“I have no idea,” I responded, somewhat testily. “It’s after seven o’clock and all know that we keep early hours. Trick-or-treaters, perhaps?”
“It’s April,” Madeline said, as if that explained everything.
The bell shrilled again.
I remembered then, that trick-or-treaters show up in November so Madeline had indeed explained everything. “Girl Scouts,” I said, with a certain degree of hope. “Is it cookie time? Oh, damn. Of course. It’s after seven, is it not? That’s who it is.”
“That’s who who is?” Madeline asked.
The bell shrilled a third time. Allegra and Joe exchanged a glance, seemed to come to some agreement, then rose and went to the front door together. When they returned, they were accompanied by Brewster McClellan and a thin woman I took to be his wife.
“This gentleman says he has an appointment,” Allegra said.
I nodded. “He does. It slipped my mind with the crush of activities this afternoon.” I rose and offered my hand, “Mr. McClellan?”
“You McKenzie?” he barked.
I eyed him with disfavor. He was big, snub-nosed, and pugnacious, resembling nothing so much as a Rottweiler, without that breed’s generally amiable expression. His color was unhealthily high. His wife was thin and expensively blond. She wore breeches, paddock boots, and a faultlessly white shirt. She was unlit by any sort of passion. Dim. She was dim, like a shrouded lamp. She, I felt some sympathy for. “You are Mrs. McClellan?”
“Marina,” she said, in a quiet way. She extended her hand. The nails were well kept and colorless.
“Please sit down.” I waited until she settled on a chair like a bony sparrow. I turned to McClellan himself. “I am Austin McKenzie. And this is my wife. The young lady at your left is Allegra Fulbright. The young man at your right is Mr. Joe Turnblad.” Mindful of my duties as host, however reluctant a host I might be, I gestured toward a kitchen chair. “Please sit down.”
“Why don’t we all sit right in the living room?” Madeline swept McClellan efficiently before her as she spoke. “Joe, you and Allegra sit there by the fireplace. You settle right into your recliner, Austin. And I’ll put you here, Mr. McClellan.” She shoved him onto the leather couch. “I’ll be happy to get us all some coffee. Marina, would you mind giving me a hand?”
McClellan seemed momentarily confused, a frequent state of mind when Madeline is in full cry. He scratched his head vigorously, and then shrugged himself out of his checked sports coat. “I wouldn’t say no to a Scotch-rocks,” he said, although I had volunteered no such thing. I went to the sideboard and prepared a drink. McClellan stared rudely in Allegra’s direction. “Your name’s familiar. I think I know your father.”
Allegra bit her lip and stuck her chin out in what was now becoming a familiar gesture of defiance. “I doubt it,” she said coolly, “I’m Dr. McKenzie’s assistant.”
Joe sat up as if stung. I believe I looked puzzled. I certainly felt it. Madeline would not have made the job offer without consulting me. She knew I never would have made an offer without consulting her.
McClellan remained oblivious to the undercurrents. “That isn’t it.” McClellan squinted at her.
I handed him his drink; he accepted it without taking his eyes from Allegra. He snapped his fingers. “Show ring. That’s it. Last year at Earlsdown. If you’re a Fulbright, then you were Sam Fulbright’s daughter.”
Allegra nodded stiffly. I pondered that “were.”
“The Wall Street guy,” McClellan went on, knocking back a slug of liquor that would have felled the redoubtable Pony. “Old Sam. Yeah.” McClellan’s somewhat bleary gaze shifted to Joe. “Now you, sonny. I haven’t seen you before, have I? Or have I.”
“I’m Dr. McKenzie’s assistant,” Joe said. I continued to remain confused.
McClellan’s bloodshot baby blues shifted back to me. “You have two assistants, McKenzie? I heard the private vet business wasn’t that good this close to Cornell. I have it on the best authority that you were on your uppers.”
I loathe that particular cliché.
“The heck we are,” Allegra said, indignantly. “We have to beat off new customers with a stick, don’t we, Dr. McKenzie? Whoever told you we were broke?”
Victor Bergland, that’s who. The old goat. But I remained aloof.
