A Deadly Affair at Bobtail Ridge (4 page)

Jenny puts her arm around the woman's shoulders. “Mrs. Matthews, I know how much Mamma loved you. It's going to be hard for all of us to get along without her.”

Mrs. Matthews takes a tissue out of her sleeve and dabs her eyes. She looks sharply at Will and then at me. She may be grief-stricken, but not so much that she can't assess who Jenny's men friends are. Seeing that Jenny is well taken care of, I bow out, telling Jenny to call if she needs anything.

I'm at the juncture of two hallways, headed to the elevators when I see Dr. Patel hurrying down to meet Jenny for their appointment. I flag him down.

“Jenny would like to go ahead with the autopsy,” I say.

“Good, I'll take care of it right away.” He starts to walk away, and I put my hand up to stop him.

“A question. When I came here to visit Vera yesterday, she seemed agitated. If someone said something to upset her, could that have caused another stroke?”

He hesitates. “It isn't unheard of for someone with high blood pressure or with a weak immune system to be affected adversely by anger or from some terrible event. But Mrs. Sandstone was not an elderly woman and she was in generally good health. She should have recovered. I'll be glad of the opportunity to find out more from the autopsy.”

“I'm glad Jenny decided to go ahead then.”

“There is one thing. You were right, Mrs. Sandstone did have a visitor who upset her. One of my nurses told me there was an incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

Patel grimaces. “I can't say more than that. It's a privacy issue, but I wanted you to know that your question was not out of line.”

Back home, I call a few people Jenny is friendly with in town and tell them her mother passed away. In the best of times, Jenny is not a cook, and the food that people will bring her will be helpful. I make a fair beef stew myself, and I throw the ingredients into a Crockpot.

As I'm leaving for headquarters, Jenny calls and asks if I'll come to her mother's house later. Some of her mother's friends will be visiting this afternoon. “I need somebody to help me entertain them. You've got a gift of gab.”

I spend a couple of hours at work and then go over to Vera's house to help Jenny slog through conversations with the mourners. They all press to know when the funeral will be and what they can do to help. Jenny tells them she'll decide with the preacher tomorrow and let them know.

Mrs. Matthews has been fluttering around Jenny like a hummingbird and suddenly she says, “Jennifer, I hope I'm not out of line. Have you phoned your brother and told him Vera passed?”

Jenny's reaction takes me by surprise. Usually unflappable, she couldn't look any more stunned if the woman had slapped her across the face. When it's clear that she isn't going to reply, one of the other ladies says, “I'm sure Jenny will do what's right. This isn't the time to bother her.”

“I just meant . . .” Mrs. Matthews's voice trails away, and then she looks around the room. “Can I get anybody a refill of coffee?”

When the conversation returns to normal, Jenny signals me that she wants me to follow her. She takes me out onto the back porch. We stand looking out over the yard. “I just need a minute to collect myself,” she says.

The grass is freshly mowed. “Smells good out here,” I say. “You mow this yourself?”

She smiles and says, “You know me better than that. It was Nate Holloway from next door. As soon as I got here and told him Mamma was gone, he came over to clean up the yard and mow. He said he wanted everything to look as nice as Mamma would have wanted it to.”

“Sounds like a nice young man,” I say.

“You wouldn't think a twenty-five-year-old man would take any notice of an old woman like Mamma. Shows how much everyone loved her.” She crosses her arms, hugging herself. “Listen, I called you out here to ask you something. Did Dr. Patel have a particular reason for requesting an autopsy?”

“I think he just wanted to get as much information as he could. Why do you ask?”

“I don't know. He just seemed like he had something particular in mind.”

“He did mention one thing.” I tell Jenny her mother had a visitor who upset her.

“What do you mean he wouldn't tell you who it was? Why not?”

“He said it was a privacy issue.”

“She's dead. How much privacy does she need?”

“Maybe he'll tell you; just not me. Now, you want to tell me what that was all about in there? I didn't know you had a brother.”

She gets that same strained look on her face, but at least she doesn't stonewall me the way she did Mrs. Matthews. “For all intents and purposes, I don't,” she says.

I've become more accustomed to the horses in the past week and feel comfortable leading them into their stalls for the night. I could get Truly to do it, but I don't want to put him out, and besides, I haven't minded getting to know the horses. So when I get Mahogany to the door of his stall at dusk, I'm surprised when he balks and dances backward. “Come on in here. I'm not doing anything different,” I say, hoping the sound of my voice will calm him.

I pull on his lead, and he takes a few steps in, but he stamps his feet and blows through his nostrils, something he's never done before. His eyes are rolling and he looks frightened. I could let him stay in the pasture and have Truly come by later and put him away, but it hurts my pride to think I can't outsmart a cranky horse. I step deeper into the stall, speaking calmly, and Mahogany takes another step or two. He's halfway in now, and I move to the side to get out of his way. Suddenly he screams and rears. I jump back, dropping the lead. And that's when I see a huge rattlesnake on the floor of the stall. He's half-hidden by straw strewn on the floor.

“Son of a bitch!” I yell. Mahogany rears again, panicked. In the stall next door, Blackie takes up the panic and begins blowing and flailing around, kicking and butting up against the sides of the stall.

Mahogany continues to rear and stamp, his eyes wild. I fling myself up against the far wall to avoid his hooves—and to avoid the snake, which has begun to coil itself. “Whoa, boy,” I say. “Easy does it. Back on up. Take it easy.” I try to keep my voice even, although I'm as alarmed as the horse is. I'm relieved when Mahogany moves backward far enough to turn around and bolt out of the stall.

