The Last Chance Olive Ranch Page 9

  Chet nodded. “Uh-oh is right. Keep the house but lose the ranch and be forced to share the business. A compromise she can’t accept. In his ruling, Tinker Tyson made a point of saying that if Maddie had been Eliza’s daughter, the new will would have been honored and Boyd would have been out of luck. Blood is thicker than water.”

  I finished my sandwich. “Clarence is appealing again, of course.”

  “Yes, and he managed to get a stay until the appeal is heard—which could take months.” Chet pursed his lips. “I don’t have a lot of confidence in Clarence. He doesn’t handle estate matters on a regular basis, and the appeals process is tricky.”

  “Doesn’t sound like there’s much anybody can do,” I said. “At this stage of the game, anyway.” I was wishing that Ruby had heard Chet’s account, which made it clear that there was nothing I could do. Short of butting into Clarence’s case, that is. Which I wasn’t prepared to do, for a lot of good reasons.

  “The whole damn thing has been one long, stinking headache for Maddie.” Chet picked up his sandwich again. “Bad enough that she had to be the one managing Eliza’s care for her last couple of years. Sofia helped, but Maddie did all the hard stuff. Then there were the accusations about the drowning.” He glanced at me. “You heard about that?”

  “Drowning, yes,” I said. “Accusations, not really.”

  “Well, maybe accusations is too strong a word. It didn’t come to that. But Boyd let it be known around the community that he thought Maddie had been careless.” His mouth twisted. “That she’d left the door unlocked, which made it easy for Eliza to get out of the house that night and wander down to the river. That Eliza would have been safer in the nursing home where he would have put her, if only Maddie had agreed.”

  I cocked my head to one side. “Was there anything to it? To what Boyd was saying, I mean.”

  “Of course not. It’s true that Boyd wanted to put Eliza in a nursing home, but if you ask me, it was only to restrict Maddie’s access to her. The sheriff looked into the drowning, but didn’t find any criminal negligence. And Maddie—well, for a while, she thought that Boyd himself might have had something to do with it. He came over to see Eliza earlier that evening.” His voice held a bitter edge. “This whole thing has been damned hard on her, believe me. And it’s all Boyd’s doing, start to finish. That guy—he’s a real piece of work, believe me, China. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  I doubted that Chet was an impartial observer, but that was neither here nor there. “How’s Maddie dealing with it?”

  “The way she deals with everything. If it’s getting to her, she doesn’t show it. The good, the bad, the ugly—that woman keeps it all inside. You never know exactly what she’s thinking. Or feeling.”

  If Chet could read me, I could read him. And the expression on his face—part frustration, part sympathy, part something else—told me that he and Maddie were more than just friends. Or that he wished they were more than just friends. Or something. Which probably accounted for his feelings about Boyd.

  “Hey, China.” Ruby put her hand on my shoulder, and I looked up. “If you’re finished eating, Maddie wants to show you our cabin.”

  “Great,” I replied. “I’m ready.” To Chet, I said, “Are you going to be around this weekend?”

  “You bet,” he said firmly. “If you don’t have plans for this evening, how about coming over to our place for supper? I’m sure Jason will be glad to see you again. And Andrea loves to cook for company.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I said, thinking that it certainly beat sitting around, worrying about McQuaid. “How about if I bring Ruby?”

  “Please do. Andrea will be twice as happy.” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll drive over and pick you up around four thirty or five. We’ll take a tour of the vineyards before supper.”

  “Looks like you and Chet are old buddies,” Ruby remarked as we went outside. “Where do you know him from?”

  “We interned together one summer.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Actually, we had a thing going for a while, a couple of lifetimes ago.”

  “A thing, huh?” Ruby slanted me a look. “Well, for your information, he and Maddie have a thing going. Or maybe I should say ‘had.’”

  “Really? They’re not seeing each other now?” That would be too bad. It sounded like Maddie could use a good guy to take her mind off the bad stuff in her life, and Chet was definitely a good guy. At least, he was when I knew him. A little footloose, but weren’t we all, at that age? And now that he had the winery, he seemed to have settled down.

