HIS PARTNER'S WIFE

by Janice Kay Johnson

  "I'm good," she said in answer to Geoff. She thumbed through the papers, found nothing—like the names of former owners—that seemed helpful. Foxfire was registered in Stuart's name, she'd noticed the day she took the papers from the bank, not hers. "I really appreciate everything you did to try to find out who broke in here."

  "We'll catch him yet," he assured her.

  "John doesn't sound so sure."

  "Ah, hell. He's a half-empty kind of guy. Me, I'm an optimist. Some son of a bitch knows that money is sitting around somewhere. He'll make another move."

  Anxiety quivered in her. "But he must know you've searched for it."

  He grunted. "What scares me is that he isn't going to believe you don't know where it is." When she didn't respond immediately, Geoff said, "Oh, hell. I shouldn't have said that. I might be wrong. I'd just feel better if we caught the bastard. Or, at the very least, found the damn drugs or money and publicized the fact that we have." He sighed. "You haven't come up with anything, I assume."

  "Actually…" How crazy would it sound out loud?

  "Actually?" he prompted her, an electric quality of excitement changing the timbre of his voice.

  "Well, I did have an idea." Okay, she'd sound crazy, but Geoff would appreciate the fact that she was thinking about the problem, at least.

  Natalie explained.

  "A four-legged animal can be worth that much money?" He was incredulous. Before she could answer, he said, sounding thoughtful, "Yeah, of course they can be. I know racehorses are. Is that what you're thinking? He won something like the Triple Crown?"

  "If he'd won the Triple Crown," she told him, "Foxfire would be worth more like thirty million. Arabians don't race—well, they do, but it's smaller time. Mainly, they're showed. I'm thinking … well, even a top ten stallion in the National Championship should be worth quite a bit. It's what people will pay in stud fees that makes them valuable."

  He got right to the point. "How are you going to find out what this horse is worth?"

  Natalie picked up the manila envelope and peered inside. "Well, I was thinking that tomorrow…" Her breath caught when she saw that a sheet of manila, probably cut from another envelope, was taped inside. She never would have seen it if she hadn't nearly stuck her nose inside the envelope.

  "What are you going to do tomorrow?" Geoff asked with an edge of impatience.

  "I … hold on." Natalie set down the phone on the bed so she could use both hands. With her thumbnail she carefully peeled off the tape. It took her a moment to remove enough to see a folded sheet of paper tucked inside. She tugged it out and opened it.

  "Natalie?" Geoff's voice was muffled and tiny.

  The invoice dropped from her shaking hand. "Oh, my God," she whispered.

  "Natalie?"

  Staring in dismay at the piece of paper that would take her beloved horse from her, she picked up the phone. "Geoff?"

  "You've found something."

  "The receipt." Her voice squeaked. "He did, Geoff. He paid over half a million for Foxfire."

  "A horse."

  "He used me," she said bitterly. "No wonder he smirked that way."

  "Smirked?"

  She was raging now. "It would have served him right if I'd had Foxfire gelded without consulting him! I wish I had! I wish…"

  Alarm sharpened Geoff's voice. "You didn't, did you?"

  "No." Depression struck. "Oh, I wish I had. Because then he wouldn't be worth that much, and I could keep him."

  "Can he be sold for as much?"

  "Oh, probably. I don't know. Maybe not. Stuart didn't know anything about horses. Maybe he overpaid. But then…"

  "He must have researched this before he bought. He must have been planning it for a long time." Geoff sounded steamed.

  "And I was pleased and flattered, and I've loved Foxfire so much—"

  He interrupted. "You know John and I are going to need to take a look at those papers and the horse both."

  "Yes," she agreed dully.

  "Have you said anything to him?"

  "No." She'd tried, but he wasn't listening.

  "Okay. Here's what we'll do. I'll rouse John in the morning, and we'll meet you at the stables. Better make it early. Eight-thirty. No, damn it. We're supposed to have breakfast with the mayor. Lucky us. Can you get there as early as seven-thirty?"

  "I suppose so." John hadn't said anything about the breakfast. Natalie supposed he'd forgotten, as worried as he was about Evan.

