by Don Travis
“I’ll have to talk to you again before I leave, Millicent. I have no interest in doing you harm, but I have to state the facts as I know them. Let’s make sure your position is fully covered before I give my final report, okay?”
“Very well. I have to make a few phone calls, and then we’ll talk.” She turned and went into the house in that mannish yet somehow womanly stride.
Bert watched her disappear through the door, eyes smoldering. Then he turned to me, his face still flushed. “Look, I didn’t mean to call—”
“Never mind that. Let’s see if we can figure out what’s going on. You said she agreed to this meeting with the other ranch owners. Why? She has a well-earned reputation of going it alone. She’s not known for cooperating with anybody. If nothing else, my investigation has convinced me of that.”
“Yeah, but this is bigger than anything we’ve ever faced. I’m not kidding, this thing has been building for quite a while, and it’s about to boil over. What Tom Blackthorn said is absolutely true. Our people have been shot at. Somebody’s going to get killed no matter what we do. If I’ve got to die, I’d rather do it defending my ranch. Everybody feels that way, even the hired hands. Hell, especially the hired hands. They’re the ones out there stumbling across the smugglers and the drug mules.”
I took a seat at a table and steepled my fingers. Bert sat opposite me. “When did you get back?”
“I left Lena’s right behind you. I went straight to the airport and flew home. I wasn’t planning on staying overnight anyway because of the meeting. But what you told me about that bonehead bet shook me up. Ranching has seen better economic times, and things get a little harder every year. That’s why the damages the smugglers and the illegals are causing are so important. It could put some of us under. And the loss of a quarter of a million could do it to the Lazy M.”
He leaned back in his chair and dry washed his face. “Damn, BJ, the insurance company’s gonna use the bet to invalidate the policy. They’ll claim the duck got sick or died, and she had the carcass stolen to trigger a payoff to cover her losses.”
I nodded. “But it could also be someone else had the duck stolen to make sure the bet forfeited.”
“You mean this Florida developer, Hammond?”
“That’s a possibility. Or maybe somebody else has a stake in the bet. He could have put together a group of people to raise the money. Or there could be similar side bets. That’s why I told your mother she needed an attorney for this. Tell me, did you see the duck the night Liver Lips took her?”
“No. I seldom go down to the duck pens. That’s Mud’s personal preserve. Luis is the only one who works the ducks with her, but you’ve already talked to him.”
“No one else saw anything that day or night?”
“Hell, everybody saw something that night. When those ducks started caterwauling, every hand on the place turned out with pistols drawn. But I’ve questioned everyone on the ranch, and nobody admits to seeing anything out of the ordinary earlier in the day.”
“Let me talk to Luis again, since he’s down at the duck pens more than anyone else. Maybe I missed something when I interviewed him before. Look, the insurance company has to have a solid reason for denying the claim, and your mother’s bet gives them a legitimate arguing point. I know I work for the other side, but I collect and document information fairly, regardless of which way it cuts.”
Bert rested his elbows on the chair arms and mimicked my finger steepling. “Okay, talk to Luis. Ask him whatever you want. He’s an honest guy. However it is, that’s the way he’ll tell it. But none of this explains what just happened.”
“You mean Millicent sabotaging the meeting? No, it doesn’t.” I thought for a moment. “What if the duck wasn’t stolen because of the race?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe we shouldn’t simply assume the race was the motive.”
His brow creased. “What other reason could there be?”
“How about a personal grudge? She’s not the most popular rancher in these parts.”
“True, but those guys get their pound of flesh by beating her to the market and making a sharper deal. I don’t know anybody who’d try to sink the Lazy M this way.”
“Maybe they didn’t know about the bet. Or about the insurance. Besides, your mother is convinced someone could have taken the duck in order to upgrade an inferior flock or to degrade hers.”
He shook his head. “That’s a stretch, isn’t it?”
“When you get right down to it, insuring a damned duck for quarter of a mil is the stretch.”