  “Sofia told me that Maddie broke up with him when Boyd—” Ruby stopped as Maddie came up to us, carrying a stack of folded sheets and towels.

  “I’m heading for your cabin,” Maddie said. “You guys can drive your van over there. Ruby, it’s the one on the far end, where you usually stay.”

  “Yep,” Ruby said happily. “Manzanilla. It’s my favorite of all the cabins.” She took my arm. “Come on, China. This is going to be fun.”

  Chapter Six

  MCQUAID

  Friday Mid-Morning

  McQuaid got his third cup of coffee, took it back to his desk, sat down, and phoned Sheila. He needed to let her know there’d been another murder—four, now there were four—and ask her to call Royce and tell him she planned to station a team of armed cops in civilian clothes at the park where the Lions Club barbecue would be held on Saturday. Sheila was in a city council meeting, so he left the message with Connie Page, who promised to slap it into the chief’s hand the minute she got back to the office.

  “Top priority, Con,” he added, although he didn’t think he needed to tell her that. Connie had been his assistant during the five or six months he had occupied the police chief’s chair, after Bubba Harris resigned and before the city council hired Sheila. She would understand from the tone of his voice that this was important.

  “Got it, sir,” Connie said. “Top priority.”

  “And another thing. Could you pull a Taser out of the equipment room for me?” He waited for her to ask why, or even say it was against departmental policy (he was sure it was). But she didn’t.

  “A Taser. Want a vest?”

  That was Connie, always trying to be helpful. “I’ve got a vest,” he said. “I’ll stop in and pick up the Taser this afternoon, when I get back to Pecan Springs.”

  His next call was to Ian Abbott, the assistant Harris County DA, who had linked the dead body at the Ship Channel to Martha Kennedy, the key witness for the prosecution in the Mantel case. McQuaid introduced himself and gave Abbott the list of the detectives who had worked with him on the investigation. Bradley, Phillips, Lash, Songer, Dillard. It was a good bunch, the whole lot of them. But Carl had been the best. Best ever, now gone. McQuaid felt a sharp stab of regret and a sharper, hotter stab of guilt. If he had just pulled the damn trigger and given Mantel what he was asking for, Carl would be opening the fridge right now, pulling out a frosty Michelob, making himself a bologna sandwich.

  “I’ll see that we get a heads-up out to your guys,” Abbott said. “I suppose you heard about Carl Zumwalt? Mrs. Zumwalt told us that Branson called to warn him.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” McQuaid said flatly. “Be sure to let my guys know about Carl when your office talks to them. Maybe that’ll give them a little more incentive to be alert. And let me know if you dig up anything on Mantel’s whereabouts.” He rattled off his cell number.

  “I hope you’re watching yourself,” Abbott said, and McQuaid heard the tension in his voice, like a tight wire running through his words. “The last thing we want is for Mantel to score another hit. Especially under the circumstances.”

  “Damn straight,” McQuaid said shortly.

  He understood the “circumstances” Abbott was talking about, and that the man’s concern was primarily political. The DA’s office would not wa
nt the story of the Watkins’ murders linked to Max Mantel’s escape until after Mantel was safely under lock and key. They especially wouldn’t want any attention from newspapers or television. Which was exactly why McQuaid wasn’t going to tell Abbott about his plan to use the media to lure Mantel to Pecan Springs. If it turned out well, Abbott would hear about it. If it turned out in some ugly, unpredictable way—well, he’d hear about that, too.

  The next call went to the Enterprise. McQuaid tapped his fingers impatiently as he waited for the receptionist to go in search of Harkness Hibler, the editor, who—it turned out—was keeping score for the senior men’s horseshoe tournament in the yard behind the building.

  “Sorry, McQuaid.” Hark’s chair squeaked as he sat down in it. “The horseshoe tournament is hot news in the weekend sports section, and I needed to get the flavor before I write the story.”

