"And so Lint keeps an eye on the polo grounds to make sure no riders traverse it." Kazmaroff said, writing again.
Burton caught some of the words the man was writing down: check out Lint again.
"Anyway, we rode past--not through--the polo field into a little copse of trees, well, first you have to go down this rather steep creek embankment. Have you not been to the trail yet?"
"Never mind where we've been, Miss Andersen," Kazmaroff said pleasantly. "Just tell us where you rode."
"Well, we forded the creek. And Jilly's gelding--did you see him at the barn?--he's this big 17-hand monster. A sweetie but way too big for her. But God forbid Jilly should be caught riding something more her size. She was only five-foot three, you know." Tess plumped a heavily fringed pillow and tossed it into the corner of the couch.
"Anyway,” she continued. “Best-Boy, that's Jilly's horse, balked a few times at going into the water--a lot of horses don't like water--and I remember she was particularly severe with him. Smacking him with her bat and yelling at him." Tess shrugged and smiled. "The woman really was a pig."
"But you all got across," Kazmaroff said.
"Well, of course, it's not the Rio Grande, for heaven's sake. You know what I think? I think Jilly communicated her tenseness about the creek to her horse and that's why he balked. Everything was fine until she started making such a big deal about it.
“Anyway, after that there's just a little trail and you follow it around...it winds here and there...it's really quite lovely, especially this time of year. The afternoon was cool but the sun was out and it was really a nice little hack. Portia and I both commented on it."
"Not Jilly?" Burton prompted.
"Jilly was still stewing over the creek incident. The woman held a grudge. Even against her horse."
"Against you?" Burton asked.
"Goodness!" Tess threw back her head and laughed. "That's wonderful! Just like in the movies. I'm sort of a suspect, aren't I? I mean, I certainly had the opportunity to do her in, now if y'all can only see a motive, right?"
"Was there a motive, Miss Andersen?" Burton said. He looked straight into her eyes.
"I guess, in a general sense, there was. Sure." Tess spoke directly to Burton. "For me, and everyone else who ever met Jilly. And please stop calling me Miss Andersen. If you really want to make me crack, start saying 'yes m'am' to me."
"Let's just here the facts," Burton said. "What happened after you reached the clearing?”
Tess eased back into the sofa. She glanced at Kazmaroff's vexed expression, and then focused again on the painting on the wall behind their heads. "Well, we came to the clearing...about fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, after the trail. I was first, then Jilly, then Portia.”
"What did you fight about?" Burton asked, his eyes never leaving her face.
"Tack," she said.
"Come again?"
"Tack, tack." She waved her hand in the air, "Saddles, bridles...she was nursing an earlier snit over a riding crop that she'd lost and thought Portia or I had something to do with it. The woman was demented."
"Had you?"
"Taken her riding crop? Okay, you caught me. You really are good, aren't you?" She laughed. "I didn't take the foolish thing, for heaven's sake. In fact, I was offended that she'd think me so unimaginative--"
"But not so spiteful?"
Tess smiled slowly at Burton. "I wasn't above having a good one on the sour old thing. She knew what I was capable of."
“So, she accused you of stealing her..." Burton began.
"Her crop. It's like a whip, you know?"
"Her crop. Was she riding with a crop that day?"
"Ummm, yes, she was. A different one."
"It was found wedged between the horse and saddle when the horse returned to the barn," Burton said.
"I'm not surprised. After Jilly beat the poor creature around the head and shoulders over the stupid creek crossing, she tucked the bat away..."
"The bat?"
"It's just a name for it. It's like a crop only shorter, with less give. Kids use them mostly."
"Go on."
"Anyway, she tucked it away on the trail because she wanted Portia and me to think she didn't need it to make Best-Boy mind. You know, beat the horse senseless with it because he embarrasses you or something at a creek crossing, and then get rid of it in case people think you need it to ride with."
"I see," Burton said, not seeing.
"It doesn't matter, detective," Tess said, gaily. "The horsy set is a strange world of odd argot and ridiculous rules. Jilly's not really the exception when it comes to rude horse people. We are, by definition and tradition, snobby, egocentric and patronizing."
