A Killing at Cotton Hill (28 page)

“Can you tell me where your husband is? I'd like to have a word with him.”

She studies my face. I hope it doesn't give anything away. She'll know what he's done soon enough. “Laurel said he came by this morning and then said he had some errands to run.”

“Do you have a phone number where I might reach him? I just have a couple things I'd like to go over with him about dispensing with Dora Lee's estate.”

“Oh, I see. Let me call him at his apartment. He was thinking about having the phone cut off to save money, but I don't know if he's done it yet. Come on back with me, and you can talk to him.”

I follow her to a tiny little back office, where she has been working. There are papers spread out on the metal desk with figures on them and penciled notations. “You keep the books?” I say.

“No, Wayne did that. But I decided I should go over them, too, so I'd know exactly what we're up against. I sometimes think if I had taken an interest sooner, I could have pulled us out. He was so distracted.”

She sits behind the desk and dials a number. She listens and shakes her head. “It's cut off. Let me try his cell phone.” She dials again and leaves a message for him to get back to her. She sits very still for a minute, thunder gathering in her face. “There's one other number I could try, I guess. He said it was only for emergencies with the kids.”

The fury in her eyes and the extra phone number lay it all out for me. Wayne most likely spent money he didn't have to make some other woman happy.

Her phone rings and when she answers it, her face hardens. “There's a Mr. Craddock here to see you.” She pauses. “Well, what should I tell him?” She looks startled and then hangs up the phone. Her cheeks are flushed.

“He's not in a good state of mind. But there's no need to be rude.”

“I'm wondering if you would mind giving me his address, so I can stop by and see him.”

“He's not home. He said he's on his way back out to Dora Lee's. He says he has a couple of things he left undone.”

Something about that turn of phrase troubles me. But at least I know I'm through here. I thank her and start to leave, but then I think of one more thing. “Could you tell me what kind of car you drive?”

“A BMW. Why?”

“Did you ever lend it to your husband?”

“Lend it? No. He had it for a few days a couple of weeks ago. He wanted to take it to a dealer to see what he could get for it. He said the payments are too high and we'll have to sell it.”

“A convertible?” I say.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Just a guess.”

As I head for my car, the first fat drops of rain spatter on the sidewalk.

The further I drive toward home, the more anxious I get. What could Wayne have meant that he left something undone? And then, all of a sudden I know what he's planning just as sure as if he'd told me. Which in a way, he has. And as if to make matters worse, the clouds I saw earlier have caught up with me and rain is starting to come down in great slashes.

In spite of the hard rain, I speed up. While I rocket along, windshield wipers barely keeping up with the downpour, I get more and more agitated. I have no idea when Jackson left. He can't be in Cotton Hill yet, because his cell phone worked when his ex-wife called him, but he could be too far along for me to catch up to him. And the more I think about it, the more I think I'd better stop and make a call to Elvin Crown.

I'm on a freeway northwest of Houston and I look for an exit that has a sign saying there are gas stations. But this is an industrial part of town and I pass two exits, and drive another ten minutes before I see a place that likely has a telephone. If I know Dora Lee at all, she keeps an umbrella in the car. Sure enough, there's one on the floor in the back seat, and I'm glad for it, because the telephone is on the outside of the service station.

Not knowing Elvin's phone number right off, I have to call the information operator, and she tells me there is no such person. “But I know the man, and I know he has a phone.”

“Maybe his number is unlisted.” If she was any more disinterested, she'd be comatose.

There's no use arguing with her, so I hang up and call Loretta. I don't want to, but I know she'll help me out.

As soon as she hears my voice, Loretta starts in about the headstones she and Ida Ruth saw today.

“Loretta, we can talk about that later. I'm in a fix now and need your help.”

“What kind of a fix? And what's that noise? Where are you?”

“I'm in Houston and it's pouring rain. I'll tell you everything later, but now I need your help. Listen to me. Call Elvin and get his volunteer firemen out to Dora Lee's.”

“Oh, my Lord. Is there a fire?”

“Not yet, but I believe there will be soon.”

“Samuel, that doesn't make any sense,” she says.

“Tell Elvin I'll explain it to him when I get there. I'm about an hour out from Cotton Hill.”

I finally convince her to call him. Back on the road, I don't slow down, but at least I feel better about the chances.

The drive to Cotton Hill seems like it takes about ten hours. I'm grateful when I finally outrun the storm.

It's getting on for dusk by the time I pull off the road and head for the farm. I peer at the skies but don't see any sign of smoke or light.

I'm surprised not to see more cars at Dora Lee's. There's my pickup and Elvin's car, and Jackson's SUV. The house is dark except for a light in the kitchen. I'm trying to work out how I'm going to approach this.

I get out of the car and jigger my leg back and forth to get the kinks out of my knee. I go over to my pickup and take my cane out of the back. It's a decent weapon, not one of those aluminum jobs, but a substantial oak stick that Truly Bennett carved for me. When I mount the kitchen steps, I don't hear anyone talking. I wonder where Elvin is. I try to open the door, but it's locked. Someone is moving around inside. I rap hard on the door and the movement stops. “Jackson, I need to talk to you,” I call out. “It'll only take a minute.”

Saying those words take me back into my days as a lawman. They are words that never bode well for whoever is on the other side of the door.

His steps come close to the door. “I can't talk to you right now. You go on home.”

“Open the door, Wayne. I can make things a good sight easier for you, if we sit down and talk.”

