Hayburner (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (6 page)

Our mouths met again; it was many long minutes later before we disentangled. I felt chaotic, half caught up in the rush of desire and half afraid to take that final clinching step into intimacy.

"I'm just not ready," I said, somewhat incoherently.

''That's okay." Blue sat up again. Still holding my hand, he added, "I'll go now. Do you want me to come by tomorrow and help you work with your colt?"

"That would be great." I felt a huge surge of gratitude and affection for this man; not only had he accepted my anxieties and restrictions without resentment, he was proffering just the sort of reassurance I needed in his offer to come over tomorrow.

"In the morning then," he said.

"About ten o'clock," I agreed, smiling at him again. "That would be perfect."

But it wasn't to be.

FIVE

At eight o'clock the next morning I got a call from the answering service. One of my patients out at the Bishop Ranch was having severe respiratory symptoms. The owner was afraid he was getting pneumonia.

Once I was out there, I knew, I would need to take at least a brief look at the rest of the barn fire victims. Danny-and Blue-would have to wait.

I called Blue and made my excuses; he seemed to understand. As a farmer, he was familiar with the fact that living creatures don't operate by the clock. Animals, like plants, have their needs and emergencies at often inconvenient times.

Half an hour later I'd done the chores, eaten a hasty bowl of cereal, and was on my way to the Bishop Ranch. Frowning, I saw that the temperature, duly noted by the gauge on my pickup truck, was already in the seventies. It was going to be another hot, dry day. Just what we didn't need.

The meadows and forests of Harkins Valley rushed by me, bright and dewy in the morning sun. Billowing in and out along its length, the valley narrowed in spots to a steep, shadowy canyon filled with redwood trees, and then spread out in broad, grassy flats, dotted with oaks.

The Bishop Ranch Boarding Stable was located in such a flat; across Harkins Valley Road from the stable sat the wide plots of Lushmeadows subdivision, a pricey bunch of spec homes for horse people. Lushmeadows had been part of the original Bishop Ranch; Bart and Clay's mother had sold the land to a developer to make ends meet. As I turned in the Bishop Ranch drive I wondered, not for the first time, if Mrs. Bishop had ever regretted her decision.

The smell of charred wood met me as I got out of the pickup; I could see Bart and several other people standing about near the rubble of the big barn. I walked in their direction. A blond woman with her back to me turned her head and looked over her shoulder; I recognized Detective Jeri Ward of the Santa Cruz County Sheriff's Department. We both smiled.

Jeri and I were friends, of a sort. Or, if not quite friends, we were more than acquaintances. Since she'd acquired a horse this last summer, our relationship had become closer.

"How's ET?" I asked her. "He wasn't in the big barn, was he?" I tried to remember if her old gelding, ET, who was boarded out here, had ever been kept in the barn that had burned.

"No, no," Jeri said. "He's fine. He was in one of these shed rows. No problem there."

"Oh," I said. Putting two and two together, I asked her, "Are you out here because of the fire, then?"

"That's right." Sending what I thought was a significant glance at Bart Bishop, who stood about fifty feet away, talking to an older woman, Jeri knit her brows slightly and then indicated the man on her right. "This is Walt Harvey. He's the fire investigator. Walt, this is Gail McCarthy. She's my horse vet."

"Nice to meet you." Walt Harvey stuck out his hand; I shook it. His hand was small and cool and clammy; I resisted the urge to wipe my own hand off on my jeans afterward.

"So, is this arson, then?" I asked the two of them.

Walt looked at Jeri. Jeri looked at me and nodded. "We think so."

Taking this as permission, or so I assumed, Walt addressed me directly. "Oh yeah. Definitely arson." He grinned as if he were happy about it.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Char patterns," he responded laconically. "This fire had more than one source of origin."

I nodded as if I understood, though I didn't really, and thought that Walt Harvey was quite a study in contrasts. Short and stout, he looked like nothing so much as Bozo the clown, with a ruff of curly, reddish brown hair surrounding a bald dome, round, slightly watery blue eyes, pale skin, and a weak chin. In counterpoint to his physical appearance, however, he held himself in an exaggeratedly macho stance-shoulders back, chin up, gut sucked in as much as possible, one hip slightly cocked. To top this off, his clothes were very "western"; he wore Wrangler jeans, boots, and a belt with a fake trophy buckle. I thought he looked downright silly.

Having run with the genuine article, I tend to find wannabe cowboys more than a little ridiculous. No horseman worth his salt would be interested in wearing a trophy buckle he or she hadn't won.

Regarding Walt Harvey with a slightly jaundiced eye, I turned back to Jeri. "Does this mean you'll be investigating?"

"That's right," she said. Once again she looked briefly at Bart Bishop and then our eyes met again.

"Oh," I said, under my breath.

I knew, like everyone else in the world, that the owner of a burned-down building is the first suspect in an arson case. Turning slightly, so my back was to Bart, I said softly to Jeri, "He said he was underinsured."

She shrugged. "So he says," she said equally softly.

Walt Harvey watched this exchange and then chimed in with, "Guy who did this was probably an amateur. That, or he was real keen to make the fire look like an accident."

"How can you tell?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Used available materials," he said, reverting to the laconic style. "No propellant."

Once again I nodded as if I understood.

Jeri came to my rescue. "What Walt means is that the fire was started with stuff that was already in the barn-easy enough with a building full of hay. The arsonist didn't use gasoline or any kind of fuel as an accelerant. Most professional arsonists use something of the kind-gets the fire going faster, makes it harder to put out."

Walt grinned at Jeri. "You bet," he said. "Amateurs, like our boy here," he indicated the barn with one hand, "just build a little fire with whatever comes to hand. This one started back in the hay barn."

"Could it have been caused by a hot bale of hay?" I asked.