"But the big fight was about her crop," Burton asked, steering her back to the point.
Tess nodded. "Normally, I let her bitching and accusations roll off my back. That day, it worked its way right up my nose. I don't know," she looked thoughtfully. "Maybe it was the way she treated Best-Boy. We had words. It got a little ugly, I guess. And we split. Or rather, she told us to sod off, and we did, with pleasure." She shrugged.
"And Portia Stephens chose to leave with you?"
"She did."
"But she had no argument with Jilly."
"No, and she doesn’t dislike Jilly. Something very few people can say, I'm sure."
"But Portia left with you."
"Jilly was like a sometimes friendly pitbull, you know? Me, I don't like pit bulls, period. Portia appreciated Jilly for whatever bizarre features she could see in her that were, I don't know, not detestable. But deep down, she knew she was still a pit-bull." She shrugged again. "Of course, she came with me."
"Did you return to the barn immediately?"
"We did."
"Did you go the same way you came?"
"Yes. it’s true there's a circular sort of route on that trail after the clearing, which is really the half-way point. I'm sure you've seen the path, there's only one or two, if you count the trail that leads to the main tractor road, that branch off from the clearing." (Burton made a mental note. He'd only found the one leading to the road.) "And it winds back around east to the barn."
“But you didn’t take this trail back.”
“No. It wasn’t nice. It was too narrow and Bill lives in an old bombed-out trailer along the way there.”
“Bill?”
“Bill Lint. The polo grounds keeper. Like I said, he’s extremely demented and we all do our best to avoid him.”
"What time did you arrive back at the barn?" Kazmaroff had his notebook open again.
"I'd say around half past three or so. More tea?"
Burton shook his head. "This stolen crop of Jilly Travers," he said. "Is this a frequent happening at the barn?"
"What, thefts in general or people taking a piece out of Jilly?"
"Either."
"I wouldn't know about the robbery rate at our barn, detective. I'm afraid you'd have to discuss that with Margo Sherman. I, personally, have never had anything stolen. As for Jilly..." She stood up and straightened the pleats in her long Indian skirt. Burton could see tiny reflectors like diamond shaped mirrors flashing in the room's bright sunlight. "...no one liked the woman. I didn't take her crop, not my style. But I certainly was not indignant that someone else had."
"Are you dismissing us?" Burton stood too but Kazmaroff remained seated.
"Can I do that?"
Burton finally laughed. "We'll have to come back, I'm afraid."
"I don't mind."
Kazmaroff finally heaved himself to his feet, nearly knocking over the empty tea glass he'd set on the small antique side table.
She walked them to the door. Kazmaroff headed off immediately to the car, intent on being the driver for the homeward segment of the day. Tess called out to Burton.
"I know you have to find her killer because it's your job."
"But you can think of better things to do with one's time," he said.
She smiled and sai
d nothing.
Burton turned to join Kazmaroff but not before noticing that Tess's delicate, perfect fingers, resting on the large brass doorknob, were trembling.
Chapter Three
1
"Those lips? Definitely collagen." Kazmaroff jabbed a finger at a county map he had perched on the dashboard as he drove. "Is it 141 where this school is? Or right off Medlock Bridge? Can you tell?"
"What kind of crack is that?" Burton sat tensed and uncomfortable in the passenger's seat. Both windows were rolled down and the late afternoon chill was succeeding in enervating, not invigorating, him.
"No kind of crack, Jack," Kazmaroff sighed and gathered up the map in his right hand. "Just an observation. That is our job, isn't it? To observe? To note? I just noted that the woman....didn't you see her scars? In front of each ear, and the guy must've been good. They were hairline, you could barely..."
"What is the point of this?" Burton turned to face him. "Going to do a gossip column for the Fulton County P.D, are you? Going to write a "Guess Who Saw Who Doing Guess What" for suspects? Get your mind out of Entertainment Tonight, why don't you? and back to work. Our job, detective, is not to ascertain who did or did not have a nip or tuck for whatever reasons. Our job is to determine the facts in order to determine the identity of the killer and then to arrest said killer. In case you've forgotten."
