A Violent End at Blake Ranch Read online

  “Did she defy you in other ways?”

  He rubs his hand back and forth across his jawline, thinking again. “If she did, I don’t recall it. I’ve learned that there are a couple of students every year who have trouble following the rules or need to act out for one reason or another.”

  “Did you ever have a talk with her outside of class?”

  “I’m sure I must have asked to speak to her after class about the homework issue, but if you mean outside of school, no.”

  “One of the other teachers mentioned hearing her brag about things that other students didn’t believe. Do you recall noticing anything about her relationships with other students?”

  “Like I said, if I did at the time, I don’t remember.”

  When I get back to what we grandly call headquarters, which is no more than a big front room with two jail cells in back, Bill Odum is still there. He usually leaves at five. He’s got a funny look on his face.

  “What’s up? Why are you still here?”

  “A call came in that I thought I ought to tell you about in person.”

  “Uh-oh. Who from?”

  “From Sheriff Hedges in Bobtail.”

  I sit down at my desk. It’s odd for Hedges to call me. I worked with him on a case a while back and liked him, but I haven’t had any business with him since. “What did he want?”

  “He said the state is doing this program where they’re assigning rookie cops to small towns. He thought since we’re shorthanded we might like to have the help, so he put in a request for one of them. He said it was a long shot, which is why he didn’t tell you anything in advance. He was calling today to say we’re getting one of the rookies. A woman.”

  “Woman?”

  “Yes sir, and . . .” He screws up his face. “The thing is, it’s an attempt to get more minority cops in small towns. She’s a Mexican. I mean, Hispanic, I guess they call it.”

  I’m struck temporarily mute, and Odum and I stare at each other. As sheriff of the county, Hedges has the right to appoint the police chiefs of the towns in his jurisdiction, so I guess that means he can assign deputies, too.

  “That will be interesting,” I say. “When did he say she’d be here?”

  “Next week.”

  I cast an eye around the room. Somehow I think a woman is going to find it less than eye-catching. The spare desk is stacked with the filing I haven’t had time for, with boxes against one wall full of the same. There are no pictures in the room, just framed documents from the state and an official photograph of the governor. I start laughing.

  “What’s funny?” Odum says.

  I tell him my first response, that the state of the room would be unacceptable to a woman.

  “You know that’s sexist, don’t you?” he says, grinning, with a twinkle in his eyes.

  I sigh. “So if I don’t tidy up, I’m a slob, and if I do, I’m being sexist. I guess we’re going to learn a few things from this experience. Did Hedges say how long she was going to be with us or how her salary is getting paid?”

  “He said the state is funding the program, but he didn’t say how long she’d be here.”

  “Did he tell you her name?”

  “He didn’t say, and I didn’t think to ask.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll call Hedges and have him fill me in.” I nod toward the spare desk. “At the very least we ought to clear that desk so she feels welcome.”

  I’m home, and it’s almost six o’clock when my cell phone rings and the caller identifies himself as Dr. Richard Buckley.

  “You left a message on my phone about an old case?”

  “Yes. I’m the police chief in Jarrett Creek and I need some information from you. Twenty years ago you evaluated the mental health of a fourteen-year-old girl by the name of Winona Blake who tried to hang her sister. You remember that?”

  “Hmmm.” That’s the only thing he says for so long that I wonder if he’s still on the line.

  “Dr. Buckley?”

  “Yes, I’m here. I’m trying to recall the case. I remember it vaguely.”

  “The girl was subsequently sent to a mental hospital in Rollingwood.”

  “That jogs my memory somewhat. I think there was something about the family that troubled me, but it isn’t coming back to me. Why are you asking about her?”

  “Well, sir, she recently got out of the institution, and after a week she was murdered.”

  “What do you mean, recently got out? You said this was twenty years ago? That can’t be right.”

  “That’s what I thought. I’d like to know if I can get my hands on her original evaluation.”

