The Kill

by Jan Neuharth

  “Margaret?”

  The older woman’s shoulders sagged, as if a puppeteer had relaxed his grip on her. She stopped stirring the eggs and rested the spatula on the stove.

  “Talk to me. Please.” Abigale patted the seat of the chair next to her. “Forget about breakfast. Come sit.”

  Margaret cut off the gas and walked slowly to the table, blowing out a noisy sigh as she sank onto the ladder-back chair. She lifted her gaze, her blue eyes dull. “Manning lied to me.”

  “Lied about what?”

  Margaret clamped her lips together and shook her head, as if she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “Heaven help us.”

  Abigale’s heart pounded in her throat. “Margaret, please. Talk to me.”

  “Manning told me he never went to Longmeadow after hunting on Monday. But that was obviously a lie. Because the construction worker saw him drive through the paving site. And if Manning was on St. Louis Road, he was on his way to Longmeadow. There would be no other reason for him to drive through that area.”

  “Manning didn’t lie, Margaret. He didn’t deliberately tell you he hadn’t gone there when he had. He just doesn’t remember.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Julia told me last night that Manning was so drunk on Monday he can’t remember anything that happened.”

  “How does Julia know that?”

  “She ran into Manning at the pub where she works.” Abigale fingered the handle of her mug of cold coffee. “He spent the night with her.”

  Margaret’s eyes flashed. “That’s no surprise.”

  “Julia told me this wasn’t the first time he’s been drunk.”

  “The first? Far from it. Manning seems intent on honoring his good-for-nothing father’s legacy, partying and sleeping around like there’s no tomorrow. Not a care or responsibility in the world. I’ve bailed Manning out of more messes than you can count.”

  “It sounds like he needs professional help.”

  “Of course he does,” Margaret shot back, her tone so sharp it made Abigale jump. “There’s an excellent alcohol rehab facility right up the road in Pennsylvania. I’ve given Manning all the literature about it, but you can’t help someone who won’t help himself.”

  She shook her head, disappointment swimming in her eyes. “The least Manning could have done was to fess up and tell me that he was so stinking drunk he can’t remember whether he went to Longmeadow. But did he do that? No. He lied. Said he’d told Richard he couldn’t meet him there. Now he has the police after him, questioning what he was doing in the vicinity at the time of Richard’s murder, and you’re telling me Manning can’t even remember if he was there. Well, I’m tired of pinning up his diapers. He’s on his own this time.”

  Abigale kept quiet. It wasn’t her place to defend Manning.

  A car door slammed outside. Duchess barked and scrambled toward the back door.

  “That must be Wendy,” Margaret said.

  Abigale carried her coffee mug to the sink. “I’m going to run upstairs for a quick shower.”

  “That’s fine. Wendy and I can go over race business until you join us to discuss the funeral arrangements. I’m sorry about this mess with Manning, Abigale. Nothing like being exposed to all the skeletons in the closet right off the bat.”

  The back door squeaked open and muffled footsteps drifted in, the sound of someone stomping on the mat.

  “Don’t apologize,” Abigale said. “I—”

  Manning stepped inside.

  CHAPTER

  27

  Both women stared at Manning. Neither said a word. He looked from his mother to Abigale as he reached down to pet Duchess. “Did I interrupt something?”

  Abigale jabbed a hand at her hair and tugged at the belt of her flannel bathrobe. “I was just leaving.”

  He arched an eyebrow as she disappeared into the hall. “Was it something I said?”

  Margaret didn’t return his smile. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Might as well sit down.”

  “Okay.” He chose a chair across the table from her.

  Margaret glared at him, her hands clasped together on the oak table in a white-knuckled grip. Her lips curved downward, exaggerating the lines around her mouth. It struck Manning how old she looked.

  “I had a visit from Lieutenant Mallory this morning.”

  “Any breaks in the investigation?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Good news?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Manning frowned. “What did he tell you?”

