Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery)

by Laura Crum

  The bullpen had eight-foot-high solid walls. I could hear that someone, or something, was inside, but I couldn't see who or what. Built for breaking colts, the pen was about thirty feet in diameter. The gate had a small square hole cut in it, so that one could reach out, from inside, and open or close the latch. It was this hole that I approached.

  Peering through, I could see Travis, with his back to me. He was working a roan colt from the ground; Trav stood in the center of the pen with a long bullwhip in his hand, and the colt loped around him, one eye constantly fixed on the man. The noise I'd heard was the sound of the colt's galloping hoofs, with louder raps when he'd strike the boards of the pen.

  Automatically, my eyes went to the horse, observing and evaluating him. Red roan with a blaze face, he looked to be at least three years old, big and stout, a horse of the same type, and possibly the same breeding, as Willy. He had a saddle on his back, and he was packing it calmly, but judging by the wary expression in his eyes and the way Travis was working him, he probably hadn't been ridden much.

  Travis, for his part, looked calm and serene, his face, when he turned to follow the motion of the horse around the pen, more relaxed than I'd seen it since Jack's murder. He seemed wholly absorbed in the colt; occasionally he clucked to him when he slowed, but otherwise he simply stood and watched the horse travel, never moving the whip at all.

  I began to think that I might pass unnoticed, but the colt gave me away. Scent, or something, alerted him to my presence, and he snorted and shied as he went by the gate, his ears pointed sharply in my direction.

  Travis looked to see what had alarmed him, and our eyes met. In an instant, the serenity on Trav's face vanished, to be replaced by the closest approach to fury I could imagine on that young and normally friendly countenance.

  For a long moment we stared at each other and I began to revise my opinion on whether Travis would actually murder me in broad daylight in the Hollister Ranch yard. Glancing at my truck, I curbed the desire to bolt over to it and lock myself inside.

  He wouldn't, I told myself. Bronc must be around here somewhere.

  "What do you want?" Travis was striding toward the gate. The roan colt coasted to a stop at the far side of the corral and watched us, his eyes big.

  Despite myself I began to back away. Travis jerked the latch open and stepped out of the bullpen, still carrying the bullwhip. I checked him over carefully, but I couldn't see that he had any other potential weapon. His jeans and T-shirt had no place to conceal a gun.

  He's not going to kill you with that whip, I told myself, but my hands clenched themselves into defensive fists and I kept edging toward the truck.

  "What are you doing here?" Trav demanded again as he strode toward me.

  "Where's Bronc?" I asked, too nervous to answer his question, thinking only of safeguards against murder.

  "Out doctoring cattle." Travis spoke curtly; he was standing right in front of me now, his coffee brown eyes, so like Jack's, hard and angry. Despite the fact that I'm a tall woman, I had to look up at him, and I felt suddenly aware of how much physically stronger he probably was.

  Forcing myself not to cower, I looked straight into his eyes as he demanded once again, "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "I came to see Bronc," I responded untruthfully.

  "Leave the old man alone, why don't you? Isn't it bad enough that Jack's dead?"

  "Bronc doesn't seem to mind me," I said firmly. "It's just you who's so upset."

  "I know what you're doing." Travis shot back. "You're poking around making trouble because you don't want your friend to be arrested for murder. And you're not gonna pin it on me and Bronc. Or Laney," he added after a second.

  "Is that why you're so upset?" I asked him. "Because I saw you at Laney's?"

  "No." But for a moment he sounded a good deal less belligerent. "There's no law that says I can't date her. I didn't even know she used to be married to Jack when I asked her out," he added unnecessarily.

  I waited, hoping he'd say more.

  He didn't, though. He just stared back at me, his eyes still hot and hostile, but more controlled-looking. I was aware of the ranch surrounding us-the old barns and corrals like a silent audience. Travis had latched the gate to the bullpen, but I could hear the roan colt snort softly on the other side, as if he were listening, too.

  "Did you know Jack was going to sell this ranch?" I asked.

