by Laura Crum
"I bet," Clay said with a smile, clearly uninterested.
I tried a new subject. "Do you take this horse out riding much?" I patted Freddy's neck.
"Once every couple of weeks, if that. I like to cruise him around back here, but I don't really have the time. It's handy to have him though. Both Bart and I like to go camping and fishing and Bart likes to go hunting. Whenever either of us wants to take a trip, we just bring both horses along. Freddy's good to ride and this one," he looked down at Blackjack, "will carry a pack rig." He grinned over at me. "As you can imagine, Freddy doesn't care to have a pack rig strapped to him, let alone have pack bags hung on his back."
"I can imagine." We rode along quietly for a while; I could see the roofs of the boarding stable ahead.
Clay looked at me. "Would you like to come over to dinner tonight?"
Caught by surprise, I hesitated and then said, "Sure. That would be nice."
Clay hesitated a moment, too. "It's with my mom and Bart," he said at last. "My mom's having us for Sunday dinner. I'd really be happy if you wanted to come."
"All right," I said slowly. Having dinner with Bart and Mrs. Bishop wasn't exactly my idea of fun, but I had to admit I was curious. "What time?" I asked.
"Oh, come by my place around five," Clay said. "We can have a drink first."
"All right," I told him. "I'll be there."
SEVEN
Five hours and two emergency calls later, I was back at the Bishop Ranch. I'd tended to colicked horses at opposite ends of the county, then rushed home to feed my animals, take a shower, and change clothes in the brief window of time remaining. Now I was about to present myself at Clay's door, dressed and ready.
I'd agonized a bit over my outfit; just how formal were the Bishops likely to be at a family Sunday dinner? In the end, I went with a pair of narrow black linen pants, a simple black cotton-knit shell, and a cream-colored silk blouse unbuttoned and tied at the waist as a jacket. My freshwater pearls and black espadrilles completed the effect. Surely, I told myself, I was appropriate for any sort of dinner party on a warm October evening. As a final nod to possible formality, I tied my hair neatly back with a bit of black velvet at the nape of my neck. Good enough for tea with the queen of England.
Clay's expression when he opened the door left me no doubt that I was dressed appropriately enough. "Gail, you look wonderful." Stepping forward, he kissed me lightly on the cheek.
I smiled, pleased by his appreciation. "How about that drink you promised me? I might need a drink, if I'm going to meet your mother."
"Haven't you met Mom before?" Clay led the way into his boxy little living room.
"Sort of. I saw her this morning. She was with Bart. I was talking to Jeri Ward."
"Oh." Clay was nothing if not quick; I was sure he would assimilate the fact that our meeting had not been exactly a pleasant one. "What would you like to drink?" he added.
"Some sort of light white wine, if you have it."
"Would a Pinot Grigio qualify?"
"Absolutely." I smiled at him, pleased at his choice of wine. Lately I'd been on an anti-Chardonnay kick, and since it had become so trendy, it was often the only white wine people had around.
In a moment Clay emerged from his kitchen carrying two glasses of wine. "Shall we sit on the porch?" he asked.
"Sure." I followed him back out the door, somewhat relieved. Clay's little house, which dated from the turn of the last century, had narrow windows, a low ceiling, and small rooms-sitting inside on such a pretty evening seemed silly.
The front porch was as tiny as the rooms, but there were two folding chairs and a small table. We settled ourselves, screened from the boarding stable by a tangled hedge of old shrubs-lilacs, philadelphus, quince, and roses, it looked like. Even from here I could smell the charred wood of the big barn.
Taking a swallow of my wine, I asked, "How are your mom and Bart dealing with this arson investigation?"
"They're pretty stressed," Clay said. "Bart thinks he knows who did it, and he's really pissed that that lady detective is more interested in investigating him."
"Who does he think it is?" I asked.
"Some neighbor kid," Clay shrugged. "He'll tell you all about it, I'm sure."
"The subject's not taboo, then?"
"Oh no." Clay smiled ruefully. "It's probably the only thing anybody will talk about all night." Taking a swallow of his wine, he set his glass down and reached for my hand. "Thanks for coming, Gail."
