Forged (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (4 page)

Blue shook his head; red-gold curls brushed his collar and sprang back.

At the gesture, I got up and walked around behind his chair. Twining my arms around his neck, I bent down and kissed his cheek. "What do you say we forget all this for a while and retire to the bedroom?"

Blue reached an arm up and gently pulled me forward so our lips were almost touching. "Margaritas make you amorous," he murmured. "What about all those people down in the barnyard; the bedroom doesn't have any curtains."

"We can turn out the lights. They can't see in." I kissed him again, on the mouth this time.

Blue smiled. "What about the lasagna?"

"It won't be ready for a while." Our lips connected for a good long while. "Don't you want to go to bed?" I asked when we broke apart.

"What do you think?" Blue asked, and guided my hand to his belt buckle.

I smiled. "Then let's go."

FOUR

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. Venus floated in a turquoise-blue sky above the eastern ridge as I peered out the bedroom window. All the vehicles and people seemed to have vanished from my barnyard overnight.

Pouring myself an early cup of coffee, I left Blue to sleep and wandered outside to investigate, Roey and Freckles at my heels. A sweatshirt was enough to cut the morning chill; spring had definitely arrived. The wisteria vine that twined from one pillar of the porch to the next was dripping with blossoms, their dusty lavender hue a pale gray in the dawn. Early roses were in bloom, too; the banksia that covered my garden shed was spangled with frothy, pale yellow stars-a color that glowed even in this dim light. And the last of the glorious deep blue ceanothus bushes were in full cry, though their cobalt shade, so brilliant in sunlight, was ashen without it.

I tromped down the hill to the barn, coffee cup in hand, pursuing one of my favorite occupations-looking at the garden. I was finding that I enjoyed observing the plants more than anything else. Noticing their individual peculiarities, seeing how they changed from season to season, how they competed or failed to compete with the other plants. Mine was a wild garden, where introduced exotics mingled freely with the native plants, and animals, of the California brush. I had found that for every pretty piece of flora I put in that thrived, there were at least a dozen casualties. And I was also finding that it really didn't matter.

I liked to watch what happened, see what the garden itself wanted to do. Gardening was a dialogue with Nature: How about this, I'd suggest, with a clump of vivid mandarin orange crocosmia. No chance was the reply; gophers like them. Well, maybe this graceful cream-colored tea rose. Nope. Not vigorous enough and a particular favorite of the deer. Sometimes the answer was yes. The last of the brilliant yellow daffodils bloomed in long grass at the feet of blue-flowered ceanothus and rosemary shrubs-a fortuitous combination that Nature had agreed to wholeheartedly.

The garden was fun. I could feel my spirits lifting as I strolled down the border that lined my drive and noted that the mintbush from Australia was just coming into full bloom. Now that was a really spectacular plant-a solid mass of bright lavender flowers.

I rounded the corner of the driveway that led to the barnyard and my high spirits took a sudden dive. Yellow crime scene tape was everywhere, reminding me only too forcefully of yesterday's fiasco. It looked as though the cops had confiscated Dominic's truck; it was gone, anyway.

Feeding my three horses, I duly noted that all seemed lively and healthy and Gunner wasn't bothered by his missing shoe. Still, I knew well enough that I'd have to take care of it soon or risk having him go lame again.

The flock of banty chickens clamored to be fed, so I threw some hen scratch out for them, and was reminded by a plaintive meow that the barn cats were waiting, too. I smiled.

My old cat, Bonner, had died last winter, of complications caused by old age. Within a month of his passing, a gray feral cat had taken up residence in my barnyard. In another month it was apparent that a gray feral mama cat and her three teenage kittens were now living in my barn. I'd eventually trapped all the cats, given them their shots, and had them spayed and neutered respectively. None of them were really tame, but they did show up to be fed, and they kept the barn free of mice.

I greeted them by name as I scooped some cat food out of a barrel and poured it in their bowl. "Hi, Mama Cat," to the matriarch-not exactly a creative choice. The biggest kitten, shorthaired and jet black, was Jiji, named after the black cat in Kiki's Delivery Service, one of my favorite animated movies. The tabby was Baxter, for the cowboy poet Baxter Black, and the smallest kitten, black and fluffy, with white paws and a white chest, was Woodrow. This last for Woodrow Call in Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove.

I stood for a moment, watching my cat family eat while the chickens pecked vigorously at the hen scratch and the horses munched their hay. Roey and Freckles trotted through the long, dewy grass. It was all so peaceful and serene. And there, in the barn, marked off with yellow tape, was the place where Dominic Castillo had fallen, shot in the stomach.

Sitting down abruptly on a bale of hay, I stared at the spot. There, exactly there, was where Dominic had been lying when I found him. I tried to imagine him taking a break from his shoeing job to clean his pistol. Had he carried a loaded pistol with him? Jesus. I certainly hadn't known that. Why would he choose to clean it with one shoe left to tack on my horse? With his forge burning? Why not clean the gun when he was done, if he chose to do it at all?

None of it made any sense. I could definitely see why Detective Johnson might suspect me. Dominic's words sounded false, even though I had actually heard them.

Why would he lie? To protect someone, Blue had said. If the person had shot him, though, why protect them? It seemed ludicrous.

I gave up thinking, finished my coffee, and started back up the hill to the house. It wasn't my business to solve this case, I reminded myself. Right now, my business was making breakfast. Pancakes, I decided. It was the weekend, and I wasn't on call. Pancakes for breakfast it was.

