A Killing at Cotton Hill

by Terry Shames

  She’s nodding. “You said the painting is valuable. How would they know that?”

  “That’s where Alex Eubanks comes in.” I tell her about my interview with the art teacher and his subsequent confrontation with Greg. “Greg told him about my art collection. Eubanks would have known the Thiebaud was valuable.”

  “But he’d also know you couldn’t sell a work of art like that. And if he did kill Dora Lee, why wait six months to do it?”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t quite fit. There has to be something I’m not seeing.” I tell her about Eubanks’s daughter, and Greg’s belief that her father knew nothing about their affair. “Could be he knows more than they think, and he’s not happy about it. Could be he was trying to frame Greg. At any rate, as soon as this situation with Greg is resolved, I’m going to sic Callum on him.”

  “You’re right. He ought to at least be ruled out as a serious suspect.”

  “But there’s one more possibility.” I tell her what I found out from the real estate people in San Antonio.

  She wipes her hands, pushes her plate away, and brings her glass of wine closer. “They could have done both crimes. What do you think?”

  “I like them for the fire and theft. But for the murder? What’s their motive? If they had come up with a decent price, Dora Lee would have sold. They still would have made a lot of money if the Houston outfit follows through.”

  “Samuel, we talked about this the other night. Dora Lee might have said she wouldn’t sell at any price.”

  “But they’d have been a lot better off trying to persuade her to sell than waiting for the probate to be done. That could take a year. By then everyone would know the racetrack was going to come in, and that the land was worth a lot of money.”

  Jenny is shaking her head. “Maybe Dora Lee’s murder and the fire at your place aren’t connected. So what’s your plan?”

  I tell her that before Greg was arrested I was going to Houston tomorrow to talk to the racetrack firm. “And then I was planning on taking Greg to meet a gallery owner in Houston.”

  “You think he’s that good?”

  “I do. But I want to get a solid opinion to find out if I’m right.”

  “If I were you, I’d go ahead and keep your appointments in Houston. It could take me half the morning to get Greg out of jail. And you’d just be hanging around being nervous and making everybody crazy. Besides, you’d probably get into it with Rodell, and you don’t need that.”

  I’m awake by five o’clock. If I weren’t in a strange bed, I could almost convince myself that the past few days were a dream. I have a sense of dread that I’m never going to figure out who killed Dora Lee and that I’m not going to find my painting or who set the fire at my house. And if that happens, I’m worried that suspicion will always hang over Greg.

  Part of being so busy yesterday had the effect of smoothing over events I’d as soon forget, and in the early morning light I bounce my brooding between the loss of the painting Jeanne liked so much and the terrible story Caroline told me. I believe if I’d known what Teague was up to, I would have killed him, or at least called him out to account for his behavior. But I guess a lot of men think they would have been heroes when they look back on events that can’t be changed.

  Thinking about Caroline, something is nagging at me. Something she said didn’t quite fit, but I can’t think now what it was.

  As soon as the light turns gray, I slip out of bed. I drive to my house and spend some time with my cows, checking them for signs of stress that they get sometimes in the heat. It’s a ritual this morning, an exercise I’m doing to bring myself back into a better state. Back at the house, Zelda helps by making sure I keep my mind on her proper care and feeding. She threads herself in and out between my legs, demanding to be petted. I like cats. They are careful to keep their priorities straight. Feed me, give me a warm, dry place to sleep, pet me when I tell you to, then leave me to my own devices.

  At seven o’clock I’m back at Dora Lee’s farm, drinking coffee and brooding. The more I think about it, the less I like the idea of going over to Houston. I’d like to have Greg with me when I go to Manning’s gallery. Finally I convince myself that in spite of what Jenny advised, I’ll put off going over there until tomorrow.

  I realize that although I’ve got the address and directions to the Houston outfit I was going to visit today, I don’t have their phone number. I’d as soon not have to backtrack to my place before I head to the jail in Bobtail, but I’ll have to if I’m going to call. Then I remember I can look it up on the computer.

