“What is it, girl?”
He left the path and followed the dog onto a game trail, through a copse of trees, and into an open field. Tuck, lounging in a patch of sunlight, looked up at Mal with a happy snort, while Trouble sat beside the pig, gazing skyward with the intensity of a Jedi master. Robbi stood in the center of the field dressed in jeans and a generously pocketed journalist’s vest, swinging what looked like a small leather bat on a string. She moved like the martial artist he knew she was, and for a moment he stood frozen, entranced by her dance with the lure.
She swung it in a figure eight, and a whistling cry turned Mal’s gaze upward. The kestrel circled once, then climbed, a small dark silhouette against the blue backdrop of sky. Then, at a short whistle from Robbi, the bird tucked into a dive and plummeted toward the lure. He missed it by a fraction, swooping past her, then tried again for another miss. She whistled again, and on the third pass, he snatched the lure and landed a few feet away, tearing a chunk of raw meat from between the bat’s wings.
Robbi walked over and picked him up, the lure line dangling between them as he finished eating from her gloved hand.
Scarlett whined once, and Robbi turned, already beginning to smile. Mal felt a goofy grin spread across his face. He searched his mind for a clever greeting but came up blank.
Beautiful weather? Lame.
Beautiful bird? Made him sound like a suck-up.
How’d you sleep? God no, he’d sound like a lech, thinking about her in bed.
A quote popped into his head, a poem by Yeats he’d learned in Freshman English.
Turning and turning in the widening gyr,
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart;
The center cannot hold.
Definitely not. Too pretentious. And too much of a downer, in light of recent events.
“Beautiful morning,” she said, and he almost laughed at the perfect simplicity of the greeting.
“Aye, it is. Your bird looks good.”
Her smile broadened. “We’re working on something new. Would you like to see?”
“Of course.” Conversation was so much easier when the other person did most of the talking.
She tucked the lure, picked clean of meat, into a pocket of her vest. Then she lifted the kestrel with her gloved left hand, made a circling motion with her right, and launched the bird. The kestrel made a quick, tight circle, then glided back toward Robbi, eyes fixed on her raised hand. Mal found himself holding his breath.
Robbi turned her palm toward the falcon, and for a moment the bird hovered, his body nearly vertical, wings flapping to hold his position in space. One thousand one, Mal counted. One thousand two. One thousand three. Amazing.
Then Robbi lowered her hand and Falcor fluttered gently to her glove.
“Good boy,” Robbi crooned, and gave him another piece of meat from a pocket.
Mal shook his head. “I thought only hummingbirds could hover.”
“Kestrels are the only birds of prey that can do it. They’re small, but they’re full of surprises.”
“I can see that.” Was she making a comparison to herself? Saying she, like her falcon, was full of surprises? He thought he’d detected a flirtatious note in her voice. Or maybe he was overthinking it. His ex-wife used to say he drove her to distraction with all that thinking.
Robbi gave the bird another treat and said, “I’m glad Tuck’s staying out of trouble. Or maybe Trouble’s keeping him out of trouble.”
“He’s definitely a good influence.” Mal glanced toward the edge of the meadow, where Scarlett was touching noses with the black cat. “Scarlett will herd Tuck home before long, but he’ll slip away when she gets busy watching the sheep.”
“Have you tried keeping him penned up?”
Mal laughed. “Can’t find a pen that’ll hold him. He’s a devil with latches and locks. And if you find one he can’t open, he’ll dig under or break through.”
“Free spirit.” She gestured for Trouble to follow and started toward the trail. “Were you and Scarlett looking for me? Or did you just stumble across us?”
“Stumbled,” he said. “We were out meandering, and she must have heard or scented something.”
“Meandering,” she said, dreamily. “I love that word. It sounds so…leisurely.”
He wondered what she would do if he kissed her. Too soon, he was pretty sure. Not to mention, he’d have to get past Falcor’s beak. “Part of our morning routine,” he said.
