An Unmarked Grave (22 page)

The next few pages were the deeds for the sale of the
sections to Buck Ford and Gus Perry for $40,000.00 each
in June of 1986. I studied the documents, noting that Lewis
paid $250 an acre and sold it for a little over $320 an acre,
which meant he picked up 1,280 acres for $20,000. Around
$160 an acre. Not a bad move, even back in eighty-five.

In a way, I had to admire the old man. Three-twenty was
more than a fair price. He could have gotten four hundred
on the open market.

Paying the clerk a nominal fee, I made copies of the documents.

We paused by the front doors to bundle up against the
cold. Through the frosty windows I spotted a white Honda driving slowly along the street. I shoved the door open and
ran onto the porch, but the Honda turned south and disappeared behind a row of businesses.

By the time we reached the outskirts of Montague, snow
had melted from the highways. The rolling hills on either
side were beginning to show patches of brown.

Jack cleared his throat. "Did you find anything back
there that will help? Deeds and that legal stuff are all Greek
to me"

I squeezed the steering wheel until my knuckles turned
white. "I don't think so. It all looks perfectly legal to me"

had two individuals I was focusing on-Buck Ford and
Sheriff Gus Perry-and to tell the truth, nothing I had discovered implicated either man in anything. In fact, I'd
discovered nothing to incriminate anyone in a court of law.

All I had was the business transaction between Marv
Lewis and Jim Bob Houston, and then between Lewis and
Perry and Ford, respectively, all perfectly legal as far as I
could see. I was at a dead end.

The notary who had witnessed the contract was deceased.
I had no legal recourse to access the notary's files, and even if
I did, I knew I would find no improprieties.

Nope, I told myself. I'd struck out on the land transactions.

I headed back to Elysian Hills to see Mabel Hooker. I
wasn't certain just how to approach her. Since I had no
evidence of murder, and I couldn't mention the skeleton
in the grave without stirring up maybe more trouble than I wanted, I decided to see if I could finesse some answers
from her, a skill in which I admit I had never been very
successful.

Mabel Hooker smiled broadly when we hurried in from
the cold. "You're getting to be regular customers, boys."

Jack popped the tab on a can of Dr. Pepper while I poured
some coffee. "Friendly town."

Her ruddy face beamed. "Always has been."

"By the way," I said, sitting in a worn chair. "Jim Bob
Houston's wife, Sara Ann. Any idea where she went?"

"Sara Ann?" She looked at me in surprise. "For heaven's
sake, that was over twenty years ago" The surprise on her
face faded into a suspicious frown. "What do you need her
for?"

I lied. "I have a writer friend who's interested in your
town. Thought she might do a couple of articles about it. I
was lining up folks for her to interview after she talked to
you business people."

She must have believed me, for she shook her head. "I
don't know where she went when she left here, but last
Christmas when I went shopping over at Henrietta, just
this side of Wichita Falls, I ran into her. She remarried
several years after she left here and settled in Henrietta.
Name's Rawlings now. I don't remember her husband's
given name."

I winked at her. "Thanks. That'll do. My friend can run
her down"

Jack had wandered over to a pinball machine and was
busy sticking quarters into it.

At that moment, one of Buck Ford's cattle trucks roared
past. "I guess Buck Ford is probably one of the most prosperous members of Elysian Hills. I'm always seeing his
trucks on the road"

"Yeah" She hooked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of his spread. "He's always been a go-getter. That's
one man who never lets anything keep him from getting
what he wants" She chuckled and raised an eyebrow. "Most
of the time, that is"

"Most of the time?" I looked at her, curious.

"Yeah. He met his match with Jim Bob. A couple years
before Jim Bob disappeared, him and Buck Ford had a big
falling out. Cattle and land argument. Houston sued Ford.
Got a judgment for a hundred thousand. Ford's business
started going downhill, but he managed to hold on"

The word motive flashed before my eyes like a shooting
star. I nodded in the direction of Ford's feedlots. "Doesn't
look like he has any problems now."

"He don't. In fact, he wasn't hurting none when he bought
those two sections from Marvin, though I never could figure
out why Marvin sold them to him."

I nodded. "I remember you said there was some kind of
family problem, wasn't it?"

"Yep" She shrugged. "But old Marv, he knows how to
make a dollar, so he sold the sections to Buck. And Buck
ain't no fool. Then when the oil and gas hit-" She shook
her head and whistled. "Well, sir, it took off big-time. I suppose old Buck is probably a millionaire a couple times over."

I couldn't help thinking to myself, even if it meant murdering someone.

"Truth is," she added, "the sheriff isn't no slouch. He runs a few hundred head of prime Black Angus. Studs his
bulls for a nice fee. And he's got a few wells"

On impulse after leaving Mabel's, I took Cemetery Road.

Jack frowned at me. "You going back to the cemetery,
Tony?"

"Nope. Thought I'd stop by Barton's place"

"What for?" He knit his eyebrows.

