I turned in my seat to look back. The white car had disappeared.
My memory dredged up a picture of the parking lot behind the police station. I had seen the Mustang.
"Do you think that was the killer?” Davy asked.
"Only if the killer is a cop."
He chewed that over. “Maybe Nunes put a tail on us."
"Why? Your horse died of natural causes, as far as she's concerned.” I paused. “Unless she lied."
"That horse doctor—What was his name?"
"Rothman. Want me to call him?"
"Yes.” He handed over his phone again, and I dialed Information. Sure enough, the operator found a number in Doylestown for Rothman's practice and put me through.
On the second ring, a woman picked up and said: “Rothman Veterinary."
I thumbed on the speakerphone so Davy could hear.
"Hi,” I said. “I'm calling about Bailey's Final Call. The police said Dr. Rothman examined him?"
"Who is this? If you're another reporter..."
"No, ma'am. My name is Peter Geller. I—"
"Oh, I saw you on the news last night.” Her manner softened noticeably. “Hold on, Mr. Geller. Dr. Rothman will be free in a moment."
Classical music began to play, tinny and small through the speaker. Davy pulled off onto a broad gravel shoulder and put the engine in neutral.
"Detective Fifi told the truth,” he said.
"We'll see."
He opened his mouth, but the music cut off and a man announced, “This is Dr. Rothman. How may I help you?"
I identified myself. “David Hunt is with me,” I said. “We're looking for closure about Bailey, and the police said you examined him last night?"
"That's right."
"Any idea what happened?"
He cleared his throat. “As far as I can tell, he died of heart failure. As for the cause—” I envisioned him shrugging on the other end of the line. “—it could have been a previously undetected heart flaw. A virus. Or something else entirely."
"He wasn't shot?"
"There were no bullet wounds."
"What about puncture marks? Could he have been doped with something?"
Rothman gave a humorless bark of a laugh. “A racehorse is a walking pincushion. Between drawing blood, Lasix shots, inoculations, and vitamins, they get more needles than you can count. If someone doped him, you'd never notice one more hole. And half the drugs used today leave no traces behind, anyway. Could he have been drugged? Sure. Do I think he was? I doubt it."
"Did you take a blood sample? Davy wants blood work run."
"Already sent to the lab. I won't see results until tomorrow, though."
"So there's no official cause of death yet?"
"No-o-o.” He drawled it out. “But, like I said, I'm sure it will come down to heart failure. I can let you know when I get the report, if that helps."
"Thanks.” I gave him Davy's fax and cell phone numbers. “Please call any time with news. Mr. Hunt would like a copy of the lab results. You can bill him for it."
"Anything more?"
What else might prove helpful?
"Did you order a specific set of tests?” I asked.
"All the standard ones."
"Are there any others you can get—never mind the expense—that might catch something you'd normally miss?"
He paused. “Is there something I ought to know about Bailey's death?"
"No. At least, nothing specific. Call it a hunch. Mr. Hunt has a feeling something isn't quite right. Having Bailey and Mitch Goldsmith die together is, well, an odd coincidence. Too odd."
"There are a few more tests, but they'll add a week to the results. And they aren't cheap."
"Run them."
"Mr. Hunt will pay the bill?"
I glanced at Davy, who nodded.
"Yes,” I said. “Charge it to David Hunt's credit card.” I gave him Davy's AmEx number from memory. “Don't worry about costs. And if it can be expedited in any way—"
"I understand. I'll take care of it. Anything else I can help you with?"
"Do you know Mitch's friend, Fifi?"
"Afraid not. I wasn't their vet. You might ask Dr. Christiansen. His practice is in Plumstead, the next town over. Great guy."
"Thanks."
"Call if you need anything else.” He hung up.
I returned Davy's phone. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, gaze distant.
"It is too much of a coincidence,” he said. “Bailey was doped. I know it."
"Let's see what the lab says."
"What's our next step?"
"I need to eat. Low blood sugar is starting to bother me.” I hoped it was low blood sugar.
