Splintered Bones

by Carolyn Haines

5

  Kip’s music, a blend of Middle Eastern wails and some indistinguishable rap lyrics with a wall-vibrating beat, was still audible through my closed door. Kip was a problem, and one I had no experience in solving. I’d called Coleman and told him who the leak was. He, too, was appalled by Kip’s actions. He was also relieved that none of his employees had talked to the media.

  I cranked up my computer and began a search for Bradford Lynch. I couldn’t exactly “hang ten” as a Web surfer, but I turned up a couple of mentions. A 1997 article in Texas Monthly ranked Lynch as one of the best-kept secrets of Texas. His skills in working with “problem” horses were soundly lauded. I also gathered the basics: He was born in Bandera, a small town with a population under a thousand but labeled the “cowboy capital of the world.” His family had once owned the Double D Ranch, which they’d “lost.” I did some quick calculations and pinned his age at thirty-nine.

  Once the twenty-thousand-acre family ranch had been split and sold, Bradford had drifted around the state, training and riding horses at various ranches. End of article. There was a devastating picture of him in his faded blue chambray shirt and cowboy hat.

  The other story was in the Dallas Morning News, a more recent account of a suspicious death. The March 1998 headline read: LAWMEN INVESTIGATE MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF LOCAL RANCHER.

  Kerr County was the setting, and the dead man in question was William Talbot. He’d just filed for divorce from his wife, Tanya, whom he’d caught in the act of playing bucking bronco with a horse trainer—one Bradford Lynch.

  Tiny little goose bumps began doing the boogie on my neck and arms. I read on.

  Talbot, who raised cutting horses, had been found dead in a pasture, trampled in a horse stampede. Tanya had inherited everything. Though the rancher had begun divorce proceedings against her for adultery, he had not changed his will. End result, Tanya was very rich and very single.

  Now that I had a source, I checked for additional articles but nothing came up. It was as if the entire matter had been dropped. Either that, or I didn’t know how to work the damn computer. So I resorted to the detective’s best tool, the telephone. I unplugged the computer modem and made a quick call to the daily newspaper in Kerrville. I got all the answers from a delightfully gossipy reporter named Al Redding.

  Al had covered the story and was glad to gab about it. The two chief suspects with motive, opportunity, and means, Tanya Talbot, aka wealthy widow, and Bradford Lynch, had been thoroughly investigated. There was insufficient evidence to prove foul play. Tanya had inherited and sold the ranch, and Bradford Lynch had continued his drifting ways, moving out of Kerrville and into the sunset as far as anyone knew.

  “They didn’t go away together?” I asked.

  There was a pause on the line. “It seemed that once Talbot was dead, Tanya didn’t have a lot of need for Bud. It’s my opinion that she dumped him and moved on to richer hunting grounds. I mean, now she had the bucks to track herself down a very wealthy man. Bud’s a charmer, but his Dun and Bradstreet wasn’t up to snuff. That was Tanya, always looking to marry up the ladder.”

  “So the case is over and done. Were they guilty?”

  “As sin. At least Tanya was. Everyone in the county agreed she was guilty. That’s why she had to sell out. The law couldn’t punish her, but the community shut her out. Kerr County was once nothing but big cattle ranches. There was a code of honor, and it still exists among many of the people here.”

  “And the trainer, Lynch?”

  “There were two schools of thought about him. Some say he planned and executed the murder for a big payoff. Others thought he was just a victim. Sure, he was bedding the boss’s wife, but that’s not a hanging offense this day and time. And Tanya was quite a woman. Not many men could resist her. Last I heard of him, he was down in Laredo working with some crazy stallion that had gone on a rampage and killed a half dozen of his own mares.”

  “The horse killed his own herd?” This did not jibe with my mental picture of the magnificent stallion protecting his herd from mountain lions, man, or other dangers.

  “So I was told. He’s a valuable horse, but the only cure for that kind of thing is a bullet in the brain. Once a horse kills, it’s time to destroy him. Loss of marketability as a stud. Nobody wants to breed to something crazy. That’s the way it works, the unwritten horse code.”

  “Hey, thanks,” I said.

