“Shocks will do that to you.” Miranda patted her on the back.
“Yeah—I know. I guess I didn’t think there were any left for me.”
“Life has a funny way of being loaded with surprises, good and bad,” the kindly woman said.
“Is anyone going to eat that orange bun?” Pewter asked.
“Chatty Cathy.” Harry scratched the gray cat behind the ears.
Miranda pulled little pieces of the bun apart and munched on them.
Pewter let out a wail. “Give me some!”
Miranda ignored this so Pewter scrambled onto a chair and thence onto the small table in the back where the buns rested enticingly on a white plate. She licked off the icing while the humans, deep in conversation, never noticed. Mrs. Murphy, not to be outdone, joined her friend.
Tucker complained bitterly. Murphy batted a hardened bit of icing off the table to the dog to shut her up. If she kept up her racket, the humans might notice their uninvited snack.
“They asked me so many questions they made me dizzy.” The young woman’s hands fluttered to her face. “I couldn’t answer half of them. I wasn’t much help. They pumped Chark pretty hard, too.”
“Rick Shaw said that Frank Yancey’s an okay guy, so he was just asking what he had to, I guess.” Harry wanted to be helpful, but she didn’t know what to do or say.
Addie’s big blue eyes misted over. “I was just getting to know him so—”
“Of course, of course.” Miranda patted her hand this time.
“How long had you known him?”
“Two months, give or take a week. I met him at the Fair Hill races and whammo!” She smacked her hands together.
“Happens that way sometimes.” Harry smiled.
“We had so much in common. Horses. Horses and horses,” Addie said. “He taught me a lot. You know how some people keep what they know to themselves? Won’t share anything. Not Nigel. He was happy to teach me, and he was just as happy to learn from me, too.”
“Sounds like a lovely young man,” Miranda, ever the romantic, replied soothingly.
Harry, far less romantic, nonetheless wanted to be supportive, but her inquiring nature couldn’t be suppressed for long. “Do you think he had enemies?”
“Harry, you sound like Frank Yancey.” Addie crossed one leg over the other, then winced.
“What’d you do?” Miranda solicitously inquired.
“Knees. They take a beating out there, you know.” She turned back to Harry. “As far as I know he didn’t have enemies. No one knew him long enough, and besides, he was fun, a real positive person.” She paused. “Everyone’s got some enemies though.”
“His poor parents in England.” Miranda shook her head.
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Harry said. “Do you have any idea why this happened?” Her curiosity had surged.
“No.” Addie got up. “Everyone is asking me that.”
“I’m sorry. But it’s natural.”
“I hope whoever killed him rots in hell!” Addie flared, then wiped away the unexpected tears.
“‘Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; for God made man in His own image,’ ” Mrs. Hogendobber quoted from Genesis.
“I’ll happily shed blood.” Addie clamped down her lips.
“What do you mean?” Harry asked.
“I mean, if I find the killer first . . .”
“Don’t say that,” Miranda blurted out.
“Yeah, don’t.” Harry seconded her older friend’s feeling.
“I don’t give a damn. If the killer is caught, he’ll go to trial. Lots of money will get spent, and the system is so corrupt that he probably won’t get convicted, and if he does he’ll be out on patole in no time. It’s a farce.”
Much as Harry tended to agree, she didn’t want to encourage Addie to murder. “You know, the scary part is, what if you do find the killer, or get close? What if he turns on you, Addie? Stay out of it. You liked this guy, but you didn’t know him well enough to die for him.”
“Harry, you can fall in love in an instant. I did.”
“Oh, Addie . . .” Harry’s voice trailed off.
Miranda draped her arm over Addie’s thin shoulder. “Harry’s not trying to argue with you or upset you, honey. She doesn’t want you to do something impulsive that could ruin your life. And I agree. Neither one of us wants you to expose yourself to danger. After all, no one knows why Nigel was killed. It’s not just the who, it’s the why, you see. That’s where the danger lies.”
