by Abigail Keam
“Something else I bought. Wait.”
The man led a small piebald horse out of the trailer.
I looked at Hunter. “You bought another horse?”
“What do you think of her?”
“She’s a beautiful horse. Very unusual markings. A black medicine hat and shield on her chest.” (A medicine hat is the color on a horse’s ears and poll with the rest of the face a different color. The marking looks similar to a hat on the horse’s head. A shield refers to a block of color on the horse’s chest.)
The man stopped in front of us, giving me a good look at the horse. She was a small black and white American Paint horse.
“Is she a pony?”
“She’s not considered a pony, although she’s small for her breed.”
“Hunter, she has blue eyes.”
Hunter stepped forward and looked. “She sure does, but they’re not as pretty as your green eyes.”
The Paint stepped forward and nuzzled my shoulder. I scratched her ears, enjoying the earthy scent all horses have.
“She cottons to you, Josiah.”
“She does seem to like me.”
“That’s good, because she’s for you.”
I jumped back. “Me! What am I going to do with a horse?”
“Ride her.”
“I can’t ride.” I slapped my leg.
“Yes, you can.”
“I can’t afford a horse. Horses are expensive. I should know, since I charge an arm and a leg to board them here.”
Hunter signaled to the man he could go and took the piebald’s reins.
“She’s legally mine, but I want you to ride her.”
“No can do. I might fall. I’m held together with spit and wire as it is. I don’t need a broken hip as well.”
“She has nowhere else to go. She’s a middle-aged horse no one wants, but there are still some good years in her. I want you to see something. Look under there,” he said, pointing to the mare’s belly.
I bent down as much as I could. The horse turned her head, nipping at my buttocks. I patted her side to comfort her. “I’m not going to hurt you, old gal. Just want a look-see.”
I felt along her abdomen. Straightening up, I leaned against the horse’s side. “I feel scars.”
“Best I can tell, someone used spurs on her.”
“A lot, I would say.” I wondered who rode with spurs anymore.
Hunter remained silent, watching me gently stroke the Paint.
“She sure is sweet,” I mused.
“She sure as shootin’ is.”
“Are you turning into Hop-a-long Cassidy on me? Next you’ll be saying ‘aw shucks ma’am, t’warn’t nothing’ and rolling your own cigarettes.”
“I’m trying to create a certain mood here. Just go with it.”
“And you say she’s got nowhere to stay?”
“She’s the companion horse to my Hanoverian. The owner said if I didn’t take her, he was going to shoot her, since no one would want such an old horse.”
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen.”
“That’s not old for a horse. They can live to be thirty.”
“About your age in horse years, wouldn’t you say?”
I ignored Hunter’s last remark. “Of course, she can stay, but I don’t believe you about the owner shooting her. She would make a good riding pony for a young person. As for me riding, that’s absurd. I was never a good rider when I was young, and now an English saddle is out of the question.”
“This mare is not an English saddle kind of horse. A western saddle is for her. You can ride western-style. The horn will help steady you.”
“I don’t know.”
Hunter led the Paint into the paddock with his majestic Hanoverian before taking her off the lead. The Paint slowly followed as the other horse went to the water trough. Together they stretched their necks to drink.
“They seem to enjoy each other’s company,” I admitted.
Hunter looked at his watch. “I’m late. Meeting a contractor about the house.”
“Don’t worry about your horses. I’ll check on them every day. We’ll take good care of your babies.”
“Think about what I said.” Hunter took a long look at his horses before taking off.
Hunter’s kisses were all I could think about the rest of the day, but I had to bottle honey.
Before dark, I went back to the horse barn and checked on the horses. They had settled in nicely. Tomorrow I would tell the stable hand to let them out in the front pasture.
To my way of thinking, my saying no to riding was the end of the discussion about me getting up on a horse, so I wasn’t thrilled when a Spanish saddle with silver buckles arrived at the Butterfly special delivery the next day. I would have to say it had the biggest horn on a saddle I had ever seen.
It seemed Hunter was determined that I ride.
We’ll see who wins that battle.
33
I didn’t see Hunter for the next few weeks. He was busy with refurbishing his house and out of town on business.
I kept an eye on his horses. Several times a week I would go to the stable to brush the Paint. When she saw me standing at the fence, she always wandered over. It might have been the cubes of sugar I had in my pocket that caused her to be so compliant, or maybe it was my company. I’m sure that’s wishful thinking, but I enjoyed brushing the mare while telling her my troubles. She would nod her head as though agreeing.
I could tell the Hanoverian and the American Paint were gaining weight, which pleased me to no end. I thought they had looked a little thin when they first arrived.
Every so often, Hunter would call. We would talk about his horses. He was interested to hear that the Hanoverian had a fondness for apples while the pony liked sugar. The subjects for conversation centered around them and his house. He never brought up our relationship, or when we would see each other again.
I took this as a sign he was having second thoughts about us, so I left it alone. We had made a deal, hadn’t we? No questions asked.
I was resolved to be a good sport about it. After all, it had only been a few kisses. Nothing serious.
So why did I keep thinking about him?
