“Not necessarily. He might have requested shelter there well before the storm actually made landfall. According to Chuck, he was being treated in the hospital for a collapsed lung and several broken ribs, injuries he sustained in a car wreck in the early morning hours of August 25th. The storm didn’t hit until late that evening.”
“I see. So what happens next regarding the murder case?” I asked.
“Nothing happens next as far as you and I are concerned. The case is in the detectives’ hands now.” Rip grabbed a throw blanket off the back of the couch, laid it over me, and tucked in the edges. “Now, you need to rest. Keep that foot elevated, too. I’ll wake you up in an hour or so for our evening cocktails. Okay, honey?”
“Sure. Thanks for all you do for me, sweetheart.”
“I said I would, didn’t I? When I said ‘I do’, I meant I’d do everything. Even put myself in harm’s way to feed some satanic weasel you agreed to pet sit.”
I threw my bag of corn at him but missed. I also missed a treasured heirloom―an antique porcelain statue that had belonged to my mother―but only by a hair.
“Ball one!” Rip laughed, picked the corn up off the TV stand where it’d landed, and lovingly placed it back on top of my sore ankle. “Sleep tight, punkin.”
I wasn’t able to get back to sleep because too many thoughts were racing through my head. I couldn’t quite figure out why Tony would want to harm Walker’s wife. He had a beautiful girlfriend he was scheduled to marry on Valentine’s Day. What possible motive could he have had to kill Reilly? Not merely kill her, but brutally beat her to death with a crowbar? He seemed like such a laid-back, sweet guy. Or, at least he was when he wasn’t drinking, according to Rip.
Even though Rip had said the case was now in the hands of the homicide detectives, I found it hard to put it out of my mind. I kept sensing I’d overlooked something important. Something that had been dangled right in front of my face. When it finally hit me, I sat up straight on the couch. My injured leg jerked up instinctively, causing the bag of partially-thawed corn to fly across the trailer and hit Rip in the chest. He bolted up out of the recliner he was napping in as if he’d been reliving his close encounter with the ‘satanic weasel’ who’d scurried up his pants leg.
“What the―?” He yelled.
“I’m sorry, Rip. Something just came to me.”
“So you threw this bag of corn at me, again?”
“Well, kind of. But not intentionally this time.”
“Okay,” Rip said with a sigh. “What just came to you that excited you enough to ‘unintentionally’ almost cause me to have another heart attack?”
“You didn’t have an actual heart attack. Dr. Murillo said it was just a heart ‘event'; a precursor to a heart attack if you hadn't have had the triple bypass he performed on you.”
“Well, that ‘event’ led to having my chest split open like a watermelon a few days later.” Men can be such drama queens sometimes, I thought as Rip spoke, and my husband is no exception. I didn’t complain half as much when I gave birth to our nine-pound daughter, which was like passing a kidney stone the size of a Thanksgiving turkey. “But enough about my near-death experience. What’s up, Rapella? What just came to you?”
“I was thinking about Barlow Barnaby dangling from his living room ceiling. Chuck told you the signs pointed toward homicide but were technically inconclusive. Because murder couldn't be ruled out, the department opened up a homicide investigation. Right?"
"Yeah." His one-word response was accompanied by a questioning look.
"That means it could have been a suicide, even if it wasn’t likely. Correct?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Rip replied. “But what does that prove?”
“Nothing, other than if it truly was suicide, it’s possible Barlow killed himself because he couldn’t live with the guilt from something atrocious he’d done.”
“I assume you mean guilt about something like killing the lady next door.”
“Exactly. What if Barlow killed Reilly for some unknown reason and initially called in the tip about seeing her get into a car in order to lead the investigators on a merry chase that pointed away from the truth? Suzanna told me he’s not only a terrible drunk, but he’s also been treated several times for mental illness. She also said he’s always ‘seeing things’, which might mean he has hallucinations. It could have been nothing more than one of those hallucinations that caused Barlow to kill Reilly. In the midst of something terrifying, like Hurricane Harvey, I’d guess someone who’s prone to having visions could easily suffer horrible and vivid figments of their imagination that might bring on an episode of violence from fear or in retribution for something.”
