Dang Near Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 2) (13 page)

Twenty-Nine

We drove into Bandera on Main Street and continued past Texarita’s Grill and Cantina. Realistic looking cowboys still lounged on the roof and gazed down at motorcycles and cars parked in front of the establishment.

“I never expected to see motorcycle riders hanging out with Texas cowboys,” I said.

We stayed on Highway 16 through town. After we left town and crossed Highway 173, we saw the entrance to the BVSBar Ranch ahead of us in the distance. Before we reached the ranch entrance, we turned south on a country road and continued for about a quarter mile. A fence paralleled us on the right.

“I think that fence marks the eastern boundary of the ranch,” he said. When the fence line and the road we were on turned right, he stopped the car and looked at the map. “If we veer right and follow the direction of the fence, we should be driving along the ranch’s southern border.”

We had driven about three-fourths of a mile when the fence stopped at a corner and angled north. He slowed the car, turned right and pointed to the property inside the fence. “I think that’s where they died, somewhere in this remote southwest corner of the ranch.”

He began looking for a place to pull off the road. He found an area where tall whitebrush would help hide the car and rolled to a stop. The small amount of rain had made the shrub blossom with white and violet-tinged flowers. As I eased out of Sam’s Caprice, I smelled their vanilla scent. We looked around and didn’t see a soul.

He checked the map. “I’m pretty sure these corner fences border BVSBar property. This has to be the place. I’ll go first.” He walked through mesquite, tarbush and bluestem toward the fence, watching for snakes and poison ivy. He found a section of the five-strand barbed wire fence where the bottom wire was loose and motioned me to follow.

I picked my way through the brush, careful where I stepped, and joined him at the fence. We looked around and still didn’t see anyone. He held up the loose bottom wire so I could crawl underneath it. I flattened my stomach against the dirt and scooted through like a salamander. I had to be sure none of the barbs protruding from the wire above my back scratched my ivy rash. After I wriggled underneath and brushed dirt off the front of my shirt, I held up the strand for Sam to crawl under. He slipped his Glock and cell phone under the fence, then wiggled under the wire.

We were in a wilderness where only wild animals and livestock might come to graze. If Max and Billy Sue Vernon had come here, no one would have heard their cries for help.

He stood, replaced his pistol and phone and brushed himself off. “If there was a well anywhere near here, there should still be some sign of it.”

About ten yards inside the corner from where the fences met, we noticed a cluster of live oaks.

“Look how those trees form a circle,” I said. “Beautiful.”

“Brush and grasses inside the circle grow taller than the surrounding brush,” he said, “from the shade.”

One particular patch of plants growing inside the circle of trees caught my attention. Some plants, growing on single stalks, were five feet tall. A foot up each stalk, round notched leaves, succulent like miniature lily pads, branched out. Higher up the stalks, differently shaped serrated leaves branched off the stem. Five-petal flowers popped off in pairs at various intervals.

“So this is where she gets it,” I said, pointing at the tall stalks. “That’s jewelweed. When Bertha gave me ice cubes made from the plant, I wanted to find out what I was rubbing on myself. I found photos online. Those plants with the greenish-white flowers are jewelweed. It usually grows in moister areas.” I thought about the bags of orange cubes in Bertha’s freezer. “Bertha must have planted the jewelweed here. She probably didn’t want everybody to know she had it.”

“Why not?”

“Charlatans boil it with liquid in various concentrations and sell it as a cure for all sorts of skin abrasions. It’s a good remedy, but if they don’t bother to prepare it correctly, they’re selling scam products. Bertha wanted jewelweed to treat the minor cuts and skin abrasions that people get on the ranch, but she must have concluded it was better to keep her stash private. She wanted a place where her jewelweed would thrive, and she could come get it whenever she wanted.”

He looked perplexed. “But why would she plant it here? Near where her beloved aunt and uncle died? She apparently hated the idea that some company was drilling on this ranch. Why plant her jewelweed anywhere near the site?”

Why indeed? The trees provided cover from the sun, but there must be similar areas in other parts of the ranch. Maybe we weren’t anywhere near the old well.

“Are you sure this is the right location?”

He stepped off the distance from where I stood to the property line at the fence and checked the map. “This looks right.”

He walked back to me, and we moved closer to the jewelweed. The area where it grew was completely shaded. Nothing else outside the circle of trees looked as healthy or grew as tall.

Sam studied the area. “Grows in a moist area,” he muttered to himself. He searched around until he found a thin, sturdy tree branch about four feet long. He used it to probe through the brush. Then he started prodding the ground around plants that had tall stalks. I inched closer.

