"You didn't see any today, though?"
"I didn't. Did you?" I asked Quinn.
She shook her head. "I wasn't really looking, though. Are you thinking maybe the second shooter was going for a deer or a hog and missed?"
"I don't know what I'm thinking yet," she said. "But I'm not ruling anything out."
A few minutes later, Quinn and I watched as she walked back down to the creek.
"I wonder who the victim was?" Quinn mused.
"We'll find out soon enough," I said. Before the words had left my mouth, the phone rang in my bedroom. I hurried to get it, and picked up just before it went to voice mail.
It was my friend Molly. "Are you okay?" she asked.
"I'm fine," I said. "Why?"
"I heard one of those energy company people got shot down at the Lemmon ranch. I just wanted to make sure everyone on your side of the creek was okay."
"We're fine," I said. "We saw it happen, actually, which was kind of freaky, but we don't know who it was. Have you heard anything?"
"Nothing yet," she said, "but you know how Buttercup's grapevine works. There'll be six theories by tomorrow."
"Well, let me know if you hear anything plausible."
"If it involves UFOs, it's probably out, right?"
"You never know," I said, and hung up a minute later.
Quinn left just after the police finished their work. The sun was starting to set, and a cold breeze tinkled the wind chimes on the porch; it was going to be another chilly night. I finished boxing up the finished mistletoe and cedar bundles for the Market, then pulled on boots and headed out to the fields to make sure the ground was still moist. A light freeze was expected, and although most of my greens would be sweeter because of the cold snap, I wanted to make sure the plants weren't dry; they weathered cold temperatures better if they weren't stressed. I was thankful for the cold snap. Peaches need a certain number of chilling days to produce, and I was hoping for lots of jams and cobblers from my little orchard in the coming summer. I walked through to inspect the trees, wondering what the hunter on the other side of the creek had been aiming for. Wild pig? I'd had trouble with them once or twice before; the feral hog population was a menace in Texas, and was known for ripping up riparian areas and crops. I didn't see any signs of pig rooting, though. Or deer prints in the moist soil either. Which wasn't surprising; I had them fenced off to prevent just such an invasion.
I had just finished walking the last row when I saw a hole torn in the fence and, a few feet inside it, an area around the base of a peach tree that looked like it had just been tilled, with plants and soil turned up in a big patch.
I squatted, hoping the tree was okay; the roots seemed intact, but I didn't like where this was leading. Was it a feral hog?
Or had someone been treasure-hunting on my property?
And in either case... had whoever—or whatever—was digging been what the man on the other side of the creek had been shooting at?
I made a mental note to fix the fence in the morning and then headed back, walking the fences protecting my tender veggies one more time, just to make sure there weren't any obvious weak spots. When I was satisfied that all was in order, I checked on the livestock; all the goats and Blossom were pregnant, so milking wasn't a chore, but I did do a quick clean-out of the barn and made sure everyone was bedded down for the night, then checked to be sure the chickens were fed, watered, and safely in their coop before closing off the run.
The smell of roasting meat made my stomach rumble as I peeled off my boots and gloves and opened the door to the kitchen an hour after I'd started my rounds. I checked on the pot roast I had tucked into the oven several hours earlier, enjoying the feel of the oven's heat on my cold face. As I stood up, my eyes drifted back down to the trees lining the creek. Had what had happened to the man down by the creek been an accident? Or had someone—maybe one of the other people at the ranch—decided to put a bullet in him?
I was still pondering this question when Tobias rolled up in his truck a few minutes later.
"You doing okay?" he asked when I met him at the door. He'd brought a jug of cider and a white cardboard box with the Blue Onion's label on top of it. He was dressed in a blue plaid shirt that brought out the color of his eyes, along with faded blue jeans and cowboy boots. I was a lucky woman.
"I'm still a bit shaken up," I admitted as Chuck jumped all over him. I took the cider and the white box so he could bend down and give my poodle a bit of attention, including Chuck's all-time favorite: belly rubs.
"It smells great in here," he said as he stood up and followed me into the kitchen.
