by Kit Ehrman
Chapter 12
Thursday morning, I visited Gwendolyn Peters.
The only other living relative mentioned in Peters' obituary had been a nephew, and after a bit of detective work with the phone book the night before, I'd tracked him down. He knew little about the events surrounding August fourth and next to nothing about Hunters Ridge. He did, however, point me in the right direction as far as his aunt was concerned. Shortly after her husband's death, Mrs. Peters had suffered a nervous breakdown and seemed destined to live out the remainder of her days in a nursing home.
"What about the farm?" I'd said. "Do you think anyone still works or boards there who knew your uncle?"
"You're outta luck there, pal. Place got sold and is being bulldozed as we speak."
"Bulldozed into what?"
"A housing development, what else? Nice, too. The land backs right up to Piney Run."
Shortly after eight, I pointed the Chevy's nose northward. After a few wrong turns, I found the town of Wards Chapel and, on Eighth Street, Shady Grove Nursing Home.
They must have recently polished the floor, because my shoes squeaked with each step I took down the long, depressing corridor. I had always hated hospitals, and nursing homes were close enough to elicit the same adversionary response. I turned a corner and nearly walked into an elderly man with disheveled yellow-gray hair. His back was so stooped, he reminded me of a tree limb, ready to snap. Even his skin looked like bark. I continued on.
Most of the doors were open, but I did not look in any of them. I paused just before I got to room 309 and wished I were anywhere else. The air stank of strong disinfectant that couldn't mask the stench of urine and was nauseating. I wiped my hands on my jeans and stood in the doorway.
Mrs. Peters sat unmoving in a chair that had been placed so she could look out the window. Early morning sunlight shifted and winked in the branches of a nearby Mimosa and angled through the glass like a moving kaleidoscope. The view was pleasant enough—manicured lawn, a hedge of forsythia bushes that had probably been spectacular a week earlier, a patch of blue sky. A breakfast tray sat on the bedside table, and by the looks of it, Mrs. Peters ate very little. The room was cheerless and drab with institutional furniture and empty walls, except for a still-life print that hung above the bed. The only personal possession in evidence was a photograph on the night stand.
I cleared my throat. "Mrs. Peters?"
She didn't respond.
I walked around the bed and stood by the window where she could see me. "Mrs. Peters?"
She turned her head slowly and looked at me with pale, watery eyes, her expression blank. Her skin was deeply wrinkled and hung slackly from her bones. She no longer looked like a woman in her sixties as her nephew had said she was.
I introduced myself and asked if she would mind answering some questions about Hunters Ridge.
"Hunters Ridge?" Her eyes widened, and her hands clutched at the knitted afghan draped across her lap. "You know Hunters Ridge?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Is it a job you want?"
I blinked. "Uh . . ."
"Because you'll have to ask Jimmy. He's the one does the hirin'."
I didn't say anything. Couldn't.
"Have you seen him?"
I shook my head and swallowed. "I wasn't looking for a job. I wanted to know who worked for, uh . . . is working for him."
"Oh, well, Maryanne and Crystal come in the afternoons and on weekends, and Vicky gives lessons."
According to Greg, it had been years since they'd switched from boarding to breeding, and I wondered what time frame Mrs. Peters' mind was stuck in. "What are their last names?"
"Oh, heavens, I don't have the vaguest. Jimmy would know. He keeps the records. You just go on over and ask him. He'll know."
"What about boarders?"
"Oh, well there's Jenny and Sue Ellen, Linda and--"
"Their last names?"
"Oh, my. I don't rightly recall. They come and go, you know? You'll have to ask Jimmy."
I asked her who shod their horses, delivered their grain and hay, and anything else I could think of, and I learned that Mr. Peters had done with as little help as humanly possible. She mentioned a Buddy Harrison who may or may not have been related to John Harrison; otherwise, none of the names were familiar. If she was talking about twenty years ago, then I supposed it made sense.
"And your vet?" I said.
"Greg Davis." She nodded to me. "So young and handsome, like yourself. At first, I told Jimmy I thought Greg was too inexperienced, but Jimmy had great faith in him. Said he knows how to time a breeding better than Morgan ever did. Course, Morgan was always half in the bottle. Couldn't tell a one from a three if his life depended on it. And if you don't read the follicles right, you end up breeding too early or too late and have to wait another whole month."
"Morgan?"
"Doctor Morgan. Passed away, God rest his soul."
I glanced behind her, at the photograph on the night stand, and she followed the direction of my gaze and twisted around in her chair. She picked up the gold-framed photograph, then settled back against the cushions and balanced the frame on the folds of her afghan. It vibrated in her trembling hands. A network of blue veins and tightly strung tendons threaded their way under skin that looked transparent, and her knuckles were swollen, fingers misshapen with arthritis. A gold wedding band hung loosely around a bone-thin finger. I stepped to her side with sick fascination.
Peters had been a tall, gangly man with a broad forehead and easy smile. His arm was casually draped around his wife's shoulders as they stood in front of a split rail fence. A group of yearlings had gathered on the far side with their ears pricked curiously toward the couple. Mrs. Peters was leaning against her husband with her arms around his waist, her head tilted back as she gazed into his face. She looked young and carefree and exceedingly happy.
She touched the glass with her fingertips, as if she could bring back the moment. "Have you seen Jimmy?" she said without looking up.
I swallowed. "No, ma'am."
"I told him he shouldn't have reported it." Her voice caught in her throat. "But he always does what's right."
"Report what?"
She didn't answer.
"Mrs. Peters, who did he report?"
"Do you know when he'll be back?" Her voice was high-pitched with strain. "Dinner's almost ready."
"Mrs. Peters. It's important that you tell me. What did he report?"
She covered her mouth with a trembling hand.
"Who, Mrs. Peters? Who did he report?"
Tears spilled down her cheeks. "No, no, no-o-o." Her voice rose in a wail that filled the tiny room.
I put my hand on her bony shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Peters."
A nurse bustled into the room. "You. What are you doing?"
I straightened.
"You'll have to leave." She stood aside so I could move around her. "Now."
I walked out into the sunlight and tried to imagine all the possible things Mr. Peters might have reported that had anything to do with horses. As I drove back to Foxdale, I couldn't stop thinking about the fragility of the human mind. Under normal circumstances, I imagined, Gwendolyn Peters could have been reduced to such a state by senility or Alzheimer's or whatever, but I had an overwhelming feeling that she had been pushed. Pushed by the horror of her husband's sudden, violent death.
The man who was behind this, whoever he was, had destroyed more than one life on that hot summer night.