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

by Becki Willis

  Despite Lucy Ngyen’s best efforts to stop him, her son kept running. Two of the dogs followed close on his heels as he raced toward the chicken houses, but the rest of the pack quietened as Lucy came into the yard and demanded their obedience. Brash wasted no time in jumping into the patrol car and peeling out of the driveway. He might be in excellent physical condition, but the other man was fifteen years younger and had a good head start.

  The dogs started yelping again as they chased him out of the driveway. He kept his eyes on Don’s retreating form as he pushed the petal to the floor. A bump and a high-pitched squeal told him one of the dogs had gotten too close to the tires; a glance into the rear-view mirror assured him no dog moving that fast could be seriously injured. It raced back to the house with its tail tucked between its legs, yelping the whole way.

  Brash gave the pesky canine no further thought as he deliberately drove to the far right of his target. Bouncing across uneven terrain, through shallow ditches and scattered grass, the patrol car spun onto the white-rock pad just before Don Ngyen reached it in his bare feet. Sandwiching his car between the fleeing man and the end doors of the chicken house, Brash cut off his means of escape.

  Before the younger man could change momentum and turn another direction, Brash was out of the car and demanding that he stop. “That’s enough, Ngyen! Stop, now!”

  There was such authority in the officer’s deep bellow that the younger man did exactly as told. Without further incident, Don Ngyen’s race from the law was over.

  “What is wrong with you, Ngyen? Why did you run from me? All I want to do is ask you a few questions.”

  “I-I worried,” the man said between gulps of air.

  “What are you worried about, son?” The police chief’s voice took on an affable tone. He could have been any good ole’ boy from the South, not a law officer facing a fleeing person of interest.

  “Police come here. I worry.”

  “There’s nothing to be worried about, Don. I’m just making a few rounds, talking to folks.” He sounded casual, but his eyes were alert as he remarked almost conversationally, “I suppose you know your neighbor Ronny Gleason was found dead yesterday.”

  He gave an animated nod. “Bad news, for sure.”

  “You know Ronny very well?”

  A look of wariness came into the younger man’s dark eyes. This time his nod was less spirited. “Pretty good. Neighbors. Both grow chickens. We talk sometime.”

  “I heard you and your father were buying Ronny’s farm.” It was a bold lie, but worth a try.

  “No sell. We try, but no sell to us.”

  “Hmm, guess it was just a rumor. When was the last time you talked to Ronny?”

  It was obvious that the chicken grower did not want to answer the question. He shifted his feet and refused to meet the officer’s eyes. Even after clearing his throat, his voice still held the trace of nerves. He did, however, finally admit the truth. “Friday night.”

  “Oh? Was that on one of your farms?”

  “No. At party.”

  Brash made no comment, just continued to watch the younger man.

  In less than two minutes, Don Ngyen caved. “At Bernie Havlicek’s.” He offered the information without being asked. Another few seconds of the Chief’s continued silence, and he blurted out more. “We do nothing wrong. Drink some. Play cards. Blow steam.”

  “Watch a little cockfighting, too, huh?” Brash’s easy smile held a hint of good-natured conspiracy as he nudged the younger man’s arm with his elbow. “I hear Pedro Gonzales grows some fine prize fighters.”

  Ngyen’s chest swelled with swagger. “Not prize. Ours first prize.”

  “Oh, you and your dad raise fighting chickens, too, do you?” The surprise in Brash’s voice was real. Until now, he had no idea. He tried to keep it low key as he ambled on, “I thought Barbour Foods didn’t let you keep chickens of your own.”

  Realizing his error, the Vietnamese stuttered with an explanation. “I-uh-… we -uh-”

  “Hey, I won’t tell,” Brash assured him. He settled back casually onto the hood of his patrol car, intentionally making his level of eyesight lower than that of the shorter and younger man. Trying to keep his voice friendly and his threat minimal, he clicked his tongue along the side of his mouth. “I don’t want you getting into trouble with your contract and all. ‘Course, I hate to see you in trouble with the law, either. You do know game roosters are illegal, don’t you?”

