Nuts and Buried (24 page)

I wanted to hug Hunter when I saw him on the steps of the sheriff's office.

“Harner called just as I got back in my car. Cow, name was Sara, was too smart for that bunch of cowboys out there. Took a while to catch her.”

I guess he could see Meemaw and I were both upset as we told him what we'd learned about Peter Franklin—that he was an imposter, maybe not a scientist at all. And now Elizabeth was missing.

“Harner gave me the details. Put an APB out on that rental Franklin drove. Got a BOLO statewide on him. Sheriff Higsby's checking with the Wheatley offices in Dallas. Nobody there knows a single reason anybody would want to kill Eugene. Nobody has a bad word to say about him. Nothing in his past. Always been a straight-up hard worker. Not at all like some of those oilmen. You know, big spenders and big egos and don't give a crap for the people who work for them.”

“There's got to be something about the Wheatleys,” I said. “Two killers after them. Some kind of vendetta. Somebody's paying these men to kill. Probably paying big. Why? How would they get at the Wheatley money? Can't be that. So, revenge?”

Hunter shrugged. “Gotta find that second rifle.”

Meemaw held a finger in the air. “Know where we should go? The Columbus Inn. Where Peter Franklin was staying. George and Clarissa Pickens own it. Clarissa's behind the front desk most days. If not, it will be George. Not like some big city hotels. The Columbus is known for their down home hospitality. And I bet you anything, between the two of them, Clarissa and George know as much about their guests as Lydia Hornbecker does about hers. Those kids sank every dime they had into that hotel. You can bet your bottom dollar they keep an eye on what's going on.”

Hunter smiled at Meemaw. “You know, Miss Amelia, there are times I get the feeling I'm following that Sherlock Holmes around. All I have to do is wait and you'll come up with something.”

“Logical, Hunter. Just logical.”

*   *   *

The Columbus Inn, over on Allred Avenue, was one of the prettiest in Riverville. It sat on a nice piece of property with the Colombia River running along down a grassy slope. I'd say it was all Texas, from the ochre adobe walls to the Texas flags flying across the front of the building. I'd been in school with Clarissa Tomplin. That was her maiden name. Me and Clarissa'd been kind of friends but never got that close. I think me being so interested in the pecan trees, maybe a little preachy about them, kept some people away. Maybe a lot of people, come to think of it.

It was good to see her standing behind the front desk when the three of us walked in.

Me and Meemaw got greeted with hugs. There was a lot of “How y'all doin'?” and “What a sight fer sore eyes.” And then me and Meemaw were oohing and ahhing and patting her pregnant belly while Hunter waited impatiently behind us.

He knew better than to rush a couple of Southern women who hadn't seen each other in a while. There was catching up to do and family to hear about, like we didn't run into each other at the bank every once in a while. Something, I think, about meeting in unexpected places. There were requirements for greetings. We were kind of in Clarissa's home, here at the Columbus Inn, and that had a strict code of conduct to go along with it.

Refreshments went with the strict code. And us throwing up our hands and refusing daintily.

And then Meemaw got down to business. “You know Hunter Austen, don't you, Clarissa?”

She smiled big and nodded at Austen. “Sure, knew you from school. See you're with the sheriff. Should be proud of yerself, helping the good people of Riverville to stay safe in their beds. I always said, the sheriff and his men are our first defense against evil that can move into town and we don't even know it. Pastor Rogan was sayin' just the other day how we got to always keep in mind the men here at home who stand and serve. Why, George and I were talking about having some kind of appreciation day here at the Columbus. You know, have all the men who protect us come in and give them a big supper and ask the town to come over, maybe have a patriotic concert out in the back and . . .”

Hunter was nodding along until we were all afraid she was never going to get to the end of her oration. Now I remembered why me and Clarissa never got to be friends. It wasn't me and my pecans after all. It was her talking. There was no good way to turn her off.

Hunter stopped nodding and put up his hand, cutting the speech straight through so it came to a stop.

“I'm kind of here on business, Miz Pickens. It's about one of your guests.”

It was almost funny, how her face froze and her eyes got wary. “Ya don't say? Which one, if you don't mind my askin'? You know I'm not at liberty to talk about my guests behind their backs. George always says maybe they're stayin' with us for personal reasons, like a husband or wife after 'em, and it's none of our business to give out information, so if yer goin' to ask things I can't tell you, well, you'll just have to forgive me, Hunter. I'm gonna stick a key in it and lock it up tight.”

That last went along with the motions of sticking an imaginary key between her lips, locking it up, and throwing the key away.

“I understand,” Hunter pushed on. “But we've got a very serious situation going on here in Riverville and one of your guests just might be involved in it.”

Her mouth made a perfect “O.” Her lashes fluttered. “Not the murders!” She was whispering now. “I wouldn't like to think we took somebody in who would get involved in things like that. Why, me and George were reading in the paper just this morning how there was another murder somewhere up near Austin that was connected to our very own murder here in Riverville and George was saying—”

Hunter had his hand in the air again, which magically brought a scaling down of the sound and then quiet. I wished I'd learned that back in school, I was thinking. Me and Clarissa might have been friends after all.

“His name is Dr. Peter Franklin.”

The lashes fluttered again. The red mouth made a circle. “Why, don't tell me that. Not the doctor. He's an important man. He was tellin' George himself about all the things he's done for farmers and how he's working over some place in Italy and how he was here in Riverville to see . . .” She thought awhile. “My goodness! I think it was you, Lindy. Said the two of you are close friends and—”

I raised my hand and made the magic happen.

