Watkins - 05 - Poison Heart

by Mary Logue

  When he was about ten yards away, Rich stopped. The smell of the animal wafted toward him—rank, musky, a bit of the swamp in it. He could see the wound on the elk’s neck and hear its labored breathing.

  The tan-and-black bull elk was one of the biggest he had ever seen. He guessed it weighed in at over eight hundred pounds. The rack was a good eight-pointer, which probably meant the elk had been around for at least eight years.

  He turned and walked back down the driveway to the car. Leaning into the car, he answered Claire and Meg’s questions before they were asked.

  “Yes, it’s still there. It’s still alive, Meg. Claire, call Kate Jenkins. She works out of the Wabasha vet clinic. And then call our friend Mr. Reiner and ask him if he knows where his elk stud is. If it’s missing, ask him how tame the animal is and has it ever been haltered. And ask him what could have happened to it.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Meg.

  Claire looked at him, cell phone in her hand.

  “I’m going to go sit quietly near the elk and watch him. If he takes off for the woods, I’ll probably follow him. You two stay here and wait for the vet.”

  Claire grabbed his sleeve. “Wait for me to make these calls. Then take the phone with you. That way you can call and tell us where you are.”

  “Good idea.”

  Kate Jenkins was available and said she’d be right over. A minor miracle. Rich had reason to hope.

  Mrs. Reiner said she didn’t know anything about the elk. They were her husband’s thing, she explained, and he wasn’t home. Claire asked her to have him call, and handed the phone to Rich.

  “Be careful.”

  “As careful as you always are,” he said.

  “Can we go inside?”

  “Yes, but use the back door. We don’t want to spook this guy. But would you wait until the vet shows up? Then bring her in through the house.”

  Rich walked back up the driveway, as cautiously as before, no sudden movements. The bleeding appeared to have stopped, but if the elk started running again, it might reopen its wound.

  Rich sat on the bottom step of his front stairs, about fifteen yards from the elk, and watched it. The elk raised its head high enough to take a look at Rich. It didn’t seem afraid, but Rich did not take that for a good sign. It could mean that the animal was past the point of fear.

  Then the animal did an extraordinary thing—it took a step toward Rich. He couldn’t believe it and stopped breathing. The elk kept looking at him. If Rich hadn’t known better, he would have guessed it was trying to ask something of him. He didn’t know how tame elk could be. He had never been around one before. Maybe it wasn’t afraid of humans. That would make tending to it a lot easier.

  From where he sat, Rich had a good view of the neck wound. It was possible that the animal had run into something and hurt itself, but it looked like someone had intended to bring down this animal. The neck was a vital area, and if a shot hit the neck bone or struck an artery, it would kill quickly. What he couldn’t figure was why anyone would shoot this elk. It had to be a captive animal. The last native elk in Wisconsin had been killed off about a hundred years ago. Didn’t make much sense that someone would shoot at it.

  After that one step toward him, the elk stopped moving. It hung its head again, and Rich waited with it, worrying that if it fell to its knees, it would never get up again. Rich felt as though he was meditating—breathing with the animal, willing it to stay on its feet. For a while, he forgot that he existed as a human.

  After half an hour, he felt a hand on his shoulder. When he turned he saw the vet, Kate Jenkins.

  “You’ve found Harvey,” she said.

  “Harvey?”

  The elk lifted his head at his name.

  Jenkins went on. “Reiner’s stud elk. Tame as a dog. Bottle-fed. Probably just standing there waiting for something to eat. You got an apple?”

  Rich walked into the house to get one.

  Bridget picked up the phone to call her sister, Claire. She was hesitant to make the call because it would seem so final. Just as she was about to punch in the number, she saw her daughter, Rachel, holding on to the table leg.

  Rachel looked over at Bridget, let go of the table leg, and took a step all by herself. Her first step. Bridget hung up the phone to watch her daughter. What an amazing creature this just-turned-one-year-old girl was. And, as usual, her father was not there to see it happen.

