For the meeting with the deputies, Molly raided Ashley’s closet. She chose a cream-colored turtleneck dress of knit, ribbed cotton, set off with a tan leather belt. Its below-the-knee length was Ashley, not her, but the effect was attractive, especially when paired with gold hoop earrings, flesh-toned panty hose, and Ashley’s tan heels. She curled her hair with hot rollers, applied cinnamon-colored lipstick and a flick of mascara, and on the whole, she thought, looked very nice.
She was willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that Will would approve of her outfit. It was just the kind of demure getup that a man like him would want his girlfriend to wear.
Now that she was his girlfriend for real, she might even—occasionally!—oblige. Although she meant to trot the black mini out every once in a while too.
The meeting with the deputies did not go well. Tom Kramer, the lawyer, met them at the sheriff’s office, a one-story brick building in the middle of downtown Versailles. He was portly, with a bald spot at the crown of his head and a cheerful face. He was also, Molly discovered, well known to the deputies, who treated him with vast respect. Molly was thankful for his presence. With him at Mike’s side, the deputies were scrupulously polite. If she and Mike had faced them on their own, Molly feared to think what might have happened.
With his ponytail and earring, his faded flannel shirt and grungy jeans, Mike, Molly admitted to herself, looked like bad news. It didn’t help that he was in his cool mode, his responses monosyllabic, his attitude verging on the sullen.
While one deputy questioned Mike under Kramer’s watchful supervision, the other drew Molly aside. His name was D. Hoffman, according to the narrow plastic tag attached to his shirt pocket.
“How much do you know about satanism, Miss Ballard?” Hoffman asked without preamble.
Molly remembered him from the night at her house: He was the deputy with the beer gut The tall, lanky officer talked to Mike. His name tag read C. Miles.
“About what?” Molly was distracted trying to hear what C. Miles was asking Mike, and thought she must have misunderstood the question.
“About satanism, Miss Ballard. You know, devil worship.”
“I don’t know anything about it at all.” She was impatient; what had devil worship to do with anything?
“We know you are aware that a Thoroughbred mare was attacked in a field at Wyland Farm last night. In fact, we understand that you—and your brother—were first on the scene.”
“That’s right.”
“How did that happen? That you and your brother were first on the scene, I mean?”
“Look, I already gave a statement to the state police, and I really don’t want to talk about it anymore, all right?” Molly couldn’t bear to relive the details again.
“All right.” With a glance at Kramer, the deputy backed off. He looked down at a clipboard in his hand. “Another Wyland Farm animal was attacked several months ago, is that right? A burro?”
“Ophelia. Yes.”
“Ophelia. I’m assuming that’s the burro’s name?”
Molly nodded. He wrote it down.
“You obviously are familiar with the burro. Were you familiar with the horse who was attacked? Did the animal know you?”
“Yes.” Molly’s voice was tight.
“What about your brother?”
“What about my brother?”
“Was either animal familiar with your brother?”
Molly stared at him. “Could you please tell me what this has to do with what we’re here for? I thought you were trying to find the kids who were drinking beer and smoking pot over at Sweet Meadow Stud.”
“We are.” Hoffman hesitated, and glanced toward Kramer again. The lawyer, his back to Molly, was talking to the other deputy. Mike was staring at the opposite wall, looking, Molly thought with vexation, as if he were mentally out to lunch.
“We’re also investigating the horse slashings,” Hoffman continued. “The burro—Ophelia—was apparently the first. Since that time, six Thoroughbreds have been attacked. Four have died. Were you aware of that?”
“No, I wasn’t. What is the point of this conversation, if you don’t mind telling me?”
“We think the horses are being slashed in some sort of ritual. A ritual involving devil worship. We’ve found signs that lead us to believe a satanic cult has formed in this area.”
“A satanic cult?” Molly was disbelieving.
Hoffman nodded. “It’s more common than people think. Usually it’s a group of teenagers, kids who don’t fit in, who are kind of rebellious. Like your brother.”
It took a couple of seconds for the portent of that to sink in.
