Hog Wild

by Cathy Pickens

  “Yeah, I think so. On the left?”

  “Eight o’clock okay?”

  “Fine with me,” he said. “Oh, by the way. Sorry about what I said earlier, about your dad. I’ve just—work’s got me distracted right now.”

  “Sure.” What else could I say? He’d have to fight his own battles at the paper. That wasn’t any of my concern, I had to keep reminding myself.

  Cissie was going to give up on me if I didn’t hurry. While I was talking to Noah, I’d turned off lights and my computer. As soon as I hung up the phone, I hefted my satchel, hoping I’d stuffed in everything I’d need for my out-of-the-ordinary afternoon and morning appointments.

  Cissie peeked through the lace curtain as soon as she heard me climbing the steps to her cottage. Cissie’s English flower garden, wicker porch swing with ruffled cushions, and her affection for her inherited English rose tea service seemed at odds with her very postmodern attitude toward love and marriage—and sex. I’d known Cissie long enough to know what most people didn’t: She had a stack of romance novels hidden in her bedside stand, and she dreamed her prince would one day ride in and sweep her off her feet.

  So far, she’d kissed a lot of frogs. She’d done lots of things with the frogs. They’d all stayed frogs.

  “A’vry! I’ve been waiting and waiting. Wherever have you been? After you called and mentioned that nasty letter, it was all I could think about. I know it’s just sitting there in that drawer, oozing venom like a snake. I’m not even going to touch it. You’ll have to get it.”

  I was glad she stopped for a breath.

  “Do you have a gallon-sized freezer bag?” I knew I’d forgotten something—the plastic bag I’d gotten out of the office kitchen.

  Cissie looked puzzled.

  ‘To store it in, in case there are any fingerprints.”

  I followed Cissie through her effusively floral sitting room to her tiny, immaculate kitchen. Even though I could never live with this many flowers and ruffles and bows, somehow I liked Cissie’s house. It felt doll-like and ordered and bright.

  “Here.” She pulled a bag from a tidy drawer. “The letter’s in the cupboard, in the parlor. Just get it out of here.” Shefluttered her hands as if to dispel smoke, shooing me ahead of her.

  “A’vry, did you know Len Ruffin, the man they found dead in that gold mine? Did you know he got a letter, too?”

  I turned to her, with the cupboard drawer only half open.

  “He sure did. You realize what that means? Somebody didn’t like him, somebody killed him. That’s just. . . frightening.”

  Cissie didn’t know how frightening. She didn’t know about Suse Knight’s letter, or mine. I turned quickly back to my task so she couldn’t see my face. I slid her wrinkled letter into the plastic bag, trying not to smudge anything it might hold.

  “I’ve had my hands all over that thing. It’s probably got tear stains on it. It scared me so. It. . . hurt.” Her voice broke. “I probably ruined anything on it.”

  “I don’t know that L.J. will be interested, but just in case it might be useful.” I shrugged.

  Cissie gave a gentle snort and brushed a loose strand of golden blond hair behind her ear. “L.J. Peters investigating something like this. Rousting drunks, I can believe. But—” She huffed again.

  I held the plastic bag by one corner, careful not to let the letter shift about inside. I gave Cissie a quick hug.

  “Don’t worry about it, okay? But do take precautions.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’m locking myself in here. Until Jeff comes.”

  “Jeff?” I raised an eyebrow but didn’t say, Not the preacher, I hope.

  She gave me her catty-sly smile. “You haven’t met him. He’s new in town. Lives out on the lake. His wife died and he sold his business and moved here. Didn’t want to be around sad memories.”

  I didn’t ask why he’d left the good memories behind as well. Cissie would be too busy treating him to some new memories to worry about that.

  I stepped onto the porch and heard her latch the door behind me. She peeked around the lace curtain and waggled her fingers bye.

  Time was too crunched for me to run by my parents’ house. Tomorrow, though, I’d make a point to get my .38 and concealed-carry permit out of the lockbox in the top of my old bedroom closet. Unlike Cissie, I couldn’t hide in my house and wait for my tennis partner to show up, so I needed to follow my own advice about taking precautions.

