but that I’ll have him get in touch. I can’t wait to get off the phone. I think what a nightmare it would have been for a kid who wanted to concentrate on his art to be thrown into the care of someone like Patsy.

  It’s time to roust Greg. I’m just rounding the corner to his cabin when Reverend Duckworth comes down the back steps. I shake his sweaty hand and he oozes platitudes on me. Thankfully, I hear the phone ring inside and Loretta calling out to me.

  Loretta opens the back door. “Where have you got to? Somebody’s on the phone asking for you.”

  “Who is it?” I climb the porch stairs with a hitch in my step. After being up so late last night, my knee is giving me fits.

  “I don’t recognize the voice. It’s a man.”

  I go into the spare room to take the call.

  “Samuel? This is Johnny Taylor over at the county morgue.”

  “Johnny, I thought you’d be long retired.”

  “They can’t get me off the horse,” he says. He laughs. I’ve always wondered how somebody who works with dead bodies all the time can be so cheerful. “I’m just part-time here now. My girl told me you were working with Rodell. What’s that all about?”

  “It was a bald-faced lie,” I tell him. He laughs again. I’ve known him since I was chief of police. He knows exactly what Rodell is like. “I’m just nosy. Dora Lee was a friend of mine. I’m trying to get some idea of what happened here.”

  “Well, you’re not going to get it from the knife. Whoever put that knife in her had gloves on. In August. I’m sure you know that means he planned in advance what he was going to do.”

  “It might have been easier if you could have told me something different,” I say.

  “I hear that. I’ll get the report to the police by Monday, but if you have any more questions, you let me know.”

  I’m not all that upset by his news. Fingerprinting gets uneven results. It’s probably better now, but when I was a lawman, a lot of prints never made it onto the state files. Even if they’d found prints all over the knife, whoever killed Dora Lee would have to have fingerprints on file with the state for a match to come up. Furthermore, it would have been be up to Rodell to try to pursue that lead. Now it’s a moot point.

  One more person that needs to be notified right away about Dora Lee is her brother-in-law, Leslie Parjeter. Dora Lee didn’t care much for Leslie, telling me he was so stingy that the only Christmas present he ever let his wife buy for her girls when they were little was a bag of tiny, bitter oranges. When they got older, even that stopped.

  He’s got one of those high-pitched voices common to old men who have spent their lives farming and don’t get much chance to exercise their vocal chords. “You say Dora Lee died?”

  “That’s right. Happened yesterday.”

  “Did she have a heart attack, or what?”

  “Leslie, I’m sorry to tell you this, but somebody killed her.”

  “Killed her! Do they know who done it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Probably some young ’uns looking for money for drugs. On the television, they say kids get up to that a lot these days.”

  “Could be. Anyway, we’re thinking about the funeral for Monday. Will you be able to make it?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m seventy-f
ive years old and a little stove up, and I don’t know if I can spare the money to make the trip. I’ll get over there if I can.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “I’m over here in Dimebox. I live at the old place where Teague and me grew up. Listen here, I need to ask you a question. What’s your interest in this?”

  It’s a blunt question, but I don’t take offense. All my life I’ve known people like Leslie who don’t know much about the social niceties, but don’t mean anything by their manner. “I’m an old friend of Dora Lee’s. Known her my whole life, grew up with her. I knew your brother, too.”

  “Yep. Well, Teague was a ring-tailed tooter. We didn’t get along too well, but I liked Dora Lee. She leave a will?”

  “I’m not sure about that. I’m looking into it. Did you have a reason for asking?” Maybe he knows something I don’t.

  “I have my reasons. But also I was thinking about Dora Lee’s grandson. If he’s got no place to go, I could take him in. I could use a hand around the place. We couldn’t pay him, like, but he’d get his three squares and someplace to put his head at night.”

  I can imagine what this old man means by “three squares,” grits in the morning, and cornbread, beans, and greens the other two meals. “That’s real generous of you, but I wouldn’t count on it. I think the boy’s got some plans.”

  “Plans. Well, I guess so. I expect he’s graduated high school now. That’s when the boys get their ideas. Goin’ to the city and that kind of thing.”

  I tell him I’ll have Greg call him and hang up. It starts me thinking about how people like Leslie have their whole world right where they were born. I guess I’m the same; never had a lot of desire to go anywhere else. I wouldn’t live any other place on earth than Jarrett County, and I’ve seen a few places. After I got out of the air force, I swore I would come back to this area and you couldn’t pry me out. I’ve stuck to it.

  But at least my world opened up when I found Jeanne. Without her I could just have easily lived in a world only slightly bigger than Leslie Parjeter’s.