Turkey Ranch Road Rage (32 page)

“Damon Saide’s aerial had marks on it,” I said. “Circles and Xs and numbers. Did you see that, Jerry, when the briefcase fell open?”

“Yes, but I didn’t see it well enough to identify a point of reference.”

“Is it possible,” I said, “that some of the numbers could have been GPS points.” GPS, or Global Positioning System, allows people holding special machines to download ‘You Are Here’ coordinates from the stars, or at least the satellites. Accuracy and price are intimately connected, but a decent consumer model can generally get within a three-foot radius of the intended mark. “I’m sure there were points right behind Mother’s house. What could that mean?”

Jerry set the photo aside and unfolded what looked like a county tax map and spread it on the table. “That’s the big question,” Jerry said, running his finger across a series of squares. “Your mother’s house is on this center lot with a vacant one on each side. The houses in the next block are on similar sized lots, but all have houses built on them. They all look like they were platted at the same time and each has a separate parcel number.”

I looked at the map, trying to put it into perspective with views from the ground and the air. It was harder than it sounds.

He pointed to a large tract of land that was obviously the Little Ranch, however, there were four medium-sized squares between the ranch and Mother’s house. “However, if you’ll look here, these four forty-acre parcels aren’t part of the Little Ranch, although they look like they should be,” he said, tapping the map. “These parcels are out of the corner nearest your mother’s place.”

I squinted and leaned back as far as I could, but the letters wouldn’t come into focus. It was only when Jerry pulled the glasses from his face that I realized he’d been wearing them. “I don’t really need them either,” he said, handing them to me. “But they do help.”

You know, I wouldn’t go back and be seventeen again for anything, but being over forty kind of sucks sometimes. I put on the glasses and studied the county ownership map. From what I could tell, Bob Little owned a huge chunk of land beginning at the edge of Kickapoo and continuing to the east and north all the way to Turkey Ranch Road on the east, the main highway on the north and another road to the south. The only exception was the four parcels on the western edge that bordered Kickapoo. It was very clear that a large strip of land had been carved out of the Little Ranch, and that particular tract was behind my mother’s house. Then I saw the name on the four parcels. I turned to Jerry. “Why is her name there?”

“Because she’s the owner of record.”

“What?”

“One hundred and sixty acres,” Perez said, thumbing through a folder, obviously looking for something in particular. “Her house is in the city limits of Kickapoo. The land behind it isn’t. She’s owned it for forty years or so.”

“Is that so…” I muttered

Perez shuffled through more papers. “Do you remember her every saying anything about that land?”

“Just that if I touched the white crusty stuff over there, I’d die.”

“Salt flats,” Jerry said.

Perez nodded. “So you weren’t supposed to go over there?”

“No, it was okay. I rode horses over there.”

“But when you went over there as a kid, you believed that land was Bob Little’s?”

“Absolutely.” But what did I believe now? I tried to recall her recent references to that land. General concepts wouldn’t do. “I can’t remember her exact words about it lately, but whatever she said still led me to believe that Bob Little owned that land. She also mentioned the oil wells and implied they were his too.” Something tickled the back of my memory, some odd comments that she’d made that I’d wanted to remember. “She said Bobby had gotten in over his head with it all. I wish I could remember more.”

Jerry said, “I’d sure like to know why it needed to be a secret that she owned the land or the oil wells.”

“I do remember that she recently said those wells were low producers, but real steady. I remember thinking that it was odd that Bob would want to give up his steady producers for a park.” I shook my head at the effort to make sense of the senseless. “But if Lucille was the one getting the real steady royalties, she wouldn’t want Bob selling her gravy train either, would she? But then he wasn’t. He was only selling his land. Or maybe that was what Saide was really after, the oil wells, and they were on her land. God, it’s confusing.”

Jerry looked at me and frowned. “It really doesn’t make good sense.”

