Bittersweet

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Leatha settled into a chair beside Sam’s bed with the book she had brought. McQuaid called about that time from a few miles north of Kerrville, and I suggested that he and Brian stop at the hospital and pick me up. Leatha could stay with Sam as long as she liked, but now that I knew he was going to be okay, I wanted to go back to the ranch and help with the preparations for our Thanksgiving dinner.

  But I also wanted to get Sue Ellen to finish the story she’d started to tell me earlier that morning. I wanted to know what her husband had been up to so I could pass the word along to Justine, with the hope that the Whiz could keep Sue Ellen out of trouble with the law. And now that I knew more about the Texas deer industry, I was curious. What was going on here?

  • • •

  MCQUAID and Brian and I got to Bittersweet in time for me to help Sue Ellen with the last of the dinner prep. That part was easy, but I struck out when it came to getting her to tell me her story. I prodded as persuasively as I know how—and I can be pretty persuasive when the occasion warrants. But since I didn’t know the details, I didn’t have a lot of leverage. And Sue Ellen seemed to have reconsidered her decision to tell me the full story. That worried me. I hated to see her caught in a situation she couldn’t handle. And given what I had learned from Justine and McQuaid about the size of the stakes in the trophy buck business, I was beginning to fear that the situation could turn dangerous. If Jack and his buddies viewed Sue Ellen as a serious threat, she could be a target. As if in confirmation of my concern, she got a couple of cell phone calls while we were working on the food. She went outdoors to talk and came back looking pinched and distressed. I tried to tell her that she might be in danger, but I struck out with that, too. She wasn’t having any of it.

  Leatha got back from the hospital a few minutes before four, and Mack—slim and attractive in a black turtleneck with jeans and a great-looking red leather vest—arrived just as we were ready to put dinner on the table. The star of the show, of course, was the turkey, crisp and brown on the outside, juicy and flavorful on the inside. Caitie was concerned about where the turkey had come from—had Sam shot it in their nature sanctuary? But Leatha reassured her that it had come from the supermarket, which to Caitie’s mind seemed to make it more acceptable. I didn’t pursue the irony with her. I already had enough on my mind.

  Sue Ellen had stuffed the bird with a delicious rosemary and dried cranberry stuffing, and we had mashed potatoes and giblet gravy, sweet potato casserole, ginger and marmalade carrots, slaw with pickled beets and apples, and the peach and pumpkin pies that Leatha and Caitie had made the night before. I stirred up some bourbon-flavored whipped cream to top the peach pie (baked with an interesting hint of rosemary), and everybody raved about the combination.

  We ate until we simply couldn’t eat another bite, and then sat around the table with our coffee while Brian and Caitie went off to play StarCraft II on Brian’s laptop. Brian is a veteran gamer and has initiated his sister into the StarCraft universe. They were so deeply engrossed that we didn’t hear another peep out of them for the rest of the day.

  While the kids were at the table, we had kept the conversation general. Brian had plenty to tell us about his first semester at the university. Mack told a hilarious story about nabbing a guy who had posted his illegal buck to Facebook and capped it off with a few of the nutty things that people do during hunting season. Sue Ellen joined in with tales about growing up in Utopia, which made us all shake our heads and laugh. The town’s name might summon images of the ideal life, but the place itself sounded very much like every other small town in Texas, a mix of the good, the bad, and the simply weird.

  But when Brian and Caitie excused themselves and went off to their game, the conversation became more serious. It was good to renew our connection with Mack, and the three of us—Mack, McQuaid, and I—found ourselves involved in a complicated discussion of the ethical and legal issues involved in trophy hunting. Both Mack and McQuaid were longtime hunters, but both were firmly opposed to shooting captive-bred deer when they came to feed, “like shooting fish in a barrel,” McQuaid said disgustedly. As they got warmed up, both had plenty to say on the subject, while I was still trying to puzzle through the legal contradictions created by the state’s claim to own all the deer, both wild and captive-bred, and the private ownership implied by the breeding programs that were given permits by the state. My lawyer-self noted that this conundrum had apparently never been tested in court.

