Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (16 page)

On the drive out to visit Frances Holderman, I couldn’t help
but think about Stewart. From what he said, it appeared he was
doing just fine. Still, a niggling little worry nagged at me. I
decided to see what I could find out about Austin Expediters.
Maybe that would make me feel better.

I whistled when I pulled through the brick gates at the
entrance to Brentwood Hills, an upscale community spreading
over the rolling hills looking out over Lake Travis west of
Austin. Sprawling one and two-story structures were surrounded by manicured lawns accented by trimmed greenery that
edged the broad brick drives.

I knew public school superintendents made good money, but
not this good. He must have been moonlighting or playing the
Louisiana slots for there was no way a $125,000 income could
purchase anything out here except maybe a garden hothouse,
and then on a ten-year mortgage.

I thought back over my notes concerning Frances
Holderman, maiden name Laurent. Motive, a betrayed woman
with eight million bucks at stake. According to neighbors, more
than once she had threatened her husband for his philandering. The details of their marital battles were no secret. And, like
icing on a cake, she had solicited a hit man for her husband.

To my surprise, Frances Holderman answered the door. She
wore a sheer negligee, gossamer white. Her eyes were bright,
her face flushed, her voice a little too loud. Even my meager
powers of deduction had no trouble surmising she was drunk
even if she hadn’t answered the door with a cocktail in her
hand.

“Ah. Mr…:’-she snapped her fingers-“oh, yes, Mr.
Boudreaux.” She arched an eyebrow.

I hesitated, reluctant to proceed since she was obviously inebriated. “I know it’s late, Mrs. Holderman. I can come back if
this is a bad time.”

She laughed. “Oh, no. No time is a bad time, Mr.
Boudreaux.” She hesitated, knit her brows in puzzlement. “Or
maybe I should say no time is a good time.” With an indifferent shrug, she stepped back and opened the door wide. “Oh,
well. No matter. Please, come in. Join me in the study.” Without
waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and moved unsteadily across the foyer, leaving me standing.

I shrugged. Carpe diem!

Sometimes, you seize the moment. I seized it, closed the
door and followed her, noting the slight stagger in her walk.

The study was straight out of a Hollywood movie set, lush
carpet, bookcases inset in the walnut-paneled walls, highly polished tables about the room, leather chairs and couches, and a
brightly burning fire in the hearth. She flicked a limp hand
toward a credenza against one wall. “Fix yourself a drink.” She
plopped down on one end of the couch and drew her legs up
under her. “Ice in the bucket.”

I poured a glass of water and dropped a couple of cubes of
ice in it. “Nice place,” I said, sitting in a chair opposite her and
nodding to the study.

She smiled sadly. “Lonesome without George here.” She gave a long sigh followed by a bitter laugh. “It was lonesome
with George here” Leaning her head back on the couch, she
stared at the ceiling. “I thought it would get easier with time,
but it hasn’t.”

One thing I had to say for her, she sounded sincere, but that
didn’t fit with what Carrie Cochran had told me. “If you don’t
mind, Mrs. Holderman. I’ve got a couple of questions that I
need answers for”

She looked me straight in the eye. “That’s why I’m paying
your company, Mr. Boudreaux. I expect results.”

“Results, huh?”

“Yes.”

I hit her squarely between the eyes with my next question.
“Is that why you tried to find a hit man for your husband?”

A heavy silence filled the study. The cocktail glass fell from
her suddenly lifeless fingers. It bounced on the carpet and
spilled onto the shag. She didn’t move. For a moment, I thought
my question might have brought on a coronary or precipitated
a stroke. Then she blinked her eyes.

I continued. “I heard you started looking when you learned
that your husband was having an affair with Kim Nally.”

She caught her breath. Her eyes flashed fire. “I … I resent
the implication. Who … where did you hear that?”

