Edmund rolled his eyes and stuck out his lower lip. “I really wish you would drop this idea of Tiller being a suspect and get back to our investigation of Randall Dodge. This is getting a bit ridiculous.”
“Hello, Sheriff!” said Annabelle excitedly, while putting her finger to her lips and looking daggers at Edmund. “I spoke to someone today who may have some information about A. J. Tiller. He had an idea he went to Australia, and he also knows who he might be working for down there.”
Edmund could hear Sheriff Noah speaking excitedly through Annabelle’s cell phone.
“No, I don’t know the man’s name, but my informant says he’s a friend of Tiller’s previous employer, Richter Davenport.”
At this, Edmund threw up his hands and made as if to take the cell phone from Annabelle’s hand before he remembered his ghostly limitations. Annabelle moved quickly out of his reach, anyway.
“Yes, I can meet you for coffee. In fact, I haven’t had my usual cup this morning.” she said, trying to ignore the fuming apparition in the passenger seat. “Sure, “The Tennessean” is fine. I’ll be right there.” Annabelle closed her flip-phone with a click and turned to Edmund. “What on earth are you upset about?” she asked. “This is a great breakthrough in the case!”
“What case?” Edmund asked. She had never seen him so furious, living or dead. “Not my case. And I believe you promised not to involve Richter Davenport in all this.”
Too late, Annabelle remembered she had indeed made such a vow. “But Edmund, that was before we heard Ned Owens say Tiller was working for one of Richter’s friends!” She felt badly now, even though she still believed she was doing what she ought to do. “Besides,” she said, trying to placate her angry friend, “if Davenport hasn’t any connection with the murders, it won’t do any harm to mention his name to the local Sheriff.”
Edmund shook his head at her, his disappointment clearly portrayed in every feature of his face. Then he sniffed decisively and proceeded to disappear.
The Tennessean Truck Stop is a local landmark with a regional reputation. Many a cross-country truck driver has planned his route to make his mealtime stop to conveniently include the “The Trucker’s Breakfast.” This delicacy, which consists of hash browns, bacon, and cheddar, is a famous favorite not only of the visiting drivers, but of the locals, including the Hill County fox hunters.
On a Friday night before a Saturday hunt Meet, it was very typical to see city types down from Nashville dining beside the truck drivers and local farmers. The fried chicken was superb, and the country fried steak even better. And, for those watching their waistlines there were home-cooked vegetables of every variety (liberally seasoned with pork fat, however.)
This was not a place to overindulge in alcohol. Each customer was only allowed three beers—not enough to have much of an effect upon any of the Tennessean’s usual clientele as all had a similar high tolerance for alcohol.
When Annabelle pulled into the parking lot on the morning of the meeting with Sheriff Noah, beer was certainly the last thing on her mind. It was now eleven o’clock, and she had had neither breakfast nor the all-important cup of coffee before heading to Charles’ farm. She had already made up her mind not to wait on the Sheriff before ordering, but such a breach of etiquette was not necessary as he was already waiting for her at a sunny booth by the window from which he eagerly arose as soon as he saw her enter the restaurant.
“Hello there, Mrs. Farley,” he said, rushing to shake her hand and see her settle on the other side of the booth. Today, the Sheriff was sporting a black felt cowboy hat that went with his boots, along with a stiffly starched plaid shirt embroidered with the name of a famous hunting outfitter. Annabelle smiled at him, surprised to find herself genuinely glad, or at least amused, to see him again.
The waitress appeared almost immediately. She was familiar with both of her customers, but had never seen them dine together before. She asked no questions, being acquainted with the Sheriff’s penchant for attractive females. She was a little surprised seeing Mrs. Farley with him, but there was no accounting for tastes.
After she departed to the kitchen in search of coffee for two and an order of “The Trucker’s Breakfast” for Annabelle, the Sheriff got around to asking Annabelle what she’d found out.
