Chicken Scratch (The Sisters, Texas Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

  Pulling herself from her musings, Madison added, “Besides, you get all the good gossip at the café. You’re already up to speed on both towns.”

  Technically two distinct entities, complete with a long history of rivalry, a railroad track divided the towns of Naomi and Juliet. Gossip flowed freely over the boundary lines.

  Genny nodded. “It’s even better than being a hairdresser. I have as many male customers as I do female, so I get both sides of the story.”

  “So? What’s their stories? Start with Cutter.”

  “From what I can tell, he is the local heart-throb for girls and women of all ages. I swear I saw your great Aunt Lerlene blush the other day when he opened the door for her. And you should hear the way even the junior high girls giggle when he comes into the café! He just has a way of wrapping the opposite sex around his little finger. I think it’s those chameleon eyes. He has hazel eyes, just like yours, that change with whatever color he’s wearing.”

  “Sounds to me like you might just be one of those women he has twisted around his finger,” Madison teased.

  Again her friend gave a dismissive wave. She never missed a beat as she continued with her story. “He’s a looker, I’ll give you that, but I don’t believe in robbing the cradle. He’s a welder by trade, hence the welding rig he drives around with 24/7. I think he might be Fire Chief or something. Seems like he’s always wearing that radio and rushing off in the middle of a meal to go to a fire or a wreck. Always comes back to pay, though, so that says something about his character. He seems to be a very nice young man, always polite and respectful and always saying ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am’.”

  “Does he have a girlfriend?”

  “Callie Beth Irwin likes to think so, but I don’t think Cutter got the memo.”

  “And Brash?” She hoped her voice sounded more conversational than curious. “Why didn’t I ever see him around town the times I came back to visit?”

  “Well, you remember he got that scholarship to play football.”

  “Of course. Next to Tug Montgomery and his Heisman trophy, Brash is the biggest thing that ever happened to The Sisters.”

  Genny nodded. “So he tried out for the pros and got drafted by one of those teams up North. Minnesota or Milwaukee or somewhere like that,” she said breezily.

  “I thought Michigan.”

  “Okay, whatever. Somewhere cold. Anyway, he said he missed the warm weather. And then his girlfriend came up pregnant, so he came back to Texas and got married. By that time, you and I had already moved away. He got a job coaching at Texas A&M and commuted back and forth for a while. Then he got a job at Baylor and even moved to Waco for a few years, before he came back here to join the Police Department.”

  “From coaching to police chief?” Madison asked incredulously. “Calling football plays hardly qualifies him for chasing down criminals!”

  “Ah, you forget, this is Friday-night-lights territory, where football reigns supreme. Being hometown football hero/turned college/turned pro/turned coach makes him royalty. He can be anything he wants.”

  “Gee, I feel safer already,” Madison said sardonically.

  “Hey, you jest, but from what I understand, no one wants to disappoint the mighty Brash deCordova, so for the most part, folks obey the law and toe the line.” Genesis’s dimples made another appearance. “To be honest,” she grinned, “it makes town a little boring.”

  “Well, today’s event should stir a little excitement. They can debate whether Ronny Gleason died of a heart attack or sheer exhaustion. I never knew the chicken business was so hard.”

  “Or maybe we could get lucky and it could be a murder.”

  “Lucky?” Madison stared at her friend in something akin to horror. “Have you lost your mind? You honestly wish there was a murderer running around The Sisters?”

  “Well, only for a day or two. I’m sure Brash would rush in to save the day and protect us from all evil.”

  “I guess he could use his super-human football charm or something,” Madison muttered.

  “No doubt. But at least it would be a little excitement.”

  “Well, I, for one, have had all the excitement I can handle for a while. Finding a dead body should use up my quota for at least five years.” She made her prediction as she stood and pushed her chair beneath the kitchen table. “Excuse me for a minute. I have to go re-wash my clothes. Again.”

