“Good idea.” China got up, too. “What you do—I know it can be dangerous, Mack. Do you ever take any backup?”
“Not often. But I’ve got a Glock on my hip and an AR-15 in my truck, and I earned my share of marksmanship medals when I was at the Academy.” Mack grinned. “Not to mention the ‘Don’t Mess with Texas’ tattoo on my forehead.” She laughed at China’s quick, inquisitive glance. “No. No tattoo. Not really. But I scowl a lot. I scare ’em to death.”
“I hear you.” China didn’t laugh. “But just the same, Wonder Woman, you might want to think about taking backup when you go out to that ranch. Sounds like this could be a pretty serious bust, if it happens. Maybe not your average one-woman show. You think?”
“Maybe,” Mack said, and grinned. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
Chapter Nine
Jennie’s Herbed Croutons
3 tablespoons olive oil
4 garlic cloves, very finely minced
2 tablespoons finely minced fresh herbs (parsley, thyme, rosemary, sage)
4 cups 3/4-inch bread cubes (sourdough is best, about 4 slices, crusts trimmed)
Preheat oven to 325°F. Heat oil in heavy skillet over medium heat. Add garlic, thyme, and rosemary. Sauté about 1 minute. Remove skillet from heat, add parsley and bread cubes and toss with the garlic-herb oil to coat. Spread on baking sheet. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Stirring occasionally, bake just until croutons are golden, about 15 minutes.
Before I left the restaurant, I went to the kitchen door and knocked. “Just wanted to say thank you for that wonderful quiche,” I said, when Jennie came to the door. “Mack and I both loved it. It was the perfect lunch.”
“Thank you, China,” Jennie replied. She was still wearing the red bandana, but she had tied a red and green apron over her jeans and T-shirt. “It was our pleasure. And thanks so much for helping us out with the garden—and especially for choosing and bringing all those terrific plants. You saved us hours and hours, not to mention a lot of uncertainty when it came to choosing the right plants and knowing where to put them.”
“Is that China you’re talking to?” a young woman called without turning around. She was working at a counter, arranging torn greens on salad plates. “If it is, I need to tell her something.”
“That’s who it is, Patsy,” Jennie said over her shoulder, and held the door open. “Come on in, China. I’m finishing up the soup.” She turned and went to the large commercial stove that stood against one wall of the well-appointed kitchen.
I went over to stand beside Patsy, who was now adding slices of tomato and hard-boiled egg to the salad plates. “What’s up?” I asked.
Tall and thin faced, with gingery hair, pale eyebrows and lashes, and freckles on her nose, Patsy wasn’t as pretty as Sue Ellen, and she had an air of quiet self-containment that contrasted with her sister’s cowgirl vivacity. She was wearing an apron that matched Jennie’s. “I finally reached Sue Ellen,” she said, sounding mildly irritated. “She said she spent the night at Three Gates. She didn’t want to tell me, though. I had to practically wring it out of her.”
“Uh-oh.” I shook my head. “I don’t think that was a very good idea. I hope she hasn’t changed her mind—where leaving Jack is concerned, I mean.”
“She says she hasn’t,” Patsy replied. “She asked me to apologize to you for running out on you yesterday. She’ll be back at your mom’s place in a little while. When I talked to her, she was loading up her car with the rest of her stuff. Sounds like she’s really clearing out.”
“That’s good,” I said, with real relief, partly because I didn’t like the thought of her staying on at Three Gates, where she might be even further implicated in whatever her husband was up to. And partly because I was hoping—selfishly—that she would settle in at Bittersweet, where she could be a help to Leatha. Knowing that she was there, I could go back to Pecan Springs feeling more comfortable about the situation. Yes, selfish. I admit it.
Patsy finished with the tomato and egg slices and reached for a bowl of herbed croutons. “Try one,” she said, handing me the bowl. “I just made these fresh this morning.”
“Yum,” I said, munching. “Just right.”
“Nice with soup, too,” Jennie said over her shoulder. “We put containers of these on the tables so people can help themselves.”
