by Laura Crum
My old cat, Bonner, had died last winter, of complications caused by old age. Within a month of his passing, a gray feral cat had taken up residence in my barnyard. In another month it was apparent that a gray feral mama cat and her three teenage kittens were now living in my barn. I'd eventually trapped all the cats, given them their shots, and had them spayed and neutered respectively. None of them were really tame, but they did show up to be fed, and they kept the barn free of mice.
I greeted them by name as I scooped some cat food out of a barrel and poured it in their bowl. "Hi, Mama Cat," to the matriarch-not exactly a creative choice. The biggest kitten, shorthaired and jet black, was Jiji, named after the black cat in Kiki's Delivery Service, one of my favorite animated movies. The tabby was Baxter, for the cowboy poet Baxter Black, and the smallest kitten, black and fluffy, with white paws and a white chest, was Woodrow. This last for Woodrow Call in Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove.
I stood for a moment, watching my cat family eat while the chickens pecked vigorously at the hen scratch and the horses munched their hay. Roey and Freckles trotted through the long, dewy grass. It was all so peaceful and serene. And there, in the barn, marked off with yellow tape, was the place where Dominic Castillo had fallen, shot in the stomach.
Sitting down abruptly on a bale of hay, I stared at the spot. There, exactly there, was where Dominic had been lying when I found him. I tried to imagine him taking a break from his shoeing job to clean his pistol. Had he carried a loaded pistol with him? Jesus. I certainly hadn't known that. Why would he choose to clean it with one shoe left to tack on my horse? With his forge burning? Why not clean the gun when he was done, if he chose to do it at all?
None of it made any sense. I could definitely see why Detective Johnson might suspect me. Dominic's words sounded false, even though I had actually heard them.
Why would he lie? To protect someone, Blue had said. If the person had shot him, though, why protect them? It seemed ludicrous.
I gave up thinking, finished my coffee, and started back up the hill to the house. It wasn't my business to solve this case, I reminded myself. Right now, my business was making breakfast. Pancakes, I decided. It was the weekend, and I wasn't on call. Pancakes for breakfast it was.
We were halfway through them when I spotted the dark green sheriff's car pulling up the driveway.
"Oh no," I said.
Blue glanced at the clock. "Eight on a Saturday morning. Our detective gets to work bright and early."
The car didn't even hesitate at the barnyard, just pulled right up to the house. Detective Johnson got out of it.
"Well, now you get to meet the man," I told Blue. "Let's see what you make of him."
In another moment Detective Johnson was standing next to the table, not seeming the least abashed at having interrupted our breakfast.
I introduced him to Blue. The two men shook hands, Blue rising to do so. I was amused at the contrast. At six and a half feet, Blue towered over Detective Johnson, who was not a short man. This didn't seem to sit well with the detective, who tipped his head back to meet Blue's eyes with a scowl. With his thick neck, heavy shoulders, and square-jawed face, Detective Johnson reminded me of a bulldog; he had short, wide, thick-fingered hands to match. Blue, on the other hand, though tall and wide-shouldered, had slender fine-boned hands and a refined look about his cheekbones and eyes. A Thoroughbred, I decided. And Detective Johnson was one of those old-fashioned squatty-bodied Quarter Horses you didn't see so much of anymore. They even called them "bulldog" -type horses.
Suddenly I noticed that both men were staring at me. Detective Johnson had apparently asked me a question; I'd been so engaged in drawing human/horse parallels I hadn't even noticed. You've been working too hard, Gail, I told myself.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch what you said," I said out loud.
Detective Johnson wanted me to recount yesterday's story again, in detail. He wanted to know the exact time I had driven in my gate, the exact time the shoeing appointment was scheduled for, the time I had dialed 911. Some of this I could tell him; some I couldn't.
"The appointment was for four o'clock. I drove in close to five; I looked at the clock in the truck on my way home; it was four forty-five, and I remember thinking how early I was getting home. I have no idea when I called nine-one-one. I don't wear a watch and probably wouldn't have noticed the time if I did."
"Does twelve minutes after five sound about right?"
