Stag Party (Blanco County Mysteries Book 8)

by Ben Rehder

  “So he’s lying?”

  “Lying or just wrong,” Endicott said. “Maybe somebody with a truck like mine lives in that area.”

  “You’ve never driven your truck to Frizzell’s house or on his road?”

  “Never.”

  “So you wouldn’t mind if we took casts of your tire tracks to compare with tracks we found on Harley’s driveway?”

  A bluff. None of the deputies had ever found any decent tire tracks on Frizzell’s caliche driveway.

  “Go right ahead,” Endicott said. He did not appear concerned.

  Garza leaned back in his chair. “What happened next?”

  Donna Endicott said, “I told him she might not need a chaperone, but I was going to be there just in case he had more than a quiet evening of conversation on his mind. He said something about being a harmless old man, and I said he might be old, but he was still a man, so he might be tempted to get fresh. You know what he said? He said, ‘Well, just look at her. Would you blame me?’”

  Donna Endicott was beginning to cry. She produced a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. Walter patted her shoulder. He was tearing up, too. Then Donna put the tissue away and her demeanor changed. She was gathering herself—resolved to maintain her dignity while she finished telling the story.

  “He was teasing,” she said. “Just being silly. I know that. He was even complimenting her. Sissy is a beautiful woman. But that comment irritated me, and I did something rash. I lifted my cane and I gave him a quick rap on the head. There wasn’t much to it. In my teaching days, I gave students firmer whacks with a ruler across the back of the hand. I didn’t intend to hurt him, and he didn’t seem hurt, because he got mad and said the deal was off. Sissy tried to settle him down, but it was too late. He told us to get off his property and that we’d be lucky if he didn’t call the sheriff and report me for assault. So that’s what we did—we left. And as we were driving away, Mr. Frizzell was still standing on the porch, rubbing his head, watching us go.”

  Here, she paused, shaking her head, as if she couldn’t quite believe what had transpired.

  “The next day,” she said, “we saw in the news that he was found dead on his porch. At first, I simply couldn’t believe it. But deep down I knew it was me. I killed him. I didn’t mean to, but I did. I’ve been a wreck ever since. It ate at me day and night. And I finally decided I couldn’t live with myself any longer. I had to tell the truth. I’ll take my punishment from you and later from God.”

  She stopped talking and the room was quiet for a long period. Marlin felt for her. He had no doubt she was sincere in her remorse, and that she had described the events exactly as they had occurred. And her description matched Aaron’s, down to the smallest detail.

  “Mrs. Endicott,” Garza said, “I realize how difficult it was for you to come in here and tell us what happened. I want you to know we appreciate that.”

  Marlin heard a thump. Walter Endicott was nervously bouncing the cane off the floor.

  “You didn’t see Harley Frizzell fall down or anything like that?” Garza said.

  “No.”

  “Did he seem lucid after you hit him?”

  “Completely.”

  “And that was the cane you used?” Garza asked, pointing toward the one in Walter’s hands.

  Donna nodded.

  “I’m going to ask you to voluntarily turn that over to me,” Garza said.

  “I understand,” Donna said, and Walter passed the cane to the sheriff, who laid it gently across the tabletop.

  “Thank you,” Garza said.

  “Quite honestly,” Donna said, “I expected you to track us down from the paint on Mr. Frizzell’s car. Sissy scraped it with her SUV as we were leaving.”

  “She hit his car?”

  “Lightly, yes.”

  “You mean his truck?” Garza said.

  “No, it was a car,” Donna Endicott said. “She was backing up and didn’t see it. Our back bumper put a small dent above the car’s rear wheel. On the passenger’s side.”

  Aaron Endicott hadn’t mentioned any of this. But his head would have been down and he wouldn’t have seen it. Maybe he didn’t feel the impact, or maybe he didn’t think it was important. But it was, because Harley Frizzell didn’t own a car. The only vehicle registered in his name was his old truck.

