Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek: A Samuel Craddock Mystery (Samuel Craddock Mysteries) (12 page)

She peers across the street. “I don’t have my glasses on. Who is that man in their yard?”

“That’s Truly Bennett. He’s doing some painting for McClusky.”

“Oh, that’s all right then. Angel called me last night. She was supposed to come over this morning, but said she and Slate were going out to the resort for a few days. They left early this morning.”

“Do you happen to know their phone number out there?”

“Yes, I do. Let me get it for you.”

She’s back in a few minutes with a slip of paper with two phone numbers on it. She points to one of the numbers. “That second one is Angel’s cell phone. She said the phone might not be working out at the resort, and if anything comes up I should try both numbers. I keep an eye on the house when they’re not here.”

If Slate and Angel decided just last night that they were going to the resort, why did Slate tell Truly last week that they’d be gone? And why didn’t Slate call me? If it was too late when he got home last night, he could have called this morning.

I try both numbers Camille gave me for the McCluskys, and no one answers either of them. I don’t like it. I decide to drive out to the resort to see if I can catch up with them.

I stop by the station to tell Odum what I’m up to. He jumps up when I walk in. “I was going to call you. I’ve got a problem. My dad called and asked if there was any way I could help him for a couple of hours. I could come back this afternoon.”

“Sure, go on ahead. There’s nothing that can’t wait. Zeke can be on call if anything comes up.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“How did everything go with Marietta?”

“She was out on a real estate appointment, so I didn’t get a chance to talk to her. The girl down at the office said she’d have Marietta call me when she got back, but then my dad phoned.”

I tell him I’m on my way out to Blanco to see if I can ferret out McClusky.

“Blanco’s a long way.”

“It is. I may be wasting my time, but it doesn’t sit well when somebody tries to avoid me.”

There’s another reason I want to go out there. I’ve never seen McClusky’s resort. I’ve always heard it’s for people with a lot of money, not the kind of thing people around here can afford—and wouldn’t do if they could. When Jarrett Creek folks go hunting, they do it to put meat on the table—and they don’t need to go to a fancy resort to do it. I’d like to get a good look at the place.

Before I leave town, I open up the safe to see what kind of weapons the department has on hand. It’s actually not a bad assortment and it looks like they’ve been kept up. Score one for Rodell. I take out a Colt and load it. I haven’t used a gun for a while, and it’s time I got back into shape with it. Maybe I’ll have time to do a little target practice while I’m out in the country. I leave a note on the front door with my new cell phone number on it, telling anybody who comes by that we’re all tied up this afternoon and to call me only if it’s an emergency.

When I get close to Blanco I start seeing faded signs advertising McClusky’s Wild Range Resort. Slate McClusky ought to consider replacing the signs if he plans to keep up the reputation of having a fine resort, but maybe he wants to emphasize the “country” part of “hill country resort.” The sign at the turnoff is shot up with bullet holes. It gives me the information that I’ve got a two-mile drive to my destination. I turn onto a rutted dirt road. I don’t know what I was expecting when I headed out to McClusky’s resort, but it was certainly something better than what I am seeing. The road is so rutted that it looks like it’s gone through at least a couple of seasons with no maintenance. I’m forced to slow way down. At first I’m thinking the reason the road is a mess is that McClusky wants to give people who come here the idea that they’re getting a legitimate wild-country experience, but then I notice that the fences are sagging in places. I heard they raise exotic game for sport hunting here—African and Asian antelope and even zebras. It’s a good thing they don’t keep buffalo, because one of those big creatures could charge right through the fence in a couple of places. But soon I realize I’m not seeing any animals at all.

After being jostled around in my truck for ten minutes, I turn onto a paved driveway, and soon an imposing structure comes into view. The main lodge is what you’d call elegant rustic—or at least it used to be. The huge, two-story rock and wood building surrounded by a wide wooden deck has fallen on the rustic side of things. The dark-green trim on the building is faded and chipped and the deck in need of a new coat of paint. The only thing that doesn’t look the worst for wear is a massive rock chimney that suggests there’s a castle-sized fireplace.

