Steve Cline Mysteries - 01 - At Risk

by Kit Ehrman

  She must have sensed my hesitation, because she said, "Oh . . . I shouldn't have asked."

  "No," I said. "I'd like to show you."

  I turned around, and we headed back. As I pulled onto Greg's farm, it struck me how elegant the place looked. Pin oaks lined the drive on both sides along with an immaculate four-board fence. The three-story brick house looked as stately as ever, and the barns were constructed of rich wood siding instead of the usual steel, which I found cold and dreary.

  I pulled into the parking area behind the foaling barn, and we climbed the steps to the loft.

  A dead mouse lay on the doormat.

  "You have cats, I see." Rachel said.

  "No. Well . . . yes. Actually, they're not mine. They sort of came with the place. They're barn cats, really. I probably shouldn't have let them in at all, but they're insistent."

  She grinned at me, and I wondered why I couldn't shut the hell up. When I opened the door for her, she said, "You don't lock your door?"

  "Nah. On a farm like this, there's always someone around. I don't worry about it."

  Rachel walked inside and stood in the middle of the kitchen. "Wow. This is nice."

  She turned slowly, taking it in, her brown skirt and the sweater's warm shades of tan, orange, and yellow a vibrant splash of color, intense and alive.

  She spun around and walked onto the carpet. "What a great place. It's so cool and big and on a horse farm with such great views. I envy you. I live close to the Baltimore City line. Not even in a neighborhood."

  Rachel paused at my stereo system. It was stacked on an old, wooden crate and had cost me a fortune. She picked up a stack of CDs and shuffled through them like they were a deck of cards. "Kenny Wayne Shepherd, Vilvaldi, Kid Rock, Mellencamp, Bach, matchbox 20." She looked up at me and raised her eyebrows. "You've got quite an eclectic collection here, don't you?"

  I shrugged and told her about my sister. "With her room next to mine, it was either get used to it and like it, or live day after day in misery."

  She smiled, then walked to the end of the loft and looked out the north windows at the tree-lined drive. When she turned around, it seemed to me that she had noticed my bed for the first time. She glanced from it to me and walked purposefully back into the kitchen. The long-haired cat squeezed out from under my bed and trotted over to her.

  "Oh, what a beautiful cat." Rachel crouched down, and the cat rubbed against her legs.

  I didn't look at the cat, however, having a definitely more interesting view elsewhere. Rachel's skirt was very short.

  I cleared my throat. "You've made a life-long friend."

  "I've never seen a cat that's so friendly." Rachel laughed when the cat flipped onto its back. "What a wiggle worm. What's her name?"

  "Far as I know, she doesn't have one."

  Rachel was on her hands and knees, and her hair had fallen forward over her shoulders. "How could you have a cat and not name it?"

  "But it's not my cat."

  Rachel shook her head and rose to her feet. She put her hands on her hips. "Don't you ever pet her?"

  "Of course I do. That cat has an insatiable desire for affection." Not unlike my own, I thought.

  We spent the afternoon paddling around Wilde Lake. We checked out every cove, risked getting stuck in the shallows, and went to dinner when the sun dipped below the horizon.

  The food was delicious, but I couldn't, for the life of me, remember eating it. Rachel had candlelight in her eyes, and her hair glowed with a warmth and vibrancy of its own. We talked about everything and nothing while light seeped from the sky, the glass turning black with the night.

  When the crowd thinned, and one of the waiters started pushing a sweeper across the carpet in the next room, I said, "Are you ready to go?"

  She nodded.

  Outside, it was chillier than expected, and neither one of us had dressed for it. Ignoring the cold, we followed the path as it hugged the shoreline. Where the woods thinned, we paused and looked across the lake. A half moon hung low in the east and reflected off the water's surface. A sure, straight path, cutting across the lake.

  "How beautiful," Rachel murmured.

  I took her in my arms and kissed her, not a drop-down-and-do-it kiss, but a gentle one that she returned in kind. When I felt her shiver, I wrapped my jacket around her, and she rested her head on my chest and slid her arms around my waist.

