Unraveled (26 page)

All thoughts of fringe forgotten, Kelly followed Jennifer, who had already settled into a chair at the table and taken out her knitting and a portfolio from her bag. Kelly pulled out a chair beside her and noticed Jennifer’s coral top was finished. She was binding off the edges.

“Was Deputy Don right? Was it one family who owned the place all those years?”

Jennifer handed Kelly a computer printout. “Indeed, he was. Here’s the legal record of everyone who’s owned the property or anyone who’s ever had a claim against it.”

“You mean like a lien holder or a creditor?”

“Exactly.” Jennifer pointed to the top of the page. “See, there’s Fred Turner’s company. Turner Properties Inc. They’re the recorded owners of the property now. But look beneath. A woman named Claire McAllister was the previous owner. And before her, it was Benjamin McAllister, then Catherine McAllister, and on down. They all have the same last name, so they have to be from the same family. I can’t tell you, Kelly, how rare that is. Most properties have pages of owners. Some only a few. But it’s hard to find land that hasn’t changed hands several times to several different owners.”

Kelly leaned forward and perused the small-print legalese. “Claire McAllister, San Antonio, Texas. Did you ever hear Turner speak of her or her family?”

“Never. Turner was all about selling the property. He specialized in quick turnarounds. He got this property on a defaulted loan, so he got it below market price like he usually did. That way he could maximize his profits when he turned around and sold it.”

“I wonder if he cheated them out of it,” Kelly said soberly.

“Well, that’s certainly a possibility, given his track record. Here, you can keep it.” Jennifer handed her the printout, then picked up her knitted top where she left off. “I can tell you’re sleuthing, Kelly. What’re you looking for?”

Kelly folded the paper and shoved it into her open briefcase on the table. “I don’t know, exactly. I was curious. Jayleen asked me to start poking around into Turner’s death. She’s still convinced her friend Renee is innocent.” Kelly took a sip from her mug of rapidly cooling coffee. “But I have to admit, poor Renee keeps looking guiltier and guiltier.”

“But you’re still poking around. I know you, Kelly. You don’t take time to sleuth around unless you’ve found something. So, Sherlock, what clues have you found?”

Kelly had to smile. Jennifer could read her too well. It was hard to hide anything from her. “I haven’t found anything substantial, really. All I have are suspicions.”

“Like?”

“Well, like the British guy, Birmingham, for instance. I wonder why he was so hot to see the property but then never showed up.” Kelly paused dramatically. “Or, did he? What if he did show up before Renee Turner came?”

Jennifer glanced up over her knitting, her fingers still moving in the familiar rhythmic motions. “Even if that’s true, there’s no way to prove it, Kelly. Burt has told me they found absolutely no connection to Birmingham. No trace on the phone, either.”

“And that’s another thing. Why did he use one of those disposable phones rather than his own cell phone? I mean, practically everybody has a cell phone now. That’s suspicious, right there.”

“Spoken like a true-blue techie. First, not everyone has a cell phone. Or, maybe he’s visiting this country. Lots of travelers purposely leave their cell phones at home because of expensive roaming fees. They buy disposable phones instead when they visit another country.”

“I know you’re right, but that Birmingham guy keeps nagging me. Something about him doesn’t fit. I’m beginning to wonder if he was connected to the property somehow, especially since it’s been held in one family so long.”

“True, but he’s still a blind alley, Kelly. What about that gun? Didn’t you go to the gun show to find another one like it or something?”

“I went to ask the dealers if they had a pistol like that and maybe records of who they sold it to. Unfortunately, none of the dealers at the show had anything available that looked like that pistol we saw. But they all agree with Curt that it’s probably a World War Two weapon and in the hands of a private collector.”

Jennifer gave her a sympathetic look. “Another blind alley. Clues aren’t panning out, are they?”

“Not yet.” Kelly drained her mug. “But I’m waiting to hear from another dealer I found. Maybe he remembers someone.”

“You know, Kelly, I hate to point this out, but I know you’ve already thought about it. Even if some dealer does give you a name of someone who bought a similar pistol, it doesn’t really mean a thing. You know that.”

Kelly closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. “I know, I know, I know,” she chanted disconsolately. “I’ve really got nothing substantial. But I’ve still got this feeling the gun is important somehow. That’s why I keep beating the bushes, like Jayleen said. Hoping something useful will fly out.”

