“Oh, you must. Horses are a way of life. Let’s talk about this memorial service you say you’re planning. My former husband has hired you, is that it?”
“On the contrary, I volunteered to help because Steven Damelin was close to my late aunt, Josephine Cutter.”
“Everyone felt close to Steven, Regina. He was the dearest boy. If Leonard hadn’t meddled, both he and Drew would be right here where they belong, at Flint Ridge. I’m telling no secrets. My former husband ruined those boys with business. And now Steven’s gone.”
She bites her lip and strokes an earring. “Let me tell you something. Field sports were Dani’s first love, but the boys were devoted to the barn, Drew from when he was a tyke, and Steven later on. He loved it here. It became his home.”
“I gather your family virtually adopted him.”
“He was our ward. My family, you see, has long reached out, even from New England’s great days.”
“Colonial times? The Mayflower?”
“That scraggly bunch, heavens no. I mean the truly great days of the mills, textiles, days of empire. Lowell, Tewksbury, of course Lawrence.”
“Lawrence… Steven was from Lawrence.”
“From, yes, but families like the Combers were Lawrence. The Atlantic Mills… our woolens were shipped all over the world. And the world came to work for us.”
“Immigrants? Steven’s family came from Lithuania—”
“Slovaks starving in the old country, that’s the fact. We gave them work in our mills, supported them one and all. They had housing and plenty to eat. Were they grateful? They bit the hand that fed them. The year was 1912, the nadir. None of it is Steven’s fault, of course, and history must be forgiven. But that tiny boy was heaven-sent. He made a world of difference because Drew was such a hellion. My own son, I called him Rascal. Sweet as an angel, little Drew, and mean as the devil. He played havoc with his little sister. I swear he drove her to field hockey. No wonder she was a picky eater, half starved herself. Come over here, won’t you?”
At a far wall, Eleanor points to a group of photographs much like the Voglers’. She taps one of a dark-featured little boy, perhaps six or seven, in riding clothes astride a full-size horse. He glowers.
“That’s Drew on Skipper. He was disqualified for unsportsmanlike behavior. I was frantic. Regina, you do know about barn companions? No? Some high-strung horses need companions to calm them down. Most often, it’s a dog. But we’ve had a monkey out here, a goat, even a duck. A horse barn can be a menagerie.
“But sometimes it takes a docile horse to calm a temperamental one. They’ll share a stall, a paddock, the same pasture. Some spend their lives together. Look over here.”
She points at photos showing two boys, one very small. Both smile, proud and happy. “Ribbons galore. If Drew won firsts and seconds, Steven took the rest. But Drew mastered himself, you see, learned the discipline.”
She looks hard at me. “Steven was that kind of companion to Drew. His stablemate.”
“I understand Steven might have become a jockey.”
“Nonsense. That was Leonard’s foolishness. My former husband had two insane schemes. One was the notion of a racetrack in New Hampshire. The other was a belly dancer who’s now his wife. Her family business is tools. Leonard was beguiled and blinded. He went for sex and got sickness, so what goes around comes around. I’ll say no more, except that Steven would be a trainer by now. My family are horsemen and -women, Regina. In the great days of the Lawrence Atlantic Mills, Evelina Comber straddled her horse like a man and galloped on the coaching roads. She begged to join her brothers in the militia.”
“In wartime?”
“In the terrible strike against our private property—January 1912, the winter when the Slovaks bit the hand that fed them. Right off the boat, barely ten words of English, but they stampeded out of the mills and massed like cattle in the streets of Lawrence. They were nothing but rabble, a mob. In the dead of winter, they froze and starved themselves for greed. That’s what it was, pure greed, a base and terrible thing.”
She strokes her earring. “The great mills are long gone, but our bloodlines tell to this day. Nature unfolds. If Leonard hadn’t interfered, Drew would be preparing to take over and expand Flint Ridge, and Steven groomed to be his head trainer, a life’s work, and the sky’s the limit. Stables all over the country would compete to hire him, talented as he was. Drew, of course, would keep him here at Flint Ridge.” A flush rises on Eleanor’s cheeks. “Steven’s true life was thrown off course, and that’s why he’s gone.”