A weathered sign over the porch says, “The Big House.” A sign to the left side of the building points to “Spa” in one direction and “Pool” in the other. Off to the right I glimpse wood cabins scattered among the trees.

Somebody went to a lot of expense on the landscaping in the past. It’s now overgrown and weedy. A big flowerbed surrounded by the circular driveway contains a lot of dead stalks. Dead or dying ornamental plants and weeds have taken over the large terra cotta pots on the steps of the Big House entrance.

Slate’s Chevy Tahoe is sitting in front of the main house. I’m about to open the door of my truck when a big man with gorilla arms and a worried expression comes from around back and strides over to me. “We’re closed.”

“I’m looking for Slate and Angel.”

“They ain’t here.”

“That’s Slate’s SUV.”

He pauses for a second, looking at the SUV as if puzzled. “They took the Cadillac.” His speech cadence is a little off.

“You mind if I get out and stretch my legs?” I open the door and ease out. I walk around and stretch my arms over my head while he watches as if he thinks I might suddenly dart past him and make a run for the house.

“You know when they plan to be back?”

He scratches his head. “Slate didn’t tell me. He said him and Angel were going to get some barbecue.”

“My name is Samuel Craddock. I’m the chief of police over in Jarrett Creek, and I need to discuss something with them.”

He squints at me and for a minute there’s no sign that he recognizes my name, but then a lightbulb goes on. “I remember you. My daddy liked you.” His smile and voice are childlike, and suddenly I understand the “something that wasn’t quite right” that used to be said about him.

“Yes, I remember your daddy,” I say. “He’s been gone a long time.”

“Yes, he died.”

“Where do Slate and Angel usually go to get barbecue?”

“They went into Blanco, and they’re going to bring me some back.”

“You’re Slate’s brother, aren’t you? Harold is it?”

“Yes, I’m Slate’s foreman.” He says it proudly.

“Harold, you have cell phone service out here?”

“No. A lot of people who used to come out here said they wished we did.”

“Is there a phone in the house?” I nod toward the main building and take a few steps in that direction. “I’d like to call Slate.”

“You can’t go in there.” His voice is suddenly loud.

“Beg pardon?”

“It’s under construction and it’s dangerous.”

“Harold, I don’t see any construction tools or vehicles around here, and if it’s safe enough for Slate and Angel to go inside, it’s safe enough for me to walk in and use the telephone.”

“Slate told me not to let anybody inside.”

“All right, I’ll take your word for it. I’m going over to Blanco and see if I can locate them. What color is the Cadillac?”

“It’s whitish.”

Blanco isn’t a large town and its biggest claim to eating fame is a big barbecue place called the Barbecue Palace. If the McCluskys have gone over to Blanco for lunch, that’s likely where I’ll find them.

I finally find a parking place in the half-acre lot and walk up to join the people lined up under the huge billboard of Carlton King, owner of the Barbecue Palace, wearing a wide grin and a gaudy crown. The line snakes past big brick pits with sheets of tin lying over them to hold in the smoke. At each pit there’s a man stationed who periodically raises the tin and slops barbecue sauce over the grilling meat using long-handled cloth mops. When they lift the lid, the smell wafts out over the crowd and draws murmurs of appreciation. There’s a stir of some kind going on up at the head of the line and I hear someone say, “Angel Bright.”

I step out of line, walk up to the front, and find Angel holding court with several fans, middle-aged men and women thrusting pieces of paper for Angel to sign. “I can’t believe y’all remember me,” Angel says. She’s dressed in a bright rose-colored shirt with her name spelled out in sequins, so it’s no great surprise that they recognized her. Standing off to the side, Slate is favoring the fans with his indulgent smile, the same kind of look you’d have if you owned “best in show” at a county fair.

