Deena stood up and moved closer to the desk. Simms pulled out a plastic bag containing a large stained swatch of green cloth. She noted that the fabric at one time had been shiny, like the yellow rain slickers people used to wear. “That’s it?” she asked. “Deputy Simms, I taught high school for 29 years. I’ve seen worse than that on the floor of the girl’s bathroom.”
Her humor broke the tension, and Simms laughed as he returned the evidence to the shelf. “My wife is really squeamish, so I like to ask just in case.”
“Thanks,” she said and stepped back from the desk. “What I find the most disturbing about the case is that Matthew’s body was identified as a female and not a male. That one mistake cost our family years of heartache and let someone else get away with murder.”
“Yes ma’am. I understand.”
“Do you have the name of the officer who conducted the investigation?”
Simms shuffled through the papers in the folder. He appeared nervous again. Then without looking at the file, he said, “Deputy R.G. Brice.” Deena wrote the name in her notes.
“I assume he no longer works here after all this time.”
“No, he doesn’t. He died.”
“Oh…sorry.”
“Here. I made you a copy of the ballistics report.” He pulled the paper out of the folder and handed it across the desk. “I hope this information helps.”
“So will you or anyone else in the department be working on the case?”
“As you probably know, ma’am, cold cases like this are not high priorities for the county. I’ll follow up if any tips come in, but I seriously doubt they will.” He closed the folder in front of him. “The person who committed this crime probably got in a lot of trouble in his life and spent most of it rotting away in prison. I’m just glad we were able to make the identification so your family could get a little closure.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” She put away her notepad and pen.
“I understand you are looking in to this matter for Mrs. Meade. I got to visit with her when I went up there to get the DNA sample. Nice lady.”
“She wants me to find out whatever I can. Also, I’m a…writer.” The word sounded awkward to Deena as she said it aloud. “I am planning to write a story about the case when I get all the information I can.”
“That’s a coincidence. A man called me a few days ago asking for information. Said he was writing about it, too.”
Deena’s jaw dropped a bit. “By any chance was his name Leon Galt?”
“Yes, it was.”
*
About 20 miles southeast of Maycroft lay Crossbow, a small town of about 1,100 people living on large plots of land. Unlike Maycroft with its tourist spots, thriving businesses, and neat rows of homes in well-planned neighborhoods, Crossbow had the feel of the Old West, which is just how the residents liked it. They had few city ordinances other than burn bans when the summer drought was at its peak. People were free to hunt, shoot off firecrackers, and leave burned out cars and rundown barns just as they pleased.
Russell Sinclair liked living in Crossbow.
When his neighbor Cliff’s wood-frame house burned down, Cliff decided to build his new brick home, complete with a target range and swimming pool, on the edge of his property line so he and Russell could be in closer proximity for backyard barbeques, particularly on Sundays when the Cowboys were playing.
On her drive back home, Deena decided to make a quick detour to her brother’s house. His knowledge of guns and weapons might be helpful. When she parked the car, she heard Russell’s yellow lab making sure everyone was aware of her arrival. When no one answered her knock on the front door, she followed the panting dog around the side of the house. She heard Russell shouting from Cliff’s yard and walked over to the gate. As she got closer, she saw the two of them sitting on lawn chairs inside Cliff’s empty swimming pool. “What in the Sam Hill are y’all doing?”
“We’re just testing out our new bunker,” Russell said and spread his arms out like Vanna White to showcase the set-up.
She looked down at the empty pool. They had transformed it into an underground man cave. Besides the lawn chairs and beer cooler, she saw a small, archaic television atop a wobbly TV tray along with a large electric box fan. The television scratched out some unrecognizable sporting event.
“What on earth is this?” Deena asked, hands on hips, staring at her brother.
“Isn’t it great?” Russell realized his sister could not see his vision, so he explained. “As it turns out, most of this area is solid limestone, so we gave up trying to dig. Then Cliff had the brilliant idea for us to use this giant hole that he had already paid someone else to dig.”
Deena shook her head in disbelief.
“All we have to do is build the top, and we got us a man-made, underground, kick-ass bunker.” He gave Cliff a fist bump and then motioned for another beer. “We’re going to convert the pool equipment to work as a sewage pump, get all battery-operated appliances, and add shelves to the shallow end. The diving board is still a bone of contention.”
“I can’t imagine why you are still single,” she said with sisterly affection. Deena looked back over her shoulder at Russell’s house. “Can we go inside to talk? I’m melting out here.”
“Sure thing.” He unplugged the box fan, and they all headed back to the house.
Russell lived in a three-bedroom ranch built in the late sixties. They walked through the sliding glass door into the den with its knotty oak paneling and wood-burning fireplace. The well-worn gold sofa and matching club chair reminded Deena of her childhood home. Russell’s prize possession, a brown leather recliner, sat to one side of the laminated coffee table. Deena folded and stacked the newspapers strewn across the sofa and sat down. Cliff sat in the club chair, knowing the unwritten rule about never sitting in another man’s recliner. Russell set the fan on the old Magnavox stereo console that used to be their father’s and headed to the kitchen to get his sister a bottle of water.
