Splintered Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  “But you didn’t do that?”

  “No, I heard something behind me.” Her mouth hardened. “It was that bitch Carol Beth. Her and Bud.”

  Bud, at last, had a witness to corroborate his alibi. “What were Bud and Carol Beth doing?” I prompted.

  “She was all over him, just crawling on him. She’d been after him for weeks. She was telling him how she had the signed bill of sale for Avenger, and how she was going to have the best breeding program of performance horses in the nation, and that it would be all hers, and how she needed him to help her. They would be partners, she said. He wouldn’t be just a hired hand.” She spoke the words as if they were dusted in bitterness.

  “What did Bud say?”

  Kip’s hands clenched around the tops of her boots so tight her knuckles burned white. “He was telling her she was smart, that she’d finally gotten what she wanted. He said that she’d outsmarted everyone else and that he wanted to see the bill of sale.”

  “Did she show him?”

  “Oh, yes. They went back to the truck and she opened the door and showed him. She’d finally gotten everything she wanted. Bud, the horses. All of it.” She fell silent. “Then they went up to Bud’s apartment.”

  “And Kemper?”

  “He was still on the phone.”

  “And what did you do, Kip?”

  “I decided to kill him.” The words were spoken without emotion. “I decided it would be better to sneak up behind him and stab him with a shot of Rompum. I knew if I could push the whole syringe of Rompum into him, it would kill him. So I got the syringe, and I got the medicine out of the cabinet, and I went in Mrs. Peel’s stall and waited for everyone else to go to sleep.”

  “Rompum?”

  “It’s a sedative. Enough of it would stop his heart.”

  Surely Doc would have found a huge dose of sedative in the autopsy. I wasn’t any kind of forensic expert, but something like that would have been obvious. “Did you inject Kemper?”

  “I don’t know what I did,” she said. “I fell asleep. When I woke up, the medicine was gone. I still had the syringe in my hand, but the bottle of medicine was completely gone.” She looked up at me with bleak eyes. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “What do you remember next?” I was as gentle as I knew how to be. Kip was scared. I believed she had no recollection of events. Her eyes were haunted by the possibility of what she might have done.

  “The next thing I remembered was Mother calling for me. It was just dawn, and I was asleep in the stall. Mother was frantic. I didn’t know where I was, and I didn’t know what had happened. When Mother found me, she told me that he was dead and that she’d taken care of everything.”

  “What had she taken care of?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kip repeated. “When I have one of the blackouts, I don’t remember anything.”

  “You’ve had these blackouts before?” I remembered the medicine Dr. Vance had prescribed. Prozac and Paxil. Heavy-duty stuff.

  “Only a few times. Only lately. It’s from the stress and anxiety, the doctor said. When I can’t handle it anymore, it’s like my brain just takes a vacation.”

  That was as simple an explanation as I’d ever heard for a psychotic break. But what had Kip done while she’d blacked out? “What’s the next thing you remember?”

  Kip smiled. “My blue robe. It’s falling apart, and Mother bought me a new one, but I like the blue one. Mother took me up to my room and ran a hot bath. She put the blue robe on me and put me in bed and told me to stay in my room and not to talk to anyone. She said that everything would be fine now. That he was dead and everything would be just fine.” Kip stared at me. “She lied, didn’t she? It isn’t going to be fine.”

  Kip was silent on the ride out. When we turned on County Road 11 and approached, she pressed closer to the window.

  Sunlight stretched golden across the meadows of Swift Level. The green grass rippled as if gilded by the hand of Midas. In a far pasture, a herd of fifteen horses raced and cavorted.

  When she smiled, she was a normal-looking child of fourteen, not a potential murderer suffering from blackouts and dark desires. She pointed at the horses, and I stopped the car for a moment so we could both watch the herd.

  “That’s Grange and his herd of mares,” Kip said. “He’s a Connemara. Many of the mares we’re breeding to Avenger have his blood in them. A Thoroughbred/ Connemara cross.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I said. “You know, I always wanted a horse.”