"Screw you, man," Kazmaroff snarled, his eyes boring a hole through the windshield. "Or, should I say Tess Andersen?"
Burton lunged at him, only able to control himself after the car nearly swerved into a passing Jeep Cherokee. The jeep emitted a long, unhappy beep and then accelerated well past the speed limit to escape them.
"What is your problem, man?" Kazmaroff was scarlet. "You trying to kill us and innocent motorists too?"
"Stop this car, you suck-faced little runt." Burton was apoplectic in his anger and impotence. "Stop this car so I can beat the shit outta you!"
"Oh, man, you are a piece of work." Kazmaroff obviously had no intention of stopping the car for Burton. "You're trying to kill us both...I can't believe the stunt you just pulled--"
"Just shut-up!" Burton said. He gripped his knees with his hands. He imagined Kazmaroff's face in his hands and he was beating it and pounding it, crushing it. "I don't want to hear your voice, your constant noise. Just shut-up.”
"Screw you, man," Kazmaroff said, but there was no heat in his words, as if he only felt honor-bound to say them.
Burton pulled himself up straight in his seat and took a deep, covert breath. "I am so sick of your bull-shit," he said tightly, not looking at Kazmaroff. "I'm sick to death of your affectations, your strange foreign accents--who are you supposed to be? friggin' Meryl Streep?--you’re pathetic, Dave." He licked his lips as he spoke and continued to stare straight ahead out the windshield. "Your pathetic attempts to be something you're not and will never be...You don't play polo, hell, man you don't even ride a bicycle. What you know about wines--this one really kills me--what you know about wines, you could fit in your left ear. And you know something else, man? I'm sick of your references to the Gulf War when the closest you've ever been to Iraq is the Middle eastern bakery on Buford Damn Highway."
"Are you through?"
"Fuck you."
"Because if you are, then maybe you'd like to hear how fond I am of you. First of all, your moods. Of which you have many."
"I'm warning you, Kazmaroff."
"You are the sourest son of a bitch I ever met. I mean, do you have smile muscles? Is everything just a complete and tremendous pain in the ass for you?"
Burton picked up the map and willed himself to remain calm.
"I've tried," Kazmaroff continued, shaking his head. "I've ignored stuff. I've taken rebuffs, out and out insults. You don't like me, fine. You don't have to like me. Plenty of guys in the department work together and don't like each other. We don't have to do Saturday afternoon barbecues together." Kazmaroff turned the car down a newly-paved road that cleaved the gray shrubs and bushes like a knife. "But now it looks like we can't even do a routine investigation together," he said.
Justin Traver's boarding school stood alone in a tidy woodland setting. A complicated drystone wall, composed of fieldstone, pieces of quarry rock, and red mud, curved around the front of the two-story brick façade of the school. Simple, shuttered windows hung in three rows of eight across the front.
Woodstone Academy was situated on fifty acres. Its curriculum offered students horseback riding, rugby and sailing in addition to the usual football and track programs. The school was expensive, but not prohibitively so. It was less than six miles from the lonely woodland clearing where Jilly Travers disappeared.
Burton and Kazmaroff drove the last five miles in silence, neither of the two willing to break the code they seemed to be forging. A code of separateness. Their appointment was with the headmaster of the school, George Patterson. Tall and affable, Panfel greeted them warmly in his office. Three walls of the office were covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the fourth wall was completely windowed to afford a stunning view of rolling green pastures rimmed by tall pines. Kazmaroff and Burton sat across from the man's desk in a small seating arrangement by the window. Kazmaroff sat in the small leather loveseat which was pocked with serious brass studs as if to definitely declare its maleness. Burton settled down in one of the matching wing back chairs, reserving its twin for Justin Travers. Patterson remained standing, as if to assure the detectives that he would not be in their way for very long.
Kazmaroff smiled politely at the headmaster and slowly opened his notebook. “Has Justin been told about our visit ahead of time, or will this be a surprise?" he asked.
"He has been told," Panfel said, nodding vigorously. "One of our brightest boys. Our very brightest. You'll get articulation-plus with young Travers. Absolutely."
