Barnstorming (Gail Mccarthy Mysteries)

by Laura Crum

  “It’s been great,” I told her. “Mac and I have stayed close, and he’s become a really confident learner. He’s made friends, and they’ve been totally positive relationships. He hasn’t had to go through the sort of nasty social bullying that went on in my grade school, anyway.”

  “Mine, too,” Jeri agreed. “That stuff really scars you.”

  “Well, as far as I can tell, Mac isn’t scarred,” I said. “He loves to learn, and he likes people and feels open to them. He’s a happy kid.” And I smiled.

  “Good for you,” Jeri said. “You followed your own path.”

  We reined our horses up by the side of the busy country road. “I’m going to cross here,” I said, “and then cut across that parking lot and through the Red Barn boarding stable.”

  “I’ll follow you,” Jeri said.

  We waited side by side for a gap in the traffic, then crossed the road at a brisk walk. Gray Dog, I was pleased to see, was as calm as Sunny.

  Jeri saw my glance at her horse. “He’s a good boy,” she said. “Nothing much bothers him. He’s seventeen this year, and since he used to be both a team roping horse and a ranch horse, he’s seen a lot of stuff. I was lucky to get him.”

  As we rode up the dirt road that led through the boarding stable and on toward the ridge, I glanced automatically around. A woman was schooling a horse in the arena; two girls were cleaning pens. No one I knew. Ross and Tammi were nowhere to be seen.

  “I’m taking you the way that I rode on Saturday, when I found Jane,” I told Jeri.

  “Did you see anyone in particular when you rode through here?” Jeri asked.

  “Not that I remember,” I said. “I think there were a few people around, like there are now, but no one I recognized.”

  I glanced at the A-frame house at the end of the road as I took the trail that led off to the right. All quiet. Maybe Ross and Tammi were inside, having lunch.

  Sunny marched confidently along the trail, which rolled up and down over little hills, past big pine snags, and through a grove of feathery acacia trees. We stepped over a fallen log, and ducked for a low branch. I looked back to see Jeri following suit. As we emerged from the acacia trees, my gaze shot up the hill to a blue house that was clearly visible from the trail. A furious volley of barks announced approaching trouble.

  “Hang on,” I said tersely to Jeri, “that is, if he’s afraid of dogs.”

  Jeri grinned. “He doesn’t like dogs,” she said, “but he’s not afraid of them. He might kick one. He attacks dogs.”

  “Don’t let him, if you can help it. We don’t need trouble from this guy.”

  The big white dog, who looked like a standard poodle, raced down the hill toward our horses, barking the whole time. I could see the owner clearly, standing in the driveway, making no attempt to call the dog off. In fact, I was pretty sure he’d sicced the dog on the horses.

  The white dog dashed around us, yapping and pretending to nip. I kept a steady pace down the trail; Sunny ignored the dog. Gray Dog pinned his ears, but Jeri kept him on a tight rein and he did not lash out at the diving, darting dog.

  “What’s the deal with that?” Jeri said, as we passed the house and the dog returned to the driveway.

  “That guy doesn’t like the horses riding through here, or so I’ve heard. But he can’t stop us; the trail’s not on his property. So he sics the dog on people. It’s one of the things Jane said she was upset about when I saw her.”

  Jeri and I looked back to see the distant man staring at us, his pose and gaze obviously defiant.

  “Nice guy,” Jeri muttered. “Think I’ll call on him and find out his whereabouts when Jane Kelly was murdered.”

  “Good idea. I didn’t see either him or his dog when I rode through here Saturday afternoon.”

  I took the left-hand trail that led up through the Five Thousand Eucalyptus Forest, following the route I’d taken then. Though only a couple of days ago, it seemed like eons of time had passed, so much had happened. The eucalyptus forest was unchanged; the tall, pinkish, peeling trunks swaying slightly in an infinitesimal breeze. Shadows dappled the trail and leaves crunched under the horses’ hooves. Sunny clambered steadily as the route grew steeper, stepping over fallen branches, following the trail as it wound between the slender trunks.

