An Unsettling Crime for Samuel Craddock

by Terry Shames

  “I swear I didn’t know them.”

  It occurs to me that it might not have been one of the Wortham females with the note. It might have been the unknown girl. “Did you know anybody who might be visiting them? There was one girl nobody seems to know the name of.”

  She doesn’t say anything, so I keep quiet. We’re walking along the deserted road. The air is heavy and still. I expect the heavens to open up any minute and douse us. Finally she sighs. “Cathy. She was a nice girl.”

  “Did you know her last name?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How did you know her?”

  “Met her when I went to the house once.”

  “How about the boy? You know his name?”

  Her head is lowered, watching her feet while we walk, so I can’t see her face. “Bobby. Poor little man. I don’t know why they had to kill him.” She begins to weep softly.

  “Do you know why they killed the girls?”

  She slows and turns her tearstained face to me. “How would I know that? I just meant he was so little it hardly seems like he could have deserved getting killed.”

  “What might the girls have done to deserve it?”

  “You know, they was teenagers. They get up to a lot more than a little boy. No telling what they saw or heard that might get them in trouble.”

  “Like what?”

  “I understand that you want me to know something, but I don’t.”

  “You said you had been out to the house?”

  She digs a toe into the dirt. “I guess I had. Just the one time, though.”

  “When was that?”

  “Sometime in July.”

  “Why were you there?”

  The first drops start to spatter on the leaves with a plopping sound. We’re walking under a thick bunch of trees that line the road, so it can’t get to us yet. She doesn’t seem to notice. “Duchess came by and asked us all if we’d like to come over one afternoon, maybe it was the Fourth of July. Said they were having a cookout and some firecrackers and wanted to invite neighbors.”

  “Had you met Duchess or any of the others before that?”

  “No, sir, they ain’t been around here that long.”

  “Did your daddy or Truly go to the party?”

  “No, sir. Truly was gone somewhere and Daddy said I could go if I wanted to, but he needed to go over and help with something at the church. He doesn’t like parties anyway.”

  “Do you know if Truly ever met any of them?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “At the party, did you see Beaumont Penny?”

  “Ohhh.” The word comes out low.

  “What?”

  “He was there all right. I didn’t talk to him, though. My daddy would have had a fit if he found out I talked to somebody like that. He wouldn’t like knowing I was even at a party where he was at.”

  “Your daddy’s got sense.”

  I ask her more questions about the party, but she doesn’t have anything useful to say. She was a young girl having a good time. No reason for her to think anybody there was going to come to such harm. I thank her for her help.

  She answers back, “Only reason I’m talking to you is to get my brother cleared.”

  Suddenly there’s a great clap of thunder and the rain comes sloshing down. We run back toward my truck, “Let me take you home.” I have to yell to make myself heard above the rain.

  “No!” She takes off running in the direction of her house. I jump into the truck and wait until she’s had time to get home before I start up and head back to Jeanne and Tom.

  All the way home my mind is in turmoil, but when I walk in, it all falls away. Laughter greets me and I go into the kitchen to find the two of them giggling over a jigsaw puzzle. The remains of cookies and milk are on the table.

  “How did you get all wet?” Jeanne asks.

  “If you hadn’t noticed, it’s raining hard out there.”

  Tom laughs. “Raining cats and dogs. Meow! Arf!”

  Jeanne looks up from a puzzle piece. “I know it’s raining, smarty. I mean, what were you doing out in it?”

  “I was talking to somebody and we weren’t near the truck.”

  “You better go change clothes, or you’re going to catch a cold.” She jumps up. “Come on, Tom, help me clear the table so we can have supper.” They carefully move the puzzle down to the other end of the table. I grab a cookie and go change into dry clothes.

  After a supper of chili and cornbread, Tom watches TV, and we go out on the porch to watch the rain. It’s let up a good bit and there’s a nice breeze.

  “You look worried,” I say. “Everything all right?”

  “I was wondering if your mamma is okay without Horace and Donna there. If anything happened, she’d be on her own.”

  “She’ll be fine. I don’t imagine they check on her as often as you think.”

  “I’m going to call her. Maybe she knows where they are.”

  “Wait. I wouldn’t ask that. She’ll make out that we’re complaining that they left Tom with us.”

  She sighs. “I suppose you’re right. I am going to call, though, to make sure she’s okay. I’ll take her some groceries tomorrow.”

  “I’ll call her,” I say.

  “Or see her?”

  What she means is that I ought to go over there. By now the rain has let up, so I don’t have a good excuse not to go.

  It turns out that I’ve interrupted her favorite TV show, so I have to sit and finish watching CHiPs with her. She talks to the TV as if she’s in the middle of the action, and I feel a twinge of guilt that she must be lonely. But there are people her age she could do things with. She could play cards at the American Legion Hall or go to church. But she doesn’t like people in real life and doesn’t put herself out to be friendly. She does have a couple of people she likes to gossip on the phone with, though.

  When the program is done, she’s in a good mood for a few minutes, going back over some of the scenes. But then she remembers that I’m here in the flesh, and she sinks into her usual sour mood.