He moved from plant to plant. “The ground feels soft. Especially here.” He got on his knees and felt around the base of the plants. “It’s damp. I think there’s a water source here somewhere.”

He crawled into the middle of the jewelweed plants and patted the ground. He stopped suddenly and pushed his probe down deep. He dropped one arm into a hole. He withdrew his arm, lifted up his hand and grinned at me. His hand was dripping wet.

“This was a water well,” he said. “They drilled for water here, not oil. Water’s like gold around here. They call it blue gold.”

He kneeled and reached farther down into the hole. He stuck the tree branch down as far as it would go. “There’s a concrete casing inside the old well. It’s probably an old casing that will have to be replaced, but there’s a lot of water down there.”

“No wonder Bertha didn’t want anybody drilling on this ranch,” I said. “She knew there was no oil here, and she didn’t want anybody to find this well. The paper I saw in her room about drilling a well must have been papers referring to re-drilling this water well.”

“Demand for water grows daily,” he said. “Bertha might have something here as valuable as oil.”

“And drilling for water is a lot cleaner than drilling for oil.”

“This makes me understand Bertha better,” he said. “This well is her insurance policy. She does everything she can to make the BVSBar succeed as a guest ranch. But whether the venture succeeds or fails, she has this natural water source.”

“She has to save enough money to re-drill the well,” I said. “I guess that’s why she works so hard to make the ranch succeed. Plus, I think she loves managing the dude ranch.”

I thought about the conversation I’d overheard between Bertha and Herb. “I wonder why Herb thought his parents were drilling for oil on the ranch when he was growing up?”

“How old was he then?”

“Between seven and ten, I think. He must have heard his parents discussing the well, saw the tall tower the drillers used, and thought they were drilling an oil well. A young child who’d never seen either kind of drilling equipment wouldn’t know the difference.”

“No, he probably wouldn’t,” Sam said.

“The Vernons must have worried about survival during those drought years. They probably never thought it important to explain to their child the details of what they were doing. When Herb was twelve, Maria told me they sent him to school in San Antonio, and he was glad to go. Shortly after he left, the well dried up. Whatever he knew about it didn’t matter. I do wonder,” I said, “now that Bertha and Herb are adults, why she never bothered to tell Herb there never was an oil well.”

“From what you’ve told me, Bertha wants Herb to go away and leave her alone. She doesn’t want him poking around in her business. He apparently has no claim to the executive rights anyway.”

“True. Since Bertha’s always been the one who cared about the ranch and worked the ranch, maybe she enjoys watching Herb ooze with greed when he contemplates getting money from a nonexistent oil well.”

He nodded. “Before they died, the Vernons must have discovered that their natural source of water had returned. They might have told Bertha.”

“Maybe the Vernons’ attorney knows about this well.”

He looked at his watch. “It’s two o’clock. I have his name in the car. If he’ll see us, we have time to drive back to San Antonio.”

Thirty

After groveling under a barbed wire fence in ranch clothes, I felt too grubby to ascend twenty-five floors above downtown San Antonio in a wood-paneled elevator to enter a plush law office. That’s where Marshall Darren, Max and Billy Sue Vernon’s attorney, worked. We were delighted he could see us.

We hoped he could shed light on what had happened with the water well and why the Vernons had died. He might even provide crucial information as to why somebody might have wanted to attack Vicki Landsdale.

On our drive back to San Antonio, Sam had brought Marshall Darren up to date by phone. He told Darren he was an SAPD detective vacationing at the BVSBar dude ranch incognito when Vicki Landsdale had her “accident.” He related all we knew about the Vernons’ untimely deaths, about Herb and Bertha, and that we had discovered the water well.

We washed our hands and faces in the building bathrooms before entering his office. Darren invited us in, and we shook hands. Marshall Darren, in his sixties, looked very prosperous in his silk suit. His maroon tie matched the carpet as well as the matting around photographs of his thoroughbred horses. His wavy gray hair complemented steel blue eyes that were undoubtedly perceptive.

“Thanks for seeing us on short notice,” Sam said.

“I’m glad I’m available,” Darren said. “Please, sit down. Max and Billy Sue were fine people.”

“We understand the Vernons came to see you the day before they died,” Sam said.

“Yes. Actually, they had called me the day prior to coming to my office. Driving over the ranch, they’d discovered that the well they’d drilled during the 1950s’ drought, that had been dry for years, was brimming with water again. They wanted me to file a permit immediately to re-drill the well. And they wanted me to change their wills. They’d originally left everything to each other, then to Herb.”