  When we reached the spot where this trail joined the ridge trail, I turned right and indicated a wide place up ahead. “That’s where I met Jane,” I said.

  “How did she seem?” Jeri asked. “Calm, upset?”

  “Normal, for Jane. Friendly, feisty. Jane was kind of a feisty personality. We got started talking about trail access problems and she was upset about that guy with the white dog. And the dirt bike guy. And whoever it is that’s been blocking the ridge trail. Not to mention her various boarding stable dramas I told you about. All that was typical of Jane.”

  Jeri said nothing to this, just looked carefully at the spot. “I know which way you went from your map,” she said finally, as we continued up the trail. “Which way do you think Jane went?”

  “I think she went down the ridge trail until she came to the tree that was blocking it. That’s the way she was headed, anyway. And then I guess she came back up this trail and turned left at the next junction. It would make sense, considering where she was found.”

  “Let’s go that way,” Jeri said.

  We rode steadily, leaving the eucalyptus forest for the grove of big Monterey pines. Jeri indicated a faint trail that led off to the left. “Where does that go? Is that the trail you mean?”

  “No,” I said. “That goes down the hill towards the base of the big landmark tree, and from there it goes further down and ends up in that subdivision on Storybook Road. Horse people don’t use it. I think only people from the subdivision that hike up here on the trails use it.”

  “Horses don’t go down there?”

  “No. The people in that subdivision don’t like horses. They banned them.”

  “Oh,” Jeri said.

  We rode on until we reached the three-way trail crossing. I pulled up on the flat under the oak tree, and pointed at the trail that led to the Lookout and the pretty trail. “That’s the way I went on Saturday. And then I came back through here,” I pointed at the left-hand trail, leading down the hill, “after I found Jane. I met the hiker with the dog right here, after I found Jane’s body.”

  “Was he someone you’d seen before?”

  “I’m not sure, “ I said honestly. “I do see people out hiking with their dogs, and yellow Labs are a pretty popular breed these days. I might have seen this guy before. He looked kind of familiar. But I’m not sure. He was just a middle-aged man, kind of thick-looking, wearing hiking shorts and carrying a machete. I think the machete struck me as ominous at the time, but he was probably just using it to clear poison oak and brambles away from the trail.”

  “How did this guy seem? Upset, calm, friendly?”

  “Hard to say. I was pretty upset myself. I remember meeting his eyes and wondering if I should ask him for help and just not knowing what to do. In the end I headed off to the Lookout because I knew my cell phone would work from there. I never spoke to him or him to me. I’m guessing he’s somebody from the subdivision who comes up here to walk his dog.”

  “Okay. So let’s go the way you think Jane went,” Jeri said.

  “Sure.” And I led off down the hill through the tangled green shrubbery.

  Sunny walked briskly, picking up the pace a little. Sunny knew perfectly well that we were now headed in the direction of home. Like most trail horses, Sunny walked a little more quickly on the way back. To his credit, he did not jig or prance in an annoying way. He just marched.

  Down we went, through the blackberry vines and wild currant, detouring for a downed tree—the path well worn by many previous feet. In a minute or two we were in the dim shadows of the redwood grove, the red-brown trunks towering on both sides of the trail. No light sparks penetrated the thick canopy far above. A hushed chil
l seemed to fill the air.

  “Brrr,” Jeri said.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said, looking over my shoulder as I spoke so that Jeri could catch my words. “It’s always cold here. We call the spot at the bottom of this hill the cold valley. It’s usually at least ten degrees colder there than in the meadow where Jane was shot.” I swallowed. “We call that place the warm meadow,” I said, thinking that I very sincerely hoped that it didn’t become the “place where Jane was shot” or “place where I found the body.” I didn’t want to think of it that way.

  The two horses reached the bottom of the slope and Sunny stepped confidently across the streambed at the bottom and along the trail that led to the warm meadow. Jeri and Gray Dog followed. Despite the nature of our errand, I couldn’t help enjoying the bright autumn sunshine flickering between the green leaves of the willows and the fresh smell of the loamy ground under the horses’ hooves. The very rhythm of Sunny’s brisk walk made my heart lift.

