by Rayna Morgan
“How do you always manage to arrive the minute food is placed on the table?” Paul asked.
“It’s a talent honed from growing up with two brothers,” Tom said, stuffing fries into his mouth. “Bring me an iced tea and a double burger with bacon and mushrooms, please, Liz.”
“Make mine the same,” Paul said, folding his menu and handing it to the waitress.
“Sorry I missed the game yesterday,” Tom said. “Did you guys manage to win without me?”
“Your replacement hit a home run with two on base in the bottom of the seventh. We won by one run. After that showing, you may be expendable.”
Tom finished the last fry, licking ketchup from his mouth. “Never going to happen, buddy.”
“I hear the reason for you missing the game was Albert Benson’s murder at the rodeo.”
“News travels fast. Guess I don’t need to ask how you found out,” Tom said.
Paul leaned back, eying the burger Liz placed in front of him. “What’s my usual source for anything which smacks of murder and mayhem?”
“Lea and Maddy?”
“None other. Maddy couldn’t wait to enlist my wife’s help in defending her cowboy friend.”
“Why in the sam hill is Maddy getting involved?” Tom asked.
“When did lack of good sense or reason prevent their sleuthing?” Paul shot back.
“She may actually have reason in this case.”
“You mean her cowboy friend? Is there a reason he needs defending?”
Tom leaned back, reluctant to share details of a developing case, even with his closest friend. But he knew Paul was as opposed to the sisters’ involvement in murder cases as he was. He doubted Paul would pass on to Lea any information they exchanged, and he needed Paul’s help.
“His pistol is the murder weapon which places him pretty high on my suspect list, but I’m looking into other people with motives. That’s why I offered to buy you a burger.”
“I’ve never had a free meal from you yet,” Paul said. “I didn’t expect this was coming without a price.”
“That’s not true. Who’s been paying the tab for our weekly foursome of wine-and-dine the last three weeks?”
“You’ve been paying off Lea’s bet on who would solve your last case,” Paul reminded him.
“I admit she was instrumental in solving the murder at the theatre,” Tom said.
“It wasn’t the first time she’s made you look good,” Paul jabbed.
“Do you want to help me, or waste my time giving your wife accolades?” Tom asked, wiping his mouth and throwing a wadded napkin on the empty plate.
“What do you need?”
“When I was interviewing Albert Benson’s kid, Dalton, I asked him about his plans for their ranch. He told me he’s going to sell it and use the money to take care of his sister and to pay the expenses for him to finish college.”
“Lofty plans, but his timing’s not good. The real estate market is still slow.”
“That’s what I told him. He mentioned someone expressing interest in the property recently. When I asked for a name, Dalton said the person dealt with his father. He’s hoping that person will contact him when he hears about the change of circumstances.”
“I haven’t heard anything about an offer made on Albert Benson’s property,” Paul said.
“There’s more,” Tom continued. “When I went to the Miller ranch, Scott told me his grandfather had been contacted by someone interested in buying a small parcel of their land.”
“Two offers in a slow market,” Paul said. “That sounds like more than a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Tom said, “and the location of the Miller parcel is even more interesting; it’s adjacent to Albert Benson’s ranch.”
“What about the neighbor on the other side?” Paul asked. “Was he contacted as well?”
“I’m going to see him after lunch; I’ll let you know.”
“Did Scott tell you who the interested party was?”
“He didn’t know,” Tom replied. “The offer came through an associate who kept his client’s identity confidential.”
“I’m not sure how I can help,” Paul said.
“My thinking is the mystery party is not someone interested in buying a ranch; it’s someone interested in buying land.”
“You mean, like a real estate developer?” Paul asked.
“Bingo, and who knows more about developers in the county than you?” Tom said, referring to Paul’s business as a consultant to real estate developers. “And what about builders? They buy land, too, right?”
“Are you clear about the difference between developers and builders?” Paul asked.
“Developers develop, and builders build, but developers make more money, right?”
“It depends,” Paul answered, smiling. “A developer takes raw land, obtains the necessary permits, and divides the land into lots. He brings in the sewer, water, and electric lines, and builds streets and curbs. Then the builder comes in and erects the houses.
“A builder can also be a developer; in fact, many are, but building and developing are two distinct and different tasks. Typically, most of the larger housing companies buy finished lots, or pads, from someone else.”
“Are you saying someone buying up multiple parcels is more likely to be a developer?” Tom asked.
“It sounds like it.”
“Good, that narrows my search. Do you think you could tap into your grapevine and find out who’s planning a development in that area?”
“I believe you’re referring to my contacts at the Planning Department,” Paul said.
“I have no basis for a warrant at this stage of the investigation,” Tom admitted, “but I’d like to know who’s interested in buying land in that neck of the woods.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but I may have less than a warm reception after my last foray into City Hall to get information for you.”
“Are you kidding! You’re probably a hero to those people after exposing the corrupt director in the Planning Department.”
“We’ll never know if it was my probing into misconduct or Lea’s discovery of his relationship with the former Councilwoman which instigated his decision to resign, but I guess I’m about to test my popularity at City Hall.”
