A Violent End at Blake Ranch (20 page)

“It means that she had a pretty grand idea of herself. People like that think others are out to get them and that they are able to see through people's schemes—that's where the paranoia comes in—and that they have the right to be judge and jury.”

He shuffles through the paper some more, reading here and there. “She talked a lot about people not being who everyone thought they were . . . you know, people pretending to be good people and finding out they have wicked secrets. That isn't unusual for her type of illness. And it may not mean she actually had information about anybody—it's a paranoid fantasy. I also see that her doctor said she showed signs of being a pathological liar.”

“Signs?”

“It's not a very secure diagnosis. Very few patients are full-out pathological liars. Most of them lie when it's convenient, and some find it comes more easily than others. I gather that Winona was able to lie when it suited her and make it convincing.”

“What kind of diagnosis did he give? There was some mention of her exhibiting signs of being a sociopath.”

“That's a label that gets attached a little too freely, in my opinion. It's a harsh diagnosis, and I guess Dr. McBride didn't see any reason to go that far. He said she was somewhat disassociated, but his diagnosis was more in line with a borderline personality trait.”

“What does that mean?”

“It can have a variety of manifestations. Like I said, Ms. Blake had a narcissistic streak and a bit of paranoia, and she was a liar. But what set her apart from the full-blown sociopath is that she did have a conscience.”

“Did she ever seem sorry about what she did to her sister?”

“Not exactly. Dr. McBride indicated that Winona Blake thought she was doing the family a favor. I don't mind saying that's a little far-fetched, but it isn't the mindset of a sociopath.”

“Any idea where she might have gone when she left here?”

“Dr. McBride noted that the Blake girl had made friends with someone who was here at Rollingwood the same time she was. Woman by the name of Susan Shelby.”

Not an alias, then. A different person altogether. “Can you tell me anything about the Shelby woman?”

He shakes his head. “I've stretched the limits of legality by telling you what's in the Blake file, but even if I knew anything about Susan Shelby, I couldn't break that patient confidentiality. I can tell you she left here a few months before Winona Blake did.”

I haven't been back to the Modern Art Museum in Fort Worth since before Jeanne died. We used to come up here together every couple of months when Jeanne's mother was still alive, and then a couple of times a year afterward. As soon as I walk in, I'm glad Ellen Forester isn't with me. The memories that come rushing back are so strong that I have to take a deep breath before I can go up to get my ticket.

I've never let our membership lapse, so when the young woman who takes my card sees the membership level, she jumps off her stool and says, “Sir, let me get the curator. He's going to want to welcome you.”

“That's not necessary. I was in the area and thought I'd stop by. I can't stay long.”

She's already around the desk and she comes up close and says, “He'd have a fit if he knew you'd come and he hadn't had a chance to talk to you.”

“I understand.” What she means is he wants to find out if I've got any more money so he can move me up to a higher donor level.

To my surprise, I recognize the man who hurries up, hand extended. “You remember me?” he says. “Cole Hamilton.”

“I certainly do. Cole, you've come up in the world.”

“Yes, and I love this job.” When Jeanne and I knew him, he worked at a big gallery in Fort Worth. “I went back to school and got a master's in museum curation and went to work at one of the smaller museums. Then I moved over here. I got this promotion last year. How's your lovely wife?”

I tell him she's been gone a while and that I haven't had the heart to come back since then.

“I am so sorry to hear that. She was a wonderful woman . . . and her mother, of course. They both had an intuitive eye.”

And a big wallet. Jeanne's mother, as I recall, spent a lot of money at the gallery where Hamilton worked.

“You're going to have to let me buy you lunch and then show you a couple of things I know you haven't seen.”

I had planned to sneak in, look around, and sneak out, but I find myself really glad to spend some time with Cole Hamilton. He's a natural for the job, remembering that Jeanne and I were partial to the California School artists. So we spend a little time in that section, which I realize now has been superseded by more contemporary work. But there's a Motherwell that I still think is one of his finest. And they have a Diebenkorn I've always liked. Then he takes me to the newest wing. Most of it doesn't appeal, but there's a piece by a man named Hodgkin that I'm not familiar with that I like very much.

Before I know it, it's late afternoon and I'm running behind. Before I head for Jacksonville, I call Truly Bennett, and he tells me this time the cattle that arrived were the right ones. “So that's one bunch he can't sell twice,” he says. He hates a cattle cheat.

CHAPTER 19

I arrive at dusk and spend the night at a motel outside of Jacksonville, an unsatisfactory place that seems to be a rendezvous for various rowdies who keep me awake until the early hours. So I'm grumpy and badly in need of coffee when I pack up and leave the place at 7 o'clock. If I were so inclined, I'd crank up my radio and blast everybody out of bed before I wheel out of the parking lot, but my radio hasn't worked in years, so I have to make do with slamming the door of the truck, which doesn't yield me the same satisfaction.

The morning is redeemed by a diner that serves a loaded cup of coffee and a good plate of eggs. Then I'm off to find out what Nonie Blake and Susan Shelby have to do with each other.

Jacksonville is an old town in a beautiful setting among pine trees and surrounded by rolling hills. There's a big lake here that Jeanne and I visited a long time ago, but I won't have time to get out to see it.

I'm pulling up to the address I got from my Internet search for Susan Shelby when my cell phone rings. It's Maria Trevino. “Chief Craddock, I have something I need to tell you.” I hadn't noticed in person, but Maria has a slight accent.

