by Laura Crum
“A development company. We invest in properties we think we can make money on."
"It's your company?"
"I'm the president, and I own the majority of the shares. It's a corporation."
"Who are the other shareholders?" Maybe, I thought, just maybe, one of them would be someone I knew.
"Just some businessmen."
"Who?" I demanded.
Art Hoskins looked reluctant, but he knew I had him. "Carl Walters is one. Don Capelli. Henry Williams." Not names I recognized-not horse people.
"Anyone else?"
He sighed. "Jim Leonard."
"Not the Jim Leonard I work for?" I must have sounded as startled as I felt.
He nodded resignedly. "Did you know Jim was my boss?"
"Jack mentioned it, after I saw you in the coffee shop. I've known both Jim and Jack for years. Since I was in practice."
"Did you know they didn't get along?"
“It wasn't a problem." Art Hoskins said it easily but I wondered.
"Does Jim know this company he's involved in is trying to buy the Hollister Ranch?"
Art stared at me a minute. “It was Jim's idea," he said at last.
Good Lord. Jim's idea to buy the Hollister Ranch and make money on it. Some sort of bizarre revenge on Jack? It didn't make sense. Jack was willing to sell-apparently. Or had Jack changed his mind up there in Tahoe, maybe because he found out Jim was involved? Had Art Hoskins and Jim decided to kill Jack so that the deal would go through?
I didn't know what to think, or say. Jim couldn't be involved. Could he? Suddenly I didn't really want to know any more.
Art Hoskins was watching me, his emotionless expression calculated, his eyes steady. Once again the balance of power had shifted. This man doesn't really have an alibi, I told myself. And he might have a reason to have killed Jack.
Without a word, I turned and walked out of the room, making my way through the office and down the bleak hall. Walking around the mammoth building, I got in my truck, maneuvered my way out of the parking lot, through the congested mess on River Street, and onto the highway, all without seeing a thing.
The whole way back to the clinic I chased the same question, persistent as a dog in pursuit of its tail, but by the time I got there I wasn't any closer to the answer. Could Jim be involved in this murder? And if so, what should I do?
TWENTY-THREE
Jim wasn't in evidence when I walked into our office, which was a relief. I didn't think I could have met his eyes. I checked the schedule and headed back out the door as fast as I could. A couple of calls kept me busy for the rest of the afternoon.
Fortunately they were easy ones-another mild colic case and a sole abscess. I couldn't have coped with anything too complicated. My brain was in a lather. What should I do? The words went round and round, as repetitive as the lyrics of a sappy song that sticks unrelentingly.
It was almost dark as I pulled in my driveway. Lifting Blue out of the truck, I trudged toward the front porch, fumbling through my pockets for the door key, paying no attention to my surroundings. I was face to face with the door when I noticed the square of white paper stuck to the wood with a tack. A note.
Someone had left me a note.
It was folded. I pulled the tack out and opened the slip of paper. I almost dropped it.
Printed in hard, slanting capitals were the words BACK OFF OR DIE, BITCH. That was it. I stared stupidly, looking for a signature, a clue of some sort to who had done this. There was nothing. Of course there wasn't.
Hatred seemed to leap off the paper and take hold of my throat. The letters were deeply scored, violent. Shaken, I clutched the note as I tried to get the key in the lock. I wanted inside, I wanted the door bolted, I wanted help.
I got the door open. Blue whined demandingly at me; he was already halfway down the steps to the yard. I peered at the deep shadows under the redwoods by the creek. No way did I want to go down there.
"You go," I told the old dog.
Obediently he stumped down the steps. I stood close to the door, waiting, watching him, trying to watch the street and everything else around me at the same time. Whoever had left the note might be hiding, watching, stalking me.
Shit. This was not a good thought. "Come on, Blue," I urged him. "Hurry up."
It seemed to take forever, but eventually he made his slow way back up the steps. To my relief, the cat was with him; I'd had a brief, sick image of Bonner's body hanging upside down somewhere, some sort of sadistic warning. Thank God he was all right.
I let the animals in the house, locked and bolted the door, and sat down next to the phone with the note in my hand. I looked around. Everything looked normal. No sign that anyone had been inside.
