Chicken Scratch (The Sisters, Texas Mystery Series Book 1)

by Becki Willis

  Dreaming aside, Brash had work to do. Never mind that he worked last night’s shift and should be sleeping right now. A minor wreck along the highway tied up Officer Perry, as well as most of the fire department. Officer Schimanski was responding to a report of a suspicious person lurking around The Gold and Silver Exchange. Which left him to respond to the report of an unattended death here at Gleason’s Poultry Farm.

  Just a few hundred feet to the north, he mused as he stepped into the dank and putrid interior of the chicken house. Then the farm would fall under the county’s jurisdiction. But no, last year’s re-districting of the Naomi city limits —a blatant and obvious effort to outrank their rival town’s population— landed the farm within his responsibilities. So much for a nap.

  Even with the lights turned up, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the interior lighting. Over the tops of fluffy white feathers and through the haze of dust that seemed to always inhabit the houses, Brash could see a figure at the back of the long structure. Judging from the rig outside, his guess was Cutter Montgomery. A good kid, the police chief thought, always ready and eager to help. Let’s see what he found this time.

  Halfway down the house, Brash decided being an over-worked, under-paid, sleep-deprived public servant was still a far sight better than being a chicken farmer. Even without the smell, the noisy din of thousands of clucking birds was enough to drive him to drinking. A few more feet, and he got a whiff of another kind of odor. The undeniable stench of death immediately reminded him that his own career was hardly glamorous.

  “What have we got?” he called out when he came within hearing range of the other man.

  Cutter Montgomery turned to acknowledge the officer’s presence. “Ronny Gleason. At least, I think that’s who it is. Kind of hard to tell, considering.”

  Stepping over the fence with an easy stride, Brash deCordova crouched beside the badly damaged body. Using the antenna of his hand-held radio, he gingerly pushed and pulled at the dead man’s shirt, trying to determine if there were any obvious signs of foul play. No bullet holes, but slashes from a knife could be easily confused with slashes from chicken claws.

  “I’d say it’s definitely Ronny,” he agreed as he eyed the body. “Good idea with the fence, by the way, even though the damage has already been done. So who found the body?”

  “New worker.” With a thumb, he motioned toward the end door which still stood ajar. “Losing her breakfast, as we speak.”

  “Her?”

  “Yeah, but to give her credit, she hung in there longer than I expected. She’s been a real trooper, helping me section off this area and keeping the birds away. I know a lot of men who couldn’t have done what she did.”

  “You’d need an iron stomach, that’s for sure,” Brash muttered. He lifted his wrist to his nose and breathed against it, hoping to dilute the reek of death laced with ammonia and wet litter. He could not recall ever smelling something quite so repulsive. Ignoring his own stomach’s protest, he studied the body for a few moments longer. “As far as I know, Ronny was in good health. How old do you figure he was?”

  The fireman shrugged. “I think he was younger than my dad, so late forties, maybe? About your age, I’d say.”

  Brash pulled to his feet and did his best to stare down at the younger man. Given the fact they were both within an inch of six feet tall, the attempt was not as effective as he hoped. He resorted to a glare. “Just how old do you think I am, boy?”

  Unfazed, the younger man grinned cockily. “Old enough to consider me a boy.”

  “I don’t even qualify for mid-forties,” Brash grumbled. Forty-two was still the early forties, was it not?

  “No, but I could still hear your knee pop, even over all this racket,” Cutter quipped.

  “Perils of playing football.”

  “I know. My old man pops the same way.”

  Brash pretended to scowl as he stepped over the fence. And with no popping joints, he was proud to note. “Don’t forget your old man can still whip your ass, boy,” Brash informed the younger man. He felt the need to defend the great Tag Montgomery. After all, Tag had been not only his hero, but also his mentor. Between the two of them, they still claimed most of the standing records for The Sisters Fighting Cotton Kings. For good measure, he threw out another warning. “And so could I.”

