A Violent End at Blake Ranch (24 page)

“It must have been a pretty violent attack for her to have been sent away to a mental institution.”

She looks sad. “Even though I didn't talk to Celia, I do know what happened—at least what the newspaper said. Henry gave me the clipping. It said a girl had been teasing her and she went after her with a baseball bat. The girl ended up with brain damage.”

“Did you ever visit Susan in Rollingwood or correspond with her?”

“I feel so guilty that I didn't reach out to her. I apologized when I moved back, but by then she had grown a thick skin and she wasn't all that easy to talk to.”

“You have children?”

“Two, grown now of course. One of them in Los Angeles—he's an actor—and my daughter lives in Chicago. She married a lawyer and moved there. She's got a couple of little ones that I see as often as I can.”

When I phoned Louise this morning, I found that Henry had already alerted her to the fact that I'd be calling, and he had told her what had happened to Susan. When I first came in and showed her the photo of Susan for identification, she cried a little and has held onto it since then.

“Did your kids get along with Susan?”

She sighs. “My kids only met her a few times, and I'll be frank with you, they didn't like her much.” She picks at her skirt, eyes averted.

“Any particular reason?” I wouldn't normally ask that, but I have a feeling she's holding something back that she'd actually like to divulge.

“They said she didn't talk nice. I asked them what they meant because I'd never heard them say anything like that, and they said she cursed a lot and . . . that she talked dirty sex talk.”

“Do you know if she ever had trouble with boys?”

Her smile is rueful. “I'm not sure she was into boys. I don't know how to describe it; I think she wasn't inclined that way. You know what I mean?”

“Of course. Is that part of what bothered your kids?”

She sighs. “I don't think so. I think it was more the language she used. I figured she was trying to shock them, but some of the things she said . . .”

“Did you tell her mother?”

By now her face is bright red. “No, and I probably should have. But how do you tell somebody something like that about their own child?” She pushes the photo back across the coffee table to me.

“Did Celia ever tell you what Susan's psychiatrist diagnosed?”

“No, and with her and Dusty both gone I expect all those papers were thrown out.”

“Did you see Susan at your sister-in-law's funeral?”

Louise goes still. “I didn't go to the funeral. None of us did. Susan didn't tell us Celia died until after the burial. I have to admit it was the only time I was ever really mad at her. She said Celia didn't want a funeral, that she wanted to be buried in a quiet graveside ceremony. I know that was just plain nonsense.”

“Susan's folks died young.”

“Yes. Both died in their fifties. Dusty went fishing with a friend and had a heart attack. They were so far out on the lake that by the time the friend got the boat back, it was too late. I think when Dusty died, Celia gave up. She died a year later. They said it was ovarian cancer, but I think she died because she didn't want to live anymore.”

I approach the matter of the wrongful burial, and, unlike her brother, Louise is distressed. “We've got to bring her home. I feel like we all failed her. There was something wrong with her, and we should have figured out how to get her help. The least I can do is make sure she gets buried among her own people.”

I've never been so glad to get back to Jarrett Creek, even though I've got a lot to tackle. All the way home, I plotted how I'm going to approach the Blakes. Although Susan and Nonie looked alike, I still can't help thinking Adelaide would have known that Susan Shelby was not her daughter, even after all these years.

The bigger question is what Susan Shelby intended when she came here. Were she and Nonie up to something together? And if so, exactly what was it?

Finding that Nonie Blake is still alive and that the dead woman is someone else entirely is something of a break in the case, but I still feel skittish about whether I'm going to be able to gather enough facts to figure out who actually killed Susan Shelby. There are no physical clues to speak of, so I have to rely on a prod here, a push there, a hunch, and hard listening. Is that enough? If one of the Blakes did the killing, all they have to do is continue to stonewall. But I've found that isn't always easy for people who commit crimes. Many of them seem to need to push their luck. Is it guilt that drives them to blab a little more than they should? Is it overconfidence?

I think that deep down most of us are pack animals, like dogs and wolves, uncomfortable with being outcast. Murder sets the perpetrator out of kilter with his community. That's what I have to play for—finding out how this crime put somebody at odds with others. Investigating a crime isn't about leaning on one person right away. It's a matter of getting a few facts from one person, then another, and building a picture of what happened and hoping to drive the criminal to make a slip, because at heart he wants back into the pack.

CHAPTER 23

I'm up at dawn and, after brewing a cup of coffee, I head down to the pasture to visit my cows. When I left, the three “extra” cows that were trucked in by mistake were in my two holding pens. Now I see that Truly has rearranged everything. He cobbled together a temporary enclosure for the scruffy cows and put the two cows I originally bought in one of the permanent pens. In the other pen is the fine-looking bull. I'm not one to give human traits to cattle, but if I were, I'd say this bull looks like he's mad at the world.

