by Terry Shames
“Still a long time.”
“I can do a test and at least find out if we should eliminate the gun,” he says.
“How are you going to do that?”
“There’s a crude way to do a fairly accurate ballistics test. It wouldn’t be official, but at least we could get some information.” He’s fidgeting like a kid in grade school.
I laugh. “You have your own little ballistics testing lab?”
“Naw. At the academy we had this instructor who was sort of a loose cannon, you might say. He didn’t have a lot of patience for how slow things get done in law enforcement, so he showed us a way to test ballistics. He told us you can’t get a good enough match to stand up in court, but you can use it to eliminate a gun.”
“How long will it take?”
“Not long. Couple of days. I’ll have to get the spent casing. Can you get me authorized to borrow it?”
“What you’re going to do won’t damage the casing, will it, in case we need to have the ballistics tested officially?”
“No, sir, all I’d need it for is a comparison under a microscope. I can go over to Bobtail Junior College and they’ll let me use a microscope in the science lab.”
I call Schoppe again and tell him I’d like to have the bullet casing on loan.
“What are you planning to do with it? I like to keep evidence on hand.”
“One of the deputies here says he can do an approximation of a ballistics test so we can rule out the gun.”
He laughs. “He knows the cotton batting trick?”
“He didn’t tell me what he’s doing, but he seems to think he can work with it.”
“All right. You know I normally would have left the casing with you, but hearing what kind of mess your department was in, I figured I’d better stash it over at police headquarters in Bryan. Can your deputy pick it up from there?”
“He can go over there right now.”
“I’ll notify the duty officer to get it out of storage for him.”
When I hang up, Odum hops to his feet, eager to get on the road to Bryan.
“Whoa!” I say. “Were you able to set up the meeting Wednesday morning with those two fellows from Houston and Alton Coldwater?”
“Yes, sir. They said they’d get on the road early.”
“Good. And Coldwater?”
“He’ll be here, too.”
I tell Odum I’ll be out most of the day, and that he can reach me on my cell phone if anything comes up.
On my way out of town, I have two stops to make. First I swing by to see if Slate has made a surprise appearance at his house. I’ve left messages this morning and as usual got no return call. If I were inclined to take it personally, I might think he was avoiding me.
Truly is just arriving when I get to the McCluskys. He says he hasn’t seen either of them. “I’ve got to paint the wood around that window that got replaced. And then finish up with a last coat of the outside paint, and then I’m done.” His tone implies it can’t be too soon to suit him.
I tell him if the McCluskys do happen to come home, to ask Slate to call me. I’m not holding my breath.
I promised to keep Rodell Skinner in the loop, and he’s my next stop. Although he’s still lying on the couch, his face has a little less yellow in it today.
I apologize for not getting to him yesterday. “I guess I don’t have to tell you that being down to me plus two part-timers, I don’t have enough time in the day.”
He gets an eager gleam in his eye. “That’s where I think I can help you out.”
“You’re looking a lot better. It won’t be any time before you’re down there shoving me aside.”
As quick as his eyes lit up, they grow dark again. “Don’t patronize me,” he snaps.
I laugh. “Now, that’s the old Rodell showing through.”
He’s mollified, and I tell him about the break-in at the McCluskys’ and Camille Overton’s.”
“It would sound like kids to me, too, but I don’t know about them breaking a window. If they went that far, I think they’d take something.”
“You might be right. But who else would break in? And why?”
He shakes his head. “You got me.”
I describe the party for Judge Crocker Saturday night. He tells me that he knows for a fact that the judge is a drinker and that he keeps a flask on him at all times. I don’t say it takes one to know one, but I think it.
“Here’s the biggest thing that happened this weekend.” I tell him that my conversation with Louis Caton led me to understand that whoever killed Gary Dellmore must have left a car at the park, then driven Gary’s car there and swapped them back.
“You need to find out who’s got a car that looks like Dellmore’s,” he says.
“I know it. The problem is so many cars look alike these days.”
“Too bad it wasn’t one of those Hummers,” he says. “Then you’d have a limited field.”
I tell him I attended Gary Dellmore’s service yesterday afternoon.
“I didn’t know you were big friends with Alan Dellmore,” he says. There’s a hint of resentment in his voice. I imagine being laid up, he’s feeling left out of a lot of things these days. That was the one thing that would make my wife Jeanne fretful when she was too sick to go out—feeling like she was out of the social loop.
“I’m not particular friends of the Dellmores, but I don’t think they invited me to be social. I’m still not sure exactly why they wanted me there, but they seemed afraid that somebody would show up that they didn’t want at the funeral.”
“Somebody Dellmore was cattin’ around with, I expect.”
“Doesn’t seem likely to me. Seems like anybody like that would want to steer clear of the family.”
“Unless it’s somebody who likes to cause trouble. Like that Darla Rodriguez. Stirring things up with Gabe wasn’t the first time she was slipping around with somebody, the way I heard it.”
Rodell has heard the news that they’re back in town and have split up. I tell him that at the café LoPresto acted like it was his idea to break it off.