Okay. Call the police. Ask for Jeri Ward.
But I didn't. "Back off or die, bitch."
I stared at the note. Travis? Tara? I tried to decide if the printing looked male or female.
Art Hoskins? But how would he know where I lived? He could have called Jim, I thought. Jim knew where I lived.
Another thought intruded. Joanna knew my address. But Joanna was in Merced, or had been when I called her last night. She wouldn't drive two and a half hours to leave a note on my door. Would she?
I got up and pulled all the window curtains shut. What should I do? The same old refrain.
My little house was tainted. Someone had been here intending to harm me. Someone had invaded my space. Suddenly I was more angry than scared. All right, you sons-of-bitches, you'll see. Back off? Not a chance.
I went downstairs and got the pistol out of its locked cupboard. Checking to be sure there was no bullet in the chamber, I brought it up and set it on the kitchen table. I looked in the refrigerator. Then I went back to the phone.
I didn't call Jeri Ward. I called Lonny.
He answered on the second ring, sounding as cheerful as usual. Just the thought of him made me smile.
"So," I said, "how would you like to come over for dinner?"
"Should I pack my toothbrush?"
"Yes."
TWENTY-FOUR
I made clam chowder for dinner. Mostly out of cans, I will admit, but I added some bacon and celery I had in the fridge, thickened it up with butter and two or three potatoes that were languishing in the cupboard, and embellished the whole thing heavily with black pepper. A bottle of local chardonnay and the tail end of a loaf of French bread concealed any deficiencies. Lonny looked content and Blue and Bonner finished the remnants happily.
After some deliberation, I'd decided not to mention the note to Lonny. I didn't want him turning overly protective on me. His presence alone, I reckoned, would make me safe enough. Putting the note in a drawer, I'd locked the gun back in its cupboard and greeted Lonny with a cheerful smile.
Dinner and a couple of glasses of wine behind me, I found the note didn't prey on my mind much, anyway. Not with Lonny sitting on the couch next to me, his shoulder touching mine as he skimmed the evening paper.
Not when he put his arm around me and kissed me, either, or when he began unbuttoning my shirt. I merely cast a quick glance around the room to make sure the curtains were still shut and the dead bolt was shot home, and then stretched my hand out and took hold of his belt buckle.
"Here?" he said in my ear.
"Why not?"
For the next hour I lost myself in sex, in the kissing and pressing, the arousal and entering, the long, slow build to the mind-emptying climax. And then, lying together on the couch, half asleep and wholly relaxed, I let myself drift into peaceful forgetfulness. Until the first shot rang out.
A blasting, electrifying crack, it stood me bolt upright in a half second. Lonny was slower to react, not being primed for trouble.
"What the hell was that?" He stared up at me from the couch.
"A shot. Oh shit."
Another crack and then two more in rapid succession.
I dove onto the floor. Blue pressed himself against me, whining; he'd always hated gunshots.
; "Jesus Christ," Lonny roared, scrambling off the couch and searching frantically for his clothes. Two more earsplitting explosions. Where the hell were the bullets going?
I could feel Blue trembling next to me, and the cat scooted across the room and hid under the couch. I pressed my naked body to the rug.
Another violent bang. Blue whimpered. I could see Lonny struggling to pull his pants on, bare feet clumping in front of my nose.
A rippling series of bangs went off, raising the hair on the back of my neck. God damn them.
Leaping to my feet, I ran toward the door. I grabbed the heavy black flashlight I kept on the dresser. Those bangs had come from the other side of the creek.
"Wait, Gail; don't!" I could hear Lonny shouting, but I was too angry to care. I shoved the bolt back and opened the door. Sheltering behind it, I pointed the flashlight beam toward the creek.
"Knock it off, asshole!" I screamed at the top of my voice, scanning the tangled brush on the far bank. "Call 911!" I hurled at Lonny.
Playing the flashlight over the creek bank, I searched for movement, for shapes that shouldn't be there. Nothing. Only tangled willows and cottonwoods, spikes of Monterey pine and redwood. I swung the light toward my driveway. Nothing out of place there, either. Lonny's Bronco and my pickup sat quietly side by side.
