Forged (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (19 page)

Dom led me steadily towards the barn without a backward look; I trailed in his wake, trying to gather my professional composure back together. A lame horse. I was here to deal with a lame horse.

A very lame horse, it turned out. Dom brought a hobbling chestnut mare out of her box stall and said, "She was like this when I went out to the pasture to check the water. I brought her in and called your office."

I studied the mare, who was standing with just the toe of her right front hoof resting on the ground. Her leg didn't appear to be swollen anywhere. Don't forget the obvious, Gail, I reminded myself.

Stepping up to the horse, I ran a hand down her right foreleg and lifted the foot up. Using the hoofpick tool on the pocketknife I always carried, I cleaned the dirt out of the hoof. Bingo.

"She stepped on a nail," I told Dom. "See the nail head."

Dom peered where I pointed and said nothing.

"I'll pull it out, open up the puncture so it will drain, and wrap her foot. You'll need to give her antibiotics night and morning for ten days and rewrap the foot every other day."

"All right."

Getting the things I needed out of my truck, I returned to the mare and got started. Dom watched me work in unnerving silence. I had the idea there was something going on beneath that apparently wooden demeanor, but I still couldn't figure out what.

When the words came, they were completely unexpected. "They don't suspect Mom, do they?"

Involved as I was in my work, it took me a moment to process this. "You mean is she a suspect in Dominic's-your father's-murder?"

Dom nodded, the merest affirmative jerk of his chin.

I packed gauze soaked with weak iodine into the mare's hoof and said, "I'm really not the one to ask."

"That detective keeps questioning her. He says she called Dad's girlfriend that morning to find out where Dad was going to be. I never thought ..." The words tumbled out and trickled to a stop.

"You never thought what?" I wrapped the mare's foot with elasticized gauze and began on a layer of duct tape.

"That Mom would be suspected."

For a second I glimpsed what I thought was mute misery beneath the stoic exterior, and then all was frozen again. Dom met my stare, his own glance impervious.

"Lots of us were or are suspects," I said, as I smoothed the last strip of duct tape in place.

"Besides Mom?"

This time I was sure of the briefly revealed emotion on Dom's face. Pure, unadulterated relief. Banished almost as soon as it appeared; nonetheless, it was there. Handing him antibiotics and instructions, I said, "Yes, besides your mom."

After another minute to make sure Dom knew what to do to take care of the mare, I turned away and made my escape, my mind churning. What was going on here?

I climbed into my truck with certain phrases bouncing around in my head like pinballs. A young man had called Barbara that day, asking Dominic's whereabouts. Who else would Dominic want to shield more than his own son? Had Dom known that his father was leaving him money? And, "I never thought they'd suspect Morn." Dom's words. Had he imagined he could kill his father without Lee coming under investigation?

I bounced down yet another rutted driveway full of potholes with my mind in as high a gear as the truck was in low. Too much information-I couldn't seem to organize it in any useful way.

Once again I pointed the truck for home, and Blue, seeking advice and comfort, not necessarily in that order.

TWENTY-ONE

When I got home, Blue was gone. There was a note on the table in his neat printing.

I'm at work. Call me if you need me. Mountain Dave called. The two horses came out of the park at Summit Road. Dave hasn't talked to the cyclist named John yet, but he says he'll keep looking. And Dave absolutely will not talk to the police. Love to you-Blue

Slowly I set the piece of paper down on the table. The horses, and possibly Barbara, had exited Lorene Roberts at Summit Road. I knew exactly where-a dirt road I'd hiked down myself, many years ago. What if... if?

What was it Barbara had said? She had a sister named Paula who lived on Summit Road. What if Barbara had merely chosen an unconventional way to go stay with her sister? And how in the world could I find her, armed simply with the knowledge of a woman named Paula who lived on Summit Road.

I tried getting a Paula King's phone number out of the information operator. No luck. What now? Drumming my fingers on the table, I stared out the big windows into the garden.

Mid-afternoon was easing into the mellow, golden light of late afternoon. Some pale pink sweet peas that twined along the vegetable garden fence shone incandescently in a long fall of sunlight. Without thinking, I stood up and walked out the door. Onto the porch, where pots of purple pansies waited, and on down the steps and into the garden. I needed to think.

To think, and to be replenished by the plants and animals, by Nature, vivid and lively all around me. By the robin splashing in the birdbath and the rabbit nibbling rosebushes at the side of the path. By nasturtiums in a fountain of mandarin orange and cranesbill geraniums in mounding pillows of magenta purple. I paused to sniff one perfect blossom of the single rose called Summer Wine; the flower glowed an intense coral-pink with wine red stamens at the heart; it smelled otherworldly, of a pure and delicious sweetness.

Blue had put Roey in the dog pen; he must have taken Freckles with him. I let my little red dog out and watched her run through the long grass, ears back, mouth open in a happy grin.

Walking down to the barn, I greeted each of the horses in turn, rubbing necks, straightening forelocks, checking to see that water troughs were clean and full. I spent a little extra time with Mr. Twister, admiring his shadowed silver and charcoal hair coat, stroking his shoulder, making sure that he looked reasonably comfortable.

And then I sat down on a hay bale and stared straight ahead of me. The big eucalyptus tree on the ridge raised its shaggy branches high in the spring sunshine. Oaks in the foreground dappled the grass with flickering shadows. Black Jiji Cat slid out from behind the barn and lay down on the loose chaff next to me-more or less on the spot where Dominic had fallen.

