A Killing at Cotton Hill

by Terry Shames

  Manning returns, rubbing his hands like someone about to throw the dice. “If it’s all right, I’d like to keep these pictures. I want to show them to a couple of people. It’s a hard time in the art world right now, but I know some people who like to encourage young artists.”

  I tell him I’m sure Greg will be happy for me to leave them. Then I point to the landscape that caught my attention. “George, is that by William Kern?”

  Manning glances at the landscapes propped against the wall. “Yes, it is. Good call. I wouldn’t have thought he’d interest you, but he’s very popular right now.” He takes one of Greg’s pictures off its easel and leans it against the wall and puts the small landscape in its place.

  “Kern was never appreciated in his lifetime, but it’s one of those art things that drives a dealer crazy. He’s come into fashion, and his work is selling like hotcakes. Unfortunately this one is sold, but I can try to find you one if you like it.” He steps back and looks at it critically. “As you know, this kind of art really isn’t in my line, I just happened to come by this one a few years ago when I bought an estate collection. And I’m certainly glad I did. This sale is going to keep my gallery going for some time. How did you recognize it?”

  “I know someone who has one.”

  “You tell whoever owns it that if they have a mind to sell it, there will never be a better time.”

  And just like that my memory clicks into place. I can see Caroline standing with the article about William Kern in her hand, telling me I can throw it away because her mother sold the piece a while back. Wayne said so. And my question is, if Wayne hadn’t seen Dora Lee since he was a boy, how did he know that?

  “Do you know a gallery called Houston Antiques ’N Art?” I ask Manning.

  He takes a second to respond. “It’s not really a gallery. More like an antique store, loosely speaking. I don’t know it well, but I’ve met the owner, Dallas Morton. He’s got a good reputation. Why do you ask?”

  “I wonder if you would mind calling him for me and giving me an introduction. I need to go and see him while I’m in town.”

  He says he’ll be glad to do that. While he phones Morton, I try Jenny again. This time she answers, but her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her. “Samuel,” she whispers, “Greg’s back home. I’m in court. Can’t talk.” She switches off. But I’ve heard all I need to.

  When Manning returns, he escorts me to the door. I pause to take one more look at the Buie painting and tell Manning that if he wouldn’t mind, I’d like him to set it aside for a few days, that I’d like to mull over the purchase of it.

  “Take your time,” he says. “And with the market being what it is, I think I can get you a good price for it.”

  Even with Manning’s precise directions, I get good and lost. Houston is a sprawling city that covers a lot of territory, with freeways that are so badly marked that you’d think the city planners’ philosophy is that if you don’t know where you’re going, you shouldn’t be here. My frustration is compounded by the turmoil in my head. I’d been ready to believe that the owner, Dallas Morton, was a killer who had taken advantage of an old woman’s vulnerability. But now my thoughts are tending another way. I’m impatient to get to the heart of the matter.

  Finally I find Houston Antiques ’N Art, located in a mall that stretches about as big as Dora Lee’s farm. The place is completely different from Manning’s gallery. It looks like a warehouse, crammed up tight with fine pieces of furniture butted up next to some of the ugliest junk I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  When Dallas Morton greets me, I recognize his voice from when I called Houston Antiques ’N Art right after Dora Lee was killed, trying to find out if Caroline might work there. It seems like an age ago. But now at least I have an inkling of why this man’s card was in Dora Lee’s possession.

  Morton is a rangy man who wears clothes that makes him look like he’s ready to grab his partner at a square dance. His pale blue shirt has ruffles down the front and he’s wearing tight black pants and cowboy boots with high heels. It’s all finished off with a bolo tie with a piece of turquoise the size of my fist. He wears a silver and turquoise bracelet and rings to match.

  I introduce myself, and Morton tells me he’s pleased to help me any way he can. I expect by the time we’re done he’ll change his mind about that. He takes me into his office so we can speak privately. Even Morton’s office has its share of goods, stacked in corners and around on the floor.

  “Excuse the mess,” he says. “We’re finding these days that people are in need of money, and we’re getting more consignments than we usually do. I’m going to have to rent some warehouse space. I may be one of the few businessmen in town looking to hire someone to help me, rather than laying off.”

  He sits us down in chairs constructed of elk horn that are more comfortable than they look.

  “So you’re selling as well as buying,” I say. It pays to ease into difficult subjects with a little small talk.

  He touches the turquoise holding his tie, like it’s a talisman. “Yes, I’m probably the biggest purveyor of antique goods in Texas, and people from all over contact me when they’re in need of a particular piece.”

  “You buy and sell art as well as antiques?”

  “That’s actually how I started out. If I could wave a magic wand right now, I’d have the kind of storefront that George Manning runs. But it didn’t work out that way. One thing led to another, and this is the result.” He gestures in the direction of his showroom. “Now, George said you had something particular you needed. What can I do for you?”

  “Let me start back a week or so ago,” I say. “I called here and I think I talked to you, asking if you’d ever had someone stop in by the name of Parjeter.”

  He nods. “I do remember that. You were trying to find someone you thought might have worked here. Did you ever find who you were looking for?”

