by Mary Daheim
“I thought Woody got the training wheels off of his unmarked police car a long time ago,” Gertrude said. “Can’t he do his job without Dumbbell holding his hand?”
“I’d like to think so, but apparently not. Even Uncle Al got dragged into it last night.”
“Al?” Gertrude looked surprised. “Do I want to know why?”
“Something to do with the Teamsters’ truck drivers,” Judith said. “Maybe basketball games and gambling, too. I’m just beginning to sort through all this mess.”
Gertrude finished chewing a piece of ham. “What about the horse? That sounds like Al, too. Is he the buyer?”
The question startled Judith. “Uncle Al is buying a horse?”
“He’s been talking about it for a long time,” Gertrude said, forking two french fries at once. “These frozen?”
“Yes. I mean, they were. They’re not now. You’re right—I’ve heard him mention it at family gatherings, but I never know when he’s serious.”
“Oh, he’s a kidder,” Gertrude agreed. “But as much as he loves the ponies, why shouldn’t he have one of his own? Never had to raise a kid, did he? Might as well raise a horse instead. They mind better than kids. Cheaper in the long run, too.”
“Did you see the horse when it was brought here?”
“Kind of. It was pretty dark outside.” The old lady peered at her daughter. “Is it still in the garage?”
“No.” Judith didn’t want to tell her mother about the animal’s demise. “It was moved last night.”
“By Al?”
“No. I mean,” Judith said, allowing that nothing was impossible, given the events of the past few days, “not that I know of.”
“Remember old Doc Epstein?”
“Didn’t he have a family practice on top of the hill?”
“No, no,” Gertrude said, waving a hand. “That was Doc Feinstein. During the Depression and afterward he took eggs, berries, even canned goods as payment. Never went after a deadbeat patient.” She shook her head. “The hill was different then, blue collar through and through. Better, to my way of thinking.” She paused, just a bit misty-eyed. “Anyways, Doc Epstein was a vet. Silent partner in the old racetrack by that hovel you and your first mistake, the original Lardbutt, lived. How do you think Uncle Al got that fancy ring with the big red ruby in it?”
“He said he won it in a seven-card-stud poker game.”
Gertrude waved her hand again. “That’s bunk. Doc Epstein gave it to him. Al loaned Doc money to put into the track when it opened while the Depression was still going on. Al was the silent partner’s silent bank. And don’t ask me where Al got that kind of money. He was coaching and playing semipro basketball back then. No big paychecks like the millionaires today, but he and Sid Flaherty did all right by themselves with the Mountain Spring Dairy team. They won an AAU title just before Pearl Harbor got bombed.”
“I remember their dairy trucks,” Judith said. “They went out of business when I was in high school. What happened? They seemed to be all over when I was growing up.”
“They sold out to somebody who went sticks up a few years later. Ran both companies into the ground. Somebody . . . Aunt Deb, maybe, told me that the original building on the southwest side of the hill is there, but now it’s some kind of food plant. I guess whoever owns it dumped the milk routes. Dairy farmers around here have been forced to sell their land with all these newcomers moving into what used to be pasture and forest. Now it’s housing developments and a bunch of malls. Kind of sorry I’ve lived to see that happen.”
Judith reached over to pat her mother’s shoulder. “I’m not sorry about you living this long. In fact, you may have given me an idea.”
Gertrude shot her daughter a dubious look. “It better be a good one. Some of yours have been pretty stupid.”
Rising from the sofa arm, Judith smiled. “When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
“Never mind me,” the old lady said. “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, ask Al. He has the answers. Just make sure you know what’s true and what’s false. Your uncle walks a thin line. One of these days, he’s going to fall off that tightrope. Keep your distance. Al’s working without a net.”
Chapter Nineteen
As soon as Judith got back inside the house, she dialed Uncle Al’s number.
“Odds are ten to one this is my niece,” Al said when he answered on the third ring. “Odds on the game I watched earlier turned out about right. Illinois looks tough this season. Ohio State is better than Purdue, but that’s about it for the Big Ten. Doesn’t matter—North Carolina will win it all and you can take that to the bank. What’s up, kiddo?”