My communion with the bull is short. I don't have time to sweet talk him for long, just say a few words so he gets used to the sound of my voice while he recovers from the trauma of being trucked over here. You wouldn't think as sturdy looking as bulls are that they would be delicate, but they are. If you rush things with a new bull, you could end up with a sick or insecure animal that can't or won't perform his job.

I get back as Loretta is coming up my front walk bearing a pan of sweet rolls. “I've brought some extras for you to take down to headquarters to that new girl.” She says she can't come in for long, but she wants to hear how my trip to Dallas went.

I've thought long and hard about how to introduce people to the idea that Nonie Blake is still alive and well, and that another woman is the victim of murder. As much as I'd like to fill in Loretta, I need to talk to the Blakes before anyone else hears the news. “It was a strange trip,” I say.

“Strange how?”

“I want to tell you the details, but there are some people I need to talk to first,” I say.

“You were gone longer than you thought you were going to be.” I see by the look on her face that she's calculating how to weasel more information out of me. I know this trick of hers—easing around the back of a subject to get a wedge in.

“And glad to be home,” I say. “Did you know I bought a new bull? It got delivered while I was gone.”

“I wondered what Truly was up to back there. I saw the truck and all that activity. I'm surprised whatever happened up in Tyler was so interesting that you couldn't come back to help Truly.” Another foray into getting information out of me.

“Actually, I was in Jacksonville. Anything happen while I was gone?”

“The new girl is making herself right at home.”

“You mean the new police officer?”

“You know that's what I mean.”

“Making herself at home?”

“I can be as secretive as you. All I'm saying is that you might be surprised when you get to work today.”

“Loretta, did anything ever come of that business with your roses? I asked Deputy Trevino to look into it while I was gone.”

“Since you're too busy.”

“Yes, that's right. What happened?”

“She questioned all of us like we had done it ourselves, and as far as I know she gave up after that. Not important enough, I guess.”

With that, she flounces out. I'm beginning to think I'm going to have to give up on pleasing any of the women in my life.

I'm at headquarters before eight, but I still don't beat Maria Trevino. As soon as I walk in, I see what Loretta was talking about. The place has been scrubbed until it squeaks. I figured our linoleum tile floors were a permanent shade of gray and grayer, and that the walls were another shade of gray. It turns out the tiles are black and white, and the walls are kind of a nice shade of white. All the desktops and file cabinets have been scrubbed. There's a plant on Maria's desk and new wastebaskets beside each desk. Maria is sitting at her desk looking pleased with herself in a fierce kind of way.

“I'll be damned,” I say. “You did all this?”

“Yes, I did. I have pride in where I work even if nobody else does. But don't expect me to make coffee.”

“I wouldn't want you to. That's my job.” I open the door into the jail part of the building and am assailed with the smell of pine cleaner rather than the usual smell of unwashed drunks. “You even did the back room?”

Her eyes narrow. “Not me. When Bill Odum came in and saw what I was up to, I guess he was embarrassed into doing some cleaning, too.”

I sit down at my desk and survey the room. “It's like a new place,” I say. “I figured we had to paint it if we wanted it to look good.”

She grimaces and shakes her head. “Men.”

“If I didn't say so, thank you.” I straighten a couple of piles of paper, aware that Trevino had the good sense not to touch my desk. “How did things go with the business of the flowers disappearing?”

“I don't know how I can figure out who's doing it,” she says. “I realize this is a big deal with these elderly people, but you have to admit it's pretty funny.”

It was one thing for me to tease Loretta about it, but I'm annoyed that this green recruit has come swaggering into town laughing at people I've known my whole life. “It won't do for you to take this lightly,” I say. “Like I told you, in a small town little things can take on more importance than you might think. If you want to make a place for yourself, you need to understand that.”

Resentment flares in her eyes. Her mouth turns down in a pout. “I don't know that I'm planning to make a place for myself here, as you say. I'm here to help out.”

“I take it you didn't find anything useful about who's cutting the flowers.”

“I guess I didn't.” By her surly tone, I can tell she doesn't like having to make this admission.

“All right, we'll wait and see. I've got something else to discuss with you. Something big.”

“About the Blake case?”

“Yep. The woman who was killed out at the Blake ranch?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That wasn't Nonie Blake.”

She's suddenly eager. “So it wasn't the position of the body that made the difference in her height. How did you find out?”

I describe the way things happened in Jacksonville. “We need to go out to the Blake ranch and talk to the family.”

“We?”

“You earned it. You took the initiative to call Doc Taggart and uncover that information about the broken leg. You've read the reports and I've brought you up to date. Who better to go out there with me?”

“I don't want to step on anybody's toes. I don't want Officer Odum or Officer Dibble to get mad.”

“You've got a point, but you're here and they aren't. It's only Bill who might want a piece of this. Zeke is a good man, but he doesn't have a lot of fire in his belly, if you know what I mean.”

She nods but looks serious. “Still, he has a good record. That counts for a lot.”

“And not too much ego,” I say. “Now if you don't want to go, you don't have to. And basically I want you to observe rather than get into it with anybody. You all right with that?”