Fighting for Anna Read online

  Papa sniffed and then reached in his breast pocket for the little pack of Kleenex he always kept there during allergy season. He fussed with it for a moment. “If you hear from him . . .”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” I patted his shoulder. “You better get in there if you want a chance to see this amazing dwelling, because I can’t promise I’m going to keep it a minute longer than it takes to get someone out here to haul it away.”

  He went inside. The discussion about the remote location reminded me of my wildlife camera. I walked behind the trailer and retrieved it. I wanted to hang it at Gidget’s. It still bothered me that her back door had been unlocked, and that someone had tried to cut into the safe. The door to the Quacker opened, then closed. The sounds of people conversing easily floated across the air. I heard a squeal, then laughter.

  Rashidi’s voice said, “No killing. Here.”

  I came around the Quacker to see him walking with cupped hands in front of him. He crouched, opened his hands, and stood. A striped lizard ran under the trailer.

  “Ew.” Annabelle shuddered.

  Rashidi brushed his hands on his jeans. He must have been hotter than blazes, but he wasn’t sweating. He caught me looking at him and winked.

  Next I took the gang to the homestead at Gidget’s. Jay and Annabelle wandered off with Gertrude. I led Papa and Rashidi around the place, and told them about the will, the book, and the missing daughter.

  “She just gave this place to you?” Papa shook his head. He’d been gushing about the house, the property, and the whole area. His enthusiasm was much higher than I’d have expected. “You’ll be seeing a lot of me.”

  “Good. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too, Itzpa. Nothing left for me in Seguin with you and your mother gone.”

  I hugged him with one arm. “Come anytime. I have a spare trailer in addition to a whole farm. There are actually a lot more animals. They’re staying with a friend right now, but they need a good vet. And you could help me research this book.”

  Rashidi was pulling on his chin, looking thoughtful. “What’d you find so far? On the daughter?”

  “Come inside. I’ll show you.”

  I spread the pictures from Gidget’s envelope out on the kitchen table to my eager audience of Papa and Rashidi.

  Papa put an index finger beside the picture with the old sports car. “1932 SS 1, the precursor to what later became the Jaguar. Only five hundred made. Hard to imagine this car finding its way onto a Wendish farm in Texas. They didn’t even start importing new Jaguars into the U.S. until the fifties.” He was obsessed with vintage cars. “That car is a serious collector’s item.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Rashidi drew the picnic photograph closer to him. “This ’round here?” He’d found another toothpick. He must have brought a gross of them.

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “It’s been a whirlwind couple of days. I haven’t even explored past the house and barn yet.”

  Rashidi turned the picture over. “There’s another one stuck to the back.” He held it up.

  Papa took it from him, gazing at the new photograph, and held it out at arm’s length, tilting his head. “That’s Fort Moore. The oldest building in Fayette County.”

  “And you know this how?” I teased and bumped him with my hip.

  “My parents took us to La Grange on a weekend trip, a very long time ago.”

  “You have a good memory.” Better than mine, especially lately.

  Papa passed the picture—or pictures, in this case—to me. The Fort picture was of four adults, two of whom were recognizably Gidget’s parents. The other couple was younger, maybe ten years or more. Only the back center of the two photographs was stuck, so I pulled the edges apart, slowly, gently. The photographs gave way. Part of the backing from the picnic photo stuck to the Fort picture. There was writing on the back of both. The picnic picture said Anna and Lucy, Tea Party Picnic, Back 40. There was more, but it had stuck to the back of the other picture. The writing on the back of the La Grange picture said something illegible, then Killians. The stuck backing from the picnic photo obscured something, then I could read the word Grange below it.

  “Very interesting.” I put the pictures back in the manila envelope. “Want to see something else interesting? She has a locked safe.”

  Rashidi grinned. “The plot thickens.”

  We walked to the gun safe.

  “It opens with a combination, but I don’t have it.”

  Papa crouched in front of the handle and lock. “It’s an old one.”

