The Matriarch (37 page)

“Yeah, it’s an awkward situation,” Jim says. “I doubt I’ll be sheriff long. At the moment we’re waiting for the new man to arrive. Should be here soon.”

“Anything new on Al Schmidt’s death?”

“Not yet. His wife seems to have disappeared.”

I nod. “We’ve got a lot to talk about here, Sheriff. It’s a crazy story, but I need to tell you. And I need your help with the mop up of this tragedy.”

“Sure, I’ll do my best.”

We all sit down. “We’ve got a man down,” I say, anxious to get on with this. I can’t get over that good man’s death, and I hate the fact that Lester-Lee is still down in that godforsaken cavern. “He’s dead, and we need to get his body up and out of that Goddamned hole.” My eyes fill, and I feel like a little boy.

“Sure, you bet. But I don’t have the full story.” He slides into a chair, and the two deputies stand at his back. “What’s happened here?”

I decide on the truth, bizarre as it is, and start talking. I tell Acting Sheriff Collins about a fig tree that—after the recent earthquake—suddenly produced a fig that caused loving women to run amok, to go berserk and start murdering their men.

“I know this story sure as hell requires a giant leap of faith, Sheriff Collins, and I can’t imagine any thinking person believing a word of it. But it is the truth.” I tell him about a young girl with an evil mother, a gelding horse, and the death of my love Charlotte’s little sister, Shelly. I feel a warm hand on my shoulder and look back to see Charlotte standing there with Dott at her side. I’m grateful for their presence. I finish my saga, and not once do Sheriff Collins’s eyes leave mine, and not once does the lawman allow himself a smile of disbelief or derision.

I polish off my whiskey and wait for the net to be thrown over me—for the men in white coats to come and haul me off.

“Well, Cass—”

“Oh and Sheriff,” I say, “you’ll need to arrest Kate Hammond as an unfit mother if that’s possible and arrange for her daughter, Molly, to be placed with another family … hopefully mine. And you should look into the activities of the McClain sisters. I don’t know if there are any husbands or boyfriends there, but if so, you’ll need to look for them and make sure they’re still alive. The sisters are under the influence of the figs, so be careful around those two, Sheriff, because they don’t take kindly to men. And, I’m pretty sure I know where you’ll find Kate’s husband, Victor.”

“I see …” the sheriff says. He sits for a moment, looking like he doesn’t see a damned thing. “That’s a pretty wild story, Cassidy,” he says finally.

“Yeah, I know.”

“This man knows what he’s talkin’ about, Sheriff,” Frank says, and I feel Charlotte’s hand again.

Sheriff Collins gazes at me and then at Frank. “There have been some developments you folks may not be aware of. Carla Russo killed herself in her cell. Last night.”

Frank gasps and shakes his head. I feel Charlotte clutch my shoulder. I turn toward her and slide an arm around her waist.

“Lindee Banyon tried to do the same thing,” Collins goes on, “but she was stopped in time. She seems to be out of her mind with grief. We have a doctor treating her.”

“The effects of the figs seem to wear off in time, Sheriff, and then remorse sets in,” I say. “You understand?”

“I don’t understand any of this. But I’m willing to check out everything you’ve told me.” He stands. “Lead on, Cassidy, Let’s have a look at that hole. The scene of the crime.”

With Collins and the deputies’ help, we rig a kind of rope harness for Lester and haul him up and out of the hole. I notice The Tree’s residue is no longer smoking. It looks like a little pile of pale green dust, and I know she’s gone.

I know you’re gone, Mama Tree.

Really? Truly?

We all stay on together at the ranch house after these horrific deaths; it’s as if we’ve become a family. We found a good attorney for Molly, and she’ll stay here with us until her case is heard. Charlotte wants to stay as well—here with me. I’m so grateful.

I love this woman … and I think she loves me.

A few days after the battle, Frank and I are having dinner together.

“I’m not going to live forever, Cassidy,” he says.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Frank.”

He smiles. “I’m thinking you should stay here. Make your home here. You could help me out some while I hang out here another … well, whatever time I have left. And then maybe you and Charlotte … well … who knows?”

“Yeah, well …”

“I’ll leave you this place, and all you have to do is take care of it. I know Cowboy Polo doesn’t appeal to you, and I’ve decided I don’t have the energy to design such a game. But maybe you could turn it into a bed and breakfast kind of place. Or plant a crop of something, or board horses again. I’ll help you with whatever you decide … you see?”

