Killer Moves: The 4th Jolene Jackson Mystery (Jolene Jackson Mysteries) (4 page)

Turning back toward me, the man took off his hat, gave a slight bow and said evenly and almost pleasantly. “Clovis Stovall, at your service.”

His change in demeanor was obvious, presumably because it dawned on him that I would be signing his paychecks at some point and it might behoove him to be civil to me.

“Pleased to meet you, Mister Stovall,” I said, smiling as if he hadn’t just had a gun pointed in my face. “Are you the caretaker?”

His eyes narrowed again. “Mister Stovall was my daddy. I’m Clove. The ranch manager.” Before I could respond to that, he was volunteering more information. “I’m sixty-nine years old, lived around here all my life and have been working this ranch since just before Miss Glenda passed away.” Clove paused, as if catching himself. “Guess you’ll get into all that soon enough.” He nodded up the hill. “May as well take the tour. There’s a circle driveway in front for guests. Drive around to the back. We’ll start there.”

He hopped on the four-wheeler and cranked it up then spun around and zipped away.

I rolled up my window and followed along, watching the ATV fly up the road. It seemed to me he was being a tad reckless with a giant cliff a few feet away, but it obviously wasn’t his first rodeo as it was mine.

Within a few seconds, I was able to get a glimpse of the house through the foliage. At the crest of the hill, the front of The Big House came into view. Surrounded by trees, some of which looked like pecans, was a flat-roofed rambling ranch that seemed to sprawl out in every direction. A circular driveway arched up to the front door where a huge hotel-like covered area jutted out. Clove had already sped past the road that led up to the grand front entrance, so I kept going as directed.

As I made the turn on the outer rim, I slowed down to take in the view again. The perspective was so unexpected and I just couldn’t stop staring.

Thump.
The wheel jerked in my hand. I snapped to attention, my heart instantly racing and my mind screaming “We’re gonna die!” Yes, we—the me talking to myself and the me driving the car off the cliff, which is what my brain thought when the tire dropped off the asphalt.

Scared straight, I dutifully followed the road around to the back since Clove and the four-wheeler were long gone. I looped around to the left again and dropped down into a wide flat open area that ran the length of the house, which I could now see was two stories on this side. At each end, attached twin garages formed a wide “U” shape around a large yard, flower gardens and patio area with a huge swimming pool. Sculptured rocks and rushing waterfall—a mini-replica of the one in Redwater Falls—provided a stunning focal point.

I don’t know how long I sat there gawking, but a piercing whistle jolted me out of it. I snapped around to see Clove standing a few feet away, mentally telegraphing an “Are you coming or not?” message.

Not. Definitely not. I was not getting out of the car, and yet I couldn’t name a specific reason why. The luxurious setting had been a shock, no question about that. It didn’t fit into any reality I imagined could exist around here, but here it was. And that impossible reality was nothing compared to the plethora of realities lurking inside, waiting to rock my world. I was not going into that house. Not now. Maybe not ever. I rolled down the window and motioned Clove over. When he was close enough to hear. “I really don’t have time for this today,” I said, keeping my face and voice as neutral as possible. “I’ll come back when I don’t have other appointments scheduled.”

Clove stared for a few seconds longer than seemed necessary. “Suit yourself,” he said flatly. He reached into his back pocket for his billfold then he pulled out a card and handed it to me. “Call first.”

Chapter 5

On my way down the hill, I came up with a variety of scenarios for the “Come to Jesus” meeting I was going to have with my resident ranch manager, Mr. “Call First” Clovis, none of which he would like even a little.

For about the four thousandth time, I wondered what heinous karmic crimes I’d committed that kept me tethered to turmoil in my old hometown. Drama and confrontations are not my thing, which was a major factor in my failure as an investigative reporter. And, other than an occasional altercation with trespassers or wayward wildlife, my real life in Colorado is pretty peaceful. So, I just can’t see how any of the ridiculous stuff that happens here is my fault—
Law of Attraction
bullshit notwithstanding. I just don’t buy that I’m sending out invisible “Please drag me back to Kickapoo so I can be tortured” vibes. That said, I can’t argue with the possibility that some lingering latent subconscious childhood crap is involved here—God knows it is and its name is Lucille.