Addie cried again. “You’re right. I know you’re right.”
Both women comforted her as best they could. When Addie left the post office, she passed the now empty white plate. The cats had fallen asleep next to the scene of their crime.
10
Work continued despite the personal sorrow Adelia Valiant had to absorb. Horses needed to be fed, watered, exercised, groomed, turned out, and talked to over a stall door. The routine, oddly consoling, numbed her mind.
Mim told her to take time off if she needed it, but Addie kept riding. After all, she and her brother had other clients to serve, and when people pay you money, they expect results.
The Valiant fortune, some eighteen million and growing due to good investments directed by Arthur Tetrick, should have ensured that Adelia and Charles Valiant need never labor for their bread and butter.
But Marylou had witnessed the dismal effects of wrapping children in wads of money to soften the hard knocks of life. She didn’t want her children to become the weak, petty tyrants she had often observed. She wanted to give them grit.
Enough was drawn annually from the trust fund to pay for lodging, cars, clothes, the necessities. This forced her children to work if they wanted more. If they turned into gilded turnips after Adelia’s maturity, so be it.
As it happened, both sister and brother loved their work. There was no doubt in either of their minds that they’d continue working once the inheritance was theirs. They might build a good stable of their own, but they’d continue to train and ride.
Addie’s past drug problems had more to do with her personality than with her background. Plenty of poor kids ran aground on drugs, too. And plenty of poor kids spent their money as soon as they picked up their paycheck. Addie’s impulsiveness and desire for a good time had little to do with class.
Addie wiped down the last horse of the day, a leggy gray, as the white Southern States delivery truck rolled down the drive.
“Feed man.”
Chark, at the other end of the barn, called out, “I’ll attend to it. You finish up what you’re doing.”
As Addie rubbed blue mineral ice on the gray’s legs, she could hear the metal door clang up on the truck, the dolly clunk when it hit the ground, and the grunts of her brother and the delivery man as they loaded fifty-pound sacks of 14 percent protein sweet feed onto the dolly.
After filling up the zinc-lined feed bins—Mim thought of everything in her stable, but still the mice attacked—the delivery man murmured something to Chark and then drove off.
As her brother, a medium-built, well-proportioned man, ambled toward her, Addie asked, “Are we behind on the bill?”
“Up to date—” He smiled. “—for a change.”
“What did he want then?”
“Nothing. Said he was sorry to hear about your friend.”
The lines around her mouth relaxed. “That was kind of him. People surprise me.”
“Yeah.” Chark jammed his hands in his jeans. “Sis, I’m sorry that you’re sorry, if you know what I mean, but I didn’t like Nigel, and you know it, so I can’t be a hypocrite now. Not that I wished him dead.”
“You never gave him a chance.”
“Oil and water.” He ground his heel into the macadam aisle.
She led the gray back to his stall. “You don’t much like any man I date.”
“You don’t much have good taste.” Chark sounded harsher than he meant to sound. “Oh, hell, I�
��m sorry. You have to kiss them, I don’t.” He stopped making circles off his heel. “Nigel was a fake.”
“You hate English accents.”
“That I do. They smack of superiority, you know, talking through their noses and telling us how they gallop on the downs of Exmoor. This is America, and I’ll train my way.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Thought we settled that in 1776. You don’t like anyone telling you what to do or making a suggestion that you perceive as a veiled criticism.”
“I listen to you.” His eyes, almond-shaped like his sister’s, darkened.
“Sometimes”—she restlessly jammed her hands in her pockets—“you treated Nigel like dirt. And I—I—” She couldn’t go on. Tears filled her eyes.
He stood there wanting to comfort her but not willing to give ground on the detested Nigel. Brotherly love won over and he hugged her. “Like I said, I didn’t wish him dead. Maybe Linda Forloines did it.”
Addie stiffened. “Linda . . . she made a move like a dope fiend.” Addie referred to the whipping incident in stable slang.
“That’s just it.” Chark released his sister. “I’m willing to bet the barn that those two are selling again. Where else would the Forloines get the money for a new truck?”
