A Risky Undertaking for Loretta Singletary Read online

  A

  RISKY

  UNDERTAKING

  FOR LORETTA

  SINGLETARY

  ALSO BY TERRY SHAMES

  A Killing at Cotton Hill

  The Last Death of Jack Harbin

  Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek

  A Deadly Affair at Bobtail Ridge

  The Necessary Murder of Nonie Blake

  An Unsettling Crime for Samuel Craddock

  A Reckoning in the Back Country

  A SAMUEL CRADDOCK MYSTERY

  A

  RISKY

  UNDERTAKING

  FOR LORETTA

  SINGLETARY

  TERRY SHAMES

  Published 2019 by Seventh Street Books®

  A Risky Undertaking for Loretta Singletary. Copyright © 2019 by Terry Shames. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover image © Alamy Stock Photo

  Cover design by Nicole Sommer-Lecht

  Cover design © Start Science Fiction

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Inquiries should be addressed to

  Start Science Fiction

  101 Hudson Street, 37th Floor, Suite 3705

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Shames, Terry, author. Title: A risky undertaking for Loretta Singletary : a Samuel Craddock mystery / Terry Shames.

  Description: Amherst, NY : Seventh Street Books, an imprint of Prometheus Books, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018034389 (print) | LCCN 2018035085 (ebook)| ISBN 9781633884915 (ebook) | ISBN 9781633884908 (paperback)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Police Procedural. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3619.H35425 (ebook) | LCC PS3619.H35425 R57 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018034389

  Printed in the United States of America

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  To Karen Wright,

  for all the good times and those to come.

  CHAPTER 1

  It has been a quiet week; so quiet that Wendy Gleason and I were able to sneak off to drive the bluebonnet trail yesterday. It’s the peak of bluebonnet season, and the views across the fields were spectacular. Wendy kept wanting to stop to take pictures. I asked what she was going to do with so many photos. “You must have taken a hundred.”

  “When I’m a dotty old lady in a rocking chair, I’ll take them out and remember how much fun we’ve had today.”

  We’re at that stage in getting to know each other where everything looks a little brighter when the other one is around. We took a picnic and had lunch in somebody’s field. We laughed a lot. I hadn’t been that relaxed in weeks.

  I should have known the lull wouldn’t last. Today the weather blew up blustery and chilly, a weak winter storm making one last effort before spring sets in for good. I got caught in a rainstorm an hour ago, and before I had time to go home to change clothes, I got a call from Robert Caisson’s wife. She said the Caisson brothers were in the backyard in a standoff with guns, and she was afraid they were going to kill each other.

  When I arrived the two were still outside, sopping wet from the rain, both holding outsize pistols and shouting at each other. In their forties, they’re big men, at least 6’2” and 230 pounds. I demanded to know what they were upset about, but they ignored me. Robert’s wife, Darla, said it was too stupid for her to bother telling me.

  It’s starting to get dark and cold, which I hope will put an end to their nonsense. I’m standing on the back porch in wet clothes and wet shoes, getting madder by the minute. I’m scared if I get out there and try to talk to them, one of them will shoot me. Meanwhile, I have to listen to them holler at each other like third graders. The conversation so far has gone like this:

  “Daddy always favored you and you think you should have anything you want.”

  “Bull. You’re Mamma’s little pet. No wonder you’re so full of yourself.”

  “I’m going to shoot you and be glad to spend time in jail just so I don’t have to listen to any more of that.”

  “You couldn’t hit the side of a barn. You’re mad because I was always a better shot than you.”

  “Fellas,” I holler, “you sound like a bad TV western. You’re acting like children. Come on inside and let’s sit down and talk.”

  Neither of them so much as glances my way. If it weren’t for me being the chief of police and charged with keeping the peace, I’d go home and let them keep this up all night. But I’m afraid eventually one of them is going to make good on his threat.

  I go back inside. “Darla, where is T.J.’s wife?”

  “She has the kids over in Bobtail. She took all of them to a movie.”

  “How many kids are there?”

  “Each of us has a pair of them. The older ones are just a few months apart, and the younger ones are a year apart. They’re good kids.” She isn’t looking at me while she talks. She’s watching the door to the backyard, hoping as am I that the two men will come inside. “I swear to God, I hope they kill each other,” she says.

  I would protest that she doesn’t mean that, but she might. Darla is a scary-looking chunk of a woman who wears cowboy outfits and motorcycle boots, and has dishwater blond hair down to her waist. She and her husband belong to a motorcycle club, and they tear around the countryside on weekends. Oddly enough, although all the motorcycle people look savage, I’ve never heard of them giving the law any trouble.

  I asked about T.J.’s wife because, of the four of them, she’s the most mild-mannered. I was hoping to call on her to help smooth things out. With that option gone, I step back outside. “If you boys don’t cut this out,” I holler, “I’m going to take you both in and you can spend the weekend in a jail cell.” I might as well have been yelling to an empty yard. “Lay the guns down!” I put all the authority I can muster into my order.