It’s as if Steven’s murder was a foregone conclusion once he exited the horse barn. “Ms. Comber, I’ve looked at the beautiful horses here in your barn, and I learned that Diablo belonged jointly to Andrew and Steven.”
She stiffens and falls silent. “Yes, Diablo belongs to both boys. They came out to ride once or twice a week.”
“I noticed the wounds on the horse’s shoulders and rump… buttocks. I wondered how Diablo got hurt.”
She toes the floor with her boot. “I… we’re not sure.”
“Not sure? But didn’t Andrew or Steven tell you?”
The green-gray eyes are now defiant. “Perhaps you saw the trailers outside. We take our horses to shows, to other farms. Everyone enjoys riding in new places.” She brushes at her jodhpurs. “But sometimes troublesome situations arise. When you ride on unfamiliar trails, brambles and briars can come up unexpectedly. There isn’t always ample room to turn around in heavy brush. Brambles and thorns can wound a horse.” The whiskey voice rises. “Of course, the boys loved Diablo. Loved him. They came to ride as often as possible, although lately Drew has precious little free time. He’s bound body and soul to Leonard’s business. And Steven, too, strived to prove himself, working for Leonard.”
“And mentoring a young teen, a Latino named Luis. Did Steven ever bring him here?”
“A Mexican?”
“He’s from the Dominican Republic.”
“Dominicans, they’re taking over Lawrence. No, Steven wouldn’t bring him here. We school horses, and our stable hands are Americans. We’re not a halfway house for illegal aliens.” Her mouth tightens. “I’m surprised to hear Steven had time for charity work. Leonard’s business is demanding, and, of course, Steven got so caught up in his own big idea.”
“I don’t believe I know about that.”
“Helping Hand.”
“What? What did you say?”
“He called it Helping Hand.”
“Is it a charity? A business?”
“Services of some kind or other. Yes, a business, something he was trying to prove to himself. We loved him just the way he was, of course. We feared he got above himself. Above and beyond.”
“What kind of business was Helping Hand?”
But at that moment, someone taps on the clubroom door. It’s a short, thickset man with wiry brown hair. Eleanor says, “Mike, please saddle Aztec.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I’m bursting to ask more about Steven’s Helping Hand. So it was not a casual cliché, but a business. Jo knew about it, was in on it. And what about the pineapple cairns? I want to talk privately with Vicky. “Ms. Comber, you’ve been most generous. If I may borrow a couple of Steven’s equestrian photos for the memorial service, and perhaps a prize ribbon or two? And perhaps I could ask Vicky for a word of reminiscence for the service?”
“In due course, but Vicky has a lesson to give. Though you needn’t go just yet.” Her voice is two hundred proof. “Let me offer you a ride, Regina.”
“You mean ride a horse?” Did I give her the wrong impression?
“It’s a fine autumn day, and we’ve had so few this season. The air is fresh, the sun bright. Our creek trail is perfect.”
“How generous of you. It’s a wonderful thought, but, of course, I couldn’t possibly.”
“That’s why we keep Aztec. He’s gentle, just the ticket for someone like yourself. Everybody loves Aztec.”
“If only I had the proper clothing.”
“We’ll get you chaps from the tack room.”
“Perhaps another time.”
“Look outside, Regina. Mike’s already got the saddle out.”
She opens the clubroom door and leads me to the open stall with a bridled dappled gray horse. It’s huge. The wiry-haired man has thrown a blanket over its back. He looks my way. “Mike’s the name.”
“I’m Regina Cutter.”
“Mike’s been with us forever. Flint Ridge couldn’t go a week without him. Let’s try these.” Before I can stop her, Eleanor Comber steps into the tack room for a pair of leather pants minus the crotch and rear end. “You remember schooling chaps. These ought to fit.” She thrusts the chaps into my hands. “Here you go.”
No, I don’t. This has gone too far. The woman is impossible, her domination masked as generosity. Although I got myself into this. There’s nobody to blame but me. The chaps are heavy in my hands as I push them back toward her. She does not take them. “Eleanor, I regret any misunderstanding, but I don’t ride.”
“Mike will ride with you.”
“Thanks, but no.”