  Margaret locked eyes with him. He wasn’t quite sure what it was he saw in the look she gave him. Anger? Fear? Disgust? Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. He waited.

  “Lieutenant Mallory informed me that a witness reported seeing a green sports car drive through the paving site on St. Louis Road shortly before four o’clock on Monday.”

  Manning’s pulse pounded so hard he was sure his mother could hear it. He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back in the chair.

  “Turns out, they’ve identified the vehicle as your car and are curious why no one mentioned that you had been in the area around the time of Richard’s murder. I’m sure you can imagine my surprise, since you told me you didn’t go to Longmeadow.”

  Fire shot through Manning’s gut. Jesus Christ. So he had gone to the racecourse. “I can explain—”

  Margaret slammed her clenched hands against the table. “I’m not interested in an explanation. I’m interested in the truth.”

  He closed his eyes, ran both hands through his hair. “The truth is, I don’t know.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I had too much to drink,” Manning said, blowing out a sigh. “I have a blackout about that entire night. I’ve tried to piece things together, believe me, but I just can’t remember whether I met Richard at Longmeadow or not.” He told her about the incoming call from Richard on his cell, what Julia had said about him rushing out of the Blackthorne.

  “So that’s why Mallory asked if you’d talked to Richard by phone that afternoon. He probably saw it on the call record on Richard’s cell phone.”

  “Probably.”

  Margaret gave him a long, cold stare. “You told me you didn’t have a meeting with Richard. That you told him you couldn’t make it that afternoon.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “So, that was a lie?” It was a statement, dressed up as a question.

  He nodded.

  “I’m sorry, was that ayes?”

  “Yes. I lied.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you lie?” She spat out the word, as if it was about to choke her.

  “I don’t know. When Percy asked me about meeting Richard at Longmeadow and I had no recollection of it, I guess I panicked.”

  “So you lied.”

  “Yes, Mother. I lied. For Christ’s sake, how many times do you want me to say it?”

  “Until you show some remorse for what you did!”

  “You think I don’t have remorse? Trust me, I have enough remorse for both of us.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?” she asked.

  “I’ll talk to Mallory and tell him the truth, that I was drunk and I don’t remember going to Longmeadow.”

  “You expect him to believe that?”

  “I don’t know if he’ll believe it or not, but it’s the truth.”

  Margaret gave him a wintry smile. “Wonder if intoxication has ever held up as a defense in a murder case.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “Wake up, Manning. What do you think Mallory wants to discuss with you? Whether you had a nice afternoon drive on Monday?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding! Mallory thinks I shot Richard?”

  �
��I’d say it appears to be an angle he’s exploring.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Why in the world would I kill Richard? I loved him. He was like a father to me. You know that.”

  “That’s neither here nor there as far as Mallory is concerned. He sees people kill people they love all the time.”

  Manning sucked in a breath. “I don’t believe this. I thought they had a suspect. That road construction worker.”

  “They do.”

  “Okay, so if they find him and link him to Richard’s murder…”

  “Assuming they do, you’ll be off the hook. Until the next time.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You have a drinking problem, Manning. That’s what got you into this scrape. And, God forbid, it may be what put Richard in a situation where he ended up shot dead. Don’t you think it’s time you came to grips with it?”

  He nodded as Margaret was talking. “I know. I’ve already had this conversation with myself. I had way too much to drink. The blackout scares the shit out of me. Trust me, it won’t happen again.”

  “So that’s your solution? You won’t let it happen again?” Her voice was cold with contempt. “Like I haven’t heard that from you before.”

  “Thanks for the faith in me, Mother.”

  “Why should I have faith in you? Give me one good reason.”

  Manning blew out a bitter laugh. “I’ve quit before, Mother. I can do it again.”

  “You’ve quit before? No, if you had quit before, you wouldn’t be drinking now. Let’s call a spade a spade: you went through a dry spell.”

  He looked away.

