X's and O's (Will Kilpatrick, DVM Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

  Nothing made sense.

  He needed a quiet place to think.

  The old cemetery where Uncle Bill was buried would suffice.

  Chapter 5

  Tire squeals and seeing Blue, her yellow dog, almost struck yanked Liza from the rocker where she sat, clutching a half-gallon tub of Blue Bell chocolate ice cream. Administered via an over-sized spoon, it proved a cheaper, tastier, dose-as-needed alternative to Prozac.

  Pulse escalating towards a personal best, she stomped a foot. She sprinted to the road when she heard a door slam. An unfamiliar car was parked at the head of the brushy lane leading to the old cemetery. The woods had already enveloped the driver. Probably Dr. Kilpatrick. She would investigate.

  She raced to the house to answer the phone. Ten minutes later, she descended the porch again. If the bank called one more time about the delinquent farm loan payments, she didn't know what unladylike thing she might do.

  ***

  Mind elsewhere and enjoying the spring countryside, he had almost hit someone's fool dog before reaching the pull-off where he parked. After being accused by Liza Hall of killing Tipper, running over someone's dog would have established him as a mass murderer.

  At the bottom of the hill, he stepped into thin slices of sunlight filtering through the treetops. Shade's cool breath caressed his neck. Farther down, the small creek, cloaked in a snarl of laurel, chattered its way over rocky ledges.

  Gracie Lee spied a chipmunk and gave chase.

  Half of the fifty-odd graves were marked by plain rocks bearing names only - no dates, only scabby coatings of lichen. Rock slabs about three feet tall, thirty inches wide, one-inch thick distinguished later graves. Mature trees grew amongst them. No one had been buried there since 1896.

  A solitary rose, atilt in a slender vase, distinguished the blemish advertising his uncle's grave. Where had he found the tombstone that matched? Who had brought the flower? Probably Uncle Bill's fiancée of three weeks. Barbara Johnson. Though he didn't know her, he intended to fit in a visit.

  He mopped his eyes with the heels of his hands. For eight years he had spent parts of summer vacation with Uncle Bill. Helping in the clinic. Accompanying him on farm calls. Dreaming of a future practicing together. Whatever residue of the shared dream had survived Will's change of mind three years ago, nothing remained now.

  He stooped to read the scripture etched into the rough surface. Micah 6:8. He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?

  Will nodded in agreement. If life didn't take so much time, perhaps it could sum up his behavior.

  Something held against the base of the stone with a small rock caught Will's eye. A blue obstetrical sleeve with his name written on it. He looked around. No one. He withdrew a piece of paper.

  Dear Will,

  I had a suspicion you might show up here sooner or later, so I had someone leave this note. I don't know what in Act III got me here, but rest assured it's all God's timing. Neither me, doctors, nor anyone else added to or shortened my appointed life on Earth. Hope your day is going well. Mine is going great. Of course, these days I'm running with a better class of folks than you are.

  You may wonder why I had myself buried here. It was worth it to get you to visit. I don't know what you came here expecting to find. Different things draw folks. Some come to fuss, some to make amends. Others come to hold on, others to let go. Some haven't the foggiest. I hope you didn't bring plastic flowers. If you did, take them back with you.

  I came here now and again to help me remember my roots. It always made me feel connected to something bigger than myself, gave me peace in knowing I wasn't dropped into this cold old world out of the blue.

  I have no idea whether you'll read this before or after you decide whether or not to take what's coming to you. I pray it's before. If the promise of an earthly inheritance isn't enough to keep you here, meander around this bone yard. Refresh yourself on how far back we go in this region. Think about the spiritual lineage you spring from. Examine that in light of the dreams you had when you spent summers with me.

  I'm convinced that your dreams to come here to practice someday were God's way of calling you, of putting His print on you. His sheep hear His voice.

  Don't let anyone or anything steal that reality and talk you into selling out for a bowl of materialistic pottage. If it's permitted up here, I'll still be praying for you. And my good friend there will continue, too.

