Chicken Scratch (The Sisters, Texas Mystery Series Book 1) Page 10

  “Oh, she’s a newcomer. Only been here about ten or so years. Her husband took over the insurance company when Ollie Muehler embezzled all that money and ran off with the preacher’s wife. Dean Lewis is a quiet, mild mannered man. What he ever did to deserve that wife of his, I will never know!”

  “She did seem a little high-strung,” Madison agreed, thinking of the way she rushed from the house, wielding her broom.

  “Claims to be some sort of horticulturist. Acts like that yard of hers is her child. Won’t let anyone step on the sidewalk, much less her grass. I would love to have seen her face when that pony took off across it! And when that goat started munching on those flowers! Thought I needed some of Sybille’s pads there for a minute!” Her grandmother started laughing again, but not nearly as loudly as she had the first half dozen or so times she watched the video.

  “It was funny, not that I would ever admit it to Beth.” Madison took another sip of wine, welcoming the warm sting that slid down her throat.

  After a moment of silence, Granny Bert spoke. “No, girl, you didn’t do wrong by bringing them here.”

  “Are my thoughts so obvious?”

  “Loud and clear, just like that worried frown on your face. And you’re going to nibble your top lip plumb off if you aren’t careful.”

  Madison relayed the argument to her grandmother, then made an admission. “She’s right, too, you know. I uprooted them without even talking to them about it.”

  “Would you have told them the truth about their father?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then don’t feel guilty about making the only choice you had.”

  “I called her a snob,” Madison admitted after a moment.

  “Could be a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”

  “What-What do you mean?”

  “Seems to me you have a pretty poor impression of this town, as well. Maybe if you were to give it a chance and have a different attitude, your children would, too.”

  Madison took the words under advisement. “Maybe,” she agreed softly. “But it’s hard to be too enthusiastic, when I spend the day covered in chicken poop.”

  “Chicken farming is good, honest work. It may be smelly and dirty, but it’s paying your bills right now, at least until something better comes along.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to tell you last night, but I have a new client. Lucy Ngyen hired me to dig around and see if I can find some sort of evidence that can clear her son’s name.”

  “She thinks you’re a P.I. or something?”

  “I explained to her that I’m not, but she’s desperate.”

  “I never believed her son killed Ronny Gleason to begin with.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Why would he kill him? No reason. He wanted to buy the Gleason farm but Ronny kept jerking him around. That man could be a real horse’s patooty at times.” She took a long draw of wine while Madison listened with interest. “And Ronny was one of his best customers. You don’t kill your money source, not when he’s worth more to you alive than dead.”

  “Wait a minute. What kind of customer?”

  “Cockfighting. The Ngyens raise fighting roosters, and Ronny Gleason was their best customer. If he wasn’t buying the roosters and fighting them himself, he was placing bets on them. Don Ngyen is too sharp a cookie to take out his money man.”

  “How do you even know all this?” Madison asked in amazement.

  “I keep my eyes and ears open, girl. You’d be surprised at some of the things I know about people in this town. Go ahead. Just ask me. I can tell you something about almost everyone or everything in this town.”

  “I heard Ronny Gleason was banned from high school football games for a while.”

  “Not just football, but basketball, baseball, the whole shootin’ match. Showed up drunk one too many times, running his mouth. Threw a punch at the high school Ag teacher and got banned for two years. Next question.”

  “Who is the Ag teacher?”

  “At the time it was Eddie Menger.”

  Madison looked confused. “Wait a second, that’s the name of the Service Tech for Barbour Foods. I’m meeting with him on Monday morning.”

  “Yep. He punched Ronny back and lost his job over it. Since he already had a degree in Animal Science, he was a shoo-in for the job with Barbour. Next question.”

  “Who is Reverend Greer?”

  “One of God’s masterpieces,” Granny Bert replied with a pleased smile. “You know the Hamilton and Cessna families have been going to the First Baptist church since it opened its doors way back when, even having our own benches and all. But I swear, for two whole months I was a steady member of the Cowboys for Christ Church. Reverend Greer knows how to stir a congregation and get the old heart a pumping and the praise going up to God, without even uttering a word. All he has to do is strut out there in his tight jeans and his white cowboy shirt, and every female in the place is struck by the Holy Spirit.”

  “Granny! You’re talking about a man of the cloth!” Madison chided.

  “I’m talking about how well that man fills out the cloth, child. And his face ain’t half bad, either.”

  Because she did not know what else to say, Madison repeated her lame protest. “Granny!”

  “You visit that church tomorrow, and you’ll see exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “I heard Ramona Gleason went there for a while.”

  “She did, until the good Reverend finally had to ask her to either wear different clothes or to stop coming altogether. That’s half the allure of the Cowboy Church, that you can wear your work-clothes and jeans to service and fit right in, but Ramona took it too far. She showed up in skin-tight skirts and tops that could double as a postage stamp, and for church services, no less!”

  “What did Ronny Gleason think of his wife, dressing and acting like a hussy?”

  “Do you recall what Ronny looked like?”

  Madison tried to remember him when his skin was intact and he still had both eyes. “He was rather homely, as I recall.”

