Cutter (Gail McCarthy Mystery series) (12 page)

Crouching behind the closest clump of brush, I pictured myself as a hidden assailant waiting for Casey. Now Casey rides into view. What do I do?

Remembering Detective Ward's sarcastic "lasso him?" I gave it some serious thought, but rejected it as unlikely. Shooting him would be the easiest, but there weren't any bullet holes in his body. Whoever had done this, if someone had done it, had wanted it to look like an accident. Glancing at the rocky ground, I thought the solution was obvious. A baseball-sized rock, thrown from anyone of dozens of hiding spots less than twenty feet from the trail, would have knocked Casey out nicely. And if that initial throw didn't happen to kill him, which it probably wouldn't, the stunned man's head could be bashed in more or less at the attacker's leisure, and the body then pitched into the ravine to look like an accidental fall. It could work.

Turning, I scrambled back up the hill to Blue. "I've seen enough," I told him. "Let's go."

I picked Lonny up at nine o'clock sharp. Burt and Pistol were still munching their breakfast hay as I drove in; Burt lifted his head and whickered softly.

Smiling, I slowed for a minute to watch them-two big, strong Quarter Horse geldings, typical team roping horses. Burt was a bay, bright red with a black mane and tail and black socks, Pistol a red roan with a flaxen mane and tail and a blaze face. Both of them were honest, hard-trying performers, though very different in personality. Burt was grouchy, Pistol polite but anxious. Lonny had promised to give me some team roping lessons on Burt, who he said was a perfect beginner horse, and I was looking forward to it.

Lonny's house was warmly inviting this stormy morning. The curtains were open and I could see into the living room, Navajo-patterned couch pulled up in front of the fire that crackled in the woodstove. Smoke curled lazily from a metal stovepipe chimney into the cool morning air.

Lonny himself appeared in the doorway, looking the very picture of a gentleman cowboy. He wore Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, a belt with a trophy buckle and a dark green, carefully pressed brushed-cotton shirt that made his eyes look green as glass. I smiled at him as he got in the pickup.

Blue was still asleep on the passenger-side floor, and he sniffed Lonny's leg, then licked his hand. "That's Blue," I told Lonny, uncertain as to how he would feel about having an old, smelly, and sometimes grouchy Queensland Heeler sitting on his feet.

Lonny merely rubbed Blue's ear and smiled at me. "You've had him a while."

His smile deepened as he took in my appearance and I basked in his appreciative regard. I'd dressed for the occasion in one of my favorite "jeans outfits"-Wranglers, perfectly faded to a medium blue, and a bulky watermelon-colored turtleneck, with my hair pulled up in a watermelon silk cuff and wide gold hoop earrings. A soft, pale gray wool jacket in place of my usual denim coat, and I thought I looked like a potential cutting horse owner.

"Do I fit the image?" I asked Lonny.

"What? Of my girlfriend? You sure do."

"That's not what I meant," I laughed. "Of somebody who might want to buy a cutting horse and learn to cut. Somebody who was talking to Casey Brooks about doing just that before the poor guy was unfortunately killed. Somebody who is now talking to Will George. That's my role."

"Sounds fine to me. If any of this is fine." Lonny's voice got serious. "I'm a little uncomfortable about doing this, Gail; I think you're barking up the wrong tree even if Casey was murdered. Someone like Will George is not going to poison horses or kill another trainer in order to keep his position. He doesn't need to. He doesn't need to ride ringers, either. And I'll tell you something else. If, and I'm saying if, someone murdered Casey Brooks, the likeliest candidate is the girlfriend."

"Melissa?"

"Is that her name? I've seen her with Casey, but I don't know her at all. Pretty blonde thing. Young. Lots of curves." Lonny grinned.

"That's Melissa," I agreed. "Why would you suspect her?"