  For the last year, Chuck had been gone more than he was around. Bridget knew he was busy with his work. These were not new problems, but they had gotten worse since Rachel was born. Sometimes he seemed afraid of Rachel, especially when she cried.

  Watching her smiling baby totter toward her, Bridget didn’t understand how anyone could help but love her to death.

  About three months ago, Bridget had sat Chuck down and had a long talk with him. She’d told him how his behavior made her feel, and she’d suggested some things they could do to try to make him more comfortable. He was reluctant even to talk about it. He seemed to think it was her job to take care of the kid. She was starting to pick up more hours at the pharmacy again, and she needed help.

  Two months ago, Bridget had set up an appointment with a marriage counselor. Chuck hadn’t shown up. Bridget had gone to the counselor for four sessions, then stopped. The marriage counselor had wished her luck.

  A month ago, she had screamed at Chuck in the middle of their front yard. He had stayed out until after midnight, and she’d gone outside to meet him when he drove his truck into the yard. He’d been drunk, but not outrageously so. He had even been in a good mood. Bridget had surprised herself when she told him to go find someplace else to stay for the night. She said that anytime he didn’t make it home until after midnight, not to bother coming home. She meant it. For a week, he got home before midnight; then, three nights in a row, she didn’t see him. What was really sad was she didn’t even care where he had been.

  Rachel stopped halfway across the room. She tottered, looking as though she might fall, then put out her foot and took another step.

  A week ago, Bridget had hired a babysitter for Rachel. She and Chuck went to a fish fry in Nelson. After two beers, she told Chuck she didn’t think it was working anymore. He nodded in agreement. She asked him what he wanted to do.

  “We’ll get through this, Bridge,” he said. “It’s just a phase. You know, new baby and all.”

  “New baby?” Bridget found her voice rising. “Rachel is almost a year old. She’s hardly a baby anymore. In case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Oh.” He seemed surprised. “Why do you have to talk to me like that? You sound like my mom.”

  “Just what I don’t want to be. Your mom.”

  “Speaking of my mom, she’d like to come by and see Rachel this weekend.”

  “Do you hear me when I talk? Don’t you think we have a problem?”

  “If you’d just calm down.”

  That was when she lost it. She looked at this man she had loved so dearly, who had been such fun to be with, who had called her his little chickadee. They couldn’t even talk to each other anymore. She had married him believing he was the man she would grow old with. She didn’t want him to see her cry, and she didn’t have anything else to say. She stood up and walked out, leaving the waitress balancing her plate of walleye and fries in her hand.

  The next day she called Chuck at work and said that she would be moving out of the house, asked him to stay away until then. He agreed, but said he had to come home to get some clothes while she was at work.

  Rachel, her dark hair flying around her head like a feathery halo, fell into Bridget’s arms at the end of her first steps.

  Bridget held her close. “My big girl. You are the best. You are the best walker and the best child anyone could ever want. I’ll love you enough for two. That’s all there is to it.”

  After she set her child down on the floor, she walked to the couch and picked up the phone. She dialed her sister’s
new number. When Claire picked up the phone, Bridget asked her, “Have you rented out your house yet?”

  Claire said no.

  “Good,” Bridget said, “I’d like to move in.”

  Later that afternoon, Claire got a call from Margaret Underwood, asking for her help. Halfway through their conversation, Margaret started to cry. Even though Claire didn’t know the woman, she felt horrible for her. After listening to her concerns, Claire called the sheriff, got his okay to check out the situation, and drove right out to the Underwood farm.

  The leaves fluttered off the hood of her car as they flew down from the trees in the autumn wind. The sun was shining as though it would never go away, not even in the darkest of winter days. Claire knew that was a lie, but she still enjoyed it.

