Totally Buzzed (A Miller Sisters Mystery) (16 page)

12

For the next fifteen hours, Alejandro had nothing to do but think. He thought back about many things that had held little meaning at the time they happened. He thought how odd it was that some of those occurrences now took on a more sinister meaning.

He had many unanswered questions. Like why did Martinez insist they bring all mares to the championships, rather than the best horse for the job? Why was Eduardo Martinez late arriving, and why did he not check into his hotel? How did Martinez know what happened at the barns if Alejandro did not tell him? Why did Martinez hire people to find Huerta before he knew Huerta was missing? Were the thugs who beat up him and Jose possibly hired by Martinez? Why would Martinez send thugs to beat up Alejandro and Jose anyway? Why not just ask them if they knew where Dr. Huerta was? Hell, was Dr. Huerta even a doctor? Did someone think Alejandro knew too much? Did they think he had figured something out? Another terrible thought crossed his mind: was Alejandro Montoya supposed to die in Dallas?

Though he knew it was paranoid, he drove off the Interstate and onto small country roads to check on his horses. He could not deviate too far from his route because of the time element. He did not stop often, and he did not eat.

Martinez called him once to find out where he was. Alejandro told him he was in Joplin, Missouri, when in fact he was crossing the Mississippi into Illinois. He tried to ask Martinez questions about Huerta and Jose, but Martinez cut him off and hung up, leaving Alejandro even more confused and more frightened.

When Alejandro made it north of Chicago, he looked for a place to pull off the Interstate again. He saw what looked like a petting zoo off of Highway 176, and pulled into the parking lot. It was late in the afternoon and the place was closed.

Having little to do but think during the long hours on the road, he convinced himself there must be answers to some of his questions hidden in the horse trailer. He opened all the service doors to let in the night air for the mares. He pulled everything out of the dressing room and the truck. He spread it across three parking stalls, separating his belongings from those of Jose and Dr. Huerta.

Alejandro searched through the belongings, not knowing what he was looking for. He looked through the stacks of clothing and hygiene items, but found nothing suspicious looking. "I am now talking like a movie detective," he told the mares, "All those nights of watching CSI paid off."

He searched Huerta's veterinary bag, but found nothing more suspicious than birthing gloves, regular gloves, a large set of what looked like grilling tongs, and assorted wraps, needles, threads, and various other 'doctor' things. "Birthing gloves?" He thought about it. Perhaps to check for pregnancy down the road.

He was reloading the tack room with Dr. Huerta's hanging clothes when a small bubble envelope fell out of an inside jacket pocket. Alejandro picked it up and flipped it over. It was addressed to a Mrs. Carole Graff in White Bass Lake, Wisconsin. What held Alejandro's attention was the return address. It was from some Mexican research group he never heard of, but the address was the Martinez ranch!

Alejandro finished stuffing Huerta's and Jose's things back in the tack room. He put his own things in the backseat of the truck. He threw the bubble envelope into the glove compartment of the truck. When he leaned across the seat, he noticed something was wedged under the passenger seat. He grabbed the flashlight.

Directing the light under the seat, he tugged on what appeared to be a briefcase. He yanked it out, stumbling backward when it tore loose. It flew out from under the seat, smacking him on the chin. He thought how ironic it was to have just injured the only spot on his entire body that did not already hurt. Rubbing his chin, he inspected the briefcase

It was dark brown leather and unfamiliar to him. He wondered if it could have belonged to Dr. Huerta. The thought came to him that one could mistake this bag for the one holding the registration and health papers for the mares. Alejandro remembered the last time he saw Huerta. He was jogging around the corner of the barn with a briefcase in his hand. Was this the briefcase he carried? Did he take the wrong briefcase? If so, then what was in this one? Dare he look inside something that did not belong to him? He thought that after all that had happened to him over the last 24 hours, hell, yes, he dared!

Just as he reached for the latch on the case, red and blue lights flashed on the main road. Alejandro stuffed the case back under the seat and walked around the trailer. He stroked and spoke to the mares before closing their doors. The squad pulled into the lot and caught Alejandro in the spotlight.

"Hey, Buddy, are you okay?" The funny Midwestern accent injected a friendly note into the question. Alejandro smiled as he turned toward the squad.

"I'm fine, officers. It seemed one of my horses was making a racket and I wanted to make sure they were all okay."

One officer was looking at the in-car computer. "Probably checking the plates," Alejandro thought. He hoped Martinez had everything up to date. The other officer looked in the trailer windows as he spoke.

"You got some nice horses in there. Where are you headed?"

"To the," he checked his notes, "Gamble Horse Farm in Gurnee, sir. I have brood mares to drop off." Not knowing where the next statement came from, he also blurted, "Then I need to make a stop in White Bass Lake across the border. I am on vacation, but I might be checking out a new job, too."

"White Bass Lake? Nice town. Good folks. I know the sheriff up there. Mr.?"

"Montoya, sir." He handed over his driver's license, thinking wouldn't it be his luck if Martinez reported his truck and trailer stolen?

The police officer strolled back to the squad and handed his license to the other cop. Alejandro thought fast. "I might see the sheriff when I get up to White Bass Lake, do you want me to send him your good wishes?"

