“What, China?” she asked briskly. None of the usual polite niceties, hello, how are you, so glad you called, haven’t heard from you in a while. Just What, China? The subtext: Strike while the iron is hot; time and tide wait for no woman, so get on it. Now.
I was tempted to remind her that speed kills, but I held my tongue. “Nice to talk to you, too, Justine,” I said pleasantly. “I didn’t catch you in the middle of something, did I?”
“In the bathroom.”
“Ah,” I said. Actually, being in the bathroom was good. It meant that the Whiz might be sitting down. Of course, she was probably already multitasking—reading a brief or marking up an interrogatory, while she drank a cup of coffee and checked her email and handled her other morning necessities, with her Bluetooth in her ear.
“I’m out at Bittersweet for Thanksgiving with Leatha and the family,” I began, “and I’ve got a possible pro bono client for you. Her name is Sue Ellen Krause, and her soon-to-be-ex-husband is up to some serious skullduggery. She knows what it is but hasn’t let me in on the details, so far. It appears to involve a hefty theft of two hundred thou or more. He’s slapped her around some, so she’s leaving him. She says she’s ready to do the right thing and tell the story to the DA here in Uvalde County, where the crime took place. But I’m thinking that she may get cold feet at the last minute, so she’s going to need an escort. And a mouthpiece. Which is where you come in,” I added helpfully.
“Pro bono?” Justine was suspicious.
I was ready for that. “Just to set the record straight, the last one I sent you was a paying client. The artist,” I added, to help her remember. “From Pecan Springs. Last summer.” It had been a fascinating tangle of truth and lies, woven around a sophisticated art fraud and a decade-old cold case, and Justine had handled the plea bargain.
“I remember,” she said with satisfaction. “We got a nice deal on that one. Her testimony guaranteed convictions for a killer, an accessory, and an art fence, so the judge let her off the hook with probation.” She paused. “This pro bono—is she an artist?”
Justine is at the point in her career where she can pick and choose her clients. She’s easily bored, so she goes for the interesting ones. She has a short attention span, so she prefers quickies, especially on pro bono work. Wondering what I could say to tempt her, I thought of the boots and the trophy hunts.
“Not an artist,” I said. “A cowgirl.” I qualified that. “She looks like a cowgirl, anyway. Or a country-western singer. She’s been working on this big ranch that sells high-priced trophy hunts to city guys with a testosterone-fueled urge to hang a pair of monster antlers over the fireplace.”
“Oh, yeah?” There was a flushing sound, then the sound of a faucet running. “I might be interested. I’ve been wanting to look into that business. Did you hear about that deer-smuggling case over in East Texas? Both state and federal violations—Lacey Act. Huge fine and forfeiture. Hot-button conservation issue. Political, too.”
We were off on a tangent, but that didn’t matter if it interested the Whiz. “Deer smuggling?” I asked. “Haven’t we got enough deer in Texas already? Somebody thinks we need more?”
“It’s not more they’re after, Hot Shot, it’s bigger. Turns out that our true Texas bucks are itty-bitty pikers when it comes to those horny things they grow on their heads. And you know Texas. If it ain’t bigger, it ain’t good enough. So some enterprising folks are illegally importing bucks with big antlers from out of state. They bring ’em in to improve the herd and then they bring in big-paying clients to shoot ’em.”
“Huh,” I said. “Sounds like a racket.”
“It is. Tell you what . . .” But whatever it was Justine was going to tell me was swallowed by the sound of vigorous tooth brushing, and more water running, then more tooth brushing and a loud whooshing gargle. The Whiz was rinsing.
I waited. When the sounds had faded, I asked, “Tell me what?”
“What?” I heard the medicine cabinet close. “Tell you what?”
“When you started brushing your teeth,” I replied patiently, “you said you might be interested. Then you said, ‘Tell you what.’ What was it?”
“Oh. Well, okay.” She was going down her hall now, her bedroom slippers flip-flopping on the floor. “You know how I feel about going into a case blind. Tell the cowgirl to tell you whatever she’s going to tell the DA. When you know what it is, tell me, and I’ll tell you whether I’ll take her or not. Got it?”
