Chicken Scratch (The Sisters, Texas Mystery Series Book 1)

by Becki Willis

  “It is a County Road, Mr. Gleason, and open to the public.”

  Ronny Gleason’s grieving father ignored the calm reasoning. “He’s been bragging around town, saying he would be coming into some money real soon. Heard he ran up quite a tab at the feed store.”

  “That’s between him and Jimbo Hadley, and no indication of murder.” Sensing the futileness of the conversation, Brash stood. “Again, I am terribly sorry for your loss, Mr. and Mrs. Gleason. If you think of something else you would like to add to the discussion, or of some specific incident you recall, please do not hesitate to call our office.” He moved toward the door, reaching for the handle.

  “He got in a fist-fight with Ronny last week and threatened to kill our son! Is that specific enough for you?” Fred demanded.

  Helen Gleason gasped aloud at her husband’s outburst. “What? When did this happen?”

  Fred looked uncomfortable as he tugged on his shirt collar in an effort to loosen it. His face was red and blotchy, and his gaze flitted around the room, avoiding eye contact with his wife.

  “Mr. Gleason, I’d like to know the answer to that, as well,” Brash said, abandoning the door handle in favor of his desk chair. He reached for a note pad as Fred Gleason pushed out a noisy sigh and finally met his wife’s gaze.

  “Last Friday night. The two of them got into a scuffle out at Bernie Havlicek’s place.”

  Mrs. Gleason was clearly dismayed. “He was drinking again, wasn’t he? After he promised not to touch another drop, he was drinking again!”

  “Now, Mother, you don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do. Why else would he be out there? Bernie Havlicek is nothing but a no-good drunk!” Her voice rose with hysteria before breaking into a sob. “He promised me!” she cried forlornly into her tissue.

  As Fred tried to console his wife, Brash had more questions. “Tell me about the fight, Mr. Gleason, and exactly what kind of threat was made.”

  “Well, at first they were just eying one another, none too friendly-like.”

  “You were there?” Helen gasped in shock.

  Fred squirmed and dropped his hand from her shoulder. Facing the police chief, he all but ignored his wife. “Something was said, and the next thing I know, Ronny had shoved Ngyen. That man might be small, but he’s strong. He shoved back, and had Ronny pinned up to the wall. He was shouting something in that foreign language he speaks. Every once in a while he would throw in a few English words. But I definitely heard the words ‘I kill you’, loud and clear. You can ask anyone there.”

  “And I will,” Brash promised in a stern voice. “Just who all was there that night, Mr. Gleason?” For quite some time, there had been rumors of cockfighting and illegal betting taking place at Havlicek’s home at the edge of Naomi, but pinning them down had proved difficult. Maybe this was the break they were waiting for.

  “Uh, I-I don’t rightly recall,” Fred Gleason sputtered. His eyes took on a trapped expression.

  “Then I have no way of substantiating your story.”

  “Well, I might remember one or two of the fellows there,” he said reluctantly.

  Brash wrote down the half dozen or so names he came up with before asking, “Do you go there often, Mr. Gleason?”

  Again, the older man avoided eye contact with his wife. “Once or twice a month, maybe a little more.” His tone lost all of his bravado of earlier.

  “Frederick Albert Gleason, you have some explaining to do!”

  Brash quickly broke into the domestic argument about to take place. “I’d like to know more about the threat, Mr. Gleason. What happened next?”

  “Nothing, really. Somebody pulled Ngyen away, and I told Ronny it was time for us to leave.”

  “You took him there? You were encouraging our son to drink?” his wife shrieked. “You know good and well he has a weakness for spirits! How could you, Frederick Gleason!”

  “Now, Mother, it was just a few of us fellas, getting together to blow off a little steam. He never got good and drunk or nothing. And I always drove, just in case.”

  As Helen Gleason broke into a tirade, Brash rubbed a hand over his face. He finally interrupted the woman with a sharp command. “That’s enough!”

