Stag Party (Blanco County Mysteries Book 8)

by Ben Rehder

  On the wall to the left were several framed paintings that Red didn’t quite understand. That wasn’t a surprise, as he’d never quite “gotten” art, unless it was something like a Snap-On Tool calendar featuring a swimsuit model for each month. At least that art served a purpose. These were paintings of big, bright flowers—but Red couldn’t help noticing that the flowers also sort of looked like a woman’s private parts. Were they supposed to look that way? Or was it just Red’s dirty mind?

  On the wall to the right were dozens of framed photographs—mostly the size of snapshots, with a few 5x7s mixed in. Looked like a bunch of old photos from outdoor rock concerts. About half of them were in black and white.

  “Y’all have a seat,” Sparrow said, gesturing toward a couple of padded armchairs on one side of a glass-topped coffee table. There was no television in the room, which explained why the small couch on the other side of the coffee table faced toward the armchairs. With no TV, where else was it going to face? “Tea okay, or would you rather have a beer?” Sparrow asked.

  “Beer,” Billy Don said quickly.

  “Beer,” Red said.

  “Okay, then.” Sparrow ducked through a doorway and Red could hear her opening a refrigerator.

  They sat down in the armchairs. Billy Don grinned and pointed at the coffee table. On the tabletop sat a large seashell acting as an ashtray, and in the seashell smoldered a joint. Beside the seashell was a Bic lighter.

  “She’s getting high!” Billy Don whispered, obviously tickled by it.

  Red shook his head for Billy Don to shut up.

  “Here we go,” Sparrow said as she came back into the room and handed each of them a Lone Star tallboy. Ice cold. She had even popped the tops already for them. Good hostess. Sparrow sat across from them on the couch and immediately leaned forward for the joint in the ashtray.

  “Y’all mind?” she asked, looking up. This woman couldn’t be seventy-something years old. But she was. It was basic math.

  “Don’t bother me none,” Billy Don said. Red shrugged. They drank from their beers while Sparrow brought the joint to her lips and fired it up. She took a long hit and held it...held it...then finally exhaled a massive plume of smoke. Then she held it toward Red. He shook his head. He wasn’t big on marijuana. Made him feel goofy.

  “You don’t smoke?” Sparrow asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Not often.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “Oh, probably twenty years ago.”

  She laughed and looked at Billy Don. “You?”

  “Sure,” Billy Don said, and he took the joint from Sparrow.

  Great. Red had never seen Billy Don stoned before, and he wasn’t sure what to expect. He couldn’t imagine the results would be good.

  While Billy Don took a hit, Sparrow said, “So, did you just suddenly decide to track me down, or is there a reason for this visit?”

  “Well,” Red said, “I did have a question for you, although I think I already know the answer.”

  “Shoot.”

  Billy Don was trying to hold the smoke, but he lost it and began to cough.

  “Did you know Harley Frizzell?” Red asked.

  12

  Obviously, Ron Rosen had known Harley Frizzell, but there was a chance that everyone else in the room now could honestly say no, they hadn’t ever heard that name.

  “Yeah, I know him,” Ron Rosen said. “We got a letter from him awhile back. I mentioned it at one of our Monday morning meetings.” He was looking around at the Endicotts to see if any of them also remembered.

  “Oh, about the deer scent, right?” Sissy said.

  “Exactly,” Rosen said. He turned toward Marlin and Garza. “He said he’d developed this amazing deer scent, so Jasper and I met with him.”

  “Where did you meet?” Garza asked.

  “His house. I was skeptical, of course, and if he hadn’t lived so close, I don’t know if I would’ve bothered. Plus, this guy had a track record. He’d invented...I can’t remember—”

  “The Turkey Charmer,” Marlin said.

  Rosen snapped his fingers. “Right. That was, and is, a reasonably successful product, so I figured we should at least talk to the guy.”

  “You have to understand that we get letters like that all the time,” Sissy said. “People claiming to have invented some great new hunting product—but they rarely pan out. Guess I don’t blame people for trying, though.”