I touched Patsy’s arm. “I hope you don’t think I’m butting my nose into your sister’s personal business. But I appreciate her willingness to be there for my mother—more than I can say. And I’ve told her that if she needs legal advice, we can help her find it.”
“Which is good,” Patsy said with emphasis, turning to face me. Her expression was intense. “I’ve made it my business not to know what’s going on out there at Three Gates. The less I know about what Jack Krause is up to, the better. In fact, when Sue Ellen started to tell me some stuff about him and his buddies, I told her I didn’t want to be involved. I felt terrible saying that, but I had to protect myself.”
“It sounds as if you think something seriously criminal is going on,” I said quietly.
She shivered. Her voice was low and so taut that the words seemed to vibrate in the air between us. “I know there is, China. And I’ll tell you something else. Sue Ellen believes that she’s in danger, and she is scared silly. I’m so glad that she has a place where she can just go and be safe. She told me that you’re a lawyer. If you can help her get out of this situation and stay out—legally, I mean—I’ll be eternally grateful.”
I didn’t correct her. Technically, I’m still a lawyer. I keep up my credentials with the Texas bar just so I can make that claim—or just in case my business tanks and I have to go back to my profession. “I’ll do what I can,” I said.
The bell over the restaurant door tinkled. Jennie turned around. “Sounds like the lunch bunch is coming in, Patsy.”
“I need to get out of your way,” I said. “But before I go—Patsy, did Sue Ellen ask if you would come out this weekend for an hour or so? I want my mother to meet you, and I’d love to show you around her place. You’re going to like it out there.” At least, I hoped she would. If things went according to plan, she would be out there helping my mother when her sister went off to college.
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll give Sue Ellen a call when I get off this afternoon. She said she loves her suite in the guest lodge. Maybe I can come out this evening and help her get settled.”
“Nice,” I said. “We’ll probably eat around five or five thirty. Come for supper if you can. It’ll be turkey sandwiches, probably, and just the four of us girls—you and Sue Ellen and Mom and me. My family is already headed back to Pecan Springs.”
“Thanks,” she said warmly. “See you then.” She raised her hand. “And thank you for helping Sue Ellen. She’s a big girl and she’s used to looking out for herself. But I have the feeling that right now, she can use all the help we can give her.”
Later, thinking back on our conversation, I would reflect that by the time Patsy said that, it was already too late.
• • •
AS soon as I got in the car to head back to Bittersweet, I phoned Leatha. She was still at the hospital, where Sam had developed what she called a “little problem.” When I offered to drive over, she stopped me. “Thank you, but I wish you wouldn’t, dear.” Her voice sounded small and thin and far away. “I know you love him, and I’m sure I’m being very selfish. But I’d really rather be here with him, just the two of us. I hope you’ll understand.”
She sounded near despair, and I was frightened. What was going on? Was Sam dying? I should be there with her. But what could I say? He was her husband. They were happy together and she loved him—far more deeply, I felt sure, than she had loved my father. And I understood why she didn’t want me to come. I belonged to that other life, the life she’d had before she married Sam. I would be a part of the past, intr
uding on the present.
“Of course I understand,” I replied quickly. “Let me know if you change your mind. I can be there in an hour.” I paused. “Kiss Sam for me. I love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too, dear,” she said. “Don’t wait supper for me.” And then she was gone.
I clicked off sadly. My mother had lived through so many difficult times—her bouts with alcoholism, my father’s long betrayal, Aunt Tully’s frightening descent into dementia, the loss of the family plantation that had been the home of her heart. And then she had made a home at Bittersweet, a place where she could at last be the person she wanted to be, where she had a stable and deeply satisfying relationship, a love to center her life.
Now, that stability was threatened. How would she hold up? How would she—how would any of us, come to that—meet the challenge of losing the person she loved most? And if she lost Sam, would she be able to keep the ranch? Or would she lose it, as well?
But all I had were questions. Questions without answers. The answers lay beyond the curtain of time, in the hands of the fates.
