Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek: A Samuel Craddock Mystery (Samuel Craddock Mysteries) (20 page)

I can’t help laughing. “I suppose he’ll be walking around with his tail between his legs for a while.”

“I guess. But I’ll bet we haven’t heard the last of it. He’ll try to get her back, and no telling how long she’ll keep him on the leash.”

“Like you said, serves him right.”

Suddenly her laughter dies away and she says, “I saw that new woman’s car down here yesterday. Tell me what she’s like.”

“Ellen’s nice.” I’m still trying to absorb what Ellen said when I took her down to see my cows yesterday.

“That’s telling me a lot. Did she like your art?”

“She did. She said she probably wouldn’t have much of that kind of art in her gallery. She doesn’t think it would sell very well around here.”

“She’s right.” Loretta has never pretended to like my taste in art—or any art at all, as far as I can tell. She’s more of knick-knack kind of person. “What else did she say?”

I sigh. “She’s a vegetarian.” I blurt it out, still trying to get over that awkward exchange. When I took her down to see the cows, she acted really funny and finally asked me if I eat meat. I told her of course I did, that you couldn’t get any better beef than raising it yourself. And she told me she didn’t eat meat.

“A vegetarian. I swear, who would have guessed it?” I might just as well have told Loretta that Ellen Forester keeps monkeys in her house. “Nona Peterson told everybody she had decided to be a vegetarian. Somebody asked her if she was going to be a Buddhist, and she said no, she thought you could be a vegetarian even if you were a Christian.”

“We didn’t get into the religious side of things,” I say.

“A vegetarian. Well, that’s interesting.” She takes a sip of coffee. “When does she plan to open her store?”

“She was hoping to get things ready before Christmas, but construction took a lot longer than she thought it would. She said it should be done pretty soon.”

“Does she have a family?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Of course you didn’t, being a man.”

I’m in the office by eight thirty. For once I had trouble getting to sleep last night. I started thinking about the files I removed from Gary Dellmore’s trunk. I intended to get to them this weekend, but the time got away from me. I pull the box out from under my desk and set it on top.

To save money, I turned off the heat in the police station last night, and this morning it’s colder inside than it is outside, which is saying something. After cranking up the thermostat, I sit down with a cup of extra-strong coffee, put on a pair of latex gloves, and get to work.

If Dellmore hadn’t been murdered, I wouldn’t have thought a thing about him carrying files around in his trunk, although I suspect it’s a violation of good banking practice. But since he was murdered I need to check if anything he was working on at the time might have led to his death. At the least I need to see if there’s anything in the files that Cookie Travers or Alan Dellmore ought to be handling.

The file folders aren’t labeled, and they don’t have anything to do with loans. The first one contains blueprints. I set that file aside. The next one contains lists of building specifications. So maybe someone was planning on building a structure and the bank had to approve a building loan. But in the third file I find something that makes me take notice. It’s got two brochures in it—from McClusky’s hunting resort. The brochures are flashy, with pictures of exotic animals labeled Yak, Axis Deer, Mexican White Deer, Whitetail Bucks, Fallow Deer, Texas Eland, and Aoudad Sheep. And there’s a picture of a herd of zebras. I don’t know why I don’t have a problem with somebody hunting all these exotic African animals, but I draw the line at zebra. It’s like hunting a horse. How could anyone find sport in that?

There are other folders containing information about the McClusky resort—an outdated prospectus, annual reports, expense sheets dating back several years, and more building specifications. Tucked at the back of the banker’s box that holds the folders is a
Texas Amusement
magazine.

If it hadn’t been for the McClusky resort brochures, I might not have taken a closer look at the blueprints and expense sheets. But when I open one of the blueprints and orient myself to it, I realize it’s a blue-print of the main house at the McClusky resort. Now what in the world was Gary Dellmore doing with this?

Maybe McClusky was telling the truth and there is a big renovation project being prepared. But either way, it’s clear that McClusky and Dellmore knew each other better than McClusky said. It looks like maybe Dellmore was planning to get McClusky a loan to renovate his place. There are no other financial statements in the files, though, so I can’t tell how far they got with the deal.

Before I put the
Texas Amusement
magazine back in the box, I notice it’s an issue dedicated to water parks. I thumb through it. It’s full of pictures of water slides and river floats, chutes that look like vertical roller coasters that drop their little cars with people in them straight down into a pool of water. There are tide pools and swimming pools. I glance at a couple of articles, glowing reports on the health benefits of water parks or the great investment they make. They do look like a lot of fun. I see how people would’ve been seduced by the idea of something like this out at the lake.

But toward the back I run across an article titled “Has the Water Park Wave Crested?” I decide to read it, wondering if Dellmore had seen it. It describes the water park craze and how it enjoyed a time of popularity. But then it says that water parks are expensive to run and many of them have closed down. The liability insurance alone is staggering. Construction costs; maintenance costs; and city, county, and state taxes make up another big chunk. According to the article, the parks also have to hire more employees than most types of amusement parks, which means they have to charge a lot—just as I thought. Did Gary Dellmore read this article?