Now, I know that my mother did not deliberately intend to turn my life upside down when she laid the groundwork for this latest fiasco over forty years ago. Nevertheless, she had, and day one was not showing any signs of improving matters.

I stopped beneath the entryway arch and glanced in the mirror even though I knew I couldn’t see the fancy house on the hill. The mid-century modern masterpiece would be right at home in the ritzy Hollywood hills. Only it wasn’t in California, it was in Texas—Kickapoo, Texas—and things were never what they seemed at first glance. And from the way it had felt, I couldn’t find a single thing to be doing the happy dance about anytime soon.

My mind continued to twist and turn on itself, but it wasn’t generating anything productive, so I pulled back onto Turkey Ranch Road and headed north toward the highway.

Reaching the stop sign, I diligently looked both ways. Seeing a break in traffic, I looked back to the left a second time. That’s when I noticed a bronze pickup truck facing head-in toward the fence a few hundred yards away. Since the truck wasn’t nose-first in the deep drainage ditch that ran along the highway, I presumed it was parked on the entry to a gate—a gate that my view from above had just established as to being on my new estate lands. So, instead of heading to Redwater, I pulled onto the highway back toward Kickapoo to check it out.

I figured it was someone working with the oil and gas production equipment, which I knew nothing about yet, so I didn’t intend to stop. Still, getting a general description of the truck and driver before meeting with Vanderhorn could help start connecting the dots on all the various facets of things going on here.

As I drove past, I saw a large man in a ball cap standing in front of an extended-cab pickup, unlocking the gate. And then, he shoved the gate back and kicked it with his foot.

Now, don’t ask me why it annoyed me so much or why I did what I did next, because I really don’t know. Maybe it was my lingering irritation over the Clovis Stovall episode, or maybe it was a budding feeling of protectiveness over the ranch. Or, maybe, I just sensed trouble to come and figured we might as well get to it. Whatever the case, I honked my horn—twice—then made a U-turn and headed back for a personal introduction.

By the time I got there, the man was standing with his hands on his hips—no small feat considering the bulk hanging over the top of his belt trying to prevent it. He looked to be a little over six feet tall and probably tipped the scales somewhere near three hundred pounds. Health conscious types would say he had a wheat belly. My friend Bob would have diagnosed him with a bad case of “Dickie-doo Disease,” meaning that his belly stuck out farther than his…yes, well, you get the idea. It was a dumb thing to have pop into my head, and while the judgmental assessment was a distraction, it was only a momentary one. I put the car in park and thought about what to do.

I wasn’t even officially in town yet and I was just seconds away from my second unpleasant encounter. I couldn’t even say I hadn’t asked for it, because I had. Why, I didn’t know. I do not go looking for trouble—really I don’t—but this morning, I’d homed in on it like a bloodhound. And now that the trouble was scowling at me, ready to pounce.

Besides the scrunched up face, the man wore a light blue knit shirt, jeans and rubber muck boots. Tufts of unnaturally dark hair peeked out from beneath a white ball cap with the letters “WEI” stitched across the front. His hair was definitely dyed, and so was the Van Dyke beard-moustache thing circling his mouth. With apologies in advance to the late actor, the man looked like a puffy caricature of Rip Torn, without the
Men in Black
suit, of course.

A movement inside the cab of the truck caught my attention. A smaller man with pale skin and a tan safari-style hat peered out the passenger side window like a startled animal. I couldn’t really tell much about him, but his demeanor—and the fact that he wasn’t getting out of the truck—told me he was a subordinate to the man at the gate. I didn’t get a good feeling about him either, but for a different reason.

I stepped out of the Tahoe onto a grassy gravel area. I was very grateful I’d worn jeans and real shoes since the place was certain to be crawling with blood-sucking chiggers. It also looked like it might be infested with lecherous old men.