“Sounds reasonable,” I said. “I don’t know whether she’ll go for it or not, though.” And once I heard the story, it might not be the kind of thing that the Whiz would go for, either.
“I’m sure you can persuade her, China,” Justine said, and added, “Anyway, no skin off my nose if she doesn’t. She can always find a public defender.” I heard a drawer open and close. “I suppose you’re having turkey today?”
“Of course. But late in the afternoon. Sam’s in the hospital. He’s had a heart attack. So Leatha and I are kind of working around that.” I thought of something. “Hey. You wouldn’t want to drive over to Bittersweet and eat with us, would you?” Leatha had invited Justine and Ruby and me for a girls-only summer weekend several years ago, and we had splashed in the river and painted our toenails and laughed a lot. For all I knew, it was the last time the Whiz had taken a vacation. “It’s not that far,” I reminded her, “and Leatha would love to see you. McQuaid and the kids will be here, and a game warden friend. You could meet the cowgirl, too.”
“Love to, but I can’t,” she said. Another drawer opened, closed. “I’m seeing a client this afternoon. But tell Leatha I’m really sorry to hear about Sam. He’s a nice guy. Is he going to be okay?”
“I think so, but we’ll know more in a couple of days.” A client, on Thanksgiving. That figured. As far as the Whiz is concerned, holidays are for the rest of us. “I’ll call you if I can get the cowgirl to tell me her story.”
“Do that,” Justine said. She added, more cordially, “Happy Thanksgiving, Hot Shot,” and clicked off.
Thinking about all this, I pulled on my jeans, a plaid blouse, a blue sweatshirt, and loafers and ran a brush through my hair. I peeked into Caitie’s room and saw that she was still sweetly asleep, Mr. P curled up on her pillow. He lifted his head and flicked his orange tail when I opened the door but didn’t offer to get up. That cat knows a good thing when he’s found her, and he’s not letting her out of his sight.
I was still thinking about Justine when I went into the kitchen to give Leatha a hand with breakfast. She wasn’t there, but Sue Ellen was stirring a pot of oatmeal at the stove, dressed in jeggings and a body-hugging long-sleeved red T-shirt, her auburn hair twisted carelessly and pinned at the back of her head. The kitchen was fragrant with hot coffee and the scent of breakfast rolls.
“There’s coffee,” she said, with a nod to the coffeemaker. “Your mom is getting dressed. She decided to go to the hospital this morning and said to tell you she’d like you to go with her, if that works for you. I’ll be here, so I can look after Caitie.”
I looked at her sharply. “Is there a problem with Sam?”
Sue Ellen took the pan off the burner. “She didn’t tell me what’s going on, China. The hospital called and she was talking to the nurse on the floor when I came into the kitchen—that’s all I know. I told her to go ahead and get ready and I’d handle breakfast. We’ve got bacon, oatmeal, orange juice, and sticky rolls, and eggs any way you like them. I’m scrambling for Leatha and me. What will Caitie want?”
“Scrambled for me, too,” I said. “And Caitie’s still asleep, so it’s just us for now.” I poured a cup of coffee. “Sticky rolls?”
“In the oven.” At that moment, a timer went off, and Sue Ellen added, “Ready to come out. Maybe you could do that.” She began laying bacon strips into a cast-iron skillet on the other front burner.
I open
ed the oven and pulled out a pan of rolls that gave off a mouthwatering lemon-rosemary odor. “Omigod,” I crooned. “Oh, these smell utterly delicious, Sue Ellen. They look pretty, too.”
“Easy peasy,” she said. “Refrigerated dough, with a lemon and rosemary filling—although of course you could use a yeast dough if you want. Just roll it out, slather on the filling, and you’re done. Except for the icing.” She pointed to a small bowl of white frosting. “That’s it. Cream cheese, lemon, and confectioner’s sugar. If it’s a bit too thick, stick it in the microwave for ten seconds, then just drizzle it on. What we don’t eat this morning, we can warm up for breakfast tomorrow.”
I got to work. As I transferred the buns to a serving plate, I brought up the subject that was on my mind. “I talked to Justine Wyzinski this morning. The lawyer I mentioned last night.”
