The Last Chance Olive Ranch

by Susan Wittig Albert

  The woman chuckled, deep in her throat. “Lester di’n’t tell me he was ’xpectin’ any more comp’ny tonight. And here I am, all by my lonesome.” She stepped back invitingly. “You come on in, Harv, and let me fix you a drink. It’s wet out there.”

  McQuaid glanced toward Blackie and saw that he had moved forward and was pressed against the trailer, a few paces to the right of the window, where he could hear what was said. Deciding that the risk was low, McQuaid stepped through the door. The room smelled heavily of smoke. There were a couple of half-empty pizza boxes on a low coffee table, a spilled potato salad container, a puddle of beer and several beer cans, wads of paper napkins, and a cell phone. Max and Lester had had a picnic. But the cell was in a pink case and bore a monogrammed name. Candy.

  “Maybe Lester forgot about me,” he said, and took a chance. “You’re . . . Candy, right?”

  She fluttered her eyelashes. “That’s me. Candy. Real sweet. Lester tell you about me?”

  “Just enough to whet the appetite.” McQuaid grinned and took another chance. “Lester and Max—they picked up the girl, I understand. Where’d they head off to? I’ll catch up to them.”

  Candy’s expression darkened. “Max’s girl? Man, you don’t wanna mess with her.” She blew out a stream of smoke. “Believe me, she is a pain in the old patootie. A massive pain.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that,” McQuaid said truthfully. Maybe the abduction had brought out Juanita, who was more than a pain in the patootie. By herself, Sally could be destructive. When Juanita came out, she was dynamite.

  “Yeah.” Candy drained her wineglass and went on, aggrieved now. “I had a headache and Cody—he’s my boss—brought me home from Pinto’s a little early. I was tired to the bone after waitin’ tables and puttin’ up with jerks all afternoon—and wearin’ those damn three-inch heels, which absolutely kill my feet. I was lookin’ forward to a nice hot bath and a bowl of soup and here’s Lester.” She made a low noise, almost a growl. “He went over to Houston last weekend and when he came back this afternoon he brought this big bear of a guy, this Max guy, home with him.”

  “Houston, huh?” McQuaid asked, interested. So Lester had been over in Houston when the two female witnesses were killed.

  “Right. And Max is draggin’ this crazy woman he picked up somewhere, and she’s changed her friggin’ mind and ain’t havin’ a friggin’ thing to do with him.”

  McQuaid nodded. It sounded like Sally—or Juanita—wasn’t taking kindly to being kidnapped.

  Candy rolled her eyes. “Why in hell any man would want a chick who has such a smart mouth on her that he has to shut it up with duct tape is beyond me. She wasn’t even very pretty.”

  Duct tape? That didn’t sound good at all. And Sally wasn’t just pretty, she was beautiful, at least when she was dressed up. McQuaid hesitated, then ventured uneasily, “Maybe it’s not the same girl. Honey-blond, medium height, named Sally? Or she could be calling herself Juanita.”

  “Yeah, Juanita. That’s her name. Juanita.” Candy frowned as if she were still trying to figure out what had happened. “She was pretty, actually. Or she would be if she paid a little attention to herself. She was a little . . . well, kinda messed up, I guess you’d say.”

  “Messed up?” He felt his stomach muscles tighten.

  “Like she was having a really bad hair day and her makeup was all smeared, which I guess could be because of that tape on her mouth, which Lester seemed to think was funny. I didn’t get a real good look at her, though. Lester’s friend, that guy Max, he hustled her outta here pretty quick after I got home. And then they all three got in the car and left.” Candy threw a disgusted glance at the pizza cartons and beer cans. “Leavin’ me to clean up after their party, of course. I swear, I don’t know why I put up with Lester. He is a class-A jerk.”

  The situation was becoming clearer. McQuaid was guessing that Candy had walked into the situation unexpectedly. That she didn’t know that Mantel was Lester’s stepbrother, or that he was an escaped convict, or that Sally was an unwilling guest at their party.

  “Sorry it screwed up your evening,” McQuaid said apologetically. “Lester should have thought of that before he brought Max and Juanita home with him.”

