Checked Out

by Sharon St. George

  My first reaction was disappointment. The bruise could have been made by half of a horseshoe. At each end of it, I thought I detected small, deeper colored dots where the nail heads would be slightly elevated above the surface of the horseshoe. But most horseshoes take at least eight nails, four on each side. If what I was seeing was the nail track of half a horseshoe, there should have been at least four nails, and there were only two. Missing horseshoe nails on an animal as valuable as Game Boy? Cody would have taken care of that immediately.

  I studied the image, hoping what I was seeing wasn’t artifact or my imagination. Hoping I might have something to compare to Game Boy’s hooves. If he hadn’t been re-shod since the night Cody died, missing nails on at least one of his hooves would be obvious. If none were missing, there was at least a chance that Laurie was right and it wasn’t Game Boy. But then how had Cody been killed by a blow from a horse’s hoof?

  I recalled Laurie saying another vehicle had stopped behind the trailer. She heard Cody shout, and whoever stopped had jumped back in the vehicle, wheeled around and taken off. Even if Laurie had stayed around to tell that story, there was nothing at the scene to suggest that it wasn’t Game Boy’s hoof that struck Cody. Could this photo convince anyone that the wound didn’t match Game Boy’s hooves? Maybe, but it would take the opinion of an expert forensic photographer. The opinion of a farrier might be a first step, but the only farrier who came to mind was Keely O’Brien’s boyfriend, Tucker Potkotter. Not a good choice, since he was enmeshed with the O’Brien clan. I’d have to ask the vets at Creekside Animal Care to recommend someone.

  But first I wanted to see Game Boy’s hooves. Nick and I were scheduled to meet at the vet’s at noon, and since the digits on my alarm clock were approaching four in the morning, I forced myself to put the mystery aside and try to sleep.

  Jack’s tom turkeys took up a chorus of gobbling at six o’clock Tuesday morning, probably in response to the plaintive call of some lonely hen down in the valley. Leave it to the males to get all worked up over a new girl in town. Just as well. I needed extra caffeine to get me started, so I rolled out, put on the coffee pot, and took a quick shower.

  As soon as I got to work, I started chipping away at the final details for the CME program. The Dietary Department needed a meal count, since the CME programs were always held in the evening and always included a banquet-style dinner.

  The evaluation sheets had to be prepared. All CME attendees were given the opportunity to rate the program. Did it live up to its educational objectives? Dr. Beardsley was supposed to write up the objectives, but he was still in Aruba, so I had done that chore myself. It was mostly boilerplate; I’d reviewed past programs for the appropriate wording. Attendees will gain insight into the appropriate indicators for urologic surgery … and so on and so forth. With dinner arranged and evaluations done, all I had to do was confirm equipment needs such as microphones, speakers, and a projector.

  The event was scheduled for seven o’clock the following evening, and I would have to be present to take attendance and then remain in the room playing sergeant-at-arms to make sure no one sneaked out early. Seemed kind of pathetic, since the room would be full of grown men and women. One of those women would be Dr. Phyllis Poole.

  I wondered if the peer reviews of her cases would result in a recommendation that her privileges be suspended. I couldn’t help thinking that if Cleo was right and Poole was involved in Cody O’Brien’s murder, loss of hospital privileges would pale in comparison to a prison sentence.

  My train of thought was interrupted by my phone. It was Harry, with news about his date with Keely, I hoped.

  “What’s up?” I said. “Any luck?”

  “What? I don’t even rate a polite hello?”

  “Sorry. Hello. Did you score some useful information?”

  “I think so. Do you want to do this on the phone?”

  “Probably not. I can come by your job site for lunch …. No, wait, I have to meet Nick at lunchtime.”

  “Really? Since when?”

  “We’re going out to Creekside Animal Care to look at Game Boy’s hooves.”

  “Maybe I can meet you there. Isn’t there a taco stand somewhere nearby? We could grab a bite after you finish at the vet.”

  “Good plan. I also need to hear about Nick’s date with … never mind. I’ll call you back.”

