Killer Moves: The 4th Jolene Jackson Mystery (Jolene Jackson Mysteries)

by Paula Boyd

  I really missed my daddy—biology realities didn’t change that. Still, he’d been a part of the big lie too—the writing and rewriting of my history—and that made me angry. I’d had no say in any of it, and yet I somehow felt guilty for all of it. There was no logic in it, and I wasn’t going to magically discover any in the garage, so I packed up those tail-chasing thoughts and focused on unloading the car.

  It went faster than I’d expected, and after a second quick shower, I was on my way to even more unhappy reality unraveling in Redwater Falls.

  On the short trek out of the neighborhood and onto the highway, I kept thinking about the property. In fact, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And even before I could really see the intersection with Turkey Ranch Road, my foot was on the brake, slowing down to turn. I don’t know why—I had a long list of reasons not to—but something pushed me forward. And within seconds, I was nearing the gate of “The Big House.”

  I’d decided on the new moniker for the house on the hill while in the shower. I couldn’t keep calling it Bob Little’s house and I wasn’t ready to call it mine yet either, not to mention that the backhanded prison implication was amusing. Besides, at nearly 6,000 square feet, the place was plenty big in my book so the name fit. It was also a better choice than the runner up, which was “creepy house filled with stuff from dead people I didn’t know.”

  The big iron entry gate was open, just as it had been before when I’d stood by the road with Lucille. Unlike then, there were no crowds, TV cameras or emergency equipment. The foreboding feeling, however, was still sort of the same. And yet, as I drove under the massive namesake archway onto the sprawling estate, I couldn’t help but find the incongruity amusing. I was going to The Big House at The Little Ranch. It was good for a laugh, forced as it was. More importantly, it was a nice distraction from the building apprehensive about following through with my impromptu visit.

  The driveway up to the house was two lanes of asphalt that was bigger and better than the county road at the bottom of the gate. It was smooth and black, and from the smell, freshly sealed. It ran along the right edge of the plateau as it meandered upward.

  Clusters of big trees covered the interior area, along with lush landscaped beds of shrubs and flowers. The rest of the grounds looked like a manicured golf course. Some serious bucks had been spent creating this, not to mention maintaining it. I felt like I’d stepped out of the real world into a hidden oasis—a private estate seen by few—oh, wait, I had.

  Now that I thought about it, I suppose I’d been expecting a rundown retro-themed nightmare—a 1970’s dilapidated flattop house surrounded by overgrown mesquites and scraggly weeds. I couldn’t see the house yet, but if the “yard” was any indication, I’d been totally wrong. About everything. In fact, the higher I climbed, the more the whole place felt, well, sort of palatial, like a grand castle on a rocky cliff—flatland Texas-style, of course.

  The road curved around to the left at the top of the hill, presumably toward the house. The increasing rise in elevation gave me an expansive view of the surrounding area to the north along the highway and a growing view west toward Kickapoo. I couldn’t see anything to the south, but if the ranch boundaries were what I could see on this side, the place was beyond huge.

  To my right, acres and acres of fenced pastureland, complete with livestock, stretched all the way to the highway. In front of me, toward Mother’s house, were fields with of scrub mesquites with large patches of bare red dirt. Dozens of pump jacks and clusters of storage tanks dotted the area. I couldn’t see any of the large white splotches that showed up on the aerial photos—the salt flats I remembered from my youth—but they were there somewhere. They hadn’t magically disappeared from the surface any more than the toxic waste had vanished from beneath it.

  However, that was the least of my worries at the moment, because racing up to me was an ATV. And the man driving it had a shotgun pointed at my face.

  “Oh, shit!” I slammed on the brakes and raised my hands above my head. I didn’t know if he could see me behind the windshield, but I gave a shaky little pageant wave and theatrically mouthed an obligatory, “Don’t shoot!” I’m pretty sure I said other desperately appropriate things too, none of which he could have possibly heard.

  Something must have worked, though, because he lowered the gun and propped the butt end on his thigh as he sped toward me. Jerking to a stop a few feet from my door, he killed the four-wheeler, tucked the shotgun under his arm and motioned for me to roll down the window.

