“Simon!” I called. He stopped, saw me, changed direction. His feet disturbed the gravel.
“Good morning, Bryn. Tried to call you on the cell–guess you were riding?”
“Nope. Feeding. What brings you out to the country this early?” Moving slowly, I entered the house, Simon behind me. I felt some nervousness. I’d tampered with a fair amount of evidence and I’d given that tip to Tuan about the papers I’d rescued from Anton Delon’s shredder. There might be some questions as to what a copy of Delon’s check stubs were doing in Marcie’s office. Also, I felt at risk that I might just fall over.
“How’s about a coffee?” I asked him. I had made some even though caffeine was not on my ‘have’ list. He thanked me, said yes, he’d like a cup. I poured out some dark chicory brew, set two mugs on a tray, put out my cream and sugar set, added some 2% milk to the creamer, tossed some Sweet’n’Lows onto the tray, then realized I might drop the entire ensemble. Simon had gone into my living room. I called to him, grinned sheepishly and asked, “Could you carry this in for me? I’m getting over a concussion.”
“Sure. And yes, I heard, Bryn. How are you? Seems like you’re moving slow.”
“Yep. Still a bit goofy from it. And if you don’t mind I think I’ll put something cool on my head. Helps.” He went into the living room with the tray and I opened the freezer and extracted a bag of frozen French fries, plopped them on my head, walked into the living room and sank into the loveseat. I felt a little annoyed when Simon sat down beside me. There was a perfectly comfortable rocking chair available, opposite me. As unobtrusively as possible, I scrunched away from him.
The tray was on the glass coffee table. He helped himself to the milk and a Sweet’n’Low and I did the same.
“So,” I asked brightly, “what’s in the briefcase?”
“Aah. Something I think you might find very interesting. But first, a favor.”
I felt a twinge of fear, but all I said was, “Of course.”
“I want you to tell me if you’ve had any of those…impressions…since finding Marcie’s body.”
He wanted to know if I’d had a woo-woo? Woo-woo was Sheriff MacWain’s scornful term for the One Time I had an ESP experience on the first case I ever worked. A little Covetown girl had gone missing. After days of the populace searching, I suddenly had an awful picture of a small body tangled in weeds at the edge of a bayou. I called the sheriff’s office and passed this on. They searched bayous and found her body. This had a two-fold effect: I’d gotten a reputation as a psychic with the law and I’d gotten hooked on helping out on murder cases.
“Simon. You’re kidding.” They must be desperate.
“No. I am not.” They are desperate.
“You’ll just make fun of me. Go back and tell all the guys Bryn’s latest psycho episode.”
“No. Scout’s honor. I wouldn’t treat you like that, Bryn.”
Uh-oh. My nervousness increased. “Okay. In that case, yes, I’ve had some in fact.”
I told him about my deep unease in Marcie’s kitchen, and my further impression of the horseshoe nailed to the stick and someone, I couldn’t tell who, pile driving it down into darkness. I didn’t mention Cade Pritchard ramming into the horse. Then he backed the car up….drove through the fence to the pool where his wife lay unconscious from drugs dissolved in alcohol….and….
“I knew it.” Simon was speaking. “So we’re looking for a stick with a horseshoe nailed on one end.” He leaned back and his thigh almost touched my knee. I moved my knee a half an inch away.
I felt mild delight that he seemed to be taking me seriously, because sitting under a bag of French fries it’s tough to look serious about anything. And with no makeup on either. But Simon seemed not to notice how awful I must look. His knee kept edging over. Simon Asprey! Not Simon having a crush on me! Pale, clammy Simon. Oh, no!
“I could be wrong,” I said. “Did you check Marcie’s kitchen floor for blood stains, Simon?”
“No. But sure will now. Honestly, Bryn, we don’t have much to go on. So far, we have isolated eighteen different fingerprints. Eleven of them from people who had a legitimate reason for being in the barn and the house. Still working on the identity of the remaining seven. No murder weapon if we eliminate the horse himself. A few folks with motives. Your–”
“Hallucinations?”
“Your–visions. I prefer that word, and as far as I am concerned, the horse absolutely didn’t do it.”
“The judge thought so at the inquest.”