  We paced steadily out into the sunshine of the meadow; the light dazzled my eyes after the shadows beneath the trees. When I focused I could see the yellow crime scene tape and the scrubby pine tree where I’d tied Dolly. Jeri and I pulled our horses up. I stared somberly at the heavily trampled ground encircled by the tape.

  “We never did find the spent cartridges,” Jeri said.

  “Does that mean something in particular?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily. They’re small and can be missed. But it could mean that the woman was shot from a distance, not up close, and that the cartridges just aren’t here in this clearing. Which might indicate a twenty-two rifle, rather than a pistol, was the weapon.”

  I thought about that. “That would eliminate the people I saw,” I said. “I don’t think any of them had somewhere to conceal a rifle.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jeri said. “And it tends to make the shooting look like either a true accident or very premeditated. Not some sort of confrontation on the trail and the shooter pulled out his gun.”

  Suddenly Sunny lifted his head and pricked his ears. I looked where he was looking, and my heart seemed to jump into my throat. Walking down the trail towards us was a man—carrying a rifle.

  “Jeri,” I said quietly.

  Jeri’s head turned; she saw what I saw. Her eyes narrowed as the man came walking toward us. The rifle was held loosely in his right hand, not pointing at anything. The man met our eyes and jerked his chin up in a minimal greeting. Jeri and I, and our two horses, watched him approach. My heart thumped a steady tattoo. I had no idea what, if anything, I should do. Jeri was a cop, a trained professional. I waited for her to give me a lead.

  The guy looked like a young man, perhaps in his twenties. His blondish brown hair gleamed in the sunshine. He was strongly built, and despite his regular, even features, he did not bring to mind a pretty boy. This guy looked tough. His face was calm, neither friendly or unfriendly. When he was twenty feet away, Jeri spoke. “Hello, Brandon. Out for a walk in the woods?”

  The man stopped. His eyes, even at this distance an obvious, brilliant blue, looked sharply at Jeri’s face. “Sergeant Ward,” he said slowly. “On a horse.”

  “That’s right,” Jeri said. “This is Brandon Carter,” she added, looking briefly at me. “The man we picked up and released.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  Brandon Carter met my eyes. “After they determined it was not my gun that shot the woman.” He looked back at Jeri. “I don’t shoot women.”

  “So it appears,” Jeri said mildly. “How come you’re walking through the woods with a rifle in your hand?”

  “No law against it,” Brandon said. “There’s mountain lions back here.”

  “True,” I agreed. “I saw one once, out riding.”

  Brandon looked interested. “What did it do?”

  “Disappeared into the brush.”

  Jeri shrugged one shoulder. “Brandon hasn’t been willing to be too forthcoming about why he hikes around with his rifle in hand, which is mostly why he got picked up in the first place.”

  “No law against it,” Brandon repeated.

  “There’s a law against firing it,” Jeri said mildly. “In this county, anyway. You need to go to a range.”

  “I know that.” Brandon folded his arms across his chest, cradling his rifle in the crook of his left elbow.

  “So what are you doing out here today?” Jeri asked him.

  Brandon considered that, arms crossed. “I don’t like people shooting women up in the hills,” he said at last. “I’m just having a look around.”

  “We don’t need any vigilantes around here, Brandon,” Jeri said.

  “Did I say anything about being a vigilante? I’m just having a look around. I walk in these hills a lot.”

  “All right.” Jeri’s tone was cool. “And if you see anything worth mentioning, I’ll thank you to let me know.”

  “Yep.” Brandon looked her straight in the eyes. “I’ll be sure and do that.”

  Jeri looked at me and gave an infinitesimal shrug. “Let’s go,” she said.

  As we turned our horses, I looked back. Brandon still stood in the trail, arms crossed, rifle held in the crook of his arm, eyes watching us. “See you around,” he said.

  When we were out of earshot, I turned and caught Jeri’s eye. “What’s with him?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “He was pretty angry at being accused of this shooting.”

  I watched Sunny’s yellow ears for a minute, then turned back to Jeri. “Why would he be angry?” I asked. “Surely he could see why you’d suspect him.”

