A Violent End at Blake Ranch (18 page)

Bruce Havranek lets me into his place, which is shabby and cheaply furnished. He's a thin, hunched man who looks old, although he's probably not much past fifty. His hair is thin, and it's been a while since it was cut. Before I even get seated, he starts complaining. “I know this isn't a very nice place, but my ex-wife bleeds me dry. I barely have enough left over to pay my bills.”

He motions me to sit on a red-, blue-, and silver-checkered sofa that would put your eyes out if you had to stare at it too long. “What is it you want from me?”

“This goes back a ways, to a babysitter your family had. Nonie Blake.”

“The Blake girl? The crazy one?”

I had wondered if his wife might have called to warn him that I'd be asking questions, but he appears to be genuinely surprised.

“I don't know if she was crazy,” I say, “but she had some issues.”

“What about her? Last I heard she tried to kill her sister and got sent away.” It seems that he hasn't kept up with the gossip in Jarrett Creek.

”She came home a couple of weeks ago and last week was found murdered.”

He rakes his fingers across the top of his hair. “Oh, my goodness. But I don't know what that has to do with me. I haven't seen her since she was packed off to the crazy-house.”

His words are so grating that I toss niceties aside.

“I want to know if, when Nonie Blake was your babysitter, she found out anything that she tried to use to blackmail you.”

Right in front of my eyes his face sharpens until he looks like a weasel. “I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

“Don't play dumb. I have it on good authority that you were embezzling money from Gabe LoPresto. I'm wondering if Nonie found out what you were up to and tried to blackmail you.”

“Ho!” The sound comes out as a growl. “Did my wife tell you that lie? Or was it LoPresto? Both of them made up all kinds of stuff. That was put to rest a long time ago. They were probably sneaking out together and cooked up this story. Why my wife goes on and on about it frosts me. If anybody belongs in the crazy-house, it's her.”

“All I want to know is if Nonie Blake found out what you were up to and tried to get you to pay her off to keep quiet.”

“How would she find out something like that, even if it was true, which it's not, no matter what my bitch of a wife says.”

“According to people who knew Nonie, she was a snoop.”

He's still got that sly look. “So you're going to try to claim that I was scared she'd come back here and tell on me and that I killed her to keep that from happening? That's ridiculous. I didn't even know she was back.”

“Even if you didn't kill her, I want to know if she tried to blackmail you. I figure if she blackmailed you, she might have blackmailed somebody else, too.”

“She did no such thing.” The springs creak as he settles back in his chair.

“Maybe Nonie didn't know about the money you took. Maybe she found out something else. Did you have another secret she snuck around and found out about?”

He licks his lips. “No siree, she did not. At least if she did, she never told me. Way I look at it, the world's better off without her, so I don't know why the law would want to make such a fuss to find out who killed her anyway.”

“Nonie never suggested that she knew something about you that you might want to pay to have kept quiet?”

It isn't as if I expect him to suddenly confess. My aim is to shake him up. A nervous suspect will sometimes blurt out something he hadn't intended to pass along. But if I read him right, there's nothing to tell. He's a weasel, but not a murderer.

CHAPTER 17

I'm glum as a lame dog the next morning when I slump into my chair at headquarters. I have to admit to myself that I'm almost at a dead end. I've found not a clue, not a person of interest, nothing to follow up on except going to Rollingwood, and I can't imagine what that's going to do to help me find out who killed Nonie. Even if it turns out she was using an assumed name, what difference would that make? She was killed here. Nonie's family has acted strange, and I have some general suspicion about them, but as for anything specific, I'm stuck. I'm not used to being in this position, and it makes me feel worthless. I've always managed to put together some kind of theory out of the information I come up with, but not this time.

When a car drives up outside and a woman steps out in uniform, I groan. I've completely forgotten about Maria Trevino again. Is my mind going? I've got to find something for her to do. She marches in before I've completed the thought.

“Good morning,” I say. “Did you have any success finding a place to live?”

“I think I've found something.” I don't know if she's glaring at me because the question is too personal, or if she just doesn't like small talk.

“Good,” I say. And suddenly I have an idea.

“Let's move the rest of these things off your desk and then I have something I'd like you to tackle.”

Now she does brighten up, her whole demeanor hopeful. “Not filing, is it?”

“There'll be some of that. But right now I have something else in mind.”

We get all the boxes moved and stored in the corner. “You see there's got to be some filing done. And in case you think I'm responsible for this mess, I want you to know that the last chief got sick and wasn't able to keep up the way he should have. In other words, I inherited it.”

She eyes the boxes with an expression that can only be described as leery.

“There're two things I want you to do. First, make a list of things you need for your desk, and before you come to work next time, go to the Walmart in Bobtail and get your supplies. Pens, paper, and whatnot.”

“You don't have that here?”

“We'll pay for it, but no, we don't have much. I don't know what they told you, but this town went bankrupt several months ago and we're still clawing our way out from under. It means there's not a lot of money for extra supplies.”