  Just because Don Ngyen did not speak good English did not mean he was ignorant. He lifted his chin slightly, asserting his confidence on the matter. “The roosters no illegal. Cockfights illegal.”

  “That’s true,” Brash allowed. “But why raise fighters if you’re not going to fight them?”

  Ngyen shrugged. “Some people fight dogs. We raise dogs, no fight them.”

  “But we’re not talking about dogs, are we, Don?” His voice came out low and calm, but there was no denying its underlying authority.

  The younger man dropped his eyes. “No, sir,” he mumbled.

  Letting the issue slide for now, Brash broached the topic he had come to discuss. “I heard you and Ronny got into it that night.”

  “Got into it?” With just three uttered words, Don Ngyen’s accent got thicker and his IQ dropped lower.

  The look the policeman gave him said he was not fooled by the act. Still, he rephrased the statement. “I heard the two of you got into an argument.”

  “Not so much argument.”

  “I heard you shoved him up against the wall. Heard there was shouting involved.”

  “He call me cheat. No one call me cheat!”

  Brash peered at him from beneath the brim of his hat. “And exactly what would you be cheating at, Mr. Ngyen?”

  Again, the man realized his folly too late. As he sputtered around, trying to come up with an explanation, Brash waved off the effort. “Son, running cockfights is the least of your worries right now. Not when witnesses say you threatened Ronny Gleason, and his parents are insisting that their son was murdered.”

  “Murdered? I hear he shock to death.”

  His expression of surprise gave way to confusion when Brash gave a humorless smirk and muttered, “Electrocuted? That’s a new one on me. At least we have a little variety going on.”

  Swallowing a gulp of courage, Don Ngyen squared his shoulders and finally looked the lawman in the eye. “I have trouble?”

  Brash pushed himself off the edge of the car, towering over the younger man by nearly a foot. The look in his eye was enough to make any man cower. “Not at this time, but don’t leave town. I may have more questions for you. And next time I won’t be so favorable to a foot chase.”

  “I not run again,” he promised, properly chastised. Brash had to admire his gumption when he lifted his chin and insisted, “I do nothing wrong.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Girl, I’ve got suitcases that are smaller than the bags beneath your eyes!” Bertha Cessna proclaimed as she poured one of her juice concoctions into a glass. Shoving it toward her granddaughter, she ordered, “Here, drink this. It should perk you up some.”

  Madison eyed the drink with trepidation. “Uhm, what’s in it?”

  “Mostly fruits,” the older woman shrugged.

  “But not entirely,” Madison muttered, taking a cautious sip. It was better than most of the drinks her grandmother created, so she braved a bigger swallow. “Not bad.”

  Granny Bert poured herself a glass and took a large gulp. Leaning back against the counter with a satisfied smile, she nodded, “Yep, a little castor oil is good for you.”

  “Granny!” Madison protested, sputtering around the sip she was in the process of swallowing. “I have to go to work today! Why didn’t you tell me you put that in there?”

  “Oh, pooh. You only had half a glass. And you’ll be home before it starts to work.” She added two tiny words behind the rim of her glass. “I hope.”

  Madison gave her grandmo
ther a stern look and pushed the drink away.

  “Seriously, girl, you look rough.” Bertha Cessna picked up on her earlier compliment. “I take it you still can’t sleep?”

  Shaking her head, Madison said wearily, “It’s been two days, but every time I close my eyes, I see his face. And his eyes…”

  “Thought one was pecked clean out.”

  “That’s the one I keep seeing.” Madison shuddered involuntarily.

  “I heard Fred and Helen are still stirring up a stink about it being fowl play.” The old woman laughed at her own wit. “Fowl play, get it?”

  “How could I not?” Madison murmured dryly. “You’re cackling like an old hen.”

  “Good one, girl!” Not the least bit insulted, Miss Bert beamed as she bumped her with a bony elbow.

