October's Fire (Fairy Glen Suspense Book 1)

by Valerie Power

  On the bright side, if the project was failing, maybe they didn’t have to worry about the road through Fairy Glen.

  She’d go ask the Vice President herself.

  The shortest way from the village of Rancho Alto to the hospital was Del Diablo Highway, past Lake Hemingway, the lower of the two local reservoirs. The highway went uphill and got progressively narrower and twistier, with a sharp drop-off into a plunging gorge full of treetops on the right, and steep granite hillside, the backside of Richardson Peak, rising on the left.

  As she rounded a curve, the dam came into view, its expanse in shadow with the sun still behind it to the east. The concrete face was divided into columns with rectangular piercings, like windows in a skyscraper. If this dam ever broke, it’d be a real shitstorm for the people who lived further down the canyon, in the natural path of the river. Million dollar Rancho Alto homes, washed away like milk cartons. As she passed the dam, the pitiful level of the reservoir came into view. A clear demarcation showed where the water line usually was, about ten feet above where it was now. Flattened, yellowing reeds lay exposed in the margin. Not much chance of the dam bursting this year, at least not from excess water. It’d take the “Big One”—an earthquake over 7.0—to put it in danger. Or at least that’s what they assured the property owners downstream.

  Her eyes narrowed to read a billboard on the burnt umber hillside ahead. A wide angle photo of a faux Tuscany villa, glowing in a perfect twilight, a pool sparkling between fancy palm fronds in the foreground, views of a distant ocean in the background. In curly script above the house, the word PARAISO flowed across the length of the billboard. “Your home ABOVE Rancho Alto.” As if it’s floating in the sky. Boy, I bet that really appeals to the social climbers, she thought. Don’t just keep up with the Joneses, get on top of them!

  She slowed to a stop at the new traffic light at the intersection of Hemingway Street, which led down to the reservoir on the right. A new road cut through the hillside to the left.

  She waited for the light to turn, her eyes still scanning the giant billboard. Shelter in Place? What the heck is that? She wrinkled her top lip. The light turned green.

  Annoyance with Stephanie flared in her belly like a book of matches. Sure, it was admirable to be humble. But don’t you think she would’ve mentioned the fact that she was Vice President of the development company? “Do you think you could talk to your husband for me?” she’d asked, and Stephanie’s voice had been innocent and concerned.

  She flipped the car left and gunned it up the road toward Paraiso.

  The new asphalt curved gracefully through deep canyons, climbing imperceptibly the whole time past steep bare hillsides covered in landscape netting, ready for planting. More big signs advertising Paraiso sprouted from the slopes.

  Exclusive Custom Built Homes. Tours starting January 2008. From $1.7.

  “Wow, just a buck seventy!” She shook her head. “Pocket change.”

  Finally, the canyon walls got shorter and the sky got bigger and she came around a corner expecting to see what she knew was there—a sweeping coastal view “from San Clemente to the international border!”

  Instead, a massive wrought-iron gate flanked by stone pillars blocked her way. The guard booth was empty.

  “Well, there goes that plan,” she said. Her annoyance with Stephanie was almost gone—after all, her husband was cheating on her, she’d had a bad accident, her horse was hurt.

  But determination spurred her on. She never liked to almost get to the top of anything.

  She left the Bronco, and walked to the side of the gate to see if she could hoof it the rest of the way up. The fencing was built into the steep sides of the canyon wall. After one tentative step her sneakers slipped on the sandy gravel, and she dug her palm into the ground for support. If she was really motivated, she could do it, but not without getting dirty. She slid back down, brushed off her hands and got back in the Bronco.

  She’d try the direct route first. Talking.

  A nurse was in Stephanie’s room when she got there, so she hovered outside. The nurse asked what Stephanie’s pain level was.

  “Not bad,” Stephanie said. “I’m doing alright.” Her face was gray and had a sheen of sweat on it.

  “Don’t be brave. Stay ahead of the pain,” the nurse said, and delivered her medication through the IV.

  When the nurse left, Deidre sat down next to Stephanie, who looked only mildly surprised to see her. “I’m glad you came,” she said with a weak smile.

