A Violent End at Blake Ranch (13 page)

On my way home, I get a call from Nonie's old psychiatrist, Richard Buckley. “My secretary was able to get that report you asked for. How soon do you need it?”

“The sooner the better. How big is it?”

“A lot of pages. I'll have her ship it by FedEx overnight. Do you have an account I can charge?”

I didn't even know there was such a thing. I suppose FedEx does deliver things here, but I've never had occasion to use them. “Tell you what,” I say. “Let you me call you back with a number. I expect the sheriff's office has one.”

Sure enough, the duty officer in Bobtail tells me they have a Federal Express account, and I can use it for what I'm after.

Buckley says he'll send it right out, and I should have it in the morning. I hang up and marvel at the wonders of the modern world. Not that I was exactly alive during pony express days, but seems like not that long ago when I would have had to wait at least a few days for the report to be delivered in the mail.

CHAPTER 11

Nonie Blake's funeral is Friday, and attending falls under the category of work for me. I sit at the back to be as inconspicuous as possible, since I don't want to draw special attention to the ongoing murder investigation. A lot of people have come to the funeral to gawk at the family. I'm gratified that Loretta has enough character to stay away, although there are plenty of curious attendees who have no business being here who will be able to fill her in on the details later.

Skeeter isn't in attendance, so I assume he has been put in charge of keeping a watch on John back home, which will serve my purposes. Charlotte has brought Trey but turns him over to a young woman, who takes him outside to play. It's a short service, handled by the funeral director, Ernest Landau, since the Blakes have no declared church affiliation.

At the reception afterward, Charlotte and Adelaide keep their heads high and greet everyone as if it's quite natural that they be there. Billy tries to do the same, but he's not as good at hiding his annoyance.

I see Kaylee Tharp talking to someone her age and go over to say hello. She introduces me to her friend, and as I'd hoped, it's Kimberley Havranek.

I hesitate to bring up the subject on the somber occasion of a funeral, but this may be the best chance I have to talk to her without having to track her down, so I plunge in. “I've been trying to contact your daddy and haven't had any luck. You know where I might find him?”

“Daddy? I hardly ever talk to him.” Her tone is dismissive, but her eyes give away her concern for him.

An older woman walks up and says, “Kimmie, we'd better get home if you insist on going back to Houston tonight. I want to at least have a little time together before you leave.”

I introduce myself to Kimberley's mother and find out her name is Nelda Havranek.

“I don't believe I've seen you around,” I say.

“I work over in Bryan-College Station and hardly ever go out here. I probably ought to move over there, but I've lived here so long that it would be a chore to move.”

“I understand Nonie Blake babysat for your kids a few times. Would you have time to answer some questions for me about Nonie this afternoon?” I see her hesitate. “After your daughter leaves. I don't want to bother you while she's here.”

“Of course.”

I give her my cell number so she can call me after Kimberley leaves.

After that I hustle out of the funeral home. I've got some business out at the Blake ranch. Theoretically I should have a search warrant, but no judge in his right mind would grant me a warrant simply because I want to pry. But if I go out there now, I can get Skeeter's and John's verbal okays to look around. And I may have a chance to talk to John, which will be good, since I'm pretty sure Adelaide isn't going to let me at him anytime soon.

Skeeter meets me at the door looking wild-eyed. “Chief Craddock, I don't mind telling you I'm glad to see a familiar face. Maybe you can help me figure out what to do. Daddy's driving me up the wall.”

I hear John in the other room yelling.

“Let's go see if we can calm him down,” I say.

In the kitchen John has a skillet on the stove and is attempting to turn on the burner. “Goddam contraption never works! I want some eggs. Is that too much to ask? How come nobody ever feeds me? I can feed myself if you'll—” He stops abruptly when he sees me and then says, “Can you turn this stove on?”

“Daddy, you had a whole plateful of eggs an hour ago.”

“I did not.”

“I made them myself,” Skeeter says.

“Prove it.”

Skeeter makes an exasperated sound. “Let me show you again.” He pulls a trashcan out from under the kitchen sink and points to a handful of eggshells. “That's from the eggs I cooked.”

“They weren't very good,” John says.

“You want some toast?” I say.

“Toast! I could go for some toast,” John says. “Two pieces. With a little jelly. We got any strawberry jelly?”

Skeeter rolls his eyes at me and pulls a loaf of bread out of the refrigerator and pops two slices into the toaster.

“John, while we wait for the toast, will you show me around outside? I need to look at a couple of things.”

John's face lights up. “I'll be glad to.” He turns to Skeeter. “We've got some important business. I'll see you later.”

Skeeter laughs silently, shakes his head, and mouths “Thank you” to me. He might not thank me if he knew my intention wasn't entirely aboveboard.

Outside, I say, “John, can you show me where you keep your garden tools?”

“You mean like a spade? Or the lawnmower?”

The question is startling because his voice sounds perfectly rational and straightforward. “That's what I mean. Both.”

“They're in the barn.” He points to it. “You know we used to have cows and we used the barn for storing hay and feed and stuff for the cows. But now it's mostly garden stuff.” And then he stops abruptly and peers at me. “Are you the new gardener?”

“Something like that,” I say. It's unsettling to talk to people with dementia. They check in and out of the conversation, and you never know from one minute to the next what version of the person you'll be talking to.

I'm looking for the weapon used to murder Nonie Blake. Not that I expect to find it—I imagine whoever killed her took it with them, but I want to make sure I cover the bases. Bill Odum did a cursory check around the property the first day we were out here, and I want to look at possible hiding places a little more closely. It's always possible that someone hid something in plain sight after removing traces of blood.