  I had spotted Jared Quinn ambling toward me with his sensual big cat stride. Quinn was a first-rate hospital administrator and I liked to think of him as a friend, but I recalled his warning about snooping into the Cody O’Brien mystery. He’d take an extremely dim view of my nocturnal visits to the hospital with Cleo. And he wasn’t stupid. If he caught wind that Nick was dating the hospital’s top income-producing urologic surgeon, he’d smell trouble.

  “How’s it going?” Quinn asked. “Are we all set for tomorrow night?”

  “We’re right on schedule. All the peer reviews are finished. Now it’s up to Dr. Fausset to decide how he wants to orchestrate the CME program.”

  “Have you talked to him recently?”

  “No, but I put in a call to his office asking him to drop by sometime today.”

  “Well, good luck.” Quinn frowned. “It seems no one’s heard from him for several days. Code Blues has a gig this weekend, and he’s missed a couple rehearsals without letting anyone know in advance.”

  Dr. Fausset missing? I felt something cold roll around in my midsection. No, I was letting my imagination run away with me. Not ‘missing.’ Just taking a few days off.

  “Who’s covering for him?” I thought I knew, hoped I was wrong.

  “Dr. Phyllis Poole.” Quinn chuckled. “None of Fausset’s patients are thrilled about that.”

  So Fausset was AWOL, but Poole was present and accounted for. I shuffled some papers on my desk to hint to Quinn that I was busy and needed to get back to work, but what I really needed was time alone to process the possibilities his news presented.

  “Unless you need anything, I’ll be on my way,” he said.

  “No, I’m good. Thanks for checking.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He flashed his amiable smile. “Say hello to the llamas.”

  Always with the llamas. Quinn just couldn’t resist

  Half an hour later, Nick called to confirm what time to meet me at Creekside. I told him to plan on twelve thirty and said Harry might make it, too.

  “I want to hear about your date with Dr. Poole and Harry’s evening with Keely. Harry suggested we meet at the taco place and compare notes after we finish at the vet.”

  “Works for me. I’ll see you at Creekside.”

  I wasn’t looking forward to hearing about Nick’s date with Poole, even if it was for a good cause. He was too darned good at turning on the charm. After seeing Poole behave like a love-sick teenager around Tobias Fausset, I knew the woman’s cold exterior wasn’t the whole story. She might burst into flame if lit by the right match.

  I spent the rest of the morning trying to focus on my job. Lola’s shift ended at noon, but she hesitated at my desk before leaving.

  “Has the handsome Irishman been around lately?” The facial expression she was going for was mild curiosity, but her look was too steely for that and came closer to probing. She took a deep interest in my love life, or more accurately, the apparent lack of it.

  “No, not lately,” I said.

  “That’s all right, sweetie, you can’t win them all. I hope you have a lovely afternoon.”

  “Thank you, Lola.”

  I watched her go, thinking she epitomized the zest for life I hoped to have at her age. I closed up and headed for Coyote Creek.

  Most of the Creekside Animal Care staff was on lunch break when I arrived, but the large animal vet was busy stitching a mare that had tangled with some barbed wire. I took a seat in the waiting room and within a few minutes Nick arrived and joined me.

  When Dr. Goodell finished with the mare, she invited us back to a small office where a t
abby with a missing left eye sat guard on the corner of a desk.

  I waited to see how Nick would handle the phony ploy about representing a buyer for Game Boy. He got right to it.

  “As I mentioned when we arranged this visit, I’m representing a potential buyer for the O’Brien horse you’re boarding. I invited Aimee along because you and she are acquainted. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Certainly,” Dr. Goodell said. “I recall you mentioning the buyer is from Texas.”

  “Yes. I’m not at liberty to give out the name just yet. For now, we want to get a good assessment of the animal’s temperament.”

  “Are you comfortable with my opinion that the horse is physically sound?”

  “Aimee assures me that I can rely on your evaluation.”

  “So how can I help you?”

  I chimed in, “I’d like to spend a few minutes with the horse. It’s important to know how he reacts to touch, grooming, having his hooves lifted, that sort of thing.”

  “Let’s get to it, then.”