  T.J. finally looks my way and says, “Chief, get out of here. We have to settle this between us. He’ll come to his senses eventually.”

  “Like hell I will!” And just like that Robert’s gun goes off.

  T.J. yells and spins and drops to his knees.

  Robert flings his gun down and leaps backward. “I didn’t mean to shoot. The gun went off by itself.”

  Darla comes screaming out of the house and stomps to Robert’s side and says, “You damn fool. You don’t have the sense of a goose.”

  “Are you sorry he didn’t shoot me?”

  “I swear, you two . . .” She storms back into the house with Robert right behind her.

  Neither of them has paid the slightest attention to T.J., who is moaning on the ground. I go over and see that he’s bleeding pretty heavily. “One of you call 911,” I yell. “He needs an ambulance.”
>
  “He can call the ambulance himself,” Robert calls back.

  “I’ll call them,” Darla says.

  I put pressure on the wound, which is high on the right side of his chest and not life-threatening, until the paramedics arrive. I gladly hand over responsibility for the injured man to them. Then I go inside and tell Robert to get his jacket, I’m taking him to jail.

  “What do you mean taking me to jail? I told you I didn’t mean to shoot.”

  “Mean to or not, you did. Now are you coming quietly or do I have to call for backup?”

  “Robert, you better go with the Chief because if I have to look at you for one more minute, I’m going to kill you.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Loretta Singletary usually drops in unannounced, but this morning she called and asked if she could come over before I leave for headquarters. Seemed a little formal to me, but I told her to come at eight o’clock. I intend to take my time going in today to give Robert Caisson plenty of opportunity to consider his situation.

  I don’t linger seeing to my cows in the dewy morning. It was chilly last night from the passing storm, but at seven o’clock, it’s already warming up, and a few scattered clouds tell me it’s going to be hot and humid today.

  Loretta knocks on the screen door promptly at eight, which is no surprise. She prides herself on being punctual. She looks different, although it’s hard for me to pinpoint exactly what she’s done to herself, except that she looks more dressed up.

  “New blouse?” I venture, as she steps inside. I’m living dangerously. If the blouse she’s wearing isn’t new, she’ll be disgusted with me for not remembering it. This time I’m in luck.

  “Do you like it? I bought it last week.”

  “It’s nice. Whoa, Dusty!”

  My six-month-old pup, Dusty, has come skidding in from the kitchen to greet her. He never loses hope that she’ll be happy to see him. As usual, she shies away, glaring at him.

  “Go on, Dusty. Go lie down.” He backs up a step or two, his tail wagging. “I’m going to have a cup of coffee. What can I get you?” I ask Loretta.

  Her smile fades. “Nothing. I’m here on a particular errand.”

  “Where do you want to sit for this formal pow wow? Living room? Kitchen? We could sit on the front porch. The weather’s pleasant.”

  “I think the living room would be fine.” Uh-oh. This really is a formal pow wow.

  I get my cup of coffee and fetch Dusty’s bed from the kitchen. I toss it down near the fireplace and tell him to lie down on it. I’m trying to teach him manners, when I happen to remember to. Loretta’s aversion to him always reminds me.

  We sit in armchairs in front of the fireplace, even though there’s no fire. I scoot my chair to see Loretta better. “What’s all this about?”

  She takes a deep breath. “I’ve been asked to have a talk with you about the rodeo.”

  Of all the things she could have brought up, this is the last one I would have guessed. It’s only April, and the annual goat rodeo is two months off, the middle of June, right after school is out. “What’s the problem?”

  “Don’t rush me.” She fiddles with the sleeves of her blouse while I wait. “You know we got a new preacher at the beginning of the year. Arlen Becker.”

  “I do know that, although I haven’t met him.” It seems like the Baptist Church turns over its ministers every year or two when one faction or another gets riled up and votes to oust him. The one Reverend Becker replaced only lasted nine months. I don’t know whether Becker will be any more successful. He has already made a few people uncomfortable because he’s a stickler for Baptist doctrine.

  “He’s . . . he’s learning his way, that’s what I think. Anyway, he has brought up a situation that we in the Ladies’ Circle decided we need to address.”

  With me? Surely he didn’t sic them on me to insist I start going to church. Not that I would let him bully me, but he wouldn’t be the first to try to get me to be “a good example.” And what does this have to do with the rodeo? I wait for her to enlighten me.

  “You know everyone likes Father Sanchez, even if he is a Catholic. And we support the goat rodeo. We know it’s popular with the kids and the parents, and uh . . .” She grinds to a halt.

  I’m completely baffled. “Loretta, just tell me what the problem is.”

  “All right I will. Reverend Becker thinks we shouldn’t let the Catholic Church run the rodeo without participation from the Baptist Church.”