Time passed. The horses strolled about their corrals, relaxed and content, the spring breeze playing with their manes and tails. Slanted shafts of sunlight angled into the barn as the sun dipped towards the western ridge. I could smell the faint, heady sweetness of blooming ceanothus in the air. I sat and I stared and I thought. Some time later, I knew what to do.

Evening was drawing in as I fed each of the horses a flake of hay. I fed the cats and the chickens; I shut Roey back in her pen and fed her, too. Leaving Blue a quick note: "Went up to Summit Road to find Barbara King's sister, Paula," I climbed into my pickup and headed out.

I went the long way, took my time. So many thoughts were rambling around inside my head; I was having a hard time keeping track of them. But the one that kept arising most persistently was a simple question. Was Barbara dead or alive? Somehow I felt that once I knew the answer, things would fall into place.

The sun sank slowly over the Monterey Bay; I could see a sunset in my rearview mirror as I drove up Eureka Canyon Road. Banners of apricot drifted out across the sky. I reached a wide spot in the road and pulled over.

Hills and ridges spread out below me, rumpled as a tossed velvet skirt. Silhouetted pines and redwoods darkened from misty blue to ash as orange-red streaks intensified across the sky. A thin band glowed peacock green on the horizon; the distant bay was a cold, remote gray-blue.

Rolling down the window of my truck, I breathed in the aromatic redwood/sagebrush scent, herbal and clean. The hills before me, I realized, were part of Lorene Roberts Park. What was the story? I'd heard it somewhere: the park had once belonged to the Roberts family-a vast tract of land, it was far too steep and wooded to be called a ranch. It had been logged several times, until Lorene had inherited it and donated the land to the state. From this vista, the hills looked endlessly wild, untouched by man, an ideal place to get lost.

The thought brought Barbara back to the front of my mind. Was her body out there, lying in some ravine? I started the truck and drove on.

On towards the ridgeline and Summit Road. Eureka Canyon Road was getting narrower and rougher by the minute. I hadn't been this way in several years, and it looked as though there had been a few landslides since then. At times I was reduced to a one-lane dirt track skirting some outsize pile of loose rubble.

Dusk was turning to dark; the prospect of being stuck out here was not inviting. Houses were few and far between, and I began to wish I had taken the more conventional route.

Too late to turn back now. By my reckoning, I ought to strike Summit Road pretty damn soon.

The truck jolted me up and down; oak trees leaned at crazy angles over what remained of the road. I began to long for a vestige of human civilization, even another pair of headlights in the gloom.

No such appeared. As far as I could tell, I was driving through the wilderness, all alone. A person really could get lost out here, I reflected.

Miles and miles of empty mountainous forest rolled away around me; not a sign of a human dwelling visible for as far as I could see. I rounded another hairpin turn with some caution, and sighed in relief as my headlights showed me the narrow paved strip of Summit Road. Thank God.

I turned left, towards houses and people, and reminded myself of the reason for my trip. I was here to find Barbara, if I could. And I had a plan.

I drove, eventually passing the occasional light of a solitary house. Not too far now. In another five miles, more or less, I turned in to a narrow driveway and piloted the truck up to a quiet barn. I'd arrived.

TWENTY-TWO

I got out of my pickup and peered around. The house was dark, but there were lights on at the barn. Hopefully, I walked in that direction.

Stepping through the open doorway, I paced down a long row of stalls, automatically peering at the horses inside. Here a sorrel with a flaxen mane and tail, next a buckskin, next a bay. Everybody's head was down, munching on hay. I could hear the familiar rustle and chomp of horses eating, could smell the sweetness of alfalfa hay and pine shavings mingling with the rich, warm scent of the horses themselves.

Slowly I coasted to a standstill, almost forgetting my purpose. There was nothing like a barn for feeling peaceful, I reflected. Barns were every bit as harmonious as gardens.

Lost in my thoughts, I stared blankly at the horse in front of me without really seeing him. It took a moment, but recognition finally dawned. I knew this horse.

A black-and-white paint gelding, he had a distinctive off-center blaze. For a long second I stared; the horse continued to eat, undisturbed by my presence. I was sure. This was Barbara's horse.

Glancing wildly up and down the barn aisle, I looked for some sign of a human presence, uncertain now whether I hoped or feared to be greeted. What could it possibly mean that Barbara's horse was in this barn?

My mind roved frantically through the possibilities; none of them were good. Turning, I headed back down the barn aisle at a good brisk clip. I wanted out of here. I would think about what this meant when I was safely back home.

I'd gone maybe a dozen steps when the lights went out. A tiny, whispered click, and sudden darkness. I froze, every sense on the alert.

As my eyes adjusted, I was aware of a grayish square of light somewhere ahead of me-the doorway. All else was black. Was this an accident? Had someone turned off the barn lights, not knowing I was there? Or? I didn't like to consider the other options.

The most natural thing would have been to call out, "Hello," but somehow I didn't want to do that. I stayed frozen in place, making no sound, breathing as quietly as I could, and waited for some clue as to what was happening.

Even as I hesitated, I took inventory. I had nothing useful. No gun, no cell phone, no flashlight. No matches, even. I had nothing that even remotely resembled a weapon, unless you could count a pocketknife.

The cell phone, and a flashlight, were out in my truck, which suddenly seemed as if it were light-years away. I waited.

I could hear the steady munching of the horses, the rustle of hay and shavings underfoot. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. That was it. I held my breath.

Slowly the blackness grew less absolute as my eyes adjusted themselves. The stalls, I realized, had doors to the outside, and the top halves of these doors were open. Some gentle silver-white moonlight filtered in.