  “What kind of car was it?” Garza asked, calm and cool, his demeanor not revealing how critical her answer might be.

  Donna Endicott said, “It was an old Volkswagen Beetle. Green.”

  46

  Phil Colby had just finished a quick lunch, standing at his kitchen counter, when he heard the low rumble of a diesel engine approaching his house. Colby had gone back to the habit of leaving his gate open during the daytime, because he’d be damned if he was going to let anyone make him feel fearful on his own ranch.

  No, he wasn’t fearful, but it was wise to be cautious, and that’s why his .40-caliber Glock was resting on the counter, within reach. He grabbed it and walked to the living room. He saw a black Ford F-350 pulling up outside, nose toward the steps.

  Colby stepped to the door and waited, watching through the inset glass window. Aaron Endicott emerged from the truck and stood by the driver’s door, his hands empty. He made no move to approach the house.

  Colby opened the door and stepped onto the porch, the Glock hanging from his right hand. He thumbed the safety off. Aaron Endicott was no more than ten yards away. Colby was deadly with the Glock at ten yards.

  “You’re trespassing again,” he said.

  Endicott shrugged, as if to say he had no choice.

  Colby said, “Why are you here?” He was holding his temper down for the moment, but that wouldn’t last long.

  “I’m a fucked up guy,” Endicott said. “I never even know what I might do next.”

  “What you are,” Colby said, “is a violent, sadistic asshole. I’m surprised you’ve made it this long without getting killed.”

  Endicott grinned at him. He looked down at the Glock in Colby’s hands, then looked up again. Now his eyes wandered to the security camera mounted over Colby’s front door.

  “When you came out to the ranch the other day, what were you planning to do?” Endicott asked.

  “Whatever it was gonna take to settle this thing between us.”

  “What did I do to you?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “You tried to run me off the road. Maybe even took a shot at me. I was never sure about that. Then you came out to my place in the middle of the night. You stood right were I’m standing now.”

  “Would you have shot me if you’d caught me?” Endicott said.

  “In a heartbeat,” Colby said. “In fact, I’m thinking about shooting you right now. If you think I’m kidding, just come toward me.”

  For several moments, Endicott appeared tempted to do it. Then he grinned again. “You’re one of those guys who thinks he can handle anything that comes his way. But you got no idea. Anything can happen at any time. Tomorrow. Next week. A year from now. And you’d never see it coming. You know what I’m saying?”

  Colby could feel himself tightening up, his jaw clenching, his hand squeezing harder on the grip of his gun. This man was just plain evil. The worst human being Colby had ever encountered. Colby found himself wishing the security camera wasn’t turned on, streaming to the cloud, because then he could solve the Aaron Endicott problem permanently, right now, with no witnesses. Who could ever blame him for it?

  “Ah, yes, the vague threat,” Colby said. “How brave of you.”

  “Who me? Hey, you must’ve misunderstood. I wasn’t making a threat. Just conversation.”

  “I met a guy a lot like you a few weeks ago,” Colby said. “I broke his nose. He turned out to be a sniveling coward. The only difference I can see is that he had a couple of friends, whereas you don’t seem to have any. What’s the deal with that? You can’t find any of your fellow miscreant
s to hang out with?”

  The grin slowly faded from Endicott’s face. He got back into his truck and drove away.

  47

  The green Volkswagen Beetle was parked in front of Sparrow Holliday’s house, just as it had been the last time Bobby Garza had visited her. This time, Marlin was by his side on the porch.

  When Sparrow opened the door, Marlin didn’t think she appeared surprised or nervous in the least.

  “Oh, Sheriff,” she said. “How are you today?”

  “Ms. Holliday,” Garza said, “this is John Marlin, the county game warden.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Sparrow said.

  “Good to meet you,” Marlin said. He could smell the odor of pot. Not fresh smoke, but the lingering stench that seemed to pervade the homes or vehicles of regular smokers. Marlin hated it.

  “Mind if we come inside for a few minutes?” Bobby asked.