I took his hand, and he squeezed gently. I could feel the sense of stress in him-not a vibe I was used to getting from Clay. "I'm glad to be here," I said, not knowing if it was entirely true.
"Well." Clay raised his eyebrows; lifting his wineglass, he emptied it. "We'd better go."
I followed his example and stood up. "Lead on."
Once again, as we walked up the road toward the main ranch house, Clay took my hand in his. I was conscious of the particular feel of his fingers-slender, a little cool to the touch, the skin smooth and dry. His grip was gentle, and I was comfortable enough, walking hand-in-hand with him; at the same time I was aware that the electricity I felt when Blue Winter touched me was absent here. It felt good to touch Clay, it was entirely pleasant, but that physical thrill was missing.
I had no time to reflect more; Clay was leading me up the steps and through the front door of his mother's house, still holding my hand. Extricating my fingers from his, I patted his arm lightly. However fond I might be of Clay, I was damn well not going to greet Mrs. Bishop hand-in-hand with her son. It smacked of a fait accompli, and we were certainly not that. Not as far as I was concerned.
Stepping into the living room, I blinked in surprise. It was white. Plush cream-colored carpet on the floor, oyster-toned drapes against the off-white walls, milky white velvet upholstery on the overstuffed couch and chairs. A glass-topped wrought iron coffee table completed the effect. I blinked again. It was all very Art Deco and thirties-looking, but on a ranch?
Glancing down, I noted a worn and slightly dingy trail across the white carpet, marking the route from the front door to the next room. Just what I would have predicted. Whatever in the world had made Mrs. Bishop select white as the theme for a living room in a ranch house?
Doris Bishop gave no clue. She stood in the middle of her all-white room holding herself erect with an obvious effort. I could see her black cane leaning against an armchair that faced the TV.
Clay was making introductions; I responded politely. Mrs. Bishop and I nodded at each other and smiled.
"It's nice to meet you, Dr. McCarthy. Do have a seat."
I settled myself in a chair near the one I supposed to be hers; Clay chose the couch. I wondered where Brother Bart was.
"What an interesting career, being a veterinarian." Doris Bishop sounded firmly cordial.
"I like it," I said simply. Before I could get anything else out. Bart made his entrance.
And quite the entrance it was. "Goddammit, Salty, you son of a bitch, get out." I could hear Bart's voice from the next room one second before Bart himself, following a small, fluffy black dog, burst into the living room.
The black dog did a quick lap around the furniture while Bart stomped after him yelling, "Git"; then the pair exited the way they came in. Clay, Mrs. Bishop, and I retained our places.
In a minute Bart was back. "Mom's dog," he said briefly. "He knows he's not supposed to come in here."
I smiled to myself. No secret as to why the black dog was banned from the white living room.
"No need to curse at him, dear," Mrs. Bishop said reprovingly. "Perhaps, now that you've finally arrived, we can eat."
I glanced at Bart curiously, wondering how he would react to what struck me as a chiding tone in his mother's voice. His face showed nothing; he merely nodded assent and led the way into the next room. One by one, the rest of us followed.
The dining room, I was pleased to see, was a little more casual than the living room, more the environment I wou
ld expect of a ranch house. Walls and furniture were wood-toned; the floor was some kind of brownish vinyl. I could see a row of boots by the back door. A tiled bar with cabinets over it partially shielded the kitchen.
Clay and Bart went immediately to what were clearly their accustomed places at the table. Surmising that the seat nearest the kitchen was Mrs. Bishop's, I chose the fourth option.
The table was already set, I saw, and the food in place. The main entree, which appeared to be stew, sat in some sort of warming plate in the center of the table, surrounded by salad, potatoes, and bread. We all served ourselves and made appropriate approving noises. In the interim I took stock of my company and surroundings.
