Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek: A Samuel Craddock Mystery (Samuel Craddock Mysteries) (26 page)

Thursday morning Loretta seems to sense that I’m in no mood for a chat. She hands off a fresh slab of coffee cake and says she’s not going to stay. “Now don’t work too hard. You’re not getting any younger.”

“I don’t need you to remind me of that. My bones are doing a fine job of keeping me informed.”

But the fact is, although I’m tired from the late-night activity, I also feel alert and ready to roll. I’m pretty sure that by finding out the magnitude of McClusky’s financial problems I’m closer to finding out what led to Gary Dellmore’s murder. The only bad part is that the dire straits the McCluskys are in makes me doubt that the town will be able to get back any of the money put up for the fraudulent water park project. It looks like McClusky has lost whatever money he had.

As soon as Loretta leaves, I call Bill Odum. When he picks up, there’s a lot of noise in the background. “Hold on,” he hollers into the phone.

He comes on the line again, and the sound is muffled in the background. “We’re finishing up shredding the crop from last fall. What’s up?”

I ask him when he’ll be able to do the testing on the bullet casings. “I know we were out late last night, but I wondered if you’d have any time today.”

He groans. “This shredding operation is going to take the rest of the day. I’ll spend some time testing the casing this evening, and tomorrow I’ll get over to the college to take a look at the markings under the microscope. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

I stop by the café on the way to the station for some eggs and coffee. Alton Coldwater is getting out of his car as I drive up, so I invite him to have breakfast with me.

After we order, I say, “Alton, who was it who decided to get a loan from Dellmore’s bank for that water park? Seems to me those guys from Houston would have had their own bank connections.”

Coldwater looks gloomy, as if yesterday’s meeting brought back to him all the trouble that had happened on his watch. “Let me try to remember exactly how it happened.”

Our breakfast comes, and we fall quiet and start eating. After a minute, Coldwater says, “I believe if I’m not mistaken Fontaine and Kestler said they liked to get local banks involved when they could. And they said somebody had suggested they talk to Dellmore. Now I figure it was probably McClusky who did that. I introduced them to Dellmore, and they took it from there.”

“Who came up with the idea that it would be a good thing to put city money into it?”

“That’s easy. That was Dellmore.” He wipes his face with his napkin and then puts his hands on his thighs, as if girding himself. “But like I said, McClusky had already primed the pump. I can’t put all the blame on those two, though, even if they are crooks. I thought it was a good chance to take care of our financial problems. Nobody needed to push me. I should’ve been more careful.” He looks like he’s eaten a sour plum. It’s a hard admission for him to make.

“Did anybody try to talk you out of it?”

“Oh sure, a couple of people on the city council. I thought it was the same old thing, though—there’s always people who are against progress. I hate to admit they were right.”

Back at the station, I start making phone calls and within an hour have more information than I ever wanted about Slate McClusky’s slide from prosperity into desperation. He is the sole owner of the water park business, and it’s on the verge of bankruptcy. He had to walk away from his multimillion-dollar house in Vail, and if I read between the vague lines the real estate broker in Dallas told me, McClusky is behind on payments on his house in Dallas, too. The place in Jarrett Creek is being spruced up to put on the market, which is why Slate and Angel are camping out at the resort.

Thinking about the resort, I need to make one more call, this time to the Texas Animal Health Commission. What I find out confirms everything I’d heard. Of all the things that have happened to McClusky, finding out that he did have an outbreak of foot-and-mouth at the resort and that it’s quarantined hits me the hardest. It’s a piece of bad luck, pure simple. That kind of thing could strike anyone.

Adding everything up, I understand why McClusky is trying desperately to unload the resort onto Gabe LoPresto.

But why was Gary Dellmore helping him to get LoPresto to buy it? Dellmore went to a lot of trouble to set LoPresto up with Darla Rodriguez’s help. What did McClusky promise the two of them if they succeeded? Or, was it what he promised he wouldn’t do: tell anybody about the kickback he must have given Dellmore. One way or another, this will all come out. What I have to figure out is what it has to do with Dellmore’s murder.

LoPresto’s office manager gives me the address of the job he’s working on today. As I turn the corner, I recognize the place. The house is one I’ve always liked. It used to be an elegant home, a fine two-story brown shingle with a nice wide porch. When the elderly woman who owned it died, her sons got into a big squabble, and neither wanted the other to have the benefit of money from the sale of it. The result was that the house went vacant without upkeep for twenty years until it was a mess. Finally one of the brothers died and the other one sold it a couple of months ago.

As I approach the house, a small car darts away from the curb and barely misses me. Startled, the driver glances toward me and I see that it’s Ellen Forester—but she doesn’t look the way I’ve seen her before. Her expression is as bleak as anything I’ve ever seen. Her eyes are as dark as coal. She’s gone before I have a chance to react.

Gabe LoPresto is standing in the front yard talking to a man I don’t recognize. He’s a burly guy, shorter than LoPresto but with several pounds of muscle to his side of things. He’s almost bald, with a bulldog face that exudes menace. He has his hands on his hips and his chin thrust out. LoPresto is gesturing toward the house, clearly exasperated. I climb out of the car and stand by it for a few seconds to give my presence a chance to register, but they’re too deep in their argument to pay attention to me.

“Mrs. Forester hired me to do this job, and I don’t see where you come into it,” LoPresto says.

