Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy series)

by Laura Crum

  Studying the smooth dark blond waves of her hair and the carefully understated pearl earrings and necklace, I decided to try a test. "I think the sheriff's department is most interested in Ed's, uh, business dealings."

  "What business dealings? Ed didn't have a business. He was strictly a leech." Her tone did not exactly sound grief-stricken.

  "He sold coke," I said bluntly.

  She gave a short laugh. "Is that right? It's something he would have done. If the cops want to look into that, it's fine with me. So long as they get out of my hair."

  Her voice was crisp. I felt completely disconcerted. Anne Whitney was not responding in any way, shape, or form to her brother's death, other than considering the investigation a nuisance. It seemed bizarre.

  My emotions must have shown on my face. Her mouth shaped itself into a thin, hard line. "My brother was a first-class pain in the ass and his wife was a cheap little whore. I'm not going to pretend I'm sorry they're dead. They were nothing but bloodsuckers on the family business and I couldn't stand them. But all this investigation is more trou­ble than they were."

  She tapped the toe of her black pump on the carpet. "All I want is to get the stupid cops out of my office and to get back to work. Why in the world they think I had anything to do with killing Ed, 1 don't know. For that trust fund? I make that much money every year. Or that house? Ed bought that house because he couldn't stand it that I live in this one. He was copying me. He was always jealous of me."

  I tried not to look as nonplussed as I felt and prodded gently. "So Ed never tried to get involved in the business?"

  Her lip curled. "Ed never did anything but ask me for handouts until six months ago, when he got the income from the trust fund our parents left."

  "Did you know he was selling coke?"

  "No. Why should I? I never had any more to do with him than I could help."

  "How did you know Cindy was a hooker?"

  "He told me." Disgust was plain in her voice. "He bragged about it, for God's sake." Her eyes flicked to my face. "And now you say I've got to deal with her stupid horse."

  "Well, someone does. I assumed you were the owner now."

  "Yes, I am. The lawyer was already after me, asking if I wanted the silly horse shown. I told him I didn't care. And now this. What's the horse worth?"

  "Somewhere between five and ten thousand dollars, if he's sound and showable. He's a real good hackamore horse."

  Anne Whitney seemed uninterested. "What's he worth if he's lame?"

  "What he's worth by the pound."

  "By the pound?"

  "What the killers will pay for him," I explained. "Companies that slaughter horses for dog food buy them based on what they weigh. A horse his size would be worth about five hundred."

  "And if I want this horse to be fixed so I can sell him for five thousand or so dollars, I've got to deal with him for six months at least."

  "Maybe less, if you have him operated on."

  Anne Whitney shrugged. "It's not worth it. Just sell him to that-what-do-you-call-its, the dog-food people."

  Shock must have shown on my face, because she shrugged again. "I don't want to deal with a horse. I haven't got time."

  "Would you sell him to me for five hundred?" The words just popped out of my mouth. "Knowing he'll be worth five thousand or more if I can fix him," I added quickly.

  She gave me an ironic twitch of the lips that I thought was meant as a smile. "I don't care if you make a profit."

  I didn't bother to explain that profit wasn't my intention; just a clear understanding that I wasn't trying to take advantage of her. I dug my checkbook out of my wallet, wondering what had gotten into me. What was I, Gail's home for crippled horses? I could barely afford Gunner, how in the hell was I going to afford another horse?

  It was just that Plumber, Plumber was special. I'd work something out, I told myself.

  I filled out the check for five hundred, calculating rapidly whether there was enough in my account to cover it. There was, but I'd have to stretch myself to meet this month's bills. Oh well.

  Anne Whitney took the check with an amused look. "Good luck with the horse, Dr. McCarthy." She walked down her front hall and held the door open for me. "I think you're going to need it."

