X's and O's (Will Kilpatrick, DVM Mystery Series Book 1)

by A. Carlock Maxwell DVM

  Who was her real dad? Did she want to know? Did she need to know?

  PJ's arm cloaked her shoulder. "What is it? Tell me."

  She swiveled to face her, emotions tripping over themselves in confusion. "I'm not who I think I am."

  PJ's face blanched and she plopped down. She took several short breaths, staring up. "What?"

  She glanced down. Strange. PJ seemed to be affected as much as she was. "I'm not who I think I am. Or who you think I am. Read this."

  Liza slumped into a chair, laid her head on folded arms, and cried beyond pain for the desperate young woman, not much older than she at the time, who had run away. How different the moral climate must have been in those years. Where was she now? Was she alive? If the mysterious deposits were from her, she must be. She would check the statements from the years before her dad's death, see if there was a pattern.

  Hadn't she believed in the same God she knew? One who forgave, who restored, who could bring reconciliation to any circumstance.

  PJ moved, kneeling before Liza's chair and taking her hands. "Liza, I am so sorry. I know how you feel."

  Liza drew her hands back, looked into PJ's sad eyes. She meant well. "I doubt that." She stood and paced the room. Looked in the mirror. "I'm going to figure this out. I bet it's someone local. I bet she didn't travel any more than Dad did. Maybe someone she knew from high school. Maybe an old boy friend."

  PJ sat back on her haunches. "Are you sure you'd want to know? Ignorance might be bliss." She stood, hands lifting along with her voice. "It could be someone awful."

  Liza managed a caustic chuckle at PJ's melodrama. "Like Otis Spivey?"

  PJ shuddered and took a step back. "I said awful. Not repulsive. You had the best dad. Whoever this is, he can't replace him. I wouldn't do it."

  "That sounds so not like you. I figured you'd do anything to find something like that out."

  PJ smoothed the crease on her pants, lifted an eyebrow, then smiled. "Maybe I'm not who you think I am either."

  PJ, always cryptic with her philosophical comments. "Don't be silly."

  She drug fingers through her curls. "So what's your plan? Go around town staring at everybody?"

  "Follow me."

  Flashlight in hand, she ran up the attic stairs, taking them two at a time. The light slit the darkness, dividing it into gray and yellow fractions streaked with suspended dust particles.

  Kneeling by stacks of boxes she had once arranged in a square, thrown a blanket over as a roof, and played house in, she began reading the dates. The two she wanted were halfway down in a stack. They carried them downstairs.

  The sofa springs groaned when she sat. Head bowed, she prayed. "Lord, help me sort through this stuff without turning into a basket case. If there are things in this house that will lead me to my momma, please reveal them. Expose the secrets. Amen."

  PJ remained quiet until Liza finished. "A good God wouldn't let stuff like his happen to begin with, even on his coffee break."

  Liza didn't want to argue with PJ again. "He's the father to the fatherless, no matter how they got that way. Feel free to believe in whatever unreal thing you want to. We're sisters either way."

  Nervous fingers wiped the top of the first box off, rubbed the dust on her pant leg. 1960, the label said. The same orderly rows of bank statements, canceled checks, and farm records met her eyes. But looking at pictures would come first.

  She tore into an envelope, saw a picture of her as a newborn. "Look at this. I looked so smush-faced." How did my mom look so radiant holding the grape colored baby with the long head and flat face? Must have been the drugs they used during labor.

  Stacks of photos littered the sofa when she began going through old mail. No surprise to her, there weren't any letters of seeming importance. Only short notes her mom had written her dad, memos relating her love and devotion, how happy he made her. Mushy deluxe, Liza thought, grateful she hadn't inherited that from her.

  She removed their senior yearbooks and opened one. Her dad's. "Maybe there's a clue in here." The smell of old memories accented the air. "Look how young my dad looked."

  The slight grin and mischievous eyes, minus the wrinkles, had remained the same until his death. The pages whispered as she flipped them.

  PJ pointed at a picture. "You sure look like your momma."

  "Except for the beehive hairdo."