“Speaking of routines. What do you all do with the rest of your day?”
“We all do pretty much our own thing. That’s part of the appeal of this place. For me and Scarlett, it starts with a walk. Then breakfast. She and I tend to the flock, then practice herding. Lunch. By then, it’s time to find and round up Tuck before he gets himself in too much of a pickle. Sometimes Guy and I practice sword fighting on the tourney field or over by the old mill. This time of year, I help deliver the lambs and kids, shear the sheep, milk the goats, make cheese. Work the horses. Fix whatever needs fixing.” He tipped his head toward the falcon. “Don’t you need to hood him?”
“Only when it’s crowded or noisy. Kestrels aren’t as nervous as some of the larger raptors.” She gave the bird an affectionate glance. “So…your daily schedule. Does that mean you and Scarlett haven’t had breakfast?”
Definitely a flirtatious note.
“Is that an invitation?”
She shook back her hair and gave him an impish grin. “It’s an offer to barter. I fix you breakfast, you make sure Old Reliable can get me into town and back.”
“Did it give you any trouble when you went to see Joanne?”
“I could hear it thinking about it.”
“Would you rather I drove you? Not that I mind fixing Reliable.”
“I hate to take you from your lambing. I’m just going to run by the hospital, check on Guy.”
Guy. Of course.
There was no malice in her voice, but it felt like a punch in the gut. Not only did she fail to reciprocate Mal’s interest, she didn’t even seem to know it existed. She thinks of me as Laura’s ex-boyfriend, he realized. Trying to keep the disappointment from his face, he said brightly, “Biscuits?”
“Sure. I think I saw some jam and honey in here too.”
“I’ll go get my tools while you fix breakfast.” Before she could answer, he turned and strode toward home, kicking himself for his presumption.
So much for a flirtatious tone.
When we Brits say biscuits, we mean cookies, but as it turns out, there were neither. Robbi only knows how to make biscuits from a can, and Laura would never deign to buy canned biscuits. Instead, Robbi makes omelets with mushrooms, peppers, and provolone cheese. She serves them with toast and Laura’s homemade peach preserves. For me, she sears a piece of salmon, which I must say tastes delicious.
The tension in the room is thick. The bipeds are clearly attracted to each other—at least, it’s obvious to my highly discerning senses—but neither seems willing to admit it. Instead, their fingers brush as they pass bowls and condiments. Despite Mal’s palpable disappointment and sense of resignation, to which Robbi seems oblivious, conversation comes easily. They talk about films they loved, like Casablanca and Galaxy Quest, and books, like Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time. What they don’t talk about is their pasts. I catch her stealing glances his way, as if she’s trying to figure out what he’s thinking.
Miss Scarlett lies at Mal’s feet, her gaze sweeping the room as if, at any moment, she might be called upon to fetch a sheep. She spares a glance of longing at my salmon, then returns to her vigil. I daresay that, with my razor-sharp claws and lightning reflexes, I could successfully defend my treasure, but I’m content not to have to.
For a dog, Miss Scarlett seems a decent sort. Of course, she does smell like a dog. And occasionally, when her instincts as a border collie get the best of her, I must remind her of her place in the hierarchy.
I shal
l not be herded.
Tuck is outside wallowing in “his” corner of Laura’s garden, a patch she planted especially for him. Mal looks out to check on him, then slips Miss Scarlett a bite of egg.
I’m still not thoroughly convinced that Mal is innocent of Laura’s murder. His devotion to his animal chums is a point in his favor, but his choice of companions does call his judgment into question. What reasonable person would choose a pig and a dog when he could live with a cat?
Tuck shakes himself off and nibbles at a bit of greenery, then heaves a sigh and lays his head down on his front hooves. Poor fellow. I know he misses Laura. Or perhaps he simply misses the treats she used to make for him. Perhaps, to a pig, it’s much the same.
While we eat, I plan my day. I must get inside that cabinet that Miller was so protective of and catch a closer look at the paper he shoved into his pocket. Then I shall investigate the rest of the Troupe.