But even before he spoke I was answering that question for myself. Melissa and Casey had not exactly had a jolly love affair; Melissa had told me that. I had been struck numerous times lately with the fact that their relationship had seemed more of a pitched battle. Had Melissa just decided to have the last word?

Lonny was talking. "Just read the papers. Most murders are committed by the spouse, or girlfriend or boyfriend, as the case may be. All the emotions that get stirred up in a 'relationship' are probably the most powerful motivation for murder there is."

We drove over Pacheco Pass with storm clouds sailing by on the horizon and the sky a dark and blustery gray. I was glad I'd thrown my rain slicker behind the seat. Will George's horse training operation was in Los Borregos, not far from the cutting I'd gone to last weekend. Lonny directed me once we were near; he'd been to Will's a couple of times in the past.

When I drove in the entrance I felt a mild sense of awe. A wrought-iron gate with a design of a cutting horse and a cow decoratively welded into it hung from massive brick pillars at the entrance to a long driveway, which wound between a dozen or so small paddocks, all fenced in pipe fencing painted white, all planted in permanent, irrigated pasture. The driveway fetched up in front of a brand-new-looking complex that featured a covered arena, an outdoor arena, a large horse barn, a hay barn, a shop, two horse walkers, and a couple of small, neat employee houses. A branch of the driveway, winding off to the left, led to a palatial brick house with a manicured garden and a swimming pool just visible behind a brick wall. Will's house, obviously. Rancho de Los Borregos was owned, I understood, by Will personally.

Lonny and I looked at each other and Lonny whistled softly under his breath. "This place has sure changed since I saw it last. That'd be almost ten years ago now. Old Will is making a lot of money."

"You do the talking," I hissed, feeling suddenly nervous. "You know the guy."

We got out of the truck into the active bustle of a busy training barn on a workday. Horses marched on the moving horse walker and loped around in the outdoor arena, ridden by several youngish people of both sexes. A horse was working a cow out of the herd in the indoor pen and I could see, even at that distance, that the poised, quiet figure on the horse was Will George. Lonny and I walked in his direction, but we were intercepted before we got there.

"Howdy, folks." The man who greeted us wore faded, threadbare jeans and an equally ancient denim jacket; the clothes seemed to match his faded red hair and battered face. I recognized the face. Dave Allison was his name-the man whom Bret had described as a big-name trainer who had come down in the world.

Dave Allison didn't seem disturbed by his fall. He was leading a pinto gelding with one hand and shook Lonny's offered palm with his other, talking in a genial way.

"You all looking for Will?"

"That's right."

"He's in the covered arena." Dave jerked his chin in that direction and grinned. "Training next year's futurity winner. Just go on over there and holler at him."

Lonny nodded and started to move on, but I stopped, pricked by a memory. "Didn't you bring Casey Brooks some practice cattle this week?" I asked.

"Did he say anything, uh, unusual, when you brought the cattle?" Jesus, Gail, I thought, that was lame. You'll never make a detective.

Dave Allison's eyes, so enfolded by leathery wrinkles that they were merely bright chips in his crumpled napkin of a face, seemed to focus sharply on me for the first time. "Unusual? Well, I couldn't say that. What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know." I was stumbling badly. "What day did you bring the cattle?"

"Wednesday, I think it was." The man was definitely curious now, and I couldn't blame him. "I heard old Casey was killed in a fall from a horse. Was there something funny about it?"

"Not that I know of. Well, thanks." I waved an awkward hand at Dave Allison and hurried off to join Lonny, mentally kicking myself with every step.

Why was I so stupid? I'd learned nothing and succeeded only in making this good old boy suspicious.

Looking back at Dave Allison, I watched him jerk on the paint horse's lead rope and cluck to him, leading him toward a waiting horse trailer. "You better get that roan stud out if you think I'm taking him," he shouted at a hurrying female figure who was saddling horses in the barnyard.

Lonny and I walked on. "Do you know him?" I asked.

