Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek: A Samuel Craddock Mystery (Samuel Craddock Mysteries) (21 page)

That gives me time to go over to the café for an early lunch and, if I’m honest with myself, to see if Gabe LoPresto has decided to show his face or if he’s off pouting. But he’s there, looking more satisfied than he ought to. Everyone at the table around him looks like they’ve got feathers on their faces. They may be LoPresto’s friends, but they aren’t above gloating a little at the fact that his affair with Darla Rodriguez has come to a bad end.

Remembering my confrontation with Sandy LoPresto, I’m almost embarrassed to be seen with him, but Harley Lundsford waves me over to the table. “Come on and sit down. Gabe has quite a tale to tell, and some of it may even be true.”

“I don’t know what makes you say that,” LoPresto says. There’s a whole lot of bluster in his voice. “I’m telling it like it is.”

I’m glad to find out I don’t have to act like I don’t know what’s happened. After I tell Lurleen that I’m having whatever’s on special today, I say, “Gabe, I hope you’ve come back to the land of reality.”

He snorts with laughter, although if I read him right, he has to work at it. “Not a minute too soon! That little gal was bad business.”

“How so?”

“I believe she thought I was a wealthier man than I turned out to be, and when she realized I wasn’t ready to turn over the bank account, she decided she could do better elsewhere.”

“We better tell Slate McClusky to look out,” Lundsford says.

Everybody laughs except LoPresto. “He can take care of himself. If anything, he’s part of the problem. All I wanted was a little fun. But she’s after somebody to set her up.” He tries to give his words a light touch, but I can tell he’s feeling put upon.

“Listen, Gabe,” I say, “you’re better off without her.”

We don’t mind needling him a little, but I notice that nobody asks for particulars, like what LoPresto plans to do now. If I’m any judge of his wife, it won’t be long before he’s back with her. I wouldn’t imagine all will be forgiven anytime soon—he’ll have to pay his piper—but eventually it will work itself out.

Reinhardt has left the key as promised and I walk over to the city offices, which are just a block away. During the financial crisis the office is only open Tuesday and Thursday mornings. When I go in, I find Reinhardt’s desk covered with spreadsheets and file folders pertaining to the city’s finances. I’d rather be a prison guard than have to deal with this mess.

I locate the water park files where Reinhardt said they would be. There’s a whole drawer dedicated to them. I riffle through them and don’t see one for state permits or the like. I find files for studies and blueprints and contracts. I open the contracts and locate the one between Liberty Water Parks and the City of Jarrett Creek. It’s huge. In the table of contents I find the part pertaining to the permits and licenses.

I wish Jenny were here to point me to the pertinent sections. I have to wade through a good bit of legalese before I come to the part I’m looking for. It says all permits and licenses with the state will be obtained by Liberty Water Parks and that the City of Jarrett Creek will receive copies of all such permits. If those permits ever got here, they’ve been filed somewhere else.

I remind myself that as much interest as I have in the busted water park deal, the only reason I need to concern myself with it is if it has anything to do with Gary Dellmore’s death. If I find shady dealings, and it looks like I might, that will be for the mayor to sort out with lawyers and accountants.

I hurry home with barely enough time to get dressed for Dellmore’s funeral. I don’t know why Barbara wanted me there, but I said I’d do it. I’m putting on my tie when I remember something LoPresto said at lunch. I wonder what he meant when he said that McClusky was part of his problem with Darla Rodriguez. I’ll have to ask him next time I see him.

There are only thirty or so people at the funeral service for Gary Dellmore. It’s mostly relatives, but a couple of board members from the bank are there, along with Cookie Travers. Barbara insists that Cookie sit with her and the family. The person who seems most upset is Annalise, Gary’s sister. She cries pretty much nonstop. I’m glad she’s finally letting herself grieve. When I was at the Dellmore’s the other day, she was under awfully tight control. Her husband doesn’t seem particularly supportive and barely hides his boredom at the proceedings.

It’s hard to figure out why I was invited—or was it commanded?—to attend the service. Barbara and Cookie keep an eye on the door leading to the chapel. Every time it opens, they tense. But each time they see who’s at the door, they relax.

I can’t tell that there’s much difference between the Episcopal Church and the Catholic Church. They’re both small congregations, but they don’t skimp on the ornate trappings. I’m not one for church to begin with, and the incense and robes and gold paraphernalia set with jewels make me feel smothered.

After the service we’re all invited to refreshments, set up in a small room off the kitchen, consisting of coffee, delicate sandwiches, and cake. It’s a subdued and elegant affair that seems strangely foreign from the way things are usually done in Jarrett Creek.

By the time the service and reception are over, it’s clear that whoever Barbara thought was going to show up hasn’t made an appearance. I’m going to have to find out who she was worried about.

I’m home by five o’clock. I don’t know if it’s the tension of the funeral or having to readjust my days to being a working man, but I’m tired. Yesterday, showing my art collection to Ellen Forester, I remembered how much I enjoy looking at it. For a while after Jeanne died, the paintings were a double-edged pastime—the good and bad side of being reminded of Jeanne—where we were when we bought a piece, the discussions we had before we decided, and sometimes even the arguments. But gradually I’ve come to enjoy the art for itself again. There were a couple of pieces that particularly caught my eye when I was showing them to Ellen. I walk into the hallway and study the Kandinsky lookalike. It sometimes seems too busy to me, but right now it looks like a puzzle being unraveled. Maybe solving the puzzle will rub off on me.

