Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (26 page)

Trying to be nonchalant, I said, “So, how did you feel when
Nelson handed you a check for your investment? How much
altogether? Forty thousand?”

“Oh. He started to write me a check, but then he suggested I
invest it in this next deal of his. There are plenty of investors,
and I was lucky to get in on it. “

I winced, desperately trying to figure out how to get her
money back before it was too late. And from the way she
talked, too late might already be here. “You mean, you invested the whole forty thousand?”

“Yes, and I gave him sixty more. That’s an even one hundred thousand. Can’t you just imagine how much I’m going to make
on that? Aunt Beatrice will be thrilled.”

I would have collapsed if I hadn’t already been sitting. All I
could do was roll my eyes. Her Aunt Beatrice, CEO of Chalk
Hills Distillery would be anything but thrilled. “You … you’ve
already given him the check?”

“Oh, yes. He’s already deposited it.”

That sorry … I tried to sound upbeat. “Well, I wish you all
the luck in the world. So, when does Nelson plan on making the
investment?”

Bubbling with excitement, she replied, “I don’t know. I heard
him talking to someone, and he mentioned tomorrow at two
o’clock.”

I did some fast thinking. Sixty thousand. Even if he deposited the check this afternoon, the bank won’t dare permit any
fund withdrawal until a check that size cleared. That gave me a
few more hours to figure out what to do. “Well, I’ll keep my
fingers crossed for you.”

“That’s sweet of you, Tony. Now, you’re sure I can’t loan you
some money?”

“Yeah. I’m sure, but thanks. I appreciate the offer.”

I hung up and sat staring at the receiver for several minutes,
searching for an answer to the predicament. Sometimes a person struggles and battles for an idea that never comes. Other
times, the notion just pops out of the clear. That’s what happened to me. I knew exactly how I was going to take care of
Nelson Vanderweg. And at his own game.

Reaching for the telephone, I called Wylie Carey at the
Explorer Apartments in Phoenix, curious if he had filed charges.

Carey answered. I identified myself. “Just wanted to find out
if you decided to go ahead and file charges against Vanderweg.”

He didn’t answer for a few seconds. When he did, his voice
was tentative. “Yeah. Yeah. This afternoon. In fact, I just got
back a few minutes ago.”

“Great. Any problems?”

“No. Of course, I was kinda nervous. It’s the first time I’d
ever done anything like that. With the police, I mean. They
weren’t sure if they wanted to accept the charges, but they did.
Aggravated assault.”

“Good. I … ” I hesitated. “Did you say aggravated assault? I
thought you were just filing assault charges? Where did the
aggravated come from?”

He hemmed and hawed a few seconds. I could hear the reticence in his voice when he finally replied. “Well, look. It’s
kinda a long story.”

“Fine. Tell me. After all, we’re working together on this. I’d
like to know if there’s anything that could affect what we’re
doing.”

A trace of bravado edged his voice. “Well, I didn’t tell you
the whole story when we first talked, but when I went to collect
for the damages and back rent, he grabbed a lamp and took a
swing at me. It just hit me a glancing blow, but it scared me
enough that I ran from the apartment. When I went back, he
had split.” With a tone of I-dare-you-to-disagree, he added,
“And that’s what I told the cops. They accepted the charges.
Like you said, it’s up to you now.”

You listen to liars long enough, you acquire the knack to spot
them immediately. Wylie Carey was a liar. I’m a terrible gambler, but I would have given 100-1 odds he had fabricated the
aggravated part of his story. I played along with him. All he had
told me was that Vanderweg threatened him with the lamp.
Nothing more. No swinging or anything.

He was lying, but I didn’t care as long as I nailed Vanderweg.
“I guess I misunderstood. No matter. I’ll take care of things here.”

“Good. So, now what do I do?”

With a rueful grin, I said, “Just wait, Mr. Carey. Within a
couple days, you’ll have your money or your pound of flesh.”

