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

  Skeets looked as attractive in civilian dress as she had in uniform when she slid into the seat beside him, bumping his hip. Unlike most girls, she had always insisted on sitting side-by-side, not face-to-face. "I've missed our summers. How have you been?"

  Hours passed by the time they caught up with each other's life.

  She placed her hand atop his. "Any chance you'll stay?"

  "I'm doubting it. Hear the will tomorrow, then back to Columbus is the plan." Unless something turned up tonight. It wouldn't be long until dark.

  She turned to better face him. Her hand squeezed his. "I hope you stay."

  Her inviting smile, the simmering eyes, tugged at him. Like they had in years past. "Only way that happens is if I think Uncle Bill's death wasn't an accident. What do you think? Miss Effie shared at least forty rumors."

  She rubbed her chin and simpered. "I'll make something up if that'll keep you here a while."

  He shook his head. "You could always move to Auburn. Affirmative action means very police department needs at least one sexy policewoman. I could be your bodyguard."

  Her eyebrows raised in a suggestive arc. "You can guard it anytime, kind sir. But I love it here in the Springs. Don't you remember my dream about making a difference here?" She paused, puzzlement creasing her features. She rubbed the top of his hand. "What happened to yours? I'm not sure I believe like you anymore, but if God's real and called you here, how do you explain that?"

  Good question, but not one he wanted to discuss. Not with someone he'd shared it with so often. Who had stuck to and realized hers. With or without faith. "Back to my uncle. Are you convinced it was an accident?"

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "At the risk of you leaving, it would seem so." She pecked his hand with a finger. "And I made a mental note that you avoided my question. I'll redirect it later."

  Will looked around the restaurant. About half the seats were filled. Several couples browsed through the walled memories, pointing and shaking their heads. It had been his favorite place to eat with Uncle Bill. And Skeets. "Seems so?"

  "Figure of speech."

  "What are the facts? Are there discrepancies?" He softened his speech, realizing he sounded too intense. The meeting with Hensley looping though his mind all day had produced a level of apprehension. Parts of it seemed ambiguous, disjointed. The rest sounded ludicrous. How much could he share without arousing her suspicion? How else could he find information on a missing person from a quarter century ago? Maybe he could research the Sentinel archives.

  She looked around before answering. "Here's the facts. He did drive like a Scud missile. He did hit a deer. He did go over the bluff toward the river." Her lips rolled inward. "That was enough for Sheriff Ledbetter to close the case."

  He sagged back in the booth. "So you're saying it was an accident?"

  Sonny James crooned Young Love as her shoulder pressed against his, reviving long forgotten feelings. "I'm saying the sheriff said that. It wasn't my decision to make."

  "Would you have made the same decision?" He twisted to better look at her. Noticed the small scar on her chin from a swimming accident their first summer together. Remembered the way she looked in a swimsuit. Grabbed his water, took a drink.

  "This is off-the-record. I would have done the same, given his circumstances. He's eyeing going to Nashville with Otis Spivey if he gets elected to be governor."

  He tilted his head back at an angle. "Does that mean Spivey had something to do with it?"

  "I didn't say that. But they had a big argument at Dr. Bill's clinic a few days before the accident. As a formality, I questioned Miss Effie, but she didn't hear specifics. Just said they were quarreling, like they always did. I've seen them go at it before myself. Then walk off together." She shrugged, took a sip. The way her lips held the straw was devastating. "And there's an animal rights group claiming they did it. I don't know what their angle is, but that's not likely."

  It matched Miss Effie's thoughts. "Let me get this straight. You're saying you might have dug a bit deeper than the obvious conclusion?"

  "I doubt it. I did talk to Miss Effie. He for sure hit the deer. There were parts and blood all over the car. The remains were by the road. And there was a witness."

  The man he had argued with. "Would you be willing to help me if I needed information?"

  Eyebrows raised, a questioning gaze softened her face. "Would that mean you'd stay for a while?"

  "If I think there's more to it, I would. Be hard to follow up from Ohio. And I've got some time if I need it."

