“Well, I’ve got a start, anyway,” she said. “Thanks, Angie, for letting me hunt for the notebook. I appreciate it very much.”
“You’re welcome.” Angie picked up her inventory clipboard. “You might ask around the café or the general store—about the Bar Bee, I mean. Somebody’s bound to know—or bound to know somebody who’s bound to know.”
Mack nodded, although she wasn’t comfortable with the idea of making a public inquiry. She picked up a scrap of paper. “Could you do me a favor? If you happen to think about it when you’re at the store or the café, please do, and let me know what you find out. Here’s my cell.” She jotted down the number and handed it to Angie. “And if you could leave me out of it, that would be great. I’d rather that the owner of the Bar Bee didn’t hear that a game warden is trying to locate him.” If he did, he’d dispose of those fawns in a hurry.
Angie raised an eyebrow. “Like that, huh?” She pocketed the scrap of paper. “Sure, I’ll do it—if you’ll keep me posted on the cops’ investigation. It’s bad enough not knowing whether I’ll have a job here at the clinic next week or next month.” She shook her head gloomily. “But Doc was the best boss in the world. Not knowing who killed him or why . . . That’s a helluva lot worse.”
“If I hear anything I can pass along, I’ll be in touch,” Mack said. She glanced at her watch. “Uh-oh, gotta get going. I promised to meet a couple of people at the rodeo grounds, and I’m late already.”
• • •
MACK had mixed feelings about rodeos, for she had seen instances of what she considered animal cruelty during and before the performances, and she knew that many animal welfare groups opposed them. But there had been at least some improvements in the way animals were treated, and—like it or not—rodeo was the state sport of Texas. Almost every city, large and small, staged an annual rodeo, counting it high on the list of profitable tourist attractions. Utopia’s rodeos were held in the arena on the west side of town, along the shore of Park Lake, a dammed-up section of the Sabinal River bordered by stately cypress trees. A couple of times every summer, the local cowboys and cowgirls (and a handful of professional out-of-town competitors) got together to test their skills in bronc and bull riding, calf roping, wild cow milking, mutton scramble, and barrel racing. Seven tiers of wooden spectators’ bleachers lined one side of the fenced infield, with fences and chutes and gates on the opposite side. During the competitions, the grassy outfield and graveled parking lot were filled with pickups, horse and cattle trailers, chuck wagons and church-sponsored food tents, and crowds of men, women, and kids in Western shirts, jeans, boots, and cowboy hats. Sometimes a carnival came to town at the same time, with a Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round, and a half-dozen other rides and carny games. And there was always an evening dance, with a local country and western band. Square dancing, too—and square dance and clogging exhibits. Rodeo weekends brought Utopia to life, Mack thought, like the mythical Brigadoon.
But this was the day after Thanksgiving. The grassy outfield was frost bleached, and the rodeo arena and surrounding outfield were empty, except for a black SUV with dark-tinted windows parked beside the southeastern arena gate and three people tinkering with something at that end of the infield. When Mack parked her truck next to the SUV and got out, she saw that the trio, two young women and a man, were working with an interesting-looking piece of equipment sitting on the ground—the drone. It didn’t look anything like the model airplanes she’d flown when she was a girl, though. It looked like a large four-legged spider with a sleek silver central body and outrigger motors at the end of each leg. The spider was about two feet long and two feet across.
Mack recognized one of the two people standing beside the drone—Chris Griffin, a dark-haired, dark-eyed, intense young man wearing chinos, spiffy white tennis shoes, and a blue sweatshirt that advertised his affiliation with People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. He stepped forward and put out his hand, reminding Mack that they had met at a wildlife conservation conference in San Antonio. He introduced his sister, Sharon, a lively-looking pigtailed blonde of sixteen or seventeen, who was equipped with a video camera. And then he introduced his colleague, Amy Roth, a pretty, willowy redhead in her late twenties. She wore jeans, a denim jacket, and a red T-shirt with the eye-catching words Meat Is Murder across the front. She carried an iPad.
“I’m the one you talked with on the phone,” Amy said, shaking hands.
