Bittersweet (16 page)

“Tattooed fawns? You're thinking Masters might've been killed over a few lousy
fawns
?”

“I don't know.” She pulled her cap down hard. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, but she didn't want to take the time to skin it back into the ponytail she wore when she was on duty. “Could be just what you said—a drug theft. The doc happened to walk in on a burglary in progress and the thief panicked and shot him. I agree that it's pretty irrational for somebody to kill over a few illegal deer.”

Irrational, yes. Improbable, yes. But not impossible. And she needed to know. She had liked Doc Masters, had felt good about earning his respect, and was disappointed when he wouldn't give her the information she asked for. He was dead, and she needed to know
why
.

At her knee, Molly was pressing hard against her and whining, the stub of a tail wagging urgently. Mack reached down and cupped the dog's muzzle in her hand, tipping it up to look in her dark eyes.

“Not today, Molly,” she said firmly. “You can't go today. You have to
stay
.” Disappointed but knowing that there was no point in arguing, Molly flopped down on the floor and put her muzzle between her paws, looking up under her eyebrows reproachfully. To Ethan, Mack said, “Come on. Let's go.”

“Guess we know who's top dog here,” Ethan said, glancing from Molly to Mack. “If you're bound and determined, I reckon I can't stop you. But you'd better take your own vehicle. I have no idea how long I'll be at the scene or what happens after that, and you said something about a date later this afternoon.”

“Not a date.” Mack went to the door. “A late-afternoon dinner with friends. Sam and Leatha Richards and Leatha's family—you know them? Except,” she added as an afterthought, “Sam had a heart attack last weekend. He may still be in the hospital. I'd better check and make sure that dinner's still on. But yes, I'll take the state truck.” She pulled the door open and was stepping through, but he put out a hand, stopping her and pushing the door shut.

“Not a date.” There was a glint in his eyes, and he was close enough that she could smell the faint citrusy scent of aftershave, overlaid by the woodsmoke odor of his canvas jacket. “That's nice to know. I'd just as soon not have any competition. Hate to say it, but I'm not good with competition. It tends to bring out the worst in me.”

It wasn't a flirtatious remark, she thought distractedly. He meant it. And it was some kind of declaration. “Don't tell me you're the possessive type,” she said, then wished she had said something else, something less coy, less teasing.

“Not usually, no.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her firmly toward him. “Actually never. I'm a real mild-mannered guy. Except
in exceptional circumstances. Except when I know what I want. Then I tend to go after it.”

There was that tingle again, and more. She could feel it racing up her spine and across her shoulders. She could feel how near he was and how indescribably, indisputably
male
he was and how suddenly, inexplicably, she wanted—

He put a finger under her chin, tipped up her face, and kissed her. It was direct and impatient and, in an unexpected way, proprietary, not like any first kiss she'd ever tasted. Instinctively she pulled back, thinking in confusion that this was much too soon, too much, too soon, too—

But then she had to stop thinking, because he refused to let her go. His mouth on hers had suddenly become urgent, demanding. He was holding her tight, pinning her full length against him. Her breath quickened and her arms—of their own volition, not hers, she was sure—were going up and around his shoulders. His fingers were in her hair and her cap had fallen off, and she knew that if this went on a moment longer she would never be able to pull away, never, ever.

Summoning her strength, she pulled back again, and this time he stepped back, dropped his arms, and let her go. She couldn't move. His eyes were searching her face, and she knew, with a sudden hot flush of embarrassment, that he was seeing the unmasked desire written there.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I think I'd file that under ‘exceptional circumstances.'” He bent down, picked up her cap, and handed it to her, a quick, wide grin spreading across his face. “But I'd want to try it again, sometime soon. Just to be sure.”

Mack was too breathless to answer. She finally managed, “Yes.” And then wasn't sure what she was saying
yes
to. Flustered, she put on her cap. “We'd better be going.”

But he put his hand on the door. “Is there any?” he asked, looking down at her, his eyes intent.

“Any what?”

“Competition. Just for the record,” he added.

