Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek Page 14

  “If you did, the information didn’t stick.” My heart has started to pump a little faster. “What time did you pass it the first time?”

  He squints out over the lake. “Had to be before nine o’clock. I was at my friend’s place by nine.”

  The meeting we had that night didn’t let out until nine thirty. Gary Dellmore’s car was sitting in the parking lot when I left, so it couldn’t have been on the dam road. “You’re sure it was the same car?”

  “What?” He’s half-smiling, searching my face for a clue to what I’m after. “Why would it be a different car?”

  “Give it some thought. Same car?”

  He blinks at me a few times. “Damn! I don’t know. It was pretty dark out and the car was dark-colored, that’s all I can tell you. I assumed it was the same car.”

  “Was it facing the same direction the second time you came by?”

  He chews on his lip while he considers it. He begins to shake his head. “You know, it could have been a different car. I couldn’t swear to it either way.”

  I think I’ve just had my first break investigating Gary Dellmore’s death. “One more question,” I ask. “Did you see anybody walking along the road?”

  He hesitates and then shakes his head. “No, it would be unusual to see somebody walking along there and I think I would have remembered it. Sorry, I wish I could help you out with that.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I clap him on the shoulder and nod out toward the lake. “I hope you catch something today.”

  “So do I.” He grins and ambles away.

  My impulse is to give him some money for a decent meal, but he’s told me he has a family to fall back on. He’s on an experiment with himself to see how far down he has to go before he’s had enough. Who am I to disturb that?

  I walk back to my truck, turning over in my mind what I’ve learned from Louis Caton. Whoever killed Gary Dellmore didn’t do it on the spur of the moment. He left his car up in that rarely used park on the dam road and walked the mile to the American Legion Hall to lie in wait for Dellmore. After he shot Dellmore, he drove his Crown Vic back up to where he’d left his own car. Then he left Dellmore’s car and took off in his own. I’m thinking “he,” but it could just as easily have been “she.” It’s a small thing, but at least now I have an idea of how it could have been done. And I know this was no argument gone wrong; it was premeditated murder.

  I’m not back at the house ten minutes when I hear a knock at the front door. “Mr. Craddock?”

  Ellen Forester is standing on my porch. She’s dressed in jeans and a jazzy black-and-white blouse with a black jacket. I can’t help thinking of Loretta asking me what Ellen looked like, and I realize I should have said that she’s pretty and has a nice figure.

  I open the screen door. “So you found your way to my place.”

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I was over at my shop getting some of the art unpacked and I needed a break, so I thought I’d see if you’d mind showing me your collection. I didn’t have your number or I would’ve called.”

  “Come on in. I just put some coffee on.” She’s wearing running shoes and looks fit enough so that I suspect she uses the shoes as they were intended.

  As she enters the living room her eyes widen. She’s looking right at the Diebenkorn on the far wall facing her. The Neri sculpture is next to it. I see the duo through her eyes, and they look complete together, like a couple of old married people. “Oh, my.” Her voice is almost worshipful.

  “Come on back to the kitchen and we’ll get coffee first.”

  She trails me into the kitchen.

  “You left me a note. Sorry I haven’t had a chance to get back to you.”

  She looks a little panicky standing in the kitchen. “Are you sure I’m not disturbing you?” I wonder what makes her so timid. I’m pretty easygoing, and yet every time she looks at me, she seems jumpy.

  I gesture to the kitchen table. “Not a bit. Sit down. When the coffee’s ready we’ll take a tour around the house.”

  She pulls out a chair and sits at the table. “Several people have told me you’ve got a great art collection and that I should see it, but I had no idea.”

  I smile. “They’re making conversation. Most people haven’t seen my art, and most of those who have don’t have a clue what they’re seeing.”

  She laughs and sounds like she means it. “I got that impression. People could tell me you had a wonderful collection, but they couldn’t tell me what was in it.”

  I pour us some coffee and say, “Let’s go take a look.”

  I lead her to the hallway, where I’ve hung the paintings I feel least connected with. First is the Hans Hoffmann that I liked so much when we first bought it, but now it looks gaudy to me. When Jeanne and I got married, she had a few pieces that her mother gave her, and those are here, too.