  “Inventors make this world go ’round,” Walter Endicott said.

  “I know, Daddy,” Sissy said. “Real inventors like you.”

  “So you met with him at his house...” Garza said to Rosen.

  “Yes, and it actually looked like his scent worked pretty well. Quite a few bucks hanging around. So he gave us a sample, and Jasper tested it at the ranch, and it worked okay here, too. Nothing phenomenal, but definitely worth exploring. So we met with Mr. Frizzell a second time to see what sort of deal he wanted.”

  “You met at his house again?” Garza asked.

  “Right.”

  “Do you know what date that was?”

  “Off the top of my head, no. I might be able to look at my calendar and see. I could call you later and tell you when that was, if it’s still on there.”

  “That would be great,” Garza said.

  “But I’ll warn you I’m not the most meticulous record keeper,” Rosen said.

  “Do you know if Jasper ever contacted Harley Frizzell directly?” Garza asked.

  “No, just me,” Rosen said. “Can you tell us what this is about? Is he claiming we stole his scent from him? That’s the big reason we normally turn wannabe inventors down—the risk of a lawsuit.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” Garza said. “Unfortunately, Mr. Frizzell was found dead yesterday morning.”

  “Oh, that’s awful,” Sissy said. “What happened?”

  Marlin and Garza had speculated earlier that the Endicotts most likely would not have heard about Harley’s murder, since word hadn’t spread far yet. That appeared to be the case. Marlin was discreetly checking the expression on every face in the room. All eyes were on the sheriff. Nobody seemed flustered.

  “We’re not sure,” Garza said. “We do know it wasn’t natural causes. And it wasn’t an accident.”

  There was a beat of silence before Rosen said, “Okay, let me make sure I understand. You’re saying he was murdered?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Garza said.

  “Wow. Okay. I’m sorry to hear that, but can I ask what that has to do with the Endicotts?”

  “It’s just a routine part of any investigation,” Garza said, “to interview anyone who has had recent contact with the victim.”

  “Just to be clear, are you thinking someone in the family might’ve done it?” Rosen asked. “Are we suspects?”

  “Don’t be silly, Ron,” Donna said. Walter Endicott stirred at her side, and he did not look pleased with the turn in the interview, but he remained quiet.

  “As I said, this is just routine,” Garza said. “We’re talking to anyone who’d had contact with Mr. Frizzell recently.”

  “We understand,” Sissy said. “And we’ll help y’all if we can.”

  Garza said, “Thank you. If you don’t mind—”

  “Hang on a sec,” Rosen said with a polite smile on his face. “Obviously, we do want to help, just like Sissy said, but I think I’d better check with our attorney first.”

  “Really, Ron?” Sissy said. “About what?”

  “I just think it would be wise to clear it with him,” Rosen said.

  “You’re gonna make them think one of us was involved,” Dirk said, finally speaking up. He turned toward Marlin and Garza. “Which is ridiculous, of course.”

  “I agree, Dirk,” Rosen said, “and I think we should answer their questions—but only after we’ve checked with Ted. I’m sure he’ll say it’s okay.”

  Rosen looked in Walter Endicott
’s direction. Getting clearance from the top dog.

  “Might as well make that sumbitch work for his retainer,” Walter grumbled. “Call him.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Rosen said. He was pulling his cell phone from his pocket by the time he left the room.

  A few moments of awkward silence followed. Marlin didn’t need a crystal ball to know how this would turn out.

  “You sure y’all don’t want something to drink?” Donna said.

  “No, ma’am, we’re fine,” Garza said.

  “Thanks anyway,” Marlin said.

  More silence.

  “Sounds like a very sad situation,” Donna said. “You have to wonder who would hurt an old man like that.”

  Dirk said, “Do you know if this man Harley sent letters to any other scent manufacturers? Seems like he probably would have.”

  Marlin was still focused on what Donna had said, and he was about to ask a question, but Garza beat him to it, ignoring Dirk’s question.

  “Did you take part in that Monday meeting?” Garza said, addressing Donna. “When Ron shared Harley’s letter?”