  “Homely?” her grandmother snorted. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but that man was so ugly, when he was little his parents had to tie a pork chop around his neck to get the dog to play with him! So when a man who looks like Ronny Gleason can have a woman who looks like Ramona on his arm, he don’t care much about anything else. Besides, he was the one paying for all the plastic surgery and the skimpy little outfits. He always seemed as pleased as punch to be her husband.”

  “So can you think of anyone else who might have wanted Ronny Gleason dead? One of Ramona’s jealous lovers, maybe?”

  “That’s the thing. Even though that woman likes to display the goods, I hear she keeps them under glass. Never heard of anyone she actually cheated with, not when it came down to it.”

  “Was there anyone around town who didn’t like Ronny?”

  “Ronny Gleason was a gamblin’ man. When he was rolling high, he was free with his money. But when he was low, he owed money to half the people in town. About a year ago, there was talk that he was in deep to a bookie out in Vegas. There were rumors of a mob connection, but you know how that can be. Still, there were plenty of people who were fed up with having him stiff them on loans.”

  “Like who?”

  “Merle Bishop, for one. He runs the tractor dealership and let Ronny buy a half a million dollars’ worth of fancy equipment for the chicken houses. Had to hire a lawyer before he ever got his money back. Rudy Dewberry wasn’t so lucky. He closed his tire shop after Ronny got to him for thousands of dollars in rubber. Finally opened back up, but doesn’t keep much in stock. Mostly you have to order what you want and wait a couple of days before they come in. And speaking of tires,” the older woman said thoughtfully, “I need to get a spare for the motor home. I’ve got a road trip planned for next month, you know.”

  “Oh? Where to?”

  “Galveston. A group of us goes every year, to break the
monotony of winter. You might want to come along.”

  Madison laughed. “Thanks, but I doubt I’m up to a camping trip with you and your friends.”

  “Afraid you can’t keep up with us, huh?” the eighty-year-old beamed.

  “Exactly!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Madison’s day was brighter already. After making a deposit at the bank, she paid all her bills, tucked away a fifty for safe keeping, and made plans to take the kids into College Station later in the week for new shoes, all before driving out to the Gleason farm to start her work week.

  She refused to let the dread well within her. The closer she came to the farm, the worse the feeling got.

  Okay, so she hated her job. This job, anyway. She made the admission to herself with a deep sigh of resignation. That deposited check was her commitment to another full week of this torture, before the first seven days were even through.

  The thought of the money was the only thing that kept Madison going. In the few days she had been there, the chickens had noticeably grown. Not only were the dead birds heavier and harder to haul out now, but even walking through the houses had become a chore. The bigger the birds, the denser the sea of feathers she had to wade through. Mostly she drug her feet among them, shuffling birds out of her way rather than taking actual steps.

  She had to admit, however, that walking the equivalent of over two miles each day was good exercise, and her body was getting well-toned from bending over so many times and carrying out the heavy buckets of dead chickens. Hardly glamorous, but a workout was a workout. And this one paid the bills.

  And despite the noisy cluck of the chickens and the disgusting smell, the time spent walking back and forth down the long houses was excellent down time, when she could put her body on autopilot and give her mind free range.

  This morning, her thoughts were all over the place. Another quick mental review of her bank account kept the paranoia at bay; at least for another month, she was in good shape. Which left her free to worry about Bethani’s attitude and reflect proudly on Blake’s placement on the Varsity Baseball team. Go Cotton Kings. Another plus about this current job was that it took only a few hours each day to do, other than those occasional pesky alarms. Blake’s first game was coming up in a week and there was no reason she would not be able to attend. If she walked houses first thing in the morning, she had the afternoons free to run errands, pick up the kids from school, go to games, clean house, and, if she was lucky, squeeze in another job or two. Since Mrs. Thompson was back in town and Mr. Huddleston was through with physical therapy, it left only the pharmacy runs for Miss Sybille and her ‘investigative’ work for Lucy Ngyen.

  Her thoughts turned to Don Ngyen, locked up in the local jail. The Sisters actually had their own small jail and holding cell, housed in the old train depot that now served as the police station. No doubt Don would be transferred to the River County facility sometime today, but he had spent the weekend in town where his friends and family could easily visit.

  Had the Vietnamese man actually killed Ronny Gleason? Madison wondered. It seemed unlikely, given the lack of motive. What purpose would Ronny’s death serve the man? He could hardly buy and run this farm from prison.

  She shuffled through the other options in her mind. If Ronny Gleason had a gambling problem, there could be plenty of people with a grudge against him. It sounded like he already had a problem with numerous creditors and a bookie out in Vegas; did he owe any of them enough to pay with his life? Maybe she could work it into the conversation the next time she spoke with Ramona Gleason.

  And while considering suspects… There was something about Ramona Gleason that bothered Madison. It was more than all the fake body parts; something else about the woman rang untrue. Despite her touching scene on Brash’s shoulder that first day, the widow hardly seemed distraught over her husband’s death. Even if she was in a loveless marriage, shouldn’t there have been some signs of sorrow?

