Chile Death

by Susan Wittig Albert

  So, with the sun hanging like a fat orange lollipop in a crystalline sky, my Datsun and I rattled over the cattle guard, coasted down a long, steep hill, and drove through a rusted metcil gate that sagged open on a broken hinge. The cedars were a thick green hedge on both sides of the rutted caliche road. Between the trees I could see skunk- bush and sage-green agarito and mounds of prickly pear cactus, which you don’t want to step into without calf-high leather boots, and maybe not even then. These shrubs had managed to take root in the thin soil of the uneven slopes, and eroded slabs of limestone rock littered the ground. This is scrubland, unfit for farming or running cattle or even feeding goats, although that fact hasn’t kept people from occasionally tying to do all three.

  But its commercial worthlessness doesn't mean that the land is unproductive or without value—not by a long shot. It’s a wonderful wildlife habitat, perfectly engineered and designed by nature to provide a rich livelihood to scorpions and lizards; to snakes and the small funy creatures on which they feed; for wild turkey and turkey vultures and road runners and great horned owls; for armadillos, squirrels, jack rabbits, skunk, possum, raccoons, bobcat, feral pigs, coyotes.

  And deer. There are reported to be nearly four million white-tailed deer in Texas, in addition to the mule deer of the Trans-Pecos and Staked Plains and the little Del Carmen deer that roam the Chisos Mountains. There are so many, in fact, that Texas Parks and Wildlife annually encourages hunters to harvest their limit in order to keep down the population and reduce the winter migration into the suburbs, where deer delight in dining on expensive shrubbery. Last year, there were close to three-quarters of a million deer taken in Texas. In fact, many rural land- owners pay their taxes by leasing exclusive hunting rights to people like Lester’s cousin Arlie. Beginning in late summer, these hunters put out shelled com—deer corn, which you can buy in fifly-pound bags—to lure the deer close to camouflaged wooden huts called deer blinds, sometimes built on stilts, sometimes erected in trees. There, after the season opens in November, hunters crouch, hoping for a clear shot at a trophy buck but settling for a spike (an immature buck), a doe, or a turkey. On the large ranches, which cater to the big money boys from Houston and Dallas, a deer hunt is more like an expensive safari, with hunters paying by the gun ($100 a day and up, plus kill fee); by the animal (a white-tail doe might go for $400, a buck for $2000); or even by the acre, depending on the terrain and the available wildlife. That kind of hunting is big business, and a tasty hunk of ground venison for a wintertime bowl of chili can cost upwards of $ 100 a pound, not counting room, board, and bar privileges.

  But small, close-in leases like Arlie’s don’t involve a lot of money. Four or five buddies often pool their money to lease the same land year after year. They don’t hunt very earnestly, using the trip as an excuse to escape the wife and kids, dress up in camouflage gear and leather boots, and play poker all night. They might camp out in tents or even rent an RV equipped with a generator, microwave oven, and satellite television for afternoon football or a VCR for stag movies. If the lease has a cabin or bunk- house or a barn on it, they might sleep there.

  The barn on Arlie’s lease, however, wasn’t fit for even the most macho sleepover. I parked the Datsun on the steep slope, set the emergency brake, and climbed out. As I surveyed the old building, I understood why Lester had hesitated when I asked him whether it was diy. The bam—maybe twenty by thirty, partially open on the side facing me—wore a sad and abandoned look. The siding was weathered cedar, splintered in places, the roof was rusty metal, and half the floor was dirt. It had been built against the slope, so that the right half of the building had two levels, and the limestone foundation was crumbling. Once, the area below had probably sheltered goats or pigs. Now, it was piled with old cedar posts and a tangle of barbed wire.

