Bluegrass Peril

by Virginia Smith

  “Sam’s not going is he? ’Cause if Sam goes, I get to go, too.”

  Jamie leaped to his feet. “Me, too. I want to go with Sam.”

  She kept the laughter out of her expression. “No, Sam is not going.”

  “Okay.” Their concerns resolved, they returned to their task of picking out the perfect toy to show Aunt Amber.

  Becky went back to the living room, chuckling.

  The doorbell rang. Two tornadoes sped past her, each shouting, “I’ll get it!”

  They opened the door before Becky could stop them. When she caught sight of Scott on the front stoop, her protest died on her lips. She’d never seen him in anything but jeans. Tonight he wore dark tailored pants, a gray dress shirt and a sport coat. His model-like good looks made her mouth dry. This gorgeous guy was here for her when he could have someone as beautiful as Kaci Buchanan? What did she do to deserve this?

  “Hey, guys, how’s it going?” Scott’s smile widened when he looked up at her. “Hello. You look fantastic.”

  Be still my heart. “Thanks.”

  His gaze swept the room, and she allowed hers to follow, seeing her cramped home with fresh eyes. The furniture was nearly as shabby as the Pasture’s before it got ripped to shreds. And what was that smell? Why had she cooked fish sticks for the boys’ supper tonight, of all nights? Heat flooded her face, and she grabbed Amber’s arm to pull her forward. “Scott, I’d like you to meet my friend, Amber Craig. Jeff Whitley is her boyfriend.”

  Scott’s smile was nothing but polite as he shook her hand. In return, Amber examined him with a friendly but curious gaze.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Scott.” Her eyes widened and she glanced quickly at Becky. “Uh, I mean from Becky. Not from Jeff. He would never talk about a suspect. Uh, not that Becky said—I mean, she told me…” She winced and lowered her eyes. Becky cringed. So much for making a good impression.

  Thank goodness for kids who forgot their manners. They interrupted what might have become an awkward moment by tugging on Scott’s arms.

  “Come see our toys, Mr. Lewis,” Tyler urged.

  “Sorry, boys, we need to get going.” Becky glanced pointedly at her watch, then at Amber. “Do you have any questions before we leave?”

  Amber’s face had gone from red to white at Becky’s announcement. “About a million. What do they eat? When is bedtime? Do they go to the bathroom alone?” She wore a please-don’t-leave-me-alone-with-them expression that made Becky chuckle.

  “They’ve already eaten, eight-thirty, and yes.” She gathered the panicky woman in a quick hug. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

  Becky pressed a quick kiss onto each of the boys’ cheeks and slipped outside after Scott. When the door closed behind her, she leaned against it and wiped an imaginary bead of sweat off her forehead.

  Scott laughed. “I take it this is her first babysitting job.”

  “Yes, and she had to be coerced into it.” She cast an anxious glance over her shoulder. “I hope she’ll be okay.”

  “Don’t worry, Mother Goose.” He placed a hand at her back and propelled her toward his truck. “She looks like she can handle your little goslings.”

  “Hey!” Becky pulled away from his touch and whirled to walk backward so she could look at him. “I don’t want to be Mother Goose tonight. I want to be Cinderella, going to the ball.” She reached the truck and leaned against it, tilting her head to cast a flirtatious grin up at him.

  Admiration lit his eyes. “I’ll be Prince Charming to your Cinderella any day.”

  He leaned toward her, and butterflies took flight in Becky’s stomach. But instead of kissing her, he grabbed the door handle and opened it for her.

  When she had stepped up into the truck and slid onto the bench seat, he placed an arm on the back and bent forward to capture her eyes in an intense gaze. “I have only one request for the evening.”

  She would have promised him anything if only he would go on looking at her like that. “What is it?”

  He grinned. “Let’s not talk about the Pasture, or Haldeman, or murder suspects, or anything related to any of the above.”

  On that, they were in wholehearted agreement.

  At ten-twenty, Becky closed the living room door behind her and sank against it with a rapturous sigh.