  20

  Wednesday Afternoon

  Visiting Cissie’s orderly—if overly floral—cottage shifted my thoughts again to my free-floating homelessness. Better to think about that than the bagged letter I carried gingerly to the car between thumb and forefinger.

  I backed out of Cissie’s drive and turned toward the Law Enforcement Center. The sheriff’s minions could decide what to do with Cissie’s letter—and mine. Dang. I forgot to unearth it and bring it with me. And Suse Knight’s. How could I have forgotten them? Too much distracting me as I left the office.

  The narrow circular road through Cissie’s neighbor-hood had steep pitches and forced me to drive slowly—which was fortunate, or I might not have stopped in time.

  I couldn’t decide at first what it was. The animal minced across the road in front of me on its skinny legs, amazingly nimble considering its heft, its back as high as the car’s hood.

  Bambi, the potbellied pig. After she crossed into the wooded area at the side of the road, she half-turned to study me, her tiny eye glittering. She offered me that small smile pigs have frozen at the corner of their mouths before she sauntered into the undergrowth of someone’s naturally landscaped lot. Run, Bambi, run.

  Should I call the sheriff’s office to report the sighting? Wait to watch the deputies thrash around in someone’s rare shrub and wildflower collection? Was Bambi really in much danger from cold weather or predators? Maybe from cars, judging from my near miss, but she looked well fed and content, as only a pig can.

  I felt a little guilty, but I opted not to do my civic duty. I didn’t immediately report Bambi’s whereabouts. Even though I was running late for my meeting with Tim Mc-Donald, I drove back to the office, found my letter, got Suse Knight’s out of the desk drawer, and went to de-liver all three letters into the hands of law enforcement.

  My reward for not calling ahead: Rudy was out. The kid at the front desk managed to look both bored and officious, neither of these becoming attitudes in some-body who’s head hadn’t grown to fit his ears and whose neck didn’t fill the collar of his uniform shirt.

  “Can you call him? I have something he’ll be interested in.” I stood holding my gallon-size plastic bags, the edges pinched gingerly between two fingers.

  “I can see that Deputy Mellin gets whatever.” He halfheartedly extended a hand to accept the bags.

  “No-o. I need to see him.” I stood there, stubbornly frozen in place. I wasn’t about to hand this insolent teenager—he looked about fifteen—letters chastising me and Cissie for bad behavior. It would be embarrassing enough to relinquish them to Rudy. At the same time, I didn’t want to leave here with them. I wanted them out of my hands, literally.

  Junior Cop Boy just stared at me.

  “Is there somebody here from crime scene investigation that I could talk to?”

  He rolled his eyes and lifted a phone receiver, murmured into it, waited, murmured some more, and finally turned to me. “Lester Watts can see you. End of the hall, to your right.”

  Lester, who had been designated the crime scene photographer after a car accident left him partially disabled, didn’t seem any happier to see me than Junior Cop Boy had been, but I felt better about handing the letters over to him. He’d been a cop so long he’d had any judgmental tendencies worn off him. He scarcely raised an eyebrow, just said he’d talk to Rudy and get them processed for prints.

  I left the Law Enforcement Center and raced up the mountain, figuring I wouldn’t meet any boy deputies with radar guns that late on a weekday a
fternoon. Just past the country store where I’d arranged to meet Noah Lakefield tomorrow, I took the left fork. Farther up the road, the directional signs I’d expected to see for Yellow Fork Camp were gone, and I missed the turn. I retraced and, on the next pass, found the rutted and potholed road through the woods back into the old summer camp.

  The arched wooden gateway at the end of the road still rustically spelled out YELLOW FORK CAMP overhead in silvered-gray wood slats. Cabins and recreational buildings still stood in a tired circle around a red clay common area, the color the dirt around here turns once any dark topsoil is blown or worked away. A couple of old pickups and a faded red SUV were parked alongside a building fronted by a deep porch. I drove toward that building, since the trucks represented the only signs of life.

  As soon as I opened my car door, I heard a loud shout, so I followed the sound behind the buildings where the old ball fields gently sloped toward the lake.

