Half in Love with Artful Death (11 page)

“Somebody from the college housecleaning staff took care of all that. The snacks were catered by the college, too, so someone would've come by to pick up what was left over.”

“All right,” Rhodes said. “That's what I wanted to know. You can go back in and pick up your award.”

“I hope someone will record me on video.”

“I'm sure it'll be on
A Clear View of Clearview
in mere minutes,” Rhodes said.

“You're right. It won't be as good as the one of me subduing the rioters, though.”

“You'd better get in there before they think you've left and give the award to somebody else.”

“I'm already there,” Benton said.

*   *   *

Two county cars were parked outside the Collins house when Rhodes got there. He didn't see either Ruth Grady or Andy Shelby, but he assumed that Ruth was still inside or talking with the neighbors and that Andy was searching the area. He parked his own car and was on his way in when Andy came out of the trees.

“Hey, Sheriff,” Andy said.

“Find anything?” Rhodes asked.

“Just a lot of trash. I don't think anybody's been out there except kids. Most of the trash probably blew in from the street when people threw it out of their cars. Somebody was out there last night breaking twigs and such, but that was probably Buddy.”

Rhodes might have made a mistake by having Buddy check things out. He could have covered up any clues, but it might not matter. Rhodes didn't really think that whoever killed Burt had gone through the trees.

Ruth Grady came outside and said, “I didn't find anything, either, and I've talked to the people in the three closest houses. None of them remembers hearing or seeing anything unusual. If a car drove up here last night, they wouldn't have thought anything of it.”

“Did you check the computers?”

“They don't own a computer. They must be the last holdouts in town.”

Rhodes doubted it. There were probably several other people who didn't have computers.

“It's a big house,” he said. “You searched the whole thing?”

“The upstairs is mostly vacant,” Ruth said. “I don't think anybody's been up there in years. No computers, no busts of Dale Earnhardt. Lots of dust bunnies, though.”

“So you really didn't find anything,” he said.

“That's right. I wish I had.”

“It's okay.” Rhodes hadn't had much hope that any big clues would be found. He'd occasionally read about some bank robber who filled out a deposit slip with his real name and left it in the bank or about a convenience store robber who dropped his wallet as he fled, but nothing like that had ever happened in Blacklin County. At least not since Rhodes had become the sheriff. Maybe some of his predecessors had been luckier.

“Did you know that Mrs. Collins isn't here?” Ruth asked.

Rhodes glanced at the carport. Both the Collins vehicles were parked there. “Where is she?”

“At the new hotel on the east side of town. Her sister was here to pick up a few things when I got here, and she let me in. She said they went to the hotel last night because Mrs. Collins couldn't stand to stay in the house. The thought of Burt dying here while she was gone was too much for her.”

That was interesting. Manish Patel was the manager of the hotel, and he was the one who'd had more than one little run-in with Burt. Ella Collins might not even know about that, however, if Burt was the kind to keep secrets.

“You two can go back on patrol,” Rhodes said. “There's a lot of county out there, and we can't spend all our time here. I'll go to the hotel and talk to Mrs. Collins.”

He was going to talk to Manish Patel, too. It might be interesting to see what he was doing while Burt was being killed.

*   *   *

The new hotel was like so many others that had sprung up in small towns all across Texas in the last few years, plain but functional. If they could survive and even thrive there in places like Clearview, they could do just as well elsewhere. Rhodes had heard that more than half of the middle-sized motels and hotels in the country were owned by people of Indian descent, many of them named Patel, and while there'd been an occasional reaction against them earlier, it had died down. The only trouble in Clearview had come from Burt Collins.

As far as Rhodes was concerned the Patels were welcome. They worked hard, they stayed out of trouble, and they brought jobs and money into the community. It was true that a lot of the jobs were taken by family members, but Rhodes believed anything that stimulated the economy was welcome. Obviously Burt hadn't seen it that way, or he wouldn't have vandalized the hotels and the art exhibit.

