Barnstorming (Gail Mccarthy Mysteries)

by Laura Crum

  “Yep. He pretty much couldn’t stop talking. He said that Sheryl Silverman getting pregnant was a problem for him. He did not want the obligations of fatherhood. He’s quite clear on that. Sheryl insisted she would keep the baby. She wanted them to get married. Doug says he broke up with her and went back to Jane. He was still trying to convince her to get an abortion. He also says that it crossed his mind that Sheryl might have shot Jane. She usually carried a twenty-two pistol in her saddlebags. My guys are right now checking to see if that gun could have killed Jane Kelly.”

  “Do you think Doug killed Sheryl?” I asked.

  “He’s the likely suspect if you go by the book. He’s got a clear motive and no alibi. But I’m not ready to arrest him yet. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover first.”

  “Speaking of that…” And I told Jeri what Trish had told me about Ross and Tammi.

  Even as I finished up, Jeri was getting to her feet. “I’m headed over there,” she said.

  “There’s more. You know that guy with the white dog? Well, he’s the one who’s been blocking the trails. And I think he may have an irrational hatred of horse people.” And I repeated the story that Riva had told me. “That guy’s house is the closest place to the spot where Sheryl was shot. And he’s just a short ways from where Jane was shot. Not to mention, I think Jane turned back when she met one of his little barriers. Maybe she actually ran into him. I know Jane. If she’d seen him blocking the trails, she would have given him an earful.”

  “Bill Waters is on my list of people to talk to today,” Jeri said. “Anything more, Gail?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  I watched Jeri move purposefully toward my door and felt a little niggle of misgiving. At some level I wanted to be going with her. I wanted to help solve this mystery. I wanted the darkness that hung over the ridge blown away like mist in the sunshine. I wanted to DO something.

  Jeri’s car drove down my driveway. Mac emerged from the house and began throwing a ball for Star. Even Freckles, spurred on by the puppy, occasionally did some fetching. The little black scruffy ball of fur dodged between Freckles’s legs and ran pell-mell after the ball. Mac laughed with delight. I watched and tried to feel the joy in the moment. Tried to let go of this seething need to “do.” But it wouldn’t let me alone.

  There was no peace in my heart and my mind raced with questions. Half an hour later I’d cooked breakfast for Mac and Blue and was feeling no more settled. Mac had arranged to take Star over to his best friend’s house to play. Blue had agreed to drive him there. As they headed towards the door I said to Blue, “I might go out for a while. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

  Blue gave me a quizzical look, but said nothing, as was his way. My husband was not an interfering sort, and mostly kept his thoughts to himself.

  When Mac and Blue had disappeared I sat down on the porch and stared at the ridge, which sparkled in the fresh sunlight. There was a half-fledged idea in my mind. Perhaps it wasn’t a very smart idea. But I had the inescapable urge to do something, and I didn’t think there was much point in my driving over to Lazy Valley Stable to see what was going on. I’d only be a nuisance. But there was one place I could go that nobody could stop me from going. The center of the mystery. The ridge.

  What Blue would make of this I didn’t like to think. But I had an idea. It had come to me when I contemplated just how well I knew the trails. Surely this knowledge could be used to my advantage. If someone was out there shooting people, a hidden watcher might eventually see this person. And there were many places to hide.

  The word “hide” had bounced in my mind with odd emphasis, and then I got it. The poacher’s blind. The poacher’s blind sat high in a tree near the Lookout. There was a chain ladder leading up to a screened platform. It was impossible to tell if anyone was in the blind from the ground. Presumably it had been built to shoot deer.

  If I waited in that blind, I might see people on the trails when they did not know they were being observed. And I might learn something. The question was, how to get to the blind? If I rode there I was obviously putting myself at some risk. People on horses were easy to spot. And so far the shooter had targeted riders—for what reason we didn’t know. I would be extremely vulnerable if I rode. Also, tying Sunny near the blind would be a dead giveaway that someone was there.

