Cutter arched his eyebrows, spoke with condescension. "That's the way the law works."
Grover renewed his struggle to get free, one arm flailing, but the men kept him contained. "You knew it was wrong."
"I know his leaving cuts into your drug selling. It didn't help me either. I think he might have been good for another four or five cases."
Grover fought his other arm free, giving him leverage to move toward Cutter again, dragging one man with him. Two others rose to recapture their friend.
The bell over the door clanged as Sheriff Ledbetter entered. He scanned the situation. "What's going on?"
"We were taking Grover out for a walk." One of the farmers pushed him toward the door.
Grover allowed himself to be led out. Cutter took a seat next to Will as the commotion died. The sheriff motioned for Sarge to join him at the coffee pot. While they talked, Sarge pointed at Cutter. Ledbetter must have accepted the explanation, since he ambled up to claim Grover's vacated chair. In minutes, conversations had resumed.
"Good morning."
Will turned. Cutter was addressing him. Up close, he reeked of cheap aftershave. Porcine eyes squinted from beneath fleshy brows. Stiff bristles of black hair waved from ears the size of mud flaps.
"You're Dr. Will Kill, I mean Kilpatrick, right?"
Will nodded, at a loss for words. It had taken a week to communicate with nods with the locals. Being regarded as an acquaintance of Cutter would cost him any conversational credibility he had gained. To cover frustration at the use of the nickname, he spread jam on a piece of toast that had been crammed into his grits, ruining it. He had given explicit instructions each morning. Please don't cram the toast into the grits. Not once had the request been honored.
"Thought so. You fit the description my clients gave me." Cutter paused. "You are acquainted with Bill Causey? And Stu Glassing? And Ron Simpson"
People would have to be deaf as a rock not to hear Cutter's chainsaw voice. "I've met them, yes."
"You've met Causey at least long enough to kill his horse. And to do likewise with one of Mr. Glassing's finest cows. Not sure what to think about the Simpson horse." Cutter flinched when Will swiveled to stare at him. He raised thick hands. "That's according to them. I realize there are always two sides to any story."
"What are you saying?" Will whispered, a knife of fear stabbing his mind as conversations tailed to an end.
"Let's say they've suffered significant loss and we're exploring avenues of restoring said losses." Cutter's eyes, hard as agates, bulged as meaty lips puckered into a semblance of a smile.
A briar of fear pricked his heart. Twisted around his throat. Tightened. "Are you saying they're suing me?"
Cutter seemed taken aback, shaking his head. "That's such a prejudicial term, Dr. Kilpatrick, that it grieves me to employ it at this stage. Lets call it a fishing trip."
"Lets call it a waste of time." He continued spreading jam on the toast. "They're well aware of what caused their animals to die. Causey was there when I did the necropsy. Glassing saw it too."
Cutter's jowls lifted in a frown. "That would place a different perspective on the matter. Could I see the pictures confirming your diagnosis? That would remedy the matter. It would make my trip a waste of time, of course, but I'd rather see justice done than see someone falsely accused."
"I didn't take any pictures. The evidence spoke for itself. They both agreed."
Cutter leaned back, crossed thick arms over a shirt stretched to its limits. "Hmm. That certainly complicates things. Without any more substantiation than that, it's your word against their's. I've known them for a long time and find them to be honorable. Upstanding citizens in this community. Same for Mr. Simpson."
"Saying I'm not?" Will tried to ignore the baited statement as he felt his face redden.
"You're far too imaginative, young man. I presume you carry malpractice insurance."
"Looking for deep pockets, right? Or some kind of settlement?"
Cutter covered his heart with a hand. "I take offense at that. I'm merely looking for justice. They've both suffered a substantial loss. Monetarily and emotionally. Money won't solve all the problems, but it's a start. In some ways, they have to put their life back together."
"How much are they asking?" Will put the toast down since he had scraped a hole in it smeared jam on his hand. He grabbed a napkin.
"Six hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for Mr. Causey's horse."
Will gasped, dropping his voice as heads turned to listen. "What? Did he win the Kentucky Derby?"