  With a racing heart and unsteady hands, I did. “I’m Jolene. Jolene Jackson.” Yes, I said it that way on purpose to save him the time and trouble. “I’m…”

  “I know who you are. Saw your Colorado plates. You weren’t supposed to be here today.”

  Apparently, there were a lot of people keeping up with my whereabouts and schedule, including the old guy in the straw cowboy hat and plaid shirt in front of me I’d never met before. “I was on my way to town to meet with Mister Vanderhorn and thought I’d stop by here first.”

  “Coulda been your last stop too,” he said, staring me in the eye. “Ed gave orders that no one is allowed up here without his approval.”

  “Yes, well, I…”

  “Except you, of course.” He took a drag on a cigarette that had been dangling from his lips then crushed it against his boot. He flicked the butt into a cup on the ATV. “You own the place.”

  Having been preoccupied with the 12-gauge in his hands, I hadn’t noticed the cancer stick in his mouth or the thick mustache above it. I had noticed the glare in his eyes, which hadn’t changed. To say that he was making me uneasy severely understates the situation. I hoped he just had a quirky personality and was really a heart-of-gold curmudgeonly type that would soon be my best friend like in the movies. However, his narrowed eyes and irritated growl as he stowed the weapon in its special rack by his seat indicated otherwise. He was seriously pissed off and I wasn’t sure if it was due to my mere presence or that he hadn’t gotten to use the gun. Yes, both was my guess too.

  Turning back toward me, the man took off his hat, gave a slight bow and said evenly and almost pleasantly. “Clovis Stovall, at your service.”

  His change in demeanor was obvious, presumably because it dawned on him that I would be signing his paychecks at some point and it might behoove him to be civil to me.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mister Stovall,” I said, smiling as if he hadn’t just had a gun pointed in my face. “Are you the caretaker?”

  His eyes narrowed again. “Mister Stovall was my daddy. I’m Clove. The ranch manager.” Before I could respond to that, he was volunteering more information. “I’m sixty-nine years old, lived around here all my life and have been working this ranch since just before Miss Glenda passed away.” Clove paused, as if catching himself. “Guess you’ll get into all that soon enough.” He nodded up the hill. “May as well take the tour. There’s a circle driveway in front for guests. Drive around to the back. We’ll start there.”

  He hopped on the four-wheeler and cranked it up then spun around and zipped away.

  I rolled up my window and followed along, watching the ATV fly up the road. It seemed to me he was being a tad reckless with a giant cliff a few feet away, but it obviously wasn’t his first rodeo as it was mine.

  Within a few seconds, I was able to get a glimpse of the house through the foliage. At the crest of the hill, the front of The Big House came into view. Surrounded by trees, some of which looked like pecans, was a flat-roofed rambling ranch that seemed to sprawl out in every direction. A circular driveway arched up to the front door where a huge hotel-like covered area jutted out. Clove had already sped past the road that led up to the grand front entrance, so I kept going as directed.

  As I made the turn on the outer rim, I slowed down to take in the view again. The perspective was so unexpected and I just couldn’t stop staring.

  Thump. The wheel jerked in my hand. I snapped to attention, my heart insta
ntly racing and my mind screaming “We’re gonna die!” Yes, we—the me talking to myself and the me driving the car off the cliff, which is what my brain thought when the tire dropped off the asphalt.

  Scared straight, I dutifully followed the road around to the back since Clove and the four-wheeler were long gone. I looped around to the left again and dropped down into a wide flat open area that ran the length of the house, which I could now see was two stories on this side. At each end, attached twin garages formed a wide “U” shape around a large yard, flower gardens and patio area with a huge swimming pool. Sculptured rocks and rushing waterfall—a mini-replica of the one in Redwater Falls—provided a stunning focal point.

  I don’t know how long I sat there gawking, but a piercing whistle jolted me out of it. I snapped around to see Clove standing a few feet away, mentally telegraphing an “Are you coming or not?” message.

