Bittersweet (23 page)

“Did you try calling her cell?”

China shook her head. “I honestly thought she'd be there this morning when I got up. Patsy said she'd try to reach her. But there's something else.” She paused, frowning. “I may be talking out of school here, Mack. On the other hand, it might be something you need to know. About those fawns.”

Mack was immediately alert. “Those fawns?”

“Right. The fawns you were telling us about at dinner yesterday. The ones you thought might be stolen.”

“What about them?”

“There's something going on at Three Gates—something that involves Jack Krause and a couple of his buddies. Sue Ellen knows what it is, or part of it anyway, but she hasn't told me. At least, not yet.” She leaned closer, her voice tense. “Those fawns, Mack. I think they might have come from Three Gates.”

Mack felt a shiver run up her backbone and across her shoulders. Four-three-two, Doc Masters had said. The number that identified Three Gates as the permit holder for the fawns. And now Doc Masters was dead.

“Did Sue Ellen tell you that?” Mack asked, keeping her voice even.

“Not exactly. She told me that Jack was stealing something from his employer, but she didn't say what. She also said that he and a couple of his buddies are launching a trophy-hunting business of their own. It's a start-up, on a shoestring. They've already got the land, but to get the state permit, they have to put in the fencing, which is an expensive proposition. To finance the operation, they've been trucking in white-tails from Oklahoma.”

Of course, Mack thought. The fawns weren't the only black-market animals involved—they were just the only ones that Doc happened to see. “Did Sue Ellen tell you who these guys are?

“Just their first names. Duke and Lucky. Ring a bell?”

“Uh-uh,” Mack said. “But I haven't been here very long. One of the other wardens might know.”

China pulled her brows together, frowning. “Of course, these are
uncorroborated accusations, and vague at that, and Sue Ellen was reluctant to give me the details. But I questioned a lot of people in my previous incarnation as a lawyer, and I can usually pick up signals when somebody is lying to me. I didn't pick up any of those signals from her. Whatever Sue Ellen knows, she believes it's the truth. That's one of the reasons she's opting out of the marriage. That, and the physical abuse.”

Mack cocked her head, regarding China closely. “But Sue Ellen didn't tell you what the ‘something' is that Jack's stealing from his employer?”

“Nope. That's as far as we got. But McQuaid told me that his PI firm is investigating the theft of some super high-priced deer semen, and then you mentioned the fawns.” She paused. “Whatever Jack has been stealing, Sue Ellen thinks it's worth a bundle of money, maybe close to a quarter of a million dollars.”

Mack whistled between her teeth. “That's a pretty big chunk of change, China.”

“Yes.” China shrugged. “Again, she might be wrong, or she might be lying. My money is on her, though. I think she's telling the truth.”

The door opened. Mack, who was facing the door, glanced up and saw Angie Donaldson come in, wearing a bulky purple sweater over her cheerful yellow and orange printed scrubs. She stood looking around uncertainly for a moment, spotted Mack, and headed for the table.

“Hi, Warden,” she said. “Clinker told me he thought he saw you come in here.”

“Hey, Angie,” Mack said. “You've got some information for me?” Angie's eyebrows went up, and she glanced at China, questioning. Mack added quickly, “It's okay. China is an old friend from Pecan Springs. China, this is Angie Donaldson. She works at the vet clinic. For Doc Masters.”

“Oh,” China said. “Then your boss—” She bit her lip. “I'm sorry.”

“Me, too,” Angie said, pulling down her mouth. “Bummer. Really. Doc was one of the good guys.” She looked at Mack. “Yeah, I got something for you. A couple of names.”

“That's great! How'd you do that?” Mack asked.

Angie blew out a breath, lifting her dark, spiky bangs. “I had to go to the post office a little while ago to mail a batch of billings. While I was there, I ran into Jimmy Parker. You know him? He drives one of the mail routes.”

Mack shook her head.