“Got a question for you,” Judith said, lest Uncle Al give her a wrap-up of all the games he’d seen in recent days. “Have you heard of a horse named Son of Scarlet?”
“A Thoroughbred?”
“Maybe.”
“Hang on,” Uncle Al said. “Let me check something.”
Judith waited patiently, hearing the TV in the background. From what she could tell, it was yet another college basketball game. Or maybe the pros. The only time the play-by-play announcer raised his voice was when somebody scored from beyond the three-point line.
“Okay,” Uncle Al finally said. “I’m looking at a list of last year’s state-breeders-association yearling sales. A lot of these horses weren’t yet named, but if I can find . . . ah! Hey—this colt was born on my birthday in ’04, April nineteenth. ‘Rogue’s Gallery–Scarletohara’—that’s the sire and dame—‘Terrasilva Farms, twelve thousand dollars.’ Do you know if this Son of Scarlet is any good or are you picking your futures by colors like you did when you were a kid?”
“I wanted to know because that horse spent part of last night in our garage.”
“Don’t kid a kidder, kiddo.” Uncle Al sounded serious. “What are you talking about? You were down at police headquarters last night. I didn’t hear you mention a horse, in or out of your garage. Don’t tell me Gert bought herself a pony. Nice idea, though. Better than that crazy cat you’ve got.”
“It’s a long story,” Judith said wearily. “Do you know anything about the seller?”
“Terrasilva Farms?” He paused briefly. “Vaguely. They’re somewhere out in the valley, not too far from the racetrack. I think they’ve had maybe four, five horses that ran there in the past couple of years. Didn’t do much. In racing terms, they’re still a maiden. I don’t think they’ve been in business more than a few years. It takes time to build up a winning stable.”
“Do you know if the horse was bought at the sale?”
“I didn’t attend that one,” Uncle Al said. “That was around Labor Day and I was in Vegas, making my pro football bets. I’m going with the Patriots. If the horse you’re talking about is the colt on the list, then I figure it was sold.”
“I thought you wanted to buy one,” Judith said.
Uncle Al chuckled. “Oh, that was just talk. Remember the donkey I had years ago? Pokey was more trouble than he was worth, and he wasn’t worth much to start with. I won him in a bet. He bit your cousin Sue once. Animals take too much—”
The doorbell forced Judith to interrupt. “Hey—I’ve got guests arriving. I’ll tell you more later, okay?”
Uncle Al rang off. Judith was already halfway through the dining room, the phone still in her hand. Once again, she expected to see Cindy and Geoff Owens. Instead, the brawny man in overalls who was standing outside her front door was a stranger.
“Yes?” she said, noticing a large truck parked in the cul-de-sac.
“Got a bill for you,” the man said in a gruff voice, and shoved a clipboard at her. “Sign at the bottom. The pink copy is yours. And I’ll need your credit card.”
Judith stared at the invoice. The heading was Sound Cartage, Inc., Abe Burleson, owner. The amount due was $1,300 and change. �
��Are you Abe?” she asked.
“Who else would I be? Elvis?”
“Not likely,” Judith murmured. “What’s this bill for?”
“The horse in your garage.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the truck. “Hey, it’s a deal. I gave you half off on the sling. When the damned nag woke up and started thrashing around after we got to the barn, I didn’t charge for my aggravation, which was pretty damned big.”
Judith gaped at Abe. “It’s not my horse. It’s not my bill. It’s . . .” She looked at the customer name on the line at the bottom of the page: Zoë Paine. “Oh! I’m not . . . I think Ms. Paine . . . the horse was alive?”
Abe’s bushy eyebrows came together. “Well, why else would you have the damned thing moved? You told us on the phone that it got scared by some kids shooting off fireworks and started going crazy, so you had to use a tranquilizer dart on it. Come on, sign the bill and show me the money.”
“Ms. Paine’s in a meeting. Come in. She’s right in here,” Judith said, indicating the parlor as she knocked on the door.
There was no immediate response. She opened the door. The room was empty.