  I noticed, though, that Sue Ellen (whose work at Three Gates gave her more direct experience with captive hunting than any of us) said nothing at all during this fairly heated discussion and diligently avoided my glance. When the conversation turned to Doc Masters’ murder (I hadn’t thought to mention it to her earlier), it was clear that she was shocked. She went suddenly pale, excused herself, and left the table hastily. I was concerned and wanted to go after her. But Leatha put her hand on my arm and shook her head, and then followed Sue Ellen into the kitchen, where I could hear the soothing murmur of my mother’s voice and little gulps of sobs from Sue Ellen. Utopia was a small town. I supposed that she had known him.

  Mack gave us a little more information about the investigation into the veterinarian’s death. The shooting had happened after hours. The vet had parked his truck beside the back door and entered there, leaving the door unlocked. The shooter had apparently used that door as well, since there was no sign of a forced entry, and the front door of the clinic was locked. Doc Masters had been standing in the doorway of his office when he was shot in the chest at close range—a single shot, probably with a .22, since the entrance wound was small and there was no exit wound. A search hadn’t turned up the shell casing. The drug storage area in the clinic had been broken into, but the robber—or robbers—hadn’t taken much.

  “Angie Donaldson, who manages the clinic’s office, is going to do an inventory,” Mack added. “But at a glance, it looks as if all they took was a carton of pills and a gallon of hydrocodone syrup.”

  “Sounds like they’re planning on getting high and staying there for a while,” I said disgustedly.

  “Planning to sell it, more likely,” McQuaid corrected me, “depending on which pills they took. Some of that stuff is pure gold on the street.” In his years as a cop, he saw more than his share of drug busts, as well as robberies, burglaries, homicides, suicides, fights, riots, and chases. His body bears the scars of his close encounters with the dark side. When he comments on criminal activity, I tend to listen.

  Now, he frowned. “It’s kind of surprising that they didn’t take more, though. When one of the Pecan Springs clinics was broken into last month, the burglars parked a truck out back and completely cleaned it out, down to the measuring scales and drug-testing equipment.”

  Elbows on the table, coffee cup in both hands, Mack was watching him narrowly. “They could have taken more if they’d wanted to, Mike.” She was talking cop to cop. “They broke into the closet where the drugs were kept, and there was plenty of good stuff on the shelves. Stuff they could have sold, easily, in San Antonio or up in Austin. There was cash in the office till, too, over a hundred dollars. It wasn’t touched.”

  “No surveillance cameras, I suppose,” I said.

  Mack shook her head. “No. This kind of thing hasn’t happened before—in Utopia, anyway.”

  Leatha had come back to the table, but there was no sign of Sue Ellen. “It sounds as if Phil came in and panicked them before they could get much,” Leatha suggested unhappily. She shook her head, her lips pinched tight. “Such a tragedy. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Sam, but he’ll have to know, sooner or later. He’ll be wondering why Phil doesn’t drop in to see him.”

  McQuaid shook his head at her idea that the vet had interrupted a burglary. “The robber had to know that somebody was in the building, Leatha. Mack told us that the vet’s truck was parked out back, and the back door was unlocked. I don’t think there was any surpr
ise involved—except for the victim, that is.”

  “And there’s another thing.” Mack took a sip of her coffee and put the cup down. “Something came up yesterday when I was out with Doc Masters, and I can’t help wondering if it isn’t somehow connected.”

  “Connected with his murder?” I asked.

  Mack nodded, but she wasn’t replying to me. She was talking to McQuaid. Again, cop to cop. “The doc and I went out on a call to a local ranch. After we finished what we had to do, he told me about a situation he’d run into a few days earlier, involving some stolen deer.”

  “How did he know they were stolen?” McQuaid asked. It was a very reasonable question, I thought. Some deer are big and some are little. Some have antlers and some don’t. But otherwise, one deer looks pretty much like another. To me, anyway.

