Murder On The Neches: Fen Maguire Mystery, #7

Chapter One

Former sheriff Fen Maguire noticed the hopeful tone of his words as he asked, Are you calling to tell me there’s a murder to solve?

Candy’s chuckle came from the speaker on Fen’s phone. You must be bored after a long winter. Her voice switched from mirth to something more fitting for a legal secretary calling on behalf of her attorney husband. Chuck needs you to come to the office this morning. Can you make it?

Only if you answer one question. Will I need to pack for one week or longer?

Candy showed her agile mind with her response. One week but bring laundry detergent.

She cut off the call before he could comment, leaving him with a beehive’s worth of questions buzzing in his mind.

Instead of speculating, he looked at his late wife’s picture and spoke as if she could answer him. Looks like I’m going somewhere soon. I appreciate her not telling me where or when until I get to their office, and you can guess why. Thelma would drown me with questions I either wouldn’t or couldn’t answer.

Fen took a deep breath. Do you mind if I cut our morning talk and prayer time a little short this morning? It’s been a long winter, the wettest early spring on record, and I’ve come down with a severe case of cabin fever. I feel like the walls are closing in on me. He paused. Thanks, honey. You were always patient with me. He paused and kissed the glass covering her face before making a slight correction. I need to change that last statement. You were patient most of the time. I still regret giving you an iron for your birthday.

The smell of sage hit him as soon as he opened the door to his home office. The aroma of fresh-baked biscuits joined the smell of sausage when he entered the kitchen.

Thelma, his cook and housekeeper, sensed his presence and turned from the stove. You’re too early. Why’d you cut short your time with Miss Sally?

Candy called.

Thelma let out a huff. Here we go again. Where are you going this time?

Don’t know.

When are you leaving?

Don’t know.

Who got killed? Thelma held up a hand. Don’t waste your breath. You either don’t know or you ain’t talking this morning.

Candy wouldn’t tell me much. I asked her if I should pack for one week, or longer. She told me one week, but bring laundry detergent.

Thelma huffed. I’ll never understand how you can solve crimes with your mouth clamped shut like a rusty vice.

Fen spoke as he arranged placemats, napkins, and silverware on the four-person table with a view of the Brazos River bottom behind his home. I’ll know more after I meet with them. They want to see me as soon as I can get there.

You’ll know everything there is to know and still keep most of it to yourself, said Thelma as she took a baking pan filled with homemade biscuits from the oven.

He filled his mug and returned to the table. Thelma had a reputation to maintain as being the best-informed woman in Newman County and parts of the surrounding Central Texas counties. Her sources weren’t always reliable, as she emphasized quantity over quality of gossip, but the accuracy was surprisingly good. The second part of her reputation involved her making sure others stayed informed.

Mechanical chirps from Fen’s cell phone caused Thelma to spin and face him. Fen looked at the caller ID and said, It’s Bailey.

Lord, have mercy. What kind of trouble is that girl in now?

Fen knew it would aggravate Thelma if he didn’t turn on the phone’s speaker, but he put the phone to his ear anyway.

Good morning. How’s college?

Her words came out fast and strong. I’m wasting my time taking stupid required classes I’ll never use.

I mostly agree, but it’s the price you have to pay if you want a college degree. Take a deep breath, let it out, then tell me what’s really bothering you.

Frustration colored her next words. I just did. Most of my professors are clueless about earning a living in the real world. They teach a bunch of garbage I’ll never use and make us read books I either don’t understand or disagree with. I think they cooked their brains by taking too many drugs when they were in college or reading goofy theories on how things should be.

What about your art classes?

One of them isn’t too bad. The other is a complete waste of time and money. The instructor is a grad student with pink hair. He’s never sold a painting in his life.

Are you sure about that?

Fen realized that was the wrong question to ask when she sprayed out her next answer with extra force. Of course I’m sure. He’s totally into pottery and never mentions painting unless it’s something abstract that goes on clay fired in a kiln.

The sound of eggs hitting hot grease brought his attention away for a second or two before refocusing. What are you going to do?