She hesitated, thought briefly of Derek, and then told the truth. “No,” she said. “No competition.” She took a breath. “But that doesn't mean—”

He opened the door. “I know it doesn't,” he said. “Just wanted to know where I stood at the moment, is all.” As he looked down at her there was a smile in his eyes.

“Top dog,” he said, and touched her face.
“Definitely.”

The uniquely pungent scent and taste of rosemary (
Rosmarinus officinalis
) make it a flavorful culinary herb. It can be used fresh or dried, with meats, vegetables, eggs, and desserts.

But rosemary also has important therapeutic benefits. Its green, needlelike leaves contain volatile oils that can stimulate the immune system, increase circulation, and improve digestion, as well as anti-inflammatory compounds that may reduce the severity of asthma attacks. Rosemary has been shown to increase blood circulation in the head and brain and has long had a reputation for improving the memory. As well, the antioxidant strength of rosemary has made it a favorite preservative. The needle-like leaves contain carnosic and rosmarinic acids, powerful antimicrobials that help to slow decay. Once used by Egyptian mummy makers, the herb is now employed to slow microbial growth on food products and prevent the oxidation of food oils.

Rosemary is also an important landscaping plant in USDA hardiness zones 7–10. One important asset: deer don't like it!

China Bayles
“Rosemary: An Herb for all Seasons, All Reasons”
Pecan Springs Enterprise

I got up early on Thanksgiving morning and picked up the phone to call my friend Justine Wyzinski, who earned her nickname in law school—the Whiz—by being faster, smarter, and
right
far more often than the rest of us second-rate plodders. I managed to earn a nickname, too: Hot Shot. But I wouldn't have worked so hard if I hadn't burned with the mad desire to best the Whiz at her own game. Since I've left the law, I've intentionally slowed down. Hot Shot no longer fits.

But Justine is still the Whiz. She never slows down for anything, not even National Turkey Day. If I knew her (and I do), she was probably going in to her office in downtown San Antonio early this morning, to catch up on a little paperwork while the phone wasn't ringing itself silly. I was right. She was up and at 'em already, and revved up to Mach 2. At least. She spotted the caller ID of my cell phone and picked up on the first ring.

“What, China?” she asked briskly. None of the usual polite niceties, hello, how are you, so glad you called, haven't heard from you in a while. Just
What, China?
The subtext: Strike while the iron is hot; time and tide wait for no woman, so get on it. Now.

I was tempted to remind her that speed kills, but I held my tongue. “Nice to talk to you, too, Justine,” I said pleasantly. “I didn't catch you in the middle of something, did I?”

“In the bathroom.”

“Ah,” I said. Actually, being in the bathroom was good. It meant that the Whiz might be sitting down. Of course, she was probably already multitasking—reading a brief or marking up an interrogatory, while she drank a cup of coffee and checked her email and handled her other morning necessities, with her Bluetooth in her ear.

“I'm out at Bittersweet for Thanksgiving with Leatha and the family,” I began, “and I've got a possible pro bono client for you. Her name is Sue Ellen Krause, and her soon-to-be-ex-husband is up to some serious skullduggery. She knows what it is but hasn't let me in on the details, so far. It appears to involve a hefty theft of two hundred thou or more. He's slapped her around some, so she's leaving him. She says she's ready to do the right thing and tell the story to the DA here in Uvalde County, where the crime took place. But I'm thinking that she may get cold feet at the last minute, so she's going to need an escort. And a mouthpiece. Which is where you come in,” I added helpfully.

“Pro bono?” Justine was suspicious.

I was ready for that. “Just to set the record straight, the last one I sent you was a paying client. The artist,” I added, to help her remember. “From Pecan Springs. Last summer.” It had been a fascinating tangle of truth and lies, woven around a sophisticated art fraud and a decade-old cold case, and Justine had handled the plea bargain.

“I remember,” she said with satisfaction. “We got a nice deal on that one. Her testimony guaranteed convictions for a killer, an accessory, and an art fence, so the judge let her off the hook with probation.” She paused. “This pro bono—is she an artist?”

