Steve Cline Mysteries - 01 - At Risk

by Kit Ehrman

  After Razz had cooled down, I tied him in his stall and began the tedious job of brushing the sweat out of his coat. I was working on the matted hair along his stifle when I heard someone stop in the aisle outside Razz's stall. I looked over the horse's rump.

  Marty took note of my expression and grinned. "Expecting somebody, Steve?"

  "You could say that."

  He came into the stall. "I hear Whitcombe's at it again."

  "Got that right. And shit, Marty. I let the asshole get to me."

  "Damn . . . you're human after all. What'd you do?"

  "It's not what I did, it's what I said."

  "Well?"

  "I called him a fag, more or less."

  Marty snorted. "When you lose it, you do it with style. Anyway, thought I'd better warn ya. He's in the office, whinin' to Mrs. Hill."

  I swiped the brush down the horse's rump. "He's prob--"

  Mrs. Hill's voice came over the PA system loud and clear, calling me to the office. Marty chuckled.

  "Here, Marty." I tossed the brush at him. "You think it's so funny, you finish Razz."

  "Give 'em hell, Steve."

  "Damn it, Marty. Don't look so happy."

  "I'm not. It's just that you're so damned serious."

  I walked into the office. Mrs. Hill was sitting behind her desk, and what surprised me was that she didn't look angry. I glanced at the door to the lounge. It was locked.

  Whitcombe had claimed the one and only comfortable chair in the room. He crossed his legs and brushed the horsehair off his britches. His own hair was freshly combed, and I could have sworn he'd changed his shirt.

  I crossed the room and stood facing him with my back to a row of filing cabinets. Leaning against the cool metal, I hooked my thumbs in my pockets and crossed my ankles.

  "Stephen," Mrs. Hill said. "I want you to apologize to Larry for what you said."

  I looked at her and tried to keep anything from showing in my face. She was watching me with calm eyes, certain that I would do as she asked.

  I turned back to Whitcombe. His blue eyes glimmered, and the corners of his mouth twitched. He was enjoying himself. Gloating. I felt like wringing his scrawny neck. But if and when I left the job, I wouldn't let Whitcombe have the satisfaction of thinking he'd had a hand it in.

  I unclenched my jaw and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I lost my temper," I mumbled. It wasn't exactly what Mrs. Hill had in mind, but it was all she was going to get.

  A small smile crept across his fat-lipped mouth. "That's more like it, Cline. Remember who's--"

  "And, Larry," Mrs. Hill interrupted. "I want you to apologize to Stephen for the way you've been treating him."

  "But--"

  "In the past month, more than one person's complained to me about your actions. Stephen's the best barn manager we've ever had, and you don't give him the respect he deserves."

  Whitcombe's, or should I say "Larry's," face deflated like a punctured balloon. His smug, self-satisfied smile dissolved and his eyes widened with astonishment. His mouth hung open, and when I realized I was mirroring him, I snapped my mouth shut.

  Whitcombe jumped to his feet. "Mrs. Hill, I beg to differ. I owe Cline nothing. He's insubordinate and insolent and disrespectful, and I will do nothing of the sort."

  He started for the door, spun back around, and whisked his coat off the back of the chair. He raised a finger and pointed in my direction. "They make fun of me."

  His eyes were moist, and I wondered if he was going to cry. He turned around abruptly and slammed the door on his way out.

  I stared after him. As much as I disliked the guy, I'd never intended for him to overhear the things Marty and I said.

  "Stephen," Mrs. Hill said.

  I pulled my gaze away from the empty doorway.

  "In the future, please keep your opinions of Larry to yourself."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "You may go."

  "Thank you." I walked outside, half expecting to find Whitcombe waiting for me. But he was nowhere in sight.

  I didn't see Whitcombe for the rest of the day, and when I opened the door to the loft, the phone was ringing. I dumped my notebook and mail on the counter and snatched up the receiver.

  "Aren't you ever home?" Kenneth Newlin said before I'd gotten two words out.

  He'd gone by Kenneth ever since I'd known him. No one in his right mind would have called him Kenny. Kenneth was, pure and simple, a geek. Until we'd met during fifth period Physics class in tenth grade, I'd never thought anyone actually wore a pocket protector. The only thing he lacked was tape on his glasses, and for all I knew, he could have lowered himself to that by now.