"Want a beer with your pizza?” he asked.
It was a test, and I knew it. Would I give in to alcohol or stick it out till the end?
"Juice,” I said. Pain I could live with. Shakes I could suffer in silence. I still had the bottle of aspirin in my pocket; it would have to do.
Davy smiled. “After lunch, what next?"
"Back to the scene of the crime. I want to look around the farm."
* * * *
Davy's satellite navigation system steered us into the center of Doylestown. A shop-lined main street led us past the county courthouse. There weren't many restaurants to choose from, but we finally settled on a Greek diner in a strip mall. Chicken souvlaki, orange juice, and french fries took the edge off my hunger and calmed my shaking hands. The waitress gave us directions back to 202, so Davy overtipped her by ten dollars.
Twenty minutes later, we turned into Black Fox Farm, passed between the stone gateposts, and cruised up the long driveway. Today the place had a curiously deserted look, like a movie set after the actors had all gone home: no people, no horses, no signs of life anywhere. The battered horse van still sat by the exercise ring. The only other vehicles were the red convertible, now parked directly in front of the house, and a metallic purple motorcycle next to it.
Davy pulled up behind “horse kid” and climbed out. My legs felt like water, but I got them working.
Davy marched to the porch. I followed. They didn't have a doorbell, so he rapped hard on the frame. Nobody answered. We exchanged a glance.
"Try the barn,” I said. “Bobby's probably taking care of the livestock."
"Want to wait in the car?"
"No.” I tried the front door. The knob turned easily, so I pushed it open an inch. “I want to poke around inside."
"You can't. That's breaking and entering!"
"What breaking? Besides, I have to sit down in a comfy chair for a few minutes and rest. And didn't Mitch say I was welcome anytime?"
"Pit..."
"Keep the kid busy for fifteen minutes. There's something I want to check out."
Davy set off with an I-don't-like-this-idea expression. I grinned. By now he ought to understand the value of risk. Besides, wasn't I a local hero? Missy wouldn't press charges.
I pushed inside, flipped the light switch, and looked around. A tall-backed oak chair studded with coat hooks stood against the right wall, flanked by tasteful steel engravings of horsing scenes. A white ceramic umbrella stand stuffed with umbrellas sat to the left. Through the doorway straight ahead, I spotted a kitchen with 1960s-era fixtures.
A distant banging noise, over and over, came from somewhere upstairs. The breath caught in my throat. Someone else was in the house.
I crept forward, through the kitchen with its worn linoleum floor and floral wallpaper, to a tiny butler's staircase in the rear. The banging grew steadily louder. I heard faint music now too. I put my foot on the bottom step and paused, listening.
Music ... banging ... and faint animal grunts.
I could have slapped myself. Good thing I hadn't called Davy or the police. It had been a long time, but I still recognized the sounds of hot sex. Someone was having a good time up there. Missy, with her husband not even in the grave? No—she was in the hospital.
Bob
by made more sense. The “horse kid” car out front pointed to him. And the purple motorcycle probably meant a friend. From the sounds of things, they would be busy for a while.
Chuckling to myself, I wandered through the ground floor, keeping to the throw rugs, trying to move silently. The living room had plastic-sheathed furniture, a dozen pink roses in a vase, and more tasteful horse pictures. Then, off the dining room, I found what I had been searching for: Mitch's office.
It was small and cluttered, much as I'd imagined, with a battered steel desk, a wooden filing cabinet topped with a fax machine, a small pink couch that must have been one of Missy's cast-offs ... and stacked against the wall, four large shipping cartons.
Those interested me. The top one had been opened; its flaps stuck up. I peeked inside at sealed plastic containers: iPods—and not cheap models, either. These had large video screens. One had been removed from its carton. I remembered Bobby's from the police station. The kid must have swiped it from this stash.
Stepping back, I estimated forty iPods per carton, a hundred and sixty total.
I turned to the desk and plopped into an old-fashioned wooden chair, then rolled forward on squeaky wheels.