Mack glanced at her T-shirt. “Well, I guess we know where you stand on a couple of major issues,” she said with a little laugh.
“Absolutely,” Amy said lightly. “I like to make my statement up front. That’s why I wear it.”
Mack nodded. “Listen, guys, speaking of statements, I need to make it clear that I’m doing this because of my own personal interest and not in any official capacity. I have absolutely no input into the use of drones by Parks and Wildlife. I probably should have told you this on the phone, Amy. I hope you haven’t come all the way to Utopia on the wrong assumption.”
She thought Chris looked a little disappointed, but he only said, “Amy has been wanting to evaluate the drone because of her work with PETA. And Sharon wants to videotape a flight for a science project at school. When we met at that conference, you seemed interested. So I thought we’d put it all together in one package.”
“And we were coming this way anyway,” Sharon said. “We’re planning to use it to watch some people shooting—”
Amy broke in hastily. “Let’s just say we’re taking it for a practice flight not very far from here, later today.”
Mack caught the warning glance Amy had shot at Sharon. She guessed that they were probably going to try out the drone on some sort of surveillance mission and thought she should warn them.
“Just for the record,” she said, “I need to remind you that it’s illegal to interfere with anyone who is lawfully hunting. I don’t want to get a phone call from some irate guy who wants me to throw you in jail because your drone scared away a buck he had in his sights. Or a call from you, yelling that some idiot hunter has shot down your drone.”
“What about someone who is unlawfully hunting?” Sharon put in. She might have said more, but she subsided when her brother shook his head at her.
“We understand all that,” Chris said to Mack. He was scowling. “We’ve read the regs.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Mack said with a smile. “I needed to say it, is all.” She refrained from calling them kids—they were too old for that, although that’s how she thought of them. Kids on a mission, kids with a cause. Kids who could get themselves into some pretty serious trouble if they didn’t watch out.
She knelt down to look at the drone. “So tell me what we’ve got here and how it works. I used to fly my brother’s radio-controlled model airplanes. But that was a couple of centuries ago, before all this new technology came along.”
“Things are changing fast,” Chris said. “This one operates on four motors, one on each of the four outriggers, at twenty-eight thousand rpm in a hover. It has a flight deck containing the flight control system with GPS for navigation, sensors, and receivers. The camera is suspended below the flight deck. It operates on a rechargeable battery.” He held up a tablet computer. “This is the pilot’s control deck. It’s got monitors that show a real-time video streaming, as well as information about the flight: altitude, speed, rate of descent and ascent, and remaining battery life.”
“We can see the camera view on other devices, as well,” Amy said, holding up her iPad. “There’s JPEG photo capture on a thumb drive and live camera views.”
“We can watch it on a smartphone, too,” Sharon said. “And the video can be uploaded to the Internet.”
“Twenty-eight thousand rpm?” Mack asked. “Doesn’t that create a lot of vibration? I’d think it would interfere with image transmission.”
Chris shook his head. “The camera is foam insulated. You’ll see—
there’s almost no vibration. It’s high-definition,” he added, “with a wide angle lens. Takes in a lot of territory.”
“How much flying time on the battery?” Mack asked.
“About fifteen minutes,” Chris said. “As batteries improve, that time will increase.”
“Control range?”
“About a hundred eighty feet.”
Mack’s first thought was that the range wasn’t very great. But with greater altitude, you’d still be able to see quite a distance, depending on the camera. “Okay,” she said, “let’s see it fly. But don’t fly it over the town. I don’t want to hear complaints from people who think they’re being spied on.” She gestured. “Fly it to the west, over the lake.”
The brilliant blue sky and bright sunshine of the early morning had given way to gray clouds, but there was hardly any wind, which, according to Chris, made it easier to control the flight. For the next several minutes, while Sharon videotaped the demonstration, Chris piloted the drone over the woods and the lake, just over the treetops at an altitude of about thirty feet. Mack and Amy watched the color video feed on Amy’s iPad. Mack was surprised at the quality of the image and the resolution, especially given the range. She could see a great blue heron wading in the water and watched it catch and gulp down a fish. On the shore, a squirrel jumped from one branch to another, then swung onto the ground, flicking his tail. With that kind of resolution, Mack thought, you could probably read a license plate number on a vehicle. She could see why people were raising potential privacy concerns.