  “Damn straight.” Candy squinted playfully into her glass. “Wow. Empty already. What’d’ya know about that?” As she lifted her arm, McQuaid saw the bruises—a wraparound purplish bruise on her upper right arm, with a clear thumb pad and finger pad impressions. She’d tried to cover them with a makeup concealer, but they were still quite obvious. And they told a story. She cocked her head. “You need a drink, Harv. Let me fix you one.”

  “Wish I could, but I need to catch up with Lester,” McQuaid said. “Do you know where they went off to?”

  There was a bottle of Scotch on the divider bar between the living room and the kitchen. She poured herself another drink, then ducked into the kitchen. Over the sound of the tap, she said, “You really don’t want to go back out in that rain, Harvey. Take off your jacket and let me fix you a nice one. Lester won’t likely be back until late. You’re more’n welcome to wait.”

  While she was in the kitchen, McQuaid picked up the pink cell phone and pocketed it quickly. “I’d like to, Candy,” he said ruefully, as she came back to the living room. “I really would. But Lester might not be too happy about that, you know? I’d sure hate to make trouble for you.” He looked down at her bruised arm, then up to meet her eyes. She flinched and put her hand over the bruise, as if to cover it up. “Anyway,” he went on, “I promised Lester I’d connect up with them. Any idea where they went when they left here?” He reached for the only other possibility he could think of. “San Antonio, maybe? Joe’s place? Joe Romeo?”

  “You got it.” Candy stuck out her lower lip in a pout. “Joe is a damn jerk, too, y’know, Harv? I’ve never liked him, even though he’s Lester’s cousin. Just like Lester.” She was still covering her arm. “I am about at the end of my rope with that guy. I work like a damn dog, bring my paycheck home, and he pulls stunts like this. Like that girl, I mean.” She sniffled and swiped the back of her hand across her eyes, smudging her mascara.

  “Like you said, though, she was with the other guy,” McQuaid replied comfortingly. “With Max. And Max can be a little pushy sometimes. Likes to have his way. I bet Juanita was his idea, and Lester was just along for the ride.” He smiled and took a step back. “Listen, Candy, I really hate to go. But with this rain and all, I’d better be on my way. Am I pretty far behind them?”

  She sighed regretfully. “Twenty minutes maybe. They phoned ahead and Joe said they should come to the wrecking yard. Max is on his way to Matamoros, and Joe’s fixing him up with a vehicle.”

  Matamoros, huh? “That’s Joe,” McQuaid said. “He may be a jerk to women but he’s always glad to help a friend in need.” He frowned. “Say, what’s Lester driving these days?”

  “He’s still got that old green Camaro,” Candy said. “It doesn’t run too good, though.” Another roll of her eyes. “My Kia is in the shop, or he would’ve taken that.”

  McQuaid nodded. “Did Max say whether he’s planning to take Juanita with him to Mexico?”

  “He was talking about it,” Candy said. “But she was giving him such a hard time, maybe he’ll think twice. I would, if I was him. I mean, if I was a man, I sure wouldn’t want a woman who wasn’t willing.” She gave him a hopeful look. “You sure you won’t have a drink with me, Harvey, honey?” She lifted her glass again. “Jes’ a quick one, for the road?”

  “Thanks, no,” McQuaid said, feeling suddenly sorry for her. He put out a hand and touched her face, wiping the mascara smear off with his thumb. And then, on an impulse, he bent and brushed his lips against her cheek. “You hang in there, Candy. You’re a good woman—you hear? You don’t want to stick around waiting for this thing with Lester to work out. You need to find yourself a man
who will be nice to you.”

  She pulled back, staring at him, then dissolved into tears. McQuaid didn’t wait to see what happened next.

  Back in the Charger, putting the key in the ignition, Blackie spoke admiringly. “I didn’t hear the whole conversation, Harvey, honey, but I gotta say that you have one smooth line. ‘Find yourself a man who will be nice to you.’” He chuckled. “Is that how you managed to snag China?”

  “Go to hell,” McQuaid growled. He pulled out his phone and turned on the GPS. “We need to get on the stick. They’re about twenty minutes ahead of us. Max is picking up a car at a wrecking yard in San Antonio, with the idea of heading for Matamoros. Lester’s girlfriend said he was talking about taking Sally to Mexico with him.” He winced at the thought of the dark bruises on Candy’s arm—bruises she had tried to conceal—and her comment that Sally was kind of “messed up.” What had Max and Lester done to Sally? What were they doing now? She was the bait, wasn’t she? Why hadn’t Mantel called him to yank his string?