  Not. Definitely not. I was not getting out of the car, and yet I couldn’t name a specific reason why. The luxurious setting had been a shock, no question about that. It didn’t fit into any reality I imagined could exist around here, but here it was. And that impossible reality was nothing compared to the plethora of realities lurking inside, waiting to rock my world. I was not going into that house. Not now. Maybe not ever. I rolled down the window and motioned Clove over. When he was close enough to hear. “I really don’t have time for this today,” I said, keeping my face and voice as neutral as possible. “I’ll come back when I don’t have other appointments scheduled.”

  Clove stared for a few seconds longer than seemed necessary. “Suit yourself,” he said flatly. He reached into his back pocket for his billfold then he pulled out a card and handed it to me. “Call first.”

  Chapter 5

  On my way down the hill, I came up with a variety of scenarios for the “Come to Jesus” meeting I was going to have with my resident ranch manager, Mr. “Call First” Clovis, none of which he would like even a little.

  For about the four thousandth time, I wondered what heinous karmic crimes I’d committed that kept me tethered to turmoil in my old hometown. Drama and confrontations are not my thing, which was a major factor in my failure as an investigative reporter. And, other than an occasional altercation with trespassers or wayward wildlife, my real life in Colorado is pretty peaceful. So, I just can’t see how any of the ridiculous stuff that happens here is my fault—Law of Attraction bullshit notwithstanding. I just don’t buy that I’m sending out invisible “Please drag me back to Kickapoo so I can be tortured” vibes. That said, I can’t argue with the possibility that some lingering latent subconscious childhood crap is involved here—God knows it is and its name is Lucille.

  Now, I know that my mother did not deliberately intend to turn my life upside down when she laid the groundwork for this latest fiasco over forty years ago. Nevertheless, she had, and day one was not showing any signs of improving matters.

  I stopped beneath the entryway arch and glanced in the mirror even though I knew I couldn’t see the fancy house on the hill. The mid-century modern masterpiece would be right at home in the ritzy Hollywood hills. Only it wasn’t in California, it was in Texas—Kickapoo, Texas—and things were never what they seemed at first glance. And from the way it had felt, I couldn’t find a single thing to be doing the happy dance about anytime soon.

  My mind continued to twist and turn on itself, but it wasn’t generating anything productive, so I pulled back onto Turkey Ranch Road and headed north toward the highway.

  Reaching the stop sign, I diligently looked both ways. Seeing a break in traffic, I looked back to the left a second time. That’s when I noticed a bronze pickup truck facing head-in toward the fence a few hundred yards away. Since the truck wasn’t nose-first in the deep drainage ditch that ran along the highway, I presumed it was parked on the entry to a gate—a gate that my view from above had just established as to being on my new estate lands. So, instead of heading to Redwater, I pulled onto the highway back toward Kickapoo to check it out.

  I figured it was someone working with the oil and gas production equipment, which I knew nothing about yet, so I didn’t intend to stop. Still, getting a general description of the truck and driver before meeting with Vanderhorn could help start connecting the dots on all the various facets of things going on here.

  As I drove past, I saw a large man in a ball cap standing in front of an extended-cab pickup, unlocking the gate. And then, he shoved the gate back and kicked it with his foot.

  Now, don’t ask me why it annoyed me so much or why I did what I did next, because I really don’t know. Maybe it was my lingering irritation over the Clovis Stovall episode, or maybe it was a budding feeling of protectiveness over the ranch. Or, maybe, I just sensed trouble to come and figured we might as well get to it. Whatever the case, I honked my horn—twice—then made a U-turn and headed back for a personal introduction.

  By the time I got there, the man was standing with his hands on his hips—no small feat considering the bulk hanging over the top of his belt trying to prevent it. He looked to be a little over six feet tall and probably tipped the scales somewhere near three hundred pounds. Health conscious types would say he had a wheat belly. My friend Bob would have diagnosed him with a bad case of “Dickie-doo Disease,” meaning that his belly stuck out farther than his…yes, well, you get the idea. It was a dumb thing to have pop into my head, and while the judgmental assessment was a distraction, it was only a momentary one. I put the car in park and thought about what to do.

