by Ann Self
“Jane won’t be wearing those atrocious clothes,” Madeline said matter-of-factly, as she sat on Jane’s bed, thumbing through glossy catalogs of riding outfits that Jane kept under her bedside table. Conversation stopped abruptly and everyone turned to look at Madeline, perched on Jane’s flowered spread.
Madeline stopped thumbing through the catalog and looked up at Jane. “Get that horrible moth-eaten coat off your body and toss it. Then get over here and show me what you need Jane. Some of these places aren’t too far away, I can drive to any one of them inside an hour.”
“And who are you?!” Elliot asked snidely. “I don’t think Jane needs to be wasting time primping and shopping at the last hour.”
Madeline jumped up abruptly and shook the catalog at him and yelled, “I’m someone who’s going to make damn sure she does primp and look her best! She’s going to be on display as much as your horse—and she’s far more valuable than a four-legged oat burner.”
Elliot’s mouth dropped open. He was stunned, and at a loss for words.
“Those clothes cost a fortune Madeline,” Jane jumped in to forestall a major confrontation. “The dress coat alone is...”
“Only eight hundred for a fine hand-made-in-Germany wool and nylon gabardine, with gold vest points and extra long weighted tails. A bargain if I ever saw one. Let’s see... a size six tall should do.”
“Who is this woman?” Elliot snapped at Cecily. “Jane does not have time for shopping!”
Cecily shrugged as she looked at Madeline plopping herself back on Jane’s bed.
Madeline ignored the Whitbeck’s as if they were non-existent, and motioned to Jane. “Come over here and show me all the right things to order...I want to see if they have them in stock.”
Jane took off Owen’s coat, flung it on a chair and sat on the bed. “Madeline...” she tried to protest.
“Shush! Circle the correct breeches,” Madeline demanded. She handed Jane a pen. “I have no idea which ones you need—except they have to be all white. Oh, wait...” she grabbed the catalog back, “I’ll just order from the price column. I’ll bet the three-hundred dollar Schumacher Dressage breeches would beat the hell out of the forty-nine dollar pair.”
“Madeline...”
“Aghh!” She raised a staying hand. “Okay. The silk and felt top-hat. The type with the low crown...Pike & Pike, that’s a good one. What’s your hat size? I know all your other sizes.”
“Pike and Pike!” Jane blustered, knowing the price.
“Hat size!?” Madeline demanded again.
“Seven,” Jane sighed.
Westerlund stood back near a window in the crowded room, with his hands in his pockets, observing Madeline interestedly, and occasionally checking over the crowd milling around the stableyard below.
“Check. What else goes with that outfit? Oh yes, the riding shirt. Okay, I see a nice white expensive thing here, and the bib-front stock tie. Good. Now...I just take out my magic wand...” Madeline reached into her shoulder bag and flipped open a cell phone. After calling a few stores, she found one with everything in stock, gave them an American Express number, and told them to have the stuff ready and waiting. “I’ll be there in about an hour.”
She snapped the phone shut, returned it to her purse and jumped up, looking at her watch. The rest of the room observed her with slightly stunned expressions, especially Elliot and Cecily. Madeline continued to not see them.
“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” she directed, and then looked questioningly at Westerlund.
“I’ll be here when you get back,” he said, “don’t worry. You’re replacing her riding duds?”
She smiled at him, her hazel eyes sparkling. “Ah, yes—new duds. She won’t be riding in their dazzling event looking like a damned hobo. Thanks, Westy.” Madeline shot a withering look at Elliot and then rushed out the door.
Elliot’s face flushed to tomato. He was not calling all the shots on his own estate, and it rankled. He turned to the detective. “Is that pushy dame a friend of yours? Does she order you around too?!” he raged. “I don’t think at this point the stable girl needs personal police protection—that’s a little over the top.”
“But I do think Miss Husted needs personal protection, and what I think goes,” Westerlund said simply and firmly. “There’s something very fishy going on in your barn and I intend to get to the bottom of it before any more bodies materialize.” Westerlund then aimed a cool dead gaze at Elliot as he spoke in a ferociously quiet tone: “You don’t want to be getting in my way, or impeding an official investigation.”