  “I had an interesting chat with an old friend of mine today,” Deirdre said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yes. She told me that you’re Vice President of the Bartley Development Corporation.” She let that hang for a few seconds.

  “Yes?”

  “So, you’re Vice President and yet you know nothing about a planned road through Fairy Glen.”

  Stephanie covered her face with her hands.

  “When I called you last night, you acted like you knew nothing about it. You said you’d ask your husband for me.”

  Stephanie nodded, both hands still covering her face. “I will, as soon as he’s back from his business trip.”

  He’s not on any business trip, Deirdre thought, but she pressed on. “That same friend also told me what’s going on at Paraiso.”

  Stephanie dropped her hands and looked at her sharply, not breathing, as Deirdre went on.

  “Construction workers not getting paid. Gangster types hanging around. Another friend told me the building permit process had been…circumvented.” Deirdre’s pulse was bounding now, not with anger, but from the confrontational sound of her voice, the sense that she was treading into territory she had no right to be in. The only thing she cared about was saving Fairy Glen, not any of this sordid business, but if this was the way to do it…

  “Oh god. Something’s not right.” Stephanie said, moaning a little.

  “What, what is it?” Deirdre had a fleeting fear that she’d brought on some kind of medical emergency.

  But Stephanie clutched at Deirdre, clearly only in emotional distress. “We worked so closely together, on the San Amaro project. That’s what really brought us together. But, about a year ago, he started cutting me out, not telling me things. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he had a drug habit, or a mistress, or a gambling addiction. But not Brian. He doesn’t have the weaknesses of normal men. I’ve been looking into it, but part of me doesn’t even want to know, just wants out. But, I can’t leave. I can’t walk away.” Tears spilled down her cheeks and plopped on the bedsheets. “I love Brian too much. He needs me,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

  Deirdre wasn’t so sure that Brian Bartley was lacking normal weaknesses. For example, that skanky, reckless driving woman she’d seen at their house. “Well Stephanie, lemme tell you. If he doesn’t appreciate you there’s a million guys out there that would.”

  Stephanie scrunched her forehead, then said, “Sorry I’m telling you all this. My mom gets tired of hearing it.” She closed her eyes and lay back.

  “I’m sorry, just rest. You just rest,” Deirdre said, trying to undo the effects of what she’d said. Stephanie began a feverish babble about Biscuit that trickled away as she drifted into sleep.

  The pain on Stephanie’s face was so evident, and all the other questions swirling around now seemed irrelevant. Who cared if Brian Bartley was cheating, or scheming? She didn’t know for sure. Maybe he was just your average run of the mill pompous asshole.

  But why did Stephanie stay? Did she really need to be needed that badly? Or was it all for the money?

  Deirdre was about to get up and tiptoe out, when a phone rang, Stephanie’s cell. Steph’s eyes flew open and she reached for it and answered, “Hello?” She listened, and as she did, her face contorted. She became smaller, suddenly looking about 12 years old.

  Mumbling something, she dropped the phone, covered her face with her hands, but didn’t move or make a sound. Deirdre sat down
, carefully reached out to touch her arm.

  Then the sobs started.

  “What, what is it?” she asked.

  “Biscuit’s dead.”

  Deirdre was stunned. “How? Why? She was doing so well!”

  Stephanie couldn’t speak, just began a high-pitched wailing, like something unholy was escaping from inside of her.

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.” She cradled Stephanie’s head, took the phone from her, and dialed the number labeled Mom.

  By the time Teresa got there, Stephanie was crying so hard that she had started vomiting. Several nurses, including one big male nurse, were struggling to prevent her getting out of bed. Her face was wild with grief. A nurse put something into the IV line, and Stephanie folded onto herself. They put her limp body back in bed. “Sedative,” the nurse whispered, as she left the room.

  Deirdre put an arm around Teresa’s shoulder.

  The phone rang again from the tumbled hospital blankets. Teresa snatched it up so as not to disturb her daughter, but Stephanie was dead to the world, a crease between her eyebrows, tear stains on her cheeks.

