Firebreak (Josie Gray Mysteries #4)(62)
The light in the home was magnificent, streaming in from the long windows and bouncing off ebony hardwood floors. Dark wood trim surrounded the doors and windows and contrasted beautifully with white stucco walls.
“Not your typical bachelor pad,” Susan said, surveying the room from the doorway and taking in the bold artwork that hung on the walls. Leather couches and heavy wooden tables and benches gave the room a masculine feel without looking too over-the-top.
“Hard to imagine this is the home of the man I heard described as a ferret,” Josie said.
Susan glanced at Josie. “I feel a little bad about that now. He was just so whiny. Played the victim like he practiced the part. You know the type?”
“I do. Any idea why he felt so victimized? Was it tied to him being gay and getting harassed?”
“I don’t know much about his background. I heard he moved here from Georgia. Left his daddy’s tool and die shop and came out here to pursue something.”
“Stalking country music performers?” Josie asked.
“Apparently.”
“What’s the search warrant cover?”
“Judge gave us free rein. I told him the body had been identified. You have target areas?”
“I’d like you to start with his finances. We need to figure out who’s paying for this lifestyle if he doesn’t have a job,” Josie said.
“Blackmail?” Susan said.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Josie pointed to a hallway across the living room, directly opposite the front door. She figured the house was only about twelve hundred square feet, with the bedroom down the only hallway. “I’ll start in the bedroom. I’d like to get a sense for him on a personal level. The descriptions I’ve received from the locals haven’t been kind. And, yet, Billy Nix appears to have committed suicide over him. Ferris obviously has something going for himself.”
Josie walked around the living room furniture first, noticing the dust on the end tables and the wood floors. Aside from several days of disuse, the house was impeccably decorated and clean. There were no dollar-store knickknacks like the Nixes had accumulated on their bookshelves and end tables. Ferris collected art and knew how to display it.
The polished ebony planks of the floor led Josie past a bathroom with a marble countertop and gleaming silver hardware and fresh white towels. The bedroom, just beyond the guest bath, maintained the dark masculine feel of the living space, but the fabrics and linens were soft and textured, creamy rather than stark white. It was the kind of place a person would love to come home to at the end of the day. So why had Ferris chosen the Nix household, where he was obviously so unwanted, to spend the last day of his life? Why would he have gone to Artemis, in the middle of a wildfire evacuation, to the Nixes’ home after they had already left town? Was he looking for something? Josie couldn’t imagine what the Nixes could own that would be worth murder.
Josie went to the bedside table and opened the drawer. She found it filled with letters, most in envelopes, and several postmarked Artemis, Texas. Three envelopes bore no return address, but the letters began “Dear Ferris.” Two of those letters were signed “Love, Billy.”
Josie took the letters and sat on the edge of the bed, a sadness overcoming her for Brenda, who appeared so intent on controlling a life that she didn’t understand, or at least chose not to acknowledge.
Josie put the letters in the order in which they were mailed and read each one. The first letter filled half a notebook page and simply thanked Ferris for helping set up the band at a performance in Presidio. The letter talked about details from the concert and Billy’s comments about a song they tried out on the audience that night that was a big hit. The date was fourteen months prior. Josie wondered if that was when the two had met.
The second letter was dated two months later. Most of the content suggested little beyond a simple friendship; however, at the end of the letter Billy had written, “Please don’t send any more letters to the house. Brenda takes things wrong. She’s a good woman and wants to see the band make it. She worries about distractions. Send me a text if you need anything. Love, Billy.”
The third letter’s subject was more veiled.
Dear Ferris,
I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. You know she just wants what’s best for the band. And to her that means knowing all the details. She can’t give you jobs to do because it keeps her from knowing everything. I know you were trying to help the band too and I appreciate that. You are a good friend and I hope this doesn’t cause hard feelings between us. I’ll try and get to Presidio this week to see you. You know this isn’t easy. It takes time. Be patient with an old man.
Love, Billy
Josie reread the three letters and set them aside. She riffled through the other letters and opened a few that weren’t in envelopes. Most were personal in nature, from both men and women, many of them containing a similar theme: Sorry there was a misunderstanding, please don’t give up on me.
Josie left the pile of letters on the bed and opened the door to the bottom of the bedside cabinet. Inside she found a small wooden trunk, which she pulled out and opened. It appeared to be a mess of unrelated memorabilia: an autographed first edition of a Kurt Vonnegut novel, several playbills, a model car of a Corvette with a smiley face drawn onto the hood, an autographed baseball with a signature Josie couldn’t read, a coffee mug from Churchill Downs, and a six-inch-tall replica of the Eiffel Tower with the word Unforgettable inscribed on a silver plaque on the base. Josie wondered what qualities made a person unforgettable and decided whatever they were she evidently didn’t have them, because she didn’t have a box full of mementos and a drawer full of letters from admirers. Currently she had no admirers.