Forged (Gail McCarthy Mystery)

by Laura Crum

  "Is Dominic Castillo married?"

  "Not that I know of. Last I heard, he was living with a lady named Barbara King."

  "Do you know Barbara King?"

  "Yes," I said. I sighed. At this rate I would be here all night answering questions about Dominic's personal life, which, unfortunately, I did know a good deal about. Perhaps the laconic approach was a mistake.

  "Look," I said, "how about I tell you all I know about Dominic Castillo, and then you leave so I can make dinner."

  Detective Johnson met my eyes. "I may need to question you further."

  "Some other day," I said. "Tomorrow even. Not tonight. Deal?"

  Detective Johnson sat up straighter in his chair. "As long as you agree to further questioning, I'll be happy to limit tonight's session," he said formally.

  "Okay. Here goes. I think Dominic's been married twice, though I couldn't swear to that. His first wife, that I know of, is Lee Castillo, and she has two kids by him. Lee has horses. She's a client of ours."

  "How old is Dominic Castillo?" Detective Johnson interjected.

  "Somewhere between forty and fifty, I'd guess. He's ..." I paused and for the first time in this conversation, smiled. "He's well preserved, you could say."

  Detective Johnson didn't smile back. "Which means?"

  I shrugged. "He's a handsome man, if you like that type. Tall, slim, olive-skinned, dark eyes, unwrinkled, very manly and charming. Hard to tell his age, if you take my meaning."

  Detective Johnson made a note and said nothing.

  "Anyway, his second wife is Carla Castillo," I went on. "I know her because she has horses, too. No kids there, I don't think. For the last couple of years Dominic has lived with a lady named Barbara King, who also has horses and is a client of mine. And, as your informant told you, he's a big flirt; I certainly wouldn't know about his other conquests, but by all accounts, he had them.

  "Now," I stood up, "I'm happy to give you more information tomorrow or whenever, but I'm tired and hungry and I need to make dinner now."

  Slowly Detective Johnson stood up as well. "The crime scene team will need to finish up down at the barn," he said.

  "Fine. So long as they don't let the horses out of their pens."

  "I'll be by tomorrow."

  "Fine," I said again. All I wanted was to get the man out of here. "I'll expect you."

  Detective Johnson gave me yet another hard-edged cop stare and turned at last to go. No good-bye, no thank you forthcoming. I watched his departing back with relief.

  The minute he was out the door, I turned to my cupboard and got out tequila, orange liqueur, and some lemons. In another thirty seconds, more or less, I had a much-needed cocktail in my hand and was letting my yapping Queensland heeler dog out of her pen.

  "I'm sorry, Roey," I told her. "No running around tonight. Too much going on. Come on in the house."

  I could see lights, vehicles, moving human figures down at the barn. Resolutely I turned my face away and ignored them. Nothing I could do about it now.

  I dialed my lover's cell phone.

  "Hello." Blue's voice.

  "Hi. Where are you?"

  "At work still. We're shorthanded."

  "Oh." I knew how it was. Blue was the nursery manager for a large rose growing operation. Like horses, the needs of plants varied dramatically and were not always amenable to human plans; Blue was often late getting home, as was I.

  "You'll never guess what happened. I found the horseshoer in the barn, shot."

  A long silence. Then Blue's voice, sounding hopeful. "April fool?"

  "What? Oh. No. It is April Fools' Day, isn't it? But no, no joke."

  "My God. Is he all right? What happened?"

  "I don't know if he's all right. He was alive when the ambulance took him away, but he didn't look too good. And I've got cops all over the place. It's kind of a weird story; I think I'm a suspect."

  "What?" Blue sounded truly alarmed now.

  "Don't worry; they haven't arrested me yet. But come home as soon as you can, okay?"

  "Right. Will do." And we hung up.

  I leaned back in my corner of the couch and sighed. Took a sip of my drink and patted the dog, who had settled herself next to me. Did my best not to look out the windows in the direction of the barnyard. What a lousy ending to what had been a relatively easy Friday.

  Until now. Now it was a particularly difficult Friday. I took another long swallow of margarita, straight up. For the first time, I let my mind drift back to Dominic's face when he'd spoken to me. I wrinkled my nose. He'd smiled. I could have sworn he smiled.

