The Last Chance Olive Ranch Read online

  China Bayles Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert

  THYME OF DEATH

  WITCHES’ BANE

  HANGMAN’S ROOT

  ROSEMARY REMEMBERED

  RUEFUL DEATH

  LOVE LIES BLEEDING

  CHILE DEATH

  LAVENDER LIES

  MISTLETOE MAN

  BLOODROOT

  INDIGO DYING

  A DILLY OF A DEATH

  DEAD MAN’S BONES

  BLEEDING HEARTS

  SPANISH DAGGER

  NIGHTSHADE

  WORMWOOD

  HOLLY BLUES

  MOURNING GLORIA

  CAT’S CLAW

  WIDOW’S TEARS

  DEATH COME QUICKLY

  BITTERSWEET

  BLOOD ORANGE

  THE LAST CHANCE OLIVE RANCH

  AN UNTHYMELY DEATH

  CHINA BAYLES’ BOOK OF DAYS

  Cottage Tales of Beatrix Potter Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert

  THE TALE OF HILL TOP FARM

  THE TALE OF HOLLY HOW

  THE TALE OF CUCKOO BROW WOOD

  THE TALE OF HAWTHORN HOUSE

  THE TALE OF BRIAR BANK

  THE TALE OF APPLEBECK ORCHARD

  THE TALE OF OAT CAKE CRAG

  THE TALE OF CASTLE COTTAGE

  Darling Dahlias Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert

  THE DARLING DAHLIAS AND THE CUCUMBER TREE

  THE DARLING DAHLIAS AND THE NAKED LADIES

  THE DARLING DAHLIAS AND THE CONFEDERATE ROSE

  THE DARLING DAHLIAS AND THE TEXAS STAR

  THE DARLING DAHLIAS AND THE SILVER DOLLAR BUSH

  THE DARLING DAHLIAS AND THE ELEVEN O’CLOCK LADY

  With her husband, Bill Albert, writing as Robin Paige

  DEATH AT BISHOP’S KEEP

  DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN

  DEATH AT DAISY’S FOLLY

  DEATH AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE

  DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN

  DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL

  DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS

  DEATH AT DARTMOOR

  DEATH AT GLAMIS CASTLE

  DEATH IN HYDE PARK

  DEATH AT BLENHEIM PALACE

  DEATH ON THE LIZARD

  Other books by Susan Wittig Albert

  WRITING FROM LIFE

  WORK OF HER OWN

  A WILDER ROSE

  LOVING ELEANOR

  THE GENERAL’S WOMEN

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Susan Wittig Albert

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Albert, Susan Wittig, author.

  Title: The Last Chance Olive Ranch / Susan Wittig Albert.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2017. | Series:

  China Bayles mystery ; 25

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016032333 (print) | LCCN 2016041953 (ebook) | ISBN 9780425280034 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698190283 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Bayles, China (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Women

  detectives—Texas—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women

  Sleuths.

  Classification: LCC PS3551.L2637 L37 2017 (print) | LCC PS3551.L2637 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016032333

  First Edition: April 2017

  Cover art: Illustration © by Joe Burleson; Olive wood background © R Szatkowski/Shutterstock; Burned parchment © by Gansovsky Vladislav/iStockphoto

  Cover design by Judith Murello

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Version_1

  For Bill, who demonstrates remarkable patience with my efforts to grow olives in the Texas Hill Country

  Contents

  Other books by Susan Wittig Albert

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Legend of the Olive of Athens

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Recipes

  About the Author

  The Legend of the Olive of Athens

  To claim possession of the Greek region of Attica, the blustering, boastful god Poseidon struck the soil of the Acropolis with his trident, creating a well as a gift to the people and a symbol of his vast power. The people of the area flocked happily to the well, but to their dismay, they could not drink from it, for it was as salty as seawater. (Poseidon was, after all, the god of the sea.)

  Then the beautiful and modest goddess Athena appeared, to dispute Poseidon’s rule over the region. Quietly, she knelt down and planted a seed in the soil beside Poseidon’s salty well. It grew with an almost magical swiftness into a magnificent olive tree. It flowered and bore fruit, bestowing on the people not only a healthful, nurturing food and medicine, but also wood for their homes and boats and tools, oil for their lamps, and fuel for cooking and heating.

  Grateful for Athena’s gift, the people chose her as their protector and patron deity. They called their city Athens and themselves Athenians. And for centuries, they revered the olive tree the goddess had planted as the symbol of their prosperous city.

  Chapter One

  More in the garden grows than the gardener knows.

  Folk Saying

  I hate it when the telephone rings at night.

  Granted, it wasn’t night, technically speaking. It was five a.m., according to the clock on my side of the bed. But the only light in the room was a dim nightlight and my husband and I had both been sound asleep. To me, that qualifies as night.