But there was a dirt road on the other side of the creek, I knew. Someone was over there in the brush hiding.
I held my breath. Only silence met me. The noise had stopped the moment I opened the door. No shots. I couldn't hear any crashing in the brush, either.
Swinging the flashlight beam across my driveway, I saw a flash of white in the gravel, like a cigarette stub. Only I never, ever left any litter in my driveway. Not to mention I didn't smoke. Nor did Lonny.
I stepped out the door and, picking my way gingerly over the gravel on bare feet, bent toward the odd white tube. It had a slender wire attached to one end, and, on close inspection was actually a sort of blue and white striped pattern. There was a faint smell of sulfur when I sniffed it.
Bottle rocket. I remembered them from my rowdy high school years. Illegal, but easily acquirable. Kids bought them in Chinatown, in Mexico. They made a hell of a bang.
They hadn't been shots at all. Bottle rockets going off overhead, that was all.
But why? I straightened up and, for the first time, saw the exterior side of the door I'd been hiding behind. There was a note on it. Caught between fright and fury, I went to get it, and found myself grabbed roughly by the arm and jerked into the house.
"Goddammit, Gail, get inside." Lonny was wearing only his jeans.
"They were bottle rockets," I said, clutching the note.
Lonny slammed the door. "I figured that out for myself. The noise was wrong for shots. But you're still an idiot for running out there naked."
I stared down at my body. I was, indeed, naked. Well, of course I was naked. I'd started out naked and I'd never put any clothes on.
"I suppose I did look a little silly."
"You looked ridiculous." Lonny was still irate. "Not to mention you were a sitting duck if those had been shots. What got into you?"
"I don't know. First I was scared and then I didn't care what happened to me; I wanted to attack whoever was shooting at us." I shivered. "Adrenaline, I guess. It was stupid."
Lonny abandoned his anger suddenly and pulled me close. "You dummy," he said affectionately. "You're freezing."
"Did you call 911?"
"No, not yet. I knew they weren't shots, just firecrackers. Probably kids, fooling around. But why here?"
I unfolded my fingers from around the note. "Because of this, I guess."
"What's this?"
I held the note so we could both read it. NEXT TIME IT WILL BE FOR REAL. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.
The same hard slanting capitals. I went over to the dresser and got the first note and showed it to Lonny. "I found this one on the door when I got home."
"What the hell?" Lonny was staring at the two notes, his expression confused. "Gail, what've you been doing?"
"Poking around."
"You'd better quit doing it. And take these notes to the police. This is about Jack's murder, isn't it?"
I reached down and picked up the faded quilt that lay over one arm of the couch and wrapped it around myself. "Yes." I held up a hand to stop him as he opened his mouth. "Don't press me. I need some time to think. There's something funny about all this."
Lonny looked reluctant. "It's your decision, I guess. But I think you ought to go to the police."
I stood on tiptoe and kissed his mouth. "I need one more favor."
"What's that?"
"Loan me your truck and trailer tomorrow."
"Why?"
"Because I need to borrow them."
Lonny stared at me, worry lines creasing the skin around his eyes. "All right," he said slowly, "if that's what you need. But be careful."
"I will," I said. I meant it, too.
TWENTY-FIVE
At ten the next morning I unloaded Gunner in a sandy, windswept parking lot just north of Santa Cruz. I’d told the receptionist I was taking the day off without giving a reason. Let Jim wonder.
So here I was, saddling my horse on a shiny winter morning, all set to go for a ride on the beach. My heart should have been singing, but it wasn't.
I finished saddling and bridling Gunner, locked the truck and the tack box of the trailer, shoved the keys in my pocket, and climbed aboard. Ignoring the colt's wide eyes and reluctant steps, I urged him toward a trail through the sand dunes that I'd taken several times before. Of course, I'd always been with Lonny and we'd always been on Burt and Pistol. This was Gunner's first trip to the beach and our first solitary expedition together.