  I could hike. Hiking had many advantages. I could be quiet and watchful and would perhaps spot others before they saw me. I could hide in the brush and maybe be unnoticed if I came upon anyone else. But I could not move fast in the case of danger. I was not going to be able to outrun anyone. If I ran into the shooter I would have no defenses, as I did not plan on some sort of western shoot-out scenario. And it would take me an hour to hike to the blind and an hour to hike home.

  But there was one other possibility. The thought of Buddy’s camper had brought it to my mind. I could drive my four-wheel-drive pickup up the logging road and park it on a log deck near the Lookout. It would take me all of five minutes to hike to the blind from there. And once I was hidden in the blind there would be nothing to show I was there.

  Would I see anything useful? Probably not. But there was a chance. It was better than doing nothing. And I would be likely to see anyone who was out on the trails. Most people who hiked or rode made for the Lookout. The view over the bay was spectacular and a destination for most if not all trips along the ridge. So the chances were I would see whoever was out there.

  I didn’t stop to think about it further. Putting a bottle of water, a small picnic blanket, and my pistol in my daypack, and my cell phone and a camera in my pockets, I headed out to the truck. For lack of a better idea, I was going to hide out on the ridge.

  Chapter 18

  The truck bounced and jolted up the rutted dirt road full of potholes. I gritted my teeth and tried not to feel too apprehensive. No one was going to shoot at me in this vehicle, I reassured myself. But I didn’t feel too sure about that.

  Around me the hills rolled away, empty and serene. I saw two does browsing in the pampas grass meadow. A rabbit hopped across the turf where Buddy’s camper was once parked. But the noise of the diesel engine drowned out the sounds of the woods and I was aware that there could be much happening that was lost to me. I did not see any other human travelers—but that did not mean that they weren’t there.

  I passed the big madrone on the bend and the road tended more steeply uphill. In another minute I would reach the wide place I was thinking of, an old log deck very near the top of the ridge. Here I planned to park the truck and go on foot.

  The engine growled with effort as the truck climbed and rocked its way forward. Anyone in the woods right now would know exactly where I was. I sighed. Maybe this wasn’t such a clever idea.

  The level width of the old log deck appeared on the right, grassy and grown-in. Beyond stretched a vista of rolling hills, blue-green in the distance, tossing like tumbled waves up to the crest of the coastal mountains. I parked the truck and got out, relieved at the sudden silence. For a long while I just stood and listened.

  All seemed as usual. The rustle of quail in the brush, the flash and squawk of a blue jay through the trees, the normal noises of the woods and scrub.

  Shouldering my pack, I locked the truck and headed up the hill. By my reckoning I was very close to the Lookout clearing, and the hunter’s blind. It should only take me five minutes to get there.

  I trudged up the slope, glad that I had not elected to walk the whole way. My truck would be invisible to anyone at the Lookout, and even if someone passed by it while riding or hiking this road, they would have no way of knowing that its driver was hiding in the blind.

  I was in the redwoods now, and the dazzle of light ahead told me that the Lookout bluff lay just beyond this grove. I walked as quietly as I could, pausing every few steps to look and listen. I wanted to be aware of any other visitors to the Lookout before they were aware of me.

  Stepping softly through the shadows underneath the dark
redwoods, I peered ahead at the bare clearing. A small breeze riffled through thin stalks of brown dead grass at the edge of the bluff. Beyond that empty space opened up in a blue dazzle of sky and sea. The distant horizon showed the thin line of land curving around the deep aquamarine crescent of the bay. Tumbled coastal hills rolled down to the water. As always the view made me catch my breath. Even such an errand as I was on could not rob this place of its inherent drama.

  I stared, waiting, watching, listening. I could see no figures anywhere; I could hear no voices. The Lookout appeared to be deserted. Cautiously I stepped out of the shadows and walked down the road to the clearing.

  I reached the crown of the bluff and halted. My eyes shot to the right and scanned up the big oak tree to the hunter’s blind, a screened platform in the first fork of the trunk, about twenty feet off the ground. A ladder made out of chain hung from the platform to the ground. I made my way towards the ladder.