  In the middle of what had been the Softball field, three towering wooden masts, looking fresh and dark compared to the weathered gray and tired red of the rest of the camp, rose from recently dug red-clay mounds. A man with a shaved head, his black pants stuffed into combat boots and muscles straining his black T-shirt, barked orders at a raggedy group.

  He had his back turned to me, so I couldn’t under-stand his words, but his six listeners were giving weak imitations of standing at attention. In their oversized jeans, wrinkled shirts, and ball caps, the four guys were giving poor imitations indeed. The two girls weren’t even trying. One, in her tight jeans and even tighter T-shirt, had her arms crossed trying to keep warm in the weak March sun. The other girl had her hands crammed deep in the pockets of her windbreaker.

  All six listened as die bald commandant strode back and forth in front of them, one hand held at parade rest behind his back, the other rhythmically whacking his leg with a baton.

  “Miz Andrews?”

  I jumped, startled by the voice in my left ear.

  “I thought you knew to come to the office.” A short man with gleaming white hair and an unlined face fixed me with surprising blue eyes.

  “Tim McDonald? Avery.” I offered him my hand.

  His handshake was curt, almost dismissive. “Glad to meet you.” He turned us toward the sagging building with the deep porch and away from the field. I wasn’t that easily deterred.

  “What’s that?”

  “A test run for one of our executive training camps. We’ll be bringing business executives here for team building and motivational retreats.” He spoke with well-rehearsed salesmanship as he led me back toward the camp buildings.

  I nodded, glancing over my shoulder. Undoubtedly some of the business types forced up here by well-intentioned bosses or sales departments would react with the same faked attention the twenty-somethings were currently showing the drill instructor.

  Our foot treads sounded loud on the curled wooden floor boards, and the door stuck a bit in its frame as Tim McDonald ushered me inside.

  Nothing in the office looked ready for an influx of well-heeled business executives. It wouldn’t have with-stood the arrival of a few Brownie Scouts on a day trip. A scarred desk and two sofas were shoved against the wall, and several slatted armchairs with the cushions in tatters were stacked on top. The only pieces in use were six webbed lawn chairs in unexpected primary colors and a rickety folding table holding a few rolls of blueprint paper.

  A door at the back of the room, opposite where we’d entered, swung open, and I glimpsed a well-lit shop reminiscent of my dad’s at home. Inside, a man wearing a face shield fed a length of pipe into a shrill saw blade. At least they were working to get this place in shape.

  The newcomer closed the shop door behind him, cutting out most of the noise, and joined us.

  Tim did the honors. “Avery Andrews. Mitch Eggles.”

  Mitch Eggles looked about fifty. Over his bushy woodsman beard, his dark eyes studied me. He nodded but didn’t offer a handshake. Tim turned a couple of the bright lawn chairs to face a third, which he indicated I should take.

  In my previous life, my clients had come to me knowing who I was and what I could do. Clients hadn’t interviewed me. Well, they probably had, but it never had this flavor of an inquisition.

  I sat facing Tim and Mitch, waiting. I had to admit I was curious. As I had explained to Tim on the phone, I charged by the hour. They’d wanted to see me on their turf, so this was their game and their dime.

  The two exchanged subtle glances, the webbed lawn chairs creaking slightly with any movement.

  Tim said, “Miz, um, Avery, we wanted to meet you face-to-face. So we could all. . . take each other’s measure.”

  I refrained from nodding. Women nod to say, “I hear you.” Men nod to say, “I agree with you.” I returned Mitch’s silent steady stare. I didn’t want him to think I agreed with anything yet.

  “Our organization is in its start-up stage,” Tim said. “We’ll need a lawyer to help with certain legal details. You know the kinds of things—deeds, setting up our organization, the usual things businesses do.”

  We all sat a moment. I still didn’t nod.

  “We also might need a lawyer who is good in court. We’ve heard you are. Not all lawyers who do routine paperwork can handle a lawsuit. Least, that’s what we understand.”

  “That’s true. You suing or being sued?”

  “Being. . . Well, neither one. We just want to be prepared. Should the need arise.”

  As Tim talked, I kept an eye on Mitch, who stared back from out of his bushy beard and eyebrows like a wolf in a den.