  Cutter Montgomery merely laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Exerting his authority, Brash got in the last word. “You stay with the body; I’ll go talk to the witness.”

  But as the police chief walked away, the younger man called after him. “Fine by me,” the fireman insisted affably. “I guess the smell doesn’t bother the younger generation near as much as it does you old folks.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Madison swiped the back of her hand across her mouth as she knelt at the edge of the white rock road. Tears stung her eyes and her stomach burned, but she thought the worst of it was over. Surely, there was nothing left in her stomach to heave.

  She heard the crunch of footsteps on the driveway behind her. Hurriedly wiping her face and righting her filthy and crumbled t-shirt, she struggled to her feet. The Montgomery boy had been more than tolerant of her so far, but she knew she had to pull herself together. The police would be here soon, but with any luck she would be long gone before the Chief showed up. She didn’t want to see her high school crush for the first time in twenty years, looking like this.

  “Ma’am?” That was not Cutter Montgomery’s deep voice rumbling close behind her. “Ma’am, I understand you were the one to find the body. Could I have a few words with you?”

  The police must have arrived. She hadn’t heard the sirens because she was too busy purging her body of the lining of her stomach. Remembering the peppermint in her pants pocket, Madison slipped the morsel into her mouth as she nodded and turned around.

  She practically choked on the mint when she saw the man standing before her. As she sputtered and coughed ungracefully, Madison gazed into the soulful brown eyes of none other than Brash deCordova, the boy she had loved from afar in high school.

  “Ma’am? Are you all right?” he asked in concern.

  With her face so blotchy and red, Madison was grateful he did not recognize her. After all, he had hardly given her a second glance in school. Three years her senior, he was king of the high school when she schlepped in as a lowly freshman. Why should he suddenly recognize her now, after all these years?

  Madison coughed one last time. “I will be,” she insisted, her voice coming out ragged and hoarse.

  “I’m Chief of Police deCordova, ma’am, and I’d like to ask you a few questions. Would you be more comfortable sitting in the patrol car?”

  She managed a stiff shake of the head. “I’m fine.”

  Brash reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small notebook. Madison could not help but notice he had nice hands, fingers all long and lean. Always athletic in high school, he still had a good, solid physique, with no pudginess around the middle. His dark russet hair was as thick as ever, but there were now a few fine strands of silver woven in here and there. It gave him a distinguished look. And my word! The man was as good-looking as ever, maybe even more so now.

  “Ma’am?” Apparently she had missed something he said, because he looked at her in concern, waiting for her answer to the unknown question.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I understand that you’re a little shaken up, ma’am. I’ll try to make this as brief as possible. Could you walk me through what happened this morning? How did you come to find Mr. Gleason’s body?”

  Madison pushed a limp strand of hair from her forehead, inadvertently leaving a streak of dirt or worse in its wake. Even before falling, she was covered in dust, grime, and questionable chicken substances. After the fall, there was little question as to what covered most of her legs from the knee down, one elbow, and patches of her sweat-drenched shirt. Even to her own nose, she reeked. What difference did
a splatter or two of vomit matter at this point?

  Yet as horrible as her own body smelled, she feared she might never cleanse the stench of dead flesh from her nose’s membranes. Shivering, Madison pulled her thoughts together and began the arduous task of reliving her horrendous morning.

  “Mr. Gleason hired me to walk houses for him while he was away this week. I came by a couple of days last week to learn the ropes before he left. He-”

  “Excuse me. Hate to interrupt, but do you know where he was supposed to be going this week?”

  “Uhm, deep-sea fishing. Out of Galveston, I think.”

  Scribbling in his notebook, he glanced up for only a second. “Any idea who he was going with?”

  Madison shook her head. When she realized he had returned his gaze to the notebook, she verbalized her answer. “No idea.”

  “Okay, so you showed up today, ready to work. You knew where to find the keys?”