  Dora Lee’s computer is still shoved back into a corner of the desk, now with a layer of dust on it. I open it up and wait for the screen to come up. And when it does, I sit staring at it, hardly able to believe what I’m seeing. On the screen is a photo of a landscape oil painting that immediately brings to mind the one missing from over Dora Lee’s desk. It’s not the same, but close enough so I’m sure it’s by the same artist. The artist is William Kern, the man whose obituary Dora Lee had stashed in her mementos.

  I scroll down and read the commentary, from an article in the Houston Post a year ago, about the recent resurgence of interest in William Kern’s art. Apparently it’s considered a perfect example of a pre–World War II style particular to the southwest. Who would have guessed? Then I read on. And eventually I get to the part that says his paintings are now worth around $250,000.

  Probably my synapses have slowed at my age, but it still only takes me a few seconds to understand what this means. And to think how much trouble would have been saved if I hadn’t assumed Dora Lee wouldn’t be much of a computer user. The key to her death has been right here all along.

  Wayne Jackson has made a complete mess of my neat piles, shoving Dora Lee’s papers into drawers at random. All the business cards are piled haphazardly into one drawer, and it takes me a few minutes to find the one I’m looking for. I tuck it into my shirt pocket.

  Now that the trip to Houston is back on, I go out to Greg’s cabin, to add a few more paintings to the three he picked out. I look through and bring out one I particularly like, with sunset colors that practically glow off the canvas. It reminds me of the way Rothko’s paintings looked in the early days, before they started to fade. And I choose two others, in brooding storm colors. I can’t decide which one to take, so I put both of them into Dora Lee’s car. I’m driving it so I can transport the paintings in air-conditioning.

  Before I leave, I phone Woodrow Callum’s office and leave a message telling him he should take a look at Alex Eubanks’s alibi for the night the fire was set at my place. I tell him the man had easy access to the gear used to set the fire, and he might have been trying to frame Greg.

  Best Land Use Management is in a shiny, slick building in the heart of the city. It has a parking garage underground that will charge me half a week’s worth of groceries if I stay there all day. The building is quiet as a church, all chrome and glass and marble. In the lobby a guard keeps out the riff-raff. I tell him I’m here to talk to somebody at Best Land Use about an investment. He looks me up and down and decides I’m not likely to cause too much havoc. He calls up somebody on the phone, and then tells me they’ll be expecting me on the eleventh floor.

  The elevator is as big as my bathroom at home. I get in and punch the button, take my hat off and smooth my hair back, using the mirror that’s all the way around, glad I’m by myself on the elevator with nobody to see me spruce up.

  When I get off, I find myself on a floor that is dedicated to this one business. It’s all plush carpet and heavy furniture and big potted plants. Their first line of defense is a giant desk, manned by a girl who could be Miss America for all her gleaming smile and abundant hair.

  “I don’t know exactly who I can talk to, but I believe someone will want to know what I have to tell them.” And even as I say it, I figure this little racetrack deal, which seems so big when I’m home in Jarrett County, is probably just a drop in their big bucket
.

  “What would this be regarding?” She’s not unkind, nor in a hurry, just impersonal.

  “It’s come to my attention that somebody is trying to steal action out from under this outfit,” I say.

  She frowns. I know this, because two tiny little lines appear between her eyebrows. Otherwise, her facial expression remains smooth. “Let me have you talk to Mr. Lindeman.”

  I tell her that will be fine, not knowing any better one way or another. At least it’s a foot in the door.

  Lindeman turns out to be about two years older than Greg, but with years more self-assurance. He takes me to an office that is an inside cubicle, with no view of the city, so I know he isn’t high up on the food chain here. I tell him how I came to know about the racetrack they are pondering. When I come to the part about seeing the copied proposal that has been cleaned of their name, he takes a lot more notice.

  “Hold on just a minute. I’ll be right back.” He charges out of there like he’s got a burr under his tail.

