Thrice Familiar

by Carolyn Haines

  “I wish to hell I knew, but somehow I think Kent Ridgeway is behind it, or at least behind part of it. He stands to gain too much. He’s got King’s Quest, and if this goes off as it looks like it’s going to, he’ll have ownership of Limerick, too,” Patrick said.

  “But the horse is stolen.”

  “Want to bet that Limerick will suddenly reappear shortly after the race deadline?” There was anger in Patrick’s voice. “I can see it now. Ridgeway at the track with your horse waiting for Limerick to show. When he doesn’t, Ridgeway will make a suitable fuss and declare Catherine in default. By the terms of the racing contract, which will conveniently be found in the correct place in the office, he’ll own Limerick.”

  “All without risking a single thing,” Stephen said. “It’s genius.”

  “And Patrick gets the blame.” David was seeing his way to the heart of the issue.

  The three men looked at each other, then at Catherine. “Let’s drive the snake out into the open,” Stephen said.

  “How?” David asked.

  “This could take a bit of planning and a lot of luck, but that’s why we came here. If anyone can help us, you can.” The sound of a dog barking interrupted the three men. Stephen walked to the window and craned his neck. “Fancy car. Nicely dressed gent.” He waited. “Well, well, the snakes are indeed crawling. It’s O’Day.”

  “Come to pick the carcass,” David said bitterly. “Can’t even wait for it to quit twitching.”

  Patrick and Catherine said nothing. Benjamin O’Day was a horse trader, of sorts. He specialized in foreclosure sales on horses and then resold them as hunters or breeding stock. He had no particular concern about what happened to the animals that passed through his hands, nor about the people who once owned them or now purchased them. He made no guarantees on his “products,” and rumors abounded that his tactics were often less than ethical. Yet he was highly regarded by the hunt set.

  There was a knock on the office door. David reached down to the side of his chair and let his fingers grip the handle of the cane. “Open the door, Stephen, and I’ll give him the beating he deserves. Five years ago, he’d know better than to put foot on Castlerock. Damn vulture.”

  “Wait.” Patrick spoke softly. “O’Day makes the rounds. He could prove useful to us.”

  Stephen nodded at his uncle.

  “Let him in,” David said with a bit of rancor. “I can always beat him when we’re ready to throw him out.”

  Patrick smiled. It was as close to the old spirit as he’d seen in David Trussell. Maybe the old man wasn’t buried under bitterness and disappointment. It only made Patrick more determined to help him. Beltene was gone, sold. But Castlerock could maybe be redeemed.

  Ben O’Day hadn’t expected to see all three men and Catherine Nelson sitting in the office. He nodded at all, as he stepped into the room. His tweed coat was immaculate, his slacks pressed with a razor-sharp crease. “Well, Ms. Nelson, Patrick, I hope you haven’t already beaten me out of the best of Castlerock stock.”

  “We’re not buying,” Patrick said easily. “In fact, David was asking about some of the Beltene brood mares. We’re here to sell.”

  “I thought you sold your stud to Wicklow.” O’Day looked at David for confirmation.

  No one said anything.

  “What’s going on here?” O’Day demanded. “It’s like a conspiracy. You act like you’re plotting the overthrow of the government.” He laughed sharply. “Has the talk of Cuchulain ridin’ in the mists gotten to all of you? Dreamin’ the dream is a speciality of the Shaw family, but I had no idea it had wormed into the Trussell brain. And you, Ms. Nelson, a good ways out of your heritage, I’d say.”

  O’Day’s words were dangerously inflammatory. Patrick clenched his fists at his side, but he didn’t move.

  “What talk of Cuchulain?” Stephen asked. He looked at his uncle, who shrugged.

  “I hear the old legend has risen from the grave and taken to ridin’ the Clifden seacoast road late at night calling for a free Ireland.” O’Day grinned. “The women are abuzz.”

  “Go on,” Stephen said with a snort. “I’ve heard that you used some mighty crude methods of cheating folks out of their stock, but this is beyond the worst I’ve heard.”

  “I’ve never cheated anyone.” O’Day’s eyes were hard. “Ms. Nelson has no doubt enjoyed my efforts on some of her Dublin hunts. It’s a hard business, boys.”