  Above our heads, a gentle breeze moved through the trees. It would have been peaceful except for the primitive feelings brought to life by her body's closeness to mine. I felt the quiet rhythm of her breathing against me; yet, I was having a hard time controlling mine. I smoothed my fingers through her silky hair and breathed deeply. Her scent was barely perceptible on the shifting air currents. She looked up, and I kissed her again.

  After a while, we headed back to Foxdale. Ignoring the fact that the roads weren't all the great, I put my arm around her shoulders, which I probably shouldn't have done. All I could think about was sliding my hand into her blouse. After maneuvering the truck out of a particularly sharp curve, I decided I'd better keep my eyes on the road and my hands on the steering wheel.

  I clamped both hands on the wheel and glanced down. Shouldn't have done that, either. If I lowered my hand just a few inches, I would be touching her legs. And with that short skirt, one thought led to another, and I was right back where I'd started.

  I was almost relieved when I turned into the lane at Foxdale.

  I clenched my teeth. "Damn it."

  Rachel shifted in her seat. "What's wrong?"

  "The gates aren't locked." I glanced at my watch. It was almost midnight.

  "Is that a problem?"

  "I hope not. I forgot to ask Karen to lock up, but she should have thought about it. Everything else better be locked up, or--"

  "Maybe she didn't know what to do because my car was still in the lot."

  I glanced at her. Pale light from the dash shone on her face. "Yeah," I said softly. "You're probably right."

  I pulled in alongside the Camry and scanned the grounds before I got out. Rachel swiveled around on the seat to face me. When she slid down to the ground, quite a distance for her, the skirt hung up on the vinyl bench for a brief second. Damn, she looked good. I pulled her to me and gave her an open-mouthed kiss. She felt perfect in my arms, and I thought I had better send her on her way before I wasn't as controlled.

  Rachel unlocked her car. As she slid behind the wheel, I checked the back seat. We said goodbye, then I watched her drive away until her taillights disappeared around the bend.

  I walked through every building, checked every corner, every horse, jiggled every doorknob, and felt bone tired by the time I climbed into the Chevy. As I slotted the key in the ignition, light flashed across the windshield. I swiveled around as a car headed down the lane.

  A cop car. The cruiser angled across the parking lot and pulled in behind my truck. The driver lit up the interior of my truck with s spotlight and approached the truck with an interesting blend of confidence and caution. I kept my hands on the steering wheel.

  He shone his flashlight in my face, then lowered the beam. "What are you doing here this late?"

  I recognized him from Monday. Officer Dorsett, tall, lean, black, with a thin mustache and a gold hoop in his left ear that didn't quite go with the otherwise military turnout. "I was on a date," I said. "We met here. I dropped her off a little while ago, then checked the barns."

  His radio crackled. "One-twenty-three, status?"

  Dorsett keyed his mike. "One-twenty-three. Ten-six. No need to check further."

  "Clear."

  Dorsett switched off his flashlight. "You leaving?"

  "Yep."

  He followed me off the parking lot, waited for me to lock the gate, then followed me part of the way home. I stayed within the speed limit.

  * * *

  By late Friday afternoon, new locks had been installed wherever possible. I flipped through a ridiculously large bunch
of keys, thanks to Dave's brilliant idea that multiple keys would confuse the enemy, and tried to remember which color tape went with the new feed room lock. Pink? No, yellow. I unlocked the door and pulled the feed cart away from the wall. I had organized the supplements and medications and was turning the cart around when I heard Marty yell my name.

  I ran outside and found him standing between the barns, his back toward me. "Marty. What's wrong?"

  He spun around. "I'm surprised you didn't hear."

  "Hear what?"

  "Whitcombe was riding that gelding of his. The plain bay . . ."

  "Rennie's Luck?"

  "Yeah, that's the one. Well, Lucky wasn't so lucky."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know how he's been stoppin' at the jumps lately?"

  I waited for him to get on with it.

  "Well, Whitcombe took a whip to him and cut 'im up pretty--"

  "Where is he?"

  "Whitcombe?"

  "No," I said. "The horse."

  "In his stall."

  I turned and started toward Lucky's stall.

