Cutter (Gail McCarthy Mystery series)

by Laura Crum

  Lonny started making spaghetti in the kitchen and the simmering sweet smell of onions in olive oil crept into the living room. During a break in the storm I fed Lonny's horses, then sat and watched the fire some more, sipping a second glass of chianti and talking to Lonny as he made dinner, which proved to be terrific. His spaghetti was like a stew, thick with spicy Italian sausage, bell pepper, onion and mushrooms. When we were done I brought Blue into the house on his leash, feeling that he'd spent enough of the day cooped up in the truck, but unwilling to trust the cats to his mercies. Blue liked cats just fine; he especially liked them when they were running away from him.

  Lonny and I sat in companionable silence by the fire for a while, watching Gandalf play with Blue. Confined by his leash, the old dog was no danger; he snapped gently at the kitten, who didn't seem in the least afraid of him. The tiny gray paws batted at Blue's old speckled muzzle, and the two animals seemed content to play predator/prey games together, with no intent or fear of harm.

  "Do you want to stay?" Lonny was nothing if not direct.

  "I don't know." I felt deeply peaceful and realized I did want to stay; at least, I didn't want to leave. It struck me that the time had passed for saying no to Lonny, if I wanted to keep growing closer to him rather than start pulling away. But I was still scared of the consequences of that closeness.

  "I do want to stay," I told him honestly. "I'm just afraid to."

  His face was turned toward me, his eyes serious. After a minute he said, "Stay with me. Just hold me, that's all."

  Feeling confused, I asked, "What do you mean?"

  "What I said. Sleep in my bed. Hold me. The rest of it will keep."

  "I thought the rest of it was the main point."

  "When you're ready. I want to be close to you, Gail, I want to love you. But I want it when it's right. Tonight let's just sleep together."

  "All right," I told him, taking his hand. "If you think we can."

  "We can." He grinned. "Once."

  Which was how I came to spend the night in Lonny's bed, pressed up against the warmth of his body, while the rain pattered on the roof and the light from the fire flickered through the open door. Somehow-I never really understood how-sex was present but kept comfortably at bay, and a sense of peaceful connectedness grew in me until I relaxed and fell asleep, happier than I could remember being.

  I woke up the next morning with my back pressed against Lonny's stomach, spoon fashion, and his arms wrapped around me. This might have led to more interesting things except it was four-thirty in the morning and the alarm which had woken me was shrilling insistently.

  Lonny gave me a final affectionate rub and got out of bed. "I'm leaving this morning for the mountains, did I tell you?"

  "Not that I remember," I mumbled sleepily. "Did you say why?"

  "Oh, business." Lonny was pulling his jeans on and didn't look at me; I sensed evasiveness.

  "Just what is your business?" I smiled up at him, trying to take the nosy sting out of my question.

  "I'm starting to be afraid you're a hit man for the mob."

  "Nothing so glamorous." Lonny sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and looked at me.

  No doubt I looked rumpled, I thought distractedly, but there wasn't much I could do about it. "You said you used to be a packer; that's all you've ever mentioned, and you're obviously not a packer now."

  "Well I am, actually. I own a pack station. Crazy Horse Creek. I don't run it anymore; I've got a partner who does that. I go up every month or so to check in with him, make sure things are going all right. I'll be gone for most of this week." There was a tone in Lonny's voice that was hard to place. Hesitant. Tentative.

  "You own a pack station? That sounds interesting," I prodded.

  Lonny seemed to be watching me closely; the expression in his eyes was vulnerable. "It is interesting to me. It broke up my marriage, though. My wife did not want to be married to a packer, and she didn't want to live in a rundown old resort in the mountains. What she wanted was a life on the coast with a man who had a respectable profession. It's one of the reasons I retired. Didn't help, though." He laughed briefly. "She left me to live with a doctor."

  "Is that the reason you didn't want to tell me what you did for a living?" I asked curiously.

  "Sure. You're a vet; you've got eight years' worth of college education, you're a doctor in your own right. I quit high school when I was sixteen and made my money packing horses."