  “Where did you hear about Cuchulain?” Patrick asked. There wasn’t a hint of emotion in his soft voice. Only the slight thickening of his brogue attested to his emotional state.

  “Oh, it’s all over Connemara. Folks are talking left and right. It seems the old legend put in an appearance night before last and scared the hell out of a family whose car had broken down. They were walking home and heard the thunder of hooves. Out of the mist rode the warrior. He called for a free Ireland and urged the family to take up arms and fight.”

  Stephen and his uncle were grinning, but Patrick’s face had gone dead still. “When was this?”

  “Two nights back.” O’Day’s face grew cagey. “Why so interested?”

  “I’ve heard the talk. It concerns me.”

  “With your family history, I’d say so. Since you’ve lost your farm, maybe revolutionary work wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Of course, it would be difficult working for a legend.” O’Day chuckled at his wit. “You’d have to sit out in the mist on the sea road and wait for him to ride up and give you instructions.” He laughed out loud. “I can see it now. ‘Gather all the sea horses and leprechauns and arm yourselves. The battle approaches.’”

  “Your history is as twisted as your sense of humor,” Patrick said easily.

  “There are folks who wouldn’t appreciate your talk,” David added. “Irish history is a very real thing to them.”

  “Those who live in the past, die in the past. It’s the future that bears consideration. And that’s what I’m here about. Now what horses would you like to see go to good homes?”

  “David has promised me first choice on his stock, if he decides to sell any,” Patrick said. “I’ll give you a call once we’ve made a determination.”

  “I came with money in my pocket.” O’Day stood. “By the way, Patrick, I’ll see you at the track Saturday. I hear half the kingdom is riding on the outcome of the race between Limerick and King’s Quest. The odds makers are having a time of it, two unknowns racing. If Kent Ridgeway hadn’t gone around telling the terms of the agreement, the race probably would have drawn little notice. To risk Limerick! That’s a bold move on your part, Ms. Nelson.”

  “Catherine is something of a gambler.” Patrick smiled. “In fact, I hear it’s Catherine dressed up like Cuchulain who’s riding the countryside. She likes a bit of adventure in her life.” He grinned at her.

  O’Day’s face showed shock. “Now that would be a turn, wouldn’t it? I did hear it was a big gray stallion. A fiery devil. That family, the Adams, said the horse cleared a four-foot stone wall from a standstill and took off across the pastures without a misstep. As you know, that’s rocky terrain. A horse is likely to break a leg. But, I suppose if it’s a legendary horse, the gift of the gods to Cuchulain, then it’s hardly worth a worry about a few stones.”

  “Hardly.” Patrick had to force the word through his teeth. He stood. “I have to be going, David, Stephen. I’ll be in touch.” He looked at O’Day. “Don’t go counting which horses you want here, Benjie. Castlerock is still solid.”

  “Believe it or not, Shaw, I came because I didn’t want to wait until the nags were starving with their ribs showing and their feet gone to ruin. I can give David a fair price now and take the animals before they go down. I came when I could have waited.”

  Patrick stared at the man. “Put your money on Limerick. He’ll win that race.”

  O’Day put his hand on Patrick’s arm, holding him at the door another moment. “How come the gray hasn’t been worked, Patrick? There’s talk that he’s
injured.”

  “He had a sore knee two weeks ago, but he’s fine. A bit of rest, a little work. He’ll be ready to run. And though King’s Quest is a very fine animal, Limerick will beat him.”

  “Spoken like a man who believes.” O’Day removed his hand and looked back to Catherine. “You’d best get your animal to the track where he can be seen. That would quell a lot of rumors, you know.”

  “Have you ever considered the fact that those are exactly the rumors we don’t want to squelch?” Patrick countered. “There’s a lot more to horse racing than running the horse.”