“Well, it came about completely unexpectedly,” she said, now able to share her excitement with a willing listener. “I’ve been helping Charles Collins take care of his horses at Change of Venue since Tiller left him, and this morning I had to be there to accept a delivery of wood shavings—for stall bedding, you know.” Annabelle added the last phrase by way of explanation since she had no idea if the Sheriff was at all familiar with barns and horses. She declined to mention her misadventure in moving Charles’ trailer, thinking it would add little relevance to the tale. “After he dumped the shavings and was about to leave, the man from the sawmill, Ned Owens was his name, asked if we’d heard from Tiller.”
Annabelle stopped to accept the much-needed cup of coffee from the waitress and then leaned forward conspiratorially before telling the Sheriff the rest of her news. “I said “no” to his question and asked if he’d heard anything, himself. He said he really didn’t expect Tiller to write him from Australia.”
The Sheriff sat back abruptly, whether truly surprised or just indulging Annabelle, it was impossible to say. “What made him think he’d gone to Australia?”
“Well, he said Tiller had always talked about going there to work for a fox hunt. He didn’t know the name, but said there was some connection with Tiller’s former employer.”
“You mean the man that died earlier this year? What was his name—Edgar?”
Annabelle had to suppress a laugh, but sobered quickly. She hadn’t considered the possibility that Owens might have been referring to Edmund, not Davenport. And she’d been too busy arguing with Edmund to ask if he knew of any fox hunts in Australia.
“The man I think you mean is Edmund Evans. But frankly, I sort of assumed Owens was talking about Tiller’s employer before Mr. Evans, a man named Richter Davenport.”
Sheriff Noah considered Annabelle’s new information and sipped his coffee for a moment. So far, it appeared that A. J. Tiller had temporarily used his employer’s truck as transportation to Pulaski where he’d caught a Greyhound bus for Atlanta. There was nothing to connect the man with any other crime, and the owner of the truck wasn’t interested in pressing charges. On the other hand, Annabelle Farley wasn’t going to let up on him until he did something to prove her suspicions one way or another. And, he thought to himself with pride, it was not as if he didn’t have plenty of favors to call in from his many years with the Bureau. He looked across the Formica table at Annabelle’s big, shining eyes and decided he had certainly risked more for less.
“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Farley,” he said with a magnanimous air. “I didn’t feel it was appropriate or even feasible to try to track Mr. Tiller from Atlanta to points unknown, but now that we have at least a possible destination, I’ll try to find out if he went to Australia. Shouldn’t be too hard with all the security checkpoints he would have had to go through these days.”
Annabelle had to stop herself from jumping up from the booth and hugging the man. “Oh, thank you, Sheriff!” she said. “I just know we’ll find him, and then…”
“And then, maybe not much, Mrs. Farley. I can’t promise you we can do anything else. And if he didn’t go to Australia after all…”
“I understand,” said Annabelle, thinking she would worry about the next move when it needed to be made, but not now. She could hardly wait to hear what Edmund would say! Then she remembered something. “What about Richter Davenport? Are you going to talk to him, too?”
Sheriff Noah put up his hand in a restraining motion saying, “One thing at a time, Mrs. Farley. Let’s just check out your Australian theory first.”
Annabelle fought back the urge to argue and tried to be pleased with the victory at hand.
&nbs
p; “In the meantime, I think I’ll ask the county commission to let me hire you on as Guilford’s number one detective,” said the Sheriff.
Annabelle laughed. “I think I’ll keep my amateur status for now, but please do keep me posted on the investigation.”
“You bet’cha,” said the Sheriff, as Annabelle’s breakfast arrived and she settled back to enjoy it, unable to recall when she’d last felt so pleased with herself.
CHAPTER XXII
THE SHERIFF COMES THROUGH
To Annabelle’s surprise, the week wore on without the visits from Edmund that had recently become a part of everyday life. Charles quickly hired a new groom to replace Tiller. That was just fine with Annabelle, who didn’t mind helping a friend, but wasn’t particularly anxious to care for another barn full of horses in addition to her own.
