Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek: A Samuel Craddock Mystery (Samuel Craddock Mysteries) by Terry Shames Page B

back behind her. I can imagine her up on a stage, calculating her moves to draw the interest of her audience.
    “I don’t know why me and Slate have never gotten to know you.” The words are friendly, but the way she looks at me, I’m aware that my pants and shirt are a little worn and my hat is a little the worse for wear.
    “You all travel around a good bit, and I guess we don’t cross paths. Remind me: how long have you had this place in Jarrett Creek?”
    “Ten years.”
    “You’re from west Texas, right?”
    “Lubbock.”
    “And where did Slate grow up?”
    “Midland.” I recall that Slate’s mamma left his daddy when Slate was a little boy and took Slate out west. Slate’s daddy stayed on in Jarrett Creek. When his daddy died everyone expected Slate to sell the old house. But he sent out a construction crew to renovate the place, and since then they’ve come here for several months every year. They usually spend winter in their place in Vail. I don’t know what’s keeping them here.
    “How did you two meet?”
    “He wangled a backstage introduction after one of my concerts. Now that’s enough about us. It’s your turn.”
    “Not much to tell. I grew up here, went to college at A&M, spent a couple of years in the air force, then moved back and settled down with my wife.”
    “Oh, that’s right. Your wife died a while back. I’m sorry. What was she like?”
    Angel’s got a trick of conversation that would suit a police investigator, asking open-ended questions. But when I ask her anything, she replies with the shortest possible answer. My guess is she developed it when she was well known, as a way of protecting her privacy.
    “She was a fine woman. I think you would’ve liked her,” I say.
    She rakes her hair back in a careless motion. “I imagine so.”
    I can do open-ended questions, too. “What drew you and Slate to put down some roots here? I would have thought you might want to stay around Lubbock, where you’ve got family.”
    “Family.” She says the word like it’s got a sour taste to it. “Yeah, I’ve got family, but not much of anybody I wanted to spend a lot of time with. Slate wanted to come back here, and that was fine with me. You need a refresher?”
    “I’m good.”
    “If you don’t mind, I’m going to have another one.” She slides off the sofa and heads for the bar.
    “Slate’s dad had another son by his second wife,” I say. “Do you and Slate keep up with him?”
    “Yes, we do. He actually runs our game resort out near Blanco.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Harold. He’s several years younger than Slate. They don’t have a lot in common.” I recall that something was not quite right with Harold and he got shipped off to a special school when he was a boy.
    I glance at my watch. “Maybe before Slate gets here, I can ask you a couple of things. I’m here because I’m investigating Gary Dellmore’s death.”
    Angel is turned away from me, refilling her glass. Her shoulders go rigid. “Oh, that was awful.” She turns around but stays standing by the bar, stirring her drink with her finger. “Why would somebody shoot Gary? He was a really sweet man. Was it a robbery? Was he carrying a lot of money?”
    “It doesn’t appear to be a robbery.”
    She frowns. “You wanted to talk to Slate? What would he have to do with it? He hardly knew Gary.”
    “Slate was at the meeting we had the night Dellmore was killed.”
    “Oh, that’s right.” She rattles the ice and downs her second round of Scotch.
    “Dellmore was killed sometime after the meeting, and I’m checking with everybody to see if they might’ve noticed anything unusual.”
    She swirls the ice cubes in the glass. “Slate isn’t exactly the type of person to notice much.” She looks over at me with an eyebrow arched. It’s pretty clear that she’s telling me Slate doesn’t pay much attention to her. That’s not a street I’m willing to travel down.
    I push myself up from the sofa