“Busy enough for two full-time assistants?” McClellan demanded skeptically. I had no idea why the man sounded so incredulous. I am, after all, the world’s most notable expert on bovine back fat.
“Although Joe and I aren’t exactly full-time assistants,” Allegra said, with a hesitant glance at me. “We’ve agreed to share the job. Right, Joe?”
Joe glowered at her. She stared back, her chin at that same challenging angle. Madeline swept in from the kitchen, a tray of coffees in her hands, Marina trailing behind like a lost dinghy. Madeline set the tray on the coffee table and looked expectantly at me. “Did I hear that right, Austin? The children have agreed to job share?”
McClellan yawned, jiggled his left knee, drained his Scotch, and demanded another. I ignored the request and remained lost in thought.
“So we job share?” Joe asked Allegra slowly. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Seems like the best plan to me. That is,” Allegra said, with a sudden, anxious look at Madeline, “if that’s okay with you.”
“It’s brilliant.” Then Madeline smiled. Joe smiled, because Madeline in full beam is impossible to resist. Everyone was smiling but McClellan and me. I wasn’t smiling because I was struck with the obvious suitability of the arrangement and I rarely smile when I marvel. McClellan wasn’t smiling because I had yet to refill his Scotch. I did so, and Joe asked me, with some degree of trepidation, how much assistants got paid these days.
I named a figure that created an instant, if momentary, alliance between Joe and Allegra, and a snort of approval from McClellan. We could not, I knew, afford any more than that. The poor pay might work in our favor, though: the look of consternation that passed between our two new assistants augured for a possible rapprochement in the future.
“You’ll live in, of course,” Madeline said. “That pay wouldn’t keep a cat in kibble. And you both need fattening up.”
“We will?” Joe asked, dazed.
“Of course you will,” Madeline said firmly. “The job includes room and board, doesn’t it, my dear?”
“Of course,” I said, somewhat absentmindedly. I was watching Marina McClellan. She drifted around the room in an aimless way. Every time McClellan made an idle movement, she twitched like a startled deer.
“I’d like the guest room upstairs, please,” Allegra said instantly. (This with the air of claiming “dibs!”) Then, to the clearly uninterested Marina McClellan. “The guest suite! It’s gorgeous. It looks like something out of the Inn at Hemlock Falls.”
A look of recognition crossed McClellan’s frog-like features. He was obviously in a tax bracket to have had more than a passing acquaintance with that local luxury spot.
“I like the room off the operating room better, anyway.” Joe settled back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his neck.
“I missed that,” Allegra said thoughtfully. “Does it have a tub or a shower?”
“Can we get to the point, here?” McClellan demanded, with, I must admit, some justification.
“Absolutely,” Madeline said. “We’ll just leave you to discuss it. I’m going to go ahead and get the children settled. Marina, come with us. I’ll show you the rest of the house.” She leaped to her feet. Her ebullience warmed my heart. Madeline is the happiest of women, but when she is very happy the air positively shimmers about her, as it was shimmering now. “And Brewster?” her voice floated past as they all went the back door. “You shouldn’t have any more Scotch. There’s decaf on the stove. You don’t want to aggravate your blood pressure.”
“What the hell is she on about, my blood pressure?” McClellan said uneasily.
“My wife is rarely w
rong in such matters,” I said. “You should consider having it checked.”
“Yeah. Well. Whatever. So. You understand that Schumacher thought he wouldn’t have the time to give his full attention to the veterinary committee. He recommended you as a sub, as a matter of fact.” He tapped his fingers restlessly on his knee. His eyes wandered over the room, settling anywhere but on mine. “Myself, I was thinking that we’d be able to talk him back on board, but then someone shot the poor bastard. So I guess you’re it.”
“Perhaps,” I said dryly.
“You’ve vetted three-day events before, right?”
This didn’t require an answer, unless McClellan were a boob or a phony. I recalled my initial suspicions that he had swiped the Organizing Committee’s letterhead and was merely posing as the head.