Sue Ellen turned toward me, and I got a good look at her. In the harsh light of morning, her face was pale, with lines around her mouth and blue circles under her eyes. She looked older than she’d seemed last night.
“Did you sleep well?” I asked, concerned. “Your suite is okay?”
“The suite is fine, the bed is comfortable.” She turned up the heat under the bacon. “The problem is me. I’m not ready to hit the panic button yet, but what you said kept me awake.”
“I’m sorry about the sleep,” I said, putting the bowl of glaze into the microwave. “But I’m glad you thought about our conversation.”
“This lawyer. What did she say?”
“She’s interested in your situation and would like to help. But here’s the thing. She can’t agree to represent you without knowing the story up front—the full story.” I began drizzling the glaze over the buns. “If you’ll tell me, I’ll relay it to her, and she’ll let us know whether she can do it or not.”
“What if . . .” Sue Ellen turned a strip of bacon. “What if I don’t tell you?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘No skin off my nose if she doesn’t. She can always find a public defender.’ Which is true, of course. If your husband is arrested and you’re charged with being an accessory, you can ask the court to appoint somebody who will—”
“I don’t want that,” Sue Ellen said hastily. “Not one of those guys. I’ve seen them on TV. They’re losers. They always mess up.”
That wasn’t true, but I wasn’t going to argue. “Then you’ll probably want to tell me,” I said. “So what’s the story?”
Sue Ellen turned the other strips of bacon. After a moment, she sighed. “Okay. I guess I gotta do it. The story is that Jack and these two buddies of his, Duke and Lucky, are trying to get into the trophy-hunting business. You know, like they do at Three Gates, but without the fancy lodge and all the extra stuff. A start-up, you might say. On a shoestring. Duke and Lucky already have the land, which is good. But to get the state permit, they have to put in miles and miles of expensive fencing. They’ve done some of it, but they don’t have the money to finish it. So they—” She stopped to take the oatmeal pan off the burner. “So they’re bringing in white-tails. And selling them.”
I put the plate of glazed buns on the table and began laying out the place mats and silverware at our places, two on one side of the table, two on the other. I was remembering what Justine had told me earlier that morning about the East Texas deer-smuggling case, which had involved both state and federal violations. It sounded like that was what Sue Ellen was talking about. But I needed to hear it from her.
“‘Bringing in white-tails’?” I asked. “Exactly what does that mean?”
“It means that they’ve been trucking in deer from Oklahoma.”
“As in . . . smuggling?”
“Yeah, right. As in smuggling.” She eyed me. “So I guess you know it’s against the law to haul white-tailed deer into Texas.” Her mouth was a thin line, twisted down in one corner, as if she were tasting something sour. “Kind of a dumb law, seems to me. I mean, hundreds of deer walk back and forth across the border anytime they want and nobody tries to stop them. But if you load a couple of deer in a truck and drive them across, all of a sudden you’re a smuggler, and both the state guys and the feds are after you. Heck, you can’t even truck deer around inside the state without a permit. You can go to jail.”
“Okay,” I said. “I get that. And I understand that the penalties for doing that sort of thing are pretty stiff, and that a smuggler can find himself in some serious trouble.” I frowned. “But last night, I understood you to be talking about something else. You said that your husband was stealing money from his employer, and you implied that the thefts amounted to a sizable chunk of change. So how is smuggling connected to—”
“I didn’t say he was stealing actual money,” she put in quickly. “I said—”
“You said it boiled down to money,” I corrected myself. “So if it isn’t money, what is it? Equipment?” But she seemed to think he had taken more than $200,000—what under the sun had he stolen that had that kind of value?
“No, not equipment.” She put a folded paper towel on a plate and began forking bacon strips onto it. “When you hear what it is, you’re going to think it’s nothing much. But that’s because you don’t know what’s going on in deer ranching these days. These animals—”
“Good morning, girls,” my mother said cheerily, coming into the kitchen. She was wearing a navy blue wool pantsuit and matching navy heels, with a white scoop-neck top, pearls, and pearl earrings. Her gray hair was attractively swept back, and her face was carefully made up. She might have been going to a charity fund-raiser luncheon at the River Oaks Country Club.