  “Welcome home,” whispered Amber from the couch. “Did you have fun?”

  “Oh, Amber!” She closed her eyes and let a dreamy smile take her lips. “It was the most wonderful evening I’ve ever had. He is handsome and kind and smart and considerate. And a strong Christian! I think he knows the Bible as well as Pastor Vaughn.” She grinned triumphantly. “We’ll see tomorrow, because he’s coming here for dinner and then to church with us!”

  “I’m glad you had a nice time.” Amber sounded tired.

  As her friend struggled to her feet, Becky looked around the room. “What happened in here?”

  The place was a disaster. Toys were strewn everywhere, the curtains dangled off the rod at one end and a brown handprint had been smeared across the television screen. Jamie was curled up in a slumbering ball on the floor, while Tyler had collapsed across the coffee table, his feet still on the floor. Drool puddled beneath his open mouth on the table’s surface.

  “I made a critical mistake.” Amber’s lips twisted at her blunder. “I tried to bribe them into being good with chocolate.”

  Becky’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no.”

  Scowling, Amber nodded. “They were wound tighter than a couple of springs.”

  A hint of concern crept into Becky’s voice as she stepped farther into the room to examine her friend. She looked as if she’d been mugged. “What is that gunk in your hair?”

  “Peanut butter.” She tried to wipe off a blob of goo with her fingers and managed to rub it in even more. “One of them, I have no idea which, came up with the great idea of slathering the chocolate bars with peanut butter.”

  “Oh, Amber, I’m so sorry. They’re usually—” She stopped. She was about to say the boys were well-behaved if you were firm with them, but the look on her friend’s face warned her now was not the time to share child-raising tips.

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Becky winced at Amber’s caustic tone. She bent to pick up a candy wrapper, then started to lay a hand on Tyler’s back to rouse him and send him to bed.

  “Don’t!”

  Amber’s loud hiss made her jerk her hand back. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t wake them until I’m gone.” She dashed into the kitchen and returned in a second, purse clutched in her hand and a frantic expression on her face. “Just give me a thirty-second head start. Good night. See you at church.”

  She ran from the house without a backward glance. The slam of the door shook the dangling curtain rod off the wall.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Samson’s Secret is one of the friendliest horses we have here at the Pasture.” Scott slapped the old bay’s neck affectionately as six tourists gathered around him. “He was found abandoned in a field in New Jersey, nothing but a bag of bones living on rainwater and whatever wild grass he could find. The authorities checked his tattoo and realized who he was, a champion who had made more than a million dollars during his career. He still holds the six-furlong track record at Arlington.” Scott shook his head. “It was like finding Babe Ruth living under a bridge.”

  “He’s a beautiful horse.” The woman reached a tentative hand toward Samson, smiling when he allowed her to rub his nose.

  “Here, give him this.” Scott pulled an apple out of the bucket he carried and halved it with his pocket knife.

  She did, turning a wide grin on her husband when Samson took it eagerly from her fingers.

  Scott laughed. “Besides being the friendliest, he’s the best eater. Probably remembers what it was like to scavenge for food.”

  “What’s wrong with his ear?” One of the men pointed.

  Scott stepped closer to the fence to grasp Samson’s
halter. The edge of his ear had a cut, fairly fresh. It looked clean, but he should probably put some antibiotic ointment on it to keep it from getting infected. Have to remember to do that.

  He looked at the man and shrugged. “They get little nicks and cuts every so often, especially the ones who like to roll on the ground or rub against the fence.”

  His cell phone buzzed on his belt. He unclipped it and glanced at the number. Lee Courtney.

  “Excuse me a minute.” He nodded toward his audience before stepping a few feet away. They drew together in a tight cluster around Samson, who appeared to be enjoying all the attention.

  “Scott Lewis.”

  “Scott, this is Marion. Lee would like to see you this afternoon, if you have time.”

  Scott wanted to get his evening chores done early so he could relax and enjoy Becky’s church. But of course he’d make time for his boss. “You bet. What time?”