  "Bring everything with you."

  "Yes," she agreed again. Maybe she should burn this envelope. Why hadn't she kept her mouth shut?

  Dumb question. Because, if she had, Stuart's missing drug money would have hung over her head forever. At least now they knew. Whoever had killed Ronald Floyd and searched Stuart's study would hear, and she'd be safe.

  It wasn't as though Foxfire would be killed, or even hurt. He would be sold back into the world he'd come from, a fancy stable with his own groom and a swimming pool for horses and white-boarded pastures full of shining, dainty mares there just for him. He did like mares.

  After saying good-night to Geoff, Natalie turned out the lights, found Sasha and went to bed. For once the cat was willing to cuddle when Natalie needed the company instead of the other way around. Sleep was elusive, however. If her mood had been tumultuous earlier, now it was such a complex jumble, she didn't know if she was happy or sad or angry or all three at once.

  Probably all three.

  She must have slept, but not enough, because she could hatefully have thrown the alarm clock against the wall when it buzzed at six-fifteen. Heavy eyed, head pounding, she wondered why she'd agreed to an early meeting. Couldn't they have done this later in the day? She could have taken time off from work.

  The shower and coffee almost woke her up. Anticipation at seeing John helped. She dressed in slacks, Swedish clogs and a linen-silk blend sweater that draped sublimely, then she made a full turn in front of the mirror to see the effect. Not exactly wear for the stable, but she wouldn't be there long.

  She arrived to find that the broad double doors to the main barn were open, which must mean that Pam was about somewhere. A strange pickup and rented horse trailer were parked between the arena and the open doors, so maybe a new horse was arriving. Natalie didn't see either of the plain sedans that the two detectives drove. They had darn well better be here after suggesting this obscene hour of the morning.

  Besides, she felt like a teenager about to have a rare chance to see her crush.

  She was partway to the barn when Geoff called, "Hey."

  He'd just stepped around the rented horse trailer and was looking down with distaste at his shoe. "Damn stinking…" he muttered, scraping it off on the fender.

  "Where's John?"

  "Huh?" He looked up. "He couldn't make it. Something about one of the kids."

  Disappointment descended out of proportion to John's failure to show. "Evan was sick. Oh, dear. I hope it's just the flu."

  "Can I take a look at those?" He held out a hand for the envelope.

  His perusal was silent and brief. "Stuart's name is on this, not yours."

  "No, but that shouldn't be a problem. I'll just need the will to show that I'm his heir."

  He grunted. "Will you bring the horse out here?"

  Surprised, Natalie said, "Don't you want to see him in his stall? He's … restive on a lead rope."

  Geoff was sweating, which struck her as odd considering the crispness of the morning. "I don't really like horses. It's … just a thing I have." His brows lowered. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

  "Of course not."

  "I just don't want to go in there."

  She glanced down at her polished clogs, crisp black pants and softly draped, peach-colored sweater. "Maybe I could get Pam."

  He'd started to lean against the trailer, but he straightened quickly. "Who?"

  "The stable owner. She must be around somewhere."

  The detective shook his head. "Let's
keep this quiet for now, okay? We don't want the world to know what this damn horse is worth. Think of the security issues. And you're a lousy liar. She'll be able to tell you're making up a story about showing the horse to a friend. You can handle him, can't you?"

  "Of course I can." Natalie threw up her hands. "Okay, okay."

  She didn't spot Pam inside. The barn had that wonderful rich scent of hay and manure and bedding and horse that Natalie had always loved. Heads popped over stall doors as she passed, and soft whickers and jingled halters and the clunk of hooves striking thick wooden walls were the only sounds.

  Foxfire was waiting, his call more ringing when he spotted her.

  "Hello, beautiful," she said, putting her hands on each side of his head and resting her cheek against his elegant nose.

  He tolerated the sentiment only briefly, then shook his head hard, dislodging her. "Silly," she murmured, blinking away tears. "We aren't going for a ride. I wish we were. But I will put you out in the paddock after I show you off." She clicked the braided leather lead rope to his halter and slid the bolts open so that his stall door would slide to the side.