  Several pages over, she found the class superlatives. Most Courteous. Most Witty. Neither of her parents garnered those honors. Or Most Likely to Succeed. That prize belonged to someone now living in Atlanta, making PJ comment about the link between leaving the Springs and success.

  She turned the page.

  PJ gasped. "Your mom was Miss Home Ec?"

  Liza's eyes widened when she recognized her mother. How Betty Crocker-y she looked. Maybe she came by being a good cook naturally. She pointed at another picture "Look here. She won Best Smile too." She leaned forward. The familiar handwriting drew her attention.

  Best wishes to a sweet guy.

  Shelby.

  Liza sat back, lower lip clamped between her teeth as she battled her presumptions. "I always assumed Dad and Mom were childhood sweethearts. Betrothed from the crib. If they were, they didn't write the mush some in my class did."

  PJ grunted in agreement.

  She flipped to the next page, wondering if her dad had won any class awards. Mr. JCHS. Otis Spivey. "Can you believe this?"

  PJ leaned close, gave a thumbs-down. "Probably buying votes even then. And look how skinny he was, even in football gear. They must have force fed him when he got to UT."

  More puzzling was Otis's scribbling. Stay out of my kitchen. Ha ha. Good luck with Barb. Don't name any after me. The O.

  Liza swiveled to face PJ, pointed at the note. "I wonder who that was?"

  PJ shrugged, hugged herself. "Beats me."

  She began at the front page, hoping to establish Barb's identity. If she had been a steady, she might have written something mushy. Girls that age couldn't help it. Of three possibilities, none had penned a note suggesting a romance. And she recognized only one. PJ's sister. "Did your sister ever mention dating my dad?"

  "No. But we weren't that close." PJ edged away, rubbing her chin. "She's way older than me."

  "Dad might not have won any class awards, but he won the girl with the prettiest smile." She closed the annual, reached for her mom's, opened it. She would look for notes before comparing her face to the rows of pictures.

  First, she looked to see if her dad had written anything romantic by his picture.

  To a sweet girl. Let's stay in touch.

  Charlie

  Liza nudged PJ, pointed at the note. "Dad was no Romeo, huh? The things you learn."

  PJ smirked. "Be still, my heart."

  She would have to look through the entire annual. As she began flipping through the pages, she noticed an entry by Spivey's picture. She held the annual where PJ could see it too.

  Enjoyed our times in the kitchen. You Home-Ec girls can sure shake and bake. Loved dessert.

  O

  PJ leaned back, eyes closed.

  "Some things never change." Liza went to the front and back covers, searching for notes from her dad. Nothing. She looked at PJ. "You sure got quiet. Anything wrong?"

  PJ rubbed her eyes. "Tired." She checked her watch. "No wonder. Way past my bedtime."

  "Would you like to stay over? Do you feel safe at your place?"

  "No worries. Get some rest."

  "Will do. Going to look through a few more things first. Maybe that will make me sleepy."

  PJ grinned. "Their mushy love notes should do it." She rumpled Liza's hair and stood. "Talk to you tomorrow. I'll be off."

  Hours later, she came downstairs. Going through the statements to determine how much money had been mysteriously deposited over the years had created a mess. It could wait.

  She stretched, walked to her dad's office, and opened the top desk drawer. This year's bank statements receiv
ed before his death would be there.

  The picture caught her eye. She couldn't have been more than six at the time, but she remembered the puppy with the broken leg she held in the photo. Guinevere. Jeb, their ornery mule, had kicked her. It had a cast, so her dad must have taken it to Dr. Bill.

  A rubber band bound the envelopes containing this year's bank statements. She started with January. A bank generated deposit of five hundred dollars on the fifteenth. A check written to cash by her dad on the seventeenth. February and March, the same. What had happened to the money he had withdrawn? Probably spent on things not needing receipts for the IRS. There wasn't time now to attempt a financial reconciliation. That would be a massive project.

  Frowning, she picked up the picture of Guinevere, went back to the living room, dropped it on top of a pile. Maybe she would get around to making a scrapbook if a particularly maudlin mood struck her.