  “I can get you that. I’ll need an e-mail or fax from you asking for the records, and I’ll probably send it right along. I can’t think of any reason to withhold the information.”

  I tell him I’ll send him a request tomorrow morning. Then I head next door for my weekly wine date and conversation with Jenny Sandstone, my next-door neighbor. For a few weeks earlier in the summer, we didn’t get together much. When she was involved in traumatic events after her mother passed away, I got a little too close and personal. Although she knew I was trying to protect her, her instincts to hide behind her boundaries is so ingrained that she had to retreat for a while. But now we’re back to getting together weekly, although Jenny is more subdued than she was. It’s a subtle change—she’s a little more formal and doesn’t laugh as easily. I hope eventually she settles back into her regular self.

  I tell her the particulars of Nonie Blake’s murder. Jenny’s an attorney, and I feel like I can tell her pretty much anything, knowing she isn’t going to blab about it. I value her opinions, which are many and freely given. “Twenty years. She shouldn’t have been kept in the institution that long,” Jenny says. “That’s nineteenth-century crap. There’s something fishy there. And the mother said they didn’t visit her? Sounds like they may have had a court order declaring her incompetent so they could keep her institutionalized indefinitely.”

  “All right, that makes sense. I wondered how she could have been there so long, and the psychiatrist seemed to think it was odd,” I say. “If they did have a court order, I wonder how and when it got lifted. I’m thinking I need to go up there to the facility and talk to them.”

  “You know they’re not likely to tell you much, if anything. Patient confidentiality and all that.”

  “I suppose I can get a court order.”

  “I’d call them first. You might get a friendly person who’ll be willing to stretch the law a bit, especially since Nonie was murdered.”

  I ask her how things are going at work. These days I’m always careful what I ask her, not wanting to bring up subjects she doesn’t want to get into. Work is a safe subject. She launches into a description of a case she’s working on that involves a divorce proceeding that’s gone off the rails. She’s with the prosecutor’s office, and it’s unusual for her to be involved with divorce cases. “These people need a keeper,” she says. “She claims he stole her inheritance, and he said she gave it freely. And of course you’ve got the state of Texas sticking its nose into people’s business.”

  The inheritance issue is an especially sore subject with her, since she tried to have an addendum to her mother’s will overturned, and was unsuccessful.

  When I get up to leave, Jenny says, “I have something to tell you. You remember my colleague, Will Devereaux? I’ve been out with him a time or two.” Her face gets red. She hates more than anyone I’ve ever known to discuss personal matters.

  “That’s nice. He seemed like a solid person, and I know he cares about your well-being.”

  “That’s all well and good, but I have a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s taken me out to eat a couple of times and I told him I’d make him a meal one night.” She grimaces.

  “Uh-oh.” Jenny doesn’t cook. As far as I know the only time her stove has ever been turned on is when she heats up stew I’ve brought o
ver. “How can I help?”

  “Could you show me how to cook something?”

  “Jenny, why don’t you go ahead and tell him you can’t cook? For all you know, he’s a whiz in the kitchen.”

  “I think it’s time I learned to cook at least a couple of things. It doesn’t seem right that I can’t even boil an egg.”

  “I’m not exactly the right one to ask. My cooking is as basic as it gets. I know how to make beef stew, steak and potatoes, and red beans and rice. And maybe a couple of other things if I’m really bored with those.”

  “Beef stew doesn’t seem that hard. At least everything’s kind of mixed together so it doesn’t have to look beautiful. Maybe I could learn to cook that. I don’t want him to think I’m a complete idiot.”

  “Have you ever even shopped at a grocery store?”

  “Of course I have. Where do you think I get cheese and crackers?”

  We both laugh, and it feels good to laugh with her.

  “All right. When do you want to do this? Saturday? You have to go to the store with me. I’ll show you what to buy, and then we’ll come home and I’ll tell you what to do. Have you ever peeled a carrot or a potato?” I take a look at her face and say, “Of course you haven’t. I know your mamma was a saint, but she didn’t do you any favors by not teaching you a little cooking.”