What can I do? I’m paid up for the entire semester. It would be a huge waste of money if I quit in the middle of the term.

Are you painting?

Some, but not like I did when I had a dorm room to myself. Having the studio above the garage spoiled me.

Bailey’s problem needed more thought than he had bandwidth to give it. Thelma was lifting fried eggs from a cast-iron skillet, and she didn’t appreciate a hot meal growing cold. An inspiration floated by and Fen grabbed it.

Isn’t spring break coming up soon?

At the end of the week. My last class is Friday at ten o’clock, so I’ll be home Friday afternoon.

Don’t get your hopes up, but I received a phone call this morning from Candy. She wouldn’t give me details, but you know what calls out of the blue from her and Chuck mean.

They don’t call unless there’s a murder for us to solve.

I’ll call you and let you know what they tell me. You may need to change your plans for spring break.

What plans? Cory has to work.

Thelma plopped a plate in front of him. Don’t let it get cold.

Bailey whispered. You’re eating breakfast early. I thought I had my call timed better. Do you have the speaker on?

Nope.

Let me talk to Thelma. She’ll grill you with questions if I don’t tell her why I called.

I could tell her.

There’s a big difference between could and will. You have an aggravating habit of keeping things to yourself. Give her your phone and let me save you from her wrath. Besides, she’ll sulk if you don’t eat your eggs before they get cold.

Instead of responding, Fen held out his phone. It’s Bailey. She wants to talk to you.

Thelma took the phone. Bailey. What’s going on that’s so important you had to call this time of mornin’?

Fen dug into his breakfast with his thoughts alternating between a possible murder investigation and how to respond to Bailey’s desire to leave college. With any luck, the slow winter months were coming to an abrupt end.

A mental checklist of things to pack appeared in Fen’s mind, and he began checking items off. The list was short because he didn’t know if he’d go to the sunny beaches of South Padre Island, north to the Panhandle, east to the border of Louisiana, or all the way west to El Paso. Wherever it was, he’d take sketch pads and everything he needed to paint a landscape.

He was buttering a biscuit when Thelma’s voice changed. Pink hair? On a man? What kind of college are you going to? It was bad enough when Millie Shiflet tried to dye her hair red and it came out orange as a pumpkin. Did that teacher do it on purpose?

Fen kept his head down and swallowed a laugh along with a bite of sausage. Thelma didn’t go to town often and colleges might as well be colonies on Mars. Her happy place was on his four-thousand-acre farm and ranch, cooking and cleaning for him and Sam, her husband, who was also Fen’s ranch manager. When she ran out of work, she worried about Bailey.

The conversation continued as he ferried dishes to the counter by the sink. This was Thelma’s cue to end the conversation.

I gotta’ go. Fen’s ready to go to town and I don’t want him to leave his phone behind. I never would know where he was. A few seconds passed. I’ll tell him that very thing. Bye, and be careful at that crazy college.

Fen received his phone as Thelma said, Bailey told me to tell you she expects a call the minute you get out of Chuck’s office.

He lifted his chin. You can’t fool me. I’ll call her, then she’ll call you. That’s your plan, isn’t it?

It wouldn’t be if you and Bailey used words more freely. Both of you only tell me what you think I need to know. She may not be blood kin to you, but that gal sure takes after your ways.

A buff Stetson was the last thing Fen grabbed as he went into the garage and started his one-ton diesel truck.

Chapter Two

The metal gate swung shut automatically as Fen turned right onto a gravel road that led him past his former father-in-law’s ranch. Their property lines touched, and they extracted liquid wealth from the same rich, underground oil field. Otherwise, they might as well live in separate countries. He wondered for the thousandth time if there was anything else he could say or do to repair their relationship. The only answer that came to him was to let time try to heal them both, especially Sally’s father.

Passing over the Brazos River helped clear his mind of past regrets. Sally’s memorial service took place over three years ago, and he’d found things to help him move on: continuing to paint landscapes, his ranch, helping Bailey overcome a lousy childhood and adolescence, and solving murders. There was one more, but he’d best not think of Audrey until he knew what his next assignment might be.