  After Genesis left, Madison kept herself busy by sweeping and mopping the kitchen linoleum. She finished just as the front door opened, announcing the kids’ noisy arrival home from school.

  She bit her lower lip, wondering if her children had heard the news. If not, should she tell them? They were bound to find out eventually but they were both so sensitive.

  “Hey, Mom!” Blake called out. “You home?”

  “In the kitchen! But enter with care, the floor is wet!”

  The floor was the least of their concerns as the teenagers crowded through the doorway, seeing who could push through the portal first. Blake, being taller and bigger than his sister, won. He elbowed her as he nodded toward their mother and smugly grinned. “See? I knew the rumors in Study Hall weren’t true.”

  “What-What rumors?” Madison asked with dread.

  “We heard you were having a steamy affair with some chicken grower, killed him this morning in a fit of rage, and got arrested for murder.” Blake, sensitive soul that he was, plucked an apple from the fruit bowl and chomped into it noisily.

  “What!”

  “Oh, don’t worry, we didn’t believe that one,” Bethani assured her mother breezily. She brushed a kiss across Madison’s cheek on the way to the refrigerator.

  “That one? There were more?”

  Bethani turned around to favor her mother with an exasperated expression. Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, she said, “This is Juliet, the most boring town in the state of Texas. Of course there were more rumors. It is, after all, the favorite pastime of rednecks near and far.”

  Madison wrinkled her nose at her daughter’s snide comment. “Careful, there,” she warned. “Your voice is dripping with disdain. You don’t want it getting all over your snack.”

  The teen rolled her eyes once more, pulling out the makings of a sandwich while her brother retrieved the bread from the cupboard. The teen’s pretty face settled into a somber expression as she opened the lunchmeat. Madison did not miss the note of worry in her daughter’s voice as she asked, “Was the other rumor true? Was he really burned beyond recognition?”

  “Burned? What are you talking about, honey?”

  “We heard you found that man you were working for. He had fallen into the incinerator and was burned so badly the police couldn’t recognize him.”

  “Oh, my word!” This time, Madison rolled her eyes. “No, sweetie, that is not at all true. Mr. Gleason did not burn up in his incinerator.”

  “But you did find him, right?” Blake asked, his own expression suddenly serious. “That’s what all the kids at school are saying.”

  “Yes, honey, I did find him.”

  “So we heard a couple of other versions, too. One was that he died from some crazy chicken virus.” Fully recovered from his brief bout of worry, Blake was grinning once again as he layered three slices of ham onto his sandwich. “I, personally, preferred the version where you single-handedly saved an entire house full of chickens from noxious gas fumes. But alas,” he bemoaned, putting his hand to his forehead with great flair, “you were unable to save the man himself, just his flock.”

  In spite of herself, Madison giggled at her son’s dramatics. She quickly bit back her smile and chastised the teen. “Blake, a man did die today. It’s no laughing matter. And don’t forget to try out for the school’s drama club, by the way.”

  “Sorry, going to be too busy playing baseball. Guess who made Varsity?”

  “You made the team?” Madison squealed in delight. “That’s fantastic, honey! Congratulations!” She grabbed her son and h
ugged him with enthusiasm.

  “Chill, Mom,” he laughed, caught somewhere between being embarrassed and being proud. You never quite outgrew the need to please your parents, after all. “It’s just high school, not the majors.”

  “Cotton Kings today, Texas Rangers tomorrow,” Madison predicted.

  “You know,” his sister drawled, gearing up for some drama of her own, “he’d get better exposure if he played for a bigger school. You know, like one that actually showed up on the map. Maybe we should move back to Dallas. For his future baseball career and all.”

  “You are so thoughtful, Beth. Always thinking of others, never yourself.” Madison patted her daughter’s blond head with a heavy hand as the girl sat down at the table.

  “Ouch, Mom,” she complained, but did not give up her efforts. “Hey, I’m willing to sacrifice for my brother. If we need to move back home for Blake, I’m in.”

