Tonight she planned to cook one of Warren’s favorite dishes—roast chicken stuffed with herbs and served with a mushroom cream sauce. Annabelle preferred to make the sauce with cremini mushrooms because of their strong flavor, but had to settle for plain button mushrooms. She would add extra tarragon to make up for their blandness.
As she trussed her small chickens and chopped herbs to place under their skin, Annabelle thought about Miss Felicia who would undoubtedly have been one of the guests tonight but for the actions of some maniac. She felt sure someone in their midst was responsible for the murders of two of her friends, and her helplessness in the matter was very frustrating. As she worked on her meal she tried to see the situation through the eyes of Sheriff Noah and the rest of the world. The two individuals had died in very different circumstances. The only certain connection between the two events was their mutual membership in the Hill County Hounds. Annabelle paused for a moment in her preparations. Perhaps she should be more worried about her own safety at this point. A small shiver of fear climbed down her backbone.
“Edmund?” she called softly.
“At your service,” came the immediate reply. “Where are you?”
“I’m right here, Annabelle.” This time he materialized in his usual spot in the window seat next to the sleeping terriers which were now so used to his presence that they didn’t even stir. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, nothing, I just felt a little—oh—concerned, I guess. This is serious business.”
Edmund gave her a smile of understanding and amusement. “It is serious, as you say. I certainly never thought you would be in any danger, or I never would have solicited your help. This second murder is totally unexpected.”
In an instant, Annabelle’s expression changed from worried to triumphant. “Aha! So now you do think Felicia was murdered!”
Edmund rolled his eyes at the return of Annabelle’s enthusiasm. “Well, I have to admit that I saw Felicia’s monogrammed flask in the tack room just as you did, and someone had definitely removed it by the time you got back with the ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’, although I guess someone could merely have stolen the flask—it was sterling, I believe.”
Annabelle made a face at Edmund. “And left thousands of dollars worth of saddles there for the taking? Not likely. Whoever killed Felicia knew it was evidence and removed it, not realizing we’d already been there and seen it.”
“As much as I hate to admit it, you may be right, although that doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a connection between her murder and mine.”
“Randall Dodge was around for both events, wasn’t he?” “I’m just trying to keep you from jumping to conclusions, my dear. We must keep our minds open—and you must promise me to be careful.”
Annabelle had poured herself a glass of red wine as they talked and sat it down on the counter as if in reaction to the soberness in Edmund’s voice. “I don’t really know what ‘careful’ means in this situation. The murders are so different. I don’t know what to be watching for. You’ll be around to help if I’m in any real danger, right?”
Edmund looked surprised by the question and answered, “Of, course, my dear, of, course. Now, finish cooking or your reputation as a hostess will be ruined.”
Annabelle grinned and reclaimed her wine glass as Edmund slowly faded back into the ether.
The Robertson’s arrived around seven o’clock with a bottle of wine and a Commodores CD Annabelle had coveted when at their house a few weeks before. Nick, who preferred Mozart, knew he was outnumbered in his own home when “Brick House” started blaring from the speakers in the kitchen ceiling. Noting his resigned expression, Annabelle put her arm around him and said, “We’ll compromise. I’ll turn it down a little, will that be okay? This music reminds me of my ill-spent youth.”
Nick laughed. “All right, I know when I’m beaten, but tomorrow night, The Marriage of Figaro.”
“You got it,” said Annabelle with a grin and handed him a fresh scotch.
Sharing the Farley’s red wine and munching on various cheeses their hostess had set out for them, the two couples chatted about their favorite topics -- horses, memorable hunts from past seasons, and, of course, their fellow fox hunters.