  SEVENTEEN

  After Anne Whitney shut her front door, I sat in my truck for long minutes, staring through my windshield at the village of Capitola with its apron of beach, laid out invitingly below the cliff where I was parked. A wealthy little town-Capitola. And Anne Whitney's house, prominently placed so it had arguably the best possible view, was the house of a very wealthy woman. Her lawyer had confirmed that her fortune was in good shape. She had seemed, from what little I had seen and heard of her, to be thoroughly involved in her business, competent, unemotional, pleased with her wealth and indifferent to her brother and his wife. Why would a woman in her position commit two murders that would be sure to unsettle a comfortable life? What would she have to gain? A couple of million sounded like a lot when I first heard of it, but faced with Anne Whitney's house and lifestyle, it didn't carry the weight I'd assigned to it as a motive.

  I simply couldn't picture Anne Whitney having anything to do with these murders. But if she hadn't, who had? I didn't consider Terry a possibility. Tony Ramiro? It seemed ridiculous. And Gina had said he had an alibi. Carl Whitney? I could imagine him having it done, but why? Distaste for having a hooker and a drug dealer in the family would appear to be his only motive, and it didn't seem strong enough.

  How about Earl Ritter? I'd disliked the man intensely; it would be satisfying to prove him guilty. However, I had trouble inventing a plausible scenario with Dr. Earl Ritter as the villain. He seemed impotent and fearful-not a man of action. His motive was doubtful at best, and I didn't know if he had an alibi.

  Then who? I felt baffled. Someone had killed Ed and Cindy. I believed that the same person had shot at me. Who? And why? Why? I thought about that awhile. There were two "whys" really: Why had someone killed Cindy and Ed, and why had that someone thought I was dangerous to them? What did I know that I didn't know I knew?

  Blue grunted and shifted his position on the floorboards, staring up at me with impatient eyes. Why are you just sitting there his expression said. It isn't like you. Don't we have things to do?

  I reached down and rubbed his head absently, glancing at the dashboard clock as I did so: 4:45. Fifteen more minutes and I was officially on call.

  Starting my truck and easing it out into the summertime traffic, I let my mind go back to the murders. I needed a new angle, a new idea. I'm a lot better at finding out what's wrong with a horse than figuring out a murder, I told myself. I should just stick to horses.

  Horses. Horses were what connected me to this murder, after all. Cindy had been a horse person, and it was a call to see her horse that had caused me to find the bodies. Maybe horses were the angle. Gina Gianelli had said that Cindy was upset that she might not be able to show Plumber at Salinas. Could that upset, whatever it was, have to do with the something that led to her being killed? I didn't have a clue how it connected, but the first step was obviously to find out what she had been upset about.

  Making the right turn onto Soquel Avenue, headed for home, I was so absorbed in this question that I jumped when my pager beeped. The clock read 5:01. Damn. I had a feeling it was going to be a busy night.

  Jim and I took turns being on call on the weekend; this weekend was mine. From now until 8:00 A.M. Monday, all emergencies were my responsibility.

  I stopped at the office to call the answering service; even though it was only five minutes after five, everything was shut up tight and there were no cars in the parking lot. No one was interested in staying even half a minute late on Saturday afternoon.

  Plumber was in a corral in the back, munching the hay that our barn girl had fed him, his injured leg wrapped snugly to prevent swelling. I paused by his fence for a brief second to tell him he was my horse now, and smiled when he reac
hed his nose up from his feed to bump my arm briefly before he went back to eating.

  Whether I could or should afford him or not, Plumber was a sweet little guy and I felt a keen sense of happiness at the thought of owning him. Monday, when Jim was here to help me, I would operate and remove the bone chip from his leg. After that, I'd arrange somewhere to keep him and figure out how to pay his feed bill. It would all work out, I told myself.

  Inside the office, a phone call informed me that Hilde Fredericks had a horse who was tying up and needed me right away. Not good.

  Hilde Fredericks was a potentially difficult client. She had warm-blood dressage horses and was very particular about them. Though she and I had always gotten along well together, I had the distinct feeling that if I ever made what she considered a mistake on one of her horses there would be hell to pay.

  As I drove up Empire Grade toward her elaborate setup in Bonny Doon, I fervently hoped the tied-up horse was not the new stallion that rumor had it she'd paid over a hundred thousand dollars for. Imagine doing something wrong on a horse that was worth as much as my whole house. It didn't bear thinking about.

