“Ah.”
“Coffee?”
She smiled at his hospitality. “No, thank you. I know you’re swamped, so I’ll get straight to the point. I learned that Colton was expelled from military school in 1984 and ran away on the way back to Scrub Oak.”
He took a sip of his mug and then peered at her over the rim. “You’ve been busy.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why do you need to know?”
Wanda took a breath. “Colton is Carl’s only living kin, right? I wanted to find him and let him know about his brother.”
Adam Arthur scoffed. “Colton wouldn’t care. They haven’t seen each other in decades. What is this really about, Wanda? What are you sticking your nose into now?”
She fiddled with the strap of her purse. “I think Otto Ford knew Colton and he knew about the bootlegger cave. And I know that Butch McClain is suspected to be one of the robbers. There is a wanted bulletin in the police station to be on the lookout for him in connection with the Burleson robbery.”
“So?”
She eased forward in the chair. “Butch must have known about the cave, too.”
“How do you figure that?”
“The proximity to the crime scene. Hazel’s neighbors say they have seen squatters near the edge of the woods off and on. It would make sense they are using the cave. I’m betting that Carl caught him coming out or heading in and shot him.”
“This Butch fellow?” He set the coffee mug down.
Wanda nodded. The pungent aroma hit her nose. She was glad she’d refused a cup. Who knew how long ago it had been brewed?
“Thing is, how did Butch McClain find out? It had to be from Colton, Tommy or Bubba, or Otto Ford, whose family partnered in many Ferguson ventures. Unless,” she narrowed her gaze. “You told him.”
The chief sat back in his chair and laughed. “First of all, Butch is not the man in the morgue. That I know for a fact. I was at the scene. Second, Otto hasn’t been seen around here for years. Not since Ferguson, Junior passed on.”
“But Otto owns the resort.”
“That’s where you are wrong, Wanda. He did own it, but he sold it to Robert Stewart a few years back.”
“Aurora’s husband?”
“Yep.”
“So, Aurora owns it now?”
“Her name is on the deed. She has a management corporation out of Dallas running it.” He flipped through some of the folders in the stack and pulled out one. “Ah, according to our last inspection report in February, it is managed by C.L.S. Enterprises.”
An idea bolted through Wanda’s brain. “What was Colton’s middle name?”
“Louis. Why?”
She grinned.
The chief closed the folder. “Uh-uh. No way Colton would be a head honcho for a development management firm. He was no good. Never had been. If you want to look for him, check the state criminal records. My guess is he’s rotting in the state pen.”
Wanda lifted herself gracefully from the chair. “You truly have had no contact with Colton Louis Smithers?”
He crossed his heart. “Had no reason to. The heartache he caused my daddy . . . I swear he went to his grave thinking he had disappointed his best friend by not raising the boy right. I only hope he found out the truth once he got up to the pearly gates.”
“And that would be?”
“Ain’t nobody’s fault. That boy was born bad.” He swiped his hand over the back of his neck, no longer making eye contact. “I hated him. So did Carl. The best day of our lives was when we heard he’d bailed from his military school escorts on the way back here.”
“Because?”
“Because it meant he wouldn’t be back to mess us around.” He stared at his knuckles, now clenched and white against the edge of his desk. Clearing his throat, he released his hands and dropped them into his lap.
Wanda swallowed. She had never seen Adam Arthur riled before. The man always exhibited calm under pressure. She nodded, whispered her thanks, and left his office.
All the way back home, negativity hung on her shoulders like a cape woven of gloom. Not that she blamed Adam for disliking Colton. The kid probably bullied him. He’d invaded Adam’s homelife and disrupted it horribly.
Perhaps Colton was a dead end. Adam Arthur was right. A kid that unruly had to have been sucked into the criminal underground a long time ago. Dollars to donuts she’d find him in the state prison roster doing twenty-to-life.
CLS could stand for anything. Commercial Lending Services. Corporate Leasing Subsidiaries. Charles Lincoln Smith for all she knew.
