Death at the Black Bull (14 page)

“Maybe he just had it, you know, from work, and it don't mean nothing.”

“Maybe,” Virgil said as he sat up in his chair. “But two negatives usually make a positive, and I'm betting it means something.”

“The doc didn't find anything at all?”

“The only thing was a water stain,” Virgil said, “which he said actually weakened the fabric.”

“So what are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking that if we're not getting answers from family, friends, or personal relationships, then like I told you, there's only one other place to look: Buddy's job. So it looks like first thing tomorrow, I'm heading down to Hayward Trucking.”

Virgil got up from his desk, grabbed his hat, and walked to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he stopped and turned to look at Jimmy, who had not moved.

“There may be more to Buddy's death than we thought,” Virgil said. “Might be smart to be a little more watchful when you're making your rounds.”

He nodded to Jimmy and left.

*   *   *

Virgil glanced over at the temperature gauge on the barn. It read 91 degrees and it was just a little past nine in the morning. He had put in a restless night. One of those nights when you just can't turn it off. He attributed it to the fact that looking into Buddy's death had drawn him in more and more. It wasn't that he hadn't been there before. Over twelve years as county sheriff, there had been quite a few restless nights and fitful sleeps, but this had a different feel. A woman picking up a kitchen knife and shoving it through the ribs of an abusive husband who had made the mistake of coming at her once too often, or two guys holding up a convenience store for some quick cash. These were the day-in-day-out kinds of things that rarely ruined a night or had him leaving his bed as tired as when he lay down the night before.

No. This one was different, and now his mind was racing with possibilities and more questions than answers.

He saw some movement over in the barn, so he decided to look in before he headed down to Redbud. The mixed smell of cut hay and manure brought with it a strong sense memory for him. His earliest recollections were of this place. Whenever he was here, time held its breath. He could see his father throwing loose hay into the stalls or saddling a horse. His mother, in the same place doing the same things, maybe braiding the mane of her favorite horse, Star. More often than not when she rode, it was without a saddle. He'd seen her many times lead the mare outside, then spontaneously leap onto her back and flash across the landscape, her straight black hair flying behind her so that it blended with the blackness of the mare until they became indistinguishable.

The mare continued on all these long years since his mother and father had gone. The movement he'd seen in the barn was her and it was with some apprehension that he'd come to look in on her. Cesar called her Misteriosa. She had been born on the ranch and was so much his mother's that after the car accident that took them both she had brooded for months. Cesar said he had seen it before. A mare bonding so strongly that when her foal was taken away as a weanling, she would go into a long period of sullenness, calling continually for the absent foal. But he said he'd never seen it for a person.

Eventually, she came out of it but she was never again like she had been with his mother. She kept her place on the ranch for the next twenty years, dependable and solid, but there was never again the closeness of that bond. Another part of the enigma for Virgil and Cesar was that for all that time she had been barren. She had been checked by the ranch vet, but a cause had never been established. This was the reason for Virgil's apprehension now. After all these years, now in use only as a companion for Virgil's horse, Jack, she had come into foal. Twenty-seven years old and in foal for the first time. It was not unheard of for an aged mare to catch, but those exceptional cases were broodmares that had been bred with regularity throughout their life. Cesar said he had never heard of a case like this, and even the vet said he had never seen an instance like it before. He had also predicted that it was unlikely that either dam or foal would survive.

Virgil's mother had always believed that nothing was random. Further, there was always a deeper meaning. Her philosophy had left its mark on Virgil. In his marrow, he'd known Buddy's death would lead him into deeper waters. Now in the shadowed stillness of the barn, he had the same feeling, that somehow the swollen belly of the aged mare meant something more.

A few more steps brought him to the last box stall at the end of the barn. They had kept the mare close for the last week, once Cesar had seen that her milk bag had filled and her teats had waxed over. Normally, Cesar would have checked on her already, but Virgil knew that he was probably working with José on the busted water pump at the same stock tank where they had found Buddy. As the days stretched into weeks with little or no rain, the stock tanks became more critical as a water source for the cattle. The ever-flowing creek that passed in back of the house and barns was down to a soft murmur. Even the good bottomland grass was starting to show brown.

Virgil placed his forearms on the top rail of the stall while he rested his foot on the bottom. Star was in the far corner of the stall, obscured by the contrast of the streaming band of sunlight which came through the window.

