by Jan Neuharth
She had checked her email when Manning was in the shower and found nothing from Michelle de Becque. But the possibility that an email could now be sitting in her in-box nagged at her. She’d hated that Emilio was addicted to his BlackBerry, always thumbing through his messages. Yet, for the first time, she understood his addiction and wished she had a Smartphone, or had at least signed up for email access on her cell.
“Hey, you all right?” Manning asked, squeezing her knee. “You look like you’re trying to solve the world’s problems.”
She forced a smile. “I’m okay. Just going round and round in my head about Uncle Richard’s death.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
Abigale felt a stab of guilt for not confiding in him, telling him what Michelle had said about Dario Reyes. But she’d promised Michelle she wouldn’t tell anyone, including Manning, and she’d keep that promise. At least long enough to give Michelle a chance to talk to her friend. If she didn’t hear something by tomorrow, she’d reconsider.
“There’s Mother,” Manning said, pulling to a stop in front of the ivy-covered brick chapel.
Margaret stood outside the front door, a scarlet coat in dry-cleaner wrap draped over her arm. She was deep in conversation with an attractive, serious-looking woman in a black suit and a dark-haired, handsome man dressed in scarlet hunt attire. He was about Manning’s height, but older, his temples powdered with a blush of gray. Abigale thought she recognized him but couldn’t place him.
“That’s Doug Cummings and his wife, Anne,” Manning said. “Did you meet him at the hunt this morning?”
Ah. That was why he looked familiar. “I didn’t meet him, but I saw him there. He led the second field, right?”
Manning nodded. “You’ll like him. Doug’s a good guy. He was a close friend of Richard’s. Anne was Richard’s friend, too. And his lawyer. She drafted Richard’s will.”
Abigale’s eyes shot over to Manning. Anne was the one who’d told Margaret that Richard was having second thoughts about his will. That he was going to give Manning an ultimatum.
One corner of Manning’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Don’t worry, I don’t blame her. Don’t kill the messenger, right?”
CHAPTER
71
The organ music stopped and Abigale glanced over her shoulder. Every pew in the small chapel was packed with people. Margaret told her a big-screen TV had been set up in the parish house next door to broadcast the service to the overflow crowd.
The six pallbearers marched up the aisle in pairs: Smitty and Manning first, followed by Doug Cummings and a man she didn’t recognize. Thompson and another man brought up the rear. All six wore scarlet hunt coats, white breeches bleached snow white, and black boots spit-polished to a military gleam. One of the men she didn’t recognize had a gold collar on his coat, the other hunter green, the colors of their respective hunts. Manning and the other three members of the Middleburg Foxhounds displayed robin’s-egg-blue collars with navy piping.
Manning took his seat between Abigale and Margaret. Smitty and Doug sat to Margaret’s right. Thompson and the other men sat in the second row. As the reverend asked them to join her in prayer, Manning slipped his hand through Abigale’s, squeezed gently, and slid his other hand over Margaret’s. Goose bumps pricked Abigale’s arms when the vocalist sang “The Lord’s Prayer,” and she saw tears seep down the fine crinkles in Margaret’s cheeks.
Doug rose to deliver the eulogy, pausing briefly as he passed the coffin. His blue eyes misted as he took the podium, and he fiddled longer than was necessary adjusting the microphone. But when he spoke his voice rang strong, echoing off the granite walls of the tiny church.
“We lost a dear friend last week. There are no words that can express the love and sorrow that fill our hearts. And yet we gather here today to honor Richard. Perhaps in so doing we try to deny the fact that he is gone, or at least prolong our farewell, possibly revere him in a way we dared not do in his presence. But the truest testimony to Richard lies not in what we say here today, but in the way he lived his life—with courage, honor, humility, and compassion.
“Richard was a Southern gentleman in the truest sense of the word. He treated those around him with charm—especially the ladies—and with respect. And it was genuine.