  Rashidi picked up the disks and ran his finger along the metal shavings on the floor. “Did you do this?”

  “Nope, and I have no idea who did.”

  Papa’s eyes and voice were sharp. “Since you’ve been here?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He rubbed the shavings between his fingers then stared at the cuts. “The cuts look shiny. New. I don’t like it.”

  “I’ve got a shotgun, a wildlife cam, and a dog with two-inch legs. I’ll be fine.”

  Papa stood, but he turned to Rashidi. “I worry about Itzpa all the time. This doesn’t help.”

  “I’m no Itzpa, Papa.”

  “Itzpa?” Rashidi asked.

  “Itzpapalotl.”

  “The knife-winged butterfly. She’s a warrior goddess.”

  I wheeled toward him. “You know about her?”

  “Yah, mon. I got sucked into teaching an Aztec mythology class at the university one time.”

  Papa was standing, but still staring at the safe.

  I put both hands on my father’s chest and gently pushed him backward until he turned and walked to the living room on his own. “I’m a big girl, Papa. You can call me your Tlazol now.”

  “You’ll always be my Itzpa.” He frowned. “Let me set up that wildlife cam before we go. I’d feel better if you installed a security system, though, ASAP.”

  “Aye, aye.” I saluted him.

  Jay, Annabelle, and Gertrude rejoined us. After Papa had positioned the wildlife camera to his and Rashidi’s mutual satisfaction in the side yard, I kissed my family goodbye. Papa was headed southwest. Annabelle and Jay were going west to Austin. Rashidi needed to go east, and that meant I was his ride. I went for my keys.

  This time the Jetta followed Papa’s low-slung blue car with its fat white lengthwise stripes out the long driveway to the road, while Jay and Annabelle drove behind us. Rashidi remained silent, and I almost held my breath, praying for it to continue. Papa turned left at the next intersection and I turned right. Soon we were on 290 headed toward Brenham, with Jay and Annabelle going the opposite direction.

  “Your family’s good people,” Rashidi announced.

  “They’re pretty awesome,” I said. “In case you hadn’t figured it out, they were a surprise today.”

  “You friends are nice, too. Katie, Wallace and Ethan, Emily.”

  “You really know a lot of my people. And you’re right. I’m lucky.”

  He looked out the window, then slipped back into his island-speaking voice. “Katie talk about you, but she leave out you so beautiful.”

  I put my hand up. “Rashidi—”

  “Just sayin’ what true.”

  “It makes me uncomfortable. I wish you wouldn’t.”

  He turned to me with his gentle eyes. “I hold my tongue.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “For now.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning the Internet installation guy woke us up, knocking loudly. At least I assumed it was him. I’d had a bad night, tossing and turning at all the scary country noises.

  As I shouted, “Just a moment,” I glanced at my phone. Eight a.m. How had the dog and the rooster let me sleep so late? Maybe Gertrude remembered from last week that Mondays were sleep-in days. “Give me a moment.”

  I heard a man’s voice. “No problem. I’ll just be getting my stuff set up out here, miss.”
>
  “Thank you,” I shouted back.

  Gertrude rolled over and stretched her long body, her stubby legs pointing out as far as they could reach. She finished up with full-jawed yawn, which showed off her white beard locks. She twisted her torso, and it was like she was hinged in front of her hips so that when she twisted the back portion, the front followed in a time-lapse sequence. Tangled in the blue sheets, she looked like a Loch Ness Monster gyrating in the waves. Morning yoga completed, she leapt from the bed. Her belly sagged and grazed the floor.

  I was dressing by the closet when she turned and barked at me.

  “Wait your turn, missy.”

  I was majorly sore today, and I’d only done half the race yesterday. I stretched my shoulders, reaching up as high as I could and groaning as I bent slightly at the waist, then fell forward until my hamstrings screamed in protest. I swayed first in one direction and then back to the other, teasing out my lower back. I rolled my neck slowly, working out the crunchies, reversed it and rolled in the other direction. Gertrude followed every move with her eyes. She looked a little dizzy.