  I chose my words carefully. "That doesn't matter, as far as I'm concerned. And I'd say you made pretty good money packing horses."

  Lonny smiled. "I did at that. Crazy Horse Creek is the biggest pack station in the Sierras now; it's making a good living for both my partner and me. It wasn't always that way. When I was in my twenties, I worked round the clock, and we didn't have a nickel to spare. It was hard on Sara."

  Sara, I thought. Her name is Sara. Suddenly I felt uncomfortable, as though I were lying in Sara's bed.

  Lonny smiled down at me. "What are you going to do today? Keep on playing detective?"

  "Oh, I don't know," I grimaced up at him from the bed. "There's so much I need to find out; trying to look into this is beginning to seem pretty pointless."

  Lonny leaned down and kissed me. "I can think of better things for you to do."

  "I'm sure you can. I can think of better things for me to do, too. Like concentrate on my job. Which, little though it pays, pays a whole lot better than amateur detective work. It's just that Casey ..." I stopped, unable to finish the sentence. That Casey hadn't wanted to die, my mind said. That I was angry at all that talent snuffed out, that Casey wasn't meant to be dead. If someone had killed him, I would find out who.

  Getting out of bed, I enjoyed Lonny's admiring glance at my partially clothed body as I pulled my sweater on. I put my arms around him briefly and kissed him. "Thank you," I said, "that was nice."

  He knew what I meant. "Trial run. I'll give you a call when I get back?"

  "Right."

  The smile between us then was intimate, shared, a result of that connectedness I'd felt last night, and I thought that Sara or no Sara, everything had changed. For the better.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  I walked in my own front door at eight o'clock that sunny rain-washed morning; Lonny and I had shared coffee and rolls at a local bakery before he took off for the mountains, and I felt warm and sated. Belting out "Red River Valley" as I started doing the dishes, I was grateful for Bret's conspicuous absence. I can't carry a tune, but I like to sing-when I'm alone.

  Judging by the sleeping bag and piles of clothes scattered around the living room, I wasn't done with my boarder yet. He'd probably found a new girl, but in all likelihood it would be a one-night relationship.

  Ah well, none of my business. Except I didn't want him living here forever. I shuffled his stuff into one pile and cleaned the living room, thinking of Lonny. Would I want Lonny living here forever? I didn't know, but I enjoyed considering the question.

  When the house was neat, I gave serious thought to the day. Detective work? Staring at my pager, which sat on the kitchen table, black and implacable, I realized I'd have to stick to in-county investigating. Jim and I took it in turn to be on call on Sundays, and today was my turn. Sure as hell that pager would beep if I left the general vicinity of Santa Cruz.

  As it happened, I wasn't given a lot of time to worry about it. I'd barely finished making my grocery list when the pager shrilled in its determined, insistent way-that sound so familiar to overworked veterinarians.

  The caller turned out to be a woman whose gelding had a swollen sheath, one of those non-emergency "emergencies" we got from time to time. I explained patiently and at length that a swollen sheath was not, generally speaking, a problem which needed immediate attention; the horse's sheath would have to get as big or bigger than a cantaloupe for there to be any question of him having a problem urinating.

  To no avail. The woman wasn't listening. She talked over me and
through me, repeating that she was worried about her poor horse and thought he must be miserable.

  After telling her that it would cost her sixty extra dollars just to have me set foot on her place for an emergency call, I agreed that I would certainly come see her horse if she wanted me to, and got in my truck, cursing at the stupidity of people in general.

  The rest of the day turned out to be like that. I washed the gelding's sheath-a process which the woman could easily have done herself-reassured her that he would be fine, and before I could get back in my truck the pager beeped again. This time it was a client with a horse who had been lame for a week, but today he was "suddenly worse."

  I asked questions; the information I elicited was vague, but this horse didn't sound like a true emergency either. Once again I explained about the extra costs of an emergency call; a very common scenario involved a client who'd demanded the vet come out for an "emergency" refusing to pay the bill on the grounds that the charges were too high for what little minor work the veterinarian had actually had to do. But once again, the woman on the phone was sure that I should come out right away.