  Teresa answered as she and Deirdre hurried into the hallway. Teresa listened for a bit, then said, “This really isn’t a good time. Uh huh. Uh huh.” She hung up. “Puta,” she muttered. “That was the horse park calling to see when we’re going to pick up the horse trailer. This is probably all their fault, and all they care about is space in the parking lot? I can’t even drive a trailer.” She gripped Deirdre’s arm, tilting slightly.

  Deirdre steadied her. “I can. I’ll take care of it for you.”

  Teresa gave a grim nod. “Thank you,” she said, and retrieved the keys from the room.

  As Deirdre walked through the hospital hallways, she wondered how it could’ve come to this.

  Stephanie had asked her to go to the vet hospital during surgery, but she didn’t because of her bad memories of Bowie dying there. Would she have noticed something there, some kind of clue that might’ve prevented the horse’s death?

  One thing she knew for sure would’ve prevented it. The rubber boots.

  Deirdre’s armpits were sweaty by the time she got back in the Bronco.

  She left, feeling like the grim reaper.

  When she got home, she needed to ride. Something was pulling her into the forest. She followed the creek to Mrs. Fey’s. The closer she got, the bigger the lump in her throat grew.

  She needed to cry on someone’s shoulder. Her own mother had been gone a long time, and Bonnie couldn’t be expected to handle all of the comfort duty. Besides, she was too sad to tell Bonnie the news right now. It would break her heart too.

  “Can I call you by your first name?” she asked, after Mrs. Fey had greeted her.

  “Certainly. It’s Kathleen. Now come right in and we’ll have some tea. You look like you could use some.”

  She tied Scarlet and they went in.

  Deirdre sat while Grandma Fey filled a teakettle, saying, “Why don’t you tell me all about it.”

  Deirdre exhaled. “You know the friend I told you about? Her horse died today.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. To lose an animal that magnificent is a terrible thing—just tragic.”

  “She was expected to make at least a partial recovery. Then she just dies overnight, at the vet hospital.”

  Grandma Fey turned from lighting the stove and cocked an eyebrow, the one above her clouded eye. “You say she just went caput in the night?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Kathleen paused for a moment, then shrugged and turned to the cabinets to get some teacups, brought them to the table and sat down to rest while the water boiled. “I suppose they’ll find out why?”

  “I really don’t know. I don’t know any of the details.” Cotchee chose that moment to jump onto the table, but Grandma Fey didn’t scold him. He sat proudly, displaying the large white spot in the center of his chest, amid the velvety black whorls of fur. He was the largest house cat Deirdre had ever seen.

  Mrs. Fey said, “You know my people settled here in this valley over a hundred years ago. In those days we were looked down upon, called all sorts of names. Anyway, my pa and grandpa raised some excellent horses, just beautiful, and they’d make a little side money racing the townspeople." She stroked the cat absentmindedly. “Well, one day, one of the men from town lost to my dad on his beautiful chestnut stallion. My dad was about 20 at the time—wasn’t even married to my mom yet—and quite handsome. The fellow that lost didn’t take too kindly to it, and I think his girl had been making eyes at my dad, which just added fuel to the fire. But my dad had won, fair and square, so he took the money and came home.

  “The next night, his stallion colicked, and was lying half dead in the pasture in the morning. Right out there.” She pointed out the window, beyond the overgrown kitchen garden. “My dad knew exactly what it was. Lying by the fence was a half-eaten pile of oleander leaves. We don’t know how he got it here without waking the dogs. Might’ve even bribed one of our own.”

  The kettle was wheezing heavily, on the verge of whistling.

  “That’s so sad. Did the horse survive?” Deirdre asked.

  Mrs. Fey shook her head. “My dad never got over that one.” She went to the counter, plucked some curly black tea leaves from a canister and dropped them into a blue and white teapot. The kettle, which had reached a full scream now, subsided into whimpers as Mrs. Fey plucked it off the stovetop and poured it over the tea.

  Deirdre started to think. Why had Biscuit died? She’d been doing so well. It bothered her that it could remain an unanswered question, like Morgan had talked about last night.