  “I love this Calder,” Ellen says, clasping her hands to her chest. “It’s so exuberant.”

  “The colors are nice,” I say, although that’s the best I can come up with. Calder doesn’t do a thing for me—and it didn’t for Jeanne either. She felt we had to hang it somewhere out of loyalty to her mother, but as she said, that didn’t mean we had to like it.

  I tell Ellen how Jeanne persuaded me to graduate from blue-bonnets and cactus to abstract art by dragging me to art galleries in Fort Worth, Houston, and Austin. “One day we were in a gallery in Houston and I spotted this.” I point to a piece and tell her it’s the first picture Jeanne and I ever bought together, a small but lively abstract that reminds me of Kandinsky. “The artist never became famous, but I still like the picture.”

  We wander through the house, me pointing out my old and new favorites, everything from my beloved Wolf Kahn to the work of a young boy whose career is just being launched and whose grandmother was a good friend of mine. I find Ellen easy to talk to. She makes comments that are smart, but not pedantic.

  “We have to organize an event here,” she says. She’s standing in front of the Bischoff that Jeanne’s mother willed to us. “It’s not right for people not to be able to see these things.”

  “Maybe so,” I say.

  “Don’t you agree?” she says. “I get so mad when I read that some rich collector has bought a masterpiece and plans to hide it away in a vault so no one ever gets to see it.”

  “My collection isn’t in that league.”

  “I’m not going to let you off the hook,” she says. “You have some wonderful pieces that should be seen.” She moves back to the Wolf Kahn. “This one right here is my favorite.” And then she laughs. “But if I came back tomorrow, I’d probably choose a different one.”

  She doesn’t know she’s chosen my favorite and for some reason I don’t tell her so.

  “My wife Jeanne and I used to host tours. But I haven’t felt much like it on my own. Maybe sometime I’ll be ready to have another tour.”

  “You won’t be on your own,” she says briskly. “You’ll have me.” She turns and sees the look on my face and claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I’ve let myself get bossy, haven’t I? My best friend tells me that happens when I get carried away talking about art.” She sets her coffee cup down on a table and moves toward the door as if she wants to escape.

  “Wait a minute. You don’t have to go—I’m not going to bite you. Yes, you were a little bossy, I’ll grant you that. But it’s for a good cause. I’m not quite ready yet, that’s all. Give me a little time. Besides, you haven’t even moved into your new place yet.”

  She looks more upset than I think my words deserve. “You’re being nice. I hope when you see my art you won’t think it’s silly.”

  “No, it takes all kinds of art to make people happy. Now let me calm you down a little bit by taking you to see what I spend the rest of my time on. That is, until I got hooked into being chief of police.”

  I escort her out the back door, and we head down to the pasture so I can find out what my cows think of the new art dealer.


  “They’re back.” Loretta can only mean Gabe LoPresto and Darla Rodriguez.

  We’re sitting at the kitchen table. It has turned cold overnight again, and Loretta is bundled up like she’s off for a ski trip. We’re all wondering if this winter is ever going to let go of its grip.

  “Don’t you want to know where they were?”

  I want to say I don’t care, but it would be mean to steal Loretta’s thunder. “Okay, I give up. Where were they?”

  “They went off to some fancy resort in Galveston to celebrate Darla’s birthday.”

  I take a bite of Loretta’s coffee cake. It’s my favorite of all the baked goods that she makes. “That was a nice thing to do.”

  Loretta smirks. “I don’t know how nice it was. The way Darla’s mother tells it, Darla shamed Gabe into taking her away for a long weekend. Apparently he got her a diamond necklace and she didn’t think it was enough of a birthday present, so he agreed to take her to Galveston for a few days to make up for it.”

  “So they’re back and pretty pleased with themselves?” I’m trying to think of something to say, because the subject of Gabe LoPresto’s affair has ceased to interest me. I’ve got too much else on my mind.

  “At least one of them is.”

  I set my coffee cup down. “Loretta, tell me what’s going on.”

  She slaps her hand down on the table, her eyes sparkling. “They had a big fight and they broke it off. The question no one seems to know the answer to is which one of them wanted out. Either way, he’s out the money not only for the necklace but for the trip, too. Serves him right.”

  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 p
arks 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.