  I drove the hour and a half that it took me to get from Watsonville, where the horse with the swollen sheath was, to Boulder Creek, high in the mountains of the north county, thinking while I did it that this was probably going to prove to be another waste of time and money. This call was actually even worse, as the horse turned out to be only slightly lame, and I was unable to determine what was wrong with him without x-rays, which the woman refused to have, saying they "cost too much."

  Not bothering to question the logic of spending sixty unnecessary dollars to get me out here on a Sunday but being unwilling to spend a hundred dollars to get some information that might actually help to diagnose her horse, I took my leave as gracefully as I could, telling her to call me if she changed her mind. Sure enough, the pager buzzed when I was halfway back to Santa Cruz.

  Back I went; then out to two more calls, only one of which was a true emergency. This horse, a Peruvian Paso, had a sand colic that looked bad. I treated him as well as I could and told the people that if he got worse they would have to send him to the veterinary emergency center at Davis for a possible operation. This they obdurately refused to consider-again, too much money-and I drove out past the elaborate garden and what looked like a mansion gnashing my teeth. Some days were just like this.

  It was almost five o'clock and I hadn't had much lunch-just a bag of chips and a mineral water, grabbed on the way to somewhere. Pushing the depressing memories of my day away from me, I stopped at Carpo's for dinner.

  Carpo's is an institution in Soquel. A remodeled burger joint, it offers Santa Cruz-style fast food at prices even an underpaid vet can afford. Waiting through the usual long line, I virtuously ordered a salad bar to go with my glass of chardonnay-not such a hardship at Carpo's, as the salad bar was varied and featured terrific whole-wheat sourdough bread.

  Carrying my assembled salad around the restaurant, looking for the always-hard-to-find empty table, I spotted a familiar face. Snub nose, wavy well-cut blonde hair-it was Detective Ward.

  She was sitting alone at a table near a window, reading the paper. There was a glass of red wine in front of her, and as I watched, she reached a hand out to take a sip without looking up. She seemed absorbed and content, and I hesitated, wondering whether to disturb her in her private time. On the other hand, the sight of her brought what seemed like dozens of questions and ideas tumbling into my mind, questions that had disappeared in the hubbub of the day, but were still hanging there, unanswered.

  Detective Ward looked up suddenly and our eyes met. For a second hers were puzzled, but then I saw what I was sure was a flash of recognition before her face became expressionless.

  I nodded at her civilly. "Detective Ward. I'm Doctor McCarthy. Do you mind if I sit with you?"

  She glanced around the restaurant, which was demonstrably crowded, and then back at me. "Of course not."

  I sat down and we studied each other for a moment with what I thought was equal curiosity on both parts. She was as well dressed as when I had first seen her-medium gray lightweight wool suit, pale gray man-tailored shirt, a heavy braided gold chain around her neck that picked up the gold highlights in her hair. Career clothes. Apparently she worked Sundays, too.

  Wondering what she would make of my definitely not dressed-for-success appearance, I had the impulse to wish that the last call of the day hadn't included an enthusiastic Labrador who'd jumped up on me and spattered my jeans with mud. I knew I looked casual, crumpled, and not too clean, but there was nothing I could do about it at the moment.

  The silent inventory had gone on long enough. I smiled at her and said, "I'm glad I saw you here. I was planning to go down to the sheriff's office and just got too busy." The part about the sheriff's office was an outright lie, but what the hell. I certainly had been busy.

  She raised noncommittal eyes to my face. "Oh?"

  I took a sip of wine. "I've found out some things that I think you should know, if you don't already."

  She studied me with the expression of a woman being bothered by a pesky mosquito, uncertain whether to swat or ignore, but obviously exasperated.

  "What things are these?" was what she said.