  He heard a paper shuffle, then Lee’s assistant said, “He’s free around four. Just come on up to the house.”

  “I’ll be there.” Hopefully the meeting wouldn’t take too long. He was supposed to be at Becky’s at five-thirty.

  Scott closed the cover on his phone and returned to the tour.

  At three fifty-five Scott rang the doorbell at the Courtney residence, a magnificent antebellum mansion at the northernmost edge of the five-hundred-acre farm. Graceful white columns formed a two-story portico that always reminded Scott of Gone With the Wind. He could easily picture Scarlett O’Hara seated on a settee, batting her eyelashes behind her fan at a host of adoring beaux.

  As he pressed the doorbell, he realized his cell phone was missing from his belt clip. He’d laid it down on the workbench this afternoon and forgot about it. Hopefully he’d have time to run back by the Pasture and pick it up before he went to Becky’s.

  The door opened, and Scott smiled a greeting at Marion, Lee’s indispensable assistant.

  “Right on time, as usual.” Marion allowed him to press his lips to her cheek as he stepped inside. “He’s out on the veranda. Do you remember the way?”

  “I think so.”

  Scott had only been here a couple of times, but he’d been given the grand tour. Soft strains of classical music drifted down the wide, curving stairway, punctuated by the sound of his boots echoing on the tiled floor until he stepped into a carpeted den. There, eight-foot French doors that opened onto the veranda had been thrown wide to let a soft, rose-scented breeze flood the room. When he stepped outside, he found Lee seated in a white wicker chair, well shaded from the bright afternoon sunlight that bathed an enormous rose garden. Water trickled down multilayered porcelain bowls in a fountain in the center of the garden.

  “Scott, there you are.” The old gentleman laid his book on a glass-covered table beside him and stood to shake Scott’s hand. “Have a seat.”

  As Scott sat in the chair he indicated, Marion stepped through the French doors bearing a tray.

  “Ah, Marion, you always know what I want before I ask.” Lee beamed up at her, his blue eyes twinkling beneath thick gray brows.

  “Of course I do.” She set the tray on the low table and winked at Scott. “That’s why you keep me around.”

  She poured two tall glasses of lemonade from a frosty pitcher and set one before each of them. When she disappeared back into the house, Lee picked up his glass and held it to his lips.

  He looked at Scott over the rim. “How are things going down at Out to Pasture?”

  “Fine. I’m getting to know the horses and have spoken with most of the regular donors. You know, introduced myself, assured them that their help is still appreciated and necessary.”

  “Good, good.”

  Scott crossed his legs. “Several of them wanted to know when the board would meet to discuss the Pasture’s future.” Scott didn’t mention that two donors had questioned him closely to determine if he was interested in taking the job as the Pasture’s director on a permanent basis. He’d been flattered, but if he passed that along it would sound like bragging.

  Lee sipped his lemonade, then held the glass in both hands and stared into it. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’ve had a few calls this morning from some of the board members.”

  So maybe he didn’t have to blow his own horn after all. Maybe some of those donors had contacted the board on his behalf. He picked up his own glass and waited for Lee to continue.

  “Frankly, Scott, they’re concerned. They question my decision to put you in charge.”

  Scott sat immobile, searching the old man’s face while his words sank in. Someone didn’t think he could handle the job? Blood surged uncomfortably in his ears as the silence between them deepened.

  He leaned forward to set his glass back on the table. “I’m stunned. You might not remember this, but I have a lot of experience working with stallions.”

  Lee waved a hand. “Your experience isn’t in question. Your maturity is.”

  “My maturity?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand. Do they think I’m too young to handle the job?”

  Lips pursed, Lee studied him. Scott resisted the urge to squirm beneath the older man’s searching glance.

  “I’ll be honest with you. Neal excelled in many ways, but his personal habits were, shall we say, less than professional in some areas. Out to Pasture was his creation, his dream-child. But on more than one occasion his reputation had a negative impact on the organization.”