"I'm making pot roast. It's been in the oven all day; it's not quite fork-tender yet, but it should be within the hour," I said.
"If you cooked it, I'm sure it'll be delicious."
"You're sweet," I said. "I've had my share of culinary disasters, but I'm pretty confident this won't be one of them. In the meantime, we'll have to settle for cheese and crackers. And cider or beer, if you're up to it."
"I'll get the fire going if you'll crack open this cider," he said.
"That sounds like a good deal," I told him, giving him a quick kiss as he headed into the living room.
He had just put the first log into the fireplace when his phone rang. He picked it up, and I could tell immediately that something was wrong.
"What's going on?" I asked as he walked back into the kitchen.
"The beer will have to wait, I'm afraid. There's a sick dog at the Lemmons' place. I told him I'd be right over."
"You mean the ranch across the creek?"
He nodded. "You coming?"
"Of course I am," I said. "You might need assistance."
He rolled his eyes and smiled. "You can take the woman out of the investigative reporter job, but you can't take the investigative reporter out of the woman."
"Ha! Which reminds me, I owe Mandy a call." Mandy Vargas, the editor of the Buttercup Zephyr, our local paper, had left me a message while I was talking with the police earlier, doubtless hoping to get a scoop.
"I'm sure it'll be all across Buttercup long before the paper comes out," Tobias said.
He wasn't wrong.
4
The Lemmon ranch was bordered by high fences and a beautiful stone gate with the legend "Oak Haven" emblazoned across the front in copper letters.
"Low budget," I joked.
"No kidding. They spent the last year putting in a Craftsman-style mansion the size of a stadium, along with a bunch of guesthouses." As he spoke, he rolled down the window and punched a button in the intercom. He identified himself to a scratchy voice, and a moment later, the gates opened automatically.
"Fancy," I said as we rolled through.
"He's got money to burn," Tobias said. "This place is practically a resort village. He runs some cattle and deer to get an ag exemption on his property taxes, but it's luxury all the way."
"Thank goodness it's a big enough property that his house isn't right on top of the farm," I said. "And they didn't build on the creek."
"Oh, they did. It loops back through the property; there are some beautiful pecan trees on the banks. You'll see."
The Lemmons' ranch was a beautiful piece of land, with rolling hills dotted with clumps of oak trees and only the occasional cedar; someone had done a good job clearing out the underbrush. I counted two stock tanks as we drove, but no buildings. Until suddenly, Tobias rounded a corner, and I could see what he meant.
A stately Craftsman-style house with a porch that extended all around it perched on top of a knoll like a queen, surrounded by pecan trees. Around it, dotting the landscape as if they'd sprouted up naturally, were several smaller houses, all built in the same style as the main building. Below the knoll, Dewberry Creek curved toward the road, the water rushing between the manicured banks.
"This place is gorgeous," I breathed. "It looks like something out of a magazine. I had no idea he built all this!"
"It's pretty nice,
" he said. "And I wouldn't be surprised if he wrote it off as a business expense. He entertains clients here a lot; he's called me out a few times to take care of his dogs and introduced me to his guests."
"What kind of dogs?"
"Yellow labs," he said. "Sadie and Roscoe. They're good dogs, and he takes good care of them."
"I'm glad to hear it," I said. He pulled up outside the main house, next to two Ford F-150s, a Mercedes coupe, and an Audi. Together we walked up the stone steps and across the sweeping porch to the massive wood door. Bells chimed sonorously somewhere inside as Tobias pushed the doorbell.
A moment later, there was the sound of barking, and a man I'd seen a few times in town but never officially met, opened the door, accompanied by two large yellow labs.
"Thanks for coming out," the man said. He was in his fifties, with dark graying hair, khakis, a button-down chambray shirt, and expensive-looking boots. He obviously didn't shy away from barbecue and beer; a small paunch hung down over his belt, and he had the ruddy look of a man who was prone to high blood pressure.
"I was right nearby," Tobias said, scanning the two dogs. They were both standing on a plush-looking Oriental rug in the front hall, which was done in oak plank. A staircase with a Mission-style banister led to a second floor; the railing was draped in garlands and lights, and to my left, I could see a massive Christmas tree with twinkling white lights. "You said it was Sadie who was having trouble, right?" Tobias asked.