Determined to push Hunter from my mind, I concentrated on Sandy’s situation. I felt bad for her. Real bad. I wanted to help her, but how? And if she really murdered Toby, should I be wasting my time?
Since her bail was high, she was still in jail. Shaneika couldn’t shake the judge on the amount. The only positive thing in Sandy’s life was her paintings, which were commanding record prices, but the galleries were slow to deposit Sandy’s share of the sales in her new bank account.
Shaneika issued stern letters that Sandy was entitled to her percentage, and would sue if the money was not deposited immediately, but so far–nothing.
I took a few photos of Georgie, which Shaneika took to Sandy. Shaneika told me the photos of Georgie brought Sandy some peace, but she was still under medical care and losing weight. Shaneika wanted to get her out on bail.
I felt useless. Eunice had our business running ship-shape. I had bottled all my honey. The farm was humming along with the help of Charles Dupuy’s grandsons. There was nothing for me to do until Saturday when I would be at the Farmer’s Market.
Boredom is a rotten thing. It can lead to all sorts of mischief. What’s that old saying about idle hands being the devil’s workshop–and how did it affect me?
This way–I called Shaneika. Had she talked to Carol Elliott, Toby’s girlfriend?
“No.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because we can’t locate Carol Elliott.”
“You don’t find that odd?”
“I do, but the police don’t.”
“I would think the police would want to talk to her, since Toby’s body was found near Winchester, and Carol Elliott lives in Winchester.”
“You would think,” Shaneika responded with her signature sarcasm.
“Has Sandy been charged with Toby’s murder?”
“Not yet.”
“That means they don’t have enough evidence.”
“I concur.”
“Hmm. You know, Shaneika, I’m not doing anything special today.”
“It’s a nice day for a drive.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Maybe a little jaunt over to Winchester.”
“If you get caught, I will have to disavow any knowledge of your actions.”
“Will this tape self-destruct in five seconds?”
“What tape?”
“Shaneika, it’s hard to be witty with you when you don’t even recognize pop culture references. Disavow any knowledge of your actions. Tape will self-destruct in five seconds. Hellooo. Mission Impossible.”
Ignoring my banter, Shaneika mumbled Carol Elliott’s address before cutting me off.
I was still explaining Mission Impossible when I noticed the line was dead. I was talking to thin air. No matter. I had something to sink my teeth into.
I let the dogs out to do their business before putting them back in the house. Each dog, sucking on a chew toy, settled in nicely for a nap. “I’ll only be gone for a couple of hours,” I said to them.
Baby already had his eyes closed, gumming his toy like a pacifier. Georgie rose and followed me to the door, wagging her tail, assuming she’d be riding shotgun with me.
“No, Georgie, I can’t take you this time. You stay here and be good. We’ll go for a walk when I get back.”
Leaving Georgie to her own devices, I locked the front door and hurried to my car. Driving the back roads, it took only a short time to reach Winchester. I wasn’t sure where Mrs. Elliott’s street was located, so I pulled over and consulted a map. Yes–a real honest-to-goodness paper map.
It took me a few seconds to find her street, and make the connection where I was. I pulled out again, turned left, went several streets down, and turned right again.
Carol Elliott’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was a modest, white clapboard house, neatly kept, with woods framing the backyard and the left side of the house. There was a sedan in the driveway.
I knocked on the front door still thinking about what I was going to say. I briefly considered telling the truth. I knocked again and rang the doorbell.
Nobody answered.
I went around to the back and knocked on the back door. Nobody. I peered in the window. The lights were off, and the house seemed empty.
“He’s not home.”
I swirled around, grateful I was wearing a blond wig, even though it looked dreadful. “What?”
A woman was standing in the yard next door, hanging up her laundry to dry. “Lonny’s not home. He’s at work.” She pulled some clothespins out of her pocket and hung up a pair of pants.
“I’m here to see Carol. Isn’t that her car?” I was making a guess. It was a Toyota Corolla, a car a woman would drive.
The neighbor glanced at the car. Her expression was odd. Maybe curiosity. Maybe concern. I couldn’t quite interpret it.
“Yeah. That’s her car, but she’s not home.” She began hanging up cloth diapers.
“Carol loaned me some money, and I came to pay it back.” So much for the truth.
“Try the back door.”
“This door?” I asked, pointing.
“Yeah, nobody in this neighborhood locks their back door.”
“Isn’t that unsafe?”
“Nah, nothing bad ever happens on our street. We all look out for one another.”
“Oh,” I replied. “Do they have any mean dogs?”
Shaking her head, the woman went about hanging up her clothes, most of them baby clothes. She obviously had a newborn.
I tried the doorknob.
It turned.
I quietly opened the door and stuck my head in the kitchen. “Hello,” I called. “Hello.”
Silence.
I stepped inside. “Hello, Carol. Are you home?”
Nothing.
“I’m in the kitchen. Please don’t shoot me, anyone. Hello?”
Silence greeted me. The house was dark and gloomy.
Sensing that no one was really in the house, I grew bolder, taking the opportunity to snoop. I put on gloves I had in my pocket, and wiped off the doorknob. One can’t be too careful was how I looked at it. Now I had to be quick.