Several people overheard the sharp reply and tittered, stopping only when Cutter swung his gaze to them.
"No. But his bloodline goes clear back to Roy Rogers' horse Trigger. Remember Trigger?"
Will tucked his chin. "He sure didn't look like Trigger. Not even the same breed."
"That's a fact, but it's a fact that doesn't mean squat in a wrongful death suit. You may want to touch base with your insurance carrier today. When they hear the evidence, they'll probably give you a lecture, send you some textbooks about horses, send Bill a sympathy card and a check. And up your premiums."
Will looked at Cutter, emotions racing fifty directions at once. The cowbell's clatter drew his attention. Causey and Glassing and Simpson walked in. Their faces were harder than Mt. Rushmore. The entire room focused on the drama. For once, he appreciated slow service. His stomach was not a suitable environment for food.
Cutter waved them over. They took seats beside him. "Good morning, gents. How are you doing? Have you been able to get some sleep after talking with your psychiatrists? Hope you don't have to stay on the medicines long. Be sure to keep all those receipts."
"I'm still seeing Lightning in my dreams." Causey chewed his lower lip and wrung his hands. He avoided Will's eyes. "Never dreamed a man could miss a horse this much. The wife is wrought up as well."
"Y'all might need counseling for some time." Cutter patted Causey's knee. "These things take time."
Causey nodded, staring at his feet. "Can't eat either. Belly's all in knots."
"Mine, too." Glassing's voice sounded weak.
Simpson sighed and shook his head. "My kids are having nightmares."
"This isn't the place to get over an upset stomach. If the food doesn't get you, the company might." Cutter patted Causey's knee again. "Y'all coming in saves me a trip. Things are looking good. You've got an airtight case. His insurance company will settle out of court. That'll save everyone a lot of trouble." He cut his eyes to Will, patted him on the thigh. "And further embarrassment. Guess it's been hard, trying to fill your uncle's shoes and having messes like this right off the bat. I understand there have been other mishaps. Liza Hall's dog being one."
"Nobody said anything about settling out of court." Will clenched his jaws. Last night's sense of being called to the Springs, maybe to Liza, began to fade during what amounted to a trial in front of the community. Maybe it was God's way of telling him to contact Auburn, say he would arrive tomorrow.
"Don't be getting your knickers in knot, son." Cutter turned his attention to his clients. "Looks like Doc doesn't want to do this the easy way." He swung to face Will. "We admire your conviction, even though we disagree. So don't take what we have to do personally." He looked over at the men. "When do you want to file charges, guys? I can tell you from experience, the healing process won't start until you do."
The right side of Causey's face yanked down in a frown. He swiveled on the stool to face the room, crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back on the counter. He rubbed his chin and traded a glance with Glassing and Simpson. "We've talked it over and thought the first of April would be good. How does that sound to you, Doc? April Fool's Day suit you?"
Hoots of laughter echoed through the room. He stared straight ahead, relieved and embarrassed to have been completely hoodwinked. The community's perception of him hung on his response. Sarge watched from the kitchen, tears running down his thick face as he
braced on the counter, gasping for breath.
Will shook his head before taking a resigned peek over his shoulder. Some were doubled over, gripping their stomachs. Others daubed their eyes or massaged their cheeks. The cowbell rang. Grover and his escorts entered, each taking an elaborate bow to the applause of the patrons.
Grover crossed over to where Will sat and tapped him on the shoulder. "On behalf of the regulars, welcome to the Springs."
"Sorry about the other morning." Causey, head angled, extended a hand. "I get a bit edgy sometimes." He turned to address the room. "I want y'all to know that Doc knows his business. And he's fair."
Glassing nodded. "I'll second that."
"Me too." Simpson stuck his hand out. "Not fair for us to compare you to Dr. Bill. Or to call you Dr. Will Kill."
"Thanks." When would he learn to fret not? To lean not on his own understanding? To trust in God's speaking in a still, small voice.
"You've been a good sport, Doc." Sarge stepped up to the counter. "Breakfast is on the house. Can I get you anything else?"
