X's and O's (Will Kilpatrick, DVM Mystery Series Book 1)

by A. Carlock Maxwell DVM

  "What?"

  "I'll get it and you can look for yourself." She left, returned with a chart. "Maybe Dr. Bill charged him too much for something. He wasn't a mathematical genius. Always said he was scared he'd get to heaven's gate and have to solve a calculus problem before he could go in." She paused, tearing up.

  "It's okay to be sad, Miss Effie. You worked with him a long time."

  She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Anyway, Dr. Bill came in. Otis started mouthing. He always did. But it was different this time. Then they went outside. I didn't follow them, but I heard yelling."

  "Just Spivey?"

  "Both of them. Couldn't understand it though." She took a breath. "They didn't always get along. Their politics and religion differed. Like I said, they always argued."

  He reviewed the file. Most of Spivey's business revolved around large animal services. The last farm visit, several weeks ago, Uncle Bill had vaccinated eighty-two calves against brucellosis. Last Friday, the day before the accident, Spivey had stopped by for a refill of a long-standing prescription of Winstrol-V, an anabolic steroid, for an old horse. And a bottle of the pill form for an old dog. The math looked correct. The fees for services and the medications hadn't increased.

  The only thing that might be unusual was Momma's Little Baby notated on the top of the chart. Not next to an individual patient like on Gretchen's file. The initials beside it were smudged. Either BJ or PJ. Could they stand for Phyllis Johnson? She had seemed overly interested in the similar notation on Gretchen's file. And hadn't seemed to believe what he had told her.

  Will glanced up. "Is Gretchen a biter? She was coded Momma's Girl."

  Miss Effie straightened a crooked picture. "Never when I was around."

  "What about this?" He pointed to the Momma's Little Baby on Spivey's record. "Does he have a biting dog?"

  "No. Why all the questions? Has it got something to do with something?"

  Will plucked a stray eyelash, examined it. "I don't know that anything's going on."

  A deep sigh turned into admonishing uh-uh-uhs ascending like the musical scale. Her features melted into a pathetic clown face. "Your lack of trust is making my blood run thin."

  "Go down to the square and get you a bowl of poke sallet stew. That should sludge it up."

  "Not a bad idea." Her sassy retort ruined his sarcasm. "Vitamin C and antioxidants usually perk me up. More folks ought to take them. Wouldn't be dying so young."

  "I'm guessing Krispy Kremes will wipe out this generation."

  "Case in point. Heard on the morning obituaries that one of Dr. Bill's classmates died yesterday evening. Ted Hensley. Otis's cousin on his daddy's side. Lived away all these years. Came home to visit. Hadn't feel good in a while. Went to Dr. Dudley. Into the hospital. Five days later, died from cancer." Beady eyes invited him to argue. "Bet he wasn't taking supplements."

  "Is PJ's phone number on her record?"

  She leaned over, bracing her hands on the desk. "It is. But you'd best watch out for that little fox. Not the best family line. Dad left before she was born. Her sister, Barbara, she was good for Dr. Bill. But their mom is mean as a snake." When he started to speak, she held a hand up. "Not passing judgment. Just inspecting fruit. I'll leave you with it."

  "Do you ever try to be nice, Miss Effie?"

  "And what's that supposed to mean?"

  "Sometimes you're a bit snide."

  "I'm nice to clients. That's what counts." She pushed away from the desk. "I'm going. Got shopping to do on the way home.

  After she left, Will called PJ. Her answering machine indicated she was out for the evening. He left a message, asking to meet for supper tomorrow night.

  For now, he needed to get home and clean up. Skeets would arrive with supper at six. No time to make a dessert as he had planned. Maybe he still liked Oreos.

  Chapter 13

  Hunger pains steered Will into the parking lot at Momma's General Store in the Alpine community. The sign out front spoofed McDonald's. Over forty biscuits sold.

  Swaybacked steps groaned as he climbed them onto a worn plank porch. One each of every old tool ever made occupied it, along with five cane bottom chairs, a table with a faded checker board, an ancient church pew, and a brass spittoon filled with sawdust and crowned with a wreath of yellow jackets. Will noticed the campaign poster. Otis Spivey's picture within a big O, with a slash through it. An equally familiar bike propped against the Tennessean newspaper rack.

