She saw a flicker of recognition in his face.
“Yes,” he said.
“Her daughter takes riding lessons here, I believe.”
He gave a terse nod.
“Well, that’s neither here nor there,” she said. “But the other party is maintaining that Ms. Cook is responsible for the accident, up at the turn-off to Edenview. Said she pulled out in front of him on Canyon Road, didn’t see him, didn’t signal, caused him to hit the brakes, hit her rear bumper, made him veer off into a guardrail. Did quite a lot of damage to his car. He’s putting in a claim. To be honest, there’s no way Ms. Cook is liable, but I’m doing my due diligence and following up. Did you see anything unusual Thursday, week before last? Hear anything?”
Shook his head no.
“No one came down here to report an accident? Use the phone?”
Shook his head again. “I don’t believe she brings Melanie here on Thursdays. I’d have to check.”
“I’ll double-check as well. Have you noticed anything unusual about Lynda’s car since then? Like it might have been in any kind of accident?”
“No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
So Lynda had been here within the last week. Around the time of the “kidnap.”
“And she didn’t say anything about an accident?” Colleen asked.
Shook his head again.
“That’s what I thought,” Colleen said. She drew a deep breath. “I just love the air out here. You have a lovely stable. Do you mind if I look around? I’ve always wanted to take riding lessons. Ever since I was a girl. And now, just look at this place.” She gazed around, smiled, shook her head. “It’s so peaceful.”
“Why don’t you come back during normal working hours? I can show you a couple of the school horses. Introduce you to our trainers.”
Damn. “That sounds excellent.” She put her hand out. “Thank you so much for your time.”
She got in her car, drove off.
On Canyon Road, she parked on the shoulder, over to the side, where it was secluded. She got her sneakers out of the trunk and switched shoes. While she was at it, she folded her suit jacket neatly, laid it on the back seat, threw on her leather bomber jacket. She slung her burglar bag over her shoulder, locked up the Torino, and headed back to Edenview, just shy of a jog, carrying her flashlight, leaving it off for the moment. The cool air was refreshing, and it felt good to unwind.
When she reached the gravel parking lot, she skirted the main area, ducking back behind the office where she might be seen from the cottage if anyone were looking. She made her way to the stables proper. The smell of horses was strong. She heard their gentle grunting as they slept. Laughter amidst the mariachi music floated from behind the stables. She suspected that’s where the stable hands lived.
Quietly, she opened the half door to the stable and let herself in. Once inside, she turned on the flashlight, setting it on low.
There were a good two dozen stalls, all occupied, most of the horses blanketed. One or two were standing but most were lying down. Each stall had a name and an owner.
She made her way down, checking each name.
She passed a huge silver dapple Morgan that turned its head, gave a spirited whinny that reverberated. Colleen stopped, frozen, as the horse turned in the stall to stick its big head out. Gently, she reached up, stroked its warm neck. She had heard that horses did not like their faces touched. That seemed to do it. The horse calmed down.
Toward the rear of the stable she found a name she was looking for: Cook. The sign was not permanent but written on a piece of cardboard with a Magic Marker.
She didn’t know much about horses, but she knew that the one in the Cook stall was a beauty, even with its rear end to her. It stood, a dark blanket covering much of a gleaming black coat. It had a long black mane that would have done a shampoo commercial justice. It turned its head and looked at Colleen with intelligent dark eyes and gave a soft headshake. It was a horse any girl would kill for. It turned in the stall and thrust its large head over the door, so close Colleen could smell its sweet breath.
She stroked it underneath its chin, and it responded with a friendly snort.
She directed the flashlight back at the temporary plaque. The horse’s name was Ebony. It was written on a piece of paper and pinned underneath the temporary plaque. Ebony seemed to be a new addition to the stable.
Underneath the plaque was a small chalkboard.
There were specific feeding instructions in Spanish. Underneath the instructions was a note that said: Olema, followed by a date. The date was tomorrow. It was circled. On the corner of the chalkboard, a clipboard hung on a hook that held a number of papers. She took it down, gave them a perusal. Veterinary instructions. State of California papers. The horse belonged to Lynda Cook.
