by Ed McBain
“Sure,” I said. “It’s a sort of canvas bed you hang between two trees.”
“That, too,” she said, smiling. “But the word’s Indian for a copse of trees. Here on the ranch, it’s usually oak. So,” she said. “From what you told me on the phone, I may have to handle whatever nonsense Jack got himself into, is that right?”
“Well, I’m not sure about that yet,” I said. “I checked with Probate this morning, though, and there doesn’t seem to be a will—”
“I wouldn’t guess there was.”
“And I’ve also made some calls around town—Calusa doesn’t have that large a legal community—and none of the attorneys I contacted had drawn a will for him. I didn’t speak to all of them, of course—”
“Who gave you the shiners?” she asked.
“Your daughter asked the same question.”
“What answer did you give her?”
“I told her some friends did it.”
She smiled. Her upper lip, I noticed, unlike her daughter’s, seemed perpetually tented so that a small wedge of white teeth always showed. When she smiled, it only widened the wedge, magically and radiantly.
“What color are your eyes?” I asked.
“Is that a trick question?” she said.
“I’m curious. They look gray, but gray is for novels.”
“They aren’t gray,” she said. “God, no. I don’t know anyone who has gray eyes, do you? They’re a pale blue, I suppose. A faded blue. A washed-out blue, actually. Is there such a thing as a mousy blue? I’ve always hated the color of my eyes. They make me look anemic. What color did Sunny say her eyes were?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
“They’re the same as mine, so I guess they’re blue, too,” she said. “Jack’s were brown. Well, you met him, so you know.”
“Anyway,” I said.
“Anyway,” she said.
“—getting back to this matter of a will.”
“I think we can safely assume there was no will, Mr. Hope.”
We were passing a row of—bathtubs?—set out in the pasture on our right, about a dozen in all, spaced some twenty feet apart from each other.
“If you’re wondering whether we come out here to bathe,” she said, “those are for the cows.”
“You bathe your cows?” I said.
“No, no,” she said, and smiled. “We supplement their feeding, especially during the winter months, when they’re stressed.”
“Stressed?”
“We’ve got plenty of good, tall grass now,” she said, “but during the winter they can eat it off faster than it grows. They get what we call ‘Miss-Meal Fever.’ That isn’t a disease, Mr. Hope, it just means they’re hungry. We put out molasses in those tubs. A small tractor-drawn tank comes around and fills them at least once a week, there are hundreds of them all over the place. We buy the molasses from US Sugar in Clewiston. Just now there’s a lot of water lying on top of it—all this rain. Rafe and the hand are kept pretty busy scooping it off.”
“Where do you get the tubs?” I asked.
“Demolition company sells them to us. Do you see that other contraption out there? Over near where those black baldies are grazing?”
I looked out over the pasture. A dozen or more white-faced black cows were standing and eating grass near what looked like a large garbage bin with a cylindrical open top.
“Those are our mineral feeders. We fill them every week with salt, calcium, phosphorus, steamed bone meal, iron—all those goodies,” she said, and smiled. “The cows go to them because of the salt, get their minerals while they’re lapping it up.”
“What kind of cows are they?” I asked.
“That particular bunch? A cross between Hereford, Angus, and Brahman. What we raise here in Florida is mostly Braford and Brangus. Those are crossbred cattle. The Braford is what we get when we breed a Brahman cow with a Hereford bull. The Brangus is mixed Brahman and Angus, short-haired and loose-skinned—so they can survive the heat. But you’ll see all kinds out there. Your reds, which are the Santa Gertrudis—three-eighths Brahman and five-eighths Shorthorn—your brindles, your mottled, your yellows, we raise ’em all, or try to, a regular rainbow herd. Here,” she said, “make yourself useful,” and braked the Jeep just this side of an aluminum gate. “There’s no lock on it, all you have to do is unhook the chain.”