The city of Springdale, the county seat of Newman County, appeared fully awake and prospering as cars lined up five and six deep at stop lights. Fen remembered a time when he could count the number of traffic lights on one hand. He regarded this as a sign the years were slipping by at an accelerated pace. Not unusual for someone approaching his late forties.

He drove the usual route to Chuck’s law office and pulled around back to a parking lot. Candy must have heard his diesel engine cut off, as she had his favorite mug of coffee waiting for him. Not one to waste time, she said, Thanks for speeding up your morning routine. I see you had eggs and biscuits this morning.

Fen looked down at his shirt. I like to keep part of my meals for a snack later on.

She pulled a moistened wipe from her desk drawer and scrubbed a tiny area of his shirt. Thelma must not have gotten a good look at you before you left. There. Good as new. Chuck likes to wear his food, too. Let’s get to his office.

The walk down a long hallway gave Fen time to once again think about the enigma who was Candy Forsythe. She was a blondish woman, attractive but not flashy, brilliant but not pretentious. She rarely turned her head but saw and heard everything. He assumed she was five years either side of his age, but couldn’t be certain as Candy never seemed to age. Finally, she was a chameleon who could morph into different roles when required, as evidenced by her participation in the community theater.

Most of the time she was remarkably unremarkable, and Fen thought she’d make the perfect CIA agent. Perhaps she had been at one time, but now she played the part of her husband’s secretary. Even though she sat in Chuck’s shadow, there was little doubt who ran the office and had the political contacts.

As usual, Chuck sat in a high-backed leather chair, boots on his desk, with a phone to his ear. Fen took his mug of coffee to one end of the couch and settled in while Candy moved to Chuck’s desk, closed a file folder, and placed it on the nearest towering stack.

She returned to sit on the other end of the couch as Chuck ended his phone call.

Chuck joined them and settled into a chair near Fen. I didn’t expect you for another ten minutes. You must need something to do.

I wouldn’t mind it.

Candy handed Fen a file folder she’d carried from her desk. A situation has come up on Lake Palestine. The victim is Dale White, thirty-three, originally from Northern California. A fisherman found him floating in water on the north side of the lake two days ago. His wife reported him missing five days prior to the discovery.

Chuck took his turn. He was one of those tech guys who got filthy rich, retired three years ago, and has been traveling the world. He and his wife wound up in Florida last November, where Mr. White bought a high-rise condo in Miami. They played in the sand and fished until April.

Candy took over. Mr. White purchased a Class A motorhome. Their intention was to take several years exploring the USA during the warm months and return to Florida for the winter.

Chuck added, The motorhome cost upward of a million dollars. That’s what I call exploring in style, but he could afford it with plenty left over.

Fen tilted his head. What’s the catch? Other than the guy’s wealth, this sounds like something the locals could handle.

The couple traded a knowing glance before Chuck said, The catch is, too many agencies are involved. Four counties have a portion of their border on Lake Palestine. They discovered the body in the water at the intersection of two county lines, Smith and Henderson.

Fen rubbed his chin. Are they sure it’s a homicide? If he drowns in a lake, the state game warden should lead the investigation.

The small hole in the back of Mr. White’s head led the game warden to conclude the guy didn’t drown.

Candy added, Do you remember what the weather was like ten days ago?

Rain, rain, and more rain, said Fen.

It was worse around Tyler, said Candy. The Neches River and a series of creeks feed into the lake.

Ah, said Fen. With that amount of flooding, someone could have dumped the body near any of those streams and it would have found its way into the lake. He looked at Candy. Floods have a bad habit of destroying evidence.

Fen stared into his mug of black liquid. You’re holding something back.

A look of mischief spread across Chuck’s face. And what do you think that could be?

The mug rested on the table as Fen cast his gaze into Chuck’s eyes. The real reason you need me to look into a murder that local sheriff’s departments and game wardens should handle.

It’s complicated, said Candy.

Chuck added, The lead detectives from two of the counties both believe they know who killed Mr. White, and of course, they don’t agree on the same suspect.

So? said Fen. The game warden can act as referee.