And Otto, or Auto, was a red herring. The Scrabble words were merely coincidental. She’d been spinning in circles, wasting time and energy for nothing. And all she’d accomplished was to stir up hurt feelings and alienate her nephew. She didn’t want to topple the fragile bridge she had constructed back to his good side.
She slumped back into her house and plopped down in her recliner with a huge, shaky sigh.
Sophie waddled over and laid her chin on Wanda’s foot.
Warmth spread over her. “Hey, Soph.” She reached to scratch the pup’s head. “Guess I am nothing but an old busybody after all. When will I ever learn?”
The dog peered at her with mournful eyes, then whimpered.
She bent to scratch her ears. “At least I have you. You don’t care about burglars or caves, or bodies in morgues, or even words on a silly game board, do you? As long as I feed you, you are happy.”
Then it hit her.
Butch McClain was not the body in the morgue. The chief was certain because he had been there at the scene. That meant he could be hanging around Scrub Oak. The gang leader.
Wait. Then who was in the morgue? And why had Arthur not revealed that information to her?
Chapter Twenty
She opened the back door to let Sophie out, a ritual even though her pet had a doggie door. The dog would wag her tail in fast motion and do a dip and stutter dance. Wanda would say, “Out?”’ and then go to the back door and rattle the knob. The things people do for their pets.
As she watched Sophie bounce through the grass after a butterfly, she heard old Frank Paterson hacking and coughing across the back fence. His fits worried her, but he always seemed to be able-bodied otherwise, even at the age of eighty-seven. Several times since her husband passed, he had done a few things for her like fix a drawer handle, check the pilot light in her furnace, or show her how to correctly use a plunger. She had, in exchange, fixed him soups, stews, or casseroles. Neighborly stuff.
“Hey Frank. Out for your afternoon fresh air jaunt?” The man walked the perimeter of his backyard twice a day, every day, weather permitting.
“Yep.” He let out another series of phlegmy coughs and then peeked over the fence top. “Wanda. Sorry I didn’t make the meeting. The battery on my portable oxygen tank was too low. Can’t patrol much, not with this tube thingy in my nose all the time, but I can report stuff. Especially during the day.”
Frank had been neighborhood watching for at least twenty years since his wife was called home by the angels. It occupied his days, sitting at his desk, reading, and peering through the large double window. She had seen the diary in which he daily recorded the number of cars, dogs, people, and birds he’d noticed.
Wanda often felt sorry for him and had thought about hauling her Scrabble board over once a week to give him a breather . . . oh, bad choice of words. But Frank seemed content with his lifestyle. Never in a bad mood.
She walked closer to him. “That would be a good thing. I know you are diligent about keeping an eye on things in the neighborhood and we all appreciate it.”
He dipped his head, the bald spot on top suddenly turning pink. “I do what I can. In fact, I saw something about an hour before the sirens sounded.” He turned his head to cough then continued in a gravelly voice. “Can’t rightly recall what, but you are more than welcome to come read what I jotted down.”
“Okay. Be righ
t there.”
“Let yourself in the back. It’s open.” He waddled away, the clicks and whirs of his portable oxygen tank fading.
Wanda waited about five minutes before heading over there. She figured that was the proper thing to do. Besides, it gave her time to plate some crackers, cheese, and grapes. She slipped through his back gate and tapped on the door before entering.
“Frank?” Even though he had given up the cigars ten years ago and only sucked on pretzel sticks now, the stale odor clung to his environment like a distant memory. It reminded Wanda of her mother’s bungalow. Her father had been an avid pipe user. Sometimes she’d sneak into the attic and open the old chest filled with their scrapbooks and memorabilia and whiff in the distinct aroma of the past. Almost as if they clung there in wisps of love ready to embrace her.
He sat at his desk. “Ah, there you are.” He half-turned as his yellowed eyes followed her hands setting the plate of food near his reach. “A treat. How thoughtful.”
A shaky hand grabbed a cracker and placed a piece of cheese on it. She waited until he had chewed it before asking to see his notebook.
