“Oh, hello, Sheriff,” said Annabelle, with a wink to Edmund over her shoulder. “How are you doing?”
“Hmmph,” retorted the shade, as he settled in to listen to the conversation.
CHAPTER XVIII
ANNABELLE OFFERS TO LEND A HAND
Annabelle listened as the Sheriff described having located Charles’ green pickup truck at the bus stop in Pulaski. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but Tiller appeared to have left by Greyhound. He promised to continue to investigate and to keep Annabelle informed of any new developments.
“Thanks for the tip, Mrs. Farley,” said the Sheriff before ending the call. “I’m really enjoying working with you!” Annabelle said, “Likewise”, and hung up the phone.
“Was that Inspector Clouseau checking in?” asked Edmund, seeming to imply that the man’s timing could not have been worse.
Annabelle cross-tied Samson in the aisle of the barn and began to remove his saddle. “Yes, and guess what? They found Charles’ truck at the bus depot in Pulaski. I bet Tiller left it there and then departed for parts unknown—somewhere Noah can’t extradite him,” said Annabelle, grinning with excitement. She placed the saddle on a stall half-door for the moment. “I guess I’d better call Charles and tell him the police found his truck,” she said, heading back to the telephone.
“Yes, why don’t you do that,” said Edmund, “and while you’re on the phone, tell him you think Tiller was involved in Felicia Blackwell’s murder.”
Annabelle glanced at Edmund over her shoulder. “Well, there is some connection and I intend to find out what it is.”
Charles didn’t answer when she called him, so Annabelle left a message on his voicemail asking him to call her as soon as possible. She would decide how much to tell him once she got him on the phone. She placed Samson’s bridle and saddle in the tack room.
“Don’t you think the police will contact him, if they haven’t already? Surely, even Sheriff Moses knows that much police procedure.” Edmund remarked.
Annabelle laughed out loud. “It’s Noah, not Moses, Edmund!” she said, shaking her head at his teasing.
“Noah—Moses—what’s the difference? Why anyone like him would be named after an Old Testament prophet is beyond me.”
Annabelle finally stopped laughing. “I want to talk to Charles, anyway. He might have remembered something important.”
“Oh, no, I have truly created a monster with this detective business. And, of course, what happened to me has been forgotten in all of the excitement over this ‘new’ murder. Annabelle, we simply must get back on track.”
Annabelle let him repeat his old assumptions and theories for five minutes before waving him away and headed back to the house.
Dusk was falling as Annabelle crossed the yard from the barn to her kitchen door, accompanied by the two terriers. Samson was snug in his stall, having devoured the promised carrot with relish before attacking his evening serving of oats. The month of March was almost over, spelling the end of another fox hunting season. The days were already warmer and longer than they had been just a few weeks before, and at six p.m. the sun was just beginning to set. Annabelle poured a glass of wine and thought a bit more about Felicia and the missing Tiller. Fitz and Floyd tussled playfully at her feet while fighting over a rawhide bone, and Edmund reappeared taking his accustomed seat by the window.
“Where on earth could Tiller have been headed?” asked Annabelle. “I hope Sheriff Noah had some luck checking the bus schedules.”
“I can’t imagine”, said Edmund. “Didn’t your policeman friend say he would question the bus station employees?”
“He told me that, yes—but I don’t remember repeating it.” Annabelle smiled. Here was yet another example of Edmund’s uncanny ability to eavesdrop.
“Well, he speaks very loudly,” said Edmund defensively. “Not exactly a sterling quality in a policeman.”
“Never mind that—he did say he would try to find out where Tiller had gone, and he agrees with me that it appears he was running away from something.”
“I just can’t believe that. I found Tiller to be most trustworthy. He certainly never displayed any criminal tendencies.”
Annabelle’s telephone interrupted Edmund’s eloquent defense of his former stable hand in mid-sentence.
“Hello, Annabelle?” asked a male voice on the other end of the line. “It’s Charles. You rang?”
“Hey, Charles—thanks for calling me back.”
“Well, I would have called you sooner, but the Sheriff was here with my pickup truck when I drove in.”
“Oh, my goodness, where did he find it?” Annabelle asked. She decided that since she hadn’t had a chance to inform Charles about Sheriff Noah’s discovery of the truck, she would just as soon not mention her involvement.
“They found my truck at the bus depot in Pulaski, of all places. Looks like our friend Tiller had somewhere to go! Can you believe that? And, after he acted so pleased when I offered him a job—like he could never do enough to show his appreciation. Now he’s left with no warning and the police are looking for him. Leave it to Edmund to harbor a criminal.”
As Charles was so angry, Annabelle decided not to point out the fact that he had been taken-in by Tiller as well, and wondered if Edmund was listening-in as she had begun to expect. If so, he was being surprisingly quiet. Suddenly, a fresh idea occurred to her.
“Charles, I hate to interrupt, but did he leave anything behind?”
“What? Leave anything? You mean personal belongings? I don’t think he had a whole lot, but the Sheriff’s Deputy walked through the barn apartment. What are you getting at, Annabelle?”
“Oh, I just thought there might be some clue as to why he left or where he had gone.”
“Well, the Deputy didn’t seem to think so. Do you know something about Tiller’s disappearance?”
Annabelle backtracked rapidly. “No, no. I’m just surprised, that’s all. He seemed like such a decent guy when he was grooming for us at Waterford and everything.”
“Oh, well. I guess he fooled everybody. I can’t believe he didn’t even let me know my horses were still out when he left. Of all the irresponsible things to do! Edmund always spoke so highly of him. . .”
It appeared that Edmund had had all he could stand without defending himself. “I can’t believe he’s trying to blame a dead man for his problems”, his voice full of irritation at the young Master.
Annabelle stifled a giggle and let Charles continue to vent. She actually didn’t blame him for being furious. She knew he was very concerned about his horses and always worried if he didn’t have someone reliable to care for them while he was working in Nashville.
She got another inspiration. “Charles, listen. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of your horses next week, myself. Just try to find someone permanent as soon as you can.”
“Annabelle, that’s great! I’ll start asking around this weekend.”
“Oh, there’s no huge rush. I can certainly pitch-in for a few days, at least.”
“You’re a peach! I’ll see you at the hunt tomorrow?” Charles asked.
“You bet. ‘Bye, Charles.” Annabelle hung up the phone, smiling smugly at her own ingenuity.
“What are you planning, Annabelle? Since when do you volunteer to clean stalls?” asked Edmund, who had indeed listened closely to the conversation but couldn’t quite make-out Annabelle’s intentions.
“Just because that Deputy couldn’t find anything doesn’t mean there’s nothing there. If I’m looking after Charles’ horses, I have an excuse to look around his barn, don’t I?”
“If I had a hat, I’d take it off to you. But do you really think Tiller was involved in Felicia’s death? Or mine? We know he didn’t kill me. I thought you were so sure the murders were connected.”
“I still think they are, but you have a point. Tiller wouldn’t have been at the Masters’ Ball, that’s for certain.”
“Annabelle, I’ve told yo
u who pushed me down those stairs, and I’ve even told you his motive. I think you’re really ‘running riot’, here.”
Annabelle smiled at Edmund’s fox hunting euphemism. “Running riot” was a term used to describe hounds that ran after the wrong quarry, such as deer or raccoon instead of fox or coyote. She decided to reply with a quip of her own—“Just ‘hark to me’ for a while, Edmund.”
CHAPTER XIX
BACHELOR PAD
As it turned out, Annabelle and Nick didn’t hunt that Saturday. Nick was expected from the west coast on Friday night, and Annabelle was planning to pick him up at the airport around 10:00 p.m. She liked doing that when he traveled alone, and it had become a sort of tradition in their marriage. However, as airline travel had become much less reliable in recent years, that practice became more inconvenient for Annabelle. Recently, Nick’s connecting flights were often delayed or cancelled, so Annabelle never left for the airport to meet him at the scheduled time without checking to see if his flight was anywhere near arriving. This time, however, even that prudent step failed to defy the inconvenience of travel in the post 9-11 world. After Annabelle arrived at the airport, she was informed that Nick’s last connection out of Atlanta had been cancelled by Delta just minutes before he was to have boarded the aircraft. The next flight did not depart Hartsfield for four long hours.
Annabelle was dismayed. She had been happily anticipating their reunion and was looking forward to telling him about her successful jumping session with Samson, and, for the Farleys, 10:00 p.m. was not too late to stop for a light supper somewhere in town before heading back to Guilford. Now, all of Annabelle’s plans would have to wait as Nick was not expected until 2:43 a.m. Although a disappointed Annabelle dutifully offered to wait, Nick insisted she return to Guilford. He planned to take a cab home when the plane finally arrived.
So, on Saturday, Nick slept-off his late night flight and was in no mood to hunt. The Farleys stayed home, a very rare occurrence during hunting season, and discussed recent events as they cooked a lavish breakfast, complete with the divine Bloody Mary’s Nick had learned to make from Warren Fitzpatrick.
Nick predicted they wouldn’t miss much hunting if they stayed home which turned out to be a correct analysis of the day. The sun was too hot, the warm easterly breeze blew constantly, and there was already too much green foliage for the scent to hold long enough for a good run. Closing Hunt was planned for next weekend. The hounds and horses, and even the riders themselves, were ready for a rest.
It was the first time the couple had had a chance to really talk in several days, what with the dinner party on Wednesday night followed by Nick’s early flight the next morning. Now, as Annabelle sat back from the table stirring her Bloody Mary with the dill pickle wedge which was the recipe’s secret ingredient, she recounted to Nick her discovery of the flask in Felicia’s tack room and her subsequent introduction to Sheriff Noah and Deputy Waldrop. Although Nick couldn’t help but laugh at her description of Noah and his tobacco-spitting side- kick, he took Annabelle’s suspicions about Miss Felicia’s death very seriously.
“It’s horrifying to think you may have ingested poison out of her flask, even if it wasn’t intended for you,” Nick said. “Annabelle, I hope you’re wrong about this, because if it really happened like you think it did there’s a desperate, dangerous person in our midst.”
“Well, if it was Tiller, at least he’s left the area.” The truth of Nick’s comments had put a damper on her enthusiastic sleuthing. She didn’t dare mention she felt there was a connection between Miss Felicia’s murder and that of Edmund Evans.
“We don’t know it was Tiller at this point. I’m so glad you’ve put this in the hands of the police, regardless of how comical they may be,” Nick said decisively.
Annabelle nodded in agreement and was glad she had omitted mentioning her latest scheme to search Tiller’s former living quarters. She saw a direct prohibition against further involvement forming on Nick’s lips before he was conscious of it himself. After a moment, she prudently changed the topic to Samson’s most recent brilliant performance, followed closely by a description of the terriers’ most recent transgressions— thus passed a congenial breakfast in the Farley household.
Bright and early (for her) Monday morning, Annabelle headed for Charles’ farm, Change of Venue, to check on his horses and to do a little snooping. Charles’ horses were doing just fine. She gave grain to each, but left them in the pasture since the weather was warm and clear—the less time a horse spends in a stall, the better. She scrubbed and filled the water buckets in each stall so they would be clean and ready when she brought the horses in that evening. Last, but not least, she made sure the two huge plastic water troughs in the pasture were full to the brim.
Her legitimate business concluded, she tip-toed silently up the steps, sneaking as if she, herself, was a criminal. She told herself Charles wouldn’t mind if she went anywhere on his farm and she was probably correct, but still felt a little guilty as she climbed the wooden staircase leading to the apartment A. J. Tiller had so recently vacated.
“I still don’t know what you think you’re going to find in there,” said a voice immediately behind her on the stairs. Annabelle had been concentrating so closely on her purpose that she had forgotten about her ever present companion. Startled, she barely managed to avoid slamming her head on the top of the stairs.
“Would you please quit doing that!” she said testily, as she quietly turned the knob of the apartment door.
“Doing what?” asked Edmund cheerily, as he followed her into the sitting room.
“Yuck! What a mess!” Her pique at Edmund was eclipsed by her dismay at the revolting housekeeping of his former employee. Annabelle stood with her hands on her hips, reluctant to dive into the half-empty pizza boxes, beer cans, and other assorted filth that decorated the apartment in place of more ordinary bric-a-brac.
“I’m hardly the world’s best housekeeper, but this is bad even by my standards,” Annabelle said with a sneer. “Was he this messy when he worked at your farm?” she asked Edmund.
Edmund looked at her blankly for a second. “I don’t know. I never visited his quarters. He took good care of me and my horses—that’s all I was interested in.” Edmund smiled at her distasteful expression. “You’re the one who wanted to search this place, remember? I’ve told you he has nothing to do with any murder.”
Annabelle began to move about the room, turning over food containers and magazines with the toe of her boot. “I know it’s my idea, and I intend to look around.” She brushed a layer of crumbs and animal hair off of the sofa and sat down. “This place could be quite cozy if it was fixed up by someone who gave a damn.”
Edmund walked around the room, looking at the debris. “I agree, Annabelle,” and stopped to sit beside her. “Why don’t you tell Charles you’d like to stay here while you take care of his horses this week?”
Annabelle rolled her eyes and began flipping through the magazines she’d found piled on the floor. Tiller had apparently used them as a makeshift telephone-stand. An old fashioned phone with an extra long cord sat perched on top of the stack. Annabelle moved it to look through them.
“I wonder how much of this mess was actually made by our friend, the Deputy, during his investigation,” said Edmund, as he looked over her shoulder.
“That’s true. I hadn’t thought of it, but he could be responsible for some of this disorder, although it’s hard to imagine him being that thorough.”
Annabelle continued to flip through the magazines that were mostly devoted to horse related subjects. “I like his choice of reading material, anyway.” She picked up each copy of The Chronicle of the Horse and Horse and Hound and shook them slightly, hoping some scrap of paper or other potential clue would fall out, but nothing did.
She noticed the mailing label on one of the issues of The Chronicle had originally been addressed to Charles. “These would be expensive for Tiller to subscribe to,” she said th
oughtfully. “I guess Charles gave them to him when he was finished reading them so he wouldn’t have to buy a subscription.”
“I know. I gave him plenty of mine,” said Edmund. “It beat leaving them lying around the house.”
Annabelle continued to look at the mailing labels. “Yes, here’s one with your name on it, Edmund.” They smiled at each other. Annabelle had become so used to Edmund in spirit form that she almost felt puzzled when confronted with evidence of his former corporeal existence.
At that moment, Annabelle’s cell phone rang. She looked down at the display that showed the incoming telephone number. “It’s the Sheriff”, and quickly flipped open the receiver, thankful for the technology that allowed Sheriff Noah to call her without knowing she was snooping around behind his Deputy.
“Mrs. Farley?” asked the Sheriff. Annabelle could tell by his voice that he had something he thought would be of interest to share with her.
“Yes, hello, Sheriff,” she said expectantly.
“Are you sitting down?” Noah was really enjoying this part of his official duties.
“As a matter of fact, I am. What’s up?” Annabelle couldn’t help grinning at her new friend’s enthusiasm.
“We’ve spoken with individuals working at the bus depot on the day Mr. Tiller left town. Of course we haven’t confirmed it for sure, but it appears our friend took the bus to Atlanta.”
Annabelle knew what that meant and her excitement fizzled. “Home of the world’s busiest airport,” she said dejectedly. “He could be half-way around the world by now.”
“That’s true,” agreed the Sheriff, “but it’s pretty easy to trace airline passengers these days, although it may be a little hard to justify going to that much trouble to find a man suspected of ‘unauthorized use of a vehicle’, which has since been recovered, I might add.”
Annabelle, who had been pacing around the messy room, disappointedly sat back down again. “Oh, Sheriff, can’t you use your old FBI contacts to help us? You know there’s more to this than a temporarily stolen truck.”
The Masters Ball Page 13