Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  ***

  James W. chuckled. Frank Ballard was even dumber than he’d thought. The sheriff sat in Ben’s Silverado, two parking rows behind Ballard. The pastor had made a clean getaway in the rented Chevy Tahoe Ben was driving, and the dumb cluck talked on his phone the whole time.

  James W. had figured the traitorous deputy would pull a surveillance gig, but he hadn’t expected it would be so easy to find the idiot. Ballard was sitting in the front row of parked cars facing the hospital’s main entrance. The computer screen mounted off the dashboard was clearly visible to anyone who bothered looking in a window.

  James W. waited five minutes, then ten before he put in the call to Angie. “Hey,” he said. “Looks like the preacher got away clean.”

  “I can come down now?” Angie sounded anxious.

  “Yep, but stick to the plan. Joanne got you some scrubs? Dark ones?”

  “They’re navy blue,” she said.

  “And a couple of folks to walk out with?”

  “Yep. Oh, and we’ll all be wearing bouffants.”

  James W. furrowed his brow. “Wasn’t that a hairstyle back in the sixties?”

  He heard Angie chuckle. “It’s what the medical world calls the shower caps they wear in surgery.”

  “Bouffant. Got it.” He didn’t, but whatever. “All right, then. Come on down.”

  It didn’t take Angie long to appear at the front door. With her hair swept up in the shower cap, he could barely make her out from the three other staff members who walked with her. The group headed toward the staff parking lot off to the right. James W. started the engine on Ben’s truck.

  Angie and Joanne Frugoni were in lockstep, laughing and talking about something. It was a good ploy, James W. figured. They certainly didn’t look like they were doing anything out of the ordinary. James W. stopped at the corner where the sidewalk entered the staff lot.

  Angie sent a friendly wave Joanne’s way, and climbed into the front seat.

  James W. checked his rear view mirror. Two men stood beside Ballard’s car, and he was handing the computer he’d been watching all afternoon to them through the window.

  “What’s wrong?” Angie demanded.

  He watched a little longer. Ballard finally rolled up his window and backed his car out of the parking lot.

  “Is he following us?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  James W. didn’t answer, but watched Ballard turn north on the access road. James W. breathed a sigh of relief. He and Angie were going south. “No,” he said. “He’s headed the wrong way. Just turning it over to the next shift, I guess.”

  “Good,” Angie said and pulled off her shower cap. “Now what’s in the McDonald’s bag?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sowing Mistrust

  Mike sat in the recliner in James W.’s office—a dark-paneled room with an ornate, over-sized desk, a gun safe, and a bar. Though the back of the house was now in shadow, the walnut plantation blinds were closed tight, and the lights in the room turned low.

  Mike nodded his approval. He had to admit Sheriff Novak knew what he was doing, and was dead serious in doing it.

  “You’re staring at the bar.”

  He looked up to see Angie standing in the doorway, arms crossed against her chest.

  “The doctor said no alcohol.”

  “Believe me, I’m tired enough now,” he said. “I think I’ll stay in this chair tonight.” He closed his eyes, and his head sank back into the buttery leather.

  “No way,” she said. “You’re sleeping flat on your back tonight. In a bed.” She walked in and sat in the recliner directly across from his. She popped up the foot rest, and nestled into the chair. “Although I can see your point.” She stretched. “Are you hungry yet?”

  “No,” Mike said. “Ben had a Quarter Pounder and a Big Mac waiting for me in the Tahoe.”

  Angie sniffed. “I only got a Big Mac.”

  Mike’s eyes twinkled. “I guess he likes me better.”

  The sound of footsteps in the hallway had both of them sitting up quickly. Mike moaned at the quick motion, but Angie slammed down the footrest and got to her feet. When Ben Yeck appeared in the doorway, Mike breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Castleburry’s here now, so I’m heading out.”

  “Who’s Castleburry?” Mike asked, his voice wary.

  Angie turned to him. “One of James W.’s deputies. He and Martens work the night shifts in the county.”

  “Have they been with the sheriff’s department for long?” Mike heard the challenging tone in his voice, but he had a stake in this. His life.

