by Laura Crum
"Oh."
I got up and poured myself a little more chardonnay, ideas flipping around in my mind like balls in a pinball machine.
Bret grinned at me; he was on about his fourth beer. "So what's next, Sherlock?"
I smiled back at him. "I'm going to call for reinforcements."
Carrying my wine into the living room, I picked up the phone and dialed. Lonny answered on the second ring. We'd only spoken once this week, a brief phone call that had been cut off abruptly when I'd been paged with an emergency. But even though the status of our relationship was still in limbo, I felt comfortable enough with him to ask a favor.
After several minutes' worth of recounting the story of Casey's death and the problems surrounding it, I made my pitch.
"I don't know, Gail." Lonny sounded dubious. "I know Will George a little. He's not going to buy me in the role of a wealthy cutting horse owner."
"You know him?"
"Sure."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You didn't ask."
Stymied, I stared at the receiver for a minute, then came up with the obvious question. "So, how do you happen to know him?"
"Oh, Will used to rope a little bit, before he got so famous training horses. And he used to take a pack trip every summer."
"A pack trip?"
"Pack into the Sierras on horses and mules. Camp. Fish."
"Right," I said exasperatedly, "I know what a pack trip is. What I don't know is how you connect with that."
"I used to be a packer. I packed Will in a couple of times."
For a second I reflected on how little I really knew about Lonny before my mind went back to the problem at hand. "Oh. Do you know him well enough he'd remember you?"
"Sure."
The pinballs were settling into their slots. "Would you be willing to go with me tomorrow to visit him? You can introduce me to him as a friend who wants to buy a cutting horse."
"Tomorrow?" Lonny sounded surprised.
"Tomorrow's my day off. It's either that or Sunday, and I'm on call Sunday."
A long silence. "Gail, I'm just not sure about this. What are you hoping to achieve here?"
"I don't know. Find out something, anything, that might let me know if Casey was right. He thought someone was out to get him, and he thought it was Will George. And now he's dead."
"Is it that important to you?"
"Casey was my friend. If he was murdered ..." I hesitated. I'd never thought of it in just these terms before. "Well, it sounds corny, but I'd want his murderer brought to justice."
Another long pause. "All right. I knew Casey a little. Well enough to like him; I can understand your feeling. You're sure the sheriffs won't look into it?"
"Reasonably sure." I decided not to mention the rippling undercurrents of hostility between Detective Ward and myself; if Lonny thought this was a grudge match, he'd never go with me.
"Okay. I'll introduce you to Will. On one condition."
"What's that?"
"You don't ask me to tell any lies. I'm not comfortable with that."
"Agreed. I'll tell all the lies that need telling. Okay if I pick you up around nine? I've got an errand to run first."
"All right. See you then."
I hung up the phone and met Bret's mischievous eyes. "I'd have gone with you," he teased. "You didn't need to ask the boyfriend."
"I know." I smiled at him. "But I need a little credibility if I'm going to drop in on this hotshot national champion, and I don't think you'd provide it."
"That's for sure." Bret got up, yawned, stretched, and started to amble for the door. "See you in the morning," he grinned at me over his shoulder. "I may not have credibility, but I've got a girl waiting for me."
"Right." I shook my head at his departing back. "Ask her if she'll keep you a while."
Chapter TWELVE
At seven the next morning I was on my way to Indian Gulch Ranch. Overnight the weather had changed, and massive dark gray thunderheads were building up over the ocean as I rolled down Highway 1, Blue asleep on the floor next to me. The first storm of the season was coming in.
Winding up the long grade of Spring Valley Road, I climbed into the coastal hills and drove right past Ken Resavich's front gate. A mile further, I came to a wide spot that I remembered, pulled in and got out of the truck.
Wind whipped my hair around my face; sharp and cool, with the promise of rain. Hunching my shoulders a little, I walked to the edge of the bluff and looked down. Just as I'd supposed, Indian Gulch Ranch lay spread out below me as if it were a child's creation, made out of Lincoln Logs. The barn, the house, the mobile, the arena, were all in full view. Also the pasture gate and the trail leading up into the hills-the trail I had followed on Shiloh.
