And so was the cat who leaped to the ground beside her.
She didn’t glance his way as far as he could tell with her eyes hidden by those shades. Grant hadn’t noticed him either, which Wolf considered a good thing.
* * *
“Kylah, this gentleman would like to talk with you.” Jake gestured toward the man glaring at him.
Kylah studied Jake’s sun-browned face a moment trying to determine why he’d called her Kylah. He didn’t seem aggravated with her. She trusted him more than she did any other person in her life. She also knew him better than any other person in her life. They’d been together a while now. Despite the fact that he wasn’t smiling, he seemed more entertained than stressed. She relaxed her spine and turned her attention to the gentleman in question who spoke up in quick response to Jake’s words.
“Actually, no. I prefer to speak to K.T.”
“Okay.” She extended her hand. “What can I help you with?”
He was all of six feet and more which meant she had to look up at him but that was fine. She didn’t intimidate easily. Actually, not at all.
He stared at her. “You’re K.T. West?”
“I am. Or Kylah, if you prefer. And you are …?
“Dean Edmunds.”
For a moment, the first name confused her. She recognized Edmunds but Dean wasn’t what she recalled from their correspondence. Then she realized he’d introduced himself with his title rather than his first name. Dean Grant Edmunds. How pompous of him. She gave him a slow look. Thinning blond hair, pale green eyes. A bit out of shape if she had to guess. Not that he had a paunch. He didn’t. What he did have was a softness about him
“You wanted to speak with me?” she reminded him. Her headache had quieted to a tolerable level thanks to coffee and a muffin. The cat had consumed her omelet on the drive to the fairgrounds. Spinach, mushrooms, and all.
“Yes.” He still seemed somewhat disconcerted by the fact that K.T. West was a female. “Trailers aren’t allowed to be parked next to the barn.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the rule.”
That answer didn’t impress her. While she wouldn’t call herself a deliberate rule-breaker, she didn’t abide by them unless they made very good sense. This one didn’t as far as she could tell. “Whose rule is it?”
“Mine.” He looked dumbfounded at being questioned. His fair skin took on a red tinge and she gathered this was a man who disliked confrontation in any guise, preferring people to obey without question.
“Either Jake or myself must be close to the horses at all times. He sleeps in that trailer so I’m not moving it.”
“I’ve laid things out very orderly so as to avoid clutter and chaos around the fairgrounds. I’m afraid I’ll have to require you to move.”
Kylah looked at Jake. “Hook up and we’ll load up. With luck, we can be home by dark.”
“What – no – you can’t.” Edmunds was brick red now. “I’ll sue for breach. We have a contract.”
She smiled. “Actually, we don’t. I brought it with me and it’s going to leave with me in that trailer I’m about to get moved for you.”
Edmunds hesitated before asking, “Can we speak in private, Ms. West?”
“Sure.” She glanced around. There was no one within hearing distance except Jake and a well-built guy in tee shirt and jeans, wearing dark, dark sunshades. Muscles without bulk, a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a blade-thin nose. Once upon a time, the description sexy would have popped into her mind. But that was then and this was now. He didn’t look interested in their exchange, probably one of the organizers waiting to speak with the dean. “We can step into the living quarters of my trailer. Excuse us, Jake.”
The dean – and the cat – followed her into the trailer where she gestured toward the bench seat. “You may as well sit down or you’ll end up hitting your head.” She slid her sunglasses to the top of her head, the better to see in the dim interior, and propped one hip against the counter.
He took her suggestion and sat but launched right into his argument. “I’m sure you can understand the need for close attention to detail in an effort this large.”
“I can understand your nervousness about it,” she conceded. “I believe this is your first reenactment. Or at least the first for your college.”
“My wife and I are ardent reenactors and have been for some years. Those experiences as a participant have been invaluable in helping me … ah … helping us plan for this event. I can’t have everyone parking wherever they please. We worked weeks on our logistics plan.”