  The darkness pressed in after she blew the Aladdin out. Black wisps of smoke tinged the air. For a long time, she lay stretched out on the couch, staring into the murky room. Items of furniture gradually reasserted their existence as her eyes adjusted.

  She clutched a picture of her mother to her chest, one of her sitting on the porch swing. Might she be out there somewhere, staring into similar shadows from which hidden things slowly began to emerge? What promise to her mother had her dad broken?

  Sixty-seven thousand eight hundred dollars had entered his account over the years. What happened to it? Where was the secret place her mom had mentioned?

  And who was her dad? If this was happening to PJ, she would be aggressively searching him out. Why didn't she feel the same? Why the reluctance to even think about it?

  "God, help me." The shadows absorbed her sigh. What would life look like if she actually believed the verse about taking no thought for tomorrow? She definitely believed the part saying there were troubles enough for the day.

  There were usually a few left over for the night too.

  Chapter 27

  Tuesday

  Will rolled the truck window down. "Miss Effie said you have an emergency."

  From Spivey's pasty complexion, he might have been cut blocked by a wide receiver. He jerked a thumb toward the chute before opening Will's door. "Get over there and take care of Nugget before he bleeds to death."

  Will jumped out of the truck, trotted to the fence and looked over. A massive Angus bull, shiny as polished black granite, stood in a puddle of blood.

  After sliding a metal pipe between posts to keep the animal from moving backwards, Will climbed in, lifted the thick tail, took a quick glance down, then looked back at Spivey, confused. "Did you do this?"

  "Why would I do that? Took years of selective breeding to finally get one like him. And look at him now. Hamburger. I'd like to have whoever did this alone for five minutes."

  "Any idea who did it?" Might it be related to the events he'd witnessed last week?

  Spivey's hands lifted in three distinct movements, ending level with his ears. Serpentine eyes widened as he leaned forward. "Feminists? Vegetarians? How would I know? Do I look like Kojak or something? I just want to know if he'll make it." Blunt fingers massaged his jaw. It was still swollen. The facial bruising seemed to be resolving. "He was one of the best bulls in the country on last year's show circuit. Reserve Champion in Denver. Been offered three hundred grand for a third interest in him."

  Will climbed out the other side of the chute for a different view. Spray painted on the bull's side was an O with a slash through it. "What does that mean?"

  Otis blew a disgusted sigh. "Probably a political opponent. They don't want the voice of the little people to be heard."

  Since the bleeding seemed to have stopped, he thought through his options. "So they're trying to scare you out of the campaign?"

  "That's the way I see it. Sheriff should be here in a minute."

  "What for?"

  "To fingerprint the bull. He's going to be a bit concerned about getting in behind Nugget. Last time somebody was back there was somewhat unpleasant for him. You might have to help him."

  Will wasn't sure if Spivey was serious or not. "I doubt fingerprinting him is going to work. I'll grab some supplies and see examine him closer."

  Spivey dogged his steps. "Will he die? He's insured for eight hundred thousand bucks."

  "Can't tell about that. Not bleeding much now, so I'll try to pack him off. Then try to keep him quiet, hope he'll clot inside." After his failed cases yesterday, losing the most valuable animal in the county wouldn't enhance his reputation.

  Sirens cut through the heat and in a few moments Sheriff Ledbetter and Deputy Seth piled out.

  "What is going on, Otis? You sounded like somebody had been killed."

  "Somebody took a knife to Nugget's privates."

  Ledbetter winced and gave a low whistle. "Any idea who did it?" He moved closer, nodded at Will and pointed at the spray painting. "What's that about? Has somebody-"

  Grabbing him by the elbow, Spivey led the sheriff and Seth almost out of earshot. "Don't be an idiot. Must be one of our opponents. Why don't you get busy and check for fingerprints?"

  "Right. Strange, the things happening to us since Hensley died. All that at your place yesterday. Looks like the swelling in your jaw is going down. How's the tummy doing?"

  John kept his head down when Otis glanced to see if anyone was listening. Had Flo been at work again?

  "I wonder if he ratted us out to somebody. Any notes?"

  Ledbetter hitched at his pants. "Nope."

