The Last Death of Jack Harbin: A Samuel Craddock Mystery: 2 - Softcover

Shames, Terry

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1616148713 ISBN 13: 9781616148713

Publisher: Seventh Street Books, 2014

Synopsis

Small town mystery and veteran's issues collide as retired police chief Samuel Craddock investigates a murder. Right before the outbreak of the Gulf War, two eighteen-year-old football stars and best friends from Jarrett Creek signed up for the army. Woody Patterson was rejected and stayed home to marry the girl they both loved, while Jack Harbin came back from the war badly damaged. The men haven't spoken since. Just as they are about to reconcile, Jack is brutally murdered. With the chief of police out of commission, trusted ex-chief Samuel Craddock steps in--again. Against the backdrop of small-town loyalties and betrayals, Craddock discovers dark secrets of the past and present to solve the mystery of Jack's death.

About this title

About the Author

TERRY SHAMES is the Macavity Award-winning author of the Samuel Craddock mysteries A Killing at Cotton Hill, The Last Death of Jack Harbin, Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek, and A Deadly Affair at Bobtail Ridge. She is also the coeditor of Fire in the Hills, a book of stories, poems, and photographs about the 1991 Oakland Hills Fire. She grew up in Texas and continues to be fascinated by the convoluted loyalties and betrayals of the small town where her grandfather was the mayor. Terry is a member of the Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Last Death of Jack Harbin

A Samuel Craddock Mystery

By TERRY SHAMES

Prometheus Books

Copyright © 2014 Terry Shames
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-61614-871-3

CHAPTER 1

When I walk into Granger's Feed Store early Mondaymorning, Melvin Granger is up on a ladder shoving bigsacks of dog food around. He pauses when he hears myboots on the wood floor and shoots me a look of pure aggravation. "I'llbe right with you." The tone of his voice implies he'd just as soon I'dgo to hell as be in his store. His old yellow dog, Dusty, is lying on hisfluffy brown bed with a long-suffering gloom about him, as if he's beena target, too.

"Don't let me rush you." I'm as irritated as Melvin is.

He goes back to pushing sacks around with a hint of violence. It'shard to see exactly what he's aiming for. But what he gets is one of thesacks plummeting to the floor and breaking wide open. Pellets of dogfood scatter everywhere. Dusty heaves himself to his feet with a bigsigh, as if to say it's going to be a chore to clean up all that dog food, buthe's going to give it his best shot.

"Goddammit! Dusty, get the hell away from that mess!" Melvinclatters down off the ladder, his feet crunching on the pellets. "Whatdo you want?" he says to me.

I'm not taking any of this personally. The whole town is grumpy.For the first time in ten years the Jarrett Creek High School Pantherslost the homecoming football game to the Bobtail Bobcats last Fridaynight. Coach Eldridge was cursed every which way for keeping thefirst-string quarterback out of the game in the last ten minutes.

"I came in to get a case of cat food. Is that too much trouble?" Inthe grumpy department, I can give as good as I get.

Melvin narrows his eyes at me. "I don't know why anybody wouldkeep a cat."

"Same reason you have that flea-bitten hound around here." Westare down at Dusty and he pauses from gobbling up dog food to sneaka nervous look at us.

"Get away from there!" Melvin hooks two fingers under Dusty'scollar and hauls him over to his bed, then grabs a broom and startscleaning up the mess.

I find Zelda's cat food and plunk a case onto the counter. It takesfive minutes for Melvin to finish cleaning up the dog food. By thenAugust Nachtway and his son have walked in, looking like they'd liketo bite somebody. They nod to me, but don't offer any conversation.

"There's a lot of people don't have a bed as nice as that dog's," I say,while Melvin rings me up.

Dusty thumps his tail, and that's about all the friendliness I get outof the visit.

Back on the highway, I decide to stop by Town Café to listen toJack Harbin rant about the game, which might be soothing in its ownway. Jack was a star quarterback at Jarrett Creek High School andknows the game. His athletic days are over. He joined the army just intime to be swept up into the Gulf War. He was blinded and lost a leg.But he goes to the games every Friday and will talk football all day long,any day. Adversity has left Jack with an unpredictable disposition, buthe never lacks for someone to talk to. Like most small towns in Texas,Jarrett Creek holds football in high regard.