  Follow your heart. Follow the Holy Spirit. Let the little boy dream again. And every once in a while, do something spectacularly wild and crazy for God and someone besides you.

  Remember, God is faithful to wash life's mess off.

  Don't allow what Clio Hedgecoth did that day in Goolsby's define you. It was a lie.

  Love,

  Uncle Bill

  The grating noise of jar flies pierced the sticky silence as Will reread the letter. A question gnawed at his thoughts. Had whoever brought the rose read it already? Or had the note been placed later? Did it matter?

  He glanced about. No one. He distrusted his eyes.

  He considered leaving but couldn't.

  The reverberation of Uncle Bill's last words prohibited it. Would someone else's definition of him to continue to be his? That should be settled, even if he didn't stay in the Springs. Later, though. Grubbing out roots took time and effort he didn't have to invest.

  He wandered through rows of family graves, dating back to his great-great-great grandfather's, Job Kilpatrick. Born both, the stone said. Of the flesh in 1777, by the Spirit in 1801.

  His eyes swung left, then right. Three generations, their lives spanning a century, their resting places yards apart.

  He grunted, a soft sound spiraling into the shadows. Solomon was right. A generation passes away, another generation comes, but the earth abides forever.

  He read the letter again.

  For three years, barring short lapses in deepest night when sleep shied away, he had avoided revisiting the decision to not practice in Iris Springs after graduation.

  Uninvited, vivid snatches of boyhood dreams stepped into the light. He stood, motionless.

  What was wrong with him? Afraid of the answers, he bowed his head and began a hesitant prayer. If there were no response, he could continue doing life his way.

  A sound like the softest of laughs startled him. It had to be the leaves. A thought followed the noise.

  If you think doing My will is hard, try yours.

  Was it his thought? Or did it belong to the laugh?

  He looked around. No one.

  ***

  Each stiff-legged stomp inflated Liza's agitation. Compassion and self-control were worthy goals, but could wait. More pressing was informing whoever was there to not race through Big Bottom, terrifying dogs and overheating their owner's neurological system. And that asking permission before traipsing through private property was local custom.

  She composed a reasonable script as she marched along. Her wholesome words of exhortation, their decidedly uncivil responses, and her righteous rejoinders were well rehearsed when she drew near.

  The hush of the trees engulfed her. Pausing behind a shagbark hickory, she calibrated her bearings. Though on her property, she hadn't ventured into the old cemetery for years before Dr. Bill's burial. And she had never crossed the creek to enter the dreary church building, silently decaying.

  A slight movement snatched her breath. Dr. Kilpatrick stood among the older graves, his back to her, head down, oblivious to her presence. He held the note and blue sleeve. She hoped there was no way he knew she had read it.

  The inner debate lasted seconds. Lips pursed in a triumphant twist. A taste of the fright Blue had experienced would be the answer.

  Step by methodical step she advanced, employing trees as a screen. When he began to turn, she slid behind a thick oak, plastered against it like an alarmed squirrel. When she grew bold enough
to peek, she panicked.

  Where was he?

  She drew back, ignoring her body's unanimous vote to flee. Afraid of meeting him face to face, she slipped her head out in time to see him rise, back still to her, from behind a gravestone.

  Her eyes remained welded on him as she edged forward. Ten feet away, she heard soft words, realized he was praying. This is sooo rich. Her eyes narrowed in anticipation. When you say, 'Amen,' be prepared to meet thy God. You're going to think you heard Gabriel's trumpet.

  "Lord, I'm asking for direction."

  A diabolical thought steered a grin across her face. Up, up, and away. You're going to get partially raptured.

  "And change me, God. You know how I've gotten. Selfish. Cold. Indifferent. And I tend to over-react and go off on tangents. I could use some help there."

  What was she thinking, eavesdropping on such an intimate moment while waiting to frighten the bejeebers out of him? At least he prayed like he expected God to be listening.

  How different from her recent prayers. She might as well talk to a duck. She slipped behind a tree and squinted her eyes tight enough to induce cramps. Since first attending Vacation Bible School, that equated with fervor.

