Queen Anne's Lace

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Nobody answered. The cackling paused briefly, then began again.

  “I’ll go first,” Tom said, and went in. After a moment, he returned. “Nobody here,” he said, and picked up the carrier.

  I followed him into the barn. After the bright sunshine outdoors, I had to blink to adjust to the shadowy darkness inside. The air was sweet with the scent of fresh hay. Along one wall was a row of several rabbit hutches. Along another wall, a half dozen metal chicken nest boxes. A large black hen was perched on one, cheerfully celebrating a freshly laid egg. I couldn’t be a hundred percent positive in the dimness, but I was pretty sure that she had a black comb and black legs, like Blackheart.

  So that’s it, I thought. Dana Gibbons already had an Ayam Cemani hen. He had stolen the Ayam Cemani rooster to sire a flock of Ayam Cemani chicks. He was hoping they would bring him good fortune—and at a hundred and seventy-five dollars an egg, he could be right. But that wasn’t going to happen, because we had a warrant to seize the rooster. And on the barn floor in front of the nest boxes was the small plastic crate we had seen in the video from Caitie’s camera.

  I ran to the crate, Tom at my heels, and peered in. I saw two disconsolate roosters, their tails dragging, crouched together for comfort—Extra Crispy and Blackheart.

  “Hello, baby,” I crooned, opening the crate’s wire door and reaching for Extra Crispy. “It’s okay. We’re taking you home now. Caitie will be so glad to see you.” Silly talk, yes, but there it is. I was relieved to see both birds, and I could almost believe, from the glint in his eye, that Extra Crispy was glad to see me.

  “Hold on a minute, China,” Tom said, and took out his cell phone. He snapped several pictures of the crate, the two bedraggled birds in the crate, and the black hen on the perch, and emailed the photos to the sheriff’s office while I transferred the roosters into the carrier. Blackheart was docile enough to come without a struggle and Extra Crispy knew me, so I got the job done without too much wing-flapping.

  The birds, though, were not nearly as sleek and pretty as they’d been when they were checked in at the fair. They were dusty and disheveled, they had both lost feathers (perhaps in a brief dispute over who was boss of the crate), and their rear ends were covered in poopee. In their present condition, neither would win a ribbon. That would be a huge disappointment for Caitie, but I knew she’d be thrilled that Extra Crispy had been rescued.

  “We’re done here,” Tom said, glancing around the barn. “We’ll take these birds back where they came from, and I’ll talk to the sheriff about the charges.”

  “Felony theft,” I said grimly. “Maybe throw in a couple of counts of animal cruelty for good measure. There’s no food or water in this crate. And the birds may have some injuries we can’t see.”

  “Sounds right.” Tom picked up the carrier. “Come on. Let’s boogie.”

  Tom was carrying the roosters and I was a step or two behind him. When we got to the Chevy, he walked along the driver’s side, but I detoured to the passenger’s side, wanting to get a better look at that long green stalk of wilted, crumpled plant material I had spotted earlier. I paused, looking down at it. The stalk had been cut at its base, and my first thought was that this was a tall ragweed—an allergen—that somebody wanted to get rid of.

  And then I looked again. This was definitely not ragweed. The top end of the stalk was thickly studded with fist-sized clumps of fuzzy, purply-green-brown buds. Lots of buds. Lots and lots of buds. I bent over and took another look.

  Was it? Yes, it was. Unmistakably.

  “Tom?” Clearing my throat, I straightened. “Tom, come here.”

  He finished loading the roosters into the back of his pickup and came around the truck toward me. “What’s up, China?”

  “Weed,” I said, pointing to it.

  “Yeah? Well, what of it? What’s to get excited about a stalk of rag—” He bent over and looked. “By damn,” he said softly. “It really is. Weed.”

  Pot, in other words.

  Marijuana.

  Which opened a whole other can of worms. The Fourth Amendment gives every citizen protection against unreasonable and unwarranted searches. Tom’s search-and-seize warrant allowed him to look for the stolen chickens, and that was it. Anything else—say, stolen stereo equipment in the house, or a cache of money hidden in a tin can in the barn—was off limits, legally speaking. In other words, we didn’t have a license to hunt.