“Richard was a leader, in the hunt and in the community. Going places with him socially was like walking in the shadow of a rock star. Every five feet someone would stop him, want his attention. And yet no question, no concern, was too trivial for Richard to spend time talking about.” Doug paused and smiled. His eyes shone with a mixture of sadness and affection. “I often accused Richard of campaigning for mayor of Middleburg, and I’m not so sure he didn’t have designs on serving in that capacity one day.”
A light titter wafted through the church. Abigale felt the heavy weight that seemed to be lodged in her belly ease some. She drew in a long, slow breath. Manning gave her a sideways glance, the barest of smiles.
“Richard loved horses, hounds, and open space,” Doug continued.” He was a foxhunting purist and the finest master I have ever had the privilege to ride behind. He hunted with skill and instinct—keen for great sport, yet ever mindful of the safety and enjoyment of those riding behind him.
“I remember hunting with Richard one day as a child. I was probably eight or nine, and my father had me ride with him near the front of the field, something several of the more senior members took exception to. Richard wasn’t master then, but he was riding up front near us when we approached a jump in the fence behind Stony Bank that was giving everyone problems. It was a brand-spanking-new coop—a good three foot nine, four feet—and a nearby oak tree cast a dark shadow across the fresh boards. The first horse spooked at the shadow, as did the one behind it, and it turned into monkey see-monkey do, with one horse after the other refusing the coop.
“Richard was in front of me on that retired open jumper of his, Rufus, who would have stepped over the jump with his eyes closed. But Richard pulled up, turned to me, and asked for a lead over the fence. I was on a tough little pony that would jump anything I aimed her at, so I kicked on and she sailed over the coop, knees tucked up around her ears. Richard jumped right behind me and the other horses followed. Thanks to Richard, one of the old-timers took to calling me his lucky charm and from that day forward always insisted I hunt up front with him.
“I’m sure many of you have similar hunting stories to share. When hounds went out this morning, our hearts ached that Richard wasn’t there. Yet, let us not weep for what we’ve lost, but rather celebrate what we shared. Richard lived his life to the fullest, and if he were here today it is his life, not his passing, that he would want us to remember.”
Doug turned toward the coffin. “I will miss you, my friend.”
CHAPTER
72
The reception following the burial was in the parish house, where a slide show flashed across the big-screen TV. Abigale found it painful to watch, yet her eyes kept returning to the photos. As if she had to burn the images into her mind, so she’d never forget the way her uncle looked. She shuddered, remembering how she’d panicked about a year after her father’s death when she wasn’t able to envision his face.
An old black-and-white shot of her uncle and Margaret appeared on the screen. They were on horseback, dressed in tweeds for cubbing. Margaret held a lead line attached to the bridle of a small paint pony. A boy of no more than four or five was on the pony, his legs barely reached the bottom of the saddle flap.
Abigale glanced to her left and saw Doug standing beside her. “Your eulogy was lovely. Thank you,” she said.
“I was honored to be asked to deliver it.” Doug nodded at the TV screen. “Is that Manning?”
“Yes. Cute photo, isn’t it?”
“He looks like a natural.”
Abigale smiled.
“Manning did a great job leading the first field this morning,” Doug said. “Richard made a good choice.”
“It’s nice to finally hear someone say that.”
Doug arched an eyebrow. “Has Manning been taking some heat?”
“It’s just that Margaret doesn’t seem thrilled with my uncle’s decision. And Thompson made it clear to me he has no confidence in Manning’s ability to handle the hunt finances.”
“Manning shouldn’t take it personally. Part of that reaction is simply that no one can envision the Middleburg Foxhounds without Richard. He was the hunt. Anyone following in Richard’s footsteps would have to prove himself.”
“Even to his own mother?” Abigale asked.
“Point taken,” Doug said, his mouth curving down in a sympathetic smile. “Listen, tell Manning I’m there for him if there’s anything I can do to help. I mean that.”
“Thank you. I will.”
A tall, thin-faced man interrupted them. “Excuse me,” he said, extending his hand to Abigale. “I just want to give you my condolences about your uncle. I’m Jay Barnsby.”