Perez pulled out another file with more papers. “I did some research on the oil wells on the Little property when the park story first came out in the newspaper and your mother wrote in protesting.” Finding the paper he was looking for, he said, “In Texas, the oil and gas industry is regulated by the Railroad Commission. They have production records online back to 1993. There hasn’t been anything produced under the Little name since at least then. I didn’t know about your mother’s involvement, of course, so I didn’t look for that. I started checking on her after Jerry called this morning. Didn’t get much though.”

“Those pump jacks are still moving, no question about that,” I said. “Maybe the production records are under a company name we don’t recognize.”

“Could be. Or a series of them.” Perez gathered his papers and shoved them back into the folder. “Lease records are at the courthouse.” Walking to the door, he said, “Jerry, you know what I’m going to say.”

“Yeah, Dan, I do.” Jerry stood and gathered the papers we’d brought. “Come on, Jolene. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

“Well, I don’t know what he was going to say.” I followed Jerry to the door where Perez stood. “What was he going to say?”

“Basically the same thing he said before, that this has nothing to do with any case he’s working, but he’d let me know what he gets back on Saide. He’d also say that if he were me, he’d go talk to your mother and make a visit to the courthouse, and if by chance it winds up pertaining to his case to let him know.” Jerry glanced at Perez. “Is that about right?”

“Yep.”

Oh, there was plenty more, but giving a dissertation on it didn’t seem prudent at the moment. “But you de-fingerprinted me.”

“As a favor to him,” Perez said, nodding toward Jerry.

“Well, I want to file assault charges.” I glanced between the men, trying to see if that was something that could be done or not. “I was assaulted in the restaurant. You have his fingerprints already and that’s who I want to file a complaint on.”

Perez sighed. “It’s already done. You told the story when you got here and we wrote it down. You signed. Remember?”

“Well, yes, but I thought that was just a release so you could torture me.”

We did both,” Perez said. “We’re efficient every now and then, and it helps that we have a drawer full of forms already filled out with your name on them. Saves time.”

I looked over at Jerry. “He’s kidding, right? Tell me he’s kidding.”

“He’s doing everything he can,” Jerry said as Perez walked out of the room. “Now, what we need to do is go talk to your mother and then do a little research at the courthouse.”

“You know, Jerry, the morgue guy was right. Just once, couldn’t we try dinner and a movie?”

Chapter
Twenty-One

We arrived at Fritz Harper’s house around seven without fanfare. They’d been warned we were coming so we at least avoided a scene at the door. That did not, however, ensure a simple question and answer episode with my mother. Nothing can do that. Nothing.

We migrated to the kitchen and seated ourselves around Fritz’s table, apparently so Lucille could hop up and down to pretend to be the perfect hostess and conveniently delay our questioning. Jerry quizzed Lucille about the land behind her house, the oil wells, who owned what, etc. Mother had offered him water, tea, coffee and tour of Fritz’s real nice home, but had not once addressed any of his questions directly. She phrased most of her comments with “Bobby said” or just played dumb about knowing anything.

I took a sip of iced tea that Mother had graciously—and stallingly—made. “You know, Mother, I must say this performance is just not up to your standards. You’re usually better prepared, have better tales to tell.”

“I do not tell tales,” Lucille said, scowling. “I’ve said all I’m going to say about any of it. There’s nothing more to say and I won’t. Period. Tales my hind foot.”

Jerry looked at me then at Lucille. “I can’t imagine what you’re trying to hide, but we’ll find out eventually. I’d think you know that by now.”

Lucille just huffed and scowled and clamped her lips shut.

The woman had a secret, no doubt about that, and it must be a doozy. And of all the things to have a secret about, owning 160 acres with oil wells out behind the house would not have been on any list I could have dreamed up. Neither would Bobcat’s assertion about Lucille owning mineral rights on Bob Little’s ranch. I stood up and sort of smiled at Jerry. “I’d say a trip to the Bowman County Courthouse records room would be our first order of business in the morning. No telling what we’ll find there.”

