Turkey Ranch Road Rage

by Paula Boyd

  “She was supposed to change the ticket,” he muttered.

  “She probably said she’d try to. There is a distinct difference.”

  He kind of growled, reality dawning on him. “I should have known better.”

  The man was making an obvious inference to the girl’s lineage and not just her grandmother or her father either. He was wrong, of course. Insanity skips a generation. I was not in charge of either my daughter or my mother’s behavior, and yet, I felt responsible, guilty even, like I should apologize to Jerry for both of them. My scarred little psyche is a nest of such ten-headed snakes which prompt me to suck up self-help books faster than Dr. Phil can say “How’s that working out for you?” But back to the point, which was now my lying daughter—a not so refreshing change of pace from my lying mother. And you wonder why I need therapy.

  He frowned. “You really think she’d do that? Not get on the plane?”

  I just shook my head. The man knew the truth. He was just in denial. I know the place well, spend a lot time there myself. “I repeat. She is Lucille Jackson’s granddaughter.”

  Jerry turned toward me, an air of seriousness dropping over him. “Jo, there’s something I have to tell you. I should have already told you—”

  “Hey, I’m getting a call. Maybe she’s calling back to confess.” I grabbed the phone and a tingle of fear shot through me as I looked at the number. “Caller ID blocked.” I showed the screen to Jerry and he nodded for me to answer. “Hello.”

  “Miz Jackson, this is Damon Saide.”

  The little weasel’s voice was easy to confirm. And, just hearing it conjured up a vision of the little twerp. “Well, Mr. Saide, what can I do for you?”

  “You seem to be reasonable and I was hoping we could talk about the proposal I have for your mother’s property.”

  He sounded awfully eager and I wondered exactly how he’d gotten my phone number. It made me wary, to say the least, although I certainly wanted to meet with him. I doubted Jerry would be quite as enthusiastic. “Hold on a minute.”

  I pushed the mute button and gave Jerry the details.

  He gritted his teeth and his nostrils flared, but after a few long seconds he nodded okay. “Give us an hour.”

  I unmuted the phone. “Mr. Saide, I’m in Redwater right now—”

  “Great. There’s a Settler’s Restaurant on the north end of town by the new expressway, Fourteenth Street, I believe. I’ll buy you a late lunch. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  Shit. I wanted more time but I also didn’t want to miss the chance to get the weasel in front of me. “Lunch won’t be necessary, but that will be fine. Give me a number where I can call you back in case something happens and I can’t make it after all.”

  “Well, my phone doesn’t work very well down here sometimes. If you aren’t there, I’ll call you. Looking forward to meeting with you.” Click.

  And with that, he hung up. I looked at Jerry. “Settler’s in thirty minutes.”

  Jerry said nothing, just glanced at his watch and picked up his own phone. Predictably, he called Perez. Only he couldn’t reach Perez. From the sound of things, the personnel options they offered Jerry for surreptitiously presiding over my meeting with the weasel were not options at all. That meant it was just me and the weasel, with Jerry close by.

  “We’d better hurry,” Jerry said, turning to get us headed in the right direction. “We’ll have to park somewhere else and walk over to the restaurant separately. I’ll go first and get settled at a table. You sit as close as you can.”

  “At least you’re not wearing a uniform to scare him off.”

  “Don’t count on him not noticing me,” Jerry said. “Just because he plays dumb, doesn’t mean he is.”

  He had a point. Still, we’d be in a public place. How scary could it be?

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  Apparently it would be very scary, according to the dissertation I got from Sheriff Parker on the drive over. Jerry’s coaching me on what to do, what not to do and what could happen if I screwed up, combined with the large glass of strong iced tea I’d just chugged down, had me about to jump out of my skin. That Jerry was seated at one booth across and down from me, watching me, did not reduce my nervousness.

  My original take on Damon Saide was that he was too wimpy to be a killer. Jerry had nixed that delusion with entirely too many colorful examples of timid-looking homicidal maniacs, and now that the beady-eyed guy was heading toward my table, I was convinced that he had planted fields of bodies across the country just after they signed the appropriate property transfer papers. I bet he hated puppies and kittens too.

  Let me start over. You know how some people just creep you out? Damon Saide was the poster boy for creepy. Nothing you could really put your finger on, just a weird vibe. His looks weren’t abnormal, he wasn’t even really ugly. He didn’t drool or chew his fingers that I could tell, but there was just something about him that made me want to be far, far away.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Saide,” I said politely, although I did not offer my hand or stand up. I pegged him to have a limp grasp and I was already squeamish enough. “Please have a seat.”

  He slid into the booth across from me. “Well, Jolene, I’m certainly glad to have this chance to talk to you alone. I’ve had quite the time with your mother. Apparently she misinterpreted my proposal and I’ve been unable to sit down with her and explain the actual details.”

  Mother didn’t have any official papers from Damon Saide, other than a business card, since she’d thrown them all in his face when she kicked him out of her house, or something like that. “I’d like to see your original written proposal, Mr. Saide. It was upsetting to her and I’d like to understand why.”

