A Violent End at Blake Ranch (21 page)

“No, I know most of the tenants. I get the contracts. But . . .” He frowns and starts flipping through the papers in the file. He shakes his head. “I thought maybe I'd forgotten the name on the contract, but I haven't. The place belongs to Ms. Shelby, so she can have anybody she wants living there without a contract.”

“Do you have a work number for Ms. Shelby?”

“I do. She's an assistant manager out at the Walmart on the edge of town.”

CHAPTER 20

The Walmart looks like every other big-box store: a big sprawling building with a huge parking lot that's only half full. Inside, I go straight to the office and ask to speak to the manager. “That's Mr. Sweet,” the young girl at the window says. “I'll get him for you.”

Mr. Sweet turns out to be a man who looks around twenty-five years old. “Barry Sweet,” he says, sticking out a smooth young hand. “How can I help you?”

I tell him who I am. “I'm looking for one of your employees, Susan Shelby.”

“Oh, that's a shame. Susan's out on vacation.”

“Really? How long has she been gone?”

He blinks. “Let me look.” He darts away from the window and disappears into an inner office. He comes back in a minute. “The master time sheet says she's been off for a couple of weeks. She'll be back next Monday. Anything I can help you with?”

“You know where she went?”

“I'm sorry, I don't know that.”

I'm aware of the growing line behind me, but he doesn't seem inclined to take our business off to the side. “She got any friends here that I can talk to?”

He gets a funny look on his face. “Uh, I'll tell you what, let me take you back to the employee break room. Maybe somebody there can help you.”

He comes out of the office area and leads me to the back of the store, through metal swinging doors and into a room with a couple of chrome-legged tables with folding chairs and a Mr. Coffee setup. There's a vintage refrigerator at least fifty years old and a row of vending machines. A couple of older women in powder-blue uniforms come to attention with a wary eye at Sweet.

“I'm going to turn you over to these two ladies,” he says. His eyes drop to the nametag of the nearest one. “Uh, Mrs. Barstow, this is . . .” he turns to look at me, and I realize he's completely forgotten my name.

“Samuel Craddock, chief of police down in Jarrett Creek.”

Mrs. Barstow licks her lips. “What can I do for you?” She casts a fidgety eye to her boss.

“If you don't mind, I'll leave you,” he says. “I've got a lot to take care of today.”

When he's out the door Mrs. Barstow's companion says in a low voice, “Yeah, a lot to do. Playing those computer games. They say that's what he does all day.”

“I'm wondering if either of you can tell me who might be friendly with a woman by the name of Susan Shelby.”

It's like a door slams shut on both women's faces. Mrs. Barstow smooths her uniform. “I don't really know who might be a close friend,” she says. The two women cut their eyes at each other.

“I take it she's not well liked here?”

Mrs. Barstow looks me up and down. “You could say that.”

“Happens that way sometimes,” I say. “Mr. Sweet said she's on vacation and I need to get in touch with her. I'm looking for somebody who can tell me where she might have gone.”

They both look at me blankly.

“Anybody you can think of she might have told?”

“I suppose you could ask Nonie Blake,” Mrs. Barstow says. “I believe they're friendly.”

I try not to show how startled I am. “How might I get in touch with this woman, Nonie Blake?” I say cautiously.

Mrs. Barstow screws up her face. “I believe I saw her over in menswear today. Or was it the boys' department?”

“You saw her today?”

“This morning.”

When I leave the two women I walk slowly toward the big sign that says “Boys/Men,” my brain in turmoil. If Nonie Blake is here in Jacksonville, who is lying in her grave? I'm getting a very bad feeling that I know who.

I have no trouble recognizing Nonie Blake. She's a little heavier than her sister, Charlotte, and a little shorter, but they look so much alike, with their almond-colored eyes and light hair, that I would have known they were sisters. Approaching her, I feel like I'm walking up to a ghost.

“You're Nonie Blake?” I say.

