A Killing at Cotton Hill (5 page)

Anyway, she said, “I know you think I'm crazy, and I'm ashamed to be disturbing you for it, but whoever was spying on me a couple of weeks back is outside again. He's sitting in his car out there on the road.”

“You don't have any idea who it is or what they want?”

“No, and it scares me.

“Have you seen him up close?”

“Just the car. It's a newish car, kind of fancy.”

Thinking about that now, I believe that was the first time she'd described a concrete detail about a car.

“Dora Lee, can you think of any reason why someone would want to spy on you?” I said.

“Now you say that, it sounds silly. But I just have this bad feeling.”

And all the time she was talking I was thinking she was just imagining things, riled up because her grandson was talking about moving to Houston so he could get a job, and she'd be by herself out there again.

Jenny Sandstone rescues me from my low moment. She comes booming down the short hallway. “Have you put any thought to what I said?”

“You don't make a lot of small talk, do you?” I say.

She unlocks the door and waves me inside. “I don't see the point. I'm busy.”

We sit down and she takes her shoes off with a groan. I tell her about my talk with the boy and my idea about staying out at Dora Lee's place. “I don't want Rodell to know I'm snooping around, and that way I can do it without him knowing.”

“See? That's why I want you to take charge of this investigation. Rodell never would have thought of something that slick. And there's no way in hell he'll ever catch who did this.”

“I know you're right. Any chance of getting that boy out of jail tonight?”

She dials a number and asks for Judge Herrera. “It's important,” she says. She tells whoever she's talking to that she'll wait and in a minute the judge comes on the phone and they talk.

I'm impressed with Jenny's combination of sweet talk and legalese. I can tell by her end of the conversation that the judge knows that Rodell is incompetent and will keep the boy in jail just for the hell of it. She tells him I'm willing to put up the bail if it comes to that. She listens a little more, then hangs up and says, “Let's get on over to the jail and spring that boy.”

“What about me paying for the bail?”

“Judge Herrera said if he hasn't been arrested, we don't need bail. But there's no reason Rodell has to know that. We'll just tell him the judge is letting the boy out. Judge Herrera says he trusts you.”

I've never even met the man, but a benefit of living in a sparsely populated area is that your reputation means something. I'm as good as my word, and I guess he knows it.

Even though I know Greg is itching to get back home, I tell him I have to do a couple of things at my place before we go out to Dora Lee's. I need to pack my clothes and call Truly Bennett and ask him if he'll keep an eye on my cows while I'm gone. You have to check on cows often in high summer, because they can get themselves into the damnedest trouble with boggy ground or rattlesnakes. But I also have another reason for wanting to get Greg to my house.

When we pull up in front, he tells me he'll stay in the car, but I insist on him coming in. “It's too hot out here. You'll fry.”

I walk ahead of him across the porch and in the front door, then turn to see his reaction when he walks in. At first, it doesn't register, but then I see him freeze and slowly take in the art I have hung on my walls. Like he's in a trance, he walks over to the little Bischoff figure drawing, then to the Thiebaud, which has pride of place above the fireplace. Then he moves on around the room. He takes a long time, like a parched man drinking water. He moves from one painting to another, not saying a word. When he turns to me, it's like he's seeing me with new eyes. “These are real, aren't they?”

“Yes, they are.”

He takes another turn around the room. “Who would have known?” His voice is quiet, as if he's talking to himself, but then his gaze comes back to me. “I hardly ever got to see anything like this except in books. My folks took me to Houston a few times to some museums, but that's all. I didn't think anybody around here knew anything about art.”

“We're a scarce breed; that's a fact.” I tell him about Jeanne and how we got interested in art and started buying a painting here and there and having a fine time doing it. “Most people who walk in here don't even see the paintings. Come on back here.”

I show him the art in the bedroom and then the dining room, which I hardly ever use since Jeanne died. We put the few sculptures we bought there, one a Manuel Neri that we bought early on. There's no way I could afford most of these things nowadays.

“This art is from a good ways back. It must be worth a lot. Don't you worry about somebody coming in here and stealing something?” he says.

“Not too many people understand what's here. And it's well insured.” I leave him to soak it in while I go pack a few things. It makes me feel good to have someone in here who can appreciate the art. Anyone who notices it at all usually says some version of “I don't get all these scribbles and shapes. I like things to look like what they are.” Every couple of years, we used to get a little herd of people from Houston who took a tour of private collections. But last year, with Jeanne not here to show them around, I begged off.

On the way out to Dora Lee's place, I ask Greg how he came to know he could be an artist. “My daddy liked to paint and he used to let me paint with him. I took to it right off, and he liked that. He's the one who started bringing me art books.”

I glance over at the boy and ask straight out. “He didn't mind that you have more talent than he did?”

“He said for him it was just a hobby, something he liked. He said I had a gift and not to let it get away from me.” He turns his face away to look out the side window.

We're quiet the rest of the way out to the farm. I'm thinking about the work I saw in his cabin, wondering how he learned as much as he has. We park at Dora Lee's, neither of us is in a hurry to get out of the truck. It's dusk and there's already a look of gloom about Dora Lee's farm. Her big vegetable garden looks dry and droopy, like it has been deserted for a lot longer than a day.