  Foxfire danced out and tossed his head so that his glorious mane flew. Usually Natalie cross-tied and saddled him here in the barn. She felt more in command once she was up on his back. But he was on his best manners, following her docilely with only a few wicked snorts aimed at the horses they passed.

  The parking area and arena were still deserted at this hour of the morning when she emerged with the fiery chestnut. He, of course, hunched his back and crab-hopped sideways the moment he spotted the strange trailer and man. With difficulty, Natalie clung to the heavy leather lead rope.

  Geoff backed up against the trailer.

  After letting Foxfire dance in a circle, she tapped his nose, settling him into a showring stance with his rear legs braced back, his neck arched so that his mane foamed over it, and his tail held high.

  "Isn't he a beauty?" she asked the detective.

  He'd pushed away from the trailer. "Yeah. Yeah. I guess he's something. But—damn!—a horse."

  Foxfire bared his teeth and she gazed sternly at him. "Behave yourself," she told him in a low voice. "You're being admired." Over her shoulder, she reminded Geoff, "Nobody guessed."

  "And nobody's going to."

  Puzzled by his odd choice of words and the rich satisfaction in them, Natalie turned.

  And looked into the barrel of Geoff Baxter's gun.

  Evan's fever was down by morning, maybe just because it was morning, but John felt confident enough to phone his mother.

  She hadn't said another word about their conversation at lunch. He'd seen her be nothing but gentle with his son since. Maybe she'd understood more of what he was asking than he'd guessed.

  All he wanted for his son was what he'd missed himself. It was beginning to seem that it might not be too late for that much, at least. He hoped so. Hurting her once had been hard enough, and he didn't know if he could do it again.

  "I was going shopping with a friend today, but we can change our plans. What time do you need to leave?"

  Unease had crawled along his skin like a too-cool breeze ever since he'd awakened. What had Natalie wanted to tell him? Why did he have this gut feeling it was important?

  "As soon as possible," he told his mother.

  "Lucky for you I'm an early riser," his mother said sternly. "I'll be over in a few minutes. I can have breakfast at your house."

  His glance strayed to the kitchen clock. Seven-twelve. Too early to call Natalie?

  "To hell with it," he muttered, and dialed. Her phone rang four times, and then the answering machine kicked in. "Natalie? Call me when you get this message."

  Either she wasn't up, or she was in the shower. What had he expected? For her to be waiting by the phone?

  But his disquiet grew as he threw together a lunch for Maddie to take to school and set out her cereal and a glass of orange juice.

  Five minutes later, he called again. "Damn it, Natalie, pick the phone up," he growled.

  She didn't.

  He knew she was an early riser. Maybe not this early, John told himself.

  When he heard his mother's car crunching on the gravel, he went upstairs to kiss Evan goodbye.

  "Grandma's here. She's going to call me if you feel any sicker. Okay?"

  The five-year-old eyed him. "Can I watch TV?"

  His revived interest was a universal sign of recovery. "Yeah." John tousled his head. "All day long, if you want."

  "And Maddie has to go to school," his son said contentedly.

  "But she didn't spend the night puking," John pointed out.

  He left Evan mulling over whether the luxury of spending the day on the couch watching TV and having Grandma wait on him hand and foot was worth the misery that preceded it.

  John gave his mother a few quick instructions and called goodbye to Maddie, who was, eating her cereal and reading the back of the carton.

  "Thanks, Mom," John said, giving her cheek a rare kiss.

  She looked startled but not displeased as he left.

  The morning was clear and breezy, ruffling the waters of the strait, which sparkled in the sunlight. He felt hyperalert this morning, like a police academy graduate turned loose for his first solo patrol. He tracked every vehicle within a mile, knew when a pedestrian stepped off the curb to cross the street behind him. Outside of Old Town, the parking lots were deserted in the strip malls, giant retailers and fast-food joints that lined the highway. Urban became country in the blink of an eye. Leaves had turned, painting the foothills with swatches of scarlet and orange and blazing gold amidst the green of cedar and fir.

  The season set him to thinking about things besides what Natalie had meant to tell him last night.