“I know, but don’t think some people still want to wiggle things around so he’s the guilty party. Saves a lot of time and money, you know. No more fussing around looking for some elusive killer. Execute the horse, people feel satisfied.” I was surprised at Simon’s directness.
I adjusted the French fries and said, “Until this by-now very cocky killer gets in another jam and uses murder as his solution. Then we’ll all be so sorry–but a gorgeous and valuable breeding animal will be lost to us. He’s a wonderful sire. I hate the thought of losing those genes forever. Besides. He’s innocent!”
“Horse breeding is not my field, but I understand what you mean. “
“What else have you got for me, Si?” I drank some coffee and fought closing my eyes. I was starting to feel weary.
As I talked, Simon’s eyes had roamed my petite living room. His eyes drifted over the book spines in my shelves. Now he got up, and stood in front of the television set. He picked up a videocassette lying on top of the TV and waved it at me. Both his eyebrows were up. It was the Takeur tape.
“Oh. That!“
He read the side of the box, “Takeur’s Farm Tour. What farm, may I ask?”
“I was planning to give you that today. Glad you found it.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I guess I found it in Marcie’s tack room. Just before my first concussion.”
“Hmmm. Suppressing evidence?”
“Take it, Simon. I was meaning to give it to you all along.”
“Okay. But now you owe me a dinner out. I pay, you come. Annabelle’s Plantation.”
My eyes got wide. “Really? Fancy place.”
“Not too fancy for you, Bryn.”
Wow. What was fancy about me? I worked hard not to be fancy. “Um. Oh.” My stomach plummeted like an elevator with a broken cable. Please, Simon! Not a date!
He held up his hands. “I’ll be good. Just want an evening out with you.”
“Well. I guess we can plan on something down the road.” My throat was constricted. My voice sounded like a chicken squawking.
“Uh-uh.” He looked benevolently down at me. “Let’s pick an evening now.” He smiled.
I did not want to go on a date with Simon. With anyone. And with Simon it was too much like fraternization. Besides, I was just now getting comfortable with celibacy. And, if I weren’t celibate, would I actually be attracted to Simon? No!
“Okay,” I said. “A week Saturday?”
“Not this Saturday?”
I shook my head. It hurt and the fries fell into my lap. I left them there. I knew I looked terrible with damp, flattened hair, old baggy sweatshirt and flannel pj bottoms. Maybe all this would discourage him. He smiled at me, pleading in his eyes. Oh what the hell. Besides, Annabelle’s had good food.
“Okay. Saturday.”
Anything could happen by then. I could be dead.
“Great, Bryn, just great!”
Now he sat back down next to me and put his briefcase on the coffee table. He clicked it open and removed a CD. Waggled it in front of my eyes. “I will play this only once. You might want to take notes.”
“Okay,” I slapped the fries back on my head and got up, slowly, and regally moving to my office, I returned with a legal pad.
“Ready?” asked Simon. “Only once, now!”
I nodded, my adrenaline taking off as I caught the word ‘once,’ with its ominous association to the horse. Favorite Pilot V5 pen in h
and, a pad on my lap, I was prepared.
He inserted the CD. Soon, Marcie’s voice: “Morgan Oaks Farm, Marcie Goodall here, and I’m busy with the horses. Please leave a detailed message and I’ll call you back.”
A copy of a tape from Marcie’s answering machine! I had missed it!
Tape sound, then a man’s voice, high-pitched: “Hey Mrs. Goodall. Fil Takeur here. Bad news. Double whammy. Anton called and said he got the appraisal just now. The appraiser says the place is unlivable–broke air conditioning, all sorts of plumbin’ problems. Bad roof. Guess you didn’t know all what was wrong. Also, worse news–I just got laid off work. Real sorry. We can’t buy your farm now. Believe our agreement with you stipulated this sort of thing would cancel the agreement. So, now it’s canceled. Bye now.” Here was the clue connecting so many dots. Filmore actually canceling his agreement with Marcie based on a false appraisal, the one I had found at Delon’s, and also giving the no-work excuse. Marcie must have felt dreadful hearing this. Her whole life disintegrated with one phone message. So still, why kill her? It made no sense!