“That sounds a bit far-fetched, but I suppose it’s possible. However, I’d like to have a little more evidence to base that conclusion on before I take it to Sheriff Peabody.” Rip wore a pensive expression on his face, and I was relieved he seemed to be taking my supposition seriously.
“Bruno Watts, the drywall subcontractor working on the Reynolds’s house, is now also working on Barlow’s house to get it ready for his family to sell. He told me he took on the project because he was close to the family. He probably knew quite a bit about Barlow if he’s close to the Barnaby family. Why don’t we talk to him about the late gentleman and see if he has any insight into the situation?” I suggested.
“Not your worst idea, but I promised to help Milo again today. At least this time I won’t be swinging a hammer and sweating like a whore in church. Pardon my language, but I’m just not cut out for that kind of work anymore.”
“You shouldn’t be swinging anything.” I was not happy Rip was exerting that kind of energy. “I’m surprised Milo even asked you to perform manual labor in your condition.”
“What do you mean ‘in your condition’? I’m in pretty good condition for the condition I'm in. Besides, he didn’t ask me to do it. I insisted. Now he wants me to drive to Home Depot in Corpus to pick up a list of materials he needs to replace the floor in the master bathroom.”
“He needs supplies at Home Depot again? I swear he goes there every day.”
Rip laughed. “Not all that surprising, considering how many projects he’s got going on at the same time. In this case, however, I think Milo’s trying to keep me busy so I don’t try to pitch in with the strenuous stuff.”
“Good for Milo. That boy’s got more sense than you do sometimes.”
“I’d have to argue that one. Honey, why don’t you wait until I get back to go speak to Bruno so I can go with you?” Rip offered. “Or at least wait until some of the swelling has gone down in your ankle.”
“I’ve gotten to know Bruno fairly well and feel safe when I’m alone with him. I’ll wait to go speak to him until tomorrow. Regina found me a pair of crutches somewhere.”
“Yeah, Milo said she went next door and borrowed them from a neighbor who recently had knee surgery.” I recalled Milo saying Walker had undergone surgery for a torn ligament in his knee just prior to the hurricane. I raised my eyebrows at Rip’s remark, but he didn’t comment on my reaction. Instead, he was focused on me and my injury. “Don’t push it. If you aren’t up to questioning the guy tomorrow, wait another day or two.”
“Of course.” Rip should have known me well enough after over fifty years of marriage to realize I would be going up to the Barnaby home to speak to Bruno the following morning if I had to crawl there on my hands and knees.
Twenty-Three
Following an unexpected shower overnight, the road was still wet the next morning as I hobbled up Flamingo Road on Walker’s crutches. Wet pavement posed no obstacle for me. From the curb in front of the Reynolds’s house, I could see Bruno’s truck parked on the far side of Barlow’s driveway. However, when I reached Barlow’s house, a man on a forklift was unloading lumber from a truck owned by a lumber company out of Kingsville and stacking it on the near side of the driveway. As I approached the area, the man driving the forklift stopped me.
I waved but didn’t respond verbally. I soon discovered that negotiating a soggy yard with crutches was more difficult than one might expect. With my full weight on the crutches, they sank several inches into the softened ground. After a couple of embarrassing falls, I decided to cover the rest of the distance on all fours before a sprained ankle was the least of my troubles. I glanced toward the driveway to see the man on the forklift and the truck driver both pointing at me and laughing. I was tempted to give them the finger but knew that would only make them find my humiliation even more hilarious.
The fifteen or twenty yards I crawled to Barlow’s front porch, dragging the pair of crutches behind me, felt like the length of a football field. Finally, I reached my destination. I took a few moments to catch my breath and pull myself together before ringing the doorbell.
“Good morning, Ms. Ripple. How are you doing this morning?” Bruno then looked down at my muddy knees. “Oh, no! Have you fallen again?”
“No. I just had to kneel down to pick something up, and the lawn is wet.”
