Murder Takes to the Hills (16 page)

Clay shook his head in disbelief. “I can see Branch mixed up with a sleazy company, but I can’t see him with a man like Mickey. Branch is stupid with money, so he’s always looking for an easy quick deal to make him rich. But he would never hurt anybody, much less family.”

“I believe you,” Cindy answered. “But I don’t think he can control Mickey’s actions. I think Mickey’s orders come from Knoxville. And who knows whether he’s even sticking to
their
instructions? I think he enjoys scaring people. At least so far he has limited himself to verbal abuse. Let’s hope he keeps it that way. And your ineffectual Branch may end up as much a victim as anyone else.”

“I’ll tell you one thing.” Clay slapped his hand on the table. “I’m going to see Peter Minot, my lawyer, when we leave here. I want photos of that Kingsport mess and the strongest letter he knows how to write sent to Advantage Construction in a hurry. Copies of both will go out to every property owner on Crooked Creek Mountain, so they’ll know just what we’re dealing with. If the owners kick in on the attorney fees—swell. If not, I’ll pay the damn bill myself. And if he bothers you again, sis, I’ll shoot the son of a bitch!”

He stood up and put his coffee mug in the sink. “Let’s move it.”

Cindy and I bounced around in the back of Sara’s truck on a couple of folded horse blankets until we reached the cabin, where I de-trucked. Cindy bounced on to
Beulaland
to get the car.

I let the very angry Fargo out. His entire demeanor told me that I had been gone a lot longer than just breakfast, I had not even brought home a doggie bag, I smelled of some strange creature and if I thought forgiveness was near, I was dead wrong.

This lasted until I threw the first stick into the creek.

As we played, I thought of Sara and her horses, and how I would feel if anything happened to Fargo. I wondered if I would be mad enough to kill in vengeance if someone killed Fargo. I wasn’t sure. I think maybe you go a little insane when someone kills a loved one, especially a pet or young child who can have no idea why anyone would wish to hurt them. The killer has taken away—forever—something innocent and loving and beautiful, and you can never, ever get that particular thing back.
 

Yes, I think I might well kill, and consider the planet well rid of a piece of virulent garbage.

Fargo came out of the water, shaking and spluttering. Apparently he’d had enough of the frigid stream.
 
I took him into the laundry/mudroom and dried him off. He immediately spotted a sunny area on the back porch and curled up for a snooze. I would keep a close eye on him for the rest of our visit.

I tossed the damp towel into the washer and as I did, my eye caught sight of the bunch of fishing rods and reels propped in the corner. I started sorting them out, picking the lightest and simplest as being best for us. On the floor beside them was a tackle box with all those items that find their way into tackle boxes. Flies were mixed with lures and sinkers and leaders. Various hooks were tangled in a small clear plastic box. A stringer dominated one corner of the large box, and on that optimistic note, I decided we’d better just take the whole thing upstream with us.

My dark philosophy had disappeared with the thought that we were on vacation, we had no easements to sell or buy, and Advantage Construction had no bearing on our lives.

I was, of course, dead wrong.

Fargo heard the car first and ran to greet Cindy. He was particularly attentive to the paper bag she carried, and shortly, so was I. From Gertrude’s she had procured a luncheon designed to please us all.

Finishing our goodies, we put on the smallest rubber boots in the mudroom and slogged up the road with our fishing gear, already planning what to have with our trout dinner.

Some boots may be made for walking, but these were not, and by the time we reached the little pool Clay had recommended, we were both out of breath. The big tackle box grew heavier by the step, and my camera banged uncomfortably on my chest. Fargo barked at and chased everything that moved.

As we reached the pool, Cindy managed to grab him before he leaped into it, put him on his lead and tied him to a small tree, where he immediately went into his second sulk of the day. He serenaded us with whimpers, whines and the occasional howl.

Cindy chose a fly, added it and a leader to her line and cast. She flicked it neatly right into the center of the pool, as if she did this every day.
 
I smiled and followed suit, except that I held the rod a little too high, and the line went back over my head into a bush of mountain laurel. Was Gertrude a witch?

It took some time to get the line free, during which time Cindy had gotten a strike and reeled in a fair-sized trout. Suffice it to say that the only thing I caught that afternoon was a terrific picture of Cindy, with a triumphant grin, trout held high.

Suffice it also to say, sometimes God is good. On her next cast, Cindy slipped on one of the brick colored river rocks that eons of water friction had given smooth rounded shapes, lost her balance, and sat down in about two feet of water.

Before I went to her rescue, I made the mistake of shooting my second great picture of the day. I helped her up, retrieved her rod, released her catch, since it would not feed the two of us, and dumped the water out of her boots. Our walk home was quiet. Even Fargo had the sense to pad silently at my side while Cindy squished grumpily behind us.

In the process of rescuing—well, assisting—Cindy, I had noticed that the rock which had been her literal downfall had some interesting quartz patches in it, sparkling from time to time when the light hit it right. If I could find another like it, or just another interesting one about the same size, they would make a unique pair of bookends. So I crammed it into the tackle box, although it added a good three or four pounds to my burden. Cindy did not offer to take turns.

