A Man for All Seasons (10 page)

“Becky Wilson,” he murmured, remembering Webb's
personal assistant. She was usually invited to parties, over Silvia's constant objections. “Was this before or after you talked to Henry Garner?”

“After,” she said. “I went to get some punch to drink and started talking to another woman guest at the punch bowl. A few minutes later, I looked around to see where Mr. Garner was, but I couldn't find him. Just after that I realized that the punch was spiked. I got very sick and Silvia offered to drive me home.” Her eyes were sad. “I liked Mr. Garner. He was honest and gentle and kind. All he talked about was Bib Webb and what a hard life he'd had. He really loved him.”

“It was mutual,” Brannon said roughly. “Why were you with Garner? Wasn't Jennings your date?” It was difficult to talk about that. At the time, when he knew from court testimony that she'd accepted a date with Jennings only days after they'd broken up, he'd been devastated.

“Dale and I were acquaintances and he needed a date for the party,” she said honestly, having decided that lies were no way to deal with problems. “I went just to make up the numbers. Dale was pleasant enough, and I didn't know about his mob connections until that night. Henry Garner told me about them.”

“Told you what, exactly?” he asked, perking up.

“That he'd come to the party exclusively to fire Dale because of a theft at his house. He'd put something up in his safe and it had been removed.”

Brannon almost held his breath. “Bingo!” he exclaimed.

“I
don't understand,” Josette said, frowning.

Brannon leaned forward, his big, lean hands clasped together around his empty coffee mug. “Listen to what you said, Josette—Garner was going to fire Jennings because he thought Jennings stole something from him. What if Garner was killed not because of his wealth and its beneficiaries, but because he had evidence of some criminal dealings? What if the murderer killed him to silence him, and then couldn't find the evidence he had?”

“Oh, that's chilling,” she replied. “That's really chilling.”

“It puts a whole new light on things,” he agreed. “Maybe we were looking in the wrong direction altogether at Jennings's trial.”

“I don't believe Dale did it,” she began.

“And I don't believe Bib did.” He cocked an eyebrow and his eyes lost their hard glare. “Maybe we're both right.”

She nodded slowly. Then she nodded enthusiastically. “Maybe we are!”

Brannon warmed to his subject. “Suppose Henry Garner had evidence of wrongdoing, and threatened to go to the police with it. He was killed and the murderer couldn't find the evidence. Suppose Jennings did steal it, and hid it, figuring he'd use it for blackmail instead of bringing the culprit or culprits to justice.”

“That's a lot of ‘supposes.'” But she began to see the light. “And Dale Jennings denied that he'd committed the murder…”

“Only at first,” he reminded her. “He denied it and then, all of a sudden, he had his lawyer plea-bargain for a reduced sentence by admitting to a lesser charge than murder one. Why?”

Her eyes brightened. “Someone offered him something,” she guessed. “Money.”

“Money. That's a good place to start looking.” He
twirled his empty mug on the table, thinking. “But if there was a payoff, why wait another two years to kill him?”

“His mother,” she said at once. “She'd just been swindled out of her life savings and was left homeless and impoverished, and an invalid. He might have contacted the perpetrator and demanded more money. This time maybe he offered to give up the evidence. Maybe he'd only asked for a moderate amount before and when he heard about his mother's condition, he asked for more money. A lot more. For his mother.”

“Not bad,” Brannon mused. His pale eyes twinkled at her, as they had in the old days, before they were enemies. “Ever thought of devoting yourself to law enforcement as a career?”

She gave him a “duh” stare and finished her own coffee. “I think we're onto something. Where do we start?”

“At the most likely place. Let's find out who was in contact with Jennings in prison besides his attorney.”

She pulled a small notepad out of her purse and flipped the pages. “I have a list of his correspondents and the names of people he phoned—addresses and telephone numbers.” She handed it to him.

He gave her a narrow glare. “You should have been a doctor. Nobody could read this!”

“Everybody's a critic,” she murmured, taking it back. “First name on the list is Jack Holliman. He lives in Floresville, southeast of here in Wilson County. He's Dale's uncle.”

Brannon raised an eyebrow. “Convenient, that he lives so close to the prison.”

“Probably too convenient, but we have to start somewhere.” She picked up her ticket and got to her feet. He did the same. They paid for their meals in silence before they walked back out to his utility vehicle.

 

Minutes later, they pulled into the long driveway of a small ranch. The fences were falling down. The dirt road was full of potholes. When they pulled up at the small house, they could see the peeling paint and missing porch rails.

