by Don Travis
Acosta chuckled. “Let’s see, where were we? Oh yes, Mud and Liver. They did not get along particularly well. He worked for her occasionally, but they had a falling-out over his unreliability, as I understand it. However, it would not be difficult to get on Millicent’s bad side.” He waved a hand. “To be fair about it, Liver could strike a number of people wrong too. He was not lazy but neither was he industrious.”
“There’s reason to believe he took the duck at the behest of someone else,” I said. “You said he was easily manipulated. Do you know anyone who might influence him to do such a thing?”
“Perhaps he was paid. Nothing more than a job for him.”
“I don’t believe so. I spoke to him about the theft before he died. He admitted taking the duck, but he said he’d done it for someone who wanted to get back at Mrs. Muldren.”
“I see. Did he say who this person was?”
“Not outright, but he let a few things slip. Things he probably hadn’t intended to reveal.” Sometimes a confidential investigator shades the truth in pursuit of a goal. Hell, sometimes he downright lies.
“I hope he told you enough for you to locate the missing duck. I am told Mud’s ducks make excellent pâté de foie gras.”
“So I understand.” I leaned back in the chair. “I met a young man at the Lazy M named Paco Rael. I understand he is a Mexican citizen and spends most of his time in your neck of the woods. Do you happen to know him?”
“Him and his parents as well. The elder Raels were domestics on the ranch until Mud lured them across the border. Paco occasionally works as a vaquero for me. He seems like a decent young man.”
“Yes, although I’m told he sometimes associates with some undesirable elements.”
“I will have a talk with him the next time we meet. Perhaps I can put an end to that practice.”
We passed another half hour in pleasant conversation. He ordered a small helping of flan, a Mexican-style custard, for dessert, and at that point I switched to coffee.
“A good cigar would be nice now.” He sighed. “But the health police have dealt the deathblow to such pleasures after a meal.”
“That is a striking pin you wear on your collar. Your ranch brand, I believe.”
“Yes. A lightning bolt. My brand comes from the name of the ranch, Rancho Rayo. It is actually a tie tack, but I also wear it as a lapel pin or collar decoration.”
“It’s beautiful. White gold or platinum?”
“Platinum. Frankie—my wife—had the diamonds sent directly from Amsterdam. Her name is really Frances, but I call her Frankie. That has caused some amusement among our hands. They take enjoyment in calling her Doña Frankie.”
After a short tussle over the check, we rose and said good-bye. To this point I’d merely made a few indirect connections radiating out from the ranch. But now I’d discovered a circle: Mud, Acosta, Liver Lips, Rael… and back to the Lazy M again.
And one of the heavyweights in the tableau—Acosta—was an interesting man. Charming, likable, and seemingly open and aboveboard. But there was an undercurrent I couldn’t put down simply to cultural differences. Colonel Guerrero’s inferred caution about his contact’s reluctance to share information about Acosta raised my antennae.
Chapter 8
THE NEXT morning, Del called to say Hank Grass, the GSR vice president, had phoned wanting to know where we were on the case. What it boiled down to, of course, was he wanted me to tell him Millicent Muldren had her own duck kidnapped so they—or more to the point, he—could wiggle off the hook. I told Del he damned well knew I didn’t work that way. Fire me and have the insurance company send in their own team, or leave me alone to collect the facts as they were—not as GSR wanted them to be.
Charlie Weeks called me next. I had asked him to check out a couple of duck races the woman at the Deming-Luna County Chamber of Commerce told me about.
“In a few of the races, contestants enter their own birds. Some had stakes a bit higher—by a couple of thousand or so,” he said.
“That’s not enough to warrant the expense of insuring Quacky for a quarter of a mil,” I said.
“Not so fast,” Charlie warned. “There’s a betting syndicate in Ireland that actually handicaps the things.”
He went on to say Millicent Muldren and Quacky Quack the Second—not to mention the first Quacky Quack—were no strangers to those racing circles. No one knew for certain the size of the betting that went on around those races, but if this involved the Irish syndicate, it was probably substantial. The largest race on the duck circuit came up later this month in Miami.
