by Becki Willis
“I think I heard somewhere that you have twins? How old are they?”
“Fifteen. They’re freshmen this year, just like I was when I first moved here.”
“Yeah, I think I was a senior that year.”
Be still, my heart! Brash deCordova had been aware she existed, after all! Madison followed him into the room and perched on the edge of the sofa as he sank into one of the chairs. In spite of herself, she felt a tiny sense of awe that the great and mighty Brash deCordova was sitting in her living room. Well, technically, it was her grandmother’s living room, but the sentiment was the same.
“What can I do for you, Chief deCordova?”
He flashed her a smile that, once upon a time, had her swooning near his feet. “You could start by calling me Brash.”
Without a trace of swooning in her voice, she smoothly amended her question. “Okay, Brash, what can I do for you?”
“I have a few more questions about when you found Ronny Gleason.” He reached for the notebook in his pocket, but not before he saw the slight shiver working its way through her shoulders.
“What would you like to know?”
“How far would you say his body was from the nearest motor?”
“Motor?”
“That round thing about yay-big at the end of every feed line,” he said, indicating the size with his hands.
“I know where the motor is,” she fairly snapped. “I have to kick it every time I pass by, to make certain the call-pans are working. That’s what determines how much feed runs along the entire line.”
“Sorry, I forgot you were an old pro at this already.”
“I’m just a quick study,” she countered.
He allowed her to gloat for a few moments before he asked again, “So how far away would you say he was?”
“Not far. Maybe a few feet. But you saw him the exact same place I did.”
“Just confirming the distance,” he said, jotting down something in his notebook. “Do you happen to recall if the feed lines were running?”
“I-I suppose they were,” she said with a thoughtful frown. “If not, there would have been an alarm. He put me on the call rotation for the week and I didn’t get an alarm that day, so apparently the lines were working.”
“Call rotation?”
“Whenever there is an alarm, the computers call every five minutes until someone manually re-sets it. It dials the numbers automatically. If the first person doesn’t answer, it goes to the next one, then the next. It keeps cycling until it resets or gets fixed.”
“What kind of alarms?”
“All sorts, but the only ones I’ve gotten so far are augers, or feed lines, and low temperature alarms. I got two in the night last night, and had to go out to the farm to check on things.”
“You weren’t frightened, going out to the farm in the middle of the night?”
A sheepish smile twisted her face. “I made Blake go with me,” she admitted reluctantly. At his quizzical look, she explained, “My son.”
“Blake.” He tried the name out, knowing it sounded familiar. A light of recognition dawned upon his face. “Aw, Blake, the new boy in school. And the most handsome boy to grace the face of the earth, to hear my daughter tell it.”
“Well, naturally I think so,” Madison smiled proudly.
“He must take after his mother.”
His compliment made her ridiculously happy. A hangover from my own teenage years, she assured herself, as she brushed the fuzzy feelings aside. “Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering if the motor had tripped out. Were all the lights and fans working in the houses?”
“Yes. I remember that the Montgomery boy turned up the lights to full intensity, so I know they were working. And if the fans weren’t working correctly, I’m sure there would have been an alarm. Even though there are propane heaters to keep the houses warm, the fans cycle on and off to keep air moving.”
“Pretty amazing how all that works, huh?”
“You can’t even imagine. They have the timers down to a science. Even the lights go on and off at specific times, determining when and how much the chickens eat and drink. It’s really sort of sad how they manipulate the poor birds into thinking it’s either night or day, depending on if they want them to eat or sleep.”
“Guess being in a house like that, they don’t get much natural daylight.”
“Just what comes in around the fans in the back-end of the houses. They are huge fans, though, so it’s more light than you would think.”
Again, Brash deCordova flashed her a smile. “You really do sound like you know a lot about your assignment. I must say, I’m impressed with your thoroughness.”
She needed the money too badly not to be thorough, but she did not mention that fact. Instead, she said, “Believe me, I know more about chickens than I ever wanted to.” This time, she did not try to suppress the shiver of revulsion dancing down her spine.
“Still eating the meat?”
“It’s still up for debate. Just in case, we’ve had beef the last couple of nights. Tonight’s menu calls for pork chops.”
“Smart woman,” the lawman chuckled.
Finding his compliments much too pleasing, Madison sat up straighter on the couch and deliberately changed the subject. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re asking about motors and electricity and exactly where I found the body? I have a feeling you already knew all this, even before you asked.”
“Just double checking facts before I make an arrest.”
“Arrest?” The word came out on a gasp. “You mean, he was … killed? It wasn’t a heart attack?”
“According to information just released from the ME, Ronny Gleason died from electrocution.”
Madison’s brow puckered in thought. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean murder, does it?”
“No. But I would think voltage high enough to kill a man would be enough to short-circuit a fuse. You just confirmed that all the electrical components in House 4 were working properly after you found his body.”
“So you’re thinking someone killed him and then moved his body,” she surmised. She missed the light of appreciation in his brown eyes at her sharp assessment. Her mind was jumping ahead. “Wouldn’t he have been burned if he were electrocuted?”