Jennifer glanced at her watch and shoved her knitted top back into her bag. “Well, if anything flies out, grab one of those knitted shawls and catch it before it gets away. Meanwhile, I’ve gotta get back to the café. Break’s over.”

Kelly pushed back her chair. “I’ll be over in a few minutes. Let me buy the yarn for the fringe. I’ve got to get back to work, too. Housemann’s accounts are calling through the fiber distraction.”

Kelly
picked up a forgotten morsel of her cheeseburger on the lunch plate. Too good. Way too good. She wiped her fingers on a napkin and returned to the income statements spread out on the café table. This table was larger and located along the other café wall, looking out onto the garden and pond, shrubbery, and the tall cottonwood trees that would spread their shade over most of the patio garden by May.

“Fill-up, Kelly?” Julie asked, coffeepot in hand.

“Always, Julie. Thanks.” She held out her mug. “Tell Eduardo those cheeseburgers are deadly. It’s a good thing I don’t eat lunch over here all the time. They’re addictive.”

“I’ll tell him,” Julie said as she continued to the next table of lingering lunch customers.

Kelly sipped her coffee and checked the columns of figures on the property she was analyzing. Running her eye down a column, she heard her cell phone’s music. A 1980s rock classic. She checked the screen and saw “Unknown” listed.

“Kelly Flynn here,” she said, then took a sip of coffee.

“Miz Flynn, this here is Joe Faber from Texas. How’re you doing? I hope I didn’t get you at a bad time.”

“Not at all, Joe. I’m glad to hear from you. Don’t tell me you went through your files that soon?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did. We had one of those early spring thunderstorms that soaked us all yesterday afternoon. So I went into the garage and pulled out my files. I’ve been needin’ to do it for quite a while. And I found the person who has a pistol like the one you’re looking for.”

Kelly perked up. She was expecting the dealer to tell her he hadn’t found anything that matched. “Really? Why . . . that’s great, Joe! Is it a World War Two pistol like my uncle’s?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s a German Mauser and looks exactly like the one in your photo. Let’s see, I made some notes on a card,” he paused. “An elderly woman brought one in about ten years ago. She wanted a valuation on the pistol, but she didn’t want to sell it. She said her husband had brought it home from Germany after the war. He hid it in his army duffel bag, she said.” Joe chuckled. “I recall her now. Nicelookin’ older lady. I tried real hard to buy it off of her, but she wouldn’t sell it. I understand. Sentimental value and all.”

That was ten years ago, Kelly thought. Maybe the woman sold it to someone else during these years. “Did you get the woman’s name by chance?”

“Sure did. Her name’s Claire McAllister. And she lives in Dallas.”

Kelly held still for several seconds, the phone pressed to her ear. Meanwhile, her pulse speeded up. “Did you say ‘Dallas’?”

“Yes, ma’am. Don’t have a phone number, but I’ve got the address here, if you’d like it.”

“Yes, yes, I would, Joe.” Kelly grabbed her pen.

“That’s Claire McAllister at 3340 Galveston Lane, Dallas, Texas. Sorry, but I don’t have a zip for ya.”

“That’s okay, Joe,” Kelly said, scribbling the address on the back of one of the Housemann properties’ income statements. “You’re great to do that search for me. I really appreciate it.”

“Sure thing, Miz Flynn. And don’t forget, if that McAllister lady doesn’t want to sell you her pistol, you call me back, and I’ll see where else we can find you a German Mauser, okay?”

“Thank you so much, Joe, you’ve really helped me out. Thank you again. I’m going to find this woman’s phone number and give her a call.”

“How you gonna do that without the number?”

“I’ll search some phonebook websites online. If she doesn’t have an unlisted number, I’ll be able to find it somehow.” Kelly said, already anxious to start searching. “Thank you, again, Joe, and I wish you a lot of success in your business.”

“Well, thank you kindly, Miz Flynn. We can always use more of that success. Bye-bye now.”

Kelly moved the cursor on her laptop to minimize the accounting spreadsheets that filled her screen. Instead, she immediately got onto the Internet and found her favorite search engine. She had to find out if the Claire McAllister who had owned the Poudre Canyon property was the same Claire McAllister who owned the pistol that killed Fred Turner. There had to be a connection. It was simply too much of a coincidence. Turner foreclosed on their family property, and he wound up shot by a pistol like the Mauser Claire McAllister owned.