Town Café has all the charm of a cow barn. A big tin Quonsethut, it's pockmarked on the outside, as if it was used for target practicein some past life. Bill Schroeder trucked it in about ten years ago andplopped it onto a lot near the railroad tracks. The place has knotty pinewalls decorated with random signs advertising beer and farm equipment.Christmas lights are strung all over the place, year-round. Butthe food is good.

When I walk into the crowded café, Jack isn't at his usual table.Jack's dad, Bob Harbin, brings him to the café every morning fromnine to eleven. You get used to certain rhythms in a small town. JimmyOrozco standing over his barbeque pit outside his stand by seveno'clock every morning, the eight o'clock freight train lumbering downthe tracks for twenty minutes. And Jack Harbin parked in the café bynine o'clock.

The waitress, Lurleen, whose droopy brown eyes suggest how hardher life is, says she hasn't heard from Jack, and she's worried. She's toobusy with the breakfast crowd to call and find out where he is, so Isay I'll do it. She gives me the number and I step into the café's littleoffice to make the call. As I listen to the phone ring, I note that Lurleenknows the number by heart.

No one picks up at the Harbins'. I tell Lurleen that Bob and Jackare probably on their way over right now—most likely they overslept.She's got her hands full of plates of eggs and bacon that look prettygood to me, but her eyes are so anxious that I tell her I'll go over andlook in on in them right now and see if everything's okay.

It's already a sultry day. Climbing into my truck I pause and lookoff to the west. A few puffy clouds are piling up on the horizon, as ifdeciding whether to collect into something more serious. We could usethe rain and a break from the heat.

As I approach Jack's street, I hear a woman screaming, and arriveupon a dreadful sight. Jack Harbin's wheelchair is on its side, Jackspilled out onto the sidewalk, trying to pull himself upright. BobHarbin lies still on the grass nearby. Their next-door neighbor, BeckyGeisenslaw, is standing in her driveway dressed for work in her blue andwhite Dairy Queen uniform, hands to her cheeks, shrieking. I swerveto the curb and jump out onto the sidewalk so hard that my bad kneealmost buckles.

Sprawled on the sidewalk, Jack looks pitiful, his face gaunt, andhis shoulders poking out of his T-shirt as sharp as chicken wings. Theleft leg of his army fatigue pants is pinned up where it's empty. He triedout an artificial leg, but it never worked out. Some kind of chemical inthe explosion that crippled him got into the wound and it won't healproperly.

I doubt Jack can hear me over Becky's noise, so I put my hand onhis shoulder to get his attention. "Jack, it's Samuel Craddock. I'm goingto see about your daddy."

Jack's dark glasses have fallen onto the sidewalk. I pick them up andplace them in his hands. It's the first time I've ever seen him withoutthem. His brown eyes are clear, and you wouldn't know anything waswrong, except that the skin surrounding his eyes is pinched and riddledwith tiny white scars.

"What's happened to Daddy? Where is he, Mr. Craddock?Daddy!" His voice is harsh with fear.

"Hold on, Jack, just give me a second. Everything's going to beokay." I say that even though a glance at Jack's father tells me I'm probablywrong. He's lying face down in the grass, his head cocked back inan odd way, arms flung out to his sides.

I gesture for Becky to get over here. She shakes her head and hustlesto her car faster than a woman her size ought to be able to move.

Ed Hruska comes huffing up the sidewalk to the rescue. He's a burlyguy. I ask him to help Jack back into his chair while I see about Bob.

I kneel down and turn Bob over. His face is a meaty color of purple,and his mouth is open as if he was gasping for a last breath. I don'tbelieve he's even sixty, but it looks like a heart attack or a stroke felledhim. I feel his carotid artery and there's no pulse, so I start pumping hischest. In the distance I hear a police siren. I hope whoever is on dutyhas a defibrillator in the car. It will take another twenty minutes for anambulance to get here from Bobtail.

Ed manages to wrestle Jack into his chair. "I'm going to take youinside Jack," he says. "It's hot as blazes out here."

"What about Daddy? Why isn't he saying anything?" It's painfulto watch Jack moving his head from side to side as if he thinks if he canjust get in the right position, he'll be able to see for himself.

"Your daddy's unconscious. We'll get the ambulance here and sortthings out." I nod for Ed to get Jack out of here.