  “What’s all the curiosity? Has Tanya turned up in Mississippi? I heard she had an aunt living over there.”

  “No, I’m writing a book,” I lied. I had never conjured up a more serviceable falsehood.

  “Yeah? I thought about writing about Tanya and Bud and poor ol’ William. I just never got around to it. It’ll make a great book, though. Good luck.”

  “You, too.” I replaced the phone and turned to find Kip staring at me through a small opening in my door. My instant reaction was anger. She’d simply opened the door without knocking. I had no idea how long she’d been listening.

  “Bud didn’t do anything wrong.” She wiped under her eyes where her thick black mascara was smeared. To my amazement, I saw a tear trickle down her cheek. She brushed it away with fury. “Bud can’t leave the farm. There’s no one else to take care of the horses.”

  “Kip, your mother’s future is on the line. Don’t you understand that? She can go to prison for life.”

  “She doesn’t care!” Kip’s voice was heated. “They were both nothing but liars. Everything was a lie. All of it. I had to listen to them fighting, to the sound of him hitting her.” She put her hands over her ears. “I heard it night after night.”

  I gripped her shoulders lightly. “I’m trying to help Lee. It might not be the way you like it, but I’m going to pursue every avenue. You said Lee didn’t kill your father. Who did?”

  She took a ragged breath and stepped back from me. “I don’t know, but it wasn’t Bud.”

  “Kip, if we can point the finger of doubt at someone else, it might save your mother.”

  “This is what I’m supposed to want to grow up to become. Grown-ups do whatever it takes to make it work out the way they want.” She shook her head, and in the blurred ruin of her face, the eyes of a terrified child looked at me. “I don’t want to be part of this. I’d rather die.”

  She stalked out of my room, and in a moment I heard her door slam with a righteous bang.

  “It’s awful hard to understand how you can throw the blame on someone just to take it off another. You’d think the truth would have something to do with it.” Jitty had appeared at my elbow. Her face, normally unperturbed by the trials and tribulations of mere mortals, was worried. “If you plant the seeds of lies now, there’ll be a high price to pay in the future when your harvest comes in.”

  “I don’t think Lee killed Kemper. She tells a good story, but it doesn’t ring true.”

  “That girl is gonna suffer no matter what you do.”

  Jitty was correct, and I was worried. “Maybe Kip should talk to a professional. You don’t think she’ll harm herself, do you?” Kip’s last statement seemed melodramatic and very teenlike, but she wasn’t experiencing the traumas of a normal teen. She’d been hurled into adulthood.

  “Doubtful,” Jitty said. “If she did, though, she might want to stay here and haunt you, too. Dahlia House is big, but not big enough for two ghosts.”

  She was gone and I was left wondering what in the world to do. Jitty might want an heir, but Kip was enough to shrivel my Fallopian tubes. Aunt LouLane, a confirmed spinster, had been a lot smarter than I’d ever appreciated. But in the long run, what good had it done her? She’d been saddled with me.

  The telephone saved me from further morbid ruminations and signaled that one of my cohorts was probably reporting in. “What have you found?” I asked, by way of hello. I was unprepared for the male voice on the other end.

  “I want to see Lee,” Bud Lynch said. “I’ve got some questions about the farm. Some serious ones.”

  �
�The sheriff won’t let you talk to her?” That surprised me. Coleman wasn’t exactly the type to isolate a prisoner.

  “He’s stalling, and right now I don’t have time for it. There’s someone here to pick up Avenger. She has a bill of sale signed by Kemper.”

  I thought for a moment. “Tell them the horse is evidence in a murder investigation.”

  His chuckle was rich. “I like the way you think, Ms. Delaney. The problem is, Mrs. Bishop has a bill of sale signed by Kemper, showing that she paid two hundred thousand dollars for Avenger and four of our best mares bred to Avenger. I think she’s afraid the horse will be implicated in the crime. She wants him removed before that happens. Bad for the breeding business, you know, if the stud is part of a murder.”

  “Does Lee know about this?”

  “I doubt it.”

  There was just enough hesitation in his voice to make me wonder—and despair. Knowing Lee as well as I did, this was one of the best reasons yet for her to kill her husband.

