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

my arm. “Alan told me Gary’s car was missing. Has anybody found it?”
    “Not yet, but we will.”
    She frowns. “I wonder if somebody from out of town killed him to get his car? If so, they’d be long gone.”
    “The highway patrol is on the lookout for it. It’ll turn up. Meanwhile, I want you to think over the conversations you had with Gary in the past couple of weeks. Call me if you think of anything that seems off, even if you don’t think it’s important.”
    “Where do I reach you, at your house or your cell phone?”
    “Try the house,” I say weakly.
    I’m going to have to break down and get a cell phone. Everybody will expect me to have one if I’m going to be police chief. Recently a new tower has gone up between Jarrett Creek and Bobtail, and they say it’s easier to get service now, so I don’t have that excuse for not getting one anymore.

I head for Citizens Bank to see what Cookie Travers can add to Alan Dellmore’s version of the argument between him and his son. Cookie is standing next to her desk in the carpeted area of the bank where loans and new business get handled, talking to a woman I don’t recognize. She spots me and waves me over. “Here’s Samuel Craddock right now,” she says to the woman. “He’s the one I was telling you has a big art collection.”
    The woman who turns toward me is in her fifties, with a fine figure, dark eyes, and an uncomplicated chin-length hairdo. She has an anxious look, but when she smiles her expression lightens.
    “Samuel, this is Ellen Forester. She’s just signed a lease to bring a new business to town.”
    I shake her hand. She has a firm handshake and looks me straight in the eye.
    “That’s good to hear,” I say. “We can use some new business.” I’m wondering if anybody told her the town is insolvent.
    “Guess what kind of business?” Cookie says.
    I’m surprised at the hint of conspiracy in her voice, as if the business has something to do with me. “I couldn’t begin to guess.”
    “She’s opening an art gallery and workshop.”
    Ellen gasps and slaps her hand to her mouth. Her eyes are dancing. “Oh, dear,” she says. “Hearing you say it out loud makes it seem real.”
    “Anyway, I told her you collect art. I hope you don’t mind me gossiping.”
    “I don’t mind at all.” Sometimes it surprises me that anyone in town knows I collect art. It’s not what most people expect in a small town. My wife Jeanne and her mother were passionate art collectors, and after a while Jeanne got me interested in it, too. Luckily, Jeanne’s family had the money to buy art, and Jeanne and I bought a few things, ending up with a nice little collection.
    “What kind of art are you going to carry?” I ask. I expect it will be the kind of paintings you find in most Texas galleries, the three “Cs”—countryside, cows, and cactus. It’s a far cry from the art I appreciate.
    “I’m still working on that,” she says. “Nothing too unusual. I’ll show some of my own work, and I hope to find some local talent. But I’m also going to have a workshop where I can offer painting classes.”
    “You think there’s some untapped talent here?”
    “You never know. I think it’s good for people to have a creative outlet.” She glances at her watch. “I better get going. I’m supposed to meet the contractor at the new site.” There’s excitement in her voice. “It was nice to meet you. I hope I get to see your collection sometime soon.”
    When she’s gone, Cookie says, “She ought to perk things up around here. A new business and a little more tax revenue is exactly what this town needs. Now I expect you’ve come to talk about Gary.”
    We sit down at her large, tidy mahogany desk. As a bank vice president, her desk is positioned so she can see everyone who comes and goes. Cookie is pushing sixty and is working hard to pretend the years aren’t piling up. Her hair is blonde, though I know for a fact it used to be dark.