"I guess so," I said, and looked at him sharply. "You knew."And then, "Of course, the nine-one-one operator."
"That's right. What did you do between five o'clock and five-twelve?"
"I told you," I said in exasperation.
"Tell me again. Take it one step at a time. You parked your truck where?"
And so it went. On and on. Half an hour later I protested that I had told him Dominic's exact words yesterday and the detective gave me a level look in return. "This is potentially a felony homicide investigation; I'm sure you want to help us in any way you can."
"That's right," I said wearily.
"Then let's go over it again. I have all the time in the world."
I shut my mouth firmly on the "I don't" that sprang to mind. Blue leaned back in his chair in the corner and watched us, saying nothing. I noticed that Detective Johnson's quasi-hostile manner had abated somewhat in Blue's presence. Apparently I was more palatable as one half of a couple than I had been as a lone woman.
It took a long, long time. The clock said ten-fifteen before Detective Johnson seemed satisfied that I'd recounted my movements and observations exactly. But he wasn't done yet.
"What can you tell me about Dominic Castillo?" he asked.
"I told you what I knew yesterday," I said. I was sulling up, as horsemen say. I'd had enough of this grilling.
"Do you know anyone who might have had a reason to kill Dominic Castillo?"
I took a deep breath. "Dominic was a real lady killer, to use an unfortunate term," I said, "as I think we discussed yesterday. Obviously he made a lot of people angry. There was a great deal of gossip about him in the horse community. As our veterinary clinic is the primary horse clinic in this county, I know a lot of the people in the local horse community. So I heard plenty of rumors about Dominic over the years. However, I am not going to name off all the people who might have had a grudge against Dominic as a list of potential killers. There's too many, for one thing. And I'd certainly forget about some candidates and remember other rumors that are entirely false. So I'm not going to pass on any gossip. If you come up with some evidence linking a person to this crime, if it is a crime, and ask me about that person specifically, I'll do my best to tell you what I know. Now," I said formally, "I think it's time for you to go."
I met his stare. Detective Johnson's eyes were dark brown, and plainly angry. I was aware of Blue's quiet, observing gaze from his place in the comer.
"I may need to question you further." Detective Johnson rose from the table as he spoke.
I said nothing. After a minute, the detective turned without a word and walked out the door.
"I can see why you don't like him," Blue said.
"What was I supposed to tell him," I demanded. "That the current rumor is that Sam Lawrence threatened to kill Dominic over Tracy?"
"No, I see what you mean," Blue said. "Who's Sam Lawrence?"
"A horse trainer. Has a place up on Summit Road. Mostly breaks and trains backyard horses. Sam's a redhead, like you. Has a temper, unlike you. And Tracy is young, blond, and cute. You do see what I mean?"
"Yeah."
"And, of course, I have no idea if it's true. Horse people love to gossip. Tracy might not have had anything to do with Dominic. Who knows?"
"I see what you mean," Blue said again. "Kind of rough to sic the detective on them."
"That's what I thought."
"So what now?" Blue asked.
"How about we forget all this and take the horses for a ride on the beach?"
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p; "I've got an even better idea. It's supposed to be warm and sunny all weekend. How about we take a mini-pack trip? Just an overnighter. I know a great place we could go. It's right on the beach," Blue suggested.
"How will we feed the horses?"
"Just leave it to me. Give me a couple of hours to get everything ready. All you have to do is get in the truck when it's time to go."
"What about Gunner's missing shoe?"
"It's a short ride and all on soft ground. We'll put an EZ Boot on him."
"All right," I said. "I'll clean up the house, weed the veggie garden, make us a lunch, and be ready to leave around one."
"You've got a deal," Blue said.
FIVE
I climbed into the truck at one-fifteen. As promised, Blue had organized everything; dogs, horses, and gear were all loaded in the truck and trailer when I walked down to the barnyard carrying saddlebags packed with a lunch on one side and a jacket and clean underwear and socks on the other. It was a relief to turn my back on the crime scene tape and drive away.
"What are we going to eat for dinner?" I asked Blue.