I scribbled. More tape sound, then another man’s voice: “Hey Marcie! Cade! All fixed up. Lawyer said since you agreed to hand back the farm, we won’t do a foreclosure, we do a’ assumption. Appointment for you to sign the papers tomorrow mornin’ at 9 A.M. Gaspachio and Ligitoni Attorneys, office in Metairie, 452 Realto Road, Suite 100. Call my cell, confirm.”
I wrote fast then looked up at Simon. “That’s it?”
“There were some earlier messages but these pretty much null those out.”
“Whew. So you checked on this–was there an assumption?” As if I didn’t know.
“I did and yes, there was. A Kitty Z. Abeletti assumed it from Aimée Pritchard.”
“Aimée! Dead Aimée?”
“Yes. Pritchard never put the deed to that farm in his name, just left it in his deceased wife’s. In fact, his name doesn’t appear on any of the documents. Kitty is his sister.”
“You don’t say. What a jerk! Is this legal?”
“It’s dicey. Could be a form of income tax evasion.”
Simon, his skin even paler under his sparse black hair, near-black eyes droopy as a bloodhound’s, suddenly moved around the coffee table and sat next to me. For a moment I was afraid he’d meant to get down on one knee. Now his face was too close. His breath smelled like coffee and mint, which merely muted an underlying metallic smell. I willed myself not to flinch. After all, Simon is a good, well-meaning man.
“Bryn,” he exhaled nervously. “I found out something else. Something that could be–big.”
“What?”
He took my hand. His felt like a cold, raw oyster wrapping around mine.
“Promise me you’re coming to dinner.”
“Simon. Promise. What?”
He leaned even closer–was he going to kiss me? I had to lean back. He whispered, oyster tightening– “One hour after Marcie left after signing the farm back to Cade, the Takeurs walked into Gaspachio and Ligitoni and purchased the property.”
“What!” My voice climbed to a shriek. “They violated the Agreement to Purchase they had with Marcie?” Agreements to Purchase were binding for ninety days unless there were extenuating circumstances, like the buyers suddenly couldn’t afford the property because of a job loss.
“Apparently, but maybe not entirely. If he really lost his job, he would legally be out of the loop.” To my relief, Simon sat back slightly. The oyster slithered from my hand.
“What! And he got another job a day later! Simon, you’ve got to believe that’s a bunch of hooey! This looks like some kind of conspiracy–Cade, Delon, the Takeurs. Maybe Marcie was killed because she’d figured out they were all illegally scamming her property from her…But that’s–hideous! How did Cade even know the Takeurs?”
“He shouldn’t have known them,” answered Simon. “Do you think Marcie would be so naïve she’d tell a shyster like Pritchard who her buyers were? She had to know he’d cut her out in a heartbeat.”
A picture flashed in my mind from the tape. Marcie riding her stallion, erect in the saddle, a strong woman. No.
“Watch the tape, Simon, the one you just found on my TV. It tells more about Marcie’s real personality than anything I could ever say. I really don’t think there was anything dumb about Marcie. Soft, yes. Beaten down and depressed–for sure. Unfortunately, though, she was also nice, and maybe that was deadly. But no. She wouldn’t tell him. Had to be someone else. Which strongly suggests to me that Cade, Anton and Mr. Fil were all in cahoots.”
The energy of these revelations got Simon to his feet pacing. “There’s this issue of the appraisal, Bryn. Tuan found two different appraisals in her file cabinets. Don’t know how we ever overlooked them, but these things happen. Anyway, we have them now. I went over there last night, to her farm. Bryn, I turned on the central air conditioning. You know what? Works perfectly.”
“I knew it! The house just needs a paint job, that’s all. That house is livable! More than livable–it’s a small palace!”
“My office is going to check on the appraiser.”
“Right.” I made a note, looked up at the nervous man in my living room. “This is terrible, Simon. I feel bushwhacked.”
“So did Marcie.”
“She was. For real,” I said. “She signed the farm back to Pritchard via his sister–my God! That’s giving him hundreds of thousands of her own dollars, all her improvements–”
“Perhaps she didn’t want the stain of foreclosure on her credit record.”