  But why? It had clearly cost him tremendous effort to speak. How could he have managed to smile? And again, why?

  I sipped more margarita and tried to will my mind away from Dominic. Tried, once again, to take in my peaceful, much-loved room. I stared at the graceful curves of the moss green armchair in front of the woodstove. Blue's chair. Blue would be home soon.

  My live-in lover. I smiled. In theory, Blue lived in his travel trailer, parked just beyond the vegetable garden. In practice, he lived with me.

  Which was just fine. Blue and I had been living together a little over a year now, and I was quite happy with the arrangement. We each pursued our own lives, our own careers, and we came home to each other. I had never known it could be this good.

  Sipping my drink, I sighed again. The last thing in the world I wanted interrupting my life was a police investigation in my backyard. But that was exactly what I had.

  I picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory. Detective Jeri Ward had given me her cell phone number last fall. I just hoped she hadn't changed it in the interim.

  "Ward here." She answered on the second ring.

  "Jeri, it's Gail, Gail McCarthy."

  "Gail. Oh-ho." Something in her voice, something I couldn't place. Amusement, cynicism, sympathy?

  "Have you heard?"

  "Dominic, the horseshoer, was shot in your barn. Matt Johnson is investigating. Lucky you."

  "Lucky me," I agreed. "I think Matt Johnson suspects I shot Dominic. He seems familiar, Matt Johnson. Should I know him?"

  "He investigated Nicole Devereaux's murder, a couple of years ago."

  "Oh." Now I remembered. I'd met Detective Johnson briefly when a friend of mine had been killed. I hadn't liked him much then, I recalled.

  "He's no friend of yours; is that right?" I asked Jeri.

  "That's right," she answered crisply. "Can't say more right now."

  "Have you heard anything about Dominic?"

  "He's dead, poor bastard. Died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital."

  "Oh no." I felt as if someone had punched me in the gut. Somehow I had never believed that Dominic would actually die. "Oh no," I said again.

  "I'm afraid so." Jeri's voice was level-she knew Dominic; he shod her horse, too.

  "That's terrible. Have you heard the story?"

  "Parts of it. Look," Jeri said. "I can't talk now. Call me when I'm at home this weekend."

  "Okay," I said. "Thanks, Jeri." I hung up the phone, staring straight ahead blindly. Dominic was dead. It changed everything. I had just assumed that he would live, spend time in the hospital, recover. Without really thinking about it, I'd believed that I came in time to save him.

  But I hadn't. Dominic had died anyway. After saying those improbable words. Once again, I visualized his face. No mistake. I still thought he'd been trying to smile.

  I shuddered. Smiling when he was about to die. Why? Why?

  Finishing my margarita in one swallow, I got up and walked across the room to the kitchen. I opened the sleek stainless steel refrigerator and evaluated. Then I opened the freezer. Frozen lasagna it was.

  I turned on the matching stainless steel oven and plunked the lasagna in. Headlights coming up the drive caught my eye. Familiar headlights.

  I reached down the terra-cotta tile counter for the cocktail shaker. Blue was home.

  THREE

&
nbsp; How are you doing?" were the first words out of Blue's mouth.

  I met his eyes across the room. "All right. But Dominic died. Do you want a drink?"

  "I guess so. Gail, are you all right?"

  "I'll have another," I said, pouring myself a second round.

  Blue took a step toward me and accepted the cocktail glass from my outstretched hand. "Gail, are you all right?" he asked again. The little spotted dog at his heels wagged her tail.

  "I'm fine. Frozen lasagna okay for dinner?"

  "Sure." Blue stared at me with obvious worry. "Can you sit down and tell me about it?"

  "Okay," I said. Seating myself on the couch, in my usual corner, I watched Blue take his accustomed seat in the armchair. Freckles lay down next to his feet. Only a year or so of living together and we already had these routines, just like an old married couple.

  "Well," I began, "I came home from work ..." and told the story all over again.

  Blue listened with few interruptions, as was his way. When I was done, he said, "How do you feel?"