  “You did?” Kip studied me. “You’re pretty weird, Sarah Booth. You talk to yourself and dream about fictional characters who come to visit you.”

  I put the car in motion. As the beautiful old antebellum home came into view, I saw the cars in the drive. So did Kip.

  “You’d think that with Mother in jail, they’d cancel this stupid ball. I hate those people. They all pretend to be so refined. They’re just trash.”

  It was a pretty accurate summation of some of the folks who belonged to the Chesterfield Hunt, but not all of them.

  “Your mother gave permission for the ball to be held here.”

  “I know. I don’t want to go to the house. Please take me to the barn.”

  I was relieved at her choice. I wasn’t in the mood for Martha Stewart chitchat from the women preparing for the ball. I got enough decorating grief from Jitty.

  We pulled in beside the smaller white barn where Avenger resided, and beside Coleman’s brown patrol car. I hadn’t expected to see him here. I glanced at Kip to see how she would react. Their last meeting had been rather emotional.

  “I want to ride Avenger,” she said, opening the car door. She dashed into the small barn. Coleman walked out of the shadows of the show barn and came up to me as I got out. “Morning, Sarah Booth.”

  “Hi, Coleman. What’s going on?”

  He leaned back against the car, turning his face up to the warming sun. “I’m looking forward to tonight. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  His statement caught me enough by surprise that I answered before I had censored my own feelings of excitement. “Me, too.” My personal anticipation cooled, though, as I remembered why Coleman was probably at Swift Level. “Are you here to see Bud?”

  “To question him.” He looked past me, toward the barn. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  I fell into step beside him as we walked along one of the gravel paths. We passed the barn where the office was, moved on past the stud barn where Kip was saddling Avenger, and continued toward a white fence where we could watch a dozen young foals playing in the sunshine while the mares grazed. We stood for a while without talking.

  “Bud has an alibi,” I reminded Coleman.

  “Sarah Booth, you’re too old to be so naïve.”

  My retort was diverted by the sound of a shrill scream. I wasn’t certain where the sound came from, but Coleman started toward the show barn, which contained an indoor riding arena.

  “Avenger!” Kip’s voice held authority. “Stop it!”

  The horse’s scream of rage came again. Every story I’d heard about Avenger came back to me. He was a dangerous animal, and Kip was in trouble. Coleman and I ran toward the indoor arena at a dead run.

  Coleman got there first. He ducked under the white rail and rushed into the center of the ring. I stopped at the rail in horror. Bud was standing by a red-and-white jump, and not ten feet away, Avenger danced on his hind legs. Kip clung to his back, her face grim and determined as she leaned forward on his neck, arms extended, putting all of her weight on the reins in an effort to push the horse back down to the ground.

  “Avenger!” she cried. The horse dropped to the ground and shook his head, almost flinging Kip off. Then he reared again, and this time I saw what he was after.

  Roscoe lay on the ground in front of the jump. He was on one elbow, while he held up his other arm in an effort to ward off Avenger’s front hooves as the stallion pawed the air and struck at him.


  “Right rein, Kip. Pull the right rein.” Bud was tensed for action, but there was nothing he could do.

  Kip twisted one hand in the horse’s mane and grabbed the right rein with the other. Avenger’s hooves windmilled.

  “Avenger!” Kip’s face showed nothing but determination. She gave the rein a mighty tug. It was enough to unbalance Avenger, and he dropped his front feet to the ground not ten inches from Roscoe’s prone body.

  “Push him forward!” Bud’s voice carried, strong and assured. “Push, Kip. Push!”

  The big gray horse danced dangerously as an enraged scream tore from his throat.

  “Avenger!” She pulled hard on the right rein, physically turning the horse’s head and neck. With great skill, she clapped her heels into the horse’s sides and sent him forward, away from Roscoe’s prone body. The old man fell back on the ground, and I couldn’t tell if he’d been struck or not.

