A Killing at Cotton Hill

by Terry Shames

  “I think I can help out on motive.” I tell him about the art, and the one painting missing.

  He looks at the pavement as I speak, nodding. “So you figure somebody set the fire to cover up the theft of your picture.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that part quiet. I’ll be notifying the insurance company, and no question they’re going to send somebody out to investigate. I hope that doesn’t step on your toes.”

  “It depends on who it is. Some of the inspectors I worked with thought they were the last word in smarts. And me being a black man didn’t always sit well.”

  “Even with your experience.” I say it as a fact, not a question.

  “Even so. I’ll give them my cooperation, but I won’t lie down and play dead.”

  “You let me know if you need any backup on my part.”

  “You ex-military?” he says.

  “Just my stint in the air force. A pretty boy just seeing enough to know I wanted to get on back home.”

  We both laugh.

  “I’ll let you get on with it,” I say. “I have a couple of phone calls I need to make.”

  The woman I reach at the insurance company is concerned when I tell her about the fire, but she’s really upset when I get to the part about the Thiebaud being gone. She asks if I’ve filed a police report. I tell her I’ll get right on that. No reason to tell her that Rodell isn’t going to be a whole lot of help. I tell her the fire marshal has been here. She asks me if the painting had an alarm system, and I remind her that I pay an extra premium so I don’t have to do such a thing.

  She still doesn’t like it. “We’ll be sending somebody to investigate right away,” she says in a crisp voice. “We’re going to be right on it. Somebody will call you as soon as we set something up. Is this the number where I can reach you?”

  I tell her it is, and to leave a message if I’m not here.

  “Can I get your cell phone number?” she says.

  “I don’t have one,” I admit. “We don’t get good service here, and most folks don’t find it useful to have one.”

  “Well, where are you?” she says, indignant, sounding like she’s pretty sure I have to be calling from another planet.

  I tell her we’re a small town and she has to make do with that. She says she’ll be in touch.

  The truth is, I never have figured out why somebody can make a phone call from an airplane or a mountain somewhere, but the mobile phone companies can’t make it possible for us to have coverage in Jarrett Creek. Not that I care, particularly, it just strikes me as obstinate on their part.

  I see that I have missed a couple of messages. One is Tom’s wife, Vicki, pitching a fit about the fire and telling me I ought to come up there for a few days. The other is from Jenny. “I’ve got something that might interest you. Call me.”

  I call her, but just get her machine, so I leave a message that I’ll be home for a while.

  I’m about to starve, so I pull out some lunchmeat and make myself a sandwich. I go around back and ask Callum if he’d like me to make him one, too, but he says he’s going to have to get on back to work.

  The smell in the house is so bad that I sit out on the porch, and while I eat, I ponder who might have set the fire and stolen my painting. Even though Mrs. Summerfield said she saw Greg at my house, and he certainly needs funds, I can’t imagine that he’d be stupid enough to show himself so blatantly and then come back and set fire to the house. Besides, there’s no way an artist would burn up those paintings.

  Callum was talking about a desperate person setting the fire, and the first name that comes to mind is Caroline. I don’t know what it comes from, but she’s certainly got an air of desperation about her, something edgy that I can’t figure out.

  And then I think of Clyde and Frances Underwood. I don’t know how desperate they are, but I know they like money. The truth is, I like the idea of the Underwoods being responsible, because I just don’t like them. They stuck her mother in a nursing home, rather than making her last days comfortable at home. It would have been easy enough for them to know about my art. They could have heard it from Loretta, or Greg or even Gary Dellmore at the bank. It’s not a secret that I have an art collection; it’s just that most people don’t have much interest in it.

  I can’t even think about a country boy like Leslie Parjeter in the same universe with a Thiebaud, but greed knows no limits. And Wayne Jackson looks prosperous enough. But looks can be deceiving. It sounds like he owes his daddy some money, and he might have thought stealing my painting was a way to make a bundle.