A pocket-sized address book lay at hand, so I flipped to F but only found three entries. No Fifi. I flipped back to D—no Dows. Could I have misunderstood? What sounded like Dows? Tows? I tried T. Nothing.
I snapped the address book shut and slipped it into my pocket; I'd go through it at my leisure, then get it back to Missy somehow.
What about the cubbyholes? A large three-up check ledger had been tucked into one, so I pulled it out and paged to the last stub, $3,554.00 for feed.
I worked backward. Mitch had been diligent about recording not only checks, but deposits. I could see at a glance where all his money had come from and gone. As I'd suspected, the farm barely scraped by. If not for a single big deposit from two days ago, Mitch would have been overdrawn by nearly forty thousand dollars.
Besides the usual utility and feed bills—could hay and oats cost that much?—I found a few deposit entries of interest:
BFC (1st) . . . . . . . $ 75,000
R (rent) . . . . . . . . . .$ 2,500
BFC had to be Bailey's Final Call—probably Davy's down payment on the horse. Every penny had gone out the next day to pay what must have been long overdue bills.
Who or what was R? I flipped back through the stubs looking at deposit records. Sure enough, R paid his rent like clockwork on the fifteenth of every month. But what was being rented for so much money?
There were no entries for Fifi Dows, nor any combination of her initials.
I had just started looking for Mitch's insurance policy when a floorboard squeaked behind me. I swiveled in my chair.
"What are you doing?” Bobby demanded from the doorway. He wore nothing but boxer shorts done in red, white, and blue like the American flag, and to my surprise, he had not an ounce of fat on his body, from six-pack abs to sharply defined shoulders and biceps. More than anything, he looked like a Calvin Klein underwear model.
"Hi, Bobby. We knocked a bunch of times. Since the door was open, I didn't think your mother would mind if I waited inside.” I grasped my cane. If he wanted to beat me to a pulp, I might not be able to stop him—but I'd try.
"Well, I mind.” With two quick steps, he closed the distance between us. He loomed over me, fists tight, the mingled odors of sweat and sex rolling off his body. “Where is Mr. Hunt?"
"Out looking for you."
He stretched out his hand, and I half cringed. But instead of grabbing me, he reached past and slapped the desk shut.
"Keep out of our stuff!"
"I need the phone number for your vet—"
"Dr. Christiansen?” He hesitated. “What for?"
"Davy wants an autopsy performed on Bailey."
His fists unclenched. “You're too late. Valley Protein picked him up this morning."
"Who?"
"Valley Protein—the disposal company."
"What! Who gave them permission?"
"I did. After I checked with the police."
I blinked. “You mean Detective Nunes?"
"Yes."
My breath caught in my throat. Nunes had told us that we could order an autopsy, but if she'd already given permission for the horse to be disposed of...
Maybe I had the timeline wrong.
I said, “When did you talk to her about it? This morning?"
"Yeah. At the police station."
So much for that idea. She had to be covering something up, just like she'd held out on her name. She had pushed the “accidental death” theory a little too hard for my satisfaction.
Bobby went on, “It's summer. You can't leave a dead horse lying around. Bailey was already attracting turkey vultures. Oh! Hang on.” He stepped from the room, then returned a moment later with a folded-up piece of paper, which he handed to me.
It was a bill for two hundred and fifty dollars, a disposal fee to remove Bailey's Final Call. It had the company name and phone number. Davy would have to call and stop them from doing whatever they did with dead horses. Dog food?
"Since Bailey is yours,” Bobby said, arms folded, “I think you guys should pay for it. I paid them cash this afternoon."
"Of course.” I forced another smile. “I'll give it to Davy. He'll take care of it. I think he has his checkbook.” Rising, I stuck the bill in my pocket, then limped toward the door. There I paused. “Why so many iPods?"
"We sell them on eBay."
"Ah.” Perhaps a side business, begun to keep food on the table in leaner times. It might even be more successful than horse farming, aside from flukes like Bailey.
