One Hoof In The Grave [Carriage Driving 02] (23 page)

“You told him?” I dropped my lines. “Dammit, I don’t want half of Mossy Creek looking over my shoulder.”

“He does have a vested interest.”

“In an emergency clinic?” The best thing to use in breaking a horse to drive is either a sledge—a sliding platform without wheels—or an actual breaking cart. They are usually made of heavy steel, have high dashboards in front to protect the driver in case the horse kicks, a low center of gravity and an easy means of egress—in other words, the driver can bail if the horse runs away.

Hiram had an old breaking cart, but it was much too big for Don Qui, hence we were using the small tractor tire. The little Meadowbrook we’d borrowed was still folded up under the marathon cart in the trailer. It was also too hard to bail out of in an emergency. For the moment it could stay where it was.

“You’ll have to hold the release line on the tire,” I said. “We can’t let Don Qui pull it faster than a walk. If he picks up a trot, the tire could bounce behind him, or God forbid, go airborne and flail from side to side like a Frisbee.”

“So if it threatens to take on a life of its own, I’m supposed to drop the line and let it come loose and fall off?”

“Precisely. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. I’m going to check on the progress of the pour for my house’s slab, then we can put Don Qui’s harness on and try him out.”

The concrete truck had arrived early and was nearly done pouring the slab for my house, while the horse herd kibitzed over the pasture fence. I figured the noise would spook them, but even Don Qui peered up at the gray slurry sliding down the chute with grave interest.

My general contractor agreed to set four heavy fence posts wide apart, two at the bottom of each driveway

“People will be driving big rigs up my driveway,” I told him. “With live horses in them. Much wider turning radius—an eighteen-wheeler in some cases. They have to be able to make the turn and get the rig away from the road to shut the gates behind them. Trust me, wider is better.”

He’d grumbled, but saw the sense in my argument. “Posts will be in before we leave this afternoon,” he said. “I got to go pick up some more stuff at the hardware store, so I can pick up the gates and hardware when I’m in Bigelow. We can set them in and have them up and running before we leave this afternoon. They won’t be real secure for a couple of days, but providing nobody runs into them, they should be fine.”

“Does that mean you can start laying the logs for my house tomorrow?”

He laughed. “Slab’ll harden up over night, but it’s got to cure for a week before we set the sills and start laying logs.”

Bobby swore he’d be finished in six weeks. Of course he would.

As I led Don Qui out to the arena and prepared to hook him to the tire, I considered postponing the driving clinic scheduled for Sunday because of the stacks of logs and trusses sitting around, but decided against it. Cancelling would be bad for Lackland Farms and for Casey’s fund.

I’d gotten a late entry from Dawn Raleigh, who was bringing a pair, not the four-in-hand. No one had cancelled. I had to pay Catherine Harris, who was my judge on Saturday and my clinician on Sunday, whether we cancelled or not. She would stay in Peggy’s guest room, but we had to pay her mileage to and from her place in Alpharetta.

The Mossy Creek Garden Club had agreed to handle the drinks and sandwiches, and now that they knew the profit would go to Casey’s fund, I figured we’d have a heavy turnout of locals buying spectator tickets. When I looked up, I found that Peggy had finished attaching reins and tire to Don Qui. He stood perfectly still until I asked him to walk on. That was real progress.

I asked him to walk on. When he felt the weight of the tire behind him, I expected another meltdown. Holding the release line far enough behind him to be out of kicking range, Peggy looked terrified.

He stiffened when he felt the weight behind him. I let him stop and stand until he figured out that there was something back there, but that it didn’t seem to be attacking him. Then he leaned his study little chest against the horse collar and walked forward as though he’d been pulling all his life. It was almost as though he was thinking, “Well, finally. So this is what all the nonsense has been about.”

He cheerfully dragged his tire for twenty minutes in patterns around the arena as though he’d been doing it forever. Both Peggy and I were stunned.

“He’s nearly ready to put to the little Meadowbrook,” I said and held a carrot for him to nibble, even though he still wore his bridle and harness. Not a good practice to start, but he deserved it. “Good boy, Don Qui.”

“You mean I missed it?” Geoff said from the stable.

“You certainly did,” Peggy said. She rubbed her back and leaned over with her hands on her knees. “You can do it next time. It’s a darned sight more work than I thought it was. I refuse to believe that all this time all he’s needed to sweeten his temper was a job.”

“I have my own guns and knives. I can defend myself from an enemy.”

“It’s not
your
enemies who concern me,” he said.

“Come and get it,” Dick called.

I was afraid I wouldn’t be welcome
at Raleigh’s wake. I was wrong. Sarah Beth spied Peggy and me as we entered the enormous foyer of Raleigh’s mansion and flew over to embrace us both as though we were long lost sisters.

“I was so afraid you wouldn’t come,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry about what you had to go through finding—him—and all that questioning. It must have been dreadful.”

She looked fabulous. Grief, if that’s what it was, certainly agreed with her. For the first time I saw what Peggy had seen—the glow of pregnancy. And since Raleigh’s death, she seemed downright happy about it. Maybe now abortion was no longer an option. I wondered whether the baby would carry Raleigh’s DNA. Somehow I doubted it. But whose? Could be a business associate or someone from the carriage-driving world. Sarah Beth had plenty of opportunity to hop into bed with other men. Maybe she didn’t even know for certain whose child she was carrying.

