Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Aunt Velda cackled. "Mad? You bet yer boobies he was mad! Why, he came roarin' over here like a bull that's had his nuts cut." Donna shook her head at her aunt's language, but the old lady paid no attention. "That don't matter none, though," she added, patting Donna's hand comfortingly. "He'll forget all about it when they hoist his ass up to the ship and put him to work."

  "I suppose the spring is valuable," I hazarded, beginning to see why Swenson might have been angry. In Texas, a source of water can be worth a great deal of money, and conflicts over water can be as fierce as those over oil.

  "It's even more valuable now that we've cleaned it out," Donna replied. "Some years back, one of the Swensons apparently decided to plug Mistletoe Spring in order to increase the flow to a spring on the other side of the ridge, closer to their house. They used that spring for their main water supply, and Carl uses it to water his goats."

  "Goats," Aunt Velda remarked disgustedly. "Filthy, smelly critters. Look at all the damage they caused. Ask me, ain't good for nothin' but cabrito."

  "Damage?" I asked.

  "Swenson's goats have been getting through the fence and onto our property lately," Donna said. "And you know how goats are—they'll eat anything. Fruit trees, flowers, even the laundry on the line."

  Aunt Velda brightened. "Hey, I'll bet they ain't never tasted cabrito up there on the ship. I could show 'em how my husband Louie used ta fix it. He'd git him a young white kid—the white ones wuz best, he alius said—and take it out under the tree and cut its throat, and when the blood all drained out, he'd take his knife and—"

  "Thank you, Aunt Velda," Donna said firmly. "We can imagine the rest." To me, she said, "Anyway, somebody had dumped a big load of rocks and dirt down the spring to choke off the flow, then piled on a ton of junk—an old air conditioner, a washing machine, a mile of broken plastic pipe, some wooden pallets, stuff like that. Terry and I pulled it all out and hauled the debris to a gully we've been wanting to fill in."

  "I drove," Aunt Velda said proudly. "Drove my old Ford truck and left the totin' and haulin' to the young ones." She picked up her cup and sipped her coffee reminiscently. "I like to drive. Don't git the chance much lately, though, since I got back from the ship." She frowned at Donna. "The girls don't let me out much. They don't keep up the license on my truck, neither."

  Donna went on with her story. "When we got the spring cleaned out, a lot more water started flowing into Mistletoe Creek. In fact, there's so much water that we're using the creek to irrigate. Which means we can put another five acres under cultivation next spring, maybe more." She paused. "Oh, and there are the arrowheads, too."

  "Arrowheads?"

  "When we were cleaning out the spring, we found a cache of over a hundred Indian arrowheads."

  "/ found it," Aunt Velda said. "Tell it like it is, girl. What's more, I aim to git back up there and find me some more, quick as I can. I aim to find that cave again, too. There wuz lots more arrowheads in the cave."

  Donna nodded. "Aunt Velda's the one who found the arrowheads. Terry says they might be really valuable."

  Terry was right. Collectors pay hundreds of dollars for certain well-made arrowheads. And the find signaled the possibility that Misdetoe Spring was an archeological site, which could make it a treasure trove of ancient artifacts. The Fletcher property could prove very valuable—another reason for Swenson to lose his temper.

  But something else had occurred to me. "What happened to the spring on the other side of the ridge when you unplugged Mistletoe Spring?" I asked.

  Donna sighed. "I'm afraid that's the real problem. The other spring more or less stopped flowing. There's enough for the house, but—"

  "But Bozo's goats ain't got no water," the old woman said cheerily. She took a small wooden box from the pocket of her jacket and put it on the table. "D'ja ever meet Louie?" Louie had been Velda's brother.

  "Not now, Aunt Velda," Donna said hastily, but it was too late. The old lady lifted the lid and the box began to play the first few bars of "The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You."

  Aunt Velda gazed fondly into the box. "There he is," she said. "Ain't he fine?" She sifted the gray grit through her fingers. "O' course, there wuz more of him once, but I left some here and there. On Mars and Jupiter. Venus too. He alius liked Venus."

  "I'm sure," I said, smiling. "Thank you for letting me have a look."

  Satisfied, Aunt Velda put the lid back on Louie's box and the tune stopped abruptly.