  "You'll be needin' to medicate him," Marty said. "And guess what?"

  "What?"

  He jogged up alongside me. "Mrs. Hill fired him."

  I paused. "She fired Whitcombe?"

  "Who else?"

  "Fucking shit."

  "Wait a minute." He cupped his hands behind his ears. "Did I hear you right, or was I just imaginin' things?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "You know, you really should watch your mouth, young man. Foxdale--"

  "Geez." I turned and left him there.

  "--has an image to uphold," he yelled at my back.

  We stood outside Lucky's stall. The gelding was standing near the back wall, his eyes wide, muscles tensed.

  "Goddamn it."

  "You should of seen him, Steve. Whitcombe had ol' Lucky here so worked up, gallopin' full out, I thought he was gonna wipe out it in the turn . . . or crash through a fence."

  I slid the door back and walked into the stall. Lucky was drenched with sweat, and the muscles along his flank trembled in spasms. I examined the cuts and was relieved to find they weren't as bad as I'd first thought--more gore than actual damage. I collected the supplies I would need, then we cross-tied him in the wash-rack.

  "Damn Whitcombe," I muttered.

  I stepped toward Lucky's shoulder, and he bobbed his head. The chains rattled hollowly against the wall.

  "Marty, hold his head for me." I patted the gelding's neck and kept my hand on his body as I moved toward his flank.

  "His ears are pinned, Steve."

  "I'll be right back."

  I grabbed a bag of carrots out of the feed room and fed him a couple.

  "Poor guy." I broke another carrot in two. "Marty, what happened exactly?"

  "Well, when Lucky here refused the Liverpool for the third time, Whitcombe just laid into him. I can't believe the shit was stupid enough to do it in front of everybody."

  "What a fool."

  "One of the boarders ran into the office and told Mrs. Hill what was goin' on. She saw the end of his little temper tantrum and fired his ass."

  I grinned. "Good for her. It couldn't have happened to a better person." I glanced down the aisle. "Eh, where is Mr. Whitcombe, anyway?"

  "He had a few words with Mrs. Hill, then drove off." Marty grinned. "Oh, and the little shit's got a new ride."

  "What?"

  "A fucking new Mustang convertible."

  "Wonder where he got the money for that? He sure didn't earn it here."

  Marty shrugged.

  "Too bad I missed it. I would've liked to have said goodbye."

  "I bet you would of."

  "There's justice after all. Whitcombe loses his job, maybe now he won't be able to make his car payments." I ran my hand down Lucky's face and cupped my hand around his muzzle. His old, soft lips searched my palm for another piece of carrot. "Except ol' Lucky here'll be going with him."

  * * *

  I was leaving for the day when Mrs. Hill stopped me on the sidewalk just outside her office door.

  "I have a favor to ask," she said. "After you've had your supper, would you come back and stay here until Mr. Whitcombe picks up his horses and tack?" She looked at my face and could see I was less than thrilled. "Please, Stephen . . . here's some pizza money--"

  "No, thank you. You don't need to do that."

  "Take it, dear." She shoved the folded bills into my palm. "I know I'm asking a huge favor, but he said he'd be back later tonight, and to be honest, dear, as angry as he was when he left, I don't trust him." She peered into my face. "I know everything will be all right if you're here."

  I exhaled. "I'll be back in a little while, then."

  "Oh, thank you, dear. Thank you so much. I'll stay until you get back. I told him you'd be here to lock up when he was finished, so he knows he won't be able to get away with anything."

  I shoved Mrs. Hill's pizza money into my pocket and headed for the parking lot. It wasn't until I'd climbed into my truck that I realized I'd lost my appetite.

  Chapter 13

  More than one of the crew had overheard Whitcombe blaming me for what happened, so as soon as I was certain I'd catch Marty at home, I closed the door between the lounge and office and used the phone.

  "Shit, Steve. I have a date."

  "Come on, Marty." I swiveled around in the chair until my back was to the door and rested my chin on my hand. "Bring her along. You can hang out in the lounge."

  "Not for what I got planned. Not unless you wanna watch."

  I groaned.

  "Man, I can't stand it when you whine. . . . Oh, all right, but I won't be over until ten, maybe eleven."