  Hilde's rage didn't bear thinking about, either. German, between fifty-five and sixty, spare and fit of body, with a bony, elegant face and well-groomed blond hair, Hilde was attractive if you didn't mind a dictatorial air. This she had in abundance, along with scads of money, which she spent in boatloads on her high-priced warm-blood horses. She was also inclined to big, fierce-looking German-type dogs ... shepherds, Rottweilers, etc.

  Thirty minutes later, when I turned in between the two stone pillars that marked her driveway and approached her formal brick, Colonial-type house with its manicured front lawn, I was greeted by a particularly large-toothed, loud-barking specimen-a Doberman in this case. I tried to remember if I had ever met this dog before; was he basically friendly or truly vicious?

  Blue barked loudly back through the truck window: I'll kill you, you bastard. Just give me a chance.

  "He'd kill you, dummy," I told the old dog, and rolled my window down a few inches, trying a "Hello, big fella," on the Doberman.

  Nothing doing. He barked and snarled. Most Dobermans were chickens, though. I was trying to decide if this one would back down when Hilde saved me from what might have been a major error by appearing from the direction of her barn and calling the dog off. I got out of my truck and went to greet her.

  "Gail, it has been over an hour since I called." Hilde's blue eyes, German accent, and imperious manner hadn't dimmed a bit since I'd seen her last.

  "I'm sorry, Hilde. It does take awhile to get here from Santa Cruz."

  "Well." Hilde brushed off this excuse and said brusquely, "Come see Zhivago. He is getting better already," she added over her shoulder as she turned away.

  I followed her, thanking my lucky stars. Zhivago was Hilde's old warm-blood gelding, not the new ultra-expensive stallion, who I believed was named Riesling. Also, if Zhivago was already better, he hadn't tied up very badly.

  Tying up, technically called azoturia, is not uncommon; some horses seem far more prone to it than others. In essence, an overly large amount of lactic acid in the muscles starts to destroy the muscle fibers. Tying up can be serious if it's ignored and the horse is forced to go on working; I'd had two cases where the animal died as a result. If the problem is caught right away, however, and appropriate steps are taken, most horses recover quickly and completely.

  Zhivago was tied to the arena fence, and I could see at once that the big black gelding wasn't in any acute distress.

  "I stopped riding him right away," Hilde was saying, "as soon as I noticed, and I gave him some ace."

  Ace-promazine was a tranquilizer and one of the better things to do for a horse whose muscles were tying up. The main thing was to stop riding the horse immediately, which Hilde had apparently done.

  "He urinated a few minutes ago," Hilde said. "The urine was light brown, but afterward he seemed better."

  I checked Zhivago over carefully, taking his temperature, his pulse and respiration rates, looking at his gums, and feeling him over the loins and rump to see how tight his muscles felt. This last was difficult to do, as Zhivago was all of seventeen hands high. Warm-bloods are essentially draft horses crossed on Thoroughbreds; most of them are big.

  Zhivago seemed pretty normal to me. "Go ahead and lead him a few steps," I told Hilde.

  She did; the horse walked out normally.

  "Trot him."

  Again, the horse moved out freely, no sign of resistance, discomfort, or lameness.

  "I think he's over it," I said with some relief.

  I gave the horse a shot of vitamin E and selenium and told her, "Keep him in a stall tonight and check on him a few times; don't feed him any grain, just hay. Call me if anything changes, but he looks okay to me. You did all the right things."

  Hilde took this good news with poor grace, muttering fiercely with her German accent as she led the horse away. "All the money I spend to have you up here is wasted, then."

  "Now I will show you Riesling," she announced when she returned, bad humor apparently forgotten.

  Riesling looked like a big gray stud to me, heavy-boned and powerful. If I hadn't known he was a hundred-thousand-dollar-plus warm-blood, imported from Germany, I would have guessed him to be half Percheron, the kind of horse a rancher might keep to breed to his grade mares. Of course, I didn't say any of this to Hilde, who would have been deeply insulted.

  She watched with rapt eyes as the horse paced around his pen, the true horseman's fanatic glow on her face. "It is a shame Fred is dead," she said finally. "He would have loved this horse."

  "Fred?" I asked. As far as I could remember, Hilde's husband was named Ernest, and still alive.

