Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

his head. “Sheila had better be dead sure she’s got the right man, or the department will be facing a suit for false arrest. Timms is a litigious sonuvagun.” He sighed. “And I would never have figured Larry Kirk for the kind of man who would
shoot
himself. I read his letter to the editor in the
Enterprise
a while back, arguing against concealed-carry on college campuses. I got the impression he was anti-gun in a big way.”
    “I guess I’m not surprised to hear that,” I said. “Of course, you never know what’s going on inside people’s heads, but Larry didn’t strike me as the suicide type, either. I didn’t see any sign of self-pity, depression,sadness—the kind of feelings somebody might have if they were thinking of suicide.” I paused. “As far as Timms is concerned, Charlie Lipman confirmed that Timms was due to surrender on the charge. It apparently has something to do with extortion. Timms’ computer was in the shop for repair. Maybe there was an incriminating file or two on it.”
    “Hmm. Yeah, well, that could be a pretty powerful motive, depending on what was in the file. Photos of Timms with a naked beauty or two? That could be embarrassing. But Charlie will be able to leverage it into a plea deal, especially if nothing else was taken. Name the extortionist and—”
    “Charlie’s not going to leverage anything,” I put in. “He’s off the case. Apparently, he and Timms weren’t getting along before this, and when Timms didn’t show, he decided to call it quits.”
    “I guess I’m not surprised,” McQuaid said thoughtfully. “They weren’t all that friendly when Charlie was representing him on that land deal. In fact, their relationship turned pretty frosty by the time everything was all over. Timms doesn’t like to lose, especially when it comes to property.” Howard Cosell came over and leaned against McQuaid’s leg. He reached down to gently tug on the dog’s long ears. “Hey, Howard—see any mountain lions out there, old buddy?” He looked up at me. “You know, the piece of land Timms was suing over isn’t far from here.”
    “I guess I knew that—but I don’t know exactly where. I never knew the details of the lawsuit, either. At the time you were working on the case, I was pretty busy with Sheila’s wedding.”
    “It wasn’t complicated,” McQuaid said. “One of Timms’ neighbors filed an adverse possession claim against about thirty acres of Timms’ family ranch. Timms wanted the claim thrown out, but he couldn’t make it happen. Charlie’s a damn good lawyer, but
he
couldn’t make it happen,either. The neighbor’s documentation was too strong: photographs of the fence he put in ten years ago, a survey, plus the filing in the county clerk’s office. He’d been in possession of the property for over fifteen years. Really pissed Timms off, but there was nothing he or Charlie could do about it. Adverse possession is written into the law.”
    “Ah. So that’s what it was,” I said. Texas, like many other states, permits land to be claimed by “squatter’s rights,” on the theory that abandoned land isn’t any good to anybody and ought to be put to use—if not by the owner, then by somebody else. As I remembered it from a class in real estate law, somebody could move onto a piece of land and start using it. If he got away with this “adverse possession” claim for at least three years—that is, if the owner failed to notice, or noticed but failed to kick him off—the squatter could begin the process of claiming the property, including whatever mineral rights went with it. I even remembered Section 16.021 of the Texas Civil Practices and Remedies Code, the elements of which generations of law students have reduced to a clever mnemonic device:
Adverse possession is a HELUVA problem
. A successful claim involves
h
ostile,
e
xclusive,
l
asting, and
u
ninterrupted possession, both
v
isible and
a
ctual. H-E-L-U-V-A.
    Howard licked McQuaid’s hand, yawned hugely, and padded over to his basset basket beside the stove. He climbed in and circled several times, putting himself to bed. Of course, he wouldn’t stay there. Howard is a people dog. He’d be on the foot of our bed when we turned out the light.
    “Where exactly is Timms’ property?” I asked curiously.
    McQuaid drew an imaginary map on the table with his finger. “You go west on Limekiln, about two miles past our turnoff. Hang a right at Paint Horse Road, left at a pair of