  I would laugh if Loretta didn’t look so anxious. “Why in the world would Becker care?”

  “Reverend Becker doesn’t like having the Catholic priest in charge of an event that members of his congregation participate in. He says he doesn’t think the Catholics should get all the glory.”

  Now I have to swallow hard to keep from laughing. There is little glory involved in being in charge of the annual Jarrett Creek Goat Rodeo. It’s a lot of hard work. Raymond Sanchez is the latest in a line of priests who seem to be dedicated to doing it though. I say, let him.

  “Loretta, I cannot comprehend why anyone wouldn’t be thrilled to let somebody else do the hard work of organizing and running the rodeo. Is Reverend Becker afraid that Father Sanchez is going to lure members of his church away?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That makes no sense. That little Catholic Church has fifty members at most, and as far as I can tell, it has rarely varied from that number. Father Sanchez is not a proselytizer. Even if he was, he’s not likely to lure any members away from the Protestant churches.”

  “Maybe,” she says again. I don’t remember when I’ve seen her look so uneasy.

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “We all know that you give them money to run the rodeo. We want you to use your influence as a backer to get him to let the Baptist Church have equal billing.”

  We stare at each other, and I blink first. “I have to get another cup of coffee. You sure you don’t want one?”

  “I guess I will.” She sounds discouraged, which makes me feel bad. I wish they hadn’t put her up to this chore. They’re using her because everybody knows we’re good friends.

  Dusty follows me into the kitchen, where there’s always the possibility of a treat. I pour myself a cup and then pour Loretta a half-cup and add another half-cup of hot water and a good slug of cream. Loretta likes her coffee pale. Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out how to wriggle out of this proposal without making Loretta lose face with her church circle.

  When I’m settled again, I say, “Loretta, you know I more or less live by the adage to let sleeping dogs lie.” I shouldn’t have said “dog.” Dusty leaps up, startling Loretta. She grabs the arms of the chair as if she thinks he might knock it over.

  “You mean you won’t help me?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’ll have to think about it. But consider this: If the Baptist Church gets equal billing, all the other churches are going to want it too. Imagine what a mess that will be with every church wanting a little piece of the action. One organizing the concessions, another the three-legged race, another the goat-roping. You know how it is when there are too many people involved.”

  She nods, light dawning in her eyes. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll bet when I put it that way to the preacher, he’ll change his mind.”

  I wouldn’t count on it, but for now the crisis is averted.

  She jumps up. “I’d better get going.”

  “Doing something special?”

  “What makes you ask that?” Her tone is sharp.

  I meant it as an innocent question, and I wonder what I’ve stumbled into. “Nothing in particular. Just passing the time of day.”

  Her cheeks are pink. “I’m meeting a friend, that’s all.”

  “Have a good one,” I say. I’m relieved when she’s out the door. Dusty has come to my side to watch her go down the steps. I close the door and say, “Dusty, sometimes it’s best not to ask questions.”

  I
call the hospital in Bobtail, and the nurse tells me that T.J. Caisson will be released later today. I tell her not to let him go until I’ve questioned him. Robert Caisson refused to say what the argument was that led to the shooting. I need to go to the hospital to find out if I can get anything out of T.J.

  On the way to the hospital, I go by headquarters to leave Dusty there, knowing that Maria Trevino, my chief deputy, will be in at nine o’clock and will watch him. I also want to tell Robert that his brother is going to give a statement, even though I don’t know if he actually will.

  “He’s okay?” Robert asks. His hound-dog eyes are red-rimmed, but whether that’s from being hungover or because he lost sleep after shooting his brother is anybody’s guess.

  “The nurse I talked to said he’ll live.”

  “I’m not surprised. That son of a bitch is too stubborn to kill.”

  “You want any coffee?” I ask. I’ve heard enough from Robert.

  “I don’t suppose I could get something to eat too.”

  “I’ll give you coffee, but you’ll have to wait until Maria gets here at nine o’clock to get breakfast. If she’s in a good mood and you behave yourself, she might be persuaded to go over to the café and get you a bite.”

  “Well, goddammit,” he says. I’m not sure what that refers to, but I don’t have enough patience to ask. I bring him the coffee and tell him I’ll be back after I talk to his brother. “You have anything you want to say to him?” I was thinking there might be an apology lurking.

  “Tell him he can go to hell for all I care.”

  T.J. and Robert look so much alike you’d think they were twins, but T.J. is the older one. In their forties, they grew up on a big ranch to the northwest of town. They never got along, and since their parents died, their animosity has only gotten worse. T.J. inherited the home place, and Robert inherited money equal to the value of the house and lives in town. Each seems to think the other one got the better deal in the will.

  “T.J., I’m glad to see you’re going to recover,” I say. “The nurse tells me they’re going to release you this afternoon.”