“You think that Mike …?” Molly gasped, then shook her head. “No way. Beer or pot, maybe, but not devil worship! And he would never, ever harm an animal! Mike loves animals!”
“Are you sure of that, Miss Ballard?”
“Absolutely sure. I would stake my life on it!”
“You may be.” Hoffman was unsmiling. “Or somebody else’s. Sometimes these cults move from attacking animals—to attacking people. This past spring, we had reports of rabbits and squirrels and birds being mutilated. Over the summer, domestic animals—cats and dogs—were attacked. Now horses. What would you say is next, Miss Ballard?”
“You’ve got to be crazy!” Molly said, and looked around for Kramer. He had to hear these accusations—and deal with them.
It turned out that he already had. Deputy Miles was asking Mike almost exactly the same questions. On advice of counsel—Tom Kramer—Mike refused to answer. As there was no proof even of the existence of a satanic cult, much less of Mike’s involvement in it, there was nothing the deputies could do but terminate the interview when Kramer declared that the meeting was over.
If they had additional questions, they could call him at his office, the lawyer said. He was putting them on notice that they were not to question his client without his being present.
“Are they serious?” Molly asked as she, Mike, and Kramer walked out into the bright October afternoon together. Indian summer was back, but the beautiful weather was no panacea for Molly. She was so worried, she was nauseous; even Mike, she was relieved to see, looked subdued for once.
“I never did that,” Mike said earnestly, looking from Molly to the lawyer.
“I know you didn’t.” Molly was glad to be able to state her belief in him with absolute conviction.
“Oh, they’re serious,” Kramer said, unsmiling. “But they don’t have any evidence. Look at it this way—it took their minds off the other charges.”
“Great.” Mike’s response was gloomy.
“If and when they get some evidence that this group exists and Mike is a part of it, they’ll be in touch with me. Until then, I wouldn’t worry about it. Just stay out of trouble, young man.”
They reached the end of the walk leading from the sheriff’s office to the street where both their cars were parked at the curb, one behind the other. The blue Plymouth with its rusted-out spots, fading paint, and bald tires looked even more like the junker it was compared to the lawyer’s opulent gray Mercedes. Molly noted the difference between the vehicles with a wry inner grimace, and tried not to think about how much the lawyer’s services were costing the government—or Will. Instead, she stopped and extended her hand. Mike, of course, slid into the car without a word of either thanks or good-bye.
“I don’t know what we would have done without your help,” Molly said, casting a reproving glance at Mike, who didn’t see it. He was already rifling through the tapes in the glove compartment.
Kramer took her hand and smiled at her. “Glad to be of service,” he said. “If I hear any more from the deputies, I may want to come out to your place and look around, see where the horse was attacked, that kind of thing. Is that all right?”
“You’re welcome anytime,” Molly assured him.
“Don’t worry too much,” he advised, releasing her hand. “I doubt anything will come of this. From what I
gathered, they were grasping at straws. And they seem to have forgotten about the other charges.”
“I hope you’re right.” Molly’s reply was heartfelt. With a smile and a wave, she walked around the car and got in.
The Plymouth would not start. Mike muttered and sank low in the seat with embarrassment as first Molly and then Tom Kramer tried everything they knew to make the engine turn over. Finally Molly was forced to admit defeat, and called Jimmy Miller’s garage. Jimmy was not in. A mechanic promised to come out and look at the car as soon as he could, but said that since he was the only one in the shop it might be a couple of hours before he could get to it.
Tom—Molly was on a first-name basis with him by this time—offered to drive them home. He said he’d kill two birds with one stone and check out the scene of the attack while he was there.
By the time they reached the house it was almost five-thirty. Late afternoon sunlight slanted across the fields, lending the trees and the grass and even the farmhouse a golden glow. Susan and Sam, in jeans and sweat shirts, were tossing a football back and forth in the yard. Pork Chop sat beneath the large oak, looking up into the red-gold foliage with an eager expression at what Molly hoped was a squirrel. A black Jeep Cherokee was already parked in the drive, Molly saw. Stetson in hand and minus his long duster, J.D. stood at the front door talking to Ashley, who was holding open the screen. J.D. turned, brightening, at the sound of the car pulling up, only to scowl as he realized that Molly was arriving in a Mercedes with an unknown male escort.