On closer inspection, Doris Bishop did not seem quite as frail as I had expected. I was more aware of a tenacious strength in the woman than I was of potential weakness. She carried herself very erectly, though it clearly cost her some effort, and she was not, I noticed, using her cane. I was glad 1'd dressed up a little for the occasion; Mrs. Bishop's silk blouse and formal cultured pearls were every bit a match for my own.
Bart and Clay wore clean jeans and fresh-looking shirts; neither appeared to have made any other concession to dinner. Bart's shirt was a deep blue that matched his eyes; I watched him ladle stew onto his plate and thought, not for the first time, what a classically handsome man he was.
Bart's dark hair showed no gray; his truly blue eyes were relatively unlined. He had a straight nose, a square chin, and a firm mouth, and was in all ways even-featured. Despite the fact that he was a little short for my taste, which runs to tall in men, he was well-made enough, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist and hips. No, you couldn't fault Brother Bart on looks.
It was his expression that was the problem. In my eyes, anyway. Closed and guarded, Bart's face never seemed to smile. His eyes stayed wary; he bared his teeth from time to time, but without warmth. Given his past, as Clay had explained it, I supposed it was understandable, but I still found Bart difficult.
The object of this scrutiny met my eyes across the table. "So, what did your buddy Detective Jeri Ward have to say this morning?" Again, that brief flash of teeth in what passed with Bart as a smile. "Did she tell you I burned my own barn down?"
There was a sudden hush at the table. As I tried to think of a graceful reply, Mrs. Bishop said with some asperity, "Not your barn, dear, mine."
Bart didn't respond to this, just kept meeting my eyes.
I sighed. "No, she didn't say anything like that. It is pretty much standard procedure to suspect the owner in a case of arson, though."
"That's ridiculous," Doris Bishop said sharply. "We have absolutely no reason to do such a thing."
"I'm sure you don't," I said, in what I hoped was a mollifying tone.
"This young woman is extremely out of line. Wasting time when she should be tracking down the real culprit. Bart is sure he knows who did this thing."
I looked inquiringly at Bart.
"Neighborhood kids," he said laconically. "Three of them have been hanging around a lot. One in particular, kid named Marty, is a real troublemaker. I've caught him stealing Cokes, and once, a six-pack of beer, out of the barn refrigerator. The last time I saw him I ran him off, told him not to set foot on the place again. He threatened me, said I'd be sorry. Not a week later we had this fire. What would you think?"
"I don't know," I said truthfully. "I thought you thought it was the hay."
"Not after what that fire investigator guy told me. Seems like it has to be arson."
I nodded.
"And since I know I didn't do it, I figure the only likely candidate is this kid Marty. But your detective friend is so interested in investigating me, she doesn't even seem to hear what I'm saying. All she wants to know is whether I've got some kind of hidden insurance policy, which I don't, since even she can see that what we're insured for isn't close to what that barn is worth to us in income. And of course, she wants to know exactly where I was that evening."
"You were right here with me," Mrs. Bishop said.
"Yeah, Mom." Bart looked at me. "But of course, I went out and checked around the barns, had a look at all the horses, before I went to bed. I always do."
I believed him. It was just what any conscientious manager of a boarding stable would do.
"Did you see anything?" I asked.
"No." Bart shook his head ruefully. "I wish I could say I did, but I didn't. I didn't actually look in the part where we stack the hay; I had no reason to, but I'm sure I would have noticed if there was a fire going in there. I walked right by it. On the other hand, those kids could have been hiding back there and I never would have seen them."
"Do you think they were?" I asked him.
"I don't know. It's no secret that I check around every evening between nine and ten. Anybody could figure it out. Including those kids. They live right across the street in Lushmeadows. I'm sure they know all my routines." Bart sounded strained and weary as he said it; I could feel his frustration from across the table.
Glancing at Clay, I was surprised to see him looking down at his plate, taking no part in the conversation, not even making eye contact with his brother. Clay had been very quiet ever since we'd walked in here, I'd noticed, only speaking to tell his mother how good the stew was.
Doris Bishop was talking now; I heard her say to Bart in what was meant to be an aside, "If you'd only be clear with this detective, dear, and explain what you mean, I'm sure she'll understand. "
Taking a final bite of my stew, I leaned back in my chair.