Now it's me and the snake, which is fully coiled and making that rattling noise that chills the blood. The snake is so long that he might be able to reach me if he strikes. I've got sturdy boots on, but I don't know how high up he can lunge. All he has to do is hit my femoral artery and I'm done for. I look for something to defend myself with and see a pitchfork on the wall just out of reach. Should I lunge for it or stay still? The slightest movement could set the snake off.

Knowing a bit about rattlers, I opt for stillness. It's a waiting game that has my legs shaking and gives me plenty of time to get a good look at the snake. This isn't your central Texas rattlesnake. It's thicker and longer. If I'm not mistaken this is a timber rattler, which you sometimes find in east Texas but not so much around here. When I worked as a land man and did a lot of land surveys, I made it my business to know the habits of the poisonous snakes in Texas—which are many. The timber rattler is less aggressive than some others. Sure enough, after a time of seeing no movement from me, he uncoils himself and slithers back under the straw.

I wait until my breathing is quieter and my legs less rubbery before I ease out of the stall, keeping my back to the wall and my eye on the straw where the snake disappeared. Out of the barn, I hunch over with my hands on my knees, taking deep breaths, waiting for my heart rate to slow down. The sun has set, but there's still a good bit of light in the sky. I'm relieved to see that Mahogany has retreated far down into the pasture, still blowing and dancing skittishly.

I go back into the barn and lead Blackie out to the pasture. I don't know what that rattlesnake has in mind, but I don't want it to corner Blackie. The horse is reluctant to leave and tries to go back into the barn, so I have to swat him on the rump to get him to move away.

I waste no time going back to my place for a shotgun. I come back and find a long-handled hoe, which I use to push straw aside until I uncover the rattlesnake. Then I dispatch it with a couple of shots. Normally I wouldn't bother a snake, but this one was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I feel sick thinking what could have happened if Jenny had come home, distracted, and tried to put the horses away.

After I hang the snake's body on the fence, I try to get the horses back in, but Mahogany is having none of it. I get Blackie in and then go back to my house and call Truly Bennett and tell him what happened. “I'd appreciate it if you'd help me get Mahogany in the stall. He's pretty spooked.”

“I don't blame him,” Truly says. “I'm glad it was you and not me found that rattler. You know I hate snakes.”

“I know you do, and I can't say I was too fond of this one myself.”

“What'd you do with the carcass?”

“I hung it on the fence.”

“Good. I'll take it to a lady I know who makes things with snakeskin. How about lye soap? Did you put some in the stall?”

“I'll take a bar over there now.”

I don't really believe in the old tale that says where there's one snake there's two and that a bar of lye soap will keep the second one away. But it can't hurt to put the soap out. I take the pitchfork and toss the straw in the stall around to make sure there are no more surprises.

When Truly arrives we coax Mahogany into the stall. Between the cut lock and the timber rattler that's out of its territory, I can't help wondering if somebody has it in for these horses—someone who knows how much Jenny cares for them.

CHAPTER 6

I'm glad that Truly is spending the night with the horses so I don't have to worry about them and can get a good night's sleep. Early the next morning I get a call from a jogger who says that Ellen Forester's art gallery has been vandalized. I call her and she says she'll meet me there.

She's there when I arrive, standing in front of the store with the look of someone who has been punched in the stomach. Her face is splotchy from crying, although she's dry-eyed now. She's pretty, even with the traces of tears on her face and no makeup. She's wearing jeans and an oversized shirt that makes her look even more petite than she is.

Hands on our hips, we survey the considerable damage to the front of the building. The big picture window that displays art has been smashed, and a couple of the paintings near the window have big splashes of red paint on them. The door and front of the building are also splashed with paint.

“This makes me so mad,” Ellen says. “I can hardly stand to look at it. Why would anybody be so mean?”

“You have insurance, right?”

She looks up at me, her dark eyes angry. “Of course, but it's got a high deductible. That's not the point anyway. The window can be replaced, but people have worked on those paintings, and even though they may not have any monetary value, they're important to somebody.” She surveys the damage again. “What's the chance of catching whoever did it?”

“I'm not going to lay any odds, but you'd be surprised how one thing leads to another and before you know it . . .” I shrug and then try to lighten her mood. “And it's always possible that someone will get a guilty conscience and tattle.”

She smiles. “You're thinking it might be teenagers?”

“It is that time of year.” It's prom, finals, and graduation in rapid succession. Kids get amped up, and there's no telling what they will get up to. But that's not actually who I think is likely to have done this. The damage to the window is so thorough that it has to have been more than somebody randomly throwing a rock from a car. It looks like somebody took a hammer and smashed out as much of the window as he could reach. “You got any other ideas. Had any threats?”

She shakes her head, eyes narrowed. She knows what I'm referring to.

“Could this be the work of your husband?”

“
Ex
-husband! I swear I'm going to convince everybody to call him that. And there's no reason he would do something so low.”

A crowd is forming, courtesy of Jarrett Creek's lively grapevine, all angry at the destruction. The gallery hasn't been open that long, but it already has a following of would-be artists who jumped at the chance to take classes from Ellen. Many of them huddle around her, commiserating.

Gabe LoPresto storms up to Ellen, “I bet this is the work of that husband of yours—or somebody he hired to do it.”

“We were just discussing that,” I say. “Let's not jump to conclusions.” Although I have to admit that I agree with him.

LoPresto considers himself witty, and a smirk comes to his face. “I don't suppose this is somebody's critical commentary on people's artwork?”