“While you’re at it,” Tom added, “find out if anyone’s done any testing for soil or groundwater contamination in that area. The cows at the Benson Ranch were looking a mite peaked when I was there, and the crops were drooping more than a hound dog's ears.”
“Anything else I can do for you?” Paul asked with a sarcastic tone.
Tom stood to leave. “Nope; that’s it. I appreciate it, man. I owe you.”
Paul pushed the ticket in Tom’s hand. “Start by paying the tab on your way out. You invited me to lunch, remember?”
• • •
Tom turned his vehicle into the driveway of the other property adjacent to Albert Benson’s farm. From the county maps he had studied before his visit, the detective knew that the Hudson ranch surrounded the Benson farm in an L-shaped pattern and that both properties had frontage on the dirt road parallel to the freeway.
Two farm dogs raced toward his car as he parked beneath the shade of a large oak tree. He petted the dogs when he got out of his car and looked around as he walked toward the house.
The bright blue color on the roof of the barn matched the blue trim around the farmhouse. Trailers beside the barn were filled to the brim with ripe tomatoes and melons. The metallic clacking of grain being harvested could be heard. The smell of freshly-mown hay floated through the air.
Tom reached out his hand to a man wearing a John Deere baseball cap and overalls stretched across a protruding stomach. The rancher’s only gesture of greeting was to nod without taking his hands out of his pockets. “You’re the policeman who called.”
“Tom Elliot, Mr. Hudson.”
“You can call me Cliff, and no one calls me mis
ter.”
“From the looks of that produce,” Tom said, nodding toward the trailers, “it appears that you’re weathering the drought pretty well.”
“We’ve got an on-site well. We’ve also got a rainwater storage system, but with the lack of rain the last several years, it hasn’t been of much use.”
“Your crops are in a lot better shape than those on Albert Benson’s property. Do you attribute that to a better water supply?”
“I attribute that to superior farming skills. Albert Benson couldn’t farm his way out of a pumpkin patch.” The tone of Cliff’s voice may have conveyed more harshness than he intended. “Let me retract my comment. Albert used to be a darned good farmer. Since his wife passed away, he’s let everything slide. It’s a shame to see his place so run down. It wouldn’t be that way if my family still owned it.”
A woman with an apron tied around her waist appeared at the doorway. “For heaven’s sakes, Clifford; where are your manners? Invite the man in.”
Her diminutive stature belied her imposing air. She leaned across her husband to grasp Tom’s hand. “Mildred Hudson. Come inside; I’ve got a pitcher of sun tea. How do you take it, sugar and lemon?”
“Lemon, please, ma`am,” Tom said, following her into the house.
“There you go with the sir, ma`am stuff,” Cliff muttered, bringing up the rear.
Taking a seat on the sofa, Tom noted the woman’s touch in the furnishings: ruffled curtains, needlepoint pillows, and stained-glass lamps. He looked toward the recliner where Cliff settled in. “Your family owned the Benson Ranch at one time?”
“A good piece of it.” The farmer’s tone was petulant. “Our original spread was almost five-hundred acres before it got cut down to its current configuration.”
“What happened?” Tom asked.
“My grand-dad lost part of our ranch to Benson’s grand-dad in a senseless poker game. He did everything he could to get it back, but no dice.”
Tom smiled at Clifford’s turn of phrase. “Why was it worth gambling over?”
“The parcel they wagered over is next to the river,” Cliff said. “It gives whoever owns that land a direct water supply without the need for irrigation.”
“I hope you’re not rehashing that old piece of history,” Mildred said, entering the living room with a tray and placing it on the table. Water drops ran down the side of the pitcher she lifted. Ice cubes clinked as she poured the tea, handing each man a glass.
“I didn’t bring it up; the detective asked,” Cliff said. He took a long swallow of the drink. “But, you have to admit, it’s always made row farming more difficult without that piece to square the plot out.”
“Our neighbor’s been murdered, and here you are, talking poorly about his family,” Mildred said, shaking her head. “I’m going out to do some gardening where I don’t have to listen. Call me if you need anything.”
“I assume you had no more luck than your grand-dad getting the land back from Benson,” Tom said after the woman left the room.
“I tried several years ago to no avail. Considering the condition the farm was in, I thought his refusal to sell was plain orneriness.”
“Maybe his son will take over and put the place right,” Tom suggested.
“Dalton’s not interested in farming,” Cliff said. “He’ll sell now that his father’s out of the picture.”
Tom was surprised Hudson was aware of Dalton’s intentions. “If the boy decides to bail, would you have an interest in acquiring the Benson land?”
“Hardly,” Hudson replied. “I’m having trouble selling the land I got. Why would I want more?”
Tom’s eyebrows arched. “You’re trying to sell? You’ve got a nice operation here. Why get rid of it?”
“My land came out of Agricultural Preserve last year,” Cliff replied.
Tom understood the reference to the county’s program which encouraged farmers to continue agricultural use of their land instead of converting it to nonagricultural use by offering participating farmers a reduction in property taxes.
