A Tough Nut to Kill (Nut House Mystery Series) (6 page)

There was nothing comforting about being back in the
ranch house. Nothing reassuring about the dark, exposed beams of the living room, or the low sofas and chairs. It was more a place where the real horror of what I’d just gone through settled in.

Hunter hovered over near the low archway leading into the living room but stayed away from me. He was going in and out as Sheriff Higsby ordered.

I couldn’t stand to look at him right then. It was as though my best friend had turned against me, in this, one of the worst times of my life. It was as if he’d joined the other side, unable or unwilling to reach out a hand to help me.

I couldn’t process what had happened. Couldn’t work through stumbling over Uncle Amos’s dead body. Couldn’t work out that Hunter had been the first to accuse me of killing him. As if he didn’t know me at all.

We were all together now, but sitting apart. Justin, still in work clothes—blue shirt and old jeans—his dark head bowed, sat on a low sofa across from me, hands clenched between his knees. Miss Amelia, her arm around a sobbing Bethany, sat upright and alert on another sofa. She looked over then blinked a few times as if she was surprised to see me there.

Poor Mama. She sat with her worried eyes going back and forth, policeman to policeman, then to me. She smiled and nodded nervously.

From time to time, Justin stood and shot a question at whichever cop was near him. Getting no answer, he’d sit back down and tap his foot angrily, muttering to himself. I could see my brother was bursting to chase these men out of our home but was holding himself in tight.

We had to talk—all of us—when the police were gone.

We knew what Sheriff Higsby was thinking, that he had the killer right there in the room. I’d be thinking the same thing if I were the sheriff, I figured.

First there was Mama, who detested Amos, and here he was back, probably planning to get the ranch away from her.

Then there was Justin, who still thought Amos had something to do with our daddy dying. He never accepted the coroner’s verdict of “Accidental Death.”

And me. All anybody had to do was look at my work and know I would feel murderous if I caught Uncle Amos in my greenhouse, destroying everything in his path. But I didn’t kill him. Mama wouldn’t hurt a flea. And Justin—if he was going to kill Uncle Amos, he’d never have done it in my greenhouse. The last thing Justin would do was implicate me in anything this awful. And anyway, my brother might be tough when it came to protecting the groves, firing a guy who needed firing, standing up to anybody trying to hurt the ranch—but despite what the sheriff said, Justin was no killer.

All I could think, sitting there drawn into head-lowered misery, was how I wanted to get back out there and clean up the mess, then begin my program all over again.

Bethany moaned against Miss Amelia’s shoulder. “The wedding’s going to be ruined. I’ve worked so hard. Chet Easton’s gonna be furious with me over this. I mean, how can he have his big wedding here when we got us a dead body?” She sobbed and Miss Amelia patted her back as she moaned on. “I’m gonna be ruined by all of this. I just know news will get to Houston. Chet Easton’s a big, important newscaster. He’s gonna hear about it.” She threw back her curly head and moaned again. “I’ve got everything ordered. How could anybody do this to me?”

Bethany turned her streaked face up to Miss Amelia, who smiled as she got up, leaned the sobbing Bethany back against the cushions, and left the room.

She was back in ten minutes, coming down the hall from the kitchen with a platter of pecan cookies in her hands. Always prepared for “guests,” Miss Amelia passed her cookies and took orders for “a nice, cold drink” from the gathered policemen until Mama, stretched tight, had enough and, from between clenched teeth, said, “Miss Amelia, let’s not make our ‘guests’ too comfortable. That all right with you?”

I watched as Miss Amelia colored up and bent to make room for her platter at the center of the large, square coffee table in the middle of the room. She fussed with the framed Blanchard photos on the table, pushing us aside as she made room for her cookies.

We’d all given statements—as much as any of us knew. Mine took longer than the others because I was there, on the scene. Talking about it brought everything back—especially that plant stake with the number tag swinging gently. Number DC8700. I kept turning over that number in my head. It meant nothing, one picked at random from a pile I kept near the planting bins. I would never use that number again. In a dark moment, I wondered if maybe my work was going to end there, with that classification and that number.

Waiting for the sheriff and his men to leave the house and the grounds was like sitting still while acid slowly dripped on my head. There was nothing to distract me from thoughts swinging back and forth from my poor broken trees to a fire and a dead man.

“We’ll be out of here soon, Miss Blanchard.” Sheriff Higsby read my mind. He was back, just inside the room, big boots clamped hard on a small, woven rug, his hat pushed firmly down across his forehead. He bowed slightly to Mama. “Just a few things left to clear up.”

Mama shrugged up at him, narrowing her red-rimmed eyes. “You understand, Sheriff. We knew Amos was back in town. He was at the Nut House today, just like I told you. But that’s all any of us know about him. I sure hope you don’t think somebody in my family had anything to do—”

“And you have to understand, Miss Emma. Everybody in town knows the trouble he’s been . . .” The sheriff’s voice dropped as he looked slowly toward Justin.

“Don’t look at me, Sheriff.” Justin was beyond being angry. I could see frustration and anger building across his wide, taut back and in his fists, clenched on his knees. “I told you everything I know. Heard sirens out in the grove, same as Mama here. And no, I’m not unhappy Amos is dead. But no, I didn’t kill him. I was cleaning ditches with my men when I saw hogs coming in from the river and took off after ’em by myself. You ask my men. They’ll tell you.”

“And . . . you were by yourself, after hogs, for maybe an hour?”

“That’s what I said. Got down there and stopped to clear some tall brush so those hogs couldn’t hide.”

“If I go talk to your men, that’s what they’ll tell me, too?”