Her eyes meet mine boldly. “Yes. Who are you?” A firm voice, bordering on aggressive.

“My name is Samuel Craddock and I'm the police chief of Jarrett Creek, Texas.” I wait for her reaction.

“Jarrett Creek.” She takes a step back, her face clouding over. She was holding a stack of neatly folded boys' shirts, and she sets them down so haphazardly that they topple over. “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you in private.”

“Has something happened to my mother or father?” I notice the formal words she uses for her parents.

“No. It's something else.”

“I'm working. I can't walk away from my station without good cause. Even then, I'd have to talk to my manager. He's not going to like it. He doesn't like employees to take care of personal business during work hours.” She has lowered her voice, and there's an urgent note to it.

“I can speak with Mr. Sweet if that would help.”

“Not a great idea. I don't want to lose my job.”

“This is pretty important.”

Her eyes hold mine steadily. “Tell me right here. If a customer comes up, I'll have to take care of them, but as long as you're quick, it'll be okay.”

“When was the last time you were in Jarrett Creek?”

She picks the shirts back up, hardly glancing at them. “I assume you know my story.” She slots the shirts into an empty space on the table.

I nod.

“I haven't been back since I left when I was fourteen.”

“I see. Well, someone claiming to be you came to Jarrett Creek and stayed with your family.”

“Really?” She cocks her head like a little bird, but her eyes look more like a hawk's. “She claimed to be me? Why would somebody do that?”

“I hoped maybe you would have some idea.”

“Me? How would I know? Why don't you ask her?”

“She was murdered after she'd been there a week.”

“You're kidding!” She crosses her hands over her heart. Color rushes to her cheeks. “What happened? I mean, who killed her? And why?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out. Until five minutes ago, I thought it was you who had been killed. Everybody did.”

She frowns. “You mean my mother didn't recognize that whoever it was, it wasn't me?”

“As I understand it, it's been a while since she saw you.” Even to me, this sounds like a thin reply. The more I think about it, the more I realize that ever since the woman who called herself Nonie Blake was murdered, the Blakes have told me one lie after another.

“But still. You'd think she'd recognize her own daughter.”

“Do you know a woman by the name of Susan Shelby?”

“Susan? Of course I do. We share a house. I mean, it's her place and I rent a room, but we're friends.”

“How did you meet her?”

She raises her eyebrows. “I met her in Rollingwood, the place where my parents parked me after . . . you know.”

“Why was she in Rollingwood?”

“She tried to kill herself, and her parents had her committed.” She says it in an offhand way, as if it was an everyday occurrence.

“Miss?” A big woman with thick arms and legs and a look of permanent grievance, dragging a disheveled three-year-old boy, interrupts. “If you're not too busy, could you help me?” She glares at Nonie and at me, as if I'm guilty by association.

“Of course. What are you looking for?” Nonie is no mouse. Her voice is polite, but there's hint of steel in it.

The woman says she's looking for pants for her son. Nonie leads her to a nearby table. The woman takes her time, asking pointless questions and fingering one garment after another. Once or twice Nonie glances at me, her expression unreadable.

Eventually the woman is satisfied and drags the three-year-old off, carrying a stack of jeans and T-shirts. I'm wondering why she didn't get a cart for her purchases when Nonie says, “She comes in here for entertainment. She's here at least twice a week and never buys anything. Drags that kid around like a rag doll, lets him play in the toy department, and makes work for everybody.”

“Doesn't seem all that entertaining.”

“Tell her that.”

We watch the woman toss the stack of goods a few tables away and keep walking. Nonie lifts an eyebrow. “Where were we?”

“We were talking about Susan Shelby.”

“Why do you want to know about her?”

“I have reason to believe she's the woman who was killed.”

“Susan?” She jerks her head in what I take to be a nervous tic. “No way. Why would she claim to be me?”

“That's what I need to find out. She didn't tell you she was headed down around Jarrett Creek?”

She shakes her head, her cheeks flaming. “She's supposed to be on vacation in Corpus. You know, Padre Island.”