  “The legitimate game ranches have state permits,” Mack said. “Fawns born on those ranches are required to have numbers tattooed on their ears. The numbers identify both the ranch and the individual animal and are recorded with Parks and Wildlife as part of our keep-track system.”

  Ah. So it was Parks and Wildlife that was responsible for regulating the deer-breeding business. There was one question answered.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Leatha said, frowning. “Why does anybody need to keep track of them?”

  “Because of the potential for the spread of chronic wasting disease,” McQuaid replied. “I learned that from Blackie’s investigation. It’s a major threat.”

  “And because some of these farm-bred deer may be genetically different from the native population,” Mack added. “They’re not exotics, exactly, but they are bred for the size of their antlers. And anytime you select for one trait, you’re likely to throw other important traits completely out of balance.” She pointed at what was left of the roast turkey on the platter in the middle of the table. “For example, that farm-raised turkey and the wild turkeys we see around here are the same species. But the domestic turkeys are genetically modified to gain weight fast. They are genetically designed to eat until they’re like sumo wrestlers, supersized and so heavy they can scarcely waddle. Wild turkeys, on the other hand, are lean and alert and fast as lightning. Mix the two, and the wild birds are going to display some of the domestic traits. The wild species could be changed.”

  “Ah,” I said, beginning to put it together. “The genetically different animals could be a threat to the species—or to the environment. Like the axis deer that were imported into Texas for hunting. And kudzu and Oriental bittersweet in the plant world.” Plants and animals that didn’t belong.

  “Exactly,” Mack said. “But back to the stolen fawns. Doc Masters told me that he was called out to a ranch—he didn’t say where—to handle a birth of twin calves. While he was there, he happened to see some tattooed fawns that he knew didn’t belong on the place, because it doesn’t have a game ranch permit. I’m responsible for checking reports like that, so I asked him to identify the ranch and its owner. He didn’t exactly refuse, but he said he . . .” She looked uncomfortable. “He had to think about it.”

  “Mmm.” McQuaid pulled his dark eyebrows together. “Wonder why.”

  “I got the impression that the owner was a friend of his, or maybe somebody important in the community,” Mack said. “I think he had second thoughts about telling me. Anyway, I told him I would call him first thing tomorrow to find out where those fawns are being held. I made it clear that I wanted the owner’s name. And now—” She spread her hands.

  “And now he’s dead,” I said. “And you’re thinking there’s a connection. Like, maybe he made a date to talk to the ranch owner about the situation. They were supposed to meet at the clinic.”

  McQuaid pursed his lips. “Yeah, but I can’t see somebody killing a man over a few fawns, can you, China? I mean, seriously, can you?”

  At the back of the house, I heard the kitchen screen door slam. My mother got up and left the room again. But I wasn’t paying attention to that. I was thinking of what Sue Ellen had started to tell me about the theft her husband was involved in.

  “Well, maybe it’s not just a few fawns,” I said. “Maybe it’s bigger than that.”

  “Bigger?” McQuaid asked. “Like how?”

  “Like maybe there’s more. More animals. More whatever.” I realized my vagueness wasn’t helpful. This wasn’t a subject I knew much about, and I couldn’t think of what “more” there might be. But I was sorting through all the little pieces and wondering what the connections were.

  “But still,” McQuaid said, “if it’s violations of the state game laws, we’re only talking fines and some jail time. Not in the same league as a homicide. Just doesn’t make sense.” He shook his head. “Of course, killing somebody over a carton of pills and a gallon of narcotic doesn’t make a helluva lot of sense, either, but drug robberies end badly all the time.” He pulled at his lower lip. “Could’ve been kids, I suppose. They were hanging around in the parking lot, followed him into the clinic, and—” He shrugged.

  “Could’ve happened that way,” Mack said flatly. “The stuff about the fawns was maybe only a coincidence. Damn,” she muttered. “I wish Doc Masters had told me where he went on that call. Whether or not it has anything to do with his death, I need to locate those fawns and see what’s going on.”

