A Killing at Cotton Hill (24 page)

Frances Underwood comes to the door and gives me a pinched hello, her eyes sharp and curious as to what I'm doing there. “If you've come for eggs, I'm fresh out,” she says.

“I thought maybe you'd got rid of the chickens. You must keep them pretty far from the house.”

“That's right,” she says. Her voice is flat.

I shouldn't have let on that I suspect she has never kept chickens, but I can't stand a cheat. I know damn good and well that what she did to get close to Dora Lee was buy eggs at the store and bring them around and sell them like they were fresh. But it still seems like a big leap from cheating on eggs to putting a knife in Dora Lee.

“Anyway, I'm not here about eggs. I've come to see you and your husband about a business matter.”

“Let me see if Clyde has time to talk to you.” She closes the door, leaving me standing on the step, hat in hand. She sure picked up some city ways along the line.

In a minute the door opens again and this time Clyde himself appears. He's a large man with a substantial belly and a large head. “Come on in, I don't know what Frances was thinking, leaving you standing out here in this heat.”

He grabs my arm with his big paw and drags me inside. “Frances, would you get us some tea?” he says.

He sits me down in a parlor that's surely unchanged from when his mother-in-law lived here, and I wonder what they did with the furniture they had in San Antonio. What I suspect is that they had to leave town so fast, they left all their goods behind.

“I understand you were a good friend to Dora Lee Parjeter,” Underwood says. “I'm hoping you're here to grease the wheel on this deal I'm trying to make on her land with her heirs.”

Frances Underwood carries in a plastic tray with three glasses of iced tea and some store cookies. She sits down with us and hands out the tea. Her husband grabs a handful of cookies and shoves one in his mouth.

“I'm not suited to take a position on that matter,” I say. “That's a family thing. I'm here on my own behalf. I'm wondering if a certain rumor I've been hearing is true and hoping I might put a dollar or two into the deal if there's any room.”

Underwood's jaw goes slack with surprise. He snatches up his glass of tea and takes a gulp. “I'm not sure what rumor you're talking about.”

“I think you do. And I think you offered some incentive money to Wayne Jackson if he would persuade Dora Lee's heirs to sell to you.”

Underwood wipes his hand across his mouth. A smile stays on his face, but his eyes get hard. “Did Jackson tell you that? I'm sorry if he got the wrong impression.”

I translate that to mean I'm right. “Either way, I'm wondering how I can get in on this racetrack deal.”

“Well, now, I guess you have heard a thing or two. And it's true, the deal could use a little more capital. Frances, how about getting that proposal we've put together?”

She slips away, and he confides to me that he doesn't know what he'd do without her, because she's the actual brains behind their business dealings.

I can just imagine the two of them moving in to fleece people who are about to lose everything, him with his glad hand and her with her shrewd mouth.

Frances comes back in with a sleek blue folder and opens it out to reveal copies of official looking papers. She sits down and smoothes her dress over her skinny knees. She may be the brains behind their team, but Clyde presents the deal. I'm surprised how far the plans have proceeded, with mock-up drawings of the track, outbuildings, parking lot, concessions stands, and roads. I can almost hear the sound of those cars revving their engines and smell the odor of oil burning hot.

“Mind if I take a look?” I say.

“Help yourself,” Underwood says, shoving the packet around so I can read it. “I can see you're a practiced investor. You'll know what you're looking at.”

He'd say that if I were the village idiot. But I've looked over a few proposals in my time as a landman, so I can parse it out. I notice some things right off. Besides the fact that this is a copy of a proposal, and not the original, there is not one mention of the company Jenny said was involved, Best Land Use Enterprises. Second, this proposal is specific to the land Underwood is sitting on and to Dora Lee's land. It's hard for me to believe that a big venture capitalist company would focus on one parcel of land. It seems to me the proposal would be more general. They'd be scouting a few areas.