Since he hadn’t asked a question, she didn’t offer anything in response. He frowned at the brief silence. Like so many people, it seemed he didn’t like a vacuum and couldn’t avoid filling it. That almost always worked in her favor.
“I’m paying you a small fortune,” he reminded her.
“You would be, yes, but my horses are worth that fortune. And so am I. I’m leading three big scenes for you,” she reminded. “The first cavalry charge with jumps – that’s the easy one. The second charge when my horse is shot from under me. And the battle scene where my horse plays dead while I shoot over his side. My horses will grab and hold the attention of the spectators because they, and I, are damned good at what we do.” When he met her comments with silence, she pushed away from the counter and reached for the door. “Seems we’re not going to move past this impasse. I’m sure you have better things to do and so do I.”
“Wait! Wait,” he repeated the word more quietly. He let out long breath. “Okay.”
“Okay?” She lifted a brow.
“The trailer can stay where it is. But I want that contract in my hand today.”
“I can work with that.” She held out one hand and ignored the reluctance with which he shook it. Some people, men more often than women in her experience, didn’t take defeat with a good nature. Then again, some men didn’t like shaking hands with women, as if that acknowledged them on equal footing. Which they already were.
She opened the trailer door, waiting until he and the cat stepped out before she followed. “So, any particular reason we’re surrounded by law enforcement?” She’d noted a mix of vehicles which appeared to represent everyone from city police to sheriff deputies to university officers. A mix she found very odd.
“There was an unfortunate incident in the area this morning, sometime around daylight.”
“Unfortunate how?”
“A death. Accidental, I’m sure,” he added hastily. “And, even if it proves otherwise, it didn’t occur on the fairgrounds proper. I’m sure you’ll all be safe here. But doubtless the authorities will be poking about and interviewing everyone who might have been in the area at the time, including your help and you, Ms. West.”
Before she could speak, a movement to one side of her trailer caught her attention. The man she’d noticed earlier stepped closer, coming face to face with the dean. Even from behind the dark shades he wore, she could feel his gaze sweep over her. But it was to Dean Edmunds that he spoke.
“It won’t be necessary for anyone to question Ms. West.” His words dropped into the sudden silence. “I’ll speak with the sheriff.”
“Wolf,” the dean said, “I didn’t realize you were here.”
Kylah closed her eyes as the two talked quietly for a moment. The face hadn’t been familiar but the voice was unmistakably that from the recorded message on the number she’d called earlier. If you’re gonna be dumb, she reminded herself as she opened her eyes and slid her sunglasses back in place. She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t need to.
She couldn’t have cared less about the curious glance the dean sent her way as he was leaving but she did care about Jake’s lengthier perusal as he stepped to one side to wait for her. Jake kept up with dates, had known that yesterday was tough for her. She didn’t need him fretting about why a man he’d never seen thought he could speak on Kylah’s behalf.
Forcing a light tone to her voice,
she smiled at the stranger. “I guess you’ve come for your cat.”
He smiled faintly. “That’s something we’ll need to talk about. He’s not my cat.”
* * *
Wolf watched Kylah’s reaction to that statement.
“What do you mean he’s not your cat?”
He suspected she was glaring at him behind those dark shades but there wasn’t much else he could say so he repeated the words. “He’s not my cat.”
She lowered her voice. “Then how did he get in my room?”
“The same way he got in my truck when I took you back to your room.”
She blew out a breath. “I do appreciate you getting me off the streets. Drinking isn’t my thing so I’m sure I made a fool of myself.”
“Not unless you count putting two jack-asses in their place – on the dance floor.”
He could tell his comment gave her pause but when she slid those sunglasses to the top of her head, her action gave him pause. More than that, he took a punch to the gut. In the dark of the bar, he’d thought her eyes were blue or maybe gray. They were neither. Or both.