  “Who’s winning?” The horseshoe tournaments and domino playoffs were a relic of times past in Pecan Springs, but lots of folks liked to know that they were still going on. It made them think the town was still the way they imagined it had been, back in the day. Which of course it never was, except in their imaginations.

  Hark chuckled. “Herb Mayo, that old reprobate. He’s good as long as he stays off the sauce. Let him get a couple of beers under his belt and his game goes to hell.” Another chuckle. “How’s things with you, buddy? The PI business keeping you occupied?”

  “You know how it goes,” McQuaid said casually. “Some days are more occupied than others.”

  “Same here,” Hark said. He was an easygoing guy with a shambling gait and a baggy-pants slouch that always reminded McQuaid of Garrison Keillor. But when it came to the Enterprise, Hark was all business. Several years before, he had bought the faltering Pecan Springs weekly from the Seidensticker family and immediately began bringing it back to life as an honest-to-God newspaper that lived in the real world. While small-town newspapers were going under by the dozens, Hark had made the Enterprise locally relevant and (more important) a must-read for every citizen. He had also shocked the town by instituting an editorial policy designed to put news—real honest-to-God news—back on the front page.

  In the days when the Seidenstickers were managing the paper, it was partnered with the local chamber of commerce. Every story was scrubbed, sanitized, and pasteurized before it was offered for public consumption, with the aim of making Pecan Springs look like the coziest, cleanest, most idyllic place in Texas. As far as the Enterprise was concerned, this was a town where every law was obeyed to the letter, where seldom was heard a discouraging word, and the skies were not cloudy all day.

  But Hark was a serious journalist who insisted on covering all the news, good, bad, ugly, and downright indecent. On his front pages, you could read about the meth lab the sheriff’s drug squad closed down just outside of town, the bribery case that involved three members of the town council, and the arrest of a prominent businessman on child porn charges—stories that the previous editor would have reduced to single bland paragraphs hidden below the fold on the back page, along with the livestock auction notices. Hark’s editorial policy put him seriously crosswise with the C of C folks who preferred to portray Pecan Springs as a town so clean it squeaked. But he was as stubborn as a Texas mule, journalistically speaking, and stubbornly committed to telling the plain, unvarnished truth, however politically incorrect it might be.

  “It is what it is,” he liked to say. “That’s the way I’m going to print it. You don’t like it, damn it, don’t read it. Simple as that.”

  McQuaid went straight to the point. “Got an idea I want to float past you, Hark. I just got off the phone with the guy who’s in charge of the Texas Rangers’ Special Response Teams. Could be a story about to break—a big one.”

  “Rangers?” Hark’s chair squeaked again, and McQuaid knew he was sitting bolt upright. “Somebody’s getting traded? There’s an injury? They didn’t threaten to fire Banister again, did they?” Hark was a Rangers fan. He didn’t miss a game, even when the season was as disappointing as this one.

  “Not baseball,” McQuaid said. “Texas Rangers, as in law-and-order.” He paused. “There’s been a murder. Four of them, in fact.” Four murders that he could have prevented with one single bullet. One.

  “Four murders? Rangers? Jeez. When? Where? Here?” Hark’s computer keyboard began clicking rapidly. He was taking notes.

  “Not Rangers,” McQuaid said. “And not here. Not now. Not yet.” He paused. “But maybe we can put an end to it here—with a little help from you and your friends in the media. If this works, you’ll get an exclusive.”

  “Ah,” Hark said happily. “An exclusive. I am all ears, my friend. Shoot.”

  McQuaid told Hark what he knew and followed that up with what he planned—tentatively, that is. He still had to firm up the details with Sheila and talk to Reilly, president of the local Lions, who needed to know what was in the works. It was dicey to run a sting in a crowd situation.

  But the important thing, the immediate thing, was to get as much of the story on the wire as quickly as possible. It was still possible to make the noon news on the TV affiliates—NBC, CBS, ABC, FOX—in Houston, Austin, and San Antonio. McQuaid knew that Bad Max had an insatiable ego. He loved publicity, loved seeing his name in print, his face on television. He’d be watching and listening to find out how his escape was being covered in the newspapers and on TV and radio.