  But the courts have recognized some searches as valid without warrants—for example, under what’s called the “plain view doctrine.” To apply “plain view” to this case, Tom had to be lawfully present here on the driveway (he was); he had to have a lawful right of access to the evidence in question (he did); and the incriminating character of the evidence had to be immediately apparent (it darn sure was). The guy who stole two chickens was all of a sudden in a heckuva lot more trouble.

  Tom was taking a photo and I was bending over again to get another look when from somewhere near the barn, I heard somebody whistling. Tom straightened, grabbed my arm, and jerked me around.

  “Leave it,” he said roughly. “Get in the truck and duck down under the dash.” He was already unsnapping his holster. “Do it now, China.”

  I scrambled for the truck. Stolen chickens are one thing. Backcountry marijuana grows are something else. While Texas is preparing to license growers to produce low-THC medical cannabis, growing grass for the ordinary consumer is extremely illegal. If you’re caught in possession of anything between four ounces and five pounds—the goodies on that one plant lying on the driveway, for instance—you’re facing a fine of up to ten thousand dollars and six months to two years in prison. Plus additional charges if you’re marketing your crop.

  But this little deterrent doesn’t stop the pot farmers. Just the month before, a hundred miles west of Pecan Springs, deputies on aerial patrol had looked down to see the mother of all marijuana farms: some forty thousand plants, growing in lovely green rows in a four-acre field. At the time I read the story, I had done the math. One outdoor plant, grown under good conditions, could yield a pound of salable cannabis. Street prices vary, but a quick Internet search told me that the average asking price for an ounce of medium-quality pot, at the time, was two hundred and eighty dollars. Which put the street value of that crop of cannabis at eleven million and change. The sheriff was still looking for the farmers, who (he believed) were members of a Mexican cartel, growing weed on our side of the border to save on trucking and avoid detection at the checkpoint.

  Tom was right. What we had stumbled onto was bigger than a pair of stolen roosters. Bigger, potentially, than an amateur meth kitchen. It was time to get out of Dodge, and fast.

  I was already in the truck when it happened. A man stepped out from behind the barn and yelled, “Who the hell are you? Get off my property!”

  He was some thirty yards away from the truck, but even at that distance I could see that he had long hair and the general configuration of our chicken thief. Dana Gibbons, aka This Ain’t My First Rodeo. He was carrying a rifle.

  Using the open truck door as a shield, Tom unholstered his sidearm and shouted, “Sheriff’s deputy. You’re under arrest for suspicion of cultivating marijuana. Drop that weapon and—”

  Gibbons raised his rifle and squeezed off three shots, fast. One zinged off the hood. One smashed the windshield above the steering wheel. The glass exploded in flying splinters and I felt a sharp, burning pain above my left ear. One hit Tom. He went down.

  I didn’t stop to think—you don’t, in a situation like this. Adrenaline takes over and you just do what you have to do, fast. I turned in the seat and jerked Tom’s Remington out of the gun rack. I shoved my door open and jumped out, crouching low. I snapped off the safety and levered a shell into the chamber. Using the Chevy as cover, I crept forward until I could see Gibbons, now advancing cautiously, raising the rifle to fire again, his gaze fi
xed on his target: the cop on the ground.

  I stood up, locked the shotgun tight against my shoulder, and aimed, just as Gibbons caught sight of me and swung his gun around. Without a word, I pulled the trigger. The Remington blasted, and Gibbons flew backward.

  Ears ringing, I chambered another shell, hard and fast, and aimed again. Gibbons was flat on his back. He was moving, so I knew he wasn’t dead—but he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Watching to see if anybody else would appear around the barn, I ran to him and retrieved his rifle, then back to Tom.

  He had propped himself against the truck and was clutching his left upper arm. His uniform sleeve was bloody.

  I knelt down. “Where did he hit you?”

  “Upper arm,” he said, between clenched teeth. “Did you get the son of a bitch?”

  “He’s down,” I said. “He’ll stay down for a while. Here’s his rifle.” I dropped the rifle on the ground and retrieved Tom’s gun, which was several yards away. “I didn’t see anybody else back there.”