  I wasn’t even officially in town yet and I was just seconds away from my second unpleasant encounter. I couldn’t even say I hadn’t asked for it, because I had. Why, I didn’t know. I do not go looking for trouble—really I don’t—but this morning, I’d homed in on it like a bloodhound. And now that the trouble was scowling at me, ready to pounce.

  Besides the scrunched up face, the man wore a light blue knit shirt, jeans and rubber muck boots. Tufts of unnaturally dark hair peeked out from beneath a white ball cap with the letters “WEI” stitched across the front. His hair was definitely dyed, and so was the Van Dyke beard-moustache thing circling his mouth. With apologies in advance to the late actor, the man looked like a puffy caricature of Rip Torn, without the Men in Black suit, of course.

  A movement inside the cab of the truck caught my attention. A smaller man with pale skin and a tan safari-style hat peered out the passenger side window like a startled animal. I couldn’t really tell much about him, but his demeanor—and the fact that he wasn’t getting out of the truck—told me he was a subordinate to the man at the gate. I didn’t get a good feeling about him either, but for a different reason.

  I stepped out of the Tahoe onto a grassy gravel area. I was very grateful I’d worn jeans and real shoes since the place was certain to be crawling with blood-sucking chiggers. It also looked like it might be infested with lecherous old men.

  The man’s scrunched up scowl had morphed into a half-smile with red cheeks. I couldn’t tell if he was leering at me or mad because I had stopped, or maybe something else entirely. Whatever the case, the uneasy vibe was perfectly clear. Who was sending it wasn’t.

  “Doctor Richard Waverman, PhD, hydrogeologist,” he said, answering my unspoken question authoritatively, arrogantly and redundantly. “I am president and CEO of Waverman Environmental Incorporated, and the primary consultant in charge of this project.” Then, he looked down his nose at me, chastising and leering all at the same time. “You weren’t supposed to be here today, Misses Jackson.”

  Oh, come on. Was there anyone who didn’t know my name and presumed itinerary? And had he just called me “Mrs.”? Before I could correct him on that, he stuck out his hand. “Good to meet you.”

  I gave his hand a quick firm shake. “It’s Miz,” I said just as firmly. I considered bringing him up to date on the post-Victorian nonsexist new world order, but I had the feeling there would be many more opportunities. “It’s good to meet you as well, and I do understand that y
ou weren’t expecting to meet with me. However, I’m on my way to meet with the attorneys to start the management transition process, so having a face to put with the name will be helpful.”

  Waverman straightened his shoulders and grunted, kind of like a bull ready to paw the dirt and charge. The reality of having to work with me—for me—was sinking in and he didn’t much like it.

  “We’ll need to meet in the next day or two,” I said, “so you can bring me up to speed on things, the extent of the contamination, regulatory compliance requirements, any citations or pending enforcement actions, that sort of thing.” That I knew such words seemed a shock to him. “And, of course, we’ll need to discuss the details of your plans for mitigation and remediation.”

  Waverman bobbed back as if I’d punched him. Catching himself, he recovered quickly, planted his feet and puffed out of his chest. “Yes, well, now,” he said, with a condescending “you poor dumb thing” tone. “You need to understand that this is a very complex and complicated project, Misses Jackson, and you”

  “It’s Miz,” I repeated, using the reminder to interrupt his forthcoming condescension—and it was definitely forthcoming. I smiled with my mouth, but not my eyes. “As I’m sure you can appreciate, Doctor Waverman, this property, along with all the activities and personnel on it, are ultimately my legal and fiscal responsibility. I take that very seriously and will make decisions accordingly.”

  He shifted from side to side, frowning, but said nothing.

  No problem. I had plenty to say. “I’ll be getting copies of all the reports from Ed today and will review those tonight. That should give me a general idea on where we are at this point. You can give me the specifics. If there are additional test results, data, regulatory interactions or other information that you haven’t sent to Ed, please bring copies for me to our meeting.”