“What’s with Raleigh?” he asked. “Did he just evict a bunch of nice old people from their retirement homes?”
“He’s certainly happy enough,” Peggy said. “Those yellow feathers sticking out of his alligator jaws worry me. And Sarah Beth’s not here. I’m going to walk down and check on her right now instead of waiting.”
“I’ll come with you,” I said.
“No. Stay here and keep an eye on Raleigh. If he’s cheerful because he’s been knocking her around, I don’t want him running off before I can call the cops.” We separated at the buffet table. Peggy filled a plate for Sarah Beth while I filled one for me.
The barbecued ribs were to die for, and I watched Raleigh surreptitiously while I gnawed. I lost him when he went to the bathroom, and once I saw him down at the end of the terrace texting on his cell phone. Most men over thirty don’t have the thumbs to text, but he was grinning and tearing up that keyboard on his iPhone or his Droid or whatever it was. Something top of the line, no doubt. Must be cancelling somebody’s construction loans for fun.
Chapter 6
Peggy
The lights were on in Raleigh’s trailer, but nobody came to the door for the longest time after Peggy knocked. Finally, she heard soft footsteps and called out, “Sarah Beth, honey, I brought you a plate. It’s Peggy. Let me in.”
She opened the door, and Peggy spotted no obvious bruises. So, if he beat her, he’d been clever enough to leave bruises where they didn’t show.
Sarah Beth’s red ringed eyes, however, said she’d been crying. Peggy didn’t wait for an invitation, but let herself in and set the plate on the counter beside the microwave.
“That’s sweet of you,” Sarah Beth said, “but I’m really not hungry. I think I’m getting a cold.” She sniffed.
“Cold my Aunt Fanny. What did he do to you?” Peggy slid the plate toward her. “You aren’t as big as a minute. You got to eat. Smell these ribs and tell me you’re not hungry.”
Her eyes got huge. She stared at Peggy, clapped her hands over her mouth, dove into the bathroom and dropped to her knees over the toilet without shutting the door. Actually, there wasn’t room to shut the door. Her feet stuck out into the little hallway. If she’d had anything in her stomach, she’d already thrown it up, because all Peggy heard were dry heaves.
Peggy grabbed a dishtowel hanging from the stove handle, ran it under the cold water, wrung it out, and knelt down to wipe Sarah Beth’s forehead, then laid it across the back of her neck. She wasn’t certain whether she was looking at the beginning of DTs, a big fat hangover at seven in the evening, or some kind of medication. Maybe an overdose Sarah Beth decided to get rid of. Possibly she really did have some kind of stomach flu. Peggy prayed they weren’t dealing with a bruised liver or ruptured spleen from Raleigh’s fists.
“Please,” Sarah Beth choked out, “Put the plate in the icebox. I can’t stand the smell.”
That’s when it hit Peggy.
Okay. She stashed the food and sat down beside Sarah Beth in the narrow aisle. “How long?”
“How long what?” She avoided Peggy’s eyes.
“How long have you known you were pregnant?”
Her head whipped around, and she gaped. “Pregnant? Why on earth would you think that? I’ve just got a twenty-four hour virus.”
“Puh-lease. In my years teaching college students, I have seen far too many co-eds dive out of my classes and found them throwing up in the loo.”
“Maybe they were just bored sick,” she said. “Oh, what an awful thing to say.”
“I may have been brutal, but I was never boring. From my lectern I had the perfect view of that deer-in-headlights look you all get before the projectile vomiting starts. So that’s why Giles is strutting around on the terrace exhaling testosterone. You just tell him?”
“Oh, my God, he doesn’t know!” She grabbed Peggy’s hands so hard Peggy thought she’d break her arthritic pinkies. “He mustn’t know. Promise you won’t tell him.”
“It’s your job to tell him, not mine. Come on, Sarah Beth, even if he doesn’t want a baby at this late stage in his life, once he knows, he’ll be thrilled to death.”
“No, he won’t.” She dropped her face into her hands. The towel draped around her neck started to slide.