Going back to the truck, I opened the door and called Blue. He gave me a baleful look and didn't move; at thirteen years of age his arthritis was bad enough that a hike on a cold day was no longer his idea of fun. "Come on," I told him firmly. "You're going to sit in that pickup all day. You need some exercise."
Reluctantly, he clambered out of the truck.
"This won't take long," I reassured him, "if I'm right."
And I was pretty sure I was right as I slithered through the barbed wire fence and held the wires up for Blue to crawl under after me.
Wind blew straight in our faces as we trudged down the hill, blowing the long, dry, yellow wild grass in great bending waves. The sky was getting ominously darker. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and turned the collar up.
After ten minutes or so of tramping, Blue stumping along behind me, I saw a bluff I thought I recognized. "Come on," I told the old dog, who was regarding me with an exasperated expression, "I think that's it."
Sure enough, from the top of the bluff I was gazing down a steep, rocky hillside, thick with greasewood and young oak trees, to the trail I had ridden up yesterday. Directly below the trail was the gully where Casey's body had been. I could see some yellow tape wrapped around the boulders; the sheriffs had marked the spot.
"You stay here," I told Blue. "This is a little steep for you." He lay down immediately; he had no problem with resting.
I scrambled down the hill, stopping at various clumps of brush and rock to peer around. The oncoming storm shook the branches of the oak trees around me as I stared into the ravine.
It would be more than possible. There were dozens of hiding places where a person could crouch, perfectly invisible, and watch the trail below. I couldn't find any signs that anyone had been here, but the loose leaf mold probably wouldn't show them, anyway.
"All right," I said out loud. "Let's say someone parks at the pullout, watches the ranch, sees Casey going out for a ride and comes down to ambush him. Now what?"
Crouching behind the closest clump of brush, I pictured myself as a hidden assailant waiting for Casey. Now Casey rides into view. What do I do?
Remembering Detective Ward's sarcastic "lasso him?" I gave it some serious thought, but rejected it as unlikely. Shooting him would be the easiest, but there weren't any bullet holes in his body. Whoever had done this, if someone had done it, had wanted it to look like an accident. Glancing at the rocky ground, I thought the solution was obvious. A baseball-sized rock, thrown from anyone of dozens of hiding spots less than twenty feet from the trail, would have knocked Casey out nicely. And if that initial throw didn't happen to kill him, which it probably wouldn't, the stunned man's head could be bashed in more or less at the attacker's leisure, and the body then pitched into the ravine to look like an accidental fall. It could work.
Turning, I scrambled back up the hill to Blue. "I've seen enough," I told him. "Let's go."
I picked Lonny up at nine o'clock sharp. Burt and Pistol were still munching their breakfast hay as I drove in; Burt lifted his head and whickered softly.
Smiling, I slowed for a minute to watch them-two big, strong Quarter Horse geldings, typical team roping horses. Burt was a bay, bright red with a black mane and tail
and black socks, Pistol a red roan with a flaxen mane and tail and a blaze face. Both of them were honest, hard-trying performers, though very different in personality. Burt was grouchy, Pistol polite but anxious. Lonny had promised to give me some team roping lessons on Burt, who he said was a perfect beginner horse, and I was looking forward to it.
Lonny's house was warmly inviting this stormy morning. The curtains were open and I could see into the living room, Navajo-patterned couch pulled up in front of the fire that crackled in the woodstove. Smoke curled lazily from a metal stovepipe chimney into the cool morning air.
Lonny himself appeared in the doorway, looking the very picture of a gentleman cowboy. He wore Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, a belt with a trophy buckle and a dark green, carefully pressed brushed-cotton shirt that made his eyes look green as glass. I smiled at him as he got in the pickup.
Blue was still asleep on the passenger-side floor, and he sniffed Lonny's leg, then licked his hand. "That's Blue," I told Lonny, uncertain as to how he would feel about having an old, smelly, and sometimes grouchy Queensland Heeler sitting on his feet.