  “Could Kemper have sold the horses? I thought they were Lee’s.” According to Harold, Kemper had sold Mrs. Peel. I needed to know the law on this issue.

  “I’m not sure of the legalities. I’m just sure that Mrs. Bishop will do everything in her power to get those horses any way she can.”

  “Can you stall her?” Somehow I suspected Bud would be very good at delaying a woman.

  “It’s March. Her mares are ready to be bred. Past ready. She’s not going to tolerate much of a delay. She’s on her cell phone talking to a lawyer right this minute. If this bill of sale is legal, and if Kemper had the authority to sell the horses, she’s going to do her best to take them as soon as possible. That’s why I need to talk to Lee.”

  “I’ll call Coleman.”

  “Make it fast. She’s left the motor running in her truck.” He hung up.

  It took a few calls to track Coleman down, but, as it happened, he was headed out to Swift Level. My call was patched through to him, and I gave him the pertinent details. He promised to check into it.

  I’d just hung up when the phone jangled beneath my fingers. “Delaney Detective Agency.”

  “It’s me.” Tinkie’s voice bubbled with excitement. “What do you have to eat?”

  Whereas Cece preferred cheese Danish hot from the local bakery, Tinkie liked to come to Dahlia House for empty calorie consumption. Her expensive, registered dust mop, Chablis, liked to romp on the kitchen floor with Sweetie Pie.

  “As it happens, some fresh strawberry pie.” It was Delaney tradition to have at least one pie with the lush, sweet berries sliced and piled high in a graham-cracker-crumb crust and covered with mountains of whipped cream. I was a slave to tradition, especially when it came to food.

  “We’re on our way,” Tinkie said as she hung up.

  I looked around for Sweetie Pie. She’d be delighted to see Chablis. They were an interesting pair—the big, gangly red tic hound and the froufrou toy Yorkie. They adored each other.

  My hound was nowhere in sight. I remembered that Kip had taken a liking to her, and it was a good excuse to check on the teenager. I knocked on her door, pounding to get over the din of the music. “Kip, Sweetie Pie has a friend coming over to play. Is she with you?”

  The sudden silence was startling. When the door opened, the first thing I noticed was Kip’s clean face. Without all that makeup, she looked vulnerable. Her eyes were puffy from crying. Sweetie Pie sat at her side, tail thumping the floor. In that moment she looked like only a fourteen-year-old kid who’d listened to her parents fight and had been pressured to a level of performance in the show ring that I couldn’t even imagine.

  “Your dog has a friend coming over?” Kip looked from me to Sweetie Pie.

  “Chablis. Tinkie’s dog.” I hesitated, then took the plunge. “I think you’d like the little vermin. She’s terminally cute, and she has a lot of heart. Why don’t you come down and meet Chablis and have some strawberry pie with me and Tinkie?”

  She looked as if I’d asked her to perform a ballet on a bed of nails. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Kip, please come down. A grilled cheese sandwich won’t hold you for long. You haven’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive since you got here.”

  “Why do you care?” Her green eyes didn’t flinch, but the please had gotten to her.

  “I won’t pretend to like you, but I do care what happens to you.”

  “Because of my mother?”

  “Partly. Also because of you. I have a feeling that if you’d give me half a chance, we might actually like each other.”

  She rubbed her eyes as if suddenly aware the makeup was gone. “Why aren’t you married?” she demanded.

  The question took me by surprise. “I haven’t found the right man.” I glanced past her to see if Jitty, somehow, had invaded her room and her brain. “It hasn’t been my sole mission in life.”

  “All the women who come to the barn talk about their husbands, or the men they’re screwing. That’s all they talk about.” She said this with complete disgust. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Now that’s a question that will take at least half an hour to answer. If you come downstairs, I’m sure Tinkie will be glad to fill you in.”

  Her lips pressed together. “I can leave if I want?”

  I nodded. “But once Tinkie starts dishing the dirt on me, you’ll be too fascinated to depart.”

  I didn’t give her a chance to refuse. I walked away. Kip was furious with everyone and everything associated with her parents. I’d found only one thing that she seemed to like—dogs. Sweetie Pie had slipped beneath her defenses. Chablis was the next tool I had to attack the wall of armor Kip had so efficiently built.