Rodell Skinner, the town's police chief, pulls up across the streetand lets the siren die. For once I'm glad to see him. We've had a reasonabletruce since I let him take credit for nabbing a murderer a fewmonths back, but we'll never be bosom buddies. As former policechief, I hold whoever fills the office to a high standard that Rodellstumbles under. He claims to have cut down on his drinking lately,and this early in the morning I'm hoping he'll be sober enough tocarry out his duties. He takes his time climbing out of his car andambling over to join me.

I squint up at him, panting. "You got a defib unit with you?"

He shakes his head. "It's in James Harley's car. You may as well saveyour energy."

I sigh and sit back on my heels and mop the sweat off my face withmy handkerchief. Rodell crouches down and lays his hands on Bob'schest as if he thinks his touch can bring him back to life.

"Yep, he's dead all right." I never have understood Rodell. But hehas his supporters—mostly men he drinks with.

When Rodell stands back up I tell him I'm going inside to talk toJack, thinking he might want to join me. He sends a disinterested glanceover in the direction of the house and says he'll wait for the ambulance.I ask him for a hand, it being hard to get up with my bum knee.

"When are you going to get that knee fixed?" he says.

"In my own good time."

I don't like the idea of Bob lying out in the hot sun, uncovered, soI root around in my truck for the blanket I carry around with me. I layit over Bob, wishing it wasn't so stained.

In the house Ed Hruska is trying to calm Jack down, not always aneasy task. When Jack gets a notion in his head, he's sometimes hard todivert.

"Jack, your daddy isn't looking too good," I say. "Rodell has calledan ambulance. We need to get somebody in here to stay with you for awhile. Do you have anybody in particular for me to call?"

"What do you mean he's not looking too good?" Jack is hyperventilating,with little moans in between breaths.

Ed raises his eyebrows at me and I shrug. I don't want to tell Jackabout his daddy, but it doesn't seem right to lie to him. "Jack, I thinkmaybe your daddy has had a heart attack."

"Oh, hellfire!" He beats his fist on the arm of his chair. "Daddytold me this morning he didn't feel good. I said we didn't have to gothe café, but he said we ought to go because people would be talkingabout Friday's game. Goddamn Coach Eldridge!" As if the coach isto blame for Bob's heart attack in addition to losing the game. Jackfumbles in the side pocket of his wheelchair and brings out a pack ofcigarettes and a lighter. His hands are shaking so hard that I have tolight it for him.

Jack directs me to a list of his friends taped on the refrigerator. Likethe living room, the kitchen is spotless. I wonder if I could do whatBob did, turning my whole life over to the long-term care of a son whoneeds round-the-clock attention.

I reach a friend of Jack's named Walter Dunn. I've seen Dunn withJack at the café on occasion. He says he'll be there in ten minutes.

Back outside I report to Rodell that Dunn will be here soon.Rodell looks toward Jack's house with a sneer ruffling his brushy mustache."With his daddy gone, now Jack's really got something to whineabout."

I hold back a rush of anger. "The boy's had the devil of a time andit's going to get harder."

Rodell tips the hat back off his forehead, which is slick with sweat."I guess," he says. After that we stand there in a sour cloud of a mood.

Before long Walter Dunn and another man roar up on motorcycles.The two men are about Jack's age, and dressed like Jack in rattyarmy fatigues, boots, and T-shirts. Dunn wears his hair in a buzz, whilethe other man's is in a long ponytail, like Jack's. His faded T-shirt saysHell on Wheels.

Dunn walks over, taking off his helmet, and looks down at thecovered body. He's a good two inches taller than me, at least six feetfour inches, and muscled. His face is rough from a bad case of acne,and his features don't quite come together, with big, flabby lips andlittle ears. But his blue eyes burn intensely, and I'll bet that's whatmost people end up remembering about him. He cocks his head at me."You're Mr. Craddock?"

I nod and we shake hands.

"I appreciate your calling. I guess we'll get on inside to be withJack. He knows his daddy is dead?"

"I just told him I thought Bob had a heart attack. I felt like itwould be better if he had some friends with him when he found outthe worst."

Dunn winces and says, "We'll work it out with him."

Rodell watches the men enter Jack's place. "Something tells methey ain't going to wait on Jack hand and foot the way Bob did."