The Wednesday hunt was uneventful with only one brief run all day. At the tailgate afterward the hunters had to admit to each other that the season was coming to a close. Fox hunting is a cold weather sport, and the winter that had seen the passing of Edmund Evans and Felicia Blackwell was essentially over. All that remained was the upcoming Closing Hunt that was often little more than a memorial gesture commemorating the season’s sport.
Annabelle, as usual, visited fellow-hunters by wandering from one chatty group to another, some of whom she would rarely see during the spring and summer months. With her ears open for clues as always, she overheard Charles mention he had extended an invitation to Richter Davenport to ride with him as his guest in the Closing Hunt. Annabelle looked forward to a chance to observe the visiting Master whom she now suspected had knowledge of at least one murder.
And, although she initially adopted a cavalier attitude toward Edmund’s disappearance as the days passed and he continued to absent himself, she began to feel genuine remorse about the manner in which they had parted. She hated to think she had disappointed her friend when he had come to her for assistance. She also missed his companionship, despite his tendency to appear unannounced and cause her to spill her wine or trip down stairs. Her feeling of loneliness led Annabelle to another level of introspection. Was it wise to be so attached to what might very well be a figment of her imagination? Even though Edmund had been materializing before her very eyes for several months, just a few days without seeing him caused her to doubt she had ever really seen him at all.
Annabelle had always been loath to give up anything to which she had formed an attachment, be it a person, an idea, or, when a child, even a favorite toy. And, there was no doubt she had been attached to Edmund Evans and looked to him for guidance as she navigated the often treacherous social seas in the world of fox hunting.
Now, as she attempted to analyze herself, she wondered if her defiance of Edmund on the subject of Richter Davenport had been a symbolic effort to chart her own course, independent of his counsel. The trouble was, Annabelle felt far less confident now that he was no longer around for her to disagree with. She continued to consider various theories about the murders, and actually came up with several interesting scenarios. Unfortunately, Edmund hadn’t reappeared to listen to them. So, Annabelle looked forward to observing Richter Davenport’s behavior at the Closing Hunt and waited to hear from Sheriff Noah about his investigation of A. J. Tiller’s whereabouts. There didn’t seem to be much else she could do.
After a week that Annabelle felt had lasted several months, Friday evening finally arrived. It was the night before Hill County Hounds planned to hold their annual Closing Hunt and Guilford was buzzing with activity. All of the fox hunters were in town, including some that only hunted a few times each season.
The Closing Hunt Tea would be held at Shelley and Warren Fitzpatrick’s farm where Annabelle and Marguerite had been helping with the preparations most of the day. If Annabelle was any good as a prognosticator of how a party would turn out (and, of course, she was an expert on the subject), this one promised to be a genuine blow-out. Warren was a connoisseur of dance bands and had chosen one of the very best in a town full of great bands to come down from Nashville for the afternoon. Shelley had hired a huge tent to shade them from the now ever-present southern sunshine and filled it with delicious foods and two bars serving premium liquors.
As glum and introspective as Annabelle had been all week, she began to cheer up considerably at the prospect of such a good time. She also determined to stick to Richter Davenport like glue, despite his legendary inapproachability. She went to the barn to braid the horses’ manes in a cheerful frame of mind.
As she stood on a stool to reach the top of Samson’s big draft head, Nick came to the barn carrying two generous glasses of red wine with the bottle tucked under his arm. He reached up to kiss her and they laughed at the disparity in their heights, which was usually the other way around.
“The Fitzpatrick’s and the Robertson’s are on their way over,” said Nick, sitting down in a chair and holding Annabelle’s wine for her as she worked. Braiding a horse’s mane is definitely a job requiring both hands.
“Just to hang out?” asked Annabelle, pleased.
“Yes. Their horses are already braided and they said they would come entertain you since you were so slow.”
Annabelle laughed, and a few moments later she heard a truck pull up outside the barn, followed by Harold Robertson’s infectious laugh. He bounced in with a cocktail and looked critically at Samson’s half-braided mane. “Good grief! What a head of hair that horse has got!” he said critically.
“You obviously haven’t told him ‘big hair’ went out in the 80’s,” added Marguerite.
