He nodded in understanding and changed the subject. “How’s Blossom doing? Let me know if she gets into trouble; sometimes these chemicals drift, and then cows eat contaminated grass.”
“I hope that doesn’t happen,” I said. “The last thing I need is a dead heifer.”
“Has she gotten out since we checked the fence?”
“Not that I know of. You did a great job fixing the fence.”
“Give her time,” he warned me. “That one is a free spirit.”
I groaned. “I can’t afford that many geraniums.”
“At least she’s a good milker,” he reminded me. I laughed, and we spent the next few minutes perusing the menu. I opted for the chicken chipotle enchiladas—chipotle sauce had an afterburn that required pitchers of water, but I couldn’t resist it—and closed up my menu.
“What are you having?” I asked.
“Chicken chipotle enchiladas,” he said.
I laughed. “Me, too. That sauce is addictive.”
“Too bad I’ve got appointments this afternoon, or I’d try to talk you into a swirl margarita.”
“Next time,” I said, feeling a pang of regret for the frozen strawberry-lime concoction that was Rosita’s specialty.
We ordered a moment later and spent a pleasant fifteen minutes discussing the cases Tobias was working on in his practice. I kept one ear out for further conversation behind me, but my presence seemed to have shut things down. Roger stood up just as his friend delivered our enchiladas.
“Good to see you, Roger,” the waitress said to him with a flirtatious smile.
“Likewise, as always.”
“I’ll be looking for you,” she said in a saucy voice that made Tobias’s eyebrows rise.
When the two had drifted away, I picked up my fork and looked at Tobias. “So. Back to poisonings,” I began.
He leaned toward me. “You think Roger is involved?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I have a hunch someone in the Kocurek household might be. When I found Nancy, I also found a label that I’d seen in the back of a pickup truck at the Kocureks’ house. It said ‘cow manure,’ but it was obviously covering something else.”
“Do you have it?”
“I left it—it was evidence—but I jotted down what was on it.” I fished in my purse and read off what I’d found.
“Fifteen milligrams. That sounds like some sort of pharmaceutical.”
“Why would you store it in a paper bag and put a fake label on it?”
“And why was it in Nancy’s honey house?” he mused. “Still. It’s not a lot to go on.”
“Do you think whatever was in that bag might have something to do with the cattle deaths? Nancy was upset about pesticide usage at the Kocureks’; she lost a couple of hives. Maybe she went investigating and confronted someone with the evidence.”
“Is that worth killing over, though? The death of some bees and maybe some cattle?”
“It does seem like a stretch,” I said, feeling glum again.
“I wish I could figure out what was in that bag,” he said. “I can’t think of anything that has MIK in it, though.” He thought about it. “The only pattern I can see is that all the affected properties seem to be right on the edge of town. Only two of them are connected, though. If you wanted to do a big development or something, it would be hard—everything is scattered.”
A thought occurred to me. “Wait a moment. That anti-fracking ban the mayor got passed. Is that just Buttercup?”
Tobias nodded. “And a good thing, too. Fracking is awful for groundwater.”
I glanced at the map. “But all of these properties are right outside of Buttercup.”
“Don’t you think it would be all over the grapevine if a fracking company was buying up land?”
“Who is buying it?” I asked. “Do you know?”
He shrugged. “I don’t usually pay attention. Do you really think it’s relevant to what happened to Nettie?”
I sighed. “No,” I admitted. “But I’m desperate enough to hope anything could be relevant.” I looked at the map again, toying with the corner. “What killed the cattle?”
“I sent tissue samples to the lab, but haven’t heard back yet. Whatever it was, it worked like some sort of nerve toxin. The animals were all found dead, not far from the stock tank.”
“Why the stock tank, I wonder?” I put down my fork. “Do you think the tanks were contaminated, maybe?”
“It’s possible,” he said. “I hadn’t thought about that. I should go and get a sample of the water, too.”
“It may be too late, but it’s a good thought.” I felt excitement rise in me. There was something weird going on, and I had an inkling that what happened to those cattle was connected, somehow, with what had happened to Nettie Kocurek. “It seems strange, you have to admit. Somebody’s been vandalizing machinery, too; it’s not just the cattle.”
He blanched. “If this is all true, someone poisoned hundreds of cattle. They suffered terribly; pesticide poisoning is a pretty awful thing—like nerve gas. I waited to see if any might recover, but when it was sure, I had to put them down.”
I shuddered. “It’s hard to say for sure that it was intentional,” I said, “but I think it’s a pretty good guess.”
“How do we find out who bought the properties?”
“I was planning on heading down to the county clerk’s office to look up an old marriage certificate,” I said. “I might look at land records while I’m down there.”
Lunch had been delightful, and not just because of the enchiladas. Despite my rather dire circumstances, I felt a smile creep across my face as I drove back toward Buttercup, Tobias’s truck on the road in front of me. I followed him to the clinic, where I gave Chuck, who struggled to his feet at the sight of me, a few head rubs and a treat. He wore a large splint on his right side, and a cone of shame, but was wagging furiously and licking my hands, probably in search of stray enchilada sauce.