Justine is at the point in her career where she can pick and choose her clients. She's easily bored, so she goes for the interesting ones. She has a short attention span, so she prefers quickies, especially on pro bono work. Wondering what I could say to tempt her, I thought of the boots and the trophy hunts.

“Not an artist,” I said. “A cowgirl.” I qualified that. “She looks like a cowgirl, anyway. Or a country-western singer. She's been working on this big ranch that sells high-priced trophy hunts to city guys with a
testosterone-fueled urge to hang a pair of monster antlers over the fireplace.”

“Oh, yeah?” There was a flushing sound, then the sound of a faucet running. “I might be interested. I've been wanting to look into that business. Did you hear about that deer-smuggling case over in East Texas? Both state and federal violations—Lacey Act. Huge fine and forfeiture. Hot-button conservation issue. Political, too.”

We were off on a tangent, but that didn't matter if it interested the Whiz. “Deer smuggling?” I asked. “Haven't we got enough deer in Texas already? Somebody thinks we need
more
?”

“It's not more they're after, Hot Shot, it's
bigger
. Turns out that our true Texas bucks are itty-bitty pikers when it comes to those horny things they grow on their heads. And you know Texas. If it ain't bigger, it ain't good enough. So some enterprising folks are illegally importing bucks with big antlers from out of state. They bring 'em in to improve the herd and then they bring in big-paying clients to shoot 'em.”

“Huh,” I said. “Sounds like a racket.”

“It is. Tell you what . . .” But whatever it was Justine was going to tell me was swallowed by the sound of vigorous tooth brushing, and more water running, then more tooth brushing and a loud whooshing gargle. The Whiz was rinsing.

I waited. When the sounds had faded, I asked, “Tell me what?”

“What?” I heard the medicine cabinet close. “Tell you
what
?”

“When you started brushing your teeth,” I replied patiently, “you said you might be interested. Then you said, ‘Tell you what.' What was it?”

“Oh. Well, okay.” She was going down her hall now, her bedroom slippers flip-flopping on the floor. “You know how I feel about going into
a case blind. Tell the cowgirl to tell you whatever she's going to tell the DA. When you know what it is, tell me, and I'll tell you whether I'll take her or not. Got it?”

“Sounds reasonable,” I said. “I don't know whether she'll go for it or not, though.” And once I heard the story, it might not be the kind of thing that the Whiz would go for, either.

“I'm sure you can persuade her, China,” Justine said, and added, “Anyway, no skin off my nose if she doesn't. She can always find a public defender.” I heard a drawer open and close. “I suppose you're having turkey today?”

“Of course. But late in the afternoon. Sam's in the hospital. He's had a heart attack. So Leatha and I are kind of working around that.” I thought of something. “Hey. You wouldn't want to drive over to Bittersweet and eat with us, would you?” Leatha had invited Justine and Ruby and me for a girls-only summer weekend several years ago, and we had splashed in the river and painted our toenails and laughed a lot. For all I knew, it was the last time the Whiz had taken a vacation. “It's not that far,” I reminded her, “and Leatha would love to see you. McQuaid and the kids will be here, and a game warden friend. You could meet the cowgirl, too.”

“Love to, but I can't,” she said. Another drawer opened, closed. “I'm seeing a client this afternoon. But tell Leatha I'm really sorry to hear about Sam. He's a nice guy. Is he going to be okay?”

“I think so, but we'll know more in a couple of days.” A client, on Thanksgiving. That figured. As far as the Whiz is concerned, holidays are for the rest of us. “I'll call you if I can get the cowgirl to tell me her story.”

“Do that,” Justine said. She added, more cordially, “Happy Thanksgiving, Hot Shot,” and clicked off.

Thinking about all this, I pulled on my jeans, a plaid blouse, a blue sweatshirt, and loafers and ran a brush through my hair. I peeked into Caitie's room and saw that she was still sweetly asleep, Mr. P curled up on her pillow. He lifted his head and flicked his orange tail when I opened the door but didn't offer to get up. That cat knows a good thing when he's found her, and he's not letting her out of his sight.