  "I might be able to help some." A frown pinched her features. "But there's only so much I can do without compromising my job."

  He gave her a teasing smile. "What about justice? Isn't that why you studied law enforcement? To make a difference here?" What if there was a twenty-five year old mystery laying out there to be discovered, bringing present day justice? Remembering her super-competitive nature, out-performing her on her turf by solving a case that old would be delicious. Especially after the innocent dig concerning where his dream had gone.

  She lifted her chin, lips mashed to a thin line. "If evidence turns up showing it wasn't an accident, I'm all there."

  "Do you know someone named Jug Marlin?"

  She nodded her head, rolled her eyes. "Runs a small farm. When he's sober. Which isn't often. He's worked for Otis Spivey a long time too. They're cousins. Along with the sheriff. Remember, everybody here is related some way."

  Will nodded his agreement. "I think the song I'm My Own Grandpa was written here. Was he a friend of Uncle Bill's?"

  "Yeah. A client too. Graduated high school together. All of them did. Spivey, the sheriff, Dr. Bill, Jug. Part of the championship football team." She pointed at the Sentinel headline near them declaring the victory. She stared into his eyes, pouting. "Enough business for one night. I've got a request."

  "That being?"

  She slid a hand into his. The world narrowed to the delicate scent of her perfume and her leg pressed against his. "I'd love to sit in that swing on your front porch. For old time's sake."

  The bones could wait. They had for twenty-five years.

  ***

  Though he wore a headlamp, he hadn't used it. An almost full moon smeared the field with silver mist, lighting his way. Night's desperate whispers rattled the leaves. It had been an effort to get here. Skeets had stayed until after ten. He yawned. He could sleep in, then meet with the lawyer.

  He couldn't imagine anyone carrying a body to a place so inaccessible. It was too remote for ticks. He began to think this was a hoax, though unsure of the purpose. Fifteen yards from the slender thicket of brush, he stopped, lungs clattering. A digging sound. He dropped to a crouch, hoping the pop of his knee didn't reveal his presence. Long minutes passed before the noise stopped. Motion pulled his head forward to better see. A possum waddled out and off, hairless tail held straight behind.

  He looked at the map again. So far, it had proven accurate. He moved closer, rolling with care from heel to toe, and entered the canopied grove, gripping the small shovel like a weapon. More silence encountered him. He flipped the light on. Murky shadows scurried over the ground.

  He rubbed his arms and took his first breath in what felt like minutes.

  Nobody was there.

  But somebody had been. Maybe while he sat with Skeets in the swing. He grunted his frustration. If Uncle Bill had been murdered, he had traded possible evidence for the vagaries of blowing breath on an old flame. He gnawed on the corner of his mouth. But evidence to what? Hensley hadn't provided any linkage.

  When asked if he had told others, Hensley's response had been a head shake and an ambiguous, 'They'll help. I'm sure of it.' He looked around to be sure he was alone. Someone else knew. A crowd didn't suddenly descend on a twenty-five year old grave without a tip. But how would they help?

  The air throbbed with the smell of freshly dug earth. He bent over and picked up a handful. Still damp, dark. But no
t as damp as his brow. The excavation measured the size of a grave, though only a bit over three feet deep. Dropping to his knees, he shone the light around the depression. Nothing. He sifted through the dirt in the bottom. Bits of root. Small rocks. Something hard, yellowed. He feared his swallow might be heard in town. A small bone, perhaps from a toe or finger. Fifteen minutes later, he stopped. Whoever had been there had been thorough or there hadn't been much left to start with. Maybe both. None of it helpful. He would visit Hensley again, hope to catch him coherent.

  Before leaving, he took pictures. He would take them out of town for developing. Hensley had warned against contacting law enforcement. For the time being, he wouldn't. The grave's reality increased the man's credibility.

  Perhaps another evening with Skeets would provide insight.

  Back at the house, unable to sleep, he pulled Uncle Bill's high school yearbooks off the shelf and began looking through them, checking pictures.