  “But you’re right, according to Ramona, his parents are still insisting he was killed.”

  “What does the plastic widow have to say about it?”

  Madison gave her grandmother a reproachful look for the derogatory remark, but answered her question. “She says he had been complaining of heartburn lately and thinks it was a heart attack. She’s upset because the coroner still has not released the body and she can’t plan the funeral.”

  “Probably interferes with some plastic surgery she has scheduled,” Miss Bert harrumphed. She drained her glass before continuing. “Did you know her nose used to have a large Roman hump to it? Just like her Pappy’s. She went away on a so-called cruise a couple of years ago, and next thing you know, she has a cute little snub nose. Completely changed her looks.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “She’s had so many tucks and nips and snips, I’m worried the poor thing may come unsewn one day and puff up like a giant balloon! Course, she won’t float away, not with those honkers to weight her down.”

  “Granny!” This time, Madison chided her grandmother with dismay.

  “We all know they ain’t real, girl. At her age and that size, gravity should have those jugs dragging the ground.”

  Madison refused to smile, no matter the visual image that popped into her head. “The things you say.”

  “Now who’s clucking like a chicken?”

  “You know, I feel really sorry for Ronny Gleason. It’s bad enough that the man died and had his body pecked to pieces by his own chickens. Now he’s the butt of a hundred bad jokes. Doesn’t anyone around here have any compassion?”

  “Of course we do,” her grandmother insisted. “It’s just that we all appreciate an egg-cellent joke now and then.”

  “You are incorrigible. I sometimes wonder about my decision to bring my impressionable teenage children here to live.”

  “Oh, pooh. They’re right about the same age you were when you came, and look how well you turned out. I’ve raised four boys and half the town, and not a bad seed in the bunch,” Miss Bert boasted, patting her granddaughter smartly on the hand. “Although I did wonder for a while about your dad, but eventually, even he turned out all right. Who’d ever thought my most rebellious boy would turn out to be a missionary? Goes to prove, you’re never too old to make improvements.”

  “That’s true.” Madison had come to live with her grandmother during one of her father’s more rebellious periods. Instead of settling down and making a solid career for himself, Charlie Cessna insisted on forging his own path. As his daughter was entering high school, the racecar circuit had been his preferred mode of defiance, complete with its short run of fame, fortune, and frivolous party life. The ultimate groupie, her mother followed him through every destructive phase of his life and was now adjusting quite well to his newest career choice. For over five years, her parents had been living in the wilds of Africa and appeared to be having the time of their lives.

  “Your kids have good heads on their shoulders, no matter what their daddy might have filled their minds with. You don’t have to worry about me being a bad influence. They’ll turn out just fine.”

  Madison propped her hand into her chin and let out a forlorn sigh, ignoring the slight against Grayson. “I wish I had your confidence. I know these last couple of months have been tough on them, losing their father right before the holidays, then having to move away from their home and friends. I think Blake will be fine and roll with the flow, but I worry about Beth. She’s clearly unhappy here.”

  “She’d be unhappy back in Dallas, too. Give her time, she’ll come around.”

  “I know, but the sooner I get back on my feet and can move back to Dallas, the better I think she’ll be. I just wish she could find a friend, the same way I did. Genesis was an absolute Godsend, and at least half the reason I came out as sane and normal as I did. I don’t know what I would have done without her, especially these last two months.”

  “So why are you in such a hurry to leave her? All you can talk about is when you can move back to the city.”

  “My life is there, Granny.”

  “Do you have a house to go back to?” the older woman asked pointedly.

  “No.” She was forced to sell it and had been fortunate, at that; the bank could have easily taken it from her, given that Gray was three months behind on the mortgage.

  “Do you have a job to go back to?”

  “Nnooo.” She had been Gray’s receptionist. When he died, so did the business. Or what little was left of it.

  “Do you have a man to go back to?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Do you have friends to go back to? True friends?”