For the first time, he could tell she wasn’t as young as he’d thought. Last night, he’d judged her to be early twenties which put her squarely off limits to him. Now he thought early to mid-thirties. Neon had given her beauty a touch of delicacy. Sunlight revealed the strength in high cheekbones and a strong jaw. Still beautiful but far from delicate. And not off limits.
And not happy at the idea that she’d been the center of a scene. He stifled a smile at the faint frown of chagrin. She wouldn’t appreciate it.
“K.T.?”
The cowboy had walked up with a quiet that Wolf had to respect. He’d heard him but knew he might not have if he hadn’t seen him first. He was that quiet. Despite his slight limp.
“Hey, Jake. Ready to get to work?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve got the roan and the bay saddled.”
She smiled. “They’ve got names, Jake.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Wolf suspected this was a frequent exchange. When she glanced back his way, he touched the brim of his cap. “Looks like we’ve all got work to do.”
For the first time, he saw a look of faint curiosity cross her face but she didn’t give voice to it. “Thanks again, Mister ...”
“Stockton. Wolf Stockton.” He wasn’t there in an official capacity – yet – so he didn’t bother with a title. His glance included Jake as he added, “You’ll want to keep a close watch around you for now.”
The other man gave him a look that spoke volumes but Wolf wasn’t going to apologize for the suggestion.
Wolf turned to leave and found himself face to face with the black cat. With a quick sidestep, he kept going. No way was he going to become caregiver to a cat.
Chapter Three
Wolf, what an odd name for a biped. And it seems he may somehow be involved with the law. I’ll speak to the sheriff he told that Edmunds fellow, as if that would make all things right. The minute I heard that exchange, I knew my instincts were spot on. Edmunds may try to reassure that the death was accidental but the heavy presence of the law indicates suspicions to the contrary. Regardless of any attraction Wolf might feel to Kylah, and I suspect he does, a dead body practically on her doorstep – or in this case trailer-step – begs further investigation. And I’m just the cat to do it.
No time like the present, I decide, as Wolf heads to his truck and Kylah walks toward the barn with Jake. Glancing around, my attention is drawn to an unmarked car just pulling to a stop. Two uniformed individuals step out of the vehicle and I move closer as they begin pulling equipment bags from the trunk. Bingo, I’ve grabbed the brass ring. Yes, yes, I’m mixing metaphors but apropos as these newcomers are crime scene investigators. Their arrival is confirmation of my suspicions, and exactly who I need to shadow.
As we strike out toward the hills beyond the fairgrounds, I’m immediately disappointed by both the pace, which seems needlessly slow to me, and the exchange between the two.
The trouble with bipeds is that they see what they expect to see and so often fail to pursue the unexpected. That is but one foible among many but the list is too long to catalog at the present. With that said, I’ve had the pleasure of working with several intelligent humans in solving my various cases. And, while I don’t care for bias in any form, most of those have been female humans.
Case in point, of the two I trail, the woman seems to be the more astute. It may simply be that she’s the more seasoned professional but it is she who notices me traipsing along with them. Her male counterpart remains oblivious. I don’t fault her that she doesn’t, and may never, understand the significance of my presence. I do find it regrettable that she, as well as her partner, seem more interested in discussing motive before they’ve established the physical attributes of the death. They’re already speculating it to be a crime of passion rather than robbery, simply because the victim was female. I suppose there is some merit to that thought. Then again, there are merits to other possibilities as well. We shall see.
Upon arrival, our destination does seem an improbable place for anyone to be mucking about in jewels or carrying cash of any significant amount. The land slopes where we stand but the surrounding hills are more rugged. Scrub trees abound but no toff mansions or lakeside villas.
Someone has marked the perimeter of the crime scene in appropriate fashion, I’m pleased to note. The investigators exchange greetings with the two sheriff’s deputies standing guard then duck under the barricade of tape which surrounds a tent, stool, and table with various paraphernalia that appear to be very old-fashioned in nature. I feel as if I’ve stepped onto a movie-set.