  Ben considered. “Castleburry’s been on the force since Hurricane Katrina. He relocated here ‘cuz of the floods. He’s got family in these parts.” Ben squinted, trying to remember more. “Martens has only been on the force ten years. But he grew up here in town. His dad sells farm equipment over by Interstate 10. Nice fellow.”

  Mike nodded. “I sure appreciate all you’ve done today.” He held out his hand.

  “All I did was drive to Austin and back. No hardship for me.” Ben gave Mike’s hand a hearty shake. “Holler if you need anything. And Angie.” He nodded her way. “Castleburry would like a word.”

  “Be right back,” she said to Mike and hurried out of the room.

  “Any idea when James W.’s coming back?” Mike suddenly felt vulnerable without Angie in the room.

  Ben glanced at his watch. “It’s five o’clock. He’s probably picked up the ladies and is heading back up to Austin. Then he has to return the Tahoe up north and get his own truck back. I’d say around eight?”

  Three hours, Mike thought. That was a long time to be without the man he trusted with his life. “Any idea where I’m going after tonight?” Mike asked.

  Ben shrugged. “You can trust James W. to find the right place. He’s quite fond of you, you know.”

  Though Mike didn’t remember knowing James W. before, he knew that Ben’s statement was true. “Is all the physical therapy stuff out of your truck?” he asked.

  “We unloaded it in the garage. James W. will bring it in when he gets back. Wants to do it under cover of night.” Ben sent Mike a salute and headed for the door as Angie walked back in.

  Mike did a second take when he saw she was carrying a handgun.

  “What’s that all about?” He demanded.

  “James W.’s orders.” She held her 9 mm Glock up for him to see. “Don’t worry, I know how to use this,” she said when she saw his surprised expression.

  Mike was speechless. “He told you to wear a gun?”

  “He also suggested that I make sure you and me are gonna be tighter than two coats of paint. He knows I’d charge hell with a bucket of ice water if someone threatened you.”

  “A bucket of water won’t do much good against hell,” he muttered.

  “Don’t play any stupid ‘but you’re a girl’ stuff on me, or we’ll see how good I can shoot. Now roll up your sleeve. It’s time to take your blood pressure.”

  Chastised, Mike nodded his head obediently. “Yes, ma’am.”

  ***

  “So whose truck is this?” Elsbeth stopped on the porch when she saw the navy blue Tahoe parked in Pearl’s gravel driveway.

  “I had a flat in Austin this morning.” James W. placed her suitcase in the back seat. “All four tires were pretty worn. I’m using this loaner while the garage puts on a new set.”

  “You didn’t take it to Aaron’s Sinclair Station?” She hauled herself into the front seat. “He would’ve appreciated the business.”

  “Kinda hard to do when the tire blew in Austin.” He slammed the back door shut, then went to the house to help Pearl with her bags.

  Her hands were shaking as she fished the keys from her purse. “A little nervous, I guess,” Pearl said.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  Her smile was wry. “Do you mean marrying Bo or telling Elsbeth?”

  A corner of his mouth lif
ted. “Yes.”

  She locked the front door. “I believe in the good Lord, I believe in Bo, and I believe in Elsbeth. This is going to turn out all right.” She handed the keys over to James W., then headed down the stairs.

  James W. picked up her suitcase and followed in her wake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, he recited to himself.

  “Your phone rang,” Elsbeth said as he helped Pearl into the backseat. “Your secretary.”

  James W. glared. Leave it to Elsbeth to check his caller I.D. He got in behind the wheel, punched the callback button and brought the phone to his ear. At least he could keep Elsbeth from overhearing the conversation.

  Sarah picked up on the first ring. “I was hoping you’d be in the office today,” she said by way of greeting.

  “Things got kinda busy. Is there trouble?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Hearing the hesitation in her voice, James W. climbed out of the truck, nodded Elsbeth’s way and mouthed “This’ll take a sec.” He shut the driver’s door and walked a few feet away from the cab. “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering...maybe I should talk with Angie, but I thought you might know.”

