The Kill (19 page)

“He’s gorgeous.”

The horse stretched his muscled neck and nibbled at Michael’s jacket pocket. “Spoiled rotten, that’s what he is,” Michael said.

He gently shoved the horse’s head away and fumbled in his pocket until he came up with a sugar cube. Henry greedily attacked the cube, then licked Michael’s palm as if to say
is that all there is?

“Is he a thoroughbred?” Abigale asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Never raced, though. Mr. Clarke bought him as a two-year-old with the intention of making him into a hunter.”

“How old is he now?”

“Just turned six.” Michael flicked a wayward strand of the horse’s mane back in order. “He’s a beauty, but he can be a pistol to ride. Manning’s the only one besides Mr. Clarke who gets along with him.”

Something thumped in the hayloft above them, and Abigale jumped back as Henry whirled around in the stall.

“Goddammit, Larry, what the hell you doing up there?” Michael shouted, craning his neck to peer up at the hayloft.

A plump-faced boy peeked over the edge, baseball cap turned backward on his head. Abigale guessed him to be in his late teens.

“I was just stacking the hay bales like you asked me to.”

“Stacking or throwing?”

“Sorry, boss.” The boy’s face reddened and he ducked away from the opening.

Michael rolled his eyes at Abigale. “I swear, that boy’s got two left hands and is slower than molasses. If your uncle hadn’t hired him as a favor to Larry’s mama, I’d have sent him packing a long time ago.” He shouldered the horse away from the door and gestured toward the aisle. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the crew.”

Michael introduced Abigale one by one to the rest of the herd. Twelve horses in all. The last stall they reached housed a sturdy dapple gray with a puffy silver mane and big, kind eyes.

“He looks like an overgrown pony,” Abigale exclaimed, letting him nuzzle her hand. “Sorry, big guy, I don’t have any treats for you.”

“Last but not least, we have Braveheart,” Michael said, fishing a sugar cube out of his pocket and slipping it in Abigale’s outstretched hands. “Areal gentle giant, he is.”

“How big is he?”

“Sixteen-three hands. Seventeen hundred and twenty pounds.” His chest puffed up with pride as he said it, as if he could somehow take credit for the horse’s size. “But you’d never know it to ride him. He’s a real athletic son-of-a-gun. Can jump the moon, too.”

“Can he keep up in the hunt field?”

“You better believe it. He’s got plenty of fuel in his tank. Depending on what territory they’re hunting, Mr. Clarke sometimes leads the field on him.” The corners of his lips drooped as he stroked the horse’s broad shoulder. “In fact, Braveheart gave Mr. Clarke his last good ride, didn’t you, boy?”

“Uncle Richard hunted him the day he was murdered?”

Michael nodded. “Henry had thrown a shoe and the ground was a little sloppy from the rain, so Mr. Clarke decided to take Braveheart.” His eyes crinkled and he let out a chuckle. “He said it was a good day to be riding a horse with four-wheel drive.”

Abigale hugged the horse and inhaled his warm, sweet scent. “Were you here when Uncle Richard returned from hunting?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Clarke was on the run, rushing off to the steeplechase course. But we chatted for a little bit and he told me he had a glorious day. Viewed two foxes and had one helluva run, in spite of the bad footing. He said Braveheart lived up to his name.”

Abigale smiled and smoothed the horse’s forelock. “Did you talk with him about what his plans were at the racecourse?”

“Not really. I just know he was planning on meeting up with Manning.”

Her heart quickened. “What did he say about it?”

“About meeting Manning?”

She nodded.

Michael eyed her uncertainly. “Just talked about how with all the rain he was worried about the footing for the races. He mentioned something about opening up the drainage ditch on the far side of the course and I asked if he needed my help, but he said no, Manning was going to meet him there and they’d be able to handle it just fine, the two of them.”

“That’s all he said?”

“As far as I recall. Is there some specific reason you’re asking?”

“I’m just trying to piece together my uncle’s last moments, that’s all. Looking for some closure, I guess.”

Michael’s expression relaxed and he nodded. “We’re all doing the same thing. I know I’m second-guessing whether I should have tried to talk him out of working on the course that afternoon. I thought about it, seeing as it was such rotten weather and all and he’d already been out hunting for three hours. But I held my tongue.”

He shook his head, looking as though he could kick himself. “If I hadn’t gone to a hay seminar that evening I might’ve noticed that he didn’t return home, but I got home late and didn’t pay any mind to the fact that the house was dark. I just figured he’d gone to sleep. It never entered my mind to check on him. One thing your uncle didn’t like was folks fussing over him. I reckon it made him feel like they thought he was getting old.”

Abigale said, “Maybe that’s why he wanted to work on the course that afternoon.”

“To prove that he could?”

She nodded.

“You just may be right about that.” Michael pursed his lips together and cocked his head, watching Braveheart nuzzle Abigale’s hand for another treat. “Or maybe he just wanted some busywork to keep his mind off things.”

“Was something bothering him?”

He eyed her as he nudged Braveheart back into the stall and closed the door, as if weighing how much he should say. “I don’t know if it was a big deal or not, but he seemed like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders when he came to the barn before hunting that morning. I asked him if everything was okay and he said, ‘we’ve got a fox in the henhouse and I’ve got to figure out the best way to take care of it.’”

“A fox in the henhouse?”

“Yes, ma’am. Those were his exact words.”

“What did he mean by that?”

