by Jan Neuharth
Smitty hunched his shoulders and raised his hands at the man. Now what?
The man wagged his head, muttering, as he strode over to Smitty’s truck. Smitty lowered the window, blinking as the mist coated his eyelashes.
“Sorry about that,” the man said, eyeing Smitty from beneath his rain hood. “Dumb kid saw a lull in the traffic so he went ahead and waved you on without waiting for the go-ahead from the other end.” He yanked a shoulder at the work site and Smitty saw two approaching vehicles. The car that had been in front of him in line eased onto the shoulder to allow them to pass.
“Looks like you got yourself a long day ahead of you,” Smitty said.
The man snorted. “You got that right. The worker who normally mans the sign didn’t show up today so this kid’s filling in. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.”
The two cars rolled by and he patted Smitty’s door. “Okay, you’re good to go.”
“Have yourself a good one,” Smitty said, raising the window. Loose bits of fresh asphalt pinged beneath the truck as he eased through the work area. On the other side, he waved at a second flagman and punched the accelerator. He was no longer tardy now, he was downright late.
He rounded the bend just before the entrance to Longmeadow and sped past a rusted blue sedan parked on the shoulder with a white rag hanging off its gas cap. As he cleared the gates to the racecourse and began to bounce along the gravel road, someone tooted a horn behind him. Smitty shot a glance at the rearview mirror and saw Thompson James’s Ford Explorer. He braked to a stop and lowered his window as Thompson swerved onto the grass and pulled even with him.
“Morning, Thompson. Glad to see you made it. Margaret told me you weren’t going to be able to join the work party today.”
“I wasn’t. I was on my way to the office when I got an emergency dispatch for this location, so I turned around.”
In addition to being treasurer of the hunt, Thompson was a member of the volunteer rescue squad. Smitty saw the whirl of flashing blue lights on the windshield of the SUV. He frowned. “Here? What’s the emergency?”
“There’s a gunshot victim. That’s all I know from the dispatch.” Thompson jerked his head toward the rise to his left. “In the stewards’ stand.”
“Good God almighty.”
CHAPTER
5
Abigale was photographing troops near the encampment when an incoming artillery shell shrieked through the afternoon sky. Before she could dive for cover, the shell blasted into the ridge to her right. The concussion slammed her to the ground. She hugged the craggy terrain for a moment, unsure whether another round from the Taliban would follow, then gingerly pushed herself up and checked to make sure she wasn’t bleeding. Her body ached as if she’d been sucker-punched by a giant fist, but nothing seemed broken. She searched for Joe, saw him writhing on the ground twenty feet away, clutching his calf through blood-soaked khakis. She scrambled over, reaching him just as a medic did.
The medic peeled back Joe’s pant leg. “You’ve got a shrapnel wound!” He shouted to be heard as the Allied troops fired back with their own artillery.
“Bloody hell!” Joe screamed. “It feels like it blew off half my fucking leg.”
“You’ll be okay,” the medic said.
Someone yelled for the medic, pointing to a soldier who was down.
“Go on. That soldier looks worse off. I can bandage his leg,” Abigale said.
“Thanks.” The medic threw a handful of supplies at her. “I’ll send someone over to help move him.”
Joe moaned as Abigale pressed a wad of surgical pads to the angry wound. His bearded face twisted into a grimace, narrow lips stretched tight with pain. “Jesus fucking Christ, Portmann. Take it easy.”
She grabbed his hand and jammed it against the dressing. “Hold this. Tight. You need to put pressure on it to stop the bleeding.”
“I hope the hell you know what you’re doing.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve wrapped horses’ legs a hundred times.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better? I’m not a fucking horse!”
She smiled, hurriedly wound gauze around Joe’s leg, and tied it off as two soldiers hauled him away to the medical tent.
Another shell whistled toward the ridge and Abigale ran for the nearby trench, where she huddled with several of her colleagues to wait out the artillery fight. They joked, trying to make light of the situation.
