Desperate Crimes (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 11)

by George Wier

  “Why?” he asked. “Doesn't seem like a big deal to me.”

  “Well, what if Mr. Schoover here starts have some really bad pain. I mean, like that molten lava kind of pain that comes from multiple fractures. And you know, the pain from a deep cut like he's got on his forehead, or maybe even the concussion. That could be unsettling. Maybe it'd be too much, you know? Maybe he'd go into convulsions or something and re-injure himself. Shoot, I suppose it could kill him.”

  “Naw,” Hank said. “I can't see that happening. Just, you know, cross that shit off the chart and let whatever happens, happen.”

  “Well,” I said, shaking my head slowly. “I suppose you're right.” I started to move the pen.

  “Waid,” Fenner said, quietly.

  “I'm sorry,” Hank said, “but we don't know anyone named Wade.”

  “I think he means 'Wait.'”

  “Naw, that couldn't be it.”

  “Waid,” Fenner repeated. There were tears tracking across his cheeks.

  “You're making him cry, Bill,” Hank said. “I mean, he's trusting you to do what's right and cross that crap off the list of medications.”

  “I don't think that's what he's upset about. I think he's feeling remorseful about some things. Maybe about holding people at gunpoint, or trying to flee justice in the family airplane and crashing it. Maybe it's about the old lady he had tied to the bed. We've got to remember to check on her while we're here. See if she has anything to say.”

  “I forgot about that. It's visiting hours here all day long.”

  “Stob, pwease.” he whispered. “Dell thoo whad thoo wan' tha doe.”

  “Shoot,” Hank said. “Can you understand Swahili, Bill?”

  “It's like a second language to me. I translate it that he's willing to assist.”

  “Ahh!” Hank acted surprised. He took the pen back from me, crossed his arms over his chest and furrowed his brows at Fenner. “Start talking, asshole.”

  *****

  It was indeed the case that Fenner had been looking for the will—had been, in fact, tossing every inch of Tinnie Bledgrave's house and holdings. I'd been right about that, but for a completely different reason that I had suspected. He was being blackmailed. The truth of the matter was that the newer will, which he'd had with him in a strongbox on the plane, had him gleaning a larger portion of the inheritance than the older one for which he was desperate by in excess of ten million dollars.

  I'd asked him what could possibly make him give that up? The answer was murder. Murder almost thirty years back down the road.

  His eyes, then, were full of deep sorrow and remorse, mingled with the pain that he felt he deserved. If it was true, then aside from the pain of his injuries, which would no doubt take the better part of a year to heal from, it was nothing compared to what he was suffering on the inside at his own hands.

  People will bear an ungodly amount of the world's troubles. They will saddle themselves with guilt and anxiety for decades. This, in my estimation, is the singular proof of the basic good nature of the species Man. A person will always convict and punish themselves far in excess of any judge or jury. And often—so often that illustration verges on the cliché—they will take the path to ultimate judgment by removing themselves entirely from the picture with an early, and seemingly unlooked for, demise. And people believe in Fate. I've found that there's no fate quite as demonstrable as one's own actions when all reason would indicate a different path.

  I'd asked Fenner Schoonover whom he had killed. The tears came in streams.

  He'd told me, including when, where, and how. Hank had walked away and I'd found myself promising I would help Fenner, so long as he was being completely truthful with me.

  When I collected Jennifer and Hank, after requesting something a little more potent for Fenner's pain from the duty nurse, Bob Ross came walking up to us. He had in his hands a scorched metal box.

  “I know what that is,” I told him.

  He nodded. “You talk to Fenner?”

  “Yeah. He's not the person who engineered everything. It's one of two people. I don't know which one it is, but at least I know why.”

  “You care to tell me?” Bob asked.

  I glanced down at Jennifer, smiled at her. “Not now.”

  *****

  We checked in on the old woman, Maggie, as well as Reece Schoonover, Fenner's younger brother. The old woman was on a ventilator. She still might or might not pull through. Regardless, it was unlikely she'd be making any statements anytime soon. Reece was in a recovery room. The local cop had given up on guarding Fenner and was camped out in a chair outside the Operating Room.