  She led the way to a row of stables and stopped in front of one that was padlocked and posted with a sign that read: NO UNACCOMPANIED ADMITTANCE.

  The scent of fresh hay mingled with the strong ammonia smell of a recently emptied bladder. Game Boy’s golden Palomino head appeared over the door of his stall. He worked his nostrils, nickered, then tossed his head and backed away from the door.

  Dr. Goodell entered the stall and clipped a lead rope to the horse’s halter. She led him outside onto a patch of mowed grass and handed the lead to me. In my teens, I had often ridden the horses Jack owned back then. Now, being near a magnificent animal like Game Boy filled me with a thrill only an ardent horse lover could understand. I ran a hand down the white blaze on his face. He leaned in as if he enjoyed the touch. I tried scratching him behind his ears. He definitely wasn’t ear shy. While I stroked his neck, Nick took out his camera and began clicking away, explaining that the buyer had asked for pictures.

  “Aimee, do you want to try lifting his hooves?” Nick asked.

  As I lifted the front hooves, Nick zoomed in on the horseshoes. The nail tracks of the shoes on both of the front hooves showed four nails on each side. None missing.

  “Now for the hind legs,” I said.

  If Cody had been kicked by this horse, it most likely had been one of the rear hooves that left the mark. I walked to the hindquarters and reached down to grasp his left fetlock. He lifted his hoof with perfect manners, allowing me to brush away some dirt and get a good look at the horseshoe nails. All eight were present, four in each track. I heard Nick’s camera capturing the shots we needed. The other hind hoof was the same. No missing nails. I had one last question for Dr. Goodell.

  “I’m curious about the horseshoes. They seem new. Has he been re-shod since his owner was injured in the horse trailer?”

  “Absolutely not. Game Boy is just as he was when he was brought here the day of the incident. Seamus O’Brien wanted him checked over for any possible injuries. Then he asked us to board the animal. He wanted no one else to have access to him. Seamus was quite grief-stricken about his son’s death, so of course we agreed.”

  “Then payment will go to Seamus if the horse is sold?”

  “Yes, or to the estate if poor Seamus should succumb. I understand he’s hospitalized with a poor prognosis.”

  The prognosis for his estate wasn’t looking too good either, unless we could find a way to keep it out of the hands of his scheming young wife.

  Chapter 27

  Nick followed me to the taco stand a mile down the road from Creekside. The late October day was warm and sunny, so we walked to an outdoor picnic table with our food just as Harry drove up and parked. He gave us a wave and trotted over to the take-out window.

  “Do you want to wait for him before we share intel?” Nick asked.

  “Sure. We might as well eat first.”

  The spicy aromas in the air shifted my appetite into high gear. I bit into my fish taco; Nick cut into his tamale with a plastic fork. We had finished half of our meal by the time Harry joined us.

  “Hi, fellow spies, is this seat taken?” He sat on the bench next to me and confronted a burrito the size of a football.

  “Go ahead and eat,” I said. “We’ll fill you in.”

  Nick and I related our visit to Creekside, emphasizing the important details. All the horseshoes had eight nails present, and the horse had not been re-shod since the night Cody O’Brien died.

  Harry swallowed a mouthful. “So there’s a chance it wasn’t Game Boy? Just like your nurse friend said?”

  “A chance. But what does that get us?” Nick said. “It doesn’t explain how O’Brien’s head wound was caused by a horseshoe.”

  “Nick, why don’t we let Harry finish his giant burrito while you report on your evening with Dr. Poole?”

  “I did pick up an interesting fact,” Nick said. “Did you know Phyllis Poole has a niece living in Timbergate?”

  That news set my scalp tingling. “You’re kidding! How did you get that out of her?”

  Nick grinned. “You sure you want to know?”

  Harry nearly choked, and I had to pat him on the back until he stopped coughing.

  I glared at Nick. “Quit screwing around and just tell us.”

  “It seems Poole has a sister in Idaho—”

  “Jackie Poole, right?” I slapped the table. “I knew that wasn’t a coincidence.”