“Every rider begins as a beginner, Regina. Including my son and Steven too. Mike remembers, don’t you, Mike?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Every step of the way, Mike taught the boys the ways of the barn and the care of horses. He was their big guy, and they called him Chief. Drew calls you Chief to this day, doesn’t he, Mike?”
“That he does, Ms. E.”
“So, Regina, we can’t take no for an answer.”
Clutching the chaps, my hands go cold and clammy. Is this a treacherous setup or a gateway to information? Assuming that Mike is a storehouse of knowledge about Andrew Vogler and Steven, I could take the ride and strike up a pointed conversation about them. Maybe he knows something about Helping Hand.
The call-and-response, however, between Eleanor Comber and her manager could set me for a fall—literally a fall from the saddle of a very high horse. Suppose this woman thinks I’ve come on an errand for her despised ex-husband and Margaret. Suppose she wants to punish me for coming here and asking questions. What if she somehow figures in Steven’s murder and wants to get rid of me too.
Then again, suppose she’s only domineering by temperament, and I miss the chance to learn something important from Mike, who’s been here “forever.” And perhaps later on from Vicky, who’s about to give a lesson. Here comes the pupil now, an auburn-haired woman in riding clothes who nods to us and proceeds down the row of stalls to her horse. Surely Eleanor Comber wouldn’t risk her reputation by staging an accident easily witnessed by others. So let Eleanor Comber’s insistence be a wedge to more information. A short ride on a notably gentle horse, Reggie, take it.
So I get the chaps on, fasten the buckles at the hips and pelvis. My loafers will have to do. But that horse towers, and the saddle is so slim, and nothing to hold on to.
“Mike will take Red, Regina. But do make friends with Aztec first. Keep your hand flat. I’m sure it’s all coming back to you.”
I put my palm against the velvety muzzle. “Nice Aztec.” The horse scours my hand with his tongue and deposits saliva and some dark chewed bits. “Nice horse,” I say, wiping the mess on the chaps, which feel heavy and thick. Outdoors, in the center of the ring with a student, Vicky waves, so near and yet so far. Patience, Reggie.
“Nice Aztec.”
Mike ties him and goes for another horse. The dappled gray neck feels like warm rock. Come to think of it, weren’t the Aztecs fierce warriors? Sacrificed maidens? Drank enemies’ blood? Why name the gentlest horse Aztec? A Commonwealth of Massachusetts sign nailed to a post catches my eye, doubtless required by law: a disclaimer of responsibility for injury or death given the inherent danger of the activity. Mike leads out a dark reddish horse.
“Up you go, Regina.” Onto a granite two-step block, I’m aboard, the stirrups adjusted. Mike hands me the reins. “I’ll lead on Red, and Aztec will follow. Hold your reins loosely in your fingers. We’ll take it slow.”
“And take the creek trail, Mike.” The whiskey tenor speaks.
“The creek, Ms. E.? You’re sure about that?”
“Absolutely. A bracing stream on an autumn day, what could be more refreshing? Have a good ride, Regina. Remember, Mike, the creek trail.”
Mike hesitates and blinks, but we set off, the far fields glowing dark gold in the light. The horse feels like a set of upholstered bones, and I’m up high without a helmet. Mike is too. Perhaps this is a custom at Flint Ridge Trace.
A chat with Mike, that’s the goal, as soon as we’re out of earshot of the barn. I’ll casually bring up Steven and Drew. Down a dirt road, I ask whether the distant stubble fields are the property of Flint Ridge Trace. He says yes, Ms. Comber raises corn for feed, then he asks how I’m doing.
“Fine.”
“Saddle feel all right?”
“Great.” I’ll be sore tomorrow. The dirt road becomes a path, and the trees thicken. We’re single file, with Mike ahead. The chaps are awkward. It’s time to talk. My opener is, “How old is Aztec?”
“Eight years.” Mike gives his horse soft clicking sounds, but human conversation is awkward, impossible, in single file. We approach a fork in the trail. Mike calls, “Creek ahead,” and the horses move down an embankment toward a streambed.
“You okay back there?”
“Okay.”
The two horses walk in shallow water, hooves plashing in a creek bed paved with fallen leaves. We round a bend. Maybe the creek will widen so we can ride side by side. No such luck.