  "No," I said. "Not much."

  Kenneth grunted. "Well, you were right about the tax write-off. Farpoint Industries has been listing Foxdale as a liability ever since they broke ground on the place, but they won't be able to this year. Foxdale's now in the black by a narrow margin. But I don't see how losing the write-off 's gonna make any difference whatsoever in FI's end-of-year balance sheet."

  "Why's that."

  "The company's making money hand over foot. Losing the write-off 's penny-ante stuff to them."

  "What about money laundering?" I said.

  "Well, I'm no accountant, but based on the files I accessed, I didn't see any indication of that."

  "How'd you get into them?"

  "The files?" Kenneth said.

  "Yeah."

  "You don't want to know. Oh, and even though they've lost the write-off, FI's still getting a hefty tax break because of the Green Space Act."

  "The what?"

  "Some bleeding heart liberals in the Senate and EPA are promoting it. In certain parts of the country--and your Foxdale just so happens to be smack in the middle of one of their grids--the government's granting landowners a hefty tax break for every acre they leave undeveloped in a futile effort to slow urban sprawl. At five-hundred-and-seven acres, FI's doing itself some good just by owning the land."

  "So you don't see any way Ambrose would benefit from Foxdale losing money?"

  "Nope. If someone wants the place to go belly up, it's not him."

  "Okay. Thanks, Kenneth."

  "No sweat."

  "What're you up to these days?" I asked.

  "I'm starting at NASA in May."

  "Don't you have two more years before you graduate?"

  "Nah. I crammed the four into two. Hell, I could have taught the classes I've been taking in my sleep, they're so basic."

  I chuckled.

  Kenneth told me about the artificial intelligence project he'd soon be cutting his teeth on, and by the time we said goodbye, the dull ache behind my eyes that I'd been nursing all evening had turned into a full-blown headache.

  I knocked the cap off a bottle of beer and swallowed some ibuprophen. After I'd opened a box of Cheez-Its, I flipped through the pages in my notebook until I came to the scribbled notes I'd made at the library, where I'd stayed until closing time. I was fast becoming a pro at scanning microfiche, but I'd come away empty-handed as far as news coverage on horse and tack theft went. More depressing, however, were the lack of details on James Peters' death.

  I unfolded the photocopies, smoothed them out on the counter, and read the blurred print for the third time.

  STABLE OWNER MISSING ALONG WITH SEVEN HORSES

  Berrett: Police were called to Hunters Ridge Farm on Martz Road shortly after seven a.m. Saturday morning, when Gwendolyn Peters discovered that seven of the farm's horses were missing from their stalls and presumed stolen. Police could not locate her husband, James S. Peters, though it is unclear at this time whether the events are related.

  BODY FOUND IN PATUXENT RIVER STATE PARK

  Damascus: The partially decomposed body of an unidentified adult male was found in the Patuxent River State Park just south of Long Corner Road early Friday morning. Two fourteen-year-old boys from Dorsett, Maryland discovered the body while hiking along a trail west of the Patuxent River. Police de
termined that the body had been buried, but recent heavy rains had washed away the loose soil. The cause of death was not immediately known.

  BODY IDENTIFIED

  Damascus: A body found in the Patuxent River State Park early Friday morning has been identified as that of James S. Peters of Berrett, Maryland. Peters, 64, who owned and operated a horse facility near Piney Run Park, disappeared August 4th, the same day seven horses were stolen from the farm.

  Detective James Ralston, who is heading the investigation, said preliminary findings indicate that Peters interrupted the intruders and was murdered. Ralston refused to comment on other details of the investigation except to say that cause of death was determined to be blunt force trauma to the head. Peters is survived by his wife.

  Those three clippings, combined with a brief write-up in the obituary column, were, as far as I could determine, the total coverage devoted to the life and death of James S. Peters. I downed the last of the beer and threw the empty into the trash.

  Chapter 12

  Thursday morning, I visited Gwendolyn Peters.

