A Killing at Cotton Hill (17 page)

Eubanks hesitates. “That's what she said.”

“You didn't believe her?”

His smile is beginning to show strain. “She could have found the money if she wanted to. She had a mind to control Greg. Thought I was putting ideas in his head.”

“What kind of ideas?”

“Going off to art school. But he had that notion on his own. He was ambitious. If anything, I tried to discourage him. I figured I could teach him what he needed to know.”

“Greg told me you came out to the farm and tried to persuade Dora Lee to let him keep taking lessons.”

Eubanks cocks his head at me. “Why are you asking me these questions? You think I went out there and killed her because I lost a student?”

“I'm just trying to find out a little bit about what happened between you.”

He steps closer and thrusts his chin out, having to look up at me. “If you're looking for who killed Dora Lee, you ought to look a little closer to home. I believe that grandson of hers would do just about anything to get ahead.”

“You mean you think he might have killed her?”

Eubanks scowls. “I wouldn't want to guess. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my students.”

Strong words that leave me no doubt that Eubanks nurses a leftover grudge. But I'm still not sure why a teacher would be so angry that someone stopped taking lessons. Angry enough to suggest the boy was so ambitious that he killed his grandmother.

On one side of Eubanks's studio is another room with a sign that reads,
Gallery
. On impulse I go in. I'd like to see what it is Eubanks thinks he could teach Greg.

It doesn't take me long to see that Greg was right; Eubanks is a second-rate painter, with good enough skills but no pizzazz. He paints perfectly respectable pictures of Texas scenes. He uses light well enough, but his composition is off. And there's nothing that takes the breath away, like the first time I saw Greg's work. Who knows what trick of the mind directs an artist to make something fresh and new? Whatever that trick is, Greg has it and Eubanks doesn't. Where Greg has an instinct for where a line of color needs to go to highlight the subtle colors on either side, and draw the eye in an unexpected direction, Eubanks's placement is predictable. I'm wondering if Eubanks even knows that his is the lesser work. And if he does, how it must have eaten at him to see Greg move beyond his ability to teach him anything.

 

Jarrett County is located in the middle of a triangle that makes it one and a half hours' drive from three Texas cities: Houston, Austin, and San Antonio. Of the three, Houston is by far the biggest, a sprawling octopus of a city on the coast, with different personalities for every section of the city. The oil money there has bought elegance and culture along with sprawl. It's the only one of the three with a sense of humor.

Austin is the capital, and takes itself way too seriously between the government honchos and the oversized university. But it has hammered out a lively world of music for itself. Music has muscled aside the government and the university to give Austin a personality you wouldn't have imagined if you'd been there thirty years ago.

I like San Antonio the least of the three. Not that it is without its attractions. The strong Mexican culture gives it some spice, and it is certainly a modern city. But it carries with it a kind of seediness that it can't seem to shake. It doesn't help that the mayor was recently caught with his hand in the jar. Happens so often all over the country that it hardly causes a ripple anymore. But this one was close to home.

I've left Eubanks's place by midmorning, and despite the snake's nest that they call freeways in San Antonio, I'm at city hall a little after noon. I go to the license bureau and ask to see the archives. A nice lady sets me down at a computer and proudly announces that it's all there. I know how to use a computer, but I'm not adept and she has to get me to the right place. Which, in the end, tells me that Clyde and Frances Underwood had a business license as “City Realty and Development” for twenty years. I look up the big real estate and development offices in San Antonio and leave with some names.

I head for the biggest one, Crane and Company Real Estate. My driving up in a pickup isn't going to give a thrill of anticipation to whoever waits on me. They're looking for somebody who drives a big old SUV or a Cadillac, somebody whose car and clothes scream, “I'm here to make you all some money.”

But the agent who greets me, Sherry Rich, acts like she couldn't be happier to fix me up with coffee and sit me down in a comfortable chair. I hate to disappoint her and tell her so.

She has a nice, friendly laugh. “Don't you worry about that one bit. I work on the idea that when somebody comes in here, if they like my style, they'll remember me. One of these days, you'll know somebody who needs a good real estate lady in these parts, and you'll pull out my card. Now what can I do for you?”

“I'll tell you outright, I'm looking for gossip, good or bad. There's a man named Clyde Underwood and his wife, Frances, who ran a real estate business called City Real Estate and Development a few years back. I need somebody to tell me what they can about the outfit.”

If I weren't paying attention, I wouldn't see the little flicker in her eyes, because her smile never falters. “Let me see,” she says. “City Real Estate and Development was big here at one time. I'm trying to remember what happened that made them pull out of San Antonio. Let me go talk to somebody.”

She's gone a good long while, and I use the time to nose around, seeing what is for sale in the Jarrett Creek area. I didn't know that old man Hruska was giving up and selling his farm. Not that it necessarily means anything, but the farm is not far from Dora Lee's place.

Sherry Rich comes back with a man in tow who looks like a businessman with a purpose. He sticks out a big, beefy hand and invites me into his office. Sherry presses her card into my hand and says, “Remember what I said.”