Bert had no answer, so he went to find Luis Rael.
WITH MY statement from Luis, both written and taped, in my pocket, I found Millicent in her office standing at the window. She did not acknowledge my presence for a long minute. Finally she spoke.
“What do you want to know?”
“I have a statement from Luis Rael saying the duck was alive and well as late as 5:00 p.m. on the day Liver took her.”
She dropped into her chair and swiveled to face me. “That ought to mean something.”
“Perhaps, but he’s a paid employee.”
“That doesn’t mean he’ll lie for me. Luis is his own man.” She fell silent as she brushed her blotter with the edge of her hand. Agitation or resignation? “I have nothing else to offer. If my word and Luis’s statement aren’t enough, there’s nothing I can do. If we’re finished, I have to attend to something.”
“Have you been contacted?”
“About Quacky? No.” She looked at the ring on her left finger and then rubbed the faceted diamond absently.
“What are you going to do about your bet with Hammond?”
“What can I do? I’ve talked to him twice. Told him what happened. Asked him to be a gentleman and release me from the wager.”
“And?”
“He refused. Kenneth Hammond is no gentleman.” She laughed bitterly. “Of course, he’d say I’m no lady.”
“Oh, I think you are. I think you’re a hell of a lady, Millicent.”
A bit of spark came back. She straightened her spine and eyed me frankly. “That makes you a minority of one.”
“You can refuse to pay the bet. I doubt a court would uphold Hammond’s claim.”
“I suspect he can find one that will. You see, the wager is in writing and witnessed.”
“I’ll need a copy of it.”
She squinted. “You’re asking me to sink my own ship.”
“Now that I know it exists, I have to ask for it. You can give it to me, or you can give it to GSR’s attorney.”
She sat silently for a moment before taking a two-page document from the bottom drawer of her desk and running off a copy.
I thanked her as I accepted the paperwork. “For what it’s worth, an illegal bet is hard to enforce legally.”
“Believe me, Hammond will see that I pay—one way or the other. Just as I would if the tables were turned.”
“Do you have anything else to tell me?”
“No. I have to go now, BJ.” She glanced out of the window. “I see Luis has my gelding saddled. I have something to check out down at the City.”
“The City?”
“Have you been to the City of Rocks State Park north of Deming?” When I shook my head, she continued. “It’s something to see. As the name implies, it’s a city made of stone, complete with streets and alleys.”
At my doubtful look, she explained. “They say that about thirty-five million years ago, a big volcanic eruption called the Kneeling Nun spewed lava and ash and pumice for 150 miles. Over time, wind and rain and freezing and thawing have shaped it into what it is today, something that looks like a big damned city made out of solid rock sitting right out there in the middle of the desert.
“Well, when the Kneeling Nun blew, she threw some of that same stuff over on our patch of ground. It’s not as big as the one at the park, but when my grandpa first laid eyes on it, he said it looked like a d
amned city made out of rocks. It’s more the size of a village, of course, but Gramps always thought on a bigger scale, so he called it a city. The City of Rocks. When they made that place north of Deming a state park in 1952, my daddy thought about putting up a fuss since his family used the name first, but he never got around to it. So they’ve got their City of Rocks up there, and we’ve got our own down here. You should see it sometime.”
“I will, but right now I need to head back to Albuquerque. I’ve got to wrap this thing up. Good luck to you, Millicent.”
“Tell me something, cowboy. Do you think I had Quacky stolen because of the bet?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, Millicent, but for whatever it’s worth—I don’t.”
“Good.”
I stood at the window in the cavernous living room and watched as she mounted and rode off toward the southeast. She and the big piebald named Rufus she rode looked as if they were a single unit. Before they passed out of my line of sight, I noticed she had a rifle scabbard strapped to the saddle forward of her right knee. The boss toted iron just like the hands.
On the drive up to I-10, I called the office and told Hazel I was on the way back. I asked Charlie to get his hands on police and credit reports on Hammond and his ventures… anything that might warrant his stealing his opponent’s racer.