  Coleman rushed to Roscoe as Bud caught up with Kip and Avenger. The trainer caught the stallion’s reins and put a soothing hand on his neck, but his attention was on Kip.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “Is Roscoe hurt?” She was fighting back tears. “I don’t know what happened. He was working fine. I didn’t know Roscoe was in here painting the jumps, and when he stood up, Avenger went up to him for just a moment, like he wanted to be petted, and then he went nuts.”

  “It’s okay,” Bud said, patting her leg. “It wasn’t your fault, Kip. You rode him like the champion you are. You saved Roscoe’s life. If he’d come down on top of him . . .” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

  Coleman was helping Roscoe to his feet. The old man was shaky, but seemed uninjured.

  Roscoe ducked under the rail and then stopped to catch his breath. He was panting as he pulled a bandana from his pocket and wiped his glistening forehead. “Thanks, Sheriff.” He turned to look at Kip in the arena. She had Avenger back on the rail, and under Bud’s guidance was circling to put him at a jump. I watched in awe and some trepidation as the big gray seemed to fly over the jump, which was at least five feet high. He made it look effortless, and Kip looked like she’d been born to do nothing but sit on his back. They were truly a magnificent team.

  With Kip easily taking the series of jumps, Bud came over to the rail where Coleman, Roscoe, and I stood.

  “I’m sorry, Roscoe,” Bud said. “I didn’t know you were in here or I wouldn’t have brought Kip in.”

  “I was painting the jumps, like Miss Lee told me.”

  I saw the paint can, then. The bloodred paint had been kicked over and was soaking into the dirt.

  “Nobody was hurt, and that’s the important part,” Roscoe said. He started to brush off his jacket, pausing a moment as he examined the worn fabric. It had once been a very expensive coat. His gaze traveled back to the horse, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Is Kip safe?” I asked Bud; I could see that Coleman was wondering the same thing.

  “Avenger would never hurt Kip,” Bud said. He went to the center of the ring and motioned for Kip to bring the horse to him. She rode up, executed a perfect halt, tossed the reins to Bud, and then vaulted to the ground. Avenger lowered his head and nuzzled Bud’s chest.

  “No wonder Carol Beth’s determined to have that horse,” I said to Coleman.

  “He is something.” Coleman turned his attention back to the ring, but I could see he wasn’t watching Avenger. He was watching the interaction between Kip and Bud. “Maybe you could take Kip for a walk,” Coleman suggested as he slipped under the rail.

  “Kip,” I called. “I need to talk to you.”

  She saw the sheriff and must have known what was coming. She looked at Bud, turned, and ran off in the opposite direction.

  “Damn,” I said under my breath. “Damn it all to hell.”

  Doc Sawyer was in his office, and he gave me a tired smile when I tapped on his door and entered. I’d dropped Kip off at home. I didn’t want her with me to hear this conversation.

  “I’ve been trying to call you,” Doc said.

  “What’s going on?” The same pot of coffee seemed to be sitting in the stained coffeemaker. I eyed it carefully to see if it had come to life yet.

  He came around the desk and put his arm around my shoulders. “I got Kemper’s blood work back. There’s something strange there.”

  “What?” My heartbeat surged, but I forced my body to remain relaxed.

  “There was insulin in Kemper’s body.”

  “Insulin? Was he diabetic?”

  Doc slowly shook his head. “No, he wasn’t. Sarah Booth, I haven’t told Coleman yet, but I’m going to have to.”

  “So there was insulin. What exactly does that mean?”

  He gave my shoulders a squeeze before he walked back behind his desk and picked up some papers. He was looking down when he spoke again. “I’m not a detective, I’m just an old country doctor, but I’d say someone injected Kemper with the intent to kill him.”

  “What about the blow to the head?”

  “That’s what killed him,” he said slowly. “I’m still not certain what kind of instrument. Nippers, a hammer. Coleman never found the weapon.”

  “Was insulin the only thing you found in his blood?”

  He paused. “Should I have found something else?”

  My gaze fell to my lap. “How should I know?”