  Stuart Reed had died just over a year ago. Would Natalie consider that a decent interval? He wanted to marry her now, before November's first dusting of snow. She belonged in his house, in his bed. He might have been patient under other circumstances. But, given Stuart's blood-soaked legacy to her, he wanted to know she was safe. If she were his wife, under his protection, he wouldn't have to worry about her, like he had last night.

  The moment he turned the corner onto her street, that worry clutched his chest and wouldn't let go. Her car was missing from her driveway. Barely seven-thirty in the morning, and she was already gone.

  He pounded on her door anyway, in case her car was in the shop and she just hadn't mentioned it last night. No answer, no lights left on.

  Swearing, he leaped back into his car. Why would she go into work so early? A screwup with an advertisement? But the morning paper was already out; his mother had carried his in. Breakfast with a friend? She hadn't said anything.

  Why would she? he thought dourly. She hadn't yet agreed to a November wedding and the requisite requirement of filing daily schedules with each other.

  A light turned red ahead for the turn onto the highway. He sat drumming his fingers on the wheel, trying to decide what to do. He didn't even know why he felt so on edge. She wasn't in danger on a bright sunny morning.

  I wanted to tell you something I've been thinking about Stuart.

  The light turned; traffic slowly started forward.

  What if she'd discovered something? He'd cut her off. What the hell else could he have done, with Evan sitting in the middle of his own vomit, crying? But what if she was bursting to tell someone?

  What if she'd called Geoff Baxter?

  Uttering a vicious profanity, John reached for his cell phone.

  Baxter's wife answered. When he asked for her husband, she said in surprise, "Oh, I assumed you two were together. He left early this morning. How early? To tell you the truth, I wasn't even up. It had to be six-thirty or before."

  "He didn't say anything about where he was going?"

  "No. Only that he'd call later. Is something wrong?" she asked timidly.

  "Probably not. We just … crossed our wires."

  John did
n't like coincidences. Natalie, who had figured something out, had left her house unusually early this morning. As had Baxter, who had bought an RV he couldn't afford within weeks of the murdered drug dealers being found drifting on their boat. John was still waiting for more information on Baxter's finances, but the one purchase had been a red flag he'd learned about only yesterday.

  Where were they? Damn it, where?

  He drove without knowing where he was going. He was thinking hard, trying to remember every word she'd said.

  Foxfire is the only thing he bought. I thought he was trying to say he was sorry, or that he cared. But he didn't.

  John swore and signaled, pulling onto the shoulder of the highway.

  She was right. They should have wondered a whole lot earlier why the only thing her scumbag of a husband had bought was a gift for the wife he intended to leave.

  He heard her timid attempt to tell him. I was wondering if Foxfire could possibly be… What?

  The answer slotted into place. What she was wondering was whether the horse could possibly be worth one hell of a lot more than they'd thought.

  Okay. So she'd told Baxter. Why would he be making a move? They'd have to prove the horse was a walking half mil. They'd need the papers, to make phone calls. Buyers weren't standing on every street corner for an animal worth that kind of money. There wasn't a serious Arabian farm in Port Dare. Why wouldn't Baxter wait?

  Because, if he did, he'd lose his money. Once anybody but he and Natalie knew Stuart had sunk the drug money into the horse, it was as good as gone. If he could somehow persuade her to sell Foxfire first…

  And then what? Keep her mouth shut.

  Fear grabbed John with long white fangs.

  Of course Baxter couldn't count on her to stay quiet. He'd have to get her to sign papers selling the horse to him, then dispose of her. Even then, he didn't have a chance. He must know it. But John remembered the increasingly frenzied way he had searched Natalie's house. Maybe Geoff Baxter wasn't thinking straight anymore.

  Or maybe he was. What if Natalie's body wasn't found for a while? If he could spirit the damned horse away, then he could take his time finding a buyer. In the normal course of events, with Natalie missing, nobody would give a thought to her horse. If Baxter somehow compelled her to leave a note or even tell the stable owner that she was moving the horse, it wouldn't be until her body was found and a serious investigation began that somebody might question where the Arabian had gone. Even then, who would figure he might be worth serious money?