by Laura Crum
After she left, I said to Kris, "Maybe you two should get some sleep."
"I think Jo should." Kris stood up, holding her daughter's hand. "Okay, sweetheart?"
"Sure." Jo looked at me. "Thank you, Gail."
I was surprised. "Of course. But for what?"
"For coming. You made us feel better."
I gave her a brief hug. "You're welcome. Go to bed and try and get some sleep."
Five minutes later Kris returned from Jo's bedroom and Jeri Ward came back in the door, both at the same time.
"What can you tell us?" I asked Jeri.
She lifted her eyebrows. "Doesn't look like there are any fingerprints; we think he wore gloves. We'll do the usual analysis on the semen. It appears that a horse was tied behind the barn, not too long ago." Jeri looked at Kris. "Do you tie your horse back there?"
"No, never. I tie her out in front, by the stall where you found her."
"Well, it could be that this unknown horse was tied there. We're going to wait until daylight to make a closer examination of the scene. Is there a trail behind your barn?"
"Yes," Kris said. "It runs up the bank behind the house and then follows the ridge in both directions."
"Where can you ride to from here?"
Kris and I looked at each other and shook our heads. "Just about anywhere," she said. "If you go one way, you'll end up in the Lushmeadows subdivision. If you go the other, you'll end up in a network of trails that will take you toward Corralitos, and a lot of other places."
"I could ride from my place to here. I did it, last weekend," I said. "Or, at least, I rode to Lushmeadows, and, as Kris says, a person could easily ride from there to here."
"All right," Jeri nodded. "I need to ask you to stay completely away from the barn for a day, while we pursue our investigation."
"I have to untie the horse and put her back in the corral, and I have to feed her," Kris pointed out.
"Let's go out and go over that right now," Jeri said. To me, she said, "We need to talk, Gail."
"Can it be tomorrow?" I asked. "I'm pretty tired."
"Tomorrow is fine. I'll be here in the morning. You can reach me on my cell phone." She handed me a card.
"Okay," I said. "I'll be in touch. Night, Kris."
"Night, Gail. And thanks again."
"You bet." I put my hand on the doorknob and turned to go. Jeri's voice stopped me.
A cold, quiet voice, not unpleasant, exactly, just detached. Her cop voice. "Don't forget, Gail. I'll need the name of the other party you spoke of. It's important."
"Right," I said. "See you."
And then I was gone.
FIFTEEN
Another foggy morning. Tired, depressed, and worried, I lay on my side in bed, looking out the window at solidly gray skies. Condensed fog dripped steadily off the roof and the porch was wet and dank. Not much to get up for. But I had to. The animals needed to be fed and I had one very important errand to run. I had to go see Nico.
I got up, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, worked my way through the morning chores, and climbed in the truck. I didn't know how early Nico got up; I hoped it was early.
Eight o'clock on a Saturday morning was not an appropriate time for a social visit, and I knew it. At least I wasn't on call this weekend; my pager wouldn't buzz in the midst of a tricky conversation.
Fortunately, Nico was up. There were lights on in the kitchen, and I could smell coffee through the top half of the Dutch door, which was open despite the fog.
"Nico," I called. "It's Gail."
A moment, and she appeared, wearing jeans and a sweater, looking as rumpled and just-woke-up as I assumed I did myself.
"Hello, Gail," she said, with that warm smile.
"I'm sorry to disturb you so early, but we've got a problem," I said.
"Would you like to tell me about it over some coffee?"
"That would be great." I accepted with alacrity; I'd skipped my coffee this morning.
Once the ritual of pouring coffee and offering cream and sugar had been accomplished and we sat at the table in the windowed breakfast nook, I told Nico what had happened last night at Kris's.
"So you see," I finished up, "we really need to tell Jeri Ward about what's been happening here."
Nico had listened to my story with a composed face and she answered me quietly. "But I cannot, Gail."
"It's important," I protested. "You could be in danger."
Nico shrugged, a very Gallic gesture.
I stared at her in consternation.
"I have work I wish to accomplish here," she said. "If the police find out I am here illegally they will deport me, and I do not want that to happen."
"But ..." I started, then stopped, aware already that nothing I could say would convince her.
"Please do not speak about me to this detective," Nico said.
What could I say? "It's your choice," I told her at last, "but I am really concerned. Has it happened again?"
"No, I do not think so."
"Will you tell me if it does?"
"If you wish."
I looked at her across the table; her face struck me as incredibly simple and pure. As always, I found myself intrigued, wanting to know her better. And I was worried about her.
"Can you think of anything that's changed lately?" I asked her. "Did someone new move in next door? Has a stranger been by here to look at paintings or something and noticed your mare?"
Nico sat quietly, holding her coffee, thinking. "I do not know of anything like that." She paused. "Except for George, and it cannot be him."
"George?"
"George Corfios."
"The one who moved in at Warren's place. You know him?"
"Yes, I met him years ago, when I first moved to this area. We have ridden our horses together on the beach. He rode over to visit me when he first moved here."