"Want a deal?” He pulled one from the open box—a white iPod with a large video screen, sealed in heavy plastic. “A hundred and twenty. That's better than wholesale."
"I don't listen to music."
He frowned and thrust it into my hands anyway. The room seesawed. I gazed past Bobby at the door. I had to get out.
"It's more than music,” he said, pushing closer. He jabbed at the package with one finger. I jumped. “See here? It plays audiobooks, podcasts, TV shows, and movies. Everything you need is inside. It's a sweet deal. You should take it."
His voice sounded impossibly far away now, as though at the end of a long tunnel. My vision began to dim at the corners of my eyes, narrowing in on just his face.
Another panic attack was coming. I had to get out of here.
"Well?” he demanded.
Gulping hard, I nodded. Buy the damn thing. He'd back off. I could get away.
"Credit? Card?” I tried to sound normal.
"I gotta charge you an extra two percent."
"Uh-huh."
I fumbled for my wallet. My hands shook so much, I dropped everything. Credit cards, organ donor card, and driver's license spilled across the floor.
"I'll get it,” he said, bending and scooping everything back into place except my Visa card. “This one?"
"Uh ... huh..."
He found an old-fashioned charge machine in a desk drawer, loaded a credit slip, and ran my card through. As he filled out the total with a stub of a pencil, my eyes kept drifting toward the doorway. I could make a break for it—
Bobby grinned, suddenly too close, almost in my face. “You'll love it. Trust me. I just need an e-mail address..."
Babbling something incoherent, I hugged the iPod and hurried through the doorway. I'd be all right once I got outside. Down the hall, through the kitchen. My legs tried to buckle. I struggled to lock my knees.
Floorboards squeaked behind me. Keep moving. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. Don't look. Another step. A trickle of sweat ran down my left side, leaving a cold trail. Another step. I could hear Bobby breathing.
In a sudden rush, I shouldered the front door open and burst onto the porch. Free. I clutched the railing, gasping, eyes wide.
The world stopped closing in. The earth stopped rolling. My
chest grew lighter and I could breathe.
"Are you okay?” Bobby asked, still behind me. “Mr. Geller?"
"I'll—I'll be all right. Give me a minute..."
Where had Davy gotten off to? I couldn't see him anywhere. I had to distract the kid before he went looking.
My attention focused on the front steps. A little accident should do it.
I worked my way over to the top step, hanging onto the railing with my right hand, and started down to the yard. On the second step, I let my knees buckle. With a yelp of fear, I dropped my cane and the iPod and pitched forward. My grip on the railing kept me from tumbling to the ground, so I hung half suspended in air. I could either be saved or—if necessary—save myself, depending on what Bobby did.
Teetering, I gave a very authentic moan.
Bare feet pounded on the porch. A second later, a hand grabbed my shoulder and hauled me back. Saved. Good kid, all right. My first impression hadn't been wrong.
"Did you hurt yourself?” Bobby said.
"I ... don't think so. Not much.” How far could I play up my “accident” without him getting suspicious? “I thought I was going to break my neck!"
"Good thing I was here."
I searched his face. Concern, maybe a hint of pity. Best he should view me as a harmless old cripple.
Looping my arm across his neck and shoulder, he helped me down the steps, then went back for my cane. I leaned on it harder than I needed to. Then he retrieved my iPod.
"It's not broken or anything,” he said, brushing off the plastic packaging. “Here you go."
"Thanks."
"Can I get you anything? A glass of water, maybe?"
"No ... just let me rest for a minute.” I wiped at my face. God, I was soaked with sweat.
"Want to come back inside?"
"I ... I don't think I can make it up the steps."
He looked relieved. Instead, I nodded at the lawn chairs Mitch had placed under the huge oak. Nobody had put them away.
"Help me over there?"
"Sure."
He steadied my arm as I hobbled across and sat hard. My hands still trembled. I exaggerated it to good effect. No sign of Davy yet.
"You better get dressed,” I told him. “Your mother would have a fit if she saw you outside like that."
AHMM, July-August 2008 Page 25