At the end of the article, I spot the name of Jarrett Creek in a little box at the side, listing it as one water park that was being planned. The end of the article says that Liberty Water Unlimited was particularly hard hit when one of their big moneymakers in Texas had to shut down because of code violations. And then I come to the part that makes my mouth drop open. A spokesman for Liberty Water Unlimited, one of the principals of the company, says, “We continue to believe that water parks are good, wholesome family fun and will strive to make our parks the best in the country.” The spokesman? Slate McClusky.

When Bill Odum comes in, I tell him about my conversation with Louis Caton over the weekend. “When he told me Dellmore’s car had been sitting there when he was walking to his friend’s house, I knew it couldn’t be Dellmore’s car. Had to be one that looked like the Crown Vic.” I tell him my theory that the killer parked there, walked to the American Legion Hall to confront Dellmore and then drove his car back and exchanged it for his own.

Odum nods. “So we’re looking for somebody who drove a car like Dellmore’s.”

“Looks like it,” I say.

I then describe to him the contents of the files and magazine article I found in Dellmore’s trunk. “I’m closer to thinking this water park failure had something to do with Dellmore getting killed.”

He frowns. “If it was somebody from that water park outfit who killed him, the car we’re looking for isn’t from around here.”

“You’re right. I don’t think we should concentrate on the car. It could be anywhere. But at least now we know somebody planned the murder.”

“What do we do next?”

“First let’s take care of these calls,” I say, punching the message machine. Carrie Landau called at six a.m., frantic, saying her car is missing. “I heard Gary Dellmore’s car was gone. Maybe we’ve got a car theft ring.” But an hour later she called back to say she remembered that she’d left it at a friend’s house. There’s one other call from an elderly man complaining that his neighbor is letting his grass get too long. Odum is grinning, listening to these sad tales.

I laugh. “We file those under ‘Not enough to keep them busy.’”

I tell Odum I’m going to Gary Dellmore’s funeral this afternoon. I give him the name and phone numbers of the two men who were involved in the water park deal. “I’d like you to set up a meeting with them and with Alton Coldwater Wednesday morning. Tell them it’s police business and we’d rather not have to come interview them in Houston.”

I want to take what I found this morning in Dellmore’s files to Cookie Travers and ask her if she knew anything about Gary’s involvement in the water park, but first I want to get more information. I put in a call to my brother-in-law, DeWitt Simms. He’s my wife’s brother, and he and I have always gotten along well.

I figure he’ll be out playing golf, but I’ll talk to his wife Lucille and ask her to have him call me. At the same time I can find out how she’s doing. She suffers from anxiety that makes it hard for her to leave the house sometimes. But it’s DeWitt who answers the phone. He doesn’t sound like his usual hearty self, but he perks up when he hears my voice. “Tell me you’re coming out here to see us. I think Lucille could use some cheering up.”

“What’s going on? You don’t sound any too chipper yourself.”

“We’ve had a little rough patch. I had a bad cold and Lucille has had some problems with her vertigo. And you know that really throws her for a loop.”

I know that means DeWitt is stuck in the house and can’t get out on the golf course. “How long have you had to stay in with her?”

“It’s just a few days. I don’t mind a bit. She’ll be okay before too long. But I think a visit from you would cheer her up.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I tell him I’ve become temporary chief of police while the money issues get sorted out in town and that I’m dealing with a murder.

“Life has taken an interesting turn for you,” DeWitt says. “I’m glad. Jeanne would be happy you’re staying busy.”

“Yes, and I have a problem I hope you might be able to help me with, but it sounds like it would be hard for you to get away right now.”

“Now don’t be too hasty. Why don’t you tell me what’s up and I’ll see what I can figure out.”

I tell him that Slate McClusky said he’d be staying at the Marriott and wasn’t there when I phoned. “I drove out to his resort and I was surprised to find it in pretty poor condition. Do you think anybody you play golf with might know McClusky or know something about his financial situation?”

“That resort is pretty well-known around here. I didn’t realize it had fallen on hard times. Let me see if I can’t line up a game with a couple of boys I play golf with who also hunt, and see if I can scare up some information from them.”

“I don’t want you to leave Lucille if you’re not comfortable.”

“Lucille’s best friend has been after me to let her come over and spend some time with her while I’m out of the house so they can have some girl talk. I think Lucille is feeling good enough that I can leave her with Betsy.”

My next call is to Rusty Reinhardt. He’s still huffy after our last exchange, but I tell him I’ve got some questions about the water park deal. “I wonder if I can get a look at the files about that park.”

“Fine with me. The files are in the city office. It’s shut down, so I’ll have to meet you with the key, and I can’t get there until the afternoon.”

I’ve got the funeral this afternoon. “Maybe you can answer something for me. When you and Marietta were looking through the deal on the park, did you ever see any permits from the state or any documents the state might have provided?”

“I’m going to put you on hold for a minute. I’ve got a vendor here I have to take care of.”

It takes several minutes. When he comes back he says, “I’m trying to think, but I never saw anything like that. You know, Marietta and I have been so concerned with the town’s finances, I didn’t pay any attention to the park. That’s old business.”

“I’d like to come and get the key from you. I need that information as soon as possible.”

“I’ll tell you what. I have to run over to Bobtail to pick up some stuff. How about if I drop it off there on my way out of town? I’ll be there in a half hour, forty-five minutes.” He tells me where to locate the files in the office.