  "Be figuring it out before one of us get killed. Might have someone keep an eye on the Hall girl. I still think she's the one."

  "Could be that PETTA group."

  Why had Spivey cut the sheriff's question off so fast? Did they suspect Liza Hall had sabotaged his barn? He recalled seeing the same O with a slash when he got biscuits last week in Alpine.

  Will climbed in behind the bull and asked someone to hold the bloody tail out of his way while he began washing the area. His hand dragged across something sharp. It was the edge of a cable tie. While Nugget stamped his feet, he tugged at it. Finally, it slipped into his hands.

  "Somebody's played a joke on you, Mr. Spivey."

  A bitter laugh escaped pinched lips. "This is no joke."

  "He's not been neutered. Somebody poured blood all over him and on the ground. Pushed his testicles up. Used a cable tie to keep appearances up, so to speak. Looked like nothing was there. Take a look. Everything is back where it should be."

  Indignation's red shades displaced shock's pale hues. "Let me in there. I could have sworn he'd been cut."

  A minute later, Otis crawled back over the fence, wincing when he jumped from the second rail.

  "Thanks for coming." He cleared his throat, spat on the ground before lighting a cigarette. "Sorry we got off to a bad start the other day. I tend to get overly excitable at times." He waved at the sheriff, told him all was well.

  "We were both out of line, I guess." Will reluctantly shook the man's extended hand and studied his face. His right eye looked irritated.

  "While you're here, can you look at my old horse? Your uncle took care of him for years. I give him a shot every couple weeks or so to keep him going."

  "Sure." Will trailed Spivey to the barn, thinking the man seemed on edge. Guessed he would be too. Thinking your bull's value had dropped to hamburger price from hundreds of thousands of dollars might do that.

  "This is Charley." Spivey led a swaybacked horse into the hallway from a stall. Gray smeared his sorrel coat. He patted the animal on the neck then scratched his ears. Charley pushed against him in response. "Thirty-nine years old. Got him when I was six." A wistful look passed over Spivey's features, softening them for an instant. "I was going to be the next Roy Rogers. Then I found sports. Not many college scholarships to play cowboy."

  Will stepped to the side of the grizzled gelding, began his exam, ending with listening to his heart and lungs. "He seems to be i
n good health for his age."

  "That's because of your uncle, God rest his soul. The stuff he got for me helps most. Would have had to put him down without that." Otis continued to rub Charley's neck. "Hope you can help me out the same way."

  Will fought a peevishness inclining him to resist helping Spivey. But, lacking any proof that the man was anything besides overbearing and insensitive and arrogant, why should he? "Shouldn't be a problem. What is it?"

  "Winstrol-V."

  "The anabolic steroid?"

  "Yeah, I think that's what he called it." Spivey laughed and continued talking. He stopped, picked up a hay stem, slid it inside his shirt and scratched his back."But I wasn't a chemistry major. Whatever it is, it sure works on my old pal. He's due for a shot. I'll need to pick some up. Dropped the bottle I got a week or so back. It broke and ran out."

  "I'll check the records. I think I saw something about that on your chart last week."

  Spivey gave an understanding nod. "No problem. I'll call later. And thanks again for coming out. I presume you'll keep this call under your hat."

  "Sure. Could I use your bathroom on the way out?"

  "Back door is open. Through the kitchen, then first door on the left. Help yourself to a cold drink in the fridge."

  After drying his hands, Will scanned the shelves for a Dr. Pepper. There were several behind the Coor's Light. Along with two five dose vials of Brucellosis vaccine. Where had that come from? It was restricted to private practitioners. Uncle Bill must have left them behind when he worked Otis's heifers several weeks ago.

  Since they probably were his, he contemplated slipping them into his pocket when he heard the door open. Otis entered the kitchen.

  "Do you want something while I'm in here?"

  Otis held two thumbs up. "Grab me a beer, thanks."

  Will handed one to Otis, then closed the door. He pulled the tab on his can. He took a swig, then held up the two vaccine vials. "How did these get in your fridge? Only vets are approved to have Bang's vaccine."