by Laura Crum
Mac had a big grin, and I knew he was feeling successful at having solved the mystery. I had other thoughts on my mind.
“I think that’s the house that Ross Hart is renting,” I said quietly to Blue. “That young guy who’s training at the Red Barn. He’s been there about six months.”
“And I think he’s built a loft and installed a grow light, don’t you?” Blue smiled.
Neither one of us bothered to discuss why. We both knew. In Santa Cruz County indoor pot growing schemes were common. No reason for us to mention this to our eleven-year-old son.
I was remembering that Jane had said Ross was “up to some stuff he shouldn’t be up to.” Did growing pot qualify? Had Jane threatened to blow the whistle on Ross? Was I looking at a motive for murder here?
“We found it.” Mac was still grinning. “Okay, I’m hungry, let’s go home.”
“Yes, let’s go,” I agreed, giving the lighted window one last glance. Was Ross Hart blocking these trails to keep people away so they wouldn’t notice the light in his attic? I was willing to bet it wasn’t visible from ground level by the houses.
As I hiked down the hill through the eucalyptus, my mind seethed with questions. I was going to have to talk to Jeri Ward.
Chapter 8
An hour later we’d returned home from the hike and had lunch. I wandered down to my comfortable chair in the barnyard, pondering things. After awhile, I just watch the horses. All three of them look content, standing in the shade of the oak trees, apparently dozing. Occasionally a tail switches, a foot stamps, or a muzzle swings around to brush a side. There are always flies. But the horses don’t seem to mind.
Sitting here, watching my horses, I am content. The puzzles and concerns of the morning seem to evaporate, and I just watch. Now and then my mind prods me, asking if I shouldn’t do something, saddle Sunny, take Henry for a walk. But something else tells me to just sit and watch.
The horses are endlessly soothing. Watching them, for me, is what I suppose watching the sea might be for others. I stare idly and wonder what is it about these big livestock animals that I like so much. Having horses makes me feel connected to the natural world. Connected and empowered. I do not need to ride them to feel this. I just need to have them here, to care for them, tend them and be with them.
My eyes move across the little patch of rough grass where I let the horses graze to the grove of live oaks on the other side of the barnyard. Mac is flying through the air in a steady pendulum, rising and falling in his swing that hangs from a branch of the biggest tree. Mac’s hair flares in the wind; Sunny walks over and stands close to the airborne boy. Sunny has seen this many times: he still likes to watch.
I see my son and the horse, together in the sunshine, amongst the live oaks, and I know, for one brief second, that more than anything else, this is the gift I am bringing to my child. Just being here with the horses, being part of each other’s lives. Riding is wonderful, and we have done a lot of it, but being a family with our horses is more than riding them.
My eyes rest on Henry, who is snuffling the ground, looking for acorns. We’ll be able to start riding him soon. But we are grateful simply that he is here with us. I smile at the sight of his bright eyes and cheerful white striped face. His sorrel coat gleams red in the sunlight with a glint like a shiny copper penny. Henry, our good horse, is still with us. The greatest gift is present now, as we are here in the barnyard together.
I resist the urge to move, to do. I sit and watch. And gradually my mind quiets. I know how fortunate I am. Every fiber of my being basks.
Ten minutes later the peace is broken. I see a car pull up by our front gate; I see the driver get out to open the gate and climb back in. I know who it is. Jeri Ward.
Almost instantly, my tranquil, meditative mood vanishes. The questions of this morning come bubbling back up in my mind. Sighing, I get to my feet.
“Who’s that?” Mac asked.
“Jeri Ward, the detective who’s investigating this shooting. I need to talk to her. I’m going to take her over to the little house, sweetie. We need to be private.”
Mac took this in and then said, “I’ll go find Papa.”
I met Jeri as she parked her car. “Come on up to the little house,” I said. “I’ve got some stuff to tell you.”
Once we were seated, I said, “What happened with that young guy that your people picked up?”
