Mim called steeplechasers slow gypsies since they stayed for four to six months and then moved on.
The Reverend Herbert Jones, tinkling ice cubes in his glass, joined Harry as Addie was pulled away by another celebrant.
“Beautiful day. ’Course, you never know with Montpelier. I’ve stood in the snow, the rain, and I’ve basked in seventy-four degrees and sunshine. Today was one of the best.”
“Pretty good.” Harry smiled.
Herb watched BoomBoom Craycroft out of the corner of his eye. She worked the room, moving in a semicircle toward Harry. “BoomBoom’s tacking your way.” He lowered his gravelly voice.
“Not again.”
“Oh?” His eyebrows shot upward.
“She freely shared her innermost feelings with me between the first and second races. Forgiveness and redemption are just around the corner if I’ll join Lifeline.”
“I thought forgiveness and redemption were mine to dispense.” The Reverend Jones laughed at himself. “Well, now, let her ramble. Who knows, maybe this Lifeline really has helped her in some way. I prefer prayer myself.”
In the background the phone rang. Rick Shaw, the Sheriff of Albemarle County, was summoned to it.
“He never gets a break. Coop neither,” Harry observed. Shaw’s deputy was Cynthia Cooper.
“Lots of drunks on the road after Montpelier.”
“They don’t need the races for an excuse. I figure they IV the stuff.”
Rick hung up the phone, whispered something to Mim, and left the party. Mim’s face registered shock. Then she quickly regained her social mask.
4
Sheriff Rick Shaw, penlight in hand, pulled back an eyelid. Nothing. He continued carefully examining the body before him, with Dr. Larry Johnson observing. Shaw didn’t want the corpse moved yet.
Nigel Danforth sat exactly as Fair Haristeen had found him—upright on a tack trunk, wearing his red silks with the blue sash. A knife was plunged through his heart.
Although the murder appeared to have taken place in Orange County and Rick Shaw was sheriff of the adjoining county, Orange’s sheriff, Frank Yancey, had called him in. Rick had handled more murders than he had, and this one was a puzzle, especially since the knife had been plunged through a playing card, the Queen of Clubs, which was placed over Nigel’s heart.
Fair, arms crossed, watched, his face still chalky white.
“His body was exactly like this when you found him?” Rick asked the lanky vet.
“Yes.”
“See anything, anyone?”
“No, I walked in through the north doors and turned on the lights. All the horses should have been removed by then but I thought I’d double-check. He was sitting there. I didn’t know anything was wrong, although I thought it was peculiar that he’d sit in the dark. I called to him, and he didn’t answer. When I drew closer, I saw the knife sticking out of his chest. I felt his pulse. Goner.”
“What about his body temperature when you touched him?”
“Still warm, Larry. Maybe he had been dead an hour. His extremities hadn’t started to fill with fluid. He really looked as though he was just sitting there.”
“No sign of anybody—anything?” Rick sighed. He’d known Fair for years, respected him as a vet and therefore as a scientific man. Fair’s recollections counted heavily in Rick’s book.
“None in the barn. A few big vans pulled out across the road. Their noise could have covered someone running away. I checked the stalls, I climbed into the hayloft, tack room. Nothing, Sheriff.”
“The card’s a neat trick.” Frank Yancey shook his head. “Maybe it’s a payback for a gambling debt.”
“Helluva payback,” Larry Johnson said.
“Helluva debt?” Frank gestured, his hands held upward.
“Frank, you’ve got the photos and prints you need?” Rick continued when Frank nodded in the affirmative, “Well, let’s remove the body then. Do you mind if Larry sits in on the autopsy?”
“No, no, I’d be glad to have him there.”
“Guess I can’t keep this out of the papers.” George Miller, Orange’s mayor, unconsciously wrung his hands. He had arrived minutes after Yancey’s call. “Colbert Mason and Arthur Tetrick were horrified, but they turned cagey pretty fast. They especially didn’t want a photo of the body to get into the papers.”