As they got out of the car and started up the steps, a shotgun barrel snaked out the cracked door and there was the sound of a trigger being cocked. Josette hesitated.

Brannon never missed a step. “Texas Rangers!” Brannon announced in a curt tone, and kept walking.
“If you pump any buckshot into me and I don't die on the spot, you'll live to regret it!”

The hammer quickly uncocked and the door opened. A little old man, bent with age and white-haired, peered at his shirt through pale blue eyes. “Yep, that's a Ranger badge, all right,” he said in a thin, raspy voice. “Well, come in. I reckon you won't be trying to plug me,” he added with a laugh.

The inside of the house was as gloomy as the outside. It smelled of pipe smoke and burning wood and sweat. It was hot, but the old man seemed not to notice. He sat down gingerly in a rocking chair graced by an embroidered cushion and a faded, colorful afghan. He motioned his visitors to the only other two chairs in the room, cane-bottomed and flimsy-looking with cushions that looked as if they hadn't ever seen soap. In fact, so did the old man.

“We're looking for Jack Holliman,” Brannon said, easing down into the chair and leaning forward, his steely-gray eyes unblinking.

“That's me,” the old man said heavily. “I guess you came about my nephew, Dale.” The old man grimaced. “Hell of a way for a man to die, warn't it?” he drawled. “Shot like a dog in an alley. He was the last family I had, except for my sister.”

“Dale Jennings was your only nephew?” Josette asked.

“Yep,” he said. “My kid sister's only child. His pa's been dead since he was ten. His ma couldn't fix what his pa did to him.” His pale blue gaze dropped to the worn rug on the floor. “His pa was always in some sort of trouble, right up till the day he died. He taught the boy how to break the law.”

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to kill your nephew?” Brannon asked quietly.

“No,” he said at once. “I know they all said he killed that Garner fellow, but I never believed it. Dale might forge a check or steal a credit card, something like that, to get money for his ma, but he never would have killed anybody. He was the sort who'd stop to help a hurt animal and give everything he had on him to pay a vet to save it.”

“I know,” Josette said quietly, and without looking at Brannon. “He and I were acquaintances,” she elaborated. “I never thought he was a murderer, either. Now I want to know who killed him. If you can think of anything that might help us track down the person who shot him, we'd be grateful.”

The old man pursed his thin lips and nodded slowly. “I wrote to him in prison. He was a bad letter writer,
but he did send me a card last month. I'll get it.” He got up with obvious pain, grimacing as he went to a small table and opened the drawer. He pulled out a card-size envelope with his address on the front and handed it to Josette.

She opened it. The card, a landscape, was written in bad handwriting. The note was very brief, mostly asking about the old man and recalling the last time he'd been to see him, before he was arrested for Garner's murder and a horseback ride he and the old man had taken to a bubbling spring in a pasture.

“He never stopped talking about that last time we rode together,” he recalled sadly. “I remember he brought his own saddle, had it made special, so he could ride when I did.” He smiled sheepishly. “Since I got down with my hip, money's been tight. I kept two horses, but I only had the one saddle.” He sat back down with a sigh. “Still got the one he brought,” he recalled. “It's fancy, even got hand-tooled saddlebags.” He shook his head. “He always loved this old place, loved the country. He stayed in town to look after my sister, when she was so bad sick. He might have been wild, but he always looked after his mama. Would have left the ranch to him, if things had been different. I just
sold off my horses last week. I guess I'll sell the saddle as well. Nobody needs it anymore.”

Brannon turned the card over in his hands and then passed it over to Josette.

“I can't get in touch with my sister,” the old man said. “Not since she told me about Dale. Would go to the funeral, but there ain't nobody to drive me. She said she'd call me up and tell me about it, after. But now I can't call her. The phone at her house is disconnected. Is she all right?”

Brannon and Josette exchanged wary glances.

He looked so frail that they hated telling him.

“She's all right,” Josette said at once. “But her house caught fire and burned. She has a nice place now, in a retirement village. I'll get her telephone number, or one of her neighbors', and send it to you.”

He sighed wearily. “Thank you, girl,” he said in a defeated tone. “Looks like everything's going. Never thought getting old would be like this, that I'd be so crippled I couldn't do anything for myself.” His pale eyes met Josette's. “Don't take life for granted, young lady. Squeeze every drop out of it, while you can.”

She smiled. “I try to.”

Brannon took the card back from her. “I don't guess you know any of Jennings's friends or co-workers?”