  Home again, home again, Molly Magee. I never thought I would feel this way, but I’m delighted to see the rooftop of the barn at Beltene. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about future travel modes. I’m ready for the old, “Beam me over, Scottie.” There’s such a lot of wasted time sitting in a luxury car, coasting along the highways. But I do have a better idea of the countryside here. The Emerald Isle. I know why they call it that. There’s a ruggedness to this land, especially the western coast, that haunts a person—or a cat, for that matter. Not an inch of land untended, uncared for. Around the hideout where Limerick was staying, there’s wild land. The bogs, with the rocks and heather. No one has claimed that, and maybe never will. Leave it to the sheep and the occasional traveler. But in the cultivated areas, there is regard for each square foot.

  Catherine has been too quiet on the entire drive back. I watch her face and see her feelings play across her features. It’s Patrick. What is she to do about him? He got her into this mess by stealing Limerick in the first place. He’s been a thorn in her side from the first day she bought Beltene. And yet she finds herself drawn to him. A quandary, to be sure. No matter what she ultimately wants, if Patrick doesn’t find that horse, he’ll be gone.

  And Patrick, driving so silently. Responsibility rests heavy on his shoulders, for Limerick and Old Mick. If he hadn’t taken the stallion, then Old Mick would never have been put into danger. At least, that’s how he thinks.

  My problem is that whoever took Limerick—because someone was surely tailing us to the hideout—didn’t have to take Old Mick. That’s the part of this that doesn’t make a bit of sense.

  Ah, the car finally stops and we’re home. Hmm, what’s that I smell? Fresh garlic in butter? Thank goodness, the preparations have just begun. I have to do some work before I eat. I’ve left it up to these humans long enough. So far the only thing Catherine and Patrick have discovered is their mutual desire. Harrumph! I could see that from the first. There are none so blind as those with two eyes—and two legs.

  See, when I first met Clotilde, that little beauty who pines for my return to the capital city, it was love at first sight. I do admit, she was a bit on the coy side at first. Her eyes said yes, but her claws said beg a little, mister. But it was a game. We knew how it would end. And now I’m her devoted slave. My adventures take me around the globe, but she sits in the window of her posh town house and waits for my return. Let all the passing cats admire the fine arch of her back leg as she cleans herself, the perfection of her whiskers, especially the way they pucker when she’s slightly distressed. That little edging of black along the tips of her ears. Ah, Clotilde, the calico of my dreams. I can’t think about her too much, or I’ll get homesick. And there’s work to do here.

  Someone is going to have to figure out where Limerick is. That race deadline is approaching fast. No one has to tell me that Limerick should run. In order to save Beltene, he’ll have to run. Okay, everybody out. Well, Patrick is going to be the gentleman and carry Catherine’s bags. I hope they consider dinner before they fall all over each other. I guess it’s up to me to scope out the area.

  Time for a prowl around the premises. There’s bound to be some clues that everyone has overlooked. I want all of this resolved before Eleanor and Peter come to claim me. They’d never forgive me if I left a mystery only partially resolved.

  Ah, the barn. There’s McShane. At least his face has healed. Too bad the same can’t be said for his bad heart. I wonder what drives him to be so bitter. And so furtive. He’s looking around as if he were going to commit a crime. There he goes into the barn. I guess I’d better put it in gear if I’m going to keep up. He’s walking like the devil’s got a pitchfork in his backside.

  Why am I not surprised? He’s going straight to the loft. To Patrick’s quarters. That’s excellent, since I wanted to get into Patrick’s abode myself. Good old Eamon can open the door for me.

  That’s the ticket. He never even saw me slide past his leg. Now that we’re here, I’m going to duck under the bed and see what happens. Once, when Clotilde took a fancy to a dandified Himalayan, I wished for a more flamboyant hide. Once and only once. Black is chic, and also very practical in the line of work that I do. As it happens, even Clotilde came to her senses about that.

  Patrick! Ever heard of a dust mop? Jeez, there’s enough dust and puffballs under this bed to make an asthmatic go into a fatal attack.

  Ah, old Eamon isn’t wasting any time. He’s going to the telephone. Pretty strange to break into someone’s home simply to use the phone. Five digits, which means the call is local.

  “Hello, it’s me. Yes, I’m calling from his quarters. That will link him directly. I saw them go up to the big house, yes. How’s the old man? Good. I’ll be in touch.” The telephone clicked back down on the receiver.