  "Most of me is fighting against staying here. Part of me says stay. But look what already happened with the hit dog." His voice sounded wistful. "If you want me to stay, give me a sign. A vision, a word, a picture." He paused and Liza, thinking amen loomed near, took a deep breath, ready to announce her presence. Even if he did sound discouraged from not saving Tipper. "And, God, if somebody killed Uncle Bill, help me find him." The next words seemed to clog his throat. "And help me be able to forgive him. And while we're at it, Sally too. That's probably enough for one day. Amen."

  Liza stood still, puzzled by the end of his prayer. Was Dr. Bill murdered? She'd heard the rumors and thought them hard to reconcile with the fact he'd hit a deer. How could he forgive someone who did it? Sure, Jesus said to. But was that any more realistic than other things He commanded? Like the one she wrestled with. 'Don't worry about tomorrow.' She worried about tomorrows three weeks ahead.

  She knew how she felt about Tipper's death. For her, contacting a lawyer as PJ suggested was grace. Let the judicial system eviscerate him rather than do it herself. But Scripture also said to not take people to court. Especially fellow believers.

  Some days, she wondered how much Scripture she could ignore and still be saved.

  And who was Sally? PJ's remark that he probably strung girls along seemed logical. Maybe Sally had wised up. Served him right. Yes, it would be smart to avoid interaction with Dr. Kilpatrick.

  Something warm, something cold, followed by something hot licking her bare ankle snapped her eyes open. A horrified warble, starting above Pavarotti's high note and escalating to the thin screech of shale across marble, fragmented the quiet.

  "Aaaaggghh!"

  ***

  "Aaaaggghh!" The scream's remnants ricocheted through the woods as Will whirled to see what atrocity had taken place.

  Liza Hall, eyes squeezed shut, arms rigid at her side, bounced backwards in tiny circles. Gracie Lee raced around her, barking wildly and nipping at her shoelaces while she squealed.

  "Gracie Lee, stop it." She bounded to him, looking up for praise. "Miss Hall, it's all right. She won't bite."

  Liza ceased hopping and opened her eyes. Words frothed from her lips. "First you kill my dog."

  "What?"

  "Then you traipse across private property like you own it. Who do you think you are?"

  She sucked in breath. Her arm pointed towards town. "Don't plan on staying in the Springs. Not after I tell everybody what you did."

  Apologetic words bumped each other in a tongue-tied stammer. "I'm majorly sorry. I was visiting my uncle's grave. He was buried here a few days ago. He died. That's why he's here. That's why I'm here. Not because I died. Because he died. I hope you understand."

  Her hands propped on trim hips. "Perhaps you think this is funny."

  His head vibrated like a paint shaker. "Actually, I don't. I see it as tragic. Unfortunate. Lamentab-"

  "But it's N. O. T. Not. Even. Close."

  How could he finesse the situation? Maybe humor would throw her off. Arms crossed, one leg angled ahead of the other, he tried an amused smile. "You have a strange way of showing you're attracted to someone."

  "What?" She stomped a foot. Her neck stretched out as she stared. "That is the craziest...what makes you think...I've never..."

  Fearing she verged on felonious behavior requiring her to need a defense attorney and him an orthopedic surgeon, he reevaluated. What was he thinking, saying that? He moved sideways to slide by her. "You're absolutely right. I shouldn't be here. Despite folks being permitted to visit a family graveyard on private property. I should have asked. I am so sorry to have ignored your protocol. I sincerely apologize. Please find it in your heart to forgive me. I understand if that's something you can't do. You've had a difficult day."

  Clenched jaws barely allowed her words through. "Don't patronize me. I've had trouble with trespassers."

  He cocked his head and raised his hands. "I'm not technically a trespasser. Are you going to make a citizen's arrest?"

  "Well...no..."

  He grasped her hesitancy as an avenue of escape. "Again, I am very sorry I came here. Come on, Gracie Lee."