“Bet you a dollar I know who he’s here to see,” Mike muttered to Molly as they got out of the car.
Molly ignored him, waving at the twins, who continued with their game, and patting Pork Chop, who quit barking when he realized who the new arrivals were. Tom walked up to the house with them.
Rolling his eyes at J.D.’s too-hearty greeting, Mike went on inside as Molly introduced Ashley, who had stepped out on the porch, and J.D. to Tom, and they all stood chatting for a moment. In the yard, Susan yelled as she missed catching Sam’s throw and Pork Chop absconded with the ball. Both twins took up the chase as Pork Chop ran with ball in mouth and tail wagging, appearing to find this new game tremendous fun. The temperature, even so late in the afternoon, was seventyish. No one wore a jacket except for Tom, and his was part of a suit.
“I just came by to see how you were doing,” J.D. said in a low voice to Molly under cover of Tom’s exchange of pleasantries with Ashley.
“I’m fine,” Molly answered. Before she could say anything more, the crunch of gravel heralded the arrival of another visitor. With a grimace, Molly recognized the red Corvette: Thornton Wyland.
Tyler was with him, she saw as the pair got out of the car. Pork Chop dropped the ball to bark at the newcomers, and the twins scooped it up and resumed their game. Thornton grinned and waved at Molly on the porch, while Tyler gave a sardonic smile.
Ashley took one look at Thornton, blushed, and retreated into the house. Molly had noticed before that Ashley was especially shy around Thornton, and guessed her sister found his good looks intimidating. J.D., obviously put out by the arrival of the two other men, remembered he worked for the Wylands and tried not to scowl at them. Tom Kramer shook hands all around as Molly performed the introductions. Then, not knowing quite what else to do, she invited them all to sit.
“Tyler and I just came by to check on you,” Thornton said with a devilish grin. “We all saw how upset you were last night. I don’t mind telling you that I, for one, was shocked to discover that our own tough little Miss Molly could actually cry.”
“The soul of tact, as always, Thorn,” Tyler murmured, then smiled at Molly. “We’re lucky you live so close. We would have lost that mare.”
“Have you heard anything? Is she going to be okay?” Molly sank down on the glider, grateful to Tyler for allowing her to ignore Thornton’s teasing. Thornton immediately availed himself of the opportunity to perch on the metal arm next to her. Molly ignored him too.
“Dr. Mott says it’s touch and go.” J.D. obviously considered claiming the vacant space beside Molly, remembered who his rivals were, and remained standing with a disgruntled expression. Tom sat down in his stead, listening to the conversation with obvious interest.
“We’re offering a reward,” Thornton said. “Two thousand dollars for information leading to the apprehension of the person or persons responsible.”
“You think it might be more than one?” Tom asked. After hearing what the deputies had had to say, Molly wondered at the note of innocent inquiry in his question. If the Sheriff’s Department was investigating the possible involvement of a satanic cult, then the Wylands would know all about it. They probably even knew Mike was a suspect. That was just the way things worked in Woodford County.
Molly’s spine stiffened at the idea. If the Wylands were meaning to catch Mike with that reward, they had another thing coming, she thought fiercely. In this case, her brother was as innocent as she was herself. Molly was as sure of that as she had ever been of anything in her life.
J.D. shrugged. “The police seem to think so. They said they don’t hardly see how one man could subdue a twelve-hundred-pound mare for long enough to do that to her.”
At that moment a beige Chrysler pulled into the driveway, followed by Molly’s blue Plymouth. Pork Chop barked. The conversation paused as they all watched Jimmy Miller get out of the Chrysler. He wore a tan sport coat and brown slacks, a mode of dress that was unusual for him. A young male garage employee in a blue mechanic’s uniform slid out of the Plymouth. Both men headed toward the porch.
“You got my car fixed already?” Molly greeted Jimmy with delight as he came up the steps.
“It just needed a jump,” Jimmy said, smiling at Molly and nodding at the other men. “The battery was low. You must have left your lights on, or something.”
