An Unmarked Grave (26 page)

"Over in Henrietta. I was doing some insurance work over
there, and it just came up. Lady asked me if I knew Pearl. I
told her no" I shrugged. "I was just curious"

"Yes, sir. She lived up there just north of Marv Lewis'
place. Her and her boy." He tapped his head. "The youngster
was slow, but Mama Pearl did everything she could to take
care of him. Oliver, that was his name. She was all by her
lonesome. Her old man had run off before the kid was born.
She did odd jobs around, keeping kids, sewing and patching
dresses, paper route-whatever it took to take care of Ollie"
"Sounds like a good woman"

"She was, she was. Somebody got sick, she'd be right
there to help" He paused to cut a chunk from his plug of
Cannonball chewing tobacco and popped it into his mouth.
He offered it to me, but I declined. "And when she took sick,
everybody pitched in like she had always done. Wonderful
old soul"

I nodded slowly, ready for the story to be over. "What
happened?"

With sweeping nonchalance, he replied, "Oh, she died.
The cancer. It hit her-" He screwed up his face in concentration. "Let's see. It hit her in eighty-four. Yeah. It was right
at Thanksgiving, and we all couldn't eat no more than a couple helpings after hearing the news. She fought it a couple
years until around June of eighty-six, I think it was. But she
took care of Ollie, her backward boy. Put him in a good home
for folks like him down to Fort Worth" He paused to eject a
stream of brown juice on the dusty concrete floor. "Dear old soul, she knew she was a goner, and there was no one left
to take care of little Ollie." Newt gave me a crooked grin.
"That's what we called him hereabouts. He was about forty, I
reckon, but he was still little Ollie to us. Anyway, she knew
she had to find someplace to put him. She sold her house to
Marv Lewis with the provision her and the boy could stay until she died. She must've scraped as hard as she could for the
rest of the money. Story is, it cost a heap to keep kids in that
home" He shook his head, removed his cap from his bald
head, and glanced heavenward. "I just know she's sitting at
the right hand of God this moment"

His sincerity touched me. To outsiders, the folks of Elysian
Hills might seem country bumpkins, but they were decent
human beings trying to live a decent life.

All except a couple of them.

And I was determined to pin their worthless hides to the
wall. And then, if I had the chance, to rub some salt into
their wounds.

Outside, I sat in my pickup staring at Newt's shop. Mama
Pearl intrigued me. Here's a rural woman, left to take care of
herself and her son, and she does. Only the good Lord knows
how. But how could she have managed to save the funds to
put her son in a home like Newt said? The expense had to be
outrageous.

On impulse, I made a U-turn and headed back down the
road to Sam Fuqua's convenience store.

A wide grin popped onto Sam's face when he spotted me.
He nodded. He was busy, so I headed for the coffee, which I
carried to the space heater.

After his customers left, he came over. "Hey, man, I didn't
figure you'd still be here"

I had a feeling I could trust the older man, but I didn't
know how far, so I remained tentative. I asked him about
Pearl Ragsdale. He repeated Newt's version of the story.

Sipping my coffee, I muttered, "Wonder what home she
sent him to. I've got a nephew in a special home down there
somewhere"

He frowned. "It was St. Christopher something, best I remember."

"I heard she lived close to Marvin Lewis"

"Yep. She had a small house about half a mile down the
road from Marv. Wasn't much. Her old man hated the sight
of work. If he could beg, borrow, or steal enough money for
a bottle, he was happier than a hog at the slop trough. The
place run down after she died. Bums got to sleeping there.
Burned up some years back"

During the drive back to the motel, I ran it all back
through my head. Suppose Lewis and Ford killed Houston,
buried him in the cemetery, then kept Houston "alive" in
Chicago for two years. That way, no one in Elysian Hills
would miss J. B. and start asking questions. And if the questions did arise, they would be focused on Chicago, not
Elysian Hills.

Even average PIs like me know that in any crime there
must be motive, opportunity, and means. Opportunity and
means, I didn't worry about. In such a desolate environment,
opportunity lurked around every door, and means lay on
every tool bench. Motive is what puzzled me.

Land couldn't be the motive, for Lewis had bought it. Then he turned around and sold two-thirds of it, and one of those
thirds to a man he despised, Buck Ford. Of course, being in
the murder together, he would not have had much of a choice.

Actually, why would he even buy six sections? He already owned over twelve hundred acres. Unless he was accumulating property to pass on to his children and their
children, I reminded myself, remembering his two greatgreat-grandchildren a few days earlier.

But I couldn't believe the latter was a motive.

Nobody kills somebody just to get land to pass on to
family.

That night, there came a knock on the door. When I opened
it, my jaw hit the floor. "Sheriff Perry. I'm surprised to see
you "

His white Stetson was cocked on one side of his head.
His normally flushed face was even more intense, almost
matching his fiery red hair. "That surprises me, Boudreaux.
I would have figured you'd know that I'd stop in sooner or
later." He glanced to his left and right up and down the
gallery. "May I come in?"

I opened the door wide. "Sure, come on in." I indicated
Jack. "This is a friend, Jack Edney. Jack, Sheriff Perry"

Closing the door, I indicated a chair. "Make yourself comfortable, Sheriff. What brings you over here?"

He cut his eyes at Jack, then back at me.

"He's with me all the time, Sheriff. Sometimes I bounce
ideas off Jack"

Jack smiled proudly.