He was in for more than he suspected. Van Meyer aka
Vanderweg would deny the act, and both men would be questioned. And one thing I found out, cops don’t like being lied to.

I replaced the receiver and stared at it, rethinking my next
step.

Dinner that night with Stewart took me back to the days
when his daddy and I ran around together. He rattled on at the
proverbial mile-a-minute telling me about his job and the
future.

I was thrilled for him, and the first thing I did when I got
back to my place that night was call his dad. In the background,
I heard Stewart’s mother, Sally, squeal in delight.

“Looks like things are going our way, huh, Tony?” Leroi
said.

“You bet, bro. You bet “

Just as I pulled into the parking lot outside our office the next
morning, my cell phone rang. It was Danny O’Banion. More
bad news. “Sorry, Tony. There ain’t a soul on the streets seen
anybody in a wheelchair peddling.”

I muttered a curse. “They sure, Danny? Austin is a mighty
big place.”

He chuckled. “Tony, there’s half-a-dozen peddlers working
around Lupe’s. They got their own little fraternity, like you college boys say. And no cripple in a wheelchair was part of it.
Now, they’ve seen him out there, but he was with the kids.
Sorry, old buddy. I know that isn’t what you wanted to hear, but
that’s the scoop.”

I stared across the parking lot, trying to reassess the case.
Weems had been my last shot. With nothing to tie him and
Holderman together, I knew no help would come from the
Safford PD.

Holding the neck of my jacket tightly around my throat
against the chilling wind, I hurried into the building. There was
still Weems’ brother. I held doggedly to the belief I had interpreted the evidence correctly. And if I had, then my theory was
sound.

I placed another call to the Travis County Hospital.

Carrie Cochran had died at 3:32 that morning. So much for
the name she was going to supply me.

I gave Howard Birnam a ring, but he was out. His secretary
told me that Weems’ body had been taken by Olsen Funeral
Home.

Another call gave me the time set aside for viewing of the
body. “Today and tomorrow. Eleven until five.”

Then I got a surprise when I asked about the funeral.

“The family requested the body will be transported to
Denver, Colorado for final interment,” responded the polite
secretary.

I never could understand the term, final interment. Wasn’t
interment final in itself? I’ve attended fifty or sixty funerals
although I understand the older one becomes, the number of
funerals attended increases exponentially. But of the fifty or so
I had attended, not one host was later exhumed and moved.

One fact was certain. I was going to the funeral home. I had
to meet Weems’ brother.

Olsen Funeral Home was a sprawling white-brick, single
story with a porch spanning the front supported by Doric
columns. Twenty to thirty vehicles were parked in the adjacent lot.

Inside, three doors opened off a spacious lobby, each to a
chapel. A bronze stand next to one door held a printed card,
Harper Jerome Weems.

I hesitated when I entered the chapel. The walls were covered with photographs Weems had taken. Students filled the
seats, lined the walls, clustered in small, serious groups. Many
studied his photographs, somberly pointing out individuals
within the prints.

The open casket rested on a maple bier at the front of the
room. From there, it would be transported to the waiting hearse. At the head of the casket stood the spitting image of
Harper Weems; his brother, Arthur. The only difference was
that he wore his hair close-cropped. The viewing line stretched
to two-thirds of the length of the room. I took my place at the
end of the line.

Looking over the roomful of saddened students, I couldn’t
help being impressed by their obvious sorrow and grief. Girls
sobbed aloud when they viewed the body. Silent, macho boys
wiped furtively at the tears on their cheeks.

In a flash of awareness, I knew Harper Weems was no dealer. Even in a world of skewed and misplaced loyalties, no drug
dealer could command the amount of emotion so obvious
around me.

Still, I wanted to meet Arthur Weems.

Across the room, Principal Birnam and I made eye contact.
Attired in a neat, dark blue suit, he smiled briefly and made his
way through the crowd to me.

“How are you?” He extended his hand.

