I returned to the task of ordering, but not for long. When I heard Ruby come in, I poured two cups of hot tea, put a half dozen of Cass’ chai tea cookies on a plate, and carried everything into the Crystal Cave. Ruby—dressed in purple pants, a purple and blue psychedelic sweatshirt, and a purple bandana tied over her crinkly red hair—was starting on her Monday chores.
She disregarded my comment about diabolical defense attorneys. “So the universe took the judgment out of human hands,” she said with satisfaction. She leaned both elbows on the counter, picked up her teacup, and sipped. “What happened when Mack went to look for her fawns? Did she find them?”
“They aren’t her fawns,” I replied. “They belong to the state of Texas—at least, that’s what the state claims. But yes, she found them in the high-fenced pen where Doc Masters had spotted them. She was able to confirm that the tattoos had been changed and that the animals had originally been registered to Three Gates. She also found a box of semen straws in the freezer, a couple of pieces of Three Gates equipment in the barn, and enough fingerprint evidence to tie Jack Krause to the thefts. DNA will likely confirm that the semen was stolen from Three Gates.”
“What about the smuggled deer?”
“There were several animals in the pen that didn’t come from Three Gates. It’s impossible to say where they might have come from. But Mack found invoices that appear to document the transfer of deer to several trophy ranchers in South Texas. She’ll track those down, and if there’s enough evidence, the appropriate charges will be filed. The Lacey Act is a powerful tool for prosecution. A good thing, too. Takes the case into federal court.”
“And the murders?”
“Both Krause and Ronald Perry are cooperating with the sheriff’s office. By which I mean,” I added, “that they’ve confessed to theft and Lacey violations, but they’re blaming both homicides on the dead Perry brother. Jack Krause is claiming that he doesn’t know diddly about either murder. Ronald Perry is claiming that he was in the dark about both killings until the cops told him, and that his brother was a paranoid psychopath whose behavior was completely unpredictable.”
“A paranoid psychopath who was taken out by a mysterious buck with magnificent antlers,” Ruby said with a lofty satisfaction, munching on a cookie. “The goddess was seeking justice.”
“Maybe,” I conceded, not wanting to get into an argument over whether the buck was or was not a tool of celestial intervention. “It turns out that Doc Masters had been a good friend of the Perrys’ father. He seems to have held off on telling Mack where he had seen the stolen fawns because he wanted to talk to Ronald Perry first—maybe try to get him to go state’s evidence on the theft, which would have meant a lighter sentence for both of the Perrys.”
“But the psychopathic brother preempted that by shooting Doc Masters,” Ruby said.
I nodded soberly. “The ballistic evidence is still out, but a twenty-two caliber semiautomatic pistol with Thomas’ prints all over it was found in the Perry house. I’m guessing it’ll be a match for the twenty-two slug the autopsy surgeon dug out of the old vet.” I sighed. “And as for the murder of Sue Ellen—well, we’ve got that crime on the drone video, thanks to Amy and her friends. What we don’t have yet is evidence that Krause and Ronald Perry either knew about the murders or were somehow involved.”
But the investigation, as they say, was ongoing. Perry and Krause were lawyering up and would probably bail later in the week, and their trials, of course, were still to come. It seemed like an open-and-shut case to me, and in this matter, I was on the side of the angels. If there was any evidence at all of collusion, I wanted to see those guys charged with conspiring to take the lives of a perfectly lovely cowgirl and a much-admired veterinarian.
But Ruby was right. Justice doesn’t always work the way it’s supposed to, and it’s usually about as slow as molasses in December. And even if the prosecuting attorney manages to get the convictions she’s looking for, the wily defense attorney will almost always file an appeal, with the aim of delaying justice as long as possible. Except, of course, in the case of Lucky Perry, who’d gotten the final verdict swiftly.
“Thanks to Amy and her friends,” Ruby repeated. She shook her head, deeply troubled. “I can’t get my mind around the fact that Amy was there, doing that. She didn’t say a word to me about where exactly she was going or what she was planning. She told me that she was taking a couple of days of R and R in San Antonio.” Her voice rose. “And I was keeping little Grace!” Her shoulders slumped. “It feels like she doesn’t trust me, China.”
I was sympathetic. “But look at it this way, dear. If Amy hadn’t been there, doing that, Thomas Perry might have gotten away with Sue Ellen’s murder.”
Ruby pulled down her gingery eyebrows and pursed her lips. “I really don’t see—”
“It’s like this,” I said patiently. “Amy insisted to Chris that they bring the drone video to me, because she was hoping I could keep them out of trouble. As it happened, I was the one who knew about the thefts at Three Gates and could put that information together with Mack’s information about Doc Masters and the fawns at the Bar Bee ranch. Which gave Mack and her hunky deputy the ability to consider all the moving parts and figure out what had to be done. Amy’s role was absolutely crucial.” I smiled. “You might credit the universe or the goddess or whatever for arranging that little piece of synchronicity, as well.”