  Madison frowned. “None of the houses were locked. The computers don’t even have pass-codes on them. All I had to do was show up and go to work.”

  “Describe to me what you were hired to do.”

  “Walk houses.” When he glanced up again expectantly, she expounded on her answer. “You know, make four rounds in each house, picking up dead chickens, looking for water leaks, that sort of thing. I have to record the number of dead chickens and throw them in the incinerator out back. I also have to record the levels of ammonia in each house, the gallons of water consumed, and check back-up temperatures.”

  The police chief flashed a smile that still had the power to set Madison’s heart aflutter. “Sounds like you really did ‘learn the ropes’, as you called it. Have you done this sort of work before?”

  “Hardly,” she muttered. “There aren’t many chicken houses in Dallas.”

  “Oh? Is that where you’re from?”

  “I’ve lived there for the past fifteen years.” And will be headed back there soon, with any luck.

  “When was the last time you spoke with Mr. Gleason?”

  Madison’s mind was reeling, bouncing back and forth along with the conversation. She supposed this was all part of the technique, intended to put a witness as ease. Or to lull a suspect into admission, a wicked inner voice whispered. Was she a suspect? The thought caused a new shiver to dance down her spine.

  “He called me yesterday morning. He reminded me of a couple of things I needed to do and said he would be leaving by early afternoon.”

  “What were you supposed to do if you had any trouble?”

  “He gave me his cell phone number, although he said he might not have service out in the Gulf. He also gave me the number for Barbour Foods’ Poultry Division and for his Service Tech.” A thought occurred to her. “Oh, dear. I suppose I should call them, shouldn’t I?” She fished in her pocket for her cell phone, but the officer held up a restraining hand.

  “Not yet. We’ll take care of that in due time. I still have a few more questions.”

  With a worried glance toward the structure behind her, Madison asked a question of her own. “Is the fireman still inside?”

  She wondered about the policeman’s short but humorless laugh. “Don’t worry about Montgomery. The kid apparently has an iron stomach. He’ll be fine.”

  “Why did the fire department show up, anyway?” It just now struck her as odd.

  “We do things a little differently in small towns than what you’re used to in Dallas, ma’am.” His drawled voice was openly condescending. “Our volunteer fire departments respond to a variety of emergency situations, not just fires. Most of the department is out on the highway right now, working a wreck and providing traffic control.”

  “He seemed very efficient,” she murmured somewhat lamely.

  “Be assured, Montgomery is one of our finest First Responders.” Brash cleared his throat and pulled the conversation back to the victim. “You were telling me how and when you first discovered the body.”

  “Yes. Right. Well, I got here around eight this morning and started in House 6. It took me about an hour and a half to walk the first two houses. I had already made one round on the opposite end of this house and started down toward this end. I noticed several chickens were . . . taller than the others. I knew they sometimes ganged up on injured birds or stood on top of dead ones, so that’s what I thought was happening. As I got a little closer, I noticed the smell. It was horrendous.”

  She stopped to clear her throat, trying, too, to clear her nose of the putrid memory. “It was worse than anything I had ever smelled before. I-I thought it must be a chicken that was several days old. There was a horribly messy one in House 6 that just . . . fell apart when I lifted it. I-I remember thinking this one would be even worse. And then- And then I saw it. Him. There was a - a rooster perched upon his chest, strutting about like he was king of the roost. It was horrible.” Madison clenched her stomach, afraid she was going to be sick once more.

  “I know this is difficult, ma’am. You’re doing great. Just hang in here with me a little while longer, we’re nearly done. By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”

  He probably wouldn’t recognize her name, any more than he had recognized her face. She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Reynolds. Madison Reynolds.”

  His russet head snapped up and he peered at her with new curiosity. “Maddy? Maddy Cessna, is that you?”

