Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats (22 page)

I noticed a door on the wall adjoining the shed. I’ve said it before, I’m naturally nosy. For some reason, I couldn’t get those jerricans off my mind, especially the one on the workbench.

Glancing through the doorway into the living room, I saw no one coming. I reached for the doorknob, hesitated, and then quickly opened it.

A single light burned over the workbench, which was empty. Several red jerricans sat in front of the bench, barely visible in the shadows cast by the small bulb. A white laundry bag hung from a hook on the side of the workbench. A piece of gray duct tape draped over one side of the mouth of the bag. I scanned the shadowy room. Four more jerricans lined the wall next to the doorway in which I stood. One of the metal cans lay on its side. A pair of leather gloves lay on top of another container.

I glanced around the shed, which held a varied collection of tools, from sharpshooters and hoes to lawn mowers to a small John Deere tractor.

The shed, like the cottage, was neat and well organized, much, much neater and much, much more organized than my garage/shop back on Payton-Gin Road, where, if you stick your hand in the mess, there’s no telling what you might pull up.

I assumed the jerricans were all empty. I reached down for the overturned can, planning to set it upright. When I spotted the bottom of the jerrican, I hesitated, then lifted it into the light for a better look. All the metal gas cans I’d ever seen had a small metal rim about half an inch wide around the perimeter of the can to keep the bottom from resting directly on the moist ground to avoid rust.

This jerrican had a rim almost two inches wide. I’d never seen a can like this. Moving the pair of leather gloves, I picked up another can, a plastic one. There was no rim, but the next can, a metal one also had a two-inch rim.

All the metal cans were the same, and all were empty.

For several moments, I stood staring at the cans. How could they be empty? I’d seen the Jefferson-Jones Fuel Service deliver six full cans on Friday. This was Sunday. I stared at the John Deere. Surely, it didn’t use that much gas.

And then, it hit me that he kept the full cans elsewhere, not in the shed adjoining his own cottage. A smile of relief played over my lips. Still, I couldn’t help wondering about the base of the cans. Why so deep? Two inches?

Unless, I reminded myself, that was one of those bizarre Texas laws, such as that against shooting a buffalo from a second-story window, or in Austin, the ordinance making it illegal to carry wire cutters in your pocket. So, to my way of thinking, two-inch-wide rims at the bottom of a fuel container made just about as much sense.

I stopped off in the garage on the way back to the mansion, planning to start my pickup where it had been parked since Wednesday. Today was Sunday. I climbed behind the wheel and cranked it up, turning on the air-conditioning to push out the five days’ worth of stale air from the cab.

While I was sitting there, running the events of the last few days though my head and savoring the cool air blowing on my face, Frank drove up.

He waved when I stepped out to meet him. Four metal jerricans of gasoline were fastened to the front of the bed. Lumber filled the remainder. “Need some help unloading?”

“Naw.” He shut the door behind him. “Normally I’d drive over to the cabana, but it’s too muddy. I’ll bring up the trailer and haul it over there.”

I hooked my thumb over my shoulder. “Edna sent your lunch down. I left it on the table. Hope you don’t mind that I went inside.”

He laughed. “No problem. I appreciate it. And don’t forget,” he added, tapping his wristwatch. “Three o’clock. The Bears play the Packers in a preseason game.”

“I’ll be there.”

I stood at the French doors, staring out into the bright sunlight, dredging up, then discarding, one idea after another on how I could prove my theory about Gadrate and George Mendoza.

If I could come up with a single kernel of proof, then I could turn it over to Pat Fenster, and let him take it from there.

On impulse, I called Dutch Weiman, who had given me George Mendoza’s real name, Vega. “I’ve got it from a solid source that Collins is dealing. What I need to find out is if Mendoza, George Mendoza, is working with Collins.”

For a moment, Dutch didn’t answer. “I thought I told you the other day.”

“Told me what? All you said was that Mendoza’s real name was Vega, and that he and Collins worked for the same place.”

The old cop snorted. “Yeah, yeah, OK, well, sorry for the confusion. I plead senior moment. No, they just work at the same place. According to my pigeon, Mendoza, like the old saying goes, is as pure as the driven snow, at least he is now.”

His words stunned me. I saw my cute little ideas going down in flames. I managed to choke out the question, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Sure. Unless my guy was lying, and he’s got no reason to. From what I learned about Mendoza, after he got out of juvenile, he turned things around. Wife and kids now. No trouble with the law. Boy Scout leader. Teaches class at his church.”

Somehow, I managed a civil good-bye and hung up, after which I stumbled across the room and flopped down at my desk, staring blankly at the dark screen of my laptop.

All my pretty little ideas had come tumbling down about me. “Some detective you are, Tony,” I muttered. I was back at the beginning, and at that moment, I was ready to toss it all. If Mendoza wasn’t the mule for Collins, then I might as well forget about the rest of the little theory about Gadrate and her clients.

Hercules chose that moment to pad into my room. He paused under the desk, then plopped down on his haunches and reached up and scratched at the bottom of the small writing table.

It dawned on me that was the third time I’d seen the stupid cat under the desk. I squatted and peered under it. “What’s bothering you so much, huh, dummy?” I shooed him away.

My eyes bugged out when I spotted a small transmitter taped to one side of the desk drawer. So that’s how whoever they were knew what I was planning. And I called the cat stupid.

I couldn’t resist a wry smirk. Well, two could play the game.

The transmitter was small, inexpensive, and untraceable. And with today’s technology, could probably be accessed for over a mile.