  The blind sat silent above me; I shook the ladder and gave it a hard tug. It seemed solid. Once again I looked around. No one to be seen. I put my hands on the metal rung above my head and stepped up onto the ladder.

  Hand over hand, one step at a time, I climbed slowly up the ladder. It swung wildly with my weight and I found it hard to keep my balance. I kept my concentration steady; I did not look down, just focused on gripping hard and pulling up one rung at a time. And in a minute I heaved myself onto the plywood platform and looked around.

  Nothing. Dusty, bare wood. No trash, no gear of any kind. The screen around the platform was of woven willow. It looked sturdy and well supported. I could see easily through the gaps, but knew from riding past the blind that those below could not see me. I had taken the precaution of wearing brown, so felt pretty sure I was invisible. I settled myself as comfortably as I could, facing the Lookout bluff and waited.

  And waited. Little spatters of sunlight filtered through the branches and touched my skin. I could see dust motes floating in the air. Outside the blind, jays squawked and squirrels chattered from time to time. I could smell the rich earthy smell of redwood duff from the nearby grove of trees. The clearing I was watching remained deserted. And yet I felt reasonably confident that anyone who was on the trails was likely to aim for the Lookout.

  I waited and watched. Shifted from time to time to get comfortable. The sunlight grew stronger. From where I sat I could see the shining blue of the bay and the open dazzle of the sky…in bits through the woven screen. I stared at a red-tail hawk making big ascending circles as he caught a thermal. I wondered how long I would sit here before something happened. And then it hit me.

  This was the life I had been asking for. This, just this, was what I proposed to choose over resuming my career as a horse vet. Sitting and watching. Watching the light change in the sky. Watching the seasons in my garden. Watching the wild creatures. This was it. This was the whole deal.

  The thought almost made me laugh out loud. Be careful what you ask for. Holding still and watching, just being, sounds easy, but in practice not so much, as those who meditate can attest. In theory one might watch the light change and the shadows lengthen. In practice, one combats boredom and sore joints, as I was doing now.

  I stretched each leg in turn and peered through the screen. The clearing remained empty and quiet; sparse, dried brown grass flickered in the intermittent breeze, which seemed to be rising. A rabbit hopped into view and then jumped back into a patch of thistles. I wondered if I’d been here an hour.

  Glancing back again, I stiffened. Movement in the grass at the edge of the clearing near the trail that led to Moon Valley resolved itself into a gray-brown cat-like form. In another moment the tufted ears and short tail of the lynx let me know that this was a bobcat, a common dweller in these hills. Nonetheless I watched, fascinated. Despite the fact that I had seen bobcats hundreds of times since living here, I never lost interest in observing them.

  This bobcat was a large one and very spotted. The white belly and legs were leopard-like with black dots. I had seen bobcats of an overall golden brown like a cougar, and even one with pronounced white socks on its back legs like a domestic cat. But I had never seen one either this large or this spotted.

  The bobcat hesitated and raised its head to sniff the air, looking carefully about, very much as I had done when I entered the clearing. The long side whiskers, somewhat like a Fu Manchu mustache, quivered slightly. Then the cat walked forward confidently, with that peculiar high-in-the-rear-end gait so characteristic of these lynxes. Bobcats tended to move with confidence, in my experience, not seeming very afraid of anything, including humans. This bobcat stalked calmly across the open bluff, looked back once over its shoulder, and vanished down the trail that led to the old reservoir.

  I took a deep gulp of air; I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. And then I heard voices.

  I held perfectly still and strained to listen. A male voice and a female voice, it sounded like. Coming from the direction the bobcat had come. Coming up the trail that led to Moon Valley.

  And in another moment I saw two mounted horsemen scramble up the last steep bit of hill and emerge into the open. I blinked. Surely that was Tammi and Ross.

  Tammi wore a halter top; I could see her tattoos from here. Ross had a ball cap on, but I was sure it was him. They rode two sorrel horses; I did not know their horses well enough to have any idea if these were their own animals or not. But it was certainly Ross and Tammi.