  And the media would jump on this story, for damn sure. It had all the right ingredients, the gory, grisly stuff that fed the appetites of readers and listeners. Husband and wife murdered in swank Houston neighborhood, retired cop gunned down in his front yard, witness killed and dumped beside the Ship Channel. They’d jump on his name, too, as the lead police officer on the investigative team that had built the case that sent Mantel to Huntsville. They would feature his insistence that he wasn’t letting an escaped convict scare him out of his home or keep him from doing his job at the Lions Club barbecue. Then all he had to do was wait for Mantel to pick up the bait.

  Hark took a couple of quotes from him to incorporate into the story, and then the computer keyboard stopped clicking. “This thing is a little on the dangerous side, wouldn’t you say?” he asked. “Not to mention monumentally stupid. Advertising where you’ll be. Putting yourself out there front and center, when this badass character is gunning for you. You’ll be live bait. A sitting duck.”

  “Nah,” McQuaid said, leaning back in his chair, acting the part of somebody who knew what he was doing. “The chief will have plenty of guys on hand. The Rangers will be here, too.” He neglected to say that Royce wasn’t sure whether he could send anybody. “They’ll spot Mantel. They’ll have him cuffed before he has a chance to make a move.” And if they didn’t, he’d wait until Mantel made a move and he would make his. He would have his weapon. The same gun he should’ve used when he’d had the chance. One bullet would have saved four lives.

  “All the same,” Hark said. “You know what those Lions Club barbecues are like. There you are behind the serving table, a spoon in your hand and a mob scene all around. Somebody could walk up to you, stick a knife in your ribs, disappear into the crowd. Or hop up on the back side of the stage and sight down on you. Bam. Nobody will even know you’ve been shot until you pitch facedown in the fajitas.” There was a frown in his voice. “China know about this little stunt? She’s okay with it?”

  “China’s out of town,” McQuaid said.

  “Damn good thing for you,” Hark said drily. “If she were here, she’d be on your case about it.”

  McQuaid looked at the clock. Nearly eleven. He put some urgency into his voice. “Listen, Hark, if this plan is going to work, we need to get the story out there. You going to stop talking and make it happen? We don’t have time to be fooling around.”

  Reminded of his journalistic duty, Hark grunted. “I’ll do it,” he said. “But China better n
ot blame me if you wind up dead.” Another few clicks. “Okay if I use that photo I took the day you gave that talk at the high school?”

  “Photo?” McQuaid asked, startled. “Of me?”

  “Hell, yes. One of you and one of Mantel, which I can get from the guys at Huntsville. You want this story on TV, some producer will want a photo. May want an interview, too. Okay?”

  “I guess,” McQuaid said slowly. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “If it’s necessary.”

  “Don’t turn your cell off,” Hark advised. “I’ve put your number in as contact. You’ll get a call if somebody decides they need an interview. And don’t forget our deal. You get Mantel, it’s my story. Mantel gets you, that’s my story, too.” He chuckled grimly. “Either way, I get the exclusive.”

  “You get the exclusive,” McQuaid said. He clicked off the call, scratched his nose, and thought about what Hark had said about the photo and the interview, neither of which he liked but was prepared to go along with, just to get the job done. The other thing bothered him, though. Monumentally stupid? He believed that was probably an exaggeration, but he didn’t like the idea of getting shot. It might be a good idea to have another backup on hand.

  He picked up his phone again. He and Blackie had an appointment with a new client in Austin—a lawyer with a couple of promising jobs—at two o’clock. They were planning to drive separately and meet there. But he needed to talk to Blackie. Now.

  After three rings, Blackie picked up. “Yo, McQuaid. What’s up?”

  “Hey, partner,” McQuaid said. “Got something I need to talk over with you. How about if I stake you to chicken-fried at Beans’—say, noon?” Bob Godwin, the proprietor of Beans’ Bar and Grill, served the incontestably best chicken-fried steak anywhere in the Hill Country.