by Laura Crum
He kept walking toward her as if he hadn't heard; my heart thudded a steady, frightened tattoo. Tara sighted down the barrel; I could see her finger tighten on the trigger.
"For God's sake!" The words burst out of my mouth.
They startled Tara and her eyes leapt to me. In that split second, Bronc lunged forward and grabbed at her. With a loud crack, the gun went off. I was already flinging myself to the ground, face down, heart pounding fit to jump out of my chest. Oh shit. Oh my God.
I had no idea where the bullet went, no idea, really, if I'd been hit. For a moment, I just lay there in the dirt, shocked out of my wits.
Scuffling and shouting came from Tara's direction, but no more shots. I lifted my head cautiously.
Bronc held the gun in one hand and Tara with the other. His arm was wrapped around her neck, her throat in the crook of his elbow, her feet almost off the ground. He held the gun away from her, pointing it up into space. I got slowly to my feet.
"Come get this thing," he said, sounding a little out of breath, but completely unflustered. Walking over to him, I gingerly took the pistol from his hand, noticing that my own hand was shaking.
"Now hold that gun on her while I go check the barn."
Oh great. What was I supposed to do, shoot her if she went after him?
"And you," he gave Tara a shake, causing her to emit a choked shriek, "you stay here."
He let go of her and she slumped to her knees, her hands going immediately to her throat, rubbing it protectively. I had an idea Bronc had squeezed pretty hard.
Staring at the gun in my hand, not really believing the position I was in, I pointed it up in the air as Bronc had done. It was a long-barreled, old-fashioned-looking twenty-two revolver, I saw, similar to the gun that had shot Jack, according to what Jeri Ward told me. Had Tara owned a pair perhaps? Of course, I reminded myself, it was hardly an uncommon gun.
Tara was getting to her feet. She cast a glance at me and I wondered if I should train the gun on her, but rejected the idea instantly. The whole situation was ridiculous-a frightening farce. I was certainly not going to shoot Tara.
Seeing that I had no apparent intention of pointing the gun her way, Tara headed into the barn, looking back over her shoulder at me as she went. I could hear her voice raised at Bronc, sounding angry, but frightened, too.
"That's not him. That's my new boarder. Get your hands off of him."
"Go to hell. I'd know this horse anywhere."
In another minute Bronc emerged, leading a muddy brown gelding with a roached mane and bobbed tail. It took me a minute, but I finally recognized Willy. Tara had obviously been hard at work with hair dye, scissors, and clippers.
She was gesticulating wildly at Bronc as he led the horse away from the barn, but everything-gestures, words, facial expression-lacked force. Tara was beaten and she knew it.
Bronc loaded Willy in the trailer over her objections. Turning to face her, he spoke with a kind of level hardness, that same expression I'd glimpsed in the pickup. "Shut your mouth. This is my horse and you know it and I know it. I don't want to hear any more bullshit about it. You know damn well Jack left the horse to me, otherwise you wouldn't have bothered to steal him. Now I'm telling you something. I'm not going to say a word about this. It's up to you." And with that, he gestured at me to get in the truck.
I wasn't quite ready. I still held the twenty-two in my hand and it gave me a certain sense of power. Not to mention Tara looked shaken; for the first time in our acquaintance her rough-edged, hostile attitude had been replaced by a slightly hangdog expression. Now, I figured, was the right time for some questions.
"Why let her off the hook?" I said to Bronc. And looking straight at Tara as I tipped the barrel of the pistol slightly, I asked her, "So where were you the night Jack was killed?"
Her head jerked up at that. "Not in Tahoe," she said, "and I can prove it. I had a party here. Mike and Dave and Ray and Ray's new girlfriend were all over. They ended up sleeping here. I've got an alibi."
Well, well, well. From the sound of her voice she'd told this story before; I could guess to whom. Though Mike and Dave and Ray were low-lifes who could surely be induced to lie for money, the probability that she'd bribe them all seemed slight. Of course, there was always the possibility that she'd hired a killer and arranged her alibi on purpose.
"I didn't kill Jack, she announced defensively, "and anybody who says I did is a liar."