“One murder in the steeplechase world doesn’t mean it’s seething with corruption,” Larry remarked sensibly.
“Five years ago there was another murder.” Fair’s deep baritone sounded sepulchral in the barn.
“What are you talking about?” Frank leaned forward.
“Marylou Valiant.”
“Never found her, did they?” Frank Yancey blinked, remembering.
“No,” Rick answered. “We know of no connection to steeplechasing other than that she owned a good string of horses. That’s not a motive for murder. There are some who think she’s not dead. She just walked away from her life.”
“They say that about Elvis, too,” Fair replied. “Anyone told Adelia Valiant?”
“Why?” Frank and George said simultaneously.
“She was dating Danforth . . . pretty serious, I think.”
Frank eyed the big man. “Well—can you tell her?”
Rick and Fair glanced at each other, then at Larry.
“I’ll tell her,” the old doctor said gently. “But I’d like you fellows with me. And Rick, don’t jump right in, okay?”
The sheriff grimaced. He tried to be sensitive, but the drive to catch a murderer could override his efforts. “Yeah, yeah.”
Two ambulance attendants rolled the gurney into the barn from the south doors as Fair, Larry, and Rick left through the north.
Rick turned to Fair. “Was he a good jockey?”
“Not bad.”
5
Will Forloines’s face fell longer and longer. His color deepened. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. “That was a damn fool thing you did to Nigel.”
“Bullshit.”
“Don’t cuss at me, Linda. I can still kick your ass into next week.”
“I love it when you get mad.” She sarcastically parodied old movies.
He shifted his eyes from the road to her. “You’re lucky he didn’t file a complaint.”
“Had him by the short hairs.”
“Oh—and what if he’d nailed you? You didn’t know he wouldn’t file against you.”
“Will, let me do the thinking.”
The wheel of the brand-new Nissan dropped off the road. Will quickly returned his gaze to the road. “You take too many chances. One of these days it will backfire.”
“Wimp.” While she insulted him, she took the precaution of dropping her hand into his lap.
“Things are going good right now. I don’t want them screwed up.”
“Will, relax. Drive. And listen.” She exhaled through her nose. “Nigel Danforth has bought a shitload of cocaine over the last two months. He can’t squeal.”
“The hell he can’t. He can finger us as the dealers.”
“Better to be mad at me over one race than lose his connection. And if he blew the whistle on us, he’d be blowing it on himself—and his girlfriend. All that money isn’t coming from race purses.”
Will drove a few minutes. “Yeah, but you’re cutting it close.”
“Paid for this truck.” She moved closer to him.
“Linda, you”—he sputtered—“you take too many risks.”
“The risk is the rush.”
“Not for me, Babe. The money is the rush.”
“And we’re sitting in the middle of it. Dr. D’Angelo’s loaded, and he’s dumb as a post.”
“No, he’s not,” Will contradicted her. “He’s dumb about horses. He’s not dumb about his job or he wouldn’t have made all that money. Sooner or later he’ll figure things out if you try to sell him too many horses at once. Take it slow. I’d like to live in one place for a couple of years.”
&nbs
p; She waited a moment. “Sure.”
As this was said with no conviction, Will, irritated, shot back, “I like where we live.”
She whispered in his ear, enjoying her disagreement with him just so she could “win” the argument, get him under her control. She might have loved her husband, but she truly needed him. He was so easy to manipulate that it made her feel powerful and smart. “We’ll make so much money we can buy our own farm.”
“Yeah . . .” His voice trailed off.
She smiled. “Nigel will forget all about it. I guarantee it. He owes me for a kilo. He’s coming up tomorrow to pay off the rest of it. I got part of the money today before the race.” She laughed. “Bet he couldn’t believe it when I whipped him. He’ll forget though. He’ll be so full of toot, I’ll be his best friend.”
6
When Fair Haristeen walked through the door of Mim’s party, Harry determined to pay no attention to him. However, she couldn’t help noticing his jaw muscles tightening, which she recognized as a sign of distress. Dr. Larry Johnson and Sheriff Rick Shaw flanked him, and Larry headed straight for Addie Valiant. Fair turned to follow them.