Maybe the woman moved from San Antonio to Dallas, Kelly thought as she input
Claire McAllister, Dallas, TX
into the search screen and clicked. Nothing. Several McAllisters showed up on the screen, but none of them were the right one. No Claire McAllister.

Next, Kelly went to a phonebook search site and chose Dallas, Texas, as her search area. Once again, she input Claire McAllister and let it search. Once again, a list of McAllisters appeared on the screen, but none of them were Claire. Next, she input the street address Joe Faber had given her. After a few seconds, names came up. None of them were McAllister.

Darn it!
Kelly sipped her coffee and stared out into the afternoon sunshine bathing the garden, melting all of yesterday’s short snow. There had to be a connection. San Antonio Claire had to be the Dallas Claire. She
had
to be. Deputy Don described the woman who owned the canyon property as “older.” And about that same time, Joe Farber described the woman who showed up with the old war pistol as an elderly woman. The same name, the same state, and the same age. That had to be too much of a coincidence.

It was ten years ago when Claire McAllister went to see Joe Faber. Ten years was a long time. She could have lived at the address then moved. Kelly clicked on several sites that might yield information, but to no avail. No links to McAllisters of Dallas or San Antonio or anywhere else in Texas appeared. Did she move out of state? If Claire still lived in Texas, she obviously had an unlisted phone number.

Drat!
Another dead end. Frustrated, Kelly stared at the search engine screen. She
knew
those two Claire McAllisters were the same person. She could feel it. But how would she find her? Kelly stared at the address, 3340 Galveston Lane, Dallas, Texas, and suddenly got an idea.

She scanned her smartphone’s directory and clicked Jennifer’s number. After two rings, Jennifer picked up.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Are you at your office?”

“Yeah, I’m on floor duty. Taking care of any potential clients who walk in the door. Problem is, there’s not a soul in sight. No one comes in during the week. Do you know any funny stories you could entertain me with, so I won’t fall asleep?”

“No, but I’ve got a real estate search that you could help me with. That oughta keep you awake.”

“Don’t tell me you’re interested in mountain property again?”

“Nope. Not for me. I’ve been searching all the phonebook and search sites I can find online, but no luck. I’m trying to track down Claire McAllister.”

A pause before answering. “Why, Kelly? Do you seriously think she has some connection to Fred Turner’s death? Come on! She’s supposed to be an old woman.”

“Yeah, I know, but I just heard from that dealer, Joe Faber, in San Antonio, Texas. And he says a woman came to him ten years ago and showed him a pistol like the one we saw in Fred Turner’s hand. And that woman’s name was Claire McAllister.” This time, Kelly paused.

“Whoa . . . you’re kidding.”

“Nope. He said she didn’t want to sell it because her husband had brought it back from the war.”

“Kelly . . . you can’t be serious. Do you really think an elderly woman flew here from Texas to kill Fred Turner with her husband’s old war pistol? Are you
crazy
?”

“I don’t know what I think, Jen. But I recognize a toogood-to-be-believed coincidence when I see it. This woman knows something. I can feel it. I just want to talk with her, but I need your help to find her phone number. I’ve checked online phonebooks, search engines, whatever, but I can’t find Claire McAllister together with that address, let alone a phone number.”

“Okay, okay,” Jennifer relented. “Let me check the real estate property records in Dallas. What’s the address?”

Kelly rattled off the address Joe gave her. “I figured you’d know how to access some real estate websites I couldn’t.”

She sat and sipped her coffee, watching the wet leaves sparkle in the glint of sunbeams outside. Meanwhile, the sound of Jennifer’s keyboard clicked in the background.

“Okay, I’m into the Dallas, Texas, property records, so let’s see who’s living at 3340 Galveston Lane, shall we?”

Kelly felt her pulse speed up as she listened to Jennifer’s keystrokes over the phone. She waited a full minute, then she had to ask. “What’d you find?”

“Well, I found the owners of the property at 3340 Galveston Lane, but their name is Turnbull. William and Patricia Turnbull. No McAllisters listed.”

Kelly’s momentary excitement of the chase evaporated. Nothing. No fox at the end of the hunt. Not even a field mouse. She remembered the Turnbull name from one of the searches, but there was no phone number. “Check to see if Claire McAllister was a former owner.”