  I looked away from the barn. On the downslope side stood a metal barrel on welded angle-iron legs, five feet off the ground—an old gasoline tank, probably. Beside it were rolls of hog fencing, a rusted watering trough, and the rear end of a derelict truck, made into a two-wheeled trailer. A mound of silver-gray horehound testified to the fact that a woman had once lived and worked here, perhaps in a nearby house that was now only a heap of mb- ble. Somewhere in the cedar brake I heard a mockingbird call, its song a tumble of melody that struck me as somehow melancholy. It came to me that an old bam on a Texas hillside was a strange place for a lawyer’s files to end up, but not an extraordinary one, and perhaps not even inappropriate. Tom Peny had died suddenly, his legal secretaiy had become incompetent shortly afterward, and her family had no interest in the boxes of stuff she’d been storing until she had a chance to properly dispose of them. That the records were here was odd, probably, but no less inexplicable than this abandoned bam.

  I looked up at the sky. The sun had dipped behind the cedars, which meant I had a half-hour of daylight left. But the inside of the bam was dusky, and I would just as soon see where I was putting my feet. I reached under the seat and pulled out the big flashlight I keep there in case I have a flat on my way home from the shop late at night. Car- lying it in one hand, I stepped inside the bam and glanced around.

  The back two-thirds of the structure was stuffed to the roof with old-fashioned square hay bales, probably stored there for decades. Old license plates were nailed to the walls. Heaps of rusting farm debris filled the corners — wooden crates, a row of chicken boxes, scythes, pitch- forks, a grain scoop, an old horse-drawn harrow, a plow, a wooden wagon wheel. My eyes widened at the sight of the harrow. On the Houston antique market, it would probably fetch more than my car. The barn held the heat of the day, its air rich with the smells of dried hay, rotting wood, bat guano. I could hear rustling in the corners. Mice maybe, or squirrels, or Mexican free-tailed bats, which fly out of caves and old bams by the millions each night to feast on hapless bugs. Or Lester’s rattlesnake babies, grown up into six-foot adults, and their many close friends and relations. The thought was not comforting. I’d better locate those boxes, retrieve Miss Velma’s will, and go home.

  But where were the boxes? Not out in plain sight, certainly. I turned to my right and saw that a storeroom of sorts had been constructed on that side of the barn. In the center of the wood wall was a. heavy plank door, fastened shut by a stick wedged into a rusty hasp. Next to the door hung a kerosene lantern, cobwebbed and dusty, but with its glass globe still intact. Under it was a metal matchbox, a rack hung with small tools, a coiled rope, and a rusty shovel leaning on the floor. With an effort, I yanked the stick out of the hasp and pushed the door open. It swung inward, creaking, on resistant iron hinges.

  The storeroom was much darker than the barn, and I flicked on the flashlight. The cardboard boxes were there, a couple of dozen or more, in three head-high stacks against the wall. They leaned outward at a precarious angle, and as I shone the light around, I saw why. This part of the building overhung the livestock shelter beneath, and the support—a cedar post, probably—must have rotted. The floor slanted sharply to the right. I could see daylight between the splintery floorboards, and one was broken—I’d have to watch my step. A cobweb draped over the door was now stuck to my cheek and I brushed it off, hoping that the resident spider was not a black widow or a brown recluse. This was definitely not a place you’d want to linger.

  I shone the flashlight on the boxes and saw that they weren’t in much better shape than the structure itself. They looked damp-stained and moldy, and those on the bottom were collapsing under the weight of those on top. Some appeared to be labeled, but I couldn’t easily make out the words. I set the flashlight, still lit, on the floor, and took down one of the top boxes, trying not to pull the whole tottering stack over. No label on this one, and a quick glance inside showed me what I was up against. The box was crammed with file folders and loose papers, so tightly jammed together that it was impossible to identify their contents. To find what I was looking for, I would have to pull everything out and sort through it. I wasn’t going to do that job here, in the c
ompany of rattlesnakes and spiders. This was something better done at home.

  Hands on hips, I stepped back and estimated the size of the job. With a little maneuvering, half of the boxes would probably fit into my car. I picked up the opened carton, carried it out, and stowed it in the Datsun. Back in the storeroom, I took the top box from the second stack, thinking that I could shorten my work by carrying two cartons at a time. I was reaching up to get another box when I saw the label. “Velma’s Personal Files,’’ it read, in neat black letters. "Private Documents.”