  "Fred Johnson, my stallion manager; did you know him? He lived about a mile from here, on Pine Flat Road."

  Fred Johnson, Pine Flat Road. My God.

  "Not Twenty-one twenty Pine Flat Road-a little old cabin?"

  "Yes. Fred was quite a character. He lived like a mountain man, in that cabin his grandfather built."

  "He was your stallion manager?"

  "Oh yes. Fred was wonderful with a horse. He worked most of his life for his brother-in-law, who raised Quarter Horses, but when the man died and his snooty little daughter took over, she decided Fred wasn't high-toned enough for her and she ran him off. I hired him right away." Hilde gave me a sidelong look in which amusement and malice were clearly combined. "Perhaps you know Fred's niece? Amber St. Claire."

  "Amber?" I parroted blankly.

  Hilde waited a moment, hoping perhaps that I would make some clever quip of my own about Amber, but my head was reeling with the implications of what I'd just learned and I said nothing.

  Hilde sniffed. "Yes, Amber St. Claire is Fred Johnson's niece, although she didn't want anyone to know it. He was her mother's brother."

  I was still silent and Hilde gave up on me as a source of interesting gossip. "Gail, I must feed. I will call you if Zhivago looks worse."

  "Sure, Hilde."

  I turned to go and she snapped after me, "Tell Jim I do not expect a full emergency charge for being told my horse is fine."

  I waved good-bye to her, smiling to myself. Jim would submit the bill and Hilde would pay it. She always bitched and she always paid. It was her style.

  Blue's prick-eared face peered from my truck window, scanning eagerly for the Doberman, and I jumped in quickly-no use getting eaten-and pulled out of the driveway with the truck in low gear and my mind in high.

  Amber St. Claire was Fred Johnson's niece. Fred Johnson's abandoned property was the place where I had been set up to be killed. These facts were obviously crucially important; I knew they were essential to discovering the killer. The only problem was that the obvious solution-Amber had tried to kill me-wouldn't wash.

  I simply could not picture Amber St. Claire hiding alone in that dark barn with a gun, stalking me. It was too dirty, for one thing. And Amber's finger
nails were too long. She was just too much of a citified sissy to have the nerve for such a thing, and try as I might, I couldn't believe she'd done it.

  But she must be connected somehow, I told myself. I was rolling that interesting fact around in my brain when my pager beeped once again. Double damn.

  I stopped and called the answering service from a pay phone. A female voice told me that Paul Cassidy had a lame horse out on Steelhead Gulch Road. She gave me directions to the field where the horse was kept and told me the owner could meet me there in half an hour. The dashboard clock said 7:30; I sighed. It was going to be a long day. Revising my thoughts of a glass of wine and some quiet moments to think, I started trying to decipher the directions.

  It took me a full twenty minutes to find Steelhead Gulch Road, which turned out to be a little one-lane dirt affair back in the hills behind Santa Cruz. Bumpy and precariously narrow, it wound down the side of a steep canyon. I crossed my fingers and drove slowly, hoping I wouldn't meet any cars coming up.

  The road descended abruptly to a one-lane bridge, spanning the creek fifty feet below. A slender ramp of concrete, the bridge looked insubstantial as hell. I let the truck idle onto it at a creep, staring down at the clear water.

  Once across the bridge and up a hill, the terrain opened up suddenly and I found myself in a grassy little valley-the whole thing lit with the slanting golden light of the lowering sun. The road forked left and right. I could see a couple of houses off to the left. My directions said to take the right-hand fork and follow it to the corral.

  I followed the road for a half mile, maybe less. It seemed like more because I had to go slowly. The road was a road in name only; in actual fact, it was so rutted and punctured with potholes that I would probably have been better off driving across the field. I bumped along and eventually reached an old wooden corral with posts that leaned drunkenly every which way. Beyond the corral was a scrubby field, full of Scotch broom, greasewood, and poison oak, with a few grassy areas. Three horses grazed in the distance, two bays and a black. Since I didn't know which one was my patient, and the client was a stranger to me, I decided to sit and wait for him. Paul Cassidy, the girl had said. I hoped Paul Cassidy would be reasonably punctual.