by Kit Ehrman
Chapter 7
Late Monday afternoon, I pointed the truck northward and soon found myself negotiating a narrow, winding road in northern Carroll County. I slowed to a crawl when I saw a three-story brick home set close to the road. One-hundred feet beyond, I braked to a halt next to the wide doors of a bank barn. I got out and stretched, then lifted my notebook off the dash and looked around. The pasture's tidy four-board fence dipped and rose with the hilly terrain, and the trees that were clumped on hillsides too steep to be mown were in full bud, their colors an echo of autumn.
I heard a scuffing noise behind me and turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man, going fat round the middle, walking toward me down the steep, gravel drive across the road. The driveway led to a red pole-building that served as in indoor riding arena. A girl on a heavily-muscled gray with a naturally high head carriage trotted past the open doorway.
He held out his hand. "George Irons. You're Foxdale's manager?" His eyebrows rose, and I saw in his brown eyes a rapid assessment of my age and a hint of surprise.
I shook his hand. "Barn manager, yes."
Although it had been warm enough at Foxdale, it was chilly here, where the steep wooded hills channeled cooler air along the valley floor. My T-shirt felt inadequate, and I noticed wryly that my host wore a long-sleeved, flannel shirt.
"Lemme show you the layout." He continued past me, down the sloped lane alongside the barn, and entered the lower level. "They just led the horses out of these stalls, pretty as you please. Took 'em on up the path we come down on and loaded the lot into a trailer. Right across the road from the house like that, took some balls, I'll tell you. The wife and I slept right through it. Didn't know the horses were gone 'til I came out in the morning to feed."
"What time was that?"
"Five-thirty."
"Do you always come out that early."
He nodded. "Yeah. I work off the farm. First shift. Always feed 'em before I leave, then all Nancy's gotta do is turn 'em out when she gets up."
The lower level of the barn was three-sided, open to the wind on the south, and decidedly dank. Deeper within the bowels of the old barn, ten stalls surrounded a common area. With its low ceiling, the barn was more suited for cows than horses.
"Had a full barn one second," Irons said, "then I'm down five horses the next."
"I thought they took four," I said.
"Four were mine. The biggest ones which, as it turned out, happened to be the best." His voice was bitter with the memory. He ran his fingers through his thick, windblown hair and sighed. "Other one was a boarder's. The thieves must of tried for seven, though."
"Why?"
"When I came out that morning, I found two of 'em on the lawn behind the house, and they had their halters on."
"They don't normally?"
He shook his head. "Those two are the devil to load, so I'm not surprised they gave up on 'em and just let 'em go. They ran back into the barn and got into the bags of grain I keep on the pallet over there," he gestured to a far corner, "before they tore up the garden and went strollin' round the back yard. I was damn lucky they didn't colic."
"When did you last check on them?"
"I come out before I go to bed. Make sure everybody's okay. Must of been
around ten 'cause I had to work the next day."
"Six-and-a-half hours," I mumbled. "Which night? Do you remember?"
"Lemme think." He tugged upward on his jeans. It didn't do him any good, because his belly was in the way. "Oh, yeah. It was a Sunday. I lost a bunch of overtime 'cause I didn't go in that morning like I'd planned."
The weekend. Why wasn't I surprised?
He slid two fingers into the breast pocket of his shirt, pulled out a sheet of loose leaf, and unfolded it. "Here's the information you said you wanted. Grain supplier, vet, farrier. Anybody I could think of who comes here regular and would know what's what." He handed me the list.
I scanned the page, recognized several names, questioned a few. Nothing jumped out as significant. With growing disappointment, I said, "How long ago was this?"
"Be two years in June, and I'm still not full up. People get scared when somethin' like that happens. Word gets around, and before you know it, your customers are lookin' for someplace safer to keep their horses."
He didn't know anyone who owned a white dualie and dark-colored six-horse. Didn't have a clue who was behind the theft. I thanked him for his time. As I drove home, I thought about his parting comment and the frustration I'd heard in his voice. "With the barn so close to the house, Nancy and I always thought we'd be safe from this sort of thing."
Everyone thinks they're immune. Until it's too late.
By the time I pulled into my parking space behind the foaling barn and climbed the steps to the loft, I'd decided that there was one other question I should have asked Mr. Irons. I fished the sheet of loose-leaf out of my back pocket and punched in his number.
His wife picked up. I explained who I was and waited nearly five minutes before he came on the line, out of breath, his voice husky.
I twisted the phone cord round my fingers and hoped he had never heard of my landlord. "I forgot to ask. Have you ever used Gregory Davis as your vet?"
"No."
I let out a breath.
"Only 'cause he lives so damned far away. I keep tellin' him we need a good vet up here, but he don't wanna move away from his rich Maryland clients."
I rubbed my forehead. "How do you know him then, if he's not your vet?"
"We're neighbors."
"Huh?"
He chuckled. "That's right. Our cabins butt right up against one another on the banks of the St. Martin. We go motorin' up and down the Isle of Wight Bay, slip on over to the Ol' Woman's Ass when we're wantin' to get in some crabbin'--"
"Woman's . . . ass?"
He chuckled again. "Assawoman Bay. Indian name. Good crabbin'. Fair fishin' if you don't mind the sunnies."
"If you say so." I learned more than I cared to about the teeming waterways and ecosystems of the Eastern Shore, and by the time I hung up, I had decided that his knowing Greg was simply a coincidence.
I called Detective Ralston, gave him the name of the guy I'd run into at the show, who'd had tack stolen from his barn, then I told him how someone had stolen five horses from George Irons' farm in Pennsylvania and that they'd tried for seven.
He questioned me closely, and when he disconnected, I wondered why I hadn't told him about Greg.