“We think he knows something about the tragic events that happened here.” Hunter knew to jump in fast. “In fact, he might at this moment be a fugitive from justice.”

“You don't say.” Clarissa lowered her head and snapped off the three words, then stopped talking.

“I need to get up into his room. See if he's hidden any weapons in there—”

“No, no. We couldn't allow a thing like that.”

“Even if the man turns out to be a killer?”

“That case maybe George would look the other way, so to speak. But—”

“Could I get into his room?” Hunter pressed on fast.

Clarissa shook her head. “Not without a search warrant. I know my law. I let you in there and they could sue us because we're not supposed to do a thing like that.”

“I'll get a warrant to cover you, it's just that the man may be holding a woman hostage and we've got to find him.”

She shook her head harder. “No, sir. Can't do that. We run an up-and-up place here at the Columbus Inn. You better go get yourself—”

George Pickens, a round man in his late thirties, stepped out of the inner office to interrupt his wife.

“Heard what you was sayin.'” George put his hand on his wife's shoulder. “I'll take you up, Hunter. Everybody in town knows what's been going on with the Wheatleys. I wouldn't stand in the way for nothing.”

George got a key from behind the desk and led the way to the elevator.

*   *   *

The Columbus was known for pretty rooms. A lot of lace curtains and homemade bedspreads on four-posters. Pretty blue wallpaper. Texas history was caught in framed pictures around the walls.

The place was neat. You'd think nobody was staying there except for a suitcase on the wooden stand at the foot of the made-up bed.

I leaned over to whisper in Meemaw's ear, “Killers sure are neat.”

Meemaw shushed me. “Watch your mouth.”

George stood in the doorway. “Gotta watch,” he said. “I know y'all, but I don't want to get caught in the middle of anything.”

“Understand,” Hunter told him as he opened the closet door. He pushed aside summer jackets on the pole, feeling the pockets of each of them. And then through a row of shirts—mostly white and blue. He checked the shoes lined in correct order along the floor.

Meemaw was in the bathroom, going through a shaving kit and looking at pill bottles.

She called out, “Nothing here.”

I pulled out dresser drawer after dresser drawer. I was going to avoid the neatly folded boxer shorts, but something told me not to be prudish. This wasn't about me touching his shorts—a thing a lady would never do—it was about discovering who he really was and what he was doing here in Riverville.

I struck gold in those boxers. Inside the last neatly folded pair I found an iPad.

I held it up in my hand. “Gotta be something on here. He hid it in his shorts.”

Hunter wasn't listening. He pulled a gun case from the back of the closet, set it on the floor beside him, and looked from one to the other of us as he unzipped the long zipper.

“Remington 700P. Sniper. The kind I've been looking for. I'll bet anything it's the gun that shot you in Ralston.”

Which did nothing to make me feel any better about Peter Franklin.

George, scowling, was taking all of this in.

“You think the man's in physical danger?” he asked. “Heard I can't stop you taking things if you think the man's in physical danger. That right?”

“Worst kind of danger there is.” Hunter nodded.

George backed into the hall without another word and left, giving us free run of the room.

Hunter smiled. “Good citizen, that George. Let's take what we think is necessary. I'm going to call in and get people here with a search warrant and get the techs to go over the room. We need fingerprints. One found on that empty cartridge from the Henry Wade shooting. Bet anything—”

“Hope we haven't compromised the evidence.” Meemaw looked worried and backed toward the door.

“From here on in, let me be the bad guy.” Hunter was looking down at the locked suitcase. I watched as he slipped a knife out of his pocket and opened the case.

“Think we got him,” he said, pulling out a box of cartridges and holding it up in his hands.

He looked over at me. “Looks like the same make of cartridges. I'll be taking these.” He tucked the box under his arm and pawed through whatever was left in the suitcase. From a side pocket he pulled papers out and fingered through them.

“Credit cards in different names, a driver's license,” he said, not looking up. “There's some bigger sheets, looks like copies of e-mails.” He hesitated over another side pocket and then held something above his head. “An address book.”

I couldn't help myself, I went to stand beside him, asking to see the driver's license, which he held up for me to read.

The face was certainly Dr. Peter Franklin. The name was Peter Voorhees. The address was in Anaheim, California.

I stood there, trying to figure out what was going on, who this guy was, and why he'd wanted to come meet me when I wasn't the real target of any of this. Or was I? But then
why?

Hunter called Deputy Harner, asking him to run a check on a Peter Voorhees from Anaheim, California. He added
the license number. “Real fast, Greg,” Hunter was saying. “I'd say this was really life and death.”

He asked if there'd been anything on the APB yet. He seemed to get a negative.

With that done, he got put through to Sheriff Higsby, in Dallas, and they talked about what to do next.

I stood there praying that, whoever this guy was, he didn't come back while we were standing in his room. Meemaw was clearing her throat and rolling her eyes at me, evidently thinking the same thing.

Hunter put his hand over the phone, still talking to Sheriff Higsby, but wanting to tell me something.

“Call the station on your phone,” he said. “Tell Harner to get ahold of Judge London about the warrant. Got to cover our—”

Which I did. Deputy Greg Harner would only talk to Hunter so he waited until Hunter and the sheriff had put together their plan and Hunter was free to talk.

All we got on our end was “Un-huh. Un-huh.”

He hung up and turned to us.

“Greg got feedback immediately. Peter Voorhees is wanted in California. First-degree murder. They're warning us to go slow and careful. The guy's dangerous. Got out of prison a year ago. That was for larceny and impersonation. Guess it was a doctor then, too. Don't know what kind of doctor that one was.”