“Did you . . .” Ruby swallowed. “Did you mean to kill him?”
She had asked one of the most important questions a defense attorney would ask a client he had allowed to take the stand. “I meant to put him out of operation,” I said. “If I had meant to kill him, I would have aimed higher.” Which suggested, of course, that I had controlled my aim. Which was not necessarily the case. I’d been pretty nervous when I fired that gun.
Ruby picked up her iced tea. “And all this happened because of a couple of roosters,” she said wonderingly.
“Not really.” I put down my fork and pushed my plate away. “Tom and I were there because of the theft of the chickens, of course—which turned out to be a good thing.”
“Really? A good thing?”
“Well, sure. I hate to say this, because I know how upset Caitie will be when she hears what happened to Extra Crispy. Both he and the black rooster are out of the running for a blue ribbon now, I’m afraid.” I picked up the pitcher and poured myself another glass of icy hibiscus tea. “But if Gibbons hadn’t stolen those roosters, Tom and I would never have followed the trail out to his place. He could still be contentedly tending his half acre of weed.”
Ruby pursed her lips. “That sounds like a lot of marijuana. How much is it worth?”
“It’s a sizable crop. I’ve read that an outdoor grower can put some five thousand plants on a half acre, with an average yield of a pound of saleable pot from each plant. If it’s selling for two hundred and eighty dollars an ounce, that’s a street value of twenty-two million dollars. The grower doesn’t get all of that, of course. He’s working for somebody. And there’s a markup along the distribution chain.”
“But still,” Ruby said. “That’s a bushel of money.”
“And that’s just one season,” I said. “Next spring, he could start all over again.” In fact, he probably would have, reasoning that if his little farm hadn’t been discovered this year, it would be safe next year, too. And he already had the space and the equipment—that tractor, for instance.
“But you put him out of business.”
“His farming days are over.” I said it with special relish and leaned back in my chair. “The state of Texas has zero patience with guys who try to kill cops.”
Ruby was shaking her head. “I still don’t understand why he stole the chickens. Isn’t that a little out of character for somebody who’s into drugs?”
“He might not have been personally into drugs, Ruby. He obviously had homestead interests on the side. It’s my guess that he stole the black rooster so he could produce and sell those rare Ayam Cemani chickens—which are going for exorbitant prices. He raises Angora rabbits, as well. He had several hutches in the barn, and it turns out that he entered two French Angoras at the fair. One of them got a blue ribbon.” That information had come to me from Jessica, who thought it was a nicely ironic touch for her rooster-napping story, which would run in the next day’s paper (minus the name and address of the offender, of course). “I think he’s a homesteader who was looking for a quick cash crop. An easy way to make money.”
“Well, it’s good that you got the chickens back,” Ruby said.
“Yeah. They’re back in the poultry tent. I left a note on the cages to explain what happened, but that won’t make any difference to the judges.” I chuckled wryly. “I don’t think they have a prize category for roosters that were taken hostage.”
“Caitie will be disappointed,” Ruby said. “But not as much as she’d be if Extra Crispy had been . . . well, fried.”
“Please.” I shuddered. “Let’s not go there.”
“Does she know what happened?”
“Not yet. She’s at play rehearsal today. I’m picking her up after work and we’ll drive out to the fairgrounds then.” I changed the subject. “Anything interesting happen here?”
“Mostly just the usual.” Ruby frowned. “But that doorbell of yours has been a problem ever since we opened this morning. I’ve gone to your shop several times when I thought you had a customer, but nobody was there.” She folded her forearms on the table, looking perturbed. “China, I don’t like to harp on this subject because I know you don’t believe in ghosts. But I think you really ought to consider the possibility that—”
“I’ve already considered it.”
“You have?” Ruby was taken aback. “You mean, you might agree that what we have here is a ghost?”
Instead of answering, I looked around. Our tearoom is a lovely, inviting place. We’ve installed hunter-green wainscoting partway up the old square-cut limestone walls, painted our tables and chairs green, and set the tables with floral chintz napkins (yes, real cloth!) and small crystal vases of fresh flowers and herbs. Baskets of ferns hang in narrow, deep-set windows that look out onto the gardens. But for just a second, I was in an entirely different place. And time.
“This used to be a bedroom,” I said.
“Really?” Ruby tilted her head. “Well, I know that you had an apartment here, but I remember this as your living room.”
“It was. But back in the day, way back, this was a bedroom. The bed was over there.” I pointed. “It had an elaborate spindled headboard and footboard and a white crocheted spread with a white skirt, and ruffled white pillow shams. All very Victorian. There was a dressing table over there, with one of those three-paneled mirrors, and a commode there.” I pointed toward the corner where we park our serving trolley, which was already stocked with cutlery, pitchers, and stacks of