I’ve been going strong all day, but I still have a long evening ahead of me. I stow away a good meal and am headed out the door a little after six o’clock when the phone rings.

“I had the best afternoon I’ve had in a long time,” DeWitt says. “And I got some information for you.”

“You already had that golf game?”

“Yes, sir, you didn’t have to ask twice. I was ready to get out of here and I think it did Lucille a world of good to spend the afternoon with her girlfriend. I was starting to get on her nerves.”

DeWitt has always been good to Lucille, always pretending that her affliction is a minor discomfort instead of a debilitating disease. It’s typical that he says it’s him getting on her nerves, when probably it’s the other way around.

“I imagine it was good to get out on the golf course.”

“I really enjoyed myself. And I picked up a thing or two you might be interested in.”

I want to go back out to McClusky’s resort anyway, so I arrange with DeWitt to have lunch with him tomorrow. “I’ll come by and pick you up so I can visit with Lucille first.”

“She would love that.”

Angel Bright pulls her Cadillac into the driveway long after dark. It’s the same size as Dellmore’s Crown Victoria, but it’s a light color, so it wouldn’t be mistaken for Dellmore’s.

The McCluskys told me yesterday that they were going to be home tonight. I’ve tried to reach them several times today to tell them I need to ask them some more questions, but as usual I haven’t heard back.

Angel is not happy to see me. “Samuel, I’m sorry, if you’re looking for Slate, he stayed out at the resort.”

“I can talk to you,” I say.

“I’m awful tired. I hope it won’t take long.”

“No, just a couple of questions. I can always drive out to see Slate tomorrow if you don’t know the answers.”

Her eyes flick away and back. “I don’t know if he’ll be around tomorrow. We’ve got some financial things he’s having to take care of.”

“Oh, right. The things in Marble Falls. Taking care of all those financial deals seems to keep you two pretty busy.”

Her laugh is false and tinkly. “The financial deals are Slate’s thing. I don’t get involved in that.”

She leads me through the house into the kitchen, but I don’t get the same sense of warmth from her that I did the first time I was here. Marietta Bryant told me they’re going to put the house on the market, and it already has taken on an impersonal feel, as if they’ve moved out mentally.

Angel takes a beer out of the refrigerator and offers me one, but I decline. In the harsh kitchen light, she looks a little ragged. Her hair is tucked back behind her ears, exposing her face, which looks drawn and tired. She doesn’t sit down and doesn’t offer me a seat.

“Now what can I do for you?”

“How friendly were Slate and Gary Dellmore?”

She puts a hand on the kitchen counter. “That’s a funny question. Like Slate told you, he didn’t know Gary well at all.”

“Barbara Dellmore told me that Gary said he went out to eat with Slate a few times.”

“Maybe they did. I don’t know. Even if they did, that doesn’t mean they were friends. It was probably business.” She’s pulled a strand of hair over her shoulder and is twirling it around her finger. She looks trapped. There’s something about Gary and Slate that she doesn’t want to admit. Maybe it’s a habit with Angel to be on guard when she answers questions, but this is not the first time I’ve thought she was lying to me.

“Slate had a lot to do with that water park deal out at the lake, which means he and Dellmore would have had some dealings.”

She looks startled. “That’s not really true,” she says. “Slate was a backer, but he didn’t do any of the hands-on dealings with Gary. That was Pete Fontaine and Larry Kestler. Slate was more in the way of a silent partner.” She moves quickly to a kitchen drawer and opens it. “I’ve got Pete and Larry’s numbers here somewhere.” The drawer is a mess and she scrabbles around in it until she finds a business card. “Here you go.” She thrusts it at me. Wanting to get rid of me. “You should call them. They can probably tell you everything you need to know.”

“I’m wondering why you and Slate didn’t mention being involved with the deal out at the water park.”

She shoves her hands into her back pockets, then takes them out again and grabs her beer. “I can’t tell you that. It doesn’t seem that important to me. Like I said, Slate’s the one who does money stuff. You know everybody thinks we’re moneybags, but when that deal went bad it was just as hard on us as everyone else. As far as I know we just put up money for it.”

Having read the article, I know that’s not true. But maybe she doesn’t know the particulars. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt for the time being.

“I guess if there’s no way to get in touch with Slate, I’ll leave you and try to find him tomorrow.” I step toward the backdoor. The look of relief on her face is laughable. I turn back to her. “One more thing. Slate said you have a Colt .45. Do you still have it?”

She looks startled. “I suppose I do. It should be in the drawer by my bed. Why?”

“Do you mind showing it to me?”

“Let me get it.”

She’s back quickly. “Here it is.” She’s holding it by the handle and thrusts it at me like she’s handing over a dead rat.

I use my handkerchief to take it from her. The safety is on. I take out the magazine. “There’s a bullet missing. Do you know when it was last fired?”

“I don’t know why any bullets would be missing. Slate usually keeps it loaded.” She’s staring at the open gun.

“This is his gun, not yours, isn’t it?”

She glares at me. “I don’t know what difference it makes. Slate said having a gun would scare off somebody if they broke in. He showed me how to pull this thing back and fire it if I had to.” She points to the body of the gun.

“Have you ever fired it?”

“Once or twice Slate took me out to do some target shooting. Why are you asking me all these questions about Slate and Gary and the gun?” She takes a swig of her beer and wipes her mouth.

“I’d like your permission to take this Colt with me.”