  I thought of my recent trip to the vet so that Mr. P could get his annual vaccinations, and the billing trail that had been left in our wake. “You said Doc Masters was called out for the birth of twin calves? You could get his office manager to check the billing records. Somebody has to have paid for the visit—unless he was in the habit of giving his time away free. Which most vets aren’t,” I added, remembering the size of Mr. P’s vet bill. That cat must have squandered at least eight of his lives before he got to our place, but this time around, he had lucked into a cushy existence.

  “Why didn’t I think of the billing records?” Mack rolled her eyes. “That’s what I’ll do, China. Maybe I can go in and have a look tomorrow.” She stopped and thought for an instant. “I’ll have to do it first thing, though. I’m supposed to meet a couple of kids who want to show me their drone.”

  “A drone?” McQuaid asked with interest. “I thought the Texas legislature was driving a stake through the heart of drones—at least for ordinary civilians.”

  “The bill hasn’t made it out of committee yet,” Mack told him, “so they’re still legal. Anyway, I’ve never seen one of those things up close. I’m curious about the quality of the image, the range, that kind of thing. So I’m meeting them tomorrow at ten, at the rodeo grounds in Utopia.”

  “I might see you there,” I said. “I’m helping Jennie Seale plant an herb garden at her restaurant tomorrow morning. It’s not far from the rodeo grounds. And I’ve been interested in drones, too. They pose some serious privacy issues.” I looked at McQuaid. “I’ll probably stay here through Sunday, if that’s okay with you.”

  McQuaid nodded. “No problem, far as I’m concerned. Brian and Caitie and I are heading back to Pecan Springs first thing tomorrow. Brian’s got a hot date for tomorrow night, Caitie’s got a sleepover, and I need to clean up some paperwork in the office.” He looked at Leatha, who had just sat back down at the table. “Unless there’s something you need me to do here, Leatha. If there is, I’ll be glad to hang around for a couple of hours.”

  My mother shook her head. “No, dear, you and the children go on. But I do hope you’ll come back for Christmas. Sam will be his old self again, I’m sure, and we’d love to have you celebrate the holiday with us.” She leaned toward me, a puzzled look on her face, and lowered her voice. “I don’t understand it, China. Sue Ellen was talking on her cell phone out in the backyard. I watched her through the window and could see that she was terribly upset. I think she was crying. Then she ran in, got her car keys and purse and coat, and drove off.”

  “Drove off?” I asked in surp
rise.

  “Without a word. No good-bye, nothing. It’s especially odd because we had just been talking about starting the kitchen cleanup. I’m sure something must be terribly wrong.”

  “I wonder if she went back to Three Gates,” I said worriedly. If she had, would her husband be able to persuade her to stay with him? Would he—

  Mack’s cell phone chirped, and she fished it out of her jeans pocket. “Sorry about this,” she said, pushing her chair back. “I’m on call this evening, so I can’t turn my phone off. I need to answer.” A few moments later, she returned to the table. “I’m afraid I have to leave,” she said to Leatha. “A property owner who lives south on 187 just phoned to say that he discovered blood and drag marks across a corner of his field. He followed the trail and found a dead doe, just the backstrap taken. Whoever did it was probably shooting from the road—jacklighting, most likely.”

  “Jerk,” McQuaid growled. “But he’s long gone. You don’t have much of a chance of getting him.”

  Mack smiled tightly. “You never can tell. I’ll ask around. Maybe a neighbor saw a vehicle. Folks don’t like people who do this kind of thing. Hunters especially hate it. They want the guys caught and fined—and named in the local newspaper and on the Internet, for everybody to see.” She grinned ruefully. “Publishing names turns out to have a big impact on behavior.”

  I followed Mack out of the room. While she was putting on her jacket, I said, “I’m sorry you have to leave, Mack. Can we get together before I go back to Pecan Springs? I’d like to catch up on your life.” I grinned. “Not your game warden life. Your other life. You know. The personal stuff.”

  “Oh, that.” Mack’s smile brightened, and a flush rose on her cheeks. “Actually, I might have something interesting to tell you.”