  I took a deep breath. "Knocked sideways, I guess. Like I just got kicked in the stomach. It's not really grief. I wasn't that close to or fond of Dominic. But, my God." Words failed me.

  Blue left his chair and came and sat next to me on the couch. Putting his arm around my shoulders, he drew me close to him. "It must have been a pretty big shock," he murmured.

  "It was," I said into his shoulder.

  Freckles jumped up on the couch next to Roey, who snapped peevishly at her. "Now girls," Blue admonished them.

  Both dogs flattened their ears submissively, looking for all the world like a couple of sisters who had just been chastised for squabbling. Freckles lowered her white, whiskery muzzle down on her front paws and wagged the tip of her feathery tail. Roey licked my hand.

  "Okay," I said. "Good dogs."

  With Blue's long, solid body pressed against my left side and the two dogs curled up against my right, I felt sandwiched in warmth. Taking another sip of my drink, I twitched my shoulders and leaned back, feeling some of the tension ebb out of my body.

  "Its not just Dominic," I said, "though that's bad enough. I feel invaded. All those strangers down there, tramping all over my barnyard. Hell, they wouldn't even let me feed the horses until they gave the word." To my surprise, there was a catch in my voice.

  Blue squeezed my shoulders gently. "I understand," he said.

  "And there's bound to be an endless amount of questioning; that detective is coming back tomorrow. He's an ass," I added, more or less to myself.

  "Why do you say that?" Blue asked.

  I shrugged. "It's hard to put in words. He's one of these men who have a sort of aggressively macho posture. I never get along with that sort. I think I push all their buttons. They seem to find a confident, forthright woman who is neither interested in them as a man nor particularly intimidated by their masculinity, a threatening commodity."

  "I never knew you were a closet man-hater." Blue grinned at me.

  "I am not," I said indignantly. "I just don't like assholes, whether they're male or female. Or, for that matter, black, brown, or white."

  "A reasonable point of view." Blue finished his drink in one swallow.

  I held up my glass. "I'll have another."

  "All right."

  Getting to his feet, Blue crossed the room to the kitchen counter and began making another round. I stared. Tall, long-legged, with a broad back and wide shoulders-my lover looked good from behind. Red hair curled down just over the collar of his blue denim shirt; suddenly I wanted to dash across the room and put my arms around his waist.

  "Do you really think this detective suspects you of murdering Dominic?" Blue asked over his shoulder.

  "I can't tell. He's got so much of that reflexive cop mannerism, you know, never-trust-a-member-of-the-goddamn-public. But he might. After all, it does sound pretty weird. Me telling him that Dominic said it was all an accident."

  "Are you sure that's what he said?"

  "Positive. And I could swear he smiled."

  "That is weird."

  "On top of which," I went on, "I still have to finish getting the horse shod. He's only got three shoes."

  "A minor problem," Blue said, handing me a drink.

  "Not so minor. Farriers as great as Dominic are few and far between. And if that hind shoe isn't exactly right, Gunner will go lame again."

  "Who will you use?" Blue asked.

  I took a sip of my third margarita. "Tommie Harper, I guess. She's the best I can think of."

  "A woman?" Blue sounded surprised.

  "That's right. There are women horseshoers, you know." "Takes someone with a strong back."

  "True enough. And Tommie Harper has got one." I took another sip. I was starting to feel better now. "Funny thing. Tommie lives with Dominic's ex."

  "As roommates?"

  "Roommates and lovers," I said.

  "Oh."

  "Yeah. Carla left Dominic for a woman. I don't think he ever got over it. He hated Tommie with a passion, which is something Detective Johnson would no doubt be interested in."

  "Will you tell him?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. I won't lie, if he asks me directly. But I don't want to bad-mouth anyone."

  "Dominic was something of a womanizer, wasn't he?"

  "Oh yeah. He was your true womanizing horseshoer-it's a rela

  tively common breed. As far as I can tell, that's how he met all his wives and girlfriends. He came out to shoe their horses, came on to them, and there you are."

  "From what I heard," Blue said, "he got himself in a lot of trouble. Some of his conquests were married to other people."