  “Hey, are you going to let me tell this story?” Nick glanced at Harry. “If she interrupts again, clamp a hand over her mouth.”

  Harry shook his head and swallowed. “And end up on the ground with her foot on my neck? No thanks.”

  “Okay, Nick. You made your point,” I said. “Tell us about the sister.”

  “Older, by quite a bit. And you were right, she works at the hospital in Idaho where you met the McClurg woman. Seems Jackie Poole has a foster daughter who got into some kind of trouble with drugs when she was working as a nursing assistant at that same hospital. After that, she took off and no one knew where she was until the niece turned up in Timbergate, not long after Phyllis Poole joined the TMC medical staff.”

  “So what’s the deal? Is Phyllis Poole keeping an eye on her foster niece? Helping her out? Keeping her sober, or what?”

  “That was the plan, but the niece is married, and she’s cut herself off from her Aunt Phyllis. Apparently they have little or no contact.”

  Harry swallowed the last bite of his burrito. “Did you get the niece’s name? And what she has to do with Cody O’Brien?”

  “Just her first name. Caroline. Poole wouldn’t tell me who the niece married, but here’s the interesting part. Poole says Caroline did a legal name change when she left Idaho. Something about making a fresh start. Poole stopped short of giving me the name. I don’t think she realized name changes are public record. It didn’t take long to find a Caroline Poole who had changed her name to Echo McCall.”

  I jumped up and nearly fell over trying to extricate myself from the picnic table. “Echo? Phyllis Poole’s niece calls herself Echo? Oh my God, Nick! Do you know what that means?”

  “I think so. Haven’t I heard you refer to Seamus O’Brien’s wife as Echo?”

  “That’s right. Echo must be the niece.”

  “If not, it’s a hell of a coincidence.” Harry crumpled his burrito wrapper and wiped his hands on a napkin.

  “Nick, can we be a hundred percent positive that Echo O’Brien is the niece named Caroline?”

  “Nothing is a hundred percent, Aimee. Ask any cop who works in identity theft.”

  “Come on, guys. Echo isn’t a common name.” I looked to Nick.

  “I agree, but Harry’s right. We can’t be positive, and Phyllis Poole made it clear she isn’t telling.”

  “Then let’s move on to my report,” Harry said. “It turns out Keely is more than a little suspicious about her boyfriend Tucker. She thinks he’s fooling around. Want to guess with
who?”

  “With whom,” I said, which earned me a big sigh from Harry and a laugh from Nick.

  “Your sister can’t help herself, Harry. Just tell us.”

  “Keely thinks Tucker and Echo have a thing going on. She woke up a couple of times in the middle of the night and he wasn’t in their bed. The last time it happened, she stayed awake and waited for him to come back. When she confronted him, he made up a story about insomnia and claimed he was sitting up watching TV in the living room.”

  “Could be true,” Nick said.

  Harry nodded. “Or not.”

  “We have to know,” I said. “Echo O’Brien is pregnant and claiming Seamus is the father. We know he isn’t.”

  “And you think it’s Tucker?” Harry said.

  “Don’t you?”

  “I have to admit it seems pretty likely.”

  “Aimee?” Nick reached over to tap the face of my wrist watch. “When do you have to be back at work?”

  “Now.”

  I hated to break up our brainstorming session. We had put together enough of the puzzle to know we were teasing out the truth, but I had to get back to the library.

  As the afternoon wore on, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Caroline connection. Jackie Poole told someone named CJ that she’d kept quiet about Caroline. Dr. Poole told Nick her foster niece named Caroline had worked at Dunnsville Memorial. Now it seemed likely that Caroline was Jackie Poole’s foster daughter. But what did that have to do with the mysterious CJ who might or might not be Carl Jasper, owner of Dunnsville Memorial? I had no idea, but there was something more. Laurie Popejoy had mentioned a nursing assistant named Caroline who was assigned to DeeDee Dakota’s hospital room. If Echo O’Brien was the mysterious Caroline, her life had followed a twisted trail. The hairs rising on the back of my neck told me it was a trail that might lead us to Cody O’Brien’s killer.