The cop smiled. "Sure. You tell Sheriff Green that Mark Olsen from Mundelein says he owes me a doughnut. He'll understand." The other police officer stepped away from the squad and handed Alejandro his license.

"You can also tell that no-good weasel that he owes Harry Ballard a fish fry!" They both laughed at the 'inside' joke.

Alejandro discovered from the officers he was only two exits away from the one he needed. He thanked them both and climbed into the truck. He pulled back onto the Interstate and within twenty minutes was pulling into the front lot of Gamble's Horse Farm.

13

Ian and Mag strolled out of the house. I steeled myself against the determined look in hers and Ian's eyes. The dogs looked up and I could feel them tense as they followed my emotional lead. I absently stroked their heads, silently reassuring them I was not going to shoot anyone in the next five minutes
–
or so I thought. I watched Ian and Mag approach and noticed something else. Mag was not crying. What could he have possibly told her that would make everything all right? This could be a positive sign, but it also could mean he lied to her and she was now pissed off at me instead of Ian. Ah, life can be hell. There is nothing in the world compared to sibling anger.

The dogs and I sat rigidly where we were, and didn't offer anyone a place to sit. Good thing we all had big butts, I thought, because we took up the whole swing. Ian glared down at me, hands on his hips, and cleared his throat.

"Just for the record, my mother really
does
live in Janesville, and I
am
a Forensic Botanist, only I work out of the Milwaukee office of the FBI, and I only do occasional research for UW Madison. I have lectured there but I do not teach on a regular basis."

I hate it when I'm right, but at the same time relieved that he was not a real bad guy
–
he was only a jerk. That didn't exactly make him one of the good guys yet, but we were gaining on it. I didn't say a word, just kept staring at him. He shuffled his feet and continued.

"I had orders to maintain cover, even though it wasn't much of one. I had no choice. I was supposed to recover the seeds and find out what they were. I didn't count on Mag, and you, your mom, the dogs, the town
–
geez! Every time I turn around I am fascinated.

"I haven't even been doing my job. I've just been bumping along behind you and Mag, absorbing all this damn Americana. I do have one question, though.

"What the hell is it with all the Jell-O? Every time I turn around, someone is shoving a plate of Jell-O with some sort of 'stuff' inside at me! I have had peaches, pineapple, cottage cheese, Cool Whip, cabbage, carrots, and one I couldn't identify, but it tasted like a party loaf from a wedding I once went to."

Mag and I giggled. Ian jumped and looked panic stricken. "
That's
what your mother did when I asked her. What is so damn funny?"

Mag and I looked at each other, and I did the honors. "Spam."

He gulped. "Spam? In goddamn Jell-O?"

"Yep. Spam, pickle relish, mustard and some other stuff. Wes loves it; he gets it most birthdays and on other special occasions because we refuse to eat it."

Ian looked ill. "Only in the Midwest."

"I don't know. You could be right," I said. "It's my grandmother's recipe. She has 101 ways to make Jell-O."

Ian clutched his stomach. "Ugh. Enough about Jell-O! Let's get back to business for a minute." He pulled a small notebook out of his jeans pocket and flipped through it. "The FBI doesn't know much more than you already figured out. The facts as we know them are as follows: We do not know who the Graffs are. We think the blundering cover Janelle found was a calculated move. Our people found out just as much, but it turns out little Robby has a past. Our guys are looking into that past now. I say we let them
–
it's one less thing we have to worry about, and those guys do it for a living. The FBI computer geeks can come up with a fuzz ball in a hermetically sealed room. The Graffs, or whoever is paying their bills, probably think no one will dig deeper if they figure the target is stupid enough to leave a trail like they did and end up dead."

I interjected, "Either that or they were originally used for short term and targeted for removal anyway."

"Exactly." Ian paced a bit, reading his notes. He sipped his coffee. "The Bureau also thinks like you do, Buzz, that the seeds are connected with Carole's death somehow."

"I knew it," I said.

Ian nodded. "Turns out she was hooked up with a research group in Texas, who in turn is connected to another one out of Mexico which may or may not be real
–
I'll get more into to that later. This group initially looks like a rare plant species preservation group, as they find rare plants and propagate them so they can be moved to places where their habitat is not yet destroyed. The problem they face, or that they might be hip deep in, is one of illegal exportation of rare species, thereby shrinking their already diminished numbers. Plants such as these are shipped to the U.S. and other countries, for cultivation and sale in the elite market of rare species. Now with the Internet, that market is endless. Plants can be marked and shipped as Barbie Dolls, if the sellers have a mind to, and international markets are big money."

This time Mag jumped in. "Aw, come on. Do you mean to tell me that there are little plant geeks all over the world buying illegal plants and one of them offed Carole?"

Ian shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe, and maybe not. It's too early to tell. One plant Carole was working on has been illegal to export from Mexico for some time. The laws are still unclear as to whether the Mexican government is allowing the legal exportation of this rare little cactus even now."

He looked at his notes. "Mammillaria Luethyi could serve as a poster child for plant conservation. This is a small cactus, which only grows naturally in two small areas in the Mexican state of Coahuila. It clings to outcroppings of limestone.