  "Uh-huh. There was a rumor recently that he was messing around with Tracy Lawrence, and that Sam Lawrence had threatened to kill him. Oh." I set my drink down so abruptly that some margarita splashed onto the end table. Mopping it up with my shirttail, I met Blue's eyes. "What have I said?" 1 murmured.

  "Something that your friend the detective would be quite interested in, I imagine."

  "The trouble is, it's just too easy to think of people who might have wanted to murder Dominic."

  "Maybe somebody went ahead and did it."

  "Then why would Dominic say it was an accident?"

  "Protecting the person, perhaps."

  "Protecting his killer? Why?"

  "Hard to say."

  I sipped more margarita. "I can't imagine why he would do that."

  Blue shook his head; red-gold curls brushed his collar and sprang back.

  At the gesture, I got up and walked around behind his chair. Twining my arms around his neck, I bent down and kissed his cheek. "What do you say we forget all this for a while and retire to the bedroom?"

  Blue reached an arm up and gently pulled me forward so our lips were almost touching. "Margaritas make you amorous," he murmured. "What about all those people down in the barnyard; the bedroom doesn't have any curtains."

  "We can turn out the lights. They can't see in." I kissed him again, on the mouth this time.

  Blue smiled. "What about the lasagna?"

  "It won't be ready for a while." Our lips connected for a good long while. "Don't you want to go to bed?" I asked when we broke apart.

  "What do you think?" Blue asked, and guided my hand to his belt buckle.

  I smiled. "Then let's go."

  FOUR

  Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. Venus floated in a turquoise-blue sky above the eastern ridge as I peered out the bedroom window. All the vehicles and people seemed to have vanished from my barnyard overnight.

  Pouring myself an early cup of coffee, I left Blue to sleep and wandered outside to investigate, Roey and Freckles at my heels. A sweatshirt was enough to cut the morning chill; spring had definitely arrived. The wisteria vine that twined from one pillar of the porch to the next was dripping with blossoms, their dusty lavender hue a pale gray in the dawn. Early roses were in bloom, too; the banksia that cov
ered my garden shed was spangled with frothy, pale yellow stars-a color that glowed even in this dim light. And the last of the glorious deep blue ceanothus bushes were in full cry, though their cobalt shade, so brilliant in sunlight, was ashen without it.

  I tromped down the hill to the barn, coffee cup in hand, pursuing one of my favorite occupations-looking at the garden. I was finding that I enjoyed observing the plants more than anything else. Noticing their individual peculiarities, seeing how they changed from season to season, how they competed or failed to compete with the other plants. Mine was a wild garden, where introduced exotics mingled freely with the native plants, and animals, of the California brush. I had found that for every pretty piece of flora I put in that thrived, there were at least a dozen casualties. And I was also finding that it really didn't matter.

  I liked to watch what happened, see what the garden itself wanted to do. Gardening was a dialogue with Nature: How about this, I'd suggest, with a clump of vivid mandarin orange crocosmia. No chance was the reply; gophers like them. Well, maybe this graceful cream-colored tea rose. Nope. Not vigorous enough and a particular favorite of the deer. Sometimes the answer was yes. The last of the brilliant yellow daffodils bloomed in long grass at the feet of blue-flowered ceanothus and rosemary shrubs-a fortuitous combination that Nature had agreed to wholeheartedly.

  The garden was fun. I could feel my spirits lifting as I strolled down the border that lined my drive and noted that the mintbush from Australia was just coming into full bloom. Now that was a really spectacular plant-a solid mass of bright lavender flowers.

  I rounded the corner of the driveway that led to the barnyard and my high spirits took a sudden dive. Yellow crime scene tape was everywhere, reminding me only too forcefully of yesterday's fiasco. It looked as though the cops had confiscated Dominic's truck; it was gone, anyway.

  Feeding my three horses, I duly noted that all seemed lively and healthy and Gunner wasn't bothered by his missing shoe. Still, I knew well enough that I'd have to take care of it soon or risk having him go lame again.

  The flock of banty chickens clamored to be fed, so I threw some hen scratch out for them, and was reminded by a plaintive meow that the barn cats were waiting, too. I smiled.