  “Is he awake?” Bob asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bob and I went inside while Hank stayed outside with Jennifer.

  “Hi, Reece,” Bob said.

  He nodded his head. He smiled faintly, almost pleased about something. I figured it was the anaesthetic wearing off. When he finally spoke, I was proven correct.

  “Dot have the war to gum it up,” he said.

  “Okay, Reece,” Bob said. “I'm not sure what that means, but okay.”

  “Is simple,” Reece contended.

  “I'm sure it is. We'll come back and talk to you later.”

  As we were about to exit, Reece said, “He'll never find it.”

  Bob and I turned. “Find what?” I asked.

  “The will.”

  “Why will he never find it?” I asked.

  “Because she lied. She lied all the time.” Reece laughed. “Mean old lady.”

  “What'd she lie about, Reece?” Bob asked.

  “That there was another one.”

  Bob and I exchanged looks, and then turned back to Reece.

  “Thank you, Reece,” Bob said. “You can go back to sleep now.”

  “If I had sleep then the world would come to an end.” He began laughing madly, and Bob and I beat a hasty retreat.

  *****

  Back at the San Sebastian Sheriff's Office, Bob and I met with Sheriff Dusty Singletary.

  “Mr. Travis,” he said. “It looks like you've sort of crossed the line, so I'm asking you to take your daughter and head back home.”

  “Yes, Sheriff. I'm here to write a report and head home.”

  “No need to write the report. Between me and Bob, we got one written for you. Well, not for you, exactly, but for the Department. And the quicker you leave, the better.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No hard feelings,” Bob said. “I like it that you're a crack shot. Where'd you learn to shoot like that?”

  “My daughter,” I replied.

  “The one out in the car?”

  “No. My eldest daughter. She's adopted. She's a Sheriff's deputy in Travis County. The youngest one they've got, in fact. She can shoot like nobody's business, and I've had to take her out to the range because they don't let folks shoot by themselves. They believe in the buddy system, there.”

  “I suspect it's so that there are less suicides at the range, is what I think,” Sheriff Singletary said.

  “That's probably true,” I replied. “Anyway, I've gotten...better at shooting over time.”

  “I'll say,” Bob said. “Boss, this fellow took a stance, took one shot with my Ruger Redhawk—a gun he'd never seen before in daylight—and hit a moving target at night by estimating the distant and accounting for range.”

  “Not bad,” Dusty Singletary said. “Still, this is sayonara, Mr. Travis. Please give your daughter my best, and tell her that we'll be on the lookout for her...what was it?”

  “Piano teacher,” I said.

  “Her piano teacher.”

  “She's got a recital in...shoot, what's today?”

  “Today is Tuesday.”

  “I don't where the time goes. The recital is Saturday. Jennifer thinks she needs him by then. And I intend that she has him back.”

  The Sheriff chuckled. “I think when I die I want to come back as a
Travis kid.”

  “I just got the word that my wife is pregnant again, so don't die for at least another eight and a half months.”

  “I'll try not to,” the Sheriff said.

  “Which reminds me, Fenner Schoonover made a confession to me in the hospital. He was being blackmailed to find the will and make sure it got filed with the county.”

  “Who's been blackmailing him?” Bob asked.

  “He didn't know, but I have to tell you, I believe him. The man was crying at the time. It was real.”

  “What was he being blackmailed about?”

  “He thinks he murdered someone. I don't believe he did.”

  “What?” Bob asked. The Sheriff sat back in his chair and clenched his teeth.

  “You heard me,” I said.

  “Who'd he kill?” Bob asked. “And when?”

  “According to Fenner, this was thirty years ago. He killed his great uncle, Oliver Bledgrave. Tinnie's husband.”

  “That's an old legend in these parts,” the Sheriff said. “Everybody knows that he died in a hunting accident. Hell, I was a teenager when that happened.”

