by Kit Ehrman
* * *
I was leaning against a locker, working halfheartedly on the inventory, when Mrs. Hill marched into the room. I pushed myself off the locker and straightened my spine. She circled the room with her hands on her hips.
I closed one locker, squatted down, and was checking the locker on the bottom row when I became aware of a stillness in the room. I looked over my shoulder. Mrs. Hill was standing in the middle of the room with her hands in her pockets and her head bowed. I stopped what I was doing and stood up.
"Oh, Stephen," she said. "What a mess. I hate to think what Mr. Ambrose is going to say when he hears about this. He's going to have a fit."
I doubted Mr. Ambrose would care one little bit. Although he was Foxdale's owner, his wife had been behind Foxdale's inception. A talented rider who had represented the United States in numerous Olympic and World Cup competitions, she had died of cancer a month after the ribbon-cutting ceremony.
"He doesn't care about the place," I said.
"Oh, that's not true, dear. He likes anything that makes a profit, which we do. And I must say, you've helped tremendously in that department. I tell him all the time what innovations and improvements you've come up with. He's quite pleased." She frowned. "He won't be now."
"No." I slid my pencil under the clasp on the clipboard and thought about money and insurance . . . and tax write-offs. Contrary to what he tells her, what if Ambrose wanted Foxdale to lose money? Even if he was rolling in the stuff, I found his avoidance of the place a little strange. "Who do you send the payroll information to?" I said.
She frowned. "Farpoint Industries in Baltimore. Why?"
"Just curious."
"What are you doing?"
"Working on a list for the police." I looked at my scribbled notes. "But without the boarders' help, it won't be complete. I don't know the saddles' values. All I can do is write down the names of everyone who's had their saddles stolen. And if by chance they've taken them home to clean, I've got that wrong, too."
"You're right. I'll start making calls. We'll need an accurate itemization from each boarder."
I looked at her face and saw by her expression that she'd already shifted into high gear. Making plans, working out procedures, focusing on the days ahead. She turned and left with a characteristic "Carry on, dear," floating over her shoulder.
I carried on but with little enthusiasm.
The resultant uproar was predictable and worsened by the fact that Foxdale was holding a schooling show the following morning. Two boarders gave notice that they were taking their horses and belongings elsewhere. I overheard more than one boarder asking Mrs. Hill about a night watchman and privately wondered how she would fare with the frugal Mr. Ambrose.
Three boarders asked if I knew where Boris was. I didn't. No one seemed to notice that he had disappeared along with the saddles. Dave spent all of the afternoon and most of the evening restoring the tack rooms to their former perfection, and life went on except, of course, for Boris.