  No change in Trav's expression, just the same steady hostility he'd shown from the beginning. "Bullshit," he said.

  "He was," I said mildly. "It's in escrow right now."

  "That's bullshit. Jack left this ranch to the state, so that they could keep it the way it is."

  "You want that, don't you?"

  "Of course I do." Travis stared at me. "Why don't you just lay off?" he demanded. "You're not going to pin this murder on me or Bronc. We've got alibis. So does Laney. Pin it on Tara, if you want to pin it on somebody."

  "I'd like to."

  For a second Trav looked surprised, but the anger was back as quickly as it went away. "So go bother her, then, and leave us alone."

  "Just what kind of alibi can you and Bronc give each other?"

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth I knew I was in trouble. Trav's eyes blazed up into fury and I saw his fist tighten around the bullwhip. "None of your damn business," he said as he raised the whip.

  I have no idea if he would really have hit me; I grabbed the whip as it came up. "Goddammit, Travis, knock it off. If you hit me with that thing, I'm going straight to the cops, and I know you don't want that."

  It stopped him. For a moment, we stood like a piece of sculpture, eyes locked, both gripping the bullwhip; then I felt the tension drain out of his arm and I stepped back.

  "Get out of here," he said.

  Keeping a wary eye on him, I walked to the truck and climbed in. He made no move to harass or follow me, just stood there in the barnyard, watching me as I turned the pickup around and drove out. Animosity was plain in every line of his rigidly still form.

  I knew as I drove away that I'd made an enemy for life. Travis wasn't going to forgive me. Maybe Jeri Ward was right. Maybe I was in over my head.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ten minutes later, I was halfway back to the office, as depressed as I could remember being. Talk about useless and inept. I'd learned nothing and alienated Travis completely. Why, why couldn't I come up with something helpful-the hit man who'd assisted Tara, maybe, or someone else with a reason to murder Jack?

  Someone else. The words rang a bell. Redwoods Inc. Who the hell was Redwoods Inc.? The developer, Denise had said. I had wondered if someone stood to gain or lose on Jack's upcoming deal, and I now knew the name of "someone." Sort of.

  Picking up the car phone, I asked for the number of Redwoods Inc. The operator plugged me right into the recording-sounded like a Santa Cruz number. Without thinking about what I was going to say, I dialed it.

  "Redwoods Incorporated." The receptionist had the faintest of southern drawls.

  "Uh, this is the IRS," I ad-libbed desperately. "We're doing a routine check of our files and we need to update your address."

  "It's 355 River Street, suite L," the secretary said, clearly puz­zled. "The same as it was last year."

  "Thanks very much," I said quickly and hung up. Well, that was easy. And convenient. A right turn at the next stoplight and I was on River Street.

  It took me a while to find 355, though, because River Street was a congested mass of urban development with a much less developed traffic system. Several huge warehouse-type discount stores, an indoor shopping mall, and innumerable strip malls created a consumer draw that the city streets were unable to deal with effectively. As a result, traffic always moved at a uniform crawl in this area.

  Not being a big fan of retail therapy, I tended to avoid River Street like the plague, so not only did I not know exactly where I was going, I was unprepared for the abrupt lane changes, merges, and general maneuv
ering necessary to get from here to there. It took me a couple of passes through the worst of things to figure out which little strip mall bore the number 355, and by this time I was not in a good mood.

  Barely restraining myself from flipping off an old lady who cut sharply in front of me with her Mercedes, I pulled into the parking lot of Redwood Village Shopping Center, with a muttered "Up yours." Silent cussing was allowed, but Jim would never forgive me for giving assholes the finger from the company truck.

  I parked and got out, looking for suite L. Easier said than done. I discovered letters were alphabetically stenciled above each little business, but L was nowhere. There was K and then there was M. Where L should have been was just blank wall. I paced all the way up and down the place twice before I thought to go in and ask the clerk at a yogurt shop where L was.

  "In back," she said. "That's the office."