We were halfway through them when I spotted the dark green sheriff's car pulling up the driveway.

"Oh no," I said.

Blue glanced at the clock. "Eight on a Saturday morning. Our detective gets to work bright and early."

The car didn't even hesitate at the barnyard, just pulled right up to the house. Detective Johnson got out of it.

"Well, now you get to meet the man," I told Blue. "Let's see what you make of him."

In another moment Detective Johnson was standing next to the table, not seeming the least abashed at having interrupted our breakfast.

I introduced him to Blue. The two men shook hands, Blue rising to do so. I was amused at the contrast. At six and a half feet, Blue towered over Detective Johnson, who was not a short man. This didn't seem to sit well with the detective, who tipped his head back to meet Blue's eyes with a scowl. With his thick neck, heavy shoulders, and square-jawed face, Detective Johnson reminded me of a bulldog; he had short, wide, thick-fingered hands to match. Blue, on the other hand, though tall and wide-shouldered, had slender fine-boned hands and a refined look about his cheekbones and eyes. A Thoroughbred, I decided. And Detective Johnson was one of those old-fashioned squatty-bodied Quarter Horses you didn't see so much of anymore. They even called them "bulldog" -type horses.

Suddenly I noticed that both men were staring at me. Detective Johnson had apparently asked me a question; I'd been so engaged in drawing human/horse parallels I hadn't even noticed. You've been working too hard, Gail, I told myself.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch what you said," I said out loud.

Detective Johnson wanted me to recount yesterday's story again, in detail. He wanted to know the exact time I had driven in my gate, the exact time the shoeing appointment was scheduled for, the time I had dialed 911. Some of this I could tell him; some I couldn't.

"The appointment was for four o'clock. I drove in close to five; I looked at the clock in the truck on my way home; it was four forty-five, and I remember thinking how early I was getting home. I have no idea when I called nine-one-one. I don't wear a watch and probably wouldn't have noticed the time if I did."

"Does twelve minutes after five sound about right?"

"I guess so," I said, and looked at him sharply. "You knew."And then, "Of course, the nine-one-one operator."

"That's right. What did you do between five o'clock and five-twelve?"

"I told you," I said in exasperation.

"Tell me again. Take it one step at a time. You parked your truck where?"

And so it went. On and on. Half an hour later I protested that I had told him Dominic's exact words yesterday and the detective gave me a level look in return. "This is potentially a felony homicide investigation; I'm sure you want to help us in any way you can."

"That's right," I said wearily.

"Then let's go over it again. I have all the time in the world."

I shut my mouth firmly on the "I don't" that sprang to mind. Blue leaned back in his chair in the corner and watched us, saying nothing. I noticed that Detective Johnson's quasi-hostile manner had abated somewhat in Blue's presence. Apparently I was more palatable as one half of a couple than I had been as a lone woman.

It took a long, long time. The clock said ten-fifteen before Detective Johnson seemed satisfied that I'd recounted my movements and observations exactly. But he wasn't done yet.

"What can you tell me about Dominic Castillo?" he asked.

"I told you what I knew yesterday," I said. I was sulling up, as horsemen say. I'd had enough of this grilling.

"Do you know anyone who might have had a reason to kill Dominic Castillo?"

I took a deep breath. "Dominic was a real lady killer, to use an unfortunate term," I said, "as I think we discussed yesterday. Obviously he made a lot of people angry. There was a great deal of gossip about him in the horse community. As our veterinary clinic is the primary horse clinic in this county, I know a lot of the people in the local horse community. So I heard plenty of rumors about Dominic over the years. However, I am not going to name off all the people who might have had a grudge against Dominic as a list of potential killers. There's too many, for one thing. And I'd certainly forget about some candidates and remember other rumors that are entirely false. So I'm not going to pass on any gossip. If you come up with some evidence linking a person to this crime, if it is a crime, and ask me about that person specifically, I'll do my best to tell you what I know. Now," I said formally, "I think it's time for you to go."

I met his stare. Detective Johnson's eyes were dark brown, and plainly angry. I was aware of Blue's quiet, observing gaze from his place in the comer.

"I may need to question you further." Detective Johnson rose from the table as he spoke.

I said nothing. After a minute, the detective turned without a word and walked out the door.

"I can see why you don't like him," Blue said.

"What was I supposed to tell him," I demanded. "That the current rumor is that Sam Lawrence threatened to kill Dominic over Tracy?"

"No, I see what you mean," Blue said. "Who's Sam Lawrence?"

"A horse trainer. Has a place up on Summit Road. Mostly breaks and trains backyard horses. Sam's a redhead, like you. Has a temper, unlike you. And Tracy is young, blond, and cute. You do see what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"And, of course, I have no idea if it's true. Horse people love to gossip. Tracy might not have had anything to do with Dominic. Who knows?"

"I see what you mean," Blue said again. "Kind of rough to sic the detective on them."

"That's what I thought."

"So what now?" Blue asked.

"How about we forget all this and take the horses for a ride on the beach?"

"I've got an even better idea. It's supposed to be warm and sunny all weekend. How about we take a mini-pack trip? Just an overnighter. I know a great place we could go. It's right on the beach," Blue suggested.

"How will we feed the horses?"

"Just leave it to me. Give me a couple of hours to get everything ready. All you have to do is get in the truck when it's time to go."

"What about Gunner's missing shoe?"

"It's a short ride and all on soft ground. We'll put an EZ Boot on him."

"All right," I said. "I'll clean up the house, weed the veggie garden, make us a lunch, and be ready to leave around one."