  She tells me she has no idea where Horace and Donna are. “I could die right here in my bed and no one would know.”

  “You’re not fixing to die in your bed,” I say. “You’re in fine health.”

  “You don’t know a thing about my health,” she says. “I’ve got problems I don’t tell you about.”

  I know how this will go, but I give it a try anyway. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “You don’t really want to hear it.”

  This could go on and on. “Something I want to ask you. You ever heard of someone named Duchess Wortham?”

  “I might have.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “She was one of the people killed in that house fire.”

  “I heard that.”

  “You what?” I can’t believe it. All the trouble I had finding out who the woman was, and all the time my mamma knew.

  “Donna told me.”

  “How did Donna know?”

  “I have no idea. She just told me it was Duchess Wortham and her family that got murdered.” She peers at me with a satisfied smirk.

  “Did she know the woman?”

  “What is this? The third degree? You have to ask Donna yourself.”

  “Can you tell me anything else about the family?”

  “I thought you was the law and you was supposed to know everything.”

  My fists clench. Sometimes when I talk to Mamma, it comes clear to me how men can get violent. “I’d appreciate it if you tell me anything you know.”

  “If you’ll pour me a sip of whiskey, I’ll tell you, but don’t get your hopes up. It’s not much.”

  After the years of dealing with my daddy’s alcohol problem, I’m surprised that lately Mamma has gotten in the habit of sipping a couple of fingers of bourbon before bedtime. I go in the kitchen and pour her some. I pour myself
a little, too. If I don’t, she’ll complain that I’m too stuck-up to drink with her.

  I hand her the glass and sit down. She eyes my glass. “Glad you helped yourself,” she says. “I’m made out of money, so I can afford to keep you in liquor.”

  “I’ll bring you a bottle the next time I come.”

  “If you don’t forget.”

  “You promised to tell me what you know about the Worthams.”

  She takes a sip and hunches forward, eyes alight with gossip. “I heard Duchess was married to a man who got into a little trouble and moved her out there to the woods to keep her safe. But I have my own ideas. I bet she was running around on him and he wanted to keep her to himself.” She always likes to add something salacious to the gossip she hears.

  “Did he build that illegal house?” I ask.

  “Way I heard it, it wasn’t illegal. The owner of the property let him build there.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “Where was she from?”

  “Houston, the way I heard it. But you know all them coloreds lie. They could be from anywhere.”

  “Were the kids enrolled in school for the fall?”

  “You’ll have to ask the school.” She sips her whiskey and licks her lips.

  “Did you ever hear rumors that there was prostitution going on out there?”

  “I wondered when you were going to sneak around to that matter.”

  “So you did?”

  “The men are the ones who know that kind of thing. It’s not fit for ladies to talk about, and I should take offense that you asked me, your own mamma.”

  Meaning she hasn’t heard such a rumor, but she wishes she had.

  That night, lying in bed, I can sense that Jeanne is not asleep. “Something’s on your mind,” I say. “Tell me.”

  She turns to me and props her head up on her elbow. “It’s silly, but I don’t understand something.”

  I brace for her to complain that I was away all afternoon, but instead she says, “Why haven’t Donna and Horace telephoned to check on Tom? You’d think they would want to know how he’s getting on.”

  “Maybe they’re . . .” I stop. I can’t think of any excuse.

  “They’re what?”

  “I don’t know. Busy, I guess. Did Tom seem upset?”

  “That’s the other thing I wonder. He hasn’t said a word about them except when he half woke up this afternoon. He doesn’t seem to wonder where they are, or anything.”

  “You manage to keep him pretty entertained.”

  “I know, but it seems odd. Do you think they treat him all right?”

  “I do.” I tell her how it was with Donna; how she fussed over him. “He knows us pretty well. I’m sure he feels safe here with us, and he knows we love him.”

  She sighs. “Life doesn’t seem fair sometimes.”

  I know she’s talking about Horace and Donna not appreciating the boy they have when the two of us would cherish a child. We fall asleep with our arms around each other.

  Chapter 26

  I’m beginning to wonder if it was a good idea to buy a herd of cattle. I barely have time to feed them before I’m off. When I arrive at headquarters, I take one look at the parking lot and wish I had lingered with the cows. There are five cars I don’t recognize, and a van with a Houston TV station logo on the side. The doors of the vehicles open as soon as I park. Several men rush to my pickup and flashbulbs go off in my face.

  I put my hand up to shield my eyes. “What in the world is going on?” I ask the nearest reporter.

  “Are you one of the deputies?”

  “No, I’m Chief Craddock. You mind telling what’s going on?”

  “You’re the chief?”

  Seeing the thundercloud on my face, he quickly continues, “Are you aware that Albert Lamond has set up camp outside the Bobtail jailhouse to protest the arrest of Truly Bennett?”

  “I heard a rumor to that effect.”

  “Chief! Chief!” someone yells. “Do you have a statement to make about it?”

  “Mr. Lamond has every right to protest, as long as it’s peaceful.”

  “How did he know Mr. Bennett had been arrested?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

  I try to walk forward, but the reporters block my way. “Do you think Mr. Bennett is guilty?”