"I did. Come on in," he said, inviting us into the cavernous front hall. "Can I get you a beer?"
"No, thanks," Tobias said, eyes narrowing as he watched Sadie walk. "She's limping a bit, isn't she?"
"She is," he said. "We were throwing the ball the other day and she hurt herself. Now she doesn't like to run, and she's spending a lot of time in her bed. I was hoping it was getting better, but today it seemed a lot worse."
Tobias squatted down and called her. The larger of the two dogs limped over to him, tail wagging, and stood calmly while he stroked her head with one hand and felt her leg with the other. "She's not flinching. It doesn't seem broken," he said. "So that's good news. We can either do some imaging, or we can keep her off it, give her something for inflammation, and watch it for a few weeks."
"What do you recommend?"
"It's up to you. We can do the imaging tomorrow, or watch and wait."
He thought about it for a moment. "She's not really suffering, then?"
"It looks sore, but not terrible. I can give you some painkillers for her, and an anti-inflammatory; want to try that for a week or two and see if it's getting better?"
Cyrus nodded. "I hate to put her under if we don't have to."
"We'll do that, then," he said. "I'd keep her from jumping off things and running too hard until we get a look at what's going on. Maybe a ten-minute walk once or twice a day on level ground. How old is she, again?"
"Nine," he said. "I wish they could live forever."
"Me too," Tobias said, standing up. "I've got some meds in the car; I'll give you some. Give them to her twice a day, with meals. If it's not better in a week or two, or seems to be getting worse, we'll do some imaging."
"Sounds like a plan," Cyrus said. "Thank you so much for coming out. Why don't you come have a drink?"
Tobias glanced at me, and I gave a slight nod. "Sure," he said. "You know Lucy, right?"
"Of course.” He smiled at me. "Forgive my bad manners... when my dogs aren't well, I forget myself. Cyrus Lemmon; I know we've met before, but it's been a while."
I held out my hand. "Lucy Resnick. I run a farm just south of you, on the other side of the creek."
His large hand enveloped mine; his handshake was firm but not bone-crushing, thankfully. "I remember now. Come on into the kitchen and I'll get you a drink. My wife isn't much of a cookie baker and neither am I, but I've still got some Bubba's Barbecue if you're hungry."
"Thanks," I said, "but we've got pot roast waiting for us at home."
Cyrus's eyes grew misty. "Pot roast. Haven't had that for years. I might see if I can order some."
I glanced around at the massive kitchen, with its granite counters and bubble-glass-fronted cabinets. It was a cook's paradise, but I got the impression cooking wasn’t a common activity in the Lemmon household.
"What do you do with the venison you get?" I asked.
"I have it made into sausage and frozen, mostly. I'm not a big fan of venison, actually, but I enjoy hunting."
"We've heard a lot of shots recently," I said. "I'm sorry about what happened today. Any idea what happened?"
"Probably just an accident," he said. "I understand it happened right close to your house," he said.
"Yeah," I confirmed.
"It's a real tragedy. I've got a couple of folks up from Houston—they're still here, and they're going to have to hang out for a bit until everything gets ironed out. Everyone's upset, but it's just one of those things that happen."
"I'm so sorry," I said. "Who was it?"
"The guy who was shot? He was a good buddy of mine out of West Texas, originally. We went to school together; his name was Bud Tompkins."
"That's got to be upsetting; what a tough way to go into the Christmas season," I said. "Any idea whose bullet went astray?"
Cyrus's eyes darted away, and he reached for what looked like a glass of scotch that was sitting on the counter. He took a big swig before answering. "We don't know; it was a freak accident, most likely."
"I'm sorry," I said. "Was he friends with the other folks here, too?"
"What's goin' on in here?" The voice was female, with a twang that sounded decidedly East Texan. A moment later, a woman tottered into the room, wearing tight jeans, heels that added an extra four inches to her petite frame, and the type of hairstyle I'd always associated with Dallas. She adjusted her sequined blouse, which read "Merry Xmas, Y'all!" and narrowed her eyes at Cyrus. "Who are these people? Don't they know we're grievin' here?"