The tomato color drained from Elliot’s face, to a pinched white. He shoved his hands in his suit pockets and sighed irritably. Then he turned on Sam, the color racing back to his face in splotches. “Don’t you have a million things to be doing? I don’t think you need to stand around lollygagging in Jane’s bedroom.”
Sam looked like he would unload on Elliot, but thought better of it. He glanced at Jane, and simply left without saying a word. Again, Elliot did not like what he saw in Sam’s face and he pondered over it for the rest of the afternoon.
Late Saturday evening, when the classes were done for that day and most of the exhibitors had retired to their motorhomes, trailers or motels, Jane and Lars worked on Charmante in the indoor arena. Madeline and Detective Westerlund sat together in the blue plastic seats of the mostly empty spectator’s gallery, sipping Starbuck’s coffee and watching intently. Madeline had a new garment bag containing well over a thousand dollars worth of riding clothes for Jane slung over the seat next to her. A hatbox sat next to the Detective. Madeline had sworn to keep the clothes by her side for the next twenty-four hours, until Jane’s class Sunday evening.
Down below in the vast arena, Jane struggled with Charmante as the music played lightly in a low volume. She stopped in the middle of the ring to confer with Lars after signaling Dylan to turn off the music. “He still seems cramped and mincing and over-bent to me. Doesn’t really step into anything or accept the bit,” she complained, “and his back has lost that nice free swing.”
Lars removed his cap and scratched the top of his silvery head. “You’re right. He’s not putting any thrust and lift into the gaits. He’s just mindlessly going through the routine like a sewing machine. Not fighting you exactly, but flat and lifeless. He’s been so over-drilled, and his frame so over-bent by Lucinda ratcheting his head in that his natural spirit is locked away. She just could never understand that the roundness and compactness is driven from the hindquarters forward—not achieved by winching his head in.”
“How do we free his spirit, Lars? How do we get back the beautiful lightness and cadence and rhythm that he had?”
“I’m afraid we just have to wait until he decides. He’s been abused, and the only power he had was to freeze up and hide his spirit. Eventually he’ll test the waters and return to his former self. I would like it to be tomorrow—but I’m afraid it’s out of our hands. Charmante doesn’t want to give up his last scrap of power lightly.”
Jane kicked off the stirrups and leaned forward to pat Charmante and rest her face in his silvery mane. “Poor fella. How could anyone abuse your spirit.” She lifted her face and looked across the ring into the glass-walled skybox. The lights were low and only a few people occupied it. One of them was Lucinda, seated by the window wall with her ankle propped up on a chair. Her face was in deep shadow, but her backlit hair was a halo of gold. Sitting along side was her borrowed footman Travis the Toad. Jane couldn’t see their eyes, but she could feel the hatred floating across the expanse of ring.
“Look at this, Madeline!” Jane aimed her flashlight under the eaves in her room. “Sam not only nailed the partition back up, he set up a booby-trap too.”
Madeline—in her pajamas—leaned in to see the rows of bottles, all shapes and sizes, lined up in front of the plywood. “Way to go Sam!” Madeline praised. “Now let’s get to bed. You got a big day tomorrow.” She backed out, and Jane shut the smal
l door, brushing fingerprint dust off her hands.
Madeline crawled into the old sofa bed with the garment bag lying next to her, and the hatbox on top of the backrest. She looked up at the small bit of rag in the ceiling to see if it was still blocking the tiny hole. It was.
“So, no more spy-holes in the ceiling?” she inquired.
“None that I could find,” Jane answered, jumping into her own bed. “I’m really happy there were none over the tub! I can just picture this creep leering down at me.”
“Oh...ugh!!” Madeline gasped at the thought. Then she looked up again. “I wonder who was leering through there? Westy said the insulation was all pulled aside from between the beams, and someone drilled a neat little hole through the ceiling.”