  “Good girl,” he grunted. He looked up at me. “Where’s that blood coming from?”

  “Blood? What blood?”

  “All over your face.”

  “Ah.” I put my left hand to my head, over my ear, and when I pulled it away, my fingers were dripping blood. I could feel the blood running down the side of my neck. My T-shirt was wet. Biting my lip, I felt again and found the shard of glass under my scalp. My hair was on fire.

  I dropped my hand. “Not important,” I said.

  “Good.” Tom closed his eyes. “Get on the radio. Roy’s not far away. He can be here in two shakes.”

  No, not two shakes. And I didn’t need to get on the radio. Roy was already pulling into the drive. In a moment, he was out of his squad car and bending over Tom.

  “Somebody shot you over a damn chicken?” he asked incredulously.

  “There’s a pot grow out back somewhere,” Tom said. “Check the shooter. He’s on the ground by the barn.”

  Roy pulled his gun. “Did you get anybody else, or is he the only one?”

  “I didn’t get him,” Tom growled through clenched teeth. “China did.” He nodded at me. “If she hadn’t shot him, he could have finished me off.”

  Roy looked at me. “You’re bleeding,” he said unnecessarily. He pulled his shoulder radio mic forward.

  “Officer down,” he said into it. “Three casualties. Medics and backup. Now.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pecan Springs, Texas

  October 1888

  It was just before four when Annie saw Dr. Grogan stop his buggy in front of the Hunts’ house next door.

  The October afternoon was unusually warm, even for Texas. The sky was dark and a fitful wind was blowing. Storm clouds had piled up on the horizon to the north, and the taste of rain was in the air. The first cold front of autumn often announced itself with a storm.

  Annie had not spoken to Adam since the evening he had brought her the rent. She had taken the train to San Antonio the day before and collected the money for her sales, so this morning she paid her girls and laid out the new orders. The San Antonio shop owners were eager for lace, and the orders ranged from six yards of narrow crocheted lace for chemises in a young lady’s trousseau to a yard of Mrs. Jenson’s fine bobbin lace for a collar—altogether, nearly twice as many orders as she’d ever gotten from the Austin shops.

  Annie was glad to have so much good work to do. It took her mind off her last, heart-wrenching conversation with Adam, when they had agreed by mutual consent to end their affair. She knew it was best. Adam’s obligations to his family, and especially to little Caroline, came first, ahead of everything else. She respected that. But the days since had been bleak and the nights black and empty, and she found herself often on the verge of tears. What’s more, she couldn’t help also hoping—perhaps more than just a little—that Delia might decide that she loved Mr. Simpson and wanted to make a home with him in Galveston, setting Adam free. But that was a cruel hope, and unworthy, and she suppressed it.

  The matter of Mr. Simpson and Delia’s visit to Mrs. Crow had been much on Annie’s mind, however, especially after a brief over-the-hedge conversation with the Hunts’ hired girl. As they were hanging out the wash a day or two after Adam’s evening visit, Greta had remarked that Mrs. Hunt had sent her to pick up some ribbon at Purley’s General Store, and she had discovered a pecan tree growing at the edge of the strip of woods behind the store, along the railroad track.

  “The nuts ain’t ready just yet,” she said, pinning up a towel. “But I aim to be there with my bucket when they start to fall.” She bent over the basket and took out a child’s white cotton chemise, bordered with lace. Annie recognized it as the one she had made for Caroline’s birthday. “My mama makes the best pecan pies,” Greta added. “Better’n anybody.”

  Behind Purley’s? Annie thought of the wild carrots that Mrs. Crow had told her about. Had Delia asked Greta to gather some seeds after she picked up the ribbon? Was that how the girl had chanced to discover the pecan tree? But Annie didn’t want to know the answer to that question. She refused to think about why Delia might want the seeds.

  So she only smiled and said, “Cooking for myself, I don’t bake many pies. But I’d love to have your mama’s recipe. Does she use molasses?”

  Now, it was late afternoon, and the girls had finished their lacework and gone home, ahead of the threatening storm. Annie was tidying the workroom when she looked out the window and saw Dr. Grogan climbing out of his buggy and hurriedly tying his horse to a small tree in front of the house next door. Carrying his old black leather doctor’s bag, he hastened up the walk.