I got out of the Jeep and tried to skirt the mud puddles as I walked toward the gate. There was a simple thumb bolt holding the chain fastened. I pulled it back, loosened the chain, and swung the gate wide. Mrs. McKinney drove the Jeep through, and I closed the gate and fastened the chain again. My shoes were covered with mud. I got into the Jeep and pulled the door shut.
“This road we’re turning onto is a better one,” she said. “Those lines overhead are Florida Power and Light. I lease them the right-of-way, and they maintain the road. Buzzard’s Roost is about half a mile east of here.”
We had come into another pasture. The cows here were brown, fifty or more of them, all of them grazing contentedly. Graceful white birds were sitting on their backs.
“Your reds,” she said, “Santa Gertrudis, the first true North American breed. Developed on the King Ranch.”
“What are those little yellow things on their ears?” I asked.
“Fly tags. Like those strips you hang in your kitchen, only these are smaller. They keep the horn flies off. The flies suck blood, agitate the cows, make general nuisances of themselves. The tags work pretty well.”
“And the white birds?”
“Cattle egrets. They eat the insects the cows disturb with their hooves, sit up on their backs to get a better view of the ground. The cows don’t mind them at—damn, look at them!” she said suddenly and braked the Jeep and reached for the rifle between us. I looked off toward the sky, following her gaze. A dozen or more big birds were hovering on the air. One of them swooped down to the ground an instant before Mrs. McKinney brought the rifle to her shoulder. A sharp crack sounded on the air. The buzzard—I assumed it was a buzzard—toppled over and the other birds flew off at once, flapping their wings, climbing higher.
“There’s the dead cow, all right,” she said, putting the rifle down between us again. “Don’t tell anyone I shot that buzzard, it’s against the law. They look too much like eagles, and a lot of mistakes are made. Eagles are protected, you know, an endangered species. We’ll have to haul that carcass away, I don’t want them coming down after any new calves.”
“Is this where the cows give birth?” I asked. “Right here on the pasture?”
“Oh, sure. Unassisted, it’s not like with racehorses. We lose some of them when they’re calving, but not many. They’re pretty good at it,” she said, and smiled. “You plan on going into the cattle business, Mr. Hope?”
“All my questions, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“It’s another world to me, forgive me. Am I being too curious?”
“Not at all. But you’d do better in the money market, if you’re looking for an investment. My son was going into real estate, is that right?” she asked, abruptly shifting the topic. Or perhaps the word “investment” had triggered the association.
“Yes,” I said. “Tell me, first, was he actually twenty years old? He showed me his driver’s license, but—”
“Twenty, yes,” she said, “just. And I’m fifty-seven. Was that going to be your next question?”
I blinked.
“An elderly person,” she said, and smiled.
“Hardly,” I said.
“I sometimes feel like a hundred and fifty-seven.”
“You look much younger.”
“Than a hundred and fifty-seven?”
“Than—whatever you said you were, which I’ve already forgotten.”
“I thank you, sir,” she said, and nodded curtly.
“In any case,” I said.
“In any case,” she said.
“If your son was twenty, then the contract he s
igned is legally binding. And, I’m sorry to tell you, it’s legally binding on his estate as well. I understand you’re a widow—”
“Yes. My husband died two years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He was very ill for a very long time. Cancer,” she said flatly. “You mentioned on the phone that Jack had bought this piece of land, was in the process of buying the land—”
“Yes, a farm. Not very far from here, actually. A bit farther east, toward Ananburg.”
“A farm,” she said.
“Yes.”
“What the hell would he want with a farm?”
“It’s a snapbean farm.”
“My son, the bean farmer,” she said.
“Apparently he—”
“Apparently he was a jerk,” Mrs. McKinney said. “How much was this farm costing him?”
“Forty thousand dollars.”
“What!” she said.
“Yes.”
“Where did he plan to—forty thousand, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“That’s impossible. No,” she said, and shook her head. “Are you sure about that figure?”