Jay Barnsby. That was the name in her uncle’s journal. “I’ve actually been wanting to meet you,” Abigale said.
“Really? To what do I owe that pleasure?”
“I saw your name in a note my uncle wrote in his journal. I just wondered if you could shed some light on it.”
“I’ll be happy to try. What did the note say?” Barnsby asked.
“It was just your name. Written on the page of the day my uncle died. Did you have an appointment with him that day?”
“No. But I did receive a phone call from him.”
Abigale’s heart sped up a notch. “What did he want?”
“Well, now, that I can’t tell you,” Barnsby replied in a slow drawl. “I was out of the bank that morning and when I returned, I received Richard’s voicemail. It was very short. Just said he had something he wanted to discuss with me. He said he was going hunting and he’d try to reach me again later.”
“The bank?”
“Jay’s president of Middleburg Merchant’s Bank,” Doug explained.
“Oh.” That seemed like a dead end. But it did confirm Margaret’s theory that her uncle used his journal more as a reminder than an actual appointment book. Maybe Tiffanie was telling the truth when she claimed they didn’t have a meeting planned. “Do you have any idea what my uncle wanted to discuss with you?”
Barnsby said, “Not for certain, but my guess is it was about a large deposit he was expecting for the hunt account. He’d mentioned it to me in passing awhile back and told me he’d be in touch to discuss investment options.”
“That must be the donation from Walt Fleming’s estate,” Doug said.
“That’s right. Richard also mentioned a large amount of cash would run through the account from the steeplechase races.” Barnsby’s eyes flickered from Abigale to Doug. “I guess Thompson would be the one to talk to about it now that Richard has passed?”
“Manning Southwell is the master now,” Doug replied. “Why don’t I bring him by the bank. We can discuss the options.”
“That sounds like a good plan.” Barnsby nodded at Abigale. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Please accept my deepest sympathies about your uncle. He was a great man.”
“Tell Manning to give me a call and I’ll set up an appointment at the bank,” Doug said to Abigale as Jay Barnsby walked away. “I’m sure Manning knows several folks at the bank, but I serve on the bank board, so maybe I can make some additional helpful introductions. In fact, I have a meeting at the bank tomorrow morning. We could get together after the meeting if it works for Manning.”
“Thanks, I’ll let him know.”
Abigale felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Michelle de Becque.
“Thank God they finally left. I thought I’d never get you by yourself,” Michelle said. “I have good news.”
Hope fluttered in Abigale’s chest. “Did you speak with your friend?”
“Yes. He agreed to talk to you. He’ll meet you at my farm tomorrow morning.”
CHAPTER
73
Manning knew as soon as he saw Mallory in the doorway of the parish house that the lieutenant wasn’t there on a social call. He watched Mallory’s eyes roam the room.
“What are you looking at?” Abigale asked, twisting around to follow Manning’s gaze.
“Mallory.” He tilted his coffee cup toward the lieutenant, who was working his way across the room.
Margaret pursed her lips. “Why would he show up here?”
“I don’t know, but he doesn’t look happy.” Manning said a silent prayer that Mallory’s appearance didn’t have anything to do with him. Abigale slipped her arm through his, and Manning saw his own flicker of fear mirrored in her eyes.
“Evening, Lieutenant,” Margaret said.
“Good evening, Mrs. Southwell.” Mallory nodded a greeting at Manning and Abigale. “I’m looking for Michael Parker, but I don’t see him. Do you know if he’s here?”
“He was,” Margaret replied, spinning around as she surveyed the room. She shot a finger toward the far corner. “There he is. Talking with Smitty.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Mallory said.
“Hold on, Lieutenant.” Margaret stopped Mallory as he turned away. “Mind sharing what you need to talk to him about?”
Mallory eyed them for a moment, as if deciding whether to reveal the information. “Someone who works for Mr. Parker has been reported missing.”