  “So, where are we headed?” Blackie asked, pulling back onto the road. “I couldn’t hear what Lester’s girlfriend was saying. Have you doped out where Mantel has gone?”

  “Head back to I-35,” McQuaid said, pulling the address out of the email Harry Royce had sent him. “South to San Antonio. Romeo’s Wrecking Yard, off Anderson Loop.”

  “Romeo’s Wrecking Yard.” Blackie chuckled drily. “Man, you sure know some terrific places to spend a Friday night. Great company, too. A Death Row escapee, his stepbrother, a junkyard owner, and your wacky ex-wife.” He shook his head.

  “File a complaint with the management.” McQuaid paused, calculating the odds. “Listen, you think we oughta revisit the question of backup? If we do, I don’t think there’s any point in trying to get Royce’s team down there. That kind of operation would take hours to coordinate, and we don’t have that kind of time. With those guys, it would probably end up being a bloody mess, too.”

  “Right,” Blackie said thoughtfully. “Actually, given that it’s a hostage situation, it could turn into a pretty big deal. I wonder who we know that’s local.” He pushed his mouth in and out for a moment. “Hey. Remember Jocko? He used to be in SAPD Fraud—worked with us when we did that forgery investigation in San Antonio a couple of years ago. Muchos cojones, that guy. And what about Carlos Cisneros? They’re both in Homicide now. Carlos is another tough hombre. Smart, too.”

  “Possibilities,” McQuaid said, remembering both men and thinking that he liked four to three odds a lot better than two to three. He thought about the weaponry in the back of the Charger and added, “I’ll let them know the situation. It would be good if they brought along some crowd control.” He slid a half-serious glance at Blackie. “Say, how about asking Sheila? Sounded like she’d be glad to help us out. You could phone her, get her to meet us, and—”

  “Hell, no,” Blackie said vehemently, and slapped the palm of his hand against the wheel. “As long as my wife is behind the desk, I’m okay with her job. But the thought of her out on a live situation like this one is enough to make me crazy.”

  “Oh, yeah?” McQuaid raised his eyebrows. “To hear her tell it, you’re a hundred percent in support of her work on the force.”

  “I’m a hundred percent in support of her work as chief of the force,” Blackie said grimly. “Especially now that she’s having this baby. You’ve held down that chief’s job and you know what it’s like—ninety-five percent administrative. She’s not likely to get shot up as long as she’s riding the desk.” He made a gritty noise. “Anyway, this is Bexar County. If we’re inviting anybody to this party, it oughta be somebody local. They’ll want full credit.”

  McQuaid nodded. “Got it. Let’s see who we can dig up.” He went back to his phone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the Mediterranean area, olive oil was an important fuel for the lamps that provided the most reliable lighting for interiors that were dark even during the day. The most common olive oil lamps were shallow pottery dishes in which a cotton wick (a twist of twine, a woven strip) was held above the surface of the oil, often by a clay nob at the side of the dish or at one end. Because olive oil was cheap and abundant, the lamps could be used for daylong illumination, and several could be assembled to raise the level of light in a single room.

  Olive oil is generally a safe fuel because of its low volatility. But as you know if you’ve tried to cook with it over a high flame, it has a lower smoke point than other vegetable oils. Frying or cooking over high heat is not recommended. An oil or grease fire is no joke, so it’s always good to be careful.

  China Bayles “Virgin Territory” Pecan Springs Enterprise

  Ruby already knew all about Pete’s broken heart, as it turned out. Pete had told her the whole sad story, in between barbecue and curly fries at the Feed Lot in Luckenbach and dances at the Luckenbach Dance Hall, where the Almost Patsy Cline Band was playing sentimental Western swing to an appreciative crowd.

  “They were engaged,” Ruby said, twisting a carroty strand of hair around her finger. “Pete had known her for years. They were planning to get married at the end of summer, after the olive harvest, when he could take some time off.”

