Chili Con Corpses (11 page)

“Any idea which charities?”

Murphy shook her head. “Like I said, she was just too upset to talk much, and I didn’t feel like I could push her any more than I did.”

James noticed a sign for Mt. Sidney up ahead. “Is this my exit?”

“Oh! Guess I’m a better writer than a navigator. Sorry.” She consulted the sheet in her hand. “We’re going to head north on Route 11 for just a mile or so. We should see the farm off to the left.”

Within minutes, the buildings dotting the roadside gave way to a view of an endless field in which dozens of brown and white cows munched on wiry, yellowish grass.

“I bet those are Ramsay’s.” Murphy pointed at the grazing herd.

The farm was a large one. James drove past one field after another until a white sign with green letters reading
Ramsay’s Beef Farm
appeared on the right. Below the sign was was a rusty aluminum mailbox mounted on a crooked pole. Half of a weathered wagon wheel leaned against the mailbox pole and the remnants of a clematis vine stuck to the old rungs. A grouping of mums had been planted around the wheel, but their hues had faded from a perky paprika to a corrosive brown. Turning onto the dirt drive, James and Murphy were granted a view of a two-story white farmhouse with a tin roof and multiple outbuildings. A good distance behind the house were several mammoth barns and sheds, all painted a cheery apple-red.

Mr. Ramsay stepped out onto the front porch as James turned off the ignition. He was a compact man with rough skin and bearlike eyes, but he greeted them kindly enough and even offered them coffee.

“Maybe afterwards,” Murphy replied in a businesslike tone, and James could see that she had transformed into reporter mode. “I thought we’d start off talking about diseases.” She consulted her notebook. “Such as leptospirosis. You mentioned on the phone that you’ve had problems with that particular virus. Can you explain what kind of problems?”

Ramsay grunted. “With lepto? The worst kind. Gives ya cows that are terrible slow at gettin’ pregnant and then lose the calves they’re carryin’.”

Murphy nodded as though she understood the full effect of the disease. “You mean, the calves are born before they’re ready?”

Another grunt. “Way before.”

“So they’re dead at birth?” Murphy sought clarification.

Ramsay looked at her like she was simple. “Well, they ain’t runnin’ around lookin’ for their mama’s teat, that’s for sure.”

James blushed, but Murphy calmly made a note of Ramsay’s answer. “So you had them vaccinated with this stuff called Spirovac?”

“That’s right. The five-way wasn’t protectin’ my herd no more.”

“The five-way is the vaccine that’s always been used for fighting lepto.” Murphy had clearly done her homework. “Why change to Spirovac now?”

Ramsay puffed out his weather-roughed cheeks. “Wasn’t workin’. There’s a new strain of lepto, and it’s meaner than the other one.”

“But I’ve read that Spirovac is an expensive drug.” Murphy’s tone turned sympathetic. “Isn’t that hard on your budget?”

“’Course it is!” the farmer declared. He glanced at James as if to say
Is she really this much of a moron?
Out loud he added, “But it beats the hell out of not havin’ healthy calves born. Can’t sell any meat if you don’t have calves to grow up into rib eyes and flank steak, now can you?”

Murphy kept her expression even as she gazed off into the fields where a cluster of cows was gathered near a shallow creek. The muddy water wound its way through the grass and into a copse of trees far off in the distance.

“How do you vaccinate so many cows at once?” James asked curiously. Murphy shot him a warning look, and he remembered that he was only supposed to be the photographer.

“We got a system. When it’s time to give ’em their shots, Doc Crabtree brings in the drugs and stays to help out.” Ramsay suddenly made a pained face but said nothing further.

“Colin Crabtree?” Murphy inquired, her pencil suspended over paper.

“Yep. Helps me give out shots, and I buy lice powder and the like from him.” He cast a tender look toward the fields. “We can take care of most things ’round here ourselves, but I do need a hand with the shots and Crabtree’s fees are fair. I’ll say that much for him.”

