A Violent End at Blake Ranch (22 page)

“You ever get on each other's nerves?” I'm wondering why she doesn't seem particularly cut up at news of her friend's death.

“I guess everybody does sometimes.” She shrugs.

“She owned this place and you paid rent?”

Annoyance flashes in her eyes. “You ask a lot of questions, don't you?”

“It comes with my job.”

She sighs and rolls her shoulders like she's trying to relax. “Yes, I paid her rent, but she didn't charge me much. She was fair. More than fair.”

“How did you happen to get together with Susan after you got out of Rollingwood?”

“She helped me get out. When we were inside, I told her that my parents had me declared incompetent so I had to stay there. Several weeks after she was released, she came back to visit and told me she had looked into it, and I was old enough to apply to have my parents' declaration nullified if my doctor would certify me as fit. I knew he would. I wasn't crazy—I made a mistake, that's all. Susan told me that when I got out, she'd get me a job and I could split the rent here with her.”

“You've been working at Walmart all this time?”

“No, Susan's folks had a stationery store in town and we both worked there until a couple of years ago when they died.” While we talk, her fingers play over the photos on the table, and she stops here and there to look at one.

“What happened to the store after they died?”

“She inherited the store, but she didn't want to run it, so she sold it. She thought it would sell for more than it did. She was hoping not to have to work.” Nonie has a nervous tic that makes her jerk her head occasionally, like now. “That's why she went to work for Walmart. She worried about money.”

“Do you know who inherits this place with her gone?”

Anger flashes in her eyes. “Why do you want to know that?”

“I'm wondering what will happen to you, if you'll have to move.”

“That's not it. You're asking who inherits because you think that's a motive for killing her, don't you? You think somebody would kill her for a couple of measly rental houses? That's stupid. Anyway, I don't know who inherits. All I know is it won't be me.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm not her blood relative, so why would she put me in her will? I hope whoever inherits will let me buy this place so I don't have to move.”

“You know how to contact any of Susan's kin?”

“No.” She has turned surly. “I mean, I know she has some relatives, but I don't know how to find them.”

“They'll want to be notified of her death.”

“I doubt if any of them will care much that she's gone. She was like me, the black sheep of the family. I can't say we had a lot in common, but we did have that. But of course if they find out she died, they'll fall all over themselves to get hold of her property.”

I get the feeling that Nonie thinks that if no one knows Susan is gone, she can go on living here, paying rent, and everything will be fine.

“Maybe we could take a look at Susan's room now.”

Unlike the living room, Susan's bedroom is light and airy and hyper-feminine. The carpet is a light blue, and the bedspread is a riot of blue and pink flowers. The bed is piled with extra pillows all in pink and blue, and with a fluffy blue teddy bear in the center. There's a powerful smell of potpourri, which makes me feel claustrophobic.

“Frou frou,” Nonie says in a flat tone. “She was into girly stuff.” She wanders over to an ornate white dressing table set with bottles of cologne and all kinds of makeup, and picks up one of the perfume bottles and sniffs it.

I walk over to the chest of drawers and pull out the top one. Lingerie. I open a couple of the dresser drawers, but they're full of cosmetics—more than seems necessary for one person. I found hardly any cosmetics in her room at the Blakes' house.

I look around for anything that might contain business effects, but this is all personal. “Does she have a desk somewhere?”

“Yes, it's in the guest room.”

“I'd like to take a look at it.”

For a second I think she's going to balk, but then she shrugs. “I suppose that's okay. It's not like she's going to care.”

A computer sits in the middle of the desk. I open the lid and hit the “on” button. It stays off, and I see that it isn't plugged in. I find the cord and plug it in, aware of Nonie's vigilance.

“You have a computer?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“I thought all young people these days had computers.”

“Too risky. I don't like having all my business on the Internet. If you get hacked, you're screwed.”

While I look through the history of Susan's computer use, Nonie sits in a chair at the side of the desk watching my every move. I find that Susan did a lot of online window-shopping. She was particularly interested in jewelry. Her e-mail is full of ads, although she does have a correspondence with someone named Betty Corcoran. “You know who Betty Corcoran is?” I ask Nonie.

She sniffs. “Some lady Susan knew from when she was in high school.”

“Where did she go to high school?”

“She grew up in Tyler. But Betty moved back East. I don't know why she talks to her all the time. They haven't seen each other in I don't know when.” I detect a bit of resentment in Nonie's voice. Jealousy maybe.

I open one after the other of the e-mails and find that they consist mostly of gossip about people they knew in high school. But one of the last ones Susan sent to her friend says, “I'm going to come out to see you before too long, if you really mean it.” The next one says, “I can't wait. I've never been anywhere. Virginia sounds so pretty.”

“Did you know Susan was planning to go visit Betty?” I turn to look at her when I ask the question and am surprised to see that her expression is enraged. She's biting her knuckles. When she sees me looking, she yanks her hand away and immediately shuts down her expression.

“Why shouldn't she?” she says. She gives a ghost of a smile. “Of course now that won't happen. I guess I ought to write to Betty and tell her what happened, but I never met her, so I don't exactly know what to say.”

“She'd probably appreciate knowing.”

“Yeah, you're right. I'm going to do that.” The look that accompanies this declaration is cold. I'd be very surprised if she has any intention of following through.

I go through the desk drawers and find an accordion file that contains memorabilia from when Susan was in high school—report cards and a few photos of classmates. In the same drawer there's a picture of her with two people Nonie identifies as Susan's parents. In another photo there are other people posing with the parents. “I wonder if these are aunts and uncles?” I say, passing the photo to Nonie.

“I don't know.” She barely glances at it and hands it back.