It looked like Melanie might have finally gotten her new horse. Right about that time she was kidnapped. How tragic.
Or more than a coincidence?
What did Olema mean? There was a small town named Olema, right next to Point Reyes, on the coast. Maybe an hour’s drive from here.
Colleen recalled the two collect calls on Lynda Cook’s phone bill, made recently, from Point Reyes.
What was happening tomorrow?
Was Ebony taking a trip? To Olema?
Colleen knew what she was doing tomorrow.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
By sunrise next morning Colleen was sitting at the wheel of her Torino, nestled under trees on the uphill shoulder of Canyon Road, just before the turn-off to Edenview Equestrian Center.
Someone on KCBS news talk radio was explaining how aerosol sprays were destroying the ozone layer, contributing to something they were calling “global warming.” World population had just passed four billion. No looking back, Colleen thought. Fog rolled down the hillside as daylight began to cast a gray pall across the remnants of the night sky.
After yesterday’s visit to the stables, she had gone home, grabbed a nap, showered, and returned before dawn. No coffee. She didn’t need a full bladder while parked by the road. She was stifling yawns.
She wore her most comfortable stakeout outfit: acid-washed bell-bottom jeans, soft as chamois, white V-neck T-shirt, her white Pony Topstars with the blue stripes, and her brown bomber jacket to keep her warm, despite what they said about global warming.
Little traffic had gone by. A beer truck, about half an hour ago. Now the odd car appeared in the opposite direction, the start of commuters into San Francisco. Callers into KCBS were currently venting about the rampant descent of San Francisco, thanks to the influx of gay men from all over the country. Guys dancing with each other all night at the Trocadero to Donna Summer didn’t sound very dangerous to Colleen. She shook out a Virginia Slim, lit it up, rolling down the window. She’d cut down since Alex’s father had died of lung cancer. She blew smoke out into the cool morning air.
She hoped she hadn’t miscalculated coming back to Edenview. She had two days left before Steve Cook was due to pay Melanie’s kidnappers another twenty K. She needed to show him he was on the wrong track. The note on the Cooks’ stall last night said that Ebony, Melanie’s horse, might be moved today.
Traffic was picking up.
Then she saw the nose of a gray Ford 4x4 pickup truck appear at the access road to Edenview. Right blinker on, it pulled out, turning right up the hill, towing a red horse trailer. The trailer was obviously loaded, swaying side by side.
Ebony, Colleen thought, putting out her cigarette.
The truck and trailer wrestled up the hill, out of sight around a curve.
She attempted to fire up the Torino and was met with the grinding of the starter motor that wouldn’t catch.
She watched the truck and trailer crawl up the hill.
Several more attempts at starting the Torino met with a sluggish starter. She sat back, cursing, and waited.
A few minutes later, she tried again. Success, finally, as black smoke belched out the tailpipes, filling her rearvi
ew mirror. Ring job soon.
She shot up the hill, over the summit, down toward the coast. Heading out into countryside.
Without getting too close, she tailed the truck and trailer through the little town of Lagunitas, where the Organic Natural Café was opening for the day, into the pines and redwoods of Samuel P. Taylor State Park. Shadows through the trees flickered over the windshield. Ten minutes later, past rolling ranchland, cows grazed as the truck headed for Point Reyes. The coastal range loomed in the distance, hazy with wisps of windblown moisture. The truck turned south on 1, toward Olema. She did the same. A two-lane highway followed the coast.
Just past the little town of Olema, the pickup truck turned left, lolling side to side on a dirt road past a gas station that had closed down long ago. The red pumps still had regular at 31 cents a gallon, half of what it was now.
She pulled over to the shoulder, gave the truck and horse trailer time to get ahead, so as to not be seen following so close behind. She ate a quick bite of a sandwich she’d packed, wrapped it back up, put the Torino into gear, bumped left onto the dirt road the truck and trailer had taken.