“He's somebody you should get acquainted with,” Angie said. “He's been on the route for a long time, so he knows the names of just about everybody in this part of the county. He can tell you all kinds of stuff about what's going on out there in the boonies, because he's out there every day, driving around. Well, five days a week, anyhoo. They've discontinued Saturday delivery. So I asked him about the Bar Bee, and it turns out that he knows where it is and who lives there. Or who's getting their mail there, anyway.” She pulled a torn envelope out of the pocket of her purple sweater. “Here. He wrote it down. He didn't remember the exact address, but he wrote down the directions, sorta.” She gave Mack a meaningful look. “I told him I was the one wanting to know, because of the billing. I didn't mention that a game warden was hot on the trail.”

“Angie, that's terrific! Thank you.” Mack took the envelope and peered at the penciled scribble. Was this the name and address Doc would have given her if he had lived until Friday morning? She frowned. “I can't make out what it says. Did he happen to tell you?”

“He did.” She leaned over, squinting. “Good thing, too, because
nobody's going to read
that.
Ronald and Thomas Perry is what I remember. Two guys.”

“Father and son?” Mack asked.

Angie shrugged. “Dunno. If Jimmy knows, he didn't say. Just two guys with the same last name. Anyway, to get to the Bar Bee, you take 1051 out past Reagan Wells until it forks, then turn left and go for a couple more miles across Bee Creek, up toward Sycamore Mountain. It isn't marked, Jimmy says. There's just a low water crossing and then the mailbox.”

“Ah,” Mack said. “I know that area. I've been on patrol out there.” That land was steep and wooded, cut by deep canyons but with wide swaths of grassy meadows strung along Bee Creek. There were no game ranches in the area, just day and season leases and the occasional poacher and jacklighter. And a gated community three or four miles away.

“Okay. The mailbox has ‘Perry' on it, and ‘Bar Bee' under that. Jimmy says that there's a road that snakes up along Bee Creek for a ways, which is probably how the ranch got its name. He doesn't go any farther on 1051 because nobody else is getting mail out that way. It's pretty remote.” She paused. “So. That's what you're looking for, I guess. That give you something to go on?”

“Sure does,” Mack said, pocketing the envelope and feeling grateful for the fact that people in small towns knew everybody and everything, more or less. “Great detective work, Angie. I can't thank you enough.” She grinned. “You're going to follow up on this, too, I hope.”

“You bet your sweet bippy I am,” Angie said firmly. “I'm going back to the clinic right now and write up a bill for three hours of Doc's time for birthing those twin calves, and I'm sending it to those guys. Ronald
and Thomas Perry. Meantime, if you get out to the Bar Bee and you find out that it isn't the right place, look around out there and see if there's somebody else who might own up to having a pair of young twin calves, so I can be sure the bill goes to the right place.”

“I'll do it,” Mack said.

“Good.” Angie put one hand on her hip. “And you remember what I said about keeping me posted on that investigation. You owe me, you know. When I find out who the hell shot Doc Masters, I might just go gunnin' for him myself.”

“I hope you don't mean that,” Mack said, frowning. She didn't think Angie would do something like that, but people fooled you sometimes.

“I mean it more'n half,” Angie replied grimly. She glanced at China. “Nice meetin' you, Ms. Bayles. Y'all have a nice day now, you hear?” And with that, she was gone.

“Quite a character,” China said, eyebrows raised.

“I'm glad she's on our side,” Mack agreed with a wry grin. “Whoever killed Doc should be on the lookout. I have the feeling that she intends to get her man.” She paused. “To anticipate your question, no, there's nothing new on the investigation, from what I've heard. But then, I'm not in the loop. For all I know, the cops may have already gotten their guy.”

She thought briefly of Ethan. She had promised to let him in on what she learned about the fawns, in case there was some connection to Doc Masters' murder. But maybe she'd better do a little more checking into the situation first, to see if there was anything significant in it. She'd hate to involve him in a wild-goose chase.

China nodded. “If I understood what you and Angie were talking about, you've identified the ranch where Doc Masters saw the fawns.”

“Right. I followed up on the twin calves, as you suggested. We didn't find it in the billing records, though. It was in the doc's notebook. No names, just the name of the ranch, the Bar Bee. Angie had to ask around to get the names of the owners.” She paused. “Maybe not the owners. Maybe just somebody who lives there.”

“Those names.” China frowned. “The guys Sue Ellen mentioned are Duke and Lucky. She didn't say anything about men named Ronald or Thomas. Or Perry.”