“Not necessarily. But you tell me… when you discovered him, how much of his skin was still intact?”
She thought of the skin that had slipped from his face, revealing the muscle and bone below. Between the heat and the chickens, his skin was too deteriorated to know what kind of condition it was in. The bloody stubs at the ends of his shirtsleeves gave no indication as to whether or not his hands were burnt. And the mess that had been his throat and chest…
“So you have a suspect?” Thinking that a murderer lurked among them was almost favorable to thinking about the body she had discovered.
“Yes.”
“Who is it?” she asked breathlessly.
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.”
He sounded so formal, but they both knew that within ten minutes of the arrest, perhaps less, half the community would know the person’s identity. It was how things worked in a small town. Having two small towns side-by-side merely multiplied the result.
“I guess we’ll all know soon enough,” she murmured aloud.
“No doubt.” His smile was rueful as he closed the small notebook and slipped it back into his pocket. He ignored the pop in his knee as he got to his feet. “I appreciate your help and I hope I didn’t detain you too long.”
“No, no, I’m fine,” she said, waving aside his concern as she, too, stood. At five feet, seven inches, sans heels, it was nice to be able to look up to a man, even when wearing boots. Gray always insisted she wear flats. Which was the very reason she had gone and bought these boots two years ago, she remembered mischievously, as she balanced on their three-inch heels. “I still have plenty of time.”
“So how’s your business g
oing, by the way? What’s the name of it again?”
“In a Pinch. And it’s going quite well.” Okay, so it wasn’t too big of a lie, not really.
“That might be interesting work. At least you don’t get burned out, doing the same thing day in and day out. Do you have a specialty, or do you do just about anything?”
“Just about anything. Anything legal, of course.”
“Of course.”
Madison glanced down at her watch as she opened the door. “I might be able to still make the pharmacy. I’ll follow you out,” she decided aloud.
“Do you have a business card? I could post it down at the station. Never know who might see it and give you a call.”
“Sure. I have some in here somewhere.” She dug around in her bag until she found the small bundle held together with a rubber band. “Here, take the whole stack. I have plenty more.”
“Oh, well, okay.” He took the offering with the slightest of frowns.
Without conscious thought, he walked her to her SUV. As she clicked the remote to unlock the door, he opened it and waited for her to get inside.
“Thanks again for your help, Maddy,” he said as she tucked her long legs inside the vehicle.
“No problem, Chief. See you around.” She wiggled her fingers in parting.
“Yeah,” he said, shutting the door between them. “See you around.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Madison wanted nothing more than to stay in bed the next morning and enjoy a lazy Saturday of leisure. The twins did not have school and even Granny Bert ‘slept in’ on Saturdays, often as late as seven o’clock. Nothing demanded Madison’s attention today. Nothing but one hundred and fifty thousand chickens, give or take a thousand or two. Her aching body insisted she had carried off at least that many dead over the past four days.
Forcing herself out of bed and into the tattered set of clothes she washed each night, Madison slipped down the hall toward the kitchen and downed a hasty breakfast. If she hurried through the houses, she would be through before noon; in other words, before the kids got up.
Just after eleven, Madison finished the last house, dumped the dead birds into the incinerator, and fired up the large contraption to burn its load. She was dirty and tired and smelled to high Heaven, and she was in no mood to deal with Ramona Gleason.
Yet there she was, waiting for Madison at her SUV as she drove up in the farm’s golf cart.
“Hello, Mrs. Gleason.” She tried to keep her voice pleasant as she turned off the motor and tucked the key into the glove compartment. Not a very original hiding spot, but the place Ronny told her he kept it.
“Mrs. Reynolds.” There was a little frost in the other woman’s tone as she looked over Madison’s filthy and bedraggled appearance. Ramona was dressed in tight jeans, high-heeled shoes, and a blouse cut too low to be considered suitable for anywhere other than a nightclub. The weather had turned colder today, so she wore a short leather jacket that did little to cover her Mexico-origin bosom.
Madison felt the need to make small talk; anything to draw attention away from the sweat-drenched circles of her t-shirt. “How are you today?”
“Much better, now that the police have solved my husband’s death. I would have sworn he had a heart attack, but apparently that Vietnamese next door killed him,” she sniffed.
“Yes, I was surprised to hear they arrested Don Ngyen,” Madison murmured.
“Why ever would you be surprised? That man made no secret of wanting our farm. He kept demanding that we sell, but Ronny wouldn’t hear of it.”
“So why would he kill your husband? He can hardly buy the farm if he’s in prison,” Madison rationalized.
“I suppose he thought he wouldn’t get caught. What does it matter? They’ve arrested him and will release the body within a few days, which means we can finally have the funeral and be done with it.”
Hardly the words of a grieving widow, Madison cringed inwardly.
“Which brings me to why I am here,” Ramona said, breaking into Madison’s thoughts. “I want to extend our contract.”
