Barnstorming (Gail Mccarthy Mysteries) (14 page)

Brandon considered that, arms crossed. “I don’t like people shooting women up in the hills,” he said at last. “I’m just having a look around.”

“We don’t need any vigilantes around here, Brandon,” Jeri said.

“Did I say anything about being a vigilante? I’m just having a look around. I walk in these hills a lot.”

“All right.” Jeri’s tone was cool. “And if you see anything worth mentioning, I’ll thank you to let me know.”

“Yep.” Brandon looked her straight in the eyes. “I’ll be sure and do that.”

Jeri looked at me and gave an infinitesimal shrug. “Let’s go,” she said.

As we turned our horses, I looked back. Brandon still stood in the trail, arms crossed, rifle held in the crook of his arm, eyes watching us. “See you around,” he said.

When we were out of earshot, I turned and caught Jeri’s eye. “What’s with him?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “He was pretty angry at being accused of this shooting.”

I watched Sunny’s yellow ears for a minute, then turned back to Jeri. “Why would he be angry?” I asked. “Surely he could see why you’d suspect him.”

I could hear the shrug in Jeri’s voice as she replied. “You’d be surprised. It’s a common reaction. People are really offended at being accused of a crime they didn’t commit.”

“And you’re sure that guy’s innocent? He seemed to have an attitude.”

“Yep. Brandon has an attitude. But that rifle didn’t kill the woman.”

“And it’s really legal for him to carry it around like that?”

“Yep. Not legal for him to fire it, though.”

We’d reached the trail crossing and I halted Sunny. “Which way do you want to go?” I asked Jeri.

“I’d like to ride the route Jane would probably have taken back to Lazy Valley,” she said.

“That would be the swingset trail.”

Jeri nodded. “But first I’d like to go check out the camper you saw.”

“Didn’t your people check on that already?” I asked.

“They found the camper. No one was around that evening, apparently. I went up there Sunday and yesterday and couldn’t find a soul. But the camper was still there.”

“Okay,” I said, taking the narrow trail that led to the pampas grass meadow. “Let’s go see if it’s still there now.”

Sunny walked slowly; he’d displayed an obvious reluctance to take the trail that led away from home, but I’d booted him and he’d acquiesced, with a decent amount of grace. Now he was walking out again, covering the country in a long swinging stride. We passed through the tangled greens of oak trees and manzanita and emerged into the openness of the big meadow, studded with feathery clumps of rustling pampas grass. We’d had a few early rains, so the loose ground wasn’t too dusty, and Jeri and I rode along quietly through the bright air. I could see the skeleton shape of the landmark tree perched on the ridge to my right.

Once across the meadow, I reined Sunny to the left, up the logging road, a mere couple of ruts through the rough grass. Up we went, past a big pine snag, around a couple of bends, and there it was. Pulled off to the side of the road on an old log deck sat the battered camper. With a man standing beside it.

I looked back at Jeri, who nodded. Both of our eyes were fixed on the short, stocky form of the man, whose shaved head gleamed like a pinkish billiard ball in the sunlight. The guy had seen us and watched our approach. He grinned, what struck me as an oddly goofy expression. Somehow he gave me the creeps. I halted Sunny and Jeri rode by me, stepping closer to the man and his truck.

“Hello there,” she called. “I’m Detective Jeri Ward of the Santa Cruz Sheriff’s Department. I’d like to have a word with you, please.”

“Sure.” The man was still grinning. I one hundred percent for sure did not like his expression. “I’ll talk to anyone,” he said.

Jeri dismounted from Gray Dog and handed his reins to me. Taking a notepad and pencil from her pocket, she stepped nearer to the bald guy.

“Could I have your name?”

The grin remained in place. I swore I could see white all around the grayish iris of his eyes. “Buddy,” he said.

“Buddy what?”

“Just Buddy. I’m like Cher. And Madonna. One name.”

Jeri didn’t flinch. “Your address?”

Buddy shrugged. “No address.”

“Where do you live?” Jeri asked him.

“Here.” And he patted the fender of the battered truck. I saw Jeri glance at the license plate and write the number down.