  Mr. Weasel fiddled with a cheap black briefcase in the booth beside him and popped open the latches. I couldn’t see what was in there, but after a few seconds he pulled out a file folder and set it on the table. “A simple purchase offer, really. The offer is generous. Fifty thousand.” He slid out the tax assessor’s form and tapped his finger on the figure. “As you can see, the county has it listed at only thirty-eight thousand two hundred. We’re willing to offer more to compensate for the inconvenience.”

  “It doesn’t matter what the county has a house valued at. It would bring fifty thousand on the open market without even trying, so your offer isn’t ‘generous’ by any stretch.”

  “That may have been true a few years ago, but property values across the country have dropped dramatically, as you must certainly be aware.”

  The property value fluctuations were dramatic in some parts of the country, yes, but this area had never inflated so I doubted there’d been a drop at all. “Why is it again that you need my mother’s property when you’ve got two thousand acres of nothing behind it to plant concrete pads on?”

  “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “As I explained to your mother—”

  The waitress stopped at our booth with a glass of water for Damon Saide and her order pad ready. “Tea,” he said. “Unsweet.”

  “I’m fine for now,” I said to the waitress, keeping my attention on Saide. “You were saying that my mother’s property was essential because…”

  “Yes, of course. The property would give us westerly access as well as additional housing for staff or a secondary headquarters.”

  Even if we agreed to believe the park was legit, it didn’t make sense to buy a residential property for any of the reasons he cited. And why hers and not one of the others down the street? And what about the Little house? Was that not part of the deal too? “Let me see the contract and maybe I can help.” I did not say help with what.

  “We hoped the situation would be a win-win for both of us,” he continued, ignoring my request. “Your mother is getting on in years, and it would be easier for her to sell to us than on the open market. She could get an apartment and not be bothered with any potential traffic from the park.”

  I didn’t say a word,
but my look seemed to adequately relay my “save the bullshit” message.

  The waitress returned with the weasel’s tea and he immediately grabbed some little pink packets and started pouring them in.

  I took a sip of my own tea and watched him stir the white powder into his drink, thinking that he was as fake as the crap he was using for sugar. I didn’t like him or what he was up to. I also had a very personal bone to pick with him about his knowledge of duct tape and gas, but that would have to wait. “I’m not even going to pretend that I believe access plays any role in what you’re up to. So, Mr. Saide, what is it that’s really motivating you?”

  His eyes blinked reptilian-like and he shifted in his seat a little, but overall he was still acting as cool and collected as he had hunkered down behind his car with bullets flying. “As I said earlier, the property would give us an alternative access route for emergency and staff only, and the residence would serve as park offices or staff housing. We could move much quicker with structures already in place. We hoped to have the facilities ready for the annual bicycle race this summer. That’s why it’s so important to get the properties under contract as soon as possible.”

  He was good at his game, I’d give him that. And in another time or place, his proposals and rationalizations would have been plausible, believable even. There had been a similar situation in Colorado a few years back where his arguments would have made perfect sense because of geographic access and the limited land available. But not here. You could go miles in any direction and find the same type land with willing and eager sellers. Before I could ask him about that, however, he said, “As I told your mother, we’ll be fair. If she doesn’t want to take our initial offer, we’ll hire an appraiser to come out and take a look at the property. We’ll agree to pay whatever he determines the fair market value of the house to be.”

  “So,” I said, trying to conceal my fury at his attempted scam. “If the appraisal comes back at sixty thousand, you’ll pay that, no questions asked?” He nodded eagerly, thinking he was reeling me in. “And if your appraiser comes back with a figure of twenty-eight thousand then that will be the amount paid as well, correct?”

  He shifted in his seat again. “Well, yes, but certainly that’s an extreme difference and we don’t anticipate that low of a figure. We use only registered and licensed appraisers so it would be a true fair market valuation. Of course, she could just take our original offer and not worry about it.”

  And I could just reach across the table and rip his black heart out through his throat too. Instead, I gritted my teeth and nodded my head, pretending I was carefully considering his offer. I couldn’t help but wonder how many people, particularly older folks, had been taken by such tactics. How many people had literally given their houses away because some little weasel scared them into it? “So, do you have a contract with those terms in it that I can present to my mother?”

  He fiddled around in the briefcase beside him in the booth. “Well, not specifically as we could never come to terms on which option she preferred. I’ll draw up the papers for the set sales price or the appraisal option, whichever she chooses.” He smiled, trying to look understanding and chummy. “We want this to work out, Miz Jackson, but we do need an answer quickly. This offer will not be good indefinitely.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “We need to move quickly.” He eyed me suspiciously. “The area needs the facilities. We’d hoped to have part of it open in time for the bicycle race this summer.”

  “Yes, you said that already. The bicycle race. And the tourists coming to see the falls. Just essential to have an RV park out near Kickapoo for all that.” I smiled, and it was about as sincere as you’d think it was. “You still didn’t answer my question. What are you going to do if my mother won’t sell to you and you are forced to withdraw your non-indefinite offer?”