The Committee is the only body that may issue an invitation to a prospective Veterinary Delegate. The Delegate is the head of a four-member Veterinary Commission consisting of an Examining Veterinarian, an Associate Veterinarian, and last, one poor soul at the bottom rung of the ladder trying to get sufficient show experience to move up. This vet gets stuck with all the drug testing. Not only are Delegates required to have prior experience at Two- and Three-day events, but most have a certificate from a specialized training course. Any member of the committee would know that most training certificates in central New York have been signed by Professor Austin Oliver McKenzie, Department of Equine Sciences, and Chair of Bovine Sciences, Cornell University.
“You are new to the Organizing Committee, I take it?” I asked, somewhat coldly.
“Yes. First time this year.” He showed me a lot of teeth. “Very grateful to be honored, of course.”
I wondered, cynically, how much the honor had cost him. Spots on Organizing Committees were usually allocated to the old-line dedicated horsemen, the professional, or the proficient. McClellan struck me as none of these.
“My daughter’s had the eventing bug for a couple of years now and I guess it’s been pretty obvious how much I care about it myself. So when it looked like there might be a chance for me to participate, well, I was just lucky, I guess.”
This was delivered with all the charm of a stream of Mazola. Lucky? Bushwah. Somebody somewhere had allowed a back to be scratched.
“Anyhow, the committee would like to extend its thanks for your agreement to participate at this late date.”
This speech had all the appeal of a telemarketer’s memorized spiel.
“I brought the contract.”
He thrust a sheaf of legal-sized paper at me. I began to read. McClellan proceeded to talk to me while I read, a habit I find intensely annoying.
“Too bad about Larky. He was a pretty good cowman and a good man with horses. I hear you’re something of an expert with cattle?”
I grunted and turned the page.
“And not bad at horses, either. I want you to come and take a look at Steph’s horse tomorrow morning. Schumacher had a look at him yesterday, just before he got knocked off, so of course, he won’t be back.”
The man must have been knocking back Scotches before he came. I sighed. There was a check attached to the contracts, made out to McKenzie Veterinary Practice, Inc. Fifteen thousand dollars. I sighed again. Then I signed all three copies, removed the check, and returned two contracts to him.
“So you’ll be at my stables tomorrow morning to take a look at the horse?”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Bruise on the cannon bone.” He shifted from one buttock to the other. “And a kind of skin condition.”
“What sort of skin condition?”
“Not sure.”
“Eleven o’clock, then,” I agreed. I looked at my watch. “And now that our business is concluded, I’m afraid I must excuse myself. I have some duties in the barn to attend to.”
I heard the back door open. McClellan’s gaze sharpened. Madeline came into the living room first, carrying a duffle bag and dragging a suitcase on wheels. Allegra followed with two tote bags, a hanging suitcase, and what used to be called a train case, but probably isn’t anymore. Joe brought up the rear staggering under the weight of a CD player, three cardboard boxes, and a large canvas duffle. Lincoln danced around them all, plumey tail wagging. The effect was quite paradelike. Marina edged in after them, then sat at the farthest end of the couch from her husband.
Madeline noticed the check I held, made a swift, graceful detour, plucked the check from my hand, gave me a cheerfully cheeky kiss, and proceeded on up the stairs.
They left quite a silence in their wake.
“Is she eventing at Earlsdown?” McClellan asked. His voice was truculent.
I raised an eyebrow. “Neither Madeline nor I have evented for some years.”
“I meant the kid. The girl.”
“Miss Fulbright? I have no idea. I doubt it. She’s a student at Cornell. She has said nothing about any current plans to ride. I doubt that she has a horse. Why?”
“Nothing. But I haven’t heard much good about her, if she’s the same Allegra Fulbright that was at Earlsdown last year.”
Marina made a small movement, perhaps in protest.
“It would seem unlikely that there are two Allegra Fulbrights,” I said. “It seems equally unlikely that my assistant behaved in an untoward way.”
McClellan grinned unpleasantly, showing artificially white teeth. “Doesn’t matter. Stephanie’s got a hell of a horse this year. She ought to take the lot. You’ll see the animal I bought her to compete this year tomorrow. A beauty. Cost me all of eighty thousand. Worth every dime, or it’d better be. Not that eighty’s chump change, right, doc?” He drained his coffee and set the cup on the coffee table with a crash. “You any good with horses?”