• • •
I EXPECTED to see Sue Ellen’s red Ford Focus in the driveway when I got back to the ranch, but it wasn’t there, which irritated me a little. I wanted to talk to her, to try to get a clearer fix on what was going on at Three Gates. I was glad that Mack and I had been able to discuss the situation and trade what we knew—and what we suspected. If I was able to squeeze any information out of Sue Ellen, I’d pass it along to Mack. I frowned, thinking of what she was planning and hoping she’d follow my advice and take some backup when she went out to the Bar Bee. It sounded like it might be a volatile situation. Sue Ellen’s late arrival left me with some free time. So I put on a jacket, my boots, and a wool cap, slung my binoculars around my neck and stuck my mother’s bird book into my pocket, and hiked downriver to Sam’s observation tower.
I was still thinking about my mother and Sam as I walked, and wishing regretfully that she had allowed me to be with her at the hospital. But I was glad to have this time to myself. The sun was flickering into cloud, and the sky had the soft sheen of old silver. The air was chilly, and the north breeze had a sharp bite, but I turned up my jacket collar and pulled down my cap and was warm enough. When was the last time I’d been alone beside a river on a wintry afternoon? I couldn’t remember.
The woods were very quiet, except for the sound of my boots in the dry leaves and the occasional soft trill of a bird. Every now and then, I looked down, remembering that Sam had once shown me a flint arrowhead lying in the dust of a path not far from here. Long before white people settled here, the Comanche had hunted all through this area, on foot and on horseback, leaving behind a few traces of their time in these woods.
And then, as if by magic, I found another flint arrowhead, its chipped edges perfectly shaped and sharp. Had it been lost in a futile shot from a brave’s bow? Or had it felled a deer and been missed when the animal was dressed for eating? Had there been a campfire nearby, where the women and children prepared the food that the hunters brought back? Holding it, I felt that the past was somehow very present, as if the Comanche were somewhere in the woods, watching as I walked along their path, along their river, among their trees. I put it in my pocket, feeling as if I’d found something prized and precious, a relic left by some long-ago hunter for me to discover on this quiet afternoon.
When I climbed the wooden tower, I saw that Sam had sited it so that it offered views in four directions: a view upstream and down; a view of the flat, low-lying, hummocky area behind me; and a view across the river, where I saw a rocky cliff that rose some twenty feet high. The tower platform was nearly level with the top of the cliff and it felt odd, almost intrusive, to watch the birds as they went about their business in the trees around me. Nearby, a flock of a dozen conspicuous cedar waxwings were attacking the purple berries of a juniper. A red-tailed hawk patrolled low above the grassy hummocks, on the lookout for an unwary field mouse. A mourning dove called from somewhere in the distance, and on the limb of a nearby live oak, a robin fussed at me. This tower was in his space. I was in his space, and he preferred to live his life without people spying on him.
And then, on the far bank, under the shelter of the cliff, I saw an axis buck wearing a huge rack, much larger than the buck my mother and I had seen from her kitchen window. He was large and imposing and, yes, magnificent and splendid and beautiful. And alien. Watching me, he stood stone-still, sharply outlined against the limestone rock and the dark green of the cedar. Watching him, I held my breath, admiring his size and strength but at the same time understanding that he was a threat, and why, and how, and to what. He was like the white-tails smuggled into Texas for their genes, like kudzu and Oriental bittersweet and chinaberry trees. Like me, a specimen of Homo sapiens, the species responsible for all these invasions, the most invasive species of all. It was a bittersweet understanding.
The sun came and went behind skeins of darkening clouds, and when it went for good and the wind began to blow colder, I pocketed the bird guide and headed for the house, thinking domestic thoughts. Sue Ellen would be there by now, and Patsy would be along later, but it hadn’t sounded as if Leatha would make it in time for supper. I would slice some leftover turkey for sandwiches, and there were mashed potatoes that I could use to make potato soup. And there was leftover pie. I smiled, thinking of Mack’s “Pie fixes everything.” I could almost believe that, especially if the pie was topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
When I got back to the house, though, I was surprised when I didn’t see Sue Ellen’s red Ford Focus, surprised and more than a little worried. Where was she? What was keeping her? According to Patsy, she had left Three Gates a couple of hours ago. It didn’t take two hours to drive from Three Gates to Bittersweet—more like thirty or forty minutes. I was feeling cross, too. I hoped that Sue Ellen wasn’t going to make it a habit to leave without an explanation or promise to be here and then not show up. My mother needed somebody she could depend on.