In the distance she could see dust being kicked up.
She followed, at a distance. The truck and trailer disappeared over a slight hill.
When she got to the hill, she put the Torino into first, easing to the top of the rise.
A section of land fenced off with barbwire lay in the distance. The truck turned right, into it. There was a modest structure, a low barn, and a house trailer.
She slid back down the hill, pulled over, decided not to kill the engine in case it wouldn’t start. Risky, but she didn’t want them to see the car, and she needed to get closer. She got out, the ocean wind sharp on her cheeks, blowing her hair to one side. She opened the trunk, found her binos, went through her camera bag. Got her Canon SLR as well, slapped on a distance lens, hung it around her neck.
Peered through the binoculars.
The horse trailer was being unloaded. Ebony was led out backwards at the coaxing of a man in a cowboy hat. Two people had emerged from the trailer. One was a woman. Dark skinned, young, long gleaming black hair. A Latina.
The other was a girl.
Colleen zoomed in with the binoculars.
Melanie Cook, with a dark bob, wearing a green barn coat. Grinning as she nuzzled Ebony, who nodded in response.
A dark emotion flowed through Colleen’s guts. She had known Melanie was in no real danger. Knew it.
The man in the cowboy hat shut the doors to the horse trailer. The woman who had come out of the house trailer with Melanie was chatting to him. He handed her something.
Colleen lowered her binos, jogged toward the rough-and-ready ranch on what was now a gravel road. When she was a hundred or so yards away, she stopped, got her SLR camera, moved around until she framed her shot.
Melanie Cook, sitting on Ebony, bareback. All smiles.
Colleen snapped a photo.
And another.
And one of the cowboy, who was none other than Ed Brand of the droopy white mustache, at the wheel of his truck now. And one of the nameless Latina.
Then, with a sense of alarm, she saw Ed Brand looking her way.
She turned quickly, headed back to the rise.
At the car, she put the camera away, got back in, did a quick three-point turn, headed back to Olema, bumping along the gravel road, just shy of kicking up too much dust and attracting attention.
She stopped at the defunct gas station, where there was a pay phone. She wiped the grimy receiver off with a handkerchief, called Owens. He wasn’t in. She left a message, saying she had been right, and she would give him an update. She called Steve. No answer.
She got back in the Torino. At Highway 1 she turned left, stepped on it. It would be quicker getting back home this way. She needed to get this roll of film developed ASAP, show Steve his little girl was safe and sound. Maybe he would finally believe he was being scammed. She shifted up to third as the countryside blurred by, grabbing her unfinished sandwich as she did.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Proof,” Colleen said quietly, not wanting to rub it in as she laid the photos down in front of Steve on the sheet of wallboard resting on two sawhorses.
Steve stood there, dumbfounded, the light from the single bare bulb catching the safety goggles on his face, the fine white plaster dust in his hair.
It was early evening and she had just come over after picking up the Olema prints from the drugstore.
Steve pulled his plastic safety goggles up to the top of his head, leaving raccoon eyes. He took a deep breath, lay his sheetrock knife gently down next to the photos, picked up one of Melanie riding Ebony, huge grin on her face.
“She looks so bloody happy,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Steve.”
“No—I’m sorry I doubted you, Colleen.”
“The bottom line is that Melanie’s okay.”
“Right.” He worked a soft pack of Lucky Strikes out of the pocket of his denim work shirt. Shaking one out, he popped it in his mouth. He patted himself down for matches. “And you’re absolutely sure Lynda’s behind it?”
“Just between you and me, I snooped around Lynda’s place. That’s when I noticed Lynda had gathered Melanie’s riding gear together. It made me realize Melanie must be nearby. So I visited Edenview, where Melanie rides. Next day I trailed the owner delivering a new horse—whose name is Ebony—to Olema. I suspect the ‘kidnap’ is taking longer than expected, so Lynda decided Melanie could have her new horse in the meantime. A peace offering.”
“Bloody bitch,” he said, meaning Lynda.