Suddenly the door opens. Jackson looms up, and I get a whiff of menace that raises my neck hair.

“I don't know what you want,” he says. “But I don't have time to sit down for a little chat with you. I'm busy.”

“So busy you can't indulge your aunt's old friend?”

“I have to get on back to Houston tonight. I just came to pick up a few things I left.” He mops his face with his handkerchief.

“That's Elvin Crown's pickup out there. Is he inside with you?”

“I just got here. I have no idea about any Elvin.”

“I need to talk to you about that deal you have with the Underwoods.”

He hesitates. This is the least of his crimes. I know he's thinking that I'm a fool, and that if he can talk his way out of his part in that deal, he can head back to Houston and get away with everything else. “All right, come on in here.” And he does a curious thing. He glances back behind him to the part of the house beyond the kitchen. “But make it quick.”

I take my time, being an old man with a bum leg and probably a little demented besides. I tell him I'm awfully thirsty and get myself a drink of water and make my way slowly over to sit down at the kitchen table. Wayne doesn't sit until I tell him to in as friendly a way as I can muster. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know he's got a smear of blood on his pants. That gives me a bad feeling about Elvin. I wonder if Wayne thinks I can't smell the kerosene on him. I wonder where he has stashed the cans he planned to light this place up with.

“I think I ought to give you some friendly advice,” I say.

“I can't think what kind of advice I'd need from you.”

“Oh, you might find this interesting. In the next few days, Frances and Clyde Underwood are going to clear out of here. Their scheme to grab up the land that's under consideration for a racetrack has been found out, and your part of it no longer applies.”

His eyes squint up. “I don't have anything to do with the Underwoods.”

“Oh, I wish you wouldn't try to weasel out on this. I know they were going to cut you in on their deal if you could get Caroline and Greg to sell them their land. They planned to make a pack of money on it.”

“If you say so,” he says.

“I do. And what I need to tell you is that the big outfit in Houston that actually put the deal together didn't take kindly to someone stealing their plans.”

He nods and trots out a phony smile. “I'm still not saying I had anything to do with the Underwoods, but I appreciate your letting me know about this. If that's all, then I need to be on my way.”

Jackson has perked up now that his desperate plans don't have to be carried out. I figured out that he was going to set fire to the house and cabin. The idea was that if Greg was arrested, and when he got out of jail there was no place for him to come back to, he'd be more willing to sell to the Underwoods. Then Jackson would get the money they'd promised him out of the deal.

“No, Wayne, that's not all. I need to talk to you about my painting.”

“Your painting? I don't know what you mean.”

“The one you stole from my place and set the fire to cover it up.”

He stands up, his eyes dark and angry. “I never did any such thing.”

I lay my hands flat on the table, as if gentling down a spooky dog. “The deal I'm willing to make you is this. If you just get it back to me unharmed, I'll forget about the fire and tell the insurance company I was careless with some flammables. They'll believe that as long as they don't have to pay out for that painting. Then you could just go on your way.”

“That would sound like a good deal, if I had anything to do with it, but you've got the wrong man.”

“Here's the thing you need to know. With a painting that valuable, the insurance company is going to be sending an investigator, and you can be pretty sure they'll pursue every possibility.”

His face is all twisted up. “Well, what if they were to think what I think, that you took the painting off somewhere and set fire to your own place for the insurance money?”

Suddenly I hear something from the front of the house that sounds like a groan. Jackson's head snaps up. He looks toward the sound. Being an old man, my hearing can't be all that good, so I pretend I didn't hear a thing.

“The problem you have is that somebody saw you that night. I have an old neighbor who keeps a pretty sharp eye out. She described you pretty well.” A lie I don't feel one bit bad about telling.

He's got some panic in his eyes now, and he clenches and unclenches his fists. I calculate my chances if he attacks me. He's bigger than me, no doubt, but he's a city man, soft in the middle. I'm smaller than he is, but wiry, and except for my bum knee, I keep pretty fit. He's got another advantage, fear and anger at being cornered. But I've got my zeal for self-preservation on my side. It has boosted me out of a few tough situations. I believe that we are evenly matched. I stand up.

“You're a criminal. I'm giving you an opportunity to walk away. I met your nice wife this afternoon, and I know you've got kids. They're not going to want to find out their daddy stole a valuable painting.”

I have no intention of letting him walk away from killing Dora Lee, of course, but I'd like to get my Thiebaud back before I go on to the next subject. “What do you say?”

No telling what he would have said, because just then the back door opens, and Loretta says, “What in the world is going on out here?”

Just as Jackson turns his head to look at her, I lash out with a punch, landing it square on his jaw. I put everything I've got into it, which isn't as much as it used to be, but is enough to stagger him. To follow up my momentary advantage, I pick up my cane and bring it down hard at the back of his ear. He sags to his knees. It's not like the movies, where people get hit and then come back for more. A good blow usually works long enough to get the situation under control.

Loretta is screaming.

“Loretta, be quiet! Go get Greg. Now!”

She tears out the back door. I whip off my belt and hoist Jackson's hands behind him and tie them up as best I can. It won't stop him long, but long enough for me to find some tape. I rush into the laundry room and grab at boxes until I find duct tape. Back in the kitchen, I run the duct tape around Jackson's legs. He's stirring, but with his legs tied up he can't go anywhere. I do the same with his hands. Just as I'm done, he comes to enough to realize he's trussed up. He starts to bellow.