Peggy caught and rearranged it. “Look, can we get up off the floor or are you going to hurl again?”
Sarah Beth grinned sheepishly. “Nothing left to hurl.” She unfolded in one long piece. Peggy, on the other hand, struggled to her knees and had to use the edge of the cabinet to get all the way up. Her knees popped like Orville Redenbacher’s.
Sarah Beth slid into the banquette, folded her arms and put her head down. “Throwing up wears me out.”
“Auntie Peggy’s tried and true antidote—hot tea with lemon and lots of sugar, soda crackers and half an apple.”
“Nothing, please.”
“Shut up. I’ll take the plate I brought when I leave. If you don’t want those ribs, I most certainly do.”
Peggy filled the teakettle, lit the propane burner and set the water to heat, found a mug in one cabinet and a big box of Saltines in another. No apples. She did, however, find lemon juice in the small propane refrigerator along with a cold six pack of Pellegrino. She opened one of the bottles and handed it to Sarah Beth. “I know you don’t want this, but if you don’t keep hydrated, you really will be sick. It’s not good for the baby either.”
“Good.” But she took a long drink of the water. Peggy suspected her mouth was as dry as kitty litter.
“Here.” She handed Sarah Beth the box of crackers. “Eat at least a couple.” The kettle whistled. Sarah Beth jumped a foot. If she hadn’t been clutching the bottle of water so tight it would have flown out of her hand.
Peggy said and removed the kettle. “Teabags?”
“First drawer. Is there any Chamomile left?”
There was. “Good choice.” Peggy added lemon. “Got any honey?”
She shook her head, so Peggy spooned a couple of tablespoons from the sugar bowl on the table. Sarah Beth made a face when she took the tea, but cradled it between her palms as though grateful for the warmth, blew on it and took a sip. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re missing the party.”
“I hate parties. I’m only in it for the ribs. Those I’ve got thanks to you.”
Sarah Beth managed a small smile. “I am a terrible person.”
“Oh? In what way?”
“I don’t want this baby. I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to have it.”
Peggy nodded. She had heard the same thing from a number of girls, some of whom had their babies, some of whom did not. Some of the girls who went through with the pregnancy kept their babies, some put them up for adoption. Peggy could not possibly judge them, since she had never been in that situation. She and Ben had produced one daughter. For both of them, Marilou had been sufficient. “None of my business,” she said. “It is, however, Raleigh’s business.”
“No, it’s not. It’s my body and my choice.”
“He won’t see it that way.” Peggy didn’t either. But it wasn’t her baby, and she wasn’t married to Giles Raleigh. Thank God.
Sarah Beth clutched the mug so tightly her knuckles went white. Peggy hoped the crockery was thick. “He will never know unless you tell him. Promise me you won’t.”
“Of course I won’t, but I still think you should. Not only are there ethical considerations, but legal ones as well. I know you and Raleigh are having problems . . .”
“A baby is not going to cure my marriage.”
“Counseling might. This might be the impetus to get him to consider going with you. Listen, Sarah Beth, your biological clock is close to chiming the midnight hour. If you ever want a child, you better think long and hard before you get rid of the only one you may ever conceive.”
In an instant Sarah Beth morphed from waif to Valkyrie. “How dare you? I thought you were my friend. Get the hell out of my trailer!”<
br />
For a moment Peggy thought Sarah Beth was going to throw the cup. Hormones and misery.
Peggy slid out of the banquette and started for the door.
“And take your damn ribs!”
So she did.
As she walked back up the hill toward the party, Peggy heard the three-piece combo playing dance music from one end of the terrace. What on earth was she going to do with the ribs? She was ravenous, but couldn’t see standing deep in the shadows and scarfing down ribs with one hand while trying to hold the paper plate with the other. She wound up sitting in the front seat of Merry’s pickup in the dark like a lost soul cast into the darkness, while she worried about Sarah Beth.
If Raleigh didn’t know he was about to become a father, then what on earth was he so doggone cheerful about?