“Maybe.” Ruby sighed. “But that’s not the only issue here, China. What was Amy doing there with Chris? Is she . . . is she involved with him? Romantically, I mean. And why didn’t she tell me what she was doing, where she was going?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “She was definitely surprised to see me, and uneasy, but I couldn’t begin to guess about her relationship with Chris. And I don’t know why she didn’t tell you about the drone project—unless she thought you would disapprove of her trespassing on private property in order to get photos of that pigeon shoot. Would you?”
“I suppose,” Ruby conceded. “It’s one thing to carry a sign and join a protest march. It’s another to do something you can get arrested for. Especially if you’re a mom.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said. “There are some things worth getting arrested for. And as far as Chris is concerned, aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? I mean, for all we know, this little episode was exactly what it seemed—three young people with a big idea, a powerful new tool, and a mission. Nobody would have found out what they were up to if they hadn’t somehow managed to video a murder-in-progress. That was a coincidence they couldn’t have imagined.”
Or maybe it wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe it was just another piece of the universal design that was put in place to make everything work out okay in the end. But if that was true, why did the arrangements have to include the deaths of two very good people? Whoever was in charge of such things must not have been paying attention when that happened.
“The real truth,” Ruby said disconsolately, “is that I would hate to see anything or anybody come between Amy and Kate, especially for little Grace’s sake. The girls are the only parents she’s known.”
“That’s not true,” I protested. “Even if Amy and Kate split up, she’ll have you. You’re an important part of her life. And a stable part. You’ll always be here for Grace.” I eyed her. “You know, you could always just ask your daughter what’s going on. Maybe she’ll tell you.”
Ruby pulled her mouth down. “I already know the answer,” she said glumly. “Remember when I said I wasn’t getting good vibes about Amy’s weekend plans? That I didn’t like the guy she was going to meet in San Antonio? The guy who turned out to be Chris? I was right, China. He has dangerous ideas—dangerous for Amy, that is. There’s going to be trouble. Serious trouble.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, understanding. Ruby’s gift—the crystal ball she carries around inside her head, or he
r heart—had given her another glimpse into the future. And she didn’t like what she saw.
“I’m sorry, too,” Ruby said simply. “And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.” After a moment, she added, “You haven’t told me about Sam. How is he? What’s your mother going to do for help there at the ranch?”
My turn to be glum. “Two problems. He developed a blood clot in his leg and an infection in his lungs. He’s still in the hospital, under treatment. Leatha has found a place to stay in Kerrville so she doesn’t have to drive back and forth. And they agreed, both of them, to delay the opening of their nature sanctuary. Leatha and I emailed the people who made reservations and explained the situation. While we were working on it, I realized how hard it was for her to do. She’s really invested in the idea. And who knows? Maybe Sam will recover enough to allow them to go on with their plans. The guest lodge is finished and waiting whenever they’re up to it.”
I paused, wanting to say that things were changing for me: that I was beginning to accept the obligations of an only daughter, to realize that the next chapters of my life might include my mother in ways that would likely alter our relationship. The change might be a while in coming, but it somehow seemed massive to me, on the order of the San Francisco earthquake, and I was having a hard time putting it into words.
But even though I didn’t speak, Ruby seemed to understand, in that intuitive way of hers. She reached out and patted my hand. “It’s hard to see our parents moving into their later years and not know how to make it easier for them without compromising their independence.” She paused. “And ours.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Thank you.”
Ruby nodded. “Been there, done that,” she said, and I knew that was true. Her mother’s Alzheimer’s is a hard thing to cope with. But she didn’t want to linger on the subject. “What about Mack and her hunky deputy? What do you think is going to happen there?”
I laughed. “Hey, I’m not the one who’s living with a crystal ball. That’s another story, isn’t it? They’ve only just begun. How they’re going to end is still a mystery.”
Ruby peered into her empty cup, where a few microscopic bits of tea leaf had escaped the strainer. “Maybe,” she said. “But the leaves suggest that the future looks promising.” She twinkled. “Very promising.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Mack needs a special guy—somebody who can live with the work she wants to do.” I paused. “Which leaves us with just one more question. How did your yarn bombing go this weekend? I saw the results when I came in this morning. The trees are quite . . . amazing.”
And they were. Amazing. All along our entire block, the trunk of each sidewalk tree had been wrapped with flamboyant knitted stripes. Turquoise, yellow, navy, fuchsia, mulberry, tangerine, lime, shamrock, periwinkle.
“I’m glad you like it,” Ruby said modestly. “The permit says we can leave it up until after New Year. Next weekend, we’re putting up the fairy lights, so it’ll be even more eye-catching. And the kids at Sam Houston Elementary School are painting a big plywood sleigh and Rudolph and candy canes.”
“Santa Boulevard,” I said.
“Something like that.” Ruby smiled. “I just love it when Christmas comes and everybody gets creative. Don’t you?”
I nodded. “As long as Rudolph isn’t wearing monster antlers, I’m fine.”
To the Reader
When we talk about herbs, most of us think of the green plants growing in our gardens or the little jars of dried plant material on our pantry shelves. These are the herbs that appear in traditional European cuisines: parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, bay, mint, dill, and oregano.