“Settle down, buddy,” I said, kissing him on top of his shaved head and nicking my nose on the plastic cone. “Relax and get better, so you can come home.” I turned to Tobias. “He looks great,” I said. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“I hope Quinn’s doing okay,” Tobias said. “I imagine she’ll have some colorful bruises for a week or two.”
“She’s lucky that’s all she’s got,” I said, shivering.
“Is she going to move back to the Blue Onion now that Jed’s in custody?”
“We haven’t talked about it. I hope she stays with me for a few days so I can take care of her, but we’ll see.”
“You’re a good friend,” he said.
“I try to be,” I said, giving Chuck’s head another rub.
Tobias gave me a smile. “He should be ready to go in a couple of days. I’ll keep an eye on him and let you know.”
Hopefully, I’d still be available to pick him up, I thought.
The county clerk’s office was in La Grange, which was about twenty minutes away from Buttercup. Although the sign above the double glass door read 2002, it looked much older from the outside. I found street parking, then headed inside, relishing the cool interior. It was late spring, but it was already heating up outside.
The woman behind the desk was about my age, with a pleasant smile and dimples. She and I appeared to be the only ones in the building. “How can I help you today?” she asked.
“I need help tracking down some deeds,” I said, holding the copy of the real estate listings Faith Zapalac had given me. “Recent sales.”
“That should be easy,” she said. I handed her the page with the properties circled, and a few minutes later, she had assembled a list of all the purchasers.
“That’s strange,” I said. “They’re all being bought by companies—but all different companies.”
“I see what you mean,” she said. “Lovelace Limited, Golden Acres Properties, Happy Endings. I’ve never heard of any of those.”
�
�Me neither,” I said. “I’ll have to Google them when I get home.” I was expecting one purchaser to have picked up all of the properties, but it looked like that thought was a dead end. Still—it was strange that not a single one of the properties on the borders of town had been bought by an individual. “Can you look up these sales inside town?” I asked.
She did. All the sales within the town limits were to actual human beings, not companies. Something fishy was going on; and unfortunately, Faith Zapalac wasn’t likely to help me figure it out. I looked at the map of properties and compared it with the list Tobias had given me. Of all the properties bought by companies on the outskirts of town, every one of them had also had livestock illnesses that had made it tough for the owners to pay the bills.
Why was someone collecting properties on the border of Buttercup? And why were cattle on those properties turning up dead? And how could it possibly be connected to Nettie’s death? When I got home, I was going to have to put my old reporter skills to work.
“Thanks for your help with this,” I said, tucking the papers into the bag I’d brought with me and pulling out the lockbox. “I have one more question for you. Can you get me a copy of an old marriage certificate?”
“Do you know the year and the names?”
“I know the year,” I said, pulling the certificate out of the box, “but the names got washed out. I found this up in my barn, along with a picture and an old bouquet, but I have no idea whose it is.”
“Oooh,” said the woman, whose name was Christa, according to her name tag. “I love mysteries. May I see it?”
I set the lockbox on the counter and handed her the certificate. She smoothed it carefully on the counter. “Definitely Fayette County,” she said. “And we’ve got a date. That’ll help. Let me see what I can find,” she said, and disappeared into the back.
It was almost twenty minutes before Christa reappeared, beaming. “Here it is,” she said, offering up a yellowed piece of paper.
“Wow,” I said, looking at the record. “Nettie Kocurek’s mother married Thomas Mueller?”
“Nettie Kocurek?” she asked. “The one that was killed out in Buttercup?”
“That’s the one,” I said, deciding not to let her know she was talking with the sheriff’s primary suspect. “This guy didn’t do too well, either. He was killed at a train station in Gruenwald the week after they were married. How old was Nettie when she died?”
Christa pulled up her death certificate. I did some math and came up with another question. “The widow married again—I’m guessing very soon afterward. Is there any way to track down her second marriage certificate? And a birth certificate?”
“Of course,” she said. “It might take a while, but I’ll bet we can find them. And now I want to know!”
It took almost forty minutes, but when she was done, I had copies of both Nettie Kocurek’s birth certificate and Anna Baca’s second marriage certificate in my hand.
“Huh,” I said, looking at the date. “Nettie must have been premature.”
“Or not,” Christa suggested.
“That’s what I’m thinking,” I said. Even though Alvin Kocurek was listed as the father, the numbers just didn’t add up.
“Was Anna with him when he died?” she asked.
“There’s no mention of it in the papers,” I said. “And I’ve never heard anything about them being married—it wasn’t in the article on his death.”
“A secret marriage, then.” Christa pointed to the birth certificate. “And perhaps a love child.”
“That would be ironic,” I said. “From what I’ve heard, there wasn’t a lot of love lost between the Czechs and the Germans in those days.”
“I wonder what happened to the young man?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, “but I suspect Anna Baca’s father may have had something to do with it. I have no way to prove it, though.”
“There may be,” she said. “Does she have any family alive?”
“Only one person I know of,” I said, “but she’s not too likely to talk to me.” I looked at the certificate. “Why do you think she got married so quickly?”