There is a lot to do!
I’m eager to get at it, yet strangely anxious when, breakfast dishes done and Robbi’s car repaired, Mal heads back to his cottage and Robbi drives away. For a moment, I argue with myself. Slip into the car so I can protect her should the killer strike again, or remain behind in hopes of unmasking the foul villain?
I decide on the latter. It will be difficult to follow her into the hospital, and chances are that Guy, if he is Laura’s killer, is too weak to do her harm. I know I’m making the right decision. I am a detective, not a bodyguard.
Still, there is a niggle of worry in the back of my mind. I cannot bear to lose another charge.
Chapter Eight
Sherwood Medical Center was little more than a clinic with a small ER and hospital wing. Robbi found Guy’s room easily; there were no wrong turns to take. Guy was propped up in bed, watching a model-thin peroxide-blonde hawking cookware on the shopping channel. It seemed a safe guess that no one had ever thrown a cheeseburger at her. Cara sat in a chair beside Guy’s bed, flipping through a New Age magazine and sipping diet soda from a can.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” Guy said. He flicked off the TV and pushed himself up further in the bed, his arms trembling with the effort. Cara flipped back her hair and laid a hand on Guy’s.
“Be a love,” Guy said to her, “and give us a few minutes.”
“Of course.” Cara’s voice was silky-smooth, but she slapped the magazine onto the bedside table as she stalked out.
When she was gone, Robbi said, “I thought I should come and pay my respects.”
He gave a weak laugh. “I’m sick, not dead.”
“Lucky for you. It’s a good thing you managed to dial 911 before you passed out.”
“Did I? I don’t remember.” He leaned back against his pillow, a thin line of sweat forming at his hairline. “I remember dreaming. Something about a cat.”
“That was Trouble. He and Tuck found you somehow and ran to Mal and me for help.”
A smile played at the corners of his lips. It was a cute smile. “You saved me.”
“Well…a little bit, I guess. Mostly, it was Mal. He knew exactly what to do until the paramedics came.”
With a wry grin, Guy said, “God bless Mal.”
An image of Mal flashed through her mind. Tight jeans. The muscles of his back rippling as he bent beneath the hood of Old Reliable. For a moment she forgot to breathe.
Pushing the vision away, she pulled over a chair and scooted onto it. “Seriously, Guy, what happened? Sheriff Hammond’s got Joanne in jail for poisoning you.”
“Joanne?” He shook his head. “No, she wouldn’t do that.”
“Then who?”
“All I know is that my doorbell rang, and when I got there, I found a basket on the stoop. It had the mead bottle in it.” He shifted, wincing as the plastic tube tugged at the I.V. needle. “There was no note, so I did assume it was from Joanne. I mean, she makes the stuff.”
“Who else would want to kill you?” Robbi asked. “And why? Does it have something to do with Laura’s shares?”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you know about those shares?”
“Not much. Just that a lot of people had some. And Laura had been buying them.” She cocked her head. “She bought a few from you, didn’t she?”
“I didn’t know she was buying them up.”
“But she wanted yours, so you had to know it was a possibility. Why take the chance she might end up as the controlling partner?”
He looked away, seeming to study the view of the parking lot through the window. “Laura had a way of knowing a person’s weaknesses.”
“She was a nice person,” Robbi said, an edge to her voice. “It’s not—it wasn’t—her fault people opened up to her. What I’m wondering is, when you were opening up, what did you let slip?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, then sighed and opened them. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough. I can’t keep this place afloat much longer.”
Robbi bit her lower lip. Laura had said Guy was the richest man she knew. His great-grandfather had made a fortune in the shipping industry, and each subsequent generation had grown their wealth exponentially. The faire had cost a small fortune to build, but Laura had been certain it ran in the black.
“I don’t understand. You make a profit every season, don’t you?”
He shifted his gaze. Picked at the edge of his blanket. “I’ve gotten myself into kind of a mess,” he said.