  I don’t know how my fire and theft are connected to Dora Lee, but it seems too great a coincidence not to be. With that in mind, I think about my confrontation with Alex Eubanks yesterday. Like with the Underwoods, I don’t know how he would have found out I have a valuable art collection, but I do know he has a vindictive turn of mind toward Greg. It wouldn’t hurt to find out more about their relationship.

  It seems like a long time since I’ve been out to Dora Lee’s, although it was only Sunday when DeWitt and I were here.

  Three cars are parked in front: Dora Lee’s, Caroline’s, and Wayne Jackson’s SUV. I’m surprised to see that Jackson is still here. I’d have thought he’d have work to get back to in Houston.

  I go around to the back door and can hear the argument way before I reach the house.

  “You crazy bitch, you’re going to screw things up royally,” Wayne yells.

  I don’t hear the reply, but I’m pretty sure the crazy bitch is Caroline.

  I don’t knock at the back door, just open it and walk in. I’m interested to find out what the element of surprise will bring me. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I say.

  Caroline is sitting at the kitchen table clutching a cup of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her from slipping off her chair. Her back is rigid. Jackson is standing over her with his hands on his hips, looking even bigger than he is. His face is dark and sweaty. If I were Caroline, I might even be scared. When she turns at the sound of my voice, her face is pale and haggard.

  Jackson glares at me, drawing a hand across his mouth as if to wipe away a bad taste. “What is it you want?”

  “I need to talk to Dora Lee’s grandson and see how he’s doing. I heard voices and thought maybe he’d be in here with you.”

  “Well, you can see he’s not,” Jackson says.

  “That’s a fact,” I say. “Caroline, how are you getting on?”

  She gets up from the table, pushing herself up with her hands, as if she’s stove up. “I’m glad to see you, Samuel.” She throws a cold look Jackson’s way. “You might be interested in the conversation we’ve been having.”

  “Leave him out of it. This is a family thing,” Jackson says.

  “Wayne wants me to sell my mother’s land to Clyde Underwood,” she says. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

  “Underwood is making a fair offer,” Jackson says.

  “Hold on,” I say. “Everybody just calm down. Wayne, if you recall I got a look at what Underwood was offering, and I think Caroline’s right, she can do better.”

  Jackson takes a couple of steps too close to me. “I’m not stupid. I told Underwood his offer was too low, and he came up considerably.”

  “You mind if I sit down?” I say. “I’ve had a kind of shock, and I’m a little played out.”

  Caroline frowns. “What kind of shock?”

  I sit down with my shoulders hunched as if I’ve got a heavy burden, playing it up a little. “Somebody set fire to my house last night.”

  “Oh, my God!” Caroline says. She brings a hand up to her throat. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

  “No, I’m fine. But I would like to ask you what time you left my place yesterday.”

  Caroline flushes and doesn’t meet my eyes. “I left as soon as I got up, about ten.”

  “I don’t suppose you saw anybody around my place who shouldn’t have been there
?”

  She shakes her head.

  “What kind of damage did you have?” Jackson says.

  “I’m one lucky son of a bitch,” I say, “A neighbor of mine saw the fire before it could get out of hand.”

  “How do you know somebody set it?” Jackson asks. “It’s pretty hot. Maybe you had a little gas leak and it ignited.”

  “No question it was set deliberately.”

  Caroline sits down next to me and puts her hand on my arm, gazing into my face. “Why would anybody do such a thing?” For once, she seems to be outside her usual concern with herself. “What about your art? Is it okay?”

  “Damage was just to one wall of the house. And the volunteer fire department got my paintings out.” I’m not ready just yet to noise it around that I lost a valuable painting.

  “Glad to hear it wasn’t too bad,” Jackson says. He’s looking at me in a thoughtful way. “Any idea who might have done it?”

  “Not yet. But the fire investigators will figure it out. The fire marshal in Bobtail is a pretty savvy guy.” I don’t mention the insurance investigators because I want whoever did this to think it’s a small-scale operation.

