The Last Chance Olive Ranch

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Sullivan took his notebook out again, flipped to a clean page, and glanced at Chet. “Okay, shoot.”

  “You’re thinking of those lights we saw on the road?” Chet asked, and I nodded, not wanting to prompt or lead his answers. He frowned. “Well, it happened like this. China and I are old friends from our law school days. We—”

  “You’re a lawyer?” Sullivan looked at me. “I should have known.”

  “Ex,” I said, unsmiling. “Go on, Chet.”

  “We had dinner with Jason and Andrea, at their place,” Chet said. “We were driving back across the Guadalupe, across the old Last Chance ford.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You know that road, Tom? Nobody uses it but people who live on the Butler ranch. On both sides of the river.”

  “I know the road,” Sullivan replied evenly. “What time?”

  “Maybe nine thirty, twenty to ten.” Chet looked at me, and I nodded, agreeing. “We were climbing the little rise on this side of the river when we saw Boyd’s Dodge RAM coming toward us.”

  “Boyd Butler?”

  “Right. I figured he was spending the evening at the Last Chance.” Chet ducked his head. “With Maddie.”

  “He wasn’t,” I said quietly. “I asked her. She hadn’t seen him.”

  Chet turned to look at me, surprised. “He wasn’t with her?”

  I shook my head.

  “So he could have been here,” Sullivan said. “Here, at this cabin.”

  “Yes,” Chet said. “I mean, this lane intersects with the old road.”

  Sullivan was making rapid notes. “And how did you know it was Boyd’s truck?”

  “It’s got a burned-out light in the light bar. It’s the only truck around here with a light bar like that. You can pick it out heading toward you a quarter mile away.” Chet paused, frowning. “The weird thing was, though, that it didn’t keep coming. As soon as we saw him—or he saw us—Boyd swung off the road. Turned his lights off, too. I knew where he was, but I didn’t stop to see what he was doing. Figured it was his business, whatever he was up to.” He rubbed his hand on his cheek, where the fire had reddened it. “Also figured he didn’t want to be bothered. Maybe didn’t want to be seen.”

  I could see where this was going, and my criminal-defense-attorney self stepped up to the bar. “Actually,” I said carefully, “we didn’t have any way to know it was Boyd behind the wheel. Chet recognized the truck, but we never saw the driver.”

  “Thank you for that correction, Counselor.” Chet rolled his eyes. “That’s why they called her Hot Shot in law school,” he said to Sullivan. “She always has to have the last word.”

  “She’s making an important point,” Sullivan said thoughtfully.

  Chet considered that for a moment. “We saw Boyd driving that truck at Jason’s place just before supper. And he never lets anybody else put a hand on the wheel. His Dodge is a religion with him.” He gave me a so-there look, as if we were keeping score.

  “One more thing,” I said quietly. “At Jason’s place, when we pulled up behind Butler’s truck, I noticed a crate with some bottles—five or six, maybe—in the back. Olive oil bottles, with a big black X marked on the labels.”

  Chet was staring at me. “I saw those bottles, too. But what does that have to do with—”

  Sullivan closed his notebook. “Olive oil may have been one of the accelerants used in this fire.” Thunder rolled in the distance and a flicker of lightning lit his face. “Sorry to take you away from the fire, Chet, but I need you to show me where that truck pulled off the road. Can you do that?”

  “Sure,” Chet said. He blinked, then slowly turned his attention from me to Sullivan. “Tom, you’re not saying that—” He broke off. “Jeez. I guess you are. But what . . . I mean, why would he . . .” He whistled softly. “It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, Boyd and arson?”

  “Let’s talk about it later,” Sullivan said, reaching for the radio on his belt. “I need to take a look at the place where that truck pulled out. If we’ve got another scene to work, I may have to get some backup out here. I don’t want to lose any evidence to rain.” As he was keying the radio, he turned to me. “It would be good if you came along, if you’re up to it. Another pair of eyes would be good. I’ll get you guys a flashlight.”