"Lissa! What's got into you?" Cyrus asked. "This is the vet and his gal. They were kind enough to make a house call."
Lissa blinked at us. The eyelashes of her left eye stuck together, and it looked like she was having difficulty focusing.
"Tobias, Lucy... this is my wife, Lissa."
"We're sorry to interrupt," Tobias said. "Cyrus called me to come check on Sadie. We'll get out of your hair."
"No," Cyrus said. "Please stay for a few. I insist."
With unsteady hands, Lissa reached for the open bottle of Jack Daniel's on the counter. She began to pour herself a few generous fingers, then remembered her manners. "Cy's right. I forgot my manners. Y'all want some?"
"We shouldn't..." Tobias objected.
"Come on," Cyrus said. "Just one. It's cold out there."
"All right," Tobias said, and looked to me. "Lucy?"
"Just a little one," I said. "To take the chill off."
"Whiskey for both of you? Or would you like a glass of white wine? I've got a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge."
"Chardonnay would be great," I said.
"Whiskey for me," Tobias added.
Lissa took a long swig of her Jack Daniel's as Cyrus retrieved a wineglass and an old-fashioned glass. He filled the wineglass with cold Chardonnay and handed it to me. As he asked Tobias if he wanted his whiskey on the rocks, another woman walked into the kitchen. Unlike Lissa, she was dressed down, in black yoga pants and a fleece sweatshirt. Her dark hair was blow-dried into a Jennifer Anistonesque style, framing her tight, sculpted face.
"Hi," she said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Cyrus looked up. "Hi there, Claire. This is our vet, Dr. Brandt, and his girlfriend, Lucy. Tobias came to check on one of the dogs, and Lucy came with him."
"Nice to meet you both," she said.
"Would you like some Chardonnay?" Cyrus offered.
"Just a bit, maybe," she said.
Lissa stared at Claire and threw back a bit more Jack Daniel's. "You don't even care, do you?"
Claire blinked at her and crossed her arms. "Excuse me?"
"You never loved Bud. You just married him for his money."
Cyrus spoke in a warning tone. "Lissa..."
"Don't you Lissa me," she spat at Cyrus. She took another swig of whiskey and slammed the glass down on the counter; I was surprised it didn't shatter. "He was my high school sweetheart. We were homecoming king and queen. We were meant to be together... he was finally realizing it. That's why one of you two killed him."
The kitchen was silent; we all stared at her, stunned. Then Cyrus moved toward her. "Don't touch me!" she screeched, pushing him away, hard. Then she squinted at Claire. "So which one of you did it? Was it you?" she asked, pointing a finger at the dark-haired woman. "Couldn't stand the fact that he still loved me, could you?" She turned to her husband. "Or was it you? Were you so jealous of the way he looked at me that you snapped?" As she attempted to snap her fingers, another man walked into the kitchen. He was in his late sixties, and sized up the situation immediately.
"Now, now, Lissa," he said. "Let's get you settled. I know it's been a rough day."
"Oh, George," she said, the anger suddenly dissipating. He put an arm around her, and she crumpled into him. "I just can't believe he's gone."
"I know, darlin'," he said, and glanced up at Cyrus, as if asking for permission. Cyrus nodded. "Let's go find you a place to lie down."
She flailed for the glass on the counter. "My whiskey..."
"Let's leave that here," he said. "Don't want to upset your stomach. It's been a hard day... let's get you taken care of."
She let him lead her out of the kitchen as if she were a little girl, all the vitriol evaporated. When they'd left, the four of us stood there, blinking at one another.
It was Cyrus who broke the silence. "She doesn't mean any of it," he said. "When she's upset, sometimes she has a few too many drinks, and she starts talkin' nonsense." He took a nervous sip. "You know how it is. All reason goes flyin' out the window. Thank heavens her Uncle George is here. He's the only one who can talk sense into her."
Six Merry Little Murders Page 10