As I'm reading, trying to figure out how to get my hands on this proposal to take to Houston tomorrow, I hear a siren out on the road. Underwood turns his head to look out the window. “Wonder if there's a fire somewhere,” Frances says. There's an uneasy feeling in the room, but maybe it's just me, still on edge after the fire at my place.

I may not know all there is to know about looking over proposals, but I do know the one the Underwoods are peddling has been stolen and rigged up to leave Best Land Use Management out of it.

“How can I get me a copy of this, so I can take my time looking it over?”

“It's not possible for me to let it out of my hands,” Underwood says, frowning. “We're trying to keep this quiet. I'm doing you a favor by even letting you look at it.”

“Who all is in on it?” I say, all innocent as a babe.

“They want to keep their name under the radar,” Underwood says.

“I understand. I appreciate that. I'll tell you what, I've seen what I need to see and I'll take a day or two to think about it.”

Underwood shakes his head, his mouth clamped together in a show of regret. “I hope you don't hold out too long. This deal is drawing a lot of interest, and the opportunity is knocking loud and clear. You'd be advised to heed the sound at the door.”

Out at my truck, I sit for a minute, trying to imagine either Clyde or Frances Underwood slinking behind my house with kerosene cans and rags, and I don't have a bit of trouble picturing it. But the fact is I'm having a crisis of confidence. What do I think I'm up to, trying to track down who killed Dora Lee and set fire to my place? Time was, I was good at being chief of police. But now I don't have the resources of the department behind me, such as they are. If Rodell were up to the job, I would gladly bow out. But that's the sticking point. And that's what brings me to fire up the truck, determined to see through my investigation, for good or ill.

As soon as I enter the road leading up to Dora Lee's place, I know there's trouble. Half a dozen cars are parked every which way, like people couldn't wait to get out of them and couldn't be bothered to park properly. There's a highway patrol car, Rodell's police car, and Woodrow Callum's fire marshal truck, plus two cars I don't recognize. I jolt to a stop behind them and hurry toward the house, wondering if something has happened to Greg.

I round the side of the house just as Rodell comes out of Greg's cabin. Behind him, two of his lieutenants walk on either side of Greg, whose hands are cuffed behind him. His head is hanging forward so he doesn't see me.

“What the hell is going on here?” I say.

“Welcome to the party,” Rodell says.

Greg's head jerks up, and his eyes catch mine, pleading. He's got a cut on one side of his face in the center of a bruise that's beginning to swell.

The two highway patrolmen step over to me. “Sir, back off now! This is police business.”

“Why are you taking this boy?” I say.

Rodell waves the patrolmen away. His sneer couldn't be more satisfied. “We've got the goods on your little buddy here. Someone identified him as being near your house the evening it was set on fire. I should think you'd be glad we caught him.”

“I already knew he was at my house, you fool! He didn't set fire to it!”

Woodrow Callum has been standing off to the side, and now he comes over and lays his hand on my upper arm. “Samuel, step over here for a minute,” he says. “If you all would just hold off,” he says to Rodell.

Rodell is enjoying this so much that he'll gladly prolong the moment. Callum steers me away from the group. “I'm afraid we've got the boy dead to rights. I found gas cans and rags out in the shed just like the ones used to torch your place.”

“You can buy those things anywhere.”

Callum is shaking his head. “These rags have got to be twenty years old. There's a whole stack of them out there. You remember one of the rags used to start your fire had a stamp in one corner? These have the same stamp.”

I start to protest that anybody could have stolen those rags out of the shed, but pointing that out is going to have to be Jenny's job, if it goes that far. Rodell is not about to be talked out of his prize right now.

“I understand. Callum, I don't believe Greg was the responsible party, but I can see the evidence looks that way.”

Greg's face falls when he sees mine, reading my defeat. “Mr. Craddock, tell them I didn't do it.”

I step close to him. “You're going to have to go with them. Don't give them any trouble. Jenny will get you out of jail first thing in the morning.”

“But I didn't do it! I'd never set fire to those paintings.”

“I know that. You don't have to convince me, but there's evidence that points that way.”