  “Thank you, I did. But I’m afraid that wasn’t the end of it. Let me ask you, just to be clear. You ever meet a woman by the name of Dora Lee Parjeter?”

  “Like I told you at the time. Never heard of her, never even heard the name.”

  I take a deep breath. Either he’s lying, or something else is in play. “Then I need to ask you if you’ve ever had dealings with a man by the name of Wayne Jackson.”

  He hesitates, then nods. “Yes, I have.”

  “He brought a picture in here painted by William Kern?”

  “That would be correct.”

  “How did he say he came to be in possession of the picture?”

  He hesitates a little longer this time. “He told me he was representing his aunt. He said she was shy of coming in herself and that he was helping her out.”

  “He never mentioned his aunt’s name?”

  Morton grimaces. “No. I pressed him on it, but he said she preferred to be kept out of it.”

  “Have you sold the painting?”

  “I have an interested buyer.” He’s been shifting around in his seat. “I’m sorry, but I need to find out why you’re asking me these questions. George Manning vouched for you, but it would help me out if you could tell me what this is about.”

  Now it’s my turn to squirm. I don’t want to tell him just yet that Dora Lee was killed. I need to know for sure that I’m on the right track. “Dora Lee Parjeter is Jackson’s aunt. She’s an old friend of mine. I expect she asked for her nephew’s help because she didn’t want to be hoodwinked. She has lived most of her life in the country, and she’s worried about city folks.”

  He’s nodding. “We get that with a lot of these old people. Even someone who has lived here in Houston his whole life can worry that they are going to lose what little they’ve got and be penniless in the end. I won’t say I’m not close with a dollar, but I’m not a cheat, and I try to do right by my customers.”

  I put up my hand. “There’s no question of your integrity. The question is Jackson’s integrity. George Manning told me what these paintings can
go for. We’re talking in the vicinity of a quarter million dollars for this picture?”

  “Possibly more. But we’re proceeding cautiously. The buyer I’ve shown it to wants to know the provenance, which I understand. Mr. Jackson had told me that the picture was in the family’s possession ever since it was painted, and I asked him to get some sworn statements to that effect.”

  “When did you ask him this?”

  “A few days ago.”

  I sigh, feeling the relief of having the connection finally fall into place. Jackson thought he was going to get the money from the sale of Dora Lee’s painting without anybody ever knowing about it. But when he was asked to prove ownership, he saw that money slip away. He couldn’t let on to anyone that he had the painting without being suspected of her murder. He must have had all kinds of plans for that money. And that’s where my Thiebaud came in. Finding out I had art worth stealing must have seemed like a reprieve. And who would ever suspect him of either crime?

  Morton is watching me. He’s turning one of his big silver and turquoise rings around and around on his finger. “Is there a problem with Jackson?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You mean he won’t be able to establish ownership?”

  “Oh, I can tell you Dora Lee owned the painting. I’ve known her since it was bought.”

  “That’s good to know. Can you tell me anything about the circumstances of when it was bought?”

  “Dora Lee’s family moved to Austin for a year or two when she was a teenaged girl, and her mother bought it. I don’t exactly know why. They aren’t really a type of family that would have been looking to buy art.”

  He laughs. “At that time it wouldn’t have been considered what we call ‘art.’ Somebody would have seen it and said, ‘oh that’s a pretty picture.’ They probably only paid a few dollars for it.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look at it, make sure we’re talking about the same piece?”

  “It’s in a vault, but I’ve got some good photos of it.”

  He opens the lid on a white computer on his desk and begins to punch in information. After a minute, he turns it around so I can see it.

  “That’s it. It’s funny, when I saw it was missing off the wall, I couldn’t recall it. It’s one of those things you see and don’t see.”

  Morton clears his throat. “What I’m concerned about is if there’s a problem with Jackson selling it. He signed an agreement with me and there would be a small penalty involved if the family wants it back. I’d hate to see this become a legal issue.”

  “I don’t think the family will mind selling the picture, though I’ll have to verify that with the rightful heirs. But I do have one more question. When Mr. Jackson came in here, did he have any idea what this picture was worth?”

  Morton claps his hands together and laughs. “Oh, not at all. When he walked in here, he was in a hurry, impatient to get his mission over with. He said he’d agreed to bring this to me to help his aunt because she seemed to think it was worth something. It took me some time to make sure I knew what I was looking at. I took it out of the cheap little frame it was in and found the signature, half-covered up. Luckily the painting doesn’t ever seem to have been damaged by light. I told him I had to verify it with people who knew more about it than I did, but I figured it might fetch as much as three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” He laughs again. “You could have knocked him over with a feather.”

  I can see how it would have worked out. Jackson thought when he walked in here that he was going to be able to get Dora Lee at most a few hundred dollars. I can’t even imagine what his thought process must have been when he found out she was right after all, and it was truly valuable.

  “I guess I ought to tell you what my thinking is,” I say, “so you’ll be prepared.”

  Dallas Morton puts his hand to the lump of turquoise on his tie again. “Go ahead.”

  “The owner of that picture, Dora Lee Parjeter, was murdered a week ago. They buried her Monday.”