  Bonnie perched regally in her basket. Her tail throbbed when Will spoke to her. A small bell dinged, warm and inviting, when he pushed the screen door open.

  The store exhaled pungent aromas of a bygone era. Tingling smells of livestock feed, turpentine, and old smoke mingled with scents of homemade soap, candles, and fresh coffee. Oiled floors soaked up pale light slanting through the multi-paned windows, tinting the air with an amber hue.

  Yellow fly strips, thick with yesterday's carnage, dangled and rattled from a row of languidly spinning ceiling fans. A faded red Coke chest cooler and walls decorated with colorful metal signs touting obsolete products pointed back in time. From hog wormer to potted meat, Goo Goo Clusters to Goody's Headache Powders, common needs for man and beast filled the shelves. If Momma's didn't have it, a strong case could be made that you didn't need it.

  Before Will's eyes adapted to the diffuse light, he heard a hoarse voice hailing him, feet shuffling to meet him. As Bicycle Pete approached, Will was grateful for the ripe aromas in the old building. They might offset the effluvial curtain moving with the old man.

  "Did you see Bonnie, Doc? Spry as a chicken, she is. Never better." Pete turned and yelled to patrons parked at scattered tables. "This here's the dog doctor man I was telling y'all about. Figgered out what was ailing Bonnie right off, he did. Mainlined her with some drugs and she was better before three blinks. Never seen the like." He turned his attention back to Will. "You're up early and a long hike from home. Been making rounds, saving sick creatures, I suspect."

  Will moved past Pete toward the food bar. "Pulled blood samples from some horses for Coggin's testing. Thought I'd get a sack of world famous biscuits for breakfast."

  "This is the precise place. One of the reasons I visit my cousin here." He patted his stomach. His belly button winked like a hairy hog's eye. "Momma's biscuits made me the man I am today."

  A well-proportioned brunette, carrying her sensuality well into her mid-forties, stuck out her hand. Slightly graying curls wreathed a triangular face with high cheeks and a wearied smile. It was easy to see why Uncle Bill had been attracted to her. "I'm Barbara Johnson. Pete's told us all about you. And Bill always talked about you. What can I get you?"

  "A sack of biscuits and a stick of butter." He watched her write it down and hand it through to the kitchen. "You were engaged to Uncle Bill, right? And you're PJ's sister."

  She fussed with straightening the stack of receipts and pencils by the cash register. When her eyes met his, they glistened with tears. "Yes to both."

  Her despair reawakened his grief, tightened his heart. Both had been lifelong singles. The grief of waiting that long for a partner, then losing him, had to produce a unique grief. "I'm sorry for your loss. Could we talk about it? I have a few questions you could help me with."

  Slim fingers with chipped pink polish fiddled with a button on her blouse. Dark eyes scrambled between his and the seating area. "About all the rumors? Don't see any point in that. Leddy made it clear it was an accident. That's good enough for me."

  Will nodded, then spoke in a whisper. Her reply sounded too rehearsed. "So you don't-"

  A wan smile fell across her lips. "No."

  Will waited for someone beside him to refill their coffee before continuing. "But you don't know what I was going to say."

  A small shrug moved her shoulders. "Doesn't matter. The case is closed. I've had enough disappointment for three lifetimes. And I'm not looking to dig up any more trouble." Her voice sounded sadder than the low no
te on a saxophone. "I'm not going to say anything else."

  Grit scraped the floor when he shifted his weight. Pete stood off to the side, so he kept his voice down. "Dig up more trouble? What does that mean?"

  She fussed with a stray curl, obviously frustrated. "A figure of speech."

  "That's an attractive picture of Otis Spivey on the porch."

  She responded with an enigmatic smile. "We like it."

  "Guess you heard he and Uncle Bill had a big argument before the accident. Any idea what it was about?"

  "I wasn't there."

  Everything about her said she was dodging. "That wasn't the question. I asked if you knew what it was about." He waited for her to answer. Long seconds passed. "Maybe something connected to twenty-five years ago? Do you know anything about a football club within the football club? The Os?"

  A pale veil covered her face as she took a quick breath. She wrapped herself in a tight hug. Anxious eyes glanced around to be sure no one could overhear.