No one could resist teasing Annabelle about her beloved horse, if only to hear her insist, for the hundredth time, that he was perfect in every way. Annabelle took the bait, knowing she would disappoint them if she did otherwise. “Samson is proud of his draft-horse roots, and so am I,” she said with her nose in the air.
“Well, he certainly has enough of them,” said Harold, quickly taking advantage of the opening Annabelle had given him.
The three couples laughed and chatted while Annabelle finished Samson’s mane, then she stepped down from the footstool to work on his equally generous tail. She was just tying-off the end of the braid when the barn telephone rang.
“I’ll get it,” said Nick, who had been feeling slightly guilty watching his wife at work. In a second, he stuck his head around the tack room door and said in a mock whisper, “It’s for you, Annabelle. It’s the Sheriff.”
A collective ‘ooh’ rose from the assembled fox hunters, who giggled and taunted their friend. “What have you done now, Annabelle, more ‘breaking and entering’?” asked Warren with grin.
Annabelle wiped her hands on an old rag and went to the phone, inwardly cursing Charles Collins and his big mouth. When she heard Sheriff Noah’s news, however, all thoughts of her friends and their teasing were forgotten. She couldn’t help but be impressed with the Sheriff’s FBI connections this time.
“Mrs. Farley,” he said breathlessly, “I hate to bother you so late, but I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.
We’ve confirmed that Mr. Tiller did, indeed, fly from Atlanta to Melbourne, Australia, but not before he was forced by air security screeners to leave something very important behind.”
“What on earth?” asked Annabelle, trying to keep her voice low.
“A monogrammed sterling silver flask.” replied the
Sheriff.
CHAPTER XXIII
CLOSING HUNT
Annabelle slept very little that night. The fact that Miss Felicia’s flask had been in the possession of A. J. Tiller when he’d left the county had finally given Sheriff Noah the probable cause he needed to make her death the subject of a possible murder investigation with Tiller the prime suspect, but locating him in Australia might be difficult or impossible. And besides, Annabelle still felt sure a major piece of the Edmund/Felicia puzzle was eluding her. She had told the Sheriff all she knew about Tiller’s connection with Davenport and hoped
he would see fit to question him. She’d even let him know that Davenport was expected at Guilford the next day for the Closing Hunt.
Her mind worked in circles around Tiller, Edmund Evans, Randall Dodge, and Richter Davenport. Annabelle had no doubt there was some connection between Miss Felicia’s death and Tiller’s obliging help on that lady’s last hunt. And, there was even less of a question in her mind regarding Tiller’s past and present link to Davenport. However, she was still left with pieces that didn’t appear to fit into the picture, anywhere. It certainly seemed as if Randall Dodge had murdered Edmund—Edmund himself was sure of it. He had both motive and opportunity. Perhaps the two deaths were unrelated other than by coincidence, but every time Annabelle’s thoughts reached that point she felt more positive she was missing some key piece of information. She would turn over and make one more effort to go to sleep, but within minutes she was back again like a confused foxhound with too many coyotes to chase. Each time the scent led back to where it had begun, with the original game getting cleanly away.
When morning finally came Annabelle awakened groggily, somewhat surprised to realize she must have slept at least a few hours. Despite the lack of sufficient rest, excitement soon took over and she was wide awake, full of nervous energy once more. She dressed in record time and grabbed a bagel on the way out of the kitchen door to the barn. Samson and King were pacing in their stalls as if sensing their braided manes and tails meant today would be special. Closing Hunt was always held in the morning, in hopes that enough scent would linger for the hounds to work despite the warming weather and greening grasses. Annabelle was glad for once, and felt she couldn’t have stood waiting until afternoon.
Soon the Farleys were hauling their horses to the Meet with Annabelle chatting nervously all the way. Nick assumed his wife was excited about the last hunt of the season and the party at the Fitzpatrick’s afterward, which was certainly true. Annabelle had mentioned her suspicions about Richter Davenport to no one but Edmund who still refused to show himself.
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