I didn’t dignify this with an answer.
“Anything happens to that horse, my little girl Stephanie’d have a screaming fit.”
“Stephanie is your daughter?”
“Great little rider. You’ve probably heard about her.”
“I can’t say that I have. I did hear about the horse she rode last year. It died, I believe, under unexplained circumstances.”
His eyes narrowed. “So it did, doc. So it did. Shame, too. At least the bastard was insured. But accidents happen, right?”
I gave McClellan a pretty good glare of my own. “Rarely. Preparation, precaution, and prudence all mitigate against accidents, in my experience.”
He laughed, leaned forward, and slapped my knee in an offensively jovial manner. “Right you are, doc. And they say lightning never strikes twice in the same place. Another Scotch-rocks for the road, ’kay? I’ve got to be getting back.”
I rose to my feet. “I’m afraid we’re out of Scotch, McClellan. I’ll see you to your car.”
Marina followed me to the door. “Thank your wife for me, Dr. McKenzie,” she said stiffly. “And remind her that we’re having a meeting of the Veterinary Committee at our home tomorrow night. Do you know the other members, by the way? Diana North and Greg D’Andrea. And Ben Grazley.” She frowned into the collar of her coat. “We used Dr. Grazley as a vet for a while. Steph didn’t get along with him. Anyhow, Brewster thinks it’s a good time to get everybody on the same page. Or so he said.” I held her coat while she shrugged herself into it. “About eight o’clock, then?”
Between the call to look at the horse in the morning and the dinner party the following night, I’d be spending far too much time with the dismal McClellans. And I generally loathe large dinner parties. On the other hand, it would be an opportune time to meet the other members of the committee. And perhaps Madeline would wear the peacock-blue caftan I’d purchased for her last birthday.
I opened the front door to usher Marina outside. McClellan shoved his way out between us and headed toward his automobile, a Lincoln Continental.
It was a frosty night. Marina wrapped her scarf around her throat and I started to walk with her to the car.
“Terrible thing about Dr. Schumacher,” she
said, with an uneasy, sideways glance. “Getting shot like that. People think it’s a sniper. The very idea scares me to death.” She shivered and drew her coat more closely about her. “I think they’re right. It’s one of those crazy, drugged-up kids from the ghettos in Syracuse.”
“Syracuse doesn’t have any ghettos,” I pointed out, with some asperity. “And as for snipers . . .”
A large hornet whizzed past my right ear and buried itself in the Continental’s shiny black flank. I leaned forward to examine it with some interest.
It was a bullet hole.
Marina flung herself into the car and began to scream.
Five
CHIEF of detectives Simon Provost looked like a greeter at Wal-Mart. I have not had a great deal to do with the police in my lifetime, although Madeline and I remain firmly committed to Dick Wolf’s entire oeuvre, from the original Law & Order to Law & Order: Trial by Jury (the latter a highly underrated show, I might add) so I was intensely curious about the process of criminal investigation. I was taken aback to discover that Detective Provost was by nature a cheerful soul, with the eager helpfulness of that same Wal-Mart employee.
“I have to tell you, doc,” he said, as we both examined the neat round hole in the Lincoln’s passenger door. “This business of guns in the hands of any Charlie that wants to walk in and buy one is getting me down some.” He sighed and rocked back on his heels. “You wouldn’t have a screwdriver handy, would you?”
“I’ll get it,” Joe offered. “Is there one in the van, Dr. McKenzie?”
“I’ll go ask Maddy,” Allegra said. “She’ll know where one is.” The two of them took off toward the house at a fast jog, their speed increasing as they tried to get ahead of one another. Madeline was inside with Marina McClellan, who had seemed unable to stop shrieking. Simon Provost had arrived alone, in a Ford Escort somewhat the worse for the amazing number of miles on it, the remains of a meatloaf dinner evident on his shirtfront.
“I want to know how come you haven’t called the goddamn FBI,” McClellan said. He had helped himself to more of my twelve-year-old Scotch, which hadn’t done his diction any good.
The Case of the Roasted Onion Page 6