“Yes, but what about the stain of losing a couple hundred grand? It’s a huge loss! Gosh–it’s like having your–intestines jerked from your living belly! And besides the money–her horses. Her breeding program was her life! I talked with Theo, you know–”
“You sly girl…”
“No. He showed up here a couple of mornings ago, unannounced, just like you have.”
Pain, confusion, frustration and a helpless anger erupted in me. I stared at Simon, then spoke slowly. “And the Takeurs lie then walk in the next damn day and Buy. The. Farm. And that same day Marcie, really ‘bought the farm.’ Eternally. Does someone have a sadistic sense of humor in all this? Is there paperwork filed on that Act of Sale or Assumption or whatever it was?”
“It wouldn’t have had time to get to the courthouse yet. It’ll be public record though.” He glanced at my grandmother clock above the television. “Ten thirty! I have to run. If you have any visions promise you’ll tell me right away?”
But I sat there, stunned. I had emotions that were rightfully Marcie’s: outrage, betrayal, despair. It’s a wonder she didn’t commit suicide. Instead, that grotesque death.
“Of course, Simon.”
“Okay. Remember our date.”
“Of course, Simon.”
He moved toward me, but then stopped himself. He made a limp little wave at me and then he left.
Never mind the concussion, now for certain I didn’t feel like going anywhere. The stain of this murder, like blood seeping into a paper towel, was bleeding wider and wider. I remembered a line from the Tao, “Before events can contract, they must expand.”
Everything was expanding.
Chapter Twenty Six
May 27, 9:38 PM
François was at the wheel of Madame Maigrèt’s blue Mercedes. Lights off. The car hummed softly, soothingly, counterpoint to the punches connecting with Cade Pritchard’s paunch in the dark, garbage-strewn underpass. Madame Maigrèt sat silent in the back seat.
“Assez.” Enough. “Go now to Breen’s, s’il tu plâit, François.” Silently the youth backed from beneath the towering black-shadowed archway of the I-10 in New Orleans East. Just as he was about to accelerate there was a distinct bang! And another Bang!
“Proceed. Vite!” said Madame Maigrèt. François drove away. Soon the car was on the I-10 heading for Absinthe Wells and Bryn’s place.
Bean stood for only a second, one glance at
the writhing body of Cade Pritchard sprawled on the littered concrete, just two blocks from a notorious street of twenty-dollar hookers. He shoved his gun into the waistband of his well-tailored pants and walked to his car. He got in and drove away.
Chapter Twenty Seven
May 27, 11 AM
I was exhausted, too tired even to eat lunch since Simon’s unpleasant departure. Because of the no-sleeping ban with my concussion, I’d spent most of the night hazily watching movies on TV. I curled up on the loveseat and despite myself, fell asleep.
8:38 PM
I woke up feeling mugged. Again. I sat up and looked around. It was dark outside. The French fries were entirely thawed and mushy. I’d been using them as a pillow. Well, these at least, would be going into the trash and not onto my hips. I picked up the phone and checked for voice mail. One call. The vet’s. Lulu was doing fine, pick her up tomorrow. Amazing, I had slept right through the phone’s ringing. I stood and there was a whinny from the stable. Amethyst had heard movement and was summoning me to feed him.
I walked to the kitchen and let myself into the stable. Am nickered more politely at me. “I’m coming, guy,” I said. For a moment, I stood quietly. I was full of fears and nervousness. A sense of doom lurked on my personal horizon. I knew it was the concussion, and guilt that I’d slept during the daytime, but bothersome all the same. I breathed the humid night air. Listened to the good luck crickets singing in the hay. Let my jangly anxiousness subside. The back door was open to the oak and the fields beyond, a fan hummed in front of Amethyst’s stall. I could see a three-quarter moon rising. It silvered the tops of the trees at the rear of my eight acres and backlit my oak tree. The leaves looked as black and as shiny as a phonograph record. I walked to the narrow slot that held my grain storage bin, lifted the lid and scooped up a ration. I went into Amethyst’s stall. He stood with his nose poised over the feed tub. I dropped the grain and molasses mixture in for him, stroked his shoulder as he ate and leaned my cheek into his neck. He smelled sweet, a healthy horse. No doom in his mind. He cleaned up the grain and swung his nose around to me. I put out my palm and he licked salt from it. I reached up and took hold of a hank of mane and led him into the aisle.
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