  “No doubt. According to Fenner, there were two other people with him and the old man on that day. One was Lorraine Sands, Fenner's first cousin.”

  “Who was the other person?” Bob asked.

  “Todd Samuel Landry,” I said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The pet store in San Sebastian had, of all things, ferret chow for sale. I bought four bags of the stuff, handed one to Jennifer and stuffed the other three in the trunk. Additionally, I bought sandwich materials for the drive back home, including light bread, hard salami, bologna, sliced cheese, lettuce, mayo, mustard, bread and butter pickles and a Family-Valu bag of potato chips that was bigger than a basketball and weighed less than a soft feather pillow.

  “I don't like it, dad,” she said. “I don't like going home without Todd.”

  “I thought you were calling him Sam, now?”

  “Whatever. We came to find him, didn't we?”

  “That we did. But sometimes discretion is the better part of valor.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Hank agreed from the rear seat, “what exactly does that mean? I've heard that bullshit all my life, and it never made a lick of sense to me.”

  “Hey,” I said. “Language.”

  “What?” Hank asked. “Her? I'll bet when you're not around, she cusses a blue streak.”

  “You would be wrong,” I said. “My daughter is a proper little lady, and I'll not have you casting aspersions.”

  “Hmph,” Hank said.

  “What are aspersions?” she asked.

  “Never you mind. The Sheriff asked that we leave town. I think it's because I'm a good shot.”

  “That makes no sense,” Hank said.

  “Yeah. I know. I guess what I mean is, it's got something to do with the NTSB.”

  “The what?” Jennifer asked.

  “The National Transportation Safety Board,” Hank said. “You see, last night when we were at the airport, your father shot down an airplane.”

  “She already knows that,” I said.

  “Can I tell mom?”

  “I already told her.”

  “Is she mad?”

  “Maybe. Let's go home.”

  “Okay,” she said, and her voice sounded far off and away, heavy with disappointment.

  “I'm sorry,” I said.

  She nodded slowly. “It's okay, dad. We did what we could. It's not the end of the world if my piano recital isn't perfect, or if we have to call it off.”

  “It's not?”

  “Of course not. I'm not a little kid, you know.”

  I started the car and Morgan Freeman went airborne from the back seat into the front.

  “No,” I said. “I suppose you're not.”

  As we pulled out onto the highway, Jennifer said, “Dad, since I'm so grown up now, I think it would be all right if I had a pet alligator.”

  “I don't,” I said.

  “But dad—”

  “You have a pet snake named Sir Ian McKellan, a pet parrot named Peter Jennings, a pet hedgehog named Simon Pegg, a pet ferret named Morgan Freeman, and now you want a pet alligator. First of all, an alligator would eat the snake, the parrot, the hedgehog and the ferret, and still be hungry. Second of all, I'm not grown up enough to have an alligator.”

  “Okay, already. Geez, I was just asking.”

  *****

  Something strange happened as we passed the City Limits sign of San Sebastian—I began thinking out loud. I suppose that I may do this more often than I realize. Neither Hank nor Jennifer interrupted me.

  “I don't know what it is about small towns. It may be that everyone thinks they really do know everyone else, which is why they treat outsiders like...outsiders, and so nothing is anybody else's business. What I wouldn't give to spend a few hours at the local library or the newspaper morgue, going over all the old stories, and especially the one about the shooting of Oliver Bledgrave. You know, see the photos of Temperance Bledgrave in her wedding gown in the Society Section with Oliver shoving wedding cake into her mouth. Or one of those big family reunion pictures with about fifty or a hundred people in it with a caption down below, tagging everyone. Or at least everyone important. I'd like to know how the family made its fortune—whether it was really cotton or it was that plus oil and gas, or maybe they owned a whole neighborhood of sweat shops up in New York in the Garment District. I don't know, but there has to be a history there. A real big and deep one. How did they come to own a big Beechcraft airplane that should have been out of service around the time I was born? Why wasn't it a Hughes airplane? Did they snub Howard Hughes way back in the day, or did he snub them?