"You did know the terms of his will, though, and I see you've got a gun."
"So what?" Once again the normally bombastic Tara looked confused.
"You'll inherit a bunch," I said mildly.
"Yeah, but when?" The frustration in Tara's voice was clearly deeply felt. She seemed too upset to deny what was obviously a strong motive. "I need some money soon. I can't even afford to buy a stupid horse." For a moment she sounded very young, and I almost felt sorry for her. Almost but not quite. It wasn't lost on me that her poverty was her own doing, and the fact that she didn't have a horse had a lot to do with the fact that she'd ridden the last one to death.
I looked at her, standing there in her shabby driveway, having just attempted to steal a good horse away from its rightful owner and wondered what in the world would become of her. With her natural belligerence in abeyance she seemed a supremely pathetic creature-a stupid, trashy, criminal waste of a human being, doomed to be nothing but a burden to herself and others. Her only asset-a minimal sort of female beauty-was fading fast; age and hard living would rapidly erase the face and figure that had won Jack's heart. And then what?
Well, she'd be rich. That is, if she wasn't in jail for murder.
Tara seemed to read my thoughts. "I didn't kill the bastard," she said, with a return of her usual defensive hostility. "But I'm sure grateful to whoever did."
"You done?" Bronc asked me, looking disgusted. He'd listened to our exchange silently, leaning on the pickup and waiting, but Tara's last comment seemed to be too much for him. He appeared ready to wring her neck then and there.
"Yeah, I guess so." I set the pistol down gingerly in the rough grass at the edge of the driveway and started to climb into the truck, still looking back at Tara, feeling there must be something more to do or say.
Bronc had no such inhibitions. Jumping in the driver's side, he started the engine and rattled off down the driveway without a second glance. I watched Tara through the rearview mirror the whole time, but she made no attempt to pick up the gun, just stood there staring after us.
"Do you think she killed Jack or had him killed?" I asked Bronc as we pulled back on the county road.
"How the hell would I know? She's a nasty piece of work, that's for sure."
"Bronc, do you have any idea who might have killed Jack?"
"No, honey, I don't. Jack had a finger in a lot of pies and I didn't know about all of them. All I know is it's a damn shame he's dead."
"You and Trav have alibis, anyway." I said it lightly, but I was curious to see what he'd say.
"That's right." Bronc looked at me sharply. "You been talking to the kid?"
"A little."
He was quiet for a second. "Leave Travis alone, sweetheart," he said finally. "He's taking this pretty hard."
His words made me ashamed of myself. What business did I have bothering these people?
"What are you going to do about Willy?" I asked him, trying to change the subject.
"Nothing."
"People are going to wonder why you dyed him brown and cut off his mane and tail."
"Let 'em wonder."
Really, I thought, in some ways Bronc was just plain impossible. Soft-hearted about Travis one minute and completely irascible the next. Never mind that mostly I liked and admired the cantankerous old fart; his cowboy code of ethics could get on my nerves. "Never give a damn" sometimes seemed to epitomize his way of relating.
But Bronc did give a damn, I reminded myself. He only acted like he didn't give a damn. That was the cowboy code of ethi
cs.
"So why are you letting Tara get away with this?" I asked him.
"Why not? I got the horse back. Last thing I need is some damn cops in my hair. That's why I took you."
"Should I take it as a compliment that you prefer me to the cops?"
"You sure can if you want to." Bronc bared his teeth at me and I smiled back; normal behavior was restored.
As we rattled down the highway at a more or less sedate sixty, my mind shifted back to Tara. Tara who apparently had an alibi. But if I were Tara and I wanted to inherit, I'd arrange to split the money with some low-lifer and have him do the killing, then make sure I had an alibi. It all fit.
And Tara had a gun. The same sort of gun that had killed Jack. I wondered again if it had been one of a pair.
The trouble was that I wanted Tara to be guilty. Too much. If she had a motive, so did Jack's other two exes. And I had no idea what they were like or if they had alibis. All right, I told myself, there's a simple solution for this. By the time Bronc pulled back into the clinic parking lot and I climbed out of the truck, I'd made up my mind. I was going to meet wives number one and two.