  "If Swenson needs the water for his livestock," I said to Donna, "you could sell him some."

  "We told him we'd be glad to let him run a pipe from Mistletoe Spring to his stock tank. All we wanted was a nominal fee—a dollar a year, say—that would acknowledge our ownership. But that only seemed to make him angrier." Donna made a face. "Anyway, the water isn't the only issue. It's the pecan trees, too. Apparently, his father grafted those pecans back in the twenties, with some sort of special stock. And of course, he's always gathered the mistletoe there. I guess he figures we're going to cut it and sell it ourselves."

  "You bet we are," Aunt Velda said with satisfaction. She gave me a commanding look. "Next year, you're gonna buy ever' last bit of your mistletoe from us, y'hear?"

  "Sounds like a complicated situation," I said. "I wonder how Swenson managed to misplace the boundary line."

  "The surveyor said it was because the land is so broken and hilly along that ridge," Donna replied. "I wish we could negotiate some sort of deal," she added unhappily, "but Carl won't listen to reason. He swore he was going to make our lives so miserable that we'd be glad to turn the place back over to him. And now we think he's resorting to vandalism. First there were the goats, which practically destroyed our new peach trees, and the possum trap that Max got into, which was set on our property. Then there was the sugar in Lizzie's gas tank, which has caused no end of trouble. And last week, somebody slashed the plastic covering on the small greenhouse, where we had some plug trays filled with campanula seedlings. We can repair the greenhouse, but it's way too late in the year to reseed those plants. They were a big investment—the seed isn't cheap." She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. "Terry and I have been standing watch at night, but we can't keep that up forever. You're a lawyer, China—we were hoping that you could tell us how to put an end to this."

  It's true that I'm still a lawyer. I've been careful to keep my options open by maintaining my membership in the Texas Bar. But I haven't been in a courtroom since I came to Pecan Springs, and I'm not ready to start now. Still, I could see that the Fletcher sisters had a problem and I wanted to help them if I could. I admire women for whom the impossible is all in a day's work.

  Aunt Velda leaned over and stroked Donna's blue-jeaned thigh. "I keep tellin' you, dear," she said comfortingly, "Carlos Swansong is history. You'll see—they're gonna take care of him. Next thing he knows, he'll be up there cleaning out them Klingon latrines."

  "It doesn't sound as if you have the evidence to get Swenson charged with vandalism," I said, "but you might be able to make a stalking charge stick. You'd have to testify that on at least one occasion he threatened, either by his actions or his words, to inflict injury on you, your family, or your property. Were there any witnesses to his temper tantrum?"

  "Just Aunt Velda and me," Donna said. She hesitated. "Would Aunt Velda have to testify in court?"

  I frowned. The case would stand a better chance if the old lady could testify, but she'd make a terrible witness. Anyway, stalking was only a Class B misdemeanor, which at best would get Swenson a two-thousand-dollar fine, maybe a few weeks in jail. Or maybe not, depending on the judge.

  "How about an alarm system?" I asked. "Or maybe you could hire somebody to keep an eye on the place at night."

  "We've already thought of an alarm," Donna said, "but we don't have that kind of money. And both of us agree that even if we could afford a security guard, we don't want one. We value our privacy. And who wants to live in an armed camp?"

  I could unde
rstand that. "Well, my best advice is to document everything," I said. "Every event that happens, every word he says to you. Take your flash camera when you stand watch at night. If you could get a picture of him doing his dirty work, he could be charged with criminal mischief. That could be a first-degree felony, depending on the amount of the damage. It would put him out of circulation for a while."

  Donna looked crestfallen, and I knew she hoped I'd come up with something more sure-fire. "I'll talk it over with Sheriff Blackwell," I added. "He's a good friend of my husband's, and it happens that he's coming over for dinner tonight." My husband. Like "Mom," the words had the power to jolt me into the sudden awareness that my life had radically changed.

  "Is Mike still the Pecan Springs police chief?" Donna asked.

  I shook my head. "He was just filling in until the City Council hired a new chief." McQuaid had left Houston Homicide some years before, earned a Ph.D., and joined the CTSU faculty. He was a natural for the job of interim police chief, and had been the Council's first choice for the permanent position. But he took himself out of the running when our friend Sheila Dawson applied for the job, and was as glad as I was when she got it—or at least, that's what he told me. "Chief Dawson will be there tonight too," I added. McQuaid and I tried to get together with Sheila and Blackie at least one Saturday night a month. "Maybe the four of us will be able to come up with an answer to your problem."