Murphy cleared her throat and said carefully, “I’ve heard some folks say that Mr. Crabtree isn’t a very skilled animal doctor. Have you ever had any problems with the way he treated your animals?”

Ramsay hesitated. James knew that there was a difference between a farmer complaining to his fellows and defiling a man’s name on record to a reporter.

“Don’t worry. I won’t print what you say,” Murphy quickly assured him. “I just want to know what happened.”

Undecided, Ramsay stood and stuffed his rough hands into the pockets of his denim overalls. “I gotta check on some feed,” he said, pulling on the black and red flannel jacket that had been draped across the porch banister. “Walk with me down to the barn.”

The farmer walked with a strong, heavy stride, and James felt himself struggling to keep up. He was thankful that he had worn his rubber boots. Patches of soggy grass and wet mud squelched beneath his feet as the three of them made their way to one of the barns. Ramsay led them to a straw-lined stall and leaned on the door.

“When Crabtree was here last, he saw one of my heifers have her very first calf.” He stared at the clean, dry hay. “That girl was ready. She had had her lepto vaccine, was a picture-perfect weight of eleven hundred pounds, and had been eatin’ high on the hog for months. That heifer had the best—fescue, alfalfa, corn. Even some barley.
All
my heifers havin’ their firsts get treated like queens,” he said with pride.

“Why do they need such special treatment?” James wondered, unable to stop himself, but this time, Murphy didn’t seem to mind.

“By the time she gets to her delivery day, a knocked-up heifer’s cost me over a thousand dollars in expenses. I gotta do everythin’ right to make sure that her calf comes out kickin’.” He pointed out in the direction of the field. “My Herefords are mated with an Angus bull. That combination makes the best-tasting, most marbled meat you’ve ever sunk your teeth into.” He coughed into his hand. “But the calves gotta grow up first or I don’t make a dime.”

Murphy smiled. “You’re right about your meat. My folks used to order from you when all of us kids were still living at home.”

A light appeared in the farmer’s eyes and he looked at Murphy as though she was suddenly a completely new person. “Well, I’ll be. Your pa ain’t Mike Alistair, is he?”

“One and the same.”

Ramsay chuckled. “You tell ole Mike that he can split a side of beef with a friend. He doesn’t have to buy store meat just ’cause his kids have growed and flown the coop.”

“I will,” Murphy assured him and then gestured at the stall. “So, did you have a bad calf delivery?”

“Yep.” His face darkened. “Crabtree was here, helping me vaccinate the older cows. We’d already done the pregnant ones a few weeks back. Anyhow, I’d been keepin’ a watch on one of my heifers who started her labor just after dawn.” He looked back at the hay again. “They gotta give birth someplace real clean, so I brought her down to one of the lower fields and left her to it while Crabtree and I worked. By the time we were done and headin’ back to the house, I could see she was havin’ trouble.”

“How could you tell?” Murphy was fascinated.

Ramsay shrugged. “I’ve lived on a cow farm my whole life. This heifer’s labor was takin’ far too long, so I asked Crabtree to look her over. He got his hands inside that poor, scared heifer and turned the calf. It was good and slick, and it took both of us to pull it out. That’s when the real work started, but that’s when Crabtree froze up on me.”

Murphy was utterly alert. Pencil poised eagerly, she queried, “In what way?”

“That calf was half dead when it came out. Had the cord wrapped ’round its neck so it looked like a noose for a hangman.” He shook his head in disgust. “I thought Crabtree would get the cord off lickety split and work on gettin’ that calf to breathe, but that sonofabitch just sat there, starin’ and starin’.”

James and Murphy exchanged glances. “He didn’t try to save the calf at all?” Murphy was incredulous.

“Nope. Just sat there, lookin’ like a ghost himself. All white and frozen. Shoot,” Ramsay flicked a piece of mud from his pants. “Can’t have been the first time he’d seen an animal born like that. Happens all the time. Cows, horses, pigs, you name it. Nature’s got her share of faults, believe me.”

“What happened next?”