  The couple looked at him in surprise, as if they had forgotten he was there. Brash knew the exact moment when it dawned upon each of the grieving parents why he was, in fact, present. Helen Gleason broke into tears while her blustering husband crumpled with grief.

  “Thank you for coming in this evening,” Brash said, forcing his voice to remain calm and soothing. He was not without compassion, after all, even if he was without patience. “I will look into your accusations and have a word with Don Ngyen. I think at this point, it would be best if you went home and took a few moments to collect yourself. I know this is a very difficult time for you both.”

  “I-I’m sorry, Chief deCordova. I don’t know what came over me,” Helen said, dabbing at her eyes.

  “I do, ma’am,” he said gently, coming around his desk to offer her an arm in getting up. “Grief is a powerful emotion. It can make us all say and do things completely out of character.”

  “I hope you never have to go through what we have today,” she sobbed. “Losing a child is- is -” She broke off, crying too profusely to complete her thought.

  Brash patted the elderly woman on the back, his own throat choking on emotion. All he could think of was his own precious daughter, and how he would never recover if something should happen to her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The two towns comprising The Sisters community had a storied past.

  At the turn of the twentieth century, Bertram Randolph was one of the wealthiest men in the entire Brazos valley. As the undisputed Cotton King in all of central Texas, he owned thousands of acres of prime farmland in River County. His plantation played such a vital role in the industry that the Trinity and Brazos Railway —soon known as the Boll Weevil— laid a set of track running strategically alongside his cotton gin.

  During the heyday of cotton, the train made multiple daily stops at the Randolph depot. The frequent stops were necessary during ginning season to transport the crop to market; other times, the stops were necessary to fit the whim of Randolph’s two daughters.

  Naomi and Juliet Randolph were the epitome of the spoiled Southern belle. When Bertram’s wife died at an early age and left him with two young girls to raise, he did the only thing he knew to do: he indulged them. No matter the whim, no matter the cost, the cotton baron gave his beloved daughters anything they wanted.

  The one thing he could not provide for them, however, was camaraderie. Even as toddlers, the two girls were bitter rivals, constantly vying for their father’s undivided attention. As the years progressed, so did their sense of competition. Their attempts to monopolize the people in their lives —their father, their nanny, the cook, the maid, the family pet, the other children who lived on the plantation— grew to such proportions that the only solution seemed not to be to share, but to divide. By their teen years, they even lived in separate wings of the house, and each had her own cook and her own maid.

  The sisters often took the train into the nearby towns that bordered the plantation. During their shopping excursions, they invariably caused a scene in town. The accusations flew back and forth: the seamstress was catering to Juliet; the hat-maker chose the more exquisite material for Naomi; the restaurant was not large enough for both of them; Juliet’s special order of books arrived, so why was Naomi’s delayed? The squabbles escalated until finally Bertram Randolph had enough.

  His solution was to give each daughter her own town. By now, the cotton industry had reached its peak and was beginning to decline. Some of his planting fields were already abandoned in favor of raising cattle, so he sectioned off a large plat of land on either side of the railroad to give to his daughters. A common area, however, would remain between them. As the gin was still an important part of the community at large, it became part of the shared property
, along with the deep water well and the depot. The plantation had a school for the children whose parents lived and worked on the farm, and that, too, was designated as common ground.

  Bertram built each daughter her own house, mirror images of one another on either side of the track. He also helped them get their towns started. For every proprietor willing to open an establishment in the new settlements, he offered a free lot on which to build their home.

  First, however, they had to meet the approval of the town’s namesake. Each woman had the final authority on which businesses and which people moved into their towns. And so the towns became as different and as opinionated as the women they were named after.