After about ten minutes, Chris began to recall the drone, swinging it over the field. He was bringing it in for a landing when another vehicle—a red panel van with brightly painted psychedelic swirls on both sides—pulled up and parked beside Mack’s truck. China Bayles got out. She was wearing a gray fleece zip-front hoodie over a green Thyme and Seasons T-shirt. There was a pair of garden gloves tucked into the back pocket of her jeans, and the knees were dirty.
“Hey, Mack,” she called, and then did a double take. “Amy? My gosh, Amy! What in the world are you doing here?”
“Uh-oh,” Amy muttered, with a surreptitious look at Chris that Mack couldn’t quite decipher. She recomposed her face and smiled. “Hi, China,” she said weakly. “What a surprise!”
Mack glanced curiously from Amy to China. “You two know each other?”
“We sure do,” China said cheerfully. She slipped an arm around Amy’s shoulders and hugged her. “And yes, Amy, big surprise. Mack said she was going to take a look at a drone this morning, but I had no idea that you were involved. I was installing a garden at a friend’s restaurant on Main Street, and I invited myself to see the drone.” She turned to Sharon and put out her hand. “Hi. I’m China Bayles. Amy’s mom and I work together.”
“Oh, now I get it, Amy,” Mack exclaimed. “You’re Ruby Wilcox’s daughter! I’ve been in your mother’s shop. Really, I should have guessed. You look like her, you know—all that red hair.”
“That’s my mom,” Amy said with a slightly sheepish grin. She turned to Chris. “China, this is my associate, Chris Griffin. You might have met him several years ago, when we were working together on that PETA demonstration at Central Texas State. We’ve got a different project going here. Sharon is Chris’ sister. I’m staying with her this weekend.”
“Oh, sure,” China said easily. “I understand.” To Chris she said, “You must be the drone developer that Mack told me about. Did I miss the demo flight?”
“I just brought it in,” Chris said. “Give me a minute to put in a new battery and we’ll be ready to fly again.”
While Chris was changing the battery, China said to Amy, “I’m spending Thanksgiving with my mom, who lives on a ranch near here. If you’re going to be around later this afternoon, why don’t you and your friends drop in? She may be at the hospital—her husband is recovering from heart surgery—but I’d be glad to show y’all around. It’s a beautiful place, right on the Sabinal River.”
Amy shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, sorry. Sharon and Chris and I have . . . uh, something else we need to do. I’m staying in Boerne tonight, with Sharon.”
China nodded. “Sure thing—but next time you find yourself in the area, save some time for a stop at the ranch. Bittersweet, it’s called. South on 187 about ten miles—watch for the sign on the right. I’m sure Leatha would love to give you the grand tour.”
“We’re all set for another run,” Chris announced, and with a whir, the drone lifted off into the sky over the Sabinal River, as Mack and China watched the images on Amy’s iPad. They were so clear that Mack could see the details of leaves, rocks on the shore, a pair of turkey vultures lunching on roadkill on Johnson Street, at the north edge of the park.
“Amazing,” China murmured, shaking her head. “Wow. Talk about spies in the skies. No wonder the ACLU is asking privacy questions about these drones.”
• • •
TWENTY minutes later, Amy, Chris, and Sharon had packed up their gear and driven off, and Mack and China were sitting over complimentary slices of guiche and glasses of iced hibiscus tea at Jennie’s restaurant, just off Main Street. The dining area (once the two front rooms of a frame house) was small but homey. The wooden tables were covered with red-checked oilcloth, the chairs were painted red and green, and green plants in red pots hung in front of the uncurtained windows. In warm weather, wide doors opened out onto a brick-paved patio shaded by a green canvas awning and surrounded on three sides by an herb garden. It was still early for lunch, and the dining area was empty. So before they sat down, China and Jennie—a small, delicate woman with a ready smile and a red bandana tied around her dark hair—had given Mack a quick tour of the garden, pointing out the new plants they had settled into the soil that morning: several rosemaries, sage, lavender, thyme, chives and garlic chives, oregano, and Mexican mint marigold.