For good measure, I asked Charlie to see if he could find out if the Florida developer did his high-stakes gambling on his own or with a group of cohorts. Unless I could find someone desperate enough to commit a felony to avoid a large loss, then Millicent’s goose was cooked, and that was no pun.
As I pressed on north, the realization I would see Paul this evening made it hard to keep my foot off the accelerator. To combat the urge, I set the speed control, something I do not ordinarily do. I like the feeling of controlling things too much to rely on that equipment.
I inserted a fresh tape into my recorder and put my thoughts down for the record. I reviewed everything I knew. Something wasn’t adding up. Millicent Muldren was a fighter, a brawler, a mud hen. She wouldn’t stand for someone getting on her high side without putting up a hell of a fight. That resolve had shown quite clearly in my earlier meetings with her.
But today she seemed a different woman. She had agreed to a meeting with the neighbors and then poked a hole in the community balloon. She seemed almost distracted. I could come up with only two reasons for this behavior. Either she had given up, or someone had contacted her about her duck. And Mud Hen Muldren was no quitter. Had she lied to me again?
I had just picked up I-25 North at Las Cruces and left the city behind when I glanced into my rearview mirror and spotted a state police car roaring up behind me with lights flashing.
Chapter 13
I CHECKED my speedometer. Sixty-five right on the money, but there was no question the patrol car zeroed in on me. Then my hands-free cell went off.
“BJ,” Hazel’s voice filled the passenger compartment, “there’s been a shooting at the Lazy M Ranch, and they want you to come back. The state police have been alerted to flag you down.”
“One’s on my tail right now.” I signaled a right turn and pulled off onto the shoulder of the freeway. “Who got shot?”
“I don’t know. Some woman called, but she was all excited, and her English wasn’t too clear. All I know is someone got shot.”
“That must have been Maria. As soon as I find out what’s going on, I’ll let you know. I left a message on Paul’s phone saying I’d be home tonight. If I have to go all the way to the ranch, there’s not much chance I’ll make it back. Will you let him know the plans have changed?”
She agreed and hung up. I lowered the window as a black-uniformed patrolman got out of his unit and walked toward the Impala. Apparently he hadn’t been briefed on the situation, because he approached warily, with his hand hovering near his pistol. I waited him out. Sudden moves made cops nervous on traffic stops.
“Mr. Vinson?” He halted at the side of my car, standing back slightly so I had to crane my neck to see him clearly. Young, probably no more than a few months out of the academy. His eager, earnest appearance would erode with a little experience on the job. His name tag read Dorman.
“That’s right.”
“Do you have some ID, sir?”
“Sure.” I dug out my driver’s and PI licenses.
“Thank you.” He examined both carefully before returning them. “Sir, the Hidalgo County Sheriff wants you to meet one of his deputies at….” He leafed through a pocket notebook. “Uh, at the M Lazy M Ranch. That’s—”
“Yes, I know where it is. I just left there a couple of hours ago. Did he say why?”
“All I know is there’s been an incident.”
“All right, I’ll turn around at the next opportunity, or are you supposed to take me in the cruiser?”
“No, sir, but I’ll lead you to the next turnabout a mile dead ahead. You stay on my tail until we get to Las Cruces, okay?”
“Lead the way.”
As soon as we were headed south on I-25, he poured on the gas. We approached the City of Crosses at considerably more than the posted speed limit. He slowed somewhat at the I-10 junction but picked it up again on the way out of town. Just shy of where Liver Lips Martinson died in his pickup, the patrolman pulled to the side of the road and waved as I breezed past him.
Maria answered one of my repeated calls to the ranch, but she was hardly intelligible, so I turned down the road to the ranch house, still in the dark about what had happened. Bert’s blue-and-white Corvette and Millicent’s gray Lincoln Mark S sat between a Hidalgo County Sheriff’s unit and an EMT emergency response vehicle. A black Ford Escort in the corner of the yard had a medical doctor’s medallion on its rear bumper.