“Co-workers? Never knew the boy to have but one job, working for that old man who got killed,” Holliman said. “He sure was proud of that job. The last time he was up here, though, he said something strange,” he remembered, frowning. “Said he'd done something he wished he hadn't. Wanted to protect the old man from some sort of threat,” he continued. “He said he hoped he'd done the right thing.” He glanced at Brannon. “Any idea what that meant?”

“Not yet,” Brannon said, getting to his feet. “But I will have. That's a promise. We'll be in touch about your sister. She's all right.”

Holliman slowly got to his feet. “Thanks for stopping by. Uh, sorry about the shotgun,” he added. “Dale told me to keep my doors locked and watch if strangers came around. Never knew why, but it seemed like good advice, just the same.”

“No problem. No need to walk us out,” Brannon added. “I'll lock the door as we go. You do have a phone?”

The old man pointed to it. “Not that it would be much use if anybody meant me harm, way out here in the sticks,” he added meaningfully. “But I got my shotgun.”

Brannon gave him an even look. “Got a dog?”

“Can't take care of one.”

“Keep that shotgun close, and your doors locked,” Brannon told him. “I'll ask the sheriff to get his deputies to increase their patrols out this way.”

Holliman smiled. “Thanks, son.”

Brannon glanced at the wall and hesitated with the doorknob in his hand. “Jennings is being buried tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. If you want to go, say so. I'll come and get you.”

The old man swallowed hard. “You'd do that for a stranger?”

Brannon touched an old, worn pistol and holster that Josette hadn't even noticed, hanging on a nail beside the door. Hanging on the nail with it was a faded, worn silver Texas Ranger badge. “We aren't strangers,” he said quietly.

Holliman nodded. “Then I'd like to go. Thanks.”

“No problem. I'll be here at one-thirty.”

“Thank you for giving us so much of your time, Mr. Holliman,” Josette said.

“Not much else to do with it, except talk,” he replied, and grinned.

She smiled back and waited for Brannon on the porch, while he pushed the lock and closed the door firmly behind him.

“I didn't even notice the holster,” she confessed. “You're observant.”

“You might be forgiven for not thinking so, considering the mistakes I've made,” he said tersely.

She let that go. “Do you think someone might hurt him?” she asked as they got back into the black SUV.

“A murderer who's killed twice won't hesitate. After all, he can only be executed once,” he replied as he started the vehicle. “We've seen evidence of how desperate he is to get whatever Jennings had on him. Anyone who's connected with Jennings, in any way, is in danger. And I still think Jake Marsh is up to his neck in it.”

She wrapped her arms around her chest. It wasn't chilly, but she was remembering poor old Mrs. Jennings. “Dale's mother's house has been ransacked and she's been burned out. Surely the murderer won't bother her again.”

He gave her a quick glance as he pulled out onto the highway. “He will if he thinks she knows something. That's just Marsh's style, if it is him.”

“Lord,” she whispered huskily, looking out the window. “What a fearful thing, to be old and helpless and have nothing.”

“To date, we've been living in a country that punishes age.”

She smiled sadly. “I guess.”

“Hell of a shame, a man like Holliman, who spent his life protecting other people, has to live like that,” he commented as they drove along. His face was somber. “There are hundreds like him, not just in Texas, but all over the country, men who put their lives on the line every day to save others. And this is how they're repaid, with retirement and Social Security that isn't even enough to pay for their medicine, most of the time.”

“That isn't right.”

“Don't get me started,” he cautioned. He made another turn, and they were on the road back to San Antonio.

There was a long, tense silence. Josette felt worn and wrinkled. The past two days had been so rushed that she'd hardly slept. It was beginning to catch up with her.

He noticed her lack of animation. “We'll go see Mrs. Jennings tomorrow, after the funeral,” he said. “Meanwhile, I'm going to talk to the warden at the state prison.”

“Do you think he'll know who pulled the strings to get Jennings assigned there?” she asked drowsily.

“Not really. But he may have contacts who can find out,” he replied. “This whole thing is fishy. I don't see how a system with so many checks and balances can let a convicted murderer slip through the cracks.”

“Money talks,” she murmured, closing her eyes.

He glanced at her, noticing the new lines in her young face. Her traumatic life was written there. She'd made one error in judgment, and it had tormented her ever since. He hadn't helped, with his certainty that she'd tried to frame the local politician's son for rape. He was sorry that he'd helped get the boy off. It was something he wasn't ever going to be able to justify, especially considering the fact that he'd seen her at that party, half naked and cowering and sobbing, so sick and afraid that she wasn't even coherent. He hated his own treatment of her later even more.