  “You’re an alcoholic, Manning,” Margaret said, her tone a tad softer. “You can’t just lay off the booze for a while. You need to own up to the problem and get help. This isn’t something you can tackle alone.”

  “What, you want me to check myself into rehab?”

  “That would be a good start.”

  Jesus. He threw his hands up in the air. “Hell, why not? What better way to avoid Mallory. And, let’s see, I could also wash my hands of the races. And Richard’s funeral. The timing couldn’t be better.”

  “I’m not suggesting you do it this afternoon. I’m saying it’s the only way for you to lick the problem. Take your life back, Manning. Do what your father was never strong enough to do.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  Abigale wrapped her arm around the narrow trunk of a young oak as she hiked down the horse trail that led from the back of Fox Run to the Little River. Fallen leaves carpeted the path, making it slick beneath her feet. The meeting about Uncle Richard’s funeral had seemed to drag on forever, bringing up so many questions—details—she never would have considered. Abigale had needed some time alone to clear her head after they’d finished. She’d told Margaret she’d meet her at the barn in an hour.

  She scrambled over a log, cradling her camera against her chest. Late morning sunlight danced through the half-naked trees, creating a mosaic on the muddy hoof prints and brilliant leaves that defined the trail. She removed the lens cap and snapped several shots to take home to her mother.

  The air was crisp and the woods held the musky aroma of damp earth and decaying leaves. Abigale closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, capturing the scent in her mind so she could describe it to her mother when she showed her the photos.

  Leaves rustled nearby and she opened her eyes to see a gray squirrel scamper toward a poplar tree. It paused at the base of the trunk and eyed her, a nut of some kind clasped between its jaws. She slowly raised her camera, caught the image through the viewfinder, and zoomed in. The squirrel’s weight was on its haunches, its front paws curled mid-chest, and its nose quivered as it mouthed the nut, an acorn. She snapped the shot, and the click of the shutter sent the squirrel scurrying up the tree.

  Abigale lowered the camera and caught the glint of water through the trees. The river wasn’t far off. She continued on the trail for a couple hundred feet until the canopy of trees parted at the edge of the river’s bank. The path that led to the water seemed broader, less steep than when she’d last ridden down it; worn away by erosion, perhaps, or distorted by the tricks the years had played with her memory.

  She crept along the edge of the bank until she reached the rock outcropping she was seeking. Abigale perched at the top of the rock and hugged her knees to her chest, welcoming the warmth that radiated from the sun-kissed stone. Memories showered her like a soft spring rain and she smiled, remembering the time Manning had shown off by accepting Percy’s dare to cross the river walking backward over a fallen tree with his eyes closed. When Manning had been midway across, Percy had pegged a rock at him, doubling over with laughter as Manning lost his footing, dancing and flailing his arms as he struggled to avoid a backward plunge. The river was high, the water muddy from a recent storm, and Manning rose from the river with a roar, shaking the water from his hair as he leapt up the bank, his sneakers squeaking and sloshing brown water as he raced after Percy. They had all ended up in a water fight.

  Abigale breathed a gentle sigh. Their lives had been so carefree that last summer. So innocent. Not yet scarred by war or terrorism. Or death.

  She shook her head, trying to rid her mind of the angry exchange of words she’d overheard that morning between Margaret and Manning. She had managed to stay out of it, fighting the voice in her head that screamed at her to barge into the kitchen and stick up for Manning. What right did she have to intrude?

  A red-tailed hawk swept down between the trees and Abigale reached for her camera. She spent the next thirty minutes ambling along the river’s edge, capturing shots of a pair of bald eagles performing a mating ritual as they soared overhead and a huge red fox that watched her curiously from atop a ridge above the opposite bank.

  She knew it was time to head back to the farm, but instead of hiking up the trail she’d taken on her descent to the river, Abigale veered off on a narrower path that traversed the steep hill at a more gradual incline. Her heart raced as she began the climb and she felt goose bumps prick her arms beneath the fleece jacket she’d borrowed from Margaret.