“Hey, old girl,” Virgil whispered, squinting to see the mare. The mare gave a soft nicker in return, then she dropped her head and turned slightly, shifting her rump toward Virgil. Another soft nicker and he saw her nudge something in the dark corner. Virgil undid the latch to the stall and stepped slowly inside. The mare gave another call, a little deeper this time, then turned to face Virgil, her eyes meeting his. A slight movement in the bedding at her feet drew his attention.

“Hey, what you got there?” He moved slowly forward through the shaft of light to the other side of the stall, drawing closer to the mare. All the while, the mare never took her eyes off him. He slowly extended his hand until the mare responded. He could feel the velvet softness of her muzzle and her warm breath on his fingers. He came alongside, all the while talking softly and running his hands down her neck to her withers until he could feel her body relax under his touch. Then he bent down to examine the small bundle lying comfortably at her feet. The thrill of touching the warm, soft body was almost electric. He was completely dry and, as close as he could tell in the dim light, alert and strong. He had the sense that he was a couple of hours old and already had probably nursed once or twice. He reached under the mare as he stood and could feel warm milk puddle in his hand. Then he stepped away and left the stall. A few seconds later, he returned with a pitchfork and scooped up the afterbirth he'd seen in the bedding. He filled the water bucket and gave Star an extra grain feeding. By the time he'd finished, the foal had struggled to its feet and followed the mare as she walked across the stall to eat the grain.

“Mom sure would be proud of you, old girl.”

When he left the barn a little while later, the restless, sleepless night was behind him. He was ready for the ride down to Redbud and whatever else he had to deal with to find out why Buddy was left in that stock tank.

M
rs. Hinton was watering some struggling tomatoes when he pulled up. He thought she looked older. He knew that she and Bud senior had married young and that Buddy's coming had prompted their marriage. She couldn't be much more than forty-five, he thought. The sudden realization that she was not too much older than him gave him pause.

“Hey, Viola.” He'd gotten out of the car. She was still bending over the plants with the hose. She raised her hand, shielding her eyes from the morning sun.

“That you, Virgil?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Ma'am . . . You trying to make me feel older than I look?”

Virgil didn't answer.

“Grief ages a person,” she said. “You know, I'm only a few years older than you.”

He felt like his mind had just been pickpocketed.

“Bud's not here if you wanted to speak to him.” She set the hose down in the garden and stepped out of the small plot. “Sure could use a little of nature's help. Plants are hurting with this heat.”

Again Virgil said nothing.

“So what prompted this visit?”

“Actually, I was on my way down to Redbud when I saw the turnoff and thought I'd stop by to see how you were doing.”

“That's nice, Virgil. You're a good man, just like your father. We're doing pretty good, trying to get back to normal. The three younger ones force us to keep living in the world. Guess that's a good thing.”

“Curtis going to be a first-string quarterback this year?”

“He surely hopes so. That's where Bud is now, dropping Curtis off at summer camp on his way to work. Hope that coach keeps an eye on that thermometer. When it comes to football, those kids don't have enough sense to pour sand out of a boot. They'd play in hundred-degree heat.”

“Don't think you have to worry. Coach will have them do the heavy stuff, sprints and such, first. Then, run a few quick plays before it gets like a frying pan out there. Then he'll back off.”

“I forgot. That was a few years after I graduated that you played.”

“Yes, same coach. He's a good man.”

“Anything new? I mean as far as Buddy . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Not a whole lot. I'm heading down to Redbud to do a little more digging. We struck out on that girl Buddy was seeing. She's gone from Hayward Ranch. We don't know where she's got to.”

Viola reached down, picked up the hose, then laid it in another part of the garden.

“Well, I'd better be getting down the road.” Virgil moved back from the row of knee-high sunflowers that Viola had planted on the perimeter of the garden.

“Hold on a minute, Virgil.” Viola stepped across two rows of plants until she was standing next to him. “You know I told you about that girl in confidence. Bud's a good man, but he does have a blind spot about . . . Well, like I told you before . . . A mixed couple. That's why he never knew. Buddy only talked to me about her. She sounded nice. Anyway, if you think it might be important, if you're heading down to Redbud, you maybe could ask Carlos about her.”

“Carlos?”

“Carlos Castillo. You know him, don't you?”

“Well, yes, I know Carlos. Just saw him a few weeks ago at the Black Bull.”