  “Small town like that. Everybody knows everybody. They leave the doors unlocked at night because nobody would...dare. They trust each other, because not to trust would mean...would mean you're not trustworthy, and in a small town, that's like a death sentence. Here, fill out this report. I'll be in the other room over there. Imagine his surprise when he comes back and she's not there. I can almost see his face.

  “Well, wait a minute. I'm actually having a little trouble seeing his face.”

  I glanced down at Jennifer, and she looked up at me, but didn't say a word.

  “I know, honey. Daddy's gone crazy. I'll be through in a minute.

  The road ahead wound through tall dolomite upthrusts in the landscape, peppered with scrub oak, cedar and mesquite. A stark, beautiful country.

  “At least one person is at the heart of it. And maybe two,” I continued. “Hell, there could be three, for all I know. How many people are missing? Three, I think: Lorraine, Todd and a fellow named Gus. I'll bet it was Gus's finger. Who is Gus, anyway? Bob Ross is what, forty? Forty-five? The Sheriff is the same age. The Sheriff. Dusty Singletary. I'll bet he was in the papers back then, already thinking about running for Sheriff when he was in his teens and twenties. He sure seemed to know Fenner Schoonover pretty well, the way he talked about him. In fact, I'd say the two of them were in school together way back in the day. Maybe they were...best friends, although it's hard for me to imagine Fenner having any real friends. And I'll bet when Lorraine was coming up, young Dusty Singletary knew her as well. Someone coming from a family fortune like that, you can't not know about them. You can't not know everything there is to know about them, in fact. I'll bet way back in the day he had a crush on her or—”

  I hit my brakes out of reflex and we began to slow.

  I glanced behind me in the rearview mirror and saw a smile painted on Hank's face.

  I turned us in at a cattle guard, took a moment to look both ways, then backed out into the highway and aimed us back toward town.

  “Dad,” Jennifer said, “Morgan Freeman thinks you're amazing.”

  “What about you, kiddo?” I asked her.

  “I think you're okay too.”

  *****

&nb
sp; I drove us back to the La Quinta and got two rooms for another night in town. I called Julie and tried to tell her what was going on, but she wanted to speak with Jennifer, who explained the whole thing far better than I ever could. While they were talking, I stepped outside and knocked on Hank's door. When he opened it, he already had the information. In fact, he had drawn a crude map.

  “Okay,” he said, “this is the address where the internet thinks the Sheriff lives.” Hank handed me the first piece of hotel stationery and held up the second one. “This one's the map from here to there. I know the drill. I'll stay here with Jennifer and the little monster.”

  “Nope,” I said. “I'm taking Morgan Freeman with me. I had no idea he was of any use until I saw him biting Fenner's nose.”

  “Wise man,” he said. “While you're gone, Jenn and I might walk down and get us a hamburger or something. Bill, I don't have a gun with me. And I no longer carry explosives, like in the old days. If I did, I'd make sure you had one or the other. Or both.”

  “I know. It's okay. I actually don't really like guns—”

  “Even though you're good with them.”

  “Even though I'm good with them. And I guarantee you, I can't abide explosives. But I don't think it's going to be that kind of encounter, anyway, just on the off-chance somebody's home to begin with. I just want to verify what I suspect. If it's true, I'll have to talk myself into intervening anyway. Sometimes it pays to let things ride, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. Except in this instance, there's still too much we don't know. The whole Gus-and-Margaret thing. The whole Todd Landry MIA thing. The thing about the will and Fenner and the killing of the family patriarch. And the money.”

  “Yeah. Watch my little girl,” I said.

  *****

  Back in my hotel room, Morgan Freeman scampered over to me and proceeded to climb.

  “You never let him do that,” Jennifer said.

  “He's a smart guy,” I replied.

  “Oh no. You're taking him with you.”

  “I am.”

  She got up from her bed and came over to me. I thought she was going to remove M.F. from my clothes and make kissy-face noises, but instead she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tight.