We were naturally curious about their wills, but first I wanted to know more about the Vernons’ history.

“Could you tell us more about the time when they originally drilled the well?” I asked.

“Of course. Max and Billy Sue, high school sweethearts, married in 1953 at age twenty and moved to the ranch that Max’s father owned. Their son Herb was born that year. The Vernons had a few cows and sheep, but the 1950s drought was well underway. The Medina River ran on the north side of the ranch but it finally ran dry. As the drought continued, it was obvious their livestock wouldn’t survive. Without a reliable water supply, the Vernons couldn’t even buy seed and fertilizer to plant crops. Most Hill Country soil isn’t rich enough to farm anyway. Like so many others, the Vernons were desperate. Little Herb grew up in the midst of hardships caused by the drought. To this day, the ranch means hardship to Herb.”

“We’ve heard he rarely returns to the ranch. I guess that explains it,” Sam said.

“Yes. During the drought,” Darren continued, “center pivot irrigation systems were being developed, but the Vernons could never afford irrigation. Under the rule of capture, however, passed by the Texas legislature in 1904, a landowner owned rights to groundwater under his land.

“Max’s father had saved up some money. By the time Herb was six, in 1959, the family had scraped up enough money to hire a company to drill a water well on the ranch. The Vernons plunged everything they had into paying for that well. The company used a big tall drilling rig and drilled a cable-tool well as deep as they could—close to 1000 feet.”

I turned to Sam.

“That tall drilling rig must have been the rig Herb saw,” I said. “He thought they were drilling for oil.”

Sam nodded.

“I imagine that’s exactly what he thought,” Darren said. “After the Vernons died, and I read their wills giving Bertha the ranch, Herb didn’t have much to say to me. Herb did call not too long ago, though. He said that since he owned half the minerals, he wanted me to find some oil company to drill on the ranch. I told him there wasn’t any oil under that ranch, but I don’t think he believed me.”

“So until you read their wills, Herb didn’t know the Vernons had given the ranch to Bertha instead of to him?” I asked.

“As executor, I wasn’t permitted to tell Herb or Bertha the couple had changed their wills. The Vernons thought that Bertha, having lived and worked on the ranch, would preserve it. They thought Herb would let it deteriorate and sell it. The Vernons said they would tell Bertha and Herb that they’d changed their wills at the appropriate time.”

“Do you think the Vernons told them before they died?” I asked.

“I can’t be positive, but from Herb and Bertha’s reactions when I read the will, I don’t believe either one previously knew about the changes.”

“What happened to the water well?” Sam asked.

“It ran fine for several years and produced enough water to get the Vernons out of their financial hole. They could grow their own food and feed livestock. They bought Angora goats, and with water to sustain grasses and shrubs, the herd increased. The Vernons made a good living from sheering the mohair fleece off their goats twice a year.

“Hill County people started taking in visitors, so that’s what the Vernons did. With the Medina River running through part of the ranch, the Vernons’ eighteen hundred acres was the perfect setting for a dude ranch. Old man Vernon helped Max build the lodge and the cabins up until the time he died.

“When Billy Sue’s brother and his wife died in a plane crash, Billy Sue and Max took in Billy Sue’s niece, Bertha Sampson. From then on, Bertha helped the Vernons run the dude ranch. The Vernons legally adopted her. They had quite a spread and enough water to support it. Herb never cared about the ranch. They sent him to school in San Antonio when he was twelve. Right after that, the well dried up again. That was 1965.”

“What made the well dry up?” I asked.

“The Vernons didn’t know it when they started, but the company had drilled into the Trinity Aquifer. They were close to the Edwards-Trinity Plateau, but the amount of available water was more variable in the Trinity Aquifer than in the Edwards. Drilling a well in the Trinity was a hit-or-miss proposition. When the drought led so many people to drill wells and develop irrigation systems, the underground aquifers fell. When the water table fell, water went farther underground, and the Vernons’ well went dry.”

“By that time, the dude ranch had become profitable?” I asked.

“Yes,” Darren said, “The Vernons held out as long as they could without well water. Then they obtained another permit to drill a hand well.”

“Did Herb start to enjoy coming home?” I asked.

“He’d come home on holidays during high school. He started college, but he bummed around, didn’t learn much and didn’t finish. He got odd jobs and continued playing around. He came to the ranch periodically, usually when he wanted money.”

“So when the Vernons called you in 1992,” Sam said, “they had just driven over the ranch and discovered that their old well was producing water again?”