“That’s really scary—really gives me the creeps.”
“Hmmm. Think it could be the stable boys next door? Little joke or something?”
“I doubt it. Then the hole would have been over the tub!”
“Ha! You’re right,” Madeline agreed.
“It’s creepy how diabolical this nut is. I’m really glad you’re here, Madeline.”
“I think I’m glad I’m here,” she joked. “But if I feel dust trickling down on me in the middle of the night, well move over Rover, I’m going to be leaping into that twin bed!”
The evening passed uneventfully, and in the morning Madeline and Jane rushed to open the little door to the eaves. The partition was in place, and all of Sam’s bottles were still standing guard.
“Hmmm...no killers in here today,” Madeline joked. Jane sniffed at that as they stood up. “Shall we go out for breakfast?” Madeline inquired. “A good stick-to-the-ribs breakfast will give you stamina for the show tonight.”
“Sounds good to me. And it’s not like I have anything to do.”
Madeline checked her watch. “Let’s hurry. Westy will be meeting us at the restaurant.”
“Hmmm, so we’ll be breakfasting with Westy,” Jane commented with a sly smile.
“Yes, in fact Westy will be watching over you all day today.”
“You sure it’s me he’ll be watching? You two looked pretty cozy in the spectator’s gallery last night.”
“I’m at the move-with-great-caution stage of this relationship,” Madeline retorted, as she folded up her bed.
“Okay...”
The grounds were growing crowded as Madeline and Jane rode in the Jaguar; easing through horses, exhibitors and spectators while driving off the estate. The intense heat of the past week had moderated; the morning refreshingly cool. In the background tower speakers crackled with class announcements and general information. The clock chimed eight melodious notes.
Westy sat sipping coffee, waiting for them in a booth at a little breakfast-only restaurant on Southbrook’s old-fashioned Main Street; a quintessential New England setting complete with the white steepled church. As the two women lugged a garment bag and hatbox through the quaint restaurant, with its wooden booths and hammered tin ceiling, they collected a few curious stares from fellow diners; especially Jane wearing her riding boots and tan breeches.
They hung the bag on the coat hook between high-backed booths as Westerlund stood and took the hat box to place it on the vinyl seat pad next to him. He clasped his tie away from the coffee and retook his seat while the two women plopped down opposite him. Low morning sunlight struck various nooks in the restaurant and flashed off the glass on the coffeepot as a waitress rushed to fill their mugs and collect breakfast orders. Jane started shoveling heaps of sugar into her coffee.
Take that Sam.
She noticed Westerlund also frowning at the amount of sugar in her coffee. As she stirred in two heaping tablespoons, she leaned to the side and looked at a long red and black box placed next to Westy’s seat on the floor. The legend RES-Q-LADDER was printed on the side.
“What’s that for?” she questioned.
“Oh...” Westy set down his mug and pulled the red and black carton up onto the seat to show them. “It’s a fifty-foot emergency rescue ladder. Just in case you—or anyone who happens to be up there in that isolated little room—gets caught in a fire.”
Jane looked astonished. “That was really nice of you.”
He waved away the compliment and placed the box back on the floor. “Better safe than sorry. So, you two had an uneventful night?”
“Positively boringly quiet,” Madeline answered while swallowing long bracing gulps of coffee, the steam wafting around her face. “No killers creeping through the eaves, no holes being drilled in the ceiling, no wardrobe mishaps.”
“Well, that’s good for now, but nothing to count on. What time do you ride?” He asked Jane.
“Eight o’clock tonight. It’s the last ride before the party starts in the skybox, as Elliot calls it.” She looked up from her coffee. “You two are coming to the party, aren’t you?”
Westerlund looked at Jane through narrowed eyes as he sipped his own coffee. “Well, I should keep an eye on you, even there.”
“Of course you should...and Madeline, you will be there, right?”
“You bet your booties. I’m not taking my eyes off you. This whacko isn’t going to touch you again if I can help it.”
“Booties? Whacko?” Westy asked, setting down his mug.