  The phone is on McQuaid’s side of the bed, so he was the one who groped for it, found it on the fourth ring, and growled, “Who the hell is this and whaddya want?”

  My sentiments exactly, although I admit to lying v
ery still, stiff with apprehension, conducting a mental inventory of the people I love while McQuaid listened to the voice on the other end of the line. Caitie, our daughter, was asleep down the hall, but our son, Brian, is a student at UT Austin. He’s not the kind of kid who gets into trouble, but accidents do happen. Not to mention that my mother’s husband, Sam, has a history of heart problems, and that my mother—Leatha—is no spring chicken. And Mom and Dad McQuaid are both nearly eighty and—

  “Aw, hell,” McQuaid said, drawing out the word, profoundly regretful. “He’s dead?”

  Dead. I pulled in a breath and held it, squeezing my eyes shut. “Who?” I whispered. Who was he? Brian? Sam? Dad McQuaid?

  McQuaid pushed himself into a sitting position, pulling the pillow behind his head. “So where did this thing go down?” His voice was tense, urgent. “Yeah. Southwest Houston, right? Bellaire?”

  Southwest Houston. I relaxed a little. Sam was at home at their ranch in South Texas—I’d talked to my mother just the night before. McQuaid’s dad didn’t drive, and anyway, he and Mom McQuaid were home, too, in Seguin, east of San Antonio. Which left Brian—but he was in Austin.

  I caught my lower lip between my teeth. I thought Brian was in Austin. He was between terms, working part-time at The Natural Gardener, out on Bee Cave Road. He hadn’t mentioned going out of town. But kids are kids. He and some friends might have decided to drive to Houston on a lark and he’d forgotten to let us know.

  “Who?” I asked, louder now. I propped myself up on one elbow and put a hand on McQuaid’s bare forearm. The room was dark, but the glow-in-the-dark clock cast a faint green shadow over his face. “Who’s dead? What’s going on, McQuaid?”

  McQuaid looked down at me and shook his head with a brisk don’t-interrupt-me-now frown—his cop frown. No, his ex-cop frown. I flopped back on my pillow. I didn’t think he was talking about Brian. And if it wasn’t about family, it must be about work. My husband is a part-time private eye, and PIs don’t punch a clock. He’s been known to work twenty-four-hour shifts, catch a couple of hours of sleep, and do it all over again. Still, he doesn’t usually get calls at this hour of the night. I squinted at the clock again and groaned. Morning. At this hour of the morning.

  McQuaid was shaking his head as if he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “How in the hell did he manage that? Death Row is tight.” He listened a moment more, then spat out, “Damn it, Jessie, if they can’t keep a better handle on their prisoners, maybe they deserve to lose a few.”

  Ah. There had been a prison break. And Jessie had to be Jess Branson, one of McQuaid’s cop buddies from his days as a detective in Houston Homicide. But that still left the question of why Jessie was calling our house at the unholy hour of five a.m. about a prison break. McQuaid no longer wore a badge. If a prisoner or two had escaped, tough titty. Somebody else was dealing with it. I closed my eyes. So go away, Jess. Get some coffee, get a doughnut, get off the phone.

  “It doesn’t sound good,” McQuaid was saying grimly. “Okay, you guys work it at your end, and I’ll get on it here.” He leaned over to peer at the clock. “Hell, no, not now, Jess. It’s not even six yet. Nothing’s going to happen in the next hour, man. Max may be a freakin’ genius, but he hasn’t learned to fly. So far as I know, anyway.”

  Max. I frowned. He had to be talking about Max Mantel. Bad Max Mantel. McQuaid had been the lead detective on the team that tracked him down and arrested him. Mantel had been charged with killing two teenage girls who were trying to blow the whistle on his sex trafficking ring. McQuaid had once said that Bad Max was one of the smartest criminals he had ever put away, which was why the man had managed to keep his slimy slave trade hidden under the rocks for so long.

  That had been ten or twelve years ago. McQuaid and I had been dating then, and I had listened to his take on the prosecution’s case with a great deal of interest. While it is true that there is nothing in the law that I detest more than the death penalty, it is also true that every now and then there’s a case—and a criminal—that causes me to think twice about my objections. Bad Max was one of them. I’ve never blamed McQuaid for saying—and only half joking—that it was too bad he hadn’t pulled the trigger when he had Mantel in his gunsight and saved the state the cost of an execution.

  Anyway, I was rooting for the prosecution, which had been deftly handled by smart-mouthed assistant district attorney Paul Watkins, whom I had also dated once upon a faraway time. Paul was a flamboyant showoff who loved being the center of attention. But he had the better case, hands down, and the jury did just what he asked them to do. They sent Bad Max to Huntsville. To Death Row.

  My eyes popped open.