  I told her everything I knew about Casey Brooks, between sips of wine and mouthfuls of salad and bread. Ignoring her pained expression, I waded through his accusations of Will George, his stormy relationship with Melissa, and his quarrel with Martha Welch. Allowing Detective Ward to escape only long enough to pick up her calamari and pasta when it was ready, I elaborated on the poisoned horses, the cut cinch, the unlikeliness of Shiloh ever dislodging Casey, talked at length about the hiding places along the trail and the wide choice of projectiles, went quickly through my interviews with Will George, Jay Holley, and Martha Welch. Finishing up my summary, I told my less-than-riveted audience, "That's about all I know. It seems suspicious to me, but, as you can tell, I don't have any proof, and there are a lot of things I need to know and don't. Like whether any or all of the suspects have alibis. And who may have had something to gain from Casey's death that I don't know about. Who inherited his money, if he had any. Does he have any family? I don't even know that."

  In the course of my conversation-monologue, really-Detective Ward's expression had shifted from pained to resigned; now she forked up the last of her calamari and gave me a look that was both quizzical and irritated.

  "So you feel the sheriff's department should do some legwork for you, is that it?" Her voice was cool.

  I swallowed my remaining wine and fought to keep my temper. "Not exactly. I wanted to give you what information I had. Maybe-I'm not saying you have any obligation-you would be comfortable giving me the answers to some of those questions, supposing you knew them."

  Detective Ward looked at me and sighed. Without saying anything she pushed her plate aside and reached for her purse, and I had the sense she was tempted to leave without another word.

  Standing up, she looked down at me-a position that put me at even more of a disadvantage than I felt already. The scruffy, bumbling amateur detective facing a poised, competent, dominant member of the legitimate force. Struggling with my annoyance at this woman, I stayed seated, speculating that if she was on as much of a power trip as she appeared to be, it probably arose out of insecurity, and the more powerful I could make her feel, the better my chances were of getting a friendly reaction.

  Gritting my teeth, I stared meekly up at her.

  "People like you," she said dismissively, "make my job harder. If this were a murder, which it wasn't, you would be getting in my way and putting yourself in danger. I need to ask you to leave this sort of work to those of us who have been trained to do it." Having delivered the reprimand, she seemed to unbend a trace. "This wasn't a murder, Dr. McCarthy. But because it was an unexpected death, I did the routine checks. Casey Brooks had no money to speak of. Less than five thousand dollars in a savings account an
d a five-year-old Chevy truck were his only assets. Both were left to his mother, who lives in Las Vegas and was known to be there on the day he died. He has no other close relatives-no siblings, no ex-wife, his father's dead-and no one stands to gain in any way by his death."

  "Except possibly the people I've talked about," I interjected.

  "It's possible." She gazed at me cooly. "But not likely, I'm afraid. Once again: amateurs meddling in investigations only cause trouble. I'll thank you to leave this alone."

  She turned with a decisive click of a classy black pump on the hard tile floor, and left me staring at the remains of my dinner. Detective Ward had, figuratively speaking, told me where to go.

  She had also, I realized a minute later, told me part, at least, of what I'd wanted to know. There were no other significant suspects. Casey had not been killed for his fortune, or by some unknown ex-wife or brother or sister. If he'd been killed, in all likelihood it was one of the people I was "investigating," albeit in my amateur way. All that remained now was to work on alibis.

  I was wondering just how I could start checking the various suspects' alibis as I headed through the parking lot toward my truck, when my pager started beeping once again. Muttering, I turned back to the restaurant and called the answering service from a pay phone near the door.

  "This is Dr. McCarthy."

  A woman's voice told me, "I have the fire chief on the line. He needs to speak to a veterinarian immediately. They have an emergency."

  Slightly startled at the idea of a fire chief and contemplating various horrific scenarios in my mind, I said, "Put him on."

  The man's voice was bluff, confident. "Gene Borba here. We've got a horse trailer off the road, Doc. Came unhitched as the gal pulled off the freeway onto the Corralitos exit ramp. Rolled into a little gully and turned over. It's lying there now. There's a horse inside and it's still alive; it's thrashing around. Can you come?"