Chapter 7
Sunday morning
Merry
If we’d thought the early morning mist was bad Saturday morning before the marathon, it was worse, a London pea souper, at six-thirty Sunday morning. The thick pine forest that edged the dressage arena beside the stables held the fog tight among its needles. It swirled across the arena and left heavy dew that wet my supposedly waterproof paddock boots to the ankle.
I’d given Peggy leave to sleep in and have a leisurely breakfast with Dick at the motel before she caught a ride over to the Tollivers’ place with him. I am so used to getting up at dawn to feed horses that I can’t sleep in even when I’d like to. And since I didn’t drink at last evening’s party, I didn’t have a hangover to contend with.
I’d agreed to help the volunteer committee set the cones course in the dressage arena. The third phase of the event after the marathon and dressage consisted of an obstacle course in which each carriage threaded its way through a corkscrew puzzle of tall orange traffic cones. Not the usual cones you see on the highway, however. These were cut at a slight angle that turned them into Leaning Tower of Pisa cones. A white ball topped each cone. If a horse or carriage hit one of the cones, the ball fell.
The cones, like the hazards course, were set just slightly wider than the carriage running the course—smaller carriage, smaller ponies or horses, and the cones were set closer together. For the large four-in-hands like Raleigh’s, the cones were set at maximum distance apart, but still only a few inches wider than the carriage itself.
The horses had to maneuver through very tight turns at the highest speed they could manage. The carriage with the fewest balls down and the shortest time on course won.
I fed and watered Golden and Ned and picked the overnight manure out of shavings in their cushy trailer stalls, then wrapped my windbreaker around me tight and walked down to the dressage arena. After last night’s party, I wasn’t surprised to find I was the first to arrive.
Tacked to one of the light poles I found the course designer’s outline of where the pairs of cones should be set. One set of volunteers were to pick up as many cones as they could tote and drop them in the general area, then a second set of volunteers would measure distances precisely and set the balls on top of each cone.
The area was surrounded by pine forest on three sides, open on the side facing the parking area and the stables. The arena itself was delineated by steel cable stretched through pad eyes on the tops of steel spikes that were driven into the ground every eight meters and at each of the four corners.
Fancy dressage arenas are often bounded by low white PVC fences, but this one was actually part of the Tollivers’ pasture most of the time. The cable and spike arrangement was inexpensive and easy to set up.
The rubber cones were heavy and cumbersome. Setting them was frustrating and tedious. That’s why the committee started early. Not as early as me, apparently.
I hefted a couple of cones and walked across the arena toward the trees on the far side. Squish, squish. Like walking across a marsh through clouds.
Without even the sound of a hoof, a phantom horse loomed up out of the mist and stopped a foot from my face. I squealed and dropped the cones. He snorted, tossed his head and did a little dance but didn’t back away.
The mist parted for a moment and I saw why. I wasn’t facing one horse, but four—one pair harnessed in front of the other. And pulling a big carriage.
Without a driver.
I held up my hands. “Whoa, sweetie,” I crooned and walked up to the left lead horse, who seemed glad to see me.
When I took hold of his bridle, he nuzzled me and deposited a wad of half-chewed grass on my shoulder. His harness mate nickered a soft greeting.
Why on earth were they wandering around this early in the morning in full harness without a driver? I recognized Raleigh’s team. Where was he?
“Raleigh?” I called tentatively. The whole situation was eerie. I couldn’t leave the horses to go look for Raleigh. On the other hand, if he’d fallen off the box and was hurt, I couldn’t not look for him.
The reins had been looped over the whip holder in the carriage so that they wouldn’t drag and get caught in the wheels. If Raleigh had fallen or been thrown, he wouldn’t have had time to do that. But why on earth would he leave his team unattended? At a show, that was grounds for instant elimination.
The horses weren’t lathered as though they’d run away and tossed Raleigh off. Their backs were damp, but from the mist.
I couldn’t wait for another volunteer to show up to head the team. I needed to hunt for Raleigh right this minute. If he was hurt, minutes counted. Surely this wasn’t another attack of the lunatics from the bridge. This must be an accident.