  James W.’s radar went on high alert. One of the things he appreciated most about his secretary was her ability to get to the point. “Sarah, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s just a quick thing.” He could imagine her biting her lip—a habit she often fell into when trying to be delicate. “Has Chelsea’s body been released yet? To family?”

  James W. blew out a breath. “I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “Does she have family?”

  There was a pause, then Sarah answered. “I believe she was estranged from them. Had been for years.”

  James W. drew in a long breath. “What’s your interest in the matter?”

  “She and I were...friends. Good friends. I wanted to make sure she was taken care of.” Sarah’s voice cracked on her last words.

  James W. studied his phone for a moment. Sarah was holding something back, but this was obviously a personal matter. On the other hand, Chelsea had been murdered and Sarah might know more about that than she was saying. “Sarah, is there something you want to tell me about Chelsea’s murder?”

  “What? No!” She exhaled with a laugh. “Seriously. We were friends. We got to know each other through the trivia team. I want to make sure she’s taken care of. And I was thinking you might want to tell Angie about the family thing. As Chelsea’s employer, maybe she’d like to help with the arrangements.”

  “You really think her family won’t help?”

  “Won’t help. Won’t care. They gave her the boot three years ago.”

  “How did Chelsea end up in Wilks?” he asked.

  “No idea, but she’s originally from Maryland. She’s got no one down here that’s family, but she had friends.”

  James W. looked back at the truck, where Elsbeth was waiting impatiently. To demonstrate the fact, she raised her hand and pointed to her watch.

  “Look, Sarah, I don’t know where the medical examiner’s at with releasing Chelsea’s body, but I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

  “I appreciate it, James W., and could you let Angie know the situation?”

  “I sure will.”

  Elsbeth was now knocking on the window and glaring at him.

  “I gotta get Pearl and Elsbeth to Austin,” he said. “I’ll call you when I hear more.”

  “Thanks, James W.”

  He clicked off the call, but didn’t move toward the truck immediately. What was that all about? He’d never noticed a tight relationship between Chelsea and Sarah before, and now his secretary wanted to make sure the barmaid had a decent funeral? How odd.

  “James W., we’ve got to get going!” Elsbeth had opened her door and was standing on the step.

  “Coming dear,” he said. He put the phone in his pocket and hurried to the truck.

  His mood was bolstered by the happy chatter between Elsbeth and Pearl as they headed down the dirt road. Pearl pulled a Fodor’s guidebook from her purse, and opened it to restaurants in Manhattan. “What kind of food do you want to try?”

  Elsbeth cackled. “Well, I sure don’t want to see their attempts at southern cooking. How about German?”

  “I was thinking French,” Pearl said.

  Twenty minutes later James W. was driving down Mason Street, headed for Highway 71. He allowed a satisfied smile. All things considered, today had been a success. Matt’s condition was good enough for the doctor to release him from that birdcage of a hospital. Matt’s exit from Brackenridge had come off without a hitch. Angie and the preacher were snugged up at James W.’s home for the night. And Elsbeth and Pearl seemed as excited as two kids going to a carnival for the first time.

  He reached over and patted his wife’s hand, then looked in the rear view mirror at Pearl. “It sounds like y’all are gonna have a great time.”

  Elsbeth squeezed his hand. “Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, then slowed the truck to a stop at the four-way between Angie’s Fire and Ice House and Aaron’s Sinclair Station. A look to his right showed Ben Yeck gassing up his truck. James W. accelerated to clear the intersection then gave a quick glance over at the Fire and Ice House. He slammed on the brakes.

  Elsbeth jammed her hand against the dash. “What in the world?”

  James W. immediately recognized the Honda Civic parked in front of the Ice House. After all he’d been watching it all afternoon. What the hell is Frank Ballard doing at the Ice House?

  “James W., is everything okay?” Pearl asked from the back seat.

  There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t call Bo with Elsbeth sitting right beside him. He couldn’t go in the Ice House without Elsbeth ripping him a new one. Besides his mere presence in the bar would be an indication to Ballard that Matt was no longer at Brackenridge.