Someone has written out the names of everyone in the picture on the back of it. I jot down the names. “Mind if I take this photo for now?”

She hesitates for several seconds. “I guess it's okay.”

The rest of the desk yields nothing that would tell me why Susan was in Jarrett Creek and, more particularly, why she went to see Nonie's family.

I get up. “Did you and Susan ever have any discussions about your family?”

“Why would we do that? She knew I didn't have anything to do with them. And she knew why.” Her arms are folded, and she's rubbing her hands along them briskly, as if she's cold.

“Did she ever suggest that you get in touch with them?”

“No. She knew I wouldn't.”

“I spoke to your brother Billy. He told me you called him when you first left Rollingwood.”

“Yeah, I called him. He told me that I wasn't welcome back there.” Her voice is neutral, but I'm beginning not to trust that neutrality.

“When Susan showed up and claimed to be you, though, they welcomed her.”

The smirk again. “Really? Someone killed her. I wouldn't call that a welcome.”

“Your sister told me she tried to get your folks to let you come back. That's at least one person on your side.”

She snorts. “Why would she do that, after what I tried to do to her? Wouldn't she be scared I'd hurt her kid?”

“She said you were so young that you couldn't have meant to kill her.”

She stares at me. I'd love to know what is going on behind her facade. I read people pretty well, but Nonie has an uncanny ability to hide her emotions. “She doesn't know anything about me.”

“I expect you got a lot of therapy while you were in Rollingwood. Did you ever get a clear idea of what you had in mind when you tried to hurt your sister?”

Nonie's lip curls as if she is disdainful of this whole line of questioning. “I didn't need any therapy to figure it out.”

“I'm surprised to hear that. You were pretty young to do something so drastic. Do you mind sharing your thinking with me?” I don't expect her to, but it doesn't hurt to ask.

She stands up abruptly, as if she's at the end of her patience with me. “She bugged me.”

“She bugged you? That's all? You tried to kill your little sister because she bugged you?”

She glares at me. “She wouldn't keep her nose out of my business. That's all I have to say about it. I've spent enough time with you, so you might as well be on your way.”

“Wait.” I say it softly, not wanting to butt up against her so that she shuts down. “There's something else I need to ask you.”

Hands on her hips, she looks like she's ready to kick me out, but then she drops her hands to her sides and straightens her shoulders. “What?”

“The question came up of whether a man might have interfered with you in some way. Did that happen?”

She begins to snicker. “What in the world made you think so?”

“Did one of your teachers bother you? One of the men in the families you babysat for? Your brother? Your daddy?”

Her eyes have softened with amusement, but they turn hard again. “Didn't happen. I don't know where you got that idea, but it's plain wrong.”

“There was another suggestion . . .”

“No! I don't know where you're getting these ideas, but they're stupid.”

“I'll tell you where I got the ideas. From things that Susan Shelby said to people. She was pretending to be you and she indicated that she was plotting to blackmail someone. Where would she get a notion like that unless it was from you?”

She's shaking her head, and then she puts her right hand up, scout's honor style. “I swear to you I have no idea where she got anything like that.”

“Nothing from when you two were in the hospital together?”

She looks at me with what I swear is pity. “I don't even know for sure that it's Susan who was there with my family. You say the woman looked like Susan, but my family said she looked like me. I think you all ought to get your stories straight. Now I'm sorry, but I'm done here.” This time she doesn't wait for me to stop her but leaves the room. I follow her into the living room.

“I appreciate your time,” I say. “Think over what I said about getting in touch with your family.”

She shrugs.

“One last thing. I mentioned that I found a prescription that belonged to Susan Shelby—for thyroid medication. Do you know why she would have gone to Tyler to have it filled rather than filling it at Walmart, where she works?”

“Susan didn't like people to know her business. That's another way we were alike.”

I leave feeling as if I've been in a rabbit hole. Nonie thinks that she was generous to me with her time, and I suppose she was. So why do I feel as if I've come away empty? From the photo I found in Susan's desk, I have names of people who may be her relatives, but as for Nonie's relationship with Susan, I'm none the wiser.

CHAPTER 22

It's too late to go to the courthouse to track down the people in the photo I found in Susan's desk, so I go to the police department. Headquarters is away from downtown in a building that looks like it was built using leftover money. It's a motley collection of dun-colored rectangles that look more like a storage warehouse than a police department. It takes me a minute to find the front door, which is hidden around the side. I wonder what would happen if somebody was being chased and hoped to find help in the police department. I walk up to what looks like a temporary ramp into the front area, which is not only deserted but is completely bare. I call out, and a portly officer dressed in khaki and chewing on a toothpick wanders out from wherever he was hiding.

“Help you?”

I tell him who I am, and he says his name is Bart Cleveland.

“I'm trying to find some folks. Wonder if you know any of these people.” I show him the photo I found in Susan's desk and turn it over to the back where the names are written.

He squints at the photo and the names and shakes his head. “Don't know any of them. They don't look like criminals.” He smiles.

“No, they're relatives of a woman who lives in Jacksonville.” I remind myself that Jacksonville is ten times bigger than Jarrett Creek. “Would you happen to have a computer I could use to try to locate any of them?”

“Come on back.” He leads me down a hallway to a large room crowded with desks. The walls are covered with notices and crime-scene photos and white boards scribbled with information. “You can use my computer.” He clicks to a site that has names and addresses of residents.

To my surprise I find out that all three of the couples from the photo have addresses right here in Jacksonville: Henry and Nancy Shelby; Alice and Robert Johnson; and Louise and Frederick Kellen.

I thank Bart Cleveland and go on my way. Seems funny to me that he doesn't ask me why I want to find these people. Come to think of it, when I told him who I was he didn't even ask to see my badge.