* * *

Loretta Singletary's place is right down the street from mine. It's afine old two-story house, with wood siding painted a handsome graywith white trim. Loretta's a gardener, and this time of year the plantsthreaten to smother the house. There are hydrangeas with blossoms asbig as your head, bushes of purple flowers, and a climbing rose up to theroof. Bees are thick in the air.

I almost don't see Loretta because she's dwarfed by a stand of sun-flowers. She's wearing a big hat and sunglasses and carrying a pair ofclippers. The midmorning sun is so bright she has to shade her eyeswith her hand to see me. She breaks into a smile and picks her waythrough the garden to the gate.

"Samuel, I'm glad to see you. It gives me an excuse to get out of thissun. Come on inside and let's have some tea."

She bounds up the steps as if her sixtyish years mean nothing. I feela nip of envy because I've aggravated my knee with the morning's business,and I'm a little slower following her up the steps.

I'm not one for air-conditioning most of the time, but it feels goodright now. My eyes have to adjust to the dim light inside, and I gropemy way through her living room back to the kitchen. "What brings youover here?"

I tell her about Bob Harbin. She puts a hand to her neck. "That's a terriblething! I guess without Bob, Jack will have to go to a veteran's home."

"I don't know what he's going to do. But I was hoping you couldget some of the ladies to help him until his situation gets worked out."

She blinks a couple of times and looks toward her telephone,frowning. "There aren't many women who will put up with Jack, so I'llhave to get some men. Including you." She jabs a finger at me.

"What about some church ladies who like to do good?"

She smiles. It's a shared joke. Some of the Baptist ladies in townseem hell-bent to get to heaven by good works. "The way that boycarries on, I don't think the Baptist ladies are going to be inclined. Iwonder if Marybeth can help?"

"I'll call her, but I doubt if she'll be able to do much."

I'm one of the few people in town who keeps up with MarybethHarbin, Jack's mother. I feel sorry for her. A year after Jack got homein such bad shape, Marybeth had a nervous collapse and had to spendsome time in the hospital. After she got out, she went to live in Bryan–CollegeStation, near enough to visit occasionally. Plenty of folks thinkbadly of her for not being there to help Bob, but they can't blame herany more than she blames herself.

* * *

Back home I make a call to the office where Marybeth works and askto speak to her supervisor. I'd like to tell her what happened to Bobmyself, but I don't think it ought to be done on the phone, and sheshould be told right away. She works as a secretary for some researchoutfit associated with Texas A&M. The man I talk to sounds a littlemuddle-headed, but he says he'll break the news to her. I tell him tohave her call me if she needs anything.

To settle myself down, I spend some time looking at my Wolf Kahnpastel. If anybody had told me when I was a boy that I would end upwith a fine art collection, I would have thought they were crazy. But mywife, Jeanne, grew up with a mother who loved art, and when we weremarried Jeanne started buying a few pieces, and she dragged me into it.I ended up enjoying it almost as much as she did. Since she died, thepictures we bought together have meant even more to me. I've evenbought a couple of new pieces that I think she would have liked.

After a while I make the telephone call I've been putting off, tomake an appointment with a surgeon at Texas Orthopedic Hospital inHouston. Rodell hit the nail on the head this morning when he askedwhen I was going to have my knee fixed. I've been hobbling around eversince one of my heifers accidentally knocked me down and stepped onit. On my last visit, my doc said, "You're going to have to let somebodygo in there and put it to rights. Within a few months, you'll be good asnew." Months. I don't like the sound of that.

And then there's the question of who's going to take me to the hospitalin Houston and bring me back. Loretta will insist, and I'd as soonride in a car with Jack Harbin at the wheel as Loretta.

The cheerful receptionist makes me an appointment for a coupleof weeks off. She apologizes for not being able to fit me in sooner, butlater is better than sooner as far as I'm concerned.

Zelda rounds the corner from wherever she's been napping andfixes me with a resentful eye as she meows her way to her dish. "That'stwo of us feeling sorry for ourselves," I tell her.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Last Death of Jack Harbin by TERRY SHAMES. Copyright © 2014 Terry Shames. Excerpted by permission of Prometheus Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Seventh Street Books
• Publication date: 2014
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1616148713
• ISBN 13: 9781616148713
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 256