  “I don’t usually attend the meetings,” Donna said. “I don’t have much interest in the business side of things. Bores me to tears.”

  Garza gave her one of his best smiles, meant to make her feel at ease. “Do you remember discussing Harley with any—”

  “I think we should wait until Ron gets back,” Dirk said.

  “Probably so,” Sissy said. “And see what Ted says.”

  Suddenly there was an odd tension in the air that hadn’t been there before. None of the Endicotts would make eye contact.

  Right then, Ron came back into the room, and his facial expression told the story. He let out a sigh. “Well, Ted is being sort of uptight about this, but I guess that’s what we pay him for. He says he’d be happy to arrange a meeting once he’s had a chance to review the situation.”

  Rosen shrugged, like it was all out of his hands—as if he hadn’t participated in bringing the interview to a halt. Marlin knew that Ted would later say no meeting was necessary because his clients didn’t know anything.

  “Meaning no questions now,” Garza said.

  “If it were up to me...” Rosen said, and he didn’t bother finishing his sentence.

  “Would you mind writing down Ted’s number for us?” Garza said. The casual tone in his voice had been replaced by a more official—and less friendly—manner. “So we can call him later.”

  “Oh, sure, no problem,” Rosen said.

  While he jotted the number down, the Endicotts sat quietly.

  Marlin would have loved to ask one more question, directed toward Donna Endicott. “If you weren’t in that Monday morning meeting and you weren’t familiar with the name Harley Frizzell, how did you know he was an old man?”

  “It’s just so tragic what happened to him,” Sparrow said. “He was one hundred and two years old, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d lived another ten years. He was in amazing physical condition.”

  “How did you know him?” Red said, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “We met about ten or twelve years ago when I answered a newspaper ad for a blowtorch he had listed for sale,” Sparrow said. “Hard to believe we’d lived in the same county all our lives and never crossed paths, but as I learned, Harley didn’t get out much. We were so different—night and day, really—and yet we clicked instantly.”

  “You’re shittin’ me,” Billy Don said.

  Red and Sparrow both looked at him.

  “Whatchoo need a blowtorch for?” Billy Don asked.

  Red could tell that Billy Don was already halfway blitzed.

  “I make metal sculptures,” she said, gesturing toward the ravens in the tree in the corner. “Been doing that for years.”

  “No way,” Billy Don said. “That’s badass. You make them lizards outside?”

  “Geckos, yes,” Sparrow said.

  “You could sell those things,” Billy Don said. “Did you know that? You could sell ’em. Hey, is Sparrow your real name?”

  “You’re baked,” Red said.

  “That’s my name,” Sparrow said. “My parents were creative.”

  “She could, Red!” Billy Don said. “She could sell them lizards.”

  “I know,” Red said. “But you’re baked.”

  “So what?”

  Billy Don still had the joint in his hand, and he took another long hit, followed by another bout of coughing. “I’m getting married on New Year’s Eve,” he said out of the blue.

  “Oh, congratulations!” Sparrow said. “To whom?”

  “Gal named Betty Sue Farley,” Billy Don said. “She’s a peach.”

  “It’s Betty Jean,” Red said, laughing.

  “Right,” Billy Don said. “What’d I say?”

  “Good for you,” Sparrow said. “Congratulations. By the way, I do sell my work. That’s how I’ve made my living for the past 34 years. See that little shed in the corner of my backyard? That’s my workshop.”

  But Billy Don wasn’t paying attention. He rose from his chair and went to inspect the photographs on the wall, taking the joint with him. Red was glad about that. No more interruptions.

  “Harley mentioned your name to me once,” Red said. “He said you was his ‘lady friend’ and that y’all ‘kept company.’”

  Red knew that was Harley’s polite way of saying he and Sparrow had some sort of romantic deal going on, although Red didn’t want to think about that too much. They were both so old. Did they get it on? Was that what Sparrow meant about Harley being in good shape? Yuck.

  “I’d say that’s accurate,” Sparrow said. “We saw each other fairly regularly, but neither of us expected more than an occasional evening together, with no strings attached.”