  With swift strides, Will moved by her, noting her shapely legs. The curve of her hips. And the rest of her. All well above average. Wasted on someone agate hard.

  Events like this reinforced the trauma in Goolsby's Grocery when he was sixteen. Confirmed his decision to not return to the Springs to practice. Columbus, Ohio, I won't be gone long.

  Uncle Bill's note waved through his frenzied thoughts. And every once in a while, do something spectacularly wild and crazy for God and someone besides you.

  A crazy thought provoked a smile. He knew exactly what he would do. Love your neighbor as yourself. Even when your neighbor is the prettiest mean girl you've ever met. For love covers a multitude of sins.

  He would exercise inconvenient obedience. Then leave town feeling he'd cleared his accounts.

  Again, he thought he heard the softest of laughs.

  ***

  Even though he had provoked her, she regretted her overblown reaction. The anger of man doesn't achieve the righteousness of God.

  This wasn't her.

  She was a southern girl.

  She was nice.

  She believed in Jesus.

  Where had that Liza gone since her dad's death? Why was she acting like life revolved around her? Me, me, me. Do I have the sense of a guinea hen with a lobotomy or what? When she turned to speak, he was well into the pasture, taking the hill with long strides as the Dachshund struggled to keep up. Poor little dog. It might suffer heatstroke. Fall over in a tiny red heap, quiver, die. And it would be her fault. "Never mind. It's okay."

  Arms crossed, foot tapping, she awaited an acknowledgment. Had he not heard her? Or had he gone pretty boy uppity and ignored her? If he expected her to chase him down and beg forgiveness, he could think again.

  A worrisome thought pinched her mouth. Had she unknowingly transmitted a subliminal I'm attracted to you message his maleness decoded? She would listen to PJ. Not make any big decisions for the next six months. Especially involving someone who redlined her emotions with smiling blue eyes and a display of grace in response to her harshness.

  Disgusted down to her chromosomes, she blew a sigh before sticking out her tongue in frustration. With the thousands of opportunities life afforded to keep her mouth shut, she should take advantage of at least one of them. When she started up the hill, he was nearly to the top. There would be no catching him. Hands on hips, she stared at his retreating figure.

  He walked nice.

  Oh, well, at least she tried.

  Not likely she would need a vet tomorrow anyway.

  Chapter 6

  Blue lights in the rearview. Out-of-states tag
s, small town. What did he expect?

  He saw the cruiser's door opening and bent over to locate his registration in the glove compartment. While he shuffled through a handful of papers, the sultry voice surprised him.

  "Step out of the car, sir. Keep your hands where I can see them while I pat you down. Then you'll have to go with me for questioning."

  Skeets Larue. During the summers of his nineteenth and twentieth years, they had become more than friends. The distance between their colleges and the immediacy of other dating opportunities exterminated their relationship. Contact had dwindled to an occasional phone conversation. The last over two years ago.

  Blue eyes, high cheeks, full lips, reddish hair. That hadn't changed. Physically, she had ripened, filling her uniform with more curves than the local roads. He grinned. Though not intending to contact her while in town, the chance meeting wasn't unpleasant. "Am I disturbing the peace, officer?"

  The brilliant smile reminded him that her father was a dentist. She held one finger in the air. "You're disturbing the peace officer. No comma. I'm off duty in ten minutes. Are you available?"

  He shot his eyebrows up. "I'm not sure I follow."

  She rumpled his hair. "I can give you lessons over supper. BW all right with you? They've got new grease."

  He straightened his hair. Messed up hair made him feel out of control. It was hours before it would be dark enough to investigate the location on the map. And he had to eat. "See you there."

  BW, or Back When, commemorated the past in a town that hadn't escaped it. An old-timey diner, the walls were decorated with faded newspaper headlines, pictures from old issues of Sears, Roebuck and J. C. Penney catalogues, and senior portraits from the local high school dating back to the 1920s. Small juke boxes on each table allowed patrons to select songs from the '50s and '60s. The waitresses dressed in poodle skirts and saddle oxfords.