  Margaret must have been watching for her, because she walked out of the house as soon as Claire pulled up. She was a large woman with honey-gold hair lightly sprayed with gray. She had beautifully shaped eyes, deep blue. Close to Claire’s age, she guessed. She could see why Margaret and Ruth were friends. They were both good examples of the back-to-the-land, earth mother type.

  “Do you want me to drive?” Margaret asked as she came up to the car.

  “No, I might as well. After all, this is official business.” Claire didn’t mention that it would be better to have someone less emotional behind the wheel. “Hop in.”

  Margaret’s husband came to the door of the house and waved goodbye. A wiry man, he looked about the same size as Margaret.

  Margaret pointed him out to Claire. “That’s Mark. I couldn’t ask him to do this with me because I’m afraid if he was in the same room with my stepmother, he’d kill her.” Margaret gave a nervous laugh and went on. “Not really. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, but it would be hard on him to stay civil.”

  “Do you both work at home?” Claire asked, steering them to a safer topic.

  “Yes, we raise goats. We make goat cheese and sell their milk. If you’d like to try it, I could give you some cheese when we get back to my house. We’ve got some new feta that’s just ready.”

  “I’d love that. Ruth raves about your cheeses.” Claire had turned back down the road. “I’m not sure where your stepmother’s house is. Tell me where to go.”

  “It’s not far. Just on the other side of the church. It was so nice to be close to Dad. But now I try not to drive by the home place. I don’t like to see Patty Jo if I can help it. And the soybean fields are a disgrace.”

  “I gather your stepmother’s difficult?”

  Margaret sighed. “She can be.”

  “Was she always?”

  “No, not really. At first, I was glad she was friends with Mom and Dad. She helped them out a lot. Now I can see she made it so they couldn’t live without her. She made herself indispensable. Dad really depended on her after Mom died. They married within a month. Maybe I should have stepped in, but I wanted him to be happy.”

  “Sounds like a good decision.”

  “I don’t know. I can’t help thinking about how different things might have been if Patty Jo hadn’t come along.” She grew silent as they drove past the church, then she pointed. “There’s the house.”

  Claire turned into the driveway. The house looked like many of the farmhouses in the county, a big white four-square—four rooms up and four rooms down, with a screened-in front porch that ran the width of the house.

  “Does she know we’re coming?” Claire asked.

  Margaret nodded. “Yes, I called. I wanted to be sure she’d be there. I told her I had something to ask her, but I didn’t tell her what. I didn’t want her to have a chance to think of an excuse.”

  “So she’s not expecting me?”

  “All I said was that I was bringing a friend. I didn’t tell her you were a deputy. She wouldn’t have liked that.”

  “That’s fine, but she’ll find out soon enough.” Claire had put on her uniform per protocol. The sheriff always wanted them dressed in uniform on any department business.

  As they walked up to the house, a plump woman with frizzy blond hair came to the screen door in the porch. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Claire was surprised by how young the woman was, maybe sixty. And by how much makeup she was wearing. Especially the bright pink lipstick. Farm women seldom wore lipstick unless they were going to town.

  “Hello, Patty Jo,” Margaret said when they reached the bottom of the steps.

  “Margaret, who is this?” Patty Jo’s voice had an edge to it as she looked at Claire.

  “Claire Watkins. I asked her to come along. She works for the sheriff’s department.”

  “Obviously. Why ever did you feel it necessary to bring a police . . . person with you?”

  “Patty Jo, we need to talk.”

  “Come on into the porch, but don’t let the flies in.” Patty Jo held the door open.

  At one end of the porch was a swing filled with striped pillows. It looked like the place to be on a summer night. A small table was set up with wicker chairs around it, but Patty Jo didn’t invite them to sit. They all stood by the front door.

  “This is very nice,” Claire said, thinking how convenient it would be to have a screened-in porch like this when the mosquitos got bad. “You must spend a lot of time out here. Especially on a day like today.”

