A Tough Nut to Kill (Nut House Mystery Series) (24 page)

She hesitated, looking around at all of us. “Do you get what I’m saying?”

Mama nodded. “Makes me think of Amos. How I misjudged him.”

I nodded, too.

Bethany looked up and said nothing.

“What have you got going on in your head, girl?” Miss Amelia frowned hard at her.

She shivered. “Nothing. Just thinking. Wondering, you know, how to make a funeral not so . . . depressing.”

“Must be Harry,” Mama said over her shoulder when she
got up to answer the doorbell. “Hope to heaven he left Chastity at home. There are times when that woman . . .”

Miss Amelia looked at me and sighed. “What was it that famous Northern woman wrote? ‘What fresh hell is this?’”

Harry was alone. I figured whatever he had to say must be serious; he had that big, fancy cowboy hat of his in his hands instead of on his head. A wide ring of hat hair circled the washed-out hair he had left.

We got through the pleasantries: “How ya doin’?” “How’s Chastity?” “How’s Justin doin’?” He sat down at the table with me, Miss Amelia, and Mama. Bethany excused herself, said she had something important to start working on, and was out of there as fast as I’ve ever seen her move.

Harry sat back, spread his knees, and settled down into himself. That Texas-sized belt buckle of his dug into his stomach, making a painful-looking bulge above and bulge below. First he tried a smile. Then gave us a worried frown.

“Might as well get right to it, Harry,” Miss Amelia urged.

He nodded at first her and then at me. “This is a lot about you, Lindy.”

My ears perked up.

“I been doing some of the same things you been doing.”

“What things?”

“With the trees. Trying my hand at some grafts. They teach you right on the computer how to do it. Got some going over there to my place.”

I was afraid to speak. All my years of study, my years of experimentation—and he thought he’d learn what I was doing in one computer lesson on grafting?

“No competition with you, Lindy. Just, well, what you’re doin’ can be worth a lot of money to some people. Seed companies. Pecan growers. I heard you was going to give it away and I applaud you for that. Yes, sir, that’s mighty civic-minded of you.”

“Maybe not give it away, Harry. Just make what I know available.”

“Well, that’s what I came over to talk about. It was Amos. He came into one of the back barns one day and saw what I was doing. Said it looked like I was going into competition with you. I swore it was nothing of that sort. Not at all. Then he said he could make it a lot easier for me. Made me a proposition.”

“What kind of proposition?” Miss Amelia asked before I could pry my mouth open.

“Said he could get in over here anytime he wanted. If I was interested, said he could put his hands on your research. Might be able to bring me some of your trees. Anytime I wanted, is what he told me.”

I sat back, bowled over. Uncle Amos? Worse than I could ever have imagined—Amos willing to steal my work.

“Said he wanted in. A share in the patents. Amos thought that might put the Rancho en el Colorado out of business, with my trees better than yours. You can see where he was going. He wanted a share of my ranch, too. The man wasn’t above asking for the moon.”

“What you’d tell him?” I asked when I could get the words out.

“Just what you’d imagine I’d tell him. Told him what you were doing here was for all the ranchers, not for just a few of the greedy ones. Told him it was wrong, what he was thinking. Told him, too, I’d come right to you if anything happened to your trees.” He nodded hard. “Yup, that’s what I told him. Thought I stopped it right there. Then you found him here like you did, Lindy. Makes you wonder.”

“I found him dead, Harry.”

“I know. I know. Just that, well, I’m feeling guilty that I didn’t go to the sheriff with what I know. Chastity said maybe I should come here first. You know, give you a heads-up. We were talking and we both were thinking, this won’t look good for you, Lindy, and we don’t want to hurt you. You know, like making the police suspect it was you killed Amos all along.”

Miss Amelia cleared her throat. “I think what you’re saying, Harry, is you’re not going to the sheriff with this bit of news because it might look bad for Lindy, is that it?”

“That’s what I was thinkin’. There’s some kind of code between all us ranchers, don’t you think? I mean, I wouldn’t do a thing to hurt one of you Blanchards.”

Mama stood, smiling the kind of smile that can freeze a kid’s blood at a yard and a half. “Well, we’re grateful for it, aren’t we?”

Mama looked around at all of us. I recognized the pasted smile. “And aren’t we grateful we’ve got a friend like Harry Conway?”

She turned back to Harry. “You do what you’ve got to do, Harry. We Blanchards do things by the book. That was Jake’s motto: Do the right thing. We stand by that.”

She walked toward the door, then turned back to look expectantly at Harry, who finally got the message and rose from his chair, settling his hat back on his head.

“Just wanted you to know . . .” He went on with his pitch for keeping news from the sheriff. Since we weren’t having any of it, he gave up and left the living room, making his way to the front door alone.

We heard the door close and turned to each other, openmouthed.

“What was that all about?” Mama asked.