"Don't worry, I took care of it."
"And breakfast?"
"Took care of that, too."
"Great," I said, and concentrated on watching the landscape slip by outside the windows.
Rolling hills were vivid with the sharp chartreuse green of spring grass, splashed with yellow-orange California poppies and pools of deep blue wild lupine. Even the live oaks, so stately and somber, were warmed with the gold and rose tints of their buds and new leaves. Life burst from every twig.
The truck topped a rise and I could see the blue curve of the Monterey Bay ahead of us, looking impossibly clear and dreamlike on this sunny April day. Blue followed Highway 1 down the coastline, giving us glimpses of scrub-covered dunes, sandy beaches, and twisted cypress trees. When he turned onto a familiar side road, I looked at him accusingly.
"You're taking us out to your work?"
Blue pulled the rig into the driveway of Brewer's Rose Farm without a blink. "We're starting here, yes." He drove through the maze of warehouses and greenhouses and parked the truck and trailer out back, next to a new greenhouse range.
"This is where you used to live, isn't it?" I asked.
"That's right. My house trailer sat just where that greenhouse is sitting now. When I kept my horses out here, I took lots of rides down on the beach. I thought I'd take you on my favorite little trip."
"Okay."
Brewer's Rose Farm was less than a mile from the ocean. We could see the deep turquoise-blue of the water and hear the distant rumble of the surf as we saddled the horses and ate our lunch on the tailgate of the pickup. When we were done, Blue adjusted the pack rig on Plumber's back and I slipped the plastic EZ Boot over Gunner's barefoot right hind. Then we pulled the cinches tight and climbed aboard.
Gunner grunted slightly as he felt my weight in the saddle. Danny stiffened as Blue settled himself; I saw the colt's head go down and his back hump up.
"Look out," I said.
Blue just smiled. Clucking to Danny, he urged the young horse forward. Danny took two stiff-legged steps, as if he were walking on tiptoe, dropped his head another notch, and launched into a buck. Blue sat on top of him as peacefully as if the horse were strolling rather than crow-hopping.
It didn't last long. Blue let Danny buck for half a dozen hops, while the dogs ran around him, yapping with excitement, then tugged on the reins and said, "That's enough."
When Danny didn't respond, Blue used the end of the reins to spank the colt lightly, which brought his head up right away. Blue walked him in a circle for a moment and then untied the packhorse and rode off. The dogs and I followed.
"My goodness," I said as we trooped down a dirt road between fields of artichokes and strawberries, headed towards the bay. "Why do you think he did that?"
Blue shrugged. "He's young; he feels good; I haven't ridden him in a week; he's a little bit cinchy. All of those things. It's not a big deal. He's fine now."
It was true. The bay colt walked along as quietly as if he were twenty-five instead of five, his acrobatics temporarily forgotten. "Better you than me," I said. "I just don't have the experience to cope with that. I'm sure glad you do."
Blue just smiled.
I remembered how easy Danny had been to train when I'd purchased him a year and a half ago as an unbroken three-year-old. Blue had helped me with him every step of the way and had taken over as trainer at my request when I felt that I'd gone as far with the colt as I was capable of going. Danny had begun bucking when he was fresh-something that I was entirely unequal to.
"Why does he do that?" I asked Blue again. "He never used to."
"It's not uncommon," Blue said. "He's just starting to wake up, feel his oats. Sort of like an eighteen-year-old kid who's always been docile and obedient and suddenly gets himself arrested for drunk driving. The parents are aghast, but it's more or less a normal stage. Danny's just being rebellious."
I looked at my bright-eyed bay horse and was deeply grateful for Blue's long years of experience breaking and training horses. Without Blue, I might have felt like giving up on Danny, seen his bucking as incurably "bad." At the very least, I would have been afraid to ride him, which was bad enough in itself.
Instead, I sat comfortably on my old and trusted buddy, Gunner, while Blue quite happily took the kinks out of Danny. What a deal.