“Do you have permission to be parked here?”

He shrugged again. “Who would I ask?”

“How long have you been here?”

“A few days.” Buddy’s grin was fading a bit. He watched Jeri warily as she took notes.

“My friend Gail here saw your camper parked in this spot on Saturday afternoon.”

“Is that right?” And Buddy’s oddly round eyes fixed on me.

“Yes,” I said. “I did see your camper here when I was riding.”

“Must have been here then.”

“Did you hear any shots that afternoon?”

“I can’t recall.” Now Buddy looked defiant.

I saw Jeri stoop down and pick up an object from the ground. Something small. “This looks like a cartridge from a twenty-two,” she said. “You been doing any shooting here?”

“Not me.” Buddy’s tone was sullen and he looked at the ground.

Jeri walked to the edge of the bank. I followed her with my eyes. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Was there a line of sight from this spot to the place where Jane was shot? It looked like there could be.

Jeri turned and glanced behind the camper. I could see the wheel of a mountain bike. “Is that your bike?” Jeri asked.

“Yes.”

“Been riding it much?”

“Every day.” Buddy was muttering now, looking down. In a barely audible tone he added, “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

Jeri glanced up at me. “All right then. We’ll be going.”

Taking Gray Dog’s reins from me, she remounted. Buddy continued to look at the ground, ignoring us as we turned our horses and rode back down the hill. I did not look over my shoulder, but I could feel ripples of discomfort up and down my spine. I did not trust Buddy one little bit.

“That guy’s not normal,” I said, once we were around the bend and out of his sight.

“Yep. I need to talk to him some more. And I’ll bet this cartridge came from his gun. As soon as we get done with this ride, I’m gonna grab one of the guys and come back up here.”

Jeri and I were both silent as we took the trail that led to the swingset. “This is where I saw what I guess was Ross Hart,” I said finally, as we came to the hill that led up through scattered oak trees to the crest of the ridge. “Loping along.”

“Yeah,” Jeri said absently. I could tell she was lost in her own thoughts. For that matter so was I.

And my thoughts were making me really uncomfortable. Talking to Buddy had caused me to think for the first time that Jane might have been shot not by accident, or for a reason, but for no reason. Somehow, previous to this, I had supposed that if she were murdered, it was by someone who had a motive to kill her. Not by someone who had simply and randomly chosen to shoot an unknown woman riding through the hills. Someone crazy.

The thought made my shoulders twitch. Almost involuntarily, I looked over my shoulder. The trail stretched, empty and quiet, behind Jeri and Gray Dog. No one there. Or so it appeared.

I thought of Jane Kelly riding her steady horse down the trail, as we were doing now, with no thought of danger. I thought of someone hidden in the woods, aiming the gun, pulling the trigger. For no particular reason, or no reason that would make sense to anyone else. I thought of Buddy. And for the first time since the shooting, I seriously wondered if I ought to be riding back here.

Jeri and I were out of the trees and in a small meadow, passing the abandoned swingset that had given this trail its name. I remembered another time that Sunny and I had galloped past this swingset on a stormy day and sincerely hoped I would not see a repeat of that event. Looking off to the left, I glanced at the remains of an old house, half buried in twining vinca. For a moment I pictured the children who had once lived in the house and played on the swingset.

Movement ahead of me in the dark woods caused me to look quickly back at the trail. The movement resolved itself into someone riding toward us through the shadows on a dark horse. As the horse and rider emerged from the trees, I recognized Trish O’Hara on her black gelding, Coal.

Trish pulled her horse up with a look of relief on her face. “Oh, it’s you, Gail. I swear, I’m completely paranoid right now. Every time I see anyone I’m afraid it’s the person who shot Jane.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. Gesturing at Jeri, I added, “This is Sergeant Jeri Ward, who’s investigating the shooting. This is Trish O’Hara, Jeri. She keeps her horse at Lazy Valley.”

“Nice to meet you,” Trish said. “I think I saw you at the barn yesterday afternoon talking to Doug and Sheryl.”