“I got the cord off and locked lips with that slippery little calf,” Ramsay stated flatly. “It came ’round sure enough. My youngest son and I moved the baby and its mama into this stall, because that calf hadn’t started off too well, and I wanted to make sure it wouldn’t have to work too hard to get its first meal.”

Murphy looked relieved at learning the calf had survived. “And Crabtree?”

Ramsay glowered. “I told him to get the hell off my land. Told him he wasn’t worth his weight as a cow doc and he should think about quittin’. Haven’t seen nor heard from him since and that’s fine and well by me!”

“Your feelings are certainly understandable.” Murphy turned to James, a mischievous glint in her hazel eyes. “Let’s get some photos now. Mr. Ramsay, do you think we could get close enough to that bull of yours to get a picture?”

Pleased, Ramsay nodded. “Sure thing. But you’d better stay on this side of the fence, boy,” he said to James. “That ole bull ain’t called El Diablo for nothin’.”

Murphy laughed as the color drained from James’s face.

“And after that, y’all can come on up to the house for some good, strong coffee.” Ramsay closed the stall and stepped out of the barn. “The missus made one of her famous apple strudels, too. It’ll melt on your tongue like a pat of butter.”

“Yum. Sounds like heaven,” Murphy rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Doesn’t it, James?”

But James had caught sight of El Diablo and was having trouble moving one foot in front of the other. Looking down at the camera hanging from his neck, he felt like whimpering. The lens didn’t seem nearly long enough. As El Diablo noticed his visitors, he raised his dark head, glared at them in defiance, and trotted brazenly over to the fence. Eyeing James, he snorted and pawed the ground with a lethal-looking hoof.

James fumbled nervously with the camera. “This thing better have a zoom function!” he whispered in agitation and then began shooting photos without remembering to first remove the lens cap.

On the ride
back home from Ramsay’s farm, Murphy decided to persuade Colin to join them at that evening’s Fix ’n Freeze class.

“We need to study him in a relaxed environment,” she claimed. “The event with the calf happened
before
Parker was killed. It seems strangely coincidental that he wigged out because a newborn cow was being strangled and then his girlfriend ends up being murdered the same way.” She flipped through the pages of her notebook with a furious determination. “I bet the police don’t know anything about the calf incident.”

“If they don’t see Colin as a suspect, he must have a solid alibi,” James suggested. “That Sergeant McClellan doesn’t seem like the type to leave any pebble unturned.”

“An alibi? Hmm, that’s a good point,” Murphy conceded. “I think I’ll ask Colin all about that important detail tonight. If I do my best to seem sympathetic about his being questioned by the authorities, he may open up to me a little.”

James pushed down on the Bronco’s gas pedal as they began the ascent over one of the mountain roads. “That’s
if
he decides to come to class.”

Murphy leaned back against the headrest and sighed, watching the valley below as it became swathed in late afternoon shadows. “When I get home, I’ll just call Milla and tell her that Colin will be rejoining our class,” she added softly, and then turned away so that James couldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

When James returned home, it was almost dark and the late afternoon air carried a sharp chill. Burying his neck deeper into his wool scarf, James hustled from the truck to the back door, seeking warmth. Inside, he called for his father, but the house had an empty feeling to it. No lights burned and the fireplace was laid with a small stack of wood, but had not yet been lit.

“Pop?” James yelled at the foot of the stairs but received no answer. He poked his head into the dining room and then mounted the stairs and headed for his parents’ bedroom. Turning on one of the lamps, James noticed that his father had finished stripping the metallic wallpaper in the bathroom and had prepped the walls for their first coat of primer. The light fixtures, switch plates, outlet covers, and towel racks had been removed and were strewn about on the bed. On the nightstand, a pile of screws of various sizes was sitting in a wobbly and shallow pinch pot that James had made in the second grade.

Jackson was not working in the bathroom, so James headed outside to the shed. Trying the door, he found it locked, as usual. But this time, the padlock had been taken from the outside latch and undoubtedly reattached inside.

