Breakaway (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (22 page)

That was just the trouble. For that matter, I couldn't imagine any of these men assaulting a horse. Or any other man I knew. The only picture I could come up with was giggling seventeen-year-old boys. But that somehow didn't equate with the solitary stranger who had ridden a horse to Kris's and bashed Jo over the head.

There was a gap in the conversation; just for the heck of it I asked Bart, "What do you feed all these horses? Alfalfa?"

For a moment I thought he wouldn't answer, but eventually came a grudging, "Yep. Unless the customer wants something different."

As I had supposed. Any of these hundred or so boarded horses could be the horse rapist's mount. At the thought, I felt intensely discouraged with my amateur sleuthing and an equally intense desire to go home.

And in another minute he was efficiently hitching his truck to the stock trailer, every move displaying the deft competence I had come to think of as his trademark.

I loaded Plumber, waved a casual good-bye to the other men, and climbed in the cab. Clay drove out onto Harkins Valley Road without a word.

We passed Nico's house and then Kris's; all I could think of was the strange threat that seemed to hang over both. Was it just the two of them, I wondered.

I glanced at Clay's quiet profile and a jarring buzz went through me, as if I'd been stuck with an electric cattle prod. What had Clay said, driving me to town a week ago? That a neighbor woman had been murdered?

My mouth seemed to open without volition. "Clay, that woman you knew who was murdered, did the police ever figure out who did it?"

A mare. Damn. I was quiet. For some reason, I just didn't want to talk to Clay about this. It wasn't that I didn't trust him, I assured myself. It was just ... I just didn't, that was all.

Clay was looking at me very curiously now; I felt impelled to give some sort of explanation for my questions.

"I was wondering if I knew the woman. As a client," I said lamely. "I couldn't place her name, but I thought I might remember her horses."

This unlikely statement actually contained a grain of truth. I did frequently remember people's horses and problems-that bay mare with a stone bruise-when I had no recollection of their names.

"Did you know her?" Clay asked. "Her name was Marianne, Marianne Moore."

"No, I don't think so."

We were quiet, the somber subject of the murdered woman seeming to hover over us. Inwardly my thoughts were racing noisily. Had this other person been a victim of the horse rapist, too? Surely this was something I should bring up with Jeri Ward.

The thought of Jeri Ward brought another wave of discouragement rolling over me. I just didn't feel up to being grilled by the woman.

Clay was pulling into my driveway now. In another minute I was unloading Plumber. Putting the horse in the corral, I fed him and Gunner and Daisy. When I was done Clay glanced at me inquiringly.

Politeness dictated I ask him in for a beer, but I just couldn't do it. I was too tired, and I had too much on my mind.

"Thanks, Clay," was all I could come up with. "I appreciate it."

"No problem." Clay heard the farewell note and responded with his usual grace. "Anytime." He climbed back into the pickup. "I'll call you," he said. And waved good-bye.

I trudged up the hill to the house, wondering what to do. Call Jeri Ward? Call Kris? It all seemed like too much.

In the end I did nothing. Poured myself a glass of wine and curled up on the couch with the dog by my feet.

I didn't want to deal with this weird situation anymore. For once in my life I was going to take the advice I'd been given so often. This time I was going to mind my own business.

TWENTY

Monday morning did not begin auspiciously. I arrived at work to find that a call from the woman with the mysteriously recumbent gray gelding had arrived there before me.

"She's pretty unhappy with you, Gail," Jim said.

"She is?" I was quite honestly surprised. "Why?"

"Well, she hauled that horse up to the veterinary hospital at Davis, and after three days of very expensive care, they told her that the only thing wrong with him was an HYPP attack, and she could just as well have left him at home and given him rest and fluids."

"You're kidding." I shook my head. "Damn. It sure didn't look like that was the problem."

"No," Jim agreed. "And believe me, I'm not blaming you. One thing about this business. You'll go through weeks, months even, where everything you touch turns to gold. And then you'll have times when everything you touch turns to shit. It's just the way it is. It's happened to me, plenty of times."

"Right," I said. And headed out for the first call of the day-yet another colic-with an outwardly detached demeanor. Or so I hoped. Inwardly I was reeling.

I'd felt pretty good about the way I'd handled that case. I'd spent an ungodly amount of time and done my best to help the woman with a difficult and puzzling problem. To be told she was angry with me was a real blindside.

This seemed to be my season for dissatisfied clients. The timing couldn't have been worse. Despite Jim's words my heart just kept sinking farther and farther. My job, often a source of comfort and distraction, was loading more bad feelings on my already overburdened shoulders. Sooner or later, I thought, would come the proverbial straw.

But there was nothing for it but to keep plugging away. Life currently felt like a long, blank corridor with no doors, no escape. Perhaps it was taking me somewhere; I was no longer sure. All I knew was that I felt trapped. I couldn't quit. I had to keep going.