  I may not be seasoned, but I know enough not to answer that. “If he is, the evidence will come out,” I say. That’s a line I heard from one of the instructors at the academy. Not much else I learned there has been useful to me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “One question,” one of them calls out. “Would you care to comment on the suggestion that he killed those people because they wanted to prostitute his sister?”

  I’ve held onto my temper pretty well, but that makes me want to put a fist in the man’s face. I feel like steam is about to come out my ears, but I know that if they see any reaction, they’ll know there’s something to dig for. “Sounds like a rumor to me, and I don’t deal in rumors. Now let me pass.”

  I shove my way into the building and feel like I’ve escaped from a pack of hounds.

  First thing I do is call Tilley, who is due to arrive soon, and tell him to keep his mouth shut when he gets here.

  “I don’t know anything anyway,” he says.

  “Well, don’t let them suck you into making a comment.”

  The message machine is lit up, and I dread what I’m going to hear.

  A muffled male voice that came in at midnight says, “I understand that killer’s daddy was involved with those dead folks, too. We can’t have people like that living here in Jarrett Creek. I’m for running them all out of town.” I delete the message.

  The next one is a woman who called at two a.m. to say she couldn’t sleep because she was pretty sure she was going to be murdered in her bed. Another delete.

  There’s another of the same type at four a.m.

  Then at seven o’clock there’s a man who says, “This is Raymond Ostrand. We haven’t met. I’m with the law offices of Metcalf and Ostrand in Bobtail. My son, Charles, tells me you were giving him some trouble yesterday out at the park. I think we need to have a sit-down. He’s an upstanding boy, and I don’t appreciate him being hassled.” He leaves a phone number.

  Thank goodness the next are routine calls. Somebody’s dog got into a garden and tore it up, and somebody else had the hubcaps stolen off his car. I never thought I’d be glad to get calls about those minor annoyances.

  There’s a grim-sounding call from Sheriff Newberry asking me to get back to him, and finally one from George Cato. “My father said you needed to talk to me. I’ll be coming in to town tomorrow to assess the damage to our property. I’ll contact you when I get there.” He sounds relaxed, not like someone riddled with guilt.

  When I get in touch with Sheriff Newberry, he does not sound relaxed. “I want to know how Albert Lamond knew Truly Bennett had been arrested. I’ve been cooperative with you, but if you are responsible for him finding out we had Bennett in jail, we’re going to have words.”

  Discretion being the better part of bravery, I tell him that I didn’t get in touch with Lamond, which isn’t exactly the same as telling the truth, since it was his answering machine I talked to. “Now, for my part, I want to know why reporters are here on my doorstep asking me if Bennett killed those people because they were trying to recruit his sister.”

  “Goddamn that Sutherland. It’s either him or one of his people that leaked that.”

  He asks me to come up to Bobtail to see for myself what Lamond has organized.

  “I’m glad to come up there because I have something to tell you. I know the names of the people who got killed.”

  “How did you get those folks to open up?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  Before I go, I call Luke Schoppe.

 
“Sounds like things have gotten pretty wild out there,” he says.

  “You heard that Lamond set himself up in Bobtail?”

  “Oh, yes. We keep a pretty good eye on him. He’s caused a good bit of trouble. My boss wondered if you had sicced them on the Bobtail PD to keep things honest.”

  I laugh as if it’s a ludicrous idea. “Listen, I’ve got to ask you to look up a couple of names for me.”

  “Let me get my pen. . . . All right, shoot.”

  “The guy I mentioned the other day, Beaumont Penny. And then a woman named Duchess Wortham.” I remind him that I asked the Bobtail PD to look into Blue Dudley and Freddie Carmichael. “They didn’t come back with anything, but you all might have more resources for digging into people’s background.” As an afterthought, I give him the names of George and Ronald Cato.

  “Cato. Where have I heard that?”

  “Cato Woods. That’s the land where the house burned.”

  He whistles. “Big landowners. I imagine they’ve got a little clout, being a good part of the county tax base. You’re dancing close to the edge on that one.”

  “They may be totally on the up and up, but it won’t hurt to find out.”

  When I arrive at the Bobtail police station, I see what got Newberry so flustered. The parking lot is taken over with people sitting on crates or on blankets on the ground, and some are standing. A few have set up portable barbecue cookers, making it look like a carnival. A half dozen highway patrol cars are double-parked in front of the building, and officers are standing vigil at strategic spots around the area.

  I have to park a couple of blocks away. When I return to the parking lot on foot, I spot Albert Lamond strutting among his followers, in his element. He notices me walking up the sidewalk to the front door. Cool as ice, he nods ever so slightly. I didn’t need to worry that he’d tattle that I was the one who called him here. I expect it works to his advantage for folks to think he’s part wizard when it comes to sniffing out discrimination issues.

  Inside, the station is crowded with officers. It looks like extra manpower has been called in, and most of them look serious. When I identify myself, I’m immediately taken to Newberry’s office, where he’s in conference with my buddy John Sutherland. They’re sitting across from each other at Newberry’s desk, each on the edge of their chair and looking like he might lunge at the other across the desk.