  No strings attached, Red thought. Harley was pretty slick for an old geezer.

  “That’s cool,” Red said. “Anyway, the reason I’m here is, I thought you might be able to help me out with something.”

  “Help you out how?”

  “Is this Jimi Hendrix?” Billy Don asked, studying a photo closely.

  “It is,” Sparrow said.

  “Who’s the hot gal with him?”

  Sparrow smiled. “Yours truly.”

  “Huh?” Billy Don said.

  “It’s me,” Sparrow said.

  “Dang. Really?”

  “Yep. That was a long time ago.”

  “No offense, but you were finer than frog hair.”

  Sparrow chuckled. “No offense taken.”

  “I bet you had guys after you all the time.”

  “Now and then,” Sparrow said. “Sometimes I was after them.”

  “Where was this picture taken?”

  “Woodstock,” Sparrow said.

  “Are you friggin’ kiddin’ me?” Billy Don said. “You got to hang out with Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock? That’s incredible.”

  “I was a roadie for a few years after college,” Sparrow said. “My dad knew a guy who was in the music business. Long story.”

  Billy Don turned and looked at her. “You are blowin’ my mind.”

  “It was the most fun I’ve ever had in my life,” Sparrow said. “Hard work and long hours, but I would’ve done it for free. Great memories. You have to make great memories in life and hold on to them tight.”

  Red was tempted to get up and check out the photo himself, because it sounded pretty cool, but he wanted to move forward with his conversation.

  “See, I got a problem,” Red said. “I’m pretty sure the cops think I’m a suspect in Harley’s murder.”

  Sparrow’s expression turned serious. “Why on earth would they think that?”

  “I guess they think I’ve got a motive,” Red said. “See, me and Harley had a deal going on with the deer scent he was working on. I was gonna be his partner and invest a bunch of money in marketing and whatnot. Maybe he mentioned that to you.”

  Funny thing was, Red’s cla
im about a verbal agreement with Harley—which had made him a suspect in the murder—was basically worthless, from a legal standpoint. Red had checked into it, hoping he might be able to produce and market the deer scent himself, but Virgil, Red’s lawyer/bookie, had said that was a pipe dream. He said the court would hire a guy to track down Harley’s closest kinfolk, even if that person didn’t even know Harley had existed, and that person would inherit everything, including ownership of the deer scent. Virgil had said Red could fight it in court, but it would cost a fortune and he’d probably lose. Red believed it, because the court system was always screwing honest, hardworking guys like him. Why should this be any different?

  Sparrow was shaking her head at Red’s comments, and saying, “I don’t recall Harley saying anything about that. I do remember him saying he was going to contact several different manufacturers.”

  “Yes!” Red said. “That’s what I was gonna ask you about. Do you remember—”

  “Holy fuck!” Billy Don said, then he quickly clapped a hand over his own mouth. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “That’s okay,” Sparrow said, obviously amused. “You think I haven’t heard worse?”

  “This one right here shows you with the dudes from Led Zeppelin!” Billy Don said.

  “They were a bunch of sweethearts,” Sparrow said. “Wild back then, but sweet. That shot is from Boston in 1971.”

  Red said, “Do you remember—”

  “And this is you with Willie and Waylon!” Billy Don said.

  “That’s from their first July Fourth picnic, over there off Fitzhugh Road toward Austin. Good lord, it was hot out there.”

  Red said, “Do you remember—”

  “Janis Joplin!” Billy Don said.

  “My heart still aches about losing her,” Sparrow said. “Such an amazing talent.” Then, to Red: “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

  Red said it quickly, before Billy Don could interrupt again. “Do you remember Harley mentioning any manufacturers in particular?”

  “He did,” Sparrow said. “He talked about that a few times.” She was reaching into a hip pocket of her tie-dyed skirt, and she came out with a small, flat metal box. She popped the lid, revealing a neat row of six or seven tightly rolled joints. She removed one and held it between her long, slender fingers. “He was disappointed, because only one followed through on his offer.”