  “We’ve barely had time to get settled here. We are not moving back to Dallas anytime soon,” Madison declared as she made glasses of sweet tea for the three of them.

  As she brought the offering to the table and took a seat beside Bethani, her daughter looked at her in concern. “Mom,” the teen said with a frown, “your hand is trembling. Are you all right? What really happened today?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  News of Ronny Gleason’s untimely death spread quickly throughout the small towns of Naomi and Juliet. Rumors were not contained to the high school. Like with most stories, tidbits of information were left out or exaggerated with each re-telling, until the news being shared bore little resemblance to the actual facts.

  By the end of the day, the police station was inundated with callers concerned about the avian flu epidemic that was sweeping through their community. The Tuesday/Thursday Clinic was swamped with patients complaining of symptoms, even though it was a Wednesday and there was no doctor on duty. Trong Ngo, the Chiropractor and Acupuncturist who shared the space on Mondays and Fridays, was called in to field questions and ease the fears of panicked residents. The waiting room became so crowded that old Doc Menger, the semi-retired dentist who used the space on Wednesdays, canceled his last appointments of the day and sneaked out the back door. Worried parents called school board members at home, the pharmacy was overrun by people asking for an antidote, and Wednesday night services were canceled at two of the five area churches.

  Exhausted and tired of fielding ridiculous concerns about a non-existent epidemic, Brash had reached his limit. He was flipping off the lights in his office and calling it a day when he caught sight of the station’s latest arrivals. With a muttered curse beneath his breath, he backed his way into his office once more, turning on lights as he went. Ronny’s parents would expect to talk to him.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Gleason,” he greeted them solemnly, extending his hand when Vina showed them into his office. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your son.”

  While Mrs. Gleason sobbed quietly into a tissue, Fred Gleason puffed out his chest. “What we want to know is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. What are you going to do about our boy?”

  Brash rubbed a hand across his bleary eyes, considering the ridiculousness of the man’s question. First of all, their ‘boy’ was at least fifty years old, if not older. Second, Ronny was dead: there wasn’t one thing he could do about that. But these people were grieving their son’s death, and even on his worst day, sleep or no sleep, Brash was not so insensitive that he would point out either fact.

  Careful to keep the irritation out of his voice, Brash pulled out a chair for the weeping mother and offered her a seat. Settling a lean hip onto the edge of his desk, he motioned for her husband to take the other chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Gleason, and explain how I can help you.”

  “You can arrest the person who killed our boy!”

  Brash sat up straighter, his shoulders stiffening. “Killed?”

  “Of course ‘killed’!” Fred Gleason bellowed. “Our son was as healthy as a horse! Hardly a sick day in his life. There’s no other explanation for him to suddenly die, just like that!”

  For the first time, Helen Gleason spoke up. “I’ve heard the rumors. Avian bird flu, they’re saying. But Ronny kept those houses as clean as a whistle. His chickens do not have bird flu!” she insisted emphatically.

  “I tend to agree with you, ma’am. At this point, there is absolutely no reason to suspect that his flock has a contagious disease, although I have requested Barbour Foods to take preliminary precautions and test for any airborne illnesses. As for accusations of murder, there is also no reason to suspect foul play at this point. Do you have information that I don’t have, Mr. Gleason?”

  “I not only have information, I have a suspect! More than a suspect. I know exactly who murdered my son!” the older man boasted. He jabbed his finger into Brash’s jean-clad knee as he spoke.

  Fred Gleason was not so distraught as to miss the dangerous glint that appeared in the Chief’s eyes. Brash leveled his pointed gaze first at his own leg, then at the other man. Fred jerked his hand back, but he jutted his chin out in determination. “It’s them dad-blamed new Ngyens!” he blurted out.

  Annoyance flashed across the policeman’s face. He had little patience for racism and prejudice. “Would that be a particular member of the family, or was it a group effort?” he asked sardonically.