"So, how well do you know George?"
"Not well. But I have known him for many years now. He is an artist, too."
"He is? I thought he was a carpenter."
Nico smiled. "Both. He makes furniture. He made the bed and dresser that I have. Would you like to see them?"
"Sure," I said. Inwardly my mind was churning. George Corfios had ridden here on a social call; he had ridden to Kris's on a social call. In both places the mares had been "raped." Nothing of the sort had happened in this area until he moved into it, as far as I knew. Could it possibly be a coincidence?
I was following Nico through her studio, glancing at paintings as I went. Once again, my eyes went to the tawny, undulating landscape with the mysterious cobalt blue water-shape in the center. It had been the first painting I had looked at when I stepped into this room, what, only a week ago? It seemed much longer than that.
Then I was entering a short hall with an open door to my right that revealed a small bathroom. Nico was going through the door at the end of the hall; I followed her.
Once again I stopped, my eyes widening in pleasure. Nico's bedroom was as plain as my own. The bed and dresser were solid, simple oak pieces, both primitive and graceful. They suited the whitewashed adobe walls perfectly, as if they'd been made for the room. Which, in fact, they had.
"When I moved here, George was one of the friends who came to visit me. I asked him to make some furniture for my bedroom. I think he has, how do you say, captured the spirit of the place very well."
"Yes," I said. The bed and dresser were undeniably beautiful. But all I could think about was the uncanny coincidence of George knowing both Nico and Kris-the two owners of the "raped" mares. And both attractive single women, I added to myself.
After a minute I said, "George is someone you like?"
"Yes." Nico trailed an affectionate hand across the wood of the dresser. Her face looked reserved.
"The furniture is lovely," I said truthfully. "And I've decided which painting I want."
"That is good." Nico smiled.
I felt a little startled; the words had just come from
my mouth. I wasn't aware that I'd chosen. But apparently I had. Turning, I led the way back to the studio and up to the first painting that had caught my eye. "This one," I said definitely.
Nico smiled again. "I like that one also."
"How much is it?"
She seemed to be thinking. "For you, it is two thousand dollars."
I nodded, wondering how I could possibly justify such a sum for a painting.
"You may make payments if you wish," Nico said.
"Really? That would be great." The feeling of financial relief was accompanied by another buoyant thought. If I made payments to her, perhaps I could continue getting to know Nico.
"Would you like me to deliver the painting? I have a van that is good for transporting them."
"That would be great," I said again, with enthusiasm. "When could you come?"
Nico consulted some inner calendar and said, "Wednesday evening, I could come."
We made arrangements. I gave her directions, my phone number, and a deposit for the amount of five hundred dollars. Despite last night's stress, and my worry and suspicions, I felt remarkably lighthearted at the thought of owning the painting, as well as the idea of knowing Nico better.
Nico walked me out to my truck. I stopped by the driver's side door and stared at the black mare, peacefully eating hay in her corral.
"Nico, I'm really, really worried about that guy who comes to ..." I struggled for a word and gave up and shrugged, "the horse. I wish you'd let me call the police. They aren't going to be concerned about your residence status."
Nico met my eyes steadily. "Gail, I cannot."
"Okay. But you will tell me if anything happens."
"If you wish."
I got into my truck slowly, wishing I knew what the right answers were here. Should I override Nico's wishes? She might never forgive me, and again, was it really my decision? I had the definite sense that Nico wasn't going to be receptive to my suspicions about George.
In the end I said nothing. Just, "I'll see you Wednesday, then." But I drove away wondering. Not least of all what to say to Jeri Ward. Her dark green sheriff's sedan was parked in Kris's driveway when I got there; reluctantly, I pulled in.
As I expected, our encounter was less than positive. In front of a pale and quiet Kris, I told Jeri that I'd promised to keep the other "victim's" identity a secret, and I was going to keep my promise.
Jeri's lips tightened. "Why don't you think that decision over, Gail. You could be putting this person's life at risk."
"I know," I said wearily. "I'm not happy about it either. I'll call you if I change my mind."
Jeri said nothing, but all friendliness was gone from her expression. After ascertaining that Jo was still asleep but seemed fine, and Kris didn't need me for anything, I took my leave, feeling even more disheartened than I'd expected.
It just didn't take anything these days to knock my equilibrium astray. A little disapproval and I was instantly sunk in a mire of depression. All I wanted to do was go home and lie on the couch.
Once again, though, fate had other plans. Which initially took the form of my small, excited red dog barking pleadingly from her pen.
"All right," I said. Letting Roey out, I yielded to her entreaties to play Frisbee. Twenty or so tosses later, we started back toward the house. The cat emerged from his spot on the porch and walked to greet us.
Roey charged up to him and licked his face, knocking him down in the process. Bonner seemed undisturbed, absorbing the dog's noisy welcome without a quiver. But I noticed that when he got up and walked off, he limped a little.