  Okay. I walked to the end of the mall for the third time and headed around behind it. Abruptly the superficially attractive veneer. of neat sidewalks and brightly colored awnings gave way to a strictly utilitarian asphalted alley, with a high cinder-block wall on one side and the huge, undecorated, unwindowed mass of the building on the other. The alley was punctuated by a series of Dumpsters, from which trash spilled out in generous quantities. A fitful breeze tossed the empty coffee cups and other bits of detritus up and down the gutters, and the thin visible strip of winter sky above me seemed dimmed and chilly.

  I kept walking, but my spirits, already low, plummeted right into my boots. I hated this. All the asphalt and concrete, the buildings and spaces without any beauty or character, the absence of any living things, and the sense that there was no place for them-I hated this world. One of the best points of my job was that it seldom took me to such places, and I was struck anew by the depressing thought that to many people this was the stuff of everyday life.

  I could see a door ahead of me now, about halfway down the drafty alley, and I hurried. The bright winter day, so full of promise out at the Hollister Ranch, was a cold, dank affair in this bleak corridor.

  The door-plain, metal, unwelcoming-had L stenciled above it. I pulled it open.

  The hallway beyond almost made me turn back. A straight hard bowling alley leading off into the depths of the building, it had blank white walls and a concrete floor, illuminated by glaring fluorescent lights. As a place to get shot in a bad spy movie, it was perfect.

  Timidly I started down it, feeling nervous as the exterior door closed behind me. God, now I was in the heart of the beast. Gobbled up by the modern world, never to see the sun again.

  Shut up, Gail, I urged myself. This is a shopping center for God's sake, not a vision of hell. You couldn't tell it by me, though.

  I passed a metal door marked Restrooms, and one that was locked, and finally came to one with a sign that said Offices. It opened when I tried it.

  Inside was, sure enough, an office-desks, potted plants, copiers, computers, the usual. Two secretaries were visible, and the nearest one lifted her head at the sound of the door.

  "Can I help you?"

  By the voice, it was the receptionist who had answered the phone. Now what?

  "I'm representing Travis Gunhart and Bronc Pickett of the Hollister Ranch" was what popped out of my mouth.

  The secretary's eyes narrowed. "You'll be wanting Mr. Hoskins, then."

  "Yes, that's right. Gail McCarthy," I added helpfully.

  She got to her feet and stalked off across the office, walking with the stiff-legged gait of a woman in heels, and disappeared through an open door at the other end of the room. I could hear the murmur of voices, male and female, but I couldn't make out any words.

  A minute or two passed, then the secretary reemerged. Behind her was a man. For a moment I was aware only that he looked familiar, and then recognition dawned. The beaked nose, the bald dome. Jesus Christ. I'd seen this man in the coffee shop of the Foresta Hotel in Tahoe. The man Jack had called Art.

  Judging by the look in his eyes, he'd recognized me, too, and I didn't think he was happy about it. I had a strong desire to turn and run for the second time in one day, but I forced myself to stand my ground. Art, whoever he was, was not going to shoot me in front of two secretaries.

  "Ms. McCarthy?" He was holding out his hand, but his expression was neutral, to say the least.

  "Mr. Hoskins. I believe we've met. Up in Tahoe."

  Art Hoskins's gaze flicked briefly to his secretary and then back to me. "Why don't you come into my office."

  I followed him. It didn't look like a rich developer's office to me. Some dark mahogany furniture and maroon upholstery dignified it from the uniform beiges of the outer office, but it was still an unwindowed cell of a room, crowded with computer, printer, filing cabinets, a couple of potted plants, a large desk, and two swivel-type chairs. I sat down without being asked.

  Art sat behind his desk and we studied each other. Whatever discomfort or alarm he'd felt at seeing me in his office was completely hidden now behind the quiet poker face of an experienced businessman. I tried to keep my own features equally still.

  "So, Ms. McCarthy, what can I do for you?"

  "Dr. McCarthy. We met up in Tahoe. In the coffee shop of the Foresta Hotel. I was with Jack Hollister. The night before he was killed." I watched the man carefully.

  Art Hoskins shook his head. "That was a terrible thing." He waited.