  I could hear the shrug in Jeri’s voice as she replied. “You’d be surprised. It’s a common reaction. People are really offended at being accused of a crime they didn’t commit.”

  “And you’re sure that guy’s innocent? He seemed to have an attitude.”

  “Yep. Brandon has an attitude. But that rifle didn’t kill the woman.”

  “And it’s really legal for him to carry it around like that?”

  “Yep. Not legal for him to fire it, though.”

  We’d reached the trail crossing and I halted Sunny. “Which way do you want to go?” I asked Jeri.

  “I’d like to ride the route Jane would probably have taken back to Lazy Valley,” she said.

  “That would be the swingset trail.”

  Jeri nodded. “But first I’d like to go check out the camper you saw.”

  “Didn’t your people check on that already?” I asked.

  “They found the camper. No one was around that evening, apparently. I went up there Sunday and yesterday and couldn’t find a soul. But the camper was still there.”

  “Okay,” I said, taking the narrow trail that led to the pampas grass meadow. “Let’s go see if it’s still there now.”

  Sunny walked slowly; he’d displayed an obvious reluctance to take the trail that led away from home, but I’d booted him and he’d acquiesced, with a decent amount of grace. Now he was walking out again, covering the country in a long swinging stride. We passed through the tangled greens of oak trees and manzanita and emerged into the openness of the big meadow, studded with feathery clumps of rustling pampas grass. We’d had a few early rains, so the loose ground wasn’t too dusty, and Jeri and I rode along quietly through the bright air. I could see the skeleton shape of the landmark tree perched on the ridge to my right.

  Once across the meadow, I reined Sunny to the left, up the logging road, a mere couple of ruts through the rough grass. Up we went, past a big pine snag, around a couple of bends, and there it was. Pulled off to the side of the road on an old log deck sat the battered camper. With a man standing beside it.

  I looked back at Jeri, who nodded. Both of our eyes were fixed on the short, stocky form of the man, whose shaved head gleamed like a pinkish billiard ball in the sunlight. The guy had seen us and watched our approach. He grinned, what struck me as an oddly goofy expression. Somehow he gave me the creeps. I halted Sunny and Jeri rode b
y me, stepping closer to the man and his truck.

  “Hello there,” she called. “I’m Detective Jeri Ward of the Santa Cruz Sheriff’s Department. I’d like to have a word with you, please.”

  “Sure.” The man was still grinning. I one hundred percent for sure did not like his expression. “I’ll talk to anyone,” he said.

  Jeri dismounted from Gray Dog and handed his reins to me. Taking a notepad and pencil from her pocket, she stepped nearer to the bald guy.

  “Could I have your name?”

  The grin remained in place. I swore I could see white all around the grayish iris of his eyes. “Buddy,” he said.

  “Buddy what?”

  “Just Buddy. I’m like Cher. And Madonna. One name.”

  Jeri didn’t flinch. “Your address?”

  Buddy shrugged. “No address.”

  “Where do you live?” Jeri asked him.

  “Here.” And he patted the fender of the battered truck. I saw Jeri glance at the license plate and write the number down.

  “Do you have permission to be parked here?”

  He shrugged again. “Who would I ask?”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “A few days.” Buddy’s grin was fading a bit. He watched Jeri warily as she took notes.

  “My friend Gail here saw your camper parked in this spot on Saturday afternoon.”

  “Is that right?” And Buddy’s oddly round eyes fixed on me.

  “Yes,” I said. “I did see your camper here when I was riding.”

  “Must have been here then.”

  “Did you hear any shots that afternoon?”

  “I can’t recall.” Now Buddy looked defiant.

  I saw Jeri stoop down and pick up an object from the ground. Something small. “This looks like a cartridge from a twenty-two,” she said. “You been doing any shooting here?”

  “Not me.” Buddy’s tone was sullen and he looked at the ground.

  Jeri walked to the edge of the bank. I followed her with my eyes. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Was there a line of sight from this spot to the place where Jane was shot? It looked like there could be.