“Invisible, huh?” Abe said, his expression turning even more disgruntled. “Who’s in that other room?”
Wordlessly, Judith went through the archway to take a head count in the living room. The Chicago sisters and the Savannah couple were still chatting away, apparently having sampled enough sherry to create a jovial atmosphere.
“She must’ve left with the Arabs,” Judith said bleakly.
“Oh, for . . .” Abe shook his fist. “I’m not budging until this bill is covered. Go ahead, call the cops, do whatever, but I know my rights!”
“Hey—I’m not Zoë Paine!” Judith said angrily. “I’m Judith Flynn and I own this bed-and-breakfast. Don’t you have a phone number for her? She was a guest here last night.”
“Rode in on her horse, did she? Okay, I’ll play this game,” he said, and stomped off to the living room. “Anybody here got a horse?” he bellowed, pausing only to grab what was left of the appetizers. “Anybody here hiding some A-rabs?”
The happy chatter stopped. “Arabs?” Mr. Billingsley said. “Not so far. But we just flew in from Savannah and, boy, are my arms—”
“Cut the crap,” Abe said sharply. “What about the Paine woman?”
“I’m a registered nurse,” the taller of the sisters responded. “I specialize in wound care. Are you injured?”
Abe had stuffed two salmon-pâté-covered crackers into his mouth. “This isn’t funny,” he declared after hastily devouring the appetizers. “What’s going on around here?”
“I told you,” Judith said, trying to refrain from screaming at Abe. “These are my B&B guests. It would appear that Ms. Paine has left. She may have taken the Arabs . . . that is, two of my other guests with her. I suggest you try to contact her by phone. It’s possible that they’re headed for the barn where you took the horse. Would you mind telling me where that might be? I may be able to help you track her down.”
Abe polished off a couple of smoked oysters before answering. “I got her number somewhere.” He fumbled in the pockets of his overalls. “This better not be some kind of trick.”
“Please,” Judith said, stopping just short of grabbing Abe by the arm. “Come into the kitchen. If you can’t find her number, I can put you in touch with her grandparents.”
By the time they reached the kitchen, Abe admitted he couldn’t find Zoë’s number. The appetizers seemed to have taken the edge off of his ill humor. Judith wrote down the listing for Wilbur and Norma Paine’s home phone, but held on to the piece of paper while she posed a question: “Where did you take that horse?”
“Why do you want to know, if it’s not yours?” Abe demanded with a touch of his previous hostility.
“Because my uncle wants to buy it,” Judith said. “I was on the phone with him when you rang the doorbell. I told him about Son of Scarlet because he’s in the market for a Thoroughbred. I’d like to know if it’s for sale. The Arabs, as you call them, may be buyers, too. They came here from Kentucky.”
“Damned if I know anything about that,” Abe said, simmering down. “I took it to a place on the Eastside that has a barn. They still can keep horses in the residential areas over there if they were grandfathered after a law was passed some years back banning horses inside the city limits. I don’t know who owns the place. It’s by the old railroad tracks off of the freeway near the shopping center on your right when you get across the floating bridge. It’s all a jumble to me. I live in the south end of town.”
Judith understood. Like Abe, she recognized the area, but only in the vague sort of way that city dwellers knew the ever-growing, ever-changing Eastside. “You had an address on that invoice, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but it was one hell of a place to find. I left my clipboard out in the hall.”
Judith realized she’d left her phone there, too. “Here’s the number for Zoë’s grandparents,” she said, leading the way back through the dining room. “Let me take down the barn’s address.”
As they entered the hall, the four guests were leaving. Mrs. Billingsley announced that they were all going to dinner together, having become fast friends with the Chicago sisters. The appearance of the blustering Abe apparently hadn’t dampened their spirits. Judith made appropriate comments to the jocular quartet and saw them out.
Abe handed her the clipboard. “It’s one of those crazy southeast lane-avenue-northeast-upside-downside-street-and-avenue jumbles. Took half an hour to find the damned place. I should get me one of those GPS things, but I don’t trust ’em. If I don’t know where I’m going, how can somebody who isn’t in the truck know?”