“I could pull a few strings and get in tonight,” he said, still staring at Lucille. “There is definitely information there that we need and the sooner we get some answers, the better.”

Mother turned rather pale beneath her pancake makeup and painted on blush. “Well, now, I don’t think there’s anything you need at that courthouse, and who’d want to go digging through old dusty records anyway. Those old records are in such a jumble, why it’s just a waste of time. No point to it at all.”

“There’s a point,” Jerry said tersely. “And you know exactly what it is.”

Lucille tapped her nails on the table and thought about how much—make that little—she could get away with telling. No, I didn’t read her mind. We all know how she operates.

I sat back down. “Out with it, Mother. We’ll find out sooner or later.”

“Oh, alright then.” She scowled. “You very well know we bought those lots years ago and had the house moved in. They’re city lots and I am not happy about that as you well know.”

“Guess you could move the house back a couple hundred feet and be out of the city limits if it bothers you so much, you owning the hundred and sixty acres and all.”

“That would be silly.” She squirmed in her seat and tapped her nails some more. “As for the other, well, it’s not a crime to own land and it sure isn’t anybody’s business. Besides, I may own land in Alaska or Hi-wah-ya too for all you know.”

“Right. Speaking of what all I don’t know, just why, when and how did you acquire the acreage and why didn’t you ever tell me about it?”

Lucille hopped up from the table and made a dash for the kitchen sink. “Because it just didn’t matter,” she said, turning on the faucet to rinse out a glass. “I just don’t see how any of this has anything to do with anything!”

“Miz Jackson,” Jerry said, and not sweetly either, as he scooted his chair back away from the table. “I’ve reached my limit.”

He never got to say another word, however, because Lucille spun around from the sink and slapped a dish towel at the table. “Fine! If you must know I got that land from Mr. Little years ago.” She twisted the dishcloth in her hands and paced. “Bobby and I have been friends for a lot of years. He was just trying to protect my interests and I was trying to protect his. Nothing to make a federal case out of. Something from a long time ago that’s none of your business. I never paid any attention to the land, just let him handle things. It’s nothing anybody needs to be sticking their noses into, I’ll tell you that for sure, and it just seems that’s always what you two are trying to do, stick your noses in my business. I’ll have you know that I made it a point to let you two do what you were going to do when you were back in school whether I thought you ought to be doing it or not, and I didn’t meddle, no I did not, because I know that people need their privacy. And private things are just that. Private. This is none of your business and it doesn’t have anything to do with anything so you just leave it alone.”

She had said nothing, and yet sometime during her rant, I’d had a revelation and my jaw had apparently flopped open. I noticed this when I sucked in a breath and uttered, “Oh, my God.”

Lucille smacked her hand on the table again. “Well, now, just what does that mean, Missy?”

“You and Bob Little?”

“What?” she snapped, the implication dawning on her as she spoke. “You better not be meaning what I’m thinking you’re meaning. You just get your dirty little mind out of the gutter. We were just old friends and that’s all there is to it. I just don’t see why you’d think anything else at all, stir something up when there’s no reason for it at all.”

As she tried to convince me there was nothing I needed to be concerned about, I became absolutely certain there was. My childhood memories as they related to Bob Little were few and far between. I remembered him stopping by the house a couple of times. I also remembered driving up to his house once, but I didn’t go inside with her. She was upset at the time, but I don’t remember why. Lucille had been upset more often than not when I was little, so it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. The trip up to the plateau was the only reason I even remembered it at all. It had been like driving up a mountain, relatively speaking, which in this part of Texas that was a pretty big deal.

A landslide of thoughts and suppositions crashed to the forefront and I could not stop myself. “So help me, if you tell me that I’m yours and Bob Little’s love child, I am just sure I’ll implode, or explode, or some other ode. Whatever the case, it will not be pretty!” Yes, my voice escalated just a tad. “Is that what this is about?”