Murder Takes to the Hills (19 page)

When I saw the frosted glass, I realized something cold looked good and noticed I had been sweating. I took a long swallow of good Darjeeling tea…heavily laced with the smoothest rum I’ve ever tasted.

Cindy took a sip and her eyebrows did their trick of climbing halfway up her forehead. Then she smiled and clinked her glass against mine.

“Here’s to you, my dear—protector of the innocent, woman in shining armor against the forces of darkness, and the toughest cream puff I’ve ever known!”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

We had the canvas roof rolled back on the boat, enjoying the early afternoon sun. The little electric motor hummed quietly to itself, racing us across the lake at about four miles an hour. These were the only “power” boats allowed on the lake, and sailboats used their motors in emergencies only. It was delightfully peaceful.

Gertrude’s “tea” had helped us over the hump of shock after our set-to with Mickey McCurry, but we felt the need of something pleasant to offset the morning in general. And we didn’t want to rehash it a dozen times with people we’d run into at the Bromfield. And so, the lake.

Cindy had the tiller, and I took the occasional picture of her, of the billowing cumulus clouds, of the infrequent sailboat looking condescendingly elegant as they always do.
 
We edged along to where Crooked Creek entered the lake with the last few feet of its bubbling mountain creek personality.

Also enjoying the tiny waterfall and slow-moving pool beyond it were three—I think—otters. They moved so fast it was hard to tell. I was snapping pictures as quickly as I could, and still couldn’t keep up with their antics. They leaped and chased and dived, and then popped up here and there like bright-eyed, mischievous periscopes.
 
I have no idea as to the life span of the otter, but I will give you
ten
to one they have more fun within it than we do in the three score and ten allotted us.

We left them, finally, and began our leisurely progress back to the docks at the Bromfield Inn. We had fishing tackle and bait with us, but by some unspoken agreement, we did not use it.
 
I think neither of us wished to take anything from the lake that day.

I was at the tiller when Cindy turned, finger across her lips, and pointed. I cut the motor and we drifted a little way toward a deer and her fawn, standing at the edge of the lake and drinking daintily of its cool waters. I took several shots of them, and I’m certain that one of them will be our Christmas card. We were close enough to hear them drink. The only other sound—and one I wished I could record—was the territorial song of a cardinal as he staked out his summer locale.

I am not sure why deer and their offspring are so loved by so many. Perhaps they epitomize the gentle serenity most of us yearn to glean for ourselves.

The rest of us shoot them.

We docked the boat and paid the pleasant young woman at the shelter for the time we had been out. We had left Fargo in Jerry’s care, and from his lack of excitement at our return, I had the strong feeling he had been well entertained—and probably well fed—by the Bromfield valet corps. I made the executive decision that he would survive another hour while we polished off our delightful afternoon with a couple of Joe’s perfect cocktails.

As he placed our Cosmo and bourbon old fashioned before us, I took his picture. I wanted it partly as a pleasant memory of our vacation, partly to tease Joe at the Wharf Rat that he had competition
 
deep in the hills of Tennessee, and with the thought that if it turned out well, I’d
 
enlarge it and send a print back to the Bromfield.
  

At that moment Tommy came around the corner from the kitchen. He gave us a startled, almost frightened, look and went quickly back the way he had come. I wondered why he did not come out to say hello, but then assumed he was just one of those people who are allergic to cameras.

That was a mistake.

While we were at the bar, I remembered to ask Joe about what one should wear to their buffet and dance Saturday night.

“Just about anything,” he replied with a laugh. “There are two alternating bands,” he explained. “One is regular music, the other is square dancing.”

I winced. Thus far in my young life I had managed to avoid square dancing, which seemed to me a bunch of people tapping their feet and milling around in circles while some man stood in a corner and hollered where they should head next.

Joe gave the bar a fast swipe with a clean towel. “Most of the ladies wear slacks or jeans, although some wear old-fashioned dresses and funny hats like that lady who used to be on
Grand Ole
Opry
…Minnie Pearl, wasn’t it?”

I shrugged my ignorance as Joe continued. “Some people dress up sort of formal, so you really can just take your choice.”

Relieved at tomorrow night’s wide choice of dress, we finished our drinks, collected a yawning Fargo and went back to the cabin.

After dinner, Cindy straightened up while I took on another chore. I went into the laundry/mudroom and looked closely at the three guns hanging on the wall. One was a .22 rifle, one a 16 gauge shotgun and the third an old 40mm Smith & Wesson automatic pistol housed in a moldy holster. From the looks of all three of them, their last usage had been at Gettysburg.

I eliminated the .22 as being too small to do the damage we might need done in a hurry, and too hard to handle in close quarters. The shotgun had the drawback of being likely to hit not only the person you were aiming at but also anyone else standing fairly near him.

That left the Smith and Wesson. It probably had a kick like a mule, and I imagined I could miss the QE2 broadside at a hundred feet. But I wouldn’t miss at twenty-five feet, I thought, and since the thing doubtless sounded like a cannon, noise alone might help turn the trick.

So, finding a cleaning kit in a drawer below, I set to work. It took me over an hour and made a mess of the kitchen table, but finally I was satisfied it would not blow up in my hand if fired. I loaded it, put a bullet into the chamber, moved the safety to
on
and placed it in my night-table drawer.

Cindy frowned, but I felt better.

