Turkey Ranch Road Rage (8 page)

Back at Toad Hall, Iris had rejoined the inner circle. Bony Butt was still latched on to Bobcat’s arm and Lily was now holding Tiger’s. What a happy loving group. “So, are they watching over their own crime scene, or waiting to create another one?” I wondered aloud.

“There’s no proof that they did anything,” she said, eyeing me as she formulated her response. “They’re probably just here because they’re concerned about the chickens.”

“The chickens!” I said with inauthentic enthusiasm. “You know, I bet you’re right. Let’s go ask them about the poor little chickens.”

Before I could kill the car and unlock the doors, Mother had grabbed my arm and was pointing—nay, stabbing—a long nail at the windshield. “Look! She’s here!”

Oh, I knew where this was going. Please, God, not Kimberlee Fletcher.

Either because she wasn’t much of a reporter, or in spite of it, Kimberlee had somehow made the mere mention of my name by the media a slur. Double ditto for my mother, who, on our last encounter, had rather crudely let little Kimberlee know what she thought of her. I didn’t want a repeat. Or something worse.

“Look!” Lucille shrieked again. “She’s here. Candace Carlton is here!”

Huh? I blinked a few times, trying to bring my mind into focus. My eyes had been wide open, but I had just been staring through the crowd. “Kimberlee?”

“No, no, no. The little snot’s probably around somewhere, but who cares. Channel 3’s Candace Carlton is here,” Lucille breathily exclaimed yet again. “And she’s coming this way. With a microphone!” She patted her hair and rubbed her lips together. “I just wish I had time to freshen my makeup.”

Now, let’s be clear on a few things. When convenient, my mother is routinely incapacitated by arthritis, bursitis, diverticulitis and any other “itis” that she can dream up. Also when convenient, she is as nimble as a fourteen-year-old gymnast. Thus, she was out of the car and sprinting toward Candace Carlton’s microphone before I could say “shit.”

Funny what thoughts go through your mind in times such as these. The one taunting me this time was in the voice of my 20-year-old daughter, scolding me for cursing. She is above such things, you see, and considers me both of lowly character and deficient vocabulary for resorting to such epithets. She uses highbrow words bigger than that too, in normal conversation even. She could not be my natural child. And if there was any genetic link between her and the 73-year-old lunatic running across the parking lot toward the TV cameras, I couldn’t identify it.

I thumped my head against the steering wheel and slumped down in my seat, trying to disappear. It wouldn’t work, of course. Never did. But what was I going to do, run out there and drag her back to the car while the cameras were rolling? Or just let her go say whatever came to mind so she could get herself on the news? Again, no good options.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I jerked up in my seat and snapped my head toward the window. I must have gasped, screamed, cursed, or perhaps all three, because Kimberlee Fletcher jumped back from the car as if I’d slapped her.

I slowly lowered the window and eyed the young Redwater Falls Times reporter. She was wearing jeans and a tight tee shirt, and her blond hair was hanging ponytail-like out the back of a tan ball cap. Yes, she was chewing gum too.

“What do you want, Kimberlee?”

“Your mother is over there, giving Candy an exclusive. I want one from you.”

If I hadn’t just about jumped out of my skin when she rapped on the window, I might have laughed. Unfortunately, being scared makes me bitchy. “You are truly insane.”

Kimberlee snickered and smacked her gum. “That’s what everybody says about you.” Smack, smack. “Crazy things happen when you show up in town.”

“Oh, right. I keep forgetting. Nothing weird ever happens until I arrive. How do you ever find anything to write about when I’m not here?”

Kimberlee snickered and popped her gum then nodded to the motley group of endangered species standing in the shade of the Dairy Queen. “They came down from Colorado, just like you. Word is they’re out of Boulder, which makes sense because from what I hear it’s the hippie capital of the world next to California and maybe Oregon. Are they neighbors of yours?”