  "I keep tellin' you," Aunt Velda said jovially. She had taken off her Klingon badge and was polishing it on her sleeve. "Carlos ain't no problem. My friends upstairs'll take care of him."

  Chapter Three

  The ancient Italian opinion that mistletoe extinguishes fire appears to be shared by Swedish peasants, who hang up bunches of oak-mistletoe on the ceilings of their rooms as a protection against harm in general and conflagration in particular.

  Sir James George Frazer The Golden Bough

  Sitting under the mistletoe (Pale green, fairy mistletoe) One last candle burning low, All the sleepy dancers gone, Just one candle burning on. Shadows lurking everywhere: Someone came and kissed me there.

  Walter de la Mare

  Twilight was falling and Donna and I had just finished loading the wreath boxes into the truck when Terry drove in. She climbed out of the borrowed car and came toward us.

  "Hello, China," she said, hardly smiling.

  If you didn't already know, you'd never guess that Donna and Terry are sisters. Donna is slender and decorative, while Terry looks as if she'd be more at home behind the wheel of a tractor-trailer rig. If this had been summer, the blue heart tattoo on her right bicep would've been visible, but she was wearing a corduroy jacket zipped to her chin, and a black cowboy hat, cocked at a combative angle. She has a tough face, and she doesn't smile easily. She's not a woman you'd want to cross.

  "Donna told me that you've got a problem with Lizzie," I said, gesturing toward the old brown van, which was parked alongside a red Ford pickup that sagged in the right rear. The truck's passenger-side door was slightly concave and the broken window was covered with a taped-on piece of cardboard.

  Terry's strong mouth tightened. "Yeah. Swenson dumped sugar in the tank, and it gummed up everything. Looks like I'll have to pull the head and replace the valves. Maybe the carburetor, too. We'd get a new van if we weren't trying to pay off the note on this place."

  "We don't know it was Swenson," Donna said in a nervous tone.

  "Don't be a fool, Donna," Terry said sharply. "Who else would it be? Auntie's Klingons?" She slanted a glance at me. "Donna give you a rundown on the situation?"

  I nodded. "I suggested taking a flash camera with you when you go on watch at night. You might get enough evidence to stick him with felony criminal mischief. Another alternative is to try for a restraining order. That way, if he comes around you can call—"

  "Call who?" Terry asked curtly. "The county mounties don't cruise out here. By the time the sheriff shows up, the damage will be done. Anyway, we don't want people messing around. This is our place, and it's private." She grinned mirthlessly. "But I've got a shotgun. That'll take care of the bastard, and we won't have to wait for the law to get around to it."

  Donna gave me an anxious glance. "She doesn't mean that," she said, in a half-whisper. "She's just talking big. She does that when she gets angry."

  "The hell I don't!" Terry exploded angrily. "Crissakes, Donna, wake up and face facts! Swenson wants us off the place, and he's willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen. If we let him get away with this, we're in for a lot worse. How would you like to wake up one night and find the barn on fire? Or the house? If that bastard comes on our land and starts damaging our property, I've got a right to shoot him. Isn't that so, China?"

  "Under certain conditions," I said carefully, wishing she hadn't put me on the spot. When it comes to using deadly force to protect yourself and your property, Texas is more permissive than most other states, and juries often give defendants the benefit of the doubt. I cleared my throat. "If Swenson came into your house with the intent of harming you or vandalizing your property, the court would probably hold that you were justified in shooting him, especially if he were armed." I gave her a warning glance. "But if you shoot an unarmed trespasser who presents no threat—"

  "Oh, he presents a threat, all right," Terry growled. She shook her head. "You can forget that camera shit. I'll take care of Carl Swenson."

  And with that, she turned on her heel and strode off.

  "So what did you say after she said that?" McQuaid asked, leaning his elbows on the kitchen table. He held out his dessert plate. "I'll have another piece of your great cheesecake."

  I pushed back my chair and stood up. "It's not my cheesecake," I said. "Mrs. Kendall made it. We didn't sell all of it today, so I brought home what was left. Pretty good, huh?"