I could feel my heart in my throat and that heat on the skin that means adrenaline is pumping big-time. I closed my eyes and remembered my mother lying on the ground under the wheels of a similar carriage that I’d been driving even though I’d been forbidden to. My stupidity had nearly cost my mother her life, and kept me from driving for nearly twenty years. So, believe me, I knew what could happen when someone fell off a carriage that size. But if Raleigh had fallen, where was he?
Behind the carriage I saw the parallel snail tracks the wheels had made through the wet grass. “Stand.” I said to the horses. A well-trained carriage team wouldn’t move until I released them.
The wheel track behind the carriage led away from the trailer area toward the far corner by the woods. Even now, with the fog lifting, I had to keep my eyes on the ground. Otherwise, I couldn’t see more than a couple of feet in front of me, although I looked behind me occasionally to check my location.
I was spooked. Raleigh would never abandon his team willingly. Moreover, why would he have put to at the crack of dawn in the first place? The cones class didn’t start until nine. He might not be scheduled to drive until noon. Nobody needed that much warm up.
I tripped over him.
He sprawled face down in the farthest corner of the arena.
The spike anchoring the cable at that corner should have been driven deep into the dirt.
Instead it was driven into the nape of Giles’s neck.
I sat down hard and clapped my hands over my mouth. He had to be dead.
Didn’t he?
I started to shout for help. Then I didn’t.
The fog seemed to steal not only sight but sound.
Anybody could be standing behind a pine watching me. For that matter, someone could be standing in the open six feet away in the fog. I wouldn’t see them and probably wouldn’t hear them. Then I felt warm breath on the back of my neck. I yelped and scrambled away on my backside.
Startled, Raleigh’s lead horse, the one who’d dropped grass on my shoulder, snorted and butted me with his nose. The team pulling their driverless carriage was standing practically on top of me. I made it to my feet and backed out of range. Either they weren’t all that well trained to stand, or they’d come looking for the nearest human being that could climb onto the carriage and take the reins.
I am generally calm during a crisis. That ability to turn off emotion is what makes me a good show manager, so I took hold of the
coupling rein that held the leaders together and quietly led them away from the bundle of flesh that had been Giles Raleigh. When they were far enough away, I gave them the ‘stand’ command again, this time with more authority in my voice. “Do not come find me,” I said. Then I forced myself to go back to Raleigh.
The last thing I wanted to do was touch him, but I had to know if he had a pulse. I knelt beside him, touched the pulse point under his throat with two fingers, felt around. Nothing.
Since the stake driven up into his skull was still in place, there was almost no blood. The cable still ran through the pad eye and held the stake near to the ground. Raleigh must have been lying on the ground or kneeling when he was struck. Could his carriage have run over the spike, yanking it from the ground then left it lying point up? Raleigh fell out of his carriage and onto it somehow? Next to impossible, but better than the alternative, that someone had driven it into his head.
“What the hell?” I heard a male voice someone out in the arena, loud enough to penetrate the fog. “What the Sam Hill are you guys doing out here by yourselves? Where is Raleigh?”
“Over here,” I called. “It’s Raleigh. He’s hurt.” Actually, I was as sure as I could be that he was dead, but I wasn’t about to tell my erstwhile rescuer that.
Georgia Bureau of Investigation agent Geoff Wheeler propped his feet on his dusty coffee table, blew on his mug of black coffee, opened the Sunday Atlanta Journal and pulled out the comics section. He bit into his third jelly doughnut from the box of Krispy Kremes. He might just finish the box.
He should be contentedly watching a non-blacked out Atlanta Braves game and drinking a couple of beers. He should have Merry Abbott curled up on the sofa beside him.
He considered driving north to Mossy Creek and her sofa, only he’d probably fall asleep at the wheel and wind up in a ditch. His plane had landed in Atlanta too late to call her last night, and when he’d tried this morning he’d gotten her voice mail—‘gone to a horse show. Please leave a message.’ She’d left a number for emergencies, but she probably wouldn’t return his call until she got home to Mossy Creek, if then.
One Hoof In The Grave [Carriage Driving 02] Page 5