“Didn’t see it.”
“Brand new Nissan. Nice truck.” He rubbed his hands together. He had arthritis in his fingers, broken years ago, and the chill of the oncoming night made his joints ache.
She shrugged. “Who knows.” But she did know.
“She’s probably doping horses as well as people.”
“I don’t know.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if she and Will are—uh, in the mix somehow. A feeling.”
“I don’t know,” she repeated. “But I had my own Twilight Zone episode today.
“Huh?”
“I picked up the mail, and Harry and Mrs. H. were really wonderful except Harry’s worse than the sheriff—she asks too many questions. Anyway, I lost my temper and said if I found out who killed Nigel before the law, I’d kill him. They both about jumped down my throat and said, ‘Don’t even say that.’ ”
“They’re right. Crazy things happen.”
“What gave me the shivers was their saying that if I got too close to the murderer, maybe he’d turn on me.”
“Damn,” he whispered.
11
The dagger that killed Nigel Danforth, tagged and numbered, lay on Frank Yancey’s desk. Rick Shaw and Cynthia Cooper sat on the other side of the desk.
“That’s no cheap piece of hardware.” Rick admired the weapon.
Frank touched it with the eraser on his pencil. “The blade is seven and a half inches, and the overall length is twelve and three quarters inches. The blade is double-edged stainless steel, highly polished, as you can see, and the handle is wrapped in wire, kind of like fencing uh—”
“Foils.” Cooper found the word for him.
“Right.” Frank frowned. “I think this was an impulse killing. Why would someone leave an expensive dagger buried in Nigel’s chest?”
“If it was impulse, why the Queen of Clubs?” Rick countered.
Frank stroked the stubble on the side of his jowls. “Well—”
“And another thing, Sheriff Yancey,” Cynthia respectfully addressed the older man, “I’ve been at the computer since this happened. I’ve talked to Scotland Yard. There is no Nigel Danforth.”
“I was afraid of that.” Frank grimaced. “Just like I was afraid we’d find no fingerprints. Not a one.”
“Well, there are no inland revenue records, no passports, no national health card, no nothing,” Cynthia said.
“Who the hell is that on the slab in the morgue?” Frank rhetorically asked.
“About all we can do is get dental impressions and send them over the wires. That will work if the stiff, I mean deceased,” Cooper corrected herself, “had a criminal record. Otherwise, your guess is as good as mine.”
“I don’t like this.” Frank smacked his hand on the table. “People want results.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not an election year for you, Frank, and it’s not like a serial killer is stalking the streets of Orange. The murder is confined to a small world.”
“We hope,” Cynthia said.
“I don’t like this,” Frank repeated. “I’ll get Mickey Townsend in here. Why would he hire a man without a green card?”
“Same reason a lot of fruit growers hire Mexicans and don’t inquire about their immigration status. They figure they can get the crop in before Immigration busts them. Any American employer whose IQ hovers above his body temperature knows to ask for a green card or go through the bullshit of getting one for the employee.” Rick crossed his right leg over his left knee.
“It’s the modern version of an indentured servant. You get someone a green card and they owe you for life,” Cynthia added.
“Well, we know a few things.” Rick folded his hands over his chest, feeling the Lucky Strikes pack in his pocket and very much wanting a cigarette.
“Sure,” Frank said. “We know I’m in deep shit and I have to tell a bunch of reporters we’re on a trail colder than a witch’s tit.”
“No, we also know that the killer likes expensive weapons. Perhaps the dagger has symbolic significance, as does the Queen of Clubs. We also know that Nigel knew his killer.”
“No, we don’t,” Frank said stubbornly.
“I can’t prove it, of course, but there are no signs of struggle. He was face-to-face with his killer. He wasn’t dragged or we’d have seen the marks on the barn floor.”
“The killer could have stabbed him and then carried him to the chair.” Cynthia thought out loud.