"Just to look around"

A sly grin erased his frown. "You mean to see if you
can find that stuff we were looking for a couple days ago"

I glanced at him and nodded. "Yeah. I got to thinking.
You know, one side of the barn caved in. Maybe a second
seed bin is under that part of the barn"

He remained silent for a few moments. As we approached
the old bridge, he said, "You starting to believe there is a
spaceman?"

Rolling my eyes, I looked around at him in exasperation.
"No way, no time, no how"

When we turned onto the dirt drive, the back end of the
Silverado skidded from side to side as the tires slipped in
the mud. I pulled around the house and parked in back, out
of sight from any vehicles passing in front. I stared at the
dilapidated structure some thirty yards distant. The narrow
lane leading to the barn under a canopy of trees was covered with snow.

Climbing out, I headed for the barn with Jack on my heels.
A few tracks dotted the snow-raccoon, rabbit, coyote.

There were several small piles of snow in the barn, having fallen through gaps in the roof. Jack remained outside while I searched, moving gingerly around fallen timbers. I
came up with the same result: nothing.

From outside, Jack called out, "Tony, come take a look at
this!"

He stood beside a smooth stretch of snow in the shade of
some overhanging elms, pointing to a series of melting
tracks. "What made these?"

Now, I've spent a great deal of time outdoors. I can recognize tracks from muskrat to bobcat, but I had never seen any
like those marks. They were about eight inches in length. I
was struck by their similarity in shape to a tadpole-a tiny
tail at the rear of a round body. Whatever they were, they
weren't animal tracks.

A few feet on, the snow ended, and the trail, if indeed it
was a trail, was lost in the thin mud.

"So? What do you think made them?"

All I could do was shrug. "Beats me. Tumbleweeds?
Blowing trash? Whatever"

He gestured at them. "You see where they're headed?"
Without giving me a chance to reply, he said, "The Diablo
Canyons"

I laughed, and his round face turned red. "Look, Jack," I
explained, "any of a number of things could have made those
marks" I pointed to a snow-covered tumbleweed lodged in
a rusty fence. "Like I said, the wind blowing a tumbleweed, a-"

Before I could continue, he snorted, waved a hand at me
to shut up, and stormed back to the Silverado. "Forget it,"
he said over his shoulder.

Back at the motel, I booted up my laptop as Jack headed
for the door. "I'm going to pick up some beer and snacks,"
he said. "Back in a few minutes"

Nodding briefly, I scanned the screen, excited to see that
Eddie's reply was waiting.

In June 1986, Jim Bob Houston deposited $100,000 in the
Chicago Mercantile Bank. Over the next two years, there was
little activity in the account other than what looked like withdrawals for the usual living expenses. Houston's address on
his bank account was 355 Ridge Avenue in Evanston. In
1988, the account was closed. And Jim Bob Houston dropped
out of sight.

Leaning back, I studied the information. Not much. The
transactions easily could have been handled by mail. I
Googled a map of Evanston and searched for the address
on Ridge Avenue.

It popped up, complete with telephone number.

I couldn't help thinking that, whether we like it or not,
Big Brother is here, peeking over our shoulder. As digital
technology continues to expand, less and less of our personal business will remain private. Even today, there is little I could not learn of any individual if I were willing to
spend the time and money.

Having no idea whom I was calling, I dialed the Evanston
number. On the third ring, a woman answered. "Talley Apartments. Nora Talley speaking."

I introduced myself and explained that I was trying to
run down a man who had lived there from 1986 through
1988.

I was expecting a dead end, but to my surprise, she replied, "I've been here forty years and seen a lot of faces. What
was his name?"

My hopes surged. I couldn't believe my luck. "Houston.
Jim Bob Houston"

"What year did you say?"

I repeated the years.

"Hold on a minute," she replied, placing the receiver on
a table.

Several minutes passed before she returned. "Sorry to
keep you waiting, Mr. Boudreaux, but Homer-he was
my husband-Homer kept up with everyone who rented an
apartment from us. He kept them in spiral notebooks by the
year. We have-" she hesitated, then continued. "We have a
three-story brick with rooms that we rent out to single men.
Some of them have been with us since we opened in sixtyone. I run the place now. Been running it since 1988, when
Homer died."

"I'm sorry."

"That's how the good Lord planned life. The good with
the bad. Homer, he was a good man" She paused. When she
replied, her voice was tentative. "That Houston man is in
our book. He stayed in B-14 beginning in March of eightysix. That's a basement room at the front of the house" She
hesitated and then with a sense of urgency continued. "Yes,
I remember that one. Homer and me always wondered about
him"

"Oh? Why is that?" I crossed my fingers.

I wanted to shout with joy when she replied, "He traveled
a lot. He was never there. We saw him when he rented the
room, and then two or three times a year afterward" She
paused, then, her tone suggesting embarrassment, explained, "All the rooms had radiators. We adjusted them twice a
year. There were always clothes and toilet articles in his
room. Sometimes nothing was disturbed for months" She
hastened to add, "Not that I was snooping, but I had to let
exterminators and those sorts of people in"