  “Who’d guess so much would go on in a small town?” Jackson says with a smirk. “If I were you, I’d be trying to think who my enemies are.”

  “I expect it won’t come down to me thinking about it too much. The fire marshal told me that arsonists aren’t that smart, and usually something trips them up.” That’s not exactly what Woodrow Callum said, but I want anybody who might have set that fire to be nervous about being caught. And as far as I’m concerned, right now these two are as likely as anybody to have done it.

  “I hope he’s right,” Jackson says.

  “Anyway, we were talking about Underwood’s offer,” I say. “What makes you think it’s a good offer?”

  Jackson has been standing all this time, and now he sits down, sprawling back in his chair like he owns the place. “Underwood used to be in the real estate business, and he said he knows what things are worth. He said the only reason he made an offer was because he knew Dora Lee had financial problems. He was thinking he’d help her out.”

  “Uh, huh.” I’m nodding as if I accept what he said. “Did he say how he knew Dora Lee had financial problems?”

  Jackson swipes at a fly buzzing his head. “I assumed it was common knowledge.”

  “Maybe.” I’m thinking that when I have a spare minute, I’m going to have words with Gary Dellmore down at the bank about his loose talk with people’s financial information.

  “Caroline, what would you like to do with the land if you don’t want to sell to Underwood?”

  Caroline looks to Jackson. “She wants to put the property on the market,” Jackson says. “I told her she’ll be having to pay real estate fees, and by the time the real estate people are done with their negotiations, she’ll get less on the open market than she will if she just goes ahead and sells it to Underwood.”

  I’m wondering why he has a dog in this fight. From the looks of it at the reception after Dora Lee’s funeral, he and the Underwoods were doing some negotiating of their own. Could be they’ve put him in the way of making a little on the side if he convinces Caroline to go along with selling the place.

  “The thing is,” I say, “I heard a rumor about the land, something about a Houston outfit wanting to put some recreational thing out here. That would up the value of the land considerably. I’m surprised Underwood didn’t mention that to you.”

  Jackson’s face has gotten flushed. “Underwood did tell me about that, but he said it’s pure speculation. Caroline and Dora Lee’s grandson aren’t in any position to be speculating.” He opens his hands out in appeal. “Caroline, I know you don’t believe it, but I’ve got your best interest at heart.”

  Caroline’s laugh is not a pretty sound. “Wayne, you’ve never had anyone’s interest at heart but your own.”

  Jackson’s mouth turns down in a pout. “You have no reason to say that.”

  “You’re a Parjeter—I know, not by blood, but Leslie raised you, and some of his tight-fisted ways rubbed off on you.”

  “Leslie was a good daddy to me.” Jackson’s fists clench up.

  “Wayne, don’t be a fool. Leslie treated you like a servant. He didn’t even go to the trouble to adopt you, because he was too cheap to pay the filing fees.”

  “He would have done it if he could have afforded it.” Jackson’s face is getting red again.

  “If he was so wonderful, why did you leave there the minute you got a chance?”

  They sound like a bickering old married couple that is going over the argument for the hundredth time.

  “Listen here,” I say. “This isn’t getting anybody anywhere. Let’s get back to the matter of your selling the land. The plain fact is, Caroline, you can’t sell by yourself. You’ve got to have Greg’s consent to whatever you do, because he’ll inherit half. Does he have any opinion in the matter?”

  Jackson has a sneer on his face. “Not yet. He says he’s got to think about it. What the hell does he know about the land?”

  “He lived here with his grandma,” I say. “I believe that counts for something with him.”

  “He’s going to have a fight with me if he tries to keep it,” Caroline says. “The last thing I want is to have this land hanging around my neck.”

  “You realize that no matter what you decide to do, you won’t be able to sell it until the probate of Dora Lee’s estate gives you title? That could take a year.”

  “Underwood says there may be a way to get around that,” Jackson says.