  Eureka! If I were Velma Mayfield’s last will and testament, I would be in a box with her personal files, wouldn’t I? I knelt beside the box, pulled up the top flaps of the carton, and looked inside. Under one or two loose classification folders—the kind legal secretaries use for client files—there were a couple of dozen manila folders, each marked “Velma, Personal.” Promising, definitely. When I got home, I’d start with this box.

  As I put the classification folder back into the box, I glanced at it. On the file label was typed the name Harmon Lund, and clipped to the file was a handwritten note that said, “For Edna.” Harmon Lund. Edna Lund’s father. I frowned. Somewhere, I’d picked up the information that even though the old man had died some months ago, his will had not yet been probated. Some snag in the legal proceedings, some confusion about his estate, was holding it up.

  I weighed the folder in my hand, uneasily. It might contain papers that should be in the hands of the probate judge, or Edna's lawyer. She was her father’s heir, I’d heard, although I held no idea who the executor was. Anyway, the folder had been meant for her. And it was in the wrong carton. Why wasn’t it boxed with the rest of the client files, instead of being stuck in with Miss Velma’s personal papers? Still kneeling, I flipped it open to have a look.

  The top document, held in place with a double-prong fastener, was a file memo from Tom Peny, dated the previous September, just a month before he was killed. The subject heading was terse and straightforward: “Notes for probate judge re: defense of Lund codicil against possible challenge by daughter.”

  Challenge by daughter? What was that supposed to mean? I answered these questions with one quick scan of the page. Tom Perry had written this memo to be read by the court when Harmon Lund’s wall was presented for probate, in the event a challenge was raised against the ■will itself. The first paragraph set out the circumstances clearly, without evaluation. On September 15th of the previous year, Harmon Lund had executed a codicil to his existing will, specifically disinheriting his daughter, Edna, and leaving his entire estate to his son, James, last known to be living in Alaska. The second paragraph was an evaluation. “It is my personal opinion,” Perry had written (and Miss Velma had presumably typed), "having known Harmon Lund for twenty-two years, that he is competent to make the codicil and that it fully reflects his current intentions with regard to the disposition of his property. He is an aged man with increasing physical disabilities and of irascible temper. He is now confined to a nursing facility. At the time of the execution of this codicil, he was quite rational. I wish the court to be informed of this opinion, in the event that Air. Lund dies with this will in force and Miss Lund challenges it.”

  I stared at the memo. It was common knowledge in Pecan Springs that Edna Lund, who had managed the family ranch and cared for her father during his declining years, was to have inherited the Lund estate. But this memo suggested that Edna was not going to receive a red cent—that her brother, whom old man Lund had rejected some fifteen years before—would get the whole thing.

  This was all clear enough, if startling, and I immediately felt soriy for Edna. It was sad to think that she might have denied herself a life in order to care for a demanding old man, and in the end, had been turned away with nothing. What had she done to deserve such shabby treatment? Had there been arguments between them? Had Edna been unkind to him, or unsympathetic to his needs, or even physically abusive? I doubted that, though. She was a reserved person and I didn’t know her well, but she certainly seemed caring enough in her volunteer work at the Manor and elsewhere. No, more likely, she had done nothing, and her father, who had a reputation for obstinate perversity, had simply decided to favor a long-forgotten son over a dutiful daughter.

  But there were other questions to be answered. Why hadn’t this thing already been settled? Had the executor not been able to locate the heir? But the executor had not even probated Lund’s will—or at least that’s what I had understood. Who waj the executor, anyway? Who was the poor sucker that Harmon Lund had appointed to break the news to his daughter that the family estate was going to her brother?

  1 lifted the memo. The next item in the file was a copy of the codicil, signed by Harmon Lund in a firm, decisive hand and witnessed by Miss Velma and Tom Periy. No executor listed there—not unusual, if the testator intended to keep the original executor. The next item was the will itself, which, as 1 had expected, named Edna Lund as her father’s sole beneficiary. The executor? I leafed to the section titled “Appointments” and had my answer, in three easy words.

  Jerry Jeff Cody.