Michael shrugged. “Beats me. I asked him if I could do anything to help and he said no, he’d get it straightened out.”

“That was it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Then he loaded Braveheart on the trailer and off he went. There wasn’t no more discussing it.”

A
bigale felt her impatience rise as she poked around the tack room, waiting for Michael and Smitty to finish discussing the exercise routine for one of the hunt horses recovering from an injury. Dozens of photographs of Manning stared at her from the walls, adding to her edginess.

She stopped pacing long enough to study a faded color photo of Manning and Percy in the winner’s circle at Charles Town Race Track. The two of them stood side-by-side near the head of a sweaty chestnut horse, both grinning from ear to ear; the green-and-blue-clad jockey on the horse’s back raised his fist in a victory gesture.

The door to the barn aisle opened. “Sorry that took so long,” Smitty said, stomping his boots on the mat before setting foot in the tack room. “We’ve got this whip horse, blew his suspensory ligament. The vet gave the green light to start him back into work, and Michael and I were just divvying up the riding schedule.”

“No problem.”

Smitty jabbed a finger toward the photo Abigale had been looking at. “That was the first horse Manning and Percy ever ran at the track. Not bad, winning your first time out of the starting gate, eh?” He chuckled. “Look at those big old grins on their faces.”

Abigale smiled. They looked as if they’d just won the lottery. “Did their luck continue?”

“Well, now, that’s a different story,” Smitty said, winking. He sank down on the leather couch and patted the cushion next to him. “Come sit and tell me what’s on your mind.”

She dropped down next to him, wondering if she looked as nervous as she felt. She wiped her palms on her slacks. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “I don’t know where to start,” she said, hating how meek her voice sounded.

“I reckon the beginning is as good a place as any.”

That made her smile and she felt her jitters disappear. She sucked in a deep breath. “Okay. I suppose you’ve heard about Uncle Richard’s will.”

Smitty nodded.

“So you know about Manning inheriting the kennel and the hunt assets.”

“Sure do. In fact, I just left the hunt board meeting a little while ago and it’s official now. Manning’s been voted in as master.”

Her eyes widened. “That was fast.”

“Had to be. What with the upcoming races and all.”

“Was there opposition?”

“Nah, not really. Margaret runs a tight ship as president of the board. She saw to it Manning got the votes he needed. But that’s not to say there wasn’t some discussion about the matter. Several board members, Thompson for one, have strong reservations about whether Manning will be able to step up to the plate. But in the end there was consensus to give him a shot at it. Really, what choice did the board have, with Richard leaving the kennels and all to Manning?”

“Nothing like trial by fire.”

“He’ll be all right,” Smitty replied. “I’ll help as much as he needs. And Margaret will, too. He’ll have plenty of support.”

“Are you sure about Margaret?”

“Of course. Why?”

She told Smitty what Manning had said about his mother viewing the bequest, or at least Uncle Richard’s thoughts about changing it, as providing Manning with a motive for murder.

“Oh, that’s hogwash,” Smitty said, pawing at the air. “Margaret doesn’t really believe that. She’s just upset because Manning was drunk and he can’t remember enough about what happened to defend himself. Margaret doesn’t think for one second that Manning murdered Richard, and anyone who knows Manning half a lick knows that Richard’s will didn’t provide him with any kind of motive for murder. Being master is probably the last thing Manning wants.”

“So why did Uncle Richard leave the kennels and the hunt to Manning if he knew Manning wouldn’t want it?”

“I imagine the simple answer is Richard didn’t expect to go when he did. When Richard made his will he was probably looking years down the road, and figured on gradually grooming Manning to take over. If what you said about him planning to tell Manning about the will is true, I expect he would have been hoping it would give Manning some direction in his life. He never would have used it as a threat against Manning. That wasn’t how Richard operated.”

“So you’re not worried it will be viewed as giving Manning a motive?”

“Nah, and Margaret probably isn’t either.”

“I wish she’d let Manning know that.”

“Give her time. Right now, Margaret’s about overcome with grief over Richard’s death, despite appearances that she’s holding it all together. I think she’s lashing out in pain at anyone who she thinks might have been able to help prevent the tragedy.”

“Even her own son?”

“That’s Margaret,” Smitty said, shrugging a shoulder. “If Manning really needs her, she’ll come through for him.”

“I think he needs her now,” Abigale murmured.

“Still watching out for him, aren’t you?” Smitty asked, giving her a gentle smile.

“Yeah, I guess I am.” She flopped back against the cushion, picking up a pillow embroidered with the hunt logo and hugging it to her chest. “My shrink would probably say I’m trying to make amends for not sticking up for Manning when my father dumped all the blame on him for Scarlet’s accident.”

He studied her thoughtfully for a moment. “This must be rough on you, being back here, especially under these circumstances. How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, then blushed when she saw him cock an eyebrow.

“Is that so?” Smitty reached out and drew her to him, engulfing her in a whiff of pipe tobacco and the musty corn-chip odor of hounds. She buried her head against his chest, ignoring the scratch of his wool sweater against her cheek. A sob escaped her throat and he rubbed his sturdy hands along her back. “There, there, it’s okay,” he murmured. “Just let it all out.”

Finally, she dropped her guard and just let the tears flow. Gave in to anger over the senselessness of Uncle Richard’s death, and her mother’s illness; the resentment she still felt toward her father, even after all these years, for the way he’d dragged her away from Manning. It squeezed at her heart until she felt she couldn’t breathe.