  My guess is that what Underwood has in mind is to forge Dora Lee’s signature on a contract. Wouldn’t be the first time, but there’s no way I’m going to let that happen.

  Caroline looks around the kitchen, her eyes hard. “As long as I can leave here knowing I don’t ever have to come back, I don’t care how long it takes to sell it. And Greg’s going to have to live with that.”

  “Which reminds me, I actually came out here to talk to Greg.” I get up from the table.

  “He’s gotten to be quite the popular guy,” Jackson says. “You’re the third person who’s been out here to see him.”

  “I expect people want to pay their respects,” I say.

  “Didn’t look that way. Some little girl came wheeling up yesterday morning in a big SUV that makes mine look like a little sports car. She was a prissy thing, not as cute as she thought she was. I guess she was out there about an hour, and when she left, she laid down about half the rubber on her tires.”

  He looks over at Caroline and they both grin. “We figured she was out here for a quickie.”

  I’m put off by their insinuation. But I have to wonder why the girl came to see him. Greg told me he was a loner, so who is the girl? “You said somebody else came by?”

  “Some weird, bristle-haired guy. Looked mad enough to hit somebody, too. He didn’t stay long.”

  Walking out back to Greg’s cabin, I think about why Alex Eubanks would have come to see him. Greg takes a minute to answer his door, and when he does, he’s blinking and he has that faraway look in his eyes, like he’s been in his own world. He has a smear of pastel chalk on his face. “Mr. Craddock, I’m glad to see you. Come on in.”

  My eyes shoot to the easel. He has put aside the painting he was working on when I first came here and has started another one. I don’t see how this boy can be contained here in this small part of the world.

  “You’re working hard,” I say.

  He looks at the painting and frowns. “I’m going to have to figure out how to get some supplies. I’m running low on a few things.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” I say. “Greg, I’ll come right out and ask. A neighbor of mine saw somebody that looked like you at my house yesterday. Did you come by?”

  He sits down on the bed, his face losing its animation. “Yes, I needed some advice, and I thought maybe I could talk to you.�
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  I clear some rags off his only chair and sit down. “Advice about what?”

  “You know Caroline wants to sell this place.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “The more I think about it, the more I don’t want to. But I can’t stop her because I don’t have any money. She’s says I’ll get half the proceeds, and I have to have something to live on, so I guess I have to sell.”

  “You like it out here.”

  “This is where I landed after my folks died, and my grandma was good to me. I have my studio set up here. And it’s quiet.” He looks off in the distance. “Maybe if I was set up somewhere else, I’d like it just as much, though. As long as I can work.”

  What draws me to Greg’s work is that it has the land in it. Not a landscape, but the expanse of it, and the colors of the soil and the grass and the wild weeds, and the sky with clouds or with sun. I think about Diebenkorn and the series he did that has ocean in it. And Georgia O’Keefe with her passion for the desert. Not that Greg paints like Diebenkorn or O’Keefe, but his work spins up out of this land with the same kind of passion. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for him to spend some time in other places, and expand his horizons. But it would be a shame for him to not have his prime territory to come back to, if he wanted.

  “Why don’t you hold out on making a decision for a few days? There’s no hurry, in spite of what Caroline says. Nothing can happen until after probate anyway, and that could take up to a year.”

  “A year?” He looks panicky. “I don’t know what I’m going to do for money. I’m going to have to get me a job, fast. Wayne says maybe he can find something for me.”

  “Before you go off just getting any old job, I’d like to have somebody I know in Houston take a look at your work. You could bring a few of your paintings along that you feel like you might be ready to part with. While we’re there, we can pick you up some supplies.”

  “I’m not really good enough for anybody to buy my paintings yet. I know that.”

  “You may have to let me advance you a little bit of money,” I say. “Then when the estate is settled, we can figure out how I can get paid back.” What I’m thinking is that I might buy a couple of things from him, but I want George Manning, a gallery owner I know, to take a look at the work first. I don’t want to falsely encourage the boy if I’m off track.