“A hundred to one her father, Rex Williamson, is involved, too.”
Steve found a book of matches, lit up his cigarette, leaning down into the flame. He sucked in smoke, blew it out. His eyes had assumed a hard squint. The expected relief of knowing his daughter was alive wasn’t as apparent as she had hoped. “Rex is supposed to transfer the cash to my bank account tomorrow—once I sign and return the papers authorizing the release of my catalog. They’re due to arrive any time tonight by special messenger. When I get the cash, I have a little under a day to pay the kidnappers.” He took a drag, blew it out. “But it’s all a bloody scam.”
Colleen was relieved Steve hadn’t pulled the trigger on the money yet. But she was concerned about his reaction.
“Well,” she said, “now you’re off the hook. No need to give up your catalog. No need to pay off ‘kidnappers’ anymore.”
Steve nodded, but his neck was taut. Controlling the rage. He ran his hand through his dusty hair, hit the safety goggles, suddenly ripped them off, hurled them across the room.
“Fucking bastard! Damn bitch!”
Colleen saw new tension fill Steve’s face as he came to the full realization of the betrayal. His ex-wife, her father, possibly even his daughter, had conspired against him, not only fleecing him for money he didn’t have, but taking his music, his only legacy, and putting him through emotional hell. “Lynda turned my own daughter against me!”
“Melanie’s a kid, Steve.”
“A kid who sold me out for a bloody horse!”
The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, Colleen thought. “A kid who’s under the controlling influence of a very strong, manipulative mother. Lynda doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Count your winnings. Mel’s okay. You keep your catalog. You don’t have to go in hock for any more money.”
He gave a deep sigh, sucked in smoke, smashed his cigarette out in the tuna can on the corner of the wallboard. “Talk about a mixed blessing. But, yeah, you’re right, I suppose—all in all, I’m up.” He looked at Colleen with a tired frown.
“Steve, it’s time to call Inspector Owens. We might be able to get that twenty K back.”
“I’ll take care of it. I’ll bloody deal with them.”
“Steve, I don’t want you to confront Lynda on this.” She nodded at the photos of Melanie and Ebony. “It’s not just L
ynda. It’s most likely her father—and whoever else they’ve got working for them. It could get dangerous. Let the cops handle it.”
He gave a twisted smile. “I’d like to wring her bloody neck.”
“Exactly why you should not talk to her for the time being. Stay away. Change your locks. Don’t let her in.”
“I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”
“Few people have,” Colleen said. “You should get some sleep.” She really didn’t want to leave him alone. He might go find Lynda. “You’ve still got a lot on your plate. We need to deal with Octavien before he wants his money.”
“What’s another day without sleep?” Steve laughed bitterly. “I’m too bloody pissed off to sleep, love. I owe you a drink—or three. You just got me out of a hell of a jam. You showed me that the daughter from hell is still alive. It’s ironic as anything but it’s still a relief.”
She smiled, glad to see some slight payoff. “A drink is always on my list of to-dos.” She’d hang out with Steve until he cooled down. “It’s been an eventful couple of days.”
“You, madam,” Steve said, “are the mistress of understatement. Give me five minutes to grab a quick shower, yeah?”
“I wasn’t going to mention it,” she said with a wink, although Steve smelled pretty good the way he was, in that primeval way. She was a sucker when it came to men and workaday sweat. When she liked guys, she liked the ones who worked with their hands. Basic: what you saw was what you got.
And this one could also sing like a soul-shouter extraordinaire.
“Help yourself to a beer,” he said, heading off to the back of the flat.
She did just that, going back to an open kitchen that was only partially remodeled. She dug a longneck out of the fridge, popped it, looked at the pictures on one wall that hadn’t been torn down to the studs. Steve had met just about everyone in music in 1966. John Lennon. Tom Jones. You name it, he was in a photo with them, with stylish mod hair and a world-at-his-feet smile. She had no idea he had been so big, to be honest. But it had sure come and gone in a hurry. Nature of the business, no doubt.
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