  I plunged on. "It turns out you and Jack were in the middle of making a deal on the Hollister Ranch."

  "That's right."

  "I hear you were in escrow when he was killed. How's that going to affect your deal?"

  Art Hoskins said nothing. I let the silence lie. It seemed to take a full minute, but eventually he spoke. "What do you have to do with this, Dr. McCarthy?"

  "My friend's a suspect." Damned if I owed him any further explanations.

  More silence. Art Hoskins looked composed, unruffled. For some reason, this was pissing me off. "Do the cops know you were up in Tahoe that night?" I asked him.

  That got his attention. He didn't say a word, but his facial muscles tightened everywhere. No, I thought, they don't know, and he doesn't want them to.

  The balance in the room had changed. Art still watched me closely; no obvious difference was apparent but I sensed the power lay with me.

  "So what were you doing in Tahoe, Mr. Hoskins?"

  Predictably, it took him a while to answer this question, and when he did his words were completely unexpected. "I used to be a horse vet."

  "You're kidding."

  He smiled, and for a second looked almost human. "It's been years since I've practiced. But that's what I used to do. Up in the Bay Area. That's how I first met Jack."

  "So why were you at the convention?"

  "I'd been to it before. And I knew Jack would be there. We still had some loose ends to work out on the deal."

  "So you were up there to see Jack."

  "More or less. Ski. Take in a few lectures, maybe."

  "Don't tell me. When you heard Jack had been murdered you beat feet for home."

  Once again, Art was silent. I was trying to decide what to say, when he finally spoke. "I'd rather not be interviewed by the cops."

  I was definitely one up.

  "I had nothing to do with Jack's murder," he went on. "I've got a alibi for most of the evening; I was out with a group of old friends."

  "But you spent the night alone?"

  "Well, no."

  "Then you have an alibi for the night."

  "Not exactly." Unbelievably, I could see a faint flush on his cheekbones.

  "A call girl?" I guessed.

  He was quiet just a heartbeat too long. I studied his face. "A call boy?"

  Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

  "So that's why you don't want to talk to the cops."

  No response from Art, who looked clearly miserable.

  "Could you produce the, uh, boy if you had to?"

  "I don't know."

&
nbsp; "I see," I said again. "If you'll answer my questions honestly, I’ll keep my mouth shut about you unless I'm asked." My God. Jeri Ward would throw me in jail for this little bit of chicanery.

  "So what do you want to know?" He sounded resigned.

  "About this deal. If I have it right, Jack was planning to sell the Hollister Ranch to your company."

  "That's right."

  "So what were you going to do with the land?"

  "Build a convention center. Condos. Some single-family housing."

  For a brief second I had a vision of it, the old ranch that I'd seen not an hour ago reduced to a version of this modern hell-wall-to-wall asphalt and concrete, big cinder-block buildings, lots of multistoried gray condos. Yuck. The feeling was so strong I almost said the word out loud.

  Instead I asked him, "You know that in Jack's will the ranch is to be left to the state, to be part of the state park."

  "So I understand."

  "So you're not going to end up with it now."

  "That's debatable. We were in escrow. There were no obvious problems. Most of the paperwork is done. We're pursuing it."

  We stared at each other. I understood that to Art the whole issue was nuts and bolts, dollars and cents. Any pleas to leave the old ranch be would be dismissed as ridiculous. A man who spent his days in a place like this, when he could obviously afford to be elsewhere, was not a man who would care that the Hollister Ranch was beautiful, and more than that, clothed with tradition.

  Another question occurred to me. "Who gets the money, now, if the deal goes through?"

  "Jack's estate, I assume."

  Tara, Laney, and Karen. Shit. "How much is it, the purchase price, I mean?"

  "Five and a half million."

  "Oh." Good Lord. I couldn't even imagine having a million dollars in my possession, and Tara, lovely Tara, was going to end up with a good deal more than that. There didn't seem to be much else to say.

  As I stood up to go, I asked him, "Just what is Redwoods Inc.?"