“Seems developers are enticing more and more of you farmers into selling your land when it expires from the Preserve,” Tom said. “The impact in the county from the conversion of farmland to residential and commercial use has been dramatic in recent years, and it’s not always been favorable.”
“You can’t blame us for cashing in on all the hard work we’ve put in.” Cliff’s jaw stiffened, and his hands clutched the arms of the chair.
“Nobody’s placing blame,” Tom said. “Progress can’t be stopped, but people don’t realize that their endless supply of food is slowly disappearing.”
“Don’t worry; there are plenty of companies inventing synthetic food,” Cliff said, an angry sneer on his face.
“I’m no health-food junkie,” Tom said, “but the word synthetic when it comes to what I put in my mouth turns my stomach.”
“I guarantee you’re already consuming more artificial food than you’re aware of.”
“That’s not a problem I care to think about.”
“So what problem are you here about, Detective? I’ve got work of my own to do.”
“Who do you know who might have had it in for Albert?”
“He pissed off a lot of people,” Cliff said, “but I’m sure I’m not the only one telling you that.”
“Can you narrow it down for me?”
The farmer leaned back and placed his hands on his knees. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”
The man’s attitude was starting to irritate Tom. “How about you, did he ever tick you off?”
Cliff hesitated, weighing his response. “One time in particular, I recall. I had the roof on my barn replaced, something Albert should have done to his own barn. While the roofer was at it, I had him build out a loft. Albert heard the contractor’s bulldozer and called the city to report illegal building activity.”
“Did you confront him?”
“Nope; he was more of a nuisance than a threat,” Cliff said. “I had the proper permits. I didn’t waste time defending my actions to him.”
“You mentioned being interested in selling. It won’t be easy to do with the real estate market in a slump. Where do you intend to find prospective buyers?” Tom asked. “Have you listed your property with a broker?”
“I’m not unaware of market conditions, but no, the property’s not listed,” Cliff replied. “Actually, I wasn’t thinking of selling until I was contacted last month by someone interested in acquiring land out here.”
“That’s interesting. Dalton Benson mentioned recent interest in their property. Do you know if it was the same party who approached you both about selling?”
“I doubt there’s more than one entity interested in buying up chunks of ranch land.”
Cliff’s sarcastic tone grated on Tom. He ignored the farmer’s attitude and continued his questions. “Can I ask the name of the party who made the offer?”
“You can ask, but I can’t tell you.” Hudson started sucking on a toothpick he pulled from his pocket. “It wasn’t an offer in writing. It was a young fellow asking questions on behalf of some money guy. He didn’t give the name of his client.”
“Did you indicate that you’d be willing to sell?”
“I sure did. I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to get out from under.” The farmer leaned back in his chair. “I’m not opposed to spending the rest of my days rocking in a chair or throwing darts at the local tavern.”
“But you didn’t get a written contract?”
“The man made it clear that any offer would be contingent on their ability to acquire enough land.”
“Did he indicate how much land the investor needed?” Tom asked.
“He was talking in the neighborhood of five hundred acres.”
“Wow! That’s a significant amount of land.”
“Yep, you can grow a lot of corn on a chunk of dirt that big.” A smirk spread across Hudson’s face. “But I doubt it’s cor
n they’re interested in growing.”
“More like a subdivision is my guess,” Tom said.
“I reckon.”
“How big is your place?” Tom asked. “How much additional land were they looking at acquiring?”
“They told me exactly what they needed in order to make me a viable offer. My place, the Benson farm, and a strip on the Miller ranch that the river flows through.”
Tom knew the answer to his next question, but he wanted to hear Cliff’s response. “If Albert Benson received similar inquiries, do you know how he responded?”
“Like I said about the Bensons: we got a history. It wasn’t the first time a Benson screwed a Hudson.”
“Are you saying Albert refused to sell?” Tom asked. “That must have thrown a wrench into your plans.”
“I didn’t say my deal was screwed, but if it had been up to Albert, it would have been. Thankfully, the young fellow I talked with appears to be as enterprising as I am willing.”
“What do you—”
“You’ve wasted enough of my time,” Cliff said, spitting out a sliver of chewed toothpick. “I’m sure you can find your way out.”
Tom walked through the screen door and saw Mildred Hudson planting irises in a flower box. “Mighty pretty posies, Mrs. Hudson. You’ve got a green thumb.”
“Why, thank you, Detective,” she said. “You can hardly be a farmer’s wife without one.”
Contrary to her professing no interest in their conversation, she had been in a position to overhear every word.
CHAPTER FIVE
Paul had time before his next meeting so he headed to City Hall hoping the Director of Planning would be available to speak with him. He anticipated that any questions of a specific nature would go unanswered on the basis of confidentiality, so he adopted a posture of seeking information for a proposed housing development on the outskirts of town.
After parking in the public lot, he climbed the wide sweeping stairway that led to the entrance of the government building. He walked under the ornate archway and down a long hallway decorated with imposing pictures of past dignitaries.
The woman at the front desk of the Planning Department greeted him with a friendly smile.