I went through the mail on the kitchen table. Just bills. Then I ventured into the hall, glancing in the living room. It was neat. Very neat. Carol must be a clean freak.
After calling out again and hearing no response, I found the bathroom, and opened the medicine cabinet.
There were women’s toiletries like hairspray and moisturizer in the cabinet. Also a bottle of Prozac. It was prescribed for Carol and was almost full. I looked at the date on the bottle. Dated several weeks before Toby died. I put it back. Before I left, I checked the blond wig in the mirror. It looked absolutely hideous on me, but it was on straight. That’s all that mattered.
Next I went to find Carol’s bedroom. Down the hall, I found two bedrooms, again both tidy. I chose the bigger one. The bed was made, and the floor free of discarded clothes or shoes.
There was a hamper in the corner. I went through it. Nothing but men’s clothes.
I checked the closet. It was stuffed full of both women’s and men’s clothing, purses, shoe boxes, and mismatched luggage.
I had to speed this up.
Glancing around the room, I noticed a jewelry box on the dresser. I hurried over and rummaged through it. Underneath some costume jewelry was a band of gold. A woman’s wedding ring. I looked for an inscription. There was none, but the band was heavily scratched. I put it back, closing the box.
On the dresser were perfume and a hairbrush. On instinct, I pulled some hair out of the brush and put it in a ziplock sandwich bag from my pocket. Now I had to get out. Carol or her husband could come home any moment.
I went next door and knocked.
The neighbor came to the door.
“Sorry to bother you again, but I left the money on the table. If you see her, tell her to look for it under the salt and pepper shakers. I don’t want her to miss it.”
“I don’t know when that will be.”
“But her car is in the driveway.”
“Yes, but I haven’t seen her several months now, and the car hasn’t been moved.”
“Several months? That’s why I could never get ahold of her. Do you know where she went?”
The neighbor glanced over at the house, again with a strange look on her face. “Lonny said Carol ran off with some man.”
“And left her car?”
A shrug of her shoulder was her only reply.
I tried another tactic. “I found her wedding ring on the floor. I put it back up on the table.”
“Was it cut?”
“No. It was intact.”
“Carol gained some weight and couldn’t get it off. She was going to have it cut off by a jeweler.”
I could tell the woman was getting antsy. I had to hurry with my questions. “I noticed all the curtains and blinds were closed. I’ve never known Carol to do that. It makes the house so dark.”
“That didn’t start until Carol left.”
“I see Lonny is starting a garden. The earth is turned over near the back of the yard.”
“I’m busy. I need to go.” The woman shut the door in my face.
I went to my car, noticing the neighbor was peeking out from behind a drape. Oh, great. I hoped she didn’t take down my license plate number. And I hoped she didn’t tell Lonny Elliott about my visit, though I had a strong hunch she avoided Lonny Elliott like the plague. Like me, the neighbor knew something was not right in the house of Elliott.
34
“The police searched the river thoroughly. Carol Elliott is not in the Kentucky River where Toby was found,” said Shaneika, sitting behind her massive desk.
“Then where is she?” I asked
.
“She could be anywhere, Jo. The problem is, there is no evidence to support any theory you might concoct. Let’s say Carol Elliott killed Toby in a jealous rage because he wouldn’t leave Sandy. Here’s another one–Sandy killed them both in a jealous rage. Interesting theories, but nothing to back them up.
“Listen, Josiah, maybe she realized nothing could ever come of her affair with Toby. She grew despondent and left town. You said you saw a prescription for depression.”
“And leave her car behind? Her medication? Her clothes?”
“Perhaps she used a friend’s car or a rental. Perhaps, like Sandy, Carol Elliott was symbolically putting an end to her old life, and that included clothes and her car.”
“Her wedding ring? Her neighbor said she couldn’t get it off her finger. It was too tight.”
“You don’t know it was her wedding ring you saw. It could have been her mother’s.”
“Come on, Shaneika. Have a little more imagination.”
“I deal in facts.”
“Lawyers deal in facts? They deal in perceptions. In what they can make a jury believe.”
“I’ll ignore your sarcasm.” She stared hard at me.
I stared back.
“Okay. I’ll talk with the lead detective on Toby’s murder case, and encourage him to talk to Lonny Elliott, but I’m not promising anything will come out of it.”
“That’s fair.”
“By the way, did you happen to find a shotgun in their house?” Shaneika asked.
“No, but I didn’t have time to search the entire house. I didn’t see a computer either, but I do have this.” I pulled a wad of hair out of my pocket and placed it on Shaneika’s desk.
“Good lord, what is that?”
“I think it’s Carol Elliott’s hair.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Keep it. Might come in useful for DNA testing.”
“Evidence has to be collected and handled properly. This hair is inadmissible.”
“Just hang on to it. You never know.”
Shaneika reached into a drawer and took out a large manila envelope, sliding the plastic bag with the hair into it. After sealing the envelope, she notated date and time on it. “I’ll lock it up in my safe, but we won’t ever be able to use it.”