Was it possible the theft of Millicent’s property had something to do with racing? I’d learned not to leap to conclusions before all the facts were in; nonetheless, this had to be given serious consideration. It might explain not only why Liver took the bird but also why no ransom demand had been made. Did someone want to make certain Quacky didn’t race in the Miami Steeplechase—Duckchase—whatever? If so, why not just kill the bird instead of taking her? Perhaps they had, and Mud Hen had Liver Lips snatch the carcass in order to frustrate Hank Grass’s inevitable claim the duck died of natural causes. At any rate, it was time I started taking this ducknapping thing seriously.
“Do we know if our duck was entered in this big race? And if so, what was… uh, the morning line on her?” I asked Charlie.
“Can’t answer that. The deadline for entries is not until next week.” His wry sense of humor surfaced. “I don’t know what the odds are, but the Muldren colors usually do well.”
“You keep nosing around down there. I’m going to head back to the Lazy M.”
“You figure somebody stole the duck to keep her out of the race?”
“Makes as much sense as anything else.”
AFTER CHECKING out of the Marriott, I headed west to drop in on the ranch—uninvited this time. Sometimes the unexpected shakes things loose. When Maria answered the door, a ray of sunshine reflected off the Impala’s windshield and caught in her sleek hair. She smiled, called me by name, and graciously ushered me inside where she asked me to wait while she informed the señora a guest had arrived.
Millicent Muldren greeted me in her office in a Pendleton plaid shirt, faded jeans, and fuzzy blue house slippers instead of boots. Her gray hair lay close to her skull, lending prominence to small, diamond-studded earlobes.
“BJ.” She offered the hand that wasn’t cuddling a growling Poopsie.
“Millicent, I thought you would be getting ready for your trip to Miami.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “No reason to go without Quacky.”
“Is that why Liver took her? To keep her out of the race?”
“I don’t know. Is that what you’ve come to tell me?”
“I don’t have any idea, but if you’d shared that information with me, I’d be a couple of days ahead of where I am right now. Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t go around broadcasting I run all over the countryside racing a duck.”
“And making hefty bets on her, I imagine.”
“I’ve been known to risk a dollar or two. Anything wrong with that?”
“Depends on the local laws, I guess. But why keep it a secret?”
She shrugged her broad shoulders and motioned me to one of the barrel chairs. “I’m a private person, BJ. And frankly, I wasn’t certain what the insurance company’s reaction would be. I had to lean on them hard to get them to insure the bird. Threatening to take my business elsewhere was the only way I could get them to do it.”
Without another word, I removed my recorder from my belt and thumbed a button. My disembodied voice asked who would want Martinson to take the duck from her.
“No one. At least, I can’t think of anyone. Can you, Bert?” came her taped reply.
“Not offhand.”
She glanced up at me but said nothing.
“It’s a good thing I work for the insurance company and not for you. If I did, I’d walk out of here right now and fo
rget about Quacky Quack the Whatever. Look, I think we both have the same goal here, and that is to find out who took the bird and secure her return—if she’s still alive.”
Her hand flew to her throat, making me recognize her sincerity. She was obsessed with that damned white duck.
“She has to be alive,” she half whispered.
“No, she doesn’t. And it’s time you faced that fact. Unless, of course, you know more than you’re telling me. Have you been contacted?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“No note. No telephone call. No message delivered from anyone?”
“No, nothing at all.” She leaned back in her chair, looking tired. “I’m sorry I didn’t deal straight with you before, but you made it plain you worked for someone else, not me.”
“Do you intend to cooperate from now on?”
“Yes. Anything to get my sweetie back. I’ll make it worth your while. I swear, I’ll—”
“No. My paycheck comes from the insurance company. I don’t do backroom deals. Now, is there anything else I need to know? For instance, if they took the duck to keep her out of the race, who would have the best motive? Whose interests would be served?”