  “Now look here, deCordova! This is no joking matter! Our boy has been killed, and I’m telling you, I know who done it!”

  Brash sighed heavily, regretting his smart comeback. “I do apologize, Mr. Gleason,” he said with utmost sincerity. “My comment was uncalled for. But the fact is, I do need you to be more specific. I suppose you are referring to the Ngyen family who has recently moved into the area, and not the Wynn family who helped settle the town of Juliet?”

  “Of course I mean them foreigners!” Fred Gleason bellowed.

  Brash held his temper in check, no small feat when he was operating on zero hours of sleep. “Is there a particular reason you suspect one or more members of the Vietnamese community? To my knowledge, they are a hard-working and law-abiding society.”

  “They’re hard-working, I’ll give them that. But they make no secret of the fact they want to own half the countryside, ‘specially all the chicken houses they can get their hands on! The chicken farmers around here have enough grief from their neighbors and so-called friends, without having to worry ‘bout being run-out by them foreigners!”

  “Again I ask you, did any one particular member of the Ngyen family ever threaten or harass your son that you are aware of?”

  “I’m not only aware of it, I was witness to the fact! That Don Ngyen, he threatened my son right in front of me, he did!” Fred Gleason jumped to his feet and thumped himself on the chest with a meaty fist.

  Brash narrowed his eyes. “How exactly did he threaten him, Mr. Gleason? Do you recall what was said?”

  “Demanded my boy sell him the chicken houses. Claimed he stole them out from under him when he bought them five years ago. Said he should be the rightful owner and he’d make him sorry if he didn’t sell.”

  “And when was this?”

  “Year or two ago.”

  Brash tried not to audibly sigh. His bed was definitely calling his name. “Mr. Gleason, a harmless threat made two years ago hardly suggests a reason for murder. As I said, I’m terribly sorry for your loss, but I see no reason to suspect-”

  Fred Gleason interrupted the Chief mid-sentence. “There’s been plenty of strange goings-on at Ronny’s farm lately. As recent as last week, someone was over there, prowling around.”

  “He didn’t file a complaint,” Brash pointed out.

  “Wouldn’t do no good,” the distraught father countered. “He reported it plenty of times in the past. You, yourself, came out there last New Year’s Eve, when the lights on his gate were shot out.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But we saw no other
signs of foul play. Even Ronny agreed it was probably just a bunch of kids, riding around shooting.”

  “That ain’t all,” Fred insisted. “There were plenty of other times. Ronny called in complaints a half a dozen times or more, but no one ever did anything, so he finally quit calling. Don’t mean things didn’t still happen.”

  “What kind of things, Mr. Gleason?” Brash asked patiently.

  “Fans turned off. Lights left on or off. Dead snake draped across a control panel. Small items moved or missing.”

  “All of those things could be attributed to a half dozen legitimate reasons. Motors tripping out, human error, practical joke, someone borrowing something and forgetting to tell him. That still doesn’t point a finger at Don Ngyen. And at this point, Mr. Gleason, I have no reason to suspect foul play of any sort. It’s possible your son died of a heart attack.”

  “No.” Mrs. Gleason spoke up, her voice clear and filled with absolution. “Ronny had a complete physical, not more than six weeks ago. His life insurance policy was up for renewal and they wanted him to be seen by a cardiologist. I know for a fact that he got a clean bill of health. No heart problems whatsoever.” She looked Brash in the eye and agreed with her husband’s claim. “Our son was killed, Chief deCordova.”

  “I will note your concerns with the coroner. But unless your daughter-in-law requests an autopsy or unless I have substantial reason to suspect foul play, I imagine your son’s death could very well be ruled as a natural cause.”

  “What kind of lawman are you? You’ll be letting the new Ngyens get away with murder!”

  “Ma’am, even if strange things have been happening on the farm, do you have any reason to believe Don Ngyen is behind any of them?”

  “He was seen out on 452, not three nights ago!” Fred charged.