“Let's get a move on!” Rodell pushes Greg, who stumbles, and I grab him to keep him upright.

“Step away from the prisoner,” the highway patrolman says sharply.

I step back, not wanting to make things any harder for Greg.

The group crowds around Greg as if he's a dangerous fugitive. It would be laughable if it weren't so wrong. I follow as closely as I can. Just as they open the door for Greg to get into the car, he yells back over his shoulder, “Don't let anything happen to my paintings.”

“Don't worry,” I say.

Just before they leave, Rodell tells them to wait. He struts back to me. Standing with his thumbs hooked in his belt, he shoves his face up close to mine. “I believe you'll find that by tomorrow morning, we'll also have a confession to his grandma's murder.”

I grab the front of his shirt and pull him in a couple more inches. “I saw the bruise you left on his face. If there's any more of that, you're going to find yourself in a lawsuit that won't quit.”

He knocks my hand away. His face is contorted with fury. “You ain't the law anymore, Craddock. Time has passed you by.” He turns on his heels and stalks back to his car.

They're gone in a flurry of dust. I walk over and lower myself onto the back steps, as stunned as if it had been me they arrested. But after a few seconds, I go inside to call Jenny. It's after six, but my guess is she's still in her office, and I'm right.

I tell her what happened. “I don't suppose there's any way to get him out of there tonight?”

“No, Rodell timed it just right. There won't be anyone around to process it. But I'll be there first thing in the morning to get him released.”

After that, I go out into Greg's place. A chair is overturned, and I set it up right. I notice he's got three paintings stacked on his bed, his choices to take to the gallery in Houston tomorrow. I'll have to call Manning and Best Land Management first thing in the morning to let them know we won't be there.

When I walk in the door to my place, my phone is ringing. It's Jenny telling me she's bringing home some barbecue, and I should come over there and eat with her. I tell her to give me thirty minutes.

I'm purely worn out. Last night still has its hold on me, and the smell is so bad in here that my head is buzzing. I go in and pack a few things to stay out at Dora Lee's. Whoever torched my house is still at large as far as I'm concerned. And if they know Greg isn't home, that place could be at risk, including Greg's paintings.

The company that has my house and art insured has left a message that an inspector will be by Friday afternoon. There's also a call from a reporter, sounding unsure of himself, saying he's heard something about the theft of a valuable painting. He leaves a number to call back. I erase the message.

As I walk out, I take a look around at my bare walls again. Even though it doesn't feel like home without my paintings on the walls, I still wish I could be here tonight. But the smell of smoke has turned into something nasty, like the water and charred bits have combined to produce a substance all its own that puts out a peculiar odor.

Jenny and I arrive at her place at the same time. “My God, you look whipped,” she says.

I point to the big white bag she's carrying along with her briefcase. “I hope you brought enough barbecue. I'd hate to have to argue with you over the last rib.”

She laughs her big laugh. It's a welcome sound. When we settle in to eat, I bring her up to date, starting with Callum's assessment that the fire at my place was set deliberately. Then I describe the scene I just witnessed, with Greg being arrested.

“You don't think there's a chance he did it?”

“Setting fire to my place and destroying my art?” I shake my head. “I'm thinking that the fire is connected with my poking around in Dora Lee's affairs.”

“You think whoever set the fire killed Dora Lee?”

“It's an awful big coincidence for the fire to happen now, when I've been nosing around. Problem is, I'm damned if I can see the connection.”

“A warning maybe?”

“It's too big to be just a warning. If you hadn't been there, the whole place would have gone up. No, it looks like somebody needed money so bad that when they found out I had my art collection, they decided to steal the Thiebaud and sell it, not knowing how hard that would be. The fire was to cover up that theft.”

She's nodding. “You said the painting is valuable. How would they know that?”

“That's where Alex Eubanks comes in.” I tell her about my interview with the art teacher and his subsequent confrontation with Greg. “Greg told him about my art collection. Eubanks would have known the Thiebaud was valuable.”