“Doom and gloom,” Susan Tucker observed.
“Hope someone didn’t lose a horse,” Harry said.
“I know. It was such an unusual Montpelier. The worst was that bowed tendon, pretty fabulous when you consider some of the accidents in the past. But maybe it’s because the course is so difficult. People are careful.”
“Huh?”
“Harry, are you paying attention?” her best friend said.
“Yes, but I was thinking I’d have to head home before too long. Miranda closes up shop by nine, you know.” Harry referred to Miranda’s lifelong habit of early retirement and early rising.
“Well, as I was saying before you drifted off, because the course is demanding jockeys stay focused. Sometimes when it’s a bit easy they get sloppy.”
“Mom, I’m hungry,” Tucker pleaded.
Susan dropped a piece of cake for the dog.
“Susan, you spoil Tucker worse than I do.” It was Susan who had bred the corgi. Harry noticed Larry taking Addie by the elbow and Rick whispering in Mim’s ear. “Something’s going on. Damn, I hope it’s not some kind of late protest. I wouldn’t put anything past Mickey Townsend. He hates to lose.”
Five minutes passed before a howl of pain sounded from the library. All conversation stopped. Mim, holding her husband’s hand, put her other hand on Chark’s shoulder, guiding him to the library. Larry had wanted to inform Addie before bringing her brother into it. The confusion and concern on Chark’s face upon hearing his sister’s cry alerted even the thickest person in the room to impending sorrow.
Mim shut the library doors behind her. All eyes were now on her. She walked over to the three-sash window and collected herself. Then, her husband at her side, she addressed the gathering.
“I regret to inform you that there appears to have been a”—she cleared her throat—“murder at Montpelier.” A gasp went up from the crowd. “Nigel Danforth, the English jockey riding for Mickey Townsend, was found dead this evening in the main stable. Sheriff Shaw says they know very little at this time. He asks for your patience and cooperation over the next few days as he will be calling upon some of us. I’m afraid the party is over, but I want to thank you for celebrating what has been a joyous day—until now.” She opened her hands as if in benediction.
Little Marilyn, unable to conceal her agitation, called out. “Mummy, how was he killed?”
“Stabbed through the heart.”
“Good God!” Herbie Jones exclaimed, and after that the noise was deafening as everyone talked at once.
“That explains it,” Susan said to Harry, who understood she was referring to Fair’s miserable countenance. “How about we pay our respects to our hostess and leave?”
Miranda bustled over. “My word, how awful, and how awful for Mim, too. It certainly casts a pall on her triumph. Harry, Herbie’s offered to escort me home so I’m leaving with him.”
“Fine. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Good, then I’ll ride with you,” Susan piped up then called to her teenaged son, Danny, “One dent in that car and you are toast.”
On the way home Harry, Susan, and Tee Tucker wondered why a jockey would be killed after the races. They ran through the usual causes of death in America: money, love, drugs, and gambling. Since they knew little about Nigel, they soon dropped the speculation.
“Another body blow for Addie.” Harry stared out the windshield into the sheltering darkness.
“Ever notice how some people are plagued with bad luck and tragedy?”
“King Lear?” Harry quipped, not meaning to sound flippant. “Sorry.”
“I’m not sure I will ever understand how your mind works,” Susan wryly said to her friend.
“There are days when it doesn’t work at all.”
“Tell me about it. Especially after you have children. What’s left of your mind flies out the window.” As a mother of two teenagers, Susan both endured and enjoyed her offspring. The truck pulled down the long driveway to Harry’s farm.
“Bet you BoomBoom makes a beeline for Addie once she emerges from the library,” Harry grumbled.
“Mim will shoo her out first.”
“Ha!” Harry said derisively. “BoomBoom will volunteer to clean up after the party, the sneak. Bet you she pounces on Addie with an invitation to join her at Lifeline. Bloodsucker.”