Harold recalled an episode of a few years ago when a Hunt from Canada came to visit Hill County, bringing twenty- four hounds and as many members. The afternoon had been still and damp—perfect hunting weather. The riders of the guest Hunt were beautifully turned-out and well-mounted on eager steeds. Hill County had provided a Stirrup Cup, and afterwards everyone rode enthusiastically after the visiting pack. There is always a little pressure on both the visitors and the hosts when a Hunt visits another’s territory, and this time was no exception. The visiting Huntsman cast his hounds into covert after covert, but no game emerged. After about forty- five minutes of earnest searching, the visiting First Flight Field Master had yelled “Tally-ho!” and waved his cap triumphantly.
The Huntsman quickly collected his pack and came galloping to him, blowing his horn to summon his Staff of Whippers-in with the Masters of both Hunts in tow. To their dismay, all of the excitement had been caused by a very large grey housecat that had taken one look at the hounds and prudently climbed a tree! The Field Master was embarrassed at the time, but even more-so when his mistake was commented on by the more creative members of the Hill County Hounds. The Robertson’s had hosted a fabulous party after the hunt and Harold felt it only appropriate to greet each of his guests with cries of “Tabby-ho! Tabby-ho!”
The Robertsons and Farleys were laughing with the subject turning to speculation as to how Harold managed to avoid being involved in constant fights, when the Fitzpatrick’s arrived—Charles Collins unexpectedly with them.
“I hope you don’t mind us bringing this ‘stray’ we found,” said Shelley, pushing Charles forward.
“Annabelle, I’m sorry to crash, but Shelley and Warren insisted you wouldn’t mind.”
“And I don’t!” said Annabelle. Actually she was glad the evening was turning out to be so festive. “Come listen to this music Marguerite brought to me,” she said, taking Charles by the arm. “By the way, to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Well, it’s not good news, I’m afraid. My housekeeper, Patsy, called me about two hours ago to tell me Tiller has disappeared. He must have gone sometime this afternoon. He’d turned the horses out this morning, but just left them in the pasture and didn’t bring them in tonight to feed them! Can you believe it?”
“What makes you think he won’t be back?” asked Shelley, as the group gathered around Charles.
“Patsy noticed the door to his apartment was standing open and the truck was gone. That’s what got her attention in the first place, so we went inside to check it out. There’s nothing left behind but junk—no clothes or other personal stuff.”
“That’s a shame!” said Nick. “He appeared to be so trustworthy! Everyone was glad when he went to work for you after Edmund died. What will you do about the truck?”
Charles heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose I’ll report it to the police as being stolen, but I may wait a few days just in case Tiller comes back.” He threw up his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “That’s not the worst of it. Now I’ve got to find someone else at such short notice. Patsy said she’d help out at the barn for a few days, but she made it clear she meant only a few. I’d hate to impose on her good will and lose a good housekeeper, too.”
“We’ll find you somebody,” said Annabelle. She patted him on the shoulder soothingly as she went back toward the kitchen to check on the sauce. Something about Charles’ situation seemed more than ordinarily curious to her, but she couldn’t puzzle it out with a kitchen full of friends and a head full of wine. “I’ll just think about it tomorrow,” she said to herself as she inhaled the aromas of butter, mushrooms, and tarragon.
“Sounds good, Miss Scarlett,” she heard a voice say, a ghostly smile hovering just above the bar.
&nb
sp; CHAPTER XVII
A RIDING LESSON
The next morning didn’t arrive for Annabelle until about ten thirty. She had slept heavily long after Nick had taken an early flight to the west coast, and decided to lie in bed a few more minutes for good measure even after she awoke. There was something she needed to do, but couldn’t remember what it was. As the terriers jumped on her legs and stomach, wagging enthusiastic tails of good morning, the idea from last night came back to her, this time in detail. Without further delay, she jumped into her dressing gown and ran downstairs to brew a pot of coffee.
As soon as she stood she recognized a sad, familiar feeling. She was experiencing the after-effects of one of her dinner parties—the better the evening, the worse the headache. “Boy, we must have had a great time,” she thought as she sipped her first cup of coffee. The only consolation was there was nowhere to go but up the rest of the day.
When her head cleared somewhat, Annabelle picked up the phone to dial Sheriff Noah.
“Who are you calling?” asked a loud voice at her elbow. “Not so loud, please,” she said, still dialing.
“Sorry,” Edmund said in an unapologetic tone. “You still haven’t told me who you’re calling,” he asked again, just as noisily.
“Shhh!” Annabelle whispered. The Sheriff had answered on the second ring. “Sheriff Noah, this is Annabelle Farley. We met yesterday.”
“Oh, no, not him again!” said Edmund with a sneer.
“Shhh!” Annabelle said more firmly, which made her head ache. She gave Edmund a dirty look. “Thank you, Sheriff. I’m glad you remember me. I have something I think you should check out.”
Edmund quieted, waiting to hear what she would say next.
“A man who worked for a friend of mine just up and disappeared, yesterday, apparently right after I’d been at Miss Felicia’s barn.”
“You don’t know that!” said Edmund, again forgetting to keep his voice down.
“Will you SHUT UP!” said Annabelle, immediately putting her hand to her throbbing head. “Oh no, I’m okay, Sheriff—just a neighbor who dropped in uninvited.” She looked pointedly at Edmund.
“Hummph,” he snorted.
“Yes, anyway, Sheriff, I just wonder if this man left abruptly because he had something to do with Miss Felicia’s murder.” Edmund started to protest, but Annabelle put her hand across his mouth. “Well, it may not be connected, but he took a truck that didn’t belong to him, as well. His name is Tiller—A. J. Tiller. I never knew what the initials stood for.”
“The initials stood for Andrew Jackson, if I may be allowed to speak,” said Edmund. “Although, why should I want to help you. I don’t…”
“I seem to recall the letters standing for Andrew Jackson, Sheriff,” said Annabelle. She listened to the voice in the receiver for a moment. “I know you can’t arrest him for murder, but maybe he stole the flask. My neighbor suggested that might really be all there is to it.” Annabelle gave Edmund a smirk. “The truck was a green Chevy pickup, a couple of years old, registered to Charles Collins at Change of Venue Farm. Okay, thanks so much. Yes, I will. ‘Bye now.” She hung up the phone and sat down to her coffee.
“Well, that was pointless,” said Edmund. “Tiller had nothing to do with any murder—or any theft, for that matter.”
“Edmund, I know you liked him. I liked him. But it’s too strange he walked-out on Charles right after Felicia’s death driving a vehicle that doesn’t belong to him, especially when everyone said he was so reliable.”
“The poor man probably had some family emergency, and now you’ve sent the Keystone Kops after him.”
“Well, if he’s got a problem, maybe Sheriff Noah can help him.”
“Fat chance,” said Edmund, dematerializing abruptly, leaving Annabelle alone with her coffee and her headache.
By afternoon Annabelle felt better and decided to work Samson in her riding ring. She hadn’t really had a chance to test her newly-found confidence in jumping since she had taken the log with Miss Felicia at Waterford.
She thought of her friend as she saddled Samson and wished she could telephone her to come over to critique her riding, make suggestions, and supply encouragement as she had on so many occasions. She also preferred not to ride alone in case of an accident, even though Samson was about as calm and quiet as a horse could be—unless it was the coin-operated variety. Still, at times like this when she really wanted to ride with a companion, Annabelle missed having her horse at a boarding stable where, in most cases, someone would be around to call 911 if something unfortunate occurred.
With as much determination as she could muster, she mounted and rode to the ring still thinking of Miss Felicia who had lived a long, eventful life and had faced challenges with resolution, but had never let bravery nor fear cloud her common sense and good judgment. She resolved to adopt a similar attitude.
She trotted Samson around the ring in each direction, first with only light contact on the reins while they both loosened and stretched their muscles. Then she asked him to yield his head and neck to the pressure of the bit coming through the reins from her hands. When a horse relaxes into this pressure from the rider, and simultaneously engages the muscles of his hindquarters, his balance and responsiveness measurably improve. This posture, called collection, was what Annabelle was striving for at a trot, and when achieved at that speed she would push Samson into a canter, hoping to maintain the same frame.
Samson had not been asked to work that hard lately so resisted by holding his nose up, out, and away from the pressure on the bit from the reins in Annabelle’s hands. In response, Annabelle began to apply pressure, first on one rein and then the other, simultaneously squeezing her legs against his sides to urge him forward. She also began to make smaller circles, still at a trot, which further encouraged Samson to drop his head and yield to her hands.
In a little while, she had him trotting nicely. After a few rounds, she asked him for a canter. This time, the response was instantaneous. Samson went easily into a comfortable rocking-horse stride.
So far, so good, thought Annabelle, but now it’s time to jump. She pointed Samson toward a low cross-rail they had jumped a hundred times before, and he hopped over it again without a fuss. Annabelle knew it was time for them to do more, and that the longer she brooded and worried, the harder it would become. In spite of her concern about a possible spill, she decided to quit warming-up and headed for the wooden coop she had built just in case she ever had the nerve to jump it—It had been sitting there for over a year, serving as a reminder of their untapped potential.
As she turned Samson toward the coop, she instinctively tightened her grip on the reins and raised her chin, trying to avoid the critical error of looking down at the jump that might cause her horse to stop.
“Relax,” she heard a voice say, directly ahead of her. Edmund had appeared and was outside the ring leaning on the rail exactly in front of the coop. “You’ve got a death-grip on him. Relax, and just look where you’re going until you get there.”
Annabelle tried to do as he said. She ceased her exaggerated attempt not to look down, and instead looked directly at the coop as Samson slowly cantered toward it. “Now, look straight at me, Annabelle,” Edmund said firmly, just as Samson came to within a couple of strides from the base of the coop. Annabelle looked up at her friend who, on this occasion, had manifested as clearly as when he had been alive. As she did so, she felt Samson gather himself underneath her and before she knew it, they were cantering safely away on the other side.
“That felt terrific!” exclaimed Annabelle, turning Samson and trotting back to where Edmund still stood. “How did it look?” she asked.
“It looked just fine. Now, turn him around and do it again!”
It was the happiest afternoon Annabelle had spent in a long time. She and Samson jumped the coop again and again, and their confidence grew with each one. Edmund smiled, praised, and directed operations. She even forgot about the recent murders in the joy
of guiding a young horse to do his best. When she finally dismounted she gave Samson a pat on his sweaty brown neck and told him he had definitely earned a carrot or two.
“As much as I hate to bring up an unpleasant subject,” said Edmund, walking beside them to the barn, “but since you insist on involving local law enforcement, hadn’t you better give the Sheriff the fax we recovered?” Annabelle stopped and let Samson immediately graze on the short winter grass.
“I don’t want to pile too much on him just yet,” she said. “He barely believes me as it is, and I’m afraid if I start talking about another murder victim in addition to Miss Felicia, he may decide I’m totally off my rocker.”
Edmund laughed, and for once didn’t argue with her. His acceptance made her feel happy again, as she had moments earlier after her successful ride.
Annabelle took off her riding helmet and stared hard at Edmund. She ran her hands through her short blonde hair and moved closer to the apparition she had long since begun to think of as real, and said, “Edmund, thank you so much for your help with my riding, both now and in the past. You’ve been great. I was so sad when I thought I would never get a chance to thank you. Now I want to try to pay you back by solving this awful crime…”
Edmund moved as to cup his hand under her chin and looked into her eyes. “Annabelle, dear, I always knew you appreciated me, and I mean that in every sense of the word. . .”
They both jumped when the barn telephone chose that moment to ring.
“I’d better get that,” said Annabelle, pulling Samson along behind her. She grabbed the cordless phone that hung by the tack room door.
“Hello, Annabelle Farley?” asked a voice on the other end of the line.
The Masters Ball Page 12