All the meat we had was frozen solid, and neither of us was in a cooking mood, anyway. Going out apparently was not on the menu, either. After her long, hot shower Cindy’s attire consisted of pajamas and an enormous terry robe she had found somewhere.

I made one of my famous grilled cheese sandwiches, served with pickles and potato chips. I offered to make one for Cindy, but she opted for a can of Campbell’s chicken soup, of the type that was probably meant for one of the Willingham kids. We watched the news, which eliminated the need for light dinner-time conversation, and afterward Cindy retired to the bedroom with a book. I remained with Fargo in the living room to watch
Victor Victoria
on TV for the third or fourth time. I was beginning to know the dialogue.

About an hour into the film, Cindy padded into the room and knelt beside me with her finger across her lips.

“Someone is trying to get into the bedroom,” she whispered. “I can hear them fooling with the screen.”

I removed my shoes and followed her down the hall. Poised at the bedroom door, I could hear the scraping noise she had described.

“Let’s give them a nice surprise,” I murmured. “We’ll go into the bedroom and over to the window. When I nod, you yank up the blind, I’ll yank up the screen and punch him one in the nose.”

We followed only part of my plan.

As the blind went up and the screen went up and I pulled my fist back, Cindy screamed and I realized my face was about three inches from that of a large, strange-looking black bear.
 
Behind him in the night I could see other dark shapes moving in the trees. Did bears travel in packs? Could they break down a door?

It was no time for questions. Quickly I slammed the screen back down, catching the bear with a smart smack on his large black nose. He let out a loud, startled, feelings-hurt…
moo-
oo
-
ooo
!

“Oh, my God! Cindy, it’s a
cow!
It’s one of those Angus things, and his buddies are all up among the trees. You can barely see them, but they’re there. This poor guy was just scratching his back on a rough log, and I walloped him on the nose.
 
I thought it was a pack of bears.”

Cindy was laughing helplessly at my face-to-face encounter. “Bears don’t travel in packs, they’re pretty solitary,” she managed to gasp. “Oh, Lord, the look on your face was priceless!”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. It was you and your ‘intruder’ who put it there.
 
What do we do now? I’ve no idea who they belong to, do you?”

“No.” She sobered quickly. “But we can’t let them go farther up the mountain or a bear may well nab one of them. I guess the best thing is to call the sheriff’s office—they’ll probably know the owner.
 
Get a big flashlight out of the mudroom and try to head them off, while I phone. I’ll be right out.”

“Cindy, there are ten or twelve of those things out there.”

“Yes, just get above them and point them downhill and kind of shoo them gently. They are tame, Alex, they are tame.”

They may have been tame, but they were also stubborn. I fought a losing battle. I’d just about get one of them turned around and five others would saunter past me, nibbling noisily at delicacies along the way. Cindy soon joined me, announcing that deputies were en route along with some people named Dermott who owned this errant ebony herd.

Once we accumulated our full complement, the chore was easier. Perhaps recognizing their owner’s raspy voice, the now-docile black blobs turned downhill and went home. Mr. Dermott thanked us all profusely, and shook his head when the deputy asked him if he knew how they got out.

“I didn’t stop to look. I’ve got electric fence all around that pasture, it’s always been foolproof.”

“Could the wires have been cut?” I asked.

“Now who would do a thing like that? But I thank you again for your help. Weren’t for you ladies I
coulda
lost a steer, maybe more than one.”

I tried another question. “Did Advantage Construction offer you a fee if you’d sign an easement allowing them to put a road across some of your property?”

“You mean that crazy idea of a nature lovers’ commune or something that Branch Redford’s
tryin
’ to sell? Him and that bully boy he’s got with him?”

I nodded and the deputy looked at me sharply.

Dermott laughed. “That guy with Branch told me I really
oughta
sign, that I could use the money to put up stronger fences. I told him if he thought my fencing was weak, just to grab
aholt
of it on his way out. He did, and jumped about three feet. Guess that shut him up.”

“Or made him buy some insulated cutting pliers,” Cindy suggested. “You might want to talk to Clay Rodman. He’s trying to get some injunction against the bully boy—his name is Mickey McCurry, by the way—and get Advantage Construction to take their plans to some other area. Preferably in North Dakota.”

I turned my flashlight back on and shined it over one of the insulators. The copper wire lay limply on the ground beside it.

Dermott swore long and loud, and this time the deputy made a note.

We went home to a worried Fargo and Cindy took him out on lead, while I made some tea. The night had grown chilly, and I had grown tired.
 
I realized that tea just seemed right. Especially with a wee tot of rum. Cindy agreed, her earlier snit forgotten.

“We spoke too soon this morning,” she said thoughtfully. “Mickey has now destroyed personal property and endangered livestock.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I awoke ravenous. Cindy was already up, dressed and drinking coffee in the kitchen.

She put her cheek up for a kiss. “I thought you were going to sleep all day, my love, and I am getting weak from hunger. These cattle roundups really take it out of you.”

“Indeed they do. I’m hungry, too. And the fridge is loaded. So what are you making for breakfast?”

“Reservations. People who have worked long into the night do not make breakfast.”

“Do we have to go to Gertrude’s?” I asked.