“Thanks,” she said, opening it and taking several big swallows. She pulled papers out of her satchel and handed her brother the ballistics report she had gotten from Deputy Simms. “Ever seen one of these?”
Russell took the papers and sat down in his chair. “Let me get my cheaters.” He leaned toward the coffee table and pushed around some hunting magazines until he found his reading glasses. “Sure. It’s a ballistics report.” After looking it over for a minute, he asked, “Is this about Uncle Matthew?”
“Yes. I’m planning to write a story about him. One of those unsolved mysteries that everybody loves to read.”
“Really. That sounds interesting. How’d you get this?”
“I drove up to Perry and talked to the deputy who worked the case. He gave me some details I hadn’t known as well as this report. Since you are the gun expert in the family, I thought you could explain what it says.”
Cliff’s eyes widened. “A real life whodunit. If you need any help, let me know.” Deena hadn’t thought about recruiting a side-kick. However, she would indeed need someone at the other end of the walkie talkie.
“Well,” Russell said looking back and forth between the pages. “The bottom line is that Matthew was shot twice at close range with a Model 10 Smith & Wesson.”
“Is that a handgun or a shotgun or what?”
Cliff chuckled and the two men exchanged amused glances.
“It’s a handgun. Here, I’ll show you.” He stood up and headed into one of the spare bedrooms. Deena could hear him open the metal door of the gun safe.
“Tell me, how does a person grow up in Texas and not know anything about guns?” Cliff asked.
“How does a person live in Texas and have a swimming pool without water?” she shot back.
“She’s got you there, Cliff,” Russell said as he walked back in the room. “Now this here is a Colt, but it’s very similar to the Model 10. Want to hold it?”
“Not really, but I guess I should for the sake
of research. Is it loaded?”
“Of course not,” he said. “Do you think someone as wacko as I am would be safe around a bunch of loaded guns? In fact, you won’t find a single round of ammunition on this entire property.”
She looked at her brother incredulously. “But you have so many firearms? What about protection? What if someone breaks in?”
“Don’t you worry about that.” He reached down and scratched the top of his dog’s head. “I got Maggie here for protection, plus I keep a Louisville Slugger right next to my bed.”
Deena just shook her head. Her brother was always full of surprises. She took the gun, which was heavier than she had expected, and pointed it toward the door. “So back in the sixties, who would have used a gun like this?”
“Bad guys, good guys, cops—basically anyone with a holster and need for fire power.” He took the weapon back from Deena and passed it over to Cliff who was obviously interested as well.
“Have you ever shot it?” Deena asked.
“Oh sure, at the gun range. It packs quite a punch.”
“I see. So knowing this is similar to the type of gun that killed Matthew, does it point to any particular type of shooter?”
“About all I could say is that it probably wasn’t a woman. No offense or anything, but it is a pretty big gun to be handled by a girl.”
“Good point.” Deena drank the rest of her water and got up to take the empty bottle to the kitchen. Her cell phone rang. It was Paula.
“I just have a minute before I have to go into a meeting,” she said. “But I wanted to tell you what I found out about Leon Galt.”
“Great.” Deena hurried back to the sofa to get her notepad.
“He’s an author. He writes under the name of Noel Future. Most people know him just by his pseudonym.”
“What sorts of things does he write?”
“Conspiracy theories. Non-fiction, if you can call it that. Apparently, though, he is actually pretty well respected as a writer. Not as ‘out there’ as you might think. Look, I’ve got to let you go. Search for him on the internet, and you will see some of his articles and books.”
Deena thanked her and hung up. “Wow,” she said and finished writing her notes. “Have either of you ever hear of a writer named Noel Future?”
They both gushed at once. “Yes, of course. Are you kidding? He’s amazing.”
Surprised by their enthusiastic reaction, Deena looked back and forth between the two. Then she shook her head knowingly and said, “Oh yeah. Of course you have.”
*
The following day was Saturday, and Deena could hardly wait to get to her hair appointment. These gray roots age me ten years, she thought. In an hour or so I will be a new woman.
The Manely Beauty Salon was less crowded than usual. “Where is everyone?” Deena asked as she sat down in Kristy’s chair.
“Anyone in their right mind has gone to the coast or up north on vacation to get away from this heat.” She wrapped a plastic drape around Deena’s neck. “Are we doing the usual?”
“Yes, but maybe go a little shorter. I need to look younger.”
“Don’t we all, honey,” Kristy laughed. “I’ll mix up your color and be right back.”
Deena looked around at the other clients to see if she knew anyone. It was the polite thing to say “hi,” even if you saw your worst enemy. A young mother was trying to get her toddler son to hold still so the stylist wouldn’t cut off his ear. An older woman was getting her hair set with rollers as she probably had every Saturday morning for the past twenty years. Barbara Cummings from the elementary school was getting her hair cut but had her back to Deena. Another woman was at the hair wash station, so it was hard to tell who she was.
“Okay, here we go.” Kristy stepped on the bar to raise the chair. Handing the bowl of dye to Deena to hold, she made a part in the center of Deena’s scalp and then brushed on the color. The strong smell of the mixture made Deena’s nose twitch. “So anything new with you? I heard about your uncle,” she said without giving her client a chance to answer. “Such a shame to find out all these years later that he was murdered. I still don’t know how they couldn’t figure out he was a man. We do have different parts down there, you know.”