“That’s a possibility, meaning the killer has to be strong enough to lift a—what do you reckon—a hundred-twenty-pound jockey over his shoulder.”
“Or her shoulder. A strong woman could lift that.” Cynthia scribbled a few notes in her spiral notebook.
“Wish Larry and Hank would call.” Frank fidgeted.
“We could go over there, see what they’ve turned up.” Rick stood.
“Bad luck having the county coroner out of town. He’s as good as new.” Frank, irritated, didn’t realize the irony of his remarks.
Just then the phone rang. “Yancey,” Frank said.
Hank Cushing’s high-pitched voice started spouting out organ weights and stomach contents. “Normal heart and—”
“I don’t give a damn about that. Was he stabbed twice or once?” Frank barked into the receiver.
“Twice,” Hank responded. “The condition of the liver showed some signs of nascent alcohol damage and—”
“I don’t care about that. Send me the report.”
“Well, you might want to care about this.” Hank, miffed, raised his voice. “He’d put his age down as twenty-six for his jockey application with the National Steeplechase Association, and I estimate his age to be closer to thirty-five. Might be worth sticking that fact in your brain and the fact that he had a serious dose of cocaine in his bloodstream. I’ll send the file over as soon as I’ve written up my report.” Miffed, Hank hung up on him.
Frank banged down the phone. “Prick.”
“Well—?” Both Rick and Cynthia asked in unison.
“Stabbed twice. Full of coke.”
“Makes sense. He’d hardly sit there while someone placed a card over his heart.”
“Rick, he would if they’d held a gun to his head.”
“Good point, pardner.” Rick smiled at Cynthia.
“One other thing, Hank said his age was closer to thirty-five than the twenty-six he wrote down for the steeplechase association.”
“Hmm,” Rick murmured. “Whoever he was, he was a first-rate liar.”
“Not so first-rate,” Coop rejoined. “He’s dead. Someone caught him out.”
“Well, I sure appreciate your help.” Frank got to his feet. “I figure the good citizens of Orange can sleep safe in t
heir beds at night.”
“That’s what I’m doing. Going home to bed.” Cynthia felt as if sand was in her eyes from staring at the computer screen for the last two and a half days.
On the way back to Charlottesville in an unmarked car, Rick smoked a cigarette, opening the window a crack first. “Frank’s in over his head.”
“Yep.”
“If we’re lucky this will be a revenge killing, and that’ll be the end of it. If we’re not, this will play out at other steeplechase races or other steeplechase stables, which means the good citizens of Orange and Albemarle counties may not sleep so soundly—not if they’ve got horses in the barn.”
Cynthia stretched her long legs. “Horsey people are obsessed.”
“I don’t much like them,” Rick matter-of-factly said.
“I can’t say that, but I can say they fall into two categories.”
“What’s that?”
“They’re either very, very intelligent or dumb as a sack of hammers. No in-between.”
Rick laughed, exceeding the speed limit.
12
A sleek BMW 750il, the twelve-cylinder model, cruised by the post office at seven-thirty Tuesday morning. Harry noticed Mickey Townsend behind the wheel as she passed by in her truck.
“Some kind of car.”
Mrs. Murphy and Tucker dutifully glanced at the metallic silver automobile but, not being car nuts, they returned their attention to more important matters.
“Hey, Ella!” Mrs. Murphy called to Elocution, Herb Jones’s youngest cat, as she sat by the minister’s front door.
Since the window was rolled up, Elocution couldn’t hear, but Harry sure could.
“You’ll split my eardrums.”
“Mother, I have to listen to you morning, noon and night.”
“Yeah, but she’s not screeching for her friends.”
“Tucker, shut up.” The cat boxed that long, inviting nose. Murphy wondered what cats living with pugs, bulldogs, and chows did since those canines’ noses were pushed in. Guess they jumped on their backs and bit their necks.
The lights were already on inside as Harry parked the truck.
“Hey,” she called as she opened the back door, the aroma of fresh cinnamon curling into her nostrils.
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