Rodell grins. “Gabe’s always going to make it sound like he got the good end of the stick. But he’s a good old boy.” He lies back, closes his eyes, and sighs. “I guess I don’t have the energy I thought I did.”
“You’re looking better than you did last time I was here. I’ll check with you tomorrow.”
He opens his eyes again. “I appreciate your coming.”
As I get up to leave I say, “Has James Harley been by to see you?” They were thick as thieves when Skinner was chief and James Harley Krueger was his right-hand man.
For some reason Rodell’s expression turns shifty at the mention of James Harley’s name. “He dropped by.”
“Has he found a job?”
“He’s working over in Bobtail.”
“Doing what?”
He licks his lips. “He’s working for an old boy I know over there.” I wait. “He’s doing bartending.”
My heart sinks. If Rodell is looking guilty, it probably means he’s arranged with James Harley to supply him with booze. He might as well be signing his death warrant. I had visions of Rodell coming down to the station and being able to do a little of this and that, but if he starts drinking again, that’s never going to happen.
The thirty minutes I spend with my sister-in-law Lucille is tedious, not only because I’m impatient to find out what DeWitt has to say, but also because I’ve never really taken to Lucille. Jeanne insisted that Lucille’s problems are real and that she can’t help herself, but I have often had the distinct feeling when I’m with her that she finds it convenient to languish and have everyone fuss over her. It’s most likely mean-spirited on my part and is most certainly unkind. If karma is a real thing, I can expect something unfriendly in my future.
I’m glad to get out of the overly warm, scented house. DeWitt and I go to a café close by in case Lucille needs him to come back fast. It’s a sli
ck place light-years away from the grungy Town Café, but I like Town Café better. This one is too shiny for my taste. We order club sandwiches and get down to business.
“You were right about McClusky,” DeWitt says. “That resort did get shut down a good while back. The two fellows I golfed with yesterday said they used to go out to the hunting lodge every year for antelope. And then a couple years ago they got a notice that the lodge was going to be closed for renovations. They said they didn’t see what needed renovating—it was always top of the line. But the letter said McClusky was going to take it from a good four-star facility to a five-star. And that’s the last they heard of it.”
“Here’s what I don’t understand,” I say. “I drove out there and it was a rundown mess. I didn’t see any animals anywhere or any sign of activity. McClusky’s brother is out there taking care of the place, such as it is. He said I couldn’t go inside because there was construction going on. But I saw no sign of any construction. I have a feeling something is going on there, but what?”
“One of the men I talked to said he wondered if something happened with the animals. He heard some of them were sick, but he didn’t know the details. Another one of the men said he heard McClusky was having some financial problems. Of course, a lot of people have in the last few years, so I don’t know what that amounts to.”
I tell him I appreciate him looking into it for me.
“I don’t know that I gave you a lot. I hope it wasn’t a wild goose chase for you to come out here, but it was good to see you.”
We don’t spend long over lunch. I can tell DeWitt is anxious to get back to Lucille and I’m anxious to get on my way. On the way back out to Jarrett Creek, I’m planning to stop by McClusky’s place. I need to get inside the “Big House” and find out what Harold didn’t want me to see.
This time when I drive up, though, the gate to the McClusky resort is chained and locked with a new padlock that means business. I get out of my truck and look up close, but I don’t see a way to signal to anyone inside that there’s someone wanting in. Apparently, if you aren’t expected, you aren’t getting in. As rundown as some of the fencing looked the first time I was here, the fencing around the gate is solid. Now I know McClusky is hiding something here.
Back out on the main road, I drive a few miles in each direction in case there’s a second entrance that isn’t advertised, but there’s nothing but fence as far as I can see. And still no sign of any animals. I have no reason to believe anything bad happened to the stock he kept, but the whole thing gives me an uneasy feeling. I try calling McClusky once more, but the call goes straight to his messages.
Then I have an idea. I drive east back in the direction of Jarrett Creek, pausing when I see billboards facing the other direction. Before too long I see one for the resort. The next chance I get, I turn around and approach the billboard. Sure enough, there’s a telephone number on the sign. I pull over and dial it. A message comes on that deepens the mystery.
“This is the McClusky resort. The resort is closed for renovation. For information regarding the new facility, please contact Gary Dellmore of Citizens Bank.” I dial the phone number given in the message and am told it has been disconnected. I sit and stare at the phone for several seconds as if it could tell me what I need to know. Meanwhile, traffic whizzes by on my left as if demons are chasing the drivers.
Driving home I have plenty of time to mull over what DeWitt told me, and the answer to what may have happened to the animals stocked out at the resort comes to me. A few years back every cattleman in the state was chilled at an especially widespread outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease. When I thought of the exotic animals stocked at the resort, the fact that they were cloven-hoofed animals slipped past me—I was thinking more of their exotic hides. Of course they would be vulnerable to the disease—maybe even more than domestic animals. If McClusky had an outbreak, the entire herd would have been quarantined until such time that it was determined that the soil no longer harbored the disease.