“Here you are. Gaze to your heart’s content. May mean something or nothing at all.” He snatched another cracker.
She pulled up the wooden rocker that perched in the corner of the room and spread the spiraled pages flat.
His writing was precise, even though a bit squiggly from his hand tremor. The morning of the fire in the Ferguson woods, he had noted three cardinals in the oak tree, one brighter red and flapping its wings. A fledge?
Two squirrels in a spiral dance around the trunk then zipped into the limbs and began barking.
11:35. Priscilla Tucker walked by with her labradoodle.
Wanda thought it strange that Priscilla was not at the Coffee Bean by then. “Frank, is that normal?” She tapped her fingernail at the entry.
“Oh, yes. Everyday around that time, like clockwork. Figure that is how long it takes her to leave the Coffee Bean and get back before the lunch crowd hits. Heads for Pecan Park. Her condo only has a small patio and xeriscaping in the front. That dog of hers has a bladder problem, you know.”
No, she didn’t and wasn’t sure she’d wanted to know. Still, she made a mental note to ask Priscilla if she noticed any unusual activity that day, though she doubted it. The fire happened a good hour or so later. She’d have been back at the Coffee Bean by then.
12:15. Strange man in flannel plaid shirt carried firewood. Seemed in a hurry.
Noticed the Buckley’s side gate open.
Wanda glared at Frank.
“Uh-huh. That is what I thought, too. I think he stole some of their firewood. But why he’d do such a thing in the summer I have no idea.”
“For a campfire. But surely the woods contain ample material. Twigs, leaves.”
“Perhaps.” Frank scratched his chin. “But that’d burn awfully fast and smoke a lot. Maybe they didn’t have an ax or hatchet to chop up branches.”
That’s what Wanda liked about Frank. His practical knowledge. “Do you recall what he looked like? Young, old? Dark hair or light? Skinny or tall?”
“Well, let me see . . .” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’d say not too young. Not skinny, more muscular. Dark hair, but, wait.” His eyes opened and widened. “I think he had salt and pepper hair with a bit of a scraggly beard. As if he had not shaved in a week or so.”
Wanda smiled. “If I brought you a picture, do you think you could tell if it was him or not?”
“Reckon so. Maybe.”
“Good. I’ll be right back.”
She dashed over to her house, grabbed her research folder, and headed back. She rushed inside Frank’s kitchen, this time not bothering to knock, and strutted toward his den that faced the front sidewalk. He sat at the desk polishing off the snacks.
“Here.” She sat back down in the rocker and leaned forward as she opened her folder. Flipping through the papers to find the grainy photo, she pointed to the mug shot of Butch McClain. “There. Is that him?”
Frank took the paper in his hand and held it up. He squinted and adjusted his glasses. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked. A sparrow chirped outside.
After a minute, which seemed more like ten, he jutted out his lower lip. “Could be at that. Couldn’t swear to it in court, though. But yes, I’d say the resemblance is there.”
Frank handed it back to her.
Wanda let out a long breath. She was now convinced that her suspicions were true. Butch McClain had been wandering her neighborhood. No doubt about it.
Protocol as chairperson of the neighborhood watch demanded she report it to the police.
But would they believe her? She needed more proof.
She walked across to the Buckley residence and rang the doorbell. Mary Lou worked at Schiller and Smith while Finn, her husband, did odd jobs around town. Everyone called him Fix-it Finn, and last year for his fiftieth birthday, the city council gave him three work shirts with that nickname embroidered on the front pocket. She noticed his pick-up parked in the driveway.
As he answered the door, she pulled out on of her fliers. “Hi, Finn. You have probably heard that I am the chairperson for the neighborhood watch teams in Scrub Oak.”
“Yeah. But I don’t think I can be counted on to patrol. Never know what my schedule will be like. People call me at all hours, you know.”
“I do. However, I am not here to recruit. Frank told me he had seen a strange man carrying firewood a few days ago and noticed your side gate open.”