We threaded our way between the dunes, the wind bending the sedge grass around us, the sound of the surf growing steadily louder. Down a little gully, Gunner's feet sinking and slipping in the loose sand, and there it was. Immense, endless, loudly overpowering-the sea.
Clear winter air gave the beach a crystalline sharpness-so intense I had to shut my eyes for a second. White sand, blue sky, each wave that impossibly lovely translucent blue-green, crashing in a dazzle of foam to the shore. Restless and lively, the water glittered, its overwhelming presence filling the horizon, cascading in a constant roar on the stretch of sand before me.
A chilly breeze whipped my hair off my ears and lifted Gunner's mane. I sat transfixed, staring at the blindingly bright noisy ocean as if I'd never seen it before. Gunner stared, too, his ears up, his eyes big. As far as I knew, he had, in fact, never seen it before. He didn't seem scared, though. More fascinated and excited.
It was a different story when I urged him forward. Snorting, he raised his head and stiffened his body; I could read the message perfectly. Not on your life, he was telling me; that's all right to look at, but I'm not going near it.
Much persistent thumping on his sides, mixed with a couple of sharp taps from the spurs and some firm guidance from the reins, eventually convinced him that he had to, and with many sudden swerves breaking our progress, we advanced to the edge of the surf. I kept one hand tightly wrapped around the saddle horn; Gunner, bred to be a cutting horse, could leap sideways so abruptly that I might have fallen off otherwise.
I contemplated making him enter the water, but gave it up as a bad idea; even Burt, my mount on previous rides, hated to do that, though he would go, if forced. Lonny had told me the secret-"The way you get a horse in the surf is to back him in." He'd accustomed Burt and Pistol like this, and I supposed I could do it with Gunner, but I didn't feel up for a struggle, at the moment.
Instead, I rode along the beach, Gunner's feet sinking slightly in the wet sand beside the water. A fine mist of salt spray blew in our faces as the surf pounded and crashed beside us, noisy and violent, full of sudden clashes of light. My left arm grew tired from constantly correcting his drift away from the breakers, and the fingers of my right hand were sore from my death
grip on the horn, but apart from occasional leaps at encroaching waves, he behaved quite well.
Some twenty minutes down the beach I saw the oak tree I'd been looking for, and crossed the deeper sand to take a trail that wound through the dunes and then up into the hills. It was a trail I'd taken before; it followed the hilly country along the shore for a while and eventually emerged into a meadow that offered a fairly spectacular view of the north coast. With the Hollister Ranch in the foreground.
Gunner was plugging along now; his eyes and ears were still working, but the light sweat on his neck had taken the edge off his spookiness. I stopped to open an old wooden gate, and he stood quietly, tired enough to behave. In another ten minutes we reached the place I'd been aiming for-a rough, coastal meadow with a view to end all views. Halting Gunner, I faced the ocean.
The wind blew in my face, making a sharp silvery whine in my earrings. The Pacific had a cold edge today; the sea was rough and restless, whitecaps everywhere. From the scrubby hillside where I stood I could see the Hollister Ranch headquarters, huddled in the hollow below me, and beyond that, demanding my attention, lay the dramatic, rocky coastline to the north.
Everything was brilliant and hard, the dark, jagged promontories sharply etched against the clear winter sky and the turbulent sea. Gunner snorted at a sudden flare of rustles as the wind beat at a nearby bunch of pampas grass; everywhere greasewood and patches of thin grass moved and jerked in the air currents.
This north coast country, I thought, though beautiful, was bleak and inhospitable, a place to visit, not a place to live. It was either foggy or windy ninety percent of the time, and I found the ocean, though spectacular, an oppressive, almost ominous presence after a while-too big, too impersonal, just too damn cold.
I looked back at the Hollister Ranch, trying to see it with the eyes of love. The old, carefully tended barns and well-repaired fences, the cottonwoods lining the drive and the stream running through the pasture, the walled garden behind the adobe ranch house, with its neat orchard and ancient climbing roses festooning the whitewashed bricks. Cattle grazed in a small field just below me, bordered by the beach, the red and black shapes of the cows and calves impossibly picturesque against a background of new green grass and rolling winter surf.