  I didn't say anything.

  He sighed. "Okay. Ten o'clock and not a minute before, and you owe me."

  "Thanks."

  "Sissy," he said, and I could hear a smile in his voice.

  "Got that right. Whitcombe's PO'ed, and I'm not on his top ten list."

  "Depends what list you're talkin' about."

  * * *

  Ten o'clock came and went, and no Marty. Karen and Judy left for the evening, and all the boarders packed up and drifted home. The place was deserted, yet the newly-installed gates by the road stood wide open so Whitcombe could drive down to the barn, and Marty.

  Where the hell was he? I could imagine where he was, damn him.

  At eleven thirty, I picked up the phone. No answer.

  I had never thought much about the presence or absence of courage. Apparently I was lacking in that department, and I didn't like it. Not one little bit. I was tempted to call Mrs. Hill, or just go home; instead, I sat on the sofa and switched the channel to a late night talk show that was only marginally entertaining.

  * * *

  Someone gripped my shoulder and shook me.

  I scrambled off the sofa and just about fell on my butt. "Damn, Marty. You almost gave me a heart attack, sneaking up on me like that."

  He laughed. "'Sneakin', my ass. You were sound asleep."

  "God." I shook myself. Every muscle in my body was strung tight, and my heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Waking up like that couldn't be healthy.

  "Nervous, Steve?"

  "A little. . . . So where the hell've you been?" I looked at my watch. "It's one-fifteen."

  "Sorry. Fell asleep."

  "In whose bed?"

  Marty grinned. "Wouldn't you like to know." He yawned and rubbed his face. "I take it Whitcombe hasn't showed?"

  "No. Even if he got past me while I was asleep, he still needs to come in here and pick up his paperwork before he can get his deposit refunded."

  "Think he's gonna show?"

  "Who knows," I said. "This is the last thing I feel like doing right now." I looked at Marty. "Or you, either. Thanks for coming in."

  "Well, I would of felt like shit if Whitcombe planned some pay-back and you were here all by your lonesome."

  "Didn't know you cared."
/>   "I don't." Marty dropped down onto the sofa. "I just don't like guilt."

  "Now, that sounds like the Marty I know--"

  "And love?"

  "Not on your life," I said. "Not in this life. Not in any life." Marty was still chuckling when I walked over to the soda machine and slotted some coins into the machine. "I think you're confusing me with Whitcombe. Want a Coke?"

  "No, I'd be awake half the night. Speakin' of sex--"

  "I thought we were speakin' of love," I said. "Or sleep."

  "Whatever. Anyhow, that Rachel's sure cute." He leaned back against the sagging, worn cushions and hooked his leg over the armrest. "Maybe she'll wake you up."

  I grinned.

  Marty lifted his head off the cushions. "Well, hallelujah. I was afraid you were gonna turn into a monk or somethin' and be celibate for the rest of your godforsaken life."

  I swallowed some Coke, and we both looked up when a horse van rumbled down the lane past the lounge door.

  I lowered the can from my lips. "Party time." I grabbed the paperwork off Mrs. Hill's desk.

  The van had parked in the pool of light between the barns. As Marty and I approached, Whitcombe hopped down from the cab and turned toward me with a smirk on his face that disappeared when he saw Marty.

  Marty worked out every day. Excluding the opposite sex, it was his passion, and I'd often thought that I wouldn't want to find myself on the wrong side of his anger.

  The passenger's door opened. Someone got out and walked around the front bumper. He stopped behind Whitcombe, and I thanked my lucky stars I'd had the sense to get reinforcements. He looked like a goon--all muscle, no brain--and he didn't look like a horseman. Light glinted off his bald head, and despite the chilly night air, he was wearing a muscle shirt that showed off his tattooed biceps to best advantage.

  "Get the horses for me, Cline," Whitcombe said.

  "Get them yourself."

  Marty snorted, prompting a scowl from Whitcombe and a grin from me. Whitcombe turned and strode into the barn, followed obediently by his friend. I took a swig of Coke. When they finished loading the horses, I handed Whitcombe the forms.