I do see, and it looks good to me. I’m tired of running, and that’s a brand new feeling to me. I don’t want to go anywhere. This man is my family, and this place was my happy home for years. And now, with Charlotte, we can perhaps build a happy home again. And maybe Molly will join us.

“Yeah, sounds good, Uncle Frank. But please don’t be in a hurry to leave us all … okay?”

He smiles. “Okay. I’ll stick around a while longer.”

We shake hands across the table.

It’s been almost two months since Frank, Louie, and I battled The Tree … and won. The aftermath has been messy, the repercussions profoundly unsettling. Gradually, however, the emotional and legal clutter is being sorted out.

Each day Frank and I make a trip to the hole and check out Mama Tree’s grave. We spray her area there with more of the testosterone solution, easily available to us now. We’ve also dug out and burned all the roots, but we check her now vacant home every day to be sure The Tree is truly gone.

The body count is appalling. Dante Russo and Arty Banyon, followed by Victor Hammond, whose body was discovered right where Molly said it would be. Sheriff Ramirez is dead, apparently murdered by his wife, Marie, who’s under a psychiatrist’s care as are Lindee Banyon and Molly. Carla and Shelly are gone as well, along with Al Schmidt—more victims of the fruit of The Tree. And Lester-Lee. I still can’t get over that good man’s cruel death.

Molly is making good progress toward recovery, but Lindee and Marie are both devastated by what they did under the influence of the figs and can barely function. They’re incarcerated now until their mental health improves, and their actions can be investigated. I do hope the authorities will be lenient with them.

The McClain sisters have been cleared of any wrong doing, as they appear to have been simply friends of Kate Hammond who has disappeared. There’s an All-Points Bulletin out for the Hammond station wagon. Schmidt’s wife, Virginia, and his sister and mother have disappeared as well. An APB is in effect for them as well.

Dott is very helpful in a tough, common sense way and spends a lot of time with everyone here at the ranch house. Frank seems to be doing well—especially now that he has a horse to train, and his very helpful assistant, Molly.

And Charlotte is with me now; she’s apologized over and over for blaming me for Shelly’s death. She even leans on me now in her grief, and I’m delighted to be there for her. I’ll be there for Charlotte … always.

Molly and I are out for a ride this afternoon on two of the four horses now being trained by Frank and Molly and boarding at the Murphy Ranch. There’s a new little community, a scant two miles from us. A small group of farmers raising organic vegetables have banded together there on about twelve acres of land. Their Farmer’s Market is held on weekends and holidays and is becoming very popular. Dott and Charlotte want us to pick up some fresh tomatoes there for our Christmas dinner salad today.

It’s a lovely day, cool but sunny. We tether the horses and take a walk down the center aisle of the market. We see all sorts of vegetables: eggplant, tomatoes, cauliflower, kale, zucchini, and many different colors and varieties of flowers from a nearby hot house. The scent of freshly baked bread fills the air. The tomatoes are at the end of the aisle, and we pick out some beautiful heirlooms.

I approach the checkout area and hand the plastic bag with our selections to the old lady at the cash register. She has a harsh, lined face and gives me a stern look as she puts the bag on the scale. I don’t understand her demeanor; she’s almost hostile. She looks at Molly though, and her whole attitude changes.

“Hello there, little lady,” she cries. “How are you doing this beautiful Christmas day?”

“Fine,” Molly murmurs, somewhat taken aback by the woman’s enthusiasm.

The lady thrusts something at Molly. “Here, darlin’, take this. It’s sweet, you’ll love it!”

Christ almighty … is that what I think it is?

“She’s allergic,” I say, my voice harsh and too loud as I grab Molly’s hand away from the woman’s. “Thanks anyway.”

The woman frowns at me. There’s something shiny on her chin, wet looking. It looks like … juice.

“How much for the tomatoes?” I ask.

What the hell is wrong with me? It couldn’t be … couldn’t be. The Matriarch is long gone … she couldn’t … no. There are other figs in the world for God’s sake … normal figs!

I pay for the tomatoes. I take Molly’s hand, and we walk back up the aisle to where we’ve tied the horses. I notice an odd thing as we walk. I don’t see any men minding the booths. All women. I don’t even see any boys. All women and girls. And they’re all looking at me.

It’s not a friendly look.

Many thanks to the ever-so-talented people who have helped me with this novel: My writing coach Marni Freedman, Antoinette Kuritz, the woman who had guided me through the publication process, and Gwyn Snider, my cover and book designer extraordinaire. And my love, Jerry Waxler, the gentleman who has been with me through the thick and thin of creating “The Matriarch”.

I have been truly blessed with these fantastic people!