“Uh-huh. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?” Bruno chuckled and opened the door to allow me inside. He had a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his right hand, and a tiny glob of wiggly jelly embedded in his mustache. “So was the ankle broken?”
“No, just sprained, and please call me Rapella. I think we know each other well enough by now to be on a first-name basis. I’ve been calling you Bruno since I first met you.”
“All right. Rapella it is. What brings you up here?” Again, was his unspoken implication.
“I was thinking about having a small memorial service for poor Mr. Barnaby. Just a celebration of life kind of thing for his neighbors and nearby family members, if there are any. I wanted to see if you could help me come up with a list of folks to invite. After all, you said you were tight with the family.”
“You’d be wasting your time, Ms. Ripple―”
“Rapella,” I reminded.
“Yeah, whatever.” Suddenly, Bruno’s friendliness faded like a colorful sunset. “Ain’t nobody gonna come to a memorial service for Barlow. He wasn’t well-liked in the neighborhood, and he has no real family in the area. Not that his family cared much for him, either. He was an all-around miserable S.O.B.”
“But, but―”
“Look, lady. It’s a bad idea. I’m sorry the old coot’s gone, but there’s not a lot of grieving going on by anyone who knew him. Trust me.”
“Okay. I just thought it’d be the neighborly thing to do. So, why are you making the effort to get the house up to snuff as quickly as you can?” I asked.
“Not for Barlow, I can tell you that. I’m doing it for the family’s sake.” Bruno was speaking quite brusquely. I was puzzled about what I’d said that had upset him. I found out the reason when Bruno next spoke. “Now I need to get back to work. Oh, and by the way, the police stopped by and confiscated the crowbar you tripped over. I'd had Tony borrow that crowbar for a project we worked on yesterday. I had to go to Portland to buy another one first thing this morning because the cops said we wouldn’t be getting that one back anytime soon. Did you have anything to do with that?”
“Well, um, well, kind of, sort of,” I stammered.
Bruno’s gaze bore through me like a diamond-head drill bit. He was squeezing his sandwich so hard, excess jelly squished out of it and dropped to the floor next to the glob that had finally fell from his mustache. The man looked so on edge I didn’t know what to say. Honesty was always the best policy, so I told him the truth, or, at least a slightly revised version of the truth.
“You see, my husband is the former sheriff of Aransas County and I just happened to mention I’d noticed a crowbar in Walker’s house the other day and wanted to take some solvent over to clean the red residue off of it for him. I’m a little anal about stains, you see.”
“Uh-huh.” Bruno didn’t appear to be buying my story any more than he’d buy a unicycle for his pet bunny. He confirmed as much with his next remark. “I’ll agree with one thing. You do seem to be anal about a lot of things.”
“I don’t appreciate your attitude, Mr. Watts.” I was ticked off because he had no right to insult me. “Are you denying the crowbar had some sort of residue on it?”
“I’m sorry if I was offensive. I was only messing with you. And, no, I’m not denying that the crowbar had something on it. Tony was using red paint in Walker’s living room the other day. He not only does demo work, he also does some painting on the side. I suppose he could’ve gotten some of the paint on the crowbar, but I don’t know how. It’s not like he’d stir the paint with it.”
“Exactly! That was what I was getting at before you interrupted me with your nasty remark.”
“Again, I apologize. I was only―”
“Messing with me. I know. You said as much.” I’d cut him off. I had no desire to hear him try to claw his way out of the crater he’d dug for himself. “Before I could attempt to remove the stain, someone else already had. I’m almost certain it was Tony who wiped it down and disposed of the rag he’d use to clean it. Rip brought the crowbar to the current sheriff’s attention, thinking it could contain critical evidence in the event Reilly was murdered rather than being a victim of the storm, as they’d first suspected. They both thought the stain could’ve been caused by blood rather than paint. If that was the case, they suspected there was still trace amounts of it on the crowbar. Sheriff Peabody decided it would be remiss not to have it tested.” I studied Bruno’s expression. He seemed fixated on every word I spoke. After I finished speaking, he silently stared at me for an uncomfortable length of time before responding.