It’s not that simple, said Candy. The game warden investigating the case announced his intention to run for sheriff of Smith County. He’s the odds-on favorite to win.

Chuck added, He requested that someone else take over the investigation.

How, and why did my name come up?

Candy leaned back. You underestimate your reputation. Besides, with ten years’ experience as a state trooper and ten years as a sheriff, you’re the most qualified.

Chuck gave a more cynical response. My guess is, the future sheriff of Smith County didn’t want to run for office with an accusation of favoritism hounding him.

Why favoritism?

Because the lead detective for Smith County also wants to be sheriff. The current sheriff is retiring. In most counties he would be the logical choice as he’s familiar with the department. But there are those who don’t believe the detective is the best choice this time.

There were times Fen would like to tell whoever initiates these assignments they should butt out and let the locals figure it out. A murder was one thing; a murder wrapped in politics was another. But he said, Why is there always politics involved? He took a breath. Tyler is the county seat of Smith County, and that’s the county where the Neches River flows into Lake Palestine.

Candy nodded in agreement. The other northernmost county is Henderson, and it has more of Lake Palestine’s shoreline than any other county. Kickapoo Creek flows into the lake from the northwest and the Neches River flows from the northeast. The game warden believes the original crime scene is somewhere upstream from either the river or the creek.

Fen looked from Candy to Chuck. Let me summarize. We don’t know the original crime scene, the flood is bound to have destroyed physical evidence, there’s a squabble over jurisdiction, and important people want to protect a future sheriff from bad press. Couldn’t you find a harder case for me to investigate?

Chuck displayed a top row of nice teeth. If it was easy, you wouldn’t like it.

Candy stood. I have a file folder on my desk for you. All the police reports are in it. When can you leave?

Today. I’ll find a place to stay, and Bailey will join me on Friday. She’s not enjoying the college experience as much as she hoped. I have my fingers crossed that spring break will do her good.

Chuck asked, Isn’t she good enough already to make a living painting portraits?

She has the skill, but not the reputation. It would also help if she looked older than sixteen. Successful people are her sales target because that’s where the money is. They want to leave something special for family to remember them by. They take one look at Bailey and assume she’s too young to be good enough for what she wants to charge. It doesn’t help that patience isn’t her greatest asset.

Candy asked, How’s her relationship with that deputy sheriff progressing?

Fen lifted his shoulders and let them fall. You may need to ask Thelma about that.

You can do better than that, said Candy. Does she still call him every day when she comes home to your ranch?

Fen considered the question before answering. She only came home twice this semester. Now that you mention it, she had little to say about Cory. I spoke with her this morning and she sounded like she was mad at him for always working, but she didn’t seem very mad.

Ah, said Candy in a way that told him more than the two-letter word.

Fen stood and took a step toward the door. I don’t know what ‘Ah’ means, but a blubbering teen on my hands while I’m trying to solve a murder is something I can live without. If she and Cory break up while we’re gone, I’m calling you to come dry her tears.

No deal, said Candy. Chuck and I are happy being childless.

Chuck gave his head a firm nod. Working on divorces is all the drama I can stand. My New Year’s resolution was to refuse any more. So far, I’ve turned down four.

Fen shook Chuck’s hand. Turning down work tells me you have plenty of business.

Not so much that we’d refuse an invitation to one of Thelma’s famous steak dinners after you get home from solving this case.

Candy let out a groan. Don’t pay attention to him, Fen. It’s our turn to have you over. I’ll expect you the first Saturday after you get back.

The heels of his boots made a clomping sound as he made his way to Candy’s desk, where he retrieved the file and received her obligatory hug. She wasn’t normally a hugger, but she made an exception for him.

Bright sunshine streamed through a window. He donned his hat and sunglasses before opening the door. The clicking of the handle behind him set his brain in motion. There was much to do before he pointed his truck to the northeast and made his way to Lake Palestine.

Imaginary lists appeared in his mind as he left the parking lot and turned onto Main Street. He started with art supplies to take. As many were already under the camper shell covering the truck’s bed, that list proved surprisingly short.

A second mental checklist of clothes to take came to him as he drove north.