  Before long he’s back with a man who introduces himself as Fred Bachman, “please call me Fred.” He thanks the young man and before I know it I’m in a handsome office looking out over greater Houston.

  Fred is dressed a lot like me, in black denim pants, cowboy boots, and a short-sleeved shirt with a string tie, which puts me at my ease. He doesn’t go behind his desk, but sits down in an easy chair facing me. I repeat my story while Fred sits reared back with his hands laced behind his head, and one leg crossed over at the knee. He nods from time to time.

  “The racetrack is one of our interests,” he says. “We’ve got a few feelers out about where to build it. I know the area you’re talking about in Cotton Hill. I don’t know what it will come to, but it’s one of several sites we’re considering.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  “Now what I want to know is why you’ve taken the trouble to bring these people to my attention?”

  “You mean do I want something out of tattling to you about the Underwoods?”

  He nods.

  “Nothing financial, if that’s what you’re thinking. Clyde Underwood doesn’t sit well with me. He has the ability to cause some problems for a young man of my acquaintance whose grandma just passed away. All I want is to see to it that the boy isn’t swindled out of his share of her land.”

  He looks at me long and hard. “Are you looking to invest with us?” he says.

  I laugh. “No sir, I’ve got my own interests, and I wouldn’t know the first thing about a racetrack.”

  He nods. “And you wouldn’t care to have one in your area, I suppose. The noise, the influx of outside people . . .”

  I see where he’s headed. He wants to know if my fuss about the Underwoods is just an excuse to get the company to look somewhere else to put their racetrack. “Well, sir, that doesn’t concern me so much. That’s for the people who live close by to decide, whether the prosperity it would bring would offset the negatives. As it happens I don’t live near there, so the only part of this that’s my business is like I said, the boy’s being properly taken care of.”

  He tips forward and leans toward me. “Let me assure you of two things. If we do decide that this area is where we want to proceed, we’ll be offering better than fair money for the land.”

  “And the Underwoods?” I say.

  “I’m going to level with you,” he says. “Mr. and Mrs. Underwood are known to our company. They have indicated that they were interested in being a part of this investment. Now it seems they’ve decided to grab a bigger chunk. We don’t look kindly on that. I suspect before too long that the Underwoods will find it in their best interest to move on. They may even be wanting to sell their land to anyone who might be interested.” He raises his eyebrows to indicate that I might just be that person.

  “Don’t look at me. I want no part of it. But I appreciate your taking it seriously, and I’ll leave you to your business.”

  “All right, then. I guess all I can do for you is to shake your hand and thank you.” He blinks. “There is something. You interested in baseball?”

  I smile. “I enjoy a game.” I’m really not much interested in baseball outside our little league in Jarrett Creek, but I can see he wants to do something to pay me back for my information. It will leave him feeling like he doesn’t owe me. And I know someone else who likes baseball.

  He goes out for a time and comes back with an envelope. “See if you can use these,” he says. I look at the two tickets, which are for an Astros game a couple of weeks from now. I give him a big grin, as if I know where the seats are, to let him know how pleased I am.

  “And I’d like to put you up at the Four Seasons that night, so you don’t have to drive right back home afterwards. Just ask for the room in your name, and it will be ready for you.”

  “That’s very kind. I’ll take you up on it. Sounds like a good time.”

  He sees me to the front desk and has the receptionist stamp my parking ticket. It seems that with the magic stamp I won’t have to pay a dime. We part with hearty handshakes and good will all around. Once I’m outside, I allow myself to feel the satisfaction of knowing the Underwoods are going to reap what they’ve sowed. But I don’t get to stick with the feeling long. I still don’t know if they had anything to do with Dora Lee’s death or the theft of my art, and at the moment I don’t feel any closer to knowing who did either crime.