  David Brunswell knew they were lost, but his wife Zoey wasn’t being much help as a navigator. He was driving, and that meant her job was to navigate. That’s how they always did it. One of them drove and the other person navigated. When it was his turn to navigate, he prepared accordingly. He took the job seriously. So they wouldn’t get lost.

  “It’s not my fault I can’t get a decent signal,” Zoey said, checking her iPhone again to see if the Maps app would work now.

  “You should’ve printed a map out,” David said, because that’s what he did when he was the navigator. He planned ahead. He was on top of things. So they wouldn’t get lost.

  “Relax, okay?” Zoey said. “We’re supposed to be having fun.”

  “Yeah, lots of fun,” David muttered. Except for being lost.

  They were in the southern portion of Blanco County, heading west on Highway 1623, looking for a friend’s house. The friend lived right on the banks of the Blanco River, and today he was having a small get-together. Maybe twenty people. Barbecue and beer. Swimming in the river. Volleyball. Horseshoes. Girls in bikinis. Girls who probably did a much better job navigating for their husbands.

  Now David was getting even more tense, because a big black Ford truck had just zoomed up behind him and was riding his bumper.

  There were only so many possibilities.

  “If Sparrow was at Harley’s house, she would’ve known Donna Endicott hit him with her cane,” Garza had said earlier, after the Endicotts had left the station. “Why didn’t she report it?”

  Marlin and Garza now had the conference room to themselves.

  “Maybe she left before he showed any signs of injury,” Marlin said. “Or maybe she was worried we’d think she did it. After all, she had a pretty good reason to be jealous. Regardless of what type of relationship she and Harley had, it would only be natural to be jealous.”

  “So why was she even there?” Garza said. “Harley knew Sissy was coming over that evening. He wouldn’t want Sparrow hanging around.”

  “Unless he was sincere when he said he wanted nothing more than a night of friendly companionship. If that was the case, why not invite Sparrow? Maybe he was trying to impress her with an evening with a celebrity. And that wouldn’t rule out Harley making a crack about Sissy’s looks.”

  “Okay, but still, Sparrow would’ve known what happened on the porch,” Garza said. “Right?”

  “Probably,” Marlin said.

  “Even if she didn’t see it herself, Harley would’ve told Sparrow what happened. Or if she found him collapsed on the front porch, she would’ve called it in. She wouldn’t just leave. It doesn’t make any sense. Something isn’t right.”

  “Maybe her car was there but she wasn’t,” Marlin said. “She came to get it later and she didn’t see Harley on the porch.”

  Garza considered that for a few seconds, and then said, “When I spoke to her last week, she didn’t say anything about picking her car up at Harley’s on the day he died, or the morning after. I’ll look back at my notes, but I’m pretty sure she said she hadn’t been over to Harley’s house for several days prior to the day he died.”

  “Is that it?” Zoey said, eyeballing a passing driveway on the right.

  “That’s on the north side of the road, Zoey. Jay’s place is on the south side, because that’s the side the river is on. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  “You don’t have to get all grouchy. Jeez.”

  The black truck was seriously on David’s ass and it was starting to piss him off. There was no place to pull over and let the guy pass.

  “And you don’t have to get all defensive,” David said.

  “You know what? Fuck it, let’s just go home,” Zoey said, using that tone of voice that indicated that the rest of the day was probably a lost cause. When they finally got to the party, they wouldn’t exchange another word with each other until it was time to leave.

  “Are you friggin’ kidding me?” David said. “Forget it. We just drove for an hour.”

  “Well, then stop being an asshole,” Zoey said.

  “When I spoke to you last week,” Garza said to Sparrow Holliday, “you said the last time you’d been over to Harley’s house was three days before he died. You’d gone over there and had lunch together on Thursday afternoon.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Sparrow said.