Lonny merely rubbed Blue's ear and smiled at me. "You've had him a while."
His smile deepened as he took in my appearance and I basked in his appreciative regard. I'd dressed for the occasion in one of my favorite "jeans outfits"-Wranglers, perfectly faded to a medium blue, and a bulky watermelon-colored turtleneck, with my hair pulled up in a watermelon silk cuff and wide gold hoop earrings. A soft, pale gray wool jacket in place of my usual denim coat, and I thought I looked like a potential cutting horse owner.
"Do I fit the image?" I asked Lonny.
"What? Of my girlfriend? You sure do."
"That's not what I meant," I laughed. "Of somebody who might want to buy a cutting horse and learn to cut. Somebody who was talking to Casey Brooks about doing just that before the poor guy was unfortunately killed. Somebody who is now talking to Will George. That's my role."
"Sounds fine to me. If any of this is fine." Lonny's voice got serious. "I'm a little uncomfortable about doing this, Gail; I think you're barking up the wrong tree even if Casey was murdered. Someone like Will George is not going to poison horses or kill another trainer in order to keep his position. He doesn't need to. He doesn't need to ride ringers, either. And I'll tell you something else. If, and I'm saying if, someone murdered Casey Brooks, the likeliest candidate is the girlfriend."
"Melissa?"
"Is that her name? I've seen her with Casey, but I don't know her at all. Pretty blonde thing. Young. Lots of curves." Lonny grinned.
"That's Melissa," I agreed. "Why would you suspect her?"
But even before he spoke I was answering that question for myself. Melissa and Casey had not exactly had a jolly love affair; Melissa had told me that. I had been struck numerous times lately with the fact that their relationship had seemed more of a pitched battle. Had Melissa just decided to have the last word?
Lonny was talking. "Just read the papers. Most murders are committed by the spouse, or girlfriend or boyfriend, as the case may be. All the emotions that get stirred up in a 'relationship' are probably the most powerful motivation for murder there is."
I smiled at him. "And you want me to get involved with you?"
He grinned back. "We don't have to end by murdering each other, you know. There are different possibilities."
"Like what?"
"Like we live together happily ever after."
I gave him a guarded look. "You see that happening much in real life?"
"Occasionally." Lonny refused to be diverted. "We'd have a chance."
"Okay, okay, I'll give it that. There's a chance."
***
We drove over Pacheco Pass with storm clouds sailing by on the horizon and the sky a dark and blustery gray. I was glad I'd thrown my rain slicker behind the seat. Will George's horse training operation was in Los Borregos, not far from the cutting I'd gone to last weekend. Lonny directed me once we were near; he'd been to Will's a couple of times in the past.
When I drove in the entrance I felt a mild sense of awe. A wrought-iron gate with a design of a cutting horse and a cow decoratively welded into it hung from massive brick pillars at the entrance to a long driveway, which wound between a dozen or so small paddocks, all fenced in pipe fencing painted white, all planted in permanent, irrigated pasture. The driveway fetched up in front of a brand-new-looking complex that featured a covered arena, an outdoor arena, a large horse barn, a hay barn, a shop, two horse walkers, and a couple of small, neat employee houses. A branch of the driveway, winding off to the left, led to a palatial brick house with a manicured garden and a swimming pool just visible behind a brick wall. Will's house, obviously. Rancho de Los Borregos was owned, I understood, by Will personally.
Lonny and I looked at each other and Lonny whistled softly under his breath. "This place has sure changed since I saw it last. That'd be almost ten years ago now. Old Will is making a lot of money."
"You do the talking," I hissed, feeling suddenly nervous. "You know the guy."
We got out of the truck into the active bustle of a busy training barn on a workday. Horses marched on the moving horse walker and loped around in the outdoor arena, ridden by several youngish people of both sexes. A horse was working a cow out of the herd in the indoor pen and I could see, even at that distance, that the poised, quiet figure on the horse was Will George. Lonny and I walked in his direction, but we were intercepted before we got there.