There must have been a prodigious amount of blood. Several hours after the fact, the scent remains to an unpleasant degree. It permeates the ground, the stain extending beyond the outline of the deceased in what appears to be spray paint. Chalk would not have been adequate for the tough field grass amid patches of dirt and twigs.
“We’ll work inward from here, Harley.”
“Damned first responders tromped all over everything anyway.”
“Doing their job,” she reminds him. “Now we’ll do ours.”
“They shouldn’t have moved her, Parks. Any first-year rookie in an ambulance knows that.”
“Not our circus, not our monkeys. At least they secured the area and marked around the body first. Let’s get to work.”
I watch as they open their cases and slip on gloves. I like that they’ve placed their equipment at the very edge of the barricaded area so as to contaminate as little as possible. No need to bodge the investigation at this point. Still and all, I’m inclined to believe the younger investigator has the right of it. There will be little on the ground that hasn’t already been disordered by those who removed the body of the victim. “Heart shot, according to the preliminary report,” Parks murmurs looking at the outline where the body had lain. “And not a nice, neat hole.”
It’s fortunate for me that these humans like to talk among themselves as they work. A shot to the heart would account for the heavy bloodletting. And would require a certain amount of skill. Quite a bit, actually. Especially if it proves true that the weapon used was an antique. That might account for the hole that was not nice and neat.
It would take a cold-hearted bloke to shoot a female through the heart. But there is a definite surfeit of cold-hearted humans who inhabit this world. On the other hand, it could have been a very hot-hearted one. Hmmm, a love affair gone wrong is another theory worth exploring. It wouldn’t be the first such occurrence by any means. Movies and prose are filled with passion-induced violence. The fact that I don’t understand it, doesn’t mean it isn’t factual. I don’t understand a lot of what humans do in their spare – and not so spare – time. Still, it’s early days with much evidence to be studied. The humans will do it their way, I’ll do it mine. I’m not familiar with the term reenactment so I’ve a bit of studying to do there
as well.
“That little stool isn’t overturned,” Harley notes. "I’d say she was standing rather than seated when she was shot.”
“Could be. The lack of blood-splatter on the table also supports that theory.” The woman doesn’t dispute the possibility nor does she jump to agree with it. “Forensics will tell us a lot from the angle of the bullet’s entry and exit.”
“But not everything.” Interesting. It’s as if he wants an argument with her.
“Never everything,” Parks murmurs, focusing her attention on the objects sitting on the table. She glances at the still-upright stool before turning that piercing stare toward the woods in front of her. “The stool is a bit left of center of the table. The cup and spoon even more left of the stool. I anticipate the coroner will determine she was left-handed.”
“So?”
“So, her body was a fraction to the left of the stool and the report stated she was face up.”
I am way ahead of the neophyte on this one. When Parks turns her attention back to the objects on the table, I begin searching the area in front of the left side of the table. All is supposition and must be prefaced by most likely but, if she was seated when approached, she likely stood up on the left side of the chair and if she fell straight back, the assailant – again likely - stood directly in front of her, ergo, to the left side of the table. If there are footprints to be discerned, that is where I might find them.
And there they are, planted in the soft soil and close to the scene of the crime. If these are, indeed, the footprints of the killer, our victim had no fear of his or her approach. There was no scrambling away from the table to escape. She got to her feet to … what? … greet him? question his presence? perhaps even quarrel with him? All good possibilities yet to be answered, but answer them I will. And, why, you ask, should I involve myself? Sometimes not even I am sure why some crimes pull me in and others are of no interest to me. Those that involve friends and family are non-negotiable. That is not the circumstance here, although I do find myself somewhat protective of a lovely equestrian with too sad eyes. Her proximity to the scene of the murder over the next week or two may well place her in harm’s way unless the guilty party is apprehended in short order.
Trouble in Action Page 3