I spend the rest of the time worrying about whether I’ve inadvertently exposed my herd to the disease by being on the resort property. I think back and realize I did no more than walk on the pavement when I was confronted by Harold. Next time I go, I’ll be sure to disinfect my boots afterward—or maybe even wear old ones that I can throw out.
When I get home, I call Jenny and have a long talk with her about what I found in the contracts so I’ll be prepared for the meeting tomorrow morning. She scolds me for not bringing them home so she could look over them.
“Jenny,” I say, “you’re a lawyer. If you got your hooks into those contracts, I’d have to postpone the meeting until next July.”
Alton Coldwater is the first of our visitors to arrive at the station the next morning, but he only has a few blocks to drive—the other two are coming from Houston. I’ve got the coffee on and some of Loretta’s cinnamon rolls laid out on a paper plate on my desk where I’m seated. Coldwater plunks himself down in one of the three chairs facing me. If you were to go by his jovial manner, you wouldn’t think he had a care in the world—much less that he was the target of scorn in town. He snatches up one of the cinnamon rolls and attacks it with gusto.
Bill Odum arrives a few minutes later. He’s supposed to work this afternoon, but since he did the setup for the meeting, he wanted to be here. He brings a folding chair out of the closet and sits down against the wall, away from the three chairs I set up for our visitors. He’s got good instincts, knowing to keep himself apart from the main attraction and to be an observer.
“Alton, I’m glad you’re here early,” I say, “I want to ask you a couple of questions before those other fellows get here.”
“Ask me anything.” He’s got a mouthful of cinnamon roll, and the words come out mushy.
“Whose idea was it to build a water park out at the lake?”
“You know, Samuel, that’s a good question. It wasn’t my idea, but it seemed like a good one.”
I wait while he sips some coffee to wash down the rest of the roll. I can’t tell if he’s considering the answer to the question or stalling, but his attention seems completely focused on eating and drinking.
Finally he sits back and pats his belly. “Seems to me Slate McClusky came to me with the idea. He said he had an interest in water parks in other towns and they were doing pretty well.”
“I only recently heard that McClusky was involved in it. Did he want his part kept secret?”
“He said he’d like to be a silent partner. He said that since he only lived here part of the time people might think he was trying to come in and ram the idea down our throats.”
Which is, more or less, the way it happened. “Am I right that there never was a vote on the project or much discussion of it? The first thing I heard was that the land had been bought and plans were in place.”
Coldwater passes his tongue around his teeth to clean out the remnants of the roll. “City Council voted for it. I guess they didn’t think it was necessary to have it on the ballot.” There’s a challenge in his voice.
The door opens and two men in suits step into the room. Coldwater gets up and shakes hands with them, eyeing them the way he might look at disgraced relatives, although they don’t seem to notice. He introduces them to Odum and me. Pete Fontaine, a slight-built man pushing fifty, steps up eagerly to shake hands. He tells me he’s happy they had the time to come in. Larry Kestler is younger, maybe forty, with a substantial head of hair and the thick body of an ex-football player. He flicks wary eyes around the room, as if looking for a backdoor exit.
After they get settled, I say, “Bill explained to you that we’re investigating the murder of Gary Dellmore. I’m trying to piece together what his interest was in the water park you fellows were planning to build here in Jarrett Creek.”
“I was sorry to hear that Dellmore had been killed,” Fontaine says. “We didn’t have much in the way of dealings with him, but he seemed like a nice fellow.”
“Can you give me a general idea how a deal like this water park works? Does a city come to you with a proposal, or do you do a search for sites?”
The two men look at each other. Coldwater has slipped himself another sweet roll and is concentrating on it. Fontaine answers again. “It can go either way. Sometimes we put out feelers and sometimes people come to us. That’s what happened at our park in Beaumont.”
Kestler shoots him a warning look, and I know why. The Beaumont water park is one of the parks that’s in trouble. Of course they think a rube like me couldn’t possibly have that information. But getting the information was as easy as looking at a magazine article. Which is why I wonder how come no one else knew there were problems.
“Which was the case for the Jarrett Creek plans? Did Coldwater here come to you, or did you go to him?”
Coldwater takes his time working over his latest bite of roll, no doubt hoping someone else will fill the void. Fontaine obliges. “I don’t remember. That would be somewhere in my files, I guess. Mr. Coldwater here would be the best person to answer your question.”
Coldwater wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “It’s no secret. Dellmore came to me and said you fellows had come up with an interesting proposal and I ought to take a look at it. Slate McClusky had already told me he thought a water park would succeed here.”
“Anybody ever do any studies about how it would work here in Jarrett Creek?”
“That’s not our department,” Kessler says. I don’t believe him. Their names were sprinkled through the documents in the files I saw.
“How about you Coldwater? You ever get any studies?”
“We saw some. I don’t recall if it was specific to us or to small towns in general.”
“And at the time the city was having financial problems and you were looking for a way to make a good investment that would bring in some money,” I say.
Coldwater grasps at my suggestion. “That’s exactly it. We were having real problems. You know, with the economy going bad, we were in trouble. Lot of towns had the same problem. I thought this water park thing would be a boon. It’s too damn bad it didn’t work out.”