The sheriff balked. "Then let's you and me go somewhere
so we can talk"

The smile on Jack's face turned into a frown. "Never
mind. I'd been planning on picking up a case of Budweiser
anyway."

I winked at Jack. "Thanks"

After Jack left, I sat on the edge of the bed, facing the
sheriff. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

He eyed me narrowly. In a gruff voice, he replied, "I always want to know when an outsider comes into my jurisdiction and starts asking questions that are none of his
business"

stiffened, then forced myself to relax. Glibly, I replied,
"I don't understand what you're driving at, Sheriff."

A wry smile cracked his somber face. He pulled out a
chair and sat. "Come on, Boudreaux. Don't play games.
We're country out here, but not all of us are hicks. I know
you've prowled around at Barton's and at the cemetery. I
suspect you and the fat boy are the ones who dug up the
spaceman's grave. On top of that, you been asking questions about Jim Bob Houston. Now, last I heard, Jim Bob
disappeared about twenty years ago. No way can I see what
Jim Bob had to do with the demise of Justin Chester." He
leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his
chest. "So, tell me. What are you up to?"

I studied him for a moment. "I guess you could say that
I'm just the curious sort, Sheriff."

He stared at me for several moments, trying to make up
his mind about something. What, I had no idea, except I didn't figure he would attempt anything in here, since Jack
was aware of his presence.

"I think you're lying." He paused. When he continued, his
gruff words became accommodating. "Now, look. I'm not
interested in creating any problems for you or your company
with the state. From what I've heard around town, I figure
you suspect something happened to Jim Bob Houston, and
you're trying to find out what. Why, I don't know, but that's
what I'm guessing."

I started to protest, but he held up a hand. "Hear me out. I
never bought the business of Jim Bob's moving to Chicago,
but I never could run him down. Every place I looked was a
dead end. In the early nineties, maybe ninety-one, I lost the
trail at a place run by some folks named Talley. Talked to
some old woman who'd rented a room to a Jim Bob Houston, but he didn't recognize Jim Bob's picture" He paused
and studied me. "Mind telling me what you're up to? Maybe
I can help"

For several moments, I hesitated. Finally, I replied. "I
wasn't certain about you. Like, why didn't you recognize
Justin Chester's name when I first came to you? He'd been
here five or six months"

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, then rose in understanding. He chuckled. "Because I'd never heard the name
or met him. Yeah, I saw a guy in ragged clothes riding a bicycle back and forth to school, but I never met him. His hair
was short, not long like in the snapshot you showed me"

"Never heard his name?"

"If I had, I would have told you"

"But the principal, Georgiana Irvin. She said she asked
you for a criminal background check on him."

He laughed. "That's because Lisa Simmons, my secretary, file clerk, and general all-around problem-solver does
it for me. Georgiana asked Lisa. She's been with me since
the beginning. We're a small community, Boudreaux. Hey,
if someone wanted a background check, and I answered
the phone, they'd ask for Lisa. You know what I mean? She
takes care of half my business, and when she thinks I need
to know something, she tells me"

His explanation made sense in a casual sort of way. Nodding slowly, I replied, "I can follow that, but what about
Chester's death certificate?"

He frowned, puzzled. "What about it? George was in Fort
Worth, so I filled it out. He looked at Chester and the truck
when he got back and signed it. What's the problem?"

His candor surprised me, but then, I couldn't help wondering if it was candor or a sly skewing of the truth. "The
injury was to the back of his head, not his forehead"

Perry studied me for a moment before shaking his head.
"Yeah, that was strange, wasn't it? Chester had both hands
at the top of the steering wheel. Best George and me could
figure was, his head banged into them, then bounced back
and hit the cab. The only spot on his forehead came from
the class ring on his finger. Screwy, huh?"

I considered his explanation, remembering the dime-sized
impression Tricia had mentioned. It made sense. Slowly, I
nodded. "Yeah"

He leaned forward. "So, now that we have that cleared
up, let's talk about Houston. How far have you gotten into
running him down?"

I was at one of those spots in life that demanded a decision
I didn't want to make. I had a couple of other questions, but I didn't want to commit myself. Should I trust Perry or not? I
had the queasy feeling that I was caught in a whirlpool and
couldn't fight my way out. Then I thought of a third option.
"Why don't you tell me what you know?"

He eyed me several moments, an amused gleam in his
eyes. "Okay. One of us has got to start" He nodded to the
ice chest on Jack's bed. "Any beer in there?"

"Should be. My friend gets panicky when he's down to
his last six-pack" I pulled out a couple and tossed Perry
one. We popped the tabs.

He took several long gulps and leaned back. "I think
Houston is dead. I don't believe he ever went to Chicago"
He went on to tell me what I already knew, about Houston
and Ford's falling out, the land argument, the suit and judgment, and Houston's disappearing.

I remembered hearing the story, although with a few discrepancies. "Is Ford the kind to resort to violence?"

Perry arched a skeptical eyebrow. "Anyone, Mr.
Boudreaux, given the right set of circumstances, can resort
to violence"

I raised an eyebrow.

He continued. "Like I said, I showed Houston's picture
to Mrs. Talley. He didn't recognize him" He leaned forward.
"That's all I know. Now, what about you? Are you the one
who dug up the grave? It wasn't spotted until yesterday after the snow melted. Couple of high school kids out rabbit
hunting saw it and reported it."