“That was me,” Jeri agreed.

“Sheryl wasn’t too happy about that,” Trish said, and grinned. I got the idea that Trish’s opinion of Sheryl was about like mine.

“Is that right?” Jeri asked in a friendly way.

Trish shrugged, but didn’t say anything more. I wondered if I ought to warn her not to go near Buddy’s camper. But then, I knew no real reason to speak ill of the guy. In the end, we wished each other a nice ride and went on, Jeri and I leaving the bright meadow for the shadows of the forest.

In another minute we were in the midst of a big grove of redwood trees, with views between their trunks all the way down the long valley. Beyond lay the crumpled folds of the coastal mountains, blue with distance. Sunny paced calmly on; Gray Dog followed. Through the scrub, and out into the sunshine again, with a view through the oak trees of the Monterey Bay.

“Wow,” Jeri said. “This is sure beautiful.”

“Yep,” I agreed. “Even if we are working on an ugly crime.”

The trail wound slowly down the hill toward Moon Valley. Some ten minutes later we were riding through Lazy Valley Stable. I glanced in the direction of the barn where Doug Martin kept his horse. There he was, with the bay gelding tied to the hitching rail. Doug was apparently rewrapping the foot with the abscess. Next to him stood Sheryl Silverman, holding her saddled mare by the bridle reins. She was talking to Doug and it seemed to me there was real intensity in her face and posture. I couldn’t hear her words. Neither Doug nor Sheryl had noticed Jeri and me yet.

Doug’s face was turned up toward Sheryl now; there was something there that I couldn’t read. Not anger exactly, more like fear. Doug’s usually relaxed, handsome features definitely held an expression of alarm and yes, frustration. He answered Sheryl with the same intensity in his face and body language that I saw in hers.

I glanced at Jeri and saw she was watching the two of them. In that moment Sheryl looked over her shoulder and spotted us. It was actually pretty comical. For a second we registered as just two riders walking down the dirt road that led through the stable. Sheryl’s eyes narrowed as she focused closer and recognized me. But when she identified Jeri her jaw literally dropped and she turned instantly to Doug. Both of them watched us ride towards them with wide, startled eyes. Deer in the headlights.

To my surprise, Jeri smiled a greeting but kept on riding. I followed suit. As we rode out the gate at the other end of the ranch, I looked a question over my shoulder at her.

“I talked to those two yesterday. Didn’t learn much. Sheryl admits to riding up in the woods during the time Jane was shot. She heard something that might have been a shot. Doug has no alibi. Says he was running errands. His horse is lame so he can’t ride. And then he told me all about how he was taking care of Jane’s home and animals. Very devoted guy, or so he says.”

“Yeah, I wonder about that, too.”

“I sure wish we could have heard what they were saying to each other back there. It was something more than trivial chat,” Jeri said.

“That’s what I thought, too. They looked pretty intense.”

“So, where are we going now?” she asked me.

“Back to my place. We’ll ride over this ridge here and then back across the high school. It’s a nice ride.”

Famous last words. We had only gone a short way up the steep slope, riding a narrow single-track trail that snaked between the trees and brush when, on a particularly vertical sidehill in the midst of tangled vines and bushes, we came to a downed tree. A recently fallen tree. Like maybe yesterday.

I stared at the trunk in consternation. A pretty good-sized oak, it lay across the trail in such a fashion that it was too high to step over and too low to duck under. The trail was effectively blocked.

“Is this another example of somebody trying to keep horses off the trails?” asked Jeri from behind me.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “This tree looks like it’s tipped over naturally and it’s too big for someone to place here. I think it’s just an act of nature.”

“So what do we do?”

“I’m not sure.”

Sunny stood perfectly still as I studied the situation. The trail was narrow, the hill it traversed was steep, and the brush was thick. The path was completely blocked. I wasn’t sure that we could turn around safely. I wondered if we could detour around the tree. It had fallen with its crown to the uphill side and the more I looked the more I thought that maybe we could detour around it. If our horses were willing to go straight up the hill while pushing through tangled bushes, vines, and small branches.