SEVENTEEN
It turned out to be a relatively easy workday. I got through Jim's list of calls in record time, including one unscheduled emergency. Well, it wasn't really an emergency. The client just thought it was.
This particular client, a normally friendly, intelligent woman named Laurie Brown, was absolutely irrational on the subject of her horses. Something as minor as a small scrape was a full-blown disaster in her eyes. Today's emergency was just that one of her Peruvian Pasos had had a fairly standard reaction to the flu shot she'd given him yesterday, and was running a fever. It took me a good half-hour to reassure her that vaccine reactions like this were almost normal, and a couple of days on bute (horse aspirin) would take care of the problem.
Despite this minor glitch, it was only four o'clock and the thin winter sunlight still lay on the slopes of the mountains when I left the clinic. Another pretty day gone by. I rubbed Blue's head as I drove and he flattened his ears slightly in appreciation. His eyes looked sad, though-their habitual expression these days. Nothing I could do. Old age wasn't curable.
The urge to go to Lonny's and visit my horses was strong, but instead I took Bay Street and headed toward the ocean. Five minutes later I was driving into the little beachside town of Capitola. Capitola was charming with a capital C, the charm firmly decreed by the city council. The shops and restaurants were little and quaint and charming, the streets were narrow and curving and crowded and charming, the old houses were neatly painted and had charming flower gardens and window boxes. All this charm was enforced by the planning department with an iron hand, or so I heard.
I parked my truck in a large and uncharming municipal parking lot (the narrow streets were notoriously short of parking places), cracked the windows for Blue, and hiked half a mile to a steep stairway on an alley that led to a second-floor apartment over a boutique. My childhood friend Bret Boncantini was living here with his girlfriend, Deb. The apartment was actually Deb's. She paid the rent, and Bret merely lived with her, contributing, as far as I was aware, only his playful version of companionship.
I had no idea if Bret (or Deb) was home, but my luck was in. Bret's "Come on in" sounded in response to my knock, and I pushed the door open and walked into the one-room apartment. Bret was stretched out on a futon couch, watching a basketball game on TV, and he grinned when he saw me. "So what's up, Doc?"
"Not much." I cleared some magazines off a folding director's chair and sat down near him, glancing around at the blend of American innocuous and tropical exotic. Woven straw mats covered the dark brown shag carpet, South Seas batik fabrics draped a couple of conventional recliners, and Gauguin prints crowded palm-frond fans on the plain white walls. Every corner seemed to contain a large-leafed, overly lush green plant, and the whole effect was somehow quite reasonable and pleasant. I could, however, have done without the omnipresent TV set, which seemed to be riveting Bret's entire attention.
After his brief greeting his eyes had gone back to the screen and remained firmly fixed there. I watched him watch it and smiled to myself Some things never changed, and Bret seemed to be one of them.
He'd turn thirty this year, I happened to know, but you sure couldn't tell it by looking at him. His tanned skin, green-brown eyes and blond-streaked hair glowed undimmed; his expression was as carefree as it had ever been. Are you ever going to grow up? was a question many people felt inclined to ask Bret, and no, it appeared, he wasn't.
Feeling my gaze, Bret shifted his eyes from the TV to my face. There was a mischievous gleam in those eyes; it seemed to reside there permanently and was perhaps the secret behind Bret's legendary ability to fascinate women. I wouldn't know for sure. Bret and I had been friends for twenty-some years now, but we'd never been lovers. As far as I was concerned his playful irresponsibility made him good company-once in a while. How Deb managed to put up with him full-time I would never know.
"Do you know a woman named Elaine or Laney Hollister?" I asked him. "Jack Hollister's ex-wife. She's supposed to live in Capitola."
Bret was once more engrossed in the basketball game; he appeared not to hear my question. I repeated it louder.
Reluctantly he took his eyes off the tiny figures on the screen and looked at me. "Laney Hollister? Sure. Lives in that big house at the end of the street. That was too bad about old Jack, huh?" And back his attention went to the TV.