“I drew the contract myself, Mrs. McKinney. That was the purchase price. Forty thousand dollars.”
“I can’t imagine it,” she said.
“He put down a deposit of four thousand,” I said.
“He gave you four thousand dollars?”
“For the bank to hold in escrow, yes. Until the closing.”
“Then his check was no good. I know for a fact that Jack—”
“It wasn’t a check. It was cash.”
“Cash!” Her eyes opened wide again. They did, in fact, look gray, no matter what she said their actual color was. “How could Jack...? This is all unbelievable. Where would he...?” She was shaking her head again. “Jack simply did not have that kind of money.”
“He was renting a condo on Stone Crab,” I said. “And from what I understand—”
“I was paying for that condo, Mr. Hope. Mama McKinney. My son Jack barely squeaked through high school with a C-minus average. Even if any college in the United States would have been crazy enough to accept him, he wouldn’t have gone. I kicked him off the ranch because he couldn’t even learn to brand a calf properly, much less sit a horse. Tennis is what he loved, my son Jack. Big tennis player. Could ace you out of your mind, my Jack.” She sighed heavily. “I figured it was better to have him out of my hair on Stone Crab someplace. Pay for the apartment, give him a little spending money every month...” She shook her head again. “But four thousand dollars? In cash? Impossible. No.”
“It’s what he gave me, Mrs. McKinney. It’s still in escrow with the Tricity Bank in Calusa. If you like, I can show you—”
“I believe you,” she said. She was silent for several moments, and then she asked, “Where did he expect to get the balance? Had he planned on coming to Mama?”
“Apparently that was no problem. He said he’d have the thirty-six thousand at the closing.”
“Mr. Hope, you are absolutely flooring me, do you realize that? Are you saying that a bank was willing to lend a tennis bum thirty-six—”
“He was already in possession of the money, ma’am. He told me he had it in cash.”
“In cash? And please don’t ‘ma’am’ me, I’ll really feel like an old lady. How old are you, anyway?”
“Thirty-eight,” I said.
“Young whippersnapper,” she said, and smiled. “Get into fist-fights and everything, don’t you? Bet your knees are all scraped up, too. Who really beat up on you, Mr. Hope?”
“Two cowboys in a bar.”
“Leave it to cowboys,” she said, and rolled her eyes the way her daughter had earlier.
“So,” I said.
“So,” she said.
“Mr. Burrill—”
“Who’s Mr. Burrill?”
“The seller. The man who contracted to sell fifteen acres of farmland, together with all buildings, improvements, machinery—”
“To Jack’s estate, as it turns out.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“For forty thousand dollars.”
“Yes.”
“Thirty-six of which is still due.”
“At the closing,” I said.
“I don’t know of any estate Jack left,” she said. “I’ll have to talk this over with my lawyer.”
“Of course. You might mention to him that Mr. Burrill’s attorney has indicated he’ll bring suit if the estate refuses to honor your son’s contractual obligation.”
“Suit against whom? Me?”
“No, the estate. There’s no way you can be held personally responsible by virtue of being related to your son. I’m assuming you’d be the personal representative of his estate, but you’d best check that with your lawyer, too.”
“How long do we have on this?”
“We were supposed to close early next month. As soon as the title search and the other necessary...”
“Why’d Jack get me into this stupid mess?”
“He wanted to be a farmer,” I said.
“That’s like wanting to be a shepherd!”
“Well, talk it over with your lawyer. Please understand, Mrs. McKinney, I’m not taking an adversary position here. I was representing your son in this transaction, not Mr. Burrill.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll call Erik as soon as we get back to the house. Those are our pens over on the left, would you like to take a look?”
She pulled up the Jeep before a wooden fence that enclosed a labyrinthine maze of narrow, mud-churned passages similarly enclosed, a series of fences within fences.