“Currying favor,” Miss Amelia said. “I believe they’re not doing so well over there. Way Chastity tries to get my pecan pie recipe. Way I hear, they’re discounting the nuts they got left from last year. And some other things. Now they got that tent they’re putting up. It really is a tent. Some kind of army surplus thing. I can just imagine what that store of theirs will look like.”

“Mama,” Miss Emma falsely chided. “You’re not sounding too sweet about those poor people.”

“These aren’t ‘sweet’ times, Emma,” Miss Amelia said. “These are war times and you gotta call a spade a spade.”

Since I was on Grandma’s side in this battle, I stepped right in. “Think that was blackmail? Could be he wants in on my new trees,” I said. “I always figured I’d run up against a few like that. Poor Harry. Maybe he is in a bad way. Sorry about that but the last thing I want to do is keep everything to myself. They’re either available for everybody, or I swear I’ll tear the trees out myself.”

“Or . . .” Mama stopped us, her face tired. “Maybe Harry’s telling the truth. And that letter to me from Amos—was all just another pack of his lies to throw us off our guard.”

I slept in my old room again, upstairs, near the back of
the house. If ever there was a time we needed to be together, I figured it had to be now. As if the universe had shifted and life was never going to be the way it was, I didn’t trust anything I knew and couldn’t even guess at all the things I didn’t know.

Harry trying to make a dollar off my work. Or maybe he had stopped Amos. It almost didn’t matter.

What mattered was that Daddy was dead. Nothing would change that for any of us. But dead because something went wrong and he sort of fell on his sword—so to speak—was different from learning he was dead because someone decided to take his life.

I dug through the old clothes I had left. All I wanted was something clean to sleep in and something to put on in the morning. There was teenage underwear I’d no doubt be tugging at all day, and jeans with the required tears at the knees and just under the butt.

Good enough for morning.

And a pair of pajama pants I could wear with a faded T-shirt to sleep in.

When I hit the bed, I was sure I’d be awake all night. My mind skipped from one picture to the other: trees and plant stakes and overturned mowers. Then back again. I thought if I stayed awake long enough, I’d figure everything out. But I fell into a sleep that closed around me like dark cotton. I didn’t stir until a bell woke me. At first I thought it was the bell over the door at the Nut House, and then I remembered I wasn’t there. I was home, lying in my old bed, facing my big Willy Nelson poster on the far wall—the poster that ticked everybody in the house off because of his alleged use of marijuana, which had pleased me back then, when I was a teenager and into full rebellion.

The noisy bell was my cell phone ringing, my ring tone being Big Ben or some other large chiming thing. I rolled over to answer it, checking the bedside clock. Six. And then the number on the phone. Not a familiar number. I pressed the answer button and said a sleepy, “Hello.”

“Lindy Blanchard?”

The woman’s voice was hesitant.

I said, “Yes,” hoping it wasn’t some survey that would drive me wild since I was on the cell phone “Do Not Call” list and took every infraction as a personal affront.

“I was told to call you. You’re his niece?”

I sat up, kicking my way out of the tangled sheet.

There was only one call I was waiting for.

“Yes. I’m Amos’s niece. Is this Virginia?”

“I heard you were looking for me.”

“You can say that again. You’ve got something of my uncle’s. A package he asked you to keep for him, in case of his death?”

A long pause.

“So he is dead.” A weak and trembling question.

I took a deep breath. “Sorry, Virginia. That was insensitive. Yes. He is dead. Killed right here on our ranch. I was the one who found him.”

Only a moan from the other end.

“Hope they get whoever did that. Amos didn’t deserve . . . You know, the only reason he went back to your town was to make it up to all of you. All his family. That’s part of our program—make amends for all the terrible things alcohol led us to do.”

I quickly thought how Mama would be relieved to hear that.

“I can imagine it was hard.” I wanted to keep her talking, persuade her to meet me, hand over the package.

“Amos found out something about somebody trying to hurt your family. That’s what’s in the package. There’s a police report. Newspaper stories. Some kind of detective’s report.”

“Is there a name? The person he focused on? Any clue who it’s about?”

She was quiet a minute. “Amos said I had to give it to the police in case he died. I think I better wait . . .”

I took a deep breath. “I can come get it from you. I’ll bring a policeman. But we’re losing time. We need to know what the report says, all of it. We need a direction to go in, a name, any help you can give us.”

It was Virginia’s turn to hesitate. “You are family. He loved his family. I guess it’s all right.”

“Thank you for trusting me, Virginia. Now, can you tell me who he was looking for?”

“Yes. . . wait a minute, let me make sure . . .” I heard her leafing through pages. “Here it is. The man’s name is Harold Tompkins. He lived in Terre Haute, Indiana. Seems the man disappeared. There is a bunch of newspaper articles here. They’re clipped together. You want me to read’em to you?”