“That’s what I said. Sheriff, I’m not known as a liar and I don’t like what you’re—”

“Things I gotta ask, Justin.”

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you and your boys would get moving, get on out of here, and go find whoever did this to Uncle Amos. Time you stopped concentrating on the Blanchards. Me and my family got a lot to talk about.”

“Got my job, Justin. You know that.”

“Sure like to see you doin’ it.” He squinted at the sheriff. “I’m beginning to think we maybe should get Ben Fordyce out here. Seems like a lawyer’s gonna be needed if you boys don’t get goin’ on this.”

Sheriff Higsby shook his head and looked around at Hunter, who stood with his hands folded and his head bowed.

“Wouldn’t’ve taken long if you killed him, Justin. Amos over there fooling around, maybe at the fence, or something like that. Could’ve surprised him. Done him in ’cause you couldn’t help yourself.”

Miss Amelia let out an exasperated sound. She flounced off the hard chair she’d taken in a corner of the room and went to stand with her hand on Justin’s back as he gave a harsh bark of a laugh. His dark eyes were shining with fury. I knew the look. The two of us had scrapped enough when we were kids. What I’d counted on back then was getting him so mad he’d end up sputtering.

“Yup, Sheriff,” Justin said. “Then I went back to clearing ditches. All in a day’s work. I’ll give you this much, if I caught Amos in there, doin’ what he was doing . . . maybe you’d’ve found him with a broken arm or two—but not dead. At least, not until he told me how he rigged my daddy’s death on that mower to look like an accident.”

Someone coming in the front door stopped the sheriff from answering. An officer, holding a plastic-wrapped object in his hands, walked over and showed the object to the sheriff, who nodded. The two went out into the front hall and consulted briefly in whispers before the sheriff was back, motioning for me to come out to the hall. He held the wrapped package out and asked me if I recognized it.

Through the doubled-over plastic I could make out a small hatchet.

Behind me, Justin, who’d followed us, spoke up. “Looks like any other hatchet. Where’d you find it?”

“Found tree fiber between the blade and the handle. It was layin’ by Amos’s body. Guess it’s what he used on your grove, Lindy.”

I made a face. “It looks like one I kept in the greenhouse. I had a hatchet, an ax—in case I needed it . . . you should find lots of tools. Of course there’ll be tree fibers on all of them.”

“Only thing is . . .” He turned to look around directly at me. “The tech says no fingerprints. Not on the handle and not on the blade. How’d you imagine Amos did all that damage and didn’t leave a single fingerprint on the weapon? Not even yours, Lindy. Wiped clean.”

He scratched at his shaggy head. “Wasn’t wearing gloves when he got himself killed. No dirt on his hands. No dirt on his clothes, ’cept what was on his back from falling down in it. Tech said soil on the floor of the greenhouse was different from the dirt outside. You must use special stuff inside, that right?” He turned back to me.

I nodded. “My own mix.”

“So,” the sheriff went on, “how’d he do it, you imagine, all that damage? Anybody in this room can answer that one, well, you’re a better man than I am.”

Sheriff Higsby turned his hooded eyes back to me. “There’re a couple more things, Lindy. Said they found your computer out beyond the fence. Smashed to pieces. Guess that killer didn’t want to have to carry it. Or Amos stomped on it before going into the greenhouse. Sure gives you one more thing to hold against him.”

I let the implication pass. There were more important things to worry about. My mind went to ways to get my files back. I had backup disks but they were probably somewhere in the ashes. My only hope was the computer in my apartment.

“Another question,” Sheriff Higsby interrupted my thoughts. “That all the trees you had out there in back?”

I thought. “Sure. Every one of them . . .” I stopped when a thought hit me. “Well, maybe not. There were five in pots. I didn’t see ’em . . .”

“Five in pots? So whoever did this could’ve taken those five. Like they wanted some of your stock.”

I nodded. That was all I could do. Of course, the five best of all my trees. The five with the greatest promise. I hadn’t even missed them.

“Heavy to cart away?”

I shook my head. “Not big trees yet. I carried them in and out easily.”

“You think maybe somebody’s after your work, Lindy? Maybe that’s what happened out there? Now they got those five trees?”

I was too tired to think about it. Personally, I took this as good news. I could make up time—if I could find the missing trees.

He shut his notebook with a snap and slid it into a back pocket. “Sure hope we don’t find those trees hid somewhere on this ranch. My men are searching now. Might take some time, but if you folks hid ’em . . . well, I’m gonna be thinkin’ maybe the whole family’s in on this and you’re all tryin’ to cover up a murder.”

He looked slowly, and sadly, from one of us to the other. “It’s one thing to be mad, maybe even hate somebody. It’s a whole other thing to take the law into your own hands.”

“I want you and the rest of these men off my property.” Justin got up and stood tall. When he spoke, his voice was colder than I’d ever heard it. “You got any more to say to us, you call Ben Fordyce. What you’re saying, Sheriff, is that we murdered Amos. Far as I’m concerned, you’re an enemy to our whole family and that’s the last help we’re givin’ you . . .”

Bethany moaned and hugged a pillow. Miss Emma hurried over to stop Justin, but he waved her back. “From here on, we’ll take care of this the way we’ve always taken care of threats against our family. We’ll do it ourselves.”

“I wouldn’t be doin’ anything rash, Justin. If you’re right and none of you was involved in the killin’, well, we’ll find out . . .”

“Funny, Sheriff. That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“One last question, Justin.” The sheriff went on as if he were deaf. “You wear gloves out there when you’re working? Cleaning out those ditches is dirty work . . .”