A Reckoning in the Back Country

by Terry Shames

  “Then you’ll spend Thanksgiving with us,” she says. “Is that all right?” she says to Will.

  “Of course it is,” Will says. To me he says, “There are dishes Jenny has to have and ones I can’t do without, so between us we have enough for half the people in Jarrett Creek.”

  “We only have a couple of people from work coming over,” Jenny says, “and you’re welcome to join us.”

  I hate turkey, but I don’t want to spend Thanksgiving by myself. “I’d like that. What I can bring?”

  “Just bring yourself,” Will says. He’s the cook.

  “I’ll bring a couple of bottles of wine.”

  “Could you make Jeanne’s cranberry salad?” Jenny says. “You made that last Christmas and it was great.”

  “I suppose I could do that.” It means I have to go back into the bowels of the grocery store, but I think I can remember most of the ingredients. “Oh, wait,” I say. “Is it all right if I bring the puppy?”

  “Oh God, you’re like a new daddy,” Jenny says. “Sure, bring the dog. Better than having to hire a babysitter.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Hallelujah! I had to get up only a couple of times in the night to let the puppy outside, and once to feed him. He loves the goat milk and went after it with great enthusiasm. Doc England said he might sleep a lot because he was probably exhausted by his ordeal, and once he had a full belly, he’d likely be okay. I draped a towel over the box to keep him warm.

  Despite the fact that it’s the day before Thanksgiving, I take a chance that I can get some questions answered with a few phone calls. I take the puppy with me into work and hope I don’t get called out on anything that will require that I leave him behind. I can always take him over to the vet’s office if I have to.

  There’s a message from Doc England, asking me to call him back. Maybe he’s heard from the people who the puppy belongs to. But no such luck. “I went out to the woods and took a look at the bitch you found. There’s no telling what killed her, but it looks like natural causes. Even though she was all scratched up, there was no bad damage. She wasn’t abused. Her belly was swollen. She might have gotten some kind of infection after the puppies were born.”

  “Puppies?”

  “Yes, she clearly had more than one, but I looked around and didn’t find any others. I’m wondering if somebody found them and took them, and your little guy had wandered off and they missed him.”

  “Wouldn’t somebody who found a pack of puppies call you for help?”

  “Not if it was somebody who knows dogs. There are a lot of questions. Could be somebody was taking care of her and when she died they took her out to the woods rather than bury her. Maybe your pup was a runt, so they thought he wouldn’t make it. Hard to say.”

  “After Thanksgiving, I’ll get somebody to talk to people in all the houses out there, see if somebody picked up the pups.”

  “That’s a good idea. And by the way, I brought her body out of there. I didn’t want any animals getting at it. I’ll dispose of her.”

  Lewis Wilkins’s computer is sitting on the desk where I plopped it down when I took it out of the car this morning. I should tackle it, but I dread it. I’m pretty good with mundane computer tasks, but digging deep into someone else’s computer is a challenge. It’ll take some time, and I’d rather get a few other answers first. Still, there might be valuable information on it. With a sigh, I draw it to me and open it up. Bingo. It’s password-protected. I can call Margaret and ask if she knows the password, or I can wait. It’s always easier to put off something you don’t feel particularly good at if you have a good reason to. The password is a good enough reason for me.

  Looking at the computer reminds me that I need to locate Wilkins’s cell phone. I phone the medical examiner’s office, but they say the phone was not in his belongings. There was also no identification on him. Just the clothes he was wearing.

  I want to find out the details of the lawsuit against Wilkins. When I call the state medical board’s office, they tell me to e-mail them with the information I want. They send their reply within the hour. Who knew any bureaucracy could be so efficient—especially the day before Thanksgiving?