“Joe’s probably happier than hell he took some shrapnel so he’ll get a chopper ride out of here,” Alex, an AP photographer, said. “He’s been working to come up with an exit strategy since the minute he jumped off that goddamned horse. He told me he’d stay here until the spring thaw if he had to.”
“The horse saved Joe’s bacon more than once,” Abigale said. “He’s lucky the horse didn’t send him sailing over the cliff, the way he was jerking on its mouth.”
Alex reached over and gave Abigale’s ponytail a playful tug. “Isn’t that just like our girl, standing up for the underdog.”
“Trust me, Joe was the underdog, not the horse.”
A crusty veteran from The Daily Telegraph plucked a flask from his pocket and sucked down a swallow. “Neither wind nor rain nor dark of night—nor a bloody horse—shall keep us from a story,” he said, raising the flask in a toast.
Abigale smiled absently, cradling her camera in her hands. The recent blasts of outgoing fire had gone unanswered. She eyed the faded sky. Was it safe to leave the trench?
“Look at Abigale…” The Brit’s eyes watered as he choked his way through a raspy smoker’s cough. “She’s just itching to get back out there and risk having her lovely arse blown off.”
“Maybe you should take a page from her playbook, old chap,” Alex said, grinning. “Abigale didn’t win herself a Pulitzer by hunkering down in a trench.”
CHAPTER
6
Margaret shifted against the wooden bench on the mid-level deck of the stewards’ stand and pulled the blanket tighter around her, vaguely aware of the disagreeable smell of wet wool, the scratch of the fabric against the back of her neck. Duchess stirred at her feet, stood, circled, then lay down again, snorting a sigh as she rested her head on Margaret’s boots.
The stench of blood hung in Margaret’s nostrils. Her eyes stole back to the floorboards of the deck above her and her stomach heaved. She took slow breaths, determined not to vomit again. Nausea rose, then settled back down with a shudder.
Footsteps clopped up the stairs toward her. It was Thompson James and the balding, round-faced deputy who’d been so kind when he’d questioned her earlier. She stood to meet them, a blast of wind coating her face with a chilly mist. Duchess scrambled to her feet and settled protectively against Margaret’s leg.
Thompson’s eyes darted anxiously beneath the brim of a baseball cap, snaking from Margaret to the deck above. “God, Margaret, I can’t believe this. What happened? Are you okay?”
She let the blanket slide from her shoulders and held it out toward the deputy. “I’m okay, but I need to get out of here.”
“Of course,” Thompson said, nodding. “We can sit in the ambulance. It will be warm in there.”
Margaret saw Thompson’s gaze drift to her outstretched hand, no doubt taking in the noticeable tremble. She shoved the blanket at the deputy. “Nonsense. I don’t need an ambulance, Thompson. I just can’t sit here any longer.”
“Sure. I understand.”
“Come on, Duchess.” Margaret nudged the dog with her knee as she slipped between Thompson and the deputy and grabbed the stair railing, concentrating on sidestepping race programs as she picked her way down the stairs.
A small group was swarming around the ambulance and sheriff’s cars. Several brown-uniformed sheriff deputies. A handful of rescue workers. A Virginia state trooper, his rain poncho gusting in the breeze. A two-way radio crackled from one of the cars.
Rain plastered Margaret’s hair as she stepped out from the stewards
’ stand and she realized she’d lost her rain hat somewhere. She turned her collar up against the bone-chilling trickles dribbling down her neck.
Through the blur of activity she spotted Smitty. He faced away from her, huddled in conversation with Carol Simpson, the head of the rescue squad, and one of the deputies, his hands flying here and there as he spoke.
She weaved her way through the group to Smitty and put a hand on his shoulder. He spun around, his distress visible in the twist of his mouth, the stubborn thrust of his jaw. “What in God’s name is going on, Margaret? They’re telling me Richard got shot, but won’t tell me a goddamned thing beyond that.” He pawed at the tweed cap on his head, wagged a hand toward Carol. “Carol here let Thompson up in the stand, I guess because he’s an EMT, but won’t let me get within ten yards of there. Never mind that I’ve known Richard for north of twenty-five years. That—”
“Smitty.” Margaret looked him in the eye. “Richard’s dead.”