“Thanks.” Molly smiled back at him. “And thanks for driving it out. You didn’t need to do that.”
“My pleasure.” Jimmy gave her a look that remembered the kisses they had shared in his front seat just the night before last. Reminded of the hickey that, though fainter, lived on beneath the turtleneck and a layer of Coverstick, Molly felt both embarrassed and guilty. Embarrassed because, under ordinary circumstances, she never would have let him kiss her like that; and guilty because Jimmy clearly imagined that those kisses meant more than they really did.
“Let me get you all some coffee, or a Coke,” Molly said, standing up.
“A Coke would be fine by me.” Jimmy sat down on the steps. His employee stood irresolute for a moment, then sank down beside him. “For Buddy here too. Oh, Molly, this is Buddy James.”
“We’ve met,” Buddy said, smiling rather shyly over his shoulder at Molly. He had a black buzz cut and a teenager’s round face and blemishes. Molly nodded acknowledgment of his comment, though if they had ever met she couldn’t recall where or when.
Molly performed the requisite introductions all around, then asked, “Gentlemen—coffee or Coke?”
She was just making a mental note of their answers when another car turned in the gravel driveway.
It was a white Ford Taurus.
27
Shades of Scarlett O’Hara! That was the thought that popped into Will’s head when he stepped out of the car with an absentminded pat for Pork Chop and got a load of the scene on Molly’s front porch. Five—no, six—men, two on the steps, two on the glider, two standing, all gazing raptly at a bodacious babe with a come-hither walk and a flirtatious smile.
His bodacious babe.
As Will headed toward the porch, Molly turned that smile on him. Will’s answering smile was wry.
If you’re going to fall for the prettiest girl around, he told himself, you can’t be surprised if there’s competition. It goes with the territory.
“Will! Will!” The twins spotted him, and Will found himself plucking a football out of the air. “Wanna play?”
“Later,” he promised, throwing
the football back. Sam leaped into the air and caught it, and the twins resumed their game.
Molly had her back to him by that time, heading inside the house. Will watched the enticing sway of her hips with appreciation. When the screen door swung shut behind her, cutting off his view, he glanced around in time to notice that every other male present had been appreciating the same thing.
Will reached the porch and stopped because two men occupied the steps. One was a pimply kid. Will dismissed him at once as a potential rival. The other was thirtyish, solid and prosperous-looking. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar. Will frowned, trying to place him, as his gaze skimmed to the others on the porch. He nodded without enthusiasm at J.D. and Thornton and Tyler Wyland. The other man was Tom Kramer, the lawyer. Will recognized him from his visit to the man’s office last week. As Molly’s boyfriend who was footing the bill for legal help for Mike, Will had paid the man’s retainer. What was he doing at Molly’s house? Surely he had not followed her home after one meeting! He didn’t look the type to form part of Molly’s court.
Will supposed he didn’t either.
“Oh, sorry,” said the solid-looking man on the steps, standing up to let Will pass. The kid stood up too. “I’m Jimmy Miller. This here’s Buddy James.”
“Will Lyman,” Will said, shaking the hand that was held out to him. Jimmy Miller—the name rang a bell. Oh, yes, the yokel. Immediately on the heels of recognition came a less pleasant companion thought: the hickey. Will had to exercise control not to put more force into the handshake than civility called for.
The kid shook hands too.
“You’re a friend of the family, aren’t you?” Miller said with a good-humored smile. At what must have been Will’s look of surprise, he added, “I recognize the car. From the other night.”
“You might say that,” Will replied, just as Molly pushed open the screen door with her hip and stepped outside bearing a glass-laden tray. Will went up the steps to help her, only to be forestalled by J.D., who tried to take the tray from Molly. She shook her head at him, managed a deft balancing act with one hand and her hip, and passed J.D. a glass of fizzy dark liquid Will assumed was Coke. A single ice cube floated in each glass. Molly was clearly not prepared for mass hospitality, Will thought with some amusement. Not that any of her admirers seemed to mind. She handed glasses of Coke all around to the accompaniment of murmurs of appreciation.
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