Warmed up now, the three horses plodded quietly down the road, the dogs trailing in their wake. I could smell the briny, seaweed smell of the ocean mixing with the earthy scent of freshly turned agricultural fields. Seagulls screeched; my heart sang.
We passed an abandoned farmhouse, faded and weathered to a silver gray. Some rusting tractors crumbled silently in the sagging shed alongside. The road rose up into the dunes.
Up one hill and down the other side. Up again and there it was-a great, shining, restless bulk-the ocean. Sleek and aquamarine far out, heaving translucent green in the nearby breakers, frothy white at the shoreline. Gunner snorted.
Then we were moving out onto the sand of the beach while the dogs ran ahead to frisk in the waves. The tide was out and the wet sand along the water's edge was dark and smooth, shiny and firm. We made our way in that direction, the horses sinking deeply into the dry sand with every stride.
All three geldings had been ridden on the beach before; still they approached the surf with trepidation-eyes wide, plenty of long, rolling snorts. Gunner jumped as a little wave rolled towards us and I clutched the saddle horn tightly. Gunner had always been a spook, and even now, at a mature ten years, he still had that tendency to leap sideways. Since he was in every other way an entirely calm and reliable horse, I forgave him his one fault and cultivated a good grip on the saddle horn.
I glanced over at Blue and saw that Danny was marching along calmly, which was also typical. Bucking aberrations aside, Danny was an amazingly quiet, easygoing young horse. Plumber trooped in his wake, patiently carrying the loaded pack bags-again, a gesture that was indicative of this willing, kind, and always helpful horse.
So we rode, our dogs beside us; it came to me that we were the perfect family. I felt a sudden joy in the moment, all of us together at the beach, just so. Dogs running through the waves, horses moving reliably and happily along; this was the life I wanted.
I looked over at my partner, aware that he was an integral part of this picture. Blue sat peacefully on Danny with a slight smile that I thought reflected the same content I was feeling. The ocean breeze ruffled the red curls that stuck out from under his gray fedora; his long, slender, slightly freckled hands held Danny's reins and Plumber's leadrope with a touch that was both firm and relaxed.
I knew that touch; I'd experienced it myself many times. Blue met my eyes and I smiled.
"This is fun," I said.
Blue smiled back. "We live in paradise," he said simply.
I followed his eyes as they took in the long, blue sweep of th
e bay, the empty white sand of the beach, the soaring, screeching gulls and churning waves.
"It's true," I said. "People come from all over the world to vacation in a place like this and we live here. I sometimes forget how lucky I am; I get wrapped up in my work and feel so busy and frantic I don't even notice how beautiful this area is. And then we come here and," I waved my hand at the scene, "I realize it all over again. Thanks for bringing me."
"My pleasure," Blue said.
"And it's low tide, too. That's lucky. It's so much easier for the horses to walk on the firm sand."
Blue smiled. "I checked my tide chart."
"You thought of everything, didn't you?"
"I tried." Blue smiled again.
"Look," I pointed. A sleek humped back with a dorsal fin rose out of the surf in a curling leap.
"There's another one." As Blue gestured, I saw the shadow shape again, outlined in the shining wall of a breaker.
"Porpoises, right?"
"Yeah," Blue said with a grin. "They're surfing. Watch."
Sure enough, the animals were riding the breaking waves, exactly like human body surfers. Periodically, they would leap entirely out of the water in exuberant, frisky arches, apparently playing.
We watched, entranced. The horses marched on, unaware or uninterested in the dolphins surfing beside them. The dogs trotted behind us, tongues hanging out, tired of chasing the shorebirds.
"Hey," I said, "there's a seal."
The round, whiskery head bobbed up not far from the porpoises.
"Look at the gulls." Blue pointed. "There must be a school of fish just offshore."
Seagulls swooped low over the stretch of water where we had seen the seal; in another moment a dozen brown pelicans flew into view, aiming for the same spot. As we watched, each pelican flapped steadily into position, hovered a split second, and then plunged headfirst with a splash into the water, disappearing completely beneath the surface. When they emerged, the seagulls dive-bombed them, trying to steal fish out of the pelican's beaks.
"Wow," I said.