  They were seated around her coffee table, Garza and Marlin in upholstered chairs, Sparrow on a small couch. In one corner of the room stood an eye-catching metal sculpture of two ravens perched on a tree. Garza had mentioned that Sparrow was an artist, and Marlin could see that she was quite good. A French door led to the backyard, and on either side of the door were windows adorned with long strings of beads acting as curtains—a throwback to hippie days. On the left-hand wall were framed paintings, and on the wall to the right, framed photographs, mostly black and white. The house was comfortable, clean, and welcoming, except for that pot smell.

  “And you had no contact after that,” Garza said. “He died on Sunday and you heard about it on Monday, just like almost everybody else,” Garza said.

  “Right.”

  “What did you do between that Thursday lunch and hearing he had died?”

  Sparrow frowned. “I’m not sure I understand the reason for these questions. Quite honestly, you’re making me nervous.”

  Garza said, “Okay, well, let me share something with you that might put you at ease. We received a confession in this case a few hours ago. Now we’re just trying to clean up a few loose ends and square some statements we’ve received.”

  Clever reply. We received a confession. Which was true. That would make Sparrow more willing to answer the questions. And perhaps she would now offer a logical explanation for why her car was at Harley’s house when Sissy and Donna Endicott were there.

  “You have a confession?” Sparrow said. “Can you...?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t share that information. But I can say that it would be helpful if you would tell me about those three days after you had lunch with Harley.”

  She was nodding, cooperative. “My memory isn’t quite as sharp as it used to be, so I’ll do my best. We had lunch on Thursday, as I said. On Friday I stayed home and worked on a new sculpture. Saturday I went to the flea market in Johnson City for several hours that morning and then came home. On Sunday I stayed home again. I was feeling a little under the weather. Then on Monday afternoon, I went into town—to the post office—and I heard what happened to Harley.”

  Garza said, “You only have the one vehicle, right? The Volkswagen out front?”

  “Yes.”

  For the first time, Marlin was beginning to see some apprehension on Sparrow’s face.

  “Did anyone else drive or borrow your Volkswagen over the course of those three days?”

  Sparrow paused for several moments, then finally said, “I...Again, I really don’t see why you are asking these things. You said you have a confession.”

  “It would be helpful to the case,” Garza said. “That’s all I can tell you right now.”

  She wa
s an intelligent woman. Marlin could see that. Unlike many people who were questioned by police, she probably understood that any lie or omission she told on the fly would almost certainly unravel under scrutiny. So she answered Garza’s most recent question honestly.

  “Nobody else drove my car,” she said.

  “Okay, thank you,” Garza said. “To be clear, and I’m sorry to be repetitive, but you’re saying you were not at Harley’s house on that Sunday, the day he died. And your car wasn’t there either. Is that right?”

  Marlin could see from Sparrow’s expression—now a mask of barely contained panic—that there would be no logical explanation forthcoming. Not an innocent one. She began shaking her head and was no longer making eye contact. “I just...you’ve got me flustered now. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Maybe I don’t have my days straight.”

  Garza spoke in a quiet, nonconfrontational tone. “Here’s the problem we’re running into. We know for a fact that your car was at Harley’s when he was killed. In fact, the killer scraped your car as they were leaving. I noticed when we pulled up that your car has a small dent on the rear passenger side. There is probably some of your paint on their car and some of their paint on your car. I’ll be able to send samples to a lab and confirm that.”

  Garza paused. Sparrow kept her head down and said nothing.

  “The best thing you can do right now is tell us what really happened that day,” Garza said.

  After a long pause, Sparrow nodded. Then she eased forward off the couch and dropped to her knees. She reached under the couch, and Marlin was prepared to dive across the coffee table and tackle her. Who knew what she was retrieving? Garza was beginning to stand, just in case.

  Her hand came out from under the couch with a long, round, wooden rod, which she gently placed on the coffee table. The rod was about three feet long and an inch in diameter. Part of a broom handle, if Marlin had to guess. Not much heft or mass. Wouldn’t make a good weapon. Too light.

  “Harley used to keep this by his door,” Sparrow said, sitting down again. And then she told her story.