  “It’s all too big for me,” Patty Jo said. “Now that Walter is in the nursing home, I can’t keep it up. I’m selling the place. Margaret, I hope you heard about that and the auction.”

  “Yes, Patty Jo. That’s why I wanted to come by.”

  “Well, I’m glad you have. I’ve decided to give you the trunk. I think your father always wanted you to have it. As long as you were coming over, I thought you could take it with you.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be glad to have that.”

  “Let’s get it into your car before we all get comfortable. It’s in the barn. Maybe you could back right up to it and we could lift it in.”

  Margaret looked at Claire. “Is it okay?”

  “Sure, I’m here to help.”

  Margaret and Patty Jo walked out to the barn, and Claire backed the squad car up to it. The trunk was old, made of a blond wood with beautiful scrollwork on it and the words Stockholm, Wisc. written on it. It was a tall trunk that narrowed at the base and was lighter than it looked. The two leather handles on the sides were in good shape. The three women were able to load it into the trunk of the car. By tipping it on its side, they could make the trunk lid close over it.

  As they walked back to the house, Margaret said to Patty Jo, “I can’t believe you would think about selling the farm. I wish you had talked it over with me.”

  Patty Jo pursed her pink lips, then said, “I didn’t want to bother you, Margaret. I know you and Mark have a full plate.”

  “It would have been no bother. If you’re having trouble keeping this place up, Mark and I can help out.”

  “Margaret, you have your own life. Your father’s illness has been a terrible blow to us all. Your father left me in charge, and I think it’s time the farm is sold.” Patty Jo’s voice broke. “You know he’ll never be able to come back here. I’ve got a very good offer for it. We will need that money to keep your father in the home.”

  They walked back into the porch, and this time Patty Jo offered them chairs. They all sat down. Even though the two women were being civil to each other, Claire could feel the tension.

  “What about his stocks and bonds? What about his money market?” Margaret asked.

  From the look on Patty Jo’s face, Claire guessed that she hadn’t thought Margaret knew about those assets.

  “How much time have you been spending at the casino?” Margaret pushed her stepmother.

  “None of your business.” Patty Jo’s voice grew louder. “You have to face facts, Margaret. Your father will need constant care the rest of his life. I can’t manage the farm, and neither can you.”

  “But I think we can manage it. Mark and I had always thought th
e farm would come to us. We had planned on it. It’s in Dad’s will.”

  “Well, that was a big mistake. Things happen. You should never have counted on the farm.”

  “Maybe if we sat down and went over everything we could figure out a way of keeping it,” Margaret said hopefully.

  Patty Jo shook her head. “I’m afraid not, dear. There’s simply no other way.”

  “What about his insurance?”

  “Doesn’t come close to covering it.”

  Margaret drew herself up. “I would like to go over all Dad’s assets with you and see exactly where we stand.”

  “You don’t need to worry about this. It’s not your problem. I’ve had someone I trust go over everything.”

  “I think I have a say.”

  “Margaret, I’m your father’s wife. I think you know I do not need your permission to do what I want to do.” Patty Jo paused and then announced, “You do understand that your father signed over power of attorney to me. Durable power of attorney. That means that I have the right to do anything I want with our assets.”

  “Well, that’s why I called the sheriff’s department. I don’t want you to sell the farm. I don’t think you are taking care of my father’s best interests.”

  “Margaret, how can you say that? Your father would not be happy with you.”

  Margaret snapped, “My father loves me. He was always happy with me until you came along. Now he’s worried sick about the farm.”

  Patty Jo stared at her. “How do you know what your father’s worried about?”

  Margaret said, “Because he told me.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “He can write things down.”

  Patty Jo shook her head as if flies were bothering her. “He can?”

  “He tries,” Margaret explained, then added, “I won’t let you sell this farm. I’ll get a court order stopping you.”

  “I’m sorry, Margaret, but I will do what I think best. You try for your court order if you must, but I know they will listen to me. I’m his wife.”