This wasn't unusual. The cat was getting old. He had come to me as an adult stray, four years ago, and had survived the move from Soquel to Corralitos, as well as the replacement of my old, sedate dog with a rambunctious puppy. Bonner still seemed active and healthy, but his arthritis was beginning to show and his muscles had started to atrophy a bit. I was pretty sure he must be in his teens.
Still, he was a pretty animal, a fluffy tabby with a lynx-like face and a white chest and paws, and he had such a peaceful demeanor I'd nicknamed him the Buddha cat. I wished I had a tenth of his serenity.
I stroked his head now and he purred. I smiled. The old cat was happy enough, at least. Somehow I found that cheering. I might not be doing so well, but the animals in my care were still fine.
Letting the dog and the cat in the house, I looked around in renewed discouragement. The place was a mess. Instead of lying on the couch, I needed to scrub floors. I had no idea where in the world I was going to find the motivation.
But you get what you need. I'd only been in the house ten minutes when the phone rang. Picking it up, I said, "Hello."
"Gail?"
"Yes?"
"This is Blue. Blue Winter." His voice sounded oddly deep; I realized I'd never spoken to him on the phone before.
"Hi, Blue."
"Are you busy?" Blue sounded as tongue-tied as I felt.
"No. Actually I just got home."
"I was wondering if you'd mind if I dropped by today. I have something I'd like to give you."
"Uh, no, I wouldn't mind." My eyes roved wildly over the gritty floor, piles of dishes on the counter, and general impression of rubble and disarray. "When would you be thinking of coming?"
"Whenever would be good for you.”
"How about this afternoon? Say four o'clock," I said promptly.
"All right." He paused. "Maybe I could make you a margarita."
"Oh yeah. That's right. You're a tequila fan." Memories of last summer's pack trip rushed through me.
Blue laughed, sounding more relaxed than he had so far. "I could bring all the makings," he offered.
"Okay." I said. "Margaritas it is."
"See you at four," he said, and hung up.
For a second I stared at the receiver in my hand, surprised at the rush of anticipation I felt. Last night's drama and this morning's frustration receded abruptly. Blue had actually called, dammit. He was coming over.
Another minute of taking this in and I got to my feet and surveyed the room with some determination. Now I had a motive to clean the house.
SIXTEEN
Five hours later I peeled my dirty jeans and sweatshirt off and replaced them with clean jeans and a knit tank top in steel blue-gray. The house was as cleaned up as it had been in a long time-floors and sinks scrubbed, clothes and dishes clean and put away, all dog and cat hair vacuumed off the couch and carpet. I brushed my hair in front of the antique mirror and decided against putting on any makeup. I wanted this meeting to feel as simple and natural as possible.
Shoving my feet into comfortable clogs, I went out in the garden to cut some flowers for the house. The beds were lush with color, at the height of their June opulence. My choices seemed endless. Still, I knew where I would go. I had a rose grower coming over. The bouquet on the table was definitely going to be roses.
The question was which. In the end I went with my favorites-the Tea roses and Noisettes. Putting together a selection of rich apricot, peach, cream, and pale straw-gold, I added a few sprigs from my wild grapevine. The brilliant green and silver of the freshly unfurled grape leaves was the perfect foil for the warm, yet gentle colors of the roses. Arranging all this in a glass vase, I stood back. Unaffected and unfancy, the bouquet looked what it was, a loose gathering from a country garden. This was fine with me.
Blue was due to be here soon. For a second I dithered, wondering whether to put out the chips and salsa that I'd rushed to the store to buy, but then gave it up. Picking up my current book, the second in the Harry Potter series, I settled myself in the wicker couch on the porch. Time to relax, read, and drop my fussing. Things looked as good as they were getting, me included.
Still, I felt a rush of anticipatory nerves as a dark green pickup pulled up my driveway. The truck, liberally blotched with dried mud about the fenders, and well-coated with dust-a farmer's truck-parked itself near the house, and Blue Winter got out.
&n
bsp; From my position on the porch, I could see the late afternoon sunlight brighten the already vivid red-gold curls visible under the brim of his gray fedora hat. He carried a brown paper grocery bag in one arm; reaching over the side of the truck bed with the other, he pulled out a potted plant.
A rose, I realized a second later. The rose grower, naturally enough, wasn't bringing me a bouquet of florist's flowers; he was bringing me a living plant for my garden.
I was pleased. Standing up, I said, "Hi, Blue."
"Hello, Stormy." Blue smiled, that slow, grave smile that had so intrigued me last summer.
"Let me guess." I smiled back. "You brought me a rose. That's great."
Blue was looking around my garden. "You've got quite a few," he remarked, "but I don't see this one. I remember you said you liked Tea roses and Noisettes; I took a chance you might not mind my favorite China rose."
Blue lugged the potted rose up on the porch; I smiled at the sight of it.
Blue's favorite China rose was a delicate creature, with silky single blooms spangled all over the plant, looking just like multicolored butterflies. And truly multicolored-the blossoms ranged from pale apricot to coppery red, with various shades of pink and coral in between.