The surprise showed on Madison’s face. Before the other woman could continue, Madison held up her hand. “I have something to say, and I want to make it clear that I have no intentions of taking advantage of you. I have no idea what you’re about to propose, but I must tell you, this job is far more strenuous and stressful than I originally thought. Your husband and I agreed to my standard rate per hour, but if I were to continue here, it would have to be at a two dollar an hour increase.”
“Fine.” Ramona Gleason never batted a false eyelash at her demands.
“Really? I mean, that’s good. So what did you have in mind?”
“We sell this flock in ten days. I would like for you to finish the time out.”
Madison did some quick calculating in her head. That would be a nice boost to her bank account! But would another ten days of this filthy drudgery be worth it? She glanced down at her ragged attire, able to smell herself despite the stiff breeze.
“From what I understand, things get harder toward the end of the flock.” Madison knew that the growers kept the birds for roughly sixty-three days, at which time Barbour Foods sent trucks to pick up the flock. She remembered Ronny mentioned the extra work that went into selling; picking up the divider fences, emptying out the feed pans, raising the water lines at sell time so the forklifts could get inside the houses. Barbour Foods supplied the crews to catch and load the chickens into portable cages to be shipped off for slaughter, but the grower had numerous things to do as the days dwindled down.
“Fine,” Ramona said, crossing her arms beneath her ample bosom. “Five dollars more an hour for the next seven days. I’ll arrange for Barbour to take care of the last few days and selling. I’ll have the Service Tech out here Monday morning to give you extra instructions.”
Giddiness made Madison light-headed. Dollar signs danced before her eyes as she extended her hand. “Deal. I’ll bring a new contract by in the morning, with the same payment arrangements; half up front, half when the job is completed.”
Ramona Gleason gave a distasteful sniff but accepted her handshake. “Don’t come before ten. I like to sleep in on Sundays.”
Madison’s step was energized as she hurried to her vehicle. She was careful to sit only on the towel she had draped over the driver’s seat; no need in contaminating her car more than absolutely necessary. As she drove back to Juliet and her grandmother’s house, she calculated the money once again, even pulling out her cell phone and double-checking her math on the calculator.
Her figures had been right, she noted with a satisfied smile. Those extra seven days would make another car payment; one month in advance, no less, offering some wiggle room in her over-tight budget. She gave a light-hearted shimmy in the seat, until a somber thought brought her upright.
When had her life changed so drastically that she got this excited about a few extra hundred dollars? Not so very long ago, she would have given little thought to spending that much or more on something for the house: a new accent rug for the guest bedroom, new drapes for the dining room, a piece of art for the entryway. Or perhaps she would have spent the day at the mall, picking out new outfits for the kids, maybe slipping in a new piece of costume jewelry for herself. Madison had never been overly extravagant, particularly on herself, and she knew how to shop for bargains, but she enjoyed buying nice things for her family and her home.
A new worry hit her. Was it her fault Gray left her destitute? Had she unknowingly spent more than they could afford? The bathroom re-model last year had been expensive; had that been the straw that broke the camel’s back?
No, of course not, she told herself. This is not your fault. This is all on Gray.
These days, it was all too easy to wallow in self-pity as she second-guessed herself and the part she played in the downward spiral of her life. Depending on her level of wallowing, she alternately blamed herself/ blamed Gray/ blamed the economy/ blamed the
world in general.
Before she could work herself up and begin laying the blame where it truly belonged, Madison’s cell phone rang. A glance at the screen showed an unknown number. It might be another bill collector. Then again, it might be another client.
It was that last hope that made Madison pick up the phone. “In a Pinch Temp Services, Madison speaking. How may we help you today?” She gave a perky toss of her head, knowing the attitude would translate in her voice.
“Mrs. Reynolds?” a woman said in a thickly accented voice.
Warning bells went off in Madison’s head. Another bill collector, from one of those companies who outsourced their accounts receivable. She was probably calling from the other side of the globe. Madison’s voice lost its enthusiasm. “Yes, this is Madison Reynolds.” No, I don’t have any money to give you. Yes, I realize this will look bad on my credit.
The conversation playing in her head almost drowned out the other woman’s halting English. Madison barely heard what she said, except for one very important word: hire.
“Wait. I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
“I need hire you. You take jobs, yes?”
“Yes, I do. What sort of job can I do for you, ma’am?” Please, no more bladder control pads or pampered little poodles. And no chickens. Definitely no chickens.
“I need you get my son out of jail.”
Madison’s foot faltered on the brake pedal. She was stopped at the railroad crossing that physically separated the town of Naomi from the town of Juliet; old grudges and rivalry separated the towns on a completely different level. A train lumbered its way through their sleepy little end of the Brazos valley, clanging and clicking and chugging its way southward. Perhaps the noise had distorted the woman’s words. “Ex-Excuse me? What did you say?”
“My son in jail. I hire you to get him out.”
“Who did you say you were again?”
“Lucy Ngyen. My son get arrested last night, but he good boy. Should not be in jail.”