“Did she have a reservation somewhere?”

“I don't know. I assume so, but she didn't tell me the details of her trip.”

“Would you mind if I take a look at her belongings in your house?”

She hesitates. “Just hers?”

Strange question. “Yes, of course. I can get a warrant if you prefer.”

“Can I be there to watch you? I mean, what if it isn't her? Why do you think it's her?”

“I found something at your folks' house with her name on it.” And now that I'm thinking about it, I wonder why she got her prescription filled at a pharmacy in Tyler if she worked at Walmart.

“What was it you found?”

“Let's talk about that when I come over later. What time do you get off work?”

“This is a short day. I get off at four. Tomorrow I have to work until nine.”

“I'll meet you out front at four.”

“No, there's a back employee entrance. My car is parked back there. I'll meet you there and then I can lead you to the house.”

I go into town and find a coffee shop where I can have some lunch. I'm still unsettled from finding out that Nonie Blake is alive. And I'm increasingly angry about the lies the Blakes have told me. I don't believe that Adelaide Blake could have thought that Susan Shelby was her daughter. They've been playing me for a sucker.

As I'm eating my lunch, I realize there's something else that has to be done. The medical examiner has to be notified that the wrong person is buried in Nonie Blake's grave. As soon as I finish lunch, I call the medical examiner's office. When T. J., the coroner, comes on the line, I say, “We've got a problem.”

“Those are words to chill the heart. What kind of problem?”

“The woman we buried as Nonie Blake? She's not Nonie.”

“What? How do you know?”

“I just talked to Nonie Blake.”

“Who the hell did we bury? And how come the family identified her?”

“That's what I'd like to know. I'm in Jacksonville right now, but tomorrow I'll be talking to them. Let me ask you something. By law do you have to dig up the remains?”

He's quiet for several minutes. “That's going to depend on who we buried and what her relatives have to say.”

“First I have to find them.”

CHAPTER 21

Following Nonie's old Toyota Celica to her house, I try to imagine why Adelaide and Charlotte misidentified Nonie. I remember John's confused insistence that “she's not my daughter.” If he knew it, they must have known it, too. Why pretend otherwise? Why has Adelaide told me one lie after another?

The front door of Nonie's place opens directly into the living room, a room cluttered with mismatched furniture that focuses on a giant TV perched on a sturdy table flush against the wall. Every surface is crammed with magazines and knick-knacks. A bowl containing a few pieces of popcorn and a glass with a few inches of clear liquid sit on the coffee table in front of one of the chairs. The house smells stale, as if the windows haven't been opened for a long time. The air-conditioning is set so it's cold, but it also feels damp. There's something discouraging about the room. I imagine the two women sitting here night after night fighting over which TV show to watch. They're young, but the place feels old.

Nonie has me wait in the living room while she changes clothes. I take a look at the numerous photos in the room, recognizing Susan Shelby as the woman I only saw when she was dead. But I also notice that Nonie and Susan look a good bit alike. Nonie's face is a little narrower, but they both have dark, round eyes set slightly close together. They both wear their hair chin length in a cut so similar that I wouldn't be surprised if they got their hair cut by the same person. Most striking, and for some reason it gives me a shiver, both of them have their mouths quirked in a smirk that makes them look like they're up to something.

I pick up one photo in which the two of them are standing side by side at a lakefront. They're both wearing jeans and T-shirts and grinning. The casual observer could mistake them for sisters—or at least cousins. It makes me reconsider whether Adelaide could have mistaken Susan Shelby for her daughter.

“That picture was taken out at the lake last spring.” Nonie has snuck up on me, and I'm startled.

“Lake Jacksonville?”

“Yes. We rented a cabin there for Easter weekend.”

“Looks like you were having a good time. You were pretty good friends?”

“We got along okay.” She plucks the picture from my hand and sets it back on the table.

“How long have you lived together?”

“Since I left Rollingwood. It was convenient. Cheaper and safer.”