  6

  Tinkie’s tiny fists pounded against the old oak of Dahlia House’s front door. With one eye on Kip, I opened the door. As usual, Tinkie sailed past me, Chablis tucked under one arm. “I’d adore some coffee, Sarah Booth,” she said. “And some pie. I’m desperate for—” The sight of Kip, standing at the bottom of the stairs, halted her.

  “Is that Katrina Lee Fuquar?” Tinkie asked as she began to circle Kip as though she were some exotic animal liable to pounce at any moment.

  Kip held her ground. “My name is Kip.” She stared at Tinkie unflinchingly, enduring the inspection.

  “As you well know, Kip is staying with me,” I said, grasping Tinkie’s arm and propelling her toward the kitchen. “The coffee’s perking.” Tinkie could almost always be distracted with food.

  I looked over my shoulder and motioned Kip to follow us. Tinkie was still craning her neck to look back at the teenager as I pushed her through the dining room and into the kitchen. Without further ado, I parked her at the table.

  The afternoon sun was coming through the white lace of the eyelet curtains, which danced on a tickling spring breeze. The strawberries smelled sweet and ripe, a promise of summer. Long ago, on just such a spring morning, I’d sat at the table and watched my mother make strawberry pies. “Nothing like fresh fruit in season,” she’d said, holding out a washed berry for me to eat. The white curtains had filled with her laughter, fluttering like shards of sunlight.

  “Sarah Booth?” Tinkie said, her brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”

  I was saved from answering by the sound of footsteps in the dining room. To my surprise, Kip pushed through the swinging door and took a seat at the table. While Tinkie stared at Kip, Kip was mesmerized by Chablis.

  “She’s beautiful,” she said, holding out a hand for Chablis to sniff.

  The miniature fluffball leaped from Tinkie’s arms and skittered across the table into Kip’s lap. Her overbitten little jaw worked furiously as she licked Kip’s face.

  Sweetie Pie butted through the swinging door, tail thumping everything in sight. She rushed to Kip, put her front paws on the chair, and joined in the frenzy. Her long tongue slurped Kip’s other cheek.

  “She has a way with animals,” Tinkie said, fascinated. “She must get that from her mo
ther.”

  “The only things I got from Mother are green eyes and the knowledge that I’ll never marry.” Still holding Chablis, Kip stood up. “Can I take them outside?”

  “Sure,” Tinkie and I said in unison.

  Kip banged out the back door with Chablis in her arms and Sweetie Pie on her heels.

  “That hair,” Tinkie said. “I think we should shave her head. She might have lice.”

  “She’s having a hard time,” I said, putting a slice of pie and a cup of coffee in front of Tinkie.

  “And what about you?” Tinkie asked. “How are you managing with her in your home? It concerns me. Have you considered another”—she knew she was treading on thin ice—“place for Kip to stay? She has a reputation for having a really bad temper.”

  Lee had asked for my help, and I had given my word. But Tinkie was acting only as a concerned friend. “I’m fine with Kip being here. We set some ground rules. Kip may have a temper, but she also has a good brain. It’s in her best interests to keep me satisfied with her conduct.”

  My reputation for stubbornness was well known. “If you say so,” Tinkie said as she speared a lush strawberry and held it to her mouth. I watched in fascination as she simultaneously bit and sucked, her Tawny Port lips moving over the berry in the most extraordinary fashion. Not a hint of moisture escaped her. I was immediately thrown back into the past. Ninth grade, high school cafeteria. Tinkie eating a strawberry in exactly the same fashion. It had brought Simon Mills, the chemistry teacher, to his proverbial knees. Tinkie had a lot to teach me.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” I asked her.

  She looked at me, all wide-eyed innocence. “Do what?”

  I shook my head. “What did you find out?”

  “You’re going to love this,” she said, pushing the almost empty plate away and leaning forward. “The hunt season is over. There’s going to be a big ball.” Her eyes sparkled. “And I’ve gotten both of us invited!”

  I was impressed. I’d never run in the hunt society, but I knew the social events were always exclusive. “This is perfect. How did you manage it?”