  “We do have other options,” he said, condescension dripping from his lips.

  Yeah, like murder and kidnapping. “Who do you work for, Mr. Saide?”

  He plucked a business card from his brief case and slid it to me. “Parks for Progress. It’s a private investment group.”

  I took the card and studied it. Very basic and nothing I didn’t already know. The private investment group admission was a new revelation however. “So, who would some of these private investors be? Who do you answer to directly?”

  He still kept smiling. “That’s confidential, of course.”

  Here we were, two gladiators smiling at each other with fake little smiles, volleying veiled accusations and withholding information, just waiting for a chance to lunge in for the kill. I hate these kinds of cat and mouse games. “Of course, confidential. All supposedly public projects by private groups with private interests are kept confidential. No need for the public to be bothered with the pesky details of who’s doing what and why.”

  Damon Saide’s congenial smile slipped to rodent-like sneer. “This is a project that is in the best interests of the community, Miz Jackson,” he said dropping all pretenses. “You might mention to your mother that we have new laws in this country that allow property to be taken for the greater good. We can get the acquisition taken care of however we need to. If we want the property, we’ll get it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  His little beady eyes bugged open as if he’d never heard the word before or he was just in shock that I would dare question him.

  “If you could use that tactic, Saide, you already would have. And while we’re at it,” I said, taking a sip of tea and watching him closely. “I find it very interesting that a man eaten up with cancer chose to spend his last day on this planet with a fist in your face on the courthouse lawn, ostensibly because of lizards.”

  Saide’s eyes narrowed to little slits. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I know this park is a cover.” I waited a few seconds to help him assume that I knew for what. “I know why you killed Tiger and I know why you didn’t kill me last night when you had the chance.”

  His pale freckled skin bloomed bright red. He might have a poker face otherwise, but he couldn’t stop the rosy flush. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Oh, but he did. “Did you really think you could gas her then force her to sign sale papers and no one would notice?” I paused again, watching his face, his eyelids blinking rapidly, a thin sheen of sweat glistening across his brow. “What you did to me would have killed her, which was probably your intent. Then there’s the problem with Bob Little. He wouldn’t sign your papers either so I’m figuring he’s dead too, just no body yet.”

  The weasel’s freckled face ripened until he looked like a cherry tomato with brown heat spots. “Your accusations are ridiculous.”

  I stayed as calm as I could and scooted to the edge of the booth, ready to stand. “Guys like you don’t do well in prison, you know.”

  His hand shot out and grabbed my arm. “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” he hissed, his hot sweaty fingers digging into the flesh just above my wrist. “This isn’t a game.”

  I swallowed down a wave of sickening bile. I was already half leaning over the table so I dug my fingers under his index finger and bent it backward off my arm.

  He squealed and released me.

  “I don’t play games,” I said, my voice and body both shaking.

  He clutched his finger with his other hand, his eyes watering and his nostrils flaring.

  I held out the arm he’d just grabbed as if it were infected. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to run to the police station and get more prints taken.”

  His stared for a few seconds then his lips curled into a sneer. “You have nothing.”

  Jerry had walked up to the booth and was standing just behind weasel, although he hadn’t yet noticed that.

  “I have your finger prints on my skin. Just like I did last night.”

  He scowled and shoved the file folders back into his briefcase. He jerked himself up out of t
he booth and spun to his left, directly into Jerry. The briefcase he’d tucked under his right arm popped free and fell open on the floor.

  I jumped out of the booth and lunged, but Damon Saide beat me to it. He snapped up the briefcase and tucked it under his arm like a football. Jerry grabbed at him, but Saide spun and darted to the side, shoving me forward into Jerry who was following. My head rammed into Jerry’s legs, knocking him backward. He grabbed me by the back of the shirt, but I still fell to the floor, and he fell with me. Untangling himself, he jumped up and ran after the weasel.

  As I got to my feet, I realized that every neck in the place was twisting around to see what was going on. Once Jerry made it out the front door, that left me as the center of attention. “He’s a sheriff,” I said, gasping and holding onto the back of the booth to steady myself, my heart pounding in my throat and ears. They all just stared at me like I was a going to rob them or something. “Seriously, he’s a sheriff and he’ll catch the bad guy. Everything is okay.” I fumbled in my pocket, pulled out a ten and laid it on the table and scurried out of the restaurant.

  I only made it a few steps out of the front door when Jerry zoomed up in the SUV. “Get in,” he yelled. I did and he screeched out of the lot as I shut the door. He was also making a call to the Redwater Police to send out the troops all at the same time. After he hung up, he said, “The only thing I can figure is that he must have parked by the front door and left it running with a door opener in his pocket. He was pulling away as I ran out. I’m still going up a few blocks to see if I see the car.”

  The bullet-ridden white import would be easy enough to spot, but we both knew we wouldn’t. The weasel was long gone. “What do you think he’ll do next?”