“Only those,” Jane piped up, “with a master’s degree, years of postgraduate training, and studying for a Doctorate, can reach that level of scintillating vocabulary.”
“Hey, I can psycho-babble with the best of ‘em if I want to...”
Westerlund laughed, and then asked, “You’re a Psychologist, right? What’s the difference between a Psychiatrist and a Psychologist?”
“About twenty dollars an hour,” Madeline cracked, making them laugh.
Turning serious she said: “Psychiatrists are physicians, they tend to take a pharmaceutical approach. Psychologists put more emphasis on empirical evidence—we’re sometimes skeptical of standard theories and treatments that we can’t verify by observing and measuring.”
Madeline dabbed her mouth daintily with a napkin and turned to look at Jane, changing the subject. “Are you completely packed so you can leave with me tomorrow morning?”
“Just about.”
“So she’s leaving the barn tomorrow morning?” Westerlund asked.
“Yes...and you got that rescue ladder for only one night.”
“Doesn’t matter—especially if that’s the one night you need it.” He folded his paper napkin in neat squares, thinking, and then said, “To tell you the truth, I’m not real crazy about the idea of you two spending even one more night there.”
“We’ll have a whole pack of stableboys in the next room. And I heard that the guys placed mousetraps all over the floor under the eaves. It would be hard to get by that crowd.”
“He got by them before.”
“But now he’s expected—no more element of surprise.”
Westy sighed and relented, but was still unconvinced.
Jane looked at him closely and thought that he looked like he was going to Sunday church. He had a freshly-showered look, his strong jaw shaved and gleaming, and his short sandy hair was newly clipped, the tips radiant in a patch of sunlight.
“I just wish we knew where that idiot Owen was,” Madeline stated.
“Yes, and by the way...” Westerlund grilled them, “who is this Brian fellow that beat Flint up—and how did he come to be so handy for the rescue?”
“He probably should know the whole story,” Madeline said as she glanced questioningly at Jane over her shoulder.
“Yes, I probably should!” The detective looked sternly back and forth at both women and reached inside his suitcoat to pull out the tattered notebook.
Madeline sighed irritatedly at the sight of it, “Oh not that.”
“You want me to help keep your friend alive don’t you?”
“Yes, that would be a good plan,” she agreed.
“Now then,” he looked at Jane, “I know tha
t you discovered that Whitbeck is in big trouble financially, although he’s trying to keep it under wraps.”
“True,” she confirmed. “His empire is crumbling. He either gets some new investors tonight, or he’s a cooked goose.” Upside down, Jane could see him write COOKED GOOSE in large block letters, and underline it twice.
“So he’s basically losing control...things are coming down around his ears?”
“You could say that.”
“And about this Brian Canaday—the guy who rescued you from Owen...who is he?”
“Like I told you,” Madeline offered, “the father of one of her students.”
Westy sighed and gave Madeline a look. “Can she answer for herself?”
“His father owns Canaday International,” Jane filled him in. “Elliot wants Brian to be one of his investors.”
“Holy...Canaday International!” Westy sat back in the booth and flipped over a page in the notebook. He glanced around to see who might be listening, and then lowered his voice: “Canaday International—one of the biggest conglomerates in the country! There’s just no end to the intrigue here.” He stared at them both for a moment longer. “Why do I feel you girls aren’t telling me everything?”
“Girls?” they chorused.
“Ahhh, sorry. You should know I’m still in the Stone Age.”
“We guessed that,” Madeline chortled, looking at his tie.
Before he could stop himself, Westy subconsciously straightened the offending tie and then looked exasperatedly at the two women swallowing grins with their food. “Brian Canaday?” he demanded, looking at Jane.
She sighed, dropped her hands from her coffee cup and leaned back in the booth. “I...ah, I knew him from high school.”
“Boy, this just gets more convoluted every moment.” He leaned on the table, chin against his fingers, scrutinizing Jane with sharp eyes that were no longer seeing through a filter of preconceived notions. “Is this Brian Canaday...a love interest?”