I'm surprised when we open the barn door to see an ancient tractor parked inside, quietly rusting away. It has to have been here for a long, long time. “John, when was the last time this tractor was used?”

“We never used it,” he says, back with me again. “It was here when we bought the place, and we never got around to getting rid of it. Want me to start it for you?”

“No, that's all right.”

In the heat of the day the interior of the barn is stifling. Light sifts through the dusty, cobwebbed windows in uneven rays that shimmer in the air. The floor of the barn is strewn with remnants of hay and feed from however long ago the Blakes kept livestock. I'll bet the mice that live here are fat and happy.

The interior of the barn looks as if nothing has been disturbed for quite a while, which should make it easy to spot anything out of place. Most of the cavernous barn is empty. But at one end of the structure I find a room with gardening implements. There's a fairly new power mower and a gas can against one wall. A big workbench holds various tools like a hammer, a can of nails, screwdrivers, wrenches, rusted saws, and the like. They aren't put away in any order but lie scattered on the table as if whoever uses them plops them back down at random.

The garden tools are propped against the wall in a haphazard manner. There are several hoes—some that almost look like antiques—spades, two axes, different kinds of brooms, and rakes. I take my time looking them over for any traces of blood or to see if any of them look out of place from being wiped down recently. But they all look as if it's been a long time since they were handled.

John seems taken by the tools, picking them up and putting them down at random as if they are artifacts from another time and he's not quite sure what they're used for.

I walk the length of the barn for anything I might have missed, but I find nothing that could have been used as a weapon to do the kind of damage the coroner described. I steer John outside, and we walk the perimeter of the barn. I spend a little more time scouting around the outside of the house, poking under the back steps, peering into a rotting wooden box, with John walking patiently beside me. It seems that when he's in motion he's calmer.

I'm pushing my time limit, so I take John back inside. Skeeter is nowhere to be seen. Most likely he's retreated to his room, glad to give up John's care to me for a while.

“I'm hungry,” John announces as soon as we're inside.

“I imagine that toast is ready,” I say.

He follows me into the kitchen. The cold, dry toast is still in the toaster. I open the refrigerator and take out a jar of jelly and put some on the toast. I hand him a piece, which he's content to nibble on. At one end of the kitchen there's a door that leads to a utility room. There's a washer-dryer and laundry items, but nothing in the room that looks like a weapon.

I can't think of anywhere else in the house that might hold what I'm looking for, unless the guilty party hid an implement in a bedroom or attic, but I'm not betting on it. It was a wild chance anyway. Most likely the killer got rid of the murder weapon. The possible ways of doing that are endless.

“Let's sit down at the table,” I say. “You want something to drink?”

“Is there any juice?” he says in that eerie way of sounding completely normal.

In the refrigerator I find some orange juice and pour him a glass. We sit down at the table.

“John, you had a visitor last week,” I say. “Who was that?”

“They told me it was Nonie,” he says.

“Your daughter.”

“She's not my daughter,” he says. His voice has become suddenly loud, and he is moving his hands restlessly over the tabletop as if he's playing the piano.

“You don't remember Nonie?”

“She's not my daughter,” he repeats, louder, looking at me like I'm the one who has dementia and has failed to understand what he said.

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“Of course I do! Somebody killed her. Serves her right, too.” He rubs his hands across the tops of his thighs, getting more and more agitated.

“What do you mean by that?”

“She was not a good person. She was a thief.”

“A thief? What did she steal?”

Suddenly he becomes still. His eyes narrow, and he gets a crafty look. “I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to find out our secret. You think you'll get me to talk. But you're not getting anything out of me.” He makes a lip-zipping gesture.

“When Nonie was here, did anybody have arguments with her?”

“I'm not telling you anything.” He makes the lip-zipping gesture again.

“Hey Daddy, how you doing?”

Skeeter has come in so quietly that I didn't hear him.

“We were having a chat,” I say.

“Good luck with that,” Skeeter says. “Right, Daddy?”

In response, John starts rubbing both hands across the top of his head. “My lips are sealed,” he says.

“You can say whatever you want to,” Skeeter says.

Suddenly John jumps up. “Where is Adelaide? I need Adelaide. I'm going outside. I've got work to do.”

“No, Daddy, you stay right here,” Skeeter says. But John pushes past Skeeter, knocking him up against the doorframe.

“Daddy, I'll be right out there.” Skeeter turns to me. “What did you say to get him riled up?”

“Asked him about Nonie.”

“Oh yeah. He didn't like her. Had it in his mind that she was somebody else. I guess somebody he knew a long time ago and didn't like. Anyway, I should go catch up to him.”

On the way home for a late lunch, I stop by headquarters and find that the psychiatrist's report has been delivered. I want to read it now, so instead of going home for lunch I run over to Town Café and get some enchiladas and bring them back to the office. While I eat, I settle in to read. I glance through the physical exams, which indicate that Nonie had nothing physically wrong with her at the age of fourteen. At 5'5'' and weighing 120 pounds, she was in the right percentile for her age. She had no broken bones, and her blood tests indicated no physical abnormality. A brain scan was done that also showed no abnormality.

I read the conclusion of the report, which echoes the letter Buckley wrote. And then I tackle the meat of the evaluation. Buckley describes Nonie Blake as “intelligent, coherent, and with well-organized thought processes.” She's also “skittish, anxious, and provocative in her speech.” After a few sessions, he speculates: