The Masters Ball

by Anne-Marie Lacy

  “I’m beginning to think you’re right about that, Mrs. Farley, but the link between Mr. Tiller and any serious crime is just too tenuous at this point.”

  “Oh, well. Thanks for your help, anyway.”

  “Don’t lose heart. Maybe something else will turn up. I’ll keep in touch.” The Sheriff rang off.

  “Dead end?” asked Edmund, who, of course, had expected nothing else from the Sheriff.

  “I’m afraid so. They think he went to Atlanta, which means he could have flown anywhere in the world.”

  In a dispirited fashion, Annabelle continued her perusal of Tiller’s old magazines. “Edmund, did Tiller have any family or close friends in Atlanta?” she asked after a moment.

  “I think it’s certainly possible that Atlanta was his destination rather than just a point of departure, but I don’t know of any connections he had with the place.”

  “Where is his family?” Annabelle asked, now intrigued by this new line of thought.

  “What difference does that make? I can’t remember offhand. I don’t really know,” Edmund replied, a curious expression on his face, as if he’d only just considered Tiller might have had a family.

  “You certainly didn’t know much about him, did you?” asked Annabelle, more in the tone of a statement rather than a question.

  She was about to suggest they leave the apartment—the clutter and the smell were getting noxious—and her recent talk with the Sheriff hadn’t done much for her spirits.

  With a sigh, she turned over the last issue in the stack. A familiar, but unexpected, name appeared. “Edmund, where did you get Tiller?” she asked excitedly.

  “Where did I get him? He was highly recommended to me by a friend and I hired him, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Who recommended him?” she asked, clutching the magazine.

  Annabelle handed Edmund an old issue of Horse and Hound and pointed to the mailing label.

  “Was it him?” she asked, indicating the name of the magazine’s original recipient. The expression on Edmund’s face was all the answer she needed.

  CHAPTER XX

  BUSTED

  Edmund, who had been pacing about the cramped and messy little apartment while listening to Annabelle and marveling at Tiller’s lack of housekeeping skills, pretended at first not to understand what she was insinuating.

  “Oh, I remember now,” he said, continuing to walk around. “My friend, Richter Davenport, recommended him to me. You know Davenport, don’t you, the Master of the Waterford Hounds?

  Annabelle stared hard at Edmund for a moment. “I’ll bet he knows where Tiller is. I’m going to call the Sheriff!”

  Edmund stopped his pacing and sat down on the sofa beside Annabelle after first moving aside an old pizza box. Edmund was at least as conscious of his formal clothing in death as he always was in life, perhaps more so now since he was unable to change his attire.

  “Annabelle,” he said firmly but quietly, like a parent trying hard not to lose patience with a recalcitrant child, “you really must promise me you will not involve someone of Mr. Davenport’s stature in these wild theories.”

  Annabelle crossed her arms and said nothing for a moment.

  “You weren’t concerned about Randall Dodge—and he is certainly a person of ‘stature’ as you say,” she said finally.

  Edmund shook his head in disagreement. “He is in his own way, but Davenport is a Master of Foxhounds and has been for years. Do you understand what that means, Annabelle?”

  “I thought I did, but I have a feeling I’m about to hear an entirely different view on the matter.”

  “Well, to be a Master is not only the greatest honor society can bestow,” he began, ignoring Annabelle’s comment, “but it’s an honor that carries with it tremendous responsibility.”

  “Kind of like being President of the United States?” asked Annabelle.

  “I’m perfectly serious about this. I’ve listened to enough of your hair-brained theories…”

  “Okay, okay! Go on.”

  Edmund took a deep breath and began again. “A Master of Foxhounds must put hunting above every other pursuit in his life. He must safely show sport to a group of individuals with widely varied riding abilities. He must court new landowners and pacify existing ones. When subscriptions fall-short he must be ready to make up the difference from his own personal funds, even if it means a hardship on himself or his family. All of this must be accomplished with a gracious attitude that makes the sacrifices appear effortless.”

  Edmund paused for a moment, whether for effect or simply to catch his breath. Annabelle wasn’t sure.

  “I say all of this to make one point—no Master of Foxhounds would risk his reputation and that of his Hunt by being involved in some petty criminal activity, the likes of which I can tell you are about to begin by accusing Mr. Davenport.”

  “I thought you didn’t even like him that well,” Annabelle said lamely.

  “We don’t always get along, that’s true, but I’ve known him since he was a boy and I refuse to allow you to involve him in this mess about Tiller.”

  “I merely thought he might know where the man went, that’s all,” said Annabelle, wondering how he had managed to make her feel so guilty.

  “I can see your devious little mind is working better than you realize. You think you’ve found some clue here, don’t you?”

  Annabelle pursed her lips and kept silent. She knew when she was beaten. “All right, I won’t tell the Sheriff about it—just now, anyway.”

  “You’d better not,” said Edmund, standing and brushing any possible crumbs from his coat. “I’ll know if you do,” he said, taking Annabelle’s arm. “Let’s get out of this place. I’m starting to get depressed.”

  “Me, too,” said Annabelle sadly, thinking of her commitment to Charles which had now lost much of its appeal.

  Annabelle turned over and placed the pillow more firmly against her ear. Who was calling at this rude hour? After four loud rings, the answering machine picked up the call.

  “Thank goodness,” said Annabelle, and turned over, snuggling down in the deliciously soft white pillows.

  “Annabelle!” Charles’ voice came over the machine. “If you’re there, pick up! The man who delivers…”

  Annabelle snatched up the phone with a grimace. She had forgotten her added responsibility entirely, but there was no reason for Charles to know it.

  “Hello, Charles!” she said, trying to force her voice to sound alert and cheerful. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the phone in time.”

  “Annabelle, please, I know you were asleep. It’s only eight-thirty and I know you never get up this early unless Nick insists you go cubbing! Annabelle made a face. “Okay, so what? If you knew I was asleep, why are you calling now?” she asked in a sickly-sweet voice.

  “Because, you’ve got to get over to my barn as soon as possible. I know it’s a pain, but I just got a call from the man who delivers my wood shavings. He’s on his way and you’ll need to let him through the gate.”

  Annabelle sat up and began to try to clear her head. Many barns use soft wood shavings as bedding in each horse’s stall. She had noticed yesterday that Charles’ shaving pile was getting low, but with the weather so pleasant she had been able to leave the horses outside. The early spring weather could change at any moment, however, so it was very important that the clean bedding be available.

  “I’ll get over there right now,” she said, obligingly, while putting her feet on the floor and looking about for yesterday’s blue jeans.

  “Thanks, girl! I hate to ask you to do this, but…”

  “No, I offered to help and this is part of running a barn. I need to get up anyway,” she lied.

  “I’m afraid there’s one more thing.”

  “What’s that?” Annabelle sat back down on the bed, one leg in her blue jeans and one out. She had that ‘Oh, no’ feeling.

  “Tiller liked to park the horse trailer in front
of the shavings pile because he said it helped keep them dry—out of the weather, you know? So you’ll have to move it before the man can dump the load of shavings.”

  Annabelle sighed. “I haven’t driven a gooseneck trailer in years.”

  “All you have to do is move it a few feet. It’ll be all right.”

  “Okay. It’s your truck and trailer I’m worried about. I’ll give it a try, though.”

  After a few more words of thanks and encouragement, Charles rang off leaving Annabelle to throw on her paddock boots, a sweatshirt, and her Barbour coat, and went flying out the front door. The terriers begged to accompany her, or at least given dog biscuits as an alternative, but their Mistress had no time for either indulgence.

  As she started her car she heard a familiar voice from the direction of the passenger side of the vehicle. “Poor Kiddo— gets herself in such difficult situations—all in the name of hunches, theories, and clues!”

  Annabelle growled at him. “It’s too early for disembodied voices,” she said. “If you’re going to talk to me at this hour, would you please materialize?”

  In a moment, Edmund was visibly lounging in the passenger seat of the Mercedes which Annabelle had to push back as far as it would go to accommodate his long legs. “Cheer up!” he said, obviously very cheerful himself and fully enjoying Annabelle’s discomfiture. “It’s really not that early, you know.”

  “I know that,” said Annabelle, still not smiling. “It would have been fine if I’d had more notice. I’m also not looking forward to trying to move that horse trailer.”

  Annabelle didn’t bother to explain to Edmund where they were going or what trailer she referred to, guessing correctly that he had invisibly eavesdropped on her conversation with Charles.

  “Oh, that’s right,” he said sympathetically. “Your trailer is a bumper-pull, isn’t it? Have you ever driven a gooseneck rig before?”

  “Yes, but it’s been a few years. In fact, I can’t remember the last time.” Annabelle searched her memory as she drove down the quiet back roads to Charles’ farm.

  “Well, I’ll help you anyway,” said Edmund kindly. “We won’t have any trouble.” He patted her thigh reassuringly.

  “Good,” was all she replied. She was not much of a conversationalist before her morning coffee.

  When they reached Change of Venue, Edmund waited in the car while Annabelle opened the big gates which she left wide for the shavings delivery man. When they got up to the barn, Annabelle jumped out and went over to examine Charles’ beautiful three-horse trailer with a dressing room that was indeed parked in front of the shaving pile with only about six feet in-between.

  “I see why he does this. It probably does help keep the shavings dry, but it seems like a great deal of trouble.”

  “I suppose so,” said Edmund, who could not recall ever moving his own shavings and had no idea how they were kept dry. Edmund’s wealth had assured that such tasks were always performed by someone else.

  Annabelle climbed into Charles’ big, green, dual-wheel pickup truck he used to pull the trailer, the same one Tiller had ‘borrowed’ to get to the bus station in Pulaski. Charles had thoughtfully left the key in the ignition and the big engine turned over smoothly.

  “Now what?” she asked Edmund, who had clambered in beside her.

  He looked at her blankly. “You just back it up under the trailer hitch, I believe.”

  “I thought you said you were going to help?” Annabelle was not in the mood for jokes.

  “I am helping.” said Edmund, eyebrows raised in surprise. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

  “Edmund, do you know how to do this or not? Because I definitely don’t. In fact, now that I think about it, I’ve driven one of these things but I’ve never actually hooked it up to a trailer.”

  Edmund gave her a condescending little smile. “Why don’t I get out and flag you back?” he asked, wondering to himself whether or not it would actually hurt if she slapped him.

  “All right,” said Annabelle, getting more frustrated by the moment. She had rolled down the window and was looking back expectantly, waiting for his instructions. Edmund stood beside the trailer that had a long metal column which would attach to the hitch in the bed of the pickup truck. He knew, essentially, how the two things should connect—the problem lay in getting them to meet. He took a deep breath and tried to size up the distance between the pickup and the trailer.

  “Well, first,” he said in what he hoped was an authoritative tone, “you’re way too far to the left. Move forward and then straighten up.” Edmund gestured widely with his left arm.

  “What? Do you want me to move to the left or to the right? You’re pointing to the left!”

  “Oh, so I am!” said Edmund quickly. “You’re too far left, so you need to move to your right!” This time, he pointed in the appropriate direction. Annabelle put the truck in a forward gear and pointed the front end to the right. Then she attempted to straighten the vehicle as Edmund had indicated.

  “No, no, no!” cried Edmund, trotting up to the window but keeping out of range of Annabelle’s fingers. “You’re not straight! The end of the truck is angled too far to the right!”

  Annabelle pulled forward, much farther away.

  Using the correct arm this time, Edmund proceeded to slowly flag her back toward the trailer. “Come on, very good!” motioning with his arm and thinking how easy it really was.

  Annabelle continued to ease the truck backward, seemingly in a direct line with the metal column of the trailer hitch.

  Suddenly Edmund shouted, “Stop! Stop!” as they both heard the sickening rasp of metal against metal. “I said stop!” he cried, trotting quickly up to the driver’s side door.

  “What the hell was that?” asked Annabelle, her voice low with fury.

  “You forgot to lower the tailgate on the truck so it collided with the column on the trailer!” said Edmund breathlessly.

  “I FORGOT?” Annabelle was speaking louder by the second. She leaned as far out of the truck as she could reach. “You have no clue how to do this, do you? I’ll bet you’ve never hooked-up a truck to a trailer in your entire life! You’d better stay back!” she said, noting that Edmund was maintaining a careful distance from the truck, just out of reach of her hands. “Of all the stupid…”

  At that moment she became aware of another presence—one who was respectfully clearing his throat in order to get her attention.

  “Oh, hello,” said Annabelle, her face turning crimson. “You must be here to deliver the shavings.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, I sure am. Would you like a little help moving the trailer?”

  Annabelle smiled gratefully at the man. “I sure would!” she exclaimed, climbing quickly out of the driver’s seat.

  Her rescuer was an overall-clad gentleman in early middle age with a kind face and rough hands. He gave Annabelle a sympathetic look as he took the wheel of the pickup. “You ought not to be so hard on yourself, Ma’am. Lots of people have trouble with these things. It don’t mean you’re stupid.”

  Annabelle thanked the man who expertly backed the truck to the trailer and connected the hitch. Edmund had disappeared again, but not before Annabelle heard him laughing.

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE LAND DOWN UNDER

  Now that she was up and about, Annabelle enjoyed the mild morning weather. She fed and watered Charles’ three horses while her new friend from the sawmill dumped the giant load of shavings. He introduced himself as Ned Owens, and after Annabelle thanked him profusely for helping her hook up and move the trailer, he very kindly offered to move it back into place and unhooked the hitch in case Annabelle needed to use the truck.

  As Annabelle signed his receipt acknowledging delivery of the shavings, she noticed Ned had pushed his ball cap back and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with an old handkerchief.

  “Can you believe it’s already this warm?” she asked, as she returned his clipboard and pen. She had long since
shed her Barbour.

  Ned shook his head. “Sure looks like an early spring to me—‘course, it could change at any minute. The last time I made a delivery here, it was so cold Tiller had to break the ice on the buckets before he watered the horses! Have ya’ll heard anything from that old boy?”

  It was a second before Annabelle realized Ned was referring to the missing A. J. Tiller. She tried not to betray her excitement by answering him as casually as possible. “No, we sure haven’t. Have you?”

  Ned grinned at her. “Naw, not me, but then I would hardly expect a call all the way from Australia.”

  “Australia!” This time Annabelle couldn’t hide her surprise. “Is that where he went?”

  Ned’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s what I reckon. He always talked about going down there to work for some Hunt—said the Master was a friend of the man he used to work for.”

  Annabelle was almost speechless with excitement over this bit of information, but didn’t want to act in a way that would make Ned uncomfortable. She forced herself to react calmly. “Well, actually, he left here without giving notice. That’s why I’m here pitching in temporarily,” she said in what she hoped was an off-handed manner.

  Ned frowned at her for a moment. “That’s too bad,” he said. “That old… ! I sort of wondered if you were the new barn help!” he said, all smiling.

  They laughed again over Annabelle’s inept attempt to hook up the trailer. Then Ned Owens drove away, presumably back to the sawmill for another load, but not before Annabelle noted the name and phone number of the business. She ran to the car to write down the information and then used her cell phone to dial Sheriff Noah.

  “Hello, Deputy,” she said when Waldrop answered the Sheriff’s phone. “This is Annabelle Farley. Is the Sheriff available? Thanks, I’ll wait.”

  “What are you doing now?” asked Edmund, who had appeared in the passenger seat.

  Annabelle put her hand over the receiver. “I’m going to tell him what I just found out from that Mr. Owens,” she said, with no doubt in her mind Edmund had been present and listening for the past half-hour.