I leaned back, energized by my discovery that told me, without question, someone wanted me out of the mansion. From now on, I would watch what I said.

A few minutes before three, I knocked on Frank’s door. I was depressed by Dutch’s announcement about George Mendoza, but buoyed by finding the transmitter. Now, I was looking forward to a sip of peach vodka.

The ball game was the first preseason game. That’s enough said about the quality of play. Starters played one series, and then rookies and wannabes took over.

At halftime, Frank excused himself for the bathroom. The ice in the bucket on the table between us had melted, leaving only a smattering inch of water. “We’re out of ice,” I called after him.

He gestured to the kitchen. “Ice in the refrigerator if you need some.”

The kitchen, like the shed and the rest of the house, was spotless. Even the half dozen or so boxes of sandwich bags on the table were neatly stacked.

By the time Frank returned, I’d freshened my drink and settled back on the couch.

The second half was just as boring except when the Bears attempted a trick play that ended up in the Packers’ hands for a ninety-yard touchdown.

We made idle chitchat about the game, the weather, and the players. Not once did the subject get around to the Watkins family or the grounds.

Once or twice, however, I started to bounce my ideas about the paintings off Frank, but resisted the impulse, reminding myself that even one person has trouble keeping a secret. For two, the effort is impossible.

All questions would do was arouse curiosity, and perhaps an unexpected visitor waiting in the library for me.

With less than a minute to play, a trailer appeared at the bottom of the TV screen with a warning of the possibility of severe storms later that evening.

Frank cursed. “Last thing we need is more rain.”

“That’s the way it always is. Droughts, then floods.”

“Yeah.” He shook his head. “Go figure.”

Gadrate and Henry were seated at the kitchen table when I pushed through the door. Edna looked around from the steam table and announced, “Just in time. Hamburgers and hot dogs tonight. Build your own.”

When she said build your own, she meant build your own. Half a dozen different condiments sat along the granite countertop. Henry gestured for me to go first. “You’re our guest.”

I backed away. “Go ahead. It all looks so good, I’m not sure what I want.”

He gently eased Gadrate ahead of him. She picked up a plate and placed a hamburger on it. “There’s plenty.”

Edna pulled a Dr Pepper from the refrigerator. “Soft drinks and tea in here. Take your choice.”

Henry came through the rear door, a laundry bag over his shoulder. He hesitated when he saw us lined up by the steam table. “Looks like I made it just in time,” he said, making his way to the laundry room. “Got some linens for you, Gadrate. I’ll put them inside.”

I noticed the bottom of the bag was soiled. I guessed it was the one I’d spotted in the shed. For some reason, I didn’t even question the notion of a laundry bag in the storage shed. I was too busy poking a hot dog down my throat.

A crack of thunder drowned her reply. Outside, clouds grew thicker, darker.

Just after we all scooted in at the table, Karla bounded in halfway through the meal, bubbling with excitement. “Skylar and Dot are coming in tomorrow. She wants to be here to make certain the police don’t tear down Pawpaw Watkins’s fireplace.”

I greeted the news with a mixture of glee and disappointment, glee because that meant my job was over, although sooner than expected, and disappointment because of the unanswered questions that I would leave behind. That’s one of the drawbacks of being nosy, that plus the fact you sometimes almost get the tip of your nose cut off for sticking it where it doesn’t belong.

Still, I told myself, maybe it’s for the best. Revealing Herb Watkins III’s duplicity in pushing drugs would only hurt the family, and for the most part, they were all good folks.

In a way, I guess I felt a little like Pat Fenster when he told me that he had come to a separate peace with himself that some thugs
would weasel a way out of a situation, but sooner or later the law would nail the bozos’ hides to the wall.

Henry nodded. “What time does she get in?”

“She isn’t sure. She said to tell you not to worry. If they couldn’t get a domestic flight, she’d hire a private plane. They’ll take a cab in.”

A broad smile played over Edna’s lips. She winked at me. “Some lady, huh?”

I smiled back at her. “Yeah. Some lady.” And I meant the words. “A real go-getter.”

Outside, the clouds grew thicker and rumbles of thunder sent tiny vibrations through the house.

Usually, I limit myself to one hot dog, but the exotic relishes of onions, the cabbage, green peppers, tomato relish, pickles, and coleslaw compelled me to whip up a second one. And even though I declined the macaroni salad Edna had as a side dish, when I pushed back from the table, I had to waddle up the stairs.

I flipped on the TV and plopped down on the bed, figuring since bad weather was fast approaching, I might as well see what we had in store for us.

The storm was a poor cousin of those of the last few days, just a steady, pounding rain with occasional thunder and even fewer bolts of lightning.

The late news came and went, and I still wasn’t sleepy. I turned off the lights and stared out the French doors at the rain. Woodlawn Boulevard glowed in the golden reflection of the streetlights. I told myself I should be glad the job was almost over.

I finally admitted I didn’t want the job to be over; I didn’t want to leave until I found answers for the jumble of questions in my head.

The main one I suppose was the secret of Spooky Manor, a.k.a. the Watkins mansion.

I skimmed back through all I had been told about the night the old man was murdered. I remembered Dutch deploring the fact that he felt the answer was right in front of him, but every time he though he had it, it vanished. The same frustration had settled over me. I felt, no, I knew I had the answer. It was there for the taking, but where?

On impulse, I decided to play my hunch regarding the fireplace. After all, I told myself. I’ll be gone tomorrow. At least I’ll know one way or another.