by Bo Thunboe
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Jake slowed as he passed the VFW, then started checking addresses. There were three mini-mansions on the north side and a well-kept brick ranch on the south side. The highest address number fell short of the address on the storage facility contract. As he’d thought: Lucy Bristol was the Old Lady Bristol who once lived in the big house up on the bluff. The land now occupied by the Bristol Yard.
Jake did a three-point turn in front of the pole gate blocking the driveway into the Bristol Yard. The sheds and garages where the city stored some of its out-of-season vehicles were visible through the bare trees. He cruised slowly back the way he’d come and eyed the ranch. It was a wide building with a two-car garage on the east end. The front door was set in the middle of the house and reached by a long curve of concrete sidewalk. A flagpole shot into the gray sky from a white gravel circle in the front yard, the Stars and Stripes snapping in the breeze. Old-timers and veterans flew flags. Jake hoped for an old-timer who had known the Bristols.
He pulled into the driveway, stopped his car just off the street, and got out.
A horn honked, the long deep sound of a semi, tires scuffing asphalt. Jake jumped away from it, turning to see a giant white pickup swerve off the street and onto the driveway, braking to a halt with stuttering chirps from its tires.
Trane’s truck.
The driver’s door flew open and the big man was yelling before his feet hit the concrete. “Are you following me now, Jake?”
Trane came at Jake, his long coat flowing behind him in the breeze, hat pulled low.
Jake stood his ground, his pulse rushing to ready him for action. He shot a glance down the road but didn’t see Grady’s car behind Trane. He took a short step forward with his left foot to change his profile, pushed back the flap of his blazer, and gripped his gun. His fingers tingled.
Trane stopped and swept back his own coat to put his hands on his hips. He wasn’t armed. Jake released his gun and covered it with his blazer.
“Who needs to follow you?” Jake said. “Driving that thing, you stand out wherever you go.” He gestured at the pickup, its diesel engine still clattering. “And it looks more like you’re following me.”
“You trying to tell me you didn’t see me as you were coming down this street?” Trane leaned in close, his coffee breath washing over Jake. “You looked right at me.”
“I was looking for Larry Bristol’s address,” Jake said, watching Trane closely for a tell. He wasn’t disappointed. Trane’s eyes bugged and his mouth clapped shut, hands squeezing into fists. “The same address you bought from Bill at the storage facility.”
“You’re trying to pin your murder on the guy from out of town. I fucking knew it. God damn it.”
“He used to live over there.” Jake pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Where you were just poking around.”
“You leave me the hell alone. I…” Trane snatched off his hat and slapped it against his leg.
Jake resisted the urge to step back. The man towered. “Is that where the thousand-ounce bars are?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“When that question about them popped up on the forum, you came running.”
Trane’s jaw worked and his hands flexed open and closed. He took another step forward.
Jake stood his ground. “If you own them, why all this sneaking around? Why didn’t you just tell Henry they were yours? Show him your paperwork.”
Trane’s face was red now, his eyes squinting.
“You didn’t have to kill him,” Jake said.
“You are not pinning that on me!” Trane’s voice dropped. “And I already told you about ownership.”
He slapped the hat again, then put it on and got back in his truck. He revved the engine, a cloud of thick black smoke pumping from the exhaust, and backed away with a roar, spinning the steering wheel and slashing the front tires over the edge of the lawn. After revving the engine again—and giving Jake a dark look—he roared away. All four tires bounced and grabbed at the pavement, and diesel exhaust almost obscured the truck from view.
When the truck disappeared over the hill by Centennial Beach, Grady’s white Jetta nosed out of the VFW driveway and followed.
Jake’s phone vibrated. Grady: Sorry about that. Didn’t see he was coming at you till it was too late to warn you.
Jake shot back his own warning: Trane thought I was tailing him so might be looking at his mirrors.
His phone vibrated as he was slipping it back in his pocket. He paused to look at it, the wind flapping his pant legs. Callie—calling this time. He turned his back to the wind.
“Houser.”
“The ex didn’t last ten seconds. She thinks Bowen killed Fox and got the silver, and she hoped he’d pay her for the alibi with some of it. The money is more important to her than catching the man who killed her daughter’s father.”
Jake appreciated that Callie didn’t gloat or celebrate. She expected people to lie, and catching them at it was just what she did. “What do you think?”
“I don’t think she was involved. Too dumb. Too… ruined.”
“That’s good.” He shook his head at himself. He shouldn’t have a stake in who did it.
“What did you say? I lost some of that.”
Jake cupped his free hand around the phone. “Sorry, I’m outside.”
“I’m liking Bowen. He argued with Fox about the little bars, and if he owned half of those why wouldn’t he own half the big ones? We can’t have two silver hoards in Weston. All the same stuff, right? One treasure.”
“That makes sense,” Jake said. But Callie’s theory ignored the Texans.
“And you’re going to love this. The kid had one of the big bars under her bed. Forensics just picked it up.”
“A thousand-ounce bar?” Jake’s chest ached. Another lie from the Fox women. Another lie he’d fail to spot.