Maria answered the door and waved me inside, apparently too distraught to speak. A ruddy-faced man in his forties with bristly red hair, carrying about twenty excess pounds on his uniformed, five-ten frame met me in the hallway.
“I’m Deputy O’Brien, Mr. Vinson. I think we spoke on the phone the other day.”
“Yes, I remember. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s Bert.” Millicent came into the room, still dressed in the riding clothes she’d worn that morning. There were splotches of dried blood on her skirt. The hyper Yorkie yapped in the distance, obviously outraged at being penned up in the office. “He’s been shot.”
“How badly? I mean….”
“He’s not dead, but right now I don’t know much except he has a concussion from a near miss or even a grazing shot. He’s lost a lot of blood. You know how head wounds bleed. The doctor’s still in there with him. The old goat threw me out.”
Millicent took a deep breath before filling me in. When she had arrived at the ranch’s miniature City of Rocks that afternoon, she expected to meet someone, but the place was deserted. She dismounted from her gelding, Rufus, and waited for about half an hour. No one showed, but she heard Bert’s helicopter off in the distance a couple of times. Just as she prepared to give up and return home, the whirlybird approached from the north and dropped down for a landing. She squinted against the dust storm it raised and fought to hold on to her skittish mount as her son killed the engine and scrambled out of the machine. She knew from his stiff-legged gait he’d spotted Rufus and come for a showdown.
Halfway to where she waited, he suddenly halted and looked to his left. Almost at the same moment, a gunshot rang out. Bert pitched over into the dirt. Rufus, already nervous because of the chopper, bolted for home as she rushed to her son. He bled from a head wound, but he was alive. She pulled off her bandana and bound the wound as tightly as possible.
After using her cell to phone the emergency operator for help, she called the ranch house to let Maria know what had happened. Then she cradled Bert’s head in her lap until Luis arrived in a ranch pickup. Two of the Lazy M’s hands showed up hard on his heels. The men lifted Bert into the bed of the truck before the cowboys took off for the City
to search for bushwhackers. Millicent rode in the back of the truck, clutching her son to her breast as Luis raced for the house over the rough track.
“Will he be all right?” I asked.
“The doctor says he should recover in a few days.”
“Millicent, I’m sorry to hear what happened, and I’m thankful Bert isn’t seriously hurt. But I don’t understand why the sheriff’s office had me stopped by the state police and sent back here. I’m not involved in this.”
I spoke to her but held the eye of the deputy, who responded to my question. “Mud insisted I get you back.”
“Why?”
“Because of this.” O’Brien handed over a clear plastic envelope containing a tatter of white paper.
“That note makes it your business,” Millicent said.
The scrap of lined tablet paper was the kind every grade school kid in the country used. Printed block letters dug into the surface as if the pen had been pressed to the paper unnaturally hard.
YOU WANT SEE YUR DUCK. CALL OFF RANCHERS MEET. YOU DONT YOU BE SORRY. SOME BODY CLOSE TO YOU PAY. BE AT CITY NOON TOMORROW. ALONE. NO TRICKS OR SOMEBODY DIE. DONT TELL NOBODY.
“Do you recognize the handwriting?” I asked.
“No,” Millicent answered.
“The language is awkward. There are missing words and some misspellings. The punctuation is nonexistent except for periods.”
“Like a foreigner,” Deputy O’Brien said.
“Or a semiliterate,” Millicent said.
“Or more probably someone faking it to keep us guessing.” I turned to the deputy. “I assume you have a lab that can process this?”
“Yeah. The state police will give us a hand.”
“When was it delivered?”
“I found it yesterday afternoon,” Millicent said.
“Yesterday?” My blood rose, but I tamped it down. “Found it where?”
“Pinned to a wall down at the duck incubation shed.” She pointed to the hole torn in the upper left-hand corner. “It had been forced over a nail.”