  The news is sobering. Lewis Wilkins operated on the knee of a fifty-five-year-old woman. The knee subsequently became badly infected and the leg eventually had to be amputated. But that wasn’t the error that got him in trouble. He got in trouble because he operated on the wrong knee. The woman was too traumatized to go back and have the bad knee surgically corrected and therefore was badly disabled. She had been the breadwinner because her husband had been injured in an automobile accident a few years earlier. The case went to trial, and the jury awarded her a million dollars. Like Margaret said, Wilkins was self-insured, so he was out the money.

  I once had a knee problem that had to be operated on, and I remember the helpless feeling of trusting someone to take care of your problem. The woman must have been devastated by what happened to her. It was Wilkins’s job to get it right, and he screwed up. Although he probably felt bad about making such a terrible mistake, he also most likely balked at the idea that he would be financially ruined. Everyone makes mistakes. But operating on the wrong leg? And having the leg deteriorate to the point where it had to be amputated? I shudder.

  I ponder this as a possible motive for Wilkins’s murder. Of course, the woman and her family were angry, but would she have been furious enough to kill him after the big jury award?

  The puppy is awake and squirming around, squeaking, so I take him outside, then back in for a feed, and then outside again. When I bring him back in, he’s awake, making excursions from one side of the box to the other, investigating. It looks to me like he is bigger today than he was yesterday. I wish Ellen were here to see him. I phone the people who owned his mother again, but no answer.

  Someone drives into the parking lot outside. It’s Emily Wilkins. She’s wearing jeans and a gray sweater. Big silver hoops swing from her ears. When she walks inside, her eyes immediately go to the puppy. For the first time since I met her, her face softens. “Oh, how sweet. Is he yours?”

  “No. I found him and I’m taking care of him until I reach the owner.”

  She cocks her head. “Isn’t he awfully little to be weaned?”

  “His mother died, and he needs a lot of looking after, but he’s a sturdy little dog. He’ll be okay.”

  “Can I hold him?”

  I hand him over and watch her demeanor change completely as she coos over him.

  “Now what can I do for you?” I ask.

  “My brother said you wanted to talk to me, and . . .” she hesitates. “I want to talk to you, too.”

  “Why don’t you start? Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?” I take the puppy from her and put him back in the box.

  She sits down and shakes her head to the coffee.

  “How is your mamma doing today?”

  She looks as if she has tasted something bitter. “Mother? Trust me, she’ll be fine. She and Daddy didn’t get along.”

  It surprises me that she freely offers something like that to me. Sometimes people can seem unhappy with each other and still have deep-down affection. “What makes you say that?”

  “After Daddy lost all his money in that lawsuit, she didn’t have any more use for him. I know she’s glad that he’s gone. He had a nice fat life-insurance policy. She’ll be all set.”

  “Did you get along well with your daddy?”

  “I don’t like to be around either one of them. I got sick of them pretending to have a normal life, when things went to hell. It was impossible to talk realistically to either one of them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After the lawsuit, Daddy treated me like a child. He’d tell me everything would be fine, that he’d be back to work before long, when it was obvious that wasn’t going to happen. As for Mother, she could have at least tried to get a job instead of blaming their situation on him. She couldn’t have made eno
ugh to live high, but it would have helped.”

  “Did your daddy resent that she didn’t help?”

  She chews her lower lip. “I don’t know. He was funny about it. He was so used to acting like a big shot that it might have been beneath him to have his wife go to work.” She leans forward, jabbing the desk with a manicured finger. “The only reason I gave in and said I would come this weekend is because my brother begged me to. I told him I would come for forty-eight hours, that’s all. I was planning to leave tomorrow evening, as soon as we had Thanksgiving dinner. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “No, as long as I have some way to reach you.” I can’t help adding, “You’re not going to stick around and help your mamma with funeral arrangements?”

  She gives a bark of laughter. “Trust me, she’ll be fine. I’m sure Daniel will stay. In case you didn’t notice, he’s the touchy-feely one in the family.”

  I lean back and contemplate her. I don’t like her much. She’s acting like a spoiled teenager, and she doesn’t seem to be fazed by the fact that her daddy has been brutally murdered. Or is it possible that Margaret and Daniel didn’t tell her. “Did your mamma or brother tell you the details of what happened?”