  Abigale told herself this might not be the right path. Dozens of deer trails just like it crisscrossed throughout the woods. And after seventeen years, new passages would have been created, old ones abandoned. But instinct carried her forward.

  A couple of minutes into her climb the trail disappeared into a wide swath of trampled undergrowth, fallen limbs, and uprooted trees, as if strong winds—perhaps even a tornado—had carved a lane straight along the side of the hill. She wove her way through the wreckage, sidestepping a crater left by the root-ball of a fallen oak, and ducked under a hanging sycamore limb, snapped like a matchstick from atop the towering tree.

  On the other side of the debris she picked up the trail again, grasping at saplings as she clambered up a gully that led to the crest of the ridge. The terrain leveled out and she stood for a moment, her pulse pounding in her ears. This was it. She crept forward, boots shuffling through the leaves, her hands clenched so tightly at her sides that her nails carved half-moons in her palms. She dropped down on a log at the edge of the trail.

  The image of Scarlet going down flashed through Abigale’s mind, so vividly she could almost feel the ground rise to meet her, smell the warm, earthy dampness of that summer night. She squeezed her eyes shut. Still, the memory lingered, so intense she half-expected to hear Scarlet’s throaty whinny, deepening in pitch as the mare struggled to get up, and Manning’s voice, calm but stern, warning her to roll beyond the reach of Scarlet’s thrashing hooves.

  Abigale forced herself to look across the trail. Nature had reclaimed the spot, blanketed the earth with leaves, burying any evidence of the horror that had played out there. Her eyes swept the woods, then widened as she spotted a wooden cross, a few yards away, planted at the foot of a dogwood tree.

  She pawed her way through the thicket and
sank to her knees beside the cross. It stood about two feet high and was made from two strips of wood that had been carved to fit together at the center of the cross. The wood was unpainted and had aged to a silver gray. She ran her hand along the top of the cross. The edges had been beveled and sanded. It was smooth beneath her fingers.

  Abigale looked down and realized the ground near the cross was clear of leaves and debris. Someone was tending to it.

  CHAPTER

  29

  Manning eyed the wood flooring on the top deck of the stewards’ stand. The bloodstain—Richard’s blood—stared stubbornly at him, still visible beneath the fresh coat of gray paint. “One coat’s not going to cover it,” he said to Smitty.

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Smitty agreed. “We’ll have to give it time to dry, then hit it again.” Smitty looked at his watch. “Problem is, I’ve got the vet coming to the kennels in about an hour to vaccinate the hounds. I’d best give him a call and see if I can push it back.”

  “Don’t do that. You go on. I’ll put the second coat on by myself.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Smitty glanced around the stewards’ stand as if reluctant to leave, and Manning felt the lack of confidence in him as a slap in the face. Jesus, didn’t Smitty trust him to finish the painting? Smitty, of all people? “You think I can’t handle it?”

  “Good God, it’s not that,” Smitty replied. “I was just thinking about Richard, what happened to him here. I wonder if it’s sensible for you—any of us—to be out here alone.”

  Manning’s gaze swept across the rolling terrain. “You really think whoever shot Richard is still around? Looking for another victim?”

  “Probably not, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.”

  “Careful, sure. But not afraid. There’s a difference.”

  “I hear ya,” Smitty said.

  Manning jerked a shoulder toward Smitty’s truck. “Go on.”

  “All right. But keep your eyes open.”

  Manning felt a pang of regret as he watched Smitty disappear down the stairs. Now what? The last thing he felt like doing was killing time sitting around watching paint dry. His eyes swept the racecourse. Yellow crime-scene tape still wound around the vicinity of the stewards’ stand, though half of it was torn loose, trampled into the ground. That definitely needed to be cleaned up before race day. He circled the stewards’ stand, ripping loose the slippery yellow tape and tossing it in a pile. When he was finished, he grabbed the armful and stuffed it in the trash receptacle in the parking area.