  Madison knew all about facing the death of the man you had married but grown apart from. Even though she no longer loved Gray, she was shattered by his death, and not just for her children’s sake. His death meant there was no opportunity to fix past mistakes, no chance to make that last argument, no hope for closure on a marriage gone terribly wrong. Ramona Gleason did not display any of the same regrets.

  Could it be that the police had arrested the wrong person?

  With four houses completed, Madison only had two left for the day. As she pulled the golf cart down the road running between the last set of houses, she saw the Barbour Foods pickup truck waiting for her.

  She saw the way Eddie Menger’s gaze swept over her and the faint light of amusement that came into his eyes. Well, at least she was able to provide a few laughs for the man. Somewhere along that last house, thinking about Gray and Ramona, some of her good mood had evaporated. She pushed a handful of hair from her sweaty brow, not caring about the grime she left behind. Let him find that amusing, as well.

  “Mrs. Reynolds, I see you’re still with us,” he said affably. “Good for you.”

  His comment seemed sincere enough, so Madison made an effort. “Good morning, Mr. Menger.”

  “Call me Eddie. So how are things going?”

  “I think all right.” Her tone was cautiously optimistic as she arched her aching back and stretched her neck. “I think I’m doing all the things I’m supposed to do.”

  “It looks like it,” the service technician agreed. “The birds look healthy, and they are definitely growing. I wouldn’t be surprised if this farm didn’t win the week, as usual.”

  “Win the what?”

  Realizing she did not understand the jargon, he laughed at his own folly. “Barbour incorporates competition in their pay-scale. Growers are guaranteed a base pay per pound, but they have the opportunity to make a bonus if they place well in competition.”

  “Wait. No one told me I had to do a competition!” she cried in dismay.

  “No, no, relax, you don’t have to do a thing. It’s really just a matter of feed conversion, which is calculated among the farms selling that week. The grower that has the biggest chickens but uses the least amount of feed is considered the week’s winner. He gets the biggest bonus, with the rest of it divvied out among the other top growers.”

  “What about the poor guys that aren’t on top?”

  “You said it yourself. They come out poor,” Eddie Menger grinned.

  Madison did not find the arrangement amusing. To her, it seemed grossly unfair, given that all the growers put in the same amount of time and effort.

  “I hope I haven’t hurt his chances of winning,” she worried with a frown. She wanted no future in the chicken business, but she took pride in her work while she was here. Her frown curled with confusion. “His? Hers, I guess it would be. Or would it belong to whoever she sells the farm to?”

  “Who said Mrs. Gleason was selling the farm?”

  “She did.”

  The man scowled. “That’s news to me.”

  “Surely you can’t blame her. She knows even less about the chicken business than I do!” Oddly enough, she found herself defending the other woman. We widows have to stick together, after all.

  “At any rate, the chickens look fine,” Eddie said. “Ronny has always placed well in the past, and this flock shouldn’t be any different. Just make sure they don’t run out of feed and that you raise the waters lines a little every few days. You want your chickens to stretch their necks out to drink from the nipples on the line, not have to turn their head and have water run down their necks.”

  “Do you have the Ngyen farm, too?”

  “Sure do. They always place well, too.” A bit of swagger slid into his voice. “That’s why I always do well among the Service Techs and get a little bonus of my own.”

  “I hear the Ngyens have wanted to buy this place for years.”

  He looked miffed that she was unimpressed with his status. “Yeah, well, that’s what I’ve heard, t
oo.”

  “So can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, that’s what I’m here for.”

  “Did Ronny Gleason raise fighting roosters of his own?”

  “No ma’am,” he said in a matter-of-fact manner. “Owning any feathered fowl is strictly forbidden by Barbour. The birds can carry disease from one flock to the other.”

  “But, I thought-” She stopped herself, not wanting to get the Ngyens into trouble. She had no stake in this matter. “So I understand you knew Mr. Gleason before you worked together.”

  He squinted his eyes just a bit, as if trying to decide what she was referring to. After a slight hesitation, he shrugged. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone.”

  Moving to safer ground, she changed the subject. “So this is a money making farm, you say?”

  “Sure. Ronny always did better than most, but it’s actually pretty hard not to make money in the chicken business. The growers have guaranteed sell through, after all. They know they’ll have a buyer and a set price.”

  Madison looked over at the huge barn and thought of all the light bulbs inside, and all the fans. “But the electricity bill must be enormous. And the propane. Can they really make money doing this?”

  “That’s why it’s important to keep a good relationship with your Service Tech, so you do well and get your bonus,” Eddie Menger grinned.

  Something glinted in his eyes, and Madison wondered if he was flirting with her. One glance down at her filthy clothes, and she decided she had been imagining it. “One other question,” she said, changing the subject. “I got an alarm earlier that said low pressure. What does that mean?”

  “It has to do with the static pressure inside the houses. A door might have been left open or a fan might not have come on. I’ll double-check your programs and make sure everything’s in working order. The low pressure aren’t that concerning, but if you ever get a high pressure, get here as fast as you can. You can kill a whole house of birds that way.”

  Madison’s eyes rounded. “What would I do in that case?”