And what would her pregnancy do to Raleigh’s will? In old British law a legitimate child born within nine months of the death of the putative father received a full inheritance. The same in the United States? No idea.

Sarah Beth spotted Geoff behind me and her face fell. “What are you doing here? Can’t you leave us alone?”

“Afraid not, Mrs. Raleigh, but I’ll try not to bother you tonight.” He stepped around us as though we hadn’t all driven over in Dick’s big Lincoln. She watched his back with narrowed eyes. But not eyes filled with fear. Or at least I didn’t think so. She was annoyed, but not scared.

The look on Dawn’s face when she spotted him, however, was deer-in-headlights. Or maybe raccoon-scared-spitless-by-rattlesnake. She clung to the arm of just about the best-looking guy I’d seen in twenty years. Obviously Armando Gutierrez, the polo player. No wonder she was willing to risk the wrath of Raleigh to keep him.

Sarah Beth called them over to introduce us. Dawn wasn’t precisely chilly, but she showed none of her stepmother’s warmth towards us.

Armando, however, did. He was not only handsome, with a lean muscular body, he had kind eyes and a brilliant smile in his sun-bronzed face. We shook hands. His was even more callused than mine.

“This is Armando Gutierrez, Merry Abbot, Mrs. Caldwell,” Dawn said. “My fiancé.” Her chin went up about as far as Peggy’s eyebrows, but we both offered best wishes to them.

One is never supposed to offer congratulations to the bride. It implies she has successfully bagged her prey. In this case, I longed to break with tradition since Armando had definitely been bagged and tagged, and damned fast too.

Then Peggy stomped on my instep, and I shut my mouth.

“There’s food in the dining room and a bar in the living room,” Sarah Beth said.

With a line of mourners—or gloaters, depending on your point of view—stacking up behind us, we moved on while Sarah Beth and Dawn greeted Dick Fitzgibbons and some other people I didn’t recognize.

“I need a drink,” Peggy whispered. “Fiancé indeed. Talk about your funeral baked meats serving as the marriage feast. I wonder if Sarah Beth is planning to remarry.” Peggy said. “And who.”

Past the bar, Brock was leaning down talking to Gwen Standish, the vet, in low tones. He looked unhappy. She looked mutinous. I had met her briefly at a couple of shows and knew she was Raleigh’s vet, but I didn’t know her socially. She had an excellent reputation as to skill. Ethics—not so much.

Brock glanced up and caught my eye. A moment later he half-dragged Gwen out into the hall and toward the door of the conservatory beyond.

“What’s that all about?” Peggy asked. “Gin and tonic, please.”

The bartender nodded and mixed the drink. “Ma’am?” he asked me.

I shook my head. “Diet Coke, please.” I wanted a clear head, and I was still on antibiotics, though I was down from Vetrap to an oversized Band-Aid.

“Let’s split up,” Peggy said. “You follow Brock. I’ll see if the Tollivers are here.”

The conservatory was so full of huge plants that you could have hidden a tribe of Jivaros behind the palms. Although the fans moving the warm air were equipped with soft lights, the room was in shadow. I couldn’t see Brock and Gwen for a moment, then the door leading to the patio and pool opened and they slipped out. I slunk after them. They stopped in the shadows just outside the door to keep out of sight. I nearly knocked over a twelve foot tall Sega Palm when I backed into it.

“Are you insane?” Gwen said. She was speaking softly, but sounded as though she were speaking through gritted teeth. “You can’t walk away. Who’d you think you’re playing with?”

“We have to call it off,” Brock said. “At least postpone the next trip. The place is crawling with cops. That Wheeler is no dummy.”

“All he cares about is the murder. He’s not looking at us.”

“The hell he’s not! If he finds out Raleigh knew . . .”

“He won’t. He fired you all the time. This was no different.”

“Not like this. He knew the consequences if he got tied into it. The rig’s registered to him. He could lose the farm. He swore he’d call the cops. You and I shouldn’t even be seen together.”

“I beg your pardon?” Her voice rose. “We have every reason to be seen together. What’s suspicious would be you getting another vet right now.”

“Only if we have some professional connection. We shouldn’t be talking now.”

She sounded furious. He, on the other hand, sounded downright whiny. And scared.

“Are you dumping me? Is that what this is all about? Now that he’s dead, you think you can climb into that bitch’s bed?”

I heard voices and laughter. Someone was coming into the conservatory. Brock and Gwen shut up instantly. If they came back in, they were bound to spot me behind the palm tree.

I am a lousy spy.

Peggy

Juanita Tolliver might look like a field hand most of the time, but when the occasion arose, she cleaned up well. She was middle-aged tubby with the bulge around the gut that comes to most post-menopausal women. Peggy would bet that her little black dress came out of a fancy atelier in New York or Paris, and that the double strand of ping-pong ball black pearls covering her crepey neck came from Mikimoto. Unlike the widow Raleigh, her heels were only a couple of inches tall, but looked like a pair of Bruno Maglis Peggy had seen in
Bizarre
a couple of months earlier. Juanita’s hair was streaked with gray, but without a hint of blue and feathered to flatter. As a matter of fact, her hair matched the dark gray pearls. Coincidence?