  Twelve or fifteen minutes later, at the pull-out area, Chet and I were climbing out of Sullivan’s van and making our way through the dark, each of us armed with a flashlight. In the lead, Chet used his light to pick out the parallel tracks of truck tires in the sandy soil. The tire prints were clear: a heavy pickup with dual rear wheels. We followed the trail to the point where the truck had stopped behind a yaupon holly thicket. There, it had backed up and turned, then pulled forward again in a tight semicircle through the brush, joining the road about twenty yards away from the point where the truck had pulled off.

  I knelt down and peered at the tire prints. They were non-distinctive, except for one thing. “The left front tire has a hunk of tread missing.” I straightened up and pointed at the imprint in the dirt, where the two-inch gouge could be clearly seen. “You could check Butler’s Dodge. Maybe you’ll find a match.” I was glad to see it. Without some kind of corroborating evidence, all Sullivan had was our claim that we had seen a truck with a missing light on the bar. If the case went to trial, that might not be enough. And even with that—

  And then I noticed something else. A cigarette, crushed and bent, lying where it might have been tossed out of the driver’s window. “Hey, look!” I said. With luck, Boyd’s DNA would be on it. That would clinch it.

  “Don’t touch,” Sullivan cautioned. He took out his cell phone and shot several photos, then turned and took several shots of the tire print with the distinctive chip in the tread. “We need to get a cast of this,” he muttered, as the thunder rumbled again, closer this time. “Before we get a washout.”

  He unhooked his radio from his belt, called his dispatcher, and put in a request for another investigator, somebody named Murray. Then he went back to his van and got an evidence bag and a large sheet of plastic. He bagged and labeled the cigarette and we covered the tire prints to protect them from the weather.

  That done, he turned to Chet. “Do you mind hanging out here until Murray shows up to make a cast of that tire print? I need to get back up to the cabin before it rains. And get a deputy to drive over to Butler’s place and take a quick look at the truck.”

  “Sure, I can stay here,” Chet said. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Jeez,” he said, shaking his head. “I just don’t believe it. I keep coming back to why. Why would Boyd set a fire at Sofia’s cabin? Why, why, why?”

  • • •

  A half hour later, Ruby and I found the answer to Chet’s insistent question.

  We were almost too tired for sleep, but Ruby, with her customary foresight, had tucked a care package into her suitcase: a bottle of aspirin, her favorite sleepy-time tea (a blend of chamomile, passion flower, lemongrass, orange blossoms, rose petals, and hawthorn), and a container of really scrumptious home-baked rosemary shortbread cookies.

  It was nearly three a.m. I had taken a couple of aspirin and we were lying on our beds, sipping and munching and trying to make sense of what had just happened. I was lying on my stomach, propped on my elbows, since Ruby had liberally slathered aloe gel on my shoulders.

  We were also talking about how to handle the workshop that was scheduled for that afternoon, just hours away now. But my hair was singed, my shoulders were burned, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be entirely coherent. I hated to say it, but I had to suggest that we cancel the workshop.

  “We’re all going to be exhausted,” I said, “Pete and Jerry especially. They’ll probably have to keep an eye on that fire area, to make sure the embers are all out, so they won’t be available to help. And with Sofia gone, there’ll be nobody to manage the kitchen for lunch.”

  “I a
gree,” Ruby said. “On top of all that, Maddie will likely stay at the hospital until Sofia can come home.” She sat up. “I am making an executive decision. Starting at—” She peered at the clock. “Starting at eight a.m., Andrea and I will telephone everybody who registered. We’ll tell them that we’ve had a fire here and we have to reschedule. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “Bless you,” I said, and reached for another cookie. That’s when I noticed the box—Sofia’s olive-wood box—on the table beside my bed. One corner was splintered and the top was scratched, but it was still beautiful. Curious, I sat up on the edge of the bed and pulled the box onto my lap.

  “Gosh, I forgot all about that,” Ruby said, and came over to sit beside me. “Wonder what’s in it.” She wrinkled her nose. “I hope it’s important enough to justify risking your life to rescue it.”