"Sort of. I know a lot of these trainers that have been around a while. I know who old Dave is, though I doubt he recognized me."

"I guess he came to pick up the Gus horse for Will-the one that ended up winning the Futurity-and Casey got in a fight with him. I'm thinking of adding him to my list of suspects."

Lonny laughed. "If you're planning on putting everybody who had a disagreement with Casey on the list, it's going to be a long list."

I nodded ruefully. "I know. Casey could be kind of abrasive."

Lonny was holding the gate of the covered arena open; I shook myself loose from meanderings on Dave Allison and stepped through, smiling up at him. "Let's go meet the king of the cowboys."

The king was on a little sorrel filly with a neat white star on her forehead, stepping her into a herd of cattle and parting one out in the familiar pattern of cutting. Lonny and I stood still to watch.

The filly was obviously green; from her appearance and Dave Allison's comment about next year's Futurity, I guessed that she was a two-year-old. Her expression was keen, though, and the dainty red ears flicked forward to the cow and back to her rider in a way that reminded me of Shiloh.

Will George pulled her up after a minute and stood still, looking in our direction. The king was awaiting our approach.

He sat on the filly quietly and watched us as we walked toward him, and the little mare watched us, too, her eyes big and round. Man and horse were a living, breathing statue-the American cowboy come to life. It struck me that Will George seemed consciously to court that image- his battered felt cowboy hat and worn work clothes made a subtle statement, meant to contrast, I was sure, with the flashier approach of some of the other trainers. I was reminded suddenly of Casey Brooks. The two men might have disliked each other, but Casey was the rightful successor to Will's legend. Had been, I told myself, had been. And Will wasn't ready to give up his position.

"Lonny Peterson!" Will George's handsome face broke into a wide smile and his blue eyes twinkled with obvious warmth. "So what've you been doing with yourself?"

"Oh, I go to a few ropings now and then." Lonny grinned back and the two men shook hands. "This is Gail McCarthy," Lonny put his hand on my shoulder. "She's thinking of getting involved in the cutting horse business."

I smiled politely at Will and tried to look rich as I felt his eyes go over me appraisingly. It wasn't a lascivious stare exactly, more like the once-over most horsemen will give a horse they've never seen before-a what-am-I-dealing-with-here sort of look.

Will George tipped his hat. "Nice to meet you, ma'am." The voice and smile were unassuming, but even in the soft-spoken greeting I could feel the force of his confidence. "You interested in buying a horse?" Will George's eyes were quietly detached; he didn't need to solicit business.

"I think so. Casey Brooks was helping me, but he died yesterday." I raised my eyes to his face in what I hoped appeared a naive, appealing look, not the scrutinizing study it really was.

It was a wasted effort. Will George's face showed nothing-no surprise, no nervousness, no grief. He said merely, "I heard about that. Jay Holley called me. Too bad. Casey was a good hand."

Lonny and I murmured agreement, and I wondered if it would be carved on Casey's tombstone-"HE WAS A GOOD HAND." It certainly seemed to be the epitaph most people gave him.

"I heard you won the West Coast Futurity last week," I said to Will, naively, I hoped, once again. "Congratulations."

"Thank you. I had a good horse," he said modestly.

"I heard Casey Brooks trained him as a two-year-old."

My eyes were locked on his, but Will George didn't seem alarmed. "He did, that's right. Did a good job, too." He smiled down at me from his horse-a pleasant, relaxed smile.

Inwardly my spirits slumped. This wasn't going to be as easy as I'd hoped. I'm not sure what I'd expected-some reaction to the mention of Casey, or the Futurity, or the fact that Casey had trained Gus, maybe. Whatever it was, I wasn't getting it, and I could hardly haul off and ask Will George if he'd ridden a ringer.

As he toured us around his place for the next hour, pointing out horses I might be interested in and telling Lonny his program and charges for starting a colt, I gnashed my teeth silently. This was all proving to be a waste of time.