Murder One

by Allen Kent

  I scrambled back up through the brush, pulling a plastic evidence bag from a pocket. “If he didn’t see where it went, he probably didn’t want to risk hunting around for it in case somebody came by.”

  “Now,” Joseph said, climbing up after me, “we just need a rifle to match it to or a good set of prints.”

  “I’m guessing there might be prints.” I held the bag open and she dropped the empty cartridge into it. “Verl would have been given the Marlin when he was released from jail. The guy probably leaves it loaded in his truck and when he saw us, just stopped and took the shot. No planning, so no thought about prints on the shells. Plus, I suspect the Greaves do their own reloading. When we get back into that place of theirs with some help, we might find casings Verl’s already fired. If we can get a match, we’re in business even without prints.”

  Joseph nodded. “It may be time to split up. I’ll report back to my office and see if I can get some help with the house search. What’s next on your list?”

  I didn’t need to consider the question. It had been eating at me since we left Springfield. “Mexico,” I said. “I want to find out who’s been selling Confederate gold in Mexico and where they got it.”

  17

  Marti looked up expectantly when I pushed through the office door, then quickly back down at whatever she was typing. Not a warm “welcome back.” Grace hunched forward at her desk, her cell squeezed between chin and shoulder, one hand scribbling notes while the other sorted through a loose stack of papers.

  “I’ll be out as soon as I can, Jim,” she said patiently into the phone. “I’ve got the description of the trailer and the license number, though I’d guess whoever took it will have swapped the plates. I’ll call the Arkansas patrol and the sheriffs’ departments in the counties south of the line. They’ve been running these trailers down there and repainting them. Maybe we can catch it while it still has Bowman Cattle Company on the side.”

  She listened for a moment, then said, “Good. I’ll tell them it’s also etched into the underside of the tongue. Smart thing to do.”

  I skirted her desk, not escaping an icy stare.

  “Be right back with you, Jim,” she said evenly and swiped the phone from her chin with the notetaking hand.

  “Good of you to stop in.” She took a quick glance at the Fitbit that served as her watch. “Must have been able to do a little more investigating this afternoon.”

  I tried to ignore the sarcasm but felt it tighten the muscles along my jaw. “We made another stop at the Greaves place,” I said too defensively. “Verl’s gone, and we found the place boobytrapped. Officer Joseph’s gone back up to Springfield to get some help sweeping the building. And . . .” I pulled the bag with the cartridge out of my pocket. “. . . we found a spent casing up on the ridge road. Thirty-thirty caliber.”

  “Nice work,” she said coolly. “Fortunately, crime in the county has come to a complete standstill while you’ve been playing detective, except . . .” She glanced down at the page of notes that had been occupying her writing hand. “. . .someone just stole Jim Bowman’s stock trailer. The big one he keeps chained beside the barn out on his south section. And Maria Hernandez called to complain that her husband was beating her up again. And . . . let me see . . . the school district called to report two children with bruises they think need to be investigated. And the Ridenours think someone may be cooking meth in an old shack at the back of their place. . . Shall I go on?”

  “And Nettie Suskey got murdered in our county,” I snapped back at her. “That hasn’t happened while I’ve been in this job.”

  “But something like that will happen again. And you can’t just stop doing everything else when it does. There are only two of us here in the office, and that’s what the state police and your little investigator friend are out there for.”

  “It’s our jurisdiction. They’re just supposed to be additional resources.”

  “As much resource as we need to allow us to get other work done,” Grace argued.

  I knew she was right. I’d become obsessed with Nettie’s murder and pretty enthralled with the company of Mara Joseph.

  “You’re right,” I admitted. “I need to balance this out. I’ll get a notice out about Bowman’s trailer and run out to see him. I can check the shack out there behind Ridenour’s place on my way back. Why don’t you follow up on the kids and stop to talk to Maria. You know she’ll have changed her mind about pressing charges by the time you get there. She always does.”

  “Fair enough. Is the inspector coming back with her people this evening?”

  I shrugged what I hoped would look like a lack of real interest. “I don’t know. She’ll call when she has a team together.”

  Grace grunted a soft humpf. “One of us probably should be there when they go through the house.”

  “One of us should,” I agreed.

  She rose from her chair, pushed her weapon further back on her hip, and headed for the door. “We’ll see who’s available,” she called back and didn’t wait for a reply. Marti cast me another dark look, then buried herself again in her typing.

  I tapped my computer to life and opened the browser. When the search box opened, I entered “1861-D dollar coin Mexico.”

  The top item on the list was Mazatlán Numismatics. A brief description said that the dealer in rare coins from across the Americas was again able to offer a rare, authenticated 1861-D gold dollar, minted by the Confederate States of the United States during the nation’s Civil War. This was, the posting explained, the fifth such mint-perfect example of the very rare coin the dealer had acquired in as many years, but may be the last. The coin would be auctioned via a live tele-auction on November 30th.

  I scanned to the bottom for the address. 1171 Angel Flores Pte., Mazatlán, Mexico. Five coins in five years. Just about the schedule Nettie would have followed to maintain her livelihood after she left the school cafeteria. And something to think about as I drove out to talk to Jim Bowman.