“The white-tails could have been laundered through any number of outfits, legal and illegal,” Mack said. “That's one of the bad things about this business. If you're going to game the system, there are a gazillion ways to do it.” She pushed her chair back. “I'm glad we had a chance to talk, China, but I need to get going. If you're able to learn any more information from Sue Ellen, please pass it along as quick as you can. Okay?”

China nodded. “You're headed out to the Bar Bee?”

“Yes, but not right now.” Mack stood up. “I have to go home and suit up. I'm on patrol this afternoon. I want to get on the state computer system and see what I can find out about these guys before I go out there.” She smiled crookedly. “I always kinda like to know what I'm walking into.”

“Good idea.” China got up, too. “What you do—I know it can be dangerous, Mack. Do you ever take any backup?”

“Not often. But I've got a Glock on my hip and an AR-15 in my truck, and I earned my share of marksmanship medals when I was at the Academy.” Mack grinned. “Not to mention the ‘Don't Mess with Texas' tattoo on my forehead.” She laughed at China's quick, inquisitive glance. “No. No tattoo. Not really. But I scowl a lot. I scare 'em to death.”

“I hear you.” China didn't laugh. “But just the same, Wonder Woman, you might want to think about taking backup when you go out to that ranch. Sounds like this could be a pretty serious bust, if it happens. Maybe not your average one-woman show. You think?”

“Maybe,” Mack said, and grinned. “I'll take it under
advisement.”

3 tablespoons olive oil

4 garlic cloves, very finely minced

2 tablespoons finely minced fresh herbs (parsley, thyme, rosemary, sage)

4 cups 3/4-inch bread cubes (sourdough is best, about 4 slices, crusts trimmed)

Preheat oven to 325°F. Heat oil in heavy skillet over medium heat. Add garlic, thyme, and rosemary. Sauté about 1 minute. Remove skillet from heat, add parsley and bread cubes and toss with the garlic-herb oil to coat. Spread on baking sheet. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Stirring occasionally, bake just until croutons are golden, about 15 minutes.

Before I left the restaurant, I went to the kitchen door and knocked. “Just wanted to say thank you for that wonderful quiche,” I said, when Jennie came to the door. “Mack and I both loved it. It was the perfect lunch.”

“Thank you, China,” Jennie replied. She was still wearing the red bandana, but she had tied a red and green apron over her jeans and T-shirt. “It was our pleasure. And thanks so much for helping us out with the garden—and especially for choosing and bringing all those terrific plants. You saved us hours and hours, not to mention a lot of uncertainty when it came to choosing the right plants and knowing where to put them.”

“Is that China you're talking to?” a young woman called without turning around. She was working at a counter, arranging torn greens on salad plates. “If it is, I need to tell her something.”

“That's who it is, Patsy,” Jennie said over her shoulder, and held the door open. “Come on in, China. I'm finishing up the soup.” She turned and went to the large commercial stove that stood against one wall of the well-appointed kitchen.

I went over to stand beside Patsy, who was now adding slices of tomato and hard-boiled egg to the salad plates. “What's up?” I asked.

Tall and thin faced, with gingery hair, pale eyebrows and lashes, and freckles on her nose, Patsy wasn't as pretty as Sue Ellen, and she had an air of quiet self-containment that contrasted with her sister's cowgirl vivacity. She was wearing an apron that matched Jennie's. “I finally reached Sue Ellen,” she said, sounding mildly irritated. “She said she
spent the night at Three Gates. She didn't want to tell me, though. I had to practically wring it out of her.”

“Uh-oh.” I shook my head. “I don't think that was a very good idea. I hope she hasn't changed her mind—where leaving Jack is concerned, I mean.”

“She says she hasn't,” Patsy replied. “She asked me to apologize to you for running out on you yesterday. She'll be back at your mom's place in a little while. When I talked to her, she was loading up her car with the rest of her stuff. Sounds like she's really clearing out.”

“That's good,” I said, with real relief, partly because I didn't like the thought of her staying on at Three Gates, where she might be even further implicated in whatever her husband was up to. And partly because I was hoping—selfishly—that she would settle in at Bittersweet, where she could be a help to Leatha. Knowing that she was there, I could go back to Pecan Springs feeling more comfortable about the situation. Yes, selfish. I admit it.