But in recent years, ethnobotanists have broadened our understanding and appreciation of the many human uses of plants. Ethnobotany is the study of native peoples and cultures and their relationship to plants, as food sources and in medicine, cosmetics, dyes, clothing, construction, ritual, and magic. As an amateur botanist, I treasure my well-thumbed copy of Native American Ethnobotany, anthropologist Daniel Moerman’s extraordinary compilation containing descriptions of over 44,000 native uses of more than 4,000 plants, documented by hundreds of firsthand studies of Native Americans made over the past 200 years. (An edited version of this information is also available in a searchable format online at herb.umd.umich.edu/.)
Moerman’s valuable work is the main source of my information for most of the American herbs that appear in Bittersweet. For example, Moerman cites studies documenting over two dozen different uses of the book’s signature herb, Celastrus scandens (American bittersweet), by a dozen different Native American tribes—forty-four citations in all. Among other applications, bittersweet was used as an analgesic, an abortifacient, a diuretic, a fever and cough remedy, a treatment for cancer and tuberculosis, and a ritual body paint. Our modern society, in contrast, has reduced this versatile plant to only two uses: as a robust decorative vine for the back fence and a colorful wreath for the front door.
Bittersweet also has an invasive look-alike, Oriental bittersweet (Celastrus orbiculatus), that is wreaking havoc in many states. But it is only one of the many introduced invasives (kudzu is probably the best known of these, but there are literally hundreds of others) that pose an enormous threat to native environments. More and more gardeners are learning that our native plants are preferable to these imported exotics. This is important because introduced species are all too often capable of outcompeting and hybridizing with our mild-mannered natives, possibly to the point of extinction. Once established, native plants often require less care and attention than exotics. As self-sustaining plant communities adapted to the climate and soils of local regions, they tend to resist damage from freezing, drought, and disease. Because they have coevolved with other species, they coexist in a companionable way with them. They provide food and habitat for native wildlife, serve as an important genetic reserve of native plant species, and make our world beautiful.
There are invasive animal species as well. Not long ago, my husband was surprised to see a large axis deer grazing on our Hill Country property. In the 1930s, these beautiful animals were imported from India for Texas sport hunting. Unfortunately, they escaped confinement and moved into the Hill Country to stay. Finding themselves at home, they are outcompeting our smaller native white-tailed deer for scarce forage. It was that sighting that prompted me to begin the research that led to one of the major plotlines for this book: the development of commercial game ranches here in Texas and the treatment of wild animals as agricultural commodities, like cattle and sheep.
While the story in Bittersweet ends with justice more or less served, the rapid growth of Texas’ commercial deer-farming industry continues, with many unhappy consequences. The game ranches are expanding their efforts to offer genetically modified bucks with enormous racks, while wealthy “sportsmen,” eager to display the trophy antlers on their walls, are forking over even more outrageous sums to participate in canned hunts for captive animals. That story seems destined to continue, because there are too many Texas-size egos at stake, too much money to be made, and too much political influence to be bought and bartered.
As China Bayles might say, in the real world justice sometimes isn’t served. And sometimes, that’s just the way it is.
• • •
SEVERAL last-minute thoughts . . .
About herbal medicine. My reports of traditional medicinal uses of plants are not intended to suggest treatments for what ails you. Some folk uses of therapeutic herbs are not supported by modern science, while others are completely ineffective or may have potent and unwanted side effects, especially when combined with over-the-counter and prescription drugs. Respect these powerful plants. Do your homework before you use any plant-based medicine, and consult the appropriate authorities. China and I value our readers and friends. We’d hate to lose you.
About place and people. Uvalde County, where most of the action of thi
s book takes place, is a real county, located in the Brush Country of South Texas, a biologically diverse eco-region that is bordered on the north by the Edwards Plateau, on the south and west by the Rio Grande River, and on the east by the Gulf Coast prairies and sand plains. Utopia is a real town, too—the setting for a recent movie, in fact (Seven Days in Utopia). The Lost Maples Café and the general store are real, and you can visit them when you go there for the rodeo, which is also real. But the people in this book, including the residents of Utopia and its environs, are all entirely fictional. They are not modeled on any individuals, living or dead, so please don’t go to Uvalde County and start looking for them. You’ll be disappointed.
About thanks. I’m grateful to the many journalists who have been following the Texas trophy ranch situation and writing about it in state and national publications. This is a developing story, so if you’re interested in following it, the Internet is your best source. Try searching on Google for a combination of terms such as Texas canned hunts, genetically modified deer, deer breeding, and so on.
I’m grateful, as well, to Sharon M. Turner of Pflugerville, Texas, who appears as a cameo character in this book. Sharon is retired from a career as a teacher but leads a busy life full of fascinating projects: she teaches reading to adults and landscape painting and cooking to kids, tends her herb garden and her roses; makes rose sachets and herbal soaps; reads a book a day; and is always available to give China and Ruby a hand in their shops. And yes, she really does change her hair color often!
Thanks, too, to Peggy Moody, my extraordinary cyber-assistant and webmistress, without whose able assistance I would be in serious trouble at least once a day. And as always, to Bill Albert, for his unfailing support and his willingness to drive all over Uvalde County through a chilly January rain.
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