“Apparently his skeleton wasn’t intact, and they didn’t have the DNA tests we have now.”
“Well, I can’t even imagine how you must feel. It reminds me of one of those mystery stories you see on TV.”
“Speaking of mysteries,” Cheryl, the stylist at the next station, said. “Did you see that story on the news the other day about that rich man in Galveston?”
Deena was glad the conversation had turned to another topic. She reviewed what she had learned about Leon Galt, a.k.a. Noel Future. He had four books: two on Roswell, one on the NASA moon landing, and one on the CIA. His name popped up in forums about Princess Diana’s death, Watergate, John Lennon, Jimmy Hoffa, Elvis, and JFK. Apparently, he never met a conspiracy theory he didn’t love. So why is he investigating Matthew? Was his death part of some evil plot to take over Texas?
She watched as Kristy methodically applied the color to her roots. She worked quickly, which is one of the reasons Deena liked going to her.
Deena decided her first priority was tracking down the two people Matthew had dinner with the night he disappeared. Like she told Gary, if you want to find out about somebody in a small town, there is only one place to go: spaghetti supper after Sunday service. She would also bring along the photo of Matthew with the mystery woman to see if anyone recognized her.
“I’m going to sit you over here while I cut this little girl’s hair,” Kristy said led Deena to the other side of the shop. “Here are some magazines.”
She chose a copy of Southern Living and began flipping through the pages. Looking up from an article about bluebonnets, she saw the woman who had previously been getting her hair washed. It was Janice Marshall. Knowing she was trapped, Deena looked over and smiled, nodding her head. Janice returned the gesture. Deena pretended to read the article, thinking she was finished with her when she left the high school. At least she wasn’t wearing heels.
A few minutes later, Judy Davidson walked past Deena and stopped to speak to Janice. Her stylist turned off the blow dryer and waited. “Congratulations Ms. Marshall. I know you will do a great job as principal. I’m sorry about Christina. Hopefully they will be able to help her.” Janice thanked her and the stylist continued to dry her hair.
Deena realized something had occurred at the school, and she was totally out of the loop. Kristy walked up to check on her color.
“Kristy,” Deena said and motioned for her to lean down. “What’s up with Janice Marshall and the high school?”
“Oh, haven’t you heard? Christina Haskett tried to kill herself. Paul Haskett quit his job, and they are moving back to Nebraska. They made Janice the new principal.”
The news shocked Deena.
“I’ll be back in a minute when it’s time to add the rest of your color.”
Deena sat dumbfounded. The principal’s daughter tried to kill herself? She couldn’t believe it. After a few minutes, Kristy walked up and motioned for Deena to return to her station. She saw Janice’s stylist turn off the dryer and walk toward the back room. Deena felt compelled to say something. Walking over to Janice, she said, “Congratulations. I just heard. I’m so sorry about Christina Haskett, though.”
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s a shame about Christina, but not all that surprising. She has been troubled for a long time. The Hasketts have tried everything they could think of to make her happy. Hopefully, they’ll find help for her.”
“I had no idea.”
Janice cocked her head to the side. “Sometimes you have to get down off your high horse to see the truth that’s right under your nose.”
The words stung Deena like a slap to the face. She turned and walked back to Kristy’s station. Hot tears filled her eyes and ran down her reddened face. She gasped for brea
th that had suddenly left her.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Kristy said. “I guess I shouldn’t have told you about Christina like that. It’ll be okay.” She patted Deena on the shoulder and continued working on her hair. Deena squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop the flood of tears. Was that why Haskett insisted on featuring his daughter in the yearbook? Why did I never ask him why it was so important to him? Am I that blind to other people’s feelings?
Deena replayed the words Janice had said over and over in her mind. She knew, however, what hurt the worst was that they were true.
Chapter Six
The largest building in Maycroft is the courthouse, originally built in 1892. Entering the town from the east, it could be seen from miles away. The second largest building is the First Methodist Church. That is where the Meade family had attended services for at least three generations and where Deena was headed on Sunday morning. Walking through the large carved church doors, she knew today she was searching for something other than God.
About fifteen minutes remained before service would be over, so she slipped into one of the rear pews and sat next to a young woman anxiously rocking her baby, trying to keep a pacifier in his mouth. After the closing prayer, the minister welcomed visitors and new members, read announcements from the bulletin, and invited everyone to stay for the spaghetti lunch. All donations would benefit the youth ministry’s trip to Six Flags, he said. After two rousing verses of “How Great Thou Art,” the congregation began making its way out the door. A crowd headed to the Fellowship Hall. Deena waited a few minutes before getting up to leave, wanting time for the food to be set out and people to be seated.
As she entered the hall, she located the ladies room to kill a few more minutes. Feeling enough time had passed, she checked her appearance in the mirror. Not too much make-up, a simple floral dress, black flats—she knew she fit right in.
Sharpe Shooter (Cozy Suburbs Mystery Series Book 1) Page 5
