Tumbleweeds (52 page)

“You’ve heard.”

“I’m listening to a news report now.”

“Randy is downstairs. He hung around to question me. I’m grabbing a few minutes in my study to call you. I found a note from Trey that I’ll turn over to him. He had changed his mind, Cathy. Trey wasn’t going to go through with it.”

Her cheeks stung. “Really?”

“Really. He endorsed Deke’s check for Mabel’s home over to the orphanage and simply left the house. Betty says she didn’t know he had gone. I’m guessing he was on his way to the airport when… somebody shot him.”

So John would have been safe in any event.
“Did he explain why he changed his mind?”

“No.”

But they both knew. She massaged her tightened throat. “Does Randy have any idea who killed him?” she asked.

“Trey was shot outside his BMW. Randy thinks he got out to meet somebody in another vehicle—a friend or someone Trey knew or recognized he would have stopped his car for.”

Somebody like her.
“I’m so sorry it had to happen this way, John, but from the news report, death was instant, and now he won’t suffer as he was likely to if he’d lived. Perhaps it’s a blessing.”

“Not to the person who killed him. Cathy… I have an idea Randy will want to question you.”

“Because I’m their chief suspect? What’s my motive? From the news reports, Trey was killed between six and seven. You’d already told me he was dying hours before. What would have been the point of killing him?”

She paused, expecting to be reminded that she had another motive unknown to the police.

“When did Will get to your house, Cathy?”

She stiffened in her chair. “Why do you ask?”

“I overheard Randy tell his deputy that the crime lab people had successfully lifted a clear set of Jeep tracks they found across the road from Trey’s car.”

Going cold, Cathy tried to recall who drove Jeeps in town. None with a motive to kill Trey Hall. The owners didn’t even know him. Her terror building, she knew in her bones those tracks belonged to Will. She recalled Will’s distraught face, his agitation all evening, the odd looks he’d thrown her, the questions he’d asked.
“Where were you this afternoon? What time did you learn that Trey Hall was dying, Mom?”

Good lord!
She’d misinterpreted Will’s concern. It wasn’t that he feared for her reputation if she was seen on the road to Harbison House this afternoon but that she had no alibi for the time of Trey’s murder. But how could he have known she’d need one…

“Cathy? Answer me. I have only a minute before I have to talk to Randy.”

“Oh no…,” she whispered, rigid as the stone garden sculpture bathed in moonlight outside her window.

“Cathy—”

She replaced the receiver.

Her legs were too unsteady to stand. Will had parked over the wiped-out treads of her Lexus, the reason for the Jeep’s clear impressions. He must have left his office early to go to Harbison House to confront Trey. He came along after her and found the body. Cathy pressed her fingers to her mouth.
Did her son suspect her of murdering Trey Don Hall!

But the police would think he could have done it. If he signed out early, the log sheet and the Jeep tracks would be enough for Randy to suspect him, and she knew her son was innocent.

If they charged him, she would confess to the crime. She had blood on her sweater sleeve as proof she did it, and her motive to kill Trey was stronger than Will’s. Her son was not aware that Trey wasn’t his
father until after he’d been killed, but she had known, and she’d murdered him out of an uncontrollable rage. Father John could confirm her fury. The authorities would have no choice but to believe her, but first, she must get rid of the gun. Its disappearance would be further proof of her guilt. She’d get rid of it so that if she was suspected of killing Trey, the murder weapon wouldn’t be found.

The phone rang again. She glanced at the caller identification screen.
Will!
But she could not trust herself to speak to him now, and she must hurry to find a place to dispose of the gun.

