Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek: A Samuel Craddock Mystery (Samuel Craddock Mysteries) (16 page)

I bring the banker’s box containing the files I found in Dellmore’s trunk into the station and set them under my desk. I’m curious to know what’s in them, but there’s no hurry. I won’t be able to turn them over to Alan or Cookie until Monday morning. The light on the telephone is blinking with five messages, and I take care of those first. Three of the calls are things that can be put off: Tools are missing from a construction site, an abandoned house has been vandalized, and someone is playing music too loud. The fourth one needs a follow-up.

“Mrs. Witz, is your car missing?”

“No, it’s right out front.”

“What makes you think somebody was riding around in it?”

There’s a long pause. “I know I sound crazy, but when I got in it to go to the store this morning, I was pretty sure somebody else had driven it.”

“When was the last time you drove it?”

“I go to the store once a week, every Thursday. That’s when the Qwik Mart puts things on sale.”

I’m patient with her. She admits the seat hadn’t been moved and as far as she could tell it had the same amount of gas in it. “But my mamma always told me I’ve got second sight, and I had this strange feeling that somebody had been in it. Maybe it had a different smell. Something.”

I tell her to call me if anything like that happens again.

The fifth call is more worrisome. A woman living out in the area where I was looking at property with Marietta Bryant yesterday has called to say that her teenage daughter seems to have run away from home. She sounds a little hysterical. It’s probably a teenager who got mad at her folks and is off sulking somewhere, but there’s always a chance it’s something worse. It needs to be handled right now. I don’t see a duty roster anywhere, so I call Zeke and tell him about the missing girl. “When are you scheduled to come in?”

“Not until this afternoon, but I’ll come in right now. You’ve got your hands full with the Dellmore thing. I’ll go talk to the missing girl’s mamma right away. Gives me an excuse to get out of cleaning the gutters.”

I re-record the message on the machine to give out my cell phone number and then sit back to plan what to do next to investigate Dellmore’s death. I feel like a rusty wheel that’s not able to move as smoothly as when it’s oiled. But there’s a method to be followed, and I’ll get there. I start by trying to think of a motive. The motives that pop to mind right away where Dellmore is concerned are sex and money—motives don’t get any more basic than that.

I’m not entirely convinced of Barbara’s explanation for why she stayed with Gary when she knew he’d had multiple affairs. Maybe I was too quick to dismiss Loretta’s suggestion that she’d had enough and killed Dellmore. But if she did decide she’d had enough, why now? Is there something going on that made her suddenly decide she’d be better off with him dead? Maybe he asked for a divorce, and this time he meant it. It’s hard for me to imagine that Dellmore seriously considered Jessica Reinhardt as a possible replacement for Barbara. Was he seeing someone else?

I don’t for a minute suspect Jessica of killing Dellmore, even if he disappointed fantasies she might have had about him. But if Rusty Reinhardt knew that Dellmore had actually gone to Jessica’s house, he might have been angry enough to confront Dellmore. Jim Krueger said he overheard Rusty asking Gary if he could talk to him after the meeting. Maybe the confrontation got out of hand. And it’s always possible that if I dig deeper into it, I may find other boyfriends or husbands or fathers angry at Dellmore.

The phone interrupts my thinking. It’s Barbara Dellmore. “I got a call from the funeral home. The medical examiner released Gary’s body yesterday afternoon, and nobody bothered to call and tell me.”

“That’s not the first time someone told me that. I guess they think it’s up to the funeral home to let the family know. Anyway, I’m sure you and his folks are relieved. Do you know when you’re going to have the funeral?”

“It’s not going to be a public affair. We want it private, with just a few friends. I’m calling because it would be nice to have a law enforcement person there.”

“I’m glad to be there, Barbara, but what do you mean it would be nice to have the law there?”

“In case anybody shows up uninvited. Anyway, it’s Monday afternoon at the Episcopal Church at two o’clock. Can you be there?”

“Of course I will.” I don’t mind going, but I wonder who she thinks will show up that she didn’t invite.

Still considering possible motives for Dellmore’s murder, I turn my attention to money—always a complicated matter. Maybe Dellmore meddled in somebody’s business that he shouldn’t have. Or maybe somebody was involved in illegal transactions, and he found out and threatened to expose them. I’ll need to ask Cookie Travers what kind of banking matters Dellmore was currently working on.

Then there’s his involvement with the water park out at the lake. Alton Coldwater claimed that Dellmore was partly to blame for that fiasco. And according to Oscar Grant, Dellmore bragged about making a secret killing on the deal. It seems straightforward—Dellmore put together the loan and probably got a commission. What else could he have done that he needed to keep secret? I could ask Alan Dellmore, but I decide to consult Cookie first. She’s been Alan’s loyal right-hand man for a long time, and if she can answer my questions it will mean I can spare Dellmore having to dredge up what may have been shady business practices on his son’s part.

The door opens and Truly Bennett pokes his head inside.

“Come on in,” I say, rising.

Bennett steps inside, cringing as if he’s expecting to be hit. In his fifties, Bennett grew up at a time when daily life could be hard for men of color, especially in small towns. For Bennett there’s the extra history of the time he spent in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. He has his old straw hat in his hands, and it looks like he’s going to tear it apart if I don’t settle him down.

“What’s up, Truly? You look worried.”

“Chief Craddock, I had to come around and see you because something happened over at Mr. McClusky’s place, and I don’t want to get blamed for something I didn’t do.”

“Sit down here. Let me get you a cup of coffee.” I set the coffee in front of him, but he’s still working on the hat. “What happened?”

“Somebody broke into Mr. McClusky’s house last night.”

“Uh-oh. Tell me about it.”