"Well, great," Burton said wryly.
"Fine. I'll just get him, shall I?"
Kazmaroff smiled at the man inoffensively and then, when the headmaster had left, scowled as he glanced about the room.
The silence was palpable.
Moments later, the door opened and they were joined by Jilly Traver's only relative, her son, Justin.
Neither detective stood when the boy entered. Kazmaroff motioned him to take the last remaining seat between them.
The boy was good-looking. Fifteen years old, dark-haired with even darker eyes. The pupils of his eyes were invisible in dark pools of mahogany brown.
Kazmaroff frowned in what Burton took to be his best stab at an affect of compassion with a touch of professional detachment. Burton thought he looked confused.
"Justin Travers?" Burton said, smiling economically.
"Obviously," Justin said staring directly, confidently at Burton.
Burton gave him a sharp look. "Sorry about your mother,” he said. “You know that's why we're here today."
The boy said nothing. His eyes flitted away from the detectives and around the room. He seemed on-guard, watchful, to Burton. He did not seem very broken up by the possibility of his mother’s death.
"We need to ask you a few questions, Justin," Burton continued, annoyed with the boy's cool behavior.
"I'll make it easy for you," Justin said, his gaze returning to Burton. "I'm not at all sorry she's dead. Okay? There was no love lost. We weren't close. Not in a good way, anyhow."
"You were close in a bad way?" Kazmaroff asked, still frowning.
"You'd be surprised," the boy replied. "I suppose that statement considerably changes the tenor of your questions, huh? I mean, you can skip over the bereavement part of your presentation and get right into the meat of 'did I know of anyone who might want to harm my mother?' Yeah, I mean, I thought of doing it myself, for one."
"You wished your mother dead?" Burton asked as he leaned back into his chair.
Justin's gaze never wavered from Burton’s face. "I hated the bitch," he said flatly.
2
"Can you believe that shit?"
Kazmaroff shifted into third gear. It caught for a moment before falling into place and Burton winced at the resultant grinding noise. "Doesn't know who his father is? Says his mother used to set her friends up to seduce him? Says his mother used to try to seduce him herself? Is this kid for real?"
Burton wished he had a cigarette. He wondered how long before the urge really went away. He'd already been off them for nearly a year and he still craved them on a more or less daily basis.
"My guess, the kid is a psychopathic liar, you know?" Kazmaroff continued.
Burton sighed and looked out the window at the North Fulton County countryside rolling by. The brown and gray pastures were now punctuated with the occasional grocery store, large and vault-like, with a scattering of cars in the cement parking lots. Jack wondered how they managed to stay in business.
"Based on what?" Burton asked methodically.
"Based on the pure hooey he was spinning." Kazmaroff turned his head toward Burton. "You buying all that stuff about being seduced by these middle-aged women? It's a teenage boy's fantasy. Can you imagine your friend Miss Andersen coming on to that pimply-faced little punk?"
Burton suppressed a wince. He knew it had been coming. Justin had insisted that he'd slept with Tess--at Tess's insistence, he said--when he was only thirteen. It was too much to hope that Kazmaroff wouldn't fixate on it.
"I don't know what to think," Burton said. "We're just gathering facts at this point."
"Bull-shit," Kazmaroff said. "We're gathering the facts and testing people's reactions and using our guts to see who's lying. Don't tell me you haven't got a read on that kid. You think he's telling the truth?"
Burton shook his head. "I don't know," he repeated.
Kazmaroff made a sound of disgust and they drove in silence.
Burton stared out again at the bleak landscape. It was amazing to him the number and variety of birds he’d noticed just forty miles north of town. He’d forgotten so much. Used to be a time he could name them all, sketch them perfectly. When he was a boy, on a warm fall day, much like this one, he and his father could sit for hours watching and waiting. He had delighted his scholarly father with his interest in birds, his patience. The two had been so much alike in all the ways that were important. And then, years later, with everything that had happened in between, he’d decided to make the police force his career. The look in his father’s eyes when he told him was like a betrayal.
Walk. Trot. Die Page 5