“I live nowhere near Boulder, Kimmy, and they are my neighbors about like the people who live in Plano are yours.”

The knitting of her brow told me she was working very hard to connect those dots. Lovely, just lovely. “Question, Kimmy. Have you ever been over 50 miles from your home here?”

Her pointy little jaw dropped open in question then started working as her brain found something to relate to. “I have been to all kinds of places on church trips.” She took a breath and scowled. “Where I’ve been or haven’t is none of your business. I’m the one asking the questions here.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“I go to Dallas and Oklahoma City all the time. Just because you live in Denver doesn’t make you special. You aren’t nearly as smart as your mother thinks you are either, and you sure don’t know anything about anything that goes on around here.”

There was a phrase in there that threw up all kinds of red flags. No, not the part about me not knowing anything, we all know that’s true. It was the part about my mother thinking I’m smart, which we all know is not true. Before I could ask where she got her faulty information, Mother Dearest bounced back into the car and slammed the door. Her interview had apparently not gone well.

“That Carlton hussy is more interested in prissing for the camera than she is in getting a good story. I tried to tell her about the park and the idiots who are trying to ruin my life, and all she wanted to do was show off her bosoms and talk about those stupid chickens. I’ve had enough of this, Jolene. Get me out of here.”

“Oh, but I was just about to buy Kimberlee here a big glass of iced tea and continue our chat. She was just telling me about all the nice things you said about me.” I watched in amusement as pure panic flashed across Lucille’s face. “Besides, I want to talk to her some more about all the crazy things going on around here. I’ve got an idea for a fresh story angle I want to share with her. Want to join us?”

“No,” Lucille and Kimberlee barked in unison. The resounding answer came from both Lucille and Kimberlee, interestingly, but neither was getting off that easy. And, God help me, I really did want to talk to Kimberlee. “Fine, Mother, you stay in the car. I’ll crack the windows, but I’m locking the doors and taking the keys. You’ll be fine in the shade. Oh, and if you decide you want to come in, better beep the horn as the security alarm goes off if the doors are opened from the inside.”

Funny thing, but both Kimberlee and Lucille were marching toward the DQ before I could even grab my billfold.

“I don’t know what you’re up to,” Kimberlee hissed, “but I’m going to write about it.”

“Slow news year?”

“Not at all,” she said, with a toss of her ponytail and an obvious smirk. “I’ve gotten two promotions because of the articles I’ve written about you and your mother. Those bring in tons of letters and sell lots of papers. You’re great for my career.”

That stopped me in my tracks. “Career? Sweetcakes, you don’t actually have a career. What you have is Uncle Fletch’s clout keeping you in a job no matter how much ludicrous crap you dream up and call news.”

Kimberlee gasped and sputtered and almost let her bubble gum fall out of her mouth. She never actually articulated a “how dare you” but she tried real hard.

“I’ll tell you another thing,” Lucille said, pointing a finger, an acceptable one this time, at Kimberlee. “My Jolene’s going to get to the bottom of all these shenanigans around here and you better stay out of her way. She’s a real reporter and investigates things like they should be. We won’t be taking any guff from the likes of you!”

And with that, Her Highness spun on her heel, tipped up her nose and marched regally inside the Dairy Queen.

I started to follow then stopped in the shade of the overhang outside and turned back to Kimberlee. “You know, it’s too bad you’re so intent on printing crap. There’s really a pretty good story here. If you actually did some research and learned to look beyond the obvious, you might make a decent reporter some day.”

“What do you mean?”

“Any idiot can report what happened. It’s the ‘why’ that will get you a great story.” I nodded to the toadies. “We know why they say they’re here, but is there more? And what about that really tall guy in the dark glasses that was standing off to the side of them? Why is he here?”

She frowned for a minute. “You mean Gilbert Moore?” I nodded and her eyes began to sparkle with either journalistic zeal or gossip-mongering, the line between the two being fuzzy at best. “What do you know that I don’t?”