  Lifting the lid, I saw that the box was crammed with papers, documents, and photographs. I pulled out a few, glanced at them, and set them aside. Nothing looked very promising until the box was almost empty. That’s when I found it: the reason Sofia wanted so desperately to have this material preserved. I opened an envelope and took out an official-looking document. Unfolding it, I scanned it, then took a deep breath and read it again, more carefully, entry by entry.

  And then—wordlessly—I handed it to Ruby.

  “What’s this, China?” She opened it, frowning. “Why, it’s a birth certificate. A baby born in Houston. A baby girl named Madeline.” She turned to look at me, wide-eyed. “Madeline . . . Madeline—that must be our Maddie!”

  “There’s no father listed,” I said. That space was blank. “But look at the mother’s name, Ruby.”

  Ruby looked back down at the paper. “It’s . . . it’s Eliza! But this is wrong, China. Maddie’s mother and father were killed in a car wreck. They were friends of Sofia’s. That’s how Maddie ended up here, at the Last Chance Ranch.” She was silent for a moment. Then, biting her lip, she raised her eyes to mine. “But what if—”

  “Yes,” I said. “But what if that wasn’t true? What if that was a fabrication? A made-up story designed to conceal the fact that Eliza bore a baby out of wedlock—her Spanish lover’s child—and didn’t feel she could raise her daughter alone?”

  “More likely, she felt she couldn’t bring her illegitimate baby to her father’s ranch,” Ruby said softly. “He would have been brutal to her about it.”

  I stared at her. “Even though Sofia was his illegitimate daughter?”

  Ruby nodded.

  “So she felt she had no choice but to give Maddie up for adoption,” I said softly. “And maybe Sofia helped out by arranging for the baby to be adopted by friends.”

  “That’s entirely possible,” Ruby said. “They might even have been relatives.”

  “But then they were killed in a car accident. Little Madeline was scarred, but survived. So she ended up here at the Last Chance, after all.”

  “Where Eliza and Sofia raised her as their daughter,” Ruby concluded. “But why all the secrecy? By that time, old Mr. Butler was dead and his disapproval couldn’t have meant anything. Why didn’t Eliza just come right out and say, ‘This is my little girl. I’m her mother.’”

  “People have their reasons,” I said. “She might have thought it would be confusing for Maddie, or maybe she didn’t want to admit that she’d lied.”

  “Now, that’s a possibility,” Ruby said emphatically. “Eliza was a very positive person who never liked to own up to an error. My mother used to say that only God knew all of Eliza’s mistakes, since she never could admit them to anybody else.” She paused, reflecting. “And maybe she felt it really didn’t matter. She and Sofia, together, gave Maddie everything she needed. Both of them were her mothers, in all the ways that counted.”

  “But not in the eyes of the law.” I took a breath. “You know, Ruby, this throws a big monkey wrench into Boyd’s lawsuit over the inheritance. Chet told me that Tinker Tyson, the probate judge, made a point of saying that if Maddie had been Eliza’s daughter, there would have been no dispute over the new will.”

  “Yes!” Ruby cried triumphantly. “Now we know that Maddie is Eliza’s daughter. All she has to do is take this birth certificate to the probate judge and he’ll be forced to reverse his ruling. The Last Chance will belong to her, and Boyd will be out of luck.” She frowned. “Unless Maddie agrees to marry him.”

  “Boyd is out of luck already,” I said flatly. “He’s not going to be marrying anybody for a good long time—that is, if Tom Sullivan is able to find the evidence to prove that he’s the one who set the arson fire that destroyed Sofia’s cabin.”

  “Boyd!” Ruby exclaimed.

  I told her about the evidence we had found at the place where Chet and I had seen the truck pull off the road. “If the forensic evidence is strong enough, Boyd could be charged with arson and attempted murder. He could get up to ninety-nine years—and that’s if Sofia lives.”

  “If she dies?” Ruby asked quietly.

  I tightened my jaw. “It’ll be arson and murder. The prosecution can go for the death penalty.”

  Ruby let out a long breath. “How . . . awful.”

  “It’s an awful crime,” I said grimly.