  “What kinds of situations do you anticipate? Liability lawsuits because someone was injured? Or—” I left the question for him to fill in the blanks.

  He dodged. “We understand you represented—or counseled—the Posse, or individual members of that group.”

  That took me by surprise. I would’ve described it as Max and members of the Posse motorcycle gang counseling me, or better yet, using me as an errand girl to send messages to the sheriff back in November.

  “I’m really not at liberty to discuss other clients’ business. I’m sure you understand.” I could dodge questions, too.

  Tim nodded, accepting that as only right. Mitch sat forward.

  “So, young lady, answer me something. Do you think that once law enforcement has named someone as a person of interest, that that person is probably guilty?” His eyes bored into mine.

  I blinked, surprised at the question and surprised when Melvin and his wife’s murder popped into my mind. “Cops can make mistakes, sir. That’s why we have courts of law—and defense attorneys.”

  Mitch’s beard parted to ask another question, but when Tim put a hand on Mitch’s arm, he closed his mouth. Mitch’s lips worked in and out as he settled back in his chair, still watching me. I watched back. Even though Tim was doing most of the talking, Mitch was the one to contend with.

  “Avery, I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to come here to meet with us,” Tim said, both palms on the plastic arms of his lawn chair, signaling the end of the interview. “Make sure I have your correct mailing address. We’ll send a check for the time you’ve spent this afternoon.”

  Huh? I took the hint and stood, trying not to look befuddled or too new at this small-practice lawyer stuff. Should I ask for details? Assume this was an audition? I did need to clear up one thing.

  ‘Tim, Mitch. I hope you understand this doesn’t mean I agree to represent you. With all due respect, you haven’t given me much information about what you need done. I’d want to make sure my skills would be the best match for you.”

  I didn’t want to scare off potential clients—especially if they mailed their check as promised and it cleared. But this operation had some question marks around it. Mitch and his almost-mute stare, for one.

  Tim nodded as he led the way to the warped front door. “Certainly, certainly. I’m sorry we can’t be more specific right now. You know how it is with start-u
ps. We just wanted to make sure we knew who to call, if and when the need arises.”

  The cupped and weathered floorboards on the porch creaked under our steps. Tim must have read my thoughts. “We have a lot of work to do before we host our first training group, that’s for sure.” His hand hovered protectively at my elbow, to make sure I made it safely down the stairs. In the sunlight, I was again struck by how youthful his tan face and crystal-blue eyes looked, despite his shock of silver hair.

  “That’s true of any new business, isn’t it?” I said, thinking of my own stacks of books and the old Victorian’s suspect electrical wiring.

  As Tim escorted me toward my car, a loud bellow from the drill sergeant drew my attention to what I could glimpse of the converted softball fields. The instructor had the kids scaling the wooden towers on ropes. This crew was a personal injury lawsuit waiting to happen. An even more likely risk was Sergeant Bilko popping a blood vessel while yelling at those kids. I hoped Tim and Mitch had workers’ comp insurance.

  Tim closed my car door for me, took a step back, and waved goodbye. I drove slowly toward the camp gate and watched in my rearview mirror until he disappeared onto the shaded porch.

  Once out the gate, I alternately watched my rearview mirror and studied the woods on the left side of the road. Best I could tell, the road circled fairly close around behind the camp buildings. If so, I should be able to see the softball field—yep, through a break in the trees.

  I eased my Mustang to the side of the road and hoped the slight embankment and the thick under-growth hid the engine noise from the ball field below—or the absence of engine noise, when I cut it off. I left my door open and scrambled up the three-foot embankment to get a better view.

  The still-cold March air, with its low humidity, carried the random barked orders from the man in black fatigues. The two girls and one of the guys stood on the ground, holding ropes for the three young men who were at different stages of scaling the thick wooden poles.

  I’ve never rappelled or rock-climbed, so I wasn’t sure what I was watching, but it looked as though each wore some kind of sawtooth boots and climbed using a combination of his own strength and that of the kid on the ground roped to him. Another thick rope ran between the three, from one pole-climber to another. Redundant safety systems? That was good.