  He claps his hand to his heart. “Oh, my heavens, I’m so sorry to hear that. That’s a terrible thing to happen to an old woman.” He pauses and I can see he’s working something out that troubles him. “Do they know who did it?”

  “They haven’t figured that out yet, but I’m thinking it won’t be long now.”

  “You’re thinking this painting might have something to do with it,” he says, his tone matter of fact.

  “I don’t want to jump to false conclusions, but it’s tending that way.”

  He hunches himself forward over his desk. “I should tell you that when I told Mr. Jackson he’d need to verify the painting’s history, he got pretty agitated. He seemed to want the deal to be over with in a hurry. I’ve been in this business thirty plus years, and somebody wanting to rush things is never a good sign.”

  “I can see how that would be the case.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time some relative tried to pull a fast one on the other members of his family. I told Mr. Jackson that this was a slow-moving business, and we had no need to rush.”

  I sigh, thinking that if Morton had told Jackson that he needed verification of the painting’s ownership the first time he came in, Dora Lee might be alive today.

  “There’s one other thing. It’s not pretty, but it’s true. If this painting is associated with the owner’s death, it’s only going to increase in value. Some of these buyers of historical artists relish the thought of having it associated with a little violence.”

  “That would be interesting information, if the violence didn’t concern the murder of a friend of mine.” I can’t help the sharp tone of my voice. I think of Dora Lee lying on that kitchen floor, and my share in leaving her unprotected.

  “An unsavory part of the antique business.”

  I get up. “I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a couple of days to sort out the family interest.”

  Morton says he’ll be waiting for my call.

  I’d give anything if I could head on home and wait for the painting to sell and forget the bad things associated with it. But the bad part is just getting started. I don’t know exactly how I’m going to proceed with Jackson. If he actually did what I think he did, he’s a dangerous man, and I’m not a lawman myself, not anymore. But who do I pull into it? Do I go to the Houston police and talk it over with them? The very idea makes me sweat.

  But there’s surely no percentage in telling Rodell. He’d have no interest in proving me right. What comes to mind is that I’ll talk to the fire marshal in Bobtail and find out who he thinks is a person on the Bobtail police force worth bringing my information to. But that means I have to be damn sure of the facts.

  This is one time I wish I had me a cell phone, even if it doesn’t work out in Jarrett Creek. I find a service station and use their phone to call Jenny and tell her what I need.

  “You don’t ask for much, do you?” she says. “I’ll get on my computer and be back with you in a few minutes.”

  It’s more like twenty minutes, and I’m about to die standing out in the heat. Even though it’s getting to be late afternoon, the sun is still going strong. And the humidity makes it worse. Towering, dark clouds are forming up out east, over the gulf, and I imagine it will rain before the night is over.

  When Jenny gets back to me, she apologizes for taking so long. “But I have actual work to do as well as fetch and carry for you.” Using a lot more computer savvy than I have, she has pinned down the name and address of Wayne Jackson’s business, which turns out to be an electronics store. When I tell her I wonder how I’d get there from here, she says, “If you’ll tell me where you are, I’ll get directions.”

  Before long she’s telling me what I need to know. I jot down the basics on the back of the card Morton gave me on my way out of his place. And then I rush back to the car. It’s almost five o’clock, and I want to get there before they close for the day. I want to see what I can find out about the financial situation of
Jackson’s business from whoever he has working there. They won’t know the whole of it, I imagine, and I may have a hard time getting them to tell me much, but they can at least tell me whether business has fallen off. It occurs to me that I might even find Jackson there, but I’ll have to take care of that bridge when it looms up.

  The Going out of Business signs plastered all over W. L. Electronics’s windows tell me I’m headed down the right trail. I go inside, trying to decide how I’m going to approach Jackson if he’s there.

  If W. L. Electronics were my business, I would feel bad seeing the dwindling stock and taking note of the general gloom. The heavy girl with tattoos and a pierced nose who comes over to ask me if she can help me has a listless attitude. “Is the owner here?” I say.

  “No, but his wife is in the back going over the books. Ex-wife. Whatever.”

  “I’d like to speak with her.” I have not one clue what I’ll say to her, but I’ll think of something.

  The tattooed girl hauls herself off and returns in a minute with a pretty woman chasing fifty, dressed in jeans and a faded T-shirt. Her gray-streaked hair is pulled back in a ponytail, which gives her a youthful look at odds with her haunted eyes. She tells me her name is Anne Jackson.

  “Ma’am, I’m Samuel Craddock. I was a friend of your husband’s aunt Dora Lee who died last week.”

  She puts a hand up to her throat. “That was sad. Wayne was so upset. He said he felt like he was trespassing going out to her farm, but that he just had to do something.”

  He did something all right. I wonder if she has the faintest idea that her ex-husband probably killed Dora Lee. I survey the store. “Looks like you all have been a victim of the economy.”

  She follows my gaze. I’m sure she sees the depleted shelves in her sleep. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. We built this business together, and even when a Best Buy went in a few blocks over, we managed to do okay. But money got tight . . . well, you don’t need to hear my problems.”