James rapped on the door. “Pop?” he called. “Are you in there?” No one answered. James began to grow cold and irritated. “What do you want me to leave you for dinner? I’ve got cooking class tonight so I need to fix it
now
, before I go.”

There was no reply. “Come on, Pop! Answer me or you’re going to get a tuna fish sandwich!” James knew this was a solid threat, as Jackson disliked tuna fish, especially when it was made with low-fat mayo.

After another full minute of waiting, James turned away from the door. Just as he did so, the sounds of a key turning in a lock and a bolt sliding free caused him to stop. His father’s glum face appeared in the crack of light that escaped from the interior of the shed. It gathered around Jackson’s head like a halo.

“I don’t give a damn what I have for dinner!” Jackson spat and shut the door again. This time, he didn’t bother locking it. In fact, he had slammed it so hard that it had bounced backward, leaving a space big enough to peer through. James hadn’t been inside the shed since his father had begun working on his wildlife paintings, and Jackson had made it more than clear that no one was invited within his private refuge. Unable to quell his curiosity, James pushed tentatively on the door.

As it swung inward, James froze. There was his father, sitting as still as a stone on a metal folding chair as he stared at a piece of plywood that had been painted a uniform white. A pile of similar rectangles of wood was stacked neatly against the far wall and Jackson’s paints and brushes were laid out in a fanlike pattern on his orderly workbench.

James stepped inside the shed and quietly sat on a low step stool next to the door. “What’s wrong, Pop?” he asked gently.

Without taking his eyes from the board in front of him, Jackson muttered, “I can’t do it no more.”

James also gazed at the blank canvas. “You can’t paint?” he asked cautiously.

Jackson nodded. “That gallery lady, Mrs. Perez, told me that my pictures weren’t sellin’ too well.” He looked down at his work-worn hands. “Says the last batch was
flat
.” He turned to face his son. “What does that mean? ’Course they’re flat. I paint on damned boards.”

“I think she means they’re not as lively as the first group of paintings. Um,” he proceeded carefully, fearful of hurting his father’s feelings, “like they need more movement or more feeling coming through, so that when someone looks at them, they react.”

Jackson eyed James as if he was speaking a foreign language. “I don’t
feel
anythin’ about them. They’re birds, for cryin’ out loud.” Uncreasing his brows, he sighed. “She thinks I should paint somethin’ different. I’d sure like to, but I don’t know what. I want new fixtures for the upstairs and I want to get goin’ on your bathroom, but if I can’t sell some of these pictures …” he trailed off. “Birds was all I could do. I had them up in my head,” he tapped on the side of his skull, “and then they just kind of flew onto the board. What am I gonna do now?”

At a loss, James struggled to find a solution to his father’s dilemma, but he couldn’t think of a single idea. He had been amazed by the beauty and exquisite detail his father had infused into the dozens of paintings that had quickly leapt off the walls of the D.C. gallery owned by Lindy’s mother. Jackson wasn’t interested in fame, but the thousands of dollars he had earned from the sales of his work had restored his battered pride and lifted him from a state of listlessness and depression.

“Let me think about it, Pop,” James replied solemnly. “You’ve got more in you than those birds. We’ve just got to figure out what.” He absently touched one of his father’s brushes. “Don’t you worry, we’ll think of something.”

Jackson nodded mutely and then stood, his body slow and stiff, as though his artistic failure had suddenly aged him beyond his years.

“I think you need some comfort food.” James put a hand on his father’s scrawny shoulder. “How does a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich with a side of mustard potato salad sound?”

“Better than tuna fish,” Jackson grumbled and then reattached the padlock on the door. “But not as good as rib roast with mashed potatoes and a bucketful of gravy.” He sighed morosely and shuffled into the house.

James had had the foresight to call Gillian, Lindy, and Bennett and tell them why Colin had been encouraged to come to their cooking class. They were only too happy to buddy up to Parker’s boyfriend in order to get a better impression of his character.