And then—of course—I felt cross at myself and guilty for feeling cross at Sue Ellen. My mother ought to be able to depend on her daughter, rather than on a friend, oughtn’t she? And she couldn’t. On Sunday, I had to go back to Pecan Springs, where I worked and lived. And my mother would be here, with a man with a bad heart. Or here alone, if the worst happened and Sam didn’t make it.
Thinking about all this, I sliced enough turkey for several sandwiches and got ready to make the soup. I was spooning the leftover mashed potatoes into a big pan when I heard a car drive up. At last, Sue Ellen, I thought, with a gritty satisfaction. It’s about time. Or maybe Leatha, back from the hospital with news about Sam. I went eagerly to the window to look.
But it wasn’t Sue Ellen’s Ford, and it wasn’t the Impala that Leatha was driving. It was a black SUV with dark-tinted windows. The next minute I heard someone frantically pounding on the front door and a woman’s voice shouting, “China! China, it’s Amy! Come on, open up, please! Please!”
And when I opened the door, there were three of them on the porch, Amy, Chris, and Sharon. All three were panicked, wide-eyed, white-faced, and disheveled, and they all began shouting at once.
“We have to show you something, China,” Amy cried breathlessly. “On the iPad.” She was holding it up.
“Yes!” Sharon blurted, waving her arms. “You need to see this!”
“Right now,” Chris exclaimed, pushing forward. “There’s no time to mess around! You’re not gonna friggin’ believe this!!”
“Whoa,” I said, and held up my hand. “Get a grip. You guys are not charging into my mom’s house until you settle down and tell me what this is all about.” I turned to Amy, whom I knew. “Okay, Amy. Why are you here?”
“Because we’ve just seen something really . . . bad,” Amy said. “Really horrible. We came to you because we’re afraid to go to the cops.”
“Because of
what we were doing,” Chris added.
“What we were doing when we saw it,” Sharon amended.
“So we need your legal opinion,” Amy concluded.
My legal opinion? I rolled my eyes. “Of all the ridiculous—”
My cell phone chirped. I pulled it out of my pocket and saw that it was Mack.
I opened the door. “Okay,” I said. “You can come in while I take this call. But no more shouting or screaming. And no more talking all at once. Got that? Amy, there are cold soft drinks in the fridge. Take what you want. And the three of you choose one person to tell me what’s going on and why you’re here. One person. No interruptions.”
They filed meekly into the living room while I stayed in the hall and answered the call. Mack spoke quickly and tersely, the way cops do when they’re conveying information.
“China, listen. I was heading south on 187 when I picked up an 11-79—code for an accident with an ambulance on the way. I wasn’t far from the scene, so I headed over. I’m here on the Three Gates ranch road, about four miles off 187, with Ethan, the volunteer fire department, an EMS crew, and Jack Krause. We’re looking at what’s left of a red Ford Focus at the bottom of a very steep hill. Krause says that the car belongs to his wife. If she was driving it, she did not survive. It burned.”
I couldn’t speak. Sue Ellen was . . . dead?
“China?” Mack asked urgently. “China? You there? You got that?”
“I . . .” I sucked in my breath. “Yes. I’ve got that, Mack. Did Krause see it happen? You’re sure it’s Sue Ellen in the car? Do you have a positive ID?” I was clutching at straws. Patsy had already said that Sue Ellen was leaving Three Gates, heading to Bittersweet. It had to be her.
“No witnesses,” Mack said. “Krause wasn’t here when it happened. The wife of one of the Gates brothers—the owners of the ranch—drove along and saw the smoke and called 9-1-1. But she couldn’t get a cell signal until she got out on 187, and after that, it took fifteen or twenty minutes to get a deputy here. The car had been burning for some time.” There was a murmur of voices in the background and the spitting sound of tires spinning on gravel. “There’s no ID yet, either, China. The wreck is too hot to get the body out.”
Bittersweet Page 21