“Really?” He stepped onto his porch and walked down the side steps. Wanda followed. He wiggled the gate. “It is warped, so sometimes it doesn’t latch when ya close it.” He chuckled. “Fix-it Finn I may be, but never seem to find the time to get to the honey-dos at my own house.”
“Makes sense to me.”
“Doesn’t to Mary Lou.” He sighed and yanked the privacy gate open. “Lookie there. Well, I’ll be.” He cocked his work cap back on his head.
The neatly stacked cord of wood had several pieces missing. Quite a few, as a matter of fact. It reminded Wanda of her childhood Lincoln Log constructions that always toppled.
“Do me a favor, Finn. Notify the police and file a report.”
“You think I should? I mean, it seems kinda useless.”
“You never know. Crime is crime.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “You’re right. Okay, I’ll stop by there on the way to Anna’s Antiques. Beverly has a ceiling fan that is screeching like a hoot owl.”
Satisfied, Wanda canvased the neighbors on either side of Fir Boulevard, including the condos where Priscilla lived. No one recalled anything missing or any strangers in the area, except for a woman in the condos who thought she had left a blanket on the back seat of her car for her dog to lie on when they took a trip into the country to visit her sister. Now, it was not there. But it could’ve been in the wash pile, too. She’d check.
Wanda walked over to Evelyn’s to solicit her help. After explaining what she’d uncovered so far, she accepted a cold tumbler of lemonade from her friend. She guzzled half the drink, not realizing how thirsty she’d become wandering the street in the summer heat.
“I think you need to take these details to Todd. You told him you would inform him of anything people notified out of the ordinary. Then let it alone. Escaped cons are nothing to fool with.”
“You do make sense, Ev. I don’t want him to poo-poo me, though. Wouldn’t it be better to present him with hard evidence?”
“Whatcha gonna do? Wander in the woods, find the cave, and have a nice fireside chat with this Butch guy? Take a selfie with your phone and post it?”
“No, I guess not.” She slithered into Evelyn’s kitchen chair. “But finding the cave may not be such a bad idea. Maybe it isn’t town lore. Arthur seemed convinced it existed.”
Evelyn took the glass from her and felt her forehead. “Just checking for heatstroke. Otherwise, you
are out of your mind.”
Wanda brushed her hand away. “Stop. I am not saying I’d go alone.”
“But you are saying you want to go. Who are you going to take with you? Betty Sue? I certainly am not going.”
“Why not? You know how to handle a gun. You have your husband’s old army issue in your nightstand, right?”
“Now wait a minute. How do you know that?”
“You told me when we thought there was a thief lurking around the resort. Said even in small towns you can never be too careful.”
She harrumphed and dumped the leftover ice out of the tumblers before placing them in the dishwasher.
Wanda patted her arm. “I must confess I had thought of getting one, too. As a widow it isn’t a bad idea. Maybe one day you can show me how to use it.”
“The state of Texas has courses online and the target ranges offer lessons as well. You have to sign a certificate saying you know how to use it before you can register to have a concealed weapon.”
“Good to know.” Wanda decided to segue into another topic. “I have an idea, Ev. Call Betty Sue. See if she can spend an hour or so this evening after dinner to help canvas the area. It’s light outside until almost nine now. Maybe Hazel would like to help, too. Let’s meet up here in an hour.”
Fifty-two minutes later, the ladies arrived, eager to help. Wanda explained what had been going on. She also showed them a photo of Butch McClain.
Betty Sue’s hand went to her mouth. “That’s him. The strange man I saw in the grocer’s.”
“When?” Wanda’s breath caught in her throat. So, he had been in Scrub Oak after all.
“Yesterday? No, the day before. I went early in the morning just as it opened. He came in soon after, and I knew he was not from around here. He appeared to not know where things were.” She stared at the photo. “I thought he might be a tourist, but something about him made my body shiver. He barely said a word to Jodie, the checkout clerk, and seemed antsy as if he wanted to get out of there fast.”
Word Has It (Wordplay Mysteries Book 1) Page 11