“This is where we work the cows,” she said. “You’ve come at a quiet time of the year, most of our activity is in the spring and the fall. In August, what we do mostly is mend the cross-fences between the pastures, chop down the thistle, burn off the palmettos—like that. We’ll work the cattle some, too—pregnancy testing, semen testing, and so on—but that’s on an as-needed basis. In August it’s mostly maintenance, a sort of holding action till October and November.”
“Do you have one of these pens in each of the pastures?” I asked.
“No, this one serves the whole ranch. We drive the cows over and put ’em in a crevice—that’s a small pasture, not a crack in a rock—the night before, and then pen ’em the next morning. Work one herd at a time that way.”
“By work—”
“Well, unless you’ve got all day,” she said, “it’s really too complicated to explain.”
I felt I had been mildly discouraged from asking any further questions. There was a short, awkward silence.
“This contraption here is the squeeze chute,” she said, “holds the cows while we’re working them.”
I was looking at what appeared to be an instrument of torture, with sloping metal sides fashioned of three-inch-thick steel bars, and a curved metal plate that looked like the headrest on a guillotine. Above the mechanism was a row of levers with black plastic knobs on them.
“Herd them in from where we unload them,” she said, and reached up for one of the black knobs. “I’m not too good at operating this thing,” she said, “the cowboys usually do it.” She pulled one of the levers down. The spread metal sides of the chute began closing. “It catches the cow in there and holds her fast,” she said. “There’s no way even a dozen men could hold a seven-hundred-pound cow when you’re drenching her or trying to find out if she’s pregnant. This one,” she said, and reached up for another lever, “lowers or raises the head—I think.” She pulled on the black knob, and the guillotine headrest at the front end of the chute began rising. “Yep,” she said, “that’s the one. Handy little machine,” she said. “Man who invented it probably makes more money than all the cattle breeders in the world put together. Shall we head on back to the house, Mr. Hope? I’ll give Erik a call, ask him how he thinks we should proceed. Erik Larsen,” she said, “do you know him?
Of the law firm of Petersen, Larsen, and Rasmussen—all of Danish extraction, I would assume.”
“I know the firm,” I said. “I don’t know him personally.”
“Nice man,” she said, “and a good lawyer. Looks like I’ll need one if this farmer plans to sue, huh?”
We got into the Jeep again. She backed it away from the fence, and then turned and drove onto another muddy side road. I realized all at once that we were making a big circle around the ranch. Drainage ditches ran alongside either side of the road. A small alligator, basking on the grassy bank, turned tail and splashed into the ditch.
“The gators’ll sometimes prey on our young calves, we’ll have a sickly one every now and then. But for the most part they’re harmless. Buzzards are the chief predators to worry about. Unless you consider disease a predator. There’s plenty of that,” she said.
“Is there?” I asked cautiously, remembering her curt reply to my earlier question, and afraid she would tell me that this, too, was “complicated.”
It was.
When they were working the cows—I still didn’t know what “working” them meant—in the spring and the fall, they vaccinated for blackleg, pasturella, and malignant edema, the vaccine usually administered in a triple dose subcutaneously. A must vaccination for heifers they hoped to breed was for brucellosis or Bang’s disease—“I don’t know who Bang was,” Mrs. McKinney said. “Probably a vet who couldn’t spell brucellosis.” The disease caused infertility, and since a “cow-calf lady” (as she called herself) was in the business of breeding cattle, Bang’s disease was a dreaded nemesis. Cancer eye was another severe problem, especially in Herefords, who sunburned badly around the eyes because of their white faces. This was treatable with silver nitrate, she explained, but even so, the cow would eventually lose the eye. “Angus don’t suffer from it,” she said. “Black is beautiful.” They vaccinated against leptospirosis, which could cause a cow to abort or prolapse (“That’s when everything hangs out the rear end,” she said, “and you lose the unborn calf”). Leptospirosis was highly infectious, as was scours, a form of diarrhea.