  After throwing on yoga clothes, I met the Internet guy outside. He was young and gawky, with red hair and freckles. We settled on a site on the roof, and he promised to knock when he was done, in about an hour.

  I set my laptop up on the kitchen table and turned my phone’s hot spot on. I was all about Juniper, this being a Monday after all, and technically a workday. I browsed email, triaging as I went. I sent Brian an update on the few remaining projects I had left open from last week, and my plans for the upcoming week. As I’d hoped, that prompted him to send me a new packet of work and a cancelation of our Skype call. I breezed through six or seven pieces for the subscription website and the blog.

  One hour passed, then another, until I was pretty much caught up. I pulled up a yoga video from my hard drive and rolled my mat out on the living room floor. About half an hour into it, someone knocked. I paused the video and opened the door. It was the installer wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of one arm.

  I gestured in the house, but he shook his head. “I was starting to get worried about you,” I told him.

  “Sorry, ma’am. I had to stop to take a call from the office.”

  He didn’t meet my eyes.

  Wife or girlfriend, for sure. “So, how much longer now?”

  “An hour, at the most.”

  His original estimate was one hour, and another would put us past three. That was a long phone call.

  “I’ll need to be in the house some.”

  “Okay. No need to knock.” I started to shut the door when I noticed pink surveyor flags at the tree line near the road. My near vision was getting worse lately, but my eagle-eyed far vision was still 20/15, and those flags were on Gidget’s property.

  “Did you see who put those flags up?” I pointed.

  He shot a quick glance. “Yeah, some guys with surveying equipment were out here earlier.”

  “Really?”

  Now he pointed. “They went that way.” The direction his finger indicated was through the woods toward the Quacker.

  “Great. Thank you.”

  I donned my pink camo boots and was about to go see what the surveying was all about, but I decided to quickly check the Her Last Wish blog first. It had about 150 hits the day before. That meant traffic doubled between day one to day two. I knew I was a fairly good writer, but still, it was shocking.

  There was a comment waiting for approval from someone who called herself Maggie: I’m a junker in Giddings. I’d love to bring you some banana nut bread and introduce myself.

  A neighbor was a potential witness about Gidget, her life, and her daughter. She’d entered her email, so I clicked on her address and sent a short note: I’d be delighted if you came by. Let me know when you’re in the neighborhood. I included my phone number and hit send. I approved the comment and grabbed a mug of the coffee I’d made and forgotten earlier.

  I headed outside and through the woods in the direction of the Quacker. Walking slowly, I saw details I’d missed on our mad flight to Gidget’s and our dazed return. The dirt underneath my feet was mostly sand, a colorless sand with occasional rocks. The grass was sparse, choked out by the trees hogging the light above and the yaupon hogging the dirt and water at ground level. There was a layer of dead lichen-covered branches suspended every couple of feet in the yaupon as well. Some of the oak trees reached for the sky and others snaked almost along the ground like they were trying to make a run for it.

  I heard voices in the distance. Men. Sound carried through the trees, making it hard to tell whether the source was fifty feet or fifty yards away. The first glimpse I caught of them was a man in a camo cap, blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a long-sleeved plaid shirt too warm for the weather, but perfect for protecting skin from the yaupon and thorny vines. He was leaning over and peering through a tripod-mounted monocular.

  “Excuse me,” I called.

  He whirled toward the sound of my voice. He pushed his hat back on his head. “Yes?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  He tucked a pencil behind one ear. “And you are?”

  My blood boiled, that fast. “The person whose permission you need to be on this property.”

  His look of disbelief wasn’t hard to interpret. Short Hispanic woman in ridiculous pink-camouflage knee-high boots, yoga pants and tank top complete with boobs. Because I’ve got a more generous helping of curves than I would have liked. I crossed my arms over my chest.

  He stared. After a long silence, he said, “My company has the owner’s permission.”

  “What company?” I held out my hand.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “A card, please.”