Will looked over his shoulder. "I'd like to have one piece of toast that hasn't been baptized in grits."
Sarge snapped to attention and saluted. "Coming right up, sir."
Grover smacked Will on the shoulder. "Grab a chair and join us. Dr. Grits."
Thirty minutes later, Will stepped outside and scanned the vicinity. The square's beckoning arms called him into its embrace.
Kincaid's car sat in front of his office.
He made the short walk that would begin his new life in the Springs.
Chapter 37
He stepped onto the square and noticed a crowd, including a Nashville TV news team, gathered around Spivey's offices. Skeets waved him to join her. "You stay here with me for now. Look at that."
Large, spray-painted block letters covered a wall.
O + B
EQUALS
EPIPHANY
"There's a reporter here from TIME too."
"I met her last week."
"Not nice to withhold information from your partner. She wrote an article that just came out." She handed him a copy. "Take a look. The man is not going to be happy."
Spivey's Mercedes arrived while he scanned the cover. A picture of Otis, framed in a circle with a slash through it. Will Otis Spivey Grow Up and Act Like a Man? Illegitimate Children? Unsolved Murder?
Skeets continued to impale him with her stare. "What do you know about any of this? Don't put yourself in a situation where you're obstructing justice. I don't want to be the one to arrest you for withholding evidence."
"Last I heard, there wasn't any investigation." A car door opened, ominous in its precision.
Spivey climbed out, was led aside by a flummoxed Sheriff Ledbetter. They engaged in an energetic conversation, interspersed with pointing, quick flipping of magazine pages, looking over their shoulders, all the while growing more stern-faced. It appeared the article took him by surprise.
The crowd parted when they approached the building. A film crew busied themselves with their equipment. Cameras whirred and flashed. Spivey, a poster child for self-confidence, waved at them. "Be with you in a minute."
A newsman held out a microphone, trying to get a statement. "Have you seen the article in TIME? What did you think about it? Are any of the charges true? What does the writing on your wall mean?"
"I did a preliminary phone interview with their reporter last week. She didn't bother with sending me an advance copy. And I haven't seen the writing on the wall." People stepped aside so he could. His jaws clenched.
He looked around at the cameras filming his reaction, smiled bravely.
A lady stepped from the crowd where she had been standing. "Hello. I'm Stacy Carruthers from TIME. Can we finish our interview?"
"Not at this time." He turned from her to the other news people. "My staff will issue a statement later today. If you'll excuse me, I'm like many of my supporters, a common man trying to make a living. Have some cattle work for the rest of the day." He stomped into his private office, followed by the sheriff.
Will faced Skeets. "He's going to be in a great mood while I bleed his cows today."
She pressed a boot heel on his foot. "I'm in a worse one. Now level with me. Have you found out anything I should know? From what the article says, the sheriff could be involved too."
"I don't know enough for anyone to be charged with anything. If I find anything, you'll be my preferred point of contact."
"I'm trusting you won't make me look bad." Her hair flipped as she tossed her head and gave him a saucy grin. "And, just so you know, you're still my preferred point of contact. Ciao."
Chapter 38
Miss Effie met Will at the back door, all Monday morning busy ready to happen. He had decided not to mention having signed papers. She wouldn't be the first to know. "I need to make a phone call."
"There's a client waiting." She grabbed his arm, steered him to the exam room.
Lura Lee Myers stood there, foot tapping. Sixtyish, rapier thin, straight platinum blond hair framing a marathoner's gaunt face. Black tank top and slacks, silver sandals with stiletto heels. Glittery silver nail polish adorned blunt fingers that played with her beagle's ears.
"Do vets have to be confidential?" Her guttural voice surprised him.
"Yes, ma'am." What motivated the question? Her pet was in for an annual rabies booster. Nothing demanding secrecy.
"Good. So you'll not go blabbing all over town?"
"Ma'am, I haven't been here long enough to know anyone to blab to."
A slender smile twisted its way forward. "I'm PETTA."