The man’s scrunched up scowl had morphed into a half-smile with red cheeks. I couldn’t tell if he was leering at me or mad because I had stopped, or maybe something else entirely. Whatever the case, the uneasy vibe was perfectly clear. Who was sending it wasn’t.

“Doctor Richard Waverman, PhD, hydrogeologist,” he said, answering my unspoken question authoritatively, arrogantly and redundantly. “I am president and CEO of Waverman Environmental Incorporated, and the primary consultant in charge of this project.” Then, he looked down his nose at me, chastising and leering all at the same time. “You weren’t supposed to be here today, Misses Jackson.”

Oh, come on. Was there anyone who
didn’t
know my name and presumed itinerary? And had he just called me “Mrs.”? Before I could correct him on that, he stuck out his hand. “Good to meet you.”

I gave his hand a quick firm shake. “It’s Miz,” I said just as firmly. I considered bringing him up to date on the post-Victorian nonsexist new world order, but I had the feeling there would be many more opportunities. “It’s good to meet you as well, and I do understand that you weren’t expecting to meet with me. However, I’m on my way to meet with the attorneys to start the management transition process, so having a face to put with the name will be helpful.”

Waverman straightened his shoulders and grunted, kind of like a bull ready to paw the dirt and charge. The reality of having to work with me—
for
me—was sinking in and he didn’t much like it.

“We’ll need to meet in the next day or two,” I said, “so you can bring me up to speed on things, the extent of the contamination, regulatory compliance requirements, any citations or pending enforcement actions, that sort of thing.” That I knew such words seemed a shock to him. “And, of course, we’ll need to discuss the details of your plans for mitigation and remediation.”

Waverman bobbed back as if I’d punched him. Catching himself, he recovered quickly, planted his feet and puffed out of his chest. “Yes, well, now,” he said, with a condescending “you poor dumb thing” tone. “You need to understand that this is a very complex and complicated project, Misses Jackson, and you”

“It’s Miz,” I repeated, using the reminder to interrupt his forthcoming condescension—and it was definitely forthcoming. I smiled with my mouth, but not my eyes. “As I’m sure you can appreciate, Doctor Waverman, this property, along with all the activities and personnel on it, are ultimately my legal and fiscal responsibility. I take that very seriously and will make decisions accordingly.”

He shifted from side to side, frowning, but said nothing.

No problem. I had plenty to say. “I’ll be getting copies of all the reports from Ed today and will review those tonight. That should give me a general idea on where we are at this point. You can give me the specifics. If there are additional test results, data, regulatory interactions or other information that you haven’t sent to Ed, please bring copies for me to our meeting.”

Waverman’s nostrils flared, his eyes bugged and his mouth hung open as if gasping for breath. As amusing as it would be to go all Henry Heimlich on him, a few thrusts to the solar plexus weren’t going dislodge what was stuck in his craw. He would have probably gotten his hackles up with anyone who hadn’t groveled before his greatness, but my being a woman made it all the worse. “I’ll give you a call this afternoon to schedule an appointment.”

He nodded, but still hadn’t found the words or the ability to speak.

As I turned and walked back toward the Tahoe, I glanced over at Waverman’s truck. His sidekick sat bolt upright, staring straight ahead, pretending he hadn’t heard every word said, which of course he had since the window was now rolled down a couple of inches.

The encounter hadn’t been confrontational, really, except for the Miz thing. But it still felt yucky. I was not looking forward to dealing with Waverman—nor he me—but for now, neither of us had much choice.

I climbed back in my car and pulled out onto the highway.
“What next?”
I muttered.

The words had zipped across my mind and out my mouth before I could stop them. And, around here, once let loose on the world, seemingly innocuous rhetorical questions quickly produced real-world answers. And I never liked the results.

Then again, I already knew I wasn’t going to like what came next. A one-two punch of attorney legalese and Lucille stubborn-ese was nobody’s idea of fun.