“Well, that's how Buddy met the girl, through Carlos. Carlos and Buddy became good friends when Buddy started working at Hayward Trucking. Carlos got her the work at the ranch. I think they're related somehow, or she was just a friend of a friend from the other side of the river. That part I'm not sure about, but anyway that's how they came to meet. I think her brother worked there, too.”

“Thanks, Viola. I appreciate the information and don't worry, it'll remain in confidence.”

*   *   *

Back on the road, Virgil rehashed what he'd just found out while reflecting on Carlos's unusual behavior at the Black Bull. It kind of made sense, that if he had some part in the development of the relationship between the girl at Hayward Ranch and Buddy that he'd be trying to distance himself in light of Buddy's death. But Virgil had a nagging feeling that there might be more to it than that. The feeling followed him all the way down to Redbud.

The receptionist at Hayward was not the young girl from his previous visit and there was no informality in their exchange. He glanced through the common window where he had seen Carlos on his previous visit, but there was no sign of him. The dozen or so people at work there were oblivious to his scrutiny.

“Sheriff Dalton, you can go in now.” The receptionist nodded toward the door to the right of her desk. “It's the office at the end of the hall, on the right.”

The hallway that eventually brought him to Caleb Hayward's office ran the length of the building. He couldn't help but think that if any of the support staff were called to these inner offices, the intimidation factor would be huge. He stepped through the door into a room with another secretary who turned out to be the young girl that he'd met on his earlier visit.

“You can go right in,” she said, smiling. “Caleb's waiting for you. Nice to see you again.”

“Is this a promotion for you?”

“Oh, Cal . . . I mean, Mr. Hayward thinks Marilyn gives a more formal look than me. He's right. I'm not the quiet type.”

Virgil smiled in return, then walked into Caleb's office, thinking to himself that his conjecture about the intimidation factor had been pretty much blown out of the water by the young girl's easy and relaxed attitude. The fact that she referred to her boss by his first name only underscored this.

The room was large and done in a Western motif. The mounted heads of indigenous animals decorated three walls, while the fourth wall was mostly glass and looked out on a prairie landscape typical of the area. Caleb Hayward sat behind the one contradiction in the room, an ultramodern desk of chrome and glass. The effect was jarring.

Caleb came quickly from in back of his desk, extending his hand.

“Sorry I missed you on your last visit. I'm in and out of the office a lot. Have we ever met?”

“I think many years ago, but you were only four or five at the time. I knew . . . your aunt.”

“I don't remember. I barely remember her.”

“Isn't that her picture?” Virgil nodded toward a photograph among other family photos that lined the top of a bookcase.

Caleb followed his gaze to the girl astride a horse, her red hair and smiling face behind the glass-enclosed frame.

“No. That's my sister, Virginia. Everyone says there is a really strong resemblance to my aunt. Have a seat, Sheriff. Can I get you anything? I've got some cold drinks in the fridge.”

“No. I'm fine.” Virgil sat in one of the two leather chairs in front of the desk. He was surprised when Caleb sat in the other. Virgil liked what he saw in the young man, an air of casualness, a lack of pretense. In contradiction to his sister, he bore a strong resemblance to Micah, although he was taller and his hair was almost black. Virgil tried to reconstruct an image of Micah's wife, but the only feature he could pin down was the black hair.

“I gather this is about Buddy Hinton. That was tragic. I liked Buddy.”

“Did you know him well? I mean, outside of the company?”

“I played ball with him at the company barbecues a few times and we had a few beers together, but that's about all. My social life is pretty much catch-as-catch-can right now.”

“Do you have any idea why he would have ended up like he did?”

“Not a clue. I'm afraid I can't help you much there.”

“Were there any problems with anybody in the company that you heard about?”

“Not that I ever heard. I think he was really well liked.”

“I had no idea this company had gotten so big. You're a young guy to be in charge of such a huge operation.”

“Oh, I just handle the transport. Pickup and delivery. Dad handles all the corporate stuff and development. He's the one in charge. If it wasn't for him, we would still be selling pecans on the open market instead of packaging and producing under our own label. He brought us to the next level.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, we were almost bankrupt when my grandfather died. It was Dad's idea, the processing factory in Mexico.”

“You know, maybe I'll have that cold drink after all. Then maybe you could tell me more about that.”