“What's up?”

“You might not like this, but I saw Doctor Roland Taggart's name in Winona Blake's file and I decided to go ask his opinion about the autopsy report.”

“What do you mean, his opinion?”

“I mean he's a doctor and I thought he might read something into the autopsy report that you and I as laypeople wouldn't read into it.”

How can I possibly explain to her that Taggart isn't likely to take the autopsy seriously, and that, as a doctor, he's fine for everyday things, but he scarcely counts as a forensics expert. “I think that's fine,” I say. “I don't know that it will come to much.”

“It did actually. That's why I'm calling.”

That stops me in my tracks. “What do you mean?”

“He found something odd. You remember the coroner found evidence of a broken leg in the past?”

“Yes, I remember.”

A woman walking her dog stops right next to the car and makes no secret of the fact that she wants to know what a man is doing sitting in his pickup in her neighborhood. She's pretty sure I'm up to no good.

“Doctor Taggart said he didn't remember anything like her breaking her leg when she was a girl. So I said maybe she broke it recently. He called the coroner's office and they went back over the notes and the coroner said it was obvious from the way it healed that she was a young girl when it happened.”

I've been sort of dogged by the notion that Maria Trevino has a little more initiative than I feel comfortable with, but now that egotistical problem flies out the window. “Good work, Trevino. Any estimate of how old she was when it happened?”

“They said probably no more than ten years old. They can tell because there's a certain way the plates in the leg grow as a child ages.”

“What do you make of that?” I say. Since she's the one who has found a little nugget, she should get a chance to run with it.

“It occurred to me that maybe the family didn't want people in town to know that she had a broken leg, and they took her somewhere else to have it set.”

“No,” I say slowly, my mind working furiously. “That's a good stab, but it makes no sense. They wouldn't have been able to hide the fact that she was in a cast. But the bigger problem is that the physical they did for the initial psychiatric report cited no evidence of past broken bones.”

“Oh, you're right. But . . .”

“But what does that mean? I'm not sure yet.”

“Yes, sir. You want me to go out and ask the Blake family if they can explain it?”

“No, I don't. Wait until I get back and we'll decide the best way to approach them.”

The neighborhood I drove through getting here is middle class, with nice lawns and houses that are kept up, but the address I'm sitting in front of is a borderline block. The house is a duplex on a double lot, the two sides separated by garages. The place is painted the ugliest color of yellow I've ever seen, with brown trim that looks like mud smeared around the window and doorsills. The yard is fifty blades of grass shy of bare dirt, and a shade tree in the front yard has been allowed to shrivel. It's a big building. Probably each side of the duplex is a three-bedroom apartment.

I walk up to the “A” side of the duplex and ring the bell in vain. Then I knock, in case the doorbell doesn't work. Still no answer. When I knock on the “B” side, the door opens a few inches, and a wisp of a woman of about sixty peeks out at me.

I introduce myself. “Ma'am, are you by chance Susan Shelby?”

“No, sir.”

“Does she live next door?”

The woman opens the door a little wider so I can see her. She cranes her head to look in the direction of the other duplex as if it might tell her who lives there. “I don't know the people who live there. Two women. I don't see much of them. I don't like to get too friendly with neighbors. You never know when they'll take advantage.”

“Do you mind telling me who owns this place—who you pay rent to?”

She frowns and hesitates, leery to be too quick to answer, even though I told her I was a lawman. “I pay my check to a real estate office. It's called Ledford and Baker Realty. Their office is downtown.” She frowns. “What's this about?”

“I was hoping your neighbor would be able to help with a matter I'm looking into.”

“You said you're a police chief. Are they involved with criminals or something?”

“Not that I know of. Any reason you think they might be?”

“No, but like I said, I keep to myself. I don't think it does anybody any good to be poking in somebody else's business.”

In a town that looks like it struggles for economic survival, Ledford and Baker Realty might be the most prosperous business in town, with a big new brick building that stands out from its meager surroundings. A marquee sign outside proclaims that it has been in business since 1959.

A man jumps up to greet me when I walk in. He's decked out in a black Western-style suit with wide lapels, a nipped-in waist, and white stitching outlining the edges. He's wearing pearl-gray cowboy boots and has his hair slicked back in a style that would have been appropriate for a movie set in the 1930s. “Glen Webb at your service,” he says. He's from Tyler, I can tell. Natives of this area have a deep twang you don't hear anywhere else, like they're talking through their nose.

I tell him who I am and where I'm from. “I'm looking for somebody and my search has led me here.”

“I hope I can help you,” he says, the world “help” sounding like “hnnelp.”

“I'm looking for two women, one by the name of Winona Blake and the other Susan Shelby.”

“I don't know the Blake woman, but Ms. Shelby owns a couple of duplexes in town that we manage for her.”

“She lives here?”

“Yes, she lives in one of the two duplexes.” He goes over to a file cabinet and comes back with a folder that he puts on his desk. “Here's the address.”

“I went by there this morning, and the woman who lived next door says she hasn't seen Ms. Shelby in a while. Have you talked to her?”

He shrugs. “No need to. I collect the rent and put it in her bank account. If the tenants need something, I take care of it and send her the bill.”

“Seems funny that she'd get a manager if she only has a couple of properties.”

“Some people don't like to mess with having to ask for rent and taking care of maintenance. That's where we come in.”

“So you don't know anything about the Blake woman who supposedly lives with her?”