  He cleared his throat. “I would have to say that Kemper was unconscious from the insulin when he was struck a fatal blow in the head. That’s what I’ll have to testify to.”

  The scenario Doc described was one of premeditated murder—and one that couldn’t be blamed on a horse.

  18

  Thunderclouds were massing outside the driver’s window as I drove home. On either side of the car, cotton fields, sprouting with the tender new growth of spring, stretched to the horizon. Only to the west, where the clouds marshaled, did there seem a finite end to the fields. Slowing the car, I watched the clouds. They took on the shape of a cavalry charge, and in the distant rumble of thunder I could hear the horses’ hooves racing toward me. It was a fantasy of childhood, and one I always associated with Lee.

  The storm perfectly matched my mood. I’d thought carefully about my role in this case. I was going to have to go to Coleman with what I knew. Counting the seconds between the thunder and the forks of lightning that followed, I calculated the distance of the approaching storm. It would be nice to be at Dahlia House for a turbulent spring storm. I’d never felt less than safe within the walls of my home, and I loved to watch the wind twist the sycamore trees into a dance of strength and beauty. I notched the speed up to eighty-five, relishing the handling of the car, and raced the storm home.

  The first strong winds were whipping the tender leaves of the sycamores when I turned down the drive. Dahlia House, in need of paint and other cosmetics, stood like a grand lady at the end of an aisle. The sense of coming home was one of the best emotions I’d ever felt. I could only pity those people who’d never loved a place, had never felt the satisfaction of roots holding firm in land that nurtures both the past and the future. I was home.

  I made sure the convertible top was latched down and the windows rolled up before running up the steps just as the first big drops of rain began to fall. I almost tripped over the large package that was tilted against the doorway, the overnight delivery box a bright orange and purple.

  My dress! In the emotional turmoil of the day, I’d forgotten that Neiman Marcus was going to FedEx my Cinderella outfit for the ball. I snatched it up, ran inside, and headed straight for the kitchen and some coffee. I forced myself to wait until the coffee was brewing before I opened the package.

  The red dress, featherlight and so delicate that the tiniest movement sent the material rippling, was beautiful.

  “Good thing you’re goin’ to this ball with the law, otherwise the vice squad would be on your ass like a duck on a June bug.”

  Jitty was leaning against the wall, a smile
of satisfaction on her face.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Looking at the dress, I could even forgive her for ganging up against me with Kinky in my dreams.

  “Put it on,” she suggested.

  I didn’t need a second invitation. I stripped out of my clothes and let the dress whisper down my body. The sheer sensuality of the material sliding over my skin made me shiver. It was one helluva dress. Jitty confirmed it with a whistle.

  “You ’bout over the hill, Sarah Booth, but that dress makes you look like you got a few good years left.”

  “Thanks,” I said, unable to feel anything except delight, even if Jitty was being a troll. “I’m going to have to rush out and get some new underwear,” I said. Any excuse for new underwear was a good one, but this dress was the best.

  “Yes, ma’am, panty lines would sure ruin the effect.” Jitty sniffed. “Maybe you could just go without.”

  There was a hint of devilment in her eyes. “Maybe,” I agreed, my own imp of mischief ready to play. I stepped out of the panties I was wearing and felt the delicious slide of the dress against my body. “I need my red high heels.” They’d been an extravagance when I bought them in New York, but now they were going to pay dividends.

  “Yes, indeed. Better find your red garter belt and some of those shimmery stockings.” Jitty sighed. “Harold is going to regret asking Carol Beth instead of you.”

  “I certainly hope so.” I huffed. “You’d think after Brianna he’d have learned his lesson about cavorting with man-eaters.”

  Jitty’s chuckle was warm. “You sound a little jealous.”

  “I just hate to see Harold roasted on a spit.” If Jitty were still in her fifties mode, she’d be harping on family values and the immorality of married folks going out with single folks. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a road I could travel for long, seeing as how Coleman was also married. Of course, going to this ball was just part of the job. For both of us, I reminded myself.