Patsy finished with the tomato and egg slices and reached for a bowl of herbed croutons. “Try one,” she said, handing me the bowl. “I just made these fresh this morning.”

“Yum,” I said, munching. “Just right.”

“Nice with soup, too,” Jennie said over her shoulder. “We put containers of these on the tables so people can help themselves.”

I touched Patsy's arm. “I hope you don't think I'm butting my nose into your sister's personal business. But I appreciate her willingness to be there for my mother—more than I can say. And I've told her that if she needs legal advice, we can help her find it.”

“Which is
good
,” Patsy said with emphasis, turning to face me. Her
expression was intense. “I've made it my business not to know what's going on out there at Three Gates. The less I know about what Jack Krause is up to, the better. In fact, when Sue Ellen started to tell me some stuff about him and his buddies, I told her I didn't want to be involved. I felt terrible saying that, but I had to protect myself.”

“It sounds as if you think something seriously criminal is going on,” I said quietly.

She shivered. Her voice was low and so taut that the words seemed to vibrate in the air between us. “I
know
there is, China. And I'll tell you something else. Sue Ellen believes that she's in danger, and she is scared silly. I'm so glad that she has a place where she can just go and be safe. She told me that you're a lawyer. If you can help her get out of this situation and stay out—legally, I mean—I'll be eternally grateful.”

I didn't correct her. Technically, I'm still a lawyer. I keep up my credentials with the Texas bar just so I can make that claim—or just in case my business tanks and I have to go back to my profession. “I'll do what I can,” I said.

The bell over the restaurant door tinkled. Jennie turned around. “Sounds like the lunch bunch is coming in, Patsy.”

“I need to get out of your way,” I said. “But before I go—Patsy, did Sue Ellen ask if you would come out this weekend for an hour or so? I want my mother to meet you, and I'd love to show you around her place. You're going to like it out there.” At least, I hoped she would. If things went according to plan, she would be out there helping my mother when her sister went off to college.

“Sure,” she said. “I'll give Sue Ellen a call when I get off this afternoon. She said she loves her suite in the guest lodge. Maybe I can come out this evening and help her get settled.”

“Nice,” I said. “We'll probably eat around five or five thirty. Come for supper if you can. It'll be turkey sandwiches, probably, and just the four of us girls—you and Sue Ellen and Mom and me. My family is already headed back to Pecan Springs.”

“Thanks,” she said warmly. “See you then.” She raised her hand. “And thank you for helping Sue Ellen. She's a big girl and she's used to looking out for herself. But I have the feeling that right now, she can use all the help we can give her.”

Later, thinking back on our conversation, I would reflect that by the time Patsy said that, it was already too late.

•   •   •

A
S
soon as I got in the car to head back to Bittersweet, I phoned Leatha. She was still at the hospital, where Sam had developed what she called a “little problem.” When I offered to drive over, she stopped me. “Thank you, but I wish you wouldn't, dear.” Her voice sounded small and thin and far away. “I know you love him, and I'm sure I'm being very selfish. But I'd really rather be here with him, just the two of us. I hope you'll understand.”

She sounded near despair, and I was frightened. What was going on? Was Sam
dying
? I should be there with her. But what could I say? He was her husband. They were happy together and she loved him—far more deeply, I felt sure, than she had loved my father. And I understood why she didn't want me to come. I belonged to that other life, the life she'd had before she married Sam. I would be a part of the past, intruding on the present.

“Of course I understand,” I replied quickly. “Let me know if you change your mind. I can be there in an hour.” I paused. “Kiss Sam for me. I love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too, dear,” she said. “Don't wait supper for me.” And then she was gone.

I clicked off sadly. My mother had lived through so many difficult times—her bouts with alcoholism, my father's long betrayal, Aunt Tully's frightening descent into dementia, the loss of the family plantation that had been the home of her heart. And then she had made a home at Bittersweet, a place where she could at last be the person she wanted to be, where she had a stable and deeply satisfying relationship, a love to center her life.

Now, that stability was threatened. How would she hold up? How would she—how would any of us, come to that—meet the challenge of losing the person she loved most? And if she lost Sam, would she be able to keep the ranch? Or would she lose it, as well?