“Wait . . . wait . . . I never heard of a Harold Tompkins.” I was confused even as I felt the need to hurry her along. “Disappeared? So why the report? What was going on?” I couldn’t work it out in my head. Daddy paid a thousand dollars to learn about some stranger?

“This first one says the Terre Haute Police need to talk to Mr. Tompkins. He’s what they call here ‘a person of interest’ in his wife’s death.”

“What?”

“Eh . . . Here’s another article. It’s an earlier one. It says Sarah Mann Tompkins, wife of Harold Tompkins, was stabbed to death at the Mann Estate there in Terre Haute. Says here Mr. Tompkins came home and found her dead. House all torn up. Claims he was in Bloomington all day on business. Just goes on to talk about what the police think happened and things like that.

“Here’s another one. Police interviewed neighbors of the Tompkins. . . um . . . two, who knew him. Seems Harold Tompkins was really in Terre Haute at the time of the murder, not Bloomington as he said. Both of them saw his car on their street that morning. It gives names. You want them?”

“No, not now. What year was this?”

“Wait a minute . . . er . . . January 2001. Here’s another one. It says Tompkins disappeared after being asked to come into the station for a second interview. They’re looking for him and an unidentified woman last seen with Mr. Tompkins.

She was quiet awhile. “These last articles just tell about the same things. They talk about the murder and where the case stands. Last one was a while ago. Mr. Tompkins was still missing according to the Terre Haute Police, along with the woman thought to be somebody named Charlene Cooksey.”

It took me a minute to process what she was telling me. Harold Tompkins? Who was he? And who was Charlene Cooksey? I’d never heard either of those names. This wasn’t what I’d expected at all. A part of me was certain the name here would be Ben Fordyce. A part of me hoped I was wrong. But not this wrong.

“You’re sure about all of this?”

“I’m looking at the papers now. That’s what it says.”

“What else is in there?”

“There’s a picture of Harold Tompkins. Can’t see much. He’s with a woman. Looks like somebody took the photo from behind. Mr. Tompkins turned around but he’s got a hat on and . . . um . . . a small suitcase in his hand.

“And here’s a long report about Mr. Tompkins. It’s got a cover letter from a detective. Name of Donny Fritch. You want me to read it?”

It was my turn to be very quiet.

“Lindy?” she finally said.

I shook myself. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“Gives the man’s name: Harold Tompkins. Where he was born. Stuff like that. Married to Sarah Mann in 1998, in Terre Haute, Indiana, where there’s a certificate of marriage on file. Then, it says, he went to Ivy Tech and got himself a degree in . . . looks like . . . something about paralegal.

“After that he worked at a law firm there in Terra Haute.

“No kids.” She was quiet. “Not much else except a folded paper. Looks like some kind of lab report.”

All I could think was “paralegal,” not an attorney after all.

And a dead wife left behind him.

“What did Amos say to you about the package?” I asked. “Did he know this Harold Tompkins?”

“He didn’t tell me anything. That’s it.”

“Are you still in Houston?”

Another long pause. “Yes. But not at the clinic. I slipped back. I’ve been . . . well . . . drinking. Without Amos, nothing seems important enough to fight that feeling.”

“You think that’s what Uncle Amos would want for you? Quitting because he’s not there? Is that what he wanted for the two of you?”

“The two of us
.
”
She echoed my words.

“Could you meet me at the clinic?”

“I don’t know if Dr. Lambert wants to see me . . .”

“You’re not the first, Virginia.” I let her think about it. “We need that package.”

“All I’ve got left of Amos. Isn’t that a shame?”

“It wasn’t meant for you, you know that. He said to give it to the police in case of his death.”

“But you’re not the police. I don’t mean to be a smart mouth, just that it’s the last thing he asked me to do and I want to do it right.”

“I’ll bring a policeman with me. He’s investigating Amos’s murder. Let’s meet right there in Houston. At the clinic. I’ll call Dr. Lambert and tell him. He knows us, me and the policeman, Deputy Hunter Austen. You’ll be safe. I promise. Or we could call the Houston Police, explain that you’re in danger and you need protection until we get there.”

“In danger?” The thought was new to Virginia. “Why?”

“Those reports. They name the man who killed Amos.”

“Good Lord!” she exclaimed. “I’m not thinking straight.”

“Meet us at the clinic.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Okay. One o’clock all right? Dr. Lambert’s not so busy in the afternoon. I’ll call him too. Maybe I’ll stay there. I mean really get well this time. If you don’t hear back from me, just come on in. One o’clock.”

I hung up and took a long breath. This could be it. If Martin couldn’t tell us what happened, Amos’s report would have to. Who was Harold Tompkins? Was he the man who came to town to kill Amos? Then what about Daddy?

I called Hunter and told him we had to get back to Houston. He understood and didn’t ask a single question except what time to pick me up.