“Yep. Fox gave it to her for college expenses. The mom didn’t even know it was there. When she saw it I swear she had dollar signs flashing in her pupils like a cartoon. The girl probably kept it secret so Mom wouldn’t steal it from her. I’ve seen desperation before.”
“Did April know anything more about it? Where he found it? How many there were?”
“Five hundred is what her dad told her. She says she never saw the rest or knew where he found them.”
Five hundred! At twenty thousand each. That’s… ten million dollars. Talk about motive.
“I’m headed to Bowen’s house,” Callie said. “Told his lawyer it was there or the station.”
“You get the deal papered up? Is it tight?”
“The state’s attorney sent it over. I’m good to go.”
They talked it through. Callie would start by telling Bowen he was off the hook because of the alibi Lynn had given him. If he confirmed the alibi, she’d bite him in the ass with it and take it from there.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Jake stuck the phone back in his pocket and continued up the driveway. The wind snapped the flag and tugged at his blazer but wasn’t strong enough to cool the heat of failure from his face. He should have verified that alibi, and he should have seen that April was hiding something. Those screw-ups could have left the case against the real killer ripe for attack by a defense attorney.
He shook himself out of it. He needed to focus on his job. Dwelling on his mistake instead of focusing on his case could lead to him making more.
As Jake approached the front door, his view through the picture window opened up into the living room. An old man sat in a recliner, a lamp over his shoulder and a book on his lap. His head came up, and he met Jake’s gaze. He closed his book and started to pull himself to the edge of his chair.
Jake mounted the stoop and waited, the heat generated by his encounter with Trane bleeding slowly
away. Eventually the door pulled back and the old man appeared on the other side of the glass storm door, hunched over but otherwise well put together in chinos and a blue button-down. His full head of silver hair had been swept back from his forehead with the help of some shiny hair product.
“Yes?” The storm door barely muffled his strong voice. His eyes were bright and interested, his eyebrows raised. Age spots blotted his cheeks.
“Sir, I’m Detective Jake Houser with the Weston PD. Do you have time for a few questions?”
“Whoa! I’m not deaf.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Come in.”
Jake pulled the door open and stepped up into the house. It was warm inside. Very warm. He closed the doors behind him.
“I did answer questions for a young officer the other day.” The old man shook his head. “Mr. Fox was a fine man.”
“We appreciate your cooperation. My questions are about something else.”
“Another mystery here on our little dead end?” The man stepped aside and motioned with his hand. “I’m going to sit down. Not so steady on my feet.”
The old man turned and headed back to his chair, and Jake followed him into the living room. The house had a cozy feel. Hand-crocheted pieces draped across the arms of chairs and the back of the couch. Needlepoint here and there. A rich meaty smell wafting in from the kitchen, a little spice with it—a stew, or maybe chili.
The old man dropped into his chair with a sigh. “Grab that chair and bring it over here, Detective.” He pointed to a delicate-looking spindle-back on one side of a wide opening that led to the dining room. Across the dining room table a big window framed a view of the back yard, a green expanse that dropped gently away from the house to the line of trees atop the bluff.
Jake grabbed the chair and brought it over to within a few feet of the old man. “What’s your name, sir?” He took off his blazer and draped it over the back of the chair, then pulled his notebook out of his blazer and his pen from his shirt pocket.
“Joe Martin.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Martin. I—”
“Call me Joe. Now what do you want to know about? I am something of an expert on Weston. I’ve lived in this house since I got back from the war.”
Excellent. “Did you know the Bristol family? Used to live next door?”
“Well, of course! From Camden all the way through Jonathan and down to Lawrence.” He smiled. “Even knew Lucy pretty well—Jonathan’s wife—which is more than most can say.”
“How so?”
Martin eyed Jake wisely. “You look like you’re of that age. Did you grow up here in Weston, Detective?”
“I did.”
“Well then you surely knew of Old Lady Bristol and her salt pellet gun.”
Jake laughed. “As a matter of fact…”
A memory wormed into his head, and he shared it with Martin. Back in those days the estate was fenced in and heavily wooded and had its own pond—and on a dare, Jake climbed the fence and fished the pond. He’d had his line in the water just long enough to start thinking about fishing instead of getting shot, when she appeared on the opposite shore. He was alone… and then he wasn’t. She stood watching him, wearing bib overalls and holding a rifle. He reeled in his line slowly, keeping his eyes on her, then grabbed the ammo pouch he used to hold his tackle and ran. She never made a sound and never raised the gun.
Martin chuckled. “That sounds like Lucy. She loved surprises and secrets. But she was as shy as could be. Always carried that varmint rifle. Plucked away at anything that moved. Heard it pop a couple times a day until a year or so before she died. She never shot a kid with a salt pellet, but that story kept ’em off her property, I’m proud to say.”
“It wasn’t true?”
“Nope! Just a rumor I started. Fed it to the neighborhood kids and they spread it through town, and it lasted for generations. Otherwise that fenced-in woods was too tempting. Amazing it worked so well.”
“When did she pass away?”
“Oh, let’s see. Eighty-nine, I think. Yeah, that sounds right.” Martin pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his sweater and coughed into it. “Maybe ninety.”