I sipped my water and leaned back in the chair, crossing one
leg over the other. I replied in a soft, unthreatening tone.
“Look, Mrs. Holderman. I know your background, the dancing
at Dreamstreet, the customers, the problems. I know about your
husband’s affairs. Now none of this confirms you as your husband’s killer. To be honest, I don’t think you are, but until I can
find some answers and clear up some questions, you’re still a
primary suspect. As far as I know, you could have hired someone to hide in the closet in Jacobs’ room. Waiting until your
husband came in.”

The fire faded from her eyes. “But … I hired you to find the
killer. Why would I do that if I was responsible?”

I laughed. She frowned at the skepticism in my laughter.
“Could be you thought it a clever move for that very reason.
You could have figured the cops wouldn’t suspect you if you
hired someone to find the killer.” I took another drink. “The
oldest trick in the world. Misdirection.” I paused to let the
words sink in. “So, tell me about your little plot.”

Indecision scribbled a frown across her face. Should she
deny, deny, deny, or tell the truth? She forced a weak smile. “I
could use another drink.”

“No problem.” I rose and crossed the room to the credenza.
I reached for the ice.

“Just straight.”

I grinned to myself and poured her a tumbler of Jim Beam
Black Label. One thing about her, she bought good bourbon.

“Here you go ” I handed her the glass and sat back down in
my chair.

She downed half the tumbler, shivered, then stared at me
defiantly. “I knew George could never be faithful. He cheated
on his second wife with me, so why should I expect him to be
true to me?”

She paused, took another drink, and continued. “He was
okay for the first couple years, then that Seebell woman, that
shrewish little secretary came along, and next that PE teacher.
At first, I was stunned, then I got mad.”

“That’s when you started looking for someone, huh?”

“Yes.” She paused, studying me as if she were trying to read
my mind. “Who told you, Carrie Cochran?”

“Carrie who?”

A faint sneer twisted one side of her lips. “Yeah. It had to be
Carrie. She was the only one I went to. Offered her two thousand
to find someone. I told her I’d pay five for the job, but she didn’t
find anyone. By then, I’d cooled off and changed my mind.”
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her hand and made a sweeping
gesture to the study. “After all,” she said with heavy sarcasm,
“where is someone like me going to find another place like this?”

I arched an eyebrow. That question, I couldn’t argue.

She laughed, but I could hear the edge of bitterness in it.

I changed the direction of the interview. “You do have a nice
place here.”

“Thanks.” She sipped her bourbon.

“Did George have some other income?”

She frowned.

I explained. “It’s hard to figure this kind of place on a superintendent’s salary.” I looked around the richly appointed study.
“Place like this, I’d figure a couple of million.”

She remained silent a moment, then shrugged. “I can’t really
say. George handles … I mean, handled all the bills and legal
stuff. Our attorney does it now. George said it was paid for. He
showed me the title before he put it in the safety deposit box.”

I arched my eyebrows. “Well, it is a fine place, Mrs.
Holderman. A fine place.”

“Thank you.”

In the next breath, I changed the subject. “Nally told me she
came to you for the abortion.”

Whatever reaction I had expected from her, I didn’t get.
Holderman closed her eyes and shook her head dreamily. “Can
you believe it? She sent George to me for a name … you know,
a doctor who can keep his mouth shut.”

“So you gave her Hodges’ name, Dr. Evan J. Hodges?”

A wry smile curled her lips. She leaned forward, propping
her elbow on the arm of the couch. “You know something
funny. I liked her guts. Still do. Hey, what did she do that I
haven’t done, or a million women like us? Yeah, I sent her to
Hodges. A bunch of us had used him. He was reasonable, and
he kept his mouth shut. I’d known …”

I nodded slowly. She began to ramble now as the whiskey
dulled her thinking. As far as I was concerned, her admission
had eliminated Kim Nally from suspicion. The PE teacher had
told the truth. While she had the opportunity, I could see no
motive, no reason for her to murder George Holderman.