  Juliet, who revered all things prim and proper, designed her town to be pleasing to the eye. Flowerbeds lined her side of the train track. City blocks were laid with meticulous care, with six of them deemed commercial property. Houses, particularly those along the main avenues of the town, required white paint, black shudders, and well-kept lawns; commercial buildings had specific height and color requirements, especially those facing the railroad. With the popularity of automobiles coming into vogue, neat parking spaces were designated around each commercial block; no parking was allowed on the brick-paved streets. And even though some types of businesses were absolutely essential to a town and could be delegated to the back streets, many establishments did not meet the standards required in Juliet, Texas.

  Naomi’s free spirit reflected in the town on the northern side of the track. There were two long, distinct commercial blocks running horizontal with the railroad, but no buildings faced the iron horses. Like its founder, the town was built to snub convention and propriety; instead of posturing for the railway, the businesses presented their backs to the line. The two strings of buildings opened toward each other, with parking spaces lining both. When new businesses came to town, they squeezed in at random, giving the streets odd angles and curves and unbalanced city blocks. The unconventional businesses shunned in Juliet were welcomed in Naomi. The same could be said for many of the residents. Naomi, Texas was soon known as either a gathering place for outcasts or a gathering place for entrepreneurs, depending entirely upon who judged it.

  As the years passed and the cotton industry further declined, Bertram Randolph realized his plantation would fall to neglect if he did not find a suitable heir to take over his farming operation. Neither daughter was interested in the land, so he gave the bulk of the farm to his oldest and most trusted employee, Andrew deCordova. The deCordovas had been a part of the plantation for as long as anyone could remember, living and working alongside the Randolphs from the very beginning. It seemed only fitting that the fertile fields be left to someone who loved the soil as much as Bertram did.

  With the massive plantation now divided into three entities and with their father’s health quickly declining, it was the perfect time for the sisters to make peace.

  But the arrival of a private physician, hired to care for Bertram in his last days, made reconciliation between the sisters forever impossible. Both women promptly fell in love with Darwin Blakely, but the handsome young doctor could not choose between them.

  In the end, just before he was killed in a freak accident, the doctor gave them both a part of himself. To Juliet, he gave his name; to Naomi, he gave a daughter. Thus the circle of competition and bitterness continued, as did the legacy of the towns.

  Juliet remained a town about appearances. Newcomers to the area who desired social standing, prestige, and an air of refinement settled within the perimeters of the town to the south. Through the years, property values in Juliet escalated and helped to control “undesirable” citizens. Cotton was the only big industry welcomed there. Until her death in 1984, Juliet Randolph Blakely remained in firm control of her town, personally screening each business and home that came into her town. With no children of her own, she left her estate to her cook’s daughter. Bertha Hamilton Cessna, known to most of the town as Miss Bert, became heiress to the town of Juliet.

  Across the tracks, Naomi remained a town known for its unconventional ways. Lower property values —and according to some, lower standards— brought in more industry for the northern town. It was not uncommon for someone to open a business in Naomi, but choose to live in the more prestigious sister city. When Naomi Randolph died in 1986, she was trying to convince a popular fast-food chain to open in her town, a first for their rural area.

  By the time the twenty-first century arrived, both towns had grown and prospered, but old prejudices remained. The common area still existed between them, as outlined in each town’s charter. The old cotton gin was now home to The Sisters Volunteer Fire Department. Just across the tracks, and easily accessible by a footbridge, the old Depot housed The Sisters Police Department and tiny jail. The shared deep water well sported a modern day tower, and the school had long since grown and moved out across the new highway, to property donated by the deCordova Ranch. The new highway ran perpendicular to the cities, crossing over the railroad by way of a tall overpass. Ramps exited off into each town, offering an alternate route across the tracks when a train was coming and, most importantly, connected the sister cities to a world beyond their petty rivalry.

  Up and down the highway, billboards touted the beauty and friendly hometown appeal of The Sisters. They were home to a Heisman trophy winner. They had the State Championship basketball team. They had low property taxes and high test scores. According to the signs out on the highway, they had it all.