  It’s only eleven o’clock, so I stop at a little café near the art gallery for an early lunch. Jeanne and I ate there a time or two and they have substantial sandwiches. While I eat, I let memories of Jeanne’s and my excursions to the gallery drift through my mind. I would love to have shared with her my excitement about Greg’s paintings. Suddenly I have a sinking of the heart, hoping I haven’t raised Greg’s expectations for nothing. Manning will be polite, I know that. Even if he doesn’t see much promise in the pieces I’ve brought, he’ll say that Greg should keep at his work, and to come back in a few years, when he has matured. He’ll tell me Greg needs to go to art school. But I’m hoping for more than that, and I know Greg is, too. I’m sure Manning won’t be calling a press conference, saying he has the next de Kooning or Rauschenberg on his hands, but somewhere in between would be nice.

  Before I leave the café, I use their pay phone to call Jenny to find out if Greg has been released. But I just get her answering machine.

  When I walk into Manning’s gallery, the woman who relieves me of Greg’s canvasses tells me that Mr. Manning will be in soon. In fact I’m half an hour early, so I use the time to look at the works he has up for sale. Manning has all kinds of art. Every dealer has to have variety. But it’s clear his taste tends toward the contemporary.

  I stop in front of a small painting that takes my eye by a woman I’ve never heard of, Melinda Buie, and all at once I miss Jeanne so much I almost have to walk outside to gather myself. Her presence is strong with me most of the time, but this is a different order altogether. I can hear her lilting voice exclaiming over the virtues of the painting, see her eyes alight with the pleasure of sharing an artist’s passion.

  All of a sudden Manning is at my elbow. “This reminds me of a couple of the pictures you and Jeanne bought,” he says. “You ought to think about buying it.”

  My voice is a croak. “I haven’t thought about adding to my collection for a while now.”

  “It would fit right in,” he says, not knowing what a gift he has given me. I can still have Jeanne with me if I am willing to make a bold purchase on my own.

  “I’ll sure think about it.”

  Manning glances around the room, which is empty except for me. “I thought the artist was coming with you.”

  I tell him that something came up, and that rather than reschedule, I decided to keep our appointment. “I can bring him back another time,” I say.

  “Fine. Maybe that’s best anyway, to let me make an assessment before I meet him. Let’s take a look at what you’ve brought.”

&n
bsp; The woman who greeted me when I first came in has taken Greg’s pieces to a back room and set them up on easels in their own little show. Seeing them set up like this, I realize that I was anxious that they would diminish in this world of proven art. But I needn’t have worried. As the woman who set them up leaves the room, I see in her eyes that I’ve not been mistaken. She casts a glance at me that combines the calculation of a dealer with the wonder of discovery.

  Manning takes his time, pausing in front of each one to take in the whole of it. The longer he takes, the more I relax. I’ve heard the art world described as being as fickle and unkind and capricious as a jaded coquette. Sometimes she makes mistakes and takes a temporary lover who in the end doesn’t suit. But she recognizes the best when she sees it, and embraces it. Finally Manning begins to nod.

  He turns. “How long has this artist been painting?” he asks.

  “Since he was kid,” I say. And then I laugh. “He’s only twenty-two.”

  “Twenty-two?” Manning shakes his head.

  “His daddy painted some, and I guess Greg took to it right away.”

  Manning puts his hand to his chin and strokes it, his eyes inward. “What was his father’s name?”

  “Oliver Marcus. But you wouldn’t have heard of him. He and Greg are light years apart.”

  “Well, he certainly passed something onto Greg. Now let me think what I can do with this work. I’ll be right back.”

  I’m wishing like hell that Greg could be here with me to watch Manning take his painting seriously. But I have a feeling he’s going to see the reaction many times in his life.

  While I wait for Manning to return, my eye is drawn to a bunch of landscapes standing in a row on the floor against the wall. They must have been on these easels, and taken down to display Greg’s paintings. I suppose Manning keeps them in this back room because it isn’t really his style. I normally wouldn’t give them a moment’s notice, but one of them in particular catches my interest.