“That’s our Southern substitute for tarragon,” China said, pointing to the Mexican mint marigold. “It’s too hot in Texas for tarragon, but this plant loves our heat and humidity, and in the fall, it has a pretty marigold-like bloom. There’s another bonus, too—the deer won’t eat it. In fact, if you scatter a few plants around in the garden, it might even keep them away from the other stuff.” She made a face. “Although when it comes to deer, there are never any guarantees.”
“China brought us some other pretties to put in, too,” Jennie said. “Coreopsis, lantana, Mexican petunia, and several different salvias.” She looked around with a smile. “It’s going to be lovely here all summer. And I’ll have all the herbs I could ever want for cooking. I’m even thinking that I could make up a few packets of fresh herbs for over-the-counter sale during the summer.”
“Now, that’s a good idea,” China said approvingly. “We do that in our tearoom. Rosemary is always popular, but people also snap up our lavender, thyme, and sage. We usually clip a recipe to the package, as well. Sometimes, a recipe for one of our menu items.”
“Great!” Jennie exclaimed. “We’ll try that.” She waved a hand. “And you can’t leave without having a slice of our herb quiche. Take a seat and I’ll bring some out for you.”
Now, at the table, Mack tasted her quiche. “This is so good,” she said, and smiled. “Pie fixes everything, you know—at least, that’s what they say over at the Lost Maples Café. And quiche is pie, isn’t it?”
“Yep,” China answered, digging into hers. “A cheese and egg custard with added savories, baked in a pie shell. And yes, I agree. Pie fixes everything.” She tasted. “And this quiche is very good. Maybe we should take a piece to Sam. He needs some fixing.”
Mack read the concern on China’s face. “Have you heard from the hospital today? How is he?”
“Leatha called this morning before she left. The nurse said he was doing ‘fairly well,’ whatever that means.” China’s face darkened and her mouth turned down. “I don’t mind telling you
that I’m worried, Mack. Mom and Sam are committed to this new project of theirs—filling their guest lodge with eco-tourists and birders. It’s something they really want to do, and I’d love to see them succeed. But it’s going to take a huge amount of work. If Sam’s not in shape to help out, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m not sure my mother can handle it alone.”
“I thought that’s why Sue Ellen was there yesterday. Your mom told me she’s going to help out.”
“Yes, but it’s short-term. She wants to enroll in college. She put me in touch with her sister, Patsy, who’s been working here with Jennie. I met Patsy this morning. I like her very much. She seems capable and interested, and I think she’ll do a good job.” China wrinkled her nose. “But even with help, there’s still going to be a strain. I’m worried.”
Mack took a bite of quiche. “I think we all worry about our folks,” she said. “I know I do. Every time I see my mother, she looks a little older and a little more tired. She works too hard. I tell her to ease up, but she keeps insisting that she’s fine. I know she’s not telling me the whole truth, but it’s not because she’s secretive or upset with me or anything like that. She wants me to have my own life. She doesn’t want to worry me.”
China nodded, understanding. “But there are times when we have to worry. Take Ruby’s mother, Doris, for instance. She has Alzheimer’s. After a lot of back-and-forth hassle, Ruby and her sister finally got her settled in a facility in Pecan Springs—it’s supposed to be the best one. She gets good care there, but she’s wandered out a time or two. Ruby and Ramona continually worry about her.” She raised her shoulders and lowered them, puffing out a long breath. “Maybe it’s simply the lot of daughters to worry about their moms. But at least there are two of them to share the load. Ruby and Ramona, I mean.”
“It could be just a daughter thing,” Mack said, and chuckled. “I don’t notice my brothers complaining about losing any sleep over Mom. As far as they’re concerned, everything’s copacetic.”
Bittersweet Page 19