“You know I’ve been over there painting. This morning I planned to start early, but my truck had a dead battery. I had to wait for somebody to give me a jump. So I only got there twenty minutes ago. I went around back to pick up some brushes I cleaned last night, and I saw that the backdoor was open a little bit. I thought maybe Mr. McClusky or Ms. Bright had come home, so I called out, but nobody answered. And then I saw that the little window next to the door was broken. I knew then that somebody must have broken in. I went around and rang the front doorbell and called out some more in case they hadn’t heard me, but nobody was home. I came down here because I don’t want anybody thinking I did that.”

“Settle down. Nobody’s going to accuse you of anything. I’ll go over there with you to check it out right now. I’ll call McClusky and tell him what’s going on in case he wants to come back.”

“And if you don’t mind, would you ask him if he wants me to keep on working?”

“I’ll do that. You go on back to the house, and I’ll be right behind you as soon as I call him.”

I call the cell phone numbers I have for both Slate and Angel, but both numbers go to the answering machine. I leave a message on Slate’s phone. And then I call the Marriott out at Horseshoe Bay to see if I can leave him a message there.

“We don’t have anybody here by that name,” the desk clerk tells me. “Could it be under another name?”

I give them Angel Bright’s name.

“You mean that country singer?” the clerk says.

“That’s the one. Her husband told me they were staying there.”

“No, sir, I would have remembered that. She was one of my mamma’s favorite singers. I would have wanted to get her autograph. She hasn’t been here.”

Before I can get out the door, the phone rings again. I forgot how much of a slave you are to the telephone when you’re in law enforcement. I start to let it go, but they’ll just call me on the cell phone, so I might as well handle it now.

“Mr. Craddock, this is Camille Overton. I talked to you yesterday when you were looking for the McCluskys?”

“That’s right. I found them. I appreciate your help. What can I do for you?”

“I’m calling because somebody broke into my house last night. That man who’s working across the street worries me. He showed up again this morning and I don’t like the look of him.”

“I’m coming over there right now. Sit tight.”

Five minutes later I knock on Camille’s door and she opens it so fast, I suspect she was standing by the door waiting for me. She’s wearing glasses that make her eyes look large, and there’s no mistaking the alarm in them. “I’m so glad you came. I’m a nervous wreck.” She glances around me to where Truly Bennett’s truck is parked on the street, with Truly sitting in it. I’ve told him to wait until I talk to Mrs. Overton before we look at McClusky’s house. “I just don’t like having that man here.”

“Mrs. Overton, I’ve known Truly Bennett for thirty years. He’s absolutely trustworthy. I can guarantee he didn’t break in to your house.”

She looks over again at Bennett’s truck. “If you say so. I guess if he was the one who broke in, he wouldn’t have come back here brazen as you please.” She opens the door wider. “Come on in and I’ll tell you what happened.” She leads me into the kitchen and points to the door that leads to the backyard.

“I was out playing bridge last night, and when I got home, this backdoor was wide open. There was a draft coming through the whole house.”

“What time was this?”

“I got home around ten o’clock. I can tell you I surely didn’t leave the door open like that, though. It was cold outside and I wouldn’t have left it open anyway, even if it wasn’t cold. It like to’ve scared me to death when I saw it.”

“You didn’t call down to the station, though.”

“No, I didn’t want to bother you. And I wanted somebody to come right over so I phoned Mary Rusk next door—that’s where I was playing bridge—and she sent Paul over to check it out. He went through the house to make sure nobody was hiding in any of the rooms. He said he thought maybe the wind blew the door open. I said I didn’t think the wind was that strong last night, and besides the door was locked.”

“Was anything missing?”

“Not as far as I can tell. But Paul said I should call you this morning and let you know. He said police like to keep track of things like that.”

“He’s right.” I open the door and take a look at the handle and lock on both sides. It’s a round knob with a simple push lock, and no deadbolt. I see a few scratches on the lock, but not enough to indicate the door was jimmied. “Are you sure this door was locked?”

There’s a chilly breeze coming from the open door and she holds her sweater tighter around her. She looks at the lock as if it could tell her something. “It’s possible I didn’t lock it. Sometimes I go outside and don’t bother to lock it during the day, but usually I’m careful if I go out at night.” She shakes her head with a rueful look. “I was only going next door and was running a little late. I may have forgotten to check it.”

“I have to tell you that Truly Bennett came to my office this morning and said he found the McClusky’s house broken into when he came to work. I was coming up here to check on the house when you called.”

She shivers and closes the backdoor and locks it. “Oh, my gosh, somebody is going around the neighborhood breaking in. You know, I have to tell you that a week or so ago I came home and had the strangest feeling that somebody had been here, but nothing was out of place, so I thought I was being foolish.”

“This could be kids going around trying unlocked doors and looking around inside, so be sure you lock up when you leave. And if anything else happens, you call me. It’s no bother. One more thing. Why don’t you go through the house again after I leave and make sure nothing is missing. I’ll be across the street. Come and tell me if you find anything that doesn’t look right.”

“I’ll do that. And I thank you for coming out so fast.”

At the McClusky’s, Truly shows me the lock and the broken window. The lock has more serious damage to it than Camille’s lock, but this door has a deadbolt. “It looks to me like somebody tried to jimmy it,” Bennett says, “and when they couldn’t get it open they broke the window, reached in, and unlocked it.”

“Looks like that to me, too,” I say. I’m always surprised people don’t realize that having a window right next to the door makes it easy to break the window and get to the lock.

“I don’t like this one bit,” Bennett says. “Did you talk to Mr. McClusky?” Bennett’s shoulders are hunched up and he still looks nervous. Given Camille’s immediate reaction of suspecting him of the break-in, I understand how he’d be anxious.

“I couldn’t reach him. I’m going to go inside and check things out. You can come with me if you want.”

“No, sir, I’d prefer to stay out here if it’s all the same.”