  Joseph called at 9:45 as I was trying to decide whether to read myself to sleep with the newest Jacob Stone novel I was having trouble getting into or listen to a DVD of conversational Arabic to keep my language skills from rusting away. Late afternoon had been uneventful. Marti had called before I reached the Bowman place to let me know an observant Arkansas state patrolman had pulled over a stock trailer that met our description and appeared to have fresh spray paint on the side. Bowman Cattle Company was etched on the underside of the hitch tongue. Jim could drive down and claim his property in Harrison. When I reached Bowman’s with the news, I looked like a hero. I hadn’t done squat.

  The reported meth kitchen at the back of the Ridenour farm had moved, a spent butane cannister and a few aluminum pans left scattered about the old shed. If we’d run a drug-sniffing dog through the place, he’d have gone ballistic. But something had tipped off the cookers, and they had moved on to their next abandoned building. No victory for me there, but no messy drug raid either.

  “We’ll be down tomorrow,” Joseph said when I answered. “Should get there about 10:15. Do you want me to call your cell when we get close?”

  “Call the office,” I suggested. “If Grace is free, I might have her come out to monitor the search. She was feeling a little put-upon today.”

  “I’ll probably turn the team loose on it and do some other work. Where do you see this going next?”

  “We need to make the rounds of everyone in the county related to the Greaves. He may be holed up with family somewhere.”

  “That’s a definite,” she said. “His prints were all over the cartridge.”

  “That would seem to lead back toward the timber being the motive.”

  “Maybe,” she murmured. “Unless the Greaves knew about the coins.”

  “Seems unlikely. Nettie hated the guys. But we can ask when we find him.”

  “Is he related to many down there?’

  “Lots, if you count distantly. Close relatives? Half a dozen fami
lies.”

  “And they’d harbor him?”

  “Some might, depending on what he gives them as his story.”

  “And staying clear of the city bitch who shot LJ might convince them?”

  I chuckled. “You must know some of Verl’s kin.”

  “It’s not just a rural thing,” she said. “I know neighborhoods in Saint Louis where we’d run into the same thing.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “A general high regard for the law.”

  I shifted to what had been sifting through my brain during my drive around the county and as I’d microwaved a plateful of frozen shrimp for dinner.

  “What would you think of a quick trip to Mexico?”

  “You mean for you? Me? Or us?”

  “I was thinking us.”

  She was silent for a moment, then said, “To check on the sale of the Indian Princess?”

  “Yeah. I did a little more poking around on the web. Five 1861-Ds have been auctioned by this place in Mazatlán, the only five that have been on the market since the 2014 sale I told you about. They were private sales, so I couldn’t learn anything about the prices. But they had to have come from Nettie.”

  “That’s a pretty big inference.”

  I sniffed into the phone. “A damn solid inference. Nettie had no other source of income we can find. She had a supply of the 1861-Ds and was purchasing everything with new hundred dollar bills. And these showed up on the market the year after she retired from the cafeteria.”

  “Why did she wait ‘til then to sell any?”

  “She probably didn’t need to and may have been a little nervous about taking them public. Not sure who really owned them. That’s why she had the library do the search.”

  “Who do you think does own them? They were stolen from the Confederacy, then from a Union wagon train.”

  “I’ve no idea,” I confessed. “The California case suggests she did. But we need to establish that the ones being sold were hers. That’s why I think a trip to Mexico is needed.”

  She was again silent for a moment, then, “Why not take Grace? She speaks fluent Spanish.”

  “I’d rather go with you. And you’re the chief state investigator. Plus, someone needs to be in charge here while I’m gone, and I wouldn’t trust things to Frankie or D’Amico.”

  “I’m not sure we could justify both of us going down there.”

  “Probably not. But I think it would help if both of us were there. I thought I’d call the seller, tell them I’m an interested bidder but would like to inspect the coin before the sale. If we show as a couple it will be more convincing.”

  “And leave Officer Torres to do all the grunt work again while you run out of town with me? That will make you popular.”

  “This murder is our case. And I think I could talk one of the retired police officers in town into stepping back into a deputy role for a few days while I’m gone. That would give Grace some help. He’s still around town and was a good lawman.”

  “And you explain my going by . . .?”

  “I don’t explain your going. Would the State support you going down?”

  “Probably not. Especially if they knew you were making the trip.”

  Just as I’d figured. But I’d decided to ask anyway. “Could you take a couple of days off and go along? Or you could go as the investigator, and I’d take a couple of vacation days.”

  I thought for a moment that she’d hung up. “You still there?”

  “Yes. I’m thinking about this. It’s sounding more like an out-of-country rendezvous than an investigation.”

  “It’s no more than we make it. I think I need to go check this out and believe I’d benefit from having you there with me.”

  “When are you thinking of going?”

  “Flying down Sunday. Back Tuesday. There are direct flights from Dallas. I’ll probably leave from Northwest Arkansas. You could come from Springfield.”

  “You’ve been thinking this through.”

  “Yes, I have. I’m planning to go Sunday. I’d like to have you with me.”