“We arrested him on probable cause,” Jeri said. “I think it’s a mistake, but what could I do? There he was, not half a mile from the crime scene, hiking through the woods carrying a twenty-two rifle, and he wouldn’t say what he was doing there. So, we took him in. I imagine he was probably trying to poach a deer.”
“Do you think she was shot with a rifle?” I asked.
“She was shot with a twenty-two,” Jeri said. “We just did the autopsy and found the bullet. Don’t know whether it was a pistol or rifle. Twenty-twos are odd that way,” she added. “One of the guys is going to fire our poacher’s rifle this afternoon. That should tell us whether the bullet came from his gun.”
“And if it didn’t?”
“Then we let him go and start over,” Jeri said.
“I found out something this morning,” I told her. And I recounted the story of the mysterious light on the ridge.
Jeri took this in. “Can you tell me where that house is?” she asked.
I gave directions and Jeri took them down. Then she sat there, staring at the notepad in her lap. “I was going to ask you to draw me a map,” she said, “showing where you met Jane, and how that relates to where the body was found, and where, exactly, you ran into the other folks that you mentioned. And I’d still like you to do that. But I just had an idea. What if I haul Gray Dog over here tomorrow, and we retrace your ride. Then you could show me.”
“Sure,” I said. “But it can’t be tomorrow. Tomorrow I’m riding with Lucy Conners in the vet truck.”
“Are you going back to work?” Jeri asked curiously.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m thinking about it. I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”
Jeri grinned. “That’s funny, “ she said. “I turned fifty this year. I’m thinking of retiring.”
“I turned fifty this year, too,” I said.
We looked at each other. “Kind of a landmark, isn’t it?” Jeri asked. “I’ve been with the sheriff’s department twenty-five years. I can retire right now with good benefits. I’m really thinking about it.”
I smiled. “Blue inherited an almond orchard from his dad. Turns out we don’t have to work anymore if we don’t want to. I just don’t know what I want to do. I’m still studying on it.”
Jeri grinned again. “Yeah, that turning fifty is something. I don’t know about you, but I hit fifty and went through the change. It makes you think. Like what do I want to do with the rest of my life? I think maybe I want to travel. Maybe ride my horse more.”
I stared at Jeri. “The change, yeah, me, too,” I said slowly. “And yeah, it does make you think. I’m thinking I don’t want to be so busy.”
Jeri smiled sympathetically. “Unfortunately I’ve got a chore for you. Could you draw me a map, please? And then I’ve got to go. I need to drive up into the subdivision and question the neighbors. And I might just call on Ross Hart and,” she looked down at her notes, “Tammi Martinez.”
I looked at the piece of paper she’d handed me. “Making you a decent map is going to take some time. Do you want to drop back by here after you’ve done your interviews?”
“Sure.” Jeri got up briskly. “I’ll see you sometime around five.” And she let herself out the door.
I stared at the paper on the table in front of me as she drove away. I could see Blue and Mac down in the vegetable garden, harvesting dried beans from the scarlet runner vine, which was draped all over a bamboo tepee. I dropped my eyes, picked up the pencil, and began to draw the ridge trail.
An hour later I had a map. There was the ridge trail,
with its neighboring houses; there was the eucalyptus forest and the landmark tree, the trail to the Lookout, the pretty trail, and the pampas grass meadow. There, too, was the warm meadow and the cold valley, the logging road and the swingset trail. I had marked the place where I met Jane and the place I found her body. I’d also marked the places where I’d seen Sheryl Silverman, Jonah Wakefield, the dirt bike, the mystery rider, the camper, and the hiker with his dog. I had marked the spot where I was when I’d heard the shot. I’d indicated where the subdivision lay. I’d even marked the spot where the ridge trail was blocked with a tree, with a little note explaining that Blue and Mac had cleared it this morning. It was a pretty complete map. I’d left out only my little sidehill trail that skirted the subdivision. I was hoping to keep that a secret if I could.
Mac and Blue were no longer in the garden, and the sun was sinking lower over the ridgeline. I reckoned it was about four o’clock. The late light slanted into the little room I was in and I settled back in the wicker rocking chair and stared around gratefully. I loved this house in the late afternoon.