  “I-I’d like to think so.” By now, Madison was squirming uncomfortably in her seat.

  “The kind of friends who tell you when something is going on you should know about? The kind that come to your aid when you need them the most? How many of those friends do you have to go back to?”

  Madison bit on her lower lip. “Apparently none,” she murmured.

  “Aw, honey, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. I’m just pointing out that maybe your life wasn’t so great in the city, after all. Maybe it’s time to build a new life for yourself, among people who have the same values that you have.”

  “Maybe.” She offered a noncommittal agreement. “At any rate, I won’t be leaving anytime soon. That would take money, which I do not have. And speaking of money, I need to go make some.” She stood up, just as her stomach gave a loud rumble and a cramp hit her. “Granny! How much castor oil did you put in that drink, anyway?”

  The older woman scrunched her face in thought. “Well, that’s a good question. I couldn’t remember if I had already put it in or not, but I knew a little extra wouldn’t hurt. Then the phone rang. By the time I got through listening to Sybille’s long list of ailments and her theory on Ronny Gleason’s death —she thinks he was murdered, by the way— I couldn’t recall if I had put it in once, twice, or none at all, so I just added a small splash, just in case.”

  “From the feel of my stomach, I would say you put in it all three times. I swear, Granny Bert, you are going to be the death of me yet!” The last of her sentence floated over her shoulder, as Madison made a dash down the hall.

  After a late start to the morning, Madison made her rounds at the Gleason farm and dutifully performed the tasks Ronny Gleason had hired her for. Three days into the job, she found a routine that seemed to work but did little in making the duties more pleasant. Some things, like decaying chickens and wet litter, had no pleasant spin.

  Once home, Madison showered and dressed for her Friday afternoon pharmacy run for Miss Sybille. After all, she couldn’t leave her grandmother’s best friend without a full medicine cabinet and plenty of bladder control pads for the weekend. She slipped into a pair of charcoal gray slacks, strapped a trendy belt over the gray and red hounds tooth blouse, and stepped into her favorite black boots. It was her go-to outfit when she wanted to feel good about herself, even though she had been going to the ensemble for about four years now.

  She ran a brush through her below-the-shoulder dark hair, thinking it might be time to upd
ate her wardrobe. Her closet over-flowed with well-made, classic pieces that stood the test of time; new accessories were usually all it took to update her look. She took the same approach with her hairstyle. Like the rest of her, the dark brown strands were long and straight, but the cut offered such versatility. Depending on the situation, she could wear it in a strict bun, a loose chignon, a simple braid, loose and free, or countless simple variations. Today she left it flowing free, as she grabbed a black sweater from the hall closet. Despite being late January, it was a sunny sixty-two degrees outside but she took the sweater with her just in case.

  As she stepped across the threshold, she all but collided with the large hand that was poised to knock on the very door she opened. She squealed with surprise and drew back, just as Brash deCordova looked up and saw her there.

  “That was close!” she laughed, reaching for her forehead in relief.

  The chief of police merely stared at her, obviously at a loss for words. She found his stunned expression amusing, thinking she had truly caught him unawares. But when his eyes trailed over her for the third time, lingering a bit longer with each sweep, she realized there was more to his shock than being startled by her unexpected presence. He was just as startled by her appearance.

  A warm flush of satisfaction swept over Madison as she recalled his silent but effective insult from three days ago. Score one for me.

  It took a moment, but he finally found his voice. “You were on your way out?” he asked, nodding to the purse slung across her shoulder.

  “Yes, but I’ve got a few minutes. Come on in.” She backed her way through the portal and made room for his large frame to pass. She had a vague memory of another doorway he once crowded through, and how she would hang in the hallway, waiting for even the briefest glimpse of him. Funny, but even though his cologne was more sophisticated these days, the natural essence of the man was still the same. She inhaled an appreciative whiff as he stepped into her grandmother’s living room. “Have a seat.” She waved at the cozy sofa and matching wingchairs.