  There was quiet again, but I knew she was still there. “I’ll let you know tomorrow,” she said finally. “Better go now,” and she hung up.

  While the team from the state patrol began to work its way through Verl and LJ’s hoard, Joseph and I started looking for Verl. His sister lived in Lakeview Estates, a ring of fifteen homes built around an eleven-acre pond out northeast of town. The houses were some of the nicest in the county, built using one of five floorplans offered by Davis-Lauderdale, a developer out of Springfield. When Darleen Greaves had walked out on LJ twenty years ago, she’d taken their only daughter Becky with her. Somehow the girl had survived high school being related to Verl and had gone on to finish the dental hygiene program up at Ozarks Technical College. The day after she graduated, she’d married one of the Lauderdale boys who’d been enrolled in a building trades internship program. He’d talked his father into investing in Lakeview and the couple had made a bundle of money selling lots and building “custom” homes to a commuter set looking for country living. Doug and Becky were good people. I knew they’d chase Verl off with a stick if he showed up at their door. But Becky also would know where else to look, and I’d just as soon start the day with someone friendly.

  Grace and Rocky had joined the team from the state at the Greaves warren. They’d be tied up all day. Deputy Ritter had orders to cover everything else unless something major came up. Anything requiring the use of a weapon, he was to call me.

  Joseph didn’t say a word about Mexico as we drove out to the estate. Becky Lauderdale invited us in like she’d been expecting us and perched us on a cream-colored sofa looking out over the lake at an identical custom-built home that faced us two hundred yards away on the opposite shore. Just what you’d want in secluded country living. I introduced Joseph, and she sat stone silent while I small-talked with Becky about family and life in general before seeing what she could tell me about her brother.

  “How’s your mother getting on?”

  Darleen had been in Chase Backman’s care center for over a year, too far down the Alzheimer’s road to know who Becky was, and needing more care than her daughter could provide. From what I’d heard, LJ had never been to visit the woman.

  “I’m down to working three days a week and spend part of the other four sitting with her. She loves to tell stories to anyone who’ll listen. Doesn’t know who I am, but I’m a good ear.”

  “Maybe a good thing, with all the trouble going on. You heard about Verl?”

  “Word flies, Tate. You know that.”

  “You seen him, by chance?”

  Becky’s smile was sad and cynical at the same time.

  “He’s as likely to show up at your place as mine,” she sniffed. “Verl’s mean and hot-tempered. But he’s also as smart as an old badger and will have gone to ground just as deep. You won’t find him anywhere in the county.”

  “Not even with your people over along Huckleberry Ridge?” I knew them all. They’d been my neighbors growing up.

  “I don’t think so, Tate. And he won’t have told any of them where he’s holed up. He knows you got friends over there, and he’s not got many. He wouldn’t chance someone ratting him out.”

  “If he did get in touch with someone, maybe to get some cash or stock up on what he needed to drop out of sight, who would it be?”

  “You know them as well as I do, Tate. Charlie. Maybe Packy Durbin. But like I say, he’ll know you’ll be going right to those people.”

  “Not Packy,” I said. “He’s being held over in Tulsa for cutting a guy with a bottle in a bar fight. Been over there most of two weeks.”

  “See? You know more about what’s going on in the family than I do.”

  “Well, I think I’ll run out there and make sure Verl hasn’t moved into Packy’s place while he’s away.”

  “Be careful, Tate. When you put on that badge, you quit being part of the ridge runners.”


  “Who are the ridge runners?” Joseph asked as we cut across north of town, past Darnell’s studio and my place, and turned down into the southeast corner of the county.

  “That’s what we used to call ourselves. The kids growing up along Huckleberry Ridge. ‘Til I was about twelve, we’d group up after school, grab our 410s or .22s, and go looking to see what we could shoot.”

  “Like what?”

  “Squirrels. Possums. Turkeys. Sometimes a deer.”

  “Without a license?”

  I glanced over to see if she was teasing or if she could really be that naively serious. What I saw was naively sincere. I decided to scrape a little of it off her.

  “Out where I grew up, the law was just something people in the city needed to settle their squabbles because they lived too close to each other. I can’t think of any law we really took too seriously.”

  It was her turn to decide if I was being serious. “You’re kidding, of course?”

  “Nope. Weren’t there some laws you all just chose to ignore over there in University City?”

  Her brow wrinkled and she stared ahead through the windshield. “I honestly can’t think of one, except maybe crossing against the light when no cars were coming.”

  “Wow. And you’re free to tell about it?”

  “Don’t mock me,” she said indignantly. “You come spend some time with me in the city and see if you’re right on top of everything.”

  She was right. I’d spent my share of city time and had made more blunders than I cared to remember. I nodded an apology. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair to you. But I only tease people I really like. And I wanted you to be prepared for Huckleberry Ridge. I don’t think there’s a place out there on a permanent foundation. A few still have outhouses and water from a pump.”

  “And you grew up out there?”

  “Til I went away to college.”

  “Any family there now?”

  “Extended family. My father was killed cutting trees when I was a kid. Mom died while I was in the service. Those that are left aren’t close enough that we get together.”