I hated to admit it, but the little twit’s chances of success as a reporter were far better than mine had ever been. You see, even though I can’t seem to avoid it in Texas, I hate having drama in my own life, and I surely don’t want to experience it vicariously through anyone else’s. Kimmy, on the other hand, lives for such things, making her inherently nosey and therefore naturally hard-wired to succeed at the job.

“I don’t know anything particular,” I said, not envying her “gift” one bit. “But the fact that Gilbert was here at all is worth considering. So, what do you know about him?”

Her eyes twinkled. “I’ve heard a lot of juicy stories. I think most of them are even true.”

I sighed. “Would any of them be something besides gossip that might be remotely pertinent to what’s going on now?”

She sighed too. “Probably not.”

“Okay, more specifically, do you know anything about the work he does?”

“Well, yeah, it’s mostly oil field stuff. He works for Uncle Fletch sometimes, and I heard something about a deal with Barnett Shale out of Dallas, whoever that is.”

I made good mental notes of that revelation, just in case. “Would that be for oil well drilling?”

“Why do you ask that?” Kimmy glared at me again, my question snapping her antennas back up. “You’re working on a story and trying to pump me for information, aren’t you?”

“A byline is the last thing on my mind, Kimmy. I’m just trying to find out anything that will help my mother.” I motioned toward the building. “Let’s go stand in the shade for a few minutes. I have some things I want to talk to you about.”

Kimmy reluctantly followed me and as I leaned up against the red brick wall, I waved to my mother inside, who had popped her head up like a prairie dog to see what I was doing.

“So, we’ve got a ‘Save the Horny Toads’ rally gone bad at the courthouse yesterday, a feed store bombing to free baby chicks today, and a bunch of out-of-state activists on the scene at both. All supposedly because somebody’s putting an RV park in the middle of nowhere at the edge of Kickapoo, Texas. And then, of course, there was that heavy equipment that was working night and day out at the Little Ranch a few weeks back. Gilbert Moore was there and then here he is again today. These are all things to check into.”

Kimmy frowned and start smacking again. “I don’t see why you think all of these things could be related.”

“Well, some are obvious, others less so. If I were here in a professional capacity, which I am not, I wouldn’t ignore any of it. I’d be checking and cross checking every angle I could. You never know where you’ll find that one piece of evidence or even person that ties everything together.”

“I know that,” Kimmy snapped. “The first thing I did was check out those animal rights people. Other than what’s on their website, there’s not much to be found. They won’t talk when you try to interview them and the only quotes I got were stock lines about how we have to treat animals like people and that we have to quit destroying the planet. None of them would give me a real name.”

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” As she nodded in agreement, I added, “They sure got here quick too. Did anybody even mention horny toads before they got here? Has anybody even seen a horny toad around here in the last twenty years? There are many, many angles to this, Kimmy.”

She chewed on that for a few seconds along with her gum. “You could be right. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Well, now you have, so get to it. I’ll do the same. Call me and we’ll compare notes. Maybe between the two of us, we can find out what’s really going on.”

She smacked thoughtfully a few more times then said, “Why are you doing this? You hate me.”

“You’ve written a lot of crap, Kimmy, no question about that. If you put your energy into writing about things that actually matter, and getting the real truth about them, I think you could be a decent journalist.”

“Meaning I’m not now?”

“You know the answer to that, and I’m not going to lie to make you feel better. The truth is I have more experience than you do in life and otherwise. I’m also a better writer than you will ever be.” She puffed up at that as I knew she would. “But,” I said, pausing for emphasis, “I have never been and never will be the reporter you already are.”

She leaned away from the wall and stood a little straighter, but still said nothing and didn’t even make a smack.

“You’ve got talent and you’ve got the right personality. Now use them in a good way. Get in there and dig for some answers.”

“You really mean that or are you just trying to get me to find things out for you?”