  She catches her lower lip in her teeth and nods.

  “Your daddy was murdered in a particularly vicious way. Do you have any idea who might have had enough of a problem with him that they would do that?”

  Emily gives a little jerk of her head, as if someone has slapped her with information she didn’t want. Her voice is more subdued. “Only one person.”

  “Who?”

  “I want you to find out if my mother might have had anything to do with it.”

  “You mean you think she hired somebody to tie him up and set dogs on him? Wouldn’t it be easier to divorce him?”

  “Where would she go? What would she do? She hates it here in this little town, but that’s the only place she could have afforded to live if they divorced.”

  “There’s the house in San Antonio.”

  “Oh, didn’t she tell you?” she spits out the words. “It’s for sale and they can’t afford to buy anywhere else. They’re lucky to have that place on the lake. They were planning to move here as soon as the house sold.”

  On the surface of it, the idea that her mamma killed her daddy is ridiculous. It would take a fiendish planner, and Margaret didn’t strike me as one.

  She draws a card from her purse and thrusts it at me. “Here. This is where you can reach me.”

  “You work at the Contemporary Arts Museum? What do you do there?”

  She frowns. “I’m an assistant curator. And when I say assistant, I mean low on the totem pole.”

  “It’s a nice museum.”

  “You’ve been there?” Her look suggests that she wonders why a rube chief of police in a small town would ever have occasion to wander into a Houston art museum.

  Not only have I been there, but before my wife, Jeanne, died, we donated a couple of paintings to them from her mother’s collection. “Yes, many times. I like it.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.”

  “What’s your favorite kind of art?” I ask the question because I’m trying to figure out where this young woman’s heart is.

  She looks puzzled, as if she isn’t used to being asked. “I really like cutting-edge. You know, video art. Some photography.” She cocks her head. “What kind do you like?”

  “Oh. I’m an old guy. I like abstract and modern art. I’m fond of the California school artists.” I wonder what she would say if she knew I had a Diebenkorn and a Wolf Kahn, or maybe she would like the more current pieces like the Melinda Buie.

  She blinks, reassessing. “Well, if you ever come to the museum, give me a call. I can show you around.”

  By the time she leaves, the puppy is at it again and I have to go through the routine. After he’s fed, I put him on my lap and scratch him behind the ears and on his belly. Doc England told me that would help his digestion and help to socialize him. Besides, I’m getting to like him. He’s a self-contained little dog, not afraid to tell me what he needs.

  When he falls asleep, I put his box in the cell and head for Town Café. After lunch I’ll go back and talk to Dooley Phillips again. This conversation will be a good bit more serious than the last one. I want to know what happened to Lewis Wilkins’s boat. Why was it missing from his slip?

  CHAPTER 10

  I don’t know why Town Café is always crowded before a holiday, but people are crammed in like they’re afraid they won’t get enough to eat on Thanksgiving. Everyone seems lively, although a couple of people avert their eyes when they spy me. It reminds them that they’re whooping it up when someone has recently been found dead.

  Some of the holiday decorations—colored lights and shabby tinsel—stay up year-round in the cafe. But Alonso Peevy, the latest owner, has gone all out this season. Besides a giant plastic turkey on the counter next to the cash register, there’s a fake Christmas tree with flocking and miniature beer can ornaments, and a big red ribbon and bow across the front of the counter. Candy canes have been stuck haphazardly around the walls, and there are bowls of red and green M&Ms on every table. I suspect it’s the same candy canes and M&Ms that he set out last year. I wouldn’t exactly call it festive, but it’s certainly colorful.

  I join the table of men I regularly have lunch with. A local contractor, Gabe LoPresto, is there along with our former mayor, Alton Coldwater, and a few others. Both of these men at one time were in the community’s bad graces for poor behavior. After Gabe had an unfortunate episode with a flirty young girl, his wife forgave him and took him back, and Coldwater had to climb back into society after he pretty much ruined the town’s finances. But here they are, part of the gang again.