  Scott leaned back in his seat. “I can see how that would cause the board some concern. But what does it have to do with me? I don’t have a bad reputation.”

  Lee moved his book to pick up the folded section of a newspaper beneath it. He held it toward Scott. “Have you seen this?”

  Scott took it. A glance at the top showed him it was today’s Davidson County Post. He started to tell Lee that he didn’t take the small-town paper when his gaze caught on a headline.

  Man Strangled In His Own Home

  He skimmed the account of Eddie Jones’s death, exercising a huge amount of self-control to keep his face impassive when he found his own name mentioned. The reporter had spoken with someone at O’Grady’s, probably the same person Detective Foster questioned.

  …A witness, who wished to remain anonymous, told police that a few hours before his death Jones was seen at O’Grady’s Tavern arguing with the manager of Out to Pasture, a farm for retired Thoroughbred stallions. Scott Lewis, who took over management of the retirement farm after the previous manger was murdered last week, was unavailable for comment.

  “Nobody ever asked me for a comment.” He looked into Lee’s eyes, willing the man to believe him. “Honestly. I was there all day yesterday and today, and nobody from the paper has been by.”

  “I’ve already called Jeffries, the owner of the Post. He said no one answered the phone last night in the office.”

  “Has he ever heard of leaving a message?” Anger seeped into Scott’s voice. Surely there were laws against this kind of treatment by the press. Even a small-town newspaper was subject to the law, wasn’t it?

  “Is it true?” Lee leaned forward to tap a finger on the article. “Do you associate with characters like this Jones?”

  Scott flinched at the disapproval in the old gentleman’s tone. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “No, sir. I do not associate with Jones. The bare facts here are true, but I don’t gamble at all, and I don’t drink.” He met Lee’s gaze without flinching. “I went to the bar to ask him about the break-in because I thought he was responsible for it. He didn’t like my questions, and got a little uptight. I wasn’t even there ten minutes.”

  Lee’s eyes narrowed as he subjected Scott to a soul-searching stare. Finally, he nodded once and sat back with a relieved smile. “I knew you’d have an explanation. I’m never wrong about a man’s character.”

  Scott sagged with relief. He picked up his glass and gulped, more for an excuse to look away than because of thirst.

  Lee
took the paper from his unresisting hand and buried it beneath his book. “I’ll give the board members a call, explain things. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I appreciate that.” Sensing that he was being dismissed, Scott stood.

  Lee stood, as well, and extended his hand. “Thanks for coming by. The board is meeting on Friday, so I’ll give you a call and let you know how it goes.”

  Scott found his way to the front door alone and exited the house. Frustration tensed his jaw as he stomped down the porch stairs. Thank goodness Lee believed him, and he’d explain Scott’s involvement with Eddie Jones to the board. But what about the others who read that article?

  He slid behind the wheel of his truck and slammed the door. Instead of turning the key in the ignition, he stared across the gentle swells of green farmland. He could just glimpse the roof of the Pasture beyond the Shady Acres horse barn.

  He’d never had a boss express anything close to displeasure in him, and the experience rankled. He needed to keep his reputation spotless if he had any chance of landing a job at another Thoroughbred farm. Or, as he’d begun to consider, of keeping the job at Out to Pasture permanently. Who would hire him to manage a multimillion dollar enterprise if they thought he was reckless with his personal finances?

  He shook himself as he turned the key. The engine roared to life. He was going to a prayer meeting tonight, and a good, long prayer was exactly what he needed.

  But first, dinner with Becky and Jamie and Tyler. A glance at his watch told him he had just enough time to get home, shower and get over to her house. She’d left work an hour early, probably to get dinner ready for him. He didn’t care if she served tuna fish sandwiches and potato chips, he was just looking forward to an evening with her. Something about Becky relaxed him. She was so easy to talk to, so insightful and smart. He loved that ready smile that ignited her eyes.

  He punched the gas pedal. If he hurried, he’d have time to stop and pick up some flowers, as he should have done last night.