“Anyone who enters the race. She would have been the favorite. She won two of her last three races.”
“How many dollars are we talking about?”
“Is that necessary?”
I sighed. “I am not an IRS agent. I do not represent the Treasury. And I am not a blackmailer. All I’m trying to do is find that duck.”
“Substantial.”
“Twenty-five thousand substantial? Fifty? A hundred?”
She merely met my gaze and held it. I understood her reluctance. If she won that kind of money, it probably wasn’t reported to the insurance company. And very likely not to the IRS either.
“Does anyone in particular stand to benefit?”
“A man by the name of Kenneth Hammond. He’s a Miami commercial developer. More money than he knows what to do with and into racing in a big way.”
“Is he capable of the theft?”
“Capable and willing. Anytime he’s in the area, I keep my precious under lock and key.”
“Does he have a reach this long? Could he arrange something like this clear out here in New Mexico?”
“Money reaches around the globe. Yes, he could arrange it.”
“All right. I’ll check him out. But something else occurred to me. If she… uh, Quacky is the future of your down and pâté business, could someone have stolen her in order to breed her with his own drakes?”
“Yes, that’s possible.”
“Who comes to mind in that case?”
“Lily Stropshire,” she said without hesitation. “Up in the Lordsburg area. She’s been trying for years to get a foot in the door with her duck down. It’s horse-piss quality. If anyone needs my precious, it’s Lily.”
“What makes the difference between good down and bad?”
“Do you want to be educated or merely illuminated?”
I blinked. Was this the same Millicent I’d met the other day? Without waiting for my response, she proceeded to educate me.
“The best down in the world is eiderdown. But the eider is a sea duck, and they don’t do well here. My ducks are domesticated descendants of mallards, as are many of the ducks these days. Mallards can crossbreed with sixty-three other species of waterfowl. At any rate, down is the fine, fluffy material gathered from the duck’s breast. It is rated according to fill power—that is the number of cubic inches occupied by one ounce of down. The larger the fill power, the higher the quality. The down with high fill power is puffier, has more loft.”
“Okay, loftier is better.”
“Although the down is the most valuable part of the duck, it’s by no means all. Many farmers—and when it comes to ducks, I’m a farmer, not a rancher—slaughter their birds pretty quickly. I prefer to let them mature. That way I get larger breasts, by far the most popular meat of the duck, and that also allows for the production of foie gras, which is a fattened liver product, as well as magret, the breast of a duck that has produced the foie gras. Both are considered delicacies.”
“And your missing duck produces this kind of quality?”
“Her offspring, yes. When mated to the proper drakes, of course.”
THE STROPSHIRE Duck Farm sat about a mile south of the highway on the sundown side of Lordsburg. The prosperous-looking white board fence fronting the place quickly gave way to tired barbed wire. The house dropped the value of the real estate even further. The outside walls were badly flaked, exposing chicken-wire netting beneath the stucco. But once past the house, I saw that Lily’s ducks were better housed than she was. The sheds had been recently painted and were well maintained. The place sounded just like Millicent’s: the endless quacking of the females and the somewhat weaker squawking of the drakes.
A short, broad-bottomed, thick-legged woman came out of one of the sheds and stood watching as I walked down the driveway. She had a green kerchief tied over her white hair and wore a man’s shirt over a blue denim skirt. The hair turned out to be platinum blonde. Deep brown eyes didn’t track with her hair. Contacts or bleached hair? I voted for the hair. Probably a shade under forty.
“Help you, mister?” she asked.
“Maybe. How long have you been duck farming?”
She moved toward the fence, scattering some of the birds congregated around her, and regarded me coolly. “Ten years or so. Why?”
“Trying to get the lay of the land. Domesticated mallards?”
She glanced at the white birds with orange beaks and legs. “Mallard strain. You a buyer?”
“No, ma’am, I’m a confidential investigator from Albuquerque. My name’s B. J. Vinson.”
“Investigator? What do you want with me?”