"Nope." Walt shook his head, round eyes twinkling. "That's what we were supposed to think. But no, the guy lit several candles back in the hay and put little piles of paper around them. I found the hydrocarbon residue."

Jeri nodded slowly and held up a transparent bag. Sure enough, there were two charred candle stubs inside, and some burned shreds of newspaper, marked with wax.

"He probably lit at least a dozen of 'em," Walt Harvey said. "This is what survived. These guys that use candles never expect that, but there's always some residue, and I always find it." He grinned.

"Oh," I said again. Looking at Jeri, I asked, "So what happens now?"

 
"I investigate," she said briefly. "Which means I need to talk to the owners."

I nodded. "I'd better have a look at my patients. See you."

I turned away, but not without a quick glance in Bart's direction. He met my eyes; both he and the woman he was with were staring right at me. I waved a hand awkwardly at them. "I'm here to see a horse with respiratory problems," I said. "Just thought I'd say hi to Jeri."

"Oh yeah. Our very own Detective Ward is looking into this." Bart bared his teeth briefly at Jeri, who walked forward and addressed the woman standing next to Bart.

''I'm Detective Jeri Ward," she said. "Are you Mrs. Bishop?"

"Yes, I am Doris Bishop." The woman held her chin up, but she looked anxious. I stared at her curiously; I'd never seen Bart and Clay's mother before.

Doris Bishop was short, plump, and gray-haired; she stooped a little and leaned on a cane. According to Clay, she'd been fighting cancer for several years and wasn't strong.

She faced Jeri steadily enough, however, her eyes as watchful as her son's, who stood next to her like a short, stocky pit bull on a leash. Bart and his mother appeared to be quite aware that they were the prime suspects.

Waving again, I turned away. Whatever drama this group was planning to play at, it was none of my business. My business was sick horses.

After a little poking around, I found the man who had called me out. His older gelding was definitely suffering from bronchitis; the horse's respiration was elevated and the animal was coughing frequently. I prescribed a new round of antibiotics and told him to call me if the horse wasn't better in forty-eight hours. Then I rechecked the two horses with significant burns, relieved to find they were doing fine. Three more victims of smoke inhalation were showing signs of bronchitis though, including Angie Madison's mare, Sugar.

"Damn." Angie's young and pretty face contorted with what looked more like annoyance than grief. ''I'm going to have to draw out of the Cow Palace. And we had a real chance, too."

"That's too bad," I said.

"You're damn right it is." Staring at Sugar morosely, Angie said, "You know we placed at Salinas this year."

"Wow," I said. The best barrel racing horses in the country competed in the Salinas Rodeo.

"If we'd done well at the Cow Palace, I could have got fifty thousand for this mare."

"Wow," I said again, politely, I hoped. I knew good barrel horses were worth a lot. Nonetheless, I wasn't much impressed with the notion that Angie was more chagrined at her horse's decline as an investment than concerned with the animal's wellbeing.

"Call me if she's not better in two days," I added, and turned away, almost running into Clay Bishop, who had come up behind me.

Clay put out a hand to steady me; our eyes met. I blushed; I could feel it. "Hi, Clay," I said.

"Gail." Clay gave me a somber look. "They're saying it's arson."

"I know," I said quietly.

Angie watched us curiously. Keeping his hand on my arm, Clay led me a few steps away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Angie half shrug and lead Sugar off.

"I think they think Bart did it." Clay's voice, very uncharacteristically, sounded shaky with strain.

My eyes shot to his face. "What do you think?" I asked.

"What do you mean, what do I think?" For a brief second I saw a flash of some very intense anger deep in the blue-green eyes. "Do I think my brother lit the barn on fire, killing two horses in the process, to get the insurance money?"

Recoiling a little, I tried to keep my voice calm. "I take it you don't think so."

"You suppose right." Clay turned away from me abruptly. "I just came by to say hi. I'm taking Freddy for a ride." This last was said almost over his shoulder as he walked away.

"Clay, wait." I started after him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Clay kept moving. "No problem," he said, his usual easy tone back in place, at least superficially.

More or less trotting after him, I said, "I know this must be stressful; I really didn't mean to make it worse."

"No problem," he said again.

By this time we'd reached the hitching rail, and Clay was untying his bay gelding, who was already saddled and bridled.

Despite the fact that he looked outwardly calm, I had the sense that Clay's insides were churning, and that my thoughtless question had really upset him. Feeling bad, I tried again. "Where are you off to?”

"Just going for a ride." Clay's tone was cool.

I didn't think about it; the words popped out. "Take me with you."

"Do you really want to go?" Clay looked surprised.

"Yeah. It's supposed to be my day off, after all."

Clay paused in the act of mounting Freddy, then lowered his leg back out of the stirrup and handed the horse's reins to me. "All right," he said. "You ride him."

In a second he was untying the lead rope of a black gelding who also stood saddled and tied to the rail. "I'll take Bart's horse."

"Will he mind?"

"Nope. We have an understanding. Either of us can use the other's horse any time. It comes in handy."

"All right." I adjusted the stirrups on Freddy's saddle to fit me.

Clay mounted the black gelding and looked down at me. "Just be careful getting on and off him," he said. "Don't mess around and hang off him or anything."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"He's funny about some things-like people or objects sort of chasing him, if you know what I mean. He'll run off. He'll even kick at you."

"Maybe I'd better ride that one." I indicated the black gelding with my hand.

Clay shrugged. "If you want. But Blackjack, here, is a jigger. He won't walk. He drives most people crazy."

"Oh." I nodded. I hated horses that jigged.

"Freddy walks out real well; he won't buck or anything and he's real good outside. Nothing bothers him in that way. He's great on the trail. It's just confinement-type stuff that gets to him-ropes dragging from him, stuff like that."