Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek: A Samuel Craddock Mystery (Samuel Craddock Mysteries) (10 page)

I get up. We shake hands, and Krueger sees me to the door, friendlier than when I walked in.

As I put my hand on the knob, Krueger says, “There is one more thing. I don’t know if I should even mention it. It’s something my wife heard in confidence. But with Dellmore being killed, you ought to at least be aware of it.”

I turn back to him. “I appreciate any help you can give me.”

“My wife is friends with Cookie Travers, who works down at the bank. Cookie told her that Alan Dellmore had had it with Gary. Ever since Gary came to work for his dad, the bank has steadily lost customers.”

“That’s been several years.” Since I’m one of the customers they lost, it’s no surprise to me.

“Yes, Cookie said it’s a steady trickle. Apparently she had private talks with some of the customers who left. They said Gary didn’t keep their financial affairs confidential. Cookie said she was worried the bank was losing too many customers.”

“Well, I’ll look into that. Thank you for mentioning it.”

It’s possible that Alan and Gary Dellmore had an argument that got out of hand, but it’s hard for me to picture Alan pulling a gun on his son and killing him, no matter how mad he was.

Zeke Dibble came on duty at noon, so I swing by the station to see how his afternoon has gone. I meant to check in earlier and haven’t made the time.

Zeke’s playing solitaire, cards laid out on the desk. He doesn’t pick them up when I walk in.

“Something tells me it’s been a nice, quiet day,” I say.

Zeke is only a few years older than me, but he looks like life has used him a lot harder. Deep lines etch his pale face and his hair is a dull color of gray, giving him a sickly look. If you were meeting him for the first time, you’d want to send him to the doctor—but he’s looked like that ever since he moved here.

“Quiet except for Plymouth O’Connor calling to complain that neighbor boys are tearing up her yard.” Plymouth is one of three maiden sisters, all named after cars, who live together. One of them always has a complaint. Often over the years when they have gotten no satisfaction from the police, they’ve called me. I think their complaining is a way of passing the time when they get bored.

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her you’d call her back, but that you had a lot on your hands right now and it may take some time.”

“Zeke, you think this is something you can take care of tomorrow?”

He chuckles. “I don’t see why not.” He picks up his cards, slips the deck into his desk drawer and gets up from his chair. “I ought to be heading home. My wife will have a fit if she has to keep dinner waiting.”

After he leaves I look around at what I’ve inherited. I’ve been here off and on since they built the new station, but I never noticed how much Rodell had let it run down. There’s a bank of file cabinets against one wall, but there appear to be more files stacked on top of the cabinets than inside. The desks are metal and should have stood up to the wear better than they have. They could use a good scrubbing—or maybe they could use replacing. Except the city is bankrupt, and I bet new desks for the police station is pretty far down the list of necessities. I lock up and head for the Walmart, twenty minutes away, on the outskirts of Bobtail. That’s as good a place as any to find a cell phone.

Angel Bright, Slate McClusky’s wife, answers the door when I stop by at seven thirty. When Slate married Angel she was a country-and-western singer of some success. She kept her stage name when she married. I suspect it’s a made-up name, but you never know.

“Hey, Samuel, what a nice surprise.” She hasn’t lost the flat, nasal accent of a west Texas gal. And she hasn’t changed her looks from when she was on stage. She’s wearing tight jeans and a rose-colored Western shirt with pearl snaps. Her long mane of fluffy hair brushes the tops of her breasts. “Come on in. It’s time for a cocktail, and you look like you could use one.”

“I could have a glass of something. Is Slate around?”

“He should be home any time now. He called me when he left the resort an hour ago.” McClusky owns a resort west of here, in the hill country, that stocks exotic game and puts up hunters in fancy surroundings. They say he gets a lot of clients from all over the country willing to pay his prices.

I follow Angel into the living room, aware of the way she swivels her hips as she sashays across the room. I catch myself staring and make a conscious effort to look elsewhere.

There is a fire going in the huge fireplace, and hanging above it is a painting that immediately draws my attention. I move close and see that it’s a Frederic Remington. I assume it’s real because it’s got a substantial frame and a little light shining on it. Even though I long ago turned my interest to modern art, I still like the Western painters. This is a good example of Remington, with the horses and cattle and riders all looking like they could step out of the picture and ride into the sunset.

“You like that picture?” she says.

“I do. Remington has such a good touch with the brush that he makes it look effortless. And he has a keen eye for a scene. Gives you a real feel for the Old West.”

She looks surprised and inspects the picture as if it never occurred to her that someone actually painted it. “I like it too. I don’t know anything about art, but Slate told me that picture is worth a pretty penny.”

I’ve never been to the McCluskys’ house before. The room looks like a decorator’s idea of a Western home—two big puffy sofas covered in a fabric with a cactus theme sit on either side of the fireplace. A coffee table as big as a car, set on wagon wheels, separates the two sofas. Angel goes over to a massive piece of furniture that, when she opens the door, turns out to be a bar. “I’m having Scotch,” she says. I tell her I’ll take a little bourbon. “Just two fingers. I’m not much of a drinker.”

“Me neither. It’s bad for the voice.” I don’t know why she’d care since as far as I know she hasn’t sung in several years. She pours both of us a lot more than two fingers and reaches into a little refrigerator inside the cabinet and adds ice to the drinks.

She hands me my glass and then clinks hers to mine. “Let’s sit down and get to know one another better while we wait for Slate.”

I like women and usually don’t have any trouble talking to them, but for some reason I feel awkward with Angel. She has a sort of sly way of looking at me, with a lazy, knowing smile that unsettles me.