Leaf shadows flicker on the dusty orange plastered walls. Soon the sun will be behind the ridge. In this moment it lights up the long, arching, overhanging canes of the big rambler rose named Treasure Trove that drapes the front porch of the house. If I look out the window at the rose vine, the leaves are brilliantly illuminated, backlit into diamonds of vivid green stained glass. If I look at the sitting room wall, the leaf shadows dance and play, making gentle, intricate shade patterns on the soft, earthy clay. I cannot decide which view of the rambling rose is more beautiful: the lit-up canes or the shadows on the wall.
This little house continues to amaze me. Nobody knows better than I do how it got built. I spent every single day of its creation with Blue and the crew; I heard the hammers bang, the saws whine, the men shout and laugh and tease each other. I argued and discussed and agonized with Blue over every detail: no one knows as I do how the hand-scraped hickory plank floor was chosen, why the walls are plastered a faded terra cotta color, or how the willow twigs came to line the open-beam ceiling. Despite this, the house appears to me as if it has always been here, exactly as it is now. Every detail appears inevitable, intrinsic to the whole. Though I know how the house was made, exactly as any other house is made, I still believe it was more born, coming into the world just as it was meant to be. I see myself as its midwife, rather than its creator.
My eyes drift around the sitting room, taking in the small, elevated alcove, with a rough, peeling, red madrone trunk as its defining pillar. I know how the tree trunk came to be here. The madrone tree grew down in the horse corrals; for many years I admired it. But madrones don’t like traffic around their feet. Eventually it died. When we came to build the house, Blue said the tokonoma traditionally had a pillar of unmilled, “found” wood. The madrone was chosen, cut down, and given the place of honor. How it came to be that every sinuous curve of its upright, graceful trunk fit the small alcove perfectly, linking raised floor to ceiling beam in a rough, joyful, rising flight of unpredictable loveliness, I couldn’t say. Like the rest of the house, it seemed meant to be.
I rock the chair and look at the old desk and the cedar chest we inherited from Blue’s parents, at the hand-painted scroll in the alcove that Blue brought home from Japan. I smile at the beaded bamboo curtain that leads to Mac’s room. I love it all. Perhaps that’s the bottom line. Nothing fancy. I love this little house that we built.
The light is dying now; the sun’s long rays disappearing, turning to a diffuse glow. I sit and rock. I can see Jeri Ward’s car coming up the driveway. Soon I am going to have to go back to the world of murder suspects. But for right now, I am happy.
Jeri walked to the door and I waved her in. “Here’s your map,” I said. “And I want to show you something.”
I pointed to the spot on the map where I had noted the downed tree that Blue and Mac had shifted. “I didn’t come this way yesterday,” I said. And I pointed to the route I had used to get to the ridge trail. “I came this way. So I didn’t see this tree that was blocking the trail. But I’m guessing it was there yesterday afternoon. Which would explain why Jane apparently backtracked up the ridge trail and ended up in the warm meadow. I think she turned around when she got to the tree and came this way.” I pointed again on the map with my finger. “I’m guessing she was aiming to ride from there up to the pampas grass meadow and from there strike the swingset trail back to Moon Valley. But she never made it.” I thought of Jane’s sightless eyes and shivered.
“Anyway, Mac and Blue moved that tree this morning. I guess we never thought of it being evidence, just a nuisance. It was obviously put there by someone who was trying to block the trail to horses. And I guess I told you that Jane and I talked quite a bit about all these trail access problems and how someone, we don’t know who, keeps trying to block the ridge trail. Anyway, I’m sure she saw red when she met that tree. It would have been very hard to move single-handedly, while you were trying to hold your horse with one hand.”
Jeri nodded. “I see.”
“I did wonder, after we saw what I thought was Ross Hart’s indoor agriculture, if he might not be blocking the trail so no one could look right at the light in his obviously new little attic. Did you call on Ross?” I asked.