I was still thinking about Justine when I went into the kitchen to give Leatha a hand with breakfast. She wasn't there, but Sue Ellen was stirring a pot of oatmeal at the stove, dressed in jeggings and a body-hugging long-sleeved red T-shirt, her auburn hair twisted carelessly and pinned at the back of her head. The kitchen was fragrant with hot coffee and the scent of breakfast rolls.

“There's coffee,” she said, with a nod to the coffeemaker. “Your mom is getting dressed. She decided to go to the hospital this morning and said to tell you she'd like you to go with her, if that works for you. I'll be here, so I can look after Caitie.”

I looked at her sharply. “Is there a problem with Sam?”

Sue Ellen took the pan off the burner. “She didn't tell me what's going on, China. The hospital called and she was talking to the nurse on the floor when I came into the kitchen—that's all I know. I told her to go ahead and get ready and I'd handle breakfast. We've got bacon, oatmeal, orange juice, and sticky rolls, and eggs any way you like them. I'm scrambling for Leatha and me. What will Caitie want?”

“Scrambled for me, too,” I said. “And Caitie's still asleep, so it's just us for now.” I poured a cup of coffee. “Sticky rolls?”

“In the oven.” At that moment, a timer went off, and Sue Ellen added, “Ready to come out. Maybe you could do that.” She began laying bacon strips into a cast-iron skillet on the other front burner.

I opened the oven and pulled out a pan of rolls that gave off a mouthwatering lemon-rosemary odor. “Omigod,” I crooned. “Oh, these smell utterly delicious, Sue Ellen. They look pretty, too.”

“Easy peasy,” she said. “Refrigerated dough, with a lemon and rosemary filling—although of course you could use a yeast dough if you want. Just roll it out, slather on the filling, and you're done. Except for the icing.” She pointed to a small bowl of white frosting. “That's it. Cream cheese, lemon, and confectioner's sugar. If it's a bit too thick, stick it in the microwave for ten seconds, then just drizzle it on. What we don't eat this morning, we can warm up for breakfast tomorrow.”

I got to work. As I transferred the buns to a serving plate, I brought up the subject that was on my mind. “I talked to Justine Wyzinski this morning. The lawyer I mentioned last night.”

Sue Ellen turned toward me, and I got a good look at her. In the harsh light of morning, her face was pale, with lines around her mouth and blue circles under her eyes. She looked older than she'd seemed last night.

“Did you sleep well?” I asked, concerned. “Your suite is okay?”

“The suite is fine, the bed is comfortable.” She turned up the heat under the bacon. “The problem is me. I'm not ready to hit the panic button yet, but what you said kept me awake.”

“I'm sorry about the sleep,” I said, putting the bowl of glaze into the microwave. “But I'm glad you thought about our conversation.”

“This lawyer. What did she say?”

“She's interested in your situation and would like to help. But here's the thing. She can't agree to represent you without knowing the story up front—the full story.” I began drizzling the glaze over the buns. “If you'll tell me, I'll relay it to her, and she'll let us know whether she can do it or not.”

“What if . . .” Sue Ellen turned a strip of bacon. “What if I don't tell you?”

“She said, and I quote, ‘No skin off my nose if she doesn't. She can always find a public defender.' Which is true, of course. If your husband is arrested and you're charged with being an accessory, you can ask the court to appoint somebody who will—”

“I don't want that,” Sue Ellen said hastily. “Not one of those guys. I've seen them on TV. They're losers. They always mess up.”

That wasn't true, but I wasn't going to argue. “Then you'll probably want to tell me,” I said. “So what's the story?”

Sue Ellen turned the other strips of bacon. After a moment, she sighed. “Okay. I guess I gotta do it. The story is that Jack and these two buddies of his, Duke and Lucky, are trying to get into the trophy-hunting business. You know, like they do at Three Gates, but without the fancy lodge and all the extra stuff. A start-up, you might say. On a shoestring. Duke and Lucky already have the land, which is good. But to get the state permit, they have to put in miles and miles of expensive fencing. They've done some of it, but they don't have the money to finish it. So they—” She stopped to take the oatmeal pan off the burner. “So they're bringing in white-tails. And selling them.”