  But Chet’s question still echoed in my mind. Why, why, why? So what if Sofia could prove that Maddie was Eliza’s daughter and could inherit her mother’s property? Boyd had already staked his claim to marriage with her. He was a good-looking, persuasive guy. He must feel confident that he could get what he wanted by going that route. So why would he—

  And then I understood. I looked down at the birth certificate again. Eliza Butler and Boyd’s father, Howard Butler, had been brother and sister. Which meant that Eliza’s daughter, Maddie, and Boyd were first cousins.

  Which meant . . .

  “Yes, of course,” I said aloud.

  “Of course what?” Ruby asked.

  “Sofia was right when she said that Boyd and Maddie cannot marry,” I said. “Texas is one of the twenty-five states that prohibit first-cousin marriage.”

  “Oh, my gosh,” Ruby whispered. “You’re right, China! Boyd is doubly out of luck!”

  I folded up the birth certificate. No wonder Boyd felt so desperate that he was willing to risk everything in order to get rid of Sofia and destroy the documentary evidence of Maddie’s relationship to Eliza—and to himself. A fire could accomplish both goals and look like an accidental house fire at the same time.

  But Sofia hadn’t died in the fire, because Ruby had smelled the smoke and I had been able to get into the cabin in time to pull her out. Sofia could testify that she had told Boyd about the birth certificate that evening—had perhaps even shown it to him. Which would put him at the scene of the crime, with a compelling motive. If the worst happened and she died, both Chet and I could testify that we had seen him leaving the area. There was a good chance that Sullivan’s investigation would turn up some forensic evidence at the scene of the crime, too. For instance, his DNA might be found on those jeans that had been used to start the fire.

  Ruby got up and began to pace back and forth between our beds. “Honestly, China, when I asked you to come out here this weekend, I had no idea that we were going to run into all this. I thought we would just relax and you would do an interesting workshop and I—”

  “And you would get to spend some time with Pete,” I said. “And embark on an exciting new romance.”

  She stopped pacing. “Well, yes, sort of.” She smiled ruefully. “I guess.”

  I reached out and patted her hand. “Next time, sweetie, why don’t you break out your crystal ball and look into our future? If we had known all this was going to happen, we might have found a different weekend for the workshop.”

  I stopped. If we hadn’t been sleeping here tonight, if Ruby hadn’t been awakened by the smell of smoke, and if I hadn’t gotten into the cabin ju
st in the nick of time, Sofia would have died in the fire. The birth certificate would have been destroyed, Maddie would never have known that she was Eliza’s daughter, and she and her first cousin might have ended up married. The thought of all this made me shiver, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. I wrapped my arms around myself and held on tight.

  Ruby looked at me, frowning. “Is your head hurting?”

  “A little,” I admitted. I closed my eyes and thought about it for a moment. “I guess it’s hurting somewhat more than a little. You think it would be okay if I took another aspirin or two?”

  “I think you’re so tired you’re about to collapse,” she said. “Lie down on your stomach again, sweetie, and I’ll put some more aloe on your shoulders.”

  “Yes, Mom,” I said meekly, and followed orders as Ruby set to work.

  I felt better with my eyes closed. After a few moments, I said, “I hate to ask this, but I’m feeling so rocky—do you suppose we could go back to Pecan Springs tomorrow?” I opened one eye and peered at the clock. It was three thirty a.m. “Today, I mean. I know you’ve got a date with Pete this evening, but things are so uncertain here that he’ll probably cancel anyway. Maybe he can come to Pecan Springs next weekend, instead. You could come over to our house for dinner.”

  “Yes, we’re going home,” Ruby said emphatically. “I think it would be a good idea for your doctor to check you out. We’ll leave after I’ve taken care of the cancellations. And talked to Pete.”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled. “I feel better already.”

  A few moments later, I was drifting off to sleep, thinking of McQuaid and hoping that Mantel had been captured somewhere around Houston and that my husband’s Friday night had been quieter—and quite a bit less explosive—than mine.

  Chapter Sixteen

  MCQUAID

  Friday Night

  McQuaid was surprised at how well the plan worked. It went down just the way they laid it out, as if they’d rehearsed it a dozen times.