He really wanted to know what I was doing there, but like
most of us, good manners forbade his asking. So, I answered
the question for him. “Pay my respects. Weems must have been
a good teacher. Besides, I wanted to meet his brother.”

Birnam stood with his hands folded in front of him. “He’s a
fine man. I’ll introduce you.”

“Thanks.”

We both fell silent. Somehow, discussing a murder at such a
time seemed inappropriate.

Birnam broached the subject. “How’s the investigation going?”

I eyed Arthur Weems and shook my head. “Not so good.”

He grimaced. “Sorry.”

The line shuffled forward slowly.

The funeral home did a good job on Harp Weems. He was
one of the few corpses I had seen who indeed looked as if he
were sleeping. At first glance, his long blond hair looked like a
halo about his head.

Birnam introduced me to Arthur Weems. He smiled grimly
and extended his hand. I couldn’t help noticing the gold watch
on his right wrist.

I expressed my condolences. At that moment, luck, which generally treated me like a mongrel dog, decided to throw me a bone.

“Thanks.” He rolled his shoulders and grimaced. Looking
around, he whispered to Birnam, “I could sure use a smoke.”

Trying not to appear hasty, I pointed to the rear door. “Out
back.”

He hesitated, looking over the crowd.

“They’ll be here when you get back. Trust me”

He grinned at the wry smile on my face. “I know.” Turning
for the door, he added, “Bad habit to have, cigarettes,” he said,
leading the way.

Birnam and I followed.

Outside, we made idle chitchat, the focus of which was Harp
Weems. Arthur laughed. “Yeah, that brother of mine was
always getting himself hurt. It got so I hated to leave the country. Seems like every time I came back, he was in some hospital somewhere.”

I tried to be casual with my questions. “You travel much?”

He shook his head in despair. “All the time. I just got back
from Saudi Arabia six months ago.”

Six months? I had the feeling the few fragile remnants
Danny O’Banion had left me of my Weems theory were about
to be completely shattered.

Birnam asked the question I had planned to ask. “What were
you doing over there? Harp never said.”

“Oil. I’m an engineer. Exxon. My company sent me over for
eighteen months.” He took a deep drag and blew the smoke into
the air. “I tell you true, friends. Even in the American compounds, Saudi Arabia ain’t like home.”

“Eighteen months?” I felt the breath go out of me. That
meant he was out of the country in November 2004 when
Holderman was murdered, which in turn meant my neat little theory about Harp using his brother to kill the superintendent
had fallen flat on its face.

“Yeah.” He grimaced. “And next month, they’re sending me
to Albania.”

Birnam cocked his head. “Oh?”

“Afraid so.”

I shut out their conversation. Oh, I’d check on Weems’ claim
that he was in Saudi Arabia, but I knew deep down that he was
telling the truth. I cursed under my breath. I’d come a full circle again. Back at the beginning without a glimmer of who
murdered George Holderman.

Next thing I knew, Birnam was shaking my shoulder. “You
okay?”

Both men were looking at me with concern. “Huh? Oh, yeah.
Yeah. I’m fine.”

Weems flipped the cigarette through the air. “Well, time to
return to the wars.” He laughed. “By the way, you’re more than
welcome to the memorial service day after tomorrow at
Harper’s condo. Seven o’clock. Casual, punch and snacks. Tell
a few lies about my brother.” He grinned, but pain filled his
eyes. “He’d tell ‘em if he were here.”

We left Arthur at the casket, shaking hands, accepting condolences. Howard gestured to some of Harp’s glossies on the
walls. “He had a knack with a camera.”

Idly, I glanced at the photos, all in black and white. I’ll give
him this, he was eclectic. His prints ranged from sports to theater to academia.

I tried to visualize him in his wheelchair and the contortions
he must have gone through to shoot from some of the different angles. There were some overhead pictures of various theatrical plays, ground angles of classrooms, and a mixture of
various slants and perspectives of the school, the bank, the
community.