  Below the overpass, however, buried within the boundaries of the city limits and within the confines of small minds, old rivalries and old loyalties still ran deep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Following through with his promise to the Gleasons, Brash drove out to the Ngyen farm. The Vietnamese family had moved to the area five or six years before, when they purchased Louie Keeling’s chicken farm. The old Keeling place bordered Ronny Gleason’s and technically fell outside the jurisdiction of the city police; Brash, however, was also a Special Investigator for the River County Sheriff.

  Brash took the white-rock road past the row of six strategically placed metal barns. He was vaguely aware of the Barbour Foods guidelines: each of the five-hundred foot structures ran in a straight line of east to west, placed in sets of two, and had to be at least a hundred and fifty feet away from neighboring property. The distance was much further for inhabitable buildings. On your own property, however, you could live as close as you liked to the outer perimeters of the active pad-site. Given the dust and traffic from all the eighteen wheelers and other necessary farm trucks that constantly circled the pads, and particularly given the smell emanating from the houses, Brash could not imagine why anyone would want to live anywhere near the farm.

  Yet here he was, pulling up to the Ngyen home, not fifty yards away from the last chicken house.

  He sat in the patrol car for a moment, studying the neat brick house before him. In the handful of years the Vietnamese family had lived there, they had made more improvements to the house than Louie Keeling had in thirty. He noted new shutters, new paint, new porch, new yard. Not a thing out of place.

  He stepped from the car into a flurry of yipping and circling dogs. There had to be at least a half dozen or more, in all colors, shapes and sizes. They all seemed friendly enough, demanding attention more than concern. As Brash spoke to the animals in a quiet and soothing voice, Lucy Ngyen stepped from the house.

  “Hush, now!” she called to the dogs in a heavily accented voice. Wringing her hands on the apron tied to her narrow waist, she stepped onto the porch with a cautious smile. “I help you, sir?”

  “Morning, ma’am.” Brash touched the brim of his cowboy hat as he crossed the space between them in a few long strides. “I’m looking for your son Don. Is he home, ma’am?”

  A worried expression marred the smooth olive skin of her face. Her eyes darted around nervously, but after a noticeable pause, she nodded. “Yes, sir. Come in, sir.”

  Brash
noticed the pile of shoes at the doorway and his hostess’ bare feet. He wondered if it was a personal preference or an age-old custom, but good manners demanded he honor the habit. He put a hand against the doorframe to steady himself as he started to push off a boot.

  “You no have to do,” Lucy Ngyen was quick to say. “It our custom, not yours.”

  Relieved to keep his shoes intact, he nodded with gratitude as he stepped inside the home. “I mean no disrespect, ma’am, but I do believe I’ll keep them on.”

  His hostess flashed a bright smile. “All good!” she assured him.

  When she did not offer him a seat, Brash finally repeated his request. “I’d like to speak to your son, Mrs. Ngyen. You said he was home?”

  The worry was back on her face, but she obliged. “Donny!” she called over her shoulder. “You have company!”

  Brash heard movement from a room down the hall, then the shuffle of stocking feet on the old vinyl tiled floor. He noted that although the flooring was old and scuffed, there was not a speck of dust in sight. He lifted his gaze just as the twenty-something-year-old stepped into the room. Brash saw the surprise register on the young man’s face, followed closely by the look of pure panic. Before Brash could say a word, the young man bolted.

  In a flash, Don Ngyen darted past the peace officer and out the front door. Brash’s reflexes were just a few seconds off. The younger man escaped his reaching grasp by mere inches. As Brash whirled and took chase, Lucy Ngyen began yelling in her native language, presumably telling her son to stop. Brash thought he heard the English word, but it was difficult to tell amid the excited bark of so many dogs.

  After just a few steps, the dogs sensed their master was in distress, and suddenly the friendly pack was no longer so friendly. Forced to stop in his tracks, Brash put a hand on his holstered gun and practically growled himself. “Mrs. Ngyen, call off your dogs or I’ll be forced to shoot! And get your son back here!”