“Good morning,” Sue Ellen and I chorused. We traded half-guilty glances, as if Leatha had caught us telling a dirty story, which in a sense she had.
“Oh, my, that coffee smells good!” she exclaimed, coming over to give me a peck on the cheek and bestowing one on Sue Ellen as well. “I think I’ll have another cup. China, did Sue Ellen tell you about going to the hospital this morning?”
For the record, I love my mother and I want to be there for her when she needs me. But at that moment I fervently wished she had put off coming into the kitchen until Sue Ellen had finished her sentence. Or her paragraph. Or whatever it took for me to get the story. By the time we were able to return to the subject, she might have changed her mind.
But there were other priorities, of course. “What’s happening with Sam?” I asked urgently. “What did you hear from the hospital? Is there a problem?”
As Leatha poured coffee, I saw that her hands were trembling, and I guessed that the hospital hadn’t phoned with good news. “They want to do more surgery.” She wasn’t looking at me. “Today.”
“On Thanksgiving?” If they were doing it on a holiday, it must be serious.
She nodded. “Can you go with me?”
“Of course,” I replied promptly. I hesitated and added, “What surgery, exactly?”
She glanced at the serving plate on the table. “Oh, look! Glazed buns.” She bent to sniff. “Lemon and rosemary! What a wonderful combination!” She took her coffee to the table and sat down. Beneath her makeup, her face was sallow. “I didn’t ask for details, China. I just said we’d get there quick as we could. I thought we’d find out soon enough.”
Just like my mother, I thought to myself. Queen of Denial, determined to put off knowing about or even acknowledging the bad stuff as long as possible. But I couldn’t blame her. What she and Sam were facing was a threat to the life they had built here at Bittersweet. A life they expected to live together for years to come, a life that would be very difficult for her to manage alone. No wonder she didn’t want to know the bad news until she had to.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Oatmeal? Sue Ellen’s made a pot of it.”
She bent her cheek to my hand. “Just a little, please.” She took a deep breath, then began spooning sugar into her coffee. “Sue Ellen, are
there any eggs?”
“Coming up,” Sue Ellen said cheerily. “And bacon.” She glanced at me. Later, she mouthed, as she put a plate in front of my mother. “I’ll get you some orange juice,” she said to Leatha, and went to the fridge.
Stepping close to Sue Ellen, I said in a low voice, “Maybe you and I can talk some more before we have to leave for Kerrville.”
“You need to get going,” she said, getting out the pitcher. “Anyway, we don’t have to do it today, do we?”
“No.” I took the pitcher from her and began pouring juice into glasses. “But if you hold off, Justine is likely to think—”
“Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!” Caitie sang, standing in the doorway with Mr. P draped like an orange fur stole over her arm. “Is it time for breakfast?” She was wearing her favorite pink fairy pajamas and fluffy pink bunny-ear house slippers, and her dark hair was tousled. She looked adorable—although I am her mother, and naturally prejudiced. I often find myself wishing that I could keep her safe from the world and at this sweet age forever.
“Breakfast is most definitely ready,” Leatha said with a broad smile. She patted the chair beside her. “Come and sit by Gramma, and Sue Ellen will fix you some eggs and bacon. Did you and Mr. P sleep well last night?”
“Oh, yes!” Caitie exclaimed. She found a small bowl and began filling it with milk for the cat.
“Scrambled okay?” Sue Ellen asked.
Caitie nodded. “Did you know that those eggs were laid by my girls?” She put the bowl on the floor, and Mr. P began to lap up the milk, purring throatily and twirling his tail. That cat is such a ham.
“They were, truly?” Sue Ellen asked in mock astonishment. “You mean, you have your very own chickens?”
“Six hens, a rooster, and seven little chickens,” Caitie boasted, sitting down beside her grandmother. “And the girls’ eggs are all fertile. That means,” she explained in a knowing tone, “that the hen and the rooster had sex, so if a hen sits on the eggs and keeps them warm all day every day for twenty-one days, baby chicks will hatch out. I know this works,” she confided, “because one of my hens volunteered. That’s how we got the seven little chickens.”
Bittersweet Page 15