We each had just enough of a sunburn to make us sleepy, and neither of us quite made it through the eleven o’clock news. I surfaced sometime later to the sound of soft rain on the back porch roof, turned off the TV and went back to sleep, never having been quite awake.

In my ensuing dreams Cindy and I were at the Bromfield Inn, doing a Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers version of the square dance…galloping gracefully around the dance floor, hopping onto chairs and then onto tables, the tapping of our feet becoming louder and louder. Some of the onlookers were calling out to us.
Cindy! Alex!
The tapping grew louder still. Finally it woke me.

It was Tommy, pounding on the back door and yelling, “Cindy! Alex! Wake up. Frank Allen is bad hurt!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I noticed their pickup truck slewed to a stop in the middle of the gravel road, but figured there would be no traffic at this hour. It was shortly after six and barely light. I yelled at him to wait a minute, fought my way into a pair of jeans, left my T-shirt hanging out and rushed to the back door.

“Come in. Who did you say was hurt?”

“Frank Allen. Half his ear is gone and he’s
bleedin
’ something fierce.”

I must have looked blank, for he elaborated. “Frank Allen F-17, my mother’s stud horse. He’s her baby. She’ll die if anything happens to him.”

By now Cindy had found a robe and joined us. “How can we help? Have you called Lou and Gale?”

“No. Our wires are cut and the phone is dead. That’s why I’m here. Please, can you call them right away?”

“Sure.” I picked up the kitchen phone. “What’s the number?”

He rattled it off to me and I dialed. After an eternity a sleep-husky voice muttered, “Highway Animal Hospital.”

“Gale? Lou?”

“Gale. Who’s this?”

“Alex Peres. I’ve got Tommy Blackstone here at the cabin. Their phone is dead and Frank Allen—uh, seventeen something —is hurt…Tommy says half his ear is gone and he’s bleeding heavily.”

“Jesus. Tell Sara to keep calm, and put a cold towel on it. He’s her baby. I’m on my way right now.”

I hung the phone up. “She’s on her way, and says put a cold towel on the ear. Tommy what does Frank Allen 17 mean? You surely don’t have seventeen horses named Frank Allen?”

Tommy and Cindy laughed, and I felt a combination of stupid and irritated at their in-humor.

Tommy explained, “Frank Allen F-1 was the foundation sire of the Tennessee Walking Horse. Frank Allen F-17 means he’s foundation stock, the seventeenth generation direct descendent of F-1. He’s pureblood and a champion, Alex. He’s never come in lower than second at any show. His colts are among the best ever bred, and he’s…he’s the sweetest guy in the world, gentle as a lamb, not a mean bone in him. And I know he’s in pain.” His voice broke. “Why would that man want to hurt him? Frank Allen loves everybody…why, Alex,
you
could ride him!”

Cindy stifled a snort, and I gave her a cold stare as she said to Tommy, “Mickey would hurt Frank because he’s got enough mean bones for the whole county, I guess. Now you go home and tell your mom Gale is on the way. We’ll be along shortly in case there’s anything we can do. Now scoot, it’s going to be okay. Don’t forget the ice-water towel.”

“Tommy, wait one second,” I interjected. “Yesterday at the Bromfield. You seemed to be avoiding me. Had I hurt your feelings or something? Had I made you angry in some way?”

He edged toward the door, not meeting my eye.

“Tommy? What’s wrong? Let’s set it right.”

He mumbled, “I was afraid to tell you.”

“To tell me what?” I pursued.

“I was cleaning fish and I heard Uncle Branch around the corner on the veranda, talking on his cell phone. I don’t know who to—all he kept calling him was ‘sir.’ But he was telling them that he was worried about Mickey. That Mickey had scared old
Miz
Armand so bad she went to the hospital with chest pains and…”

“When was this?” Cindy interrupted.

“Yesterday morning. Mom saw the EMTs come by and went out to see where they went. But I guess the old lady is okay now. She was just scared. Anyway Uncle Branch then told this ‘sir’ that Mickey had already hit one young woman and got beat up by another one in a fight that followed, and that he didn’t know what Mickey would do to get even. He said you both had heavy-duty connections—whatever that meant. Then he saw me and walked down by the lake.”

My mouth was dry. None of what Tommy had told us was any way to start a day.

“Well, thanks, Tommy. I appreciate your telling us about that. We’ll be on our guard.” I patted him on the shoulder and forced a grin. “Now you can scoot.”

He scooted and we got dressed. Soon we heard Gale’s SUV spit gravel as she made the turn up the mountain. I figured she must sleep like a fireman, with her clothes laid out in the order in which she donned them. We took the time to call the phone company and Clay. When Clay heard what happened he was so angry I thought he was going to choke. He was on his way. By the time we left, it was light, but the rain looked here to stay.

When we got to Blackstone Farm, Gale had the bleeding under control and was stitching up the ear. I felt so sorry for Frank Allen, half his ear had apparently been cut off with something sharp, like a straight razor. He would heal in time, but he would never again be the gorgeous chestnut
showhorse
who won all the blue ribbons. It was almost as if he knew it.
 
He stood in the wide aisle of the stables, not causing Gale any trouble, his chin and lower jaw resting quietly on Sara’s shoulder…a hurt child asking Mommy to make it better.

Tommy began to feed the other horses, obviously he knew exactly how much of what feed every animal received.
 
He might have been a little slow with sixth-grade math, but, by God, Tommy knew his horses.