We finally climb out of the pickup, and out of habit head around back to the kitchen door. We're almost there before I realize it's a mistake. Luckily, the door has been locked and Greg has to search out his keys. That way I make it to the door before he can open it. There are two reasons I don't want him to go inside. One, they won't have cleaned up after they took Dora Lee away, and I don't want him to be faced with the aftermath. And two, I want to see the scene with fresh eyes. This morning I was so shocked, that I might have missed something. With so many people milling around in the kitchen, the crime scene won't be worth much, but I want to get a better sense of it.

I tell him to go on and get settled in his place. “I'll call you when I have something fixed for us to eat.” He doesn't need to be asked twice, just shoots off, itching to get to his cabin.

I set my bag down inside the kitchen and stand looking around. The crime scene tape is wadded up and thrown on the floor. I see a bloody smear from a shoe that I'm sure wasn't there this morning. I wonder if Rodell even tried to preserve the integrity of the scene.

Most of Dora Lee's blood was caught by her clothes, very little of it spilling onto the floor. Some is spattered on one cabinet, so I know her killer attacked while she stood with her back to the sink.

The thing is, I see no sign that she might have known what was coming. If she'd been scared, there would likely be something out of place. She might have tried to run and maybe would have shoved a chair aside, or maybe would have thrown something at her killer and that would be lying on the floor. But there's nothing like that. Of course somebody moved two kitchen chairs this morning to hold the crime scene tape, so I guess I'll never know if they were out of place when the law got here.

I also took note this morning that there weren't any wounds on her hands from trying to fend off her attacker. Whoever did this was talking to her and he walked up and stuck the knife in before she had a chance to react. It wasn't a stranger came in here. It was somebody she knew. I think about Greg. I don't want my regard for his talent to blind me to reality. I have to consider the possibility that he had a problem with Dora Lee that he's not talking about, that led him to simmer and then finally snap.

I walk into the front room and pull the curtain aside. I can see the road from here. If a woman was afraid somebody was out there, she might come in here several times in an evening to look out. I bring a lamp closer to the curtains, and sure enough there are smudges where her hand moved the curtain aside.

I wait for a car to pass to find out if I can hear it from where I'm standing. It's about five minutes before someone passes, speeding fast down the road. Sound travels well over the bare field from the road to the house, and it's easy to hear the car, even with the windows shut and the air-conditioning running. But how did Dora Lee know it was a “fancy car?” And then it strikes me. She didn't say passing by, she said, “somebody out on the road.” I wonder if the car stopped out there and sat for a while and she saw it. The idea chills me.

I sink into my familiar chair across from the one Dora Lee always sat in to work. Her sewing bag is next to her chair with a quilted square she was stitching laid carefully across the top. For months after Jeanne died, I used to come out here often and sit with Dora Lee. She was always working on a quilt and I'd watch her, not really seeing her, just numb, glad to be with someone who was familiar with every phase of Jeanne's decline. Sometimes we'd have the TV on, but often Dora Lee would sing while she worked. She had a sweet, clear singing voice and seemed to know the words to every song, from show tunes to old-time hymns. And sometimes she just talked about everyday things, and I'd let her words bind themselves around me.

As I sit here I'm remembering Dora Lee telling me something about an art teacher Greg had in high school, but the details escape me. I feel like rusty parts of my brain are trying to fire up, like a jalopy that's been sitting in the elements and needs some grease. I wish I'd paid more attention.

Back in the kitchen, I get to the task of cleaning up the blood. The kitchen floor is linoleum, so it cleans up pretty easy. The cabinets are a little more problematic, but elbow grease prevails. While I clean, my memory comes clearer in fits and starts. There was an art teacher at the high school in Bobtail who took an interest in Greg and gave him lessons after school. Dora Lee complained because she thought the teacher had meant he would teach Greg for free and came to find out he wanted to be paid more than she thought it was worth. “He's got mighty big ideas for a small-town teacher,” she said. Even after Greg got out of high school the lessons continued, but a few months ago there was a falling out of some kind, and the lessons stopped. Dora Lee said she never liked the man.

I rummage around in the refrigerator and find some leftover chicken that smells all right, and I open a can of peas. I figure that will be enough for tonight. It occurs to me we could have eaten in town, but I don't feel like going back in. One thing for sure, we're not going to eat in the kitchen.

When Greg comes in for dinner, his eyes go straight to the place where his grandmother was lying. He crosses his arms across his chest, shoving his hands into his armpits as if he's cold. “I just can't believe she's gone.”

“You've lost too many for as young as you are,” I say. “You'll just have to take it slow. Come on in here and eat.”

He looks surprised, but follows me into the living room, where the dining table is pushed up against the wall. I've cleared off the lace cloth and the bric-a-brac and set us a couple of plates. He nods, understanding that I decided we didn't need to eat in the room where Dora Lee died.

“It's not much of a meal, but it'll do,” I say.

He has the appetite of youth, and digs in. I wait until we've eaten a little before I ask him my question about the dishes.

“It was my job to wash, and she'd dry them and put them away.”

“Did she usually wait to do that?”

“No, she'd dry while I washed. She said it was a good way to end the day, doing a task together like that.” He puts his fork down and pushes his plate away.

“So why didn't she dry them last night?”

His eyes stray to the front window. “I had just started washing the dishes when she came out here into the front room. I asked her where she was going, and she said she wanted to check and make sure nobody was outside.” He looks back at me.

“Did you think that was odd?”

He shakes his head. “I didn't think much about it either way. I was in hurry to get back out to my place, so I just told her I was done with the dishes, and I was going back.” His voice is so quiet I can barely hear him. “I guess I should have paid more attention, though.”