Well, that was lucky. I wasn't surprised that Bret knew Jack. Bret had made his living-or what living he made, anyway-for the last few years as a horseshoer. Thus he was familiar with most people in the horse business in Santa Cruz County. But it was a piece of luck I hadn't expected that he actually knew Jack's second ex. Of course, Bret had that amazing facility of seeming to know everybody.
"How do you know her?" I asked.
"Key West," he answered succinctly, his eyes on the game.
Key West was one of the little beachside bars Capitola was known for. Lively, fashionable places, they were meccas for people who wanted a partner for the night-"meat market" bars.
"Elaine Hollister hangs out at Key West?" I asked Bret.
Fortunately the television had moved on to a commercial, and I was able to capture his attention for a minute.
"Yep." He gave me the smile that had won a hundred hearts-crooked teeth, lit-up eyes. "She tried to take me home one night."
"And did you go?"
"Nope."
"Loyalty to Deb, I suppose."
Bret grinned again. "Partly. And old Elaine looks like trouble to me."
"Is she good-looking?" I asked, puzzled.
"Sure. For an older woman. But I like older women just fine."
"How old is she?"
"Fortyish, I guess. Fit-looking, blond, fancy-works out at the gym, still likes to show her figure off at the beach. She's a real local around here."
"So why does she look like trouble?"
"I dunno. But she does. After a while you can spot it. They've got this look in the eyes-strung a little too tight. Trying too hard. You just know this one would end up being a pain."
"Hmm." I wasn't sure what to make of this. Bret knew a lot about women, but his knowledge came from one point of view, so to speak. A woman who was "trouble" in his estimation might simply be one who wouldn't be likely to allow him to love her and leave her in the prompt way he usually preferred. On the other hand, I'd known Bret since we were children and his instincts were good. "Trouble" might also mean an unstable personality.
The basketball game was back on the screen and Bret's attention was once again riveted. I was about to give up and ask him to point out Elaine Hollister's house when his girlfriend walked in the door.
"Hi, Deb," I greeted her, feeling once again a sense of mild surprise that such a woman had chosen Bret.
Tall, red-headed, and beautifully proportioned, Deb was not conventionally pretty, but her face, all
angles and bone, was both attractive and memorable. More than that, her green eyes were intelligent and her firm mouth humorous. I liked her tremendously, and couldn't imagine how Bret had gotten so lucky.
Her entrance got his mind off the game-at least for a minute. "Did you get any beer?"
"Yes."
He smiled at her. "Can't watch a basketball game without beer."
She set the bag of groceries she was carrying on the table, and I noticed Bret got up off the couch and went to fetch his own beer, appearing not to expect her to wait on him. Good sign.
"Would you like something, Gail? I've got some chardonnay in the refrigerator. Or there's a nice shiraz." Deb was always cordial.
I revised my thoughts of leaving. "I'll take the shiraz."
Deb got the bottle from the counter and poured two glasses. We shared a taste for good wine, though Deb knew a great deal more about it than I did. She worked as a waitress in the most elegant restaurant in Capitola, and had learned a good deal in the course of her job about both wine and food.
"So what are you up to?" she asked, as we settled ourselves on two wicker bar stools, our backs, in common unspoken opinion, to the TV.
"I'm trying to find out about a woman named Elaine Hollister," I said and took a sip of the shiraz. It was good, powerful and fruity at the same time.
"She lives at the end of the street," Deb said, "Did Bret tell you?"
"Uh-huh."
"What do you want to know about her? Does she need an alibi?"
I almost choked on a swallow of wine. Trying to cough and talk at the same time, I sputtered, "What do you mean?"
"Her ex-husband was murdered, right?"
"Yeah."
"So I wondered if she was a suspect and might need an alibi. And I know you, Gail." Deb grinned. "You're nosy."
I laughed. "Nosy" could quite accurately describe what I was doing.
"Anyway," Deb went on, "the reason I ask is I can give her an alibi."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. I was walking home from work that night, the night her ex was murdered, and I saw her walking to her front door right around midnight. Stumbling would be a better word."