“That’s ridiculous! There’s no way Walker would’ve ever hurt his wife. He loved her with all his heart.” I hadn’t mentioned Walker’s name as the suspect in question, but the victim’s spouse had evidently been the first to come to Bruno’s mind. Or was he deliberately trying to avert suspicion away from himself, or his buddy Tony? Once again, Bruno spoke about Reilly in the past tense, as if aware she was no longer among the living, even though she was still classified as a missing person.
To test his reaction, I replied, “I don’t think they were looking at Walker as a potential killer, but rather at whoever was using the crowbar at the time.”
Bruno’s expression didn’t change. He showed no reaction at all to my remark, which told me he was either not involved in Reilly’s disappearance or was doing his damnedest to hide any emotion he might be feeling. I suspected the latter, due to the irritation he’d displayed earlier. I’d been going to ask if he thought Tony or Barlow capable of harming Walker’s wife, but changed my mind when he’d begun acting so defensively to my questioning.
When it became apparent Bruno was not going to respond to my statement, I said, “I’d better let you get back to your work.”
As I approached the front door, I was surprised when Bruno stopped me. “Rapella, wait.”
“Yes?” I was almost afraid to turn around and face him again.
“What did they conclude when they examined the crowbar?” Bruno asked intently.
“They determined there was blood on the crowbar. Reilly Reynolds’s blood to be precise.” I watched as the color drained from his face, as if all of his own blood had gravitated toward his work boots. “You seem shocked, Bruno.”
“I guess I am a little stunned.”
I so desperately wanted to ask him if he was surprised by the news Reilly’s blood had somehow found its way to the crowbar―which he’d inferred earlier he’d borrowed from Walker, or perhaps Jessie―or shocked that her missing person status had just been updated to possible homicide when he’d thought he’d successfully staged her “death by hurricane”. Maybe he’d intentionally used the
crowbar owned by his victim’s spouse in the event it was determined to be the murder weapon. Did I have a new number-one suspect? I wondered. I wasn’t sure. But knowing the potential killer now had a brand new shiny crowbar in his possession, and I was not in any shape to challenge him in a foot race, I remained silent.
I’d come to the house thinking Barlow, the homeowner, might have had a hand in Reilly’s disappearance. But after visiting with Bruno, a man I’d never have thought could harm even an irritating fly flitting about his face, I wasn’t so sure he wasn’t the guilty party. Bruno’s resentful attitude convinced me he needed further attention and interrogation by the homicide detectives.
“I think I’d better get going now,” I said. My voice quivered in apprehension.
Is it also possible Bruno lied about the owner of the crowbar to protect himself from what might be found on a tool that actually does belong to him? If so, how far would he go to protect himself? This new conundrum made me tense, and right then the source of my anxiety was glaring at me as if I’d just told him he was denser than the sandwich he was gripping like a vise. When Bruno stepped toward me as I was backing toward the door awkwardly with the crutches, I felt my pulse quicken. When he sat his sandwich on a sawhorse and put his arm around my waist, I tried to swing one of my crutches at his crotch to protect myself. He easily grabbed the crutch in mid-air.
“Easy, Rapella,” he said. “I’m just trying to help you. I’ll support your left side so you can make it to the street all right. The lawn is really mushy right now, and the lumber deliverymen won’t let you use the driveway. I don’t know how you made it to the front porch on those crutches to begin with.”
I didn’t want to tell him that, in my determination to do some interrogating on my own, I’d crawled the last twenty feet, so I just flashed him a forced smile. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
I let Bruno, who probably weighed at least a stone less than I did, support much of my weight all the way to the curb while the forklift and truck drivers stopped working long enough to watch. I was confident Bruno wouldn’t wallop me in the head with one of my crutches with two witnesses looking on in amusement. What I really wanted to do was use a crutch to whale away on the two disrespectful onlookers until the smirks on their faces were replaced by expressions of remorse. Naturally, that was just a pipe dream I’d come up with in a fit of fury.
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