I made it through a day of more or less routine calls and arrived home in the evening hungry and tired. Not a thing in the refrigerator but some half-limp lettuce, a little cheese, and the obligatory bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Oh well. That and a tomato out of the garden would make a dinner of sorts.

First of course, I had to feed the animals. And then, I told myself, before the glass of wine I had some phone calls to make. Sitting down on the couch, I dialed Kris's number. Her "hello" was so subdued I barely recognized her voice.

"I don't know." Kris sounded confused. "What I think I really want is to get away from here. School's out next week; I'm thinking about going down to visit my sister for a while."

"Oh."

"She lives in San Diego," Kris went on. "It would be a real change for me. And that's what I feel like I need. A complete change."

"What about Jo? And Dixie?"

"Jo's all right with her dad. And I could board Dixie for a while. Maybe turn her out where I have Rebby. I just really want to get away."

"All right." I could understand why she might feel that way. "Let me know if I can help."

"I will, Gail. And don't worry, I'll be okay. Your life's tough enough right now, you don't need to add me to your problems."

To this I had no ready answer. In a sense it was true, as no doubt Kris knew.

"I just wish I could be a little more help," I said.

"I know you do. And I appreciate your offer. But I don't want to be driven out of my own house. What I want is a vacation."

"I understand," I told her.

"Thanks," she said. "I'll let you know what happens."

We said good-bye, both of us a little regretfully. I would miss her if she was gone, I knew; she was the one person I currently counted as a close friend.

Staring at the receiver in my hand, I tried to make up my mind about the next call. It ought to be to Jeri Ward. But every time I tried to picture myself talking to the woman, my brain froze up. How could I refuse to talk about Nico and mention the suspicious circumstances surrounding George Corfios? Should I bring up the issue of the murdered woman-what had Clay said her name was? Marianne? The police knew a lot more about that than I did, anyway.

I vacillated, torn between what seemed at times to be my civic duty and the notion that the police neither needed nor wanted the help of a meddling amateur sleuth.

"Mind your own business, Gail," I said out loud.

The dog cocked an ear at me and I picked up the phone book. Sure enough, the number was there. I dialed-not Jeri Ward, but Blue Winter.

He answered on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Hi. It's Gail. Gail McCarthy." Already I felt stupid. Completely tongue-tied.

"Hi, Gail. How are you?" Blue sounded cordial; I could read nothing more into his tone. That was the trouble with the damn phone.

"I'm fine. I wanted to thank you for coming by, and for bringing me that rose."

"My pleasure."

Now what, I wondered. Should I launch off into a speech about how Clay wasn't my boyfriend? That would really make me look stupid.

Instead I went with, "I'd like to invite you over to dinner; the trouble is, I'm on call this week and the coming weekend. How would next week be?"

This time I hung up the phone with the last vestige of a smile still lingering on my face. No doubt about it, I was really attracted to this man. That was a good sign, anyway. Surely I couldn't be as depressed as I sometimes feared if I still felt even a little of the old sexual draw? I made my salad and poured myself a glass of wine, still thinking about Blue. When the phone rang, I jumped.

Silence greeted this statement. Then, "I understand why you might feel this way, Gail, but I think you're making a mistake."

"I know you do. I have plenty of doubts about it myself. I do have a couple of things I'd like to tell you."

"All right."

I took a deep breath and explained as briefly as I could that George Corfios had recently moved into the area and ridden his horse to Kris's, and I wondered if this wasn't a little too much of a coincidence. "I have absolutely no other reason to suspect the guy," I finished up. "I just thought I ought to mention it."

"She had horses. A mare. And she was found out at her barn, hit over the head with something. I was just wondering ..."

"I'm not in charge of that case," Jeri said briefly. "However, we'll look into it. Anything else?"

"No, not really." I thought about telling her that the horse rapist's horse undoubtedly ate alfalfa hay and gave up the idea. She probably wouldn't think it was useful.

"Give some more thought to telling me about the other victim, okay?"

"I'll do that. And I'll try to convince her to tell you herself. Have you learned anything helpful in your investigation?" I asked tentatively.

A moment's pause. "He definitely wore gloves," Jeri said crisply. "The semen, and it was semen, shows him to be O negative. And we have his DNA profile. We think he hit the girl with a shovel. That's about it." Her tone seemed to rebuff any more questions.

"Thanks," I said.

"We'll be in touch," Jeri replied, and hung up.

Once again I was left staring at a quiet receiver. This time without a smile. It was true, then. Some strangely warped man was having sex with horses. Despite the fact that it had been on my mind for over a week, I was still shocked at hearing the incontrovertible evidence. Once again I tried ineffectually to imagine what sort of man would do such a thing. Or would even have the faintest desire to do such a thing.

Nothing came to mind except the notion that, if it wasn't kids, it must be someone with deep psychological problems. What, after all, was the typical psychological profile of a sex offender?

I hadn't a clue. But there was someone I could ask. An absolutely appropriate authority. I had an appointment with a shrink tomorrow.