When I call Slate’s name, he turns and I believe his look of surprise is genuine. His smile widens and he grabs my hand and pumps it. “If this doesn’t beat everything! What are you doing here?”

Angel glances at me, and her look doesn’t convey the welcome that Slate’s does. But she recovers quickly. “Hey, nice to see you.”

“You with anybody?” Slate says. “Why don’t you join us?”

“I actually came out here looking for you,” I say.

“For me? How’d you know I was here?”

Before I can speak, understanding dawns in his eyes and his smile falters.

“Your brother told me,” I say.

“So you’ve seen what a mess he’s made of my resort.” He shakes his head, still smiling. “That’s what you get when you leave things in somebody’s hands and don’t check up on them often enough. He may be my brother, but I can’t say he’s done a real good job.”

“Isn’t it terrible?” Angel chimes in. “Poor Slate almost had a heart attack when he got out there a few months ago and saw how Harold had run it into the ground.”

Whatever made that resort lose ground didn’t happen overnight. The ruin I saw took many months, or even years, of neglect. I’m wondering why poor Harold is taking the heat.

We step inside the cafe and the pungent smell of barbecue makes me put everything else aside for a while. Carlton King himself is behind the counter, looking like he’s been sampling his own food a little more than is healthy. His big, booming voice touts the baby back ribs, brisket, chicken, and sausage.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Angel Bright,” he booms. “Your order is on the house. These two jokers with you will have to pay for their own food, though.” He laughs and Angel gives him her biggest smile. Slate grins and says, “I might know it! My little wife gets a freebie and I have to pay. But I’m going to pay for my friend Craddock, here, too.”

Angel orders the chicken, and Slate and I go for the brisket and rib combo. All the plates come with big globs of potato salad. At the end of the line there’s a vat of beans and tubs of jalapenos, raw onions, pickles, and three different kinds of barbecue sauce labeled “sweet,” “spicy,” and “too damn hot to be good for you.”

We grab seats at one of the picnic tables set up behind the building. The early morning nip is gone, and the sun is warm and friendly. We have to put up with a couple more people who come over and tell Angel how much they love her music. One man, dressed all in black from boots to hat, hands Angel a card. “I do a little music producing. Why don’t you call me if you’re interested in a comeback tour.”

Slate gets up abruptly. His smile is strained. “Thank you, but Angel isn’t interested.”

The man tips his finger to his hat. “No offense intended. Sorry, ma’am.”

“Not a problem,” Slate says. He sits back down, seeming oblivious to the effect the exchange has had on Angel. Her face has gone ashen and she’s staring at her plate as if she mistakenly picked up a plate of rattlesnakes. When the man is out of earshot she says, “There was no need for you to be rude.”

“Honey, I wasn’t the one being rude. If somebody wants to make you an offer, they need to go through channels.”

“What channels?” she says, eyes still on her plate.

“Let’s don’t get into it in front of Samuel. That’s for us to work out privately.” He turns to me with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Tell me how the investigation is going. Have you figured out who killed that banker yet?”

That banker. As if he didn’t know Gary Dellmore’s name. We were all at the same meeting and you’d think McClusky had never met him. “Matter of fact, the reason I’m here is that I’m talking with everybody who was at the meeting the night Dellmore was killed. I went by your place this morning and someone told me they thought you’d come out here to your resort. I figured coming out this way to find you would be a clever way to get myself some decent barbecue, too.”

“I don’t understand why you didn’t just call. Surely you could find my cell number.”

“I did try. There wasn’t any answer.”

He snaps his fingers. “That’s right. We sometimes have problems with cell coverage out at the resort.”

I pick up one of the barbecue ribs and start gnawing on it. Angel is dabbling in her potato salad, leaving the chicken untouched.

Suddenly, the music changes and “I Just Called to Say Remember When,” Angel’s last big hit, comes blaring out of the big speakers on the roof.