“I can’t explain that either,” Judith admitted, committing the address to memory. “I should warn you, Mrs. Paine may be rather rude. It’s her nature.”
Abe grunted. “I can out-rude the worst of ’em. G’night.” He ambled out of the house.
Judith rushed back to the kitchen and wrote down the barn’s address before she forgot it. Abe was right—it sounded like a typical Eastside conglomeration of streets, lanes, places, avenues, parkways, and roads. Maybe she could find the location on the Internet.
As she sat at the computer trying to zero in on the barn in the maze of streets that snaked around the Eastside, she realized that the house again seemed too quiet. Four of the guests had gone to dinner. Apparently the two young men from Kentucky had left with Zoë Paine. When Sweetums brushed against her leg, she jumped.
“You can’t be hungry,” she told the cat, feeling a need to speak to someone, even if it was Sweetums. “I know Mother fed you.” She reached down to pet the thick orange-and-white fur. “How are you at solving puzzles? At the moment, you’re all I’ve got.”
Sweetums purred, rubbing her leg again. “Nice try, but—”
A sudden thought struck her. She looked up at the schoolhouse clock. It was a quarter after seven. Judith reached for the phone. It rang in her hand.
“Just found out you called,” Joe said in his usual mellow voice. “Everything okay at your end?”
“No,” Judith replied, surprised by the anger in her voice. “It sucks. I feel like a widow. Been there, done that, and got the love of my life back, but now he’s not around. When are you coming home?”
“Wow,” Joe said softly. “Sounds like you can’t live without me. Who knew?”
“You’re a jerk,” she shot back. “This disaster better be worth it.”
“Look,” he said earnestly, “I’m not nuts about hanging out at City Hall either. But this is big stuff. I’ve got an obligation, not just to Woody but to the whole damned department. They send me a pension check, remember?”
“Yes. I remember that it’s because you’re retired. Besides, I’ve got plenty of weird stuff going on here, starting with a horse in
the garage.”
“Better than in the living room,” Joe said. “Got to go. Just wanted to make sure you were doing okay without me. Is Addison still around?”
“No,” Judith retorted. “He left. I’m all alone. Don’t you dare hang up yet. Tell me what you’re actually doing. You owe me that much.”
“Can’t,” he said. “I’m a suspect, remember? I have to wait for legal counsel. Later, okay?” He hung up.
“Jackass,” Judith grumbled, shoving the phone across the counter so hard that it bounced off the wall. For several minutes, she frowned at the monitor showing the rabbit warren of streets where the resurrected Son of Scarlet was probably bedding down for the night.
The faint chime of the grandfather clock striking the half hour snapped her out of the self-induced stupor. Judith reached for the phone, but thought better of it. Putting on her jacket and grabbing her purse, she went out the back door to the toolshed.
“I’m going over to Renie and Bill’s,” she informed her mother from the threshold. “I’m locking up the house, so if anybody has forgotten their keys, they can wait until I get back.”
“What are you two goofballs up to now?” Gertrude demanded. “It better be playing cards or doing a jigsaw puzzle.”
“It’s a jigsaw puzzle,” Judith said, telling only a partial lie.
The old lady nodded. “I’ll look for you when I see you. Let me finish my jumble puzzle in the paper.”
It was raining harder when Judith drove from the south side of the hill to the north side, where the Joneses lived in their Dutch Colonial cocoa-colored house. The front room drapes were drawn and Judith knew that Renie and Bill were probably watching TV. Or Renie was watching Bill watch TV while Oscar— She stopped herself, wondering if the chaotic past few days had unhinged her mind. Judith refused to buy into the Joneses’ fantasy about a damned stuffed ape.
Through the window with its tulip stained-glass window, she saw her cousin come down the hall from the kitchen to the door. “You lost?” Renie said, letting Judith into the entry hall. Bill leaned slightly in his chair and said hi before turning to Oscar, who was sitting on the arm of the sofa. They were watching what looked to Judith like the siege of Leningrad, judging from the snow-covered wreckage and bodies against a background of ruined Russian architecture.