Will stared at her, silent. He had envisioned someone in Earth Shoes and tie-dye shirt emblazoned with a peace sign. No makeup. Mousy hair. Not Whistler's Mother after a makeover.
He took a breath, tried to ignore the pulse pounding in his ears.
Her words spilled in a torrent. "My husband died a few months ago. Tractor turned over on him. Mashed him to death. We had a small farm. Livestock, some row crops." Fingers drummed the exam table. The dog turned, tried to lick them. "This is where it gets strange. Promise you won't tell a soul?"
"Unless you confess to killing Jimmy Hoffa. Then we've got a problem." He leaned back, clasped the counter to still his hands.
"The night after the funeral, I had some wine. Hadn't had any in twenty years. Along with some tranquilizers." She shook a finger at him. "You need to know I'm somewhat mystic. Crystals, yoga, that sort of thing. Anyhow, that night I had a vision." Dark eyes locked on his. "A huge hog in spandex tights. Hot pink with a matching beret. Spoke French, but I understood it fluently. It said my husband's accident came about because he exploited animals. Said I was an accomplice, but could be redeemed if I helped animals gain their natural freedom. So I started cutting fences, opening gates. I turned the 4-H chickens loose, spray painted the show cattle. I ordered pamphlets from a magazine and left them. And..." Her voice sputtered. A hard sigh slapped the air from her. "And I wrote a letter claiming PETTA killed your uncle. But it wasn't true. I was only trying to jump-start the movement. Give it some credibility. Show we were serious."
Will exhaled deeply into the charged air. "So PETTA had nothing to do with his death?"
"No. I heard about the accident on the radio and got the idea to send the letters. That was before I heard he crashed trying to miss a deer." Hands lifted in a shrug of disgust. "But I kept sending letters. It kept the cause visible." Thin shoulders shook under the load of a sigh. "I'm sorry for any grief it's caused you. I shouldn't have done it." Her lips twisted in a rueful grimace. "Will you forgive me?"
"You're not making this up?"
"Look at me." Long silver nails pointed at her clothing. "I'm not that creative. And since I painted the show cattle, I haven't done anything else. And I won't." She shuddered. "It was that evil wine."
"What about Otis Spivey's bull? Did you have anything to do with that?"
"Don't know what you're talking
about. Only cut some fences there. I think there's a nut out there copy catting me." She smiled. "Makes me sort of proud. I've written the paper, saying it's been a hoax."
"Thanks for telling me this."
"You didn't answer my question. Will you forgive me? It's agitated my nights, fretting about it."
"I forgive you." Saying the three words seemed so easy. Especially in light of the dark thoughts he had harbored.
"And you're not going to tell anybody? That it was me that done it?"
"No, ma'am." Who would believe him?
A full smile evicted the gaunt look from her face. "Thanks. I'll go now."
"But we didn't give Buttons his vaccination."
She stiffened. "And we're not going to either. I read that some vaccines have poison in them. I don't want Buttons catching the Alzheimer's. Doesn't have the best memory now." Before Will could argue, she scooped up the dog and left.
When Will returned to the front, Miss Effie thrust an envelope into his hand. "Found this taped to the back door. It's for you."
He opened it and pulled out a folded note.
Dr. Kilpatrick,
This is a warning. Like your late uncle, you are a cruel person exploiting animals for your own selfish gain. We believe any surgery you perform except those needed to save their life is an infringement on their basic rights. That includes spaying and neutering, docking tails, cropping ears, dehorning cattle. You get the idea. If you persist in those activities, you place yourself in danger of sharing the same fate as your uncle. Be a deer and do us all a big favor. For a happy planet, cease and desist immediately.
Best wishes,
PETTA
"Bad news?"
"I'm not sure." He folded the note, placed it in his shirt pocket. "Had you ever met Mrs. Myers that just left?"
"No. She told me she lives in Carthage. That's thirty miles from here."
"Do we have a Carthage phone book?"
"Somewhere. But she said she doesn't have a phone."
Will took the directory to his office, looked under Myers, didn't find a number matching her address.
X's and O's (Will Kilpatrick, DVM Mystery Series Book 1) Page 27