Or maybe he hadn't done a thing at the art show. He'd acted guilty, but he hadn't admitted anything, and Rhodes reminded himself not to start making assumptions.

Rhodes counted eight cars in the parking lot. He didn't know if that was good or bad for a Saturday, not being in the hotel business himself. He parked next to a black pickup and got out.

The lobby of the hotel was small and so clean that it looked like a picture in a magazine ad. On the right was the check-in desk, and on the left were four overstuffed black leather-covered chairs arranged around a low square table. Rhodes didn't recognize the young man behind the desk, so he pulled his badge holder from his belt and walked over.

“Sheriff Dan Rhodes,” he said. “I'd like to speak to Mr. Patel.”

The man blinked, looked at the badge, and said, “One moment, please.”

He opened a door behind the desk and stepped into what appeared to be an office, and in a couple of seconds he came back with Manish Patel.

Patel was considerably shorter than Rhodes and considerably better dressed. He wore a brown suit, white shirt, and brown tie. He had abundant black hair and a thick black mustache. His eyes were as black as his hair.

“Good morning, Sheriff,” he said. He put a hand on the man's shoulder. “This is my cousin Jack. He has come here from Houston to work in the hotel and learn about the business. I have told him what a fine town Clearview is and how he will be very happy here.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Rhodes said to Jack. “I hope your cousin is right about how happy you'll be here.”

“I'm sure he is,” he said, and moved back to his position behind the desk.

“You have not come for a social visit, I suppose,” Patel said.

“No, not exactly,” Rhodes said. “Is there somewhere that we can talk?”

“Most certainly. Come.”

Patel walked to the end of the counter and opened the gate that allowed Rhodes to go behind it.

“We will go into my office,” Patel said, and Rhodes followed him in.

The office was small and just as neat as the lobby. The top of the black desk was bare except for a computer monitor. There were framed photographs on the wall that weren't of anywhere Rhodes had ever been or was ever likely to be. They showed buildings with domes, towers with staircases circling the outside, dancers in colorful saris.

Patel closed the door. “Gujarat. Where my parents come from. I have never been there, but I like to think that someday I will travel to see it.”

Burt Collins thought of the Patels as immigrants, but Rhodes remembered that Manish had been born in Dallas. Manish's wife, Sunny, was from Houston.

“After you get rich in the hotel business, maybe you can go there,” Rhodes said.

“That is the plan,” Patel said. “Please. Have a seat.”

Rhodes sat in a straight-backed chair with a seat covered in what appeared to be the same black leather as that on the chairs in the lobby. Patel went behind his desk and sat in his office chair.

“I have had no problems here,” Patel said when he was settled. “No one has skipped on a bill. No one has tried to rob me.”

“I know,” Rhodes said. “This is about something else. Or someone else. Burt Collins.”

“Ah, the late Mr. Collins. I am sorry that he is dead, but I cannot say I liked the man. We have had no visits from him recently, for which I am grateful.” He paused. “His wife, however, is visiting us at this very moment, as you probably know. Along with her sister. That is how I know Mr. Collins is dead. I heard about it late last night when Mrs. Collins and her sister checked in. Mrs. Collins seems like a nice woman, much too nice to have been married to someone like Mr. Collins.”

“He spray-painted your walls,” Rhodes said.

“Yes, and not the back walls, either. The ones facing the highway. As I told you at the time, and I will say it again now, not to insult Mr. Collins's intelligence and his memory, but I was surprised that he even knew what an insult ‘wog' could be.”

There had been worse words than that, as Rhodes recalled. “That wasn't all he wrote on the wall.”

“No, indeed, but it was a part of it. I did not wish the man ill, but I cannot say that his death fills me with great sorrow. I am a fan of
A Clear View for Clearview,
so I know that there are others he has irritated almost as much as me. The artists visiting Clearview, for example, some of whom are staying in this hotel.”

It seemed to Rhodes that everyone in the county, or at least those who had a computer, took a daily look or two or three at Jennifer Loam's Web site. He hoped it was generating some good ad revenue for her.