  The sports section proved beneficial. Though the official football club was the Xs & Os, there was another group wearing a sweater with a solitary O. Otis Spivey, Sheriff Ledbetter, Jug Marlin, and Ted Hensley. Though Uncle Bill and two others were pictured with them, their shirts bore the football club insignia. After looking at every other group picture, the four of them seemed to comprise the Os.

  Next, he scanned other pages, reading notes in hopes something stood out.

  Especially with Barbara, his fiancée after their both being lifelong singles. She had been a beautiful girl, but hadn't written a romantic note like so many others, only a few generic words. To a sweet guy. Thanks for everything. Barbara. An O stood in the margin next to her name.

  He checked to see if any of the Os had written notes. Only Otis. Scrawled under his Mr. JCHS photo was a cryptic, Stay out of my kitchen, O.

  He flipped through every class's picture, found eighteen other girls with an O by their name. After writing their names down, he went back through, looking for their pictures in other places. Although some were good-looking, none were cheerleader or majorette or Junior Miss contestant attractive. If they belonged to a club at all, it was a more pedestrian group. Future Homemakers of America. Future Teachers, Typing, and Library Clubs.

  So far Hensley's story sounded legitimate. Still failed to provide a hint to Uncle Bill.

  An hour later, he slipped into bed with less answers than questions.

  He would find time tomorrow to visit the Sentinel archives. Look for missing person stories.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday

  The next morning Liza, accompanied by Blue, approached the small hump of dirt. She leaned the 20-gauge varmint control device against a wrist-thick hickory before squatting to pray. Coyote encounters happened anytime.

  Minutes later, wiping her eyes, she stood. Gave an elephant's-last-breath sigh.

  "Blue, chocolate pancakes floating in Aunt Jemima's syrup for supper are not an effective sleep aid."

  She twisted her neck from side to side, massaging it and her shoulders. A chipped nail hung in the shirt. She jerked it free and chewed it fiercely, creating new snags that burned like fire ant bites.

  Just like life. Smooth one thing, four rough spots take its place.

  Spring's sweet breath spread as morning threw off the sheets and shook and stretched. The sun skulked above the tree line, probing the delicate sky with fuzzy spears of light. For a moment the gold ball seemed to slide to a halt, as though unwilling to allow the morning to fulfill its destiny.

  "Come on, sun, don't be stalling out. We've got things to be about."

  Something glinted in the field across the fence from her property. Her stride faltered for a step. Fear's chilled snake twined around the pole of her spine. She walked on, ignoring the man watching through binoculars one hundred yards away. Hoped he couldn't detect her trembling. Smell her fear. Hear the rattle of her heart. Three other times in the last weeks he had been glassing her. For what, she had no notion. "Looks like we've got company, Blue. Mr. Local Hero."

  The binoculars flashed again, igniting the powder of her smoldering anger. She grabbed the shotgun and contemplated leveling it at him, knowing he was well out of range. Good thing she had read Proverbs 31 this morning, reviewed the attributes of the woman who feared the Lord. Shooting at the neighbors did not make the list.

  "Cover your ears, Blue. We'll give Snoopy a surprise."

  A flock of crows vaulted from a tree thirty yards away. Since they considered her emerging crops as their personal breakfast bar, she didn't see them as ecological necessities. She swung on the lead bird and fired. She didn't know who was more surprised, her or the crow cart-wheeling to the ground.

  Let Spivey chew on that before he stops by again. Reminding her he was on the bank board. Reminding her of the delinquent bank loan. Reminding her of due dates seared in her mind. Three weeks from yesterday.

  Blue ran a few steps, stopped, looking back. "Blue, we don't have half of what we need. But God is going to provide. The psalmist said that he never saw the righteous forsaken or his children begging for bread. I might not be as righteous as some, but I am His child."

  And she was doing her part. Like her dad counseled, when you need help, look in the mirror.

  She nodded in satisfaction at the straight, green rows seeming to merge at the field's far end. A month ago she had gambled on sowing crops in the first week of April, while frost remained a definite threat. Now it looked like a wise decision that would allow her to get a jump on bugs and the early vegetable market.