“Stirrups feel good?”
“Good so far.” Equipment problems, is that my best shot? If I can get just a few minutes face-to-face with this man. Suppose I complain about my saddle or reins. Too tight? Loose? But he’ll check, and we’ll be back on the trail in the blink of an eye.
In the flick of a horse’s tail.
“Mike?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“My leg… I think I’m getting a cramp in my left calf. Yes, a cramp. Could we stop for just a minute?”
His “Whoa, boy” is music to my ears. At the edge of the creek, he dismounts, holds his horse and mine, and helps me down. I make a show of massaging my left calf. “Ooh, ooh.”
“You want to go back?”
“Oh no, what a relief. Just give me a few minutes, can you?”
“No problem.”
“The horses won’t mind?”
“They’re used to it.”
“Ooh…” I knead my calf, my feet half sinking in cold creekside mud, my loafers ruined. “Gentle Aztec,” I say. “I suppose a horse like Aztec is too tame for Drew Vogler.”
“Mostly. But Azzie has his ways, don’t you, boy? But not today. Today you’re sweet as sugar.”
“And too sweet for Steven… may he rest in peace.” Mike nods. “You were here at Flint Ridge when they were boys?”
“Oh yes.” He tugs Aztec’s saddle, a quick test.
I pump my calf. “Boys can be so mischievous. Were Drew and Steven?”
“Can’t say about that. Can’t say either way.”
“Diablo looks so wild. Did Steven and Drew like the risk of a wild horse?”
“I wouldn’t know as you’d say risk.”
“Two owners of one horse, is that common?”
“Common for them.”
“Maybe they competed, each trying to be the best on Diablo?”
“Nobody’s business but theirs.”
“I understand Steven was starting a business. He mentioned it to me.” Silence from Mike. “I haven’t met Drew yet. I bet he’s very competitive.”
Mike gives me a long flat look. “What’s good about a horse, lady, is they don’t ask a bunch of questions. Work around horses, you get to like them better than people, if you get my drift. How’s that leg, better?”
“I think so, yes.” My cheeks flush despite the ea
rly November chill. Strikeout.
Wordless, he laces and cups his fingers to make a stirrup. “Let’s get you back on. Give him his head in the water. Don’t pull the reins. He’ll find his footing by himself.”
I do. We go a few hundred yards. By an overhanging tree, however, Aztec stops—to chew yellowed leaves at the end of a branch. I nudge his sides lightly and say, “Giddyup, Aztec.” He turns his head around, takes a step forward, and chews some more.
Suppose the leaves make him sick. Up ahead, Mike’s horse moves along the stream. I kick a little harder and then flick the reins against Aztec’s hide. No action. More chewing. I call out to Mike, who turns, circles back, and gives the horse a smart smack against his rump.
As if motorized, as if ignited, the horse tenses and leaps forward, dashing in the stream. “Pull him up,” Mike calls. “Not too hard—” I grab at the reins. “Not so hard! Pull up!” But there is nothing to get my hands around, no grip. The horse is running in the water. My ankles are wet. I try to hold the saddle, a little ridge at the front. Come on, Mike, help me out.
But Aztec plunges, then runs at the bank as if to rear, his body going vertical. Keep your head, Reggie. Lean forward against the mane. Brace in the stirrups. Do not slide backward. The horse gains higher ground and runs. I crouch on the saddle. He’s pointed homeward toward the barn, but way too fast.
“Mike!”
I call to the wind but hear the hoofbeats of Mike’s Red coming from behind, closing in. Mike calls orders I can’t hear. I grab Aztec’s mane.
He runs, full gallop, his ears flat.
“Mike! Mike!”
Trees are coming, bare branches dead ahead. I duck. My cheek is whipped, so near my eye. Then a huge branch, my head—I’m facedown against the mane and neck. How did my foot get out of the stirrup? I have no right footing. The whole stirrup flops.
“Mike!”
My body leans, tilts left as I paw my right foot at the loose stirrup, try to connect, miss again. Another big branch, and the bark just grazes my scalp.
And then, just as suddenly, Aztec slows, breaks his run, walks, finally stops. His sides heave. I am panting. Mike now approaches from behind.
All in One Piece Page 16