"Howdy, folks." The man who greeted us wore faded, threadbare jeans and an equally ancient denim jacket; the clothes seemed to match his faded red hair and battered face. I recognized the face. Dave Allison was his name-the man whom Bret had described as a big-name trainer who had come down in the world.
Dave Allison didn't seem disturbed by his fall. He was leading a pinto gelding with one hand and shook Lonny's offered palm with his other, talking in a genial way.
"You all looking for Will?"
"That's right."
"He's in the covered arena." Dave jerked his chin in that direction and grinned. "Training next year's futurity winner. Just go on over there and holler at him."
Lonny nodded and started to move on, but I stopped, pricked by a memory. "Didn't you bring Casey Brooks some practice cattle this week?" I asked.
The man's eyes shifted to me and he touched the brim of his hat briefly. "I sure did, ma'am."
"Did you know he was killed yesterday?" I asked tentatively.
"I heard that. It's a sad shame. He was a hell of a good hand."
"Did he say anything, uh, unusual, when you brought the cattle?" Jesus, Gail, I thought, that was lame. You'll never make a detective.
Dave Allison's eyes, so enfolded by leathery wrinkles that they were merely bright chips in his crumpled napkin of a face, seemed to focus sharply on me for the first time. "Unusual? Well, I couldn't say that. What did you have in mind?"
"Oh, I don't know." I was stumbling badly. "What day did you bring the cattle?"
"Wednesday, I think it was." The man was definitely curious now, and I couldn't blame him. "I heard old Casey was killed in a fall from a horse. Was there something funny about it?"
"Not that I know of. Well, thanks." I waved an awkward hand at Dave Allison and hurried off to join Lonny, mentally kicking myself with every step.
Why was I so stupid? I'd learned nothing and succeeded only in making this good old boy suspicious.
Looking back at Dave Allison, I watched him jerk on the paint horse's lead rope and cluck to him, leading him toward a waiting horse trailer. "You better get that roan stud out if you think I'm taking him," he shouted at a hurrying female figure who was saddling horses in the barnyard.
Lonny and I walked on. "Do you know him?" I asked.
"Sort of. I know a lot of these trainers that have been around a while. I know who old Dave is, though I doubt he recognized me."
"Did he used to be a big name?"
"I'd say so. I haven't
heard of him much lately, though."
I glanced back at Dave Allison again. "Casey didn't like him."
"Why's that?"
"I guess he came to pick up the Gus horse for Will-the one that ended up winning the Futurity-and Casey got in a fight with him. I'm thinking of adding him to my list of suspects."
Lonny laughed. "If you're planning on putting everybody who had a disagreement with Casey on the list, it's going to be a long list."
I nodded ruefully. "I know. Casey could be kind of abrasive."
Lonny was holding the gate of the covered arena open; I shook myself loose from meanderings on Dave Allison and stepped through, smiling up at him. "Let's go meet the king of the cowboys."
The king was on a little sorrel filly with a neat white star on her forehead, stepping her into a herd of cattle and parting one out in the familiar pattern of cutting. Lonny and I stood still to watch.
The filly was obviously green; from her appearance and Dave Allison's comment about next year's Futurity, I guessed that she was a two-year-old. Her expression was keen, though, and the dainty red ears flicked forward to the cow and back to her rider in a way that reminded me of Shiloh.
Will George pulled her up after a minute and stood still, looking in our direction. The king was awaiting our approach.
He sat on the filly quietly and watched us as we walked toward him, and the little mare watched us, too, her eyes big and round. Man and horse were a living, breathing statue-the American cowboy come to life. It struck me that Will George seemed consciously to court that image- his battered felt cowboy hat and worn work clothes made a subtle statement, meant to contrast, I was sure, with the flashier approach of some of the other trainers. I was reminded suddenly of Casey Brooks. The two men might have disliked each other, but Casey was the rightful successor to Will's legend. Had been, I told myself, had been. And Will wasn't ready to give up his position.