  It felt better and worse than anticipated, planting a crop by herself for the first time. Better because she accomplished it. Worse because of her dad's absence.

  In the past, she fussed that she carried more than her share. He never argued, but smiled and continued what he was doing.

  Now she knew better.

  Green eyes lifted, scanned the heavens.

  She glanced at Blue. His tail wagged back. Several gnats danced around his ears. "Was I wrong to love my dad so much?" Blue whined and flipped onto his back. "I'm asking a serious question and you turn it into something all about you." She leaned over to rub his belly. Where was the balance between loving with abandon and guarding one's emotions? Or was love an innately unbalanced act by definition?

  He had depended on her, her on him. Like a poor piece of ground, neither managed to produce enough of what the other needed. For that very good reason, his fatal heart attack two months ago had nailed a No Trespassing sign on her heart.

  His death robbed her vigor, leaving barely enough life essence to scrounge by on.

  With emotions numbed like winter for weeks following the funeral, she hibernated in the house, holding his picture, staring at the fire as if the preening flames promised to disclose the secret to survive.

  The debris of unfulfilled good intentions littered her thoughts. Things she wished she'd said and hadn't. Things she wished she'd not said and had.

  Silent voices mocked her. Too late. Too late. Too late.

  If not for life's persistent intrusion, she wouldn't have emerged at all but sat, paralyzed as strata of dust choked the very breath from her. But with livestock and chickens to tend, eggs to be gathered, crops to plant, she lacked leisure time to indulge in protracted mourning. And she had read that grief not surrendered became an idol.

  Releasing grief proved harder than reading about it. It seemed a silent form of betrayal, a pre-meditated first step on the journey to forgetting him altogether.

  Most days she spoke only to the dogs. Mainly complaints.

  "Good people died young. Scalawags and sorry dogs lived forever. Weeds thrived on neglect. Crops required constant tending."

  Though their stares were thoughtful, she wasn't convinced Tipper and Blue listened as much as it appeared. Maybe it was their way of coping.

  The freshly plowed dirt, dark as coffee grounds, dented underfoot. A breath of cool air raised goose bumps on her bare arms. The eastern sky swelled with neon pink, advert
ising another hot day.

  "I love farming." She whispered into the morning breeze. Despite the hard work. Despite the solitude. Her dad had claimed nature resembled a woman, both friend and foe. Enjoy her sunny moods, endure her stormy tantrums, but never fully trust her.

  That pretty well described men, too, but she hid that under the bed.

  Chapter 8

  The phone's shrill ring jarred Will to life.

  Awakening - the time burst of capturing the pertinent shards of information that had flaked off in his mind overnight, piecing them together to recreate his existence and allowing him to get his bearings – always amazed him. As a kid, he had feared being unable to rearrange all the bits, causing him to wake up as someone else.

  Merely rolling over alerted him to his whereabouts. Something as insignificant as telltale squeaks in arthritic bedsprings fingerprinted a location. His old room at his uncle's.

  It might have been freeze-dried in time. Flower-printed wallpaper. Two oak dressers hosting pictures of relatives from the early 1900's. Dark clothed, with chiseled faces that might have been sculpted from the limestone rock sprouting from their thin land.

  A light breeze, cool enough to make him pull the covers to his chin, skittered through the window, rustled the bottom of white curtains, ushered in the fluted aria of wood thrushes.

  Gracie Lee twitched under the covers. She wouldn't come out voluntarily since Uncle Bill's long-haired black and white cat, Skeezix, had terrorized her with an Ali flurry of jabs on the way in last night. Unused to unprovoked displays of violence, her nerves would quiver for days.

  He lifted the receiver on the seventh ring. Noticed the small bone he had laid on the bedside table. He would begin searching for answers today, starting at the Sentinel office.

  "This is Effie. Is this Will?"

  "Yes."

  "You've got an emergency call at the Grim farm. Cow trying to have a calf. The keys are hanging by the door. The unit should have what you need in it."