When Gillian heard the details of Colin’s visit to Ramsay’s farm, she was distraught. “How could he allow such
suffering
?” She wailed so loudly into the receiver that James had to move the phone away from his ear. “It is his solemn duty to care for all animals. It’s the credo by which he should live
every
moment of his life! That
poor, innocent, suffering
calf!”

Before Gillian could rupture his eardrum with her keening, James assured her that the calf had come out of the ordeal unscathed. Undeterred, Gillian argued that the animal was probably suffering post-traumatic shock and should be seen by an animal psychologist at once.

“Why don’t you suggest that to Colin?” James remarked facetiously. Unfortunately, Gillian thought that was a brilliant idea and planned to call Colin and encourage him to return to the Fix ’n Freeze class. Her intention was to invite him to share her cooking space so that she could read his aura and probe him about his feelings regarding the delicateness of an animal’s psyche.

Milla greeted her students by leading them to an oval platter bearing a veritable mountain of nachos.

“I call these my Kitchen Sink Nachos,” she laughed. “If you can think of something to add to my black beans, guacamole, Chihuahua cheese, homemade salsa, scallions, cheddar cheese, sour cream, seasoned beef, jalapeños, and black olives, you just let me know.”

Colin greeted Milla warmly and then helped himself to a loaded nacho, handing out napkins to the others as though he had been in the class all along. It was only the second time James had seen their prime suspect in person, and he still found him extremely likeable. Colin was friendly and polite without being overbearing, and every expression on his pleasant, attractive face seemed to be sincere. With gentle brown eyes, sandy hair, and a winsome smile, Colin had no difficulty striking up conversations with the women. He even hugged Gillian and thanked her for motivating him to come.

“I really needed a reason to get out of the house,” he told her gratefully.

As James joined in the chitchat around the nacho platter, allowing himself only a single taste, as he feared the amount of sodium hidden in every tortilla chip, he also found himself at ease in Colin’s company.

Even Murphy, who stood on the outskirts of their little group taking tiny nibbles from a cheese-laden chip as she eyed Colin warily, seemed to delay her quest to interrogate Parker’s boyfriend in favor of Milla’s raspberry margaritas. Since the rims of the wide, hand-blown glasses were coated with sugar in lieu of salt, James happily partook of the sweet cocktail as well.

Just as the group arranged themselves about their cooking stations, the door to Fix ’n Freeze opened, letting in a gust of frosty air. In came Lucy, trailed by her dashing training partner. Everyone immediately fell silent as she hung up her coat and then placed a proprietary hand on Sullie’s solid bicep.

“Hello!” Milla marched forward to greet them. “We’re just getting started on the tortillas for our tortilla soup. I got your message on my machine, and I’m
so
glad you decided to come back, Lucy.” She winked at Sullie. “And with such charming company, too.”

Spying the mound of nachos, which the rest of the group had been unable to finish, Sullie beamed. “Now,
this
is the kind of school I could get used to.” He innocuously stepped out of Lucy’s grasp and headed toward the appetizers, waving at James as their eyes met.

“So that’s who she left you for, huh?” Murphy grumbled to James. “Nothing but a pretty face.” She shrugged. “Well, her loss is hopefully going to be my gain. Forget about them. Let’s focus on our tortillas.”

James knew that Murphy was trying to soften the blow of his having to witness Lucy and Sullie arriving together to class, but his mood had turned sour nonetheless. They had joined Fix ’n Freeze as a supper club and now their original group of five was completely splintered. James resented the tension Lucy had created by simply entering the room.

He took his frustrations out on the tortilla dough, roughly grinding the vegetable shortening, flour, and warm water into a soft, supple lump. He angrily ripped pieces from the chunk of dough and began to form small balls between his palms. He dumped about a dozen of these on a small plate to let sit for the ten minutes Milla suggested and strode off to the center island to refill his margarita glass.

Within seconds, Lucy appeared by his side.

“Hi, James. How are you?” Her voice was soft, almost hesitant.