We sit down across from each other on either side of the fireplace. She tucks her legs up next to her, thrusts her chest out, and tosses her hair back behind her. I can imagine her up on a stage, calculating her moves to draw the interest of her audience.

“I don’t know why me and Slate have never gotten to know you.” The words are friendly, but the way she looks at me, I’m aware that my pants and shirt are a little worn and my hat is a little the worse for wear.

“You all travel around a good bit, and I guess we don’t cross paths. Remind me: how long have you had this place in Jarrett Creek?”

“Ten years.”

“You’re from west Texas, right?”

“Lubbock.”

“And where did Slate grow up?”

“Midland.” I recall that Slate’s mamma left his daddy when Slate was a little boy and took Slate out west. Slate’s daddy stayed on in Jarrett Creek. When his daddy died everyone expected Slate to sell the old house. But he sent out a construction crew to renovate the place, and since then they’ve come here for several months every year. They usually spend winter in their place in Vail. I don’t know what’s keeping them here.

“How did you two meet?”

“He wangled a backstage introduction after one of my concerts. Now that’s enough about us. It’s your turn.”

“Not much to tell. I grew up here, went to college at A&M, spent a couple of years in the air force, then moved back and settled down with my wife.”

“Oh, that’s right. Your wife died a while back. I’m sorry. What was she like?”

Angel’s got a trick of conversation that would suit a police investigator, asking open-ended questions. But when I ask her anything, she replies with the shortest possible answer. My guess is she developed it when she was well known, as a way of protecting her privacy.

“She was a fine woman. I think you would’ve liked her,” I say.

She rakes her hair back in a careless motion. “I imagine so.”

I can do open-ended questions, too. “What drew you and Slate to put down some roots here? I would have thought you might want to stay around Lubbock, where you’ve got family.”

“Family.” She says the word like it’s got a sour taste to it. “Yeah, I’ve got family, but not much of anybody I wanted to spend a lot of time with. Slate wanted to come back here, and that was fine with me. You need a refresher?”

“I’m good.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to have another one.” She slides off the sofa and heads for the bar.

“Slate’s dad had another son by his second wife,” I say. “Do you and Slate keep up with him?”

“Yes, we do. He actually runs our game resort out near Blanco.”

“What’s his name?”

“Harold. He’s several years younger than Slate. They don’t have a lot in common.” I recall that something was not quite right with Harold and he got shipped off to a special school when he was a boy.

I glance at my watch. “Maybe before Slate gets here, I can ask you a couple of things. I’m here because I’m investigating Gary Dellmore’s death.”

Angel is turned away from me, refilling her glass. Her shoulders go rigid. “Oh, that was awful.” She turns around but stays standing by the bar, stirring her drink with her finger. “Why would somebody shoot Gary? He was a really sweet man. Was it a robbery? Was he carrying a lot of money?”

“It doesn’t appear to be a robbery.”

She frowns. “You wanted to talk to Slate? What would he have to do with it? He hardly knew Gary.”

“Slate was at the meeting we had the night Dellmore was killed.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She rattles the ice and downs her second round of Scotch.

“Dellmore was killed sometime after the meeting, and I’m checking with everybody to see if they might’ve noticed anything unusual.”

She swirls the ice cubes in the glass. “Slate isn’t exactly the type of person to notice much.” She looks over at me with an eyebrow arched. It’s pretty clear that she’s telling me Slate doesn’t pay much attention to her. That’s not a street I’m willing to travel down.

I push myself up from the sofa over the protests of my healing knee. This time of night, after as much activity as I’ve had today, the knee has had enough. “It’s getting late. I’m going to go on home and catch up with Slate later.”

“Oh, don’t go.” There’s a kind of begging sound to her voice, but she takes a few steps in the direction of the door, as if inviting me to leave.

I leave my drink on the table. “I’ll tell you what. When Slate comes in ask him to call me, even if it’s late.”

“I could call his cell phone and see where he is. He might’ve had to stop somewhere.” I think of my new cell phone waiting to trip me up with instructions when I get home.

“That’s all right. No need to bother him. Just ask him to call.”

As I pass through from the living room into the foyer, I notice two framed gold records on the wall, more discreet than I would have expected. There’s one for each of Angel Bright’s two hit recordings, “I Just Called to Say Remember When” and “Too Late to Head Home.” Next to them hangs a framed poster, announcing a comeback tour to be kicked off in Nashville, dated last spring. I don’t remember hearing about the tour. Although I don’t keep up with celebrities, I’m sure it would’ve made a big stir in Jarrett Creek, and I would’ve heard about it if it had taken place.

Back home I feel restless, even though it’s late. I sit down at my kitchen table, determined to decipher the instructions to the cell phone and learn how to use it. It’s not as daunting as I thought it might be, although I’m prepared for it to surprise me in the future by doing something I hadn’t planned for.

When I’m ready for bed, I sit on the side of the bed and try to confront the unsettled thought that has been poking me at odd times during the day. Something about these fellows cheating on their wives has me annoyed. But it’s not a moral thing; it’s something tied up with my knee. I go back into the kitchen and get a cold pack out of the freezer. While I ice the knee, I let my thoughts roll where they will. Eventually, I come around to the core of it. Gabe LoPresto and Gary Dellmore don’t value their wives. I valued mine and she isn’t here anymore. That ties in with my knee in an odd way. I think I had some notion that once the knee was all fixed up, everything else would be fine, too. But that isn’t possible. Even with a knee as good as new, Jeanne is gone and there’s no recovery from that.