  Dr. Grogan was a fixture in Pecan Springs, and deeply respected. He had been practicing medicine there since the year Franklin Pierce was elected president, and everyone recognized him, even at a distance, by his lean, upright figure and his unruly mane of white hair. He had tended to Annie when she lost Douglas’ baby, and he’d been sympathetic and kind. Usually, he moved at a deliberate speed that reflected his seventy-some years, but as she watched, he took the steps two at a time, obviously in a hurry.

  Annie’s first thought was of Caroline, and her mouth felt suddenly dry. Measles, chicken pox, scarlet fever—there were so many childhood diseases and they were always a dire threat. Perhaps she should go next door and offer to help. There might be something she could do, even if she only sat with the child and allowed Delia to get some rest.

  But as she watched, apprehensive, Adam appeared from the direction of his store, striding fast toward the house. He, too, took the steps two at a time, his face a mask of deep concern. Deciding that she could not go next door now that Adam was there, Annie pulled up a chair near the window and sat down with her bobbin pillow, keeping an eye on the Hunts’ house. When Adam left, she would go. A sick child was such a worry—Delia would need support.

  The clock on the wall ticked monotonously, the sky grew even more menacing, and the wind stopped. It was almost as if the world were holding its breath, Annie thought. Then, finally, the front door opened and Dr. Grogan reappeared. He was walking slowly now, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. Without a thought, Annie dropped her work in the chair and ran out to the street, catching him as he was putting his doctor’s bag into his buggy.

  “Dr. Grogan,” she said breathlessly, “I saw you and Adam—Mr. Hunt—going into the house a little while ago. How is she? Is there any way I can help?”

  The doctor turned. “Oh, it’s you, is it, Mrs. Duncan?” He peered at her over his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Haven’t seen you for quite some time, have I? Since the baby, was it? I trust you’re keeping well.”

  The wind was picking up again, and Annie’s skirts whipped around her ankles. “Well enough, thank you,” she said. The doctor was a talkative old man; he would run on forever if she didn’t prompt him to the subject. “Please—how
can I help?”

  Dr. Grogan’s mare nickered and shifted her weight, impatient to be home before the rain came. The old man patted her nose affectionately. “We’ll be off in a minute, Gracie. We have another couple of stops before you can go to your barn.” To Annie, he said, “Yes, yes, of course. Good of you to ask, my dear. You might take little Caroline to your house and give her some supper—perhaps keep her overnight, if that seems right to you. The hired girl has been sent home and I doubt whether Mr. Hunt will think of it. He’s distraught. Quite naturally, of course, as anyone would be. And the child is old enough to know what’s happened. She is very upset.”

  “Take . . . Caroline?” Annie faltered. “Then, it’s not Caroline who is ill?”

  “No, not the child. It’s the mother.” The old man fixed her with mild blue eyes. His tone was deeply sympathetic. “She’s gone, my dear. Quite unexpectedly, I’m afraid. You’ve been neighbors for some years—I suppose you were close friends?”

  Annie gaped at him stupidly, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. A few raindrops splattered on the shiny roof of Dr. Grogan’s buggy, and she felt them wet against her face. “Delia is gone?” she asked, her voice rising. Had she gone off with Mr. Simpson? “Gone . . . where?”

  “I don’t wonder you ask, it’s so surprising.” The doctor began untying his horse. “Mrs. Hunt died a half hour ago. I should have been sent for earlier, but Mr. Hunt was at work the whole day and the stupid hired girl didn’t have the brains to think of it.” He tut-tutted. “Really, these girls are so careless. One would expect—” He broke off, frowning at her. “Are you all right, Mrs. Duncan?”

  “Dead?” Annie whispered. She felt as if she had just been hit hard in the stomach. The world was whirling around her as if it were propelled by the rising wind. She grasped the buggy wheel to steady herself. “But that’s not possible! We spoke just yesterday—” She stopped, trying to remember the last time she had seen Delia. Had it been at Mrs. Crow’s? “No, not yesterday. Two days ago, perhaps.” She put up a hand to push the hair out of her face.