“And you knew Lawrence?”
“Of course I knew him.” Martin looked inside the handkerchief, then folded it over and pushed it back in his pocket. When he looked up, his eyebrows were furrowed and his face had drooped. “You can’t think Lawrence killed Henry?”
“Why would he?”
“He wouldn’t—and couldn’t. He’s a simple and gentle soul. Shy like his momma, but something happened during birth and he isn’t exactly right.”
“Where is he now?”
“Been over in the home—Weston Oaks—since just before his momma passed. Going on thirty years. Used to visit him regularly back when I got around on my own. Now Ursulina takes me a couple times a year. I’ll be seeing him again in a couple weeks for Thanksgiving.”
That explained the public guardian paying the storage fee; Lawrence Bristol must be a special-needs adult. “I see the old Bristol place is now owned by the city.”
“Yep. Lucy left it to the city in exchange for taking care of Lawrence. She was going to leave him with us, but we were already getting old and my wife wasn’t well. So…” Martin shrugged, and his voice drifted off softly. “She signed Lawrence into Weston Oaks right there at the end. With Lucy gone, Lawrence was the last Bunker in Weston.”
“Bunker?” Jake sat up straighter.
“Yep.” Martin smiled. “A bit of almost-lost Weston trivia for you, young man. Werner Lafayette Bunker Senior raised eight kids on that land. Ran a junk business out on Plank Road. The youngest two were twins, Werner Junior and Brumhilde. Junior moved to Texas and made it big in oil. Had his own passel of kids. Broomie stayed right there and married Camden Bristol. Their son Jonathan brought his wife Lucy home to live on the property, and she helped Broomie look after Senior until the day he died. Junior came back for his dad’s funeral, took his chunk of the inheritance, and left again. Broomie took the land on the bluff as her share and left it to Jonathan when she died a few years later. Lawrence lived right there with his mom until just before she died.”
Jake wrote all this into his notebook, his excitement making his scribbles almost illegible. But he would remember this without the notes, he was sure.
“Do any of the Bunkers ever come back for a visit?”
“Not that I recall. Jonathan got along real good with his Uncle Junior. Went down there every summer, high school through college, to work the oil fields. Made great money and more than paid his own way through undergrad and medical school.” Martin shook his head. “Broomie’s other siblings all moved away after grabbing their share and never came back. Lawrence is the last of them here. Jonathan told me the whole family history. We used to play chess together on my back porch.”
Jake finished his notes and looked back up at Martin. The man had his head cocked to the side, looking off into the past.
“I seem to recall telling this story to someone else not long ago,” Martin said. He looked at Jake. “Sitting right here in these same chairs.”
“Someone you know?” Jake asked gently. “Or an out-of-towner?” It had to have been either Henry or one of the Texans.
A door opened and then banged closed in the back of the house, shaking the windows with the pressure change.
CHAPTER THiRTY-SEVEN
“Mr. Joe?” A woman’s voice, followed by footsteps and the rustle of nylon clothing. “We have a visitor?”
“That’s Ursulina,” Martin said. “She’s gonna want you to skedaddle. But it’s my house.”
A petite Hispanic woman bustled across the dining room. She was bundled up like it was twenty below outside instead of fifty above.
“Mr. Joe, who is this?”
“He’s m
y visitor and I’m fine.”
“I heard you with the coughing from outside.” She unwrapped her scarf and pulled back her hood. Her black hair shone against the dull green of her Michelin Man–style coat. “Who are you?”
Jake stood to introduce himself. She grabbed his offered hand and pulled him into the dining room, nearly yanking him off his feet.
“Please don’t stay long. Mr. Fox being murdered just down the river has tired him enough.”
“What is she telling you?” said Martin. “I can help, Ursulina. Mr. Fox deserves what help we can give him.”
Ursulina let go of Jake’s hand and peered around him. “Yes of course, Mr. Joe.” She looked back at Jake. “Please.”
“Okay,” Jake said.
She stepped into the kitchen, a well-lighted open space with a huge picture window above a wide counter, and Jake went back to finish his conversation with Martin.
“So Lawrence was Jonathan and Lucy’s son?” As Jake sat down he took a close look and decided Ursulina was right. Martin was tired. He needed to cut this short.
“One and only, pride and joy.” Martin coughed into his handkerchief again. “And ours too, to an extent. My wife and I—Ruth was her name, God rest her soul, she’s been gone for over twenty years now—didn’t have children of our own. Jonathan worked a lot of hours and Lucy was too shy to leave her property, so Lawrence spent time with us. Took him to fireworks and parades and such. Used to follow me around in the yard. He went to school for a couple years, but he couldn’t keep up. Lucy taught him at home. In his teens he became more like his momma. Stayed on the bluff, in the woods, and along the river. He’d come by from time to time to help with the yard work or to show me something he’d found from time to time.”
“Do you know what happened to Lucy’s personal belongings?”
“She sold it all off before the end, everything but her books and photos I recall her saying. She caught the cancer, and it took its time killing her. Got everything straightened away before the end.”
“Did Lawrence, or Lucy, ever talk about getting silver bars from their Texas relatives?”