“She does seem to draw sustenance from other people’s problems.” Susan inhaled. “But then again this program of self-exposure or whatever it is has calmed her down.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You wouldn’t.” Susan stopped at the screened door at the back of the house. Mrs. Murphy was visible in the window and then disappeared. “A pussycat is anxious to see you.”
“Come on in. She wants to see you, too. I’ll feed her, then carry you home.”
“Good. Then I can look for my black sweater. I know I left it here.”
“Susan, I swear I’ve searched for it. It’s not here.”
“You won’t believe what happened,” Tucker called out, eager to tell her friend everything and also eager to watch Mrs. Murphy fume because she’d missed it.
“Tucker, hush.” Harry opened the door and ushered Susan inside.
The temperature was in the forties and dropping, and the chill nipped at Harry’s heels, so she hurried along behind her friend. The kitchen, deceptively calm, lured her into comfort.
“Here, kitty, kitty.”
“I hate you,” Mrs. Murphy called from the bedroom.
Harry walked into the living room followed by Tucker and Susan.
“Uh-oh.” Tucker laid her ears flat.
Susan gasped, “Berlin, 1945!”
The arm of the sofa had been shredded, methodically destroyed. Lamps smashed to the ground bore witness to the tiger cat’s fury. She had also had the presence of mind to scratch, tear, and bite magazines, the newspapers, and a forlorn novel that rested on Harry’s wing chair. The pièce de résistance was one curtain, yanked full force, dangling half on and half off the rod.
Harry’s mouth dangled almost in imitation of the curtain. She slapped her hands together in outrage.
“Mrs. Murphy, you come out here.”
“In a pig’s eye.” The cat’s voice was shrill.
“I know where you’re hiding. You aren’t that original, you little shit!” Harry tore into her bedroom, clicked on the light, dropped to her knees, and lifted up the dust ruffles. Sure enough, a pair of gleaming green eyes at the furthest recesses of the bed stared back at her.
“I will skin you alive!” Harry exploded.
“You’re in deep doo-doo,” Tucker whined.
“She’ll forget it by morning,” came the saucy reply.
“I don’t think so. You’ve wrecked the house.”
“I know nothing about it.”
7
Since Harry had closed off the animal door, Mrs. Murphy stayed inside. She would have preferred to go out to the barn just in case Harry woke up mad. As it was she prudently waited until she heard the cat food can being opened before she tiptoed into the kitchen.
“You’re impossible.” Harry, good humor restored by a sound night’s sleep, scratched the cat at the base of her tail.
“I hate it when you leave me.”
As Harry dished out shrimp and cod into a bowl upon which was prophetically written UPHOLSTERY DESTROYER, Tucker circled her mother’s legs.
“Why do you feed her first? Especially after what she’s done.”
“I’ll get to you.”
“She feeds me first because I’m so fascinating.”
“Gag me.” Tucker remembered that the cat knew nothing of yesterday’s bizarre event. She forgot her irritation as she settled into the pleasure of tormenting Mrs. Murphy. “Beautiful day at the races.”
“Shut up.”
“BoomBoom swept down on Mom, though.”
Mrs. Murphy, on the counter, turned her head from her food bowl. “Oh, did Mom cuss her out?”
“Nah.” Tucker jammed her long nose into the canned beef food mixed into crunchies.
Harry brewed tea and rummaged around for odds and ends to toss into an omelet while the animals chatted. Tucker finished her food so quickly it barely impeded her conversational abilities.
The tiger, delicate in her eating habits, paused between mouthfuls, gently brushing her whiskers in case some food was on them. She surveyed the damage in the living room without a twinge of guilt. “How’d Mim do?”
“Second in the second race, won the fourth race, and she won the big one.”
“Wow.” She swatted her food bowl, angry all over again at being left out. “I grew up with horses. I don’t know why Mother thinks I won’t behave myself at Montpelier. As if I’ve never seen a crowd before.”
“You haven’t. Not that big.” Tucker licked her lips, relishing her breakfast and the cat’s discomfort.
Murder, She Meowed Page 5