  “Yes, she was a saint, but I’ll tell you something I’ve never said to another soul. She couldn’t cook for anything. Everything she made was either burned or half raw. So I come by my deficiencies honestly.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Why do you want to know who Nonie babysat for?” Charlotte asks. She’s not as friendly today as she has been. We’re sitting in the living room again. From upstairs come sounds of someone pacing and Adelaide’s pleading voice.

  “I’ve got some leads I’m following up on.”

  Charlotte’s eyes dart in the direction of the sounds from upstairs. “Mamma is busy right now. I don’t know how Nonie’s babysitting could be considered a lead anyway.”

  “Let’s see if your mamma can’t get away for a few minutes.”

  Charlotte sighs. She gets up and leaves the room. In a few minutes, Adelaide comes downstairs. Her hair is disheveled, and she’s wearing a bathrobe. It’s ten o’clock, and she looks like she was just rousted out of bed.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I say. “Charlotte told you what I was after?”

  “I don’t know what difference it makes, but Nonie babysat for the Mosley children.” She glares at me.

  “Did she get along well with the children?”

  “She seemed to. Judy Mosley said the kids loved her. And she seemed to like babysitting, although I think for Nonie it was more that she liked the money than that she cared for the kids.”

  “Charlotte?” A man’s voice calls from another room.

  “She’s upstairs, Billy. I’m in here with Chief Craddock.”

  In steps a wiry young man who wears his hair in a ponytail and has a belt buckle the size of your fist—one of those buckles that rodeo riders get when they win a major prize. He’s taller than Charlotte but looks so much like her they could be twins.

  “Don’t get up,” he says, but I do anyway.

  I stick out my hand and introduce myself. He shakes my hand, but his face closes up. I wonder what happened to make him uncomfortable with a lawman.

  “Sorry to meet you under such hard circumstances,” I say.

  “Yep, it’s a sorry business.” He takes a tin of tobacco out of his shirt pocket and tucks a pinch into his cheek.

  Adelaide makes a sound of distress and says, “Oh, Billy, I wish you wouldn’t do that. It’s such a nasty habit.”

  “Mamma, we’re not having this discussion again.” He lifts his eyebrows in her direction.

  “So what brings you here?” he says to me, still not friendly.

  I should think it would be obvious, but I say, “Trying to figure out what happened to your sister Nonie.”

  “Maybe you’d be better off asking around town than bothering my family. We’re in mourning and we don’t need to be hounded by the law.”

  Adelaide gasps. “Billy, Chief Craddock needed some information. He’s not hounding me.”

  “All I’m doing is telling him he needs to leave us alone.”

  “Billy, in my home you’re to be polite to visitors,” Adelaide says.

  “He ain’t exactly a visitor,” Billy says, his eyes challenging me.

  “Son,” I say, “whatever beef you have with the law has nothing to do with me. I have no intention of bothering your family any more than is absolutely necessary, but I am investigating a murder, which means I will have questions I need answered.” I turn to Adelaide. “Thank you for your information. There’s one more thing I need to do. I need to talk to John. You or Charlotte can be there, but I need to have a conversation with him. Maybe you can let me know what time of day he’d be most agreeable.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Billy says. “There’s not a thing my daddy can tell you. He’s not right in the head. Everybody knows that.”

  “Nevertheless, I need to talk to him. You have any idea when would be a good time?”

  “He’s at his best first thing in the morning,” Adelaide says. “But some mornings are better than others. Would it be all right if I call you on short notice? He’s a little riled up right now. He had sort of a meltdown last night and we were all up late.”

  “Let me know when it’s convenient. And I need to talk to you about one other matter, and I’d prefer that I ask you in private.”

  Adelaide touches her hair as if aware for the first time that she isn’t dressed according to her usual standards.

  Billy says, “If it’s not clear to you, it ought to be: you’ve come at a bad time. Does it have to be now?”