  "Don't change the subject, China," Blackie Blackwell said. "I want to hear what an officer of the court said when this jolly green giant threatened to use her shotgun on Carl Swenson."

  "Terry isn't a giant," I retorted, going to the kitchen counter. "She's just... well, strong. And full of righteous indignation."

  "I guess I'm not surprised to hear that they're having trouble with Carl Swenson," Sheila Dawson said. "He's a weirdo. I ran into him at Bean's a couple of weeks ago, where he was selling some goats to Bob." Bob Godwin, the owner of Bean's Bar & Grill, raises goats for a hobby. "He and Bob got into a major disagreement over who owed what, and Bob ordered him out of the place. Swenson almost slammed the door off the hinges." She looked up at me. "If you're cutting more cheesecake, I'll take a slice."

  "While you're up, I'll have some too," Blackie said. "That cook of yours can make cheesecake for me any day of the week."

  "Swenson's not all that weird," McQuaid said, as I handed out second helpings. "The Hill Country is full of loners like him. They build themselves a cabin or get a little house trailer, buy a few goats and a four-wheel drive, and come to town when they're low on supplies."

  "Or crave female company," Blackie said.

  Sheila made a face. "That might not be easy for Swenson. He smells. Essence of goat."

  "There you go, Sheriff," McQuaid said. "You've got nothing to worry about."

  We all laughed comfortably. Sheila and Blackie, who are both in law enforcement, seem to be a perfect match. Blackie is a third-generation lawman—a square-shouldered, square-jawed, laconic man with a lot of savvy, the kind of guy you wouldn't mind having around if you found yourself in a jam. Sheila spent several years as a street cop before she took the job of chief of security at CTSU. Now she's the chief of police for Pecan Springs, a job she took over from McQuaid a couple of months ago, after she solved Edgar Coleman's murder (with a little help from Ruby and me). Sheila—her friends call her Smart Cookie— has got to be the most striking police chief in the entire United States. She's tall and blond, with a delicate, willowy grace that would make her look at home in an evening gown at the Junior League Ball. But looks are deceiving
. She's tough and she don't take no sass, as we say around here.

  "I'm afraid you guys aren't taking this very seriously," I said, going back to the subject. I looked across the table at McQuaid and Blackie. "We're talking about two women and their elderly aunt being harassed by a man who told them he intends to run them off their land. You don't want Terry to ventilate Swenson's backside with a load of double-O buckshot, do you?"

  "I suppose you advised them to document all their interactions with this guy," McQuaid said.

  "You bet," I said emphatically.

  "How about an alarm system?" Sheila suggested. She frowned. "Although that won't work if they've got livestock. Any movement triggers the alarm."

  "Do they have a dog?" Blackie asked.

  "Didn't I tell you about that?" I replied. "Somebody set a trap that nearly took off his leg. On their property."

  "Burglar's rule number one," Sheila said. "Disable the dog."

  "Tell them they need to file for a peace bond," McQuaid advised. "They might not get it, but it'll put the situation on record. Then all they have to do is get evidence that Swenson is behind the vandalism."

  "Easier said than done," I replied. "I just hope the first piece of evidence isn't a dead body."

  While the guys did the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, Sheila and I went into the living room to settle down in front of the fire with a glass of apple brandy, Fannie Couch's annual holiday gift to all her friends. Fannie starts making it in October, as soon as she can find Granny Smith apples at the grocery, and by Christmas, it's tasty and mildly alcoholic.

  "You don't think Terry would actually shoot Swenson, do you?" Sheila asked. She sat down on the sofa and propped her boots up on the old pine carpenter's chest we use for a coffee table. Not just any boots, either, but trim suede boots that were the perfect complement to her fawn-colored stirrup pants and matching bulky knit sweater.

  "I doubt it," I said, poking the fire. "But they've been harassed for weeks, they're probably not getting enough sleep, and their nerves are raw. You can't tell what might happen in a situation like that, especially if Swenson goes poking around there after dark." I took a split oak log out of the copper wash boiler that serves as our woodbox and put it on the fire. "It's too bad the law can't intervene before something happens, rather than waiting until somebody turns up dead. If you ask me, Blackie has probable cause to talk to Swenson about the vandalism at the farm."