“Maybe she knew she was pregnant,” Christa suggested. “In those times, that could be a real scandal, especially since no one knew she was married. And I’m sure there was talk about the timing, anyway; Nettie was born seven months after her mother remarried.”
“And people say there aren’t any secrets in a small town,” I said, shaking my head. “Can I get copies of these?”
“Sure,” she said. “Let me know what you find out though, okay?”
“Absolutely,” I said, grinning at her and trying to forget that Rooster was planning to arrest me.
I drove home as fast as I could without being pulled over by one of Fayette County’s finest, slowing down as I entered downtown Buttercup. I cruised past the Blue Onion and the sheriff’s office and was turning past Buttercup Properties when I noticed a familiar vehicle outside of the real estate office alongside Faith Zapalac’s BUYBUTT-plated Cadillac. It was Roger Brubeck’s F-150. I was wondering about this when my phone rang. It was Tobias.
“Hi,” I said, picking up on the second ring.
“How are you?”
“Been better,” I said. “Thanks for lunch, though—it was the highlight of the week. That, and seeing Chuck in such good spirits.”
“It was the highlight of mine, too,” he said. “There’s been another cattle problem—I wanted to let you know.”
“Where?”
“The Stolzes’ place, out on Skalicky road,” he said. “Right on the outskirts of town.”
“Just like the others,” I said.
“I know. I’m headed over there now.”
“By the way, I just stopped by the county clerk’s office.”
“What did you find out?”
“All of those properties that sold up? They were bought by different companies.”
“Weird,” he said. “Do you think it’s related?”
“It may be,” I said. “Is this a poisoning, too?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll report back,” he said.
“Let me know as soon as you can,” I said. “Before Rooster shows up with an arrest warrant for me.”
There was a silence on the line. “Oh, Lucy . . . ”
A knot formed in my throat. “Call me when you know, okay?”
“Of course,” he said, and we hung up a moment later. I took a few deep breaths to steady myself as I turned down the dirt road to Dewberry Farm. Everything had seemed so perfect just a few weeks ago. And now, I stood to lose everything.
I pushed that thought from my mind as I hurried inside to my computer and typed in the names of the companies. I came up with nothing but PO boxes—all in Houston, at the same zip code. No owner, no CEO—nothing. Nothing that I could find out, anyway . . . but I knew someone who could. I leaned back in my chair and reached for the phone, dialing a familiar number.
“Houston Chronicle, Ben Ford.”
“Ben? It’s Lucy Resnick.” Ben was the business reporter for the news desk, and if anyone could find out who owned a company, it was him.
“Lucy? How are you?”
“Doing great, but I need some help.” I told him the situation—omitting the part about my potential impending arrest—and asked if he could identify the owner.
“Absolutely,” he said. “I just turned in today’s story; I should have an answer for you in an hour.”
“You’re the best,” I said. I gave him my new number and hung up, thankful for my friends.
I had typed “MIK 15 mg” into the computer, with no meaningful results, when the phone rang again. I hurried to pick it up, expecting it to be Ben—but it was Tobias.
“A hundred cattle down,” he said.
I sucked in my breath. “Oh, no. Can you save them?”
“I’m trying. It’s pretty bad, though.”
“What is it?”
“Nerv
e toxin. But I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. It must have gotten into the feed, somehow.”
“Huh.” I had an inkling of who might be responsible.
The problem was, the person I had in mind couldn’t have been the person who lost a lamb pin.
As soon as I hung up with Tobias, Ben called me back.
“I know who owns those companies.”
“Who is it?”
“Frac-Tex,” he said.
“They’re buying up all the properties outside of town,” I said.
“Looks like it.”
“And somebody’s sabotaging the farms to make them sell out.” I was willing to bet Faith Zapalac was in on it, but it wasn’t likely I’d get her to admit it.
“Why buy outside of town?” he asked.
“Because the council just passed a law against fracking in the city limits. So they buy up the property on the outskirts of town and drill horizontally, without breaking any laws.”
“Except for the whole killing off livestock thing, of course.”
“And destroying farm machinery,” I added.
“Sounds like that could be a lawsuit.”
“And a big story,” I added.
I could practically hear him smiling on the other end of the line as I hung up a moment later, but I didn’t share his glee. Despite solving the puzzle of the dead cattle, I wasn’t any closer to saving my own skin. I might be closer to figuring out the cattle deaths, but I was still coming up empty on identifying Nettie’s killer.
And I was running out of time.
Fifteen minutes later, I was pulling up outside the Zephyr and praying that Mandy Vargas would still be there.
I knocked on the door, almost fainting with relief when Mandy opened it, looking confused.
“I was about to head home for the day,” she said. “I heard about Quinn; is she okay?”
“Yes, and she probably doesn’t want it in the papers.”
“I’ll have to put a small article in,” she said, “but it doesn’t have to be front-page stuff. Do you think she’ll give me an interview?”
“I’ll ask her,” I said.
She gave me an appraising look. “But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”
Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery) Page 21