  Brash stared at the woman before him. She was covered in filth and looked like death warmed over. At the beginning of the interview, her face had been bright red, all splotchy and mottled, but the color had drained slowly away as she recanted the day’s events. She was now as pale as any ghost might be. He remembered Maddy Cessna as being a cute brunette with a straight, slim figure and killer long legs. In this garb, it was impossible to tell what kind of figure now hid behind the baggy shirt and tattered jeans. Even though he knew he wasn’t catching her on her best day, he was guessing that the years had not been kind to the girl he once knew.

  “It’s Reynolds now,” she said stiffly.

  “I heard about your husband. Sorry for your loss.” He offered the rote sentiment as he pushed the brim of his cowboy hat up with one finger.

  “Thank you.” She dropped her eyes as she murmured the weary reply.

  Brash was an expert at reading people’s expressions. It was necessary in his line of work. He watched as the emotions flickered briefly across Madison Cessna Reynold’s grimy face. He saw sadness and regret, a touch of resentment, a lot of worry, but the one emotion he did not see was grief. He made a mental note to find out more about that later; right now he had more important things to worry about than whether or not she had been in a happy marriage.

  “I heard you moved back,” he said conversationally. “I know Miss Bert is glad to have you home.”

  Bertha Cessna, or Miss Bert as she was commonly known, was Madison’s feisty eighty-year-old grandmother. She was a cornerstone of the community and more or less the matriarch of Juliet since the namesake’s death in the early 1980’s. Miss Bert only recently resigned as Mayor, saying the duties interfered with her love to travel. After all, she wanted to go as much as possible now, before she got too old to enjoy the sights, particularly those seen from behind the windshield of her brand new motor home.

  For the first time, Brash saw a glimpse of the girl he remembered. A smile flashed across Madison Reynold’s face, transforming her haggard features with the glow of genuine affection. “She’s thrilled to have someone to fuss over again.”

  “And to cook for, I’m sure.”

  A grimace created new creases in her dirt-streaked face. “Except that she’s on a new health-food kick. I made the mistake of giving her a juicer for Christmas, so now she’s experimenting with a ‘liquid’ diet. Believe me, there are some foods that are not meant to go into a blender.” As her shoulders shimmied with distaste, Brash could not help but laugh. He could only imagine some of the combinations Miss Bert would come up with.

  A gust of wi
nd whipped away his burst of laughter, rendering the atmosphere solemn once again. His next question was all business. “I don’t suppose Mrs. Gleason has been down here this morning?”

  Madison looked up in surprise. “I-I guess I didn’t realize there was a Mrs. Gleason.”

  “And why is that?” Something in her expression set off warning bells.

  Madison Cessna Reynolds shrugged. “He never mentioned a wife, for one thing. I got the impression there was no one else to walk houses for him when he was out of town.”

  Brash tried to imagine Ramona Gleason stepping foot in the chicken houses. It would be one of those high-heeled shoes, no doubt; hadn’t Shannon called them stilettos? He had a mental image of one of those heels impaling a hapless chicken.

  “You said ‘for one thing’. What else?”

  “Well, he was a little … flirty,” Madison admitted reluctantly.

  Before he could stop himself, Brash dropped his gaze to trail over her, frightful clothes and all. Her face flamed in humiliation after his silent assessment, particularly when he questioned, “Flirty?”

  Madison lifted her chin with defiance. “Yes, flirty.” This time her voice held more conviction. Her hazel eyes flashed with irritation. “A true gentleman would never sound so surprised,” she snapped.

  Brash found her ire amusing. He even had the audacity to grin. “You knew me in the early days. Never claimed to be a gentleman,” he drawled. When she merely sniffed in disdain, he returned to business once again. “I was surprised because he’s married. Happily so, from all indication. And because you are newly widowed. I know these days that doesn’t account for much, but I figured Ronny for the faithful sort.”

  She softened only a fraction. Her tone was still frosty when she spoke. “I said he was flirty, not that he propositioned me. And my marital status has nothing to do with it. I can assure you, I did not flirt back.”