T
he shotgun killing of nationally known football celebrity Trey Don Hall took precedence over other cases pending for the attention of the Lubbock Medical Examiner’s Office as well as plans its pathologist may have had for Saturday. The same held true for Charles Martin in the crime lab of the Department of Public Safety in Amarillo. In joint efforts, an autopsy was performed and evidence from the murder scene analyzed, and by noon Randy Wallace was in possession of both departments’ findings. Trey Don Hall had been shot with a .30-30-caliber hunting rifle. Clear sets of fingerprints, other than the victim’s, were found on his leather watchband, probably made by the killer when he or she folded Trey Don Hall’s hands across his chest. DNA had been extracted from tearstains found on the victim’s silk shirt close to the entry of the bullet. In addition there was the mold made of the Jeep tracks found on the other side of the road from where the body was found. No results of the analysis reports were to be released to the press.

The news media descended immediately, arriving like rodents scuttling out of woodwork, filling up the county’s few motels and milling about in Bennie’s, the newspaper office, and the sheriff’s department. To interview Will Benson, Randy and Mike, his deputy,
both wearing baseball caps rather than their uniform Stetsons, drove out of the department’s parking lot in Randy’s personal car so they wouldn’t be recognized and followed by “the paparazzi,” as he referred to them in disgust.

The reason for his trip to question Will was simple. Will Benson was the only person in town who owned a Jeep with a motive to kill Trey Don Hall, weak as it was. His mother had a motive, but she did not drive a Jeep. Randy couldn’t fathom either one of them killing anybody. Cathy Benson was one of the most levelheaded women alive, and Will was one of the few boys who’d grown up in the county who did not hunt and probably owned no gun. Success was the sweetest revenge of all, and both mother and son had certainly exacted that from the man who’d deserted them. They might let him choke on their accomplishments, but why kill him?

But he had to start somewhere, and he had a couple of reasons to drive out to Will’s place this morning. The Jeep tracks constituted one, but earlier he had wakened Linda Hadley, the receptionist at the Morgan Petroleum Company, from a Saturday sleep-in to ask what time Will Benson had left work yesterday. He did it with regret, since Linda had the loosest tongue in town and was sure to start rumors that the sheriff was investigating Will. The boy had suffered enough from the slings of gossip in this county, but he was following Deke Tyson’s line of thought. If Will had gotten off at his regular time at six o’clock, he could save himself the trip and eliminate him as a suspect.

But, by George, Linda had told him that Will had signed out at five thirty, unusual for him, since he followed company rules to the letter, she said. That would have given him plenty of time to be on the road at the time TD was killed. Linda had also volunteered one other interesting piece of information. She’d said that Cathy Benson had paid an unexpected visit to her son yesterday at noon. Now
that
was definitely unusual. Randy ate his lunch at Bennie’s, and he couldn’t recall a time, except yesterday, that Cathy wasn’t overseeing the café at
that time of day. When he’d asked Father John for the names of those who knew Trey was staying at Harbison House, he’d said he couldn’t say for sure.

“Well, then, name the people you can say,” Randy had told him.

“Deke Tyson and… Cathy Benson,” he’d answered reluctantly. “Betty didn’t learn Trey would be here until noon today.”

“And when did Cathy learn the news?”

“This morning.”

It sounded reasonably certain to Randy that Cathy would have gone in person to deliver the shocking news to her son that his deadbeat father was in town. It also made sense that Will would want to meet him. Also—Randy found himself thinking like Deke Tyson again—there was the way Trey Hall’s hands had been folded over his body and the tearstains on his shirt. Folding those hands and crying—didn’t that sound like something a son, still feeling something for his father, would do after he’d killed him?

“Fancy a handsome bachelor like Will Benson renting a place way out here when he could be living the party life in that new apartment complex in town,” his deputy commented as Randy parked in front of a ranch house that looked to have been built in the days of Indian raids and buffalo herds.

“He wanted a place to keep a couple of horses and provide room for his dog to run,” Randy said. The place suited what he knew of the boy from the years his son and Will had played on the high school baseball team. Will had seemed somewhat of a loner even then, favoring quiet and solitude and his animals to hanging out with his rambunctious buddies. As a father, Randy had deduced the boy’s preference for his own company was formed by the circumstances of his birth.