“Did Mrs. Collins tell you how Burt died?”

“She said it was a heart attack, or maybe a stroke.”

Rhodes wondered if Mrs. Collins thought that repeating that story often enough would make it true. He also wondered if Patel knew more about Burt's death than he was letting on.

“It was nothing like that,” Rhodes said. “Someone killed him.”

Patel's eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

Rhodes had been asked that question more than once under similar circumstances. It was as if people believed the county sheriff would tell them a lie or be mistaken about something as serious as murder.

“I'm sure,” Rhodes said. “You said you were here when Mrs. Collins and her sister came in. Were you working?”

“I was. I often work late hours.”

Rhodes knew that was true. Patel and his whole family had worked hard to make the hotel a success. The clock meant nothing to them.

“Had you been out last night?”

Patel tensed. “Sheriff, I hope you are not thinking I had anything to do with Mr. Collins's death.”

“You and Burt have a history,” Rhodes said. “I'm sure you're in the clear, but I have to ask.”

Patel relaxed a bit. “I understand. I assure you that I never left the premises last night. You can ask any member of my family.”

Rhodes had more or less expected that answer. The Patels were a close-knit group, and they would say Patel had been there even if he hadn't.

“What happened between me and Mr. Collins was months ago,” Patel said. “I have forgotten it. He apologized, and I believe he paid a fine. I was satisfied.”

Rhodes didn't believe it. Patel's earlier words about Collins had made it clear that Patel hadn't forgotten anything. Rhodes didn't think Patel was satisfied, either, but maybe he was just being polite. Now wasn't the time to press the issue.

Rhodes stood up. “I'm glad to hear it. I have to speak with Mrs. Collins now. Do you know her room number?”

Patel rose, too. “No, but Jack can tell you. I hope you find the one who killed Mr. Collins.”

“I always get my man,” Rhodes said.

“Or woman,” Patel said, “as the case may be.”

“True,” Rhodes said.

 

Chapter 10

The room looked like any hotel room anywhere. Two double beds, a landscape painting on the wall opposite the door, a flat-screen TV set on the dresser, a small desk, a night table with a lamp and clock radio sitting on top, and a desk chair. Not exactly suited for receiving visitors.

Rhodes stood just inside the door, and the sisters looked at him as if expecting him to say something profound. He wished he could think of something, but he couldn't. So he just said, “We need to talk about Burt.”

“He was a son of a bitch,” Bonnie said.

Rhodes looked at her. She was stocky, like her sister, but she wore her hair longer and appeared to be a few years younger.

“Please, Bonnie,” Ella said. “Don't talk about Burt like that.”

“It's about time somebody did. You've spent thirty years of your life defending him, and you know better than anybody what he was like. Even now when he's dead, he's still got you in a mess. You can't even get to what little money he has in the bank. You should've left him a long time ago.”

Rhodes found himself liking Bonnie. She didn't try to hide her feelings.

“He was so tight,” Bonnie said, more to Rhodes than to Ella, “that if he had a penny, it'd have his fingerprints mashed into Abe Lincoln's face. He didn't give Ella a dime without quizzing her about how she'd spend it.”

Rhodes remembered what Abby had told him about Ella's not being able to pay for having her hair done. Burt probably hadn't put much stock in a woman getting her hair done at a beauty shop, not when she had a sink and some soap to wash it with at home.

“Tighter than the bark on a tree,” Bonnie said, “and mean besides. Did I mention that he was a son of a bitch?”

“I believe you did,” Rhodes said.

“He was good to me,” Ella said. “I know you don't believe it, but he was. In his own way.”

“Baloney,” Bonnie said. Rhodes had a feeling she would've used a stronger word if he hadn't been there. “He treated you like dirt, and I know he hit you more than once. I wouldn't blame you a bit if you'd killed him.” Bonnie paused and looked at Rhodes. “Not that she did.”

“He died of a heart attack,” Ella said. “Or a stroke. Something like that.”

“Tell her, Sheriff,” Bonnie said. “She won't listen to me.”