Smitty sagged as if someone had let the air out of him. The tip of his nose reddened and he sucked the inside of one cheek, making a popping noise with his lips as he blew out a breath. “What in God’s name happened?”
She glanced at Thompson and the deputy as they approached, feeling fat raindrops mix with tears on her cheeks. “I don’t know. Richard was dead when I found him.”
“But Carol said Richard got shot. Who shot him? Was it an accident?”
The round-faced deputy stepped forward. “We’re treating it as a criminal homicide.”
“A homicide!”
“Richard’s wallet is missing,” Margaret said. “So is his watch.”
Smitty frowned. “Are you thinking a robbery gone bad or something?”
“We haven’t ruled that out,” the deputy replied.
“Here at Longmeadow?”
The deputy raised a shoulder in response.
“But it’s in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Ain’t no one going to just happen by here, find Richard in the stewards’ stand, and decide to rob him.”
“We’re exploring all possible scenarios,” the deputy replied. “Given the fact that Mr. Clarke had no wallet or watch on him, robbery is a strong possibility.”
Smitty blew out a breath and his gaze flickered between Margaret and Thompson. “Richard always carried his wallet with him. Even foxhunting.”
Margaret nodded.
“But not his watch,” Thompson said. “We all know how Richard felt about not letting the clock dictate the duration of a hunt.”
“He’d already changed after hunting yesterday,” Margaret replied. “He’d have put his watch back on.”
“You’re right,” Thompson said. “He probably was wearing it. Still, he did have a way of forgetting it sometimes. But given that his wallet is missing, it’s probably prudent to assume that his watch was stolen as well. Either way, we’re still talking robbery.” He thought for a moment. “What about his cell phone? Did they take it?”
“No, but it wasn’t on him. We found his cell phone in his Lexus,” the deputy said.
“I hear what y’all are saying,” Smitty said. “But…a robbery, here? Who would do that?”
Thompson said, “There’s a road crew paving near here on St. Louis Road. I just drove through there and saw a couple of rough-looking characters. It probably bears checking out.”
The deputy tilted his head as if weighing the possibility, nodding slowly as he wrote something on his notepad. “Could be. Mr. Clarke might have tried to resist and they grabbed his hunting rifle and shot him.”
Thompson’s jaw dropped. “What? Richard was shot with his own rifle?”
CHAPTER
7
Margaret saw the ache in Smitty’s eyes as the deputy explained that Richard’s rifle was found beside his body in the stewards’ stand. She knew Smitty was thinking the same thing she had been when she’d first seen Richard’s gun lying next to him: suicide.
The deputy said, “The chest wound is consistent with having been shot from several feet away.”
“Then that rules out suicide,” Smitty said, his face reddening slightly as if embarrassed for having had the thought.
The deputy nodded.
“But why would Richard have had his rifle with him?” Thompson asked.
“I’ll bet I know why,” Smitty said. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pant pocket and blew his nose. “Because of the damn coyote, the one’s been killing Polly Fanning’s sheep.”
The deputy waved his pen at Smitty. “Tell me more about that, Mr….”
“Smith. Winfield Smith. But folks call me Smitty.”
“Okay, Smitty. Tell me about Mr. Clarke having his rifle here.”
“There’s been a coyote causing a nuisance at Possum Hollow, the farm just west of here, and Richard and I both spotted it at the racecourse, more than once. Richard mentioned it to Mrs. Fanning, the owner of Possum Hollow, and told her he’d take care of it if he saw it again. He’s been bringing his hunting rifle along with him when he comes to work on the course. As far as I know, he kept it in his SUV, but he could’ve spotted the coyote and taken his rifle up in the stewards’ stand to get a better shot at it.”
“But why wouldn’t they have stolen the rifle?” Thompson said. “As I recall, Richard had it custom-made. It must have had quite some value.”