  “It does,” I say.

  “Do you mind if we talk in the kitchen?” Adelaide says. “I can get myself a cup of coffee.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  I follow her into the kitchen. She pours herself a mug of coffee and one for me, too, without asking. Her whole demeanor is distracted. She makes no move to sit down, but she looks me in the eye. “What is it you wanted to ask?”

  “This has to do with Nonie trying to hang Charlotte. It was very responsible of your family to call the police afterward. Some families would have covered up the incident, maybe thinking it was a child’s game that got out of hand.”

  She takes a sip of coffee, peering at me over the rim of the cup with watchful eyes but saying nothing.

  “What made you decide to call the police?”

  She sets her cup down abruptly on the counter with a bang, and I can see that she’s swaying on her feet.

  “Here,” I say. “I know bringing this up is hard, and I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to. Why don’t you sit down?”

  She slumps onto a chair and closes her eyes, a hand over her mouth. Finally she says, “It was the last straw.”

  “You mean she had had other problems?”

  “Of course she had.” She smiles sadly. “But this was the worst. It may have happened a long time ago, but I’ll never forget it. Nonie was out of control. Her moods had been up and down for a while anyway, and after Billy stopped her, she went off the deep end. She screamed at him and tried to hit him. John had to wrap his arms around her to get her to calm down. Even though she had had episodes of anger before this, we were shocked. We didn’t know what to do.”

  “You didn’t think of calling a doctor?”

  “We did. We called Doctor Taggart, but that didn’t seem like it was enough. You had to have seen Charlotte. She had rope burns on her neck, and she was so scared that she’d wet herself. That’s when we decided we needed help. I knew something was wrong with her, and ever since that day I’ve wished I had paid attention to it sooner. I think if I’d gotten help for her early on, she might have lived a perfectly normal life instead being in that institution.”

  “When she was
examined by the psychiatrist, do you remember what her diagnosis was?”

  “Oh yes. They said she was manic-depressive. I think they call it bipolar these days, though what difference it makes, I don’t know.”

  “There are pretty good medications for bipolar illness,” I say. “I’m still surprised that they kept her in Rollingwood for so long.”

  Adelaide’s lips are trembling, and she has grown deathly pale. “We had her kept there. We took out a court order declaring her incompetent so she couldn’t get out. Is that so horrible? After what she did?”

  Charlotte steps into the room. “Is everything all right, Mamma?”

  “It’s fine. Has your daddy settled down?”

  “He’s finally asleep, though goodness knows how long he’ll stay that way.”

  When I leave, Charlotte and Billy follow me out the door. I climb into my truck and look back to see Billy staring at me. When he sees me looking, he steps to the edge of the porch and spits over the side.

  It occurred to me when I was having my exchange with Billy that I need to question him, but I want to find out something about him before I do. I have a feeling he’d lie to me if it suited him, and it would be best if I have knowledge of him in advance.

  As soon as I’m back at headquarters I go on the computer to find out what Billy’s relationship is with the legal system. Twenty minutes later I’m looking at a record of petty quarrels gone wrong in a dozen towns in Texas. He’s been jailed five times for getting into drunken brawls. There are no felony arrests, just misdemeanors. Small stuff, but it makes me think he might share Nonie’s poor impulse management.

  I call Jim Krueger at the school. “I hate to bother you, but I need Billy Blake’s school records as well as Nonie’s.”

  “It’s all right. Eileen hasn’t gone over to retrieve that file yet, so I’ll have her get records for all four of the kids.”

  While I’m talking, Zeke Dibble wanders in and plops himself down at his desk. Although he only works part-time on our official schedule, he also comes in at random when he pleases. And he usually pleases when his wife has set him a chore that he doesn’t much want to do. Today he tells me she’s had the bright idea to have him dig up her flower beds so she can start planning her fall planting. “Do you know how hot it is out there? It’s over a hundred. She’s trying to kill me.”