"Finish your stew, dear," Mrs. Bishop said to Bart. "And try to get a little more sleep tonight. You look tired."
I felt like ducking, as if a barbed arrow of a comment might impale me, if I got in the way. No wonder Clay was quiet.
Bart continued to give no sign that his mother bothered him. He finished his stew as directed and rose obediently when she admonished him that the table needed clearing, all without a word.
Once we were settled in our places with apple cake and ice cream in front of us, I asked another question. "Are you worried about these kids trying it again?" I addressed myself mostly to Bart, but included the room at large.
"Do you suppose they will?" Doris Bishop's sharp, querulous tone sounded even shriller with surprise.
"Hard to say." Bart met my eyes. "But I'm ready for them."
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
"I carry a pistol when I do the nighttime check now."
"Is it loaded?"
"Of course."
"Isn't that kind of dangerous?" I asked him. "Surely you don't want to shoot those kids?"
"I'm not a fool." Bart gave me a level look. "And I know about guns. There's no shell in the chamber, and none in the next slot either. I only keep four bullets in the gun. That way, no matter what happens, no one can get shot accidentally."
"Sure," I said. "I did the same thing myself, when I went packing in the Sierras. But what if you catch these kids in the act?"
"Then I figure the gun will help me keep them here until I get your lady friend, the detective." Bart bared his teeth at me again. "I carry a cell phone, too."
I nodded. It all made sense. Still, it struck me that Brother Bart was wound pretty tight. I wouldn't want to be the one to run into him after dark.
Taking another bite of my cake, I readied myself to compliment Mrs. Bishop on her home-cooked food. Before I could get my mouth open, my own cell phone rang.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I need to answer this. I'm on call."
I carried the little phone out into the all-white living room to answer it. In a minute I'd ascertained that I had yet another colic to deal with. It wasn't really a surprise. Colics were our most frequent emergency call, and also the most frequent cause of equine death. A horse's digestive system is in some senses poorly constructed; it can't throw up. Thus any sort of bellyache, known generically to horsemen as colic, could be the cause of a twisted or ruptured gut and a resulting fatality.
"Thank you for a nice evening," I said as I got into the cab.
"I'm not sure about that," he responded. "But I'm grateful to you for coming." And he leaned forward and kissed me.
It was our most lingering kiss yet; Clay's mouth was warm on mine; I could feel his desire. When we parted, he met my eyes. "I think I love you."
I didn't know what to say. Instead, I reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. "See you soon," I told him. And then I was on my way to yet another colicked horse.
EIGHT
At seven the next morning I was down at the clinic. With Jim gone, I needed to be there early to keep up on things. It didn't help that I hadn't gotten home until well after midnight, or that I'd had to put the colicked horse down. Not a good start to the week.
And things went from bad to worse the minute John Romero walked through the door. Everything about him, from his cocky stance to the sulky expression in his eyes, irritated me.
I just couldn't understand what was going on with this guy. In his late twenties or thereabouts, John had the olive skin and dark hair and eyes that went with his last name, as well as a prominent nose and pouting lips. He looked just what I imagined a young Sicilian gangster ought to look like. Certainly most women would think him handsome.
I had witnessed John doing some very competent veterinary work; the client grapevine reported that he was always polite, though a tad too reserved for some people's taste. Jim seemed to like him. There was no obvious reason for him to have a chip on his shoulder. But as far as I could tell, John had only to look at me to get in a bad mood.
"I expect to be compensated for Friday night." The first words out of his mouth.
"I'm sure you will be," I said evenly. "Talk to Jim when he gets back."
John glared at me. We both knew he wouldn't want to raise the subject with Jim. Helping out in large-scale emergencies was taken for granted. As I understood it, John wanted to keep his position here and was quite keen to get Jim on his side. What I couldn't grasp was why John was so overtly hostile to me. I was a partner in the business, albeit the junior one. Still, if I made enough noise about it, I was pretty sure that Jim would agree to replace John with someone I could get along with.