  Her voice trailed away. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed in her ratty old sleeping shirt, an oversize blue-and-white tee that she’s worn for our sleepovers almost as long as I’ve known her. On the front it says Dallas in blue letters, over a blue football. On the back it says This Girl Loves Them Cowboys.

  “And then?” I prompted.

  Ruby took a breath. “And then she ran into this guy she’d known in college, fell madly in love with him, and broke her engagement to Pete—without a word of warning. He said it was like a bolt from the blue.” She smacked a fist against the flat of her hand to illustrate. “Just wham.”

  “Gosh, that’s too bad,” I said sympathetically. “Everybody says that Pete is just your basic Mr. Nice Guy. Sounds like he got a raw deal.” I pulled off my shirt and hung it in the tiny closet, next to the plaid blouse I was planning to wear tomorrow. I turned and gave Ruby a stern look. “And here’s the thing, Ruby. You are under orders from Andrea, who told me to tell you not to break Pete’s heart. Chet’s a little worried about it, too.”

  “Break his heart!” Ruby straightened her shoulders, indignant. “Of course I’m not going to break his heart. What makes you think I’d do a thing like that, China?”

  I kicked off my sneakers and shucked out of my khakis and hung them up, too. “Maybe because you don’t have a very good track record with cowboys?” I suggested, digging my nightie out of the duffel bag at the foot of my bed. “Your T-shirt notwithstanding.”

  “But Pete isn’t a cowboy!” Ruby sounded defensive. “He’s responsible for the olive groves. He’s an expert in the management of olive trees and the making of olive oil. And anyway—”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. I dropped the nightie on the bed, picked up my toothbrush and toothpaste and headed for the little bathroom. “I wasn’t dissing Pete. So he isn’t a cowboy. I’m mistaken. I apologize.”

  “Good,” she said tartly. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not yet. Maybe later. But the fact remains that you have moved from one man to another—most of them cowboys—since Colin died. Hark has tried to settle you down, but you—”

  “Hark is very sweet and I like him a lot.” Ruby got off the bed and followed me to the bathroom door. In her sleep shirt, her face scrubbed and her hair a disorderly mass of carroty curls, she looked like an innocent sixteen. “But I have never claimed to be in love with him or with any of the others. And I don’t think I can be accused of breaking anybody’s heart—let alone Hark’s. We’ve been having a good time together, that’s all.” She paused, leaning against the doorjamb. Her voice thinned. “Colin Fowler was the love of my life, China. For a long time, I thought nobody could measure up to him. But he’s been gone for thr
ee years. It’s time I got over it.”

  “What have I been telling you, Ruby?” I said. “Right. It’s time you got over it.”

  “Right. So now—” She threw up her hands.

  My toothbrush in my hand, my mouth all foamy with toothpaste, I straightened up and met her eyes in the small mirror over the sink. “So now what?”

  “So Pete . . .” She swallowed. “So Pete’s a whole different story, China. Really, I mean.”

  I stared at her, still foamy-mouthed. I was beginning to get the picture. “Coming out here this weekend.” I bent over and spit in the sink, then wiped my mouth with the towel and turned around to face her. “It wasn’t about me at all,” I said accusingly. “It wasn’t about Maddie or Eliza’s will and that legal stuff. It was about you. And Pete. You and Pete.”

  “Well,” she said. She lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “Well . . .”

  “And the workshop? That was just an excuse! Admit it, Ruby. You cooked the whole thing up as an excuse to come here and see Pete and get him to go out with you. Isn’t that it?”

  She ducked her head. “Well, I guess, yes, sort of. I mean, I heard . . .” She took a breath and began to spill the story. “A couple of weeks ago, Maddie let me know that the girl Pete was engaged to had broken up with him. To tell the truth, I’ve been interested in the guy ever since he came to work here a couple of years ago.” She brushed a bit of lint off her sleep shirt. “In fact, I fell for him right away. I thought he was really smart—about the trees, I mean, and making olive oil, and helping Maddie keep things going here at the Last Chance. He knows how to get things done and he just does them, without a lot of fuss or calling attention to himself. And he always seems so much in charge, but he’s never pushy about it or—” She stopped, smiling a little. “He’s just . . . well, great, you know? And you’re right.” The smile faded and her voice fell. “You said it. He’s your basic Mr. Nice Guy.”