Margaret’s brows scrunched together. “Larry?”
“Yes, ma’am. Larry Fisk.”
“Missing? As in he’s run away? Or met with foul play?”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine.”
“Good Lord!”
Manning saw heads turn. A troubled silence settled over the room. “Why don’t we go where we have some privacy,” he suggested in a low voice. He tilted his head toward the front hall. “No one’s using the nursery. I’ll get Michael and meet you there.”
Abigale shot him a questioning look. “Go with Mother,” he said softly, as he headed toward Michael.
As Manning led Michael down the hall toward the nursery, Michael said, “I don’t mind telling you, Lieutenant Mallory makes me nervous. He’s questioned me twice now. First about the day Mr. Clarke was murdered and then again the other day about the saddle. I never can tell if he believes what I’m saying.”
That makes two of us, Manning thought, reaching for the door handle.
Mallory stood near the doorway, looking as though he felt out of place amidst the jumble of toys and pint-sized furniture. “I understand Larry Fisk hasn’t shown up for work in a couple of days,” he said to Michael.
“That’s right. Now, of course, he wasn’t supposed to work today. Mondays are his day off. But he left me high and dry all weekend.”
“Did he call in sick?”
“No, sir. I didn’t hear from him. Not a peep.”
“Has he done that before?”
Michael thought for a moment. “Not really. Larry’s not all that much help when he’s around, but he usually shows up more or less on time.”
“Can you think of any reason he would fail to show up?”
“Like what do you mean?”
“Anything happen that would have made him skip work?”
Michael’s gaze slid to the floor. His Adam’s apple danced in his neck as he swallowed. “Well, now, I did have a few words with Larry Friday afternoon.”
Manning exchanged a glance with his mother. Jesus. Was Michael responsible for Larry’s disappearance?
“Tell me about that,” Mallory said.
Michael squared his shoulders, as if gathering up strength. “Right before you got there to do your questioning about Mr. Clarke’s saddle, I asked Larry to drag the back pasture—you know, run the chain harrow over it to break up the manure, spread it around. Anyhow, after you questioned me and all and everyone had left, I realized I didn’t hear the tractor running, but Larry still wasn’t back at the barn. So I jumped in my truck and went
looking for him. Found the tractor parked in the run-in shed back there. Larry was fast asleep.”
“So that’s when you had words with him?” Mallory asked.
“Yes, sir. I about ripped him a new one.” Michael’s face flushed and he glanced at Margaret. “Pardon me, Mrs. Southwell.”
“Do you think that could account for Larry not showing up for work over the weekend?” Mallory asked.
“I don’t imagine so. It’s not the first time I’ve had to light a fire under the boy. Besides, by the time Larry had finished up for the day it had blown over. He didn’t act like anything was wrong when he left.” Michael paused and frowned at Mallory. “Have you talked to Larry’s mama?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Mallory said. “Larry’s mother called to report her son missing. Apparently Larry usually shows up at her house on Mondays for a hot breakfast and to drop off a pile of dirty laundry. When he didn’t come by this morning, she tried to reach him. He didn’t answer his phone, so she drove over to his apartment and found a stack of dirty dishes in the sink, but no sign of her son. She says from the looks of the dishes they’d been there awhile, and there was no evidence of recent activity in the kitchen. She got worried, called the barn, and found out Larry hadn’t shown up for work all weekend.”
“If she called I didn’t talk to her, but she might have spoken to Elizabeth,” Michael said. “That’s who fills in on Mondays when Larry’s off.”
“That’s right,” Mallory replied. “Mrs. Fisk spoke with Elizabeth Carey and learned that Larry hadn’t been at work all weekend. That’s when she gave us a call.”
“What about at the training track where he rents the apartment?” Michael said. “Did anyone up there see him over the weekend?”
“We’ve asked around up there and no one remembers seeing him or his car since Friday morning. But then again, they don’t remember not seeing him either.”
“Meaning Larry doesn’t have much to do with his neighbors.” Margaret said.