  Max Mantel had escaped? But Huntsville was a maximum-security prison. Nobody had gotten out of there since 1998, when a Death Row inmate cut through a fence, scaled a roof, and went over the top of two security fences, clad in a clumsy suit of cardboard body armor to protect him from the razor wire. Finding the guy took a full week, five hundred officers, and a half-dozen tracking dogs, assisted by four cop choppers equipped with heat sensors. No doubt a similar team would be assembled and sent out to recapture Bad Max. But McQuaid was no longer on the payroll. I didn’t see what any of this had to do with him, especially at this hour.

  I slid down and pulled the sheet over my head. Maybe I could manage a few more minutes of sleep before I had to get up and pack. Today was Friday, and Ruby and I were driving to the Last Chance Olive Ranch, where we were leading a workshop on Saturday afternoon. Ruby had been trying for months to get me out to the ranch, which is owned by her friend Maddie Haskell. She had even suggested that we tack on a couple of extra days—Sunday and Monday—for a little R and R. I was glad to agree. The month of May had been busy at the shops, and I was looking forward to the quiet pleasures of a long weekend. But I wasn’t going to get any more shut-eye.

  “Okay. I’ll do that.” McQuaid’s voice was clipped. “In the meantime, you’d better call Carl Zumwalt. He’s retired now, but he was the other lead on the Mantel investigation. He’s still living in the Houston area—Pearland, I think. If Max is the one who took Watkins out, he might go for Carl next. Tell him to watch his back.”

  I flapped the sheet down and propped myself on my elbows. “Took Watkins out? Paul Watkins?” I sucked in a breath, hardly believing what I’d heard. “Mantel went after the district attorney?”

  Because Paul Watkins, the larger-than-life prosecutor who had sent Mantel to Death Row, had gotten a career boost out of the case. He was now the Big Cheese he had always wanted to be: Harris County district attorney. I’d been hearing from people who knew him that he’d be the next candidate for Texas attorney general. After that, maybe governor.

  McQuaid gave me a surprised look, as if he’d forgotten I was there. “Sure, Jessie,” he said into the phone. “Listen, I can’t get into it now. Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll give you a call in a couple of hours.” He hung up and switched on the small bedside light. “Mantel got out of Huntsville night before last. They’re still trying to figure out how he did it—must’ve had inside help. The dogs went out, but they lost him at the highway. He probably had outside help, too. An accomplice waiting with a car. They’re not sure where—”

  “Wait a minute.” I was still trying to get my mind around what I thought I’d heard. “Max Mantel killed Paul Watkins?” Paul—bigger than life and twice as vigorous—was dead?

  McQuaid rubbed a hand across the dark morning stubble on his jaw. “They don’t know for sure it was Mantel, China. But one of the Huntsville snitches reported that he’d been threatening to kill everybody associated with his conviction.” He slanted me a quick look, and I knew he had said more than he intended. He cleared his throat and added hastily, “Somebody was waiting when Watkins and . . . When Watkins got home late last night from a party. Shot him. Jess says his team is still processing the scene.”

  I was still grappling with the ter
rible news about Paul, but I snatched at what McQuaid had just said. “Kill everybody associated with his conviction? That means—”

  “Big talk,” McQuaid said firmly. “You know how these cons are, China. They like to blow hot air. Mantel is probably in Mexico by now. And Watkins has put away more than his share of criminals since he’s been in the DA’s office. Any one of a couple of dozen would have been glad to pull that trigger.”

  He was right about that. Paul had been in the justice business for a long time. Anybody he’d ever prosecuted, any gang he’d gone after—they could all have him on their hit lists.

  “Didn’t have to be Mantel,” McQuaid added firmly. “Probably wasn’t, in fact.”

  As if that settled everything. As if I should just slide down under the covers and go back to sleep.

  “But it could have been Mantel.” The goose bumps were prickling across my shoulders and I could taste the sour fear at the back of my throat. I was remembering the awful night when McQuaid took a bullet in the neck and I thought he was going to die. Cops die, yes, every day. You never think it’s going to happen to your cop, until it does, until he doesn’t come home, never comes home again.

  I swallowed hard. “Jess was calling to warn you, wasn’t he? And you told him to warn Carl Zumwalt, too. You think Mantel is going to—”

  I broke off, thinking that it really might have been better if McQuaid had taken Mantel out when he had the chance. Paul would still be alive right now, and McQuaid wouldn’t be in danger.

  “Hey.” McQuaid swung toward me, his weight on one elbow, one eyebrow quirked. He touched my lips with his finger. “Don’t sweat it, babe. I’ve been threatened by crooks who are a damn sight meaner than Mantel. I’m a big guy, you know. I can take care of myself.” Eyes light, he bent over me, humorous, confident, macho. “Hey. I can take care of you, too.”

  I knew he was trying to reassure me. I also knew that he was about to use sex to distract me—which usually works because I am easily distracted by the prospect of sex with my husband. I pushed the fear down deep inside of me and brushed the dark hair off his forehead.