But all I had were questions. Questions without answers. The answers lay beyond the curtain of time, in the hands of the fates.

•   •   •

I
EXPECTED
to see Sue Ellen's red Ford Focus in the driveway when I got back to the ranch, but it wasn't there, which irritated me a little. I wanted to talk to her, to try to get a clearer fix on what was going on at Three Gates. I was glad that Mack and I had been able to discuss the situation and trade what we knew—and what we suspected. If I was able to squeeze any information out of Sue Ellen, I'd pass it along to Mack. I frowned, thinking of what she was planning and hoping she'd follow my advice and take some backup when she went out to the Bar Bee. It sounded like it might be a volatile situation. Sue Ellen's late arrival left me with some free time. So I put on a jacket, my boots, and a wool cap, slung my binoculars around my neck and stuck my mother's bird book into my pocket, and hiked downriver to Sam's observation tower.

I was still thinking about my mother and Sam as I walked, and wishing regretfully that she had allowed me to be with her at the hospital. But I was glad to have this time to myself. The sun was flickering into cloud, and the sky had the soft sheen of old silver. The air was chilly, and the north breeze had a sharp bite, but I turned up my jacket collar and pulled down my cap and was warm enough. When was the last time I'd been alone beside a river on a wintry afternoon? I couldn't remember.

The woods were very quiet, except for the sound of my boots in the dry leaves and the occasional soft trill of a bird. Every now and then, I looked down, remembering that Sam had once shown me a flint arrowhead lying in the dust of a path not far from here. Long before white people settled here, the Comanche had hunted all through this area, on foot and on horseback, leaving behind a few traces of their time in these woods.

And then, as if by magic, I found another flint arrowhead, its chipped edges perfectly shaped and sharp. Had it been lost in a futile shot from a brave's bow? Or had it felled a deer and been missed when the animal was dressed for eating? Had there been a campfire nearby, where the women and children prepared the food that the hunters brought back? Holding it, I felt that the past was somehow very present, as if the Comanche were somewhere in the woods, watching as I walked along their path, along their river, among their trees. I put it in my pocket, feeling as if I'd found something prized and precious, a relic left by some long-ago hunter for me to discover on this quiet afternoon.

When I climbed the wooden tower, I saw that Sam had sited it so that it offered views in four directions: a view upstream and down; a view of the flat, low-lying, hummocky area behind me; and a view across the river, where I saw a rocky cliff that rose some twenty feet high. The tower
platform was nearly level with the top of the cliff and it felt odd, almost intrusive, to watch the birds as they went about their business in the trees around me. Nearby, a flock of a dozen conspicuous cedar waxwings were attacking the purple berries of a juniper. A red-tailed hawk patrolled low above the grassy hummocks, on the lookout for an unwary field mouse. A mourning dove called from somewhere in the distance, and on the limb of a nearby live oak, a robin fussed at me. This tower was in his space.
I
was in his space, and he preferred to live his life without people spying on him.

And then, on the far bank, under the shelter of the cliff, I saw an axis buck wearing a huge rack, much larger than the buck my mother and I had seen from her kitchen window. He was large and imposing and, yes, magnificent and splendid and beautiful. And alien. Watching me, he stood stone-still, sharply outlined against the limestone rock and the dark green of the cedar. Watching him, I held my breath, admiring his size and strength but at the same time understanding that he was a threat, and why, and how, and to what. He was like the white-tails smuggled into Texas for their genes, like kudzu and Oriental bittersweet and chinaberry trees. Like me, a specimen of
Homo sapiens
,
the species responsible for all these invasions, the most invasive species of all. It was a bittersweet understanding.

The sun came and went behind skeins of darkening clouds, and when it went for good and the wind began to blow colder, I pocketed the bird guide and headed for the house, thinking domestic thoughts. Sue Ellen would be there by now, and Patsy would be along later, but it hadn't sounded as if Leatha would make it in time for supper. I would slice some leftover turkey for sandwiches, and there were mashed potatoes that I could use to make potato soup. And there was leftover pie. I smiled,
thinking of Mack's “Pie fixes everything.” I could almost believe that, especially if the pie was topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.