Silently Mike pointed out the Jeep Wrangler parked in a leaning carport attached to the house. Randy nodded and climbed the worn steps to the weathered wraparound porch. The door opened before
he had a chance to knock. “Come in, Sheriff,” Will said. “I heard you drive up. I was… sort of expecting you.”

The boy looked as if he hadn’t had a wink of sleep. Randy hadn’t, either, for that matter. “Sorry to disturb your Saturday, Will, but I’ve got a few questions to ask you.”

“I figured you would.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, whatever it was.”

“Not much,” Will said, sticking his hands into his jean pockets. “You guys want a cup of coffee?”

“Sure could use one,” his deputy said.

Randy nodded agreement. “Sounds good.”

The men sat down, and a dog padded up wagging his tail, a blue-eyed Siberian husky. He gave their boots a cursory sniff, then followed Will into the kitchen off the main room. When Will returned with three steaming mugs, Randy took his carefully; while aware he could not remove it from the premises without a warrant, he’d thought of another way he could legally get a sample of Will’s fingerprints.

“Will,” he began, pulling his handkerchief from his back pocket, “we’ve got to look at you and your mother as the only folks in town who might have a reason to kill your father.”

“I can understand that, but my mother wouldn’t kill a rattlesnake, and I’d be pleased if you didn’t refer to Trey Hall as my father.” Will sat down, his strong, finely shaped hands—his batter’s hands—cradling the mug.

“Good enough. And knowing you, I have a hard time believing you were involved, but I’ve got to do my job and ask where you were yesterday between six and seven o’clock. Excuse me a second—” He set down his cup and sneezed hard into the handkerchief.

“I was at my mother’s,” Will said when Randy had recovered. “She made dinner for Father John and me.”

Randy coughed deeply, covering his mouth with his fist. “The whole time?”

“Most of it.”

“Oh? What time did you leave Morgan Petroleum?”

Randy, getting ready to sneeze again and ignoring his deputy’s puzzled look, noted a small hesitation. “I took off early,” Will said. “Around five thirty or so.”

“Why?”

“I was upset. Mom drove out to tell me Trey Hall was in town, and I kept hoping he’d come by to see me or telephone, but he didn’t.”

“Did you go directly to your mother’s from there?”

“No, I drove out here, fed my animals before I drove to Mom’s. I’d guess I got there somewhere around close to seven.”

Randy loosened his black uniform tie. “Can anybody vouch for you out here?”

Will shook his head and looked down at his dog, plopped on the floor beside his chair. “Nobody but Silva here. Sheriff, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Randy said, clearly looking as if he wasn’t. He blinked hard, as if his eyes were stinging. “And your mother? She was home then?”

“Of course. She’d been cooking all afternoon.”

Over the handkerchief he’d plugged to his nose, Randy twinkled a friendly smile, “Didn’t bring anything home from the café?”

Will returned a slight grin. “Everything made from scratch—lasagna and cheesecake—right in her kitchen.”

“All right then, that should do it—” Randy started to get up, then clutched his chest, the coffee mug rolling to the floor. The dog and Will leaped to their feet. “No, no!” he gasped, thrusting out a hand to prevent the husky from jumping on him. “Stay back.”

“Randy!” the deputy cried. “Are you having a heart attack?”

“No! No! I’m… allergic to dogs.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Will demanded. “What can we do for you?”

Randy coughed loudly. “Water. I need water. My throat’s on fire.”

“Put Silva outside while I get him some water,” Will ordered Mike, dashing for the kitchen. There was the sound of water blasting from the faucet, and Will was back in seconds with a Styrofoam cup, which Randy, standing, grabbed by its bottom and drank with great thirst.

Breathing heavily, Randy said, “I apologize, Will. I thought I’d gotten beyond it,” and headed for the door as if in desperate need of fresh air.

“You want me to call a doctor?” Mike asked when they were outside.