When he didn’t elaborate, she made a rolling motion with one hand. “What kind of mess?”
“Poker.” He couldn’t meet her gaze.
She wasn’t sure what to say. As awful as Laura’s murder had been, it was even more awful to think she might have died over some shares in a worthless enterprise.
“It was innocent at first,” he said, as if her silence had given him the strength to go on. “I’d play some local pickup games, and a few times a year, I’d go to Vegas. I’d lose a thousand here, a thousand there. But I was pretty good, so I won more than I lost. Then I got into a high stakes game with some mobbed up guys. I got in deep. Real deep. And I kept thinking, hey, my luck will change. I can still win it back.”
“But that didn’t happen.”
“It didn’t happen. And these guys, they don’t play around.” He finally looked her in the eye. “My granddad used to say credit companies were like loan sharks. They make their profits by making sure you never get out from under. Only difference is, they don’t break your knees. Well, these guys do. Or worse. And interest rates? You don’t want to know.”
“So…you lost all your money gambling, and when it was gone, you sold your shares to Laura.”
“Not at first.” He lapsed into silence, licked his dry lips.
“Can I get you some water?”
“I’m fine.”
“What did you mean, then, not at first?”
“I started selling my collection. Some paintings, some antiques. Good pieces, enough to keep things going for a while. But that’s gone too, most of it. Just a few pieces left I can’t stand to get rid of.” He shook his head and said bitterly. “I pissed it all away.”
She gave his hand an awkward pat. He needed comfort, but she needed answers. “You never asked anyone for help? None of the Troupe?”
“What could they do? None of them could come up with that kind of money.”
“Joanne said you gave them part of the gate sales. Was that part of the contract with the shares?”
“The shares come into play only if we sell. The split from ticket sales is separate, but it doesn’t come to all that much after expenses. Enough to live on, maybe invest or save a little, but trust me, no one is getting rich on it. Even if they were…” He looked away again. “I didn’t want them to know I’d let them down.”
“If Joanne knew all this, what do you think she’d do?”
He laughed, a quick little laugh that went all the way to his eyes. “Joanne? She’d tie a knot in my tail for sure, maybe even threaten me with that axe. Then she’d give me a thum
p on the back and buy me a beer. Maybe two. Let’s figure it out, she’d say.”
Robbi smiled. “She thinks a lot of you too. So for now, let’s rule her out.”
He made a dismissive gesture, as if he’d already reached that conclusion. “Here’s the thing. I got an offer from a developer. A big-time offer, the kind that only comes along when the moon and stars align just right. It’s not what I want, and I know it’s not what the group wants. It burns our little utopia down to the ground. But it’s enough to get me out from under and still leave everyone with a decent stake. If I don’t take the offer, we could all end up with nothing.”
“Can you sell it without their permission?” Joanne had suggested that he could, but Robbi wanted to hear it from the man who had made the contract.
“The person with the most shares decides. That was always supposed to be me.”
“But if Laura was buying shares…”
“Depends on how many she bought.”
Robbi looked down at the tiles, that same institutional green she’d seen in her father’s hospital room. She shook away the memory and said, “Laura had ten.”
He blanched. “Same here.”
“And what happens if you die?”
“My shares divide equally among the other share-holders. Mal and Elinore get twice as many, because there are two of them. But…” He broke off. Cleared his throat. “It’s more complicated than that.”
She touched his wrist. Was she flirting or encouraging? She wasn’t sure. She liked him, certainly, despite—or perhaps because of—his flaws. There was something about seeing an attractive man hurting and vulnerable that awakened an impulse she knew better than to give in to. It made her want to fix him.
“You’ve come this far,” she said. “Why not just put it out there? It might help us figure out who tried to kill you. And maybe who killed Laura.”
“Hard to believe it’s not related,” he agreed.
“So…”
He shifted again. Winced again. Gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “You aren’t seeing my best side. I promise, I’m a lot more charming when I haven’t just been poisoned.”
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