“What about Harper Weems? Your husband ever mention
him? Business dealings, school affairs, anything of that sort?”

She mulled my question a moment. “No. I know Mr. Weems.
The cripple, right?”

I nodded. She continued. “But, to be honest, I never heard
George mention his name. Not once.”

Disappointed, I folded my notepad back into my pocket, finished off my drink, and rose. “Thanks, Mrs. Holderman.”

She tried to rise, but her legs refused to support her. With a
silly grin, she leaned back on the couch. “You can show yourself out, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

I reached my apartment just after nine. Calling my insurance
agent, I made an appointment to have my truck windows
replaced the next day. Then I called Fred Seebell, arranging an
interview for nine o’clock the next morning at his business, the
Congress Avenue Pharmacy.

To be honest, I figured I was wasting my time. Both the list
compiled by the hall monitors and the video shot by Chase
Sherman, the band director, exonerated Seebell, but until I
interviewed him, my investigation was not complete. I grumbled. “The only way he could have reached Holderman was to
have made himself invisible or grown wings.”

Next, taking care to block my call with a *67, I rang the
Ranchman’s Motel in Amarillo, uncertain as to how I could pry
information about Vanderweg aka Villafono from the staff of
the motel. The night clerk, whom I guessed to be an older man
by the palsy in his voice, answered. Putting on my best detective voice, I took the part of a lieutenant for the Houston Police
Department. “We’re trying to run down the whereabouts of
Nelson Villafono. He stayed with you a few weeks back.”

“Sorry. The name doesn’t ring a bell,” the old man replied, his tone indifferent. I had the feeling I’d interrupted his favorite
TV program.

“I’d appreciate if you’d check your records, sir. You see, we
suspect him of being part of a scam that has hit several cities in
the state by taking advantage of our elderly citizens. Promises
of new roofs or patching driveways. This guy gets the money
up front for materials, then vanishes. You’d be doing us a big
favor if you can come up with some information about him.” I
crossed my fingers, hoping I’d guessed right about the clerk.

His reaction was more than I hoped. “Why, that dirty …
there was a bunch of them what come through here a few years
back, but I didn’t fall for it “

I couldn’t resist grinning. He probably leaped at their offer
like a ten-pound bass at a June bug and got himself hooked
tight. “Can you see if he was there?”

“You bet. Hold on.”

He left me listening to Willie Nelson music. When he came
back, he had what I’d been hoping for. “Yeah. He was here the
first week in October. I remember him because he checked in
driving a beat-up Olds and left in a black Mercedes. I wondered
where he got the money. Now I know.”

“What home address did he give when he registered?”

“Huh?”

“Home address. When he registered. What home address did
he give?”

“Oh, okay. Let’s see. “Phoenix. Explorer Apartments on
Silverado Street, 67203 Silverado.”

“How long did he stay with you?”

“I don’t know. Let’s see.” I heard him counting under his
breath. “About five weeks or so “

I thanked the old man and hung up. Five weeks. He must have
remained around for some time after buying the Mercedes. Why?

It was almost ten, but if I remembered my time zones right,
it was nine in Phoenix. I called Explorer Apartments.

The apartment manager hesitated when I asked about Nelson Villafono. “You got the wrong name. I don’t know no
Villafono, but I sure know Nelson Vanderweg.”

Bingo. “Maybe it is Vanderweg,” I replied.

He almost yelled. “You know where that guy is? He left here
owing a month’s rent plus damages to his place. He even threatened me with a lamp. You a friend of his?”

I gave him the same story I gave the night clerk. “Now, one
question, Mr…. I’m sorry, what was your name?”

He replied without hesitation. “Carey. Wylie Carey.”

“Well, Mr. Carey. Didn’t you do some kind of background
check on him before leasing the apartment?”

“Yeah. We don’t let trash in our place here. He didn’t have
any criminal record in Arizona. I’ve got the report in my file.”