  He probably wasn’t used to being ordered around by half-dressed Texican women in the middle of nowhere, but he dug in his back pocket for his wallet, opened it, and gave me a card.

  “You’re from Houston,” I read aloud. “And you’re a surveyor.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have the name of the ‘owner’ you supposedly have permission from to be here?”

  “Back in the truck.” He hitched his hat up and back down again.

  Another man’s voice rang out. “Bill?” The second guy appeared through the trees, even closer to the property line and the Quacker. He had lamb-chop facial hair, trimmed short, and shoulders the size of a lumberjack. “You okay?” Then he blanched, seeing me. “Oh, howdy, ma’am.” He tipped his wide-brimmed safari hat.

  Bill looked from me to the newcomer. “Hey, Chad. This lady—”

  “—owns the property you’re on without my permission.” It was a stretch, but nearly true.

  Chad pushed his hat back and scratched at his scalp. “Well now, ma’am, I sure do apologize. We were told everything was in order.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The pipeline that contracted us.”

  I’d been clutching my coffee cup, and it was cramping my style. I set it on the ground, then put my hands on my hips. “I don’t know anything about a pipeline.”

  Chad looked at Bill. Bill shrugged. Chad’s forehead folded into an accordion of wrinkles. “Could I get your name, ma’am?”

  I enunciated. “Michele Lopez Hanson.”

  Chad moved closer to Bill. “And you’re the property owner?”

  “As soon as probate of Ms. Becker’s will is complete. Until then, I am the tenant.”

  “Ah.” Chad rubbed at his hairless chin.

  “I’m going to need you guys to pack up and leave.” I pitched my voice deeper and laced it with steel. “Please have someone call me who can explain this and seek proper authorization.”

  Chad licked his lips, then rolled them inward, rubbing them together. “Okay, ma’am. We’ll do that.”

  Bill said, “But—”

  Chad held up a hand. “Load ’em up, Bill. Can I get your number, ma’am?” He pulled a pencil and a mini spiral notepad from his b
ack pocket.

  I recited it for him and repeated my name. “One L,” I said.

  He looked up at me, squinting, then resumed taking it down old-school.

  Gertrude’s barks penetrated the forest. After a few days of living together, I knew she wasn’t a random barker. We had company.

  “Thank you. Good day.” I headed back toward the farmhouse, my neck tingling as eyes bored into my back.

  Gertrude’s barks grew increasingly frenzied. As I neared the tree line, I realized I’d left my coffee cup in the woods, but I heard a woman’s voice and decided to go back for it later.

  “Nice doggy,” she said.

  She was trying to pet Gertrude, who was still barking at something behind her.

  My jaw dropped. It was an early Shania Twain look-alike, tiny gap in her front teeth and all. I drew closer, feeling a flicker of recognition. She had on a leopard-print miniskirt over black leggings and bright red cowboy boots. Her upper half was encased in a black tank top with a men’s white button-down shirt, open and tied at the waist, its long sleeves rolled up. Her hair was teased high and clipped back with the little bump at her crown that I associated with country music stars and Texas beauty queens. The Internet guy was standing on the roof, unabashedly drinking her in.

  I smoothed my hands on my yoga pants and tried to look dignified to greet my visitor. She saw me and broke into a lopsided smile with large white teeth.

  “Hey, I texted you that I was dropping by.” Her voice was gravely, smoky.

  I didn’t know what to say to that. How did this woman have my phone number?

  “I’m Maggie?” She held up a loaf of homemade banana bread wrapped in plastic film.

  Suddenly I understood and felt very, very foolish. “Oh, geez. I’m Michele. Sorry, I didn’t have my phone with me.”

  I glanced toward the barn and saw the magenta truck parked in its shade. Two golden retrievers were standing in the bed with their front paws up on the edge. The source of Gertrude’s ire, I realized. The truck’s doors had magnets that read FLOWN THE COOP.

  “If now’s a bad time, I can head out the way I came in.”

  I smiled and shook my head. “Now’s fine. And I’ve seen you before. At the pool in Giddings.”