  I raised my eyebrows. Jerry Jeff was Harmon Lund’s executor? That was a surprise. No, come to think of it, I had picked up that information already. Where? I thought for a moment, then remembered that I had heard it from Hark at lunch today, when he was ticking off the civic contributions of the partners in Cody and Clendennen Insurance. At the time, I hadn’t paid any special attention. Why should I? In small towns and rural areas, it isn’t unusual for people to get cozy with the insurance man and consider that person as a valued financial advisor. Jerry Jeff had probably been a long-time friend of the Lund family, and Harmon naturally thought of him when it came to carrying out his last wishes.

  But now that I knew about the codicil, I saw a major complication. For whatever reason, Harmon Lund’s estate hadn’t yet been settled. The executor was dead, and somebody else was going to have to bring the will to probate, which would mean even further annoying delays for Edna, who must want to bring this drawn-out affair to a conclusion so she could get on with her life. Who was it? Out of curiosity, I read to the end of the paragraph and had my answer.

  The alternate executor was Edna Lund.

  3b 3b J» 3b J» & 3b Jv J» J*

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chiles have a tough skin that should be removed. The best way to do this is to roast them over the flame of your gas range or an outdoor grill. Wearing rubber gloves to keep the juices from burning your hands, cut a slit at the stem end to keep them from popping. Lay the peppers on the burner grates or the grill. Turn them frequently with tongs, roasting them until the skin is blistered and wrinkles easily. Place them in a paper bag to steam and cool. When cool, remove the skin, seeds, and stem.

  China Bayles

  “Hot Pods and Fired-up Fare”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  Edna Lund?

  I sat back on my heels, dismayed by the sloppy lawyering. When the old man decided to disinherit his daughter, Tom Perry should have instructed him to name a different alternate executor, somebody who wasn’t connected to the estate and wouldn’t be hurt when she didn’t get what she had been led, by the previous will, to expect. On the other hand, maybe the lawyer had tried to reason with him and Lund had refused because he didn’t want anyone outside Perry’s office to know about the change in his will, including the executor and the alternate. Maybe Peny had decided that it didn’t matter, since Jerry Jeff was young and strong and likely to be around for a long time. Whatever the case, Jerry Jeff was dead, and it was Edna’s job to probate the codicil that disinherited her. What a lousy trick! If I were her, I’d dig in my heels. I’d refuse. Now that Jerry Jeff was dead, the court could find somebody else to do the old man’s dirty work.

  Now that Jerry Jeff wao dead.

  I rocked back and forward, thinking. The documents in this file were copies. Where were the originals? Among Harmon Lund’s papers, most likely, where Edna
would have found them after her father died. Say, for the sake of argument, that’s what had happened. How had she felt when she discovered that codicil and read it? Disappointed, hurt, cheated, indignant—then angry, furious, even enraged? I could imagine myself feeling that way, and I doubted that Edna was very different.

  Say, then, that she had felt hurt and cheated and so enraged that she had impulsively put a match to that original, or tom it into tiny pieces and flushed it. Unethical behavior, maybe, unscrupulous, unprincipled—but it wouldn’t be the first time somebody did it. Say, as well, that she never bothered to tell her brother about his inheritance, or perhaps even that their father was dead. Her father’s lawyer was out of the picture, and Perry’s secretary was mentally failing. If Jerry Jeff was also ignorant of the codicil, she would be home free. The executor would probate her father’s old will, she would inherit, and nobody would be the wiser. Even if Jerry Jeff had known about the existence of a codicil but didn’t have a copy, she would otill be home free, wouldn't she?

  Of course she would.And now that Jerry Jeff was dead . . .

  I stopped rocking and sat very still, my mind sifting through a hodgepodge of vague memories and fleeting impressions. Edna asking Fannie what she was supposed to do as a cookoff volunteer, and Fannie telling her that she would be working in the check-in tent, where the cooks brought their samples. Edna at the check-in table, logging in the cups. Edna in the judging tent, with a tray of cups, a few minutes before Jerry Jeff was stricken, looking nervously on as he staggered to his feet. “Is something wrong with him?” she had asked, and I had assured her that nothing was wrong, that he was pretending to be burned by the chili, that it was all part of the show. “Grown men,” she had said, in a disapproving tone, and I had laughed.