  “Sorry, ladies,” he said. “There was a squirrel.” Reluctantly he pushed down the accelerator and headed out of town.

  ***

  I feel like I’m on a death watch, waiting for Ballard’s report on Hogan. And it’s my death I’m worried about.

  The three of us—The Chief, Kodak and me—have been holed up in my one-bedroom Bastrop apartment all day. Nobody in, nobody out. Lunch was a pizza delivery, and that was six hours ago. I’m hungry, and my bravado is waning. I’m still playing the hand that Kodak screwed up the IV, but it’s gonna take Ballard to confirm my story. I look out the front window, and note the sun is disappearing below the horizon.

  Where the hell is he?

  Kodak’s taken up residence at my small kitchen table. He’s been on his computer all afternoon, running the day to day of the Chief’s organization. For his part, the Chief has been catching up on his baseball. The Marlins played a double header today against the Nationals. He’s been sitting in the only recliner, drinking cokes, and watching his Marlins blow both games. His mood has turned nastier as each losing inning has passed.

  I’ve been relegated to the couch, which is right in front of the TV. Since I hate baseball, I’ve surrounded myself with newspapers and magazines. Thank God for the Wall Street Journal’s weekend crossword.

  Finally I hear a car pull up outside, and I go to the window to peer out through the closed draperies. “Thank God,” I say when I see Frank Ballard get out of the car.

  The news breaks the tension building in the room. Kodak clears his computer off the dining table, and the Chief gets up and stretches. I go to the door to let Ballard in with what I hope is some of Dorothy Jo’s fine cooking.

  At his knock, I open the door and my hopes are immediately dashed. “Pizzas?” I say.

  “The Ice House’s kitchen is closed. Pizzas are all they’re serving.” Ballard pushes by me into the room.

  Crap. Mondays special is Dorothy Jo’s crawfish etouffee. As far as I’m concerned it’s the best etouffee this side of the Louisiana
border.

  Ballard puts the pizzas down on my small dining table, then heads for the fridge. “Got any cold beer in here?”

  “So where are we with Hogan?” The Chief asks.

  “He’s still snug as a bug up in Brackenridge. I’ve got two men watching all the exits, and cameras on every door.”

  “And what’s the lowdown on this Pendergast fellow?” The Chief sits down at the table, opens the first pizza box and scowls. “This is store-bought,” he protests. He shoves the box away.

  “Newspaper reporter for the Dallas Daily News. He hates Jimmy Jr.—the sheriff’s son who’s running for governor. Pendergast’s doing anything he can to torpedo the campaign.”

  “And this involves Hogan because?”

  I sit down at the table as the Chief continues to question Ballard. I pull the opened pizza box towards me, then reach in for a piece. “It’s cold!” I protest.

  Ballard glares at me. “It’s a twenty minute ride between here and the Ice House. Don’t be picky.” He turns back to the Chief. “Apparently Pendergast made some pretty insulting statements about Jimmy at the Ice House on July 4th. Hogan got involved in the spat. Made Pendergast look like an idiot. The man holds a grudge.”

  “What’s Pendergast’s beef with the—what’s the candidate’s name?” The Chief pulled the second box over and opened it.

  “James Novak Wilks, Jr.,” Ballard supplied. “His grandpa—the sheriff’s daddy—was a bigwig in the Texas political scene. Pendergast suspects some ghosts in that closet, and can’t stand the ‘good ole boy’ back room politics in Texas. He blames that machine for keeping stories from him. They’re the reason he’s not more successful. And Jimmy’s been handpicked by the outgoing governor to step in and keep the state running the way the good ole boys like it.”

  Kodak grabs a piece from the second box. “Pendergast’s not from Texas, I take it.”

  “St. Louis, Missouri.” Ballard flips open his beer.

  The Chief turns to me. “Do you know anything about this?”

  “I know Hogan and Elsbeth—that’s the sheriff’s wife—were barely on speaking terms until Hogan took a couple of layers off of Pendergast’s backside.”