  I order the cabrito enchiladas and coffee. Gabe is sitting next to a man I don’t recognize.

  “This is my brother-in-law, Virgil Brooks. He’s from over in Beaumont. He’s in town for Thanksgiving. Got about ten kids.” The guy grins and Gabe slaps him on the back.

  “Three, Gabe. It just seems like ten.”

  “Heard about that guy from the lake that was killed yesterday,” Gabe says to me. “What happened?”

  “Not sure yet. He was a doctor from San Antonio, Lewis Wilkins, a friend of Dooley Phillips. Any of you ever meet him?”

  Everybody says no. “I know Dooley, because I keep a little boat in his boathouse, but I never met Wilkins,” Alvin Carter says. He’s a tall, muscular black man, a good friend of LoPresto’s. They’re both dedicated boosters of the high school football team.

  “Somebody said he was set on by dogs,” LoPresto says.

  “Looks that way,” I say, not wanting to discuss it but knowing I’ll have to say a few words to satisfy curiosity.

  “Dogs?” Virgil looks horrified. “You have a pack of wild dogs around here?”

  “Not sure,” I say. “I don’t know. There have been rumors, but I’ve never had any evidence. Gabe, you know anything about that?” He’s a contractor, and always scouting out land for possible building sites.

  He frowns. “Just rumors. But even if there are, why would dogs go after a man?”

  “Must have been a lot of dogs to overpower him like that,” Coldwater says. He’s probing for information.

  I hesitate. I don’t want everybody to get riled up with the idea that a pack of killer dogs is on the loose, and there’s no compelling reason not to tell them what really happened. With the number of people who already know, it’s bound to get out before long anyway. I’m aware that they’re all watching me. “Thing is,” I say, “Lewis Wilkins was tied up so he couldn’t defend himself.”

  “Oh, my Lord,” Alvin Carter says. “That’s a whole different thing.”

  There are hushed exclamations. “You mean he was murdered?” Coldwater’s eyes get big.

  “Looks like it. He sure as heck didn’t tie himself up. But how the dogs got to him, I don’t know.”

  “Doesn’t take
a genius to figure out what’s going on.” Harley Lundsford is a leathery-skinned farmer who comes into the café every single day. He’s a fierce gun advocate and gets up in people’s faces about it, but he’s a hardworking man and people respect him.

  All heads swivel in his direction. “It’s probably some of them fighting dogs that were let loose when they got too old or beat-up to fight, and they formed a pack.”

  “Come on, Lundsford, you don’t know that for sure,” LoPresto says.

  “I sure as hell do. There’s people all over rural areas that are into dogfighting, and that’s what they do. They turn them out when they get used up. People right around here.”

  I’ve suddenly lost my appetite. If there’s anything that jars me, it’s dogfighting. I was forced to go to a fight once and it stuck in my memory like nothing else.

  “Like who?” I ask.

  “I don’t mean I know anybody in particular, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Well, what did you mean?” Carter asks. He doesn’t get along well with Lundsford.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know there are dogfights any place there’s back woods,” Lundsford says. “The law gets to them in one place and they move on to another. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had an operation in these parts.”

  “And you know this how?” I ask. My heart is pounding.

  “You know I like to go to the gun shows,” he says. “When I’m there, I hear all kinds of things. Men who shoot for sport sometimes are into dogfights and cockfights, too. I don’t know that we have any action around here, but could be.”

  Virgil looks like he’s ready to run out of the café, pack up his family, and get out of town.

  “Gabe, you and Alvin have anything to add?”

  Gabe’s expression has clouded up. I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “It’s not the first time I’ve heard those rumors.”

  His brother-in-law glances at him, startled.

  “Take it is easy, Virgil. Just because I’ve heard of it, doesn’t mean I’ve gone to a fight.”

  “Lundsford, is there anybody around here who might give me more information?” I ask.