“You got that right,” Smitty said. “It’s a Savage Model 99. A real beauty. That’s probably why they didn’t take it. It’s one-of-a-kind. Anyone who knows a lick about guns would know they’d have a hard time unloading a beauty like that one without getting caught.”
A vibrating cell phone hummed. Thompson reached under his raincoat and dug his phone out of his back pocket. He looked at the display, then at Margaret. “It’s Wendy Brooks.”
“Answer it.”
Thompson flipped it open. “Hi, Wendy.”
Margaret heard Wendy say something about the gate.
“Hold on.” Thompson lowered the phone from his ear and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Wendy’s at the gate. She says they’ve got the whole entrance cordoned off. There are a couple of sheriff’s deputies out there.”
“Does she know about Richard?”
“No. She said the deputies won’t tell her what’s going on. She’s just upset because they’ve blocked access and the crew can’t get in to work on the racecourse. She called me because she couldn’t reach you, Richard, or Smitty. She thinks I’m in Reston, at work.”
Margaret heaved a sigh, a breathy cloud that seeped into the mist. “Once word of Richard’s death gets out, it’s going to spread like wildfire in the community. We owe it to Richard’s friends to make sure they hear it from us first.”
“I agree.”
“Do you know who else is out there with Wendy?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Is Manning there?”
Thompson raised his shoulders in an “I-don’t-know” shrug.
“Find out.”
He pressed the phone to his ear. “Who’s there with you, Wendy?”
Thompson nodded slowly, as if counting off the names she mentioned. Margaret tapped her foot, arched an eyebrow, and he said, “Manning’s not there?”
He covered the phone. “Manning hasn’t shown up. In fact, Wendy said she tried to call Manning a couple of times this morning to remind him that he’d promised to help with the course, but wasn’t able to reach him.”
Margaret hugged her arms to her chest. “Tell Wendy we’re calling off the course work for today. Have her send everyone home.”
“Okay.”
“And ask Wendy to come to my house. I want to break the news to her. Then we’ll start calling folks. I’d like you there, too.”
“Of course.”
She glanced at Smitty. “And you.”
“You bet.”
Thompson took a step away as he resumed his conversation with Wendy, and Margaret glanced at the deputy. “Are you finished with me?”
“I believe I
have everything I need for now.”
Thompson snapped his phone shut and Margaret raised an eyebrow at him and Smitty. “Ready?”
Thompson jerked a thumb toward the ambulance. “Let me just check with Carol and make sure they don’t need my help. Then I’ll head over to your place.”
“All right.” Margaret put her arm around Smitty’s shoulders. “Do me a favor, Thompson,” she said, urging Smitty toward the kennel truck.
“Yes?”
“Find Manning.”
CHAPTER
8
The scent of frying bacon wafted over Manning Southwell and a pang of hunger gnawed momentarily at his gut before it somersaulted with nausea. He groaned and rolled over, sliding a pink-and-white striped pillow over his head. Somewhere in the distance a door squeaked, followed by the sound of bare feet padding across the wood floor. Manning squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself back to sleep. His fingers twitched and he started to drift off, only to be jerked awake again by a muffled cell phone belting out a tinny rendition of “Moonlight Serenade.” He gritted his teeth, waiting for the tune to fade.
Finally, silence. And then, the nearby shuffling of footsteps on carpet. The creak of a floorboard. Manning lifted a corner of the pillow and raised an eyelid. Julia Farleigh approached slowly, a tray in her hands. Her silky blond hair hung loose and slightly mussed, flirting with the rhinestones that sprawled “Love” across the chest of her thigh-length pink T-shirt.
A smile lit Julia’s face when she saw he was awake. “Hey, sleepyhead, I made you some breakfast.” She set the tray on the nightstand and the mattress sagged as she perched on the edge of the bed, curling one slender leg beneath her. She lifted a glass off the tray and offered it to him. “Here’s fresh-squeezed orange juice.”