  “Mrs. Fey, I need to make a quick phone call. I’ll step out back.”

  “Go right ahead dear, the tea needs to steep.”

  Deirdre went out back into the kitchen garden, and called Dr. MacAllister’s office. A cheery woman answered—his receptionist, Glenda.

  “Glenda, hi, it’s Deirdre Boyd. Can I talk to Dr. Mac? It’s urgent.” She paced as she spoke.

  “Urgent?”

  “Well, important. It’s about Swift Justice.”

  “What a shame, huh? After all that surgery,” Glenda said.

  Come to think of it, Glenda was probably a better source of information than Dr. Mac. She’d absorbed so much knowledge during her decades working for him that she was his trusted gatekeeper. She assessed calls, scheduled visits, and generally tried to drag the old vet into the twenty-first century, despite being a few years older than him herself.

  “Do they have any idea what happened?” Deirdre asked.

  “Mac said colic.”

  “Just—colic? Did the hospital confirm it? Will there be any tests?”

  “Good question.” The sound of Glenda’s fingers tapping a keyboard filled the pause. “From our records, Stephanie not only had veterinary insurance for Swift Justice, but also life insurance. They might require tests.” Apparently patient privacy didn’t extend to equines. “Still wanna talk to Mac? You’re lucky, you caught him in the office.”

  “Yes, thanks Glenda.”

  As she waited on hold, she walked to the back fence, curious to see the site of the old lady’s sad story.

  Looking over the vine-covered fence, she was astonished to see about 40 acres of pasture, surprisingly green, with fences dividing it into five acre sections. A vision of long gone gypsy horses, grazing and running together, filled the emptiness. At the far edges of the pasture, a dense fringe of oaks surrounded it.

  The grass was ragged, yes, but lush, despite the fact that Southern California’s rolling hills were brittle yellow this time of year. Anywhere else it would take hundreds of gallons of water to grow this. But there was no irrigation equipment anywhere.

  She looked down. A fresh hoof print in the soft dark dirt—was Scarlet loose? She turned around to check but then looked closer at the hoof print. No. Scarlet’s feet, while not quite teacup dainty, were smaller than Deirdre’s splayed hand, while
this hoof was the size of a dinner plate. Mrs. Fey—Kathleen—had mentioned a horse. But hadn’t it died when Peter was a toddler? Yes, “kicked the bucket” was the wording she used.

  Her thoughts came full circle, back to Swift Justice’s untimely death. The phone clicked.

  “Hello?” Dr. Mac grumbled.

  “Hi Mac. I heard about Stephanie Bartley’s horse—Emerson's is the best, and for her to drop dead like that…what do you think happened? ”

  He cleared his throat. “Most likely colic.”

  “I just don’t think it sounds—natural. She was recovering so well—”

  “She probably colicked from having to stand so still after the surgery, a fit, active horse like that.”

  “But, do you know that for sure?“

  “Surgery is always a risk.” He let out a breath.

  “Will there be an autopsy?”

  “That’s not necessary Mrs. Boyd. Look, if Stephanie has any questions, have her call me. I have to get to an appointment.” He hung up.

  Stunned, she looked at the phone then turned and walked back inside, in need of tea and comfort.

  Friday, October 12

  “I GUESS MAYBE I was out of bounds. Was I? I mean, Dr. Mac was pretty gruff with me.” Deirdre was driving to the horse park with Bonnie to pick up Stephanie’s trailer, instead of their usual Friday lesson.

  Bonnie said, “I just can’t believe she’s dead. The surgery went so well—but then again…” Bonnie left the unsaid, ever-present danger of colic hanging in the air. She shook her head. “I spent some time with her the day of her surgery. She was such a sweet horse.”

  “I know. It’s so sad. And Stephanie didn’t even get to see her.”

  They got to the horse park and Deirdre pulled in through the entrance, heading towards Stephanie’s white Land Rover and one-horse trailer, all alone now in the empty dirt lot.

  “Oh, hey, there’s Sylvia, the manager,” Bonnie said, as they drove past the main office. “Oh, and Timothy, the course designer. He’s a doll. Stop here for a sec.”