“You mean frivolous things like pens and paper.” Do I detect a hint of teasing? I hope so.

“But here's what I want you to do now.” We sit down, and I tell her about Nonie Blake's murder. “I don't mind admitting to you I'm fishing for answers. I need another brain on this case.” I bring over the original file on Nonie and the psychiatric evaluation. “I want you to read over all this and see if you find anything that doesn't strike you right.”

“Like what?” Her voice sounds cautious, as if she's not quite sure of her abilities, but her eyes have a spark in them that wasn't there before. She's got the drive to do the work, even if she's shy on experience.

I smile. “This isn't a test. I need another opinion. If you don't come up with anything, you're not doing any worse than I am. I'm grabbing for air here. The way it looks now, I'm worried that somebody's going to get away with murder.” Something had been bothering me about the report, and I took another quick look at it earlier, but I couldn't find whatever it was. Maybe Trevino will come up with the answer.

“We shouldn't be handling this anyway. It ought to be up to the highway patrol or the Rangers.”

I sit down, turning my chair to face her. “That may be true, in theory, but in the real world it doesn't always work that way. The Rangers can't get around to it right away, and when they do I don't see that they'll have much more to go on than we do. And I have one advantage. I know the people in this town and I know who to question and what to look out for.” That isn't entirely true with the Blakes, but she doesn't have to know I'm fudging.

I realize she's laughing at me.

“What?”

“I don't want to make you mad, but they told us in training that you people in small towns are like that.”

“Like what?”

“Thinking because you know everybody you ought to be able to solve cases by doing nothing but talking to people. They call it the ‘good old boy' syndrome.”

“Maybe they're right.” I have to admit her words sting. “But until the Rangers come in and take over, we might as well try to figure it out.” I nod toward the files I've handed her. “Maybe you can find a discrepancy there that I've missed.”

“You're the boss.” She says it like she doesn't really believe it.

While she reads, I get on the Internet and start trying to find out where Nonie Blake has been for the last ten years. Mostly I have to wade through articles and photos of the actress Winona Ryder. How the search engine can confuse Ryder and Blake, I don't know, but I suspect there's a publicist at work somewhere nudging computers to notice their actress.

Putting in her middle name, Lee, narrows it down a bit, but I still get a lot of false hits. But one entry does catch my eye. According to an east Texas name search website, there is a Winona Lee Blake living in a rental property in Jacksonville, Texas. I start searching to find out who owns the place, and suddenly things get odder. The home is owned by Susan Shelby—the name on the container of thyroid pills in the bathroom. Maybe I was right and Nonie really was using an alias.

“Did you notice this?” Maria interrupts my thoughts.

I get up and go to her desk. “What's that?”

“There's a discrepancy here between her height when she was examined by the psychiatric office and when she was autopsied. It's a whole inch.”

Bingo. It slots right into the nagging in the back of my brain. At the time I'd read it, I'd thought of a possible explanation for it and meant to check it out. “I thought maybe it had something to do with the difference in her lying down and standing up.”

She frowns. “I doubt it. Shall I call the coroner and ask?”

I have to rein myself in from saying I'll do it myself. “Sure. His number is on the autopsy report.”

“I know it. I'll call him right now.”

“I'll be back in a bit. I have somebody I need to talk to,” I say.

She barely looks up as I leave. I head over to talk to Ellen Forester at her gallery. When I first thought up the idea of driving to Rollingwood, it was a random thought. Now it's clear that I need to go up to that neck of the woods. I want to talk to Nonie's psychiatrist at Rollingwood and go to Jacksonville to the address where Nonie Blake lived.

For once, when I stop by the gallery, Ellen isn't giving a class. I never guessed when she moved here and opened an art gallery and workshop that there were so many potential artists waiting for someone to unleash their hidden talent. She has a lively business in workshops, although how much art she sells, I don't know.

I catch her working on a watercolor. She drops her brush and gets up hastily to greet me, a flush rising in her cheeks. I don't take that personally. She blushes easily. “What brings you here?” she says.

“Remember when I said I might have to go to north Texas to find out more about Nonie Blake?”

“Yes.”

“Turns out I do have to go, and I'd like you to go with me. We'll take the time to go by a couple of art museums in Fort Worth.”

She grimaces. “I considered it. I really did. I wish I could, but I've got my classes to think of.”

“Couldn't you cancel them for a day?”

Annoyance flashes in her eyes. “Men. Always think that the things women do isn't important enough to commit to. Suppose I asked you to shut down the police department for a day so we could take a little trip to Galveston?” She brings her hands to her mouth. “That sounds stupid. Of course giving art lessons isn't as important as policing. But why do men always assume women can drop what they're doing?”

“I'm sorry if I offended you.” What I'm really thinking is, “men”? She probably means her ex-husband. But what does that have to do with me? What did I do to bring this on?

Now her face is bright red, and she looks like she could cry. “I didn't mean to jump on you. I guess I'm sensitive because Seth always used to dismiss anything I did as drivel. If he had something—anything—to do, it was more important than what I was doing.”