  There he goes, leaving as stealthily as he came. And not even a look around. My first conclusion is that it was Old Mick he was talking about. The old man—that makes me a bit nervous. I wouldn’t trust McShane with a pet rock.

  The coast is clear for me to do a little investigating on my own, but first things first. A little nudge and the phone rocks out of the cradle, then that amazing redial button. One ringy-dingy. Two ringy-dingy. Three ringy-ding....

  “Hello. Who’s there? McShane, is that you again?”

  A little paw on the switch hook to break the connection. I’ve heard everything I need to hear. I know that voice. Ah, yes, the cultured and cultivated tones of Mr. Allan Emory. Five digits would give us Galway, but not Dublin.

  So, Allan and Eamon are in cahoots. And Allan knows something about ‘‘the old man.” Now, how to convey all of this info to Patrick? I mean, big sigh, I do all the work and even then I can’t relax.

  Not to worry, I’ll mull over this matter while I check out what Mauve is making in the kitchen. I’ve always considered garlic to be one of the better brain foods. Indeed, where would the world be without da Vinci? Galileo? Both garlic eaters from the get-go.

  14

  “Let me make you something hot to drink,” Mauve said as she followed Catherine into her office. “I hope you won’t hold it against me if I speak my piece, but you look like warmed-over death.”

  Catherine smiled despite herself. “If I didn’t already feel bad, that description would make me take to my bed. I will have a cup of tea, though. I’m very tired.”

  “I was worried sick about you until I figured Patrick was with you. What’s wrong, Catherine?” Mauve was curious, but she was also concerned.

  “Too many things.” On the long drive home, both she and Patrick had been worn down by worries over Old Mick and Limerick. Even Familiar had been unduly quiet. Patrick had left her, saying he wanted to check on Old Mick’s cottage. Though he hadn’t stated it specifically, Catherine had known he needed a little time alone. “Maybe things will look better after some sleep.”

  Mauve shook her head. Taking a step forward, she hesitated. “What’s going on here, Miss Catherine? Old Mick’s disappeared. Patrick’s acting like he’s killed his mother. You look like you haven’t slept in days. That strange man leaving messages on the front yard. What’s wrong here?” Catherine sighed as she went to Mauve. “It would be better if I didn’t tell you. The less you know, the better.”

  “Has someone hurt Old Mick?” Mauve’s eyes widened with that possibility. “He’s an old man. I’m worried about him.”

  “I w
ish I could tell you something more, but it’s best that I don’t. Where Old Mick is concerned, I don’t really know anything to tell you.”

  “There was a message for you while you were gone.” Mauve went to the secretary and picked up an envelope. “Bridget didn’t see anyone leave this, but it was by the front door, like the others. Looks to be the same paper and hand.”

  Catherine opened it slowly. The message was brief. “The old man is safe, but not forever. Where’s the horse? Expect my call tonight.”

  Cold dread clutched at her spine. For a second she stared blankly at the message, forcing herself to betray nothing to the cook. Whatever was going on, she wasn’t going to embroil another innocent person in her troubles.

  Without showing any emotion, she folded the note and returned it to the envelope. “I think you’re right. I believe it did come from the same person who sent the others. When did you find it?”

  “Just before you drove up. I went to see if the paper had come. It was almost propped against the door. No one saw it delivered. I’ve asked everyone around the house. Sonny was working in the front flowerbeds for several hours this morning. He didn’t see a soul.”

  “Whoever is doing this is very, very clever.”

  “Miss Catherine, if you asked the men in the barn to help you, they would. All you have to do is ask.”

  Catherine smiled. “You know, the irony is that I believe they would. I didn’t exactly win their hearts, did I?”

  “Well, it’s a hard situation. Being a woman and all, you had to come in tough, or so you thought.”

  “Being a banker’s daughter, I thought I had to come in very tough.”

  “A bit of softness sometimes works the best, especially with men. My mother always told me if you couldn’t cook for a man then you’d better know how to soften him up. First line of attack is the stomach, the second is the heart.”

  Catherine and Mauve laughed together. “I’ll keep that in mind. And thanks. I’m going to have a talk with the men. Maybe it isn’t too late to get things off on the right foot.”