Cole Martin is the man's name. He's about twice my weight and a couple inches shorter, which gives him a splendid girth. He settles himself back in his chair and licks his lips like he's about to partake of a fine meal. “You're wanting to know about Mr. Clyde Underwood, and I'm going to tell you straight off we used to call him Mr. Clyde Underhanded.” He has a good laugh at his wit, and I laugh, too. It tickles me when somebody is pleased with his own humor.

“Can you tell me anything specific he did that gave him that name?”

He sobers right up. “He and that skinny wife of his made a business of finding folks who were desperate and needed to sell, and giving them pennies on the dollar. Now, I'll tell you what, I'm as ready as the next person to make a fair return out of a deal. But there's a point where I draw the line.”

“How would they do that, give them less than a place was worth?”

“I'll tell you how. If somebody comes to me and says, ‘I got to sell my place right now, I'm broke,' I'll put it on the market and try to get everything I can for him. It's not just me being a good person, you understand, it's the real estate law. You're bound by your license to get the best price you can for people. Well Underwood made a practice of offering somebody a low-ball price right there in his office. He'd buy the property, then turn around and sell it for a tidy profit.”

“So that's what he was up to,” I say.

Martin slaps his desk. “I'll tell you more, too. Not only would he buy it himself, at under-market, but he'd also charge them his usual broker's fee. Insult to injury.”

“Couldn't the law do anything about it?”

He leans forward. “It's a problem if you can't get somebody to take him to court. These people he beat out didn't have money for a lawyer, so they were stuck with the deal. People like Underwood give all us legitimate real estate folks a bad name, and we were glad to see the back of him.”

“What happened to make him get out?”

“Went one step too far, as any crook will do.”

“Can you tell me a little more about that?”

“Hold on. Let me get us a soft drink. What can I get you?”

I tell him I could drink another cup of coffee.

I can see why this outfit is one of the biggest. They earn their money the hard way—by taking time even with somebody who doesn't come in with ready cash.

When Martin comes back he says, “It turns out that when Underwood put things back on the market, he would start rumors, saying something big was going to happen around the property. That would drive the price up.”

“You mean like starting a rumor that an outfit was interested in building a car racing track, to get the land value driven up?”

“That's exactly right. I was on the real estate board at the time, and we were itching to catch him at it. Finally he made the mistake of putting one of his rumors in writing to somebody who knew a thing or two. Next thing you know, he and his wife are closing up shop and slinking out of town.”

“Never did jail time?”

“The real estate board had the evidence, but we figured it wasn't worth our time and money to chase them down. They were gone, and that was the important thing.”

“I want to ask you one more thing. It's of a little more sensitive nature. Was there ever any idea that Underwood might go to an extreme to get a hold of some property?”

Martin blinks a couple of times. “How do you mean extreme?”

“Like roughing somebody up, or even more than that.”

His eyebrows reach his hairline. “Like murdering somebody? Well, I never heard of that. I think he was sleazy, but I never heard of him being violent.”

I get up, put my hat on and give him my hand. “I can't thank you enough. This is just the information I needed.”

“I take it you're not asking out of idle curiosity?”

“The Underwoods have landed out in my neck of the woods. I can't prove anything, but I think they're up to something. What you've told me gives me information I can zero in on.”

“You a lawman?”

“Concerned citizen,” I say.

“Well, good luck. You keep us in mind if you know somebody who's looking to do business in these parts.”

When I roll up to my place in the late afternoon, I'm relieved to see that Caroline's car is gone. I'm wondering if I would have been more of a fool last night if Jenny Sandstone hadn't warned me about Caroline.

The mail I've been letting accumulate on the front table nudges me, so I get myself a glass of tea and some lemon cookies and sit down on the porch to go through it. It's still blistering hot out here, but after being in the city, I feel like sitting outside. It smells good in high summer, the scent of honeysuckle so thick in the air it could almost knock you out.

The mail doesn't amount to much—a few bills, a couple of cattle auction ads, and a couple of notices for Houston art gallery openings. I set the notices of the openings aside to think about later. I haven't bought any art since Jeanne died. My heart hasn't been in it.

The phone rings. When I'm outside I often let it ring, but with the irons I've got in the fire, I feel the need to answer it. As soon as I hear Loretta's voice, I feel guilty. I've been neglecting her, and there's no call for that. She may be pushy, but she's a good woman and I see no need to give her an unhappy time.

“Loretta, I'm glad to hear from you.” I tell her what I was up to this morning. “If you have time, come on down here and have a glass of tea with me.”

“Is Caroline there?” she asks. I know she has heard about Caroline's performance at the Two Dog last night and my part in it.

“No, I don't know where she's got off to. Probably out at Dora Lee's.”

“I'm surprised you're not keeping closer tabs on her.”

“Loretta, are you coming down here or not? Or wait, I'll tell you what. Let me take you out to a nice dinner tonight. We could go over to Frenchy's.” I'm not partial to French food, but Loretta likes it.