“I’m looking into the theft of a valuable duck—”
Lily Stropshire’s laugh started way down inside her, split somewhere in her esophagus, and exited by way of her nose in a snort and her mouth in a donkey’s bray. “Old Mud hired a private investigator to find her duck? I can’t believe it. That woman’s one of a kind, I tell you.”
“Perhaps it’s a laughing matter to you, but to the insurance company who hired me, it’s serious business. As a matter of fact, it’s a felony.”
“Felony? I don’t care if she does have a fancy name, she’s only a damned duck.”
“Let me put it this way. The property was insured for several thousand dollars, and that’s a felony in anybody’s crime book.”
She gave her imitation of a burro and a boar again, this time wiping away a tear or two. “So what are you doing up here? I didn’t have anything to do with that. Heard they caught the guy who did it, anyway. Get outta here. Get off my property.”
“Very well, Ms. Stropshire, I’ll honor your request. But I’ll go straight to the county courthouse for a warrant. Then the sheriff and I will both be back. On the other hand, we can sit on your patio and have a glass of iced tea. I’ll ask a few questions and go about my business.”
“My cousin’s the court bailiff over there, and you’re not gonna get a warrant. Still, that tea sounds pretty good. I’ve got some steeping that oughta just about be done. Go on, I’ll be there in a minute.”
She disappeared back into the shed while I walked back to a small patio of flaking concrete outlined by a double row of crumbling red bricks. Her picnic table was one of those gigantic cable spools laid sideways. I settled into an aluminum frame chair with alternating white-and-green plastic support strips and switched on my recorder as she came up the path. She whipped off the kerchief covering her head and fluffed her brassy hair with strong fingers. Without speaking, she snatched a jar of tea from a sunny spot on the patio and entered the house through a creaky screen door. A moment later she yelled, asking if I wanted lemon or sugar. I settled for lemon.
The door screeched again, and she plopped into the chair opposite me, handing over a tall tum
bler of tea and ice cubes. Two generous lemon wedges floated on top. The glass was already beginning to sweat.
“So I’m supposed to have Mud Hen’s Ducky Duck or whatever her ridiculous name is?”
“I believe that’s Quacky Quack the Second.”
We both broke up, easing the tension.
“How come she sicced you on me?”
“She didn’t. I just asked about others in the duck business, and your name came up. She said Lily Stropshire owned the Stropshire Duck Farm, her closest competitor.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet she did. Said it exactly like that, I imagine. Well, we’ve butted heads a few times. I got a contract with one of the slaughterhouses, and she tried to wreck it. Put out the word my ducks weren’t any good.” Lily shrugged. “And to be truthful, they aren’t up to her standards. She’s been raising ducks and developing her farm ever since she was a little girl—and that was a long time ago, I can tell you. That gives her a quarter-century head start. But I’ll get there.” Her jaw took on a stubborn set. “And I don’t need to go steal anybody’s duck to do it either.”
“Any thoughts about who would?”
“Hell, Mud’s probably made at least one enemy for every year of her life. She shaves her deals so close, nobody else can make any money. I’m not saying she cheats—no boot on the scale or filling up her calves with water at the sale barn or anything like that. But she drives a bargain that doesn’t leave room for anybody else. Another thing, somebody comes down sick, most neighbors send over some help. Not Millicent Muldren. No helping hand. Course, she doesn’t ask for help either.”
She turned her gaze from the distant horizon to me. “Anyway, I’m working on my gaggle. This year’s flock is better’n last year’s.” She waved a hand toward the pens. “I’ve got two good-sized ponds back beyond the incubating sheds. My ducks are waterfowl, like God made them. Mud herds hers to forage like they were a bunch of cattle.”
“I remember a pond out by her pens.”
“Yeah, but it’s not big enough for a gaggle that size. No, she herds them, or has that Luis fella do it. As far as who took the duck, nobody in particular jumps to mind as a likely candidate. A lot of people’d like to squeeze her a little, but nobody’d resort to breaking the law.”