“And I’m telling you she’s my wife and I can halt the work on this if I please.”

“I’m afraid I have to disagree. Mrs. Forester said you two are divorced and this is her project and you don’t have anything to do with.”

The man balls his fists. “Like hell! She can’t just walk away from me. And if you keep working on this house, you may find yourself wishing you hadn’t.”

Two workers pulling shingles off the roof have stopped working and are watching the altercation.

I move toward the two men. I don’t like the implied threat in the man’s words, but I’ve never known LoPresto to back down, and now is no exception. “You get the hell off this property. Don’t come around making threats to me.”

“Who’s going to back you up when—”

“I am, for one,” I say.

“Who are you?” The man looks me up and down. He’s used to getting his way.

“I’m the chief of police.” I don’t generally find it necessary to wear a badge, but I pull it out of my pants pocket and display it.

“You look a little past your prime to be strutting around like you’re going to be of any use to anybody.”

LoPresto comes out with short, sharp “Ha!”

Startled, the guy turns his attention back to LoPresto.

“I believe you’ll find Chief Craddock equal to whatever nonsense you want to dole out.”

“Mr. LoPresto is prone to exaggeration,” I say, taking a few steps closer. “But unless you want to spend a little time thinking it over in our little jail—which is sufficient but not real comfortable—I’d suggest you do as he says and get off this property.” I don’t know why, but the look on Ellen Forester’s face as she sped away from here makes me want to punch this man.

Maybe he sees a little of that on my face. He pulls his chin back ever so slightly.

“I didn’t catch your name,” I say.

“You go to hell,” he says, and considers that enough of an exit strategy that he stalks off to a big black four-by-four truck. He gets in, starts the engine and revs it up, all the while looking back at us. Finally he pulls slowly away from the curb. There’s more menace in that slow move than there would’ve been had he peeled out. It comes to me now that if Ellen had to put up with him, I understand why she’s jumpy around men.

LoPresto looks up at the guys on the roof and gestures for them to go back to work.

“What was that all about?” I say.

“I don’t know if you heard that a woman has come to town to start a new business.”

“I met Ellen Forester.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You already got your eye on her?”

“Gabe, I just met the woman; I didn’t ask her to go to the motel with me.”

He shrugs. “You could do worse. Anyway, she came along at the right time to buy old Mrs. Ellison’s place here. I don’t know any details, but Ellen said she inherited some money and decided to relocate—without her husband. She and I were going over the plans this morning, and the ex-husband came wheeling up here and started threatening her and threatening to shut me down.” He looks over at the house. “Be a shame for anything to happen to this house.”

“Like what?”

“Her ex said he was going to send somebody out to take a bulldozer to it. She told me he has a business with contracts to the highway department, so I guess he could do it if he took a mind to.”

“Are you planning to take any security measures?”

He puts his hand on his hips. “I may have to hire a security guard at night. Maybe get a restraining order. I don’t know what I’m going to do. This is a fine thing to come home to. Well…” He tears his gaze away from the house and looks at me “What can I do for you?”

“I need to have a serious talk with you, Gabe.”

“If it’s anything to do with Darla, don’t bother to say one word you’ll regret. She called me first thing this morning and told me she’d made a big mistake and wants to get back together.”

“I’m not surprised.”

LoPresto grins. “You figured she’d see the error of her ways?”

“Not exactly. I need a bit of your time. You free right now?”

“It’s that urgent?”

“It is.”

“Hold on and I’ll be right with you.” He walks over to the house and hollers instructions up to the guys working there. When he comes back, he says, “Let’s go inside. I have a table set up there with a couple of chairs.”

“Inside” is speaking loosely. The house has been stripped down to the studs. We walk up temporary steps into the living room. There’s still a mustiness to it, overlaid by the smell of fresh wood where some of the studs have been replaced.

“Place needs a lot of work,” I say.

“Stripping it down was the hard part. Once I pull a crew off another job that’s winding up, things will speed up here.”

We sit down in two plastic chairs Gabe has set up next to a plastic table with plans laid out on it. With the place open to the air and no sun inside, there’s a heavy chill. Gabe turns on a space heater facing the table. “Now, what’s on your mind?” he says.

In public LoPresto plays the fool, slapping people’s backs and making smart-aleck remarks. But he’s professional here at the job site.

“Couple of questions. At the café yesterday, you said Darla thought you had more money than you do. Can you tell me what you meant by that?”

He splays his hands out on the table. “I think I may have made more out of it than there was. She was being presumptuous and I think she knows it. Like I said, Darla called me this morning to make up.”

“Presumptuous about what?”

He pulls his hands back and lays them on the arms of the chair. “She was talking about wanting to get me involved with a place that needs some heavy renovation.”

I nod. “Go on.”

“Only problem is, she thought I should buy the place and do the renovations on spec. I told her that’s not the way it works, and that I couldn’t afford to buy a place that big anyway.”

“She was talking about Slate McClusky’s resort.”

He had been looking off into the distance, and his head whips back toward me. “How do you know about it?”

“It came to my attention while I was investigating Gary Dellmore’s death.”

“Wait a minute. What does this have to do with Dellmore? As far as I know, Gary Dellmore had nothing to do with this. Darla is a friend of Angel Bright’s, and she said Angel is sick and tired of Slate running the resort and wants somebody to buy it and fix it up.”