  The only other living relative mentioned in Peters' obituary had been a nephew, and after a bit of detective work with the phone book the night before, I'd tracked him down. He knew little about the events surrounding August fourth and next to nothing about Hunters Ridge. He did, however, point me in the right direction as far as his aunt was concerned. Shortly after her husband's death, Mrs. Peters had suffered a nervous breakdown and seemed destined to live out the remainder of her days in a nursing home.

  "What about the farm?" I'd said. "Do you think anyone still works or boards there who knew your uncle?"

  "You're outta luck there, pal. Place got sold and is being bulldozed as we speak."

  "Bulldozed into what?"

  "A housing development, what else? Nice, too. The land backs right up to Piney Run."

  Shortly after eight, I pointed the Chevy's nose northward. After a few wrong turns, I found the town of Wards Chapel and, on Eighth Street, Shady Grove Nursing Home.

  They must have recently polished the floor, because my shoes squeaked with each step I took down the long, depressing corridor. I had always hated hospitals, and nursing homes were close enough to elicit the same adversionary response. I turned a corner and nearly walked into an elderly man with disheveled yellow-gray hair. His back was so stooped, he reminded me of a tree limb, ready to snap. Even his skin looked like bark. I continued on.

  Most of the doors were open, but I did not look in any of them. I paused just before I got to room 309 and wished I were anywhere else. The air stank of strong disinfectant that couldn't mask the stench of urine and was nauseating. I wiped my hands on my jeans and stood in the doorway.

  Mrs. Peters sat unmoving in a chair that had been placed so she could look out the window. Early morning sunlight shifted and winked in the branches of a nearby Mimosa and angled through the glass like a moving kaleidoscope. The view was pleasant enough—manicured lawn, a hedge of forsythia bushes that had probably been spectacular a week earlier, a patch of blue sky. A breakfast tray sat on the bedside table, and by the looks of it, Mrs. Peters ate very little. The room was cheerless and drab with institutional furniture and empty walls, except for a still-life print that hung above the bed. The only personal possession in evidence was a photograph on the night stand.

  I cleared my throat. "Mrs. Peters?"

  She didn't respond.

  I walked around the bed and stood by the window where she could see me. "Mrs. Peters?"

  She turned her head slowly and looked at me with pale, watery eyes, her expression blank. Her skin was deeply wrinkled and hung slackly from her bones. She no longer looked like a woman in her sixties as her nephew had said she was.

  I introduced myself and asked if she would mind answering some questions about Hunters Ridge.

  "Hunters Ridge?" Her eyes widened, and her hands clutched at the knitted afghan draped across her lap. "You know Hunters Ridge?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Is it a job you want?"

  I blinked. "Uh . . ."

  "Because you'll have to ask Jimmy. He's the one does the hirin'."

  I didn't say anything. Couldn't.

  "Have you seen him?"

  I shook my head and swallowed. "I wasn't looking for a job. I wanted to know who worked for, uh . . . is working for him."

  "Oh, well, Maryanne and Crystal come in the afternoons and on weekends, and Vicky gives lessons."

  According to Greg, it had been years since they'd switched from boarding to breeding, and I wondered what time frame Mrs. Peters' mind was stuck in. "What are their last names?"

  "Oh, heavens, I don't have the vaguest. Jimmy would know. He keeps the records. You just go on over and ask him. He'll know."

  "What about boarders?"

  "Oh, well there's Jenny and Sue Ellen, Linda and--"

  "Their last names?"

  "Oh, my. I don't rightly recall. They come and go, you know? You'll have to ask Jimmy."

  I asked her who shod their horses, delivered their grain and hay, and anything else I could think of, and I learned that Mr. Peters had done with as little help as humanly possible. She mentioned a Buddy Harrison who may or may not have been related to John Harrison; otherwise, none of the names were familiar. If she was talking about twenty years ago, then I supposed it made sense.

  "And your vet?" I said.

  "Greg Davis." She nodded to me. "So young and handsome, like yourself. At first, I told Jimmy I thought Greg was too inexperienced, but Jimmy had great faith in him. Said he knows how to time a breeding better than Morgan ever did. Course, Morgan was always half in the bottle. Couldn't tell a one from a three if his life depended on it. And if you don't read the follicles right, you end up breeding too early or too late and have to wait another whole month."

