Free A Violent End at Blake Ranch by Terry Shames

oils, so it’s well ventilated. I’m considering whether I want to give Loretta lessons out there. Why don’t I take you to see it?”
    Frazier follows us out to the backyard, as if he thinks he’s the host, and stands guard while Ellen shows me her personal studio. One of the difficult things between us is that Ellen loves to paint, and her painting does nothing for me. I like a strong, dynamic type of art, and she likes to make art of animals and fantasy landscapes. Dreamy sorts of things. Not my taste at all. But she does know what she’s doing, and I expect she can teach Loretta what she needs to know about oil painting.

CHAPTER 6
    â€œRodell, I could kill you,” I mutter, starting yet another stack of files. Killing him isn’t an option, since he died a few months back, but that doesn’t keep me from sending murderous thoughts in his direction. Rodell was the chief of police for several years, and not a particularly satisfactory one due to a significant drinking problem. When he was in his last stages of illness, he stopped drinking and came in to headquarters to help a couple of times a week. There at the end I discovered a man I could have liked, who had a sly sense of humor and a sharp mind. But he died before he could complete the filing he was trying to catch up on. I’m still fighting his so-called filing system.
    It’s the morning after my interview with Les Moffitt, and I’m looking for the file on Nonie Blake from twenty years ago. It’s not often that I need to look into old cases, but I want to take a look at the file to brush up on details before I ask any more questions.
    Hearing that she was trying to have a meeting with someone here in town, presumably about something that happened before she went away, makes me wonder what was going on with the girl before she attempted to kill her sister. Was she having trouble with someone in her life that, as a fourteen-year-old, she wasn’t equipped to deal with? Did it have something to do with her attempt on her sister’s life? I’ll feel on more solid footing if I read the file.
    While I search, I alphabetize the folders. I’m thinking of putting Zeke on the filing, but he’s not a man who takes kindly to busy work, and I don’t want to aggravate him. The town is doing better financially, but we still can’t afford another full-time cop. Zeke is worth holding onto as long as he’ll stay on.
    Finally I run across a batch of files from the correct year and in that batch find the folder itself. It’s fatter than I thought it might be, and I’m impressed that Rodell kept all this. Then I realize this wasn’t when Rodell was chief—it was one of the four years that Ennis Whitehall held the job. He was a quiet man but, from the looks of it, efficient.
    Just as I’m settling in to read, the phone rings, which is pretty much the way it always works. The man who is calling identifies himself as Floyd Curtis, a name I don’t recognize.
    â€œI live over here in Caldwell,” he says. “And I heard the news about that woman that was killed.”
    â€œYou’re referring to Winona Blake?”
    â€œThat’s what the local paper said her name was. I told my wife you might not want to know about this, but she said I ought to call anyway.” He talks in a slow and deliberate cadence, as if he’s written his thoughts out.
    â€œWhy don’t you try me out? It doesn’t hurt for me to hear it.”
    â€œAll right, then here it is. My wife and I had occasion to go to Bobtail. This was about a week and a half ago. When we finished with our business, we were passing by the bus station and there was a young woman standing outside on the sidewalk, hitchhiking. She had a suitcase in her hand. Now I don’t hold with picking up hitchhikers, but my wife said this was a woman and we couldn’t leave her standing there, something might happen to