“Yes. The years 1991 and ‘92 were terrible drought years for many Texans, but there were sporadic spring rains, and the aquifers recharged. The Vernons wanted me to file an application immediately with Springhills Water Management District, which managed groundwater resources in Bandera County, so they could re-drill their Trinity well.”

Sam said, “Springshills later became the Bandera County River Authority and Groundwater District?”

“That’s right. As developers built more houses, and water became scarcer, various water districts were formed. Each district had its own rules for landowners to access groundwater. Max and Billy Sue had heard scuttlebutt the Texas legislature was about to pass a bill limiting water that could be pumped from the Edwards Aquifer. So the Vernons were even more eager to obtain a permit to re-drill their Trinity well. Sure enough, in 1993, the legislature gave the Edwards Aquifer Authority power to allocate the amount of groundwater users could pump from the aquifer for irrigation, industrial use, livestock and by land owners.”

“Did the Vernons get their application approved?” Sam asked.

“Yes. When they came to my office the day after I spoke with them, we had already obtained the application forms to drill their well. They filled them out, signed them, faxed them back and mailed hard copies. When I inventoried their house in the weeks after they died, I found the permit in their mail allowing them to re-drill the well.”

“Surely Bertha and Herb looked through their mail. I’m surprised they didn’t find the permit,” I said.

“They might have seen the envelope from Springhills Water District, but they wouldn’t have thought it important,” Darren said. “I told Herb and Bertha I’d take care of mail that looked like bills to be paid. I didn’t think Herb would bother to pay them, and I didn’t want Bertha to get behind on some obligation and lose the ranch. I knew I needed to take possession of that drilling permit to protect Bertha.”

“How sad the Vernons never got to enjoy their well again.” I thought I might as well ask Darren the question that had been uppermost on my mind. “Why do you think the Vernons died?”

Before he answered, Marshall Darren took a deep breath and exhaled. “This is just conjecture, you understand. After we completed the application for their drilling permit and made changes they wanted to their wills, it was late when they left for the ranch. The next day, Bertha and Maria said the Vernons announced mid-morning they were going on a treasure hunt. They took sandwiches for lunch, and water. In their excitement, they probably didn’t take enough water. When they got to the site, the water table had dropped, and the well had gone dry again.”

He sighed. “That well was a sign of life to them. They’d put hard work and money into the well, and it had saved them. Now, when they thought the water was there for them again, it was gone.” He exhaled again. “They were probably exhausted from the activity and excitement of the previous two days. We found out later their Jeep was out of gasoline.”

Before Darren continued, he turned his chair around and looked out the window behind his desk. In his mind’s eye, I thought he could see the Vernons sitting in their Jeep by their well, in the middle of nowhere. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said, still looking out the window, “if they sat there in that open Jeep and shed tears over that dry well. The time grew later, and the sun grew hotter. My guess is that by the time they gathered themselves together, realized they were out of gas and started to walk home, they were already dehydrated and were stricken by heat stroke. This time, their well couldn’t save them.” He swiveled back around, sighed and leaned back in his chair.

The three of us sat very still. I had to brush tears from my eyes. The fortunes of life and death were so ironic. So unpredictable.

“Well,” Sam said, rising to his feet. “You’ve explained a lot. We really appreciate the time you’ve given us.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darren,” I said. “The Vernons were lucky to have a friend like you.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Sam and I stood, shook his hand and turned to go.

Sam whirled back around.

“One more thing about the Vernons’ wills,” he said. “You were able to change them that same day?”

“Yes. When I talked to them on the phone the day before,” Darren said, “I told them to make notes on changes they wanted. They would each be writing a new will in my office. Their requests were simple. Each one wanted the surviving spouse to receive everything they owned. If they died in a common disaster, the ranch, with executive rights and half the mineral interests, would go to their niece, Bertha Sampson. Their son Herb would receive an annual stipend of ten percent of the net profit from the ranch, if there was any, plus the other half of the mineral interests. If the ranch made more than $150,000 net profit in a given year, Herb would receive fifteen percent. When the Vernons came to my office the day after we spoke, my secretary and I witnessed each one writing a holographic codicil to their will. They wrote down the changes they wanted, affirmed the other terms of their existing wills and signed the codicils.”

“Their new wills were legal and would withstand a challenge?” Sam asked.

“Since my secretary and I both witnessed the couple making holographic codicils to their wills, and since the Vernons were of sound mind, their wills would be hard to challenge in court.”

“I see. Thank you again,” Sam said.

We left Darren’s office and found our car. Sam maneuvered from IH 35 through downtown San Antonio to IH 10. We headed northwest, back to the Hill Country.