“I tried,” Jeri said. “No one home. I just worked my way around the subdivision.”
“Learn anything?”
“No, not really. No one heard anything or saw anything. No one remembers the shot. A couple of people said they hiked the trails. Most said they never went up there. It’s as if they all live in their houses and cars.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” I admitted.
“Anyway,” Jeri said, putting my map in a folder, “I’m going back down to the office to find out if the bullets from the poacher’s gun match up. Then I need to question the folks at Lazy Valley Stable and the Red Barn. Can we plan on a trail ride this week?”
“Sure,” I said.
And Jeri Ward let herself out the door and was gone.
Chapter 9
The next morning I was seated in the passenger seat of my old vet truck, while Lucy Conners drove us to her first call of the day. This was a horse with an eye which was halfway shut, not too far from my place.
“After that,” Lucy said, “I’ve got to go to the Red Barn. Ross Hart has one he’s trying to sell and the woman who’s buying it wants me to do a vet check. Oh joy.”
I took that in. I knew exactly what Lucy meant about vet checks being no fun. But I was also very curious to observe Ross Hart. Perhaps, just perhaps, I could sneak in a few questions.
Lucy shifted the diesel truck into a higher gear, and the sound took me back in an instant to the many, many times I had driven this pickup to a vet call. For ten straight years I had worked nonstop as a horse vet, driving from barn to barn in this very truck. The thought brought a strange emotion; I almost shivered. Nostalgia and what? Almost revulsion. I couldn’t tease it out immediately.
Lucy turned on McDonald Road and then, very quickly, into a driveway. In another moment we were bumping our way to a small barn. I could see a few fenced paddocks. A man stood in front of the barn, clearly waiting for the vet to arrive. I had never been to this place before—it had been built since my days as a practicing vet—and yet it was all so familiar.
This was my job, this was what I had been trained to do, what I had practiced for so many years. Even as I followed Lucy and was introduced to the man, my mind was running at warp speed on a track of its own. This was something I knew how to do, this was my job.
Watching Lucy examine the gray horse with the half-shut eye, I was already noting what would happen next. First she would stain the eye, tranquilizing the horse if it was needed, and then scan the eye with her pocket light, looking for any injuries or scratches on the cornea. If none were present, she would administer some eye ointment that contained a mix of antibiotics and steroids and perhaps give the horse some
Banamine. This was what I would do, anyway.
Lucy proceeded with the exam. The man was holding his horse quite competently; the horse was tolerating having his eye looked at. Nobody needed me. And in that second, I registered the other part of my emotion and named it.
Mixed with the sense of familiarity and nostalgia, the inner certainty that this was my job and I could do it, was almost a flavor of boredom. Been there, done that. I was remembering just how many times I’d driven up to a barn to work on a horse with a half-shut eye, or a colic, or a lameness. Some I could help, some I couldn’t. And then there was the sadness and frustration when I dealt with horses (or owners) who could not be helped, due to a serious condition, lack of money, lack of intelligence, you name it. It was dawning on me that just about the time I’d quit to become a mom, I had been feeling pretty burned out on this job. Somehow I had forgotten that.
It looked as though the gray horse had a healthy cornea; Lucy was giving the owner instructions on doctoring the eye. I watched her talk, taking in the sincerity and warmth in her fine-boned, olive-skinned face, and I remembered this part of the job, too. It was essential to get along with the clients, even the difficult ones, or one wouldn’t have a healthy practice for long. Vets were judged on their ability to be personable as well as their skill in equine medicine. I remembered the distaste I had begun to feel at having to constantly “sell myself” to people. I knew just how to do it, assume that demeanor of kind, competent, in-charge, sympathetic professional, but did I really WANT to do it anymore?
The owner of the gray horse appeared to be a perfectly pleasant individual, but certainly there were plenty of jerks in the horse world and I’d dealt with lots of them. Did I want to go back to this? When I didn’t have to?
Lucy must have noticed my somewhat abstracted expression as I climbed back in the truck. She put the pickup in gear, headed down the driveway, and turned to me.