  They parked their horses side by side in front of the view. I could hear their voices, but frustratingly, I could not make out a word of what they were saying. At moments it looked as though they were arguing. I watched intently the entire time they sat and talked, but could see or hear nothing of interest. Neither had a backpack or saddlebags, I noted.

  Eventually they wheeled their horses and rode toward me. It looked as though they planned to take the logging road. In a moment they would pass right by my tree. My heart began beating harder. Even though I felt sure I was hidden, the thought of being discovered by these two made my gut tense. Who knew just how much they were on the run from? I strained to catch what Tammi was saying.

  “Dammit, Ross, we can’t hide there forever. That detective was out there this morning looking for us. Juli’s going to cave under the pressure. It’s just luck we were back behind the barn when that stupid girl cop drove in. Otherwise she might have caught us. We need to get out of there.”

  “You got any good ideas just how to do that, Tam? You think we ought to steal Juli’s car?” Ross’s voice was harsh.

  And then they were past me and I could no longer make out words.

  Hmmm…looked like Jeri had failed at picking up Ross and Tammi. But apparently they were still hiding out at Lazy Valley Stable. Nothing in what I had heard told me whether they were hiding there solely because of being busted for pot growing, or if they were involved in the shootings.

  I shifted my weight and crossed my legs. At least I had seen something worth noting. I would just hang out here awhile longer.

  Time passed. The wind rocked the branches of my tree. For a while I lay on my back and gazed upward, watching the shifting patterns of green leaves against blue sky. From time to time I rolled on my side and peered through the screen, but there was nothing to be seen. Other than a haze growing over the ocean, which promised that the weather might be changing again.

  I watched the oak leaves dance across the sky, green against blue, a brilliant kaleidoscope. Rolling over, I peered through the screen. Something moved right below me and I nearly let out a startled squawk. A big buck was walking up the trail, just passing my blind.

  The buck seemed unaware of me; I watched him browse idly on some ceanothus branches that overhung the trail. He had odd-shaped antlers—very wide, like a cow’s horns, and a dark blaze down his face. His nose was black and shiny and the white under his tail flashed as he flicked it upward from time to time. Suddenly his head came up and he looked back over his shoulder. In another moment he b
ounded into the redwoods beside the trail and disappeared.

  Now what had startled the buck? I waited and watched. And in another few seconds a hiker came into view. The thickset guy with the yellow Lab. Hiking steadily up the trail, the Lab wagging his tail and huffing a little. They both passed under my tree without looking up. The hiker glanced at the Lookout view but kept moving, taking the logging road back down the hill. As before, he carried a machete and wore a pack.

  Well, Brandon Carter had said this guy hiked up here all the time. Something about him was familiar, but I just couldn’t place what it was.

  I stretched my legs and arms in turn and wondered how much longer I wanted to stay here. Judging by the light, it was about noon. The sky was starting to cloud up. I took a drink of water and settled down to wait some more.

  Crossing my arms behind my head, I lay down on my back and gazed upward at the leaves, waving against the drifting clouds. The wind hummed in the branches. Steadily the humming grew louder, and I suddenly sat up straight. That was not the wind. It was an engine.

  A sharp, fairly high-pitched engine. And in another moment I was sure. That was the noise of a dirt bike, rapidly approaching up the logging road.

  The whine of the motor grew louder and louder, drowning out all other sounds. I stared in the direction of the logging road and saw the motorcycle emerge from the redwoods, shrieking its noisy song. The rider had a beard; it was clearly the same guy I’d seen before. He blasted across the clearing and spun a donut in the middle, tearing up the ground and raising a cloud of dust in the air. Nice.

  Pulling up in front of the view, the bearded guy cut the engine and laid the bike down. For a second he glanced around the clearing, and then looked over his shoulder, right at the tree I was in. Purposefully he started in that direction.

  Shit. Oh shit. It had never occurred to me that others might climb up in this blind from time to time. For all I knew, this noisy biker might have built the blind. Hadn’t Jeri said that he lived in the big subdivision?