  "Morgan?"

  "Doctor Morgan. Passed away, God rest his soul."

  I glanced behind her, at the photograph on the night stand, and she followed the direction of my gaze and twisted around in her chair. She picked up the gold-framed photograph, then settled back against the cushions and balanced the frame on the folds of her afghan. It vibrated in her trembling hands. A network of blue veins and tightly strung tendons threaded their way under skin that looked transparent, and her knuckles were swollen, fingers misshapen with arthritis. A gold wedding band hung loosely around a bone-thin finger. I stepped to her side with sick fascination.

  Peters had been a tall, gangly man with a broad forehead and easy smile. His arm was casually draped around his wife's shoulders as they stood in front of a split rail fence. A group of yearlings had gathered on the far side with their ears pricked curiously toward the couple. Mrs. Peters was leaning against her husband with her arms around his waist, her head tilted back as she gazed into his face. She looked young and carefree and exceedingly happy.

  She touched the glass with her fingertips, as if she could bring back the moment. "Have you seen Jimmy?" she said without looking up.

  I swallowed. "No, ma'am."

  "I told him he shouldn't have reported it." Her voice caught in her throat. "But he always does what's right."

  "Report what?"

  She didn't answer.

  "Mrs. Peters, who did he report?"

  "Do you know when he'll be back?" Her voice was high-pitched with strain. "Dinner's almost ready."

  "Mrs. Peters. It's important that you tell me. What did he report?"

  She covered her mouth with a trembling hand.

  "Who, Mrs. Peters? Who did he report?"

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. "No, no, no-o-o." Her voice rose in a wail that filled the tiny room.

  I put my hand on her bony shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Peters."

  A nurse bustled into the room. "You. What are you doing?"

  I straightened.

  "You'll have to leave." She stood aside so I could move around her. "Now."

  I walked out into the sunlight and tried to imagine all the possi
ble things Mr. Peters might have reported that had anything to do with horses. As I drove back to Foxdale, I couldn't stop thinking about the fragility of the human mind. Under normal circumstances, I imagined, Gwendolyn Peters could have been reduced to such a state by senility or Alzheimer's or whatever, but I had an overwhelming feeling that she had been pushed. Pushed by the horror of her husband's sudden, violent death.

  The man who was behind this, whoever he was, had destroyed more than one life on that hot summer night.

  * * *

  Rachel beat me to Foxdale by half a minute. She stretched back into her car as I idled my pickup down the row of parked cars and came to a stop behind her back bumper. She straightened and turned quickly, and I was rewarded with a welcoming smile. I hopped out and opened the door for her as she slipped on a sweater.

  She reached up and flipped her hair out from under the collar. "Sneaking up on me?"

  I grinned. "Me? Never."

  "Uh-huh."

  I checked out the rest of her outfit with growing appreciation. A short, brown skirt, secured around her waist with a wide, yellow belt, revealed a lot of good-looking leg. The only surprise . . . she was wearing tennis shoes.

  Rachel smiled. "I like to be comfortable."

  "So, you're a mind-reader."

  "It's a girl thing. Or, I suppose you could say it's a guy thing. 'Cause you guys are easy to read."

  "Oh, come on. Okay." I crossed my arms over my chest. "Where would I like to be right now?"

  "Somewhere horizontal and . . . private."

  "Damn. You are a mind reader."

  She grinned, then climbed into the truck. The skirt rode up on her thighs. I reluctantly shut the door and walked around to the driver's side.

  We headed south and, as it happened, the route I'd chosen took us past Greg's farm. I pointed it out.

  "You live in that house?"

  I shook my head. "No, I live in the barn."

  "The barn?"

  I glanced sideways at her. "Yes. Where the hay loft used to be. It was remodeled into an apartment. Very nice, too."

  "Can we stop?"

  I briefly wondered if she was initiating the horizontal and private thing but dispelled the idea as wishful thinking on my part. I pictured how I'd left the place and decided it would be acceptable. I'd picked the clothes off the floor a couple of days earlier, and I'd even thrown the bedspread back across the mattress.