  "Barbara, are you okay?" He waited, distraught over her reaction. Here she was, grieving, while he played Sam Spade. Still, something had jerked into a knot. Her attention flew over his shoulder, glided to a halt a thousand miles away, perhaps in another lifetime. "Look, I' sorry..."

  The look she finally gave was paralyzing. An immense sadness, mixed with traces of fear and scorn, gave cold exactness to her words. "You can chase after rumors if you want to. But don't be surprised if people push back. I hope it doesn't cost you what it has me. That's all I've got to say. Now, go on. Be like Bill. Find a cause. Save the world. Rescue the damsel. Do it the cowboy way."

  The similarity of her precise words to Hensley's ambiguous ones hammered him. Try being a hero someday. What did he mean? Maybe he would. Maybe something needed saving. But what? Maybe this explained why he was in the Springs. He decided to pull back and hope for another time to talk. Three days wasn't even a start on grieving. Something had her scared. What? "Did you leave the rose in the graveyard?"

  She nodded, a sheen of tears moistening her eyes. For a moment, he expected her to say something else.

  "Order up," somebody in the kitchen yelled.

  "First order is on the house. Especially for almost family." Barbara wiped her eyes and slid the grease-stained sack of biscuits across the counter. "Come back for lunch sometime. We've got the best chicken fried steak and white gravy you'll ever pull up to. Sorry I have to cut this short, but I need to check on things in the kitchen." She patted his hand. "I'm sorry for your loss too. We'll make time to talk another day. It's all too fresh right now. I'm sure you understand." Darkened eyes appraised him. "My guess is, you're a lot like him. But, just so you know, I'm fine with the way things stand."

  He turned and headed for the door, unsure what had just been said. Time. He needed time to figure things out. Uncle Bill's argument with Spivey seemed to be more than their usual haranguing each other. What happened twenty-five years ago? Pete stepped into his path.

  "Be in to pay you on Friday." Standing at attention with his hand on his heart, Pete spoke the words like a pledge. He held up a Sentinel. "Looks like they didn't get the news about Dr. Bill in this issue. Probably missed their deadline. It'll be there next week, I betcha."

  Will left him in the murky dimness etched by points of light struggling through the windows. The screen door slapped behind him as he stepped onto the porch.

  Bonnie perked her nose up at the smell of biscuits leaking through the paper bag. He broke off a piece and offered it to her. With a butterfly's finesse, she took it from his hand.

  Will bowed slightly, walked down the steps to his truck.

  Since PJ hadn't returned his call last night, he called her at Dr. Dudley's and arranged to meet for supper. Besides getting some questions answered, it would give him a break from Skeets. Though their relationship, especially the mutual physical attraction, had been reborn the past two evenings, he wasn't sure they hadn't outgrown each other. Especially their dissimilar beliefs concerning God.

  Before he drove ten miles, the mobile rang. Another farm call in the vicinity. Flo Johnson's cow couldn't get up. PJ's mom, Miss Effie reminded him.

  ***

  The long, twisting drive, twin ruts canopied by mature hardwoods, led to a simple white farmhouse in the head of a hollow. The length of the front porch was edged by a line of faded Elm Hill Lard tins containing flowers that brushed the air with vibrant strokes of color.

  A taut lady in a longish, blue and white print dress and Reeboks came down the steps. Small hands pushed escaping sprigs of white hair back into the tight bun forming a knot on her head. Granny glasses and a hard mouth lent her the appearance of a retired librarian.

  She extended a hand. Her grip was firm and dry. "Flo Johnson. You must be Dr. Bill's nephew."

  "That's right. Miss Effie says you have a cow down."

  "Molly. She's my Jersey. Dropped her calf during the night. She can't get up. Lays there, her head all drawed back to her side." She rubbed her chin with a thumb. "I'd say it's milk fever. She's done it before. Back in the late fifties. Dr. Bill treated her."

  His stare was returned with a childlike smile. Had he misheard? "Uncle Bill was in high school then."

  She blinked as she studied his words. She rubbed her chin fast enough to raise a blister, then wiped a hand over her eyes. "Right. My mind gets tangled some days. Your uncle, he was fixing to marry my Barbara. Finally give Peej a dad. She lives in the little house." She pointed a finger at a small clapboard residence a hundred yard away. This far away, it appeared deserted. "You and me would have been kin. Could've had domino tournaments on Thanksgiving." She stopped, shook her head. "But he took it away. Just like they did before. Well, let's see to Molly." Tiny hand claps announced she was ready to go. "A heavy milker, she is. Grab your stuff and I'll take you to her."

  On the way, she fell silent and he struggled to match her pace. She had wire bands for legs.

  Will tried to decipher her comments, but failed, during the five minute walk that ended in a secluded emerald field. Robins raced through the grass, stopping every few steps, cocking their heads, then pecking the soft ground. At the pasture's edge, a bright creek released glitter into the air. The morning heat cooked up an earthy mix of fragrances.

  Molly lay in a slight depression. Her tan coat shone in the morning sun. A spindly-legged calf pushed against her head, encouraging her to rise and allow it to nurse. A check of her temperature revealed it lower than normal, the usual finding with milk fever, a lowered calcium level sometimes occurring in the first days after calving in high-producing dairy cows. "You're right, Mrs. Johnson. Milk fever."

  After restraining Molly's head to one side, Will inserted a needle into the cow's jugular and attached intravenous tubing to a bottle of calcium solution. It made a comforting glug-glug-glug sound as it began to flow. He inhaled spring's pungent breath as he looked around. His throat tightened. Laying in bed at night during childhood visits to Uncle Bill's, listening to the whippoorwills and katydids, he had starred in recurring heroic scenes such as this. Saving widows' cows. Little girls' puppies. He grunted, shoved the fantasies back into the dark recesses of a mental cave. Told himself again that it was okay if dreams changed. Despite Skeets's indignant proclamation that he was settling for less in academics, despite it seeming more.

  Southern treacle coated Mrs. Johnson's voice. "Good job hitting the vein. Sorry to hear about Dr. Bill."

  He crimped the tube to regulate the flow. Run the calcium too fast and the heart could be over-estimulated. Result, a dead cow. And failure outracing him back to the square, to be magnified on the main stage of the small town. Like the time in Goolsby's, except the blame would be all his this time. Like the nickname. "Thanks."

  "Don't worry. They'll get who did it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Otis Spivey. He did it."

  He looked up. She stood to the side, lips pooched, head nodding, arms crossed. Though she appeared to watch Molly, her eyes se
emed focused elsewhere. After her earlier misquote and disoriented reaction, she perhaps suffered from a degree of dementia. Conversation might be an adventure. "You think so?"

  "I do. About time they get him." She looked off towards the creek. Creases at the corners of her mouth sucked her lips downward. "Twenty something years is way too long. Things are already happening. Haven't you heard?"

  "I'm not sure." It seemed unlikely they were talking within the same decade. She appeared to see into a parallel universe. Tightness gripped his chest. Growing old wasn't always pretty. Enjoy today.

  A satisfied cackle escaped through a secretive grin. "Everybody will know. I heard voices. They have a plan."

  Though reluctant to engage in her discussion, he couldn't resist trying to untangle it. "Who has a plan?"

  She removed her glasses, wiped them on her dress sleeve. "It's like this. Those girls. Peej, she thinks I'm a bit touched. Makes me invisible. They'll see when things start happening." Knee popping, she stooped, rubbed Molly's back. "Don't care how big they get. They run into problems, they're still their momma's girls. Just like you'll always be your momma's boy."

  Her comment reminded him of the notations on PJ and Spivey's records. Were they linked? The rough sketch of the initial scenario seemed so outlandish he painted over it.

  The cow began to stir a bit. One ear flicked to discourage flies and she belched. Good signs. Will decreased the flow for the second half of the bottle. A buzzard's shadow passed over them. He looked up. You're not getting this one. "What did you mean about Spivey? What did he do?"

  Her look said he should have known the answer. "Killed him."

  "Killed who?"

  "Louis. My husband." She replaced the glasses, looked at him, apology carved into her expression. "I